We may
learn, from such success, a lesson of encouragement, in the education
and training of flowers, of an infinitely higher value and perfection.

The vast creation of God--the centre and source of good--is every where
radiant with beauty. From the shell that lies buried in the depths of
the ocean, to the twinkling star that floats in the more profound depths
of the firmament--through all the forms of material and animated
existence, beauty, beauty, beauty prevails! In the floral kingdom, it
appears in an infinite variety--in an unstinted and even a richer
profusion than in other departments of nature. While these contributions
are thrown out so lavishly at our feet, and a taste for flowers seems
almost an instinct of nature, and is one of the most innocent and
refined sentiments which we can cultivate, let us indulge and gratify it
to the utmost extent, whenever leisure, opportunity, and fortune give us
the means. There is no danger of an excess, under those reasonable
restrictions which all our sentiments demand.

"But," says some cynical objector, "flowers are only to please the eye."
And why should not the eye be pleased? What sense may be more innocently
gratified? They are among the most simple and cheapest luxuries in which
we ever indulge.

The taste for flowers--every where increasing among us--is an omen of
good. Let us adorn our parlors, door-ways, yards, and road-sides with
trees, and shrubs, and flowers. What a delight do they give to the
passer-by! What favorable impressions do they, at once, excite towards
those who cultivate them for their own gratification, and find, after
all, their chief pleasure in the gratification which they afford to
others! What an affecting charm--associated as it is with some of the
best sentiments of our nature--do they give to the sad dwelling-places
of the departed and beloved!

TIME.

"I saw the leaves gliding down a brook;
Swift the brook ran, and bright the sun burned:
The sere and the verdant, the same course they took--
And sped gayly and fast--but they never returned.
And I thought how the years of a man pass away--
Threescore and ten--and then where are they?"

"Threescore years and ten," thought I to myself, as I walked, one rainy
morning, as a sailor walks the quarter-deck, up and down a short alcove,
extending before the windows of a modern house. It was one of those days
in June, in which our summer-hopes ta