IV 



THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 



"Half our May's so awfully like mayn't!" 

 sings "Hosea Biglow." If the pastoral poet had 

 written this line in regard to the uncertainty of 

 New England's spring weather in the year 1888, 

 he might with aptness, if not with good measure, 

 have said three-quarters instead of half, for the 

 pleasant days were the exception. But now the 

 month of "perfect days" has come. It really 

 seems as if the arbitrary line between Spring and 

 Summer, so long established by man, had at last 

 become a veritable material boundary, and June, 

 standing within the limit of her tenure, had with 

 sunny face and sweet breath and uplifted voice, 

 exclaimed against her predecessor, "Depart! blow 

 not your cold winds and rains upon the world." 



June is the month well adapted for the repro- 

 duction of the birds, and in New England, at 

 least, many of the species lay their eggs, hatch 

 them and feed the young during her reign. 



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