Morris tribune. [volume] (Morris, Minn.) 1880-2000, 1909-05-29

Auu LOVoS yOuuS urodu uuGll UQ0y
wake
Not yet, but June.
The end of school, the joyous shout,
The essay and grafton,
Some samples of bad grammar by
The Board of Education.
All standing singing "Auld Lang
Syne"
Or some such fitting tune,
And two young men and thirty girls
Not yet, but June.
The picnic and the happy kids,
The dinner in the shade,
The sceam when little Johnny Smith
Falls in the lemonade.
The soul-mates strolling hand in hand,
Not married yet, but soon,
And the little red-bugs at the bat
Not yet, but June.
June was dedicated by the Roman to
love and marriage. and was therefore
named for Juno, whose experience
was thought to more nearly typify
that Of the average married woman
than anything that had happened up
to that time.
Juno married Jupiter, one of the best
and most exemplary of gods, giving
him her simple trust and all the rope
compatible with reasonable enjoy
ment of liberty though married. Ne
vertheless, they had not been married
long enough even to feel sure that
they were suited to each other, when
the bride made the terrible discovery
that the co-owner of her wedding
presents and the man who was to flag
the family breadwagon had an affin-N
ity.
Fortunately, though it lad proven
to be with gods as it is with men, it
was not with goddesses as it is with
woman. Juno had a come back COM
ing to her, and she got buster than a
mother robin rustling worms. She
turned her husbands affinity into
heifer, and set Argus to watch over
her as shepherd. Argus had humid
red eyes, and do what he could, Jupi-
ter could not catch him asleep all
around and steal the heifer away from
him. AS last resort he sent Mercury
to slay him. After trying everything
else, Mercury told him that Bryan
was elected, and the fell Argus dead.
Juno took the eyes of Argus and set
them in the tail of a peacock, where
we may see them any fine morning in
the country to remind us of that old
est domestic tragedy inseparable
from the history of June.
The wedding march will fill the land,
And the quail we'll get to pipin,
The music will rouse the village band,
And Patterns wheat will ripen.
The old self binder will come out
And sing a few sweet stanzas,
And the college graduate will shout
And hit the trail for Kansas.
Come out with us at harvest time,
when the sickle sings at moving, when
the rose is blooming in the field, and
the breath of June is blowing, when
the golden harvest GIBBS and flows in
undulating pillows, and the water boy
is fast asleep down where the grass is
green and deep beneath the shady
willows.
There's nothing like it anywhere
upon the earth Or over, the air is fresh
and fragrant with the sweet breath
of the clover, the birds are singing
operas, and the poultry is assuming,
and the old familiar dinner bell sets
everybody running. There may be
men in Marathons that run mile
but it's question if st. Yves
or Longboat would be in it if he were
working in field, though many times
a winner, and bunch of twenty har-
vest hands knocked off to go to
dinner.
It's simply wonderful the way
A harvest hand gets going
You look at him one instant and
You see him calmly moving.
You wouldn't think if forty bells
Should ring that he would hear
them.
Or if ten banquets beckoned him
That he would venture near them.
He looks as whipped out as rag,
And dead to all attraction
But you want to hear the dinner bell
To see his triple action.
You want to see him double up
As if he had the collie,