In The Month Of June

Bobolinks are nesting in grassy meadows, the father bird encouraging his somber-coated mate with his rollicking flight-song. Between the pickerel weed and arrowhead of the shallow brook, the hawk moth flits from flower to flower, simulating so closely that gem in feathers that many persons take it for a hummingbird. Snapping turtles now make overland journeys, searching for sandy tracts in which to bury their globular eggs. The young of the marsh hawk, that sentinel who protects our meadows from its mouse-bandits, now sprawl on their grassy nest in the clump of leatherleaf, eager for their dinners. The dusty bee, flying with blundering haste from blossom to blossom, is the messenger who carries from anther to pistil the precious pollen that insures the perpetuation of many a beautiful plant.

On the marshy meadows bordering the Arctic sea are now nesting many of the dainty little sandpipers which in May flew in close-formed flocks along our beaches, hastening from their wintering grounds on the Argentine plains to their real home. Oft hidden by the undergrowth in woods of oak or pine, the bright pink moccasins of the ladyslipper ride bravely on their stout stems above the green glossy leaves. From the grassy margin of the marsh, especially toward evening, comes the chorus of crackles of the cricket frog, who postpones his summer activities until most of his more energetic cousins have ceased their singing. Killdeers are leading about their spindle-legged youngsters, the fruit of that well-hidden quartet of earth-colored eggs that eluded our most patient search the previous month. The white star-blossoms of the flowering dogwood have withered, and have dropped their white sepals, but the five-pointed cups of the mountain laurel still cling in clusters among the glossy leaves. What joy it is to find a cool spring during a walk on a hot afternoon. From the depths of Mother Earth the pure sweet water, bubbling up through the white sand, comes almost like a benediction.

Sometimes, when crossing a half-barren tract, we may chance on the nest of a nighthawk. Nest, indeed, there is none, for a mere hollowed-out place in the gravelly soil holds the two speckled eggs, themselves so like the ground on which they rest that they can scarce be distinguished. As we stoop to examine them, the female bird, with well-simulated lameness, seeks to lure us from the spot. Soon the two downy nestlings, also garbed like their dooryard, will crouch with close-shut eyes, which otherwise would betray them, in the same place. In weedy fields or half-open woods, in many parts of the country, the blue panicles of the lupine adorn the landscape. In the far north, and on mountain slopes, the plant is most abundant, for it is of boreal origin. Many call it the compassplant, probably from its leaflets, which radiate in all directions from a central point. Another name is the sundial, for its leaves move to some extent during the day, besides folding at night.

By: davidbunch

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