A Morning in May. 



I WAS laughed at not long ago for suggesting 

 that the other months resign in favor of May. 

 It is not, after all, so very surprising that such a 

 thought should come, when we consider how 

 full to overflowing is this perfect month. That 

 June day of which Lowell has so sweetly sung 

 did not excel a recent morning, when the 

 humming-birds brought to a close the long 

 procession of north-bound warblers, themselves 

 last and least. The sun rose very slowly over 

 my neighbor's woods, as if it, too, would like to 

 tarry here on the blooming meadows and play 

 bo-peep with the hill-side shadows. The wake- 

 ful robin was astir at dawn, and far off in some 

 leafy glade a tuneful thrush piped in its own 

 enchanting way, and soon, roused by these, one 

 by one, the summer's host of songsters joined 

 in the chorus. It is not worth the while to 

 claim which is the earliest bird to sing, nor 

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