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A DAY IN JUNE1

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

James Russell Lowell (1819-1891), born in the suburbs of Cambridge, Massachusetts, was descended from a cultured New England family. He was sent to Harvard and later had a private tutor at Concord, where he knew Emerson. (See The Humblebee, p. 246.) Like Washington Irving, he was minister to Spain. Later he was ambassador to England, in which position he won great popularity. In spite of his duties as editor of two well-known magazines, and as lecturer, succeeding Longfellow at Harvard, he published many poems and much prose. A Day in June is taken from The Vision of Sir Launfal, one of his most widely known poems. He lies buried in Mt. Auburn Cemetery, Cambridge, Massachusetts, not far from Longfellow's resting place. See also:

Halleck's History of American Literature, pp. 245-257, 284.
Scudder's James Russell Lowell: A Biography.

AND what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,

And over it softly her warm ear lays:
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,

An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;

ΤΟ

1 Used by permission of, and by arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin Company authorized publishers of Lowell's works.

5

The flush of life may well be seen

Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean
To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o'errun

With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,

And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and

sings;

He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,
In the nice 2 ear of Nature which song is the best?
We are happy now because God wills it;

No matter how barren the past may have been,
'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;
We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing
That skies are clear and grass is growing;

The breeze comes whispering in our ear,
That dandelions are blossoming near,

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, That the river is bluer than the sky,

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35

That the robin is plastering his house hard by;

And if the breeze kept the good news back,

For other couriers we should not lack;

We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, —
And hark! how clear bold chanticleer,
Warmed with the new wine of the year,

Tells all in his lusty crowing!

1 Humble.

2 Thoughtful, discriminating.

40

STUDY HINTS

Can you answer the poet's question on line 24? How many things contribute to make a perfect June day? Can you add anything to the poet's list? What is your favorite month? What would constitute a perfect day in that month? Does any part of this resemble Wordsworth's descriptions of nature?

SUGGESTIONS FOR ADDITIONAL READINGS

The Fountain. James Russell Lowell.

Aladdin. James Russell Lowell.

The Shepherd of King Admetus. James Russell Lowell.

Sunthin' in the Pastoral Line (from The Biglow Papers, Second Series, No. VI). James Russell Lowell.

Knee-deep in June. James Whitcomb Riley.

Chanticleer. Celia Thaxter.

THE CHAPARRAL1 PRINCE 2

O. HENRY

O. Henry (1867-1910), whose real name was William Sydney Porter, was born in Greensboro, North Carolina. He led a very roving life, at one time being a cowboy in Texas, at another, editor of a magazine. He finally went to New York in 1902, where he became widely known as a writer of short stories. Critics have said that he is the best shortstory writer that America has produced, with the exception of Poe and Hawthorne. See also:

Bookman, 38: 168-177 (October, 1913).

World's Work, 18:11724-11726 (June, 1909).

NINE o'clock at last, and the drudging toil of the day was ended. Lena climbed to her room in the third half-story of the Quarrymen's Hotel. Since daylight she had slaved, doing the work of a full-grown woman, scrubbing the floors, washing the heavy ironstone plates and cups, making the beds, and supplying the insatiate demands for wood and water in that turbulent and depressing hostelry.

The din of the day's quarrying was over the blasting and drilling, the creaking of the great cranes, the shouts of the foremen, the backing and shifting of the flat-cars hauling the heavy blocks of limestone. Down in the hotel office three or four of the laborers were growling and swearing over a belated game of checkers. Heavy odors of stewed meat, hot grease, and cheap coffee hung like a depressing fog about the house.

Lena lit the stump of a candle and sat limply upon her

1 A hardy shrub covering large tracts of land in Texas.

* Copyright, 1907, by Doubleday, Page & Co. Used by permission of the publishers.

wooden chair. She was eleven years old, thin and illnourished. Her back and limbs were sore and aching. But the ache in her heart made the biggest trouble. The last

straw had been added to the burden upon her small shoulders. They had taken away Grimm.1 Always at night, however tired she might be, she had turned to Grimm for comfort and hope. Each time had Grimm whispered to her that the prince or the fairy would come and deliver her out of the wicked enchantment. Every night she had taken fresh courage and strength from Grimm.

To whatever tale she read she found an analogy in her own condition. The woodcutter's lost child, the unhappy goose girl, the persecuted stepdaughter, the little maiden imprisoned in the witch's hut all these were but transparent disguises for Lena, the overworked kitchenmaid in the Quarrymen's Hotel. And always when the extremity was direst came the good fairy or the gallant prince to the rescue.

[graphic]

So, here in the ogre's castle, enslaved by a wicked spell, Lena had leaned upon Grimm and waited, longing for the powers of goodness to prevail. But on the day before Mrs. Maloney had found the book in her room and had carried it away, declaring sharply it would not do for servants to read at night; they lost sleep and did not work briskly the next day. Can one only eleven years old, living away from one's mamma, and never having any time to play, live entirely deprived of Grimm? Just try it once, and you will see what a difficult thing it is.

Lena's home was in Texas, away up among the little

1 The Grimm Brothers' Fairy Tales.

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