MAY.

Lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone.

The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.

SONG OF SOLOMON, ii. 11, 12.

HOWEVER the festivities with which our ancestors hailed the opening of this month may have sunk into neglect, Nature has not forsaken her festivities. She still scatters flowers, and revels in dews; she still loves her leafy garniture, and the bursts of unoppressive sunshine; for, though we moderns may abandon the customs of our forefathers, and may even deny to May those joyous attributes with which they delighted to invest her; though we complain of cold winds, dull days, and frosty nights, cutting down flower and leaf, and have them too, yet is May a gladsome month withal. Vegetation has made a proud progress; it has become deep, lavish, and luxuriant; and nothing can be more delightful than the tender green of the young hawthorn leaves. Primroses still scatter their

million of pale stars over shady banks, and among the mossy roots of hazels; and, once more, amid the thickly-springing verdure of the meadow we hail the golden and spotted cowslip. In woods there is a bright azure gleam of Myosotis sylvatica, a species of forgetme-not, and of those truly vernal flowers called by botanists Scilla nutans, by poets Blue bells, and by country folk Cuckoo's stockings. The ferns are pushing forth their russet scrolls amongst the forest moss and dead leaves. pools and none of our indigenous plants can rival our aquatic ones in elegance and delicate beauty-are this month found the lovely waterviolet (Hottonia palustris) and the buck-bean, originally bog-bane or bog-plant, from its place of growth (Menyanthes trifoliata), like a fringed hyacinth. The gorse and broom are glorious on heaths and in lanes.

In

In the early part of this month, if we walk into woods, we shall be much struck with their peculiar beauty. Woods are never more agreeable objects than when they have only half assumed their green array. Beautiful and refreshing is the sight of the young leaves bursting forth from the grey boughs, some trees at one degree of advance, some at another. The assemblage of the giants of the wood is seen, each in its own character and figure; neither disguised nor hidden in the dense mass of

an

foliage which obscures them in summer;—you behold the scattered and majestic trunks; the branches stretching high and wide; the dark drapery of ivy which envelopes some of them, and the crimson flush that glows in the world of living twigs above. If the contrast of grey and mossy branches, and of the delicate richness of young leaves gushing out of them in a thousand places be inexpressibly delightful to behold, that of one tree with another is not the less so. One is nearly full clothed, other is mottled with grey and green, struggling as it were which should have the predominance, and another is still perfectly naked. The wild cherry stands like an apparition in the woods, white with its profusion of blossom, and the wilding begins to exhibit its rich and blushing countenance. The pines look dim and dusky amid the lively hues of spring. The abeles are covered with their clusters of albescent and powdery leaves and withering catkins; and beneath them the pale spathes of the arum, fully expanded and displaying their crimson clubs, presenting a sylvan and unique air. And who does not love" the wood-notes wild?" We again recognize the speech of many a little creature who, since we last heard it, has traversed seas and sojourned in places we wot not of. The landscape derives a great portion of its vernal cheerfulness not merely

from the songs of birds but from their cries. Each has a variety of cries indicative of its different moods of mind, so to speak, which are heard only in spring and summer, and are both familiar and dear to a lover of Nature. Who ever heard the weet-weet and pink-pink of the chaffinch, or the winkle-winkle of the blackbird as it flies out of the hedge and skims along before you to a short distance, repeatedly on a summer evening about sunset,—at any other time? In spring mornings by three or four o'clock the fields are filled with a perfect clamour of bird-voices, but at noon the wood is their oratory. There the wood-pecker's laugh still rings from a distance—the solemn coo of the wood-pigeon is still deep and rich as ever

the little chill-chall sounds his two notes blithely on the top of the tallest trees; and the voice of the long-tailed titmouse, ever and anon, sounds like a sweet and clear-toned little bell.

Nests are now woven to every bough and into every hollow stump.

As the month advances, our walks begin to be haunted with the richness of beauty. There are splendid evenings, clear, serene, and balmy, tempting us to continue our stroll till after sunset. We see around us fields golden with crowfoot, and cattle basking in plenty. We hear the sonorous streams chiming into the milk-pail in

the nooks of crofts, and on the other side of hedges.

Towards the close of the month, the mind, which has been continually led onward by the expansion of days, leaves, and flowers, seems to repose on the fulness of nature. Every thing is clothed. The spring actually seems past. We are surrounded by all that beauty, sunshine, and melody which mingle in our ideas of summer. The hawthorn is in full flower; the leafy hedges appear half-buried in the lofty grass, Butterflies take their wavering flight from flower to flower; and dragonflies on the banks of rivers. Sheep-washing is begun in many places. The mowing-grass presents a mosaic of the most gorgeous and inimitable hues, or is white with waving umbels. A passing gale awakens a scene of lively animation. The massy foliage of trees swings heavily, the boughs of the hawthorn wave with all their loads of fragrant bloom, and snowy umbelliferous plants toss on the lea like foam on the stormy ocean. Now sweet poesy,

Let thy happy votary roam,
For the green earth is his home,
When the tree-tops are besnowed
With the blossoms' gorgeous load,

And the forest's verdant pall
Shrouds the missel in her hall;