We cannot close this paper without a word
of remembrance of one who, more than any
other of the present day, has helped to
popularise the knowledge of botany, and
foster a taste for flowers. We grieve that
this recognition must be written as a
memorial. Mrs. Loudon will never again shed
the light of her genius and industry over the
most captivating of our intellectual pleasures.
Yet by no true lover of flowers will her fame
be forgotten, or her works laid aside; for no
one has done so much to make beautiful
gardens possible to the weakest hands and
the smallest incomes; no one has taught so
genially or so well how to cultivate them
with intelligence. So long as English
gardens shall be cultivated, or English flowers
cherished, Mrs. Loudon's name will be
remembered with gratitude.

THREE ROSES.

  JUST when the red June roses blow
  She gave me one,— a year ago.
  A rose whose crimson breath reveal'd
  The secret that its heart conceal 'd.
  And whose half shy, half tender grace
  Blush'd back upon the giver's face.
       A year ago—a year ago—
      To hope was not to know.

  Just when the red June roses blow
  I pluck'd her one,—a month ago.
  Its half-blown crimson to eclipse,
  I laid it on her smiling lips;
  The balmy fragrance of the south
  Drew sweetness from her sweeter mouth.
        Swiftly do golden hours creep,—
        To hold is not to keep.

  The red June roses now are past,--
  This very day I broke the last,
  And now its perfum'd breath is hid,
  With her, beneath a coffin-lid;
  There will its petals fall apart,
  And wither on her icy heart:
     At three red roses' cost
     My world was gain'd and lost.

THE CANON'S CLOCK.
I. AT THE FOUNTAIN.

IT was the prettiest thing I had seen
in the course of that day's march. It
stood at the corner, where the road divided
half way up the hiil; and I had been
wondering as I worked my way wearily up
what this little bit of building would turn
out to be at last. It is a stone shed— it is
a broken pedestal—I said at every heavy
step. It might have been anything, but for
that sparkling, shining thing in the centre,
which soon helped me to its true meaning.

A fountain, to be sure! Which should
have been known to me a good half-mile off
but for that dulness which visits weary
eyes. An elegant little bit of builder's work,
of the greyest iron-grey stones, like a Moorish
tower, furnished with clusters and bunches
of decayed iron-grey pillars, and four sharp
arches, one for every side. All kept warm,
as it were, by snug moss and ivy jacketing,
which crept round and round about in belts
and comforters for the old iron-grey pillars.
While, over-head, in a little snug niche—
barely large enough, it must be said—was a
little figure of a saint, iron grey too. The saint
was pointing downwards to what I had seen
sparkling and glittering from the foot of the
hill—to the fresh gush that came out with
splash and spray and luxuriance into the old
stone basin; which, having a slice bitten as
it were out of its side, let the fresh water run
wild and make a shining pool for itself
among the stones. Its own water orchestra
played all the while it gushed—played me
up the hill.

"The gem of the day's march," I thought.
And so, loosening my wallet, I brushed the
dust away from the stone bench, and sat down.

"What was the Blandusian fount," I said
aloud, taking some of the water in a leathern
cup, " which glittered more than crystal to
this? Crystal! Why here are diamonds, my
old Venusian! This fountain against yours
—kid and all!" And here I filled the
leathern cup again. " Here's to the fountain
of—hum—what's the name, in what parish!"

The fact was, I had lost my road some
three hours and a half before. Stay; there
was something like a sign-post. So there was
—and so there should have been, if there
were not. For this spot where the two roads
branched off was a tongue of meadow, and
on the very tip of the tongue was planted
this pet spring of mine. "I will see what our
signboard has to tell," and with that I got up
from the stone seat and walked to the back
of my fountain. Said the sign-post—by one
of his straggling arms which hung to him
quite loosely, and would assuredly part
company at the next gust—said this disorderly
limb: "To Petit-Pont, so many [illegible]
leagues." By the other, which he carried
more decently: "To Mèzes, so many [illegible
also] leagues." Filled with which information,
I came round again to the stone seat,
and, regarding my wallet with a certain
animosity, "I must carry it," I said aloud,
"to Petit-Pont or to Mèzes, that is certain.
I may bear it in to Petit-Pont or to Mèzes,
over their sharp paving-stones, likely enough,
at midnight, or, say, at break of day. The
pedestrian who has not yet dined, will have,
perhaps, to forego bed. I angrily emptied
out the leathern cup which I had half-filled;
a thimbleful of Burgundy would have been
worth the whole spring bottled off. I was
out of sorts with the pet fountain. "Your
moss jacketing," I said, addressing it moodily,
"and your iron-grey pillars and arches, and
your saint, too, are all well enough, and your
water-music is respectable; but I think for
the highly-important position you occupy—
which, being one of bifurcation, has extraordinary
responsibilities—you might look a