JUNE IN FRANCONIA. 35 
‘*charméd days, 
When the genius of God doth flow,” 
what care we for science or the objects of 
science, — for grosbeak or crossbill (may the 
birds forgive me!), or the latest novelty in 
willows? I am often where fine music is 
played, and never without being interested ; 
as men say, 1 am pleased. But at the twen- 
tieth time, it may be, something touches my 
ears, and I hear the music within the music; 
and, for the hour, I am at heaven’s gate. 
So it is with our appreciation of natural 
beauty. We are always in its presence, but 
only on rare occasions are our eyes anointed 
to see it. Such ecstasies, it seems, are not 
for every day. Sometimes I fear they grow 
less frequent as we grow older. 
We will hope for better things; but, 
should the gloomy prognostication fall true, 
we will but betake ourselves the more assid- 
uously to lesser pleasures, — to warblers and 
willows, roses and strawberries. Science 
will never fail us. If worse comes to worst, 
we will not: despise the moths. 
