June blossomed in the yellow barberry by the road-side, and in the bright rhodora and the pale orchis in the dark woods.

June sang in the whistle of the robin swinging on the elm and the cherry, and the gushing warble of the bobolink tumbling, and darting, and fluttering in the warm meadow.

June twinkled in the keen brightness of the fresh green of leaves, and swelled in the fruit buds.

June clucked and crowed in the cocks and hens that stepped about the yard, followed by the multitudinous peep of little chickens.
June lowed in the cattle in the pasture.

June sprang, and sprouted, and sang, and grew in all the sprouting and blooming, in all the sunny new life of the world.
White among the dark pine-trees stood the old house of Pinewood--a temple of silence in the midst of the teeming, overpowering murmur of new life; of silence and darkness in the midst of jubilant sunshine and universal song, that seemed to press against the very windows over which the green blinds were drawn.
But that long wave of rich life, as it glided across the lawn and in among the solemn pine-trees, was a little hushed and subdued.