Yorkshire, and the northern counties, is used in the narrow cloths. The large Leicestershire and Lincoln 
shire sheep are clothed with long thick flakes, proper for the hosier’s use ; and every other kind is valuable 
for some particular purpose. 
The season for sheep-shearing commences as soon as the warm weather is so far settled, that the sheep 
may, without danger, lay aside great part of their clothing. The following tokens are given by Dyer, in 
his Fleece, to mark out the time. 
If verdant elder spreads 
Her silver flowers ; if humble daisies yield 
To yellow crowfoot and luxuriant grass, 
Gay shearing-time approaches. 
Before shearing, the sheep undergo the operation 
ness it has contracted. 
Upon the brim 
Of a clear river, gently drive the flock, 
And plunge them one by one into the flood : 
Plung’d in the flood, not long the struggler sinks, 
With his white flakes, that glisten thro’ the tide; 
The sturdy rustic, in the middle wave, 
of washing, in order to free the wool from the foul- 
Awaits to seize him rising : one arm bears 
His lifted head above the limpid stream, 
While the full clammy fleece the other lave* 
Around, laborious, with repeated toil ; 
And then resigns him to the sunny bank, 
Where, bleating loud, he shakes his dripping locks. Dter. 
The shearing itself is conducted with a degree of ceremony and rural dignity ; and is a kind of festival 
as well as a piece of labour. 
At last, of snowy white, the gathered flocks 
Are in the wattled pen innumerous press’d, 
Head above head : and rang’d in lusty rows 
The shepherds sit, and whet the sounding shears. 
The housewife waits to roll her fleecy stores. 
With all her gay-drest maids attending round. 
One, chief, in gracious dignity enthron’d, 
Shines o’er the rest, the pastoral queen, and rays 
Her smiles, sweet beaming, on her shepherd-king. 
A simple scene ! yet hence Britannia sees 
Her solid grandeur rise : hence she commands 
Th’ exalted stores of every brighter clime, 
The treasuies of the sun without his rage. Thomson. 
A profusion of fragrance now arises from the fields of clover in flower. Of this plant there are the 
varieties of white and purple. The latter is sometimes called honeysuckle, from the quantity of sweet juice 
contained in the tube of the flower, whence the bees extract much of their honey. 
For the following passage, we are indebted to Mr. Howitt’s Work on the Seasons : — Wild Flowers 
and their ancient names . — Amongst the most interesting wild flowers now in full bloom, are the dog rose, 
the pimpernel, thyme, and white bryony. The last is one of our most elegant plants. Running up in the 
space of a month, over a great extent of hedge or thicket, and covering it with its long twining stems, spiral 
tendrils, green vine-like leaves, and graceful flowers, in a beautiful style of luxuriance, it is deserving more 
notice than it has yet received, and seems well calculated for clothing bowers and trellis-work. Many of 
our wild flowers derive much interest from the simple and poetical names given them by our rural ancestors; 
as the wind-flower; the snap-dragon ; the shepherd’s-purse ; the bird’s-eye; the fox-glove ; the blue-bell ; 
cuckoo-flower ; adder’s-tongue, and hart’s-tongue ; goldy-locks ; honesty ; heart’s-ease ; true-love ; way- 
bread, and way-faring tree, &c. Many also bear the traces of their religious feelings ; and still more remind 
us of the religious orders by whom they were made articles of their materia medica, or materia sancta, each 
flower being dedicated to that saint near whose day it happened to blow. 
Woe’s me — how knowledge makes forlorn ; 
The forest and the field are shorn 
Of their old growth, the holy flowers ; — 
Or if they spring, they are not ours. 
In ancient days the peasant saw 
Them growing in the woodland shaw, 
And bending to his daily toil, 
Beheld them deck the leafy soil ; 
They sprang around his cottage door ; 
He saw them on the heathy moor ; 
Within the forest’s twilight glade , 
Where the wild deer its covert made ; 
In the green vale, remote and still, 
And gleaming on the ancient hill. 
The days are distant now, gone by 
With the old times of minstrelsy, 
When all unblest with written lore, 
Were treasured up traditions hoar; 
And each still lake and mountain lone 
Had a wild legend of its own ; 
And hall, and cot, and valley-stream, 
Were hallowed by the Minstrel’s dream. 
Then musing in the woodland nook, 
Each flower was as a written book, 
Recalling, by memorial quaint, 
The holy deed of martyred saint, 
The patient faith, which unsubdued, 
Grew mightier through fire and blood. 
One blossom, ’mid its leafy shade, 
The virgin’s purity portrayed ; 
And one, with cup all crimson dyed, 
Spoke of a Saviour crucified : 
And rich the store of holy thought 
That little forest-flower brought. 
Doctrine and miracle, wliate’er 
We draw from books, was treasured there. 
Faith in the wild wood’s tangled bound 
A blessed heritage had found ! 
And Charity and Hope were seen 
In the lone isle and wild ravine. 
