Impressions 



The moment that the robin spoke; 

 No thorns beset, nor frosts defy 

 When blessed June is passing by. 



Brilliant indeed are the meadows in June. 

 We can use no milder term and do them justice. 

 The botanist can readily appreciate this, when 

 I tell hitn that at one glance can be seen and 

 from a few acres can be gathered in abundance, 

 Phlox, Oenothera, Thalictrum, Penstemon, Eri- 

 geron. Iris, Senecio, Lysvmachia and Cynthia. 

 Grouping these, we have a mass of yellow, or- 

 ange, pink, purple and ivory white that one 

 must see to appreciate. Well might Shelley ex- 

 claim in despair, in description of another kind : 

 "Words are ineffectual . . . Most words 

 are so — ^No help!" He is surely rash who 

 would attempt to describe a typical June morn- 

 ing, and meadows, for miles, one glowing mass 

 of color. They mock our senses, not appeal to 

 them in a way we can compass. As is the gib- 

 bering of apes to the speech of man, so is our 

 best effort in sounding their praise to what 

 their merit calls for. The saving grace of our 

 words is that perchance others may see what we 

 have seen. 



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