JUNE

JUNEAncient Cornish name:Miz-epham, summer month, or head of summer.Jewel for the month: Agate. Long life, health, and prosperity.When the white pinks begin to appear,Then is the time your sheep to shear.Old Rhyme.Over the meadow,In sunshine and shadow,The meadow-larks trill and the bumble-bees drone.Whitcomb Riley.If it raineth on the eighth of June a wet harvest men will see.The broom having plenty of blossoms, or the walnut tree, is a sign of a fruitful year of corn.A calm JunePuts the farmer in tune.A dripping JunePuts all things in tune.Come away! The sunny hoursWoo thee far to founts and bowers!O'er the very waters now,In their play,Flowers are shedding beauty's glowâ€”Come away!Where the lily's tender gleamQuivers on the glancing stream,Come away!All the air is filled with sound,Soft and sultry, and profound;Murmurs through the shadowy grassLightly stray;Faint winds whisper as they pass:Come away!Where the bee's deep music swellsFrom the trembling foxglove bells.Come away!Mrs. Hemans.Pansies! Pansies! How I love you, pansies!Jaunty-faced, laughing-lipped, and dewy-eyed with glee.Whitcomb Riley.The flower beds all were liberal of delight;Roses in heaps were there, both red and white,Lilies angelical, and gorgeous gloomsOf wall-flowers, and blue hyacinths, and blooms,Hanging thick clusters from light boughs; in short,All the sweet cups to which the bees resort.Leigh Hunt.Oh! the rosy month of June I hail as summer's queen;The hills and valleys sing in joy, and all the woods are green;And streamlets flow in gladsome song, the birds are all in tune;And Nature smiles in summer's pride, in the rosy month of June.The sixth month of the yearIs the month of June,When the weather's too hot to be borne,The master doth say,As he goes on his way,"To-morrow my sheep shall be shorn."Somerset.Here the rosebuds in June and the violets are blowing,The small birds they warble from every green bough;Here the pink and the lily,And the daffadowndilly,To adorn and perfume the sweet meadows in June;'Tis all before the plough the fat oxen go slow;But the lads and the lasses to the sheep-shearing go.Sussex Song.Below the hill's an ash; belowThe ash, white elder-flow'rs do blow:Below the elder is a bedO' robinhoods a' blushin' red;And there, wi' nunch es all a-spread,The hay-meakers, wi' each a cupO' drink, do smile to zee hold upThe rain, an' sky a-clearin'.W. Barnes.By fragrant gales in frolic playThe floating corn's green waves are fann'd,And all above, broad summer day!And all below, bright summer land.Owen Meredith.The sweet west wind is flyingOver the purple sea,And the amber daylight dyingOn roadway, hill, and tree;The cattle bells are ringingAmong the slanting downs,And children's voices flingingGlad echoes through the towns:"Oh, summer day! so soon away!"The happy-hearted sigh and say:"Sweet is thy light, and sad thy flight,And sad the wordsâ€”good-night, good-night."The wan white clouds are trailingLow o'er the level plain,And the wind brings with its wailingThe chill of the coming rain;Fringed by the faded heather,Wide pools of water lie,And birds and leaves togetherWhirl through the evening sky."Haste thee away, oh, winter day!"The weary-hearted weep and say:"Sad is thy light, and slow thy flight,And sweet the wordsâ€”good-night, good-night."'Twas one of the charmed daysWhen the genius of God doth flow,The wind may alter twenty ways,A tempest cannot blow;It may blow north, it still is warm;Or south, it still is clear;Or east, it smells like a clover farm;Or west, no thunder fear.Emerson.Where woodbines wander, and the wallflower pushes its way alone;And where in wafts of fragrance, sweetbrier bushes make themselves known,With banks of violets for southern breezes to seek and find,And trellis'd jessamine that trembles in the summer wind.Where clove carnations overgrow the places where they were set,And, mist-like, in the intervening spaces creeps mignonette.St. Barnabas Day.(Old Style. June 21st.)Barnaby bright, Barnaby bright,The longest day and the shortest night.The ignorant believe that any person fasting on Midsummer eve, and sitting in the church porch, will, at midnight, see the spirits of the persons of that parish who will die that year, come and knock at the church door, in the order and succession in which they will die.Hone.When mack'rel ceaseth from the seas,John Baptist brings grass-beef and pease.Tusser.1570(?)Then doth the joyfull feast of John the Baptist take his turne,When bonfires great with loftie flame, in every town doe burne;And yong men round about with maides doe daunce in every streete,With garlands wroughte of motherworth, or else with vervain sweete.Barnaby Googe.'Twas midsummer;The warm earth teemed with flowers; the kingcups gold,The perfumed clover, 'mid the crested grass;The plantains rearing high their flowery crownsAbove the daisied coverts; overhead,The hawthorns, white and rosy, bent with bloom,The broad-fanned chestnuts spiked with frequent flowers,And white gold-hearted lilies on the stream.Lewis Morris.Old Kentish Song.My one man, my two men,Will mow me down the medda';My three men, my four men,Will carry away togedda';My five men, my six men,And there ain't no more,Will mow my hay, and carry away,And mow me down the medda'.Soon will high midsummer pomps come on,Soon will the musk carnation break and swell,Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon,Sweet William with his homely cottage-smell,And stocks in fragrant blow.Matthew Arnold.Signs of Rain.The hollow winds begin to blow,The clouds look black, the glass is low,The soot falls down, the spaniels sleep,The spiders from their cobwebs creep,Last night the sun went pale to bed,The moon in halo hid her head,The boding shepherd heaves a sigh,For see! a rainbow spans the sky.The walls are damp, the ditches smell,Clos'd is the pink ey'd pimpernel.Hark! how the chairs and tables crack;Old Betty's joints are on the rack.Loud quack the ducks, the peacocks cry,The distant hills are looking nigh.How restless are the snorting swine!The busy flies disturb the kine.Low o'er the grass the swallow wings;The cricket, too, how loud it sings.Puss on the hearth, with velvet paws,Sits smoothing o'er her whiskered jaws.Through the clear stream the fishes rise,And nimbly catch the incautious flies.The sheep are seen at early lightCropping the meads with eager bite.Tho' June, the air is cold and chill;The mellow blackbird's voice is still.The glow-worms, numerous and bright,Illumed the dewy dell last night.At dusk the squalid toad was seenHopping, crawling, o'er the green.The frog has lost his yellow vest,And in a dingy suit is dress'd.The leech disturb'd is newly risenQuite to the summit of his prison.The whirling winds the dust obeys,And in the rapid eddy plays.My dog, so altered in his taste,Quits mutton bones on grass to feast;And see yon rooks, how odd their flight,They imitate the gliding kite,Or seem precipitate to fall,As if they felt the piercing ball.'Twill surely rainâ€”I see with sorrow,Our jaunt must be put off to-morrow.An excuse for not accepting the invitation of a friend to make a country excursion.Edward Jenner.Pondweed sinks before rain.Fir cones close for wet, open for fine weather.Cows and sheep lie down before rain to keep a dry place to lie on.When the clouds go up the hill,They'll send down water to turn a mill.Hants.If nights three dewless there be,'Twill rain you're sure to see.If bees stay at homeRain will soon come.If they fly awayFine will be the day.1656.If the down flyeth off colt's foot, dandelyon and thistles, when there is no winde, it is a sign of rain.When a cock drinks in summer it will rain a little after.Italy.When sheep begin to go up the mountains, shepherds say it will be fine weather.Sea gull, sea gull, sit on the sand;It's never good weather when you're on the land.Pimpernel, pimpernel, tell me true,Whether the weather be fine or no;No heart can think, no tongue can tell,The virtues of the pimpernel.When rain causes bubbles to rise in water it falls upon, the shower will last long.Essex.A Saturday's rainbow, a week's rotten weather.South Ireland.A sunshiny showerNever lasts half an hour.Bedford.When oxen do lick themselves against the hair, it betokeneth rain to follow shortly after.Beast do take comfort in a moist Air: and it maketh them eat their meat better, and therefore sheep will get up betimes in the morning to feed against rain, and Cattle, and Deer, and Coneys will feed hard before Rain, and a Heiferwill put up his nose and snuff in the air against Rain. Worms, vermin, etc., likewise do foreshew Rain: for Earth-worms will come forth, and Moles will cast up more, and Fleas bite more against Rain.Bacon.To talk of the weather is nothing but folly,For when it rains on the hill, the sun shines in the valley.Maayres taails an' mackerel sky,Not long wet, nor not long dry.Berkshire.When the wind veers against the sun,Trust it not, for back 'twill run.Rainbow to windward, foul falls the day;Rainbow to leeward, damp runs away.When sheep do huddle by tree and bush,Bad weather is coming with wind and slush.A rainbow at morn,Put your hook in the corn;A rainbow at eve,Put your head in the sheave.Cornwall.Clouds without rain in summer indicate wind.Saturday's moon, Sunday seenThe foulest weather there ever hath been.When the new moon comes in at midnight, or within thirty minutes before or after, the following month will be fine.Saturday change, and Sunday full,Is always wet, and always wull.Northants.If mist's in the new moon, rain in the old;If mist's in the old moon, rain in the new.A fog and a small moonBring an easterly wind soon.Cornwall.If Saturday's moonComes once in seven years,It comes too soon.Full Moon.The nearer to twelve in the afternoon, the drier the moon. The nearer to twelve in the forenoon, the wetter the moon.Hereford.When the moon is at the full,Mushrooms you may freely pull;But when the moon is on the wane,Wait, ere you think to pluck again.The moon and the weatherMay change together;But change of the moonDoes not change the weather;If we'd no moon at all,And that may seem strange,We still should have weatherThat's subject to change.Midsummer Fairies.The pastoral cowslips are our little pets,And daisy stars, whose firmament is green;Pansies, and those veiled nuns, meek violets,Sighing to that warm world from which they screen;And golden daffodils, plucked for May's queen;And lovely harebells, quaking on the heath;And hyacinth, long since a fair youth seen,Whose tuneful voice, turned fragrance in his breath,Kissed by sad zephyr, guilty of his death.Hood.The sun has long been set,The stars are out by twos and threes,The little birds are piping yetAmong the bushes and the trees;There's a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes,And a far-off wind that rushes,And a sound of water that gushes,And the cuckoo's sovereign cryFills all the hollow of the sky,Who would "go parading,"In London "and masquerading,"On such a night in June,With the beautiful soft half-moon,And all these innocent blisses?On such a night as this is!Wordsworth.When the wind's in the southThe rain's in its mouth.No weather is illIf the wind be still.Old saying.All through the sultry hours of June,From morning blithe to golden noon,And till the star of evening climbsThe gray-blue East, a world too soon,There sings a thrush within the limes.God's poet, hid in foliage green,Sings endless songs, himself unseen;Right seldom come his silent times.Linger, ye summer hours serene!Sing on, dear thrush, amid the limes!Mortimer Collins.A wet June makes a dry September.Cornwall.JULYAncient Cornish name:Miz-gorepham, head of the summer month.Jewel for the month: Ruby. Discovers poison.If the first of July be rainy weather,'Twill rain more or less for four weeks together.In my nostrils the summer windBlows the exquisite scent of the rose:Oh! for the golden, golden wind,Breaking the buds as it goes!Breaking the buds and bending the grass,And spilling the scent of the rose.Aldrich.I sometimes think that never blows so redThe rose as where some buried CÃ¦sar bled;That every hyacinth the garden wearsDropt in its lap from some once lovely head.Omar Khayyam.Of Gardens.In July come gilliflowers of all varieties, muskroses, the lime tree in blossom, early pears, andplums in fruit, ginnetings, quadlins.Bacon.A tuft of evening primroses,O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes;O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep,But that 'tis ever startled by the leapOf buds into ripe flowers.Keats.Now the glories of the yearMay be viewed at the best,And the earth doth now appearIn her fairest garments dress'd:Sweetly smelling plants and flowersDo perfume the garden bowers;Hill and valley, wood and field,Mixed with pleasure profits yield.George Withers.Blue flags, yellow flags, flags all freckled,Which will you take? Yellow, blue, speckled!Take which you will, speckled, blue, yellow,Each in its way has not a fellow.C. Rossetti.Swelling downs, where sweet air stirsBlue hair-bells lightly, and where prickly furzeBuds lavish gold.Keats.Mouse-ear, or Scorpion grass, any manner of way ministered to horses brings this help unto them, that they cannot be hurt, while the smith is shoeing of them, therefore it is called of many,herba clavorum, the herb of nails.Old saying, before 1660.Sweet is the Rose, but growes upon a brere;Sweet is the Junipere, but sharp his bough;Sweet is the Eglantine, but pricketh nere;Sweet is the Firbloome, but his braunche is rough;Sweet is the Cypresse, but his rynd is tough;Sweet is the Nut, but bitter is his pill;Sweet is the Broome-flowre, but yet sowre enough;And sweet is Moly, but his root is ill.So every sweet with sowre is tempered still,That maketh it the coveted be more:For easie things, that may be got at will,Most sorts of men doe set but little store.Spenser.Where the copse-wood is the greenest,Where the fountain glistens sheenest,Where the morning dew lies longest,There the lady fern grows strongest.Walter Scott.Faire Dayes: or, Dawnes Deceitful.Faire was the Dawne; and but e'ene now the SkiesShew'd like to Creame, enspir'd with Strawberries:But on a sudden, all was chang'd and goneThat smil'd in that first sweet complexion.Then Thunder-claps and Lightning did conspireTo teare the world, or set it all on fire.What trust to things below, whenas we see,As Men, the Heavens have their Hypocrisie?Herrick.Summer in the penniless can stir the frozen prayer,Summer sends a golden glow through needy bones a-while;Bright and breezy is the dawn, and soft the balmy air;Summer, 'tis the breath of Heaven, 'tis God's own gracious smile.From Victor Hugo.The nightingale and the cuckow both grow hoarse at the rising of Sirius the dogge star.Not rend off, but cut off ripe bean with a knife,For hindering stalk of her vegetive life.So gather the lowest, and leaving the top,Shall teach thee a trick for to double thy crop.Tusser.A shower of rain in July, when the corn begins to fill,Is worth a plough of oxen, and all belongs theretill.St. Swithun.(July 15th.)Saint Swithun's Day, if thou dost rain,For forty days it will remain;Saint Swithun's Day, if thou be fair,For forty days 'twill rain na mair.Scotland.St. Swithun christens the apples.No tempest good July,Lest the corn look ruely.While wormwood hath seed, get a handful or twain,To save against March, to make flea to refrain:Where chamber is sweepid, and wormwood is strown,No flea for his life, dare abide to be known.The Flower Girl.1.Come buy, come buy my mystic flowers,All ranged with due consideration,And culled in fancy's fairy bowers,To suit each age and every station.2.For those who late in life would tarry,I've snowdrops, winter's children cold;And those who seek for wealth to marry,May buy the flaunting marigold.3.I've ragwort, ragged robins, too,Cheap flowers for those of low condition;For bachelors I've buttons blue;And crown imperials for ambition.4.For sportsmen keen, who range the lea,I've pheasant's eye and sprigs of heather;For courtiers with the supple knee,I've parasites and prince's feather.5.For thin tall fops I keep the rush,For peasants still am nightshade weeding;For rakes I've devil-in-the-bush,For sighing strephons, loves-lies-bleeding.But fairest blooms affection's handFor constancy and worth disposes,And gladly weaves at your commandA wreath of amaranths and roses.Mrs. Corbold.London Street-call.(About 200 years old.)Will you buy, lady, buyMy sweet blooming lavender?There are sixteen blue branches a penny.You will buy it once, you will buy it twice,It makes your clothes smell so very nice.It will scent your pocket-handkerchief,And it will scent your clothes as well.Now is your time, and do not delay:Come and buy your lavender,All fresh cut from Mitcham every day.I do not want change: I want the same old and loved things, the same wild flowers, the same trees and soft ash-green; the turtle doves, the blackbirds, the coloured yellow-hammer sing, sing, singing so long as there is light to cast a shadow on the dial, for such is the measure of his song, and I want them in the same place.Richard Jefferies.St. James's Day.(New Style. July 25th.)'Till Saint James's Day be past and gone,There may be hops, or there may be none.Hereford.July, to whom, the dog-star in her train,St. James gives oisters, and St. Swithin rain.Churchill.Oh! golden, golden summer,What is it thou hast done?Thou hast chased each vernal roamerWith thy fiercely burning sun.Glad was the cuckoo's hail.Where may we hear it now?Thou hast driven the nightingaleFrom the waving hawthorn bough.Thou hast shrunk the mighty river;Thou hast made the small brook flee;And the light gales faintly quiverThrough the dark and shadowy tree.W. Howitt.AUGUSTAncient Cornish name:Miz-east, harvest month.Jewel for the month: Sardonyx. Insures happiness in marriage.August First.(Loaf-mass Day.)Day of offering first fruits, when a loaf was given to the priests in place of the first fruits.At Latter Lammas, i.e. never.The August gold of earth.All things rejoiced beneath the sun, the weeds,The river, and the cornfields, and the reeds;The willow-leaves that glanced in the light breeze,And the firm foliage of the larger trees.Shelley.Of Gardens.In August come plums of all sorts in fruit, pears, apricots, berberies, filberds, musk melons, monkshoods of all colour.Bacon.August 1st.(Snipe shooting may begin.)Snipe's song: "Don't take" local name for Snipe.Nipcake, don't take,Don't take, don't take;Gie the lasses milk and bread,And gie the laddies don't take,Don't take, don't take.Scottish Midlands.August 5th.(Old Style.)St. James's Day. Oyster Day.Who eats oysters on St. James's Day will never want.Wheat sways heavy, oats are airy,Barley bows a graceful head,Short and small shoots up canary;Each of these is some one's breadâ€”Bread for man or bread for beast,Or at very leastA bird's savoury feast.C. Rossetti.It is always windy in barley harvests; it blows off the heads for the poor.On Thursday at threeLook out and you'll seeWhat Friday will be.No weather is illIf the wind be still.For morning rain leave not your journey.Never a fisherman med there be,If fishes could hear as well as see.Kent.If the sage tree thrives and grows,The master'snotmaster, and that he knows.Warwick.A garden must be looked into, and dressed as a body.To smell wild thyme will renew spirits and energy in long walks under an August sun.Friday's a day as'll have his trick,The fairest or foulest day o' the wick.Dry August and warmDoth harvest no harm.Put in the sickles and reap,For the morning of harvest is red,And the long, large ranks of the corn,Coloured and clothed as the morn,Stand thick in the fields and deep,For them that faint to be fed.Swinburne.Summer is purple, and drowsed with repletion.Now yellow harvests wave on every field,Now bending boughs the hoary chestnut yield,Now loaded trees resign their annual store,And on the ground the mellow fruitage pour.Beattie.(From"Virgil.")August 16th.(St. Roche's Day.)Formerly celebrated in England as a general Harvest Home.Good huswives in summer will save their own seedsAgainst the next year, as occasion needs;One seed for another to make an exchange,With fellowly neighbourhood seemeth not strange.Tusser.On one side is a field of drooping oats,Through which the poppies show their scarlet coats.Keats.August 24th.(St. Bartholomew's Day.)If St. Bartholomew's Day be misty, the morning beginning with a hoar frost, then cold weather will soon ensue, and a sharp winter attended with many biting frosts.Thomas Passenger.St. Bartlemy's mantle wipes dryAll the tears that St. Swithun can cry.Portugal....Happy Britannia!...Rich is thy soil, and merciful thy clime;Thy streams unfailing in the Summer's drought;Unmatch'd thy guardian oaks; thy vallies floatWith golden waves; and on thy mountains flocksBleat numberless; while roving round their sides,Bellow the blackening herds in lusty droves.Beneath thy meadows glow, and rise unquell'dAgainst the mower's scythe.Thomson.SEPTEMBERAncient Cornish name:Miz-guerda gala, white straw month.Jewel for the month: Chrysolite. Antidote to madness.If the woodcock had but the partridge's thigh,He'd be the best bird that ever did fly.If the partridge had but the woodcock's breast,He'd be the best bird that ever was dress'd.Harvest Hwome.The ground is clear. There's nar a earO' stannen corn a-left out now,Vor win' to blow or rain to drow;'Tis all up seafe in barn or mow.Here's health to them that plough'd an' zow'd;Here's health to them that reap'd an' mow'd,An' them that had to pitch an' lwoad,Or tip the rick at Harvest Hwome.The happy zight,â€”the merry night;The men's delight,â€”the Harvest Hwome.W. Barnes.We have ploughed, we have sowed,We have reaped, we have mowed,We have brought home every load,Hip, hip, hip, Harvest Home.Gloucester.Harvest Toast.Here's a health to the barley mow,Here's a health to the man who very well canBoth harrow and plough and sow.When it is well sown,See it is well mown,Both raked and gravell'd clean,And a barn to lay it in,Here's a health to the man who very well canBoth thrash and fan it clean.Suffolk.Tramping after grouse or partridge through the soft September air,Both my pockets stuffed with cartridge, and my heart devoid of care.September blow soft.Till the fruit's in the loft.Of Gardens.In September come grapes, apples, poppies of all colours, peaches, melocotones (yellow peaches), nectarines, cornelians, wardens, quinces.Bacon.Spring was o'er happy and knew not the reason,And Summer dreamed sadly, for she thought all was endedIn her fulness of wealth that might not be amended;But this is the harvest and the garnering season,And the leaf and the blossom in the ripe fruit are blended.W. Morris.A bloom upon the apple tree when the apples are ripeIs a sure termination to somebody's life.September dries up wells or breaks down bridges.Portugal.Many haws, many sloes, many cold toes.When September thirteenth falls on a Friday, the Autumn will be dry and sunny.France.September fifteenth is said to be fine in six years out of seven.Onion skin very thin,Mild winter coming in;Onion skin thick and tough,Coming winter cold and rough.Set strawberries, wife,I love them for life.Tusser.The barberry, respis, and gooseberry too,Look now to be planted as other things do:The gooseberry, respis, and roses all three,With strawberries under them trimly agree.Tusser.Wild with the winds of SeptemberWrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel.Longfellow.That mellow season of the yearWhen the hot sun singes the yellow leavesTill they be gold, and with a broader sphereThe moon looks down on Ceres and her sheaves.Hood.When the falling waters utterSomething mournful on their way,And departing swallows flutter,Taking leave of bank and brae;When the chaffinch idly sittethWith her mate upon the sheaves,And the wistful robin flittethOver beds of yellow leaves;When the clouds like ghosts that ponderEvil fate, float by and frown,And the listless wind doth wanderUp and down, up and down:Through the fields and fallows wending,It is sad to walk alone.Jean Ingelow.St. Matthew. (September 21st.)St. Matthee shut up the bee.The flush of the landscape is o'er,The brown leaves are shed on the way,The dye of the lone mountain-flowerGrows wan and betokens decay.All silent the song of the thrush,Bewilder'd she cowers in the dale;The blackbird sits lone on the bushâ€”The fall of the leaf they bewail.Hogg.Summer is gone on swallow's wings,And earth has buried all her flowers;No more the lark, the linnet sings,But silence sits in faded bowers.There is a shadow on the plainOf Winter, ere he comes again.Hood.The feathers of the willowAre half of them grown yellowAbove the swelling stream;And ragged are the bushes,And rusty now the rushes,And wild the clouded gleam.The thistle now is older,His stalk begins to moulder,His head is white as snow;The branches all are barer,The linnet's song is rarer,The robin pipeth now.Dixon.Nothing stirs the sunny silence,Save the drowsy humming of the beesRound the rich, ripe peaches on the wall,And the south wind sighing in the trees,And the dead leaves rustling as they fall:While the swallows, one by one, are gathering,All impatient to be on the wing,And to wander from us, seekingTheir beloved Spring.Adelaide Procter.The Garden.What wondrous life is this I lead!Ripe apples drop about my head.The luscious clusters of the vineUpon my mouth do crush their wine.The nectarine, and curious peachInto my hands themselves do reach.Stumbling on melons, as I pass,Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass.Andrew Marvell.St. Michael's Day.(September 29th.)In the Sarum Missal St. Michael is invoked as a "most glorious and warlike prince," "chief officer of paradise," "captain of God's hosts," "the receiver of souls," "the vanquisher of evil spirits," and "the admirable general."From Hone.If Michaelmas Day be fair, the sun will shine much in the winter; though the wind at northeast will frequently reign long, and be very sharp and nipping.Thomas Passenger.Fresh herring plenty Michael brings,With fatted crones (old ewes) and such old things.Tusser.When the tenants come to pay their quarter's rent,They bring some fowl at Midsummer, a dish of fish in Lent,At Christmas a capon, at Michaelmas a goose,And somewhat else at New Year's tide, for fear their lease fly loose.G. Gascoigne.Geese now in their prime season are,Which if well roasted are good fare:Yet, however, friends take heedHow too much on them you feed,Lest, when as your tongues run loose,Your discourse do smell of goose."Poor Robin," 1695.If you eat goose on Michaelmas Day you will never want money all the year round.Old Saying.The Michaelmas moonRises nine nights alike soon.The moon in the wane, gather fruit for to last;But winter fruit gather, when Michael is past;Though michers (thieves) that love not to buy nor to crave,Make some gather sooner, else few for to have.Tusser.OCTOBERAncient Cornish name:Miz-hedra, watery month.Jewel: Opal. Hope.October Fourth.St. Francis and St. Benedight died 1226.St. Francis and St. Benedight,Blesse this house from wicked wightFrom the night-mare, and the goblinThat is night Good-Fellow-Robin;Keep it from all evil spirits,Fairies, weezils, rats, and ferrets:From curfew time,To the next prime.William Cartwright.Who soweth in rainHath weed to his pain;But worse shall he speedThat soweth ill seed.Tusser.When Autumn, sad but sunlit, doth appear,With his gold hand gilding the falling leaf,Bringing up Winter to fulfil the year,Bearing upon his back the ripened sheaf;When all the hills with woolly seed are white,When lightning fires and gleams do meet from far the sight;When the fair apple, flushed as even sky,Doth bend the tree unto the fertile ground,When juicy pears and berries of black dyeDo dance in air and call the eye around:Then, be the even foul or be it fair,Methinks my heart's delight is stained with some care.Chatterton.There is strange music in the stirring wind,When lowers the autumnal eve, and all aloneTo the dark wood's cold covert thou art gone,Whose ancient trees on the rough slope reclinedRock, and at times scatter their tresses sere.W. L. Bowles.Of Gardens.In October and beginning of November come services, medlars, bullaces, roses cut or removed to come late, hollyoaks, and such like.Bacon.Seed-Time.October's gold is dimâ€”the forests rot,The weary rain falls ceaseless, while the dayIs wrapt in damp. In mire of village wayThe hedgerow leaves are stampt, and, all forgot,The broodless nest sits visible in the thorn.Autumn, among her drooping marigolds,Weeps all her garnered fields and empty foldsAnd dripping orchards, plundered and forlorn.David Gray.Autumn Days.Yellow, mellow, ripened days,Sheltered in a golden coating;O'er the dreamy, listless haze,White and dainty cloudlets floatingWinking at the blushing trees,And the sombre, furrowed fallow;Smiling at the airy easeOf the southward flying swallow.Sweet and smiling are thy ways,Beauteous, golden, Autumn days!Shivering, quivering, tearful days,Fretfully and sadly weeping;Dreading still, with anxious gaze,Icy fetters round thee creeping;O'er the cheerless, withered plain,Woefully and hoarsely calling;Pelting hail and drenching rain,On thy scanty vestments falling.Sad and mournful are thy ways,Grieving, wailing, Autumn days!Will. Carleton.Moan, oh ye autumn winds!Summer has fled,The flowers have closed their tender leaves and die;The lily's gracious headAll low must lie,Because the gentle Summer now is dead.Mourn, mourn, oh autumn winds,Lament and mourn;How many half-blown buds must close and die;Hopes with the Summer bornAll faded lie,And leave us desolate and earth forlorn!A. A. Procter.St. Simon and St. Jude's Day.(October 28th.)It is a Bedford custom for boys to cry baked pears about the town, with the following words:â€”Who knows what I have got?In a hot pot?Baked Wardensâ€”all hot!Who knows what I have got?October brings the cold weather down,When the wind and the rain continue;He nerves the limbs that are lazy grown,And braces the languid sinew;So while we have voices and lungs to cheer,And the winter frost before us,Come chant to the king of the mortal year,And thunder him out in chorus.E. E. Bowen."Decay, decay," the wildering west winds cry;"Decay, decay," the moaning woods reply;The whole dead autumn landscape, drear and chill,Strikes the same chord of desolate sadness still.Full moon in October without frost, no frost till full moon in November.Hoar frost and gipsies never stay nine days in a place.There are always nineteen fine days in October.Kentish saying.An April frostIs sharp, but kills not; sad October's stormStrikes when the juices and the vital sapAre ebbing from the leaf.Henry Taylor.

Ancient Cornish name:Miz-epham, summer month, or head of summer.

Jewel for the month: Agate. Long life, health, and prosperity.

When the white pinks begin to appear,Then is the time your sheep to shear.

Old Rhyme.

Over the meadow,

In sunshine and shadow,

The meadow-larks trill and the bumble-bees drone.

Whitcomb Riley.

If it raineth on the eighth of June a wet harvest men will see.

The broom having plenty of blossoms, or the walnut tree, is a sign of a fruitful year of corn.

A calm JunePuts the farmer in tune.

A dripping JunePuts all things in tune.

Come away! The sunny hoursWoo thee far to founts and bowers!O'er the very waters now,

In their play,

Flowers are shedding beauty's glowâ€”

Come away!

Where the lily's tender gleamQuivers on the glancing stream,

Come away!

All the air is filled with sound,Soft and sultry, and profound;Murmurs through the shadowy grass

Lightly stray;

Faint winds whisper as they pass:

Come away!

Where the bee's deep music swellsFrom the trembling foxglove bells.

Come away!

Mrs. Hemans.

Pansies! Pansies! How I love you, pansies!

Jaunty-faced, laughing-lipped, and dewy-eyed with glee.

Whitcomb Riley.

The flower beds all were liberal of delight;

Roses in heaps were there, both red and white,

Lilies angelical, and gorgeous glooms

Of wall-flowers, and blue hyacinths, and blooms,

Hanging thick clusters from light boughs; in short,

All the sweet cups to which the bees resort.

Leigh Hunt.

Oh! the rosy month of June I hail as summer's queen;

The hills and valleys sing in joy, and all the woods are green;

And streamlets flow in gladsome song, the birds are all in tune;

And Nature smiles in summer's pride, in the rosy month of June.

The sixth month of the yearIs the month of June,When the weather's too hot to be borne,The master doth say,As he goes on his way,"To-morrow my sheep shall be shorn."

Somerset.

Here the rosebuds in June and the violets are blowing,

The small birds they warble from every green bough;

Here the pink and the lily,

And the daffadowndilly,

To adorn and perfume the sweet meadows in June;

'Tis all before the plough the fat oxen go slow;

But the lads and the lasses to the sheep-shearing go.

Sussex Song.

Below the hill's an ash; belowThe ash, white elder-flow'rs do blow:Below the elder is a bedO' robinhoods a' blushin' red;And there, wi' nunch es all a-spread,The hay-meakers, wi' each a cupO' drink, do smile to zee hold up

The rain, an' sky a-clearin'.

W. Barnes.

By fragrant gales in frolic playThe floating corn's green waves are fann'd,And all above, broad summer day!And all below, bright summer land.

Owen Meredith.

The sweet west wind is flyingOver the purple sea,And the amber daylight dyingOn roadway, hill, and tree;The cattle bells are ringingAmong the slanting downs,And children's voices flingingGlad echoes through the towns:"Oh, summer day! so soon away!"The happy-hearted sigh and say:"Sweet is thy light, and sad thy flight,And sad the wordsâ€”good-night, good-night."The wan white clouds are trailingLow o'er the level plain,And the wind brings with its wailingThe chill of the coming rain;Fringed by the faded heather,Wide pools of water lie,And birds and leaves togetherWhirl through the evening sky."Haste thee away, oh, winter day!"The weary-hearted weep and say:"Sad is thy light, and slow thy flight,And sweet the wordsâ€”good-night, good-night."

'Twas one of the charmed daysWhen the genius of God doth flow,The wind may alter twenty ways,A tempest cannot blow;It may blow north, it still is warm;Or south, it still is clear;Or east, it smells like a clover farm;Or west, no thunder fear.

Emerson.

Where woodbines wander, and the wallflower pushes its way alone;

And where in wafts of fragrance, sweetbrier bushes make themselves known,

With banks of violets for southern breezes to seek and find,

And trellis'd jessamine that trembles in the summer wind.

Where clove carnations overgrow the places where they were set,

And, mist-like, in the intervening spaces creeps mignonette.

St. Barnabas Day.(Old Style. June 21st.)

Barnaby bright, Barnaby bright,The longest day and the shortest night.

The ignorant believe that any person fasting on Midsummer eve, and sitting in the church porch, will, at midnight, see the spirits of the persons of that parish who will die that year, come and knock at the church door, in the order and succession in which they will die.

Hone.

When mack'rel ceaseth from the seas,John Baptist brings grass-beef and pease.

Tusser.

1570(?)

Then doth the joyfull feast of John the Baptist take his turne,

When bonfires great with loftie flame, in every town doe burne;

And yong men round about with maides doe daunce in every streete,

With garlands wroughte of motherworth, or else with vervain sweete.

Barnaby Googe.

'Twas midsummer;

The warm earth teemed with flowers; the kingcups gold,

The perfumed clover, 'mid the crested grass;

The plantains rearing high their flowery crowns

Above the daisied coverts; overhead,

The hawthorns, white and rosy, bent with bloom,

The broad-fanned chestnuts spiked with frequent flowers,

And white gold-hearted lilies on the stream.

Lewis Morris.

Old Kentish Song.

My one man, my two men,Will mow me down the medda';My three men, my four men,Will carry away togedda';My five men, my six men,And there ain't no more,Will mow my hay, and carry away,And mow me down the medda'.

Soon will high midsummer pomps come on,Soon will the musk carnation break and swell,Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon,Sweet William with his homely cottage-smell,And stocks in fragrant blow.

Matthew Arnold.

Signs of Rain.

The hollow winds begin to blow,The clouds look black, the glass is low,The soot falls down, the spaniels sleep,The spiders from their cobwebs creep,Last night the sun went pale to bed,The moon in halo hid her head,The boding shepherd heaves a sigh,For see! a rainbow spans the sky.The walls are damp, the ditches smell,Clos'd is the pink ey'd pimpernel.Hark! how the chairs and tables crack;Old Betty's joints are on the rack.Loud quack the ducks, the peacocks cry,The distant hills are looking nigh.How restless are the snorting swine!The busy flies disturb the kine.Low o'er the grass the swallow wings;The cricket, too, how loud it sings.Puss on the hearth, with velvet paws,Sits smoothing o'er her whiskered jaws.Through the clear stream the fishes rise,And nimbly catch the incautious flies.The sheep are seen at early lightCropping the meads with eager bite.Tho' June, the air is cold and chill;The mellow blackbird's voice is still.The glow-worms, numerous and bright,Illumed the dewy dell last night.At dusk the squalid toad was seenHopping, crawling, o'er the green.The frog has lost his yellow vest,And in a dingy suit is dress'd.The leech disturb'd is newly risenQuite to the summit of his prison.The whirling winds the dust obeys,And in the rapid eddy plays.My dog, so altered in his taste,Quits mutton bones on grass to feast;And see yon rooks, how odd their flight,They imitate the gliding kite,Or seem precipitate to fall,As if they felt the piercing ball.'Twill surely rainâ€”I see with sorrow,Our jaunt must be put off to-morrow.

An excuse for not accepting the invitation of a friend to make a country excursion.

Edward Jenner.

Pondweed sinks before rain.

Fir cones close for wet, open for fine weather.

Cows and sheep lie down before rain to keep a dry place to lie on.

When the clouds go up the hill,They'll send down water to turn a mill.

Hants.

If nights three dewless there be,'Twill rain you're sure to see.

If bees stay at homeRain will soon come.If they fly awayFine will be the day.

1656.

If the down flyeth off colt's foot, dandelyon and thistles, when there is no winde, it is a sign of rain.

When a cock drinks in summer it will rain a little after.

Italy.

When sheep begin to go up the mountains, shepherds say it will be fine weather.

Sea gull, sea gull, sit on the sand;It's never good weather when you're on the land.

Pimpernel, pimpernel, tell me true,Whether the weather be fine or no;No heart can think, no tongue can tell,The virtues of the pimpernel.

When rain causes bubbles to rise in water it falls upon, the shower will last long.

Essex.

A Saturday's rainbow, a week's rotten weather.

South Ireland.

A sunshiny showerNever lasts half an hour.

Bedford.

When oxen do lick themselves against the hair, it betokeneth rain to follow shortly after.

Beast do take comfort in a moist Air: and it maketh them eat their meat better, and therefore sheep will get up betimes in the morning to feed against rain, and Cattle, and Deer, and Coneys will feed hard before Rain, and a Heiferwill put up his nose and snuff in the air against Rain. Worms, vermin, etc., likewise do foreshew Rain: for Earth-worms will come forth, and Moles will cast up more, and Fleas bite more against Rain.

Bacon.

To talk of the weather is nothing but folly,

For when it rains on the hill, the sun shines in the valley.

Maayres taails an' mackerel sky,Not long wet, nor not long dry.

Berkshire.

When the wind veers against the sun,Trust it not, for back 'twill run.

Rainbow to windward, foul falls the day;

Rainbow to leeward, damp runs away.

When sheep do huddle by tree and bush,Bad weather is coming with wind and slush.

A rainbow at morn,Put your hook in the corn;A rainbow at eve,Put your head in the sheave.

Cornwall.

Clouds without rain in summer indicate wind.

Saturday's moon, Sunday seenThe foulest weather there ever hath been.

When the new moon comes in at midnight, or within thirty minutes before or after, the following month will be fine.

Saturday change, and Sunday full,Is always wet, and always wull.

Northants.

If mist's in the new moon, rain in the old;If mist's in the old moon, rain in the new.

A fog and a small moonBring an easterly wind soon.

Cornwall.

If Saturday's moonComes once in seven years,It comes too soon.

Full Moon.

The nearer to twelve in the afternoon, the drier the moon. The nearer to twelve in the forenoon, the wetter the moon.

Hereford.

When the moon is at the full,Mushrooms you may freely pull;But when the moon is on the wane,Wait, ere you think to pluck again.

The moon and the weatherMay change together;But change of the moonDoes not change the weather;If we'd no moon at all,And that may seem strange,We still should have weatherThat's subject to change.

Midsummer Fairies.

The pastoral cowslips are our little pets,

And daisy stars, whose firmament is green;

Pansies, and those veiled nuns, meek violets,

Sighing to that warm world from which they screen;

And golden daffodils, plucked for May's queen;

And lovely harebells, quaking on the heath;

And hyacinth, long since a fair youth seen,

Whose tuneful voice, turned fragrance in his breath,

Kissed by sad zephyr, guilty of his death.

Hood.

The sun has long been set,The stars are out by twos and threes,The little birds are piping yetAmong the bushes and the trees;There's a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes,And a far-off wind that rushes,And a sound of water that gushes,And the cuckoo's sovereign cryFills all the hollow of the sky,Who would "go parading,"In London "and masquerading,"On such a night in June,With the beautiful soft half-moon,And all these innocent blisses?On such a night as this is!

Wordsworth.

When the wind's in the southThe rain's in its mouth.

No weather is illIf the wind be still.

Old saying.

All through the sultry hours of June,From morning blithe to golden noon,And till the star of evening climbsThe gray-blue East, a world too soon,There sings a thrush within the limes.God's poet, hid in foliage green,Sings endless songs, himself unseen;Right seldom come his silent times.Linger, ye summer hours serene!Sing on, dear thrush, amid the limes!

Mortimer Collins.

A wet June makes a dry September.

Cornwall.

JULYAncient Cornish name:Miz-gorepham, head of the summer month.Jewel for the month: Ruby. Discovers poison.If the first of July be rainy weather,'Twill rain more or less for four weeks together.In my nostrils the summer windBlows the exquisite scent of the rose:Oh! for the golden, golden wind,Breaking the buds as it goes!Breaking the buds and bending the grass,And spilling the scent of the rose.Aldrich.I sometimes think that never blows so redThe rose as where some buried CÃ¦sar bled;That every hyacinth the garden wearsDropt in its lap from some once lovely head.Omar Khayyam.Of Gardens.In July come gilliflowers of all varieties, muskroses, the lime tree in blossom, early pears, andplums in fruit, ginnetings, quadlins.Bacon.A tuft of evening primroses,O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes;O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep,But that 'tis ever startled by the leapOf buds into ripe flowers.Keats.Now the glories of the yearMay be viewed at the best,And the earth doth now appearIn her fairest garments dress'd:Sweetly smelling plants and flowersDo perfume the garden bowers;Hill and valley, wood and field,Mixed with pleasure profits yield.George Withers.Blue flags, yellow flags, flags all freckled,Which will you take? Yellow, blue, speckled!Take which you will, speckled, blue, yellow,Each in its way has not a fellow.C. Rossetti.Swelling downs, where sweet air stirsBlue hair-bells lightly, and where prickly furzeBuds lavish gold.Keats.Mouse-ear, or Scorpion grass, any manner of way ministered to horses brings this help unto them, that they cannot be hurt, while the smith is shoeing of them, therefore it is called of many,herba clavorum, the herb of nails.Old saying, before 1660.Sweet is the Rose, but growes upon a brere;Sweet is the Junipere, but sharp his bough;Sweet is the Eglantine, but pricketh nere;Sweet is the Firbloome, but his braunche is rough;Sweet is the Cypresse, but his rynd is tough;Sweet is the Nut, but bitter is his pill;Sweet is the Broome-flowre, but yet sowre enough;And sweet is Moly, but his root is ill.So every sweet with sowre is tempered still,That maketh it the coveted be more:For easie things, that may be got at will,Most sorts of men doe set but little store.Spenser.Where the copse-wood is the greenest,Where the fountain glistens sheenest,Where the morning dew lies longest,There the lady fern grows strongest.Walter Scott.Faire Dayes: or, Dawnes Deceitful.Faire was the Dawne; and but e'ene now the SkiesShew'd like to Creame, enspir'd with Strawberries:But on a sudden, all was chang'd and goneThat smil'd in that first sweet complexion.Then Thunder-claps and Lightning did conspireTo teare the world, or set it all on fire.What trust to things below, whenas we see,As Men, the Heavens have their Hypocrisie?Herrick.Summer in the penniless can stir the frozen prayer,Summer sends a golden glow through needy bones a-while;Bright and breezy is the dawn, and soft the balmy air;Summer, 'tis the breath of Heaven, 'tis God's own gracious smile.From Victor Hugo.The nightingale and the cuckow both grow hoarse at the rising of Sirius the dogge star.Not rend off, but cut off ripe bean with a knife,For hindering stalk of her vegetive life.So gather the lowest, and leaving the top,Shall teach thee a trick for to double thy crop.Tusser.A shower of rain in July, when the corn begins to fill,Is worth a plough of oxen, and all belongs theretill.St. Swithun.(July 15th.)Saint Swithun's Day, if thou dost rain,For forty days it will remain;Saint Swithun's Day, if thou be fair,For forty days 'twill rain na mair.Scotland.St. Swithun christens the apples.No tempest good July,Lest the corn look ruely.While wormwood hath seed, get a handful or twain,To save against March, to make flea to refrain:Where chamber is sweepid, and wormwood is strown,No flea for his life, dare abide to be known.The Flower Girl.1.Come buy, come buy my mystic flowers,All ranged with due consideration,And culled in fancy's fairy bowers,To suit each age and every station.2.For those who late in life would tarry,I've snowdrops, winter's children cold;And those who seek for wealth to marry,May buy the flaunting marigold.3.I've ragwort, ragged robins, too,Cheap flowers for those of low condition;For bachelors I've buttons blue;And crown imperials for ambition.4.For sportsmen keen, who range the lea,I've pheasant's eye and sprigs of heather;For courtiers with the supple knee,I've parasites and prince's feather.5.For thin tall fops I keep the rush,For peasants still am nightshade weeding;For rakes I've devil-in-the-bush,For sighing strephons, loves-lies-bleeding.But fairest blooms affection's handFor constancy and worth disposes,And gladly weaves at your commandA wreath of amaranths and roses.Mrs. Corbold.London Street-call.(About 200 years old.)Will you buy, lady, buyMy sweet blooming lavender?There are sixteen blue branches a penny.You will buy it once, you will buy it twice,It makes your clothes smell so very nice.It will scent your pocket-handkerchief,And it will scent your clothes as well.Now is your time, and do not delay:Come and buy your lavender,All fresh cut from Mitcham every day.I do not want change: I want the same old and loved things, the same wild flowers, the same trees and soft ash-green; the turtle doves, the blackbirds, the coloured yellow-hammer sing, sing, singing so long as there is light to cast a shadow on the dial, for such is the measure of his song, and I want them in the same place.Richard Jefferies.St. James's Day.(New Style. July 25th.)'Till Saint James's Day be past and gone,There may be hops, or there may be none.Hereford.July, to whom, the dog-star in her train,St. James gives oisters, and St. Swithin rain.Churchill.Oh! golden, golden summer,What is it thou hast done?Thou hast chased each vernal roamerWith thy fiercely burning sun.Glad was the cuckoo's hail.Where may we hear it now?Thou hast driven the nightingaleFrom the waving hawthorn bough.Thou hast shrunk the mighty river;Thou hast made the small brook flee;And the light gales faintly quiverThrough the dark and shadowy tree.W. Howitt.

Ancient Cornish name:Miz-gorepham, head of the summer month.

Jewel for the month: Ruby. Discovers poison.

If the first of July be rainy weather,'Twill rain more or less for four weeks together.

In my nostrils the summer windBlows the exquisite scent of the rose:Oh! for the golden, golden wind,Breaking the buds as it goes!Breaking the buds and bending the grass,And spilling the scent of the rose.

Aldrich.

I sometimes think that never blows so redThe rose as where some buried CÃ¦sar bled;That every hyacinth the garden wearsDropt in its lap from some once lovely head.

Omar Khayyam.

Of Gardens.

In July come gilliflowers of all varieties, muskroses, the lime tree in blossom, early pears, andplums in fruit, ginnetings, quadlins.

Bacon.

A tuft of evening primroses,

O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes;

O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep,

But that 'tis ever startled by the leap

Of buds into ripe flowers.

Keats.

Now the glories of the yearMay be viewed at the best,And the earth doth now appearIn her fairest garments dress'd:Sweetly smelling plants and flowersDo perfume the garden bowers;Hill and valley, wood and field,Mixed with pleasure profits yield.

George Withers.

Blue flags, yellow flags, flags all freckled,Which will you take? Yellow, blue, speckled!Take which you will, speckled, blue, yellow,Each in its way has not a fellow.

C. Rossetti.

Swelling downs, where sweet air stirs

Blue hair-bells lightly, and where prickly furzeBuds lavish gold.

Keats.

Mouse-ear, or Scorpion grass, any manner of way ministered to horses brings this help unto them, that they cannot be hurt, while the smith is shoeing of them, therefore it is called of many,herba clavorum, the herb of nails.

Old saying, before 1660.

Sweet is the Rose, but growes upon a brere;

Sweet is the Junipere, but sharp his bough;

Sweet is the Eglantine, but pricketh nere;

Sweet is the Firbloome, but his braunche is rough;

Sweet is the Cypresse, but his rynd is tough;

Sweet is the Nut, but bitter is his pill;

Sweet is the Broome-flowre, but yet sowre enough;

And sweet is Moly, but his root is ill.

So every sweet with sowre is tempered still,

That maketh it the coveted be more:

For easie things, that may be got at will,

Most sorts of men doe set but little store.

Spenser.

Where the copse-wood is the greenest,Where the fountain glistens sheenest,Where the morning dew lies longest,There the lady fern grows strongest.

Walter Scott.

Faire Dayes: or, Dawnes Deceitful.

Faire was the Dawne; and but e'ene now the Skies

Shew'd like to Creame, enspir'd with Strawberries:

But on a sudden, all was chang'd and gone

That smil'd in that first sweet complexion.

Then Thunder-claps and Lightning did conspire

To teare the world, or set it all on fire.

What trust to things below, whenas we see,

As Men, the Heavens have their Hypocrisie?

Herrick.

Summer in the penniless can stir the frozen prayer,

Summer sends a golden glow through needy bones a-while;

Bright and breezy is the dawn, and soft the balmy air;

Summer, 'tis the breath of Heaven, 'tis God's own gracious smile.

From Victor Hugo.

The nightingale and the cuckow both grow hoarse at the rising of Sirius the dogge star.

Not rend off, but cut off ripe bean with a knife,

For hindering stalk of her vegetive life.

So gather the lowest, and leaving the top,

Shall teach thee a trick for to double thy crop.

Tusser.

A shower of rain in July, when the corn begins to fill,

Is worth a plough of oxen, and all belongs theretill.

St. Swithun.(July 15th.)

Saint Swithun's Day, if thou dost rain,For forty days it will remain;Saint Swithun's Day, if thou be fair,For forty days 'twill rain na mair.

Scotland.

St. Swithun christens the apples.

No tempest good July,Lest the corn look ruely.

While wormwood hath seed, get a handful or twain,

To save against March, to make flea to refrain:

Where chamber is sweepid, and wormwood is strown,

No flea for his life, dare abide to be known.

The Flower Girl.

Come buy, come buy my mystic flowers,

All ranged with due consideration,

And culled in fancy's fairy bowers,

To suit each age and every station.

For those who late in life would tarry,

I've snowdrops, winter's children cold;

And those who seek for wealth to marry,

May buy the flaunting marigold.

I've ragwort, ragged robins, too,

Cheap flowers for those of low condition;

For bachelors I've buttons blue;

And crown imperials for ambition.

For sportsmen keen, who range the lea,

I've pheasant's eye and sprigs of heather;

For courtiers with the supple knee,

I've parasites and prince's feather.

For thin tall fops I keep the rush,

For peasants still am nightshade weeding;

For rakes I've devil-in-the-bush,

For sighing strephons, loves-lies-bleeding.

But fairest blooms affection's hand

For constancy and worth disposes,

And gladly weaves at your command

A wreath of amaranths and roses.

Mrs. Corbold.

London Street-call.(About 200 years old.)

Will you buy, lady, buyMy sweet blooming lavender?There are sixteen blue branches a penny.You will buy it once, you will buy it twice,It makes your clothes smell so very nice.It will scent your pocket-handkerchief,And it will scent your clothes as well.Now is your time, and do not delay:Come and buy your lavender,All fresh cut from Mitcham every day.

I do not want change: I want the same old and loved things, the same wild flowers, the same trees and soft ash-green; the turtle doves, the blackbirds, the coloured yellow-hammer sing, sing, singing so long as there is light to cast a shadow on the dial, for such is the measure of his song, and I want them in the same place.

Richard Jefferies.

St. James's Day.(New Style. July 25th.)

'Till Saint James's Day be past and gone,There may be hops, or there may be none.

Hereford.

July, to whom, the dog-star in her train,St. James gives oisters, and St. Swithin rain.

Churchill.

Oh! golden, golden summer,

What is it thou hast done?

Thou hast chased each vernal roamer

With thy fiercely burning sun.

Glad was the cuckoo's hail.

Where may we hear it now?

Thou hast driven the nightingale

From the waving hawthorn bough.

Thou hast shrunk the mighty river;

Thou hast made the small brook flee;

And the light gales faintly quiver

Through the dark and shadowy tree.

W. Howitt.

AUGUSTAncient Cornish name:Miz-east, harvest month.Jewel for the month: Sardonyx. Insures happiness in marriage.August First.(Loaf-mass Day.)Day of offering first fruits, when a loaf was given to the priests in place of the first fruits.At Latter Lammas, i.e. never.The August gold of earth.All things rejoiced beneath the sun, the weeds,The river, and the cornfields, and the reeds;The willow-leaves that glanced in the light breeze,And the firm foliage of the larger trees.Shelley.Of Gardens.In August come plums of all sorts in fruit, pears, apricots, berberies, filberds, musk melons, monkshoods of all colour.Bacon.August 1st.(Snipe shooting may begin.)Snipe's song: "Don't take" local name for Snipe.Nipcake, don't take,Don't take, don't take;Gie the lasses milk and bread,And gie the laddies don't take,Don't take, don't take.Scottish Midlands.August 5th.(Old Style.)St. James's Day. Oyster Day.Who eats oysters on St. James's Day will never want.Wheat sways heavy, oats are airy,Barley bows a graceful head,Short and small shoots up canary;Each of these is some one's breadâ€”Bread for man or bread for beast,Or at very leastA bird's savoury feast.C. Rossetti.It is always windy in barley harvests; it blows off the heads for the poor.On Thursday at threeLook out and you'll seeWhat Friday will be.No weather is illIf the wind be still.For morning rain leave not your journey.Never a fisherman med there be,If fishes could hear as well as see.Kent.If the sage tree thrives and grows,The master'snotmaster, and that he knows.Warwick.A garden must be looked into, and dressed as a body.To smell wild thyme will renew spirits and energy in long walks under an August sun.Friday's a day as'll have his trick,The fairest or foulest day o' the wick.Dry August and warmDoth harvest no harm.Put in the sickles and reap,For the morning of harvest is red,And the long, large ranks of the corn,Coloured and clothed as the morn,Stand thick in the fields and deep,For them that faint to be fed.Swinburne.Summer is purple, and drowsed with repletion.Now yellow harvests wave on every field,Now bending boughs the hoary chestnut yield,Now loaded trees resign their annual store,And on the ground the mellow fruitage pour.Beattie.(From"Virgil.")August 16th.(St. Roche's Day.)Formerly celebrated in England as a general Harvest Home.Good huswives in summer will save their own seedsAgainst the next year, as occasion needs;One seed for another to make an exchange,With fellowly neighbourhood seemeth not strange.Tusser.On one side is a field of drooping oats,Through which the poppies show their scarlet coats.Keats.August 24th.(St. Bartholomew's Day.)If St. Bartholomew's Day be misty, the morning beginning with a hoar frost, then cold weather will soon ensue, and a sharp winter attended with many biting frosts.Thomas Passenger.St. Bartlemy's mantle wipes dryAll the tears that St. Swithun can cry.Portugal....Happy Britannia!...Rich is thy soil, and merciful thy clime;Thy streams unfailing in the Summer's drought;Unmatch'd thy guardian oaks; thy vallies floatWith golden waves; and on thy mountains flocksBleat numberless; while roving round their sides,Bellow the blackening herds in lusty droves.Beneath thy meadows glow, and rise unquell'dAgainst the mower's scythe.Thomson.

Ancient Cornish name:Miz-east, harvest month.

Jewel for the month: Sardonyx. Insures happiness in marriage.

August First.(Loaf-mass Day.)

Day of offering first fruits, when a loaf was given to the priests in place of the first fruits.

At Latter Lammas, i.e. never.

The August gold of earth.

All things rejoiced beneath the sun, the weeds,

The river, and the cornfields, and the reeds;

The willow-leaves that glanced in the light breeze,

And the firm foliage of the larger trees.

Shelley.

Of Gardens.

In August come plums of all sorts in fruit, pears, apricots, berberies, filberds, musk melons, monkshoods of all colour.

Bacon.

August 1st.(Snipe shooting may begin.)

Snipe's song: "Don't take" local name for Snipe.

Nipcake, don't take,Don't take, don't take;Gie the lasses milk and bread,And gie the laddies don't take,Don't take, don't take.

Scottish Midlands.

August 5th.(Old Style.)

St. James's Day. Oyster Day.

Who eats oysters on St. James's Day will never want.

Wheat sways heavy, oats are airy,

Barley bows a graceful head,

Short and small shoots up canary;

Each of these is some one's breadâ€”

Bread for man or bread for beast,

Or at very least

A bird's savoury feast.

C. Rossetti.

It is always windy in barley harvests; it blows off the heads for the poor.

On Thursday at threeLook out and you'll seeWhat Friday will be.

No weather is illIf the wind be still.

For morning rain leave not your journey.

Never a fisherman med there be,If fishes could hear as well as see.

Kent.

If the sage tree thrives and grows,The master'snotmaster, and that he knows.

Warwick.

A garden must be looked into, and dressed as a body.

To smell wild thyme will renew spirits and energy in long walks under an August sun.

Friday's a day as'll have his trick,The fairest or foulest day o' the wick.

Dry August and warmDoth harvest no harm.

Put in the sickles and reap,For the morning of harvest is red,And the long, large ranks of the corn,Coloured and clothed as the morn,Stand thick in the fields and deep,For them that faint to be fed.

Swinburne.

Summer is purple, and drowsed with repletion.

Now yellow harvests wave on every field,Now bending boughs the hoary chestnut yield,Now loaded trees resign their annual store,And on the ground the mellow fruitage pour.

Beattie.(From"Virgil.")

August 16th.(St. Roche's Day.)

Formerly celebrated in England as a general Harvest Home.

Good huswives in summer will save their own seeds

Against the next year, as occasion needs;

One seed for another to make an exchange,

With fellowly neighbourhood seemeth not strange.

Tusser.

On one side is a field of drooping oats,

Through which the poppies show their scarlet coats.

Keats.

August 24th.(St. Bartholomew's Day.)

If St. Bartholomew's Day be misty, the morning beginning with a hoar frost, then cold weather will soon ensue, and a sharp winter attended with many biting frosts.

Thomas Passenger.

St. Bartlemy's mantle wipes dryAll the tears that St. Swithun can cry.

Portugal.

...Happy Britannia!...

Rich is thy soil, and merciful thy clime;

Thy streams unfailing in the Summer's drought;

Unmatch'd thy guardian oaks; thy vallies float

With golden waves; and on thy mountains flocks

Bleat numberless; while roving round their sides,

Bellow the blackening herds in lusty droves.

Beneath thy meadows glow, and rise unquell'd

Against the mower's scythe.

Thomson.

SEPTEMBERAncient Cornish name:Miz-guerda gala, white straw month.Jewel for the month: Chrysolite. Antidote to madness.If the woodcock had but the partridge's thigh,He'd be the best bird that ever did fly.If the partridge had but the woodcock's breast,He'd be the best bird that ever was dress'd.Harvest Hwome.The ground is clear. There's nar a earO' stannen corn a-left out now,Vor win' to blow or rain to drow;'Tis all up seafe in barn or mow.Here's health to them that plough'd an' zow'd;Here's health to them that reap'd an' mow'd,An' them that had to pitch an' lwoad,Or tip the rick at Harvest Hwome.The happy zight,â€”the merry night;The men's delight,â€”the Harvest Hwome.W. Barnes.We have ploughed, we have sowed,We have reaped, we have mowed,We have brought home every load,Hip, hip, hip, Harvest Home.Gloucester.Harvest Toast.Here's a health to the barley mow,Here's a health to the man who very well canBoth harrow and plough and sow.When it is well sown,See it is well mown,Both raked and gravell'd clean,And a barn to lay it in,Here's a health to the man who very well canBoth thrash and fan it clean.Suffolk.Tramping after grouse or partridge through the soft September air,Both my pockets stuffed with cartridge, and my heart devoid of care.September blow soft.Till the fruit's in the loft.Of Gardens.In September come grapes, apples, poppies of all colours, peaches, melocotones (yellow peaches), nectarines, cornelians, wardens, quinces.Bacon.Spring was o'er happy and knew not the reason,And Summer dreamed sadly, for she thought all was endedIn her fulness of wealth that might not be amended;But this is the harvest and the garnering season,And the leaf and the blossom in the ripe fruit are blended.W. Morris.A bloom upon the apple tree when the apples are ripeIs a sure termination to somebody's life.September dries up wells or breaks down bridges.Portugal.Many haws, many sloes, many cold toes.When September thirteenth falls on a Friday, the Autumn will be dry and sunny.France.September fifteenth is said to be fine in six years out of seven.Onion skin very thin,Mild winter coming in;Onion skin thick and tough,Coming winter cold and rough.Set strawberries, wife,I love them for life.Tusser.The barberry, respis, and gooseberry too,Look now to be planted as other things do:The gooseberry, respis, and roses all three,With strawberries under them trimly agree.Tusser.Wild with the winds of SeptemberWrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel.Longfellow.That mellow season of the yearWhen the hot sun singes the yellow leavesTill they be gold, and with a broader sphereThe moon looks down on Ceres and her sheaves.Hood.When the falling waters utterSomething mournful on their way,And departing swallows flutter,Taking leave of bank and brae;When the chaffinch idly sittethWith her mate upon the sheaves,And the wistful robin flittethOver beds of yellow leaves;When the clouds like ghosts that ponderEvil fate, float by and frown,And the listless wind doth wanderUp and down, up and down:Through the fields and fallows wending,It is sad to walk alone.Jean Ingelow.St. Matthew. (September 21st.)St. Matthee shut up the bee.The flush of the landscape is o'er,The brown leaves are shed on the way,The dye of the lone mountain-flowerGrows wan and betokens decay.All silent the song of the thrush,Bewilder'd she cowers in the dale;The blackbird sits lone on the bushâ€”The fall of the leaf they bewail.Hogg.Summer is gone on swallow's wings,And earth has buried all her flowers;No more the lark, the linnet sings,But silence sits in faded bowers.There is a shadow on the plainOf Winter, ere he comes again.Hood.The feathers of the willowAre half of them grown yellowAbove the swelling stream;And ragged are the bushes,And rusty now the rushes,And wild the clouded gleam.The thistle now is older,His stalk begins to moulder,His head is white as snow;The branches all are barer,The linnet's song is rarer,The robin pipeth now.Dixon.Nothing stirs the sunny silence,Save the drowsy humming of the beesRound the rich, ripe peaches on the wall,And the south wind sighing in the trees,And the dead leaves rustling as they fall:While the swallows, one by one, are gathering,All impatient to be on the wing,And to wander from us, seekingTheir beloved Spring.Adelaide Procter.The Garden.What wondrous life is this I lead!Ripe apples drop about my head.The luscious clusters of the vineUpon my mouth do crush their wine.The nectarine, and curious peachInto my hands themselves do reach.Stumbling on melons, as I pass,Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass.Andrew Marvell.St. Michael's Day.(September 29th.)In the Sarum Missal St. Michael is invoked as a "most glorious and warlike prince," "chief officer of paradise," "captain of God's hosts," "the receiver of souls," "the vanquisher of evil spirits," and "the admirable general."From Hone.If Michaelmas Day be fair, the sun will shine much in the winter; though the wind at northeast will frequently reign long, and be very sharp and nipping.Thomas Passenger.Fresh herring plenty Michael brings,With fatted crones (old ewes) and such old things.Tusser.When the tenants come to pay their quarter's rent,They bring some fowl at Midsummer, a dish of fish in Lent,At Christmas a capon, at Michaelmas a goose,And somewhat else at New Year's tide, for fear their lease fly loose.G. Gascoigne.Geese now in their prime season are,Which if well roasted are good fare:Yet, however, friends take heedHow too much on them you feed,Lest, when as your tongues run loose,Your discourse do smell of goose."Poor Robin," 1695.If you eat goose on Michaelmas Day you will never want money all the year round.Old Saying.The Michaelmas moonRises nine nights alike soon.The moon in the wane, gather fruit for to last;But winter fruit gather, when Michael is past;Though michers (thieves) that love not to buy nor to crave,Make some gather sooner, else few for to have.Tusser.

Ancient Cornish name:Miz-guerda gala, white straw month.

Jewel for the month: Chrysolite. Antidote to madness.

If the woodcock had but the partridge's thigh,

He'd be the best bird that ever did fly.

If the partridge had but the woodcock's breast,

He'd be the best bird that ever was dress'd.

Harvest Hwome.

The ground is clear. There's nar a ear

O' stannen corn a-left out now,

Vor win' to blow or rain to drow;

'Tis all up seafe in barn or mow.

Here's health to them that plough'd an' zow'd;

Here's health to them that reap'd an' mow'd,

An' them that had to pitch an' lwoad,

Or tip the rick at Harvest Hwome.

The happy zight,â€”the merry night;

The men's delight,â€”the Harvest Hwome.

W. Barnes.

We have ploughed, we have sowed,We have reaped, we have mowed,We have brought home every load,Hip, hip, hip, Harvest Home.

Gloucester.

Harvest Toast.

Here's a health to the barley mow,

Here's a health to the man who very well can

Both harrow and plough and sow.

When it is well sown,

See it is well mown,

Both raked and gravell'd clean,

And a barn to lay it in,

Here's a health to the man who very well can

Both thrash and fan it clean.

Suffolk.

Tramping after grouse or partridge through the soft September air,

Both my pockets stuffed with cartridge, and my heart devoid of care.

September blow soft.Till the fruit's in the loft.

Of Gardens.

In September come grapes, apples, poppies of all colours, peaches, melocotones (yellow peaches), nectarines, cornelians, wardens, quinces.

Bacon.

Spring was o'er happy and knew not the reason,

And Summer dreamed sadly, for she thought all was ended

In her fulness of wealth that might not be amended;

But this is the harvest and the garnering season,

And the leaf and the blossom in the ripe fruit are blended.

W. Morris.

A bloom upon the apple tree when the apples are ripe

Is a sure termination to somebody's life.

September dries up wells or breaks down bridges.

Portugal.

Many haws, many sloes, many cold toes.

When September thirteenth falls on a Friday, the Autumn will be dry and sunny.

France.

September fifteenth is said to be fine in six years out of seven.

Onion skin very thin,Mild winter coming in;Onion skin thick and tough,Coming winter cold and rough.

Set strawberries, wife,I love them for life.

Tusser.

The barberry, respis, and gooseberry too,Look now to be planted as other things do:The gooseberry, respis, and roses all three,With strawberries under them trimly agree.

Tusser.

Wild with the winds of September

Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel.

Longfellow.

That mellow season of the year

When the hot sun singes the yellow leaves

Till they be gold, and with a broader sphere

The moon looks down on Ceres and her sheaves.

Hood.

When the falling waters utterSomething mournful on their way,And departing swallows flutter,Taking leave of bank and brae;When the chaffinch idly sittethWith her mate upon the sheaves,And the wistful robin flittethOver beds of yellow leaves;When the clouds like ghosts that ponderEvil fate, float by and frown,And the listless wind doth wanderUp and down, up and down:Through the fields and fallows wending,It is sad to walk alone.

Jean Ingelow.

St. Matthew. (September 21st.)St. Matthee shut up the bee.

The flush of the landscape is o'er,

The brown leaves are shed on the way,

The dye of the lone mountain-flower

Grows wan and betokens decay.

All silent the song of the thrush,

Bewilder'd she cowers in the dale;

The blackbird sits lone on the bushâ€”

The fall of the leaf they bewail.

Hogg.

Summer is gone on swallow's wings,

And earth has buried all her flowers;

No more the lark, the linnet sings,

But silence sits in faded bowers.

There is a shadow on the plain

Of Winter, ere he comes again.

Hood.

The feathers of the willow

Are half of them grown yellow

Above the swelling stream;

And ragged are the bushes,

And rusty now the rushes,

And wild the clouded gleam.

The thistle now is older,

His stalk begins to moulder,

His head is white as snow;

The branches all are barer,

The linnet's song is rarer,

The robin pipeth now.

Dixon.

Nothing stirs the sunny silence,Save the drowsy humming of the beesRound the rich, ripe peaches on the wall,And the south wind sighing in the trees,And the dead leaves rustling as they fall:While the swallows, one by one, are gathering,All impatient to be on the wing,And to wander from us, seekingTheir beloved Spring.

Adelaide Procter.

The Garden.

What wondrous life is this I lead!Ripe apples drop about my head.The luscious clusters of the vineUpon my mouth do crush their wine.The nectarine, and curious peachInto my hands themselves do reach.Stumbling on melons, as I pass,Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

Andrew Marvell.

St. Michael's Day.(September 29th.)

In the Sarum Missal St. Michael is invoked as a "most glorious and warlike prince," "chief officer of paradise," "captain of God's hosts," "the receiver of souls," "the vanquisher of evil spirits," and "the admirable general."

From Hone.

If Michaelmas Day be fair, the sun will shine much in the winter; though the wind at northeast will frequently reign long, and be very sharp and nipping.

Thomas Passenger.

Fresh herring plenty Michael brings,

With fatted crones (old ewes) and such old things.

Tusser.

When the tenants come to pay their quarter's rent,

They bring some fowl at Midsummer, a dish of fish in Lent,

At Christmas a capon, at Michaelmas a goose,

And somewhat else at New Year's tide, for fear their lease fly loose.

G. Gascoigne.

Geese now in their prime season are,Which if well roasted are good fare:Yet, however, friends take heedHow too much on them you feed,Lest, when as your tongues run loose,Your discourse do smell of goose.

"Poor Robin," 1695.

If you eat goose on Michaelmas Day you will never want money all the year round.

Old Saying.

The Michaelmas moonRises nine nights alike soon.

The moon in the wane, gather fruit for to last;

But winter fruit gather, when Michael is past;

Though michers (thieves) that love not to buy nor to crave,

Make some gather sooner, else few for to have.

Tusser.

OCTOBERAncient Cornish name:Miz-hedra, watery month.Jewel: Opal. Hope.October Fourth.St. Francis and St. Benedight died 1226.St. Francis and St. Benedight,Blesse this house from wicked wightFrom the night-mare, and the goblinThat is night Good-Fellow-Robin;Keep it from all evil spirits,Fairies, weezils, rats, and ferrets:From curfew time,To the next prime.William Cartwright.Who soweth in rainHath weed to his pain;But worse shall he speedThat soweth ill seed.Tusser.When Autumn, sad but sunlit, doth appear,With his gold hand gilding the falling leaf,Bringing up Winter to fulfil the year,Bearing upon his back the ripened sheaf;When all the hills with woolly seed are white,When lightning fires and gleams do meet from far the sight;When the fair apple, flushed as even sky,Doth bend the tree unto the fertile ground,When juicy pears and berries of black dyeDo dance in air and call the eye around:Then, be the even foul or be it fair,Methinks my heart's delight is stained with some care.Chatterton.There is strange music in the stirring wind,When lowers the autumnal eve, and all aloneTo the dark wood's cold covert thou art gone,Whose ancient trees on the rough slope reclinedRock, and at times scatter their tresses sere.W. L. Bowles.Of Gardens.In October and beginning of November come services, medlars, bullaces, roses cut or removed to come late, hollyoaks, and such like.Bacon.Seed-Time.October's gold is dimâ€”the forests rot,The weary rain falls ceaseless, while the dayIs wrapt in damp. In mire of village wayThe hedgerow leaves are stampt, and, all forgot,The broodless nest sits visible in the thorn.Autumn, among her drooping marigolds,Weeps all her garnered fields and empty foldsAnd dripping orchards, plundered and forlorn.David Gray.Autumn Days.Yellow, mellow, ripened days,Sheltered in a golden coating;O'er the dreamy, listless haze,White and dainty cloudlets floatingWinking at the blushing trees,And the sombre, furrowed fallow;Smiling at the airy easeOf the southward flying swallow.Sweet and smiling are thy ways,Beauteous, golden, Autumn days!Shivering, quivering, tearful days,Fretfully and sadly weeping;Dreading still, with anxious gaze,Icy fetters round thee creeping;O'er the cheerless, withered plain,Woefully and hoarsely calling;Pelting hail and drenching rain,On thy scanty vestments falling.Sad and mournful are thy ways,Grieving, wailing, Autumn days!Will. Carleton.Moan, oh ye autumn winds!Summer has fled,The flowers have closed their tender leaves and die;The lily's gracious headAll low must lie,Because the gentle Summer now is dead.Mourn, mourn, oh autumn winds,Lament and mourn;How many half-blown buds must close and die;Hopes with the Summer bornAll faded lie,And leave us desolate and earth forlorn!A. A. Procter.St. Simon and St. Jude's Day.(October 28th.)It is a Bedford custom for boys to cry baked pears about the town, with the following words:â€”Who knows what I have got?In a hot pot?Baked Wardensâ€”all hot!Who knows what I have got?October brings the cold weather down,When the wind and the rain continue;He nerves the limbs that are lazy grown,And braces the languid sinew;So while we have voices and lungs to cheer,And the winter frost before us,Come chant to the king of the mortal year,And thunder him out in chorus.E. E. Bowen."Decay, decay," the wildering west winds cry;"Decay, decay," the moaning woods reply;The whole dead autumn landscape, drear and chill,Strikes the same chord of desolate sadness still.Full moon in October without frost, no frost till full moon in November.Hoar frost and gipsies never stay nine days in a place.There are always nineteen fine days in October.Kentish saying.An April frostIs sharp, but kills not; sad October's stormStrikes when the juices and the vital sapAre ebbing from the leaf.Henry Taylor.

Ancient Cornish name:Miz-hedra, watery month.

Jewel: Opal. Hope.

October Fourth.

St. Francis and St. Benedight died 1226.

St. Francis and St. Benedight,Blesse this house from wicked wightFrom the night-mare, and the goblinThat is night Good-Fellow-Robin;Keep it from all evil spirits,Fairies, weezils, rats, and ferrets:

From curfew time,To the next prime.

William Cartwright.

Who soweth in rainHath weed to his pain;But worse shall he speedThat soweth ill seed.

Tusser.

When Autumn, sad but sunlit, doth appear,

With his gold hand gilding the falling leaf,

Bringing up Winter to fulfil the year,

Bearing upon his back the ripened sheaf;

When all the hills with woolly seed are white,

When lightning fires and gleams do meet from far the sight;

When the fair apple, flushed as even sky,

Doth bend the tree unto the fertile ground,

When juicy pears and berries of black dye

Do dance in air and call the eye around:

Then, be the even foul or be it fair,

Methinks my heart's delight is stained with some care.

Chatterton.

There is strange music in the stirring wind,

When lowers the autumnal eve, and all alone

To the dark wood's cold covert thou art gone,

Whose ancient trees on the rough slope reclined

Rock, and at times scatter their tresses sere.

W. L. Bowles.

Of Gardens.

In October and beginning of November come services, medlars, bullaces, roses cut or removed to come late, hollyoaks, and such like.

Bacon.

Seed-Time.

October's gold is dimâ€”the forests rot,

The weary rain falls ceaseless, while the day

Is wrapt in damp. In mire of village way

The hedgerow leaves are stampt, and, all forgot,

The broodless nest sits visible in the thorn.

Autumn, among her drooping marigolds,

Weeps all her garnered fields and empty folds

And dripping orchards, plundered and forlorn.

David Gray.

Autumn Days.

Yellow, mellow, ripened days,

Sheltered in a golden coating;

O'er the dreamy, listless haze,

White and dainty cloudlets floating

Winking at the blushing trees,

And the sombre, furrowed fallow;

Smiling at the airy ease

Of the southward flying swallow.

Sweet and smiling are thy ways,

Beauteous, golden, Autumn days!

Shivering, quivering, tearful days,

Fretfully and sadly weeping;

Dreading still, with anxious gaze,

Icy fetters round thee creeping;

O'er the cheerless, withered plain,

Woefully and hoarsely calling;

Pelting hail and drenching rain,

On thy scanty vestments falling.

Sad and mournful are thy ways,

Grieving, wailing, Autumn days!

Will. Carleton.

Moan, oh ye autumn winds!

Summer has fled,

The flowers have closed their tender leaves and die;

The lily's gracious head

All low must lie,

Because the gentle Summer now is dead.

Mourn, mourn, oh autumn winds,

Lament and mourn;

How many half-blown buds must close and die;

Hopes with the Summer born

All faded lie,

And leave us desolate and earth forlorn!

A. A. Procter.

St. Simon and St. Jude's Day.(October 28th.)

It is a Bedford custom for boys to cry baked pears about the town, with the following words:â€”

Who knows what I have got?In a hot pot?Baked Wardensâ€”all hot!Who knows what I have got?

October brings the cold weather down,

When the wind and the rain continue;

He nerves the limbs that are lazy grown,

And braces the languid sinew;

So while we have voices and lungs to cheer,

And the winter frost before us,

Come chant to the king of the mortal year,

And thunder him out in chorus.

E. E. Bowen.

"Decay, decay," the wildering west winds cry;

"Decay, decay," the moaning woods reply;

The whole dead autumn landscape, drear and chill,

Strikes the same chord of desolate sadness still.

Full moon in October without frost, no frost till full moon in November.

Hoar frost and gipsies never stay nine days in a place.

There are always nineteen fine days in October.

Kentish saying.

An April frost

Is sharp, but kills not; sad October's storm

Strikes when the juices and the vital sap

Are ebbing from the leaf.

Henry Taylor.

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