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graceful wild Harebell. And wild flowers are so much dearer than cultivated ones,—at least I find them so—having been ever fonder of seeking chance beauties in the field, lane, and woodland, than of contemplating the gayer tribes of the garden. It is such a delightful surprise to discover one of one's darling wild flowers in a spot and season when we dreamed not of meeting it; it is an unlooked-for boon of nature: but in gardens we expect to find abundance of fair things,—and very rarely does the disposal of the flowers, or the general arrangement, please my fancy; though a wild hedge-bank, or a heathy moor, leave me nothing to wish for.
Where is the Garden-guest that may outshine the stately, tall, magnificent Foxglove? This is as remarkable for its majestic, lofty demeanour, as the light, lithe Harebell for its modest playfulness. The tall spiral stem, springing up from the group of broad leaves, and thickly hung with the beautiful purple blossoms, gradually lessening in size from the large open bells on the lower portion of the stalk, to the little buds on the summit, still wrapped up in their close green calices, is an object so strikingly beautiful, that I should think any person who had once given it an attentive observance must inevitably be a lover of flowers to the end of his days. I know many of my readers will say I am an enthusiast in my affection for them; but I ought to add that my enthusiasm is the result of love and admiration, little aided by scientific knowledge as yet; though I gladly anticipate the time when a better acquaintance with the fascinating study of Botany will unfold to me many myriad
