some flowers opened, whilst others, such as
species of convolvulus, still followed the clock
hours in their opening and closing.

Some flowers bloom and decay in a day, and
are therefore called ephemeral; whilst others
continue to open and close for several days
before withering. The corolla usually beginning
to fade after the flower has been fertilised.

Many flowers or heads of flowers do not open
during cloudy or rainy weather, and hence have
been called meteoric. The closing of the
flowers in these circumstances is doubtless
intended to protect the pollen from the injurious
effects of moisture.

The scarlet pimpernel (Anagallis arvensis),
shepherd's barometer or poor man's weather-
glass, is the best floral barometer; because, not
only does the flower never open on a rainy day,
but long before the shower is coming it is
conscious of its approach, and closes up its petals.
This peculiarity was noticed by Derham, in his
Physico Theology; by Lord Bacon, who calls it
winco-pipe; and by Leyden. Not only does the
pimpernel shut up its blossoms during rainy
and cloudy weather; but it is one of the
best of the clock flowers, opening its petals
in our latitude at about ten minutes past
seven in the morning, and closing them a few
minutes after two in the afternoon. Dr. Seeman,
the naturalist of Kellett's Arctic Expedition,
mentions the regular closing of the flowers during
the long day of an Artic summer. "Although,"
he says, "the sun never sets while it lasts, the
plants make no mistake about the time, when, if
it be not night, it ought to be; but regularly as
the evening hours approach, and when a
midnight sun is several degrees above the horizon,
they droop their leaves and sleep, even as they do
at sunset in more favoured climes." This
naturalist adds that, if ever man should reach
the Pole, and be undecided which way to turn
when his compass has become sluggish and his
timepiece out of order, the plants will show him
the way; their sleeping leaves will tell him that
midnight is at hand; and that, at that time, the
sun is standing in the north.

The chickweed flower is one of the best, as it
is one of the commonest, indicators of the
changes of weather. It has been recommended
that the traveller by the roadside should
wrap his cloak around him if the flower is not
quite closed; for rain, if not come, is not far off.
But, if the chickweed flower be fully expanded,
he may walk gaily on, with a pretty good
assurance that, for four hours at least, he may
be safe from rain.

Miss Anne Pratt, in her Flowering Plants
and Ferns of Great Britain, says, that
constant as the flowers are under their
accustomed circumstances, yet there are certainly
cases in which, if unusual darkness come upon
them, they do, as Dr. Seeman expresses it, make
a "mistake." This lady further states that
some years ago an eclipse of the sun having
brought darkness at mid-day, she took a lantern
and went out to examine the flowers and leaves,
and found both folded up just as at midnight.
Various species of garden convolvulus,
the pheasant's eye, and several other flowers,
were quite closed, and daisies and marigolds
had "gone to bed with the sun." The leaves
of lupins, laburnums, and acacias, all hung
drooping as at night-time; and, as the darkness
gradually disappeared, the flowers and leaves
opened and stood erect as if to meet the dawn.

DRIFT.

A TARDY PARDON.

THE chronicle of John Capgrave, the Friar
of Lynn, in Norfolk, a learned though laborious
writer of the fifteenth century, contains a
brief narrative of the defection of one of the
most serviceable and staunchest friends of King
Edward the Second; who, after quelling half a
score of rebellions, turned rebel himself.

"In this same yere" (1321-2), "one Andrew
Harcla, whech took Thomas of Lancastir, and
broute him to the Kyng, and whom the Kyng
had rewarded gretly, and mad erl of Carlyle, ros
ageyn the Spenseres. And whanne he say it
myte not availe, thei were so wallid with the
Kyngis grace, he rebelled openly, and drow to
the Scottis, and favoured tlier part agayn the
Kyng. Thanne was there a nobil knyte in that
cuntre, cleped Sir Anthony Lucy. He, supposing
to stand the bettir in the Kyngis grace, sodeynly
fel upon this tyraunt at Karlhill, took him, put
him in yrunnes, and brout him to London to the
Kyng, and there was he schamefully deposed of
all worchip, and deed as a tretoure."

Well might the old monk write "schamefully
deposed of all worchip," for the sentence on Sir
Andrew de Harcla, Earl of Carlisle, ran to this
effect:

"He and his heirs are to lose the dignity of
the earldom for ever, he is to be ungirt of his
sword, and his golden spurs are to be hacked from
his heels." He is further adjudged to be drawn,
hanged, and beheaded; one of his quarters to be
hanged at the top of the tower of Carlisle, another
at the top of the tower of Newcastle, the third
on the bridge at York, the fourth at Shrewsbury,
and his head to be spiked on London-bridge.

But the memory of this warrior lay green in
the heart of his sister Sarah. When the restless,
changeful king had fallen by the hands of
assassins, and his high-spirited son had come to
the throne, though the crows and kites had
feasted off the flesh of her brother's body, and
its bones had whitened to the sun and the storm,
fit burial was obtained for the relics. The king's
prerogative was exercised for this sacred solace
in the following formula:

"The King to his beloved and faithful Antony
de Lucy, warden of his castle of Carlisle, greeting."
(Perhaps the identical person who had made
Sir Andrew prisoner.) "We command you that
you cause to be delivered without delay the
quarter of the body of Andrew de Harcla, which
hangs by command of the Lord Edward late
King of England, our father, upon the walls of
the said castle, to our beloved Sarah, formerly
the wife of Robert de Levburn, sister to the