THE COMING OF SUMMER 



dashed or sprinkled here and there with the snow- 

 white of the daisies; its breath drifts into the road 

 when you are passing; you hear the boom of bees, 

 the voice of bobolinks, the twitter of swallows, the 

 whistle of woodchucks; you smell wild strawberries; 

 you see the cattle upon the hills; you see your youth, 

 the youth of a happy farm-boy, rise before you. In 

 Kentucky I once saw two fields, of one hundred 

 acres each, all ruddy with blooming clover — per- 

 fume for a whole county. 



The blooming orchards are the glory of May, 

 the blooming clover-fields the distinction of June. 

 Other characteristic June perfumes come from the 

 honey-locusts and the blooming grapevines. At 

 times and in certain localities the air at night and 

 morning is heavy with the breath of the former, 

 and along the lanes and roadsides we inhale the 

 delicate fragrance of the wild grape. The early 

 grasses, too, with their frostlike bloom, contribute 

 something very welcome to the breath of June. 



Nearly every season I note what I call the bridal 

 day of summer — a white, lucid, shining day, with 

 a delicate veil of mist softening all outlines. How 

 the river dances and sparkles; how the new leaves 

 of all the trees shine under the sun; the air has a 

 soft lustre; there is a haze, it is not blue, but a kind 

 of shining, diffused nimbus. No clouds, the sky a 

 bluish white, very soft and delicate. It is the nuptial 

 day of the season; the sun fairly takes the earth to 

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