We have said that the scorpion-grass belongs to the natural family Boraginaceæ, which receives its name from the common borage, a bright blue flower with very rough leaves. All its members are rough or hairy, except those which, like the forget-me-not, become smooth from living partly under water. The black stalks of the borage burn, it is said, like match-paper, and its root enters largely into the composition of rouge. Its flowers were at one time held in great respect as a wholesome bitter ingredient for a tankard of ale. According to Pliny, "if the leaves and flowers of the borage be immersed in wine, and that wine drunken, the potion will make men blithe and merry, and drive away all heavy sadness and dull melancholy." Burton, in his "Anatomy of Melancholy," also says of it-- "Borage and hellebore fill two scenes, Sovereign plants to purge the veins Of melancholy, and cheer the heart Of those black fumes which make it smart." Most of the Boraginaceæ are weeds, but they include a few ornamental garden-flowers; as, for example, the Peruvian heliotrope--the "cherry-pie" of the children--which is well known for the fragrance of its blue blossoms. Its Greek name refers to an ancient belief that it always "turned" to meet the sun; but neither heliotrope nor sunflower exhibits any such devotedness towards the great "orb of day." The poet's comparison-- "As the sunflower turns to his God, when he sets, The same look that he turned when he rose"-- is very pretty and suggestive, but unfortunately it is not true. THE LILIES. Are we justified in classing these among our summer flowers? Well, the lily of the valley may, perhaps, be more justly claimed by Spring, as it generally unveils its beauty in the month of May; but the water-lily belongs to Summer; and, at all events, it will be most convenient to speak of them in this category. The lily of the valley (_Convallaria majalis_),--the May-lily of old writers,--has long been a favourite type of retiring modesty and tender loveliness. It affects the silence and solitude of the woodlands, where, in the shadow of broad leaves and sweeping branches, the inquiring botanist discovers-- "Like detected light, Its little green-tipt lamps of white." Shakspeare, who neglected nothing, refers to its gentle humility of attitude:-- "Shipwrecked upon a kingdom where no pity, No friends, no hope, no kindred weep for me; Almost no grave allowed me! like the lily That once was mistress of the field, and flourished, I'll hang my head and perish."