O bees, sweet bees!" I said; "that nearest field Is shining white with fragrant immortelles Fly swiftly there and drain those honey wells.

The wild mustard in Southern California is like that spoken of in the New Testament. . . . Its gold is as distinct a value to the eye as the nugget gold is in the pocket.

The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down.

Next time!' In what calendar are kept the records of those next times which never come?

O month when they who love must love and wed.

O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.

Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?