"What is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come prefect days."
YES, Lowell, in a few words, describes the month of June, or, at least, he
indicates something of it. But, still, what are perfect days? We look for
them in April, when the birds, many of them, certainly the most attractive
of them, return from the south, and we find ourselves, when we visit the
woods and parks, disappointed that the sun does not shine, that the air is
not soft and balmy, and that the grass and leaves and buds do not show
themselves in spring attire, for, on the contrary, we find winter lingering
distressingly near, that the merry Warblers are silent, and that the
"greenery of young Nature" is very slow to indicate her presence or even
her early coming. We pull our wrappings about us and go home. April past,
we then fancy that her older sister, May, beautiful in literary
imagery--for do we not recall descriptive visions of May days of long ago,
when the human blossoms danced about the May pole, lolled luxuriantly in
the soft, tender grass, hid themselves in the deep-leaved trees, and at
last gratified our imaginations with the belief that she is altogether
perfect? Unfortunately a chill takes possession of us and we return home
disconsolate. May also has disappointed us. We have had an experience which
we shall not forget. We have seen and recognized many birds, but they have
not sung for us. They have been, as they almost always are, influenced by
the elements. And why should they not be? They have but one suit of
clothes. Have you observed the Robin in the early spring? He is worth
watching. We watched a fine specimen in south Washington Park in March
last. It was a comparatively mild day for the windy month. He perched on a
lateral limb of a leafless tree a few yards from Sixtieth street. Whether
he saw us or not we could not be sure, as he took little notice beyond
saying _Toot-tut, toot-tut_! He ruffled his suit and seemed as fat as
feathers could make him. They seemed as important to him as were buffalo
robes to the sleighing parties of a few days before. Still he was observant
and seemed to be looking for stray food that would warm him up. We had some
fresh crackers in our pocket, which we broke into fine fragments, and
scattered, withdrawing several yards away. To our surprise, not only the
Robin but several Nuthatches, some Brown Creepers, a number of English
Sparrows, three or four Bluejays, and a gray Squirrel, (from whence he came
I could not conceive, there being no large tree near in which he might have
had a winter home) came with great promptitude to feed on the unexpected
offering. Others, no doubt, have had this experience. Does it not suggest
that the birds which remain with us the whole year round--finding, of
course, during the spring, summer, and fall, sufficient for their
wants,--should be looked after a little bit, if only that they may be
permitted to escape from the sometime unusually severe storms of winter?
Nature has provided them with ample feathery protection from her ordinary
moods, but when she breaks out in icy blasts and snow that covers the very
face of her they suffer and they perish.
But April, with its weather uncertainties--although it has long been said
and believed that its showers bring May flowers--with its disappointments
to all those who wish that the balm of mild breezes would come--longed for
by the invalid and the convalescent, the lover of nature who would go forth
to visit her and to court her, April seems a sort of humbug. And is May
much better? How many days, "so calm, so sweet, so bright, the bridal of
the earth and sky," come in May? A few do come, and we remember them. But,
as Lowell says, perfect days are rare, even in June, when, if ever, come
"perfect days." We think that Lowell nevertheless lived a little too far
north to entitle him to state, even poetically, that perfect days are only
to be enjoyed in June. Had he, with the writer, lived in southern Ohio, on
the Little Miami river, and gone fishing in the month of May, he would, we
think, have changed his mind. Or had he read the little less than perfect
poem of W. H. Venable, which, it may be, however, was written later than
the verses of our, many think, greatest poet, "June on the Miami," he might
have put aside his books and his criticisms and his philosophy, and sought
out the beautiful river of western history--then the sweetest stream that
flowed in America, and even now, notwithstanding the giant sycamores have
largely disappeared and the waters of the river have greatly diminished in
volume, leaving only holes and ripples,--and modified his views of days
perfect only in June. There were perfect days in May on the Miami. There
were perfect days on all the streams that made it. The birds were
multitudinous; they sang in chorus; they were, indeed, almost infinite in
number--for the naturalist and the collector were unknown--the birds were
_natural_ residents, without fear of man, building their nests close to his
habitations. A year or two ago we stopped off the cars in May in order to
recall, if possible, in the shadow of a few remaining trees at a familiar
place on the vanishing river, in the expected voices of the well known
native birds, the delightful far-gone years. Verily we had our reward, but
it was not satisfactory. It seems to us we should do our best, through
legislation and personal influence to protect and multiply the birds.
--C. C. MARBLE.
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