Moss is selected to be the emblem of maternal love, because, like that love, it glads the heart when the winter of adversity overtakes us, and when summer friends have deserted us. Rousseau, so long the prey of his own passions, and tormented by those of other men, soothed the latter years of his life by the study of nature. The Mosses, in particular, attracted his attention. It is these, he would say, that give a look of youth and freshness to the fields, at the moment when the flowers have gone to their graves. In winter the Mosses offer to the eye of the lover of nature their carpet of emerald green, their secret nuptials, and the charming mysteries of the urns and amphoræ which enclose their posterity. It is asserted that without the Mosses, part of our globe would be uninhabitable. At the northern extremity of the earth, the Laplanders cover their subterranean abodes with Moss, and thus defy the longest and most terrible winters. Their numerous herds of reindeer have no other food, yet they supply their owners with delicious milk, nutritious flesh, and warm clothing; thus combining for the poor Laplander all the advantages that we derive from the horse, cow, and sheep. * * * * * There is none In all this cold and hollow world, no fount Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within A mother’s heart. _Mrs. Hemans._ * * * * * The docile, swift Reindeer! Oh, when I was a child, I loved all strange fantastic tales, the wondrous and the wild; I read about the “Hundred Nights,” in the Arabian Tales, That tell of Genii, sprites, and dwarfs, of gold and diamond vales. I read of Eastern gardens and palaces so rare, And of Sultans and Sultanas, the cruel and the fair. I read of Robin Crusoe! Ah! how I loved that book! Nor even yet hath its strong charm wholly my mind forsook. I read of voyages without end; of travels many too, And fairy-tales and story-books--of these, good sooth, not few. But I remember, more than all, I loved to think and hear Of thee--thou strong and beautiful--thou swift and good Reindeer! I remember in my earliest home, a dim antique beaufet, And high upon its many shelves, things manifold were set. Some piles of dark old books there were, amid the motley crowd, And when tall enough to reach them, oh! glad was I, and proud. And there I found old Æsop, whose fables we all know, And Cookery-books of ancient dates, most grim and well worn too. These I just peeped at, and put back--and still went groping on Deep into that small mine of wealth that I so late had won. Soon with some daring tugs, I brought a lumbering volume slap Down on the floor! I sat down too, and dragged it on my lap. The binding was antique and worn--the title-page was out, And yet the treasure won from me a child’s exultant shout;