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cheerful air which convinces one that she considers herself well paid for her labor. Her little girls pet and caress them with innocent fondness, and anxiously watch their slow and sometimes unwilling growth. A blessing on them. Children and flowers compose a lovely group. O, this is a lovely retreat, a joyous scene, this family of my friend's. Sometimes when winter grows dull and dreary to my mind, I derive much comfort from an hour or two spent in their midst, by taking a view of a miniature Spring in mid-winter.

I must ask pardon of the reader for obtruding upon him an appeal in behalf of a little plant of which I have grown extremely fond. It is very modest and unpretending, but I am partial to modesty. It is commonly called mignonette, which being interpreted means “a little darling.” I prefer the English name, since it is more useful and pleasant to speak in a known tongue. No word in the English language could so well express my warm affection for this plant as that of “a little darling.” It is like a sacred vase, the depository of sweet-scented memories of the past. The recollection of kind friendships have become incorporated with its nature and name. Some of my female friends have made it the medium to express and transmit to me their affectionate remembrance. They would send me its seed and flowers, the former to raise plants, the latter as a sweet-smelling savor of their kind regard. This imparts to it a monumental character. In its pleasant fragrance lies embalmed the memory of many fond wishes.

This little plant has been very much neglected on account of its unprepossessing appearance. The harsh shocks of unfriendly treatment make it look shy and sad. It is too poor to dress as gaily as some of its more fortunate fellows. It is not as large as the oleander, its flowers are not as gaudy as the cactus, its countenance is not as open and smooth as the morning-glory, which looks old and wrinkly enough a few hours after it opens. Its tiny leaves make a poor show, and its little flower looks rather homely. But just as homely people, though derided by the handsome, are often the most virtuous and useful, so its color is the symbol of purity and its scent most surpassingly sweet.

I have no ill-feelings towards any of its rivals. Not that I love them less, but this more. And my present zeal has been prompted by a most benevolent motive-a desire to secure a suitable reward for humble worth. The time has come when flowers as well as men should be judged by their intrinsic merits, and not by the color of the bat or the cut of the coat. Our botanical judgment is too often swayed by outward appearance. Any thing to get up a pomp and show. An orange or a lemon, which requires four men to move it, is often preferred to an humbler plant of greater worth, which a child can move. I earnestly implore a just and respectful A PRELUDE TO WINTER.

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treatment for this little plant, at the hands of the flower-loving community on the ground of its own merits. It will bear acquaintance and will greatly improve by it. Its homely appearance and timidity can be greatly remedied by a kind and gentle treatment.

I have had an interesting discussion with an estimable friend of mine, whose kindness has reared me several stocks of my favorite plant. The hearty good-will with which she received the unknown stranger, at my recommendation, and her daily endeavors to minister to its comfort, are an honor to her benevolent heart. She happened to place beside them two other plants, which she calls.. . Bachelor's Button” and “Priscilla." Of course the former will. at once be condemned on account of its ungallant name. And yet its velvet-like flower and neat appearance will make you respect if Dot admire it in spite of your prejudices. Its crimson blush of modesty reminds me very much of a bachelor friend on his wedding day, whose countenance was flushed with crimson waves, the playa ful images of his modest joy. But my friend, owing to the prejudices so common to her sex, has taken a great liking to the latter of these plants, and evera contends that it is superior to the little darling, by which, however, she designs no disrespect for my plant, of which she is passionately fond. It has a lofty stout stem, broad bulky leaves, and has its clumsy white flowers arranged after the fashion of a mullen stock. Her main argument is derived from its superior fragrance. But according to my nasal judgment its fragrance is not sufficiently mild and soothing. It is too harsh and severe, and in this respect greatly inferior to my little plant.

This digressive discussion has led me into remarks not very perti-, Dent to the season. For I had intended to take leave of the reader with a becoming solemnity. As our motto says, this season is "thesaddest of the year.” And yet it is a pleasant sadness which dreary autumn wafts over our spirits. Campbell says that,

“Beauty's tears are lovelier than her smiles.” So there is a certain loveliness in the grief-like aspect of this season, which ministers more to our piety than the bloom and verdure of June. It forces upon our minds the claims and promises of a better season

“Where everlasting spring abides,

And never-withering flowers.”' “It is better to go to the house of mourning than to the house of feasting.” The fall of the year is the end of flowers, and men will lay it to beart. And often it is also the end of mortals. It claims more diseases and deaths than any other season of the year. It is the season of fevers as well as frosts. Some go with the birds, others fall with the sered leaf. "The mourners go about the street;" we meet them in the sanctuary. Their sad babiliments

betray their bereavement. The cemetery which I frequently visit has many new graves. Several clusters, where a number of the same family lie buried together. Many little ones, who were taken out of the way of danger into a more congenial clime. This sheds a gloome over many hearts, and makes the sadness of fall, outward and real. O, what bitter weepings have I seen around those graves! Sometimes I could scarcely stem my grief to pronounce life's closing service. Yet, why weep over the dust of our sainted dead? “They are not here." "In heaven we have a more enduring substance.” Their spirits have removed into other dwellings more convenient and home-like. Plant ye a tree that may wave over their dust. Not a weeping-willow, for why surround their resting place with the emblems of grief? Decorate it with living, growing garlands of joy. Plant an evergreen, that will never droop or weep. Put flower plants there. Make their graves attractive. Let flowers bloom over their sacred dust, to remind the passer-by of human frailty, and point the Christian to the resurrection of an eternal spring. The soul must drop the flower and frail husk of mortality, that it may be clothed with immortality.

In truth it is a season of melancholy delight. With all its griefs I love it still. It makes me think of death and the happy land beyond. It fills my mind with sober, earnest thoughts. “Weep not for the dead, neither bemoan him." The living—the living are the proper objects of compassion. The dead, the pious dead, need not our tears. With them all is well. But the living do. For them let us labor, for them let us pray. The ransomed dead, with soft rebukes they urge us to lay aside our earthly tardiness. Ye pious mourners, hear their tender pleadings that we should join their happy throng:

“Come to that happy land,

Come, come away;
Why will ye doubting stand,

Why still delay.
O, we shall happy be, when from sin and sorrow free;
Lord, we shall live for thee, blest, blest for aye."

RED HAIR. THE Phrenological Journal, in an article on temperament, says: “We have never seen or heard of a red-headed minister, or, rather, of a minister possessed of a pure sanguine temperament.” We do not know whether the Journal is correct or not on this point; but it is stated that several years ago a minister being presented to the parish church of Crieff, in Scotland, the parishioners objected to receiving him, and when the case was tried before the Presbytery, it was found that their only objection to him was that his hair was red. The objection was insuperable.

THE PRAYERS OF LITTLE CHILDREN.

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THE PRAYERS OF LITTLE CHILDREN.

BY THE EDITOR.

How beautiful is praying infancy. How touching are the simple

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lings God ordains praise, because of His enemies. The enemies of Jesus, who resist the strongest arguments for religion that appeal to their mind, feel the prayers of little children. It were well if they could humble their lofty powers, so as to receive the kingdom of God as little children receive it.

Never have we seen the deep impression which innocent infancy, with its devotions, may make upon hearts hardened in sin, more beautifully and touchingly portrayed than by Moore in his “Paradise and the Peri.” The Peri are fabled beings, that are, in the Orient, believed to have been cast out of Paradise for some crimes they committed. These go wandering lone!y through the earth seeking rest and finding none. One of these spirits one morning found its way to the gate of Paradise, and as it heard, through the half-open portals, the sweet hymns of the blest, it imploringly asked the angel to let it in. The angel answered that it could not now get in. Yet, gently said the angel:

“One hope is thine,
'Tis written in the Book of Fate,

The Peri yet may be forgiven
Who brings to this eternal gate

The gift that is most dear to heaven!
Go seek it and redeem thy sin;

'Tis sweet to let the pardoned in !"
The Peri went away, hastily, inspired with hope. It found its
way to a field of battle, and caught up the last drop of blood that
oozed from the heart of a young hero who expired for the liberty
of his native land.

"Be this,' she cried, as she wing'd her flight,

My welcome gift at the Gates of Light.
Though foul are the drops that oft distil
On the field of warfare, blood like this,

For Liberty shed, so holy is,
It would not stain the purest rill,

That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss !
Oh! if there be, on this earthly sphere,
A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear,
'Tis the last libation Liberty draws
From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause!'
" "Sweet,' said the Angel as she gave

The gift into his radiant hand,
"Sweet is our welcome of the Brave

Who die thus for their native land.
But see-alas 1-the crystal bar

Though thent, a femo of the lai and yet hea smitten nori, sau

Of Eden moves not-holier far
Than e'en this drop the boon must be,

That opes the Gates of Heav'n for thee!'” Disappointed the first time, the Peri went again to find the precious gift that should open heaven. It finds its way into a country where the poisonous breath of a fearful plague was breathing death upon multitudes. Along the shore of a lonely lake, the Peri saw a young man in burning agony: the plague had smitten him, and his lips and tongue were parched, and yet he had not strength to reach the cool waters of the lake that lay before his eyes. At that moment, a female drew near-it was his own betrothed! Though the dying youth implored her to remain away, for an approach would be certain death to her, yet she came!

"Oh! let me only breathe the air,

The blessed air, that's breath'd by thee,
And, whether on its wings it bear

Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me!
There, drink my tears while yet they fall,

Would that my bosom's blood were balm,
And, well thou know'st, I'd shed it all,

To give thy brow one minute's calm.
Nay, turn not from me that dear face

Am I not thine-thy own lov'd bride
The one, the chosen one, whose place,

In life or death, is by thy side!
Think'st thou that she, whose only light,

In this dim world, from thee hath shone,
Could bear the long, the cheerless night,

That must be her's when thou art gone ?
That I can live and let thee go,
Who art my life itself ? No, no
When the stem dies, the leaf that grew
Out of its heart must perish too;
Then turn to me, my own love, turn,
Before like thee I fade and burn;
Cling to these yet cool lips, and share
The last pure life that lingers there!'
She fails—she sinks—as dies the lamp
In charnel airs or cavern damp,
So quickly do his baleful sighs
Quench all the sweet light of her eyes !
One struggle—and his pain is past-

Her lover is no longer living !
One kiss the maiden gives, one last,

Long kiss, which she expires in giving !
66. Sleep,' said the Peri, as softly she stole
The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul,
As true as e'er warm'd a woman's breast;

Sleep on, in visions of odour rest,
In balmier airs than ever yet stirr'd
The enchanted pile of that holy bird,
Who sings at last his own death-lay,
And in music and perfume dies away?'
Thus saying, from her lips she spread

Unearthly breathings through the place,
And shook her sparkling wreath, and shed

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