JUNE DAYS. 'Twas one of the charmed days, A tempest cannot blow; It may blow north, it still is warm; Or south, it still is clear; Or east, it smells like a clover-farm; - EMERSON-Wood Notes. The charm of the June days is due, in no small part, to the obliquity of the ecliptic. The inclination of the earth's axis at an angle of nearly twenty-three and a half degrees from the perpendicular to the plane of its orbit is a most important fact in mathematical geography, and yields as its result, when combined with the rotation of the earth on its axis and its revolution around the sun, that wonderful variety in the aspects of Nature which is the characteristic of life on the earth, especially in the Temperate Zones. The zones of climate are determined by it; the tropics and the polar circles owe their existence and present location to it. A difference of a few degrees, more or less, in this angle would have made the history of the world different. Civilization appears to depend upon it. Organic life, vegetable and animal, is deeply affected by the apparent northward or southward progress of the sun. Buds swell and open at its coming, and the birds, the welcome, joyous birds, herald its return. Scarcely has the sun crossed the Equator on its northward journey before the migratory birds are with us, and by the time it has reached the Tropic of Cancer they are all in their summer homes and are brooding over their nests, impelled by that mysterious inherited memory or instinct which leads them to do as their ancestors have done for ages, no one knows how long. When the sun has reached the Equator on its southern journey the fall migrations are beginning, and long before it has reached the Tropic of Capricorn the last of the summer visitants has bidden us adieu. They came arrayed in their gayest colors and singing their sweetest songs: they have gone with faded colors and almost in silence. We know they will come back, but we do not await their return with the same reverent feeling with which our ancestors in the old time awaited the coming of spring. The flight of the seasons affects us but little. We are as comfortable in winter as in summer, thanks to the improvements with which an advancing civilization has enriched our homes. We no longer personify light and darkness, or think of the contest between summer and winter as worthy of our attention. But to our ancestors, more directly in contact with the daily and yearly phenomena of Nature, and more dependent on them for food and warmth and life, these were the great facts of existence, and this struggle of the powers of light with those of darkness was the foundation of their mythology and their creeds, and powerfully affected their lives. The tide of Life which has been advancing all through the spring reaches its highest point in June. April and May are months of anticipation; their faces are turned toward the future glories. June is a month of realization; summer is here. The little modest spring flowers have departed; the half-opened leaves have expanded; the many-colored hues of the spring foliage have ripened into a nearly uniform darker verd ure. This is the most tuneful month of the year. The summer songsters have joined their music to the warbling of the earlier comers. Every morning opens with a pean of praise; every evening closes with an anthem of peace. One of the most common of these songsters is the robin (Merula migratoria, Sw. and Rich.). Wilson Flagg in his charming "The Birds and Seasons of New England" pays this deserved tribute to the robin's musical ability: "I shall not ask pardon of those critics who are always canting about musical 'power' . . . for assigning the robin a very high rank as a singing bird. Let them say in the cant of modern criticism, that his performances cannot be great because they are faultless. It is enough for me that his mellow notes, heard at the earliest flush of dawn, in the busy hour of noon, or in the stillness of evening, come to the ear in a stream of unqualified melody. . . . The robin is surpassed by some other birds in certain qualities of song. The mocking-bird has more 'power,' the red. thrush more variety, the bobolink more animation; but there is no bird that has fewer faults than the robin, or that would be more esteemed as a constant companion, a vocalist for all hours, whose strains never tire and never offend. . . . The notes of the robin are all melodious, all delightful, loud without vociferation, mellow without monotony, fervent without ecstasy, and combining more of sweetness of tone, plaintiveness, cheerfulness, and propriety of utterance than the notes of any other bird. The robin is the Philomel of morning. twilight in New England and in all the northeastern states of this continent. If his sweet notes were wanting, the mornings would be like a landscape without the rose, or a summer-evening sky without tints. He is the chief performer in the delightful anthem that welcomes the rising day. Of others the best are but accompaniments of more or less importance. Remove the robin from this woodland orchestra, and it would be left without a soprano." This is high praise, but no one who is familiar with the facts will say that it is not deserved. And when we consider the wide distribution of this bird over all parts of North America, from Greenland and the islands of Bering's Sea to Cuba and Guatemala, we can imagine the vastness of that chorus which ascends from the voices of these birds in the interval between the earliest dawn and sunrise from April to July. Our love for the robin, dating back to early childhood, does not prevent a kindred feeling for some other birds with which we have most pleasant associations. Something would be missing out of life if we could not yearly renew acquaintance with the little chipping sparrow or hair-bird (Spizella socialis, Bonaparte). He used to be the most familiar bird of thirty years ago, until the arrival of the English sparrow. If he is not attractive by his color, ashen-brown above and grayish-white beneath, wearing a velvety-brown skull-cap which easily distinguishes him from his kindred, his diminutive size and his marked sociability make him a favorite. He has, too, his own characteristic song, a long-drawn trill, heard early and late, a real and valuable contribution to the bird music of spring. If in my callow days I threw stones at these confiding sparrows I was never unfortunate enough to hit one, and I hope the record |