Here is June again! It never was more welcome in these Northern
latitudes. It seems a pity that such a month cannot be twice as long. It
has been the pet of the poets, but it is not spoiled, and is just as full
of enchantment as ever. The secret of this is that it is the month of
both hope and fruition. It is the girl of eighteen, standing with all her
charms on the eve of womanhood, in the dress and temperament of spring.
And the beauty of it is that almost every woman is young, if ever she
were young, in June. For her the roses bloom, and the red clover. It is a
pity the month is so short. It is as full of vigor as of beauty. The
energy of the year is not yet spent; indeed, the world is opening on all
sides; the school-girl is about to graduate into liberty; and the young
man is panting to kick or row his way into female adoration and general
notoriety. The young men have made no mistake about the kind of education
that is popular with women. The women like prowess and the manly virtues
of pluck and endurance. The world has not changed in this respect. It was
so with the Greeks; it was so when youth rode in tournaments and unhorsed
each other for the love of a lady. June is the knightly month. On many a
field of gold and green the heroes will kick their way into fame; and
bands of young women, in white, with their diplomas in their hands,
star-eyed mathematicians and linguists, will come out to smile upon the
victors in that exhibition of strength that women most admire. No, the
world is not decaying or losing its juvenility. The motto still is,
“Love, and may the best man win!” How jocund and immortal is woman! Now,
in a hundred schools and colleges, will stand up the solemn,
well-intentioned man before a row of pretty girls, and tell them about
Womanhood and its Duties, and they will listen just as shyly as if they
were getting news, and needed to be instructed by a man on a subject
which has engaged their entire attention since they were five years old.
In the light of science and experience the conceit of men is something
curious. And in June! the most blossoming, riant, feminine time of the
year. The month itself is a liberal education to him who is not
insensible to beauty and the strong sweet promise of life. The streams
run clear then, as they do not in April; the sky is high and transparent;
the world seems so large and fresh and inviting. Our houses, which six
months in the year in these latitudes are fortifications of defense, are
open now, and the breath of life flows through them. Even over the city
the sky is benign, and all the country is a heavenly exhibition. May was
sweet and capricious. This is the maidenhood deliciousness of the year.
If you were to bisect the heart of a true poet, you would find written
therein JUNE.