We are indebted for the following passages to William Howitt’s interesting work on the Seasons. 
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 recognise 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 landscape 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. Who ever heard the weet-iveet and pink-pink 
of the chaffinch, or the ivinkle-winkle of the black-bird as it flies out of the hedge, and skims along before 
you to a short distance, repeatedly on a summer evening about sunset, — at any other time ? In spring 
mornings by three or four o’clock the fields are filled with a perfect clamour of bird-voices, but at noon the 
wood is their oratory. There the wood-pecker’s laugh still rings from a distance — the solemn coo of the 
wood-pigeon is still deep and rich as ever — the little chill-chall sounds his two notes blithely on the top of 
the tallest trees; and the voice of the long-tailed titmouse, ever and anon, sounds like a sweet and clear- 
toned little bell. Nests are now woven to every bough and into every hollow stump. 
As the month (May,) advances, our walks begin to be haunted with the richness of beauty. There are splen- 
did evenings, clear, serene, and balmy, tempting us to continue our stroll till after sunset. We see around us 
fields golden with crow-foot, and cattle basking in plenty. We hear the sonorous streams chiming into the 
milk-pail in the nooks of crofts, and on the other side of hedges. Towards the close of the month, the 
mind, which has been continually led onward by the expansion of days, leaves, and flowers, seems to repose 
on the fulness of nature. Every thing is clothed. The spring actually seems past. We are surrounded by 
all that beauty, sunshine, and melody which mingle in our ideas of summer. The hawthorn is in full flower; 
the leafy hedges appear half-buried in the lofty grass. Butterflies take their wavering flight from flower to 
flower; and dragonflies on the banks of rivers. There is the cheerful hum of bees amongst . the flowers; 
and the cockchafer, which has delighted us all in our boyhood, is hovering about the green leaves of the 
sycamore. Sheep-washing is begun in many places. The mowing-grass presents a mosaic of the most 
gorgeous and inimitable hues, or is white with waving umbels. A passing gale awakens a scene of lively 
animation. The massy foliage of trees swings heavily, the boughs of the hawthorn wave with all their loads 
of fragrant bloom, and snowy umbelliferous plants toss on the lea like foam on the stormy ocean. 
Cottage gardens are now perfect paradises ; and, after gazing on their sunny quietude, their lilachs, 
peonies, wall-flowers, tulips, anemones and corcoruses with their yellow tufts of flowers, now becoming as 
common at the doors of cottages as the rosemary and rue once were — one cannot help regretting that more 
of our labouring classes do not enjoy the freshness of earth, and the pure breeze of heaven, in these little 
rural retreats, instead of being buried in close and sombre alleys. A man who can, in addition to a tolerable 
remuneration for the labor of his hands, enjoy a clean cottage and a garden amidst the common but precious 
offerings of nature, the grateful shade of trees and the flow of waters, a pure atmosphere and a riant sky, can 
scarcely be called poor. 
If Burns had been asked what was the greatest luxury of May, I suppose he would have quoted from 
his “Cotter’s Saturday Night,” 
If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
’Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair 
In other’s arms breathe out the tender tale 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale. 
At which Gilpin would quote, from his “ Forest Scenery,” a passage proving the poets to be very 
foolish for their admiration of so insignificant and inelegant a bush. We, however, shall take part with 
Burns, only we would conjure a nightingale into his hawthorn, and the hawthorn into a forest ; for of all 
May delights, listening to the nightingale is the greatest, and when heard at still midnight, the moon and 
stars above you, filling with lustre the clear blue sky ; the trees lifting up their young and varied foliage 
to the silvery light ; the deer quietly resting in their thickest shadows ; and the night-breeze, ever and 
anon, wafting through the air “ Sabean odours then, if you feel neither love nor poetry, depend upon it 
you are neither lover nor poet. 
