tered along the road-side, and a bunch of the golden flowers of the marsh marigold, which enticed us off the road into a low, boggy spot, by their bright blossoms; a handsome flower, this—the country people call it cowslip, though differing entirely from the true plant of that name.
The golden willows are coming into leaf. The weeping willow is not seen here, our winters are too severe for it. Some persons think, that by watching a young tree carefully, and giving it several years to take root, without being discouraged by its slow growth, it would in time become acclimated; the experiment is now going on, but its success is very doubtful. At present, there is no weeping willow within some distance of us, excepting a couple of young nurslings in gardens of the village. Not that we are too far north for this tree, since it is found, even on this continent, in a higher latitude than our own, which is 42° 50′; but the elevation of this highland valley above the sea, usually called 1200 feet, gives us a cooler climate than we should otherwise have. The native willows of America are numerous, but they are all small trees, many mere bushes; the tallest in our own neighborhood, are about five-and-twenty feet high. The golden willow of Europe, however, is common here, and thrives very well, attaining its full size; some of these in the village are very handsome trees; they are now just putting out their first tender green leaflets, which, as they grow larger, take a much graver color.
When we read of those willows of Babylon, in whose shade the children of Israel sat down and wept, thousands of years ago, we naturally think of the weeping willow which we all know to be an Asiatic tree. But the other day, while reading an observation of a celebrated Eastern traveller, the idea suggested itself,
