THE pleasure oe gardening. 
We know of no labor, no recreation, no fancy, the 
pursuit of which is rewarded with more unalloyed 
pleasure than is the cultivation of a garden. The miser 
gloats no more over his dearest treasure than does the 
gardener over his choice fruits and flowers: the picture- 
fancier is not more proud of his wondrous works of art, 
than is the florist of his Tulips; nor does the owner of 
rarest gems point them out to admiring friends with 
more of satisfaction than does the amateur his best- 
named flowers. The picture-gallery may boast its 
Rubens, its Leonardo di Vinci, its Paul Potter; but the 
garden-bed will show greater wonders, and yet hold in 
reserve those which are still greater. 
What though the concliologist feast upon his marvel¬ 
lous collection of shells ? His feast is ever the same ; 
his shells change not, nor do they increase and multiply. 
The sight of them can be enjoyed only by a select few, 
and these can form no estimate of then' rarity. And so. 
also, the antiquarian may pore in solitude over his 
coins. This crown, that guinea, yonder eagle: may be 
the only specimens of their particular kind in existence, 
but will they not always remain the same coins—ever 
changeless? 
But the gardener, the florist! What limit have they 
to the multiplication of their treasures ? They may give 
and yet grow richer. Then- friends are ever welcome, 
as well to possession as to sight. Their treasures are 
more safely kept in the free air of heaven, than are those 
of their neighbor-misers by bolts, bars and deep caves. 
The lover of cultivation is not only a collector lut a 
dispenser of treasure: not only a reproducer of the old, 
but a creator of new beauty, llis labor finds sweet re¬ 
ward in the daily developments of his fruit, lie sows 
his seed in pleasure; he watches the progress of his 
plants with interest, and ministers to their several wants 
with satisfaction. And when the harvest comes, in its 
appointed time, what king more jubilant over a victory 
gained? What fruit so sweet: what flower so fragrant 
as that grown in one’s own garden, and from under 
one’s own hand ? 
A man goes not to his garden as into a picture-gallery, 
a museum, or a cabinet ; ever to see the same thing in 
the same places. Every day develops some new claim to 
his attention. Now he finds a new visitor in the form 
of a flower: anon it is a fruit or a vegetable which ex¬ 
cites remark. To-day his Crocus, Carnation and Chry¬ 
santhemum are in glory; and to-morrow his Picotees, 
Pinks and Pansies will outshine the brightest. And so 
fruit, vegetable and flower, in their several varieties, 
follow, in grand and ever-living, ever changing proces¬ 
sion: the sure reward of toil and trouble: the sweetener 
of cares and the refreshment after anxieties. Would he 
share the delight of that which his hands had produced? 
He needs irot the society of a connoisseur. The high 
and the low, the rich and the poor, may all be enter¬ 
tained. His garden delights all senses: its fragrance, its 
brilliance, its usefulness, speak in every tongue, and in 
language never misunderstood .—Thomas Miller. 
DAISY GREEN IN THE ATTIC. 
“Where is Daisy? ” asked Mrs. Green, one forenoon, 
of the woman who was doing her honing. Mrs. Green 
had been out to visit a sick lady and had left Daisy at 
home, not without some apprehension lest she might get 
into mischief or trouble, although Daisy was not quite 
so mischievous as formerly. 
“Up in the attic, I guess, mum,” was the woman’s 
reply. * 
So Mrs. Green went up stairs and paused at the foot 
of the attic stairway “Daisy has company, it seems,” 
thought Mrs. Green, as she heard the sound of voices. 
Daisy often took her playmates to the attic where they 
could romp as much as they pleased. As Mrs. Green 
was about to turn away, she heard Daisy say, “ Now, 
children, let’s play church,” so she sat down on the 
stairs that she might hear the play. 
“ I’ll be the choir,” continued Daisy, “ and Lizzie and 
Maggie and Bell and Jimmie, may be the people, and 
Benjie may be the minister because he is gooder than 
the rest of us; but you must skip, the prayers, Benjie, 
for its wicked to pray when we ain’t in solemn earnest.” 
The choir then executed a solo with remarkable trills 
and shakes and quavers in a childish soprano. Then a 
voice which Mrs. Green recognized as that of Benjie, a 
little boy who lived, in the next house, commenced to 
read as follows: 
“ 1 And Isaiah said unto the people, Ye have sinned 
and done very wickedest things and must sit down in 
the ashes until ye have repented and made up your 
minds not to do bad things any more. And the people 
answered Isaiah and said. Verily, we have tried hard to 
be good, but you have been harsh with us, and we are 
tolerably discouraged. But Isaiah said unto them, You 
must keep on trying, for unless you repent and be good 
you will all be lost, lost, lost, so that you can never be 
found any more.’ Here endeth the chapter.” 
Then the choir executed another solo ! 
Then Benjie's voice resumed, “I will now read the 
notices; 
We shall have the usual prayer meetings, and all 
the folks that come must pray ; nobody must be lazy 
about it.’ 
‘“There will be amissionary meeting at my house 
on Wednesday. All folks who like to work for other 
folks better than for themselves will please come; to 
make it more interesting I will tell stories about mis¬ 
sionaries who have been eaten up for candy balls by the 
heathen ; and when you get tired of that wo can have 
a sewing-society and talk about folks awhile.’ ” 
“Oh, dear!” moaned Mrs. Green on the stab's. 
“ where did he get that idea? 1 am glad Daisy didn 
say that.” 
