190 
THE COTTAGE GABDENEB. 
that there can be hut one change in the spiritual 
| iif e —that which is from death unto life—when “ old 
tilings” have for ever “passed away”—when “all 
tilings have become new.” This thought may be re¬ 
pugnant to some of us, but it is true, and of intense 
importance. We have begun a new year in time— 
let us examine our progress towards eternity, that as 
we launch forth again on the waves of life’s restless 
tide, we may feel that we are indeed, and in truth, 
the “ homeward bound.” 
We hear stirring sounds in the woods already. The 
interesting labours of the woodman have begun, and 
very soon after the fall of the copse-wood, up spring 
the glad primroses, and violets, and wild anemones, 
that have so long laid dormant beneath the shade, as 
if delighted once more to meet the sun, and to ex¬ 
pand their simple, beautiful blossoms under the 
influence of his rays. How soon the admission of 
air and light calls into life the exquisite things of 
nature that sleep beneath the soil; and how soon 
does the earth mantle with verdure, and cover itself 
with flowers. A newly-cleared coppice, with its piles 
of hoop-chips and faggots, the picturesque figures at 
w'ork, the wild plants springing up cheerily, and the 
birds warbling away among the yet leafless trees, 
like a concert of Jenny Lind’s, is, certainly, one of the 
most delightful scenes that the early spring affords. 
But before this lovely season greets us, we have, or 
hope to have, the enriching influence of frost and 
snow. The mildest winter seldom passes without 
them; and it is one of the most beautiful of nature’s 
changes, when earth, and tree, and stream, are covered 
up with snow. There is then a deep stillness in the 
air, and the boughs of the graceful evergreen droop, 
as if wearied and oppressed with their soft burden. 
Lightly as it falls, and feathery as is every separate 
flake, what weight there is in a fall of snow. I have 
often raised the lower boughs of cedars and spruce 
fi rs, to release them from its pressure, and although 
there might be but a sprinkling on their leaves, yet 
every bough seemed pinned to the earth, and sprang 
gratefully up when the snow fell from it. There is an 
indescribable something in our feelings, when we just 
look out upon a snow scene, though we have seen it 
year after year. Yesterday all was green and open, 
every road, every path, every object clearly defined ; 
to-day we look out almost on vacancy—scarcely a 
hedge-row can be seen, every house and tree seem 
like large heaps of snow, and the streams that give 
such beauty to a landscape, are either totally covered 
up, or appear like rivers of ink. The few figures we 
see move silently along, with their rough garments 
wrapped more closely round them, looking black, and 
cold, and comfortless, while the poor little birds hop 
printlessly over the smooth white surface, or sit 
silently in groups on the house-tops. What a scene 
of stillness and desolation, yet how beautiful! And 
when the bright sun looks out, and lights up the 
scene with thousands of sparks like diamonds, it is 
like Fairy-land indeed. I once witnessed one of those 
sudden changes, for which our climate is remarkable, 
and it was very striking. One bright sunny morning 
in the spring, some years ago, I walked to the house 
of a friend, enjoying the beauty of the scene, which 
was green, and gay, and lively. I returned in three 
or four hours, nearly over my shoes in snow, which 
had, in that short space of time, shrouded the whole 
country, and turned the glowing scene of spring into 
the depth of winter. It spoke loudly of the “ changes 
and chances of this mortal life;” chances which God 
appoints, and which meet us at every step. Who 
can tell, when we go forth in the morning, how the 
[January 3. 
day, that looks so well, will close around us? Yet the 
same hand that scatters the snow-flakes, and covers 
up the budding earth in that cold mantle, can cause 
the bright sun-beams to melt and disperse it, as 
quickly as it fell. Need we then sorrow as those 
without hope, when troubles and disappointments 
fall heavily upon us? Let our winter walks teach 
us some lessons too ; and let us, as we plunge through 
the snow, remember the beauties that lie beneath it, 
and the blessings that are, for a little season, hidden 
by the trials of our earthly pilgrimage. 
A snow scene reminds us also of those regions of 
almost perpetual winter, where so many of our fellow- 
men dwell amid dreariness and gloom. When we 
see the wannly-thatched roofs of our British cottages 
fringed with sparkling icicles, yet gleaming sometimes 
with cheerful light within, should we not think of 
those dark northern lands, of those dark northern 
homes, where for so many months our sun is never 
seen, where so much of human life is passed in dis¬ 
mal huts, deprived of the joyful light of heaven, and 
almost of its air ? Yet these fur-clad children of per¬ 
petual snows are watched by the same Eye, fed by 
the same Hand, and redeemed by the same Blood, as 
those who possess far greater worldly blessings. 
They dwell apart from many joys and many beautiful 
things, but they love their icy mountains and barren 
plains, as dearly as we love our trees and flowers, 
and the bright warmth of their short summers cheers 
and refreshes them, and gives them some country 
pleasures, perhaps like ours. 
Let our comparatively short and cheerful winters 
fill our hearts with gratitude to God. He has placed 
us among unnumbered blessings—the light of our 
brilliant sun can only be exceeded by that “True 
Light, which lightens every man that cometh into 
the world;” and the few dark and stormy months we 
see do but wed us to our happy homes, and give us 
cause yet more to bless Him who so unweariedly 
gives us “ all things richly to enjoy.” 
CALCEOLABIA CUTTINGS. 
Having just seen the last two numbers of The 
Cottage Gardener, being the first of the series that 
have fallen in my way, and thinking that commmuni- 
cations on practical subjects, however trilling, may 
be of some service to your readers, I am induced to 
make a few additional remarks to Mr. G. Penny’s paper 
on striking calceolarias, which I trust may be useful. 
Some years ago, after having put in what I ex¬ 
pected an abundant stock of cuttings of all kinds of 
bedding-out stuff, I was unexpectedly called away, 
and left their management to other hands. This was 
early in September, and I felt not a little annoyed, 
on my return, at the end of October, to find that 
scarcely any of my favourite calceolarias were grow¬ 
ing, although the verbenas, petunias, &c., had done 
well, and showed signs of good treatment, which, I 
was told, was the same as the calceolarias had. Judg¬ 
ing, then, that something radically different must be 
wanted to make them strike freely, I determined to put 
in a batch of cuttings, at that time taken from the 
plants in the flower beds, and inserted from twenty 
to thirty in a 24-pot; these 1 placed under a hand¬ 
glass, in a shady place, my frames being then full of 
other things. The healthy appearance they soon 
presented, while they were almost continually wet, 
convinced me that they liked the treatment; so that 
when we digged up the flower beds for the winter, in 
the beginning of December I put in another batch 
of cuttings, and treated them in the same way. Even 
at that late period I found their tenacity to life so 
