June brings skies of purest blue, flecked with drifts of silver, fields
and woods in the flush of fresh verdure, with the streams winding among
them in crystal loops that invite the angler with promise of more than
fish, something that tackle cannot lure nor creel hold.
The air is full of the perfume of locust and grape bloom, the spicy odor
of pine and fir, and of pleasant voices--the subdued murmur of the
brook's changing babble, the hum of bees, the stir of the breeze, the
songs of birds. Out of the shady aisles of the woods come the flute note
of the hermit thrush, the silvery chime of the tawny thrush; and from
the forest border, where the lithe birches swing their shadows to and
fro along the bounds of wood and field, comes that voice of June, the
cuckoo's gurgling note of preparation, and then the soft, monotonous
call that centuries ago gave him a name.
General Kukushna the exiles in Siberia entitle him; and when they hear
his voice, every one who can break bounds is irresistibly drawn to
follow him, and live for a brief season a free life in the greenwood. As
to many weary souls and hampered bodies there, so to many such here
comes the voice of the little commander, now persuasive, now imperative,
not to men and women in exile or wearing the convict's garb, but
suffering some sort of servitude laid upon them or self-imposed. Toiling
for bread, for wealth, for fame, they are alike in bondage--chained to
the shop, the farm, the desk, the office.
Some who hear, obey, and revel in the brief but delightful freedom of
June days spent in the perfumed breath of full-leafed woods, by cold
water-brooks and rippled lakes. Others listen with hungry hearts to the
summons, but cannot loose their fetters, and can only answer with a
sigh, "It is not for me," or "Not yet," and toil on, still hoping for
future days of freedom.
But saddest of all is the case of such as hear not, or, hearing, heed
not the voice of the Kukushna, the voices of the birds, the murmurous
droning of bees amid the blossoms, the sweet prattle of running waters
and dancing waves. Though these come to them from all about, and all
about them are unfolded the manifold beauties of this joyous month, no
sign is made to them. Their dull ears hear not the voices of nature,
neither do their dim eyes see the wondrous miracle of spring which has
been wrought all about them. Like the man with the muck-rake, they toil
on, intent only upon the filth and litter at their feet. Sad indeed must
it be to have a soul so poor that it responds to no caress of nature,
sadder than any imposition of servitude or exile which yet hinders not
one's soul from arising with intense longing for the wild world of woods
and waters when Kukushna sounds his soft trumpet call.