Flowers, swect flowers are evérywherc—
Tis the blossoming month of June,
. The scent of the clover is on the air,

And the streams are singing a tune.

‘Flowers—sweet flowers, a basket full
We've plucked in the meadows wide,
There are thousands for everyone we cull

Along by the water side.

' The sheep are cropping

the grasses green,

Where shadows are
deep and cool,

And the lazy ducks ‘are
asleep. [ ween,

Out there on the

quiet pool.

-H. M. Burnsive. !