Bishop Mant thus describes the place where Mosses grow:—

On upland hill, in lowland vale,
And where the frigid vapours sail,
Mantling the Alpine mountain hoar,
On granite-rock, or boggy moor,
On peat-clad marsh, or sandy heath,
On hillock's grassy slope; beneath
The hedge-road fence, and on the bank,
Fringed with the plumed osier dank,
Of streamlet, pool, or waterfall;

On wave-washed stone, on plastered wall;
On tree of forest, or of fruit,

The bark-clad trunk, the heaving root;
Or where the spring with oozing slime
Slides trickling down the rifted lime;
Or where the grav'ly pathway leads
Through shady woods, o'er plashy meads:—
Exulting in the wintry cold,

Their cups the mossy tribes 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 to the leaves of green,
A velvet carpet, where the queen
Of fairies might in triumph lie
And view the elvish revelry;
Soft as the cygnet's downy plume,
Or produce of the silkworm's loom,
Survey them by the unaided eye,
And, if the seeds within you lie

Of love for natural beauty true,
They'll shoot enlivened at the view
Of hair or feather-mantled stem,
The waving stalk, the fringed gem,
Enveloping its chaliced fruit;

So fair, so perfect, so minute,

That bursting forth, the seeds may seem
A floating cloud of vapoury steam.
Or by the microscopic glass
Surveyed, you'll see how far surpass
The works of nature, in design,
And texture delicately fine,
And perfectness of every part,
Each effort of mimetic art.

A mother's love—how sweet the name!
What is a mother's love?

—A noble, pure, and tender flame,
Enkindled from above,

To bless a heart of earthly mould;

The warmest love that can grow cold;

This is a mother's love.

Montgomery.

Dear mother, of the thousand strings which waken
The sleeping harp within the human heart,
The longest kept in tune, though oft forsaken,

Is that in which the mother's voice bears part;
Her still small voice bids e'en the careless ear
To turn with deep and pure delight to hear.
Miss E. J. Eames.

DANDELION.... The Rustic Oracle.

The Dandelion is the most common of flowers. It is found in the four quarters of the globe, near the pole as beneath the equator, on the margin of rivers and streams as well as on sterile rocks. It serves the shepherd instead of a clock, while its feathery tufts are his barometer, predicting calm or storm. The globes formed by the seeds of the Dandelion are used for other purposes. If you are separated from the object of your love, pluck one of those feathery spheres, charge each of the little feathers with a tender thought; turn toward the spot where the loved one dwells; blow, and the aërial travellers will faithfully convey your secret message to his or her feet. If you wish to know if that dear one is thinking of you, blow again; and if a single aigrette is left upon the stalk, it is a proof that you are not forgotten.

As thinks

The mariner of home,

When doomed through many a dreary waste

Of waters yet to roam,

Thus doth my spirit turn to thee,

My guiding star o'er life's wild sea.

Mrs. Embury.

Dandelion, with globe of down,
The schoolboy's clock in every town,
Which the truant puffs amain,

To conjure lost hours back again.

Howitt.

PIMPERNEL.... The Weather-glass.

THE COUNTRY MAID AND THE PIMPERNEL FLOWER.

"I'll go and peep at the Pimpernel,

And see if she think the clouds look well;

For if the sun shine,

And 'tis like to be fine,

I shall go to the fair,

For my sweetheart is there:

So, Pimpernel, what bode the clouds and the sky?
If fair weather, no maiden so merry as I."

Now the Pimpernel flower had folded up
Her little gold star in her coral cup,
And unto the maid

Thus her warning said:

"Though the sun smile down,

There's a gathering frown

O'er the checkered blue of the clouded sky;
So tarry at home, for a storm is nigh."

The maid first looked sad and then looked cross,
Gave her foot a fling, and her head a toss;

"Say you so, indeed,

You mean little weed?
You're shut up for spite,

For the blue sky is bright,

To more credulous people your warnings tell,
I'll away to the fair;—good day, Pimpernel.

"Stay at home! quoth the flower?—In sooth, not I; I'll don my straw hat with a silken tie;

O'er my neck so fair

I'll a kerchief wear,

White, chequered with pink,

And then—let me think,

I'll consider my gown, for I'd fain look well:"

So saying, she stepped o'er the Pimpernel.

Now the wise little flower, wrapped safe from harm, Sat fearlessly waiting the coming storm;

Just peeping between

Her snug cloak of green,
Lay folded up tight,

Her robe so bright;

Though 'broidered with purple, and starred with gold, No eye might its bravery then behold.

The fair maiden straight donned her best array,
And forth to the festival hied away;

But scarce had she gone

Ere the storm came on;

And, 'mid thunder and rain,

She cried oft and again,

"Oh! would I had minded yon boding flower, And were safe at home from the pelting shower."

Now, maidens, the tale that I tell would say,
Don't don fine clothes on a doubtful day,
Nor ask advice, when, like many more,

You had "made up your minds" some time before.

Louisa A. Twamley.