BIRDS. 



Illustrated by COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY. 



Vou III. 



JUNE, 1898. 



No. 6. 



JUNE. 



" What is so rare as a clay in June? 

 Then, if ever, come prefect days. " 



ES, 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 wrap- 

 pings 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 stire, 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 



