Sir John Dering by Jeffery Farnol

June coming in glory had flamed out in splendour. August glowed from dewy dawn to dusky eve; upon the warm and slumbrous air was the fragrance of ripening fruit and herb; flowers bloomed sedately in cottage gardens, they rioted in the hedges, fields and uplands were ablaze with them where butterflies wheeled and hovered and bees hummed drowsily about their unceasing labours. The river, winding sleepily between reedy banks, made little slumbrous noises, the very brooks, by reason of the pervading heat and universal somnolence, seemed to hush their chatter; and neighbours in shirt-sleeves, meeting in shady places, yawningly informed each other of the very obvious fact that it was "tur'ble waarmish-loike!"

Even Mr. Dumbrell, that "aged soul," perched upon his accustomed stile, admitted that, in his vast experience, he had "knowed a colder August. But, Lord, young man, to 'ear folks talk, you'd think 'twas that 'ot! But look at oi, so grig an' sproy for arl my aage, look at oi, will 'ee!"