Another lecture by Mr Cracknell at the model of the Manitoba Farm embodied some interesting information regarding the Canadian north-west. The Bell Farm in Qu’appelle he described as the largest farm in the world. There were eight thousand acres under crop, five thousand under wheat, and a portion of the remainder under flax. From this farm, ten thousand bushels of wheat had been exported at a good price last year; and this year’s crop was estimated to be forty per cent. better. The estimated wheat acreage this year in Manitoba is three hundred and fifty thousand; and in the north-west territories sixty-five thousand, with an estimated yield of twenty-three bushels an acre. There was thus a total of four hundred and fifteen thousand acres, and nine million five hundred and forty-five thousand bushels; but deducting two million seven hundred and sixty thousand bushels for home consumption and seed, there remained a surplus of six million seven hundred and eighty-five thousand bushels. There is little consolation here for the British farmer, who finds wheat-growing at the present low prices positively unremunerative. A LOVE-THOUGHT. If thou wert only, love, a tiny flower, And I a butterfly with gaudy wings, Flitting to changing scenes each changing hour, Careless of aught save that which pleasure brings— Not even I could leave the lowliest glade That held thy loveliness within its shade. If thou wert but a streamlet in the vale, And I a sailor on a stormy sea, Flying through whirling foam beneath the gale, Chartless in all that wild immensity— Thy murmuring voice would echo in my soul Through howling storm or crashing thunder-roll. If, darling, thou wert but a far-off star, And I a weary wanderer o’er the plain, Unwitting of celestial worlds afar, And knowing naught of all the shining train— My glance would single out thy ray serene, Though blazing suns and planets rolled between. Yet, dear one, thou art these to me, and more: My flower, whose radiance passeth all decay; My streamlet of sweet thoughts in endless store; My star, to guide my steps to perfect day; My hope in earth’s dark dungeon of despair; My refuge ’mid life’s weary noonday glare. H. ERNEST NICHOL. * * * * * Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH. * * * * * _All Rights Reserved._