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KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 

organ, that it is difficult to recognise the rela- 
tionship through its various forms. What- 
ever contains the seeds—whether it be a 
large husk, like the cocoa-nut, with only one 
in its interior, the dry poppy-head, or the suc- 
culent apple with a multitude of seeds— 
that is the seed-vessel. 
Like all other functions of the plant, it is 
necessary that heat, light, and air should be 
present, in order to the full development of the 
seed. On no point in vegetable physiology are 
scientific men more divided in opinion than on 
the formation of the seed, from its first appear- 
ance asa little ovale, to its full development as 
a perfected seed. ‘The seed is the portion of 
the plant which contains the largest proportion 
of nitrogen; and, on this account, is the most 
nutritive as an article of diet. Beans, peas, 
wheat, and oats, are familiar examples of 
seeds turned to account in dietetics. It was 
estimated by Professor Johnston, that out of 
one thousand parts of each of the following 
seeds :—wheat had thirty-five of nitrogen; 
oats, twenty-two; peas, forty-two; hay, 
fifteen ; turnips, seventeen ; and potatoes, 
twelve; thus shewing a large balance in favor 
of the nutritive qualities of seeds over leaves, 
stems, or roots. The remaining bulk was 
made up principally by water, starch, sugar, 
and a few other compounds. 
The seed is an epitome of the plant. It 
consists of a quantity of starchy or albumi- 
nous matter, containing a little bud-like body, 
which, under favorable circumstances, will 
be developed as a plant, but which, so long 
as its torpidity can be retained, will preserve 
its latent powers intact. Well authenticated 
instances of seeds having been kept fora 
great number of years are on record. With- 
out instancing the dubious cases of wheat 
from Egyptian sarcophagi, and other seeds 
from Roman tombs, we are assured that a bag 
of seeds of the sensitive plant served the Paris 
Botanic Garden for sixty years.. That the 
dormant vitality may be retained for a much 
longer period is not to be doubted. It is not 
an unusualoccurrence on ploughing up apiece 
of waste land, for the first time, to have it 
soon after covered with plants hitherto almost 
unknown in the district, the seeds of which 
had undoubtedly lain dormant in the soil, 
beyond the reach. of moisture, heat, and air, 
for centuries. 
In order that the seed may grow, acertain 
amount of moisture ia the soil is necessary. 
Some seeds absorb morethan their own weight 
of water during the change of germination. 
This is especially the case in beans, peas, and 
kidney-beans. A certain state of temperature 
is also required, varying in different cases 
from 60 to 80 degrees Fahrenheit. Besides 
these, air is wanted; otherwise certain che- 
mical changes will not take place. For this 
purpose, seeds should never be sown toa 
great depth. From numerous experiments, 
performed by Petri and others, it has been 
decided that an inch of depth is sufficient 
for most seeds. If sown to a greater depth, 
they will not all germinate, and those which 
do will be later. 
Thus we find that a little seed, the produce 
of a tiny little blossom, is the parent of the 
mightiest tree ; and that those lovely flowers 
which delight our senses are not only inte- 
resting on account of their bright hues and 
sweet odors, but because they may be parents 
tu thousands as lovely as themselves.—D. 

THE FALL OF THE LEAF. 

The summer flowers are gone ! 
And o’er the melancholy lea 
The thistle-down is strown : 
The brown leaf drops, drops from the tree, 
And on the spated water floats, 
That with a sullen spirit flows, 
Like lurid dream of troubled thoughts ; 
While mournfully, all mournfully, 
The rain-wind blows. 
The summer birds are mute, 
And cheerless is the unsung grove ; 
Silent the rural flute, 
Whose Doric stop was touched to love, 
By hedgerow-stile, at gloaming grey ; 
Nor heard the milkmaid’s melody, 
To fountain, wending blithe as gay ; 
In wain-shed stand, all pensively, 
The hamlet fowls—the cock not crows ; 
While mournfully, all mournfully, 
The rain-wind blows. 
Nor heard the pastoral bleat 
Of flocks, that whitened many hills ; 
Vacant the plaided shepherd’s seat 
Far up above the boulder-leaping rills : 
Young Winter o’er the mountains scowls, 
His blasts and snow-clouds marshalling ; 
Beasts of the field, and forest fowls, 
Instinctive, see the growing wing 
Of storm, dark-coming o’er their social haunts; 
Yet fear not they. for Heaven provides 
For them—the wild bird never wants ; 
Want still with luxury resides! 
Prophetic o’er the rushy lea 
Stalk the dull choughs and crows ; 
While, mournfully and drearily, 
The rain-wind blows. 
Browse not the kine and horse ; 
Rusted the harrow and the plough ; 
And all day long upon the gorse, 
Brown-blighted on the brae’s rough brow, 
The night-dew, and thin gossamer, 
Hang chilly ; and the weary sun 
Seems tired amid the troubled air, 
And long ere his full course be run, 
Besouth the Sidlaws wild, sinks down ; 
Night gathers fast o’er cot and town ; 
Around, and far as eye can see, 
Day has a dreary death-like close ; 
While mournfully, all mournfully, 
THE RAIN-WIND BLOWS! 
Edinburgh. J. Nevay. - 




