CHAPTER IV. "Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, MILTON. It was a bright laughing morning in the merry month of May when our young friends set out on their next expedition. Many weeks had elapsed since the last, during which an almost incessant rain had soaked the earth, and rendered walking beyond the gravel paths near the house quite out of the question. Now the weather suddenly changed; dark clouds melted away one after the other from the face of the sky, and showed the clear bright blue beyond looking fresher and lovelier than ever: everything seemed to revive under the soft sweet breath of spring. The birds which enlivened the groves of that richly-wooded country, now carolled joyously, and the lambs skipped about in pure love of life. "Are they not rejoicing in their birth, Fanny?" said Miss Vaughan, as the little girl tripped by her side; and she repeated the beginning of a little hymn on the words, "God is love," which Fanny had learned to say with her morning prayer. "Yes, God is love, or why should we Live on this pretty earth; Where everything around we see The butterflies with shining wings And everything around we see “Is that what it means?" Fanny asked thoughtfully. "Yes, they are happy because they are alive; and the little birds, too, seem to be thanking God for the beautiful world that he has made for them. Do you hear that lark? What a joyous note it is: his little throat seems ready to burst with his song of happiness and praise." "So it does," replied Fanny; " and I am happy too to be alive." And away she ran to fill her hands with the wild flowers with which the sloping banks of the park were covered, like a living carpet of purple and gold. Pursuing their way through a wood, Miss Vaughan stopped to gather many a lowly little one that the children would have passed unnoticed, but whose beauty they readily acknowledged when pointed out to them; and with their ⚫ admiration was often mixed astonishment, that they had never observed it before, or that so many of the same colour and outward appearance, which they had been accustomed to call by one name, were in reality quite different, both in form and species. Her deep interest in flowers had at first very much surprised them; every fresh one they gathered brought each a happy smile to her face; one would have thought it was some loved and long absent friend that she was welcoming again. 66 "O here is my favourite little Wind-flower!" she exclaimed; "better late than never; but it ought to have been here a month ago; the cold rains have kept it back." "It is very pretty: why do you call it Wind-flower?" "It is the Wood Anemone, Mary, but I like its poetical name the best; I do not know why it is so called, but I fancy it must be because it does not mind the strong winds of spring which blow over it, but only shakes its little delicate head, and seems rather to enjoy it. And there is the Stitch Wort, or Satin-flower, as some people call it." "What those little white flowers? I thought they were called Star of Bethlehem." No; their "Because they look like stars, I suppose. botanical name is Stellaria, from Stella a star. The Star of Bethlehem is not often found growing wild, though it is a very common garden flower; it is not a native of England, and wherever it is found not in a garden, it has probably escaped from cultivation. The flower is quite different to this, though also star-shaped. Remember this is called the greater Stitch Wort; we shall find another in June, called the lesser, bearing a similar flower, but much smaller, and the leaf is different. I recommend you to write down the name of every flower you learn in your little pocket tablets; it will help you to remember them." The girls readily took the hint, and found it a great amusement; they were anxious to outvie each other in the length of their lists, and began to hunt in all directions for flowers for Miss Vaughan to name. Stooping down in a meadow to pick a small yellow one, Mary's eye was attracted by a particular ear of the tall grass growing above her head: she picked it, and, for the first time in her life, began to think how beautiful it was; its colour was a pale pink, and from its slender stalk hung rows of little bell-like trembling flowers, tipped with orange, and covered with a bloom so delicate, that every motion, even the breath from her lips shook it off. Presently she found another of a violet hue, another brown, and another green; the blossom of cach grass was quite different, and all but the green were covered with dust. "Do look, Miss Vaughan, at this pretty grass; they are all four quite different: I did not know there were so many kinds of grass before." "A great many indeed, Mary; botanists have reckoned more than two thousand different species." "Do you mean to say, Miss Vaughan, that there are two thousand different grasses growing in this field?" 66 By no means, Mary; though there are a greater variety even here than you would readily believe. Of these two thousand there are two grand divisions, natural and artificial. Of the grasses that you see here, all that grow wild in the fields are natural grasses." "And what, then, are the artificial?” "They are those which yield corn, such as wheat, barley, rye; also rel clover, trefoil, tares, lucerne, yarrow, and various others, all of which are sown from seed; sometimes separately, sometimes mixed, according to the nature of the soil, or the purpose they are intended for. The sugar-cane also is a grass, and a most useful one. The structure of these little plants, though perfect, is very simple. A stem clothed with alternate thin stalks, leaves, and sheaths, to guard the young and rapidly growing shoots; a cluster of flowers at the summit, with a very small number of stamina, and a single seed enclosed in a thin husk, are all that nature provides to enable these plants to preserve their race, and to distinguish their numerous kinds from one another. Simple as their appearance is, the different species are so precisely marked, that the natural order of grasses is perhaps one of the easiest for the botanist to study and arrange. This is, no doubt, one of the wise provisions of Providence, by which man is enabled to 'distinguish good from evil, the useful from the useless; for in no class of plants is it more necessary than in grasses to know how to choose between different species; for instance, most grasses are very wholesome for cattle, yet there are some which would be hurtful to them, and these are so plainly distinguished in appearance that they are easily separated. And there is a great difference also between the value of grasses for pasture: certain kinds suit the meadows, others marshes, others uplands, fields, etc., and others thrive on bleak barren hills, where they furnish valuable food for sheep. All these kinds will not grow together, because they require different situations; therefore it is most essential that the farmer should be able to discriminate between them, but if these different species resembled each other as closely as many other plants do, it would be difficult for him to do so, for but few farmers, you know, understand much about botany." "But what is this dust that falls off so? See, my gloves are covered with it." "That is the seed of the grass which bursts from the blossom when ripe, and the wind scatters it over the ground, on which it takes root, and springs up again." "That seems very curious," said Mary, looking at the dust. "There are many wonderful ways in which seed is |