Mary was called contrary?
Well, this is why, my dear:
She planted the most outlandish things
In her garden every year;
She was always sowing the queerest seed,
And when advised to stop,
Her answer was merely, 'No, indeed--
Just wait till you see the crop!'

"And here are some of the crops, my child
(Although not nearly all):
Bananarcissus and cucumberries,
And violettuce small;
Potatomatoes, melonions rare,
And rhubarberries round,
With porcupineapples prickly-rough
On a little bush close to the ground.

"She gathered the stuff in mid-July
And sent it away to sell--
And now you'll see how she earned her name,
And how she earned it well.
Were the crops hauled off in a farmer's cart?
No, not by any means,
But in little June-buggies and automobeetles
And dragonflying-machines!"

JULY

_VII_

_JULY_

[Illustration: _Leo_]

The July house was an old, old house,
With an old, old man inside,
Who told them stories of other days,
Stories of pluck and pride.
His beard was long and his hair was white,
But his keen eyes were not dim,
As he told them things that old, old men
Had long ago told him.

[Illustration: _The July house was an old, old house,
With an old, old man inside_]

At first Amos and Ann stood a little in awe of the old man in the July
house; but he looked so jolly and friendly, and J. M. seemed to know him
so well, that they were soon set at ease.

Little Ann made bold to ask him a question. "Do you remember the American
Revolution?" she said.

"My sakes alive, Ann!" cried Amos, a good deal embarrassed.

But the old man did not seem at all offended. "Well," he answered slowly,
"I can tell you this much about it:

"The little boys of '76--
They did their chores and swam and fished,
And hunted hares and whittled sticks,
While all the time they wished and wished
To hear a sudden summons come,
Each waiting day, each listening night:
'We need the boys for flag and drum,
So send them to the fight!'

"The little girls of '76--
They rocked their dollies to and fro,
And taught the kittens pretty tricks,
And heard their mothers talking low;
Then climbed into the hayloft high,
They peered through every glimmering crack,
And longed to raise a joyful cry