To a Mother.

In the sweet days of other years,
When o'er my cradle first thy tears
Were blended with maternal fears
And anxious doubts for me,
How often rose my lisping prayer,
That heaven a mother's life would spare,
Who watched with such incessant care
My helpless infancy.

Those happy hours are passed away,
Yet fain I'd breathe an artless lay,
To greet my mother this blessed day,
For, oh! it gave me birth.
Hope whispers that it will be dear
As seraphs' music to thine ear;
That thou wilt hallow with a tear

This tribute to thy worth.

Something about June.

33

"Summer is come! Summer is come!
The busy bee, with its joyous hum,
Kisses the blossoms, rifles the flowers,
And melody gives to the passing hours,
The nightingale singeth a merry tune,
In the soft clear light of the yellow moon.
The lark singeth, too, on the first beam of day,
And gladdens the heart of the sunset ray.

All is light, all is joy, and each heart is gay,

In the bloom of the flowers and the new-mown hay."

ES, Summer is come-the SWALLOWS are here— say what the croakers will. Summer is come-the trees are all out and dressed. The old oaks look young again-the gnarled walnuts are fresh and green. The meadows are knee high in grass-the roses are out-the wheat is getting into ear. gardens sparkle with marygolds, lupins, carnations, Chinese pinks, hollyhocks, lady's slipper, stocks, campanulas, perrywinkles, wallflowers, and the prettiest of the cornflowers, is in fullest blossom; in short, the glory of the year is here.

The

M

The Saxons called June "Weydmonat, because their beastes did then weyd in the meddowes; that is to say, goe to feed there, and hereof a meadow is also in the Tutonicke, called a weyd, and of weyd we doe yet retaine our word wade, which we understand of going through watery places, such as meadows were wont to be," as Verstegan sayeth. The Saxons also called June, Woedmonath,

and woed meant weed, for then the weed springeth "lustilee." The birds are in the beginning of this month for the most part in song. The nightingale has not quite ceased. The lark, also the blackbird and the thrush, are not quite mute, and the woodlark, the blackcap, and the goldfinch, are full of music above in the tall trees, while below, we have another pleasant little singer, i.e., the fieldcricket, whose clear shrill voice the warm weather has now matured to its full strength, and who must not be forgotten, though he has

but one song to offer us all his life long, and that one consisting of one note; for it is a note of joy, and will not be heard without engendering its like. You may hear him in wayside banks, where the sun falls hot, shrilling out his loud cry into the still air all day long, as he sits at the mouth of his cell, and if you chance to be passing by the same spot at midnight, you may hear it there too.

But let us have a few words on the rural occupations of the month, and especially of the two most celebrated-sheep-shearing and hay-making; and there is nothing more delightful than to engage in it. Often has Peter Parley tossed the hay about in the fields of Suffolk, in the meadows of Farmer Boroughs; and many a good roll has he had among the haycocks, and many a good day at sheep-shearing.

Sheep-shearing, if not so full of variety as the hay harvest, is still