row falleth not to the ground without His permission; and directs our attention to the care the Almighty takes of his helpless creatures. I am quite sure that the Spirit of Christ and the spirit of cruelty cannot dwell in the same breast." "But what did you mean by my despising God's work, Mamma ?"

"We have no right to say of any thing which it has pleased God to make, that it is of no value : and in all the creation, probably, there is not a more beautiful object than the butterfly. I am sure none ever led me to such serious aud profitable thoughts."

"How so, Mamma ?”

you,

"First, as I spoke of its beauty, let me tell that if I was to show you, in a microscope, even the speck of dust that still cleaves to your hand, you would be astonished to find it composed of the most lovely feathers, richer than those of the peacock or the pheasant. Then the little delicate fibres that stretch along its wings, the beautiful regularity of every part, and the manner in which it is enabled to move so quickly through the air, would delight you. But, above all, when I think on what a butterfly was,

and what it is, the change fills my whole heart with that great event of which it is the type or representation."

"What event, Mamma?"

"The resurrection of the body. You know, Anne, that the first form in which the insect appears is that of a worm,—a creature bred in the earth, and unable to rise above it.

Such crea

formed out

tures as you and I, Anne, who are of the dust, and must return to it again; and who find ourselves little disposed, and less able, to rise to the contemplation, of heavenly things; chasing some fancied pleasure, as you did the poor butterfly to day; continually offending God in our eagerness after perishing enjoyments, that bring only bitterness and pain at the last. Like the caterpillar, we eat up the fruits of the earth, and often with as little sense of thankfulness to Him who gives them."

"But this is very sad, Mamma; how can the thought of it afford you pleasure.'

"My pleasure arises from considering the wonderful power of God displayed in the insect, and leading me to His promise of changing our vile body that it may be fashioned like unto His glo

rious body, according to the mighty working whereby He is able even to subdue all things

unto Himself.

"The worm, having surrounded itself with a sort of shell, remains enclosed, like a corpse in the tomb, without life or motion: after a time, the shell breaks, and gives liberty to a creature so different from the one which entered it, that I often think the butterfly was made to leave the infidel without excuse, even in the sight of men. When I trace the flight of that beautiful creature through the air, into which it could not possibly lift up itself without such a wondrous change, I am lost in astonishment and adoration of the hand that produced it. I am led to say, in a deep feeling of my present state, 'My soul cleaveth to the dust: quicken thou me, according to thy word.' And my spirit rises into those regions of life, and light, and joy, into which I hope, by the sufferings and merits of my glorious Redeemer, to be admitted at the close of my pilgrimage on earth."

"Oh! mamma," exclaimed Anne, in tears, "how sorry I am, that I killed the butterfly." "To kill or to hurt any thing without suffi

cient cause, my dear, is very sinful-very far removed from like-mindedness to Christ Jesus. You have sadly experienced to-day, that in your heart lurk the seeds of disobedience, passion, pride, cruelty, deceit, and indifference to the glory of your Creator, in His works. The flight of a butterfly across your path, has called all these evil dispositions into action in a moment. Oh! my child, what must these hearts be in the sight of Him who is perfect righteousness and purity! What need we have, daily, hourly, to implore the aid of the Holy Spirit, to cleanse and to sanctify us, who cannot make our own hearts clean! and how should our souls bless the Lord, aud all that is within us to bless the holy name of Him, through whom alone we escape eternal death; who hath redeemed us to God by His blood, and made the believer an heir of everlasting life!"

I don't know how many years it is, since I planted the slip from a very fine tree, growing in a friend's garden. It was a rich deep red, or rather crimson, damask rose. The petals were soft as velvet, with a most delicate gloss: in short, the flower was so exceedingly beautiful, that I could not rest until I had, as I thought, secured such a tree to myself. I took off the slip in autumn, and placed it under shelter during the winter. Early in spring, I found that it had become strongly rooted, and then I transplanted it to the most favourite spot in my garden, taking up several valuable shrubs to make room for my rose-bush, my precious rose-bush!

Many and frequently were my visits to the spot; and the little plant flourished to my sa