18a 
AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST. 
[May, 
IN THE BARN O N A BRIGHT MAT MORNING. — Drawn and, Engraved for the American Agriculturist. 
part of May must pass before the real pleasant days are 
here. And then how pleasant they are! What can equal 
a perfect day in May ? No doubt many of you, in read¬ 
ing of tropical countries, where frost and snow are not 
known and winter never comes, think how fine it must 
be, and it may be that you think the children who live in 
these countries must have a much pleasanter time than 
you have. Just think of it! no going to school through 
the snow with muffler and mittens ; no fires to keep up; 
but summer, with birds and flowers the whole long year. 
There are many pleasant things about such a country, but 
in the lands of continual summer, as well as in your own, 
there are some things lacking. The children in the trop¬ 
ics are deprived of one thing which you, who live far¬ 
ther north can enjoy—that is spring. They may divide 
up the year into seasons, and call one of them spring, 
but the real thing they do not know, and they can not 
see that wonderful awakening that follows the sleep of 
winter. The birds of the tropics are bright with color 
and gold, hut the note of a blue-bird is better than all 
the gay plumage, and the greening of the grass, the 
bursting of the buds, and the sudden clothing of tree 
and shrub, with leaf and flower, is one of the most won¬ 
derful sights in the world, and one which makes us soon 
forget the few discomforts of winter. Then in these fair 
May days, when it is more pleasant to be out than in, 
when we put aside the winter plays, and begin almost a 
new life, how glad we are that it is not always winter— 
or always summer either, for without winter there can 
be no real spring. You whose life is passed in the coun¬ 
try, hardly know how much you have to enjoy, which is 
denied to city children. To be sure, many city, children 
can visit the parks, and see a bit of country there—a 
piece, as it were, kept as a sample, so that people may 
not forget that there are brooks, and trees, and grass. 
But the mass of city children, those of parents whose 
means force them to live in crowded houses in crowded 
streets—what do they know of spring 1 The few street 
trees put out their foliage, the grass in the little back 
yard struggles against much trumping, the flower ven¬ 
ders come along with their pots of plants, they see green 
stuff at the corner markets, and notice the changes in 
the dress of people—and they enjoy even these few 
sights. But you in the country 1 be thankful that no I 
brick walls shut out the view of meadow, wood, and 
mountain, and almost the sky, and that there are none 
so poor, but they are rich in a share of so much beauty, 
tv hat will we do in these glad spring days? Indeed 
there is so much to do that you wonder what you will do 
first. Let ns go to the brook and see how the dam we 
made last fall has stood the spring floods, and gather 
marsh marigolds at the water's edge—now over to fhe 
woods, where the blood-root is showing its pearly buds, 
then to the big rock, at the foot of which are always the 
first violets; let us go home through the orchard, to see 
if the robins are using their old nests; then to the 
garden—our little garden, where the flowers are coming 
on finely, and so are the weeds. Too tired are you to do 
the weeding now ? well then, here is the barn, and the 
swing, and such a chance to rest I The easy motion of 
the swing soon makes us forget fatigue; the sunlight 
streams in at the big door, and without we see the tender 
green and the tinted blossom buds of the orchard, and 
the song of birds, and the chirp of the chicks, are 
among the pleasant sounds that add to our enjoyment 
1 of this most charming of days—a perfect day in May, 
