XxX 
JUNE O’ THE YEAR 
one, two, or three at most are to be looked for 
in the whole stretch of any summertime. 
There are days and days. Any day is a day of 
delight when water whispers on the shore 
and the clouds play hide and seek with the sun 
and the light is bewildering as newly rinsed with 
a great rain in the upper and lower skies. But 
when it is June-o’-the-year and spring gladdens 
into summer as day into dark, or dawn into 
day, unnoticed, when the skies and the ground 
conspire with the growth of plants and the 
flowering of plants, and things of bloom merge 
into things of fruit, and all these keep one guess- 
ing what season of the year this is, then that is 
June, and June is now. 
It is sweet sprig and young summer in the 
calendar. These are all days of appearance and 
evanishment. Loveliness knows not how to 
tarry. The kisses she blows from her fingers 
are kisses of greeting and good-by. The pathos 
of growth which drips a tear on the cheek of its 
smiling is that she may not linger. Like the 
shadow of wind-blown clouds, it does not quite 
touch us till it is departed. 
15¢ 
T was one of those exulting days of which 
