“He is not only a friend of humanity, but he is kindly disposed towards brutes. An ox is to him in the light of a friend, a cow is a benefactor, and a calf is almost a child. He is clothed by the sheep, and the cosset lamb is a foster brother of his children, who have a heavy day when their mute friend is sold to the butcher. The farmer has little to buy and much to sell; his means are large and his waste little. He is an especial favorite of Ceres and Pomona, but he cares little for Bacchus, Phœbus and other idlers. “He puts his hand to the plough, and if he look back, it is in a furrow like the wake of a boat. In May he puts a potato or two in the earth, and in October he digs into the same place and finds a peck of them. In spring he covers with earth three or four kernels of maize, and in autumn he finds ears enough on the spot to furnish the materials for many loaves. He hides in the soil a seed, no bigger than a large bedbug, and in a few weeks a vine appears with several pumpkins attached to it, of the capacity of four gallons.” Who that walks forth, now, and sees grass beginning to spring up from the ground, or the little flowers peeping forth, can refrain from reflecting upon that Power that endows these things with life? The following lines are full of natural thought and feeling: THE DAISY. Not worlds on worlds, in phalanx deep, Need we, to prove a God is here; The daisy fresh from winter’s sleep, Tells of his hand in lines as clear. For who but He that arched the skies And pours the day-spring’s living flood, Who works and dwells in mysteries, Could rear the daisy’s purple bud? Mould its green cup, its wiry stem, Its fringed border nicely spin, And cut the gold-embossed gem, That sets in silver gleams within? And fling it, unrestrained and free, O’er hill, and dale, and desert sod, That man, where’er he walks, may see In every step the stamp of God? Among the birds, that, having spent the winter in a warm climate, return to us during this month, we may mention, as worthy of particular notice, the familiar robin. This bird sometimes spends his winter among our thick cedar forests, living upon the berries of the cedars; but in general he prefers to go to the middle states, or even farther south, where he lives a quiet and secluded life, till he is advised of the melting of the snows. He is then impatient to return, and often runs the risk of a few snow squalls, rather than be behind his time. He is a familiar bird, and loves to build his nest near our houses. He is a general favorite, and should rather be treated as a friend than an enemy. He never meddles with the corn, though he now and then filches a few cherries. His song, however, is worth more than all he eats. True Stories.