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THE WORLD, A BEAUTIFUL WORLD.

BY HELEN HETHERINGTON.

'Tis a Beautiful World! With gypsy glee,
I roam over mountain and moor;
The white-foaming waves bring joy to me,
As they merrily dance on the shore.

My heart is light and my thoughts are gay,
I welcome the sunshine, and shower;
I rise with the lark at break of day,
And rove with the evening hour.

Nature, too, smiles; and she welcomes me,
As a mother the child she loves best;
My heart from care and distress is free,

As I peacefully sleep on her breast.

When the soft wind sighs o'er the seaman's grave,
And night has succeeded the day-

I watch the gay moonbeams that dance on the

wave,

And gambol the midnight away.

'Tis a beautiful world! the stars talk to me
Of those who are far, far above;
The soft gentle twilight steals o'er the lea,
With thoughts of the friends that I love.

I roam hand-in-hand with the bright days
Spring,

Through valley, glen, forest, and brake;

sufferer. The pillow is pressed by the pallid cheek of a child over whom five summers seem scarcely to have passed. The anxious watcher, so silently moving across the room, is the sleeper's mother. The fever spot hath passed, and the little girl is slowly recovering; but the doating parent hardly ventures to breathe with confidence. The approach of death has been so near that the fearful consummation still seems inevitable.

The invalid has sunk into what promises to be a sound refreshing slumber; and, after a fervent prayer for its welfare, the young mother seats herself by the bedside, and ponders over the hearts she has loved, and thinks of those that still beat to return the affection.

Presently she reaches a casket containing the little heir-looms, forget-me-nots, and keepsakes, takes therefrom three morocco cases. They enclose that she has treasured up from girlhood. She the departed, the absent, and the sleeping girl miniatures. They are daguerreotype portraits of present. Reader! canst thou not sympathise with that devoted creature's emotions?

She is tracing the lineaments of a dear mother's face; that mother who has been laid in the cold grave now some nine moons wasted. What memories, what thoughts, what affections, rush through her mind, as she gazes on the features so of vividly stamped on the daguerreotype! Every dimple and every line are retained, with a fidelity that fairly staggers the beholder,--and makes her

And Summer's light breezes new joys seem to scarcely credit that the life-like form and life-like

bring,

As they waft my light bark on the lake.

There's a ray of hope in the darkest day,
A joy that the heart loves to borrow;

smile so exquisitely pourtrayed on the silver tablet are for ever gone!

Perhaps, when the picture was taken, it was lightly esteemed,-the receiver little dreaming

And bright happy thoughts, as the clouds pass how soon death would desolate her hearth. If so,

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HOME is a casket of the rarest gems that can glitter in the noon-day sun. Whether we instance the palace of royalty, or the equally sacred roof of the cottager, matters but little. Every room, every nook, every corner, abounds with gems of the richest value to the properly constituted mind. It requires no particularly retentive memory to call to mind the varied treasures of a given home. It needs no vivid imagination to pourtray the many cherished objects that are held dear by brothers, sisters, fathers, and mothers,-not so much for their intrinsic worth, as for the ties of love, affection, and duty that they recall.

See yonder room, and mark how the better feelings of our nature embalms a memento which the thoughtless would jeer at. It is a sick chamber. Albeit the blinds are down, the brilliant light of a May morning pierces the apartment, as if nature herself was greeting the convalescence of a little

a deep atonement has been made by the priceless worth since set upon the trifle. It is now one of the most valued gems the owner possesses. Nothing could replace it; neither could the ingenuity of man or the wealth of worlds, produce so complete a monument to the memory of the dead.

Sadly closing the eloquent record of a mother's being, our friend opens the second case. Oh! the tell-tale eye, how it brightens! How the color comes and goes, as the young wife views the manly form of her early love,-the father of her child! He is thousands of miles away, under the scorching sun of India, little conscious of his daughter's danger or its mother's grief. Perhaps he, too, is suffering, but no; do not fill the cup of misery to the brim. His return is expected; perchance he is hastening on his way home,-with the same bright eye, the same well-knit form, and the same frank expression so faithfully caught by the magic pencil of the photographist. Either way it is a consolation of no small extent to realise his form so palpably before the eye.

The third case is opened, and another phase of human love is stirred to its depths. What now greets the eyes of the loving woman? it is the cherub-like face of the little invalid there,-taken when the rosy hue of health bedecked its cheek, and before it had reached its third summer. Tears gush into the fond parent's eyes, as she once more beholds her darling, whose very movement seems to have been caught in the picture. The little creature is laughing, and looks its mother full in the face, whilst she gazes on the portrait. The

tiny hands of the infant are extended as if inviting the embrace of the beholder, and altogether the miniature bears the soul and life about it that could only be secured by an almost instantaneous work of nature. Such indeed it was.

The mother's reverie is at length disturbed by the waking of the invalid"Ma! ma! 77 been crying?"

said the child, "have you not

"Crying, dear? what should make me cry, now that my darling is getting well?" and she imprinted a fervent kiss on the brow of her offspring. "You were crying," resumed the child. "I've been awake and saw you kiss papa's picture."

The accusation was too much for the full heart of the fond mother. She buried her face in her

hands, and gave vent to her feelings in a flood of

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IN THESE DAYS, everybody is desirous of knowing a little about everything; not so much from the desire of becoming rivals to that class of "dabblers" who continually bore you with cramp names in common conversation, and tell you everything they know-and a great deal which they don'tbut for the laudable purpose of understanding what is every day spoken about, and every day seen. To aid such as desire a little information regarding that fairest half of creation, the vegetable kingdom, in some knowledge of the mysteries of non-animated life, I will endeavor, in the course of five easy lessons, to convey a little useful knowledge as free as possible from those dread scholastic barriers, scientific technicalities.

It is unnecessary to tell the reader that plants are objects endowed with life, but not animated; that they differ from animals in wanting volition and sensation; that while they live by food and have a regular circulation, they possess neither stomach nor heart. These facts are self-evident, and need not be dwelt upon. More important, however, is the different sphere of action of each of the two kingdoms, as regards the grand economy of nature. This subject will be treated of hereafter.

What are plants composed of? What are animals composed of? Here are two most interesting questions; and few we think would credit if roundly told that the majestic oak, the humble lichen, even Man, the noblest of God's works-consist of nothing more than air and water, with a

little dust. Thin, subtle, invisible air, clear colorless, tasteless water, and fine dust! Such, however, is the case; as may be proved beyond dispute, by burning a leaf, a piece of wood or flesh, until both air and water are dispersed, and we have nothing left save a morsel of ash. This ash or dust, though it plays an important part in vegetable life, may conveniently be left out of consideration for the present, merely premising of it, that it seldom amounts to more than from two to five per cent. of the entire weight of the plant.

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Having then for a time got rid of that which is solid and tangible, we have now only to do with the air and water, or the bodies which the plant procures from them. These are four in number, are gaseous in form, and universal in diffusion, forming according to the character of their union with each other, either gases, liquids, or solids. The names applied to elements by chemists, are Carbon, Hydrogen, Oxygen and Nitrogen; and in scientific writings, they are represented by their initial letters C. H. O. N., a practice which I propose to adopt in these papers. Carbon [C.] is not found as a gas, except in combination with something else, and is seldom to be met with at all in a pure state. Indeed, it is said that the diamond is the only instance in which it is found pure. Charcoal is a more familiar example, though there it is mixed up with the dust or ash of the plant, and not unfrequently with other gases. Hydrogen [H.] is the lightest of all gases; and, unlike the former, is inflammable, burning with a sepulchral yellow flame, and an intense heat. In combination with C. it constitutes the gas which is burned in our houses; and with Oxygen, forms water. It is never found pure in nature, but is readily prepared in chemistry. Oxygen [O.] is the great life-sustaining gas; without it, life would instantly become extinct. So slender is the thread of our existence! It supports combustion. With C. it forms that most deleterious gas, carbonic acid, with H. water; and with the next in order, makes up the great bulk of the atmosphere. Nitrogen [N.] exists less plentifully in plants than in animals, and to its presence, is chiefly attributable the unwholesome smell emitted by decaying matter.

The ash of plants, or as it is generally termed the inorganic part, consists of a much greater number of elements than that which we have been considering, or the organic. They do occur, however, in small quantities. The potato contains about eleven parts of ash in a thousand of the tuber; the turnip, ten; beetroot, ten; parsley, twenty-seven; and French beans, only six. The quantity found in fruit is still lower. The strawberry

does not even contain half of one part in a hundred, and the apple little more than quarter, being respectively represented as 0.41, and 0.27. Our grain contains a much larger quantity. A thousand parts of wheat yield twenty-three parts; and the same quantity of oats yields no fewer than forty. Hay again, which of course has lost a considerable amount in weight by the process of drying, exhibits a figure of ninety parts in the thousand.

The constituents of this ash are very varied. Dr. Johnson gives no fewer than fourteen elementary bodies; and these by combination with the O. H. C. or N. form an infinity of compounds. Potash and soda are among the most plentiful and commonly met with of all the components of this ash. Sea plants, and those growing in the vicinity of the sea, abound in soda; whereas inland species possess a larger quantity of potash. It is a curious and interesting fact in the economy of the plant, that a species which inhabits the sea shore, will, on being cultivated at a distance from it, lose its appetite for soda, and put up with the matter at hand most nearly resembling it, which is potash. Nay, it has been noticed, and proved beyond the shadow of a doubt by Professor Dickie, that the sea-thrift, seaplantain and scurvy-grass (which grow both on the sea shore and on elevated mountain districts), contain in the former situation much soda, and in the latter much potash; the one being increased as the other is diminished.

Flint in a highly reduced state, occurs very abundantly in many plants, especially in what are called horse-tails and Dutch rushes; also in the stems of grasses of different kinds. Oat and wheat-straw furnish respectively, forty-five and twentyeight parts in the thousand; whereas the grains exhibit only nineteen, and four. Lime, which is next in quantity, and paramount in importance, is found in all plants. Sometimes, in union with oxalic acid (as in the rhubarb) it acts as an antidote to the poisonous qualities which are the necessary concomitants of the acidity; at other times, it unites with C. and forms a body identical with chalk and marble, with which it encases the growing plant. This occurs in some water plants. Still more valuable is it, however, when, in conjunction with phosphorus, it is prepared to supply the waste in our bony structure. In this form, it is chiefly found in the cereal grains which minister to our daily wants. Iron, magnesia, copper, iodine, and a multitude of others are occasionally found though in very small quantities; and, as some of these will be noticed under the head of products, we may conveniently pass on without them.

All bodies found in plants, are derived either as liquids through the soil, by the roots, or as gases from the air by the leaves. From the soil, the plant takes dead inert matter; which perhaps never existed as the heat or life, and yet may have been the earthly prison of mind itself; and from this death it makes new life. From the air, the plant absorbs that poisonous gas, carbonic acid (C. and O.) which rises like choking smoke from the furnace within man's laboring bosom, and from this death, this enemy of life, it extracts the sting and sends back the pure vivifying Oxygen, again to cheer the exhausted flame of life,-again to combine with the rebel Carbon, again to return pure and blameless; and so through this giddy whirl of revolutions, till the great day shall come when life will depend on something more infinite than a thin subtle gas.

Plants and animals are the antithesis of each other. The plant is the great gatherer. It takes from the dead and motionless, whether in earth or air; and it builds a living structure in itself. This is preyed upon by the animal; and another living fabric is the result. It dies, and then all this accumulation of organism,-all this fair body, rifled from the grave, returns to it again. Even we who write and read this page, when the passing bell has told that our spirits have walked out in fresher raiment, and the green turf has been spread over our weary heads,-must restore to earth all of her that we possess-to be again stolen from her bosom by the green herbage, to be cropped by the sheep, aye, or even the ass; again and again to perform that harmonious round of unceasing and untiring

usefulness.

SONG OF THE BEES.

AWAY! for the heath-flowers' pendent bells
Are heavy with honied dew;
And the cowslip buds in their sunny dells
Are bright with a golden hue.
We spread to the breeze our gossamer wings,
And a busy task is ours-
To hover around in airy rings,

When weary, we lie on the fragrant breast
And sip from the sweetest flowers.

And, cradled in beauty, one moment rest,
Of the rose, ere its charms decay;

D.

Then spread our light wings and away! We climb up the clover-bud's slender stem, And o'er its sweet blossoms linger; For the honey-dew lies like a precious gem On a fair girl's taper finger. Drowsily humming our cheerful song, O'er meadow and mountain we speed along Till the air echoes back the measure, Were man's life as useful and gay as ours, To gather the golden treasure. Oh! he would be bless'd indeed; But whilst we are sipping the sweetest flowers, He rests on a noisome weed!

THE DELIGHTS OF A GARDEN.

HE WHO HAS NO TASTE for a garden is to be pitied. We question, indeed, if such a person can be amiable. Flowers have a charm about them that must win upon a gentle heart.

We rarely pass by a cottager's garden without being struck by the neatness of its arrangement, and the beauty of its flowers; and we as rarely fail to find the gude wife a type of what is exhibited out of doors. propos to this subject, is an article which appears in a late number of the Florist. It

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is entitled "The Poor Man and his Garden." From it we make an extract or two, as being well worthy attention:

It is a remarkable fact, and one to which I scarcely know an exception, that the state of the cottage-garden is a tolerably correct index to the internal condition of the tenement and its inhabitants. Whenever I find outside the door a neat and well-cropped garden, and more especially if I observe one cherished spot radiant with the brightest of flowers (can any one tell me why cottage flowers are always so very, very bright?) I am certain to find cleanliness, order, and comfort within.

The cottager who takes a delight in his garden is essentially a domestic man. It is there, at home, surrounded by his family, he finds relaxation and amusement after the fatigues of the day. And when he seeks his humble couch (sweet and invigorating be his slumber!) will any one dare to affirm that the bosom of this wearied son of the soil does not glow with a feeling of honest pride, a sense of the dignity of the man within him, that the mightiest noble of the land might envy? I regret that so many of our cottages are without gardens; I fear that there exists a prejudice in the minds of large occupiers of land, which fixes too narrow a limit to the cottage garden; and although this evil has been somewhat remedied of late years, there is still considerable room for improvement in this respect. I am at a loss to account for this prejudice, as it would be no difficult matter to prove that the good gardener is almost invariably a first-rate laborer; how indeed should it be otherwise?

The establishment of horticultural societies in various parts of the country, with liberal prizes to cottagers, has been productive of the greatest good; but these societies are like angels' visitsfew and far between. I would multiply them. I would have one in every parish of considerable extent. Smaller parishes might unite in twos and threes for the purpose. I would give prizes for every description of vegetable useful to the cottager; and one main feature of my society should be as many premiums, graduated in amount, for the best managed cottage-garden, as the funds would allow. Would I exclude flowers? By no means. I would invite their production, by bidding highly for the best nosegay; but the word bouquet should not appear in my schedule; it seems sadly out of place in a cottager's prizelist, though I have often seen it there for the purpose, I presume, of astonishing the natives. But

there is the pet Fuchsia or Geranium, which the good wife so assiduously cultivates as an ornament for her window. We must have that; so, Mr. Secretary, put down "The best blooming plant in a pot, 2s. 6d."

I would have one exhibition in each year, and no more; but that should be a general holiday: and I would take especial care that the children should have their annual treat on that day, which should be in every respect worthy to be marked with a white stone in our calendar.

We hardly need add, how cordially we agree with all that this sensible writer has advanced. May it be as he says!

MY RUSSET GOWN.

My Russet Gown is dear to me,

Though years have passed away
Since my young heart beat joyously
Beneath its folds of grey.

No jewels hung around my neck,
Or glittered in my hair,
With lightsome step I tript along,
My spirit knew no care;
The roses near my windows crept,

And shed their sweets around,
Hard was the bed on which I slept
But yet my sleep was sound.
My Russet Gown I laid aside,
For one of rich brocade;
I thought in my simplicity

Its charm could never fade.
I left the cot where I had passed
My happy childhood years,
I left my aged father sad,

My mother was in tears;
I left them for a wealthy home,
To be a rich man's bride,
And thought that splendor would atone
For loss of all beside.

My Russet Gown, when next I gazed
Upon its sombre hue,

Brought such a lesson to my heart
Ah, sad as it was true.

Its simple neatness seemed to mock
My silks and jewels gay,

And bore my wandering thoughts to those
Dear friends so far away.

I felt how fleeting were the joys
That wealth alone can buy,
And for that humble cottage home
My bosom heav'd a sigh.

My Russet Gown I still have kept,
To check my growing pride;
A true though silent monitor,
My folly to deride.

And when I meet with faithless friends
Among the giddy throng,
Whom vice and pleasure, in their train,
Drag heedlessly along,-

I feel how gladly I would give
My coach and bed of down,
Once more in sweet content to live,
AND WEAR MY RUSSET GOWN.

M. C.

AN AFTERNOON RAMBLE,—

A SKETCH FROM NATURE.

A CIRCUMSTANCE, unimportant in itself, obliged me some considerable time since, to stop for the night in a small village remote from any of the great roads. After refreshing myself in mine inn, after the usual manner of travellers, I began to reconnoitre the locality in which fate had cast my lot for the next twelve hours. It was an ancient hostelry, called "The Leather Bottle; beneath its faded sign an inscription denoted that the house was kept by Millicent Gillyflower, a widow. A great, obtrusive-looking bow-window, gave the place an air of consequence above that of the surrounding tenements; and there was a little enclosed green on one side, intended for playing at bowls. In one corner of this green stood several benches and a rustic arbour; and in another reposed the body of an old yellow post-chaise of the most ancient fashion.

The wheels had long trundled themselves away, and had been replaced by four low posts, upon which stood this veteran of the roads, like some Greenwich pensioner resting upon his wooden legs. The interior had been converted by the ingenuity of Mistress Gillyflower into a resting-place for her feathered subjects; the upper part being fitted up with perches, whilst from below two fierce-looking hens stretched out their necks, and threatened to peck at the eyes of all those who were rash enough to look under the seat. Beyond this enclosure was the little garden, the especial pride and care of the hostess. The entrance to it was guarded by two tall yew-trees, cut into the shape of pepper-castors, which stood like sentries on each side of the gate.

The garden was kept with the utmost neatness, and was gay with summer flowers. It did my heart good to look at them, for there I recognised many old friends which are now banished from modern gardens: there were goodly plots of camomile, and rosemary, and rue, and pennyroyal, interspersed with the livelier hues of "love lies bleeding," ," "Venus' looking-glass," and "the devil in the bush." There the "Star of Bethlehem" reared its spiral bloom, and there flourished the stately sunflower. Commend me to a well-grown sunflower, with his jolly round face, that one can see out of the parlor window! Having selected a fine clove pink for the ornamenting of my waistcoat, I sauntered forth into the village to pass away the evening till bed-time. My arrival seemed to have caused a consider able sensation, for the whole population of the place, including, I believe, every cat and dog, turned out to look at me. The village was like most of its kind, a straggling

collection of hovels, some old, some new, some thatched, and some tiled; most of them were crowded with ragged and noisy children, whilst some few were remarkable for their neatness, and seemed the abode of peace and happiness.

"Here, at least," thought I, "dwell content and prosperity. Man seems in the country to be of a different species from the pale, care-worn beings of a crowded city; he has leisure to pause from toil, to look around him, and to feel conscious that he exists for a noble purpose. What a relief it is to turn one's back upon the great Babylon, to lose sight of the pale-faced clerks and eternal blue-bags, that haunt one in the smoky purlieus of Lincoln's Inn." Many were the smiling faces that peeped from beneath their snowy cap-borders to take a look at the strange gentleman. A troop of barelegged urchins were wading through a brook, engaged in the humane employment of spearing minnows with a two-pronged fork; these also, abandoning their piscatory sport, joined the retinue which had already followed me from the door of the "Leather Bottle." Thus escorted, I sauntered along in my favorite attitude, my hands clasped behind me under the tails of my coat, my chin slightly elevated, my step deliberate and measured as that of a village dominie. After many stoppages, to muse upon whatever attracted my attention, I entered a narrow lane, the approach to which was guarded by a turnstile. A few yards further stood a cottage which I wished to examine; for I was attracted towards it by a kind of old-world appearance about the place. It was built of wood, and plastered between the beams with yellow clay, being constructed after the fashion in which our ancestors delighted; the gables stood towards the front, with their little diamond-paned windows of coarse glass almost obscured by the capacious eaves.

According to the taste of former times, the whole skeleton of the house was visible. There were beams and uprights, and corner pieces, and cross-trees, all formed of solid oak, and intersecting the plaster in a lozengelike pattern. In front of the cottage was a small enclosure, for it could scarcely be called a garden; here grew the stumps from which some cabbages had been cut, and a few stunted specimens of that vegetable; the whole of the floricultural department was comprised in one large rose tree, which, though old and cankered, was covered with bloom; beyond this, there was no attempt at a garden. Another object, however, very soon engaged my attention, and this was a wicker cage, containing a young blackbird, which hung upon a nail near the window. It was about five o'clock in the afternoon, and the

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