The vegetation which everywhere adorns the surface of the globe, from the moss that covers the weatherbeaten stone to the cedar that crowns the mountain, is overflowing with matter for reflection and admiration. To the vegetable kingdom we are indebted for the possession of almost all our comforts, and many of our luxuries. From the produce of some of the humblest of plants arises an extensive trade, employing many thousand families.

Take the article saffron as an example. Many tons of this useful substance are sent into the market every year; yet it is not generally known how small a portion of the plant it is. The plant itself is a crocus, and carries in its flower three little coloured filaments, as they are called in botanical language. Every single plant can only furnish three filaments, which are gently plucked by girls, who gather them in baskets from innumerable flowers. Those plants are sown, tended, weeded frequently, manured, and watered, and all to give but three fine threads each. After these are gathered, the plant is of no further use. It is not wonderful, then, that

good saffron should be costly.

Another plant, the safflower, or spurious saffron, contains a red colour in the flowerleaves, or petals, in very small proportion, not more than five parts in every thousand. It is also difficult to obtain, being mixed up with a yellow colour, which has to be first separated. But when obtained, it is a most brilliant scarlet red, and it is the basis of the rouge paint.

The uses of these two plants show how deeply ingrained into humanity certain habits become. Several hundred years ago our Celtic forefathers stained their skins a yellow tint with saffron steeped in water. From the analogous plant, the safflower, our modern beauty derives the tint to tinge her skin, and give the hue denied by Nature.

It is so with most other vegetables. The hemp and flax plants each furnish only a few fibres for cordage and linen. The quantity of sugar in the cane and the maple is small compared with the size of the plant. The essential oils found in plants exist in very small proportions, as camphor, oil of lemons, cloves, caraway, peppermint, &c., requiring large cultivation to obtain even moderate quantities.

OF PLANTS.

Even the apparently worthless parts of plants are of great use. Who would imagine, at first view, that the old bark which peels so readily off the tree could be of any value? Yet without it we should not have our leather. It contains a substance which, from its action in hardening skin, has been called "tannin." Animal skin is a collection of egg-shaped cells, full of gelatinous fluid, which readily washes out by water, and is easily rotted; hence the untanned skin is not durable. But when soaked in a watery liquor, in which has been steeped the bark of some trees, the tannin soaks into the cells, unites with the gelatinous liquor, and forms a solid body, which does not dissolve in water, and will not readily rot. Such is the process of tanning, which converts a perishable skin into durable leather.

A little insect pierces a hole in the leaf of the oak, and other trees, and buries its egg there. The leaf round about the bite hardens and enlarges so as to become a nut; the sun's heat hatches the egg, and the little insect bores its way out, and becomes in due time a perfect gall-fly. The leaf withers, and the gall-nuts are gathered. They contain the same substance as the oak-bark, and are used for similar purposes. The chief uses are the manufacture of ink, and the dyeing of cloth black.

When plants are cultivated, the properties they possessed in the wild state become altered in a remarkable degree. Many plants, which are poisonous when wild, become innocuous when cultivated. This has happened with the potato, the tubers of which were very small and poisonous a few hundred years ago. It is still a poisonous plant in Equador and New Grenada. By constant cultivation, the tubers have been developed, and they have not only increased greatly in size, but have become filled with starch

and other nutritious matters.

The same influence is also seen in the growth of wheat. This plant owes its nutritious property to the large quantity of a substance called gluten, which it contains. Gluten resembles dough, and may be obtained by kneading the flour into a paste, and washing it by exposure to a small stream of water. In wheat grown on poor ground, the gluten is not present in a greater quantity than four or five per cent.,

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while in well-tilled lands it rises as high as onefifth of the whole weight. We have the power to increase the quantity of gluten up to this percentage, by proper care of the ground.

Gluten is the valuable substance for which wheat is grown, and it contains a chemical substance called nitrogen. Now, if we add as a manure some substance containing nitrogen in large quantity, as rape-dust, bones, or guano, this element enters the wheat, gluten is formed, and the weight and value of the wheat are much increased.

The Turkey red, so much admired in shawls and handkerchiefs, is obtained from the madder plant, which contains besides it two other colours. But the red is the most valuable, and exists in the smaller proportion. By cultivation, however, we can increase this quantity in a remarkable degree; for we find in those roots which contain the least quantity of lime the smallest quantity of the red colouring matter. If we add lime to the ground, so that the madder roots may imbibe it, the red colour immediately commences to increase, and a large quantity of that beautiful dye is produced.

It may be learned from the above how much control we have over the growth of a plant, how we may increase the amount of any valued production to a very great extent, and what an interesting, useful, and even a scientific occupa tion is the cultivation of plants.

HAPPINESS.

Youths and maidens were dancing together, and the old folks were sitting under the trees, watching the merry scene. Huon sat down on a

"The world is a wide place," he said, "and life has many pleasures. Why should I not enjoy myself whilst youth, health, and strength remain? I will go in search of happiness.

It was a sunny summer morning, and as Huon walked across the flower-decked fields he sang and danced as he went along. Presently he reached a leafy wood, and feeling somewhat tired, lay down on the grass by the side of a crystal spring; and there came towards him a youth, who was dressed so fine and looked so handsome, that Huon could scarcely believe he was only a mortal like himself.

"Where are you going?" said the youth, whose name was Jocelyn.

"To seek for happiness," answered Huon. 'Easy to find if you have plenty of money." "I have no fortune but youth and hope.' "Well, never mind; I like you, and have enough for us both. Let us be friends, and we will see the world together."

So Jocelyn and Huon wandered in company. They visited large towns and cities, saw all sorts of grand sights, and mixed with merry company for Jocelyn, with his cheerful ways and full purse, was welcome wherever he went.

"I had no idea I should find happiness so soon," said Huon.

"Friendship is happiness."

But one day Huon fell ill; his head swam round, and he could scarcely walk. Happily they soon reached a wayside inn, and then it was found that Huon was sick with a burning fever. For weeks he lay insensible, hovering between life and death, but youth and a good constitution conquered at last. His first inquiry on recovering his senses was for Jocelyn. "He left the morning after you came," said the landlady. "He seemed too fond of pleasure to stay where there was sickness."

"Then I have been mistaken," thought Huon; "there is no happiness in friendship. I will never trust a man again."

Thanking the good people of the inn, who would take nothing else, Huon once more set out on his travels.

He came to a village green, which was thronged with people in their Sunday clothes.

whom he thought fairer than anything he had ever seen before. Her long golden hair reached down to her waist, her blue eyes seemed mirrors of truth and innocence. and her mouth was so sweet that Huon envied the summer breezes as they kissed her cherry-red lips. Her name was Sunshine; and presently she came dancing up to Huon.

"Why are you not dancing?" she said. "I do not belong here: who would dance with a stranger?"

"I will," said Sunshine.

So the two danced together, and only left off when the musicians were too weary to play any longer.

"O what shall I do without you, Sunshine?" cried Huon.

"Do you love me so very much then?" "Dearer than life."

Why not stay here? We shall be haymaking next week, and you will find plenty of work.'

And then Sunshine introduced Huon to her mother, who offered him a home in her house if he would do the garden-work. He stayed with them all the summer; and it was settled that Huon and Sunshine should be married when the harvest-time was over. But the lord of the land came down to see the corn gathered in, and he likewise saw Sunshine, and was so struck with her beauty that he offered to make her his wife. And then poor Huon was told to seek a home elsewhere.

"There is no happiness in love," he said. "I will be rich-wealth must be happiness."

He one day found himself in a great city, where crowds of people were hurrying up and down the streets as if their lives depended upon their speed. Amongst them was a shabbilydressed old gentleman, whom everybody seemed to be gazing after.

"Who is he?" asked Huon of a bystander. "The largest merchant in the city," was the answer.

"And what is he doing?" Making money."

Huon followed the merchant, and tapped him on the shoulder.

"What do you want?" asked the merchant. "Your business. Quick! Every moment I waste on you is a pound lost to me."

"If you please I want employment," said

Huon.

"All very well; but what can you do?"

"I can work." "Well, call at my office to-morrow morning." Now this merchant, who was as mean as he was rich, had a clerk, whose salary was just enough to keep life and soul together. But as Huon offered to come for even less than that, the merchant engaged him instead.

So many years went by, until at last the merchant became so old and infirm that if it had not been for Huon, who was now is chief clerk, the business could not have been carried on. So the merchant made Huon his partner, and when he died left him the whole of his wealth.

Huon was no longer young. Years of overwork had dimmed his sight and worn the hair from his head, and the natural desires and longings of youth had long since left his heart. But he was rich, the richest man in the town; so he sold the business, bought a large house, furnished it with every luxury, and-waited for happiness.

He had not found it yet.

The wise, the noble and the illustrious, called him their friend, dined at his house, and borrowed his money; but Huon soon found out that they laughed at him behind his back, because he was low-born and ignorant.

"I will be clever," he said. "Learning and wealth together must bring happiness."

So he studied under the greatest professors, and in a few years could speak several languages, paint, sing, and was a philosopher in the bargain. He had also written a book which was everywhere the subject of conversation.

Still in his heart he was not happy; for he felt that it was not himself that was talked about, but rather his wealth and knowledge. "If I were only in some high position," he said, "I might be happy."

His wealth gained him a place at court: before long he was prime minister; and when the king died without issue, Huon, by general consent, was chosen to fill his place.

"Now," he thought, "I shall be happy at

last."

Royalty has its pleasures, but it has also its duties, and Huon found some of these duties very irksome. He had scarcely a minute to himself, and trying to please everybody he pleased nobody. At last there was a revolution and Huon had to fly for his life.

This time he retraced his steps, and after wandering for many days he found himself, old, feeble, but fortunately with a bag of gold which he had secured before leaving the palace, in his native village. His relatives had long since disappeared; in fact, there was not a person the place who remembered Huon at all. So he rented a small cottage, and thought seriously

about his life.

in

"Fifty years ago," he said, "I set out in search of happiness. Now my life is nearly over, and yet I have found it not."

A pilgrim entered and asked if he might rest hi.nself, and to him Huon related his history.

"We must not look for happiness in this

LOVE WILL BANISH CARE. -A tired woman hushed to sleep her babe. Beauty once made her face radiant, perhaps; but all that beauty is gone now. The blue eye is dim and faded-the pale brow is covered with lines of care. Perhaps, with that faroff look of hers, she sees three little graves, green with as many summers. Her home is very humble. All day she had toiled, and the fainting spirit almost surrenders to fatigue. And now the boys come running home from school; and after they are greeted with kisses or chidings, it is time to get supper for seven hungry mouths; and the accustomed never-endings of putting away and clearing up, till the worn-out creature wonders, with a sigh, if there

really will come rest to her-an eternal rest. At last she can seat her wearied limbs in the old corner

easy-chair. The babe, whose eyes close fitfully to the low lullaby, lies in its father's lap. He is a plain man, that good father, with an honest face and a great heart, that would take in all the care and sorrow of the household. The babe sleeps. With a rude gentleness he lays it upon its mother's bosom, and as the ruddy firelight plays over her care-worn features, he looks upon her with eyes suddenly grown lustrous and beautiful. He lifts his great hand softly, till it rests on her shoulders, as he says, "I love you, dear Mary!" How the poor heart leaps into love, light, and rest! How vanish the cares that trod upon her weary soul!

life.

She no more remembers the toils of She reflects not now that the pretty babe with flushed cheeks against her breast has worn her unrest. She forgets that the fire would smoke, and patience almost threadbare with its constant tears and the meat burn-that the children teased her, and that

every limb in her frame ached with fatigue. What were those in comparison with the stedfast love that had burned for eighteen years in the sunlight of happiness, through the clouds of despair, when beauty made her winning, and when her charms of loveliness had gone, and her freshness of youth departed for ever?

PART II.

It was the day before my wedding, and sunrise. I had determined that morning to rise early, and take a quiet stroll, in order to indulge in a retrospect of that bachelor life which, on the morrow, I was to quit, and glance into the entirely new future which was already opening upon me. As I paced along the spacious streets, and surveyed the evidences of refinement, genius, and wealth which were around me, in the palace-like dwellings, in the long terraces, with their marble balustrades and porticoes, and in the gardens, with their gay parterres and gushing fountains, the thought struck me that I was as yet ignorant of whence all that high civilization and glory of beauty came from. It was not Canadian nor American there was none of the busy, bustling, colonial life so characteristic of the New World. It was like no city that I had ever seen, for there were no poverty, no rags: it was preeminently a city of the wealthy, and embodied a wealth into which no element of vulgarity and garishness entered, and which was totally distinct from that wealth so common in modern times, which manifests its being by parade and ostentatiousness. It was akin to no country and to no era, and was entirely unique as far as I could see. But I did not pursue this vein of inquiry long it was unsatisfactory, and the further I dived into it the further I seemed from a solution; and at last I laid aside the question, with a mental proviso that I would ask Lelore about it at the first convenient opportunity, and forgetting the purpose for which I had set out, gave myself up unrestrainedly to watching and seeing all about me.

By this time I had passed the quieter part of the city where my aunt's residence was situated, and again, as on the first day of my arrival, my attention was arrested by the rumble of innumerable carriages, and the brightness and gaiety of the scene. Again I heard the tinkling of the harness-bells, and the sound of many voices; and again I saw the gay volatile crowd of splendidly-dressed people passing and repassing, lively and animated in their conversation. I stood under the arch of a colonade, and watched them all, the youth of both sexes, buoyant and gay, and men in the saddened, grave, middle age of life, as they continually came and departed from my view. Presently a pair appeared that attracted my attention. The eldest was a man on whose grave stolid features there was an expression of fatuous joy as he listened to the lively conversation of his companion-a bright coquetish-looking girl, whose silvery

laugh, ever and anon, rung lightly in the air. He walked along as if under the influence of a species of fascination, so wrapt up was he in the merry chatter that fell in varying cadence on his ear, and so oblivious of all else save the form that leaned lightly on his arm. Strange to say, directly I saw him it flashed across my brain I had seen him elsewhere, and amidst very different circumstances, but when or where I could not recal to my mind. It was one of those peculiar remembrances that haunt everyone of us, namely, that he has seen such and such a person before, though for the life of him he cannot conjure up when and in what manner it happened. Yes, that face was quite familiar to me, and I must have been intimate with that man at some former period of my life, else those heavy features would not have been so indelibly engraved on the retina of my mind. I ran rapidly over the history of my life from its beginning, to see if I could recollect any circumstance in it which had aught to do with him; but it was in vain in no part of it had any such person figured, and I gave up the task in despair.

During my cogitations I had moved from my position under the arch, and was now on the verge of the city, and with surprise I noted that I was on the same road by which I had entered Luzala, and I was presently on the brow of a hill by which I could observe clearly the woodland and the common through which I had passed on that eventful day, which now seemed so very far back, when I first came to the great city and knew its inhabitants.

I stood for a moment gazing on the view, when suddenly there was a light touch on my arm, and to my amazement I beheld Lelore, her golden hair flowing loosely down her shoulders, and her blue eyes gleaming with that spiritual light which I so well knew, and had so often admired. For a second my breath was literally taken away. What was Lelore doing here? What did she want with me? But, before I could speak, she laid her finger on her lip for silence on my part, and then said, "Pray, Henry, do not interrupt me. I know you are extremely surprised to see me here; but let that pass over now: I am here to give you warning. I cannot prevent you from following out your own way, even though it may lead to your destruction: but if, Henry, you care in the slightest degree for your future happiness, or regard at all your own life, quit Luzala by the same way by which you came into it; follow this road, and you will soon be far distant."

“But Lelore,” I said, "I love you dearly, and hope to marry you; and is this the way you