In flowers we begin to appreciate the thought of God towards mankind. What wealth of design is displayed, what unrivalled richness of coloring, what lavish, prodigal growth and all for what? That we might love the tenderness that gave them. That we might have faith in the One who made them. That they might bring to our life, otherwise hard and prosaic, the imaginative beauty, the delicate foreshadowing of a brighter and better existence. What would this earth be without the delicate fringe of blossoms that cluster round her bosom in spring, the gorgeous richness of flowers that fill her hands in summer, or the last rich, brilliant trophies that deck her russet gown in autumn? Has she not taught even old Winter to mimic the trailing sprays of wildwood blooms, and hung the trees with icy buds and flowers? But our weeding is finished. We look around with satisfaction on our work. And if from these few words of ours we have given any one a new thought or woven a romance about a common thing we shall be more than satisfied.

THE GARDEN IN WINTER.

"Lov'st thou thy garden still, though drear December
Hast cast a shade o'er all?

Canst thou the glory of its spring remember,
Its summer joys recall?

Sweet solace of full many a moment weary,
Beloved and cherished spot,

As o'er thee summers steal and winters dreary,
Say if I love thee not?"

Yes, we love it for its bygone pleasures and its many pleasant memories. Did we say bygone? nay, they are ever present and still exist. We cannot forget each spring's resurrection, when, as Bishop Heber sings, "Spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laughing soil;" when the pale snowdrop looks up, the emblem of innocence, which it would seem old Winter and Spring fashioned together out of the last snows and the first warm breezes. It reminds us of one of the most beautiful designs we ever saw, one by a German, representing old Winter entering a peasant's cottage where are the father, mother and infant, and placing a snowdrop in the baby's cradle. It is a pity that our American artists cannot bring more poetry and imagination into their pictures and make them creations instead of reproductions. How the cheery crocus springs forth and laughs in spite of the biting wind; or the Draba verna, that little country cousin of theirs, sends on the telephone gale the news that she is in good health! We love the garden in winter, for we are ever looking forward to the reappearance of the old, favorite flowers; for the happy moments we have spent in listening to the songs of the birds, or in watching the gay flitting or busy labor of the insects; in gazing at the clouds marshalled for the gathering storm, or looking afar at gorgeous sunsets when the gates seemed wide open, leading to the Eternal City; and more for the memories of those whose feet have walked there with us and whose thoughts and words linger still around. What a fine view we have of the branching of the trees in the winter garden and

how beautiful their shadows on the snow! Our old locust tree, a veteran of nearly two hundred years, with one side destitute of bark, still stands erect, and last summer hung out its scented white clusters as if to say, "I still live." Cremation is in vogue, and, old sentinel, when wholly dead, who knows but it may be thy fate? But if so, methinks from the sweet-scented wood blazing in the open fireplace thy spirit will sing a soft dirge of the fresh green with which thou trimmed spring's robe, of the snowy blossoms hung out year by year, and of the robins who annually built in the shelter of thy boughs. In the winter garden the little pine trees we have planted remain bright in their greenness, like winter friends, and the box, meriting its name of constancy, peeps forth from every snowdrift. Why should not the garden in winter look beautiful? If now we could have groups of large pines, and if we could at the beginning of the cold weather make statues of the snow, to be placed here and there, would it not be? We have often talked of this, and the other day, when the snow was soft, we modelled a large dog on the place where our plants stand in summer. We persevered in the work (notwithstanding many knocks on the window with the startling intelligence that we would get our death), and waited for criticisms. The old gentleman who shovels came on it suddenly, started back, gazed at it long, and spoke thus: "I thought you had a statue put there and I thought it would get dirtied, Why it's a setter!" A window was thrown up in the next house with the exclamation from one, "How

beautiful!" The market boy said, after viewing it a second time, after his first admiration of it, “That model's cute." So of course we felt satisfied with the result of our labor. The next day it was of marble hardness and prevented the finishing touches. The day after, old Winter dropped a white fleece over it, which suggested that a group of sheep would look well under the pine trees. But when a violent storm of rain came, the setter was so reduced that he seemed a fit subject for the society with the long name. But the experiment showed that the garden might be beautified by statues, which a little care in renewing would keep in shape during the winter. Urns might also be made, and bouquets of grasses, berries and laurel or other evergreen kept in them. We have had the red alder berries keep bright all winter, and when they glistened through their icy casing they looked more beautiful. But the trees are not always bare, for does not old Winter cover them often with pure, white foliage and icy fruit that glisten in the sunshine? And does he not sing in every stirring gale to the imprisoned plants and embryo flowers the old song of, "Sleep, baby, sleep?" How, when he rattles at the doors and windows, he seems to say, "I know why you keep me out; it is kindness to me, I could not live in your hot houses," and methinks he adds in an undertone, as he turns away, "Would it not be better for you, if you took a run out in the cold oftener than you do, and kept your rooms at a lower temperature? and then you would not be afraid of me."

SALEM TURNPIKE.

"Though much has changed and much has vanished quite, The old town pastures have not passed from sight; Delectable Mountains of our childhood there

They stretch away into the summer air.”

What a stupendous undertaking was the planning and executing of the Salem turnpike. It far exceeded in magnitude the cutting of the Suez Canal or the spanning of Brooklyn Bridge. For was it not before the application of steam or electricity to common needs? Opposers were not wanting, as in every great undertaking. Wiseacres prophesied its non-success, for it implied all that was mentioned in the old hymn,

"Bring down the proud mountain, though towering to heaven, And be ye low valleys exalted on high,"

and more for there was a bottomless pond (which our English cousins would call, and truly, a lake), and this must be bridged over. In spite of all the difficulties, the road was undertaken, and soon the shanties of the workmen dotted the hills, while the inhabitants of the City of Peace, who looked upon it as a grand undertaking, walked up every eve after the labors of the day to gaze and admire.

The entrance to Salem turnpike was adorned by a row of buildings called negro huts. Before you came to these was a well-known baker's shop. How well we children remembered the gingerbread horses and "shays" and the Jim Crows baked in that plastic material! No sculptor rejoiced more in one of his success