July 29.

July 30.

John Anderson, my jo, John, when first we were acquent, Your locks were like the raven, your bonnie brow was brent,

But now your brow is bald, John, your locks are like the

snow,

Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo!
Scotch Song.

Holy, fair, and wise is she;
The heavens such grace did lend her.

Shakespeare

(Two Gentlemen of Verona).

August.

It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk
The dew that lay upon the morning grass;
There is no rustling in the lofty elm

That canopies my dwelling, and its shade
Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint
And interrupted murmur of the bee.

BRYANT.