JUNE 



5 



I am as white as a miller a rye-miller, at 

 least with the lint from the young leaves and 

 twigs. The tufts of pinks on the side of the peak 

 by the pond grow raying out from a centre, some- 

 what like a cyme, on the warm, dry side hill, 

 some a lighter, some a richer and darker shade of 

 pink. With what a variety of colors we are enter- 

 tained ! Yet most colors are rare or in small doses, 

 presented to us as a condiment or spice ; much of 

 green, blue, black, and white, but of yellow and 

 the different shades of red, far less. The eyes 

 feast on the colors of flowers as on tidbits. 



THOKEAU: Summer. 



6 



What delicate fans are the great red-oak leaves, 

 now just developed, so thin, and of so tender a 

 green. They hang loosely, flaccidly down, at the 

 mercy of the wind, like a new-born butterfly or 

 dragon-fly. A strong, cold wind would blacken 

 and tear them now. They remind me of the frail- 

 est stuffs hung around a dry-goods shop. They 

 have not been hardened by exposure yet, these raw 

 and tender lungs of the tree. The white-oak leaves 

 are especially downy and lint your clothes. 



This is truly June when you begin to see brakes 

 (dark green) fully expanded in the wood paths. 



THOEEAU: Summer. 



