JUNE. 141 



It is luxury to haunt the gardens of old-fashion- 

 ed houses in the morning, when the bees are 

 flitting forth with a rejoicing hum ; or at eve, 

 when the honeysuckle and the sweet-briar 

 mingle their spirit with the breeze. It is lux- 

 ury to plunge into the cool river ; and, if ever 

 we are tempted to turn anglers, it must be now. 

 To steal away into a quiet valley, by a wind- 

 ing stream, buried, completely buried, in fresh 

 grass ; the foam-like flowers of the meadow- 

 sweet, the crimson loose-strife, and the large 

 blue geranium nodding beside us ; the dragon- 

 fly, the ephemera, and the king-fisher glancing 

 to and fro ; the trees above casting their flicker- 

 ing shadows on the stream ; and one of our ten 

 thousand volumes of delightful literature in our 

 pockets, — then indeed might one be a most 

 patient angler though taking not a single fin. 

 What luxurious images would there float through 

 the mind ! Gray could form no idea of heaven 

 superior to lying on a sofa, and reading novels ; 

 but it is in the flowery lap of June that we can 

 best climb 



Up to the sunshine of uncumbered ease. 

 How delicious, too, are the evenings become. 

 The frosts and damps of spring are past : the 

 earth is dry: the night-air is balmy and re- 

 freshing : the glow-worm has lit her lamp : the 

 bat is circling about: the fragrant breath of 

 flowers steals into our houses : and the moth 



