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HYACINTH.... Constancy.

The blue Hyacinth is mentioned by several English writers as the emblem of constancy. There are many varieties found in Europe and America, but the variety known in Scotland as the "Blue Bell" is the most common and the most celebrated.

When daisies blush, and wind-flowers wet with dew,
When shady lanes with Hyacinth's are blue,
When the elm blossoms o'er the brooding bird,
And, wild and wide, the plover's wail is heard,
Where melts the mist on mountains far away,
Till morn is kindled into brightest day.

Elliott.

Then come the wild weather, come sleet, or come snow, We will stand by each other however it blow. Oppression and sickness, and sorrow, and pain, Shall be to our true love as links to the chain.

She loves him yet!

The flower the false one gave her

When last he came,

Is still with her wild tears wet.

She'll ne'er forget,

Howe'er his faith may waver,
Through grief and shame,

Believe it, she loves him yet!

Longfellow.

Mrs. Osgood.

Over the moorland, over the lea,
Dancing airily, there are we:
Sometimes, mounted on stems aloft,

We wave o'er broom and heather,
To meet the kiss of the zephyr soft;
Sometimes, close together,

Tired of dancing, tired of peeping,
Under the whin you'll find us sleeping.
Daintily bend we our honied bells,
While the gossipping bee her story tells,
And drowsily hums and murmurs on
Of the wealth to her waxen storehouse gone;
And though she gathers our sweets the while,
We welcome her in with a nod and a smile.
No rock is too high—no vale too low,
For our fragile and tremulous forms to grow.
Sometimes we crown

The castle's dizziest tower, and look

Laughingly down

On the pigmy men in the world below,
Wearily wandering to and fro.

Sometimes we dwell on the cragged crest
Of mountain high,

And the ruddy sun, from the blue sea's breast,
Climbing the sky,

Looks from his couch of glory up,

And lights the dew in the bluebell's cup.
We are crowning the mountain

With azure bells,

Or decking the fountains

In forest dells,

Or wreathing the ruin with clusters gray,

And nodding and laughing the livelong day;
Then chiming our lullaby, tired with play.
Are we not beautiful? Oh! are not we
The darlings of mountain and moorland and lea?
Plunge in the forest—are we not fair?

Go to the high-road—we'll meet ye there.

Oh! where is the flower that content may tell,

Like the laughing and nodding and dancing bluebell.

Louisa A. Twamley.

The Hyacinth's for constancy,

Wi' its unchanging blue.

Burns.

Orchis....A Belle.

The Butterfly Orchis is rather rare except where there is a chalky soil. The Spider Orchis has gained its name from the great resemblance it bears to one of those large, fat-bodied garden spiders, which are often noticed for the singular beauty of the markings on their backs. Another is so very like a fly, that it is named the Fly Orchis; another is like a lizard, or some strange reptile, and the flowers being yellow, green, and purple, and twisted in and about one another in a very odd way, it really looks like some horrible group of queer living creatures. One, from being fancied like a man, is called Man Orchis; another, very gayly spotted, and ornamented with a helmet-like

appendage, is the Military Orchis; another is called Bee Orchis. Bishop Mant thus alludes to some of these:

Well boots it the thick-mantled leas
To traverse: if boon nature grant,
To crop the insect-seeming plant,
The vegetable Bee; or nigh
Of kin, the long-horned Butterfly,
White, or his brother purple pale,
Scenting alike the evening gale;
The Satyr flower, the pride of Kent,
Of Lizard form, and goat-like scent.

No wonder that cheek in its beauty transcendent,
Excelleth the beauty of others by far;
No wonder that eye is so richly resplendent,
For your heart is a rose and your soul is a star.
Mrs. Osgood.

What right have you, madam, gazing in your shining mirror daily,

Getting so by heart your beauty, which all others must

adore;

While you draw the golden ringlets down your fingers, to vow gayly,

You will wed no man that's only good to God,—and

nothing more.

Miss Barrett.

Box....Stoicism.

The common Box, of which our hedge is formed, is indigenous in England, preferring the chalky hills of Surrey and Kent for its residence, but flourishing well on other soils. It is one of the most useful evergreen shrubs we possess, and especially as it will grow under the drip and shadow of other trees, as you know is the case with our hedge. It is found in most European countries, from Britain southwards, also about Mount Caucasus, Persia, China, Cochin China, and America. It was formerly much more common in England than now, having disappeared under the spread of agriculture. Box-hill, in Surrey, is named from this tree, and is a conical elevation covered with a wood of Box-trees, some of large size. Boxley in Kent, and Boxwell in Gloucestershire, are also named from it. The leaf and general appearance of the tree are too familiar to require any description. The scent of the spring blossoms is rather powerful, and to some persons unpleasant. The timber is very valuable, it is sold by weight, and, being very hard and smooth, and not apt to warp, is well adapted for many nice and delicate purposes. In the days of good old Evelyn, it appears to have been as much used as at present, for he says, "It is good for the turner, engraver, carver, mathematical instrument maker, comb and pipe, or flute-maker, and the roots for the inlayer and cabinet-maker. Of box are made wheels, sheaves, pins, pegs for musical instruments, nut-crackers, button-moulds, weavers' shuttles, hollar-sticks, bump-sticks, and dressers for the shoe

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