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No class of plants present a more varied and exquisitely beautiful structure than the mosses ; whether we consider their foliage, their capsules, or the delicate single or double fringe which surrounds the mouth of the latter. No part of the globe appears to be entirely destitute of them.

Affording,” says Linnæus, “a harbour to an immense number of insects, protecting them, lest they should be destroyed by the frosts of winter, or be parched by the heats of summer, or withered by the vicissitudes of spring, or decayed by the damps of autumn.” So that nothing, we may be assured, not even the minutest vegetable, is made in vain.


The least proclaims, and loudly too,
The forming finger of a God.



Where the gravelly pathway leads,
Through shady woods or plashy meads,
Exulting in the wintry cold,
Their cups the mossy tribe unfold:
Fringed, and beneath a coping hid
Of filmy veil and convex lid,
On many a thread-like stalk bespread,
With yellow, brown, or crimson red,
In contrast with the leaves of green,
A velvet carpet.


The stalks of this moss make neat little besoms; when divested of their outer skins they are of a beautiful bright chesnut colour, and very soft and pliant.


The examination of plants tends much to quicken the faculties, improve the memory, induce habits of order and neatness, and, above all, it leads the mind to contemplate that great Being who fashioned them. By a study like this, not only the mind imbibes much valuable information, but it is soothed with pleasing and beautiful associations.


WHERE'ER we search, the scene presents
Wonders to charm th' admiring sense,

And elevate the mind;
Nor even blooms a single spray
That quivers in departing day,
Or turns to meet the morning ray,
But speaks a power Divine.

S. H.


On the silent mouldering wall,
Thy changing leaves a beauty shed;
Or give to the deserted hall
A relic of its glories fled.
Yon roses beautiful and bright,
Methinks, the glittering crowd pourtray,
Who bask in fortune's golden light,
And wanton in her joyous way.
But thou art like the faithful love,
That blooms when friends and fame are past,
Towers the dark wreck of hope above,
And smiles through ruin to the last.


The Corydalis shall be mine,
Its simple faith is dear to me;
To ruin'd walls and prostrate shrine
It clings with patient constancy.

TOWNSEND, ADAPTED. Of all the natural objects which surround us, flowers are the least connected with our absolute necessities. The earth might be clothed with a sober green; all the processes of fructification might be perfected without being attended by the glory with which the flower is crowned; but beauty and fragrance are poured abroad over the earth in blossoms of endless variety, radiant evidences of the boundless benevolence of the Deity.


Ours is a lovely world! How fair
Thy beauties ev'n on earth anpear!
The seasons in their courses fall,
And bring successive joys; the sea,
The earth, the sky, are full of Thee,
Benignant, glorious Lord of all.


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