298

A DAY IN JUNE

The squirrel had his hiding-place,
And I had mine beside the brook;
He gathered nuts from day to day,
Whilst I a constant lesson took
From him, and nature's wondrous book.

O fair green fields and summer skies!
O visions of a long time ago!
O well-remembered haunts and chimes
Which from perennial fountains flow!
Glad voices from the vales below.

Here let me bathe my weary brow
In this delicious air of day;

All laden as it cometh now

With fragrance from the new-mown hay,
The blackbird's and the robin's lay.

The busy world will not intrude,
Nor Mammon his proud altar rear;
Alone, within this breezy wood,
Where the Almighty doth appear,
I'll pay my heart's deep homage here!

HENRY STEVENSON WASH Burn.

JULY

WHEN the scarlet cardinal tells

Her dream to the dragon fly,

And the lazy breeze makes a nest in the trees,
And murmurs a lullaby,

It is July.

When the tangled cobweb pulls

The cornflower's cap awry,
And the lilies tall lean over the wall
To bow to the butterfly,

It is July.

When the heat like a mist veil floats,

And poppies flame in the rye,

And the silver note in the streamlet's throat
Has softened almost to a sigh,
It is July.

When the hours are so still that time
Forgets them and lets them lie

'Neath petals pink till the night stars wink

At the sunset in the sky,

It is July.

SUSAN HARTLEY SWETT.

ΤΗ

AUGUST

HE yellow goldenrod is dressed
In gala-day attire;

The glowing redweed by the fence

Shines like a crimson fire;

And from the hot fields' farthest edge
The cricket's soft refrain

With mellow accents tells the tale
That August's here again.

In shining blue the aster wild
Unfolds her petals fair;
The clematis unpreaching, seeks
To clasp and kiss the air;

The brilliant poppy flaunts her head

Amidst the ripening grain,

And adds her voice to swell the song
That August's here again.

The dusty thistle by the road

Scatters a silvery spray;

The sun pours down his scorching beams Upon the fainting day;

The blackberry vine bends with its weight
Of fruit down in the lane,

And adds its testimony, too,
That August's here again.

AUGUST

The wild hop from the young elm's bough,

Sways on the languid breeze,

And here and there the autumn tints
Gleam faintly through the trees.
All Nature helps to swell the song
And chant the same refrain;
July and June have slipped away

And August's here again.

301

HELEN MARIA WINSLOW.

END OF VOLUME ONE.