either can be found. I once said, "I can see beauty in every flower except the hollyhock; but I cannot bear its coarse leaf."

"O," answered this lover of God's works, "I think it is a beautiful ornament to a cottage door."

She opened my eyes to see that this is really the case, and to enable me to verify the sentiment of inspiration, that all which our kind Father has made is beautiful in its place and

season.

Since then I have read what a favorite the hollyhock was with Wordsworth, and how he made a long avenue of them, scattering the crimson, brown, straw-color, and white so tastefully, that he brought all his neighbors over to an admiration of them.

And now I close this slight and

imperfect sketch of Wilderstein with a little narrative, which I have received from the lips of one who was an actor in it. The circumstances are real; and I have only thrown the story into a form which may make it more interesting to the young than a straight-forward narration would be.

Throw hither all your quaint enamel'd eyes,
That on the green turf suck the honey'd showers,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers;
Bring the rath primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe and pale jessamine,

The white pink, and the pansy streaked with jet,
The glowing violet,

The musk-rose and the well-attired woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears.
MILTON'S LYCIDAS.

SEPTEMBER came, and the flowergarden of Wilderstein was one blaze of beauty. Dahlias of every variety stood proud, tall, and conspicuous, like soldiers in a regiment. Verbenas of all tints, from deepest crimson to purest white, spread in tangled masses over the ground. Heliotropes, the true representatives of

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her who nursed and planted them there, filled the air with fragrance. Mignonnette nestled in every nook and corner unclaimed by more ambitious plants, and only showed her proximity to them by her odorous breath. Portulaccas, with their colors exquisitely combined, had their own appropriate beds. Every flower of the season was there, and almost magical was the effect of the gorgeous coloring. Luxuriantly beautiful as that garden had always been, there was a reason why it should be A floral exhibition was

finer now.

at hand.

Prizes were to be distributed, and landholders and gardeners were anxious for distinction.

Augusta and her mother walked in the garden one evening, and observed the extreme beauty of the flowers. They thought the coloring

as splendid as that in the western sky, where the sun was shining through clouds yellow, orange, blue, white, and crimson, and wrapping the azure Catskills in a robe of dreamy splendor. Augusta looked at them with proud exultation; her mother with tranquil pleas

ure.

"Mamma, how beautiful they are! how surpassingly beautiful! I was at Linwood yesterday, and the flow. ers are not to be compared with ours. We shall certainly receive the prize.

"Perhaps so," her mother answered; "but you know you are always very sanguine, my dear. I would advise you to think and care less for the prize, lest it should end in disappointment."

"A disappointment it would be