unhorsed each other for the love of a lady.  June is the knightly month.  On many a field of gold and green the heroes will kick their way into fame; and bands of young women, in white, with their diplomas in their hands, star-eyed mathematicians and linguists, will come out to smile upon the victors in that exhibition of strength that women most admire.  No, the world is not decaying or losing its juvenility.  The motto still is, “Love, and may the best man win!” How jocund and immortal is woman!  Now, in a hundred schools and colleges, will stand up the solemn, well-intentioned man before a row of pretty girls, and tell them about Womanhood and its Duties, and they will listen just as shyly as if they were getting news, and needed to be instructed by a man on a subject which has engaged their entire attention since they were five years old.  In the light of science and experience the conceit of men is something curious.  And in June! the most blossoming, riant, feminine time of the year.  The month itself is a liberal education to him who is not insensible to beauty and the strong sweet promise of life.  The streams run clear then, as they do not in April; the sky is high and transparent; the world seems so large and fresh and inviting.  Our houses, which six months in the year in these latitudes are fortifications of defense, are open now, and the breath of life flows through them.  Even over the city the sky is benign, and all the country is a heavenly exhibition.  May was sweet and capricious.  This is the maidenhood deliciousness of the year.  If you were to bisect the heart of a true poet, you would find written therein June.

NINE SHORT ESSAYS

By Charles Dudley Warner

CONTENTS: 

A NIGHT IN THE GARDEN OF THE TUILERIES TRUTHFULNESS THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS LITERATURE AND THE STAGE THE LIFE-SAVING AND LIFE PROLONGING ART “H.H.”  IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA SIMPLICITY THE ENGLISH VOLUNTEERS DURING THE LATE INVASION NATHAN HALE

A NIGHT IN THE GARDEN OF THE TUILERIES

It was in the time of the Second Empire.  To be exact, it was the night of the 18th of June, 1868; I remember the date, because, contrary to the astronomical theory of short nights at this season, this was the longest night I ever saw.  It was the loveliest time of the year in Paris, when one was tempted to lounge all day in the gardens and to give to sleep none of the balmy nights in this gay capital, where the night was illuminated like the day, and some new pleasure or delight always led along the sparkling hours.  Any day the Garden of the Tuileries was a microcosm repaying study.  There idle Paris sunned itself; through it the promenaders flowed from the Rue de Rivoli gate by the palace to the entrance on the Place de la Concorde, out to the Champs-Elysees and back again; here in the north grove gathered thousands