You see, deesa 'Tonio always ees want' To leeve on a farm, so he buy wan las' mont'. I s'posa som' day eet be verra nice place, But shape dat he find eet een sure ees "deesgrace"; Eet's busta so bad he must feexin' eet all, An' firs' theeng he starta for build ees da wall. Mysal' I go outa for see heem wan day, An' dere I am catcha heem sweatin' away; He's liftin' beeg stones from all parts of hees land An' takin' dem up to da wall een hees hand! I say to heem: "Tony, why don'ta you gat Som' leetla wheel-barrow for halp you weeth dat?" "O! com' an' I show you w'at's matter," he said, An' so we go look at hees tools een da shed. Dere's fina beeg wheel-barrow dere on da floor, But w'at do you s'pose? From een under da door, Som' mornin'-glor' vines have creep eento da shed, An' beautiful flower, all purpla an' red, Smile out from da vina so pretty an' green Dat tweest round da wheel an' da sides da machine. I look at dees Tony an' say to heem: "Wal?" An' Tony he look back at me an' say: "Hal! I no can bust up soocha beautiful theeng; I work weeth my han's eef eet tak' me teell spreeng!" Antonio Sarto ees buildin' a wall, But maybe he nevva gon' feenish at all. Eet sure wonta be Teell flower an' tree An' all kinda growin' theengs sleep een da Fall. T. A. DALY LARKSPUR Blue morning and the beloved, The hill-garden and I ... Blue morning and the beloved, Leaning, laughing and plucking, Plucking wet roses ... (She among the roses, I among the larkspur, Bob-white, warbler, meadowlark, bobolink, Song, sun, And still morning air.) I snipped off a larkspur blossom of china-blue And held it, A blossom against the sky ... And heaven opened out In one small flower-face ... And the beloved, Plucking roses, plucking roses, old-fashioned roses, Lifted her face With eyes of china-blue. (She among the roses, I among the larkspur, Bee-hum, brown-mole, downy chick, humming-bird: Light, dew, And laughter of my love.) JAMES OPPENHEIM THE JULY GARDEN It's July in my garden; and steel-blue are the globe thistles And French grey the willows that bow to every breeze; And deep in every currant bush a robber blackbird whistles "I'm picking, I'm picking, I'm picking these!" So off I go to rout them, and find instead I'm gazing At clusters of delphiniums--the seed was small and brown, But these are spurs that fell from heaven and caught the most amazing Colours of the welkin's own as they came hustling down.