ON UT FACE. 



Climb mountains, my dear fnend, cross torrents, descend 

 precipices, be drawn by horses, asses, mules, reindeer, camels, or 

 dogs, according to the country in which you are. Here am 

 I, returned again to my oak, once more reclining on the grass, 

 but this time with my face downwards, some few inches from 

 the ground, and it appears to me not at all unlikely that I 

 shall be as fortunate as you in om- common ardour in search 

 of that which is new. 



After we have viewed small things closely and attentively, 

 we gradually lose the feeling of their dimensions ; this green 

 moss appears to me to be trees, and the insects which wander 

 over its velvet surface, assume in my eyes an importance 

 equal to that of the deer and stags of a park. Moss is in- 

 teresting in more than one respect ; in addition to the charm 

 of its wavy, changeable colour, it is one of Nature's important 

 agents. The Great Worker who constructed our abode, has 

 established things in it in such a manner, that everything 



