1,000 cooked in July; they were of most exquisite flavor, very large, and boiled much greener than the peas of this country. They require no sticks, only stringing from post to post. This single package supplied the table, and has left me much more seed than I possibly can use for the next two years. Its indifference to drought is singular, and interesting, as connected with the fact, that in some parts of Egypt it never rains. The year 1846, was a remarkably dry season, and yet these peas continued blooming and bearing, and appeared as flourishing as possible. The entire of the twenty-seven rows retained their luxuriant appearance, although every other kind of pea perished; they therefore require no watering or artificial means,-this alone will render them valuable additions to our gardens and tables. It is still more remarkable, considering the country of its growth, that this pea should be proof against the rigors of cold; yet such is the fact. "Wishing," says Mr. Grimstone, "to ascertain their power of standing cold weather, I planted three rows in the open air, no shelter, in October last. They have stood the winter, and look remarkably healthy; therefore they will be both an early and a late pea. The crop of 1848 proved an abundant crop, being upwards of two bushels from a pint of seed."* OUR BUTTERFLY BOX. THERE is a beauty and perpetual freshness about every work of Nature. When its own attractions have been carefully numbered and canvassed, what a string of delightful associations it will oftentimes awaken! Looking over a collection of insects the other day with a friend, we were much struck by a remark he made with reference to the spots and markings on the wings of one of our commonest moths. "Who knows" said he, "what influence those little lines and shades may have upon the constitution and destinies of the universe?" It was a startling suggestion, and to some persons it might seem absurd. Yet who can deny that it was full of truth. God has made nothing * We noticed this discovery on its first publication in 1844. See our volume for that year, page 321. ED. R in vain, and we are utterly unable to limit the bearings of an atom or a speck. In this spirit we often open "Our Butterfly Box." It is not one of your unmeaning collections, consisting merely of the gaudiest specimens of this little tribe of creatures, mechanically or fancifully arranged to pattern-no piece of insect-mosaic, but a genuine collection brought in from our wood-walks and hedges, our fields and forests-the various histories and associations connected with which are almost as familiar to us as the flowers of our own garden. And what indeed are these pretty little insects, but wandering flowers and wayfaring leaves, dancing on before us in the sunshine or hovering round the bowery haunts hallowed by choice and old associations. Nay, we must not smile at the term "old" in this application of it. A butterfly It fulfils the lives out its life, and Methuselah did no more. entire destinies of its nature, and how many amongst ourselves do less. The Ephemeron, even, has a biography as full as that of Wesley with nearly a century of usefulness glorifying his grey hairs. "He began to exist at the break of day, and from the uncommon strength of his constitution, he had been able to shew himself active in life through the numberless minutes of ten or twelve hours." And how rich, on the testimony of Sir John Hill, was his dying experience. "I assure you,” says this patriarch of a day, in his last moments, "that yonder sun which now appears westward beyond the water, and seems not to be far distant from the earth, in my remembrance stood in the The middle of the sky, and shot his beams directly upon us. world was more enlightened in those ages, and the air much warmer. Think it not dotage in me if I affirm that glorious being moves: I saw his first setting out in the east, and I began my race of life near the time when he began his immense career. He has for several ages advanced along the sky with vast heat and unparalleled brightness; but now by his declension and a sensible decay in his vigor, I foresee that all nature must fail in a little time and that the creation will be buried in darkness in less than a century of minutes." There is deep truth, honest satire, and a happy moral in all this. "We, like the ephemera, have but a day to live; the morning and noon, and evening of life, is the whole portion of our time: many perish in the very dawn; and the man out of a million who lingers on to the evening twilight is not accounted happy."* But to return to our little preachers in the box. What a beautiful creature is this Peacock butterfly (Vanessa Io.) When the challenge was thrown out to Job, "Gavest thou goodly wings unto the peacocks?" he laid his hand upon his mouth abashed, and said, "Once have I spoken, but I will not answer: yea twice-but I will proceed no further."+ With much the same feelings do we contemplate this beautiful insect as it lies fully displayed before us. Look at the rich ground-colour of its upper wings—a warm, deep, Indian red, soft as velvet, with a margin as of inlaid tortoise-shell; and then, at the glorious beauty of those many-colored eyes from which it has its name. We have positively no terms by which we can describe that ethereal bloom in which are mingled all the richest tints of purple, violet, and lavender, set off by contrasts the most bold and effective. Then see what a soft downy nidus is hollowed out in those under-wings, that they may move freely up and down and round about that fragile body in the centre. The eyes upon them are scarcely less beautiful than the others-a deep velvet black, powdered with dust of sapphire. But, admirable as it is, we love it rather for its associations than any inherent beauty of form or color. It speaks of bright summer and pleasant schoolboy rambles in the highways and byways of our own beloved land. How eagerly we have followed its fellows through the fields, or watched them flitting up and down by the way-side-now settling on the weeds and flowers, and now capriciously dropping down on the hot dusty road, balancing their wings mechanically, alternately opening and shutting them as if anxious that nothing of their glory should be lost upon us! And yet what was this gay insect once but an unsightly and repulsive caterpillar, black as night, and bristling with hairy spines that would have almost prevented us from touching it, even had we entertained no scruples about fingering the nettles upon which it fed. We never think of these wondrous insect-changes without reverting to the challenge Psalm xc. 10. Eccl. xii. 2-7. † Job xxxix. 13., xl. 4, 5. of the apostle, "Why should it be thought a thing incredible We linger on earth but a lengthened minute, Far away from thee, thou insect fly! And to sip the flowers of Eternity. But to return to our Butterfly box. What a picture is that Red Admiral! (Vanessa Atalanta.) like our old familiar riddle of the newspaper-"black, white, and red all over." But look at the under side of those once busy wings-what a marvellous marbling and blending and "cambleting" of colours, like those bright papers with which the fly-leaves of our old ledgers were adorned, when men were really men, "broad cloth without, and a warm heart within!" You know his history. We caught him on the hills fragrant with fern and heather, just where that clump of birches offers a cool retreat from the fierce autumn sun. But we must not rest there-the warm air is alive with bees, and those black decaying trunks are undermined and riddled by them. Perhaps it is their honey that draws hither so many of these butterflies, for you may number them by dozens,-not all alike, but all busy—all “beautiful exceedingly." We will catch but one or two specimens, and leave the others there to gladden future comers to these lovely wilds. For every insect has its mission of gladness, and it would form no uninteresting or unprofitable study to calculate how many are the hearts that have been solaced and instructed by this little woodland beauty. "To him who in the love of nature, holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks And gentle sympathy that steals away And now, while we are on the hills, a word or two about our little friend, the Orange Tip (Pontia Cardamines.) There he is his name written on his wings, albeit so modest and unassuming in appearance. But look at his under-side, still embroidered as with green lichens, like an old park paling, though he has lost much of his original freshness and delicacy of tint since the day on which we caught him in that obsolete chalk pit festooned with wild roses, and checquered by the shadows of the flying clouds. It was a quiet and retired spot, but the children from a neighbouring homestead had been there, and seated in a warm hollow, overhung with quivering foliage, had built a little house of sticks and fir cones, and reared their tiny standard beside it. There were other evidences too, that this old hollow was their accustomed play-place— shells, and potsherds, and stones hot in the sun; and still their voices might be heard at intervals in the woods and fields around. These, some may say, are but childish matters, and unworthy of a record here. We think otherwise—they were developments of the poetry of infant minds-the first essays of a constructiveness whose manifold workings, mental and manual, might, some day or other, help to move the world forward. At all events, they touched our hearts, and warmed them towards the little architects. They spoke of life, of instinct, of budding reason, of a common humanity; and on the lone hills, with nothing but "mute nature" round us, carried us again back to our hearths and altars, and lifted up our souls to Him who tells us that children are His heritage and reward. In a little cultivated hollow, lying deep down in the shadows of tall sand cliffs, on a burning summer's day, we captured that |