‘ It won’t for long/ 
The man made answer, with a mournful smile, 
Eyeing the plant—* I took it up, poor thing! 
But Sunday evening last, from the rich meadow, 
Where thousands bloom so gay, and brought it here, 
To smell of the green fields for a few days, 
Till Sunday comes again—and rest mine eyes on, 
When I look up, fatigued, from these dead gems 
And yellow glittering gold.’”—Miss Bowles. 
The man was a working jeweller, and could 
estimate rightly the great value of the precious 
ore, and glittering gems, entrusted to him ; and 
yet more highly did he prize the simple Wild 
Flower, which reminded him of his rarely 
enjoyed country walks, and brought something 
of the freshness and beauty of nature into his 
nome and his heart; pleasant associations were 
mingled with the sight of that flower, and it 
cheered and refreshed him at his labor, to look 
upon it, and to think; — 
“ Thus, when within my sunless room, 
Heartsick, and mocked by mammon’s leaven, 
Thy pyramids of purple bloom, 
Blush through the loneliness and gloom. 
My spirit bursts its living tomb, 
And basks beneath the open heaven " 
