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every kind of sickness and misfortune. They were brought over from Germany in the reign of Henry the VIII., under the name of Abrunes, and by the help of certain pretended magical words, the knowledge of which the credulous obtained at a great price, were said to increase whatever money was placed near them. It was believed, also, at that time, that the mandrake was produced from the decaying flesh of malefactors hung upon the gibbet, and was to be found only in such situations. Dr. Turner, who lived in the time of Queen Elizabeth, declares, that he had divers times taken up the roots of the mandrake, but had never found them under the gallows; nor of the form which the pedlars, who sold them in boxes, pretended them to have been. This form was that of an ugly little man, with a long beard hanging down to his feet. Gerard, the herbalist, also, who wrote thirty years later, used many endeavours to convince the world of the impositions practised upon them, and states, that he and his servant frequently dug up the roots without receiving harm, or hearing any shrieks whatever.

The mandrake grows naturally in Spain, Portugal, Italy, and the Levant, and it is also indigenous to China. It was introduced into this country about 1564. It is a handsome plant, and would, in particular situations, be ornamental to our gardens, independent of the strange, old associations connected with it, which would always make it an interesting object. I have seen it, however, only in one garden, that of the King of the Belgians, at Claremont.

"It is," says Mr. Phillips, in his pleasant garden companion, the Flora Historica, from which work the above historical notices of the mandrake have been principally taken, "a species of deadly nightshade, which grows with a long taper root like the parsnip, running three or four feet deep; these roots are frequently forked, which assisted to enable the old quacks to give it the shape of a monster. This plant does not send up a stalk, but, immediately from the crown of the root arises a circle of leaves, which at first stand erect, but when grown to their full size, which is about a foot in length and five inches broad, of an ovate-lanceolate shape, waved at the edges, these spread open and lie on the ground; they are of a dark-green, and give out a fetid smell. About the month of April the flowers come out among the leaves, each on a scape about three inches long; they are of a bell shape with a long tube, and spread out into a five-cleft corolla. The colour is of an herbaceous white, but frequently has a tinge of purple. The flower is succeeded by a globular soft berry, when full grown, as large as a common cherry, but of a yellowish-green colour, when ripe and full of pulp, intermixed with numerous reniform seeds."

If any of my readers should wish to cultivate this plant of "old renown," they should do it by sowing the seed in autumn, soon after it is ripe; as the seed kept till spring seldom produces plants. It should be set in a light, dry soil, and of a good depth, so that the root may not be chilled or obstructed; and care should be taken not to disturb it when it has once obtained a considerable size.

THE HEDGE-HOG. THOU poor little English porcupine, What a harassed and weary life is thine! And thou art a creature meek and mild, That wouldst not harm a sleeping child. Thou scarce can'st stir from thy tree-root, But thy foes are up in hot pursuit ; Thou might'st be an asp, or horned snake, Thou poor little martyr of the brake! Thou scarce can'st put out that nose of thine; Thou can'st not show a single spine, But the urchin-rabble are in a rout, With terrier curs to hunt thee out.

The poor Hedgehog! one would think he knew
His foes so many, his friends so few,
For when he comes out, he 's in a fright,
And hurries again to be out of sight.
How unkind the world must seem to him,
Living under the thicket dusk and dim,
And getting his living among the roots,
Of the insects small, and dry hedge-fruits.
How hard it must be, to be kicked about,
If by chance his prickly back peep out;
To be all his days misunderstood,
When he could not harm us if he would!

He's an innocent thing, living under the blame
That he merits not, of an evil name;
He is weak and small, and all he needs,
Lies under the hedge among the weeds.
He robs not man of rest or food,
And all that he asks is quietude;
To be left by him, as a worthless stone,
Under the dry hedge-bank alone!
Oh, poor little English porcupine,
What a troubled and weary life

thine!

I would that my pity thy foes could quell, For thou art ill-used, and meanest well!

THE CUCKOO.

"PEE! pee! pee!" says the merry Pee-Bird;
And as soon as the children hear it,
"The Cuckoo's a-coming," they say, "for I heard,
Up in his tree the merry Pee-Bird,

The days go on, one, two, three;
And he'll come in three days, or near it!"
And the little bird singeth "pee! pee! pee!"
Then on the morrow, 't is very true,
They hear the note of the old Cuckoo;
Up in the elm-tree, through the day,
Just as in gone years, shouting away;

Cuckoo," the Cuckoo doth cry,
And the little boys mock him as they go by.
The wood-pecker laughs to hear the strain,
And says "the old fellow is come back again;
He sitteth again on the very same tree,
And he talks of himself again!-he! he! he

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"What want we with him? let him stay over sea!" My word! I do not wonder that people fear your Sings the bold, piping reed-sparrow, "want him? not we!"

"Cuckoo!" the Cuckoo shouts still,

"I care not for you, let you rave as you will!" "Cuckoo!" the Cuckoo doth cry,

And the little boys mock him as they go by.

Hark! hark!" sings the chiff-chaff, "hark! hark!" says the lark,

And the white-throats and buntings all twitter "hark! hark!"

The wren and the hedge-sparrow hear it anon, And "hark! hark!" in a moment shouts every one. “Hark! hark! — that's the Cuckoo there, shouting

amain!

Bless our lives! why that egg-sucker's come back again!"

"Cuckoo!" the Cuckoo shouts still,

"I shall taste of your eggs, let you rave as you will!"

"Cuckoo" the Cuckoo doth cry,

And the little boys mock him as they go by.

The water-hens hear it, the rail and the smew, And they say, "Why on land there's a pretty to-do!

sting!

So! so!-Don't be so angry! Why do you come at me With a swoop and with a hum,-Is't a crime to look

at ye?

See where the testy fellow goes whiz into the hole, And brings out from the hollow tree his fellows in a shoal.

Hark! what an awful, hollow boom! How fierce they come! I'd rather

Just quietly step back, and stand from them a little farther.

There, now, the hornet-host is retreating to its den, And so, good Mr. Sentinel-lo! here I am again! Well! how the little angry wretch doth stamp and raise his head,

And flirt his wings, and seem to say, "Come here — I'll sting you dead!"

No, thank you, fierce Sir Hornet, — that's not at all inviting;

But what a pair of shears the rascal has for biting! What a pair of monstrous shears to carry at his head! If wasp or fly come in their gripe, that moment they are dead!

There! bite in two the whip-lash, as we poke it at your chin!

Sure the Cuckoo's come back, what else can be the See, how he bites! but it is tough, and again he

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Ho! ho! we soon shall have the whole of his vin dictive race,

With a hurry and a scurry, all flying in our face. To potter in a Hornet's nest, is a proverb old and good,

So it's just as well to take the hint, and retreat into the wood.

Shouting loudly as ever, that self-same Cuckoo !" "Well, well," says the wild duck, "what is it to us; Oh! here behind this hazel-bush we safely may look I've no spite 'gainst the Cuckoo; why make such a fuss?

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out,

And see what all the colony of hornets is about. Why what a furious troop it is, how fierce they seem to be,

As they fly now in the sunshine, now in shadow of the tree!

And yet they 're noble insects! their bodies red and yellow,

And large almost as little birds, how richly toned and

mellow.

And these old woods, so full of trees, all hollow and

decayed,

Must be a perfect paradise, for the hornet legions made.

So, there at last I've found you, my famous old fel- Secure from village lads, and from gardener's watchlow!

ful eyes,

Ay, and mighty grand besides, in your suit of red They may build their paper-nests, and issue for sup plies

and yellow!

To orchards or to gardens, for plum, and peach, and

pear,

With wasp, fly, ant, and earwig, they'll have a giant's share.

And you, stout Mr. Sentinel, there standing at the door,

Though Homer said in his time, "the hornet's soul all o'er,"

You're not so very spiritual, but soon some sunny morning

I may find you in a green-gage, and give you a little warning,

Or feeding in a Windsor pear; or at the juicy stalk Of my Negro-boy, grand dahlia, — too heavy much to walk;

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The Hornet is an insect that every one has heard of, because the fearful effects of its sting and its fierceness are proverbial; but it is by no means common in many parts of the country. In the midland counties hornets are often talked of, but rarely seen. We have lived in several of the midland counties, and seen a good deal of them, but never saw a hornet there. Since coming to reside in Surrey, we have found plenty of them. They come buzzing into the house, and are almost as common in the garden as wasps themselves, devouring the fruits above-mentioned, and also as voracious of the green, tender bark of the dahlia, as ants are of the juice of the yucca. They peel the young branches with their nippers or shears, as a rabbit peels a young tree; and wasps, and the great blue-bottle and other flies follow in their train, and suck its juice greedily. In common, too, with the wasps, which by their side appear very diminutive insects, they gorge themselves so with the pulp of fruit as to drop heavily on the earth on being suddenly disturbed, and are then easily destroyed. They frequently make their nests in the thatch of cottages and outbuildings, where it is difficult to destroy them, as in such situations, neither fire, sulphur, nor gunpowder can be used, and producing large swarms there, they are dangerous and devouring neighbours.

On Bookham Common, a pleasant wide tract, overgrown with trees, principally oaks, and resembling a forest with its fern and green turfy glades, much more than a common, we found two nests within a few yards of each other, in two hollow trees, where the sentinel, and indeed the whole swarms, behaved themselves as above represented. Whether three of these insects are sufficient to kill a horse, as the old country saying avers, is doubtful; but, from their size, the irritability of their nature, and the appearance of their stings, they are very formidable creatures indeed.

THE USE OF FLOWERS.

GOD might have bade the earth bring forth
Enough for great and small,

The oak-tree and the cedar-tree,
Without a flower at all.

We might have had enough, enough
For every want of ours,
For luxury, medicine and toil,

And yet have had no flowers.
The ore within the mountain mine
Requireth none to grow;

Nor doth it need the lotus-flower
To make the river flow.

The clouds might give abundant rain;
The nightly dews might fall,
And the herb that keepeth life in man
Might yet have drunk them all.
Then wherefore, wherefore were they made,
All dyed with rainbow-light,
All fashioned with supremest grace

Upspringing day and night:-
Springing in valleys green and low,

And on the mountains high, And in the silent wilderness

Where no man passes by?

Our outward life requires them not-
Then wherefore had they birth ?-
To minister delight to man,

To beautify the earth;

To comfort man-to whisper hope,
Whene'er his faith is dim,
For who so careth for the flowers
Will much more care for him!

THE CARRION-CROW.
ON a splintered bough sits the Carrion-crow,
And first he croaks loud and then he croaks low;
Twenties of years ago that bough
Was leafless and barkless as it is now.

It is on the top of an ancient oak
That the Carrion-crow has perched to croak;
In the gloom of a forest the old oak grows,—
When it was young there's nobody knows.
"Tis but half alive, and up in the air
You may see its branches splintered and bare;
You may see them plain in the cloudy night,
They are so skeleton-like and white.

The old oak trunk is gnarled and grey,
But the wood has rotted all away,
Nothing remains but a cave-like shell,
Where bats, and spiders, and millipedes dwell;

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"His master he knows not where he lies,
So we shall go down to peck out his eyes;
His master he mourneth, early and late ;-
But 'tis joy to me and my beautiful mate!
"And the miller last week he killed his mare,-
She lies in a hollow, I know where, -
There's an ancient cross of crumbling stone
Down in that hollow dank and lone!

"The mare was blind, and lame, and thin,
And she had not a bone but it pierced her skin;
For twenty years did she come and go,-
We'll be with her anon!" croaked the Carrion-crow.

"And there bleats a lamb by the thundering linn,
The mother ewe she has tumbled in;
Three days ago and the lamb was strong,
Now he is weak with fasting long.

"All day long he moans and calls,
And over his mother the water falls;
He can see his mother down below,
But why she comes not he does not know.

"His little heart doth pine away,
And fainter and fainter he bleats to-day;
So loud o'er the linn the waters brawl,
That the shepherd he hears him not at all!
"Twice I've been down to look at him,
But he glanced on me his eyeballs dim;
And among the stones so cold and bare,
I saw the raven watching there.

"He'll have the first peck at his black eye,
And taste of his heart before it die :-
Aha! though the hungry raven is there,
As soon as he's ready we 'll have our share!"
These are the words of the Carrion-crow,
As he first croaks loud and then croaks low,
And the spiders and millipedes hear him croak,
As he sits up aloft on the ancient oak.

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While the trees are leafless;

While the fields are bare,
Buttercups and Daisies

Spring up here and there.
Ere the snow-drop peepeth;
Ere the crocus bold,
Ere the early primrose

Opes its paly gold,
Somewhere on a sunny bank

Buttercups are bright;

Somewhere 'mong the frozen grass

Peeps the Daisy white.

Little hardy flowers

Like to children poor, Playing in their sturdy health By their mother's door; Purple with the north-wind, Yet alert and bold, Fearing not and caring not,

Though they be a-cold!

What to them is weather!

What are stormy showers! Buttercups and Daisies

Are these human flowers! He who gave them hardship And a life of care, Gave them likewise hardy strength And patient hearts, to bear. Welcome yellow buttercups, Welcome daisies white, Ye are in my spirit

Visioned, a delight!

Coming ere the spring-time

Of sunny hours to tellSpeaking to our hearts of HIM Who doeth all things well.

THE TITMOUSE, OR BLUE.CAP.

THE merry Titmouse is a comical fellow;
He weareth a plumage of purple and yellow,
Barred over with black, and with white interlaced;-
Depend on 't, the Titmouse has excellent taste.
And he, like his betters of noble old blood,
Keeps up, with great spirit, a family feud;
A feud with the owl;-and why? would you know-
An old, by-gone quarrel of ages ago:—

Perhaps in the ark might be taken offence,-
But I know not, indeed, of the where and the
whence;

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Only this is quite true,-let them meet as they may, Having quarrelled long since, they would quarrel to day.

But we'll leave them to settle this ancient affair, And now look at his nest, made with exquisite care, Of lichen, and moss, and the soft downy feather. And the web of the spider to keep it together.

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Is a brick out of place by your window ?-don't send
For the man with the trowel the fracture to mend,
Through the dry months of summer, just leave it
alone,

For the poor little Titmouse has made it his own.
Peep in now, and look at that wonderful labour;
And be glad to have near you so merry a neighbour;
His work unto him is no trouble - behold
For one moment his motions, so tricksy and bold.
How he twists, how he turns with a harlequin grace!

He can't lift a feather without a grimace;
He carries the moss in his bill with an air;
And he laughs at the spider he robs of his lair.

See his round, burly head, that is like a Friar Tuck,
And his glancing black eye that is worthy of Puck;
Saw you ever a merrier creature than he?

Oh, no-make him welcome, as welcome can be!
His nest now is finished with fine cobweb thread,
And the eggs are laid in it, white speckled with red;
Now knock at the wall, or rap loud on the pane,
Hark! what is that rapping so briskly again!
"Tis the blithe mother-bird, all alive and alert,
As her mate, every whit, is she comic and pert;
Rap you once, - she raps twice; - she has nothing
to do,

But to keep her eggs warm, and be neighbourly too! Oh, what! did you say that the Titmouse was stealing,

That he ate your pear-buds while he shammed to be reeling;

And nipped off the apricot-bloom in his fun?-
And that shortly you'll end his career with a gun!
Oh! hold back your hand,-'twere a deed to repent;
Of your blame the poor fellow is quite innocent, —
Stand back for one moment-anon he 'll be here,
He believes you his friend, and he thinks not of fear.
Here he comes!-see how drolly he looketh askew ;—
And now hangs head downward; now glances on
you!

Be not rash, though he light on your apricot-bough,-|
Though he touches a bud,-there, he touches it now!
There, he's got what he wanted, and off he has
flown!-

Now look at the apricot bud,- is it gone?

Not the apricot bud,-but the grub that was in it!You may thank him, he does you a service each minute.

Then love the poor Titmouse, and welcome him too,
Great beauty is there in his yellow and blue;
He's a fine cheerful fellow-so let him be free
Of your garden-to build in your wall or your tree!

SUNSHINE.

I LOVE the sunshine everywhere, —
In wood and field and glen;

I love it in the busy haunts
Of town-imprisoned men.

I love it when it streameth in
The humble cottage door,

And casts the chequered casement shade
Upon the red-brick floor.

I love it where the children lie
Deep in the clovery grass,
To watch among the twining roots
The gold-green beetles pass.

I love it on the breezy sea,

To glance on sail and oar, While the great waves, like molten glass, Come leaping to the shore.

I love it on the mountain-tops,

Where lies the thawless snow, And half a kingdom, bathed in light, Lies stretching out below.

And when it shines in forest-glades, Hidden, and green, and cool, Through mossy boughs and veinèd leaves, How is it beautful!

How beautiful on little stream,

When sun and shade at play, Make silvery meshes, while the brook Goes singing on its way.

How beautiful, where dragon-flies
Are wondrous to behold,
With rainbow wings of gauzy pearl,
And bodies blue and gold!
How beautiful, on harvest slopes,
To see the sunshine lie;
Or on the paler reaped fields,

Where yellow shocks stand high!
Oh, yes! I love the sunshine!

Like kindness or like mirth, Upon a human countenance,

Is sunshine on the earth! Upon the earth; upon the sea;

And through the crystal air, Or piled-up cloud; the gracious sun Is glorious everywhere!

THE ELEPHANT. ELEPHANT, thou sure must be Of the Titan progeny;

One of that old race that sleep.
In the fossil mountains deep!
Elephant, thou must be one! -
Kindred to the Mastodon, -
One that didst in friendship mix
With the huge Megalonix;
With the Mammoth hadst command
O'er the old-world forest-land.
Thou, those giant ferns didst see,
Taller than the tallest tree;

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