If the editor of the Gardeners' Monthly deems the enclosed - cut from an English newspaper - worthy a corner in his work, it may be to some reader a pleasing retrospect. Although it is over fifty years since he bought his "Last Moss Rose," for a penny, in the streets of London, he is vividly reminded of the sellers and their offerings. The beauties of floral existence are often associated with poverty, sin, and homely human features; yet some are of the sort which old Bill Cobbett saw in Wiltshire, planting cabbages, when he says he was half tempted to take a " kiss," which he would rather do from such an one, than lick the paint from the cheeks of a Duchess.

The London Flower Seller Poem

A rose - a rose for a penny !

And pansies twopence a bunch ! There's the baker with loaves baked freshly,

And O for a crust to munch !

All day I've sat by the station,

But nobody wants my flowers; The wet streets steam and the sun bursts

Between the thunder-showers.

Carnations, pink and crimson, Fresh gathered, sweet and strong !

But over the shining pavement The passengers hurry along.

Sweet-peas! By some cottage window They grew : for I've seen such grow,

Rosy-white, like the face of the darling I lost in the time of snow.

My child, my sinless blossom, My pride, though the mark of scorn !

O. God ! I was such a baby Myself when the babe was born !

The mignonette's drooping sadly :

Will it sell '.' it is fragrant still : Lame Milly once had some blowing

Upon her window-sill.

White jessamine ! -like that lady.

So dainty, and clean, and sweet. From the curl on hen-tranquil forehead

To the tips of her delicate feet.

O. to be once as she is,

With never a soil or stain : Men bowing or speaking her gently

As she passes on to her train.

Not half so pretty as I am,

Not rich, for she walks to-day; But out of the filth and riot.

And pure as the jasmine spray.

Did her lather drink. I wonder? Was she nursed in sins and shames .'

Did they beat her, starve her, kick her. And call her filthy names?

Sweet-williams ! Tossed me for nothing

By a lad at a fruiterer's stall: Brown-bearded, fresh and wholesome

They are. and strong and tall,

Like fresh-faced Will from the country,

Who spoke of field and plough, And promised me marriage and left me -

Who loves him, I wonder, now?

The sky is all black; in the distance

The angry thunder rolls; There's a blinding flash, with a deluge

The rain sweeps the hurrying shoals.

It sweeps up under my shelter,

I'm wet again to the skin, And just two bunches of pansier

Would buy me a drop of gin.

A rose - a rose for a penny !

White lilies a penny apiece ! The clouds from the sun are breaking,

The showers soon will cease.

A pigeon, with wings all shining,

Flits by in the sudden gold, As if in a molten rainbow

His beautiful plumes were rolled.

Ah I my dream of the angel singing, His eyes one flame of love, "Though thou liest among the potsherds, Thou shalt be as the wings of a dove."

Roses, sweet-williams, pansies,

Jasmine and lilies fair. Mignonette, sweet-peas, carnations,

Drooping in sultry air.

Maxwell Gray.