milky juices for the nourishment of the plant, shrivels up and begins to decay.

If we clear away the tegument of the seed, and retrench the matter from whence the roots have shot, along with the roots themselves, as well as that which emitted the plumale, we shall have nothing left but the bundle of green leaves already mentioned, which contains the real stem. These leaves, when carefully and skilfully unfolded, will display the first rudiments of four tubes growing out of each other, and attached by knots. These compose the stem, and, at the highest extremity of the upper tube, the bud of the spike will appear. From the first knot, which is nearest to the roots, a leaf springs forth, and performs the office of a covering to the second tube. Another leaf likewise rises from the second knot, and wraps itself round the third tube. The third knot produces another leaf, which incloses the fourth tube, together with the embryo spike. The space between the first and second knot, nearest the roots, is then much larger than the interval that separates the second knot from the third. The spike rising, as I have already said, at the upper extremity of the fourth tube, may, even at this period, be easily distinguished by the roundness and transparency of its little grains, which resemble so many pearls.

In this state, the plant braves all the severity of winter. The spike, secure in its four-fold integuments, and in that mysterious power of the vital principle, which, if it does not actually generate heat, at least resists the influence of cold, endures without injury the fury of the tempest, the pelting of the heavy rains, and those sudden alternations of temperature, to which the season is liable. The leaves, which so carefully embrace it, preserve their verdure, and, in every favourable interval of warmth, continue to flourish and expand. On the return of spring, should the vegetation appear to be prematurely luxuriant, the husbandman fearlessly admits to the field a flock of sheep, which, by nibbling off the

points of the foliage, afford greater nourishment to the stem, and, by giving the vegetative power a new direction, cause the wheat to tiller, or produce new shoots, and occasion a more abundant produce.

As the season becomes more genial, the stem shoots vigorously upwards, abandoning the leaves, which are no longer necessary for its covering;-the spike itself enlarges, and casts aside its integuments. The different lodgments that are to contain the future grains begin to be enlarged; and at this period they unfold two kinds of pistils, to receive the powder from the knot of chives which appear in a higher situation, and whose influence is necessary to impart fertility to the buds.

During this stage of the vegetation, a considerable change takes place in the plant. The foldage and the first leaves, which are no longer necessary for the protection of the seed, fall down, lose their juices, and wither away. The whole vital power seems now to be required for the nourishment of the stem, and, through the stem, for that of the spike; which latter, indeed, is obviously the main design of the whole process. They are therefore concentrated in this important object.

There is another circumstance in the formation of the stem, which is too admirable to be passed over in silence. It is one of the conditions which Creative Wisdom has impressed upon this plant, that it shall rise to a considerable height, and thus furnish a useful straw to the husbandman; while, by this means, it receives the advantage of the free admittance of the air, and full exposure to the genial rays of the sun, instead of being overborne, as it might otherwise have been, by the cumbersome luxuriance of an inferior vegetation. This condition, however, required peculiar qualities in the stem. That it might occupy little space in the field, and thus admit of as much nourishing grain as possible in a given quantity of ground, it is of importance that the stalk should be slender; and, accordingly, it does not extend to more, on an average, than two-twelfths of an inch in diameter,

while it rises to the height of four or five feet, and even sometimes more. How does it happen, that so long and thin a stalk should be able to support a spike heavy with grain? The contrivance by which this effect is secured, is not a little remarkable. In the first place, the stem is a hollow tube,—a form which can easily be demonstrated to be the most advantageous for strength and for resisting injury; and, in the next place, four knots of a solid substance, resembling firm bands, give it strength, without unduly diminishing its flexibility. So constituted, it is capable of bending without being broken under all common gales of wind, and even under the force of strong and impetuous blasts; the knots enabling it to recover its upright position in the returning calm. It is beautiful to see the undulations of a field of corn during a breeze, with its forest of spikes bending to and fro, and rolling, as a French author expresses it, “like the waves of an immense ocean."

An equally wise precaution has been employed in the formation of the spike itself, in which the grains are ranged one above another, at equal distances, that the nourishment may be duly distributed; while the tunics of these grains are so formed, in correspondence with their position, as to ward off the injurious effects of the rain, and to mitigate the intense heat of the sun-beams, as well as the cold of the night breeze,-thus preserving a grateful and genial temperature.

During the whole period of growth, the nourishing juices have been amply supplied from the root, and, being duly secreted, have been distributed to the various parts of the plant, as they were required, and especially to the spike, which has now acquired its useful farina. It is at length, however, necessary that the grain should ripen; and, for this purpose, the same wonder-working Hand, which so formed the plant as to cause it to imbibe its nourishment from the soil, now arrests the flow of that nourishment. The vegetative power has accomplished its task, by forming and perfecting the seed.

The ducts which furnished channels to the juices through the stalk, no longer perform their office; the fibres of the plant become rigid; the grain hardens; the stem and the spike at once assume a golden hue,—thus indicating that the vital principle which sustained them has departed. The grain is ripe, and nothing now remains but that man should secure the prize which a bountiful Providence has awarded him.*

FIRST WEEK-SATURDAY.

sure.

HARVEST.

ALL who have been educated in the country, cherish very pleasing recollections of the operations of harvest. It may not, however, be very easy to define this pleaIt is one of those emotions that are too subtle and too complicated to be readily analyzed. Every one feels and acknowledges it, yet, if we be asked whence it proceeds, we shall not, without a considerable effort of mind, find ourselves able to return an intelligent reply. It is easy to understand, indeed, why the serenity and brightness of the buoyant atmosphere, the beauty of the fields and woods, the richness of the golden crops, the bustle of business, should all serve to awaken in the mind an agreeable interest. There is something animating, too, in the reflection, that the employments of the harvest-field have been handed down from generation to generation, from time immemorial,—that they have, in fact, distinguished civilized man in temperate regions, during every age of the world; the same kinds of corn which now wave on our cultivated fields, having covered the valleys of Rome, of Greece, of Palestine, and of Egypt, in distant ages, and having been, in like manner, as in the present day, cut with the sickle, bound * Spectacle de la Nature.-Dialogue xii.

into sheaves, collected in shocks, and secured in barns. The many allusions in Scripture to these operations, give a kind of sacredness to the feelings connected with the season.

But the pleasure which fills every heart in the period of harvest, has a deeper and more recondite origin, and seems to be chiefly that of sympathy. In this respect it corresponds with the enjoyments of the hay-making season, alluded to in the "Summer" volume. The labours of the agriculturist have been crowned with success. His fields teem with plenty. The golden crop yields its stores to replenish his granaries, and to be diffused over the land in food for man and beast. It is not the direct application of this consciousness to our own individual case, it is not the selfish feeling that we are to be benefitted by this profusion, which gives rise to the purest ingredient in this enjoyment. The sentiment is of a more exalted, because of a benevolent nature. We regard the blessing as a common gift of a bountiful Providence ; and it is in sympathy with our fellows, more than in an exclusive sense of our own advantage, that the pleasurable emotion consists. The heart thus opened, is prepared for that social enjoyment which we observe so remarkably diffused over whole bands of reapers, engaged in the same toilsome but healthful employment. The emotion spreads from heart to heart, and the animation which prevails while the work proceeds, is not less an indication of gladness than the joke and song with which the welkin resounds during the intervals of rest. Who can view the joy which sparkles in the eye, and bursts from the lips of the reaper, while he plies his daily task, and not acknowledge a beneficent Creator?

There is another kind of British harvest, confined, however, in its locality, but still more picturesque than that of corn, and not less exhilarating to those who are engaged in it,—I allude to the hop-gathering. It is thus described by one who seems to be familiar with its details.

“We cannot boast of our vineyards; but we