corroborate the stomach." Those who wish to plant this tree had best go to a French nurseryman and order it under the name of _Cormier_ or _Sorbus domestica_. The wild service (_P. torminalis_) will attain a height of 70 or 80 feet if it is given a fair chance, which it seldom gets from us. Its chief recommendation is its handsome foliage, the leaves being deeply lobed. They turn a fine orange colour in autumn, but the fruit adds nothing to the display, being brown when ripe. For ornamental purposes the whitebeam (_P. aria_) is far preferable to the wild service, owing to the snowy whiteness of the young shoots and undersides of the leaves. The fruit, moreover, is bright red; but this is of the less moment, inasmuch as birds devour it so soon as it is ripe. By far the noblest of all the _Sorbus_ group is the Himalayan _Pyrus vestita_ (also known as _Sorbus nepalensis_). Its broadly oval, pointed leaves are very large, thickly clothed with white wool when young, remaining white on the undersides until late autumn, when they turn to a clear yellow. The clusters of white flowers are very woolly, and are followed by large round red fruits. It is an exceedingly handsome and stately tree, and ought to be better known in this country than it is at present; but much disappointment has been incurred through the vicious practice followed by nurserymen of grafting it high upon the rowan, a tree of much inferior bulk. The result is that the scion, flourishing vigorously for a few seasons, outgrows the stock, which cannot carry up enough sap to supply the wants of the more robust species. It is pathetic to see the leaves endeavouring to unfold, but failing to do so. There is then nothing for it but to root the whole affair up, and procure seedlings, or, at least, plants grafted _low_ on the British stock, which, if deeply planted, enable the scions to throw out roots of their own. Leaving _Sorbus_--the rowans--let us glance at _Malus_--the apples; and among the fourteen species, all more or less distinguished by the loveliness of their blossom, confine our attention to the wild crab, parent of all our cultivated varieties. Of all the floral displays of British springtide, there is none more exquisite than an old crab in full flower, standing in a sea of blue hyacinths. It says little for our intelligence that, while we are ready to spend lavishly in the purchase of foreign trees and shrubs, many of very doubtful merit, none of us seem to think the crab-tree worth anything except as a stock for grafting orchard apples on.