There is no month in the whole year in which nature wears a more
beautiful appearance than in the month of August. Spring has many
beauties, and May is a fresh and blooming month, but the charms of this
time of year are enhanced by their contrast with the winter season.
August has no such advantage. It comes when we remember nothing but
clear skies, green fields, and sweet-smelling flowers — when the
recollection of snow, and ice, and bleak winds, has faded from our minds
as completely as they have disappeared
from the earth — and yet what a pleasant time it is! Orchards and
cornfields ring with the hum of labour; trees bend beneath the thick
clusters of rich fruit which bow their branches to the ground; and the
corn, piled in graceful sheaves, or waving in every light breath that
sweeps above it, as if it wooed the sickle, tinges the landscape with a
golden hue. A mellow softness appears to hang over the whole earth; the
influence of the season seems to extend itself to the very wagon, whose
slow motion across the well-reaped field is perceptible only to the eye,
but strikes with no harsh sound upon the ear.
~‘The Pickwick Papers’ is Charles Dickens’s first novel. He was asked
to contribute to the project as an up-and-coming writer following the
success of Sketches by Boz, published in 1836.
Photo: Ravenseat, Swaledale, North Yorkshire, England, by Amanda Owen.