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 seen
The 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 moon
Bring an easterly wind soon.
_Cornwall._
* * * * *
If Saturday's moon
Comes 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 weather
May change together;
But change of the moon
Does not change the weather;
If we'd no moon at all,
And that may seem strange,
We still should have weather
That'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 yet
Among 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 cry
Fills 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 south
The rain's in its mouth.
* * * * *
No weather is ill
If 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 climbs
The 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._
JULY
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 wind
Blows 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 red
The rose as where some buried C├Žsar bled;
That every hyacinth the garden wears
Dropt in its lap from some once lovely head.
_Omar Khayyam._
* * * * *
OF GARDENS.
In July come gilliflowers of all varieties, musk
roses, the lime tree in blossom, early pears, and
plums 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 year
May be viewed at the best,
And the earth doth now appear
In her fairest garments dress'd:
Sweetly smelling plants and flowers
Do 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 furze
Buds 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.
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 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, buy
My 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._
AUGUST
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 bread--
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 three
Look out and you'll see
What Friday will be.
* * * * *
No weather is ill
If 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's _not_ master, 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 warm
Doth 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 dry
All 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._
SEPTEMBER
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,--the merry night;
The men's delight,--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 utter
Something mournful on their way,
And departing swallows flutter,
Taking leave of bank and brae;
When the chaffinch idly sitteth
With her mate upon the sheaves,
And the wistful robin flitteth
Over beds of yellow leaves;
When the clouds like ghosts that ponder
Evil fate, float by and frown,
And the listless wind doth wander
Up 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 bush--
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 bees
Round 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, seeking
Their beloved Spring.
_Adelaide Procter._
* * * * *
THE GARDEN.
What wondrous life is this I lead!
Ripe apples drop about my head.
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine.
The nectarine, and curious peach
Into 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 heed
How 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 moon
Rises 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._
OCTOBER
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 wight
From the night-mare, and the goblin
That 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 rain
Hath weed to his pain;
But worse shall he speed
That 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 dim--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:--
Who knows what I have got?
In a hot pot?
Baked Wardens--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._
NOVEMBER
Ancient Cornish name:
Miz-dui, black month.
* * * * *
Jewel for the month: Topaz. Fidelity.
* * * * *
NOVEMBER 1ST. (_All Saints' Day._)
On All Saints' Day hard is the grain.
The leaves are dropping, the puddle is full,
At setting off in the morning
Woe to him that will trust a stranger.
On All Saints' Day blustering is the weather,
Unlike the beginning of the past fair season:
Besides God there is none that knows the future.
_From the Welsh. 1792._
* * * * *
Apples, peares, hawthorns, quicksetts, oakes. Sett them at All
Hallow-tyde, and command them to grow; sett them at Candlemas-tide and
entreat them to grow.
_Wilts._
* * * * *
Who sets an apple tree may live to see it end,
Who sets a pear tree may set it for a friend.
_Hereford._
* * * * *
Their loveliness of life and leaf
At last the waving trees have shed;
The garden ground is sown with grief,
The gay chrysanthemum is dead.