June 
bank than invest in more than one cow. A single 
cow cannot eat all the gold out of one’s meadow. 
I am still glad for the buttercups; and where the 
meadow passes into the upland, where the butter- 
cups give place to the daisies, my gold runs into sil- 
ver; which means certainly that I am not making the 
farm pay, for on a paying farm a daisy — weed that it 
is, and not a native weed at that—is more like a spot 
of leprosy than of silver. Our daisies are not even 
those sung by the poets, I understand. What of it? 
A ten-acre field of them lies snow-white in my mem- 
ory, fresh with the freshness of early June and the 
sweeter freshness of boyhood. And as for poetry, I 
have my own for them,—the poetry of boyhood, of 
Commencement days at the Institute, and of girls in 
white frocks. 
There is no particular flower that means June to 
me as the hepatica means March, the arbutus April, 
the shad-bush May, and the red wood-lily July. I can- 
not think of single blossoms, or of here and there 
a spot of rare flowers, in June, but only of pastures 
drifted white, meadows purple-misted, and rolling 
hillsides billowy pink, — of laurel, forget-me-nots, dai- 
sies, viburnums, and buttercups. This is no time to 
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