Summertime, 1894
by Mary Cassatt

It’s August 1, and already the woods around my house are tinged with the tiniest hint of gold. Just a mere shimmer of gold on green, but it’s decidedly different from the blue-green of early spring and yellow-green of early summer, and reminds me that summer days are all too fleeting. In a valiant attempt to slow the progression of summer into fall, to appreciate every hot, sunny day, I’m dedicating the month of August as a celebration of good, old-fashioned summer. To kick it off, here’s an old classic by the Haydn Quartet, written in 1902. I remember singing it in elementary school–I wonder if anyone still sings it.