WINTER. 



templation of waterfalls, mighty mountains, and ex- 

 tended prospects, as from the day-by-day quiet obser- 

 vation of the wonderful ways of God in the calling 

 forth of a little flower from its nest, and painting it 

 with miraculous hues that seem impossible to proceed 

 from dull, cold soil. The glory of God is to bring or- 

 der out of confusion, peace out of discord, life out of 

 death ; and nowhere in nature do we see it more beau- 

 tifully expressed than in the birth of the silver-mantled 

 flower, a birth that comes not through any aid or 

 encouragement from man, but apparently of its own 

 free action. The yellow crocus is a -native of the 

 South of Europe, though introduced so long ago to 

 our own island, as to be one of the oldest inhabitants 

 of the garden. Few think, perhaps, when surveying 

 its varied loveliness, how many countries and how 

 many years of diligence have contributed to the gar- 

 den ; yet there is scarcely a country beneath the sky 

 but has been laid under contribution, and there is now 

 in England a summary of the floral treasures of the 

 whole world. The purple crocus, on the other hand, 

 is an ancient Briton, counting itself as part of the 

 grass of the field, not, indeed, as a common object 

 of the country, like the primrose or the daffodil, but 

 as one of the select few that are confined to certain 

 spots. Near Nottingham, in March and April, the 

 meadows are flooded with its refreshing bloom, and 

 the flowers, brought home in handfuis by the city 



