June 



that kerosened, salt-mackereled, plug-tobaccoed 

 moneyed June that took me back to sweet poverty 

 and the farm. 



I do not wish to think of living where the birds 

 and wild flowers do not live with me. A city flat is 

 convenient, and city life is exciting ; but convenience 

 and excitement plus meat and raiment are not the 

 sum of life ; neither, on the other hand, are pure air, 

 sunshine, birds, flowers, a garden, quiet, and time to 

 think, the whole of life. No; but when you consider 

 the matter, there appears very little still needing to 

 make life whole that you cannot have along with 

 your birds, thoughts, and garden. 



Whether you love the country or not, whether you 

 know the difference between a kingbird and a king- 

 crab or not, you owe it to your body and your soul 

 to get out into the open fields in June, not to col- 

 lect bird skins or birds' eggs or to make a herbarium 

 or a nature diary, but to live a while where the birds 

 and flowers live. The city may be heaven enough for 

 you all the rest of the year ; but God did n't make 

 the city. There are seasons March and February, 

 usually when it seems as if some one else has 

 a hand in making the country. In June, however, 



