AND what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays; Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green, The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace; The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,- In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?
That is the first stanza of the first poem I remember studying and admiring. In fact I still have snatches of it by memory. Its author was James Russell Lowell, a once eminent figure of the mid nineteenth century and in his day considered one of America’s great poets, perhaps even our greatest. Believe it or not he was once taught in the junior grades of American public schools. So I have among my readers, several of them like myself of a certain age, who may at least have heard of the poet, but I think on the whole he is pretty well forgotten. I doubt if any of my English majors at Princeton would even react to his name. But when the first beautiful days of June arrive, I myself always remember his “June” poem, and am even likely to quote a line or two. It is the perfect expression of June’s freshness and gentleness as it introduces the welcome doldrums of real summer.
The relevance of all this may become a little clearer when I turn to a little experience of the last two weeks. First you have to know that we have on the long south side of our one-story home a bluestone patio, perhaps twenty feet square, fairly recently installed. A long backyard slowly descends from the patio to a distant stone wall, beyond which is an open field and a quarter-mile path through woods to the lake. There is quite a bit of small wildlife in the yard—squirrels, chipmunks and rabbits, mainly, but with foxes, deer, skunks, and opposums by no means unknown. The bird life is prolific and varied. And all this is highly visible from indoors through a wall of large sliding glass window/doors. In spring and summer we have the delightful experience of viewing the Peaceable Kingdom from our living room sofa.
A bunny and a squirrel were independently cavorting on different sides of the stone patio. They were apparently unaware, as was I, that a red-tail hawk was also watching their activities. Suddenly, and with amazing alacrity this fellow swooped down upon the little rabbit, delivering a blow that was utterly incapacitating but not instantly mortal, leaving the rabbit feebly struggling within the expanded fullness of the bird’s expanded wing. The hawk, while pinning the dying rabbit to the patio stones, tore at its furry underbelly with its gruesome talons. We watched all this with a kind of infirm fascination. Though we did nothing to intervene, two bluejays, appearing out of I know not where, did. They attacked the hawk mid-execution. I doubt that they were motivated by an innate love of rabbits, but they clearly did not want this raptor anywhere around their own bailiwick or accustomed turf. With amazing dexterity, they repeatedly dive-bombed the hawk. The attack was doubtless more annoyance than mortal danger, but a serious annoyance. After a brief time the hawk flew up to a perch beyond our line of sight. By then his prey was quite dead, its abandoned corpse visibly mangled. The jays disappeared as suddenly as they had earlier appeared, not to be seen again that day. We were left with a dead rabbit, its intestines visible at its torn stomach, and a couple of blood-smeared flagstones. The episode was over—so we thought. Certainly we hoped so. But even as we were clucking over the Darwinian drama, the hawk descended once more to the arena of his abattoir. This time he was not alone. He was accompanied by a trim female hawk, presumably his mate. This pair then went seriously to work on the lapine cadaver. They appeared to be tearing sizeable fleshy gobbets, including some furry ones, which they then swallowed down with apparent relish. What remained after their energetic breakfast was a maimed but surprisingly tidy rabbit residue, with the vague appearance of a tee-shirt as it comes out moist but not dripping from the spinning cycle of a washing machine.
Small things may remind you of larger ones. On All Saints’ Day of 1755, at about 9:30 in the morning, there occurred an event in Lisbon that perhaps permanently undermined the old Christian idea of a providential universe. A devastating earthquake, accompanied by uncontrollable conflagrations, pretty well leveled the city with enormous loss of life. Many died in the crowded churches, where masses were being conducted in celebration of the major religious holiday. Death was dealt out by fire, flood, and hundreds of tons of falling stone. News of this disaster, as it rapidly spread throughout Europe, had a devastating effect on what might be call conventional Christian morale. For many throughout Europe, including the six-year-old Goethe who was one of many to have later written about its effect on his tender world view, it was an event that seemed to challenge the most fundamental belief in divine Providence.
Tennyson, author of the indelible
phrase “nature red in tooth and claw,” was perhaps in his own mind able to
defang it with conventional pie-in-the-sky bromides. There is a lot of that in his famous “In
Memoriam,” his poetic monument to a once-in-a-lifetime friendship and the
poignancy of early death. We ourselves
don’t like to think too deeply about the jungle morality we see exemplified
every day in the popular press. After
all, there is indeed a special perfection to many June days, and I hope to be able
to catch glimpses of it during the two weeks of June still to come. The more sinister implications of the
ruthlessness of the natural order but rarely force themselves onto your garden
patio, but when they do I have to sit up and take notice.
