MAY is the very month of mirth!
And it there be a time on earth
When things below may seem to vie
In beauty with the things on high
‘Tis in this sweetest vernal time,
While yet the year is in its prime,
And all is fresh, and fair, and gay,
And sparkling-with the smiles of May.”
AH says one of my young friends, it is very pleasant to read your poetic descriptions of the merry month of May, but I live in the crowded streets of London, and scarcely ever see a green field. And another says, What about May in murky Manchester; or gloomy Glasgow, or busy or smoky Sheffield, with their fiery, black furnaces, and long belching chimneys, vomiting forth nothing but thick cloud of smoke?
Well, even then, with all these drawbacks, what child does not welcome the long bright sunny days of May? But if even your home is there, I want to entice you now and again, yea, as often as possible, to get outside of those overgrown cities. Even from the largest of them, a long walk, or a few minutes' ride behind the iron horse would bring every one of you to the beautiful rippling streams, with their overhanging banks, covered with our simple pretty wild flowers. If you can be persuaded once to wend your way through the winding lanes, with hedges covered with the sweet-smelling May flower, the rich-scented honey-suckle, and the simple hedge rose;-if I can induce you to drink in that delicious fragrance and freshness in the air which everywhere prevails, and is felt only in Spring, I think you would get such a love for the country that you would often be found there; and that, not to spend idle hours, but to search into the history and habits of all those beautiful flowers, and birds, and insects, and trees, and a hundred other things which God has made.
How I wish I could ramble with you in the sweet evening hour, when every bush and every tree resounds with song; now through the waving cornfields, over which, high in the heavens, the lark warbles forth her evening song; now through the groves, where the nightingale loves to pour out his varied thrilling notes; now through the golden meadows, with the crowfoot sparkling all around; now over commons, where the furze blossoms in all its golden hues; then to wander over high hills, and from some overhanging cliff gaze on the wide-stretching scene, the winding valley, and the silvery river gliding on to its home, with the cattle, like mere specks, quietly feeding by the still waters, or, having supplied every need, lying down, the very picture of contentment, in the green pastures!
How the thought brings up many a walk outside even fiat smoky Manchester, and black Sheffield, whose outskirts abound with scenes of rustic beauty, and the rich fields of Doncaster, and the wooded lanes about Westbury, in Wiltshire; and the sometimes wild and sometimes beautiful scenery of Wales; but more especially, and never-to-be-forgotten, the beautiful banks of the Tay, the rich fields above Perth, the magnificent scene from the mighty cliff of Kinnole, the glory of Scotland; and the almost enchanting scenes in the wild but richly-valiant Pass of Killiecrankie.
Voyage on the Mississippi River Once, but Now Many Years Ago, I Steamed Near Two Thousand Miles up the Far-Famed, Wide, and Magnificent Mississippi River, and After That, Many Hundred Miles up the Beautiful Winding Ohio, and Then up the Illinois River, Through the Wide Spreading Prairies of the States of America. It Was Early in Spring, and Much As I Loved the Scene, How Impossible It Would Be to Describe Its Beauties to You. Slavery Was Then in Full Force, and for Hundreds of Miles on Each Side of the Dark Rolling River Were to Be Seen the White-Washed Huts of the Slaves, Surrounded by the Magnificent Verdure of an Almost Tropical Sun. the Stately Southern Villa, With Its Open Verandah White As Snow, Nestled in the Woods; and Then the Overhanging Trees Along Nearly the Whole Length of the Ohio, and the Almost Innumerable Wild Prairie Flowers, and the Lovely Wild Vine Climbing to the Lop of the Highest Tree and Dropping Down in Rich Festoons: Here Were Beauties of Spring Never to Be Forgotten.
But as a set-off to all this, how shall I describe my sadness, when I first saw a gang of slaves? It was night; the steam tug had not towed our ship many miles up the river when we stopped by the side of a dense forest to take in wood for the boiler fires. In a moment a long file of stalwart men, black as ebony, each bearing a log on his shoulder, came on board. For near two months I had not set foot on dry land, and great was the pleasure once again to step on shore. Scarcely had I done so when the thought first flashed across my mind, These poor blacks are slaves doomed to bondage as long as they shall live! Great fires were blazing, and strange indeed did their black features and almost naked limbs look in the lurid glare of those flames. I cannot describe the kind of awe with which I gazed for the first time upon men that could be bought and sold and whipped like cattle. Beautiful indeed was the spring scenery along the whole of those rivers, but I could never forget that the black spot of slavery was there.
The Singing of Birds It Is Not Till the Latter End of May, That All the Trees Are Covered With Beautiful Green Leaves. the Sturdy Old Oaks Are About the Very Last. the Few Warm Days of March Did Not Seem to Move the Sap in Their Rough Trunks. April's Soft Tears and Gentle Showers Failed to Bring Out the Buds; but When Merry Laughing May, With Its Bright and Burning Sun, Comes Dancing Along, Nothing Can Withstand Its Warmth, and Out Burst the Beautiful Foliage Even of the Gnarled Tardy Old Oak.
What a busy scene everywhere meets us in spring. Now is the time when you will find the field mice and rabbits preparing burrows for their young. The winged tribes, with unwearying labor are feeding their nestlings; the last of our summer visitors now come. The swallows are most active, even in the hottest part of the day, dashing along at the top of their speed.
Now the melody of the birds never stops, night or day. When all others are tired out, the nightingale sends forth his sweetest, loudest notes. Insects, and butterflies, and moths, and beetles are most plentiful. Bees, and wasps, and grasshoppers, and that speck of light, the glow worm, are now to be seen. The wild flowers come out fresh every day. What rich pleasure it would give you to find out all their names, and compare their beauties and their rich perfumes! And then the flowery bushes in the lanes are nearly all out, the honeysuckle, the rose, the wild apple, and the hawthorn may, with hosts of others. Towards the end of May the chestnut is in its greatest glory; and if my young London friends wish to feast on a sight they will never forget, one of the most beautiful in all nature, let them take at this time a trip to Bushey Park, and see perhaps the finest avenue of chestnut trees in the world.
But what shall I say of our gardens and orchards? To give a list of names of trees, and flowers, and plants, and fruits, would help but little. Learn them for yourselves, and let the flowers become your pets, and if your heart is right, that blessed One who said, "Behold the lilies of the field," will teach you many a solemn useful lesson from them all.
Dark Clouds in May and yet Bright and Beautiful As May Generally Is, Sometimes a Dark Cloud Will Gather; a Storm of Wind and Rain, and Even Frost and Snow, Will Suddenly Cast a Winter's Gloom Over All Nature. How Like to Life Is This! Yes, Says Some Little Sorrowful Heart, Already I Have Known Something Just Like That. a Little Time Ago, in Our Family, All Was so Bright, There Was Not a Cloud to Be Seen. Little One, Well Do I Know What You Mean. You Had a Loving Mother, and a Kind Father, and Brothers and Sisters Were All so Happy. What a Bright Spring Morning Was That! but Sickness Came, That Loving Mother Was Laid Low; With Gentle Footsteps and Bated Breath You Trod About the House; Day by Day Hope Grew Fainter, Until at Length She Died, and Then a Heavy Crushing Sorrow Fell Like an Avalanche on Your Path. That Was Indeed a Dark Storm on a Bright Day. Dear Sorrowing One, Do You Know That the Lord Jesus Was Once a Little Child, and Had Sorrows Just Like You, and He Never Forgets, Like Us Who Are Grown Old, a Single Trial He Passed Through As a Child. He Loves Little Children, He Died That He Might Save Them, and Whether You Have Had Such a Trouble, or It Is Still in Store for You, I Want to Tell You That If You Lift up Your Heart to Him, and Tell Out All Your Sorrow and That Deeper Thing Which Is Worse Than Sorrow, the Sin of Your Heart, He Will Take the Sadness Away, and Make You Brighter and Happier Than Ever Before, and He Will Take Care of You Too, Till He Brings You to His Own Happy Home,
"Where everlasting spring abides,
And never-withering flowers.”