crouching boy, and soothed him with gentle
words. The very tones of her voice were new
to him. They pierced his heart more acutely
than the fiercest of the upbraidings and
denunciations of his old companions. He looked
on his merciful benefactors with bewildered
tenderness. He kissed Mrs.Leyton's hand then
gently laid on his shoulder. He gazed about
like one in a dream who dreaded to wake.
He became faint and staggered. He was laid
gently on a sofa, and Mr. and Mrs. Leyton
left him.

Food was shortly administered to him, and
after a time, when his senses had become
sufficiently collected, Mr. Leyton returned to
the study, and explained holy and beautiful
things, which were new to the neglected boy:
of the great yet loving Father; of Him who
loved the poor, forlorn wretch, equally with
the richest, and noblest, and happiest; of
the force and efficacy of the sweet beatitude,
"Blessed are the Merciful for they shall
obtain Mercy."

I heard this story from Mr. Leyton, during
a visit to him in May. George West was
then head ploughman to a neighbouring
farmer, one of the cleanest, best behaved, and
most respected labourers in the parish.

FLOWERS.

DEAR friend, love well the flowers! Flowers are
the sign
Of Earth's all gentle love, her grace, her youth,
Her endless, matchless, tender gratitude.
When the Sun smiles on thee,—why thou art glad:
But when on Earth he smileth, She bursts forth
In beauty like a bride, and gives him back,
In sweet repayment for his warm bright love,
A world of flowers. You may see them born
On any day in April, moist or dry,
As bright as are the Heavens that look on them:
Some sown like stars upon the greensward; some
As yellow as the sunrise; others red
As Day is when he sets; reflecting thus,
In pretty moods, the bounties of the sky.

And now, of all fair flowers, which lovest thou
best ?
The Rose? She is a queen, more wonderful
Than any who have bloomed on Orient thrones:
Sabæan Empress! in her breast, though small,
Beauty and infinite sweetness sweetly dwell,
Inextricable. Or dost dare prefer
The Woodbine, for her fragrant summer breath?
Or Primrose, who doth haunt the hours of Spring,
A wood-nymph brightening places lone and green?
Or Cowslip? or the virgin Violet,
That nun, who, nestling in her cell of leaves,
Shrinks from the world, in vain?

Yet, wherefore choose, when Nature doth not
choose,
Our mistress, our preceptress? She brings forth
Her brood with equal care, loves all alike,
And to the meanest as the greatest yields
Her sunny splendours and her fruitful rains.
Love all flowers, then. Be sure that wisdom lies
In every leaf and bloom; o'er hills and dales;
And thymy mountains; sylvan solitudes,
Where sweet-voiced waters sing the long year
through;
In every haunt beneath the Eternal Sun,
Where Youth or Age sends forth its grateful prayer,
Or thoughtful Meditation deigns to stray.

THE CATTLE-ROAD TO RUIN.

THERE is more animal food consumed in
England than in any other country in the
world. We do not merely say more, in
proportion to the size of England, and the
numbers of its inhabitants—for then we should
only utter what every-body must know—but
we mean actually more, without any such
proportional considerations. Considering, then,
this vast amount of animal food, in all its
manifold bearings, it is impossible not to be
struck with a sense of what vital importance
it is to the health and general well-being of
the community that this food should be of a
perfectly wholesome kind. That very great
quantities are not only unwholesome, but of
the worst and most injurious kind, we shall
now proceed to show. We will set this question
clearly before the eyes of the reader, by
tracing the brief and eventful history of an
ox, from his journey to Smithfield, till he
rolls his large eye upward for the last time
beneath the unskilful blows of his slaughterer.

A good-natured, healthy, honest-faced ox,
is driven out of his meadow at break of day,
and finds a number of other oxen collected
together in the high road, amidst the shouting
and whistling of drovers, the lowing of many
deep voices, and the sound of many cudgels.
As soon as the expected numbers have all
arrived from the different stalls and fields,
the journey of twenty miles to the railway
commences. Some are refractory—the thrusting
and digging of the goad instantly produces
an uproar, and even our good-natured ox
cannot help contributing his share of lowing
and bellowing, in consequence of one of these
poignant digs received at random while he
was endeavouring to understand what was
required of him. From this moment there is
no peace or rest in his life. The noise and
contest is nearly over after a few miles, though
renewed now and then at a cross-road, when
the creatures do not know which way they
are to go, and some very naturally go one
way, and some the other. The contest is also
renewed whenever they pass a pond, or brook,
as the weather is sultry; and the roads are so
dusty, besides the steam from the breath and
bodies of the animals, that their journey seems
to be through a dense, continuous, stifling
cloud. It is noon; and the sun is glaring
fiercely down upon the drove. They have as
yet proceeded only twelve miles of their
journey, but the sleek and healthy skin of our
honest-faced ox has already undergone a
considerable change—and as for his countenance,
it is waxing wroth. His eye has become
blood-shot since they passed the last village
ale-house, where he made an attempt, in