They were right,--those old German Minnesingers,--to sing the pleasant summer-time! What a time it is! How June stands illuminated¹ in the Calendar! The windows are all wide open; only the Venetian blinds closed. Here and there a long streak² of sunshine streams in through a crevice³. We hear the low sound of the wind among the trees; and, as it swells⁴ and freshens, the distant doors clap to, with a sudden sound. The trees are heavy with leaves; and the gardens full of blossoms, red and white. The whole atmosphere is laden⁵ with perfume and sunshine. The birds sing. The cock struts⁶ about, and crows loftily. Insects chirp⁷ in the grass. Yellow butter-cups stud the green carpet like golden buttons, and the red blossoms of the clover like rubies⁸. The elm-trees reach their long, pendulous⁹ branches almost to the ground. White clouds sail aloft; and vapors¹⁰ fret¹¹ the blue sky with silver threads. The white village gleams afar against the dark hills. Through the meadow winds the river,--careless, indolent. It seems to love the country, and is in no haste to reach the sea. The bee only is at work,--the hot and angry bee. All things else are at play; he never plays, and is vexed¹² that any one should.