THE FLOWERS OF JULY. 
In a cool day, toward the last of July, Mary 
walked through the pine woods and oak openings 
with her father and mother. The wild-roses still 
blossomed in the hedges, and many new summer 
flowers spoke their praises and their thanks to the 
Sun, and welcomed the little girl to their woodland 
retreats. 
Dog days had come ; but a cool west wind had 
this day cleared the atmosphere of sultry vapors. 
Only white clouds floated far up in the blue, their 
shadows chasing each other over the woods mead- 
