The seeds buried in the earth burst to flower; but man's breast knoweth not the sweet division of the seasons.

In winter or summer, autumn or spring alike, his thoughts sow the germs of his actions, and day after day his destiny gathers in her harvests.
The joy-bells ring clear through the groves of Laughton,--an heir is born to the old name and fair lands of St.John.And, as usual, the present race welcomes merrily in that which shall succeed and replace it,--that which shall thrust the enjoyers down into the black graves, and wrest from them the pleasant goods of the world.

The joy-bell of birth is a note of warning to the knell for the dead; it wakes the worms beneath the mould: the new-born, every year that it grows and flourishes, speeds the parent to their feast.

Yet who can predict that the infant shall become the heir?
Who can tell that Death sits not side by side with the nurse at the cradle?
Can the mother's hand measure out the woof of the Parcae, or the father's eye detect through the darkness of the morrow the gleam of the fatal shears?
It is market-day at a town in the midland districts of England.

There Trade takes its healthiest and most animated form.