A DAY IN JUNE 125 



of some sort. I 've never seen the like. A 

 spy at the very least." And though he quiets 

 down when I put up the book, there is no more 

 friendliness for this time. Man writing, as 

 Carlyle would have said, is a doubtful char- 

 acter. 



Another stage, to the edge of the woods, 

 and I rest again, the breeze encouraging me. 

 A second bluebird is caroling. Every addi- 

 tional one is cause for thankfulness. Ima- 

 gine a place where bluebirds should be as 

 thick as English sparrows are in our Ameri- 

 can cities ! Imagine heaven ! A crested fly- 

 catcher screams, an olive-side calls pip, pip, 

 a robin cackles, an oven-bird recites his piece 

 with schoolboy emphasis, an alder flycatcher 

 queeps, and a vesper sparrow sings. And at 

 the end, as if for good measure, a Maryland 

 yellow-throat adds his witchery, witchery. 

 The breeze comes to me over broad beds of 

 hay-scented fern, and at my feet are bunch- 

 berry blossoms and the white star-flower. 

 At this moment, nevertheless, the cooling, 

 insect-dispersing wind is better than all 

 things else. Such is one effect of hot wea- 

 ther, setting comfort above poetry. 



