une, the first of the summer months, presents us with many interesting things. The meadows are now covered with flowers in full bloom: the forests have put on their beautiful garments of green: the birds are busy in tending their young; the mornings are ushered in with silvery dews, and the evenings come like a soft veil thrown over the cradle of her children, by the gentle hand of nature, to make their slumbers sweet and secure.
The farmer is now busy in gathering his crop of hay,—though, as he swings his scythe, he unhappily disturbs many a pretty nest of the meadow lark, the sparrow, and the boblink. How the latter does sing “Get out o’ the way old Dan Tucker,”—as the mowers intrude upon his dominion! However, it is better that Bob should be disturbed now and then, than that the cattle should starve, and every body go without milk and meat.
But let us go to some field, where the mower has not yet appeared. Let us stop and listen to Bob—with his white nightcap on. What a set of names he has got—boblink—bob o’ lincoln—skunk black bird—and rice bird. He seems to have as many names as those rascals who are sent to the state’s prison, yet he has no other quality in common with pick-pockets and counterfeiters. He is no thief, for what he takes he takes in open day; he is no pick-pocket, for while the cat-bird filches cherries, strawberries, raspberries, and grapes, Bob is content with the waste seeds of the meadows. He is no counterfeiter,—no, he is a downright fellow, and is never ashamed of his name. Meet him where you will, he springs into the air, and seems to give you a challenge in the following words—
“Jem Richardson, Jem Richardson,—get away—yet away: it’s very disagreeable of you to trouble us: get away! get away!”
Different people fancy the boblink to say different things. A girl of sixteen blushes at his open, impertinent calling out the name of her lover, which she supposed a secret to every one but herself; the miser thinks his song like the jingling of keys; a tory fancies that the rogue calls him a whig; a whig, that he reviles him as a tory; a boy going home from school, imagines that he is mocking him for spelling the word jingo, with two gs—and a town-meeting orator, regards him as a lecturer upon that species of eloquence which at town-meetings is usually displayed—a succession of nasal, brassy sounds, with very little sense.
But let us leave boblink to pursue his cheerful, happy life, and look at that bird with long legs and a sly appearance, stealing through the grass. He is a meadow lark,—and a magnificent bird, streaked with gray and brown upon the back, with a breast of bright yellow. See! he is very timid, and has already flown. Alas, his flesh is excellent, and man has taught him that there is danger in his near approach. Yet listen to his clear, shrill note, as he flies in the air. See! there he lights on the topmost bough of yonder apple-tree. How plaintive, yet how beautiful, his prolonged note! He is not, however, so sweet a singer as the lark of Europe.
Let us take a stroll in yonder thicket. How still and secluded is this little dell. Not a sound is to be heard. Hush! I heard a rustle among the bushes! Oh, it is a brown thrush; there he sits, trying to hide himself behind the oak leaves. He has a nest near, and being engaged in important business, does not wish to be disturbed. He will not speak to you till evening. If you are then within a quarter of a mile, you will hear his song. It consists of imitations and variations that might put Ole Bull to the blush. Some passages are exquisitely beautiful, and would excite the envy of that conceited bird, the English talk so much of,—the nightingale,—a bird, that is so solicitous to be heard, that it will sing only in the night, when all honest birds are asleep.
We will say no more of this month, after introducing to you the following description of it, in the oldest English lay extant: