for instance, resided there; and he no sooner shewed his face, than he was accosted as the patron of the 
corn season, — as the genial influence, without whom there was to be no bread? 
Ora di Maggio fiorisce il grano, | Now in May time comes the corn; but, quoth he, though come I am, 
Ma non puo estrarre senza il Sior Abramo. | I should never have been here, but for Signor Abraham. 
A lady put forth her pretty laughing face (and a most good tempered woman she was,) She is hailed as the 
goddess of the May-bush. 
Ora di Maggio viene il fior di spina, | Now in May time comes the bush, all to crown its queen-a, 
Ma non viene senza la Signora Allegrina. | But it never would, without Signora Allegrina. 
A poor fellow, a servant, named Giuseppino or Peppino (Joe) who was given to drinking (a rare thing 
in Italy) and was a great admirer of the fair sex, crosses the court with a jug in his hand. It was curious 
to see the conscious but not resentful face with which he received the banter of his friends. 
Ora di Maggio fiorisce amor e vino, | Now in May time comes the flower of love and wine also; 
Ma ni l’un ni l’altro senza il Sior Peppino. | But there is neither one nor t’other, without Signor Joe. 
It would be an “ advancement” to look out of a May-morning in England, and see guitar-players 
instead of chimney-sweeps. 
Nature this month has not forsaken her festivities. She still scatters flowers, and revels in dews ; she 
still loves her leafy garniture, and the bursts of unoppressive sunshine; for though we moderns may abandon 
the customs of our forefathers, and may even deny to May those joyous attributes with which they de- 
lighted to invest her; though we complain of cold winds, dull days, and frosty nights, cutting down flower 
and leaf, and have them too, yet is May a gladsome month withal. Vegetation has made a proud progress ; 
it has become deep, lavish, and luxuriant ; and nothing can be more delightful than the tender green of the 
young hawthorn leaves. Primroses still scatter their million of pale stars over shady banks, and among 
the mossy banks of hazels ; and once more, amid the thickly-springing verdure of the meadow, we hail the 
golden and spotted cowslip. In woods there is a bright azure gleam of Myorotis sylvatica, a species of 
forget-me-not, and of those truly vernal flowers called by botanists Scilla nutans, by poets blue-bells, and by 
country folks cuckoo’s stockings. The ferns are pushing forth their russet scrolls amongst the forest moss 
and dead leaves. In pools — and none of our indigenous plants can rival our aquatic ones in elegance and 
delicate beauty — are this month found the lovely water-violet (Hottonia palustris) and the buck bean, 
originally bog-bane or bog plant, from its place of growth (Menyanthes trifoliata,) like a fringed hyacinth. 
The gorse and broom are glorious on heaths and in lanes. 
In the early part of this month, if we walk into woods, we shall be much struck with their peculiar 
beauty. Woods are never more agreeable objects than when they have only half assumed their green array. 
Beautiful and refreshing is the sight of the young leaves bursting forth from the grey boughs, some trees at one 
degree of advance, some at another. The assemblage of the giants of the woods is seen, each in its own 
character and figure; neither disguised nor hidden in the dense mass of foliage which obscures them in 
summer; — you behold the scattered and majestic trunks ; the branches stretching high and wide; the dark 
drapery of ivy which envelopes some of them, and the crimson flush that grows in the world of living twigs 
above. If the contrast of grey and mossy branches, and of the delicate richness of young leaves gushing 
out of them in a thousand places be inexpressibly delightful to behold, that of one tree with another is not 
the less so. One is nearly full clothed, — another is mottled with grey and green, struggling as it were 
which should have the predominance, and another is still perfectly naked. The wild-cherry stands like an 
apparition in the woods, white with its profusion of blossom, and the wilding begins to exhibit its rich and 
blushing countenance. The pines look dim and dusky amid the lively hues of spring. The abeles are 
covered with their clusters of albescent and powdery leaves and withering catkins; and beneath them the 
pale spathes of the arum, fully expanded and displaying their crimson clubs, presenting a sylvan and unique 
air. And who does not love ‘the wood-notes wild? ’ We again recognize the speech of many a little 
creature who, since we last heard it, has traversed seas and sojourned in places we wot not of. The land- 
scape derives a great portion of its vernal cheerfulness not merely from the songs of birds but from their 
cries. Each has a variety of cries indicative of its different moods of mind, so to speak, which are heard 
only in spring and summer, and are both familiar and dear to a lover of nature. 
