Morning journal and courier., 1890-07-14
con uUNICATIONs.
A June Morning in New Haven


 To the Editor of the JOURNAL AND COURIER:
 ar: sitting by my chamber window this bright, glorious June morning, looking into the cool grsenness of the maple trees that grow close by. The leaves are busily whisper ing among themselves as the gentle breez.s sway them gently to and fro, rocking ths cradle nests of the birds hidden away amo ng the deep recesses. The trees are full of life and song; myriads of birds are Hitting among the boughs, pouring from their tiny throats c world of melody.
 Cool, dark shadows are on the street be- low, with here and there bright patches of sunshine; quiverinE, dancing little shadows, with lace.like effects, coming and going, and never for an instant motionless. The air is odorous with the scent of roses, for this Is e rose city as we'll as e city of trees, and New Haven is looking her best this perfect June morning.
 Little children are playing in the shaded, perfumed street, their voices sounding very pleasantly as they pass. Two little ones, mere babies, attract my notice with halloas. hand-wavings and smiles, to which respond in like manner and proceed to get acquainted with my new-found friends; so I aek their names, but their baby jargon is unintelli gible, and inquire where they live. With an upward, comprehensive wave toward the tree tops, they answer "Over there." Finally | I.inqufre the name of their father. "Papa," chorus both triumphantly.
 We are so familiar with our shaded, csuo- l pied streets that we are prone to forge. how greatly these trees add to our comfort in the | hot, oppressive days of midsummer. New Haven without her glory of trees would be desolate indeed.
 Who has not stood in the dim coolness of | our streets and looked through long arch | of trees, whose branches are interlaced and | intertwined overhead, without a thrill of ad- | not made with hands; or, looking westward | through a vista of trees, who can behold the
 sunset sky, ablaze with splendor-a glimpse into the eternal glories-without glow of
 thanks to the great author of all this won-
 drous beautyf
 l At all times, and at all seasons, the trees
 of our city are beautiful; beautiful when put ting on their tender, delicate garments of spring; beautiful when clothed in mid sum
 mer luxuriance; beautiful when they spread
 their banners of crimson and of gold in their autumnal dress; and beautiful still when
 stripped of their foliage they stand barren
 and upright, with arms raised supplicatipgy
 toward heaven; or when, tempest-tossed
 they bend and writhe as if in mortal agony |
 of these trees have stood, the summers sur
 has warmed them into life, refreshing raini
 have nourished them, autumn winds have
 sung their requiem, and the snows of ai
 many winters have buried deep and warn
 the life giving roots. Countless birds have
 made their homes in the green branches
 seasons have come and gone, and generation
 have passed away. The hands that planted
 them have long since moldered into dust ] while they are still hale and fourishing. Children have played under these trees whose ohildrens' children, now disport them
 selves in the cool shade, and whose children
 in turn, will play and gambol here when they too, have passed away. Did yo , ever notice how much of companionshi , there is in c treei How the leaves quive and rustic, when we gre glad, and what mournful murmur they make, when we ar
 in troublei They have language for ou
 every mood, if we will but listen to thom . Then 50 many associations are connecte f with trees. What visions of the merry nut ting parties of our childhood are recalled b the sight of 6 chestnut, . walnut, or e but } ternut tree. A magnificent old maple, rt | minds he of their delightful shade in th home of my fathers, while the gracefr
 broad spreading elm, is indissolubly con neoted with New Haven, the Elm City. 8 RACHEL ROGERS.