There was a lurking devil in his sneer. When all around, with heartless mirth, Because its schemes of goodness fail; One brow with generous anger glows, BYRON. JOY. WOOD-SORREL. F. S. O. THE wood-sorrel, vulgarly called "cuckoo's bread," flowers very freely about Easter. This pretty little plant shuts its leaves, closes its corollas, and the flowers hang pendent and drooping from the stems. They seem to yield themselves to sleep; but at the first dawn of day we may say that they are filled with joy, for they throw back their leaves, and expand their flowers; and we doubt not it is on this account that peasants have said that they sing the praises of their Creator. Once more I spoke in pleased surprise- I thought to tire her baby-brain; "Good night, my Rose!"-she laughed again"Good night, my Buttercup!" But little versed in Flora's lore, Is Anna;- yet an hour, She racked her infant mind for more, M 2 Weary at last-she sighed out, while Her brow began to wrinkle, With desperate tone and sleepy smile F. S. O.. JUSTICE SHALL BE DONE YOU. SWEET-SCENTED TUSSILAGE, OR COLTSFOOT. GENIUS, hid under a modest appearance, strikes not the eyes of the vulgar. But if the glance of an enlightened judge chances to observe it, its strength is immediately revealed, and it receives the admiration of those whose stupid indifference had not observed it. A young Dutch miller, having a taste for painting, amused himself, in his leisure hours, by representing the landscapes amid which he lived. The mill, the cattle of i his master, the beautiful verdure, clouds, smoke, light and shade, were all portrayed with an exquisite truth. As soon as a picture was finished, he took it to a colour-dealer, who gave him its value in materials to produce another. One feast-day, the innkeeper of the place, wishing to ornament the hall where he received his guests, bought two of these pictures. A celebrated painter stopped at his inn, and, admiring the truth of the landscapes, offered and gave a hundred florins for that which had not cost a crown, and promised, at the same time, to take all the artist could produce. Thus the reputation of the painter was established, and his fortune made. As wise as happy, he never forgot his dear mill; we find the representation of it in all his pictures, which are so many masterpieces. Who would believe that plants have the same fate as men, and that they require a patron to appreciate them? Coltsfoot, notwithstanding its sweet smell, had remained a long time unknown at the foot of Mount Pila, where no doubt it would still have bloomed in obscurity, if a learned botanist, M. Villau de Grenoble, had not appreciated its beneficent qualities. This perfumed plant appears at a season when all others have disappeared. As the great artist eulogized the poor painter, so did M. Villau the humble flower; he gave it a distinguished rank in his works; and, since then, the tussilage has been cultivated with care, and perfumes our brilliant saloons. They shall own thee the sweetest and fairest of flowers, KEEP YOUR PROMISES. PLUM-TREE. F. S. O. EVERY year the plum-tree is covered with an immense quantity of flowers, but unless trained and pruned by the hand of an able gardener of all its superfluous wood, it will only yield fruit once in three years. Come, the young violets crowd my door, Upon the mulberry near, And the night-sparrow trills her song All night with none to hear. LET ME GO! BRYANT. BUTTERFLY-WEED. THE asclepias tuberosa or butterfly-weed is found in abun- ! dance in the United States. Its flowers are of a beautifully bright orange colour. The down or silk of the seeds, in this and other species, furnishes an admirable mechanism for their | dissemination. When the seeds are liberated by the bursting | of the follicle which contains them, the silken fibres immediately expand so as to form a sort of globe of branching and highly attenuated rays, with the seed suspended at its centre. In this state they are elevated by the wind to an indefinite height, and carried forward with a voyage like that of a balloon, until some obstacle intercepts their flight, or rain precipitates them to the ground. Nay! ours is not the morning Of love, when all is fresh and sweet, I often catch you yawning, You know, where'er we meet. |