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It is computed that the swallow flies upward of sixty, the crow twenty-five, and the hawk forty-two miles an hour. The flight of the English eagle is six thousand feet in a minute.


LOVE at eventide to walk alone, While in the juicy corn the hidden quail

Down narrow lanes, o'erhung with dewy thorn. Cries, "Wet my foot;" and, hid as thoughts un

Where, from the long grass underneath, the snail, born,

Jet black, creeps out. and sprouts his timid horn. The fairy-like and seldom-seen landrail

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|OTHTNG is better able to gratify the inherent passion of novelty than a garden; for Nature is always renewing her variegated appearance. She is infinite in her productions, and the life of man may come to its close before he has seen half the pictures which she is able to display.

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gHREE astonishing changes present themselves to our view in the kingdom of Nature. The first is — when a small seed dies in the lap of earth, and s^p." rises again in the verdant and flowery splendor of a youthful tree. The next is — when, under a warm and feathery covering, life develops itself in an egg, and a winged bird breaks singing through the shell. The third is — when a creeping caterpillar is transformed into a butterfly, which, with glittering and delicate wing, rocks itself upon the lovely flowers.

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, a dainty plant is the Ivy Green,
MP That ereepeth o'er ruins old!
Tx Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,
> In his cell so lone and cold.
I The wall must he crumbled, the stone decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim;
And the mouldering dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,

And a staunch old heart has he;
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings

To his friend the huge Oak-tree!
And slyly he traileth along the ground,

And his leaves he gently waves,

As he joyously hugs and crawleth around
The rich mould of dead men's graves.
Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,

And nations have scattered been;
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade

From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant, in its lonely days,

Shall fatten upon the past;
For the stateliest building man can raise

Is the Ivy's food at last.

Creeping on, where time has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green.

Charles Dickens.

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