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Peacocks are found in their native state in Java and the Ceylon Isles, where vast flocks of them are still seen vaunting in all their beauty. There are several varieties of the Peacock. Some are crested, and others are white. That which is known as the Peacock of Thibet is allowed to be the most beautiful of the feathered race. Its colours are a mixture of blue, yellow, red, and green, all blended with the most artificial exactness, and forming the most pleasing combination to the sight. In this country, the peahen seldom lays more than six eggs; though, in its native clime, it generally lays twelve before it attempts to sit. This is a time of great secrecy and solicitude to the female, as she is obliged to conceal herself and nest from the male, to prevent his disturbing her, or destroying her eggs. In Cambaya, a province of the Great Mogul, in India, travellers assert, that whole flocks of them overspread the fields; but there, as in this country, they are shy and timid, and hide themselves in hedges, if a human form appear. Like other birds of the poultry kind, the peacock principally feeds upon corn; but barley is considered as its favourite grain. Insects and tender plants are eagerly sought after, if it does not find a sufficiency of its accustomed food. In such cases, it will lay waste the labours of the gardener, root up all his choicest seeds, and nip the buds of his most curious flowers. The peacock is reported to live about twenty years, and the

plumage attains to the zenith of its beauty in the third year of its age.

We see, from this bird, how wisely the God of nature and providence balances the favourable and unfavourable traits in the character and history of the irrational as well as the rational tribes; giving to one what he withholds from another, that there be no idolatrous adulation of the one, and no unfeeling and inhuman neglect of the other. If God had given to the Peacock the voice of the nightingale, instead of its own dissonant and hoarse bawling, or the domestic habits and intrinsic value of the barn door fowls, instead of its own habits and uselessness, it would have destroyed the balance that is now kept up in the creation; whilst, as it is, we find something to admire in every creature, but nothing to adore in such a mixture of attractions and repulsions. Such is the balance maintained amongst our own race. Some have an elegant form and gay clothing, whilst they are destitute of all the beauties of the heart and mind; and those in possession of inward excellencies, are like the nightingale, perhaps, having nothing in their person, clothing, or circumstances, to attract our notice. Of

course, there is no comparison between qualities that are really valuable to ourselves and useful to others, and those which are merely accidental, or of an ornamental character; though the latter, like the plumage of the peacock, are generally

the most showy and attractive, and, by little minds, are most sought after, yet,

"Honour and Virtue, Truth and Grace,
These are the robes of richest dress.'

A SPRING MORNING.

THE shades of night are now disappearing, and the dawning day discloses a new world to our view. It gradually grows lighter, but nature has yet to present her noblest object. If we look toward the east, we shall see the sky covered with beautiful purple streaks; and soft fleecy clouds, tinged with gold, lie pillowed around. Soon, they glow with various brilliant colours, announcing the approach of the King of Day. Let us watch for a moment, and he will appear! Now the first ray has touched the mountain tops and others are darting like lightning over the scene. See, he arises! and comes forth in majestic glory. At his presence all things rejoice; the animal creation shakes off its slumbers, and rises to enjoy his cheering warmth: insects innumerable spring into life and glitter in his beams: a thousand warblers welcome his approach: blossoms and flowers expand, and throw forth their virgin fragrance on the gentle breeze and liveliest and gayest of all, the lark loudly sings his matin song as he rises to the sky, which

"Looks pure as the Spirit that made it." Beautiful fields, verdant groves, and blooming

gardens, which darkness had hidden from our view, now appear in all their loveliness, as fresh and fair as if they had just sprung from their Creator's hand!

Who, on beholding such a scene, would not exclaim,

"These are thy glorious works, Parent of good?" O may the "Sun of Righteousness" arise upon our minds, chasing away the mists and the darkness of ignorance and sin! May the Holy Spirit drop on our hearts as the rain, and distil as the dew, that we, thus taught to recognize the Great Fountain of all good, may adore him for his goodness and mercy on earth, and rise, at the morning of the resurrection, to behold the brighter glories of the celestial world, and join in singing, in strains of heavenly harmony, salvation unto God and the Lamb for ever! Leicester, W. R. THE FLOWERS THAT NEVER DIE.

I WISH that flowers would always grow,
As sweet as they are made;

Then lilies would be white as snow,

And roses never fade.

But now they wither and decay,

And all their beauty flies;

The rose, that sweetly blooms to-day,
Before to-morrow dies.

Oh yes, my love! but flow'rs there are
That blossom in the breast;

By God's own Spirit planted there,
The sweetest and the best.

The snow-white lily, without stain,
Is not so pure as truth;

It never fades, but shall remain
In everlasting youth.

And sweeter than the sweetest rose,
Is love shed o'er thy mind;
The heart is tender where it grows,
To every creature kind.

These are the flowers that never die,
But bloom throughout the year;
The blossoms of sweet piety

No blight but sin need fear.

THE BUTTERFLY AND THE BEE.
I SAW a sportive butterfly
Fluttering its plumy wing,
Rejoicing in the happiness
Of bright and balmy spring.
It rested not on fairest flower,
On leaf of freshest green,

But where the sun-beam brightest fell
Its varying course was seen.

I turned from it to mark the bee,
With steady humming flight,

As if she had a work to do

Before the coming night.

She paus'd but on the sweetest flowers,
Her trunk the nectar drew,
And when her little load was made,

Back to her hive she flew.

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