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insects. The gad-fly takes the opportunity of depositing its eggs at the time when the animal sheds its hair, about the beginning of July. The hair then stands erect, and the insect is always fluttering near, to the great terror of its victim. Ten of these flies will put a herd of five hundred deer in the greatest agitation. The poor animals tremble, change their position incessantly, sneeze, snort, stamp, and toss continually. The fly closely pursues them if they flee from her, and keeps up with them as they bound over precipices, valleys, snow-covered mountains, and even the highest Alps. In their flight, the animals always choose a direction contrary to the wind, as an additional means of gaining advantage over their enemy. By this constant fear and agitation, they are kept from eating during the day, and are ever on the watch, standing with ears erect, and eyes attentive to all around them.

There is also a species of gad-fly appropriated to hares and rabbits in America; and this is said to be the largest species of Estrus yet discovered.

Recent observations likewise go to prove that there is either a species of the family appropriated to man, or that the same sorts which attack quadrupeds, under certain circumstances attack human beings. In South America it is common to see Indians with their stomachs covered with small tumours, produced by a species of Estrus. This insect is said to penetrate the deeper the more it is disturbed, so as in some cases to produce death.

This month, which was the beginning of the Celtic year, was called by our Saxon ancestors HENMONATH, i.e. foliage month, from the German Hain, a grove; HEYMONATH, i.e. Haymonth; and LIDA AFTERA, i.e. the Second Lida, or second month of the sun's descent, as June was named the LIDA ERRA, i.e. the first month of the sun's descent.

The name of July is from the Latin Julius, an appellation given to the month by Mark Antony in honour of Julius Cæsar, who was born in it; before his time it had been called Quintilis, or Fifth, because it was the fifth month, dating the commencement of the year from March.

There are few days of importance in this month either in regard to astronomy or to ancient observances. The first, however, to be noticed are the DOG-DAYS. These are


now made to commence with the third of the month and end with the eleventh of August, a very proper change, though only dating from the correction of the British calendar, which brings it in harmony with the ancient idea of the Dog-Days,-that is to say, a certain number of days preceding and ensuing the heliacal rising of Canicula or Sirius, i.e. the Dog-star.* It must be obvious that the rising of the star must in the first place vary with the latitude; and secondly, that the precession of equinoxes would in the course of centuries make so great a change in the seasons that the Dog-Days, if restricted to their original place in the calendar, would by this time bring with them frost and snow instead of intense heat.


It is to Egypt that the various notions, connected with these days, are most probably to be attributed. As the star had its heliacal rising much about the time of the summer solstice, when the Nile also began to rise, the ancient Egyptians imagined that it in some way influenced the overflow of the waters and the consequent fertility of the soil. With them therefore it was worshipped as something holy, and often under the names of Isis and Thoth, the usual appellations of their great goddess and of Mercury, while, among other strange dogmas, they believed there was a wild beast called Oryx, whose wont it was to stand full against the star, watching it, and seeming to worship it by sneezing. But with other nations it was held in very different estimation. The time of its heliacal rising to them brought no particular benefit, but on the contrary was a season of intense heat, and consequently of disease, and hence arose many popular superstitions, both ancient and modern. According to the Roman faith, at the rising of Sirius, the seas boil, the wines ferment in the cellars, and standing waters are set in motion; the dogs also beyond all question go very mad indeed, and the silurus, or sturgeon is blasted. In more

* In an old calendar given by Bede (De Temporum Ratione), the commencement of the Dog-days is placed on the 14th of July; and in one prefixed to the Common Prayer printed in the time of Elizabeth, they are made to begin on the 6th of July, and to end on the 5th of September; this last continued till the restoration, when the Dog-days were omitted. For a long period subsequent they were said to begin on the 19th of July, and end on the 28th of August.

modern times the belief that the intense heat proceeded from Sirius, must have been deeply rooted, when we find Gassendi gravely arguing that as the Dog-star, which was the symbol of heat to us, was the symbol of cold to our antipodes, so it must necessarily follow that heat came from the sun and not from the star.

ST. SWITHIN'S Day, July 15.—This day has retained its place in our calendar, or at least in the popular memory, from a notion that if it rains now, it will continue to rain for forty days afterwards. The vulgar notion, however, is not quite so absurd as it may at first sight appear to be, for as this happens to be in general a wet season of the year with us the time indeed of the solstitial rains,-it may be pretty fairly inferred that, if rain once begins, it will continue, not exactly perhaps at the same place, but with some little latitude as to locality. This belief is said to have originated in one of the old Roman Catholic fables respecting Saint Swithin, Bishop of Winchester. Before his death, which took place in 868, he had desired "that he might be buried in the open churchyard, and not in the chancel of the minster, as was usual with other bishops, and his request was complied with; but the monks, on his being canonised, considering it disgraceful for the saint to lie in a public cemetery, resolved to remove his body into the choir, which was to have been done with solemn procession on the 15th of July; it rained, however, so violently for forty days together at this season, that the design was abandoned."



Roads are wet where'er one wendeth,
And with rain the thistle bendeth,

And the brook cries like a child!
Not a rainbow shines to cheer us;
Ah! the sun comes never near us,
And the heavens look dark and wild.


Mournfully the birds are singing,
Scarce a blade of corn is springing

Round the starvling plover's brood.
Hope of seed-time!-none remaineth!
And with man, his life's strength waneth,
Chilled, enfeebled creeps his blood!

Sickly woman, feebly creeping,
With thy baby, weeping, weeping,

Pale with hunger and despair,
Turn not to the drenched furrows,
For the burden of thy sorrows

Human love must help to bear!

Pray to God who freely giveth,
Who can move each heart that liveth,
And on Him thy burden cast!
Pray that He remove our sadness,
That He send us sun and gladness,
And a plenteous year at last!



There is a quiet spirit in these woods,

That dwells where'er the gentle South wind blows;
Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.
With what a tender and impassion'd voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,
When the fast-ushering star of morning comes
O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf;
Or when the cowl'd and dusky-sandal'd Eve,
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate
Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves
In the green valley, where the silver brook,
From its full laver, pours the white cascade;
And, babbling low, amid the tangled woods,


Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless


And here, amid

And frequent, on the everlasting hills,
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself
In all the dark embroidery of the storm,
And shouts the stern, strong wind.
The silent majesty of these deep woods,
Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,
As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air
Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards
Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.
For them there was an eloquent voice in all
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds,-
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes,—
Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in,
Mountain, and shatter'd cliff, and sunny vale,
The distant lake, fountains,-and mighty trees,
In many a lazy syllable, repeating
Their old poetic legends to the wind.

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