June 9th -- June time is Rose time. Wild Roses and Sweetbrier are blooming along the way. We children love to stop and watch them and leave them blooming there. Flower-friends are such lovely fairies, and do you know the most joy comes from leaving them blooming where we find them? Sometimes it is well to gather a few to carry to those who cannot come out unto the flower -- but best of all is the abiding joy that comes from loving them and leaving them in blossom where we find them. Have you learned a part of what the poets have written about Rose fairies? Did you know that Strawberry, Bridal Wreath, Cherry and Meadowsweet are all cousins of the Rose?
We have a secret, just we three,
The robin and I and the sweet cherry tree;
The bird told the tree and the tree told me,
And nobody knows it but just we three;
But of course the robin knows it best,
Because he built it -- I shan't tell the rest;
And laid the four -- somethings in it --
I am afraid I shall tell it every minute.
But if the tree and the robin don't peep,
I'll try my best the secret to keep;
Though I know when the little birds fly about,
Then the whole secret will be out.
Hast thou named all the birds without a gun?
Loved the wood-rose and left it on its stalk?
O, be my friend, and teach me to be thine.
The old rail fence, with aimless angles
Curved round the scented fields of old;
And wild blown vines in quaintest tangles
Bloomed there in purple and in gold.
Here shy Arachne winds her endless thread,
And weaves her silken tapestry unseen,
Veiling the rough-hewn timbers overhead,
And looping gossamer festoons between.
|-- Elizabeth Akers|
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell,
whaur the primroses won
Lookin' oot o' their leaves
like wee sons o' the sun
Whaur the wild roses shine
like flickers o' flame,
And fa' at the touch
wi' a dainty shame;
Whaur the bee swings ower
the white, clovery sod,
And the butterfly flits
like a stray thocht o' God.
To watch the primrose blow. Silent they stood,
Hand clasped in hand, in breathless hush around
And saw her shyly doff her soft green hood
And blossom -- with a silken burst of sound.
|-- Margaret Deland|
Thou art only a gray and sober dove,
But thine eye is faith and thy wing is love.
So sweet, so sweet the calling of the thrushes,
The calling, cooing, wooing, everywhere,
So sweet the water's song
through reeds and rushes,
The plover's piping note, now here, now there.
And with childlike, credulous affection
We behold those tender wings expand,
Emblems of our own great resurrection,
Emblems of the bright and better land.
Above the tumult of the canyon lifted,
The gray hawk breathless hung,
O'er on the hill a winged shadow drifted,
Where furze and thorn-bush clung.
|-- Bret Harte|
|Western Red-Tail Hawk|
Buteo Borealis Calurus
July 7th -- This world is made up of big fairies, little fairies, littler fairies, and least ones. Some of the littler ones are Leaf-miners. We have been out inspecting their work to-day. They are the very little elves who cause many of those meandering lines and blister spots upon the beautiful leaves of plants and trees. These elves are larvae that are to be, when they grow up, tiny Moths or Beetles or Flies. (Nearly all those we have brought in have changed into tiny Moths.) Today we found little mines on the leaves of Pine, Nasturtium, Spinach, Columbine, Oak, Burdock, and Apple in a few minutes search.
My child, behold the cheerful ant,
How hard she works, each day
She works as hard as adamant,
Which is very hard, they say.
Over the shoulders and slopes of the dune
I saw the white daisies go down to the sea;
A host in the sunshine, an army in June --
The people God sends to set our hearts free.
The bobolinks rallied them up from the dell,
The orioles whistled them out of the wood,
And all their dancing was "Earth it is well,"
And all their saying was "Life thou art good."
|-- Bliss Carmen|
The paths, the woods, the heavens, the hills,
Are not a world today
But just a place God made for us
In which to play.
Howdy, Mister Hop-Toad!
Glad to see you out!
Bin a month o' Sundays
since I see you hereabout.
Mister Hop-Toad, honest true
-- Springtime -- don't you love it?
You old rusty rascal, you,
at the bottom of it!
Swell that fat old throat o' yourn
and lemme see you swaller
Straighten up and h'ist your head!
You don't owe a dollar!
Hulk, sulk, and blink away,
you old bloat-eyed rowdy!
Hain't you got a word to say?
Won't you tell me howdy?
He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things, both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.
Upon his painted wings the Butterfly
Roamed a gay blossom of the summer sky.
The wandering rivulets dancing through the grass,
The gambols, low or loud, of insect-life,
The cheerful call of cattle in the vales,
Sweet natural sounds of the contented hours.
God spreads a carpet soft and green
o'er which we pass;
A thick piled mat of jeweled sheen --
and that is grass.
|-- Arthur Powell|
In the cool of the evening,
when the low sweet whispers waken,
In the beauty of the twilight,
in the garden that He loveth,
The sunset winds,
they wander through the heather,
The singing winds,
they bow the reeds in the prayer together,
Rustle all the meadow-grass
and bend the dewy fern.
It comes from childhood's land,
where summer days are long
And summer eves are bland --
a lulling good-night song.
Upon a pasture stone
against the fading West
A small bird sings alone,
then dives and finds his nest.
The evening star has heard
and flutters into sight;
Oh childhood's vesper bird,
my heart calls back "Good-night."