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FORTUNE-TELLER. 113 
JOHN’S WORT 
Dear is thy little native vale ; 
The ring-dove builds and murmurs there ; 
Close by thy cot she tells her tale 
To every passing villager. 
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, 
And shells his nuts at liberty. 
Rogbks. 
Mountains, and vales, and waters, all infused 
With beauty, and in quietness. 
Southet. 
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