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.""It's about the best music we have,"said Mrs.Comstock.
"I wonder if you couldn't copy that and make a strong,original piece out of it for your violin,Elnora?"There was one tense breath,then----"I could try,"said Elnora simply.
Philip rushed to the rescue."We must go to work,"he said,and began examining a walnut branch for Luna moth eggs.
Elnora joined him while Mrs.Comstock drew her embroidery from her pocket and sat on a log.She said she was tired,they could come for her when they were ready to go.
She could hear their voices around her until she called them at supper time.When they came to her she stood waiting on the trail,the sewing in one hand,the violin in the other.Elnora became very white,but followed the trail without a word.Philip,unable to see a woman carry a heavier load than he,reached for the instrument.Mrs.Comstock shook her head.She carried the violin home,took it into her room and closed the door.
Elnora turned to Philip.
"If she destroys that,I shall die!"cried the girl.
"She won't!"said Philip."You misunderstand her.
She wouldn't have said what she did about the owls,if she had meant to.She is your mother.No one loves you as she does.Trust her!Myself--I think she's simply great!"Mrs.Comstock returned with serene face,and all of them helped with the supper.When it was over Philip and Elnora sorted and classified the afternoon's specimens,and made a trip to the woods to paint and light several trees for moths.When they came back Mrs.Comstock sat in the arbour,and they joined her.The moonlight was so intense,print could have been read by it.
The damp night air held odours near to earth,making flower and tree perfume strong.A thousand insects were serenading,and in the maple the grosbeak occasionally said a reassuring word to his wife,while she answered that all was well.A whip-poor-will wailed in the swamp and beside the blue-bordered pool a chat complained disconsolately.
Mrs.Comstock went into the cabin,but she returned immediately,laying the violin and bow across Elnora's lap."I wish you would give us a little music,"she said.
