JUNE 
Under the greenwood tree 
Who loves to lie with me, 
And turn his merry note 
Unto the sweet bird’s throat, 
Come hither, come hither, come hither : 
Here shall he see 
No enemy 
But winter and rough weather. 
As You Like It, II. v. i. 
HIS is the month of summer glory, ere the full 
-A- green of the trees has faded, and Nature fills 
the air with the murmuring hum of insects and the 
scent of flowers, when beneath the greenwood tree 
there is the coolness and joy of a summer rest. 
Shakespeare knew it, and loved it, we may be sure, 
and in the groves of Welcombe and Clopton and the 
parks of Fulbroke and Ettington may have often 
enjoyed his summer slumber. 
June is the month for the queen of flowers, the 
rose, a favourite of man from the very earliest date, 
a flower remarkable for graceful habit, elegant and 
varied foliage, most fragrant and delicately tinted 
flowers and brilliant fruit. In Shakespeare’s age it 
was a deserved favourite with florists, and Gerard 
grew several varieties in his London garden. There 
we should have found the Austrian briar ( R . lutea , L.), 
the cinnamon-scented rose (R. cinnamonea , L.), the 
rose of Provence ( R . provincialis , L.), the hundred 
leaved Dutch rose (R. centifolia, L.), the Damascene 
3—2 
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