month of June will show us more foliage, but it will be of a darker and more uniform shade of green.  Now, as the sun rises higher and sends his rays through both the woodlands and the brushlands we thrill with delight at the kaleidoscope of color.  There are no withered leaves to mar the beauty now.  Seen in mass, and at a distance, the woodlands are a soft cinerous purple.  But the tops, where the ruddy rays of the sun are glancing, are a hazy cloud of tender green, pink, yellow and pale purple.  Nearer trees show in their opening leaves pale tints of the same gorgeous colors which we see in the fall.  The maple keys and the edges of the tender leaves glow blood-red in the morning sun.  The half-developed leaves of the birch and the poplar are a yellowish-green, not unlike the yellow which they show in autumn.  The neatly plaited folds of the leaves of the oak display a greenish or cinerous purple, a soft and delicate presentment of the stronger colors which come in October, just as the overture gives us faint voicings of the beauty which the opera is to bring; just as Lowell’s organist gives us

          "The faint auroral flushes sent
    Along the wavering vista of his dream."

The edge of the cliff is lined with shad-trees.  Each twig is a plume of feathery dainty white The drooping racemes of white blossoms, with the ruby and early-falling bracts among them look like gala decorations to fringe the way of Flora as she travels up the valley.  The shad-trees have blossomed rather late.  In them and under them it is fully spring.  There is a sound of bees and a sense of sweetness which make us forget all the cold days and think only of the glory of the coming summer.  There comes a song sparrow and perches on one of the twigs.  He throws back his little head, opens his mouth and pours forth a flood of melody.  Next comes a myrtle warbler, eager to show us the yellow on his crown, on his two sides and the lower part of his back.  He is one of the most abundant of the warblers and one of the most charming and fearless.  He perches on a hop hornbeam tree from which the catkins have just shed their yellow pollen and goes over it somewhat after the manner of a chickadee or a nuthatch, showing us as he does so the white under his chin, the two heavy black marks below that, the two white cross bars on his wings, and his coat of slate color, striped and streaked with black.  He goes over every twig of the little tree and then flies off to another, first pausing, however, to give his little call note “tschip, tschip” and then his little song, “Tschip-tweeter-tweeter.”  A pair of kingfishers, showing their blue wings and splendid crests, fly screaming down the creek.  Their nest is in a tunnel four feet in the clay banks on the opposite side.