A DAY IN JUNE 



THE FOKENOON 



" The air that floated by me seem'd to say, 

 * Write ! thou wilt never have a better day.' 

 And so I did." 



Keats. 



All signs threatened a day of midsum- 

 mer heat, though it was only the 2d of 

 June. Before breakfast, even, the news 

 seemed to have got abroad; so that there 

 was something hke a dearth of music under 

 my windows, where heretofore there had 

 been almost a surfeit. The warbling vireo 

 in the poplar, which had teased my ear 

 morning after morning, getting shamelessly 

 in the way of his betters, had for once fallen 

 silent ; unless, indeed, he had sung his stint 

 before I woke, or had gone elsewhere to 

 practice. The comparative stillness enabled 

 me to hear voices from the hillside across 



