WINTER. 7 



enter late, — the year has begun before we thought, 

 or could be quick enough to watch. So it is with the 

 operations of Divine Love. Everywhere we are 

 steeped in blessings that lie back beyond all memory 

 of beginning, or perception of cause. We may learn 

 to appreciate more fully, — and understanding better, 

 to be more grateful, but for the first flow of them, we 

 must ask of the " morning stars " that " sang togeth- 

 er," and of the "sons of. God" that "shouted for 

 joy." The simplest throb of pleasure that swells the 

 soul in connection with the good or true, if we will 

 but look at ourselves in the light of the recipients, 

 that we are, is no incident purely of the hour, but a 

 result of something our diary does not record ; far, 

 far away in the heavenly era of earliest boyhood, was 

 sown the seed that brings forth that pleasant fruit. 



Take first, as an illustration of this wonderful win- 

 ter-life of plants, the little bulb of the common garden 

 crocus. At this season, if we have not one at hand to 

 dig out of the ground, it is easy to procure an exam- 

 ple from any seed-shop. The bulb itself is round, flat- 

 tened at top and bottom, and covered with elegantly- 

 netted brown coats. Upon the summit are elevated 

 several white spires, plump, hard, and pointed, and in 

 these, if we dissect carefully, will be found all the gol- 

 den glory that would have been unfolded in March 

 and April. The petals are there, minute it is true, 

 but in that respect not inferior, in their degree, to 



