Philip clapped his hands. The tears started to Mrs. Comstock's eyes. She
took Elnora in her arms, and kissed her forehead.
"You'll do!" she said. "June is June, not because it has bloom, bird,
fruit, or flower, exclusive to it alone.
"It's half May and half July in all of them. But to me, it's just June,
when it comes to these great, velvet-winged night moths which sweep its
moonlit skies, consummating their scheme of creation, and dropping like
a bloomed-out flower. Give them moths for June. Then make that the basis
of your year's work. Find the distinctive feature of each month, the
one thing which marks it a time apart, and hit them squarely between the
eyes with it. Even the babies of the lowest grades can comprehend moths
when they see a few emerge, and learn their history, as it can be lived
before them. You should show your specimens in pairs, then their eggs,
the growing caterpillars, and then the cocoons. You want to dig out the
red heart of every month in the year, and hold it pulsing before them.
"I can't name all of them off-hand, but I think of one more right now.
February belongs to our winter birds. It is then the great horned owl of
the swamp courts his mate, the big hawks pair, and even the crows begin
to take notice. These are truly our birds. Like the poor we have them
always with us. You should hear the musicians of this swamp in February,
Philip, on a mellow night. Oh, but they are in earnest! For twenty-one
years I've listened by night to the great owls, all the smaller sizes,
the foxes, coons, and every resident left in these woods, and by day to
the hawks, yellow-hammers, sap-suckers, titmice, crows, and other winter
birds.
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