June 
that kerosened, salt-mackereled, plug-tobaccoed — 
moneyed — June that took me back to sweet poverty 
and the farm, 
I do not wish to think of living where the birds 
and wild flowers do not live with me. A city flat is 
convenient, and city life is exciting; but convenience 
and excitement plus meat and raiment are not the 
sum of life ; neither, on the other hand, are pure air, 
sunshine, birds, flowers, a garden, quiet, and time to 
think, the whole of life. No; but when you consider 
the matter, there appears very little still needing to 
make life whole that you cannot have along with 
your birds, thoughts, and garden. 
Whether you love the country or not, whether you 
know the difference between a kingbird and a king- 
crab or not, you owe it to your body and your soul 
to get out into the open fields in June,—not to col- 
lect bird skins or birds’ eggs or to make a herbarium 
or a nature diary, but to live a while where the birds 
and flowers live. The city may be heaven enough for 
you all the rest of the year; but God didn’t make 
the city. There are seasons — March and February, 
usually — when it seems as if some one else has 
a hand in making the country. In June, however, 
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