JUNE 



This morning I hear the note of young bluebirds 

 in the air, which have recently taken wing, and 

 the old birds keep up such a warbling and twitter- 

 ing as remind me of spring. 



THOREAU: Summer. 



The oven-bird's nest in Laurel Glen is near the 

 edge of an open pine wood under a fallen pine 

 twig and a heap of dry oak leaves. Within these 

 on the ground is the nest, with a dome-like top and 

 an arched entrance of the whole height and width 

 on one side. Lined within with dry pine needles. 



THOREAU: Summer. 



The delicate maiden-hair fern forms a cup or 

 dish, very delicate and graceful. Beautiful, too, 

 its glossy black stem and its wave-edged, fruited 

 leaflets. 



I hear the feeble, plaintive note of young blue- 

 birds, just trying their wings or getting used to 

 them. Young robins peep. 



THOREAU: Summer. 



I have stood under a tree in the woods half a day 

 at a time, during a heavy rain in the summer, and 

 yet employed myself happily and profitably there 

 prying with microscopic eye into the crevices of 

 the bark or the leaves of the fungi at my feet. 



THOREAU: A Week on the Concord and Merrimack 

 Rivers. 



