the balsam leaf, a cutting of which I showed you at (38); the shaded parts show where the green pulpcells touch the skin; (38) shows two of the openings cut through; (40) is a piece of the leaf of a watercrowfoot; (41) part of a lily leaf, a cutting of which I gave you before at (37); and (42) a piece of the leaf of the madder. These will show you the minute openings, or mouths, in the skin; and beside that, the forms of the cells in the skin, and immediately under it, which are very various and wonderful.

Each of these openings has, you see, a crescentshaped cell on each side of it; and by that means, when it is desirable, the hole can be shut up so close, that neither air nor moisture can get in or out. Through them all, the moisture that is not required for the nourishment of the plant, and all that is wasted in the changes that take place in the juices, when they are acted upon by the air and the light, is thrown off, just in the same way as a great quantity of unseen moisture flies off with our breath, and from the pores of our skin, in every part of our bodies. So much moisture is given out by some plants, that a sunflower, three feet high, and a good-sized cabbage, will each lose about a pint of water in a day. The greater the number of these mouths, of course the more water a plant will require; and you have observed in your own gardens, how very much some want, compared with others. The fleshy-leaved plants which grow in deserts, and which need scarcely any water to keep them living and fresh, have a very few of these openings.

When I told you what made the seed sprout, you remember, I spoke of light as one thing, and of some kinds of air, or gas, also. You must understand that light has a very great deal to do with the life and health of plants. You have all noticed that leaves and stems which have grown in the dark, and which ought to be green, are of a sickly-yellow colour. Gardeners cover up celery in trenches, and tie up cabbages and lettuces, that the light may not get to the young shoots and leaves, which are pale and tender, and nice to eat, in consequence, instead of being green, and tough, and strong. And the great difference there is between the plants, and flowers, and fruit of the colder parts of the earth, where the sun shines feebly, and clouds often hide its face, and those of the hotter countries, where it shines directly down upon the earth, and for months together is never covered by a single cloud, shows the same thing.

In every green part of plants, and in the leaves especially, that deadly kind of gas, which I said was made up of carbon and life-supporting air, and which has been partly drawn in by the roots, mixed with water, and partly obtained from the air, goes through a very wonderful change, when the light shines warmly and brightly upon them. It is very much like the change which comes through our breathing we draw in the air mixed, as it always is, but the lungs instantly separate the life-supporting gas from the other kinds, and that is mixed with the blood, while these are breathed out again. In the plant,

the light separates the carbon from the life-supporting gas, and while this is breathed out from the membranes of the leaves and stems, the carbon becomes green pulp in the leaves and stems, or membrane, or fibre, or is mixed with other things which the roots or the leaves have gathered, and becomes gum, or resin, sugar, oil, or some other one of the substances formed by plants, about which I have yet to tell you. And this is the way in which the plant lives on its food.

I dare say you have heard that it is very useful to keep plants in a room where many persons meet, and now you see the reason; we breathe in the lifesupporting gas, and breathe out what will not support life;—plants breathe in what would kill us, and breathe out what helps to keeps us alive.

But this is only one of the things thrown off by the plant, because it is not wanted for its nourishment. There is the water, I named before; and there are several different kinds of matter, which ooze out of the skin, or bark, which I must speak of another time; there are the various odours and scents of the flowers and leaves, most of them deliciously sweet ; there is the honey which particular parts of the flower give out; and there are the substances which the roots give back to the soil-about which very little is known, except this, that the reason why you cannot get some plants to grow in places where plants of the same kind have been growing, is that the earth has in it what the roots of those which were there gave out, which would kill and not nourish those of the same kind.

We have seen another of the uses of plants, now. They not only provide food for animals, but actually help to make the air fit for them to breathe! These useful and beautiful friends to man! How can we ever forget the greatness and the goodness of God, who has, in this manner, made provisions for our common and constant wants; and has given us as most valuable servants, these dear flowers, which every one loves, although not one of all the services they do us should be known.

"More servants wait on man

Than he'll take notice of. In every path

He treads down that which doth befriend him,
When sickness makes him pale and wan.
O, mighty love! Man is one world, and hath
Another to attend him!

"Since then, my God, thou hast

So brave a palace built, oh dwell in it!

That it may dwell with thee at last!

Till then, afford us so much wit,

That, as the world serves us, we may serve thee,
And both thy servants be!"

Letter to a Little Boy.

MY DEAR CHArles,

As I was thinking of you this morning, I remembered a little story which I thought you would like to hear. I am not sure that I remember every part of it, but the chief of it really happened to a little boy, who, from a lowly station rose at last to be Governor-General of India, to ride in the

Governor's palanquin, to live in his palace, and to command all his soldiers. All this came about by the little boy being so very obliging to every one he came near. Shall I tell you how it happened?

His mother was a widow, and not at all rich, but she sent him to a good school, where he was very diligent, and learnt a great deal that was very useful to him afterwards. There was a little boy at the school who was very dull, and could not learn his lessons, and the other boys laughed at him, and called him dunce; but this little boy helped him very kindly, and did him so much good, that his friends, who were rich, used to ask the little boy to stay with them in the holidays, and were good friends to him through life, and he did not forget them when he was a man. When he left the school, he was apprenticed to a common trade, where he was so useful, that his master valued him much. One day, a farmer came in from the country, and seemed in great trouble, and said he was in disgrace with his landlord through a misunderstanding, and feared he should lose his farm unless he sent him a letter about it, explaining it; but, alas! he could not write. The young apprentice at once offered to write for him, and put the facts together so well, that the explanation succeeded. One day, some time after, a carriage stopped at the door, and a gentleman got out, and coming into the shop, asked the apprentice a good many questions, and seemed much interested in him. At last he told him he had found out he was the writer of a letter to him, which was so