This little flower speaks of his goodness, as well as of his faithfulness. All may be delighted with its fragrance, from the child, and he who is hoary with age to the vagrant boy who wanders almost destitute of a home, and the monarch on his throne,

* "The hand,

Which scatters violets under every thorn

Forbids that sweets like these should be confin'd

Within the limits of the rich man's wall."

"How manifold are his works! In wisdom he has made them all! The earth is full of his riches!" How blind must he be, who does not recognize his hand; how ungrateful and depraved, who does not adore his goodness!

"One Spirit-His,

Who wore the platted thorns on bleeding brows,

Rules universal nature. Not a flower

But shows some touch, in freckle, streak, or strain,

Of his unrivalled pencil! He inspires

Their balmy odours.

Happy, who walk with him!

His presence, who made all so fair, perceiv'd,

Makes all still fairer."

What a beautiful succession there is of flowers, Papa. Mamma remarked, that as they come month after month, we have leisure to examine their beauty, and to enjoy their fragrance, which we could not do, if they came altogether.

True. The violet is one of the first of the spring flowers. The purple, white, and variegated lilac, also adorn our garden; the hyacinth, delighting the sight and the smell; the imperial crown flower, with its starry leaves, and red and yellow blossom; the copious flowers of the woodbine with their delicious sweets; the delicate and lovely jessamine; the auricula, richer in its texture, than the finest satin or velvet; the tulip with its varied and splendid colours; and a thousand more, one after the other, will regale our senses, and delight our eyes. But, Edward, you did not tell me the botanic class to which the violet belongs. We forgot our science amidst the enjoy

ment of its fragrance.

We have already had several flowers of the same class. The primrose, and the cowslip, belong to it.

Here are five stamens, it must be of the class Pentandria; here is one pointal; it must be, therefore, of the first order, monogynia.

cends to heaven, pouring forth his exulting strains. No creature, not excepting the nightingale, seems more fully to express an earnestness of joy. He is especially the bird of the morning and of the sunshine, but now, when the sun is getting low, hark! how he warbles his evening song. Perhaps he is bidding farewell to the setting sun. Already, he appears only as a speck in the vast expanse. I cannot even discern him without my eyeglass. Well does Wordsworth say,

"Ethereal minstrel! Pilgrim of the sky!

Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?
Or while thy wings aspire, are heart and eye
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
Leave to the nightingale her shady wood,—
A privacy of glorious light is thine;
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
Of harmony, with rapture more divine;
Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam,

True to the kindred points of heaven and home!"

But see, she is descending rapidly, and singing all the way. There,—it is very likely she has dropped into her nest. The lark belongs to the order Passeres They sing both in the spring and autumn. In the winter, they assemble in large flocks, and are killed for food.

Is it not a pity to kill such a fine singing bird, Papa?

The thought of killing it, Edward, is by no means a pleasant one to me. But if they were not taken, they would perhaps be inconveniently numerous. the neighbourhood of Dunstable, it is said, that between four and five thousand are caught, and sent to

the London market. And they are still more plentiful on the continent. Nearly a thousand pounds per annum is raised at Leipsic, as a tax on them. And they equally abound in other parts of Germany.

Do you think the one which has just come down from heaven was singing her evening song of praise?

I cannot say, Edward; for I understand only the music of her song. It is, however, a pleasing thought that all God's works declare his glory; and, in some way, celebrate his praise. And nothing, surely, can be more rational, than to offer thanksgiving with every opening morning, and closing evening. Each day and night we receive new favours from the hand of the Most High. In Him we "live, and move, and have our being." Our lives should be one perpetual hymn of praise.

We should be continually

saying with Israel's devout Monarch, "Thou art my God, and I will praise thee; thou art my God, and I will exalt thee!"