fire-place, in order to prevent the too great heating of any one part, and to accomplish the continual shifting of its contents. Coffee should never be kept for any length of time after it has been roasted, and should never be ground until it is required for infusion, or some portion of its fine flavour will be dissipated. The quantity of coffee consumed in Europe is very great,-Humboldt estimates it at one hundred and twenty millions of pounds, about one-fourth of which is consumed in France. Since that time a vast increase has been experienced in the use of coffee in Great Britain, the public taste growing more and more favourable to its consumption.-Vegetable Substances. THE THREE SONS. I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old, With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould. They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears, That my child is grave and wise of heart, beyond his childish years. I cannot say how this may be, I know his face is fair, And yet his chiefest comeliness, is his sweet and serious air: I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me, But loveth yet his mother more, with grateful fervency: But that which others most admire, is the thought which fills his mind, The food for grave inquiring speech, he every where doth find. Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together walk; He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk. Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball, But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all. His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplext, With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next. He kneels at his dear mother's knee, she teacheth him to pray, And strange, and sweet, and solemn then, are the words which he will say. Oh, should my gentle child be spared, to manhood's years like me, A holier and a wiser man, I trust that he will be; And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow, I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now. I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three; I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be, How silver sweet those tones of his, when he prattles on my knee: I do not think his light blue eye, is like his brother's, keen, Nor his brow so full of childish thought, as his hath ever been; But his little heart's a fountain pure, of kind and tender feeling, And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing. When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in the street, Will speak their joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet. A playfellow is he to all, and yet, with cheerful tone, Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone. His presence is like sunshine, sent to gladden home and hearth, To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove, As sweet a home for heavenly grace, as now for earthly love; And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim, God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him. I have a son, a third sweet son; his age I cannot tell, For they reckon not by years and months where he is gone to dwell. To us for fourteen anxious months his infant smiles were given, And then he bade farewell to Earth, and went to live in Heaven. I cannot tell what form his is, what looks he weareth now, Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow. The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth feel, Are numbered with the secret things which God will not reveal. But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest, Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast. I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh, But his sleep is bless'd with endless dreams of joy for ever fresh. I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings, And soothe him with a song that breathes of Heaven's divinest things. I know that we shall meet our babe, (his mother dear and I,) Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye. Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease; Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace. It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may sever, But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours for ever. When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be; When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery; When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain; Oh! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here J. Moultrie. again. THE NETTLE.-Father, Mary. M. OH, father! I have stung my hand with that nasty nettle. F. Well, my dear, I am sorry for it; but pull up the large dock-leaf you see near it ;-now, bruise the juice out of it on the part you have stung. Well, is the pain lessened? M. Very much, indeed,-I hardly feel it now ;—but 'I wish there was not a nettle in the world; I am sure I do not know what use there can be in them. F. If you knew any thing of botany, Mary, you would not say so; for there is much beauty, and use, and instruction in a nettle. M. How can you make that out, father? F. Put on your glove, pluck up that nettle, and let us examine it. Take this magnifying glass, and look at the leaves. M. I see they are all covered over with little bristles; and when I examine them with the glass, I see a little bag filled with a juice, like water, at the bottom of each. F. Now touch the bag with the point of this pin. M. When I press the bag the juice runs up, and comes out at the small point at the top; so, I suppose the little thorn must be hollow inside, though it is finer than the point of a needle. F. Now look at the stem, and break it. M. I can easily crack it, but I cannot break it asunder. F. Well, now you see there are more curious things in a nettle than you expected. M. You have often told me, father, that God made nothing in vain; but I am sure I cannot see any use for all these things in a nettle. F. That we will now consider. God has given to all his creatures some kind of defence that they may protect themselves; and for this purpose the bull has horns, and the nettle stings. But even these things are made of use to man. There are certain diseases which require sharp remedies. You have had occasion to know this; for once you were in pain, the doctor thought it necessary to put a blister upon the part, and you got relief. Well, the poor cannot always get a blister, so they frequently use nettles. They strike the part that is in pain, and the points entering the skin, it presses on the little bags at the bottom; the juice is then forced up and comes out at the point; and wherever it is left it makes a little blister, which gives relief to the pain. But when there is no occasion to use nettles in this way, and you accidentally sting your hand, you find a plant beside them, and the mild juice of the one immediately corrects the sharp pain of the other; so that you see how good Providence is. M. Is the stalk of any use, father? F. You saw how very tough the fibres or strings of the bark were; they are for that reason often used in place of hemp or flax. There is a plant called hempnettle (not, however, a real nettle,) which the farmers of Yorkshire sow for the purpose. When ripe it is steeped in water, the stem decays, and the bark remains in strings; these are dressed like flax, and the farmers weave them into strong bags, frock coats, and other useful articles. M. Well, I am sure, I never thought of such things when I have trampled on a nettle, and I am much obliged to you, father, for instructing me. F. I would wish to instruct you a little more, my dear child, and on a still more important point. You were angry and impatient when the nettle stung you, and seemed to repine at that which God had made; but you see how good and perfect is the thing you despised. Every thing, when examined, is equally a proof of God's wisdom and goodness. He creates nothing in vain. God is every where, and his hand is in all things; you see Him in the sun, moon, and stars, which glitter in the sky, and you see him in the humble nettle, which you despise and trample on.-Dr. Walsh. TO A WILD FLOWER. In what delightful land, Sweet-scented flower! didst thou attain thy birth? |