mounted by a pretty little tuft of shining hairs (pappus). Look closely at the flower; what we took to be the whitened locks of age are but the gay trappings of the young plants. Such is the youthful dandelion in its traveling dress, with its baggage neatly packed by the parent in the smallest possible space. Even while we watch it, off it goes;borne by the wind more securely than cumbrous balloon or wide-spread parachute. When it rests-perhaps many miles from its former home-the barbed seed touches the earth first, and by the swaying to and fro of the downy pappus the seed is worked into the soil; the projections on its surface prevent its withdrawal, and so it is safely sown. By such assistance in traveling, this plant, originally a native of Europe, has diffused itself over every part of this country; ocean and river, mountain and plain-all have been unable to intercept it in its wandering. Observe the admirably arranged fruit of the milk weed, or silk grass. Each seed is surmounted by a tuft of silk (coma), and in the perfection of its traveling paraphernalia, it disputes the palm with our former friend, the dandelion. Not less wonderful are the arrangements in the case of the thistle and the aster. Some seeds are carefully wrapped in a woolly covering as those of the cotton, willow and poplar, and are thus readily transported to great distances. Another arrangement quite as remarkable as those already described, is the attachment of membranous or wing-like appendages to seeds, as illustrated by the ash, elm, pine, maple, box-elder, etc. These may be carried considerable distances, though they seldom venture as far from home as do the hairy or woolly seeds. It would be decidedly detrimental to the plant if the seed produced were always deposited close by; the space of ground about the parent plant would soon be unable to supply nourishment to so numerous and constantly increasing a company, and soon would succumb to starvation. And thus we observe in the case of many plants the seeds of which are not designed to be carried far, wonderful arrangements for scattering the seed. Examine with care the wild geranium or cranesbill, whose modest pink flowers cheer us in the earliest spring. Each seed is provided with a long beak or awn, which is adherent to the style. As the fruit ripens, the beak loosens, and by its elastic force throws itself often to a distance of from one to five yards; and simultaneously the awn coils itself in the form of a corkscrew, boring the seed deeper and deeper into the earth. To this class of plants, those whose seed is scattered by the elasticity of the capsule or appendages, belong the common lady's slipper, fraxinella, sweet pea, etc. The minuteness of seeds greatly facilitate their dispersion by the wind; and those plants, the seeds of which are best adapted to this mode of travel, are in general the most widely diffused. The spores of mosses, ferns and lichens seem to wander everywhere, alike to the mountain top and the deepest caverns of the earth. Swartz records noticing in Jamaica the same species of ferns and mosses which he had gathered in Europe, though nearly all plants beside were new and peculiar. Most roaming seeds have decided preference for dry, fine weather; as what travelers have not! In consequence, the seed-vessels open as a rule only when the atmosphere is dry and the sky clear, that no moisture may be condensed on the wings or down of the seed and impede its progress. But in this connection we meet with another evidence of the awe-inspiring design of a Creator; for the ice plant, a lowly inhabitant of dry and sandy deserts, opens its capsules during the wet season only-just when other seeds would be carefully guarded within by the mother plant. Only at such times, in places naturally very dry is there sufficient moisture to permit germination. But aerial transportation is by no means the only mode in favor with plants; water is important as a vehicle for the transfer of seeds. Wrapped securely in waterproof cloaks many forms of seeds may safely remain in the liquid element for considerable time. Rain storms often wash numbers of seeds into the streams which bear them to the sea, and thence they may be carried to far distant shores. The ovules of West India vegetables are often conveyed by ocean currents to the coast of Norway and the shores of the Baltic, where, however, the severity of the climate prevents their growth. The seeds of aquatic plants often adhere to the feathers of water fowl, and are frequently in consequence conveyed to distant lakes and rivers. Animals too are made to serve as carriers of these wandering germs, sometimes perhaps unwillingly. The prickly fruit of the burdock and other allied plants cling to the hair or wool of horses, cattle, sheep and other animals that may venture too near the plant. Such seeds are often not deposited till the coat of the animal is shed; or the animal may be killed, and its hide, whole or in part, still entangling the seed, may be exported to foreign lands. Thus by cleaning and dressing of the skins, these germs of future flowers and fruits are cast away with the rubbish, till finally they successfully germinate and establish a new home. Birds feed largely on berries and fruits, and often swallow such food whole. In many cases the hard covering of the seed will effectually resist the action of the digestive fluids in the body of the bird, and the latent germ may be deposited in an undigested form far from the place of its birth. It is said that amateur florists in Sicily are in the habit of shooting migratory birds, just returning in the early spring from more southern climes, and of sowing the contents of their stomachs, by which means strange tropical flowers are often raised. Dr. Sumner relates that while the Hollanders occupied the Spice Islands, finding themselves unable to defend their possessons, they determined to abandon them; but before doing so they jealously rooted out the nutmeg plants-their most valuable production. The birds, however, soon redisseminated the nutmeg seed over the entire land a striking rebuke to the selfish cupidity of man. But greater than all such agencies, superior to air and water, bird and mammal in the dispersion of seeds is the influence of man. Through the commercial interchange of grains, breadstuffs and other desirable products, the germs of many varieties of vegetables will be disseminated. So extensively has this process gone on, that the botanist is greatly puzzled today to decide among many common plants as to their native or foreign origin. The armies of Europe returning from the Crusade wars brought with them many of our highly prized vegetables and flowers. Most common grains are supposed to have been received from Italy; the apricot hails from Armenia, the peach from Persia, and many other cultivated fruits from different parts of Asia. The potato is of American origin and was carried to Europe by Sir Walter Raleigh. It has now found its way into almost every part of the Old World. What great lessons of trust, hope and faith for the future and praise to the God of both plant and animal are taught by things as simple as flowers and their seeds! How like things of life do such germs move! The wind and the waves, insect, bird, quadruped, and even man— the "Lord of creation"-all are servants to the subjects of Flora. And when the seed has at length been buried in the soil still it waits, patiently yet quietly sleeping and preparing for the work of the future. Perhaps it slumbers under snows on the mountain side, or beneath a coverlet of ice by the river--resting till the genial rays of the spring sun penetrate to its chamber and whisper softly: "My child, awake; 'tis day; arise and work." And how nobly it obeys that behest! Its labor is not inspired by the transient enthusiasm of an hour, nor by selfishness for personal aggrandizement, but by an innate and strong determination to accomplish with honor the design of its Maker. There too is a lesson for us. J. E. Talmage. The lips of Truth shall be established forever; but a lying tongue is but for a moment. THE MISSIONARY'S CHRISTMAS GIFT. I. WILLER CRICK was the name bestowed upon an uneven and meandering stream, which rose up for its journey in the morning among the gorges, passed its mid-day through a succession of valleys and dales, and came to rest at night, many miles distant, in the broad bosom of the Mississippi. 'Somewhere in its mid-day course, the channel had narrowed, and the stream tumbled itself headlong over half-a-dozen cataracts. A New Englander, who was long ago driving to the south-west in search of a home, his head filled with mechanical fancies, his wagon box filled with robust boys, saw here the opportunity for flour mills, and announced to his wife that their pilgrimage was at an end. With the mill for a nucleus, other houses sprang up along the Crick, and by the time a dozen decades had rolled over the place, a village, or something having much. of its form, had risen in the district. There were at any rate, a church; a blacksmith shop, where shoeing and dentistry flourished side by side as twin branches of science; a grocery store, whose proprietor also opened the mail bag which at rare intervals was thrown off the passing stage, and who combined in his person, the functions of justice of the peace, viewer of fences, and recorder of marks and brands. With the progress of time, and the increase of population, a sturdy race of broad-shouldered, but not over gentle youths had grown up, and the particular uses to which nature had intended to put them, was fast becoming a problem of importance with the older heads of the village. Their destiny, so far, had been confined to assembling in the back room of the grocery store, riding to races at neighboring county seats, and holding hot disputes over the speed of their mares. When the problem was at itf knottiest, it had been settled, at least for a time, by the breaking out of the war, and the riding off of the flower of Willer Crick for the name of the stream had communicated itself to the village-to swell the ranks of the Confederate sympathizers. Most of them had returned, after two or three years, without being cumbered by either their discharge papers or their back pay. The experiences they had sustained had put beards upon many of their faces, and left a few scars besides; but, on the whole, the experience had not been of a softening kind, and the morale of Willer Crick could not be said to have improved with the war. The church, it is true, was still an important factor in the little community, and so far as it was able, exercised a corrective influence over its communicants. But the parson was of a harsh and intolerant temper, and his congregation, though faithful in their attendance each Sunday, seemed to make little progress in the more humanizing methods of settling their disputes. The shot gun did not go out with the war; and the respect for the sacred person of the negro was not increased, when the few who remained in the neighborhood were wont to remind their old masters of the Emancipation Decree. But withal, there was a certain prosperity, a rigidness among the elders, a sort of vicinage pride, which preserved at most times, the forms of law and order in Willer Crick, and held in some kind of check the more lawless spirits of the place. The village was not without its "husking bees," its social gatherings of various sorts; before the war it had known something like a fair, which it is true, rather hurriedly ended in a melee on the race course, and gave rise to sundry prosecutions for the offense known as mayhem. But it had marked something of a progressive spirit in the community after all. Any number of rosy cheeked girls could be counted at the singing school on the Friday night of each week, and their fresh, sonorous voices heard trolling in the early part of the evening, the old fashioned "ti, do's," and later the hymns and chorals of the divine service for the following Sunday; for the village choir drew its recruits from Stephen Druce's singing school, and that master united in his person, the offices of music instructor and leader of the choir; he was besides, the teacher of the Willer Crick school, and thus a person of no mean importance in the village. Stephen Druce was a very young man when he came to the village several years before, and answered in person the advertisement placed by the trustees in the county paper, for a suitable person to guide the sprouting ideas of the Willer Crick youth. Too young, perhaps, he was, to fill the standard of "not less than twenty-three years of age,” laid down by the trustees; but the readiness with which he parsed the verbs, and the free and easy way in which he dashed off mathematical problems selected from Greenleaf, carried the committee by storm, and his age was never brought into question. As Blacksmith Dunyon, one of the trustees, expressed himself: "He could do any sum in the 'rithmetick from Countin' to the Rule of Three and Measurin'; and the last sum in the book war'nt no more of a trick to him than the first." With such a testimonial, young Druce found no difficulty in being ensconced as the village schoolmaster. A full round voice, with a strong talent for music, generated and increased by the ardent love he bore for it-led, before long, to the formation of a singing school. Certain harmonies, floating out from the windows of the school house and diffusing themselves upon the summer air one evening, reached the ears of Parson Steele, and pleasingly turned his thoughts back to the time when music had formed a portion of his service. Young Druce, being importuned, readily organized a choir, and the singing was now one of the notable parts of the church worship. Stephen Druce was therefore a man with whom time did but little dallying. His superior training, over the general run of the Willer Crick youth, his handsome face and well knit limbs, rendered him a strong favorite with the young women of the place. It was on this account, perhaps, that he was less a favorite with the young men. en. His manner, dress and forms of speech were such as they could not for an instant tolerate. When it was found that he had corrected the children in their manner of pronouncing the name of the place, and boldly spoke of stream and village alike, as "Willow Creek," there arose a storm of hostility which would have overwhelmed a weaker man. The trustees had been appealed to, and after some perplexity, had cast their decision in his favor. His system was thus vindicated, but the sense of injury, added to the other grievances which they had sustained in the "airs" young Druce gave himself, long rankled in the memories of the independent spirits of Willer Crick, and might have found vent in something more than sneers and ill humored jests, but for a well grounded respect, which the schoolmaster's ready arm and decisive temper had on more than one occasion engendered. So he kept on his way with untiring industry, and a certain goodhumored scorn; and his enemies, if enemies they might be deemed, thought best to keep the upper hand of their resentment. It was somewhat earlier than his wont, that Stephen Druce approached the rear door of the church one Friday evening, and paused to shake the accumulated snow from his hat and shoulders. Perhaps it was the approach of Christmas, and the desire to survey the best places for the evergreen decorations, that brought him out before his time; perhaps it may have been a half formed conviction that he would find a pair of young hands wandering over the organ keys, to perfect themselves in the Christmas anthem, before the singers came in. If this was his expectation, he was not disappointed. As he quietly opened the door, the harmonies from an old fashioned organ floated about his ears, and filled the room with the joyous strains of the anthem. Mounting the few steps which led to the singers' place, he stood undiscovered behind the performer. She was young and, as the schoolmaster evidently thought, a goodly spectacle to look upon. With the rosy plumpness common to most of the damsels of the village, there was blended a sweetness of face, and gracefulness of poise not quite so common. Her hat was laid aside, and her dark hair, brushed straight back, revealed a forehead and a pair of eyebrows that told of mind and strength and will; not such as override the sweet charm of femininity, but mingle with it and relieve it from too much weakness. Her brows, just now, were contracted over a problem on the music page before her, and the schoolmaster could hear her murmuring with half audible intensity, "one, two, three and four; one, two, three and four," as her fingers brought out the harmonies of the instrument. Some little time longer he continued to listen to her, smiling as he saw her combating with some knotty tempo, and then he suddenly interrupted her by reaching out his hand and placing it on the keys before her. "Dot that, Miss Mary, and finger it so." With a half startled exclamation, the girl turned round, and blushed, on seeing who her listener was; but covering her embarrassment, with a little air of defiance, she said: "You're not my teacher now, please remember. How long have you been listening, sir?" "I don't know," he answered with a laugh. "I have been so interested in hearing you count, that I took no note of time-except the time you were trying to decipher." "Count!" she said with contempt, “I was doing nothing of the kind. Perhaps you think I can't play a piece like that at sight?" and she wheeled around to the instrument as if to demonstrate her powers. "Oh yes you can-at second or third sight," he responded with a laugh. And at that they both laughed and descended the steps to the center of the room, where a cheery fire was blazing in a large open stove. They had only stationed themselves in front of the glow, when a prolonged stamping of feet and a sound of voices at the door, told them that the other members of the choir were at hand. Druce hurried to utter what he had to say: "I am to walk home with you to-night, I hope?" he said in a tone that had so little of the query in it, that it was easy to see he felt that custom had almost given him vested rights. But her reply told him that his confidence was premature. "You're too late,” she responded with a half roguish, half regretful glance at him sideways. "Too late?" "Yes, Harry Reed called at my uncle's house to-day, and asked me if he could call to-night and see me home." The schoolmaster's face turned grave. He was not one given to absurd jealousies, and had any other young man in the village than him she had named, been the one to deprive him of what he had almost come to consider his right, he would have submitted with an attempt at good grace. But Harry Reed! By everyone else but Mary, he was known as "Hank" Reed, and of all the young men in the village who held the schoolmaster in contempt, jeered at his methods, and hated his popularity, none were more pronounced and open than he. But to do Druce justice, it was not on this account, that he felt concerned. Hank Reed was foremost among the reckless, roving spirits of the district; his mare was seen at every racecourse for miles around, and his voice was among the loudest in the betting circles at such times. In his own village he was alike feared and admired, according as the persons sitting in judgment were recklessly or peaceably disposed. Most of the young women of the place viewed him with a mixture of both sentiments. What Mary Blakely herself thought of him no one knew, but his preference for her was so bold and open that it left no room for doubt. Mary perceived at once the effect her words had had upon her companion. The door was opening, and the choir were noisily entering, so she had only time to lay her hand on his arm, and say in a pleading voice: “I'm sorry, Stephen, if you are disappointed, but what could |