him; it would have troubled me. The holy intonation of his voice when he said "My child," was enough. The sweetest tears swelled under my eyelids when I thought of him. Methinks the love of a daughter for a father is distinct and different from all other loves.
He liked to have me with him in his ministrations among the green, living things, whose welfare he scientifically understood. How kindly would he ask my opinion about pruning or grafting, as if I were able to counsel him. He wished to cultivate a correct judgment, and increase my admiration of the works of Him whose beneficence is seen in the grass blade, and the herb which hides under its rough coat the spirit of health. I well remember, and could even now weep, as I recall his serene, approving look, when at the close of some summer's day, if rain had been withheld, I refreshed with my bright watering-pot not only my own flowers but his trenches of celery and beds of salad.
If he planted a tree, my hand must hold it steadily while he arranged the fibrous roots, and pressed around it the earth of its new abiding place. I recollect his calling me to assist in setting out two apple trees in our front yard. To the rallying remarks of some of his more fashionable friends, he replied it was better to fill the space with something useful, than with unproductive shade. His utilitarian decision was rewarded with bushels of the finest greenings and russets—and also with what she had affirmed might be ecured, the sym-
