“Not if you talk to me that way, I can’t,” said Elnora.

“Well, I guess we better let ambition lie.  I’ve always heard it was safest asleep.  If you ever get a bona fide attack, it will be time to attend it.  Let’s hunt specimens.  It is June.  Philip and I are in the grades.  You have an hour to put an idea into our heads that will stick for a lifetime, and grow for good.  That’s the way I look at your job.  Now, what are you going to give us?  We don’t want any old silly stuff that has been hashed over and over, we want a big new idea to plant in our hearts.  Come on, Miss Teacher, what is the boiled-down, double-distilled essence of June?  Give it to us strong.  We are large enough to furnish it developing ground.  Hurry up!  Time is short and we are waiting.  What is the miracle of June?  What one thing epitomizes the whole month, and makes it just a little different from any other?”

“The birth of these big night moths,” said Elnora promptly.

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.  Only just now it’s come to me that the distinctive feature of February is not linen bleaching, nor sugar making; it’s the love month of our very own birds.  Give them hawks and owls for February, Elnora.”

With flashing eyes the girl looked at Philip.  “How’s that?” she said.  “Don’t you think I will succeed, with such help?  You should hear the concert she is talking about!  It is simply indescribable when the ground is covered with snow, and the moonlight white.”