226 Critique on the December Number. 



in early spring' suffuses itself on Nature's floor. Under the ordi- 

 nary method of operating this cannot be accomplished — the burn-^ 

 ing sun and arid, atmosphere^scorches the grass, and yellow as- 

 sumes the place of green. Now, one does not enjoy this desert 

 look about his house, hence the necessity of devising some me- 

 thod by which yellow grass can be postponed until winter asserts 

 its claim as destroyer. The only reliable recipe is to trench to 

 the depth of three feet, or not less than two, and at the same 

 time well incorporate a compost, in which the scoria of the black- 

 smith's forge, and furnace dust, are ingredients. The second in- 

 dispensable procedure is to procure and seed down with grass that 

 sends out long roots qualified for a sub terra ramble for moisture, 

 when drought attempts to diminish its vigor. Such a grass I be- 

 lieve to be the Kentucky blue variety. Whatever kind of seed is 

 used for the purpose this should be comprised in the mixture. I, 

 for one, (and there are, doubtless, others,) shall always be glad to 

 peruse such instructive and practical articles as Mr. Durand's. 



The New Roses of 1855 — By Thomas Rivers — Whose opinion 

 of Roses, as Captain Cuttle would say, " is an opinion as is an 

 opinion." The list of roses already comprise a greater variety 

 than is really demanded to satisfy the most zealous and avaricious 

 amateur. Unless new varieties are superior to those at present 

 in cultivation, do not let the world know there is another aspi- 

 rant for their devotions. Such roses as the " Giant of Battles," 

 " La Reine," " Paul Dupuy," " Chromontella," " Souvenir De La 

 Jtfalmaison," " Devoniensis," and a host of others, are quite up to 

 the mark of my appreciation. In them my desire ceases. Wlio 

 covets moi'e must^be a miser indeed. 



Death of the Seasons — Good poetry (by no means common in 

 this age of plagiarism) by a lady — Miss Isabella Stevens — 

 young most certainly ; old hearts do not tune themselves with music 

 upon which freshness rests and reflects its bright sparkle. The 

 dew of youth is yet to be licked up by those scorching passions 

 which beset the later conflict with life. Young hearts dream of 

 the joys which reward accomplished purposes, and those joys, all 

 so bitter, so replete witli gall, we are feign satisfied with the 

 merest sip. The young poetess permits her imagination to revel 

 in thought of cloistered convent and old cathedrals, covered over 

 with tracery of ivy, whose tall spires are comjjanions of taller 



