188 
AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST. 
“SHE ALWAYS MADE HOME HAPPY.” 
Such was the brief but impressive senti¬ 
ment which a friend wished us to add to an 
obituary notice of one “ who had gone on 
before.” 
What better tribute could be offered to the 
memory of the loved and lost 1 Eloquence 
with her loftiest eulogy—poesy with her 
most thrilling dirge, could afford nothing so 
sweet, so touching, so suggestive of the 
virtues of the dead, as those simple words: 
“ She always made home happy." 
Hear this, mothers, wives, and daughters, 
and think of your own duty. How many 
could have the same said of them with truth¬ 
fulness and sincerity 1 Ask that woman 
whose splendid residence attracts the gaze 
of every passer by. Thousands have been 
lavished on these imposing walls, long eol- 
onades and high arched windows ; and now 
and then you obtain a glimpse of costly 
hangings, rich carpets and tall mirrors, 
which dazzle with their magnificece. Often 
you pause a moment, and look wistfully in 
through the half-closed blinds and murmur 
to yourself as you pass on : “ I should think 
the possessor of all this might enjoy life.” 
But you are sadly mistaken. The love of 
peace never folds her white wings by that 
fireside ; the gentle spirit of content never 
sheds her holy influence there. The master 
of the mansion, though yet in his prime, 
seems prematurely old ; there is an expres¬ 
sion of habitual suffering around his firmly 
compressed lips, and his broad brow bears 
many a trace of care. Ah ! there is a vul¬ 
ture at his heart, which, like the hero of the 
olden story, he would fain conceal. Ten 
years ago he married a beautiful girl, with a 
thousand pleasant visions of domestic quie¬ 
tude and bliss. But his dreams have faded; 
the rosy hue of romance is lost in the cold, 
gray dawn of his bitter reality. 
His wife presides over his household with 
surpassing gracefulness; she is the idol of 
society, and a leader of fashion. She goes 
and comes through those spacious halls, 
dressed in garments that might befit a queen ; 
she gives brilliant dinners where she shines 
the brightest star, and parties which every¬ 
body pronounces charming. But she is never 
the kind, devoted companion—the loving, 
trusting helpmate, sharing every joy and 
sorrow, cheering him when he desponds, 
and counseling in trials and perplexities 
with winning grace and tenderness. In short, 
she never makes home happy. But it is not 
alone to the frivolous that our subject 
speaks the language of reproof and instruc¬ 
tion ; there are others to whom it may be 
applied with equal force. Ask the would-be- 
reformer of the nineteenth century, whose 
loftiest aim is to step beyond the appropriate 
sphere, how she performs her duty in this re¬ 
spect. She is often seen in the debating 
hall and lecture room, where strife and con¬ 
fusion prevail. Her voice is heard ringing 
out in defense of the rights of her sex; she al¬ 
lows her name to be bandied about, linked 
with the coarsest epithets ; she takes long 
and tedious journeys in behalf of the cause 
she has espoused. You may hear her talk 
enthusiastically of all that is pure and ele¬ 
vating in woman’s mission and sublime in her 
destiny. Indeed, she appears ready to suffer 
any hardship or privation, if she can only 
aid in the glorious work of redeeming op¬ 
pressed females from their terrible thraldom. 
But you do not find her the“ bright presid¬ 
ing genius of her home.” Her smile and 
cheering welcome do not greet her husband 
when he returns from his daily toil; her 
hands do not draw his arm-chair to that fa¬ 
vorite nook; her society does not charm 
away his weariness and make him forget his 
cares. When he is'ill, she is seldom near to 
smooth his pillow, or bath his fevered cheek, 
or whisper of hope and consolation. I 
Can it be, that she, with all her pretended 
regard for the best interests of humanity, 
even realize her own responsibility l Alas ! 
we fear not. 
Ask the peevish complaining wife, if she 
has ever thought seriously of this matter. 
What a neat, cosy little cottage her’s is! 
How many comforts she has. Her two 
noble looking boys and their fair sister are 
as beautiful a trio of children as ever graced 
a household; her husband is kind and in¬ 
dulgent, but her fretful disposition will not 
allow her a moment’s tranquility. She is in 
perpetual anxiety; sometimes it is one 
thing and again another that causes her in¬ 
quietude, but she is never at rest. The 
children yearn for the sunshine, which they 
see in the homes of their playmates, and in¬ 
vent all kinds of excuses to get away from 
troubles that haunt their mother. They 
have already learned that pleasure can not 
be found under their own roof-tree, and 
the gambling-hall, the theater, and the club- 
room hold out temptations which the'y can 
scarcely resist. Aye, think of these solemn 
considerations and be wise. 
“ She always made home happy.” What 
more fitting inscription can be engraven on 
the tombstone of the estimable woman of 
which this was said l It will stand, per¬ 
chance, in some church-yard, where birds 
warble, and flowers open their starry eyes, 
all unmindful of the sweet sleepers below. 
Other monumental tablets will rise around 
it, bearing the high sounding epitaph, but 
nothing there can speak a sweeter lesson 
than the brief sentence, “ She always made 
home happy.” 
SPELLING SCHOOLS. 
How many “ grown up ” people can enter 
fully into the spirit of the following sketch of 
a country Spelling School. We well re¬ 
member when, in our boyhood, there was 
no higher object of our ambition than to be 
the champion who had been from three to a 
dozen miles on an ox sled, and “ spelled 
down ” a rival school. Whole weeks and 
months were passed in seeking for new 
words, and spelling over and over all the old 
ones, so as to be ready for the contest. We 
are now reaping the advantages of such la¬ 
bor, and we could heartily wish our present 
boys were subjected to some such drilling; 
for in our present system of training, espe¬ 
cially in “ select schools,” this important 
acquirement is too little regarded. We are 
safe in saying that, of all the students in our 
colleges and academies, not one half of them 
can spell even respectably. 
The school in the Quaker neighborhood 
have sent a challenge, indue form, to this 
district, to spell; so to-night “the war of 
words ” is to be waged in the white school- 
house on the hill. 
There is a great over hauling of old Ele- 
mentaries, and a wonderful burnishing up of 
frontispieces, and turning over of clean col¬ 
lars, preparatory to the grand melee. 
Spelling schools! Have you forgotten 
them 1 When, from all the region round 
about, they gathered into the old log schqgl- 
house, with its huge fire-place, that yawned 
like the main entrance to avenues. How 
the sleigh-bells—the old fashioned bells, big 
in the middle of the string, and growing small 
by degrees and beautifully less, toward the 
broad brass buckle—chimed, in every direc¬ 
tion, long before night, the gathering of the 
clans. 
There came one school, the Master—give 
him a capital M, for he is entitled to it—Mas¬ 
ter and all, bundled into one huge, red, dou¬ 
ble sleigh, strewn with abundance of straw, 
and tucked up like a Christmas pie, with a 
half score of Buffalo robes. There half a 
dozen cutters, each with its young man and 
maiden, those two, and no more. 
And there, again, a pair of jumpers, mount¬ 
ing a great, outlandish looking bin, heaped 
up, pressed down, and running over, with 
small sections of humanity, picked up en 
route, from a great many homes, and all as 
merry as kittens in a basket of wool. And 
the bright eyes, and ripe, red lips, that one 
caught a glimpse of beneath those pink-lined 
quilted hoods, and the silvery laughs that 
escaped from the woolen muffles and fur tip¬ 
pets they wore then—who does not remem¬ 
ber? who can ever forget them? 
The school-house destined to be the arena 
for the conflict, has been swept and garnished; 
boughs of evergreen adorn the smoke-stained 
and battered walls. The little pellets of 
chewed paper have been all swept down 
from the ceiling, and two pails of water have 
been brought from the spring, and set on the 
bench in the entry, with the immemorial 
tin cup, a wise provision, indeed, for warm 
work is spelling! 
The “big boys” have fanned and replen¬ 
ished the fire, till the old chimney fairly jars 
with the roaring flames, and the sparks fly 
out of the top like a furnace. 
The two “ Masters ” are there ; the two 
schools are there, and such a hum, and such 
a moving to and • fro! The baten comes 
down upon the desk Avith emphasis. What 
the roll of the drum is to armies, that the 
“ ruler ” is to this laughing, whispering, 
young troop. The challenged are ranged on 
one side of the house; the challengers on 
the other. Back seats, middle seats, low, 
front seats, are filled. Some of the fathers 
and grand-fathers, who could, no doubt upon 
occasion, 
“ Shoulder the crutch, and show how fields were won,” 
occupy the benches of honor near the desk. 
Now for the preliminaries; the reputed 
best speller on each side “ chooses.” “ Su¬ 
san Brown !” Outcomes a round-eyed lit¬ 
tle peony. Who would have thought it! Such 
a little thing, and chosen first. 
“ Moses Jones !” Out comes Moses, an 
awkward fellow, with a shock of red hair, 
shockingly harvested, surmounting his broad 
brow. The girls laugh at him, but what he 
does’nt knorv in the Elementry isn’t Avorth 
knowing. 
“Jane Murry !” Out trips Jane, fluttered 
as a bride, and takes her place next to the 
cellar. And as they go on, calling names 
until five or six champions stand forth to do 
battle, and the contest is fairly begun. Down 
goes one after another, as Avords of three 
syllables are folloAved by those of four, and 
these again by Avords of similar pronuncia¬ 
tion and divers significations, until only 
Moses and Susan remain. 
“ The spelling-book has been exhausted, 
yet there they stand. Dictionaries are 
turned over—memories are ransacked for 
“ Words of learned length and thundering sound,” 
until, by and by, Moses comes down like a 
tree, and Susan flutters there still, like a lit¬ 
tle leaf aloft, that the frost and the fall have 
forgotten. 
Polysyllable folio avs polysyllable, and, by 
and by, Susan hesitates just a breath or two, 
and twenty tongues are Avorking their Avay 
through the labyrinth of letters in a tAvink- 
ling. Little Susan sinks into the chink left 
for her on the crowded seat, and there is a 
lull in the battle. 
Then, they all stand in solid phalanx, by 
schools, and the trouble is to spell each other 
down. And down they go like leaves in Avin- 
ter weather, and the victory is declared for 
our district, and school is dismissed. 
Then comes the hurrying and bundling, the 
Avhispering and glancing, the pairing and the 
