Aunty Gossberger, and she never let me look at anything."

Days in June--joyous days with all nature brimful
with laughter--days when the air is a caress, the
sky a film of pearl and silver, and the eager mob of
bud, blossom, and leaf, having burst their bonds, are
flaunting their glories, days like these are always to
be remembered the world over. But June days about
Gramercy Park are to be marked in big Red Letters
upon the calendar of the year. For in Gramercy
Park the almanac goes to pieces.

Everything is ahead of time. When little counter-
panes of snow are still covering the baby crocuses away
off in Central Park, down in Gramercy their pink and
yellow heads are popping up all over the enclosure.
When the big trees in Union Square are stretching their
bare arms, making ready to throw off the winter's
sleep, every tiny branch in Gramercy is wide awake
and tingling with new life. When countless dry roots
in Madison Square are still slumbering under their
blankets of straw, dreading the hour when they must
get up and go to work, hundreds of tender green fingers
in Gramercy are thrust out to the kindly sun, pleading
for a chance to be up and doing.

And the race keeps up, Gramercy still ahead, until
the goal of summer is won, and every blessed thing
that could have burst into bloom has settled down to
enjoy the siesta of the hot season.