_Grandmother's gathering boneset to-day; In the garret she'll dry and hang it away. Next winter I'll "need" some boneset tea-- I wish she wouldn't think always of me!_ EDITH M. THOMAS A BREATH OF MINT What small leaf-fingers veined with emerald light Lay on my heart that touch of elfin might? What spirals of sharp perfume do they fling, To blur my page with swift remembering? Borne in a country basket marketward, Their message is a music spirit-heard, A pebble-hindered lilt and gurgle and run Of tawny singing water in the sun. Their coolness brings that ecstasy I knew Down by the mint-fringed brook that wandered through My mellow meadows set with linden-trees Loud with the summer jargon of the bees. Their magic has its way with me until I see the storm's dark wing shadow the hill As once I saw: and draw sharp breath again, To feel their arrowy fragrance pierce the rain. O sudden urging sweetness in the air, Exhaled, diffused about me everywhere, Yours is the subtlest word the summer saith, And vanished summers sigh upon your breath. GRACE HAZARD CONKLING A SELLER OF HERBS Black, comely, of abiding cheer, Three times a week she fares, Townward from gabled Windermere, To sell her dainty wares. Green balms she brings from winding lanes, And some in handfuls tall, Of the old days of Annes and Janes, Grown by a kitchen wall. Keen mint has she in dewy sprigs, With spears of violet; And the spiced bloom of elder-twigs In a field's hollow set. My snatch of May I get from her, In white buds off a tree; June in one whiff of lavender, That breaks my heart for me. The swaying boughs of Windermere, Each gust that takes the grass, High over the town roar I hear, When that old stall I pass. What homely memories are mine, At sight of her quaint stalks; Of grave dusks mellowing like wine Down long, box-bordered walks; Of garret windows eastward thrust, Of rafters shining dim, And heaped with herbs as gray as dust All scented to the brim. This lady of the market-place, Three times a week and more, I pray her seasons thick with grace; And ever at her door, Shut from the road by wall of stone, And ample cherry trees, A garden fair as Herrick's own, And just as full of bees! LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE LAVENDER Gray walls that lichen stains, That take the sun and the rains, Old, stately, and wise: Clipt yews, old lawns flag-bordered, In ancient ways yet ordered; South walks where the loud bee plies Daylong till Summer flies-- Here grows Lavender, here breathes England.