these strata are multitudes of fossilized trees, having their woody tissue replaced by the infiltration of silica. They are most interesting and instructive in their evidence. Vast numbers of the trees are erect as when they grew and were vital. They stand out from the face of the rock like the columns of a ruined or deserted temple. There is at least a mile running up the mountain-side which is covered by tiers of these silicified dwellers in the great forests of the far past, and can readily suggest to us the conditions of growth in the forests that have by another geological process become our great coal-beds.

We have often pointed out the constantly accumulating evidence that scientific research presents as to the influence which insects exert in the fertilization of flowers. A curious case has just been presented by M. B. Schnetzler to the Academy of Sciences in Paris. A species of the Arum tribe (crinitum) emits a carrionlike odour, which manifestly entices a number of flies; and so deceived are they by the scent that they in large numbers deposit their eggs at the bottom of the 'spathe' or cuplike envelope of the flower. Of course such eggs, if hatched, are so placed that there is, on the emergence of the larva, no nutriment such as the real carrion amidst which such eggs are usually deposited affords; and the larva dies. But the death of the 'grub' contributes to the propagation and nutrition of the plant, for the end-cross-fertilization-is accomplished thus. Many flies do not actually deposit their eggs in the spathes of the plant, although they visit them and walk over them: the result is that they cause the anthers to deposit their pollen upon them, and the flies then fly away to another spathe, where some at least are led to deposit eggs; in doing so they

deposit them upon the top of the stigmatic surface-placed at the bottom of the spathe and so they transfer the pollen from flower to flower. At the same time the hatched larvæ, and entangled or otherwise destroyed flies, are digested by a fluid which is secreted in glands in the inside of the spathe, converting these animal products into nutriment. It is significant that the younger Linnæus called this plant Arum muscivorum.

We frequently hear of serious symptoms, indicative of poisoning, arising, apparently in a most capricious way, from the consumption as human food of various kinds of fish. There are many fish which are suspected of being poisonous, and in certain parts of the world, and in every part under certain circumstances, there can be no doubt they become a source of grave danger. There are, of course, fish constantly consumed by man which are perfectly harmless, as a rule; but they are not necessarily so at all seasons of the year, and a summary of our present knowledge of the whole question has been just presented to French men of science by M. Leon Fournol. He shows that even the common salmon, in Japan, eaten out of season, becomes to European inhabitants a serious poison. Other fish are shown to be wholesome when young, but dangerous when mature; while such aquatic animals as the conger, the pike, the barbel, the prawn, and especially the mussel are poisonous in an inexplicable and apparently capricious manner. In the fish proper, it is the liver and head that is especially dangerous; but in the mussel, and the occasionally toxic action of the oyster, it is ascribed to the consumption by these animals of the eggs of the star-fish, which are at times found in the digestive tracks of these animals; and so poisonous are they said to be, that they produce a violent

these strata are multitudes of fossilized trees, having their woody tissue replaced by the infiltration of silica. They are most interesting and instructive in their evidence. Vast numbers of the trees are erect as when they grew and were vital. They stand out from the face of the rock like the columns of a ruined or deserted temple. There is at least a mile running up the mountain-side which is covered by tiers of these silicified dwellers in the great forests of the far past, and can readily suggest to us the conditions of growth in the forests that have by another geological process become our great coal-beds.

We have often pointed out the constantly accumulating evidence that scientific research presents as to the influence which insects exert in the fertilization of flowers. A curious case has just been presented by M. B. Schnetzler to the Academy of Sciences in Paris. A species of the Arum tribe (crinitum) emits a carrionlike odour, which manifestly entices a number of flies; and so deceived are they by the scent that they in large numbers deposit their eggs at the bottom of the 'spathe' or cuplike envelope of the flower. Of course such eggs, if hatched, are so placed that there is, on the emergence of the larva, no nutriment such as the real carrion amidst which such eggs are usually deposited affords; and the larva dies. But the death of the 'grub' contributes to the propagation and nutrition of the plant, for the end-cross-fertilization-is accomplished thus. Many flies do not actually deposit their eggs in the spathes of the plant, although they visit them and walk over them: the result is that they cause the anthers to deposit their pollen upon them, and the flies then fly away to another spathe, where some at least are led to deposit eggs; in doing so they

deposit them upon the top of the stigmatic surface-placed at the bottom of the spathe and so they transfer the pollen from flower to flower. At the same time the hatched larvæ, and entangled or otherwise destroyed flies, are digested by a fluid which is secreted in glands in the inside of the spathe, converting these animal products into nutriment. It is significant that the younger Linnæus called this plant Arum muscivorum.

We frequently hear of serious symptoms, indicative of poisoning, arising, apparently in a most capricious way, from the consumption as human food of various kinds of fish. There are many fish which are suspected of being poisonous, and in certain parts of the world, and in every part under certain circumstances, there can be no doubt they become a source of grave danger. There are, of course, fish constantly consumed by man which are perfectly harmless, as a rule; but they are not necessarily so at all seasons of the year, and a summary of our present knowledge of the whole question has been just presented to French men of science by M. Leon Fournol. He shows that even the common salmon, in Japan, eaten out of season, becomes to European inhabitants a serious poison. Other fish are shown to be wholesome when young, but dangerous when mature; while such aquatic animals as the conger, the pike, the barbel, the prawn, and especially the mussel are poisonous in an inexplicable and apparently capricious manner. In the fish proper, is the liver and head that is especially dangerous; but in the mussel, and the occasionally toxic action of the oyster, it is ascribed to the consumption by these animals of the eggs of the star-fish, which are at times found in the digestive tracks of these animals; and so poisonous are they said to be, that they produce a violent

it

cutaneous irritation on the hands of those who touch them. There are, however, fishes that are poisonous at all times; and, although they are in some cases of delicate flavour, are never to be eaten: thus prudence would dictate the avoidance of unknown fishes as articles of food, while the roe, the liver, etc., of all fishes, as a rule, should be avoided when they are 'out of season.' The eating of any fish from which the alimentary canal is not removed is at all times, to say the least, fraught with possible danger.

The North-East Passage has been

at last safely accomplished; but it is quite clear that it will not be practicable for ordinary merchant vessels. The voyage was made by Professor Nordenskjold, who used the opportunity afforded by an imprisonment of the vessel in the ice, for scientific research; and amongst other things took a huge marine animal known as Rytina stelleri, but supposed hitherto to have been extinct: another instance of the unwisdom of inferring age in geological deposits, from the length of time which an organic form has been supposed to have ceased to be a living inhabitant of the globe.

The air is full of farewells to the dying,

And mourning for the dead; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,

Will not be comforted.

LONGFELLOW.

SEA that bearest back to the home of her childhood a sable-robed, silent woman, whose heart is left behind, in the grave where sleep a man and an only child, art thou the same that bore on thy blue bosom a joyous, boyish-faced girl, whose only experience of sorrow was in the vague restlessness of aspiration after she knew not what, and the natural tears we shed over even a temporary separation from the friends of early youth?

Sky that lookest so far, far off, so cold, so indifferent, showing the same face to the soldier dying of his battle-wounds and the lover building castles in the air, art thou the same that these eyes, aching now with tears, burning now for the want of them, were wont to gaze up into, with such a soft spark of devotion trembling in their pure irids?

Yes, these natural things do not change, but for us. O, what change can Time

tell of like the change that passes over human hearts! Temples in ruins, oaks withering to the roots, the sea feeding on the landmarks that the fathers set, are majestic evidences of the law of change; but the scattering of the rose of youth, the bower wherein it grew blasted into a waste, who shall tell that story?

The lonely widow, the childless mother, counted the days that might lie between her and her home. How she had looked forward to a visit to that home in the fulness of her love and pride! How jealous she had been lest the largess of affection lavished on her should not be almost monopolized by husband and child! Now there was only her father to know what her husband had been, and a little oilpainting imperfectly executed was the one memento of the little one.

Warm were the prayers and wishes that had launched her on her voyage, grateful was the heart that responded, but there were no human balms that could stop its bleeding.

Like a young bird of broken wing, she longed for the parental nest, chiefly for the softness and the stillness and the brooding tenderness that in anticipation was so grate.

ful. She tried to put herself beneath the wings that overlay the mercy-seat. Surely that shelter was not forbidden to the aching sense, nor to the benumbed consciousness. She must be safe there, though she was not clad in royal garments, but in sackcloth, and was withal too much bruised to free herself from the dust in which she had lain.

The welcome home was very quiet. She was brought in almost as a sick member of a family, who may be nursed back to life or die. They found her altered even beyond expectation, but still beautiful. Her parents had begun to look venerable, and their tones in speaking to her reminded her of the sacredness of her widowhood, and of her deepened experiences of life.

Where there was so much feeling, there could not be many words; but she knew that it was a solace to them to have her brought in contact with their sympathy.

'My poor child!' said her mother, 'you'll find it a rest, darling, to be with us; and you don't know yet all the comfort that there is in resting.'

'You and father are getting to an age to know, mother.'

So we are; and the rest old people make themselves, Adelaide, is just the sort of thing that troubled young ones require. We think more of our heavenly home now than we did in the days when we had all our bright boys and girls about us.'

Adelaide lay on the sofa in a pleasant kind of dream. She knew that her hand rested in her father's. She had felt it good to have it resting there when she was in peril on the sea. To what an insignificance was that period of her life reduced now! There might be many years to wait for her release, but she must fulfil them and be patient.

And yet she must believe that He who had smitten her so sorely was the most pitying of all, the most tenderly watchful of all. It was hard to bring her faith to grasp that fact. Lord, I believe; help Thou mine unbelief,' she murmured; and, breathing that prayer, she fell into a deep, refreshing sleep.

Adelaide had been too long separated from the home of her youth to readily find it a sphere of duty. She tried to act a childlike part to her aged parents, that she might never have to reproach herself for the apathy of sorrow that had benumbed her wifely solicitude. Yet her tenderest ministrations were, in spite of herself, mechanical.

Her first sad walk had been to see the graves of those of her family who had been taken since she left England. She shed no tears over them: she had none left to shed; but she planted the slip of a willow

that she had taken from a grave at St, John's, that the same tree, she said, might cast its funereal shade over all.

Her sisters thought she wanted rousing, and insisted on her walking out with them; but, left to herself, she sat much in her room, or went to the Dingle, and remained there in communion with self, with her sad memories and with her God. Nor was she indulging in the mere luxury of idle grief. 'It is best for me to be alone sometimes," she said to herself. My very presence casts a restraint on the others. They are so compassionate, so tender over me, and I am so easily jarred. I want them to be glad; yet, when they are, their gladness hurts me. They see the sun is in my eyes, and draw the blinds again. O little Dingle! what childish sorrows drove me to you in the past, and God was so near that I almost imagined His angels came down to earth with the sunset! But now, O now! if I sleep it is on a stone, and my heart is a stone; for I, who thought myself so strong I could bear anything my Heavenly Father gave me to bear, am found weaker than a bruised reed.'

Is there ever a stony pillow that God's angels do not visit? Yet we are not always aware of them, or of the strength they give.

'Do you not sometimes feel out of patience with me, Hilda ?' she asked of one of her sisters, laying her head on her lap, as she sat at her feet in the dim twilight.

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'Out of patience with you, dear? What does that gentle, uncomplaining heart find to accuse itself of?'

'Of many things; I thought I had learned a lifelong lesson when the shock came to me about Herbert. You can never know how bitter was my self-reproach; and I did rouse myself and endure to what was the end for him here; but mine seems a long, long way off, and I am as helpless as ever.'

It is to helplessness that help is given,' said Hilda, tenderly. Don't fret about it, dear, or about us. It would hurt us to know you were making any effort for our sakes. God's help will come to you when you perhaps are least expecting it; meanwhile you are not required to sit in judgment over yourself. Mr. Forrester did not reproach you, I am sure.'

No; but then he was so compassionate, so all-excusing. He had always estimated me far beyond my worth, and when in his weakness and sorrow I failed him, as I did, O miserably! he never saw the failure, but made excuses for me, and cut me to the quick with undeserved praise.'

Hilda shrank from touching a wound so exquisite in its sensitiveness. She flung