rocks that top the hills, beneath the shades of the forest, that these truths are strongly felt. Wherefore, as the fervent waves of July beat upon the tired nerves, let us remember the cry of the Hebrew poet: "I will look unto the hills, whence cometh my help.” THE BIRDS IN THE THICKETS What voices are these in the thickets? There-there-there! on a score or so of the boughlets, Flitting while you are looking, see their sides of red chestnut Gleam for a moment, and now they are still as the owlets Up in the hollowed maple-Speak now? well, I guess not! They know their time to talk, and it's not while we're near them, Unless we grow still and fine, and grow part of their quiet. Well have they reason to hush and hide, and to fear men, Well have they cause every one of our race to shy at,— We that slay their bright kindred to adorn the bonnets of woman, We that kill them to eat, as does the childish Italian,— How should the dear birds know that any one that is human Differs at all from the tramp or the tatterdemalion? For that is conveyed away by the devil-on-two-sticks,— Ah yes! ye birds that flit in the shadowy hemlocks, cos, Trust us not. Time was that the gemboks, Unsuspecting their imminent need was to shun foes, Came to the call of the hunter, rested their chins on his shoulder, Followed him close as o'er the South African wilds he wandered, Trusted him, till at last, grown meaner, not bolder, The man turned and slew the poor fools,-basely squandered Their fond, silly faith, and their Trust us not, why trust me? other innocent friendship. Steal carefully on, and rest,—so! Hast not seen such an Let the end skip,— I might be that man,-I am that man's brother. Ay, dear little birds in the fir trees, Be shy of me too, though I love ye; Thickets that border in birches. The forests in summer that grove ye; Come not too nigh, lest a savage Spring from my silent devotion, And, like my kind, I make ravage Of what I love best. That's our notion: If we love, we destroy; 'tis the record of history. Destroy and despoil and lay desolate, Thus hath man done. O dread Mystery! Thou whose intent we all guess so late, Thou whose gray hell we all tessellate With the blessings we would give, but cannot, Art thou coldly the high heavens mounting? Is't even, who ran and who ran not? Has not character, too, an accounting? The Spirit speaks-the God's astir,- Who knows not of thy wrong; Leave to the maple and the fir I breathe through their delicious throats 'Tis I that utter in their notes That melody arife With beauty of the seven spheres That reach to Paradise,— Joins to the singing skies; In transport of the soul May rise to me, and, lacking words, Know he hath said the whole!" N July Days ATURE holds her most royal state in this month of glowing heat. We yield too thoughtlessly to the fine tyranny of Lowell's muse, glorifying June with so intimate eulogy as the absolute "high tide of the year." June is indeed beautiful, sweet and gracious, and none denies her charm, or disputes that Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then heaven tries the earth if it be in tune But now there is no need to try if earth be in tune, for her stately rhythm is perfected, its harmonies written in, and the great symphony fills every sense with the rich burden of its adagio. The height and rest of summer are not found in the day of cherry and horse-chestnut blossoms; it is in July, when the sun is fervid and strong and the winds both cordial and vigorous, that Nature re |