JULY.

Come walk a mile with me —‘ Tis July weather;

The western sun is burning round and bright,

And not a breeze disturbs yon tiny feather

From a young swallow loosen'd in its flight;

But hark!— in yonder broad and sunlit meadow

The sound of busy mowers fill the air,

While from a tree that casts a pleasing shadow,

Is heard the locust piping shrilly there.

And see, how strong men lift the scented grasses!

And how they pile the wagons with the hay!

How fast the rake, with rolling burden, passes!

How regular the long, round winrows lay!

And see!— the sun — the great round sun is setting,

Like a red rose upon the distant hill,

Till all the earth seems tenderly forgetting

Day's dying light on meadow, lake and rill;

But come!— for darkness soon will gather round us,

And we must pass through yonder woodlands there;

And then white fields of buckwheat will surround us,

And then — then — home we shall together share.