AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST. 
295 
elated by success, in good spirits and with good 
courage, she entered her study precisely at eleven 
o’clock. Now she was to have a fine time of it. 
Her books were opened, and a hard lesson sum¬ 
moned to the conflict. Scarcely had she read a 
line when she heard the door-bell ring. 
“ Somebody wants to see you in the parlor, 
Mrs. James.” 
“Tell them I am engaged, Bridget.” 
“ I told them you were to home, ma’am, and 
they gave me their names, but I did not exactly 
understand.” 
Mrs. James was obliged to go—to smile when 
she felt sober, to be social when her thoughts 
were elsewhere. Her friends, however, seemed 
to find her agreeable, for they made a long call; 
and when they rose to go, others came. So in 
the most unsatisfactory chit-chat all this morning 
went. 
On the next day, Mr. James invited company 
to tea, and Mrs. James was obliged to give up 
the morning to preparing for it, and did not en¬ 
ter her study. On the day following she was 
obliged to keep her bed with sick headache; and 
on Saturday, Amy having extra work to do, the 
charge of the baby devolved upon her. Thus 
passed the first week. 
True to her promise, Mrs. James patiently 
persevered for a month in her efforts to secure 
to herself this fragment of her broken time, with 
what success the week’s history can tell. With 
its close, closed the month of December. Being 
particularly occupied on the last day of the old 
year, in getting ready for the morrow’s festival, 
it was near the last hour of the day when she 
made her good-night’s call at the nursery. She 
went to the crib to look at the baby ; there he 
lay, fast asleep, in his innocence and beauty. 
She kissed his rosy cheek gently, and stroked 
softly his golden hair, and pressing his little 
dimpled hands within hers, she drew the warm 
covering more closely around him, carefully 
tucking it in, then stealing one more kiss, she 
left him to his slumbers, and sat down on her 
daughter’s bed. She was also sweetly asleep, 
with her dolly hugged close to her. Her mother 
smiled, but soon it seemed as if graver and sad¬ 
der thoughts filled her mind, as indeed they did. 
She was thinking of her disappointed plans. To 
her, not only the past month, but the past year, 
seemed to have been one of fruitless effort; it 
seemed to her broken and disjointed ; even her 
hours of religious meditation had been encroached 
upon and distracted. She had accomplished no¬ 
thing that she could see, but keep her house and 
family; and to her saddened thoughts even this 
seemed to have been but indifferently done. 
Yearnings for something better than this she was 
conscious of; unsatisfied longings often clouded 
an otherwise bright day for her, and yet all this 
seemed to lie in a region dim and misty, which 
she could not penetrate. 
What did she need then ? To see some of 
the results of her life-work ? To be conscious 
of some unity of purpose, some weaving toge¬ 
ther of these life-threads, now so broken and 
single ? 
She felt, she was quite sure, no desire to 
shrink from duty, however humble; but she 
sighed for some comforting assurance of what 
was duty. Her pursuits, conflicting as they did 
with her tastes, seemed to her frivolous. She 
thought there was some better way of living, 
which she, from want of energy of character or 
energy of principle, had failed of discovering. 
As she leaned over the child, her tears now fell 
fast upon that young brow. 
How earnestly wished that mother that she 
could shield her child from the disappointments 
and self-reproaches and mistakes, from which 
she was then suffering—that the little one might 
take up life where she could give to her, mend¬ 
ing by all her own experience. It would have 
been a great comfort, could she have felt that 
she had fought the battle for both. Yet she 
knew that it could not be so—that we must all 
learn for ourselves what those things are that 
make for our peace. With tears still in her eyes, 
she gave the good-night to the child, and with 
soft steps entered the adjoining room, and there 
fairly kissed out the old year on another chubby 
cheek which nestled among the pillows—then 
she sought her own rest. 
Soon she found herself in a singular place. 
She was traveling a vast plain. No trees were 
visible, save those which skirted the distant ho¬ 
rizon ; on their tops rested a wreath of golden 
clouds. Before her, traveling towards that dis 
tant light, was a female. Little children were 
about her, sometimes in her arms and sometimes 
at her side. As she journeyed on, she busied 
herself in carrying them. Now she soothed 
them when weary—now she taught them how 
to travel—and again she warned them of the pit- 
falls and stumbling-blocks in the way. She 
helped them over the one, and taught them to 
beware of the other. She talked to them of that 
golden light which she kept constantly in view, 
and towards which she seemed to be hastening 
with her little flock. But what was most re¬ 
markable was, that all unknown to her, two 
golden clouds floated’ above her, on which re¬ 
posed two angels. Before each was a golden 
book and a pen of gold. One angel, with mild 
and loving eyes, peered constantly over the right 
shoulder, and the other over the left. They fol¬ 
lowed her from the rising to the setting of the 
sun. They watched every word and look and 
deed, no matter how trivial. When it was good, 
the angel over the right shoulder, with a glad 
smile, wrote it down in his golden book; when 
evil, however trivial, the angel over the left 
shoulder wrote it down in his book. Then he 
kept his sorrowful eyes on her until he found 
penitence for the evil, upon which he dropped 
a tear upon his record and blotteJ it out, and 
both angels rejoiced. 
To the looker-on it seemed as if the traveler 
did little which was worthy such careful record. 
Sometimes she did but bathe the weary feet of 
her children, and the angel over the right shoul¬ 
der wrote it down. Sometimes she did but wait 
patiently to lure back some little truant who had 
taken a step in the wrong direction, and the 
angel over the right shoulder wrote it down. 
Sometimes, with her eyes fixed on the golden 
horizon, she became so intent upon her own pro¬ 
gress, as to let the little pilgrim at her side lan¬ 
guish or stray ; then it was the angel over the 
left shoulder who lifted his golden pen and made 
the entry, and followed her with sorrowing eyes, 
seeking to blot it out. If wishing to hasten on 
her journey, she left the little ones behind, it 
was the son'owing angel who recorded her pro¬ 
gress. 
Now the observer felt as she looked on, that 
this was a faithful record, and was to be kept 
till that journey’s end. Those strong clasps of 
gold on those golden books also impressed her 
with the belief that they were to be sealed for a 
future opening. Her sympathies were warmly 
excited for the traveler, and with a beating heart, 
she quickened her steps that she might overtake 
her, and tell her what she had seen, and entreat 
her to be watchful, and faithful, and patient to 
the end, in her life’s work;,for she had herself 
seen that its results would all be known when 
those golden books should be unclasped; that 
she must not think any duty which it fell in her 
way to do trivial, for surely there was an angel 
over her right shoulder, or one over her left, who 
would record it all. 
Eager to warn her of this, she gently touched 
her. The traveler turned, and she recognized, 
or seemed to recognize— herself! Startled and 
alarmed, she awoke, and found herself in tears. 
The gray light of morning struggled through the 
half-open shutter, the door was ajar, and merry 
faces were peeping in. 
“Wish you a happy new year, mamma—wish 
you a happy new year.” 
She returned the merry greeting heartily. 
She seemed to have entered on a new existence 
—she had found her way through the mazes 
where she had been entangled, and light was 
now about her path. The angel over her right 
shoulder, whom she had seen in her dream, had 
assured her that her life-work was bound up in 
that golden book, and its final results would be 
known—had assured her what was duty. Now 
she saw plainly enough, what she had not seen 
before, that while it was right and important for 
her to cultivate, as far as she could, her own 
mind and heart, it was equally important for 
her to perform faithfully all those little house¬ 
hold duties and cares on which the comfort and 
virtue of her family depended—they had ac¬ 
quired a new dignity from the records of that 
golden pen, and they could not be neglected 
without danger. 
Sad thoughts and misgivings, and ungratified 
longings, seemed all to have taken their flight 
with the old year; and it was with a new reso¬ 
lution, and a cheerful hope, and a happy heart, 
she welcomed the New Year. 
LITTLE GEORGE’S STORY. 
My Aunt Libby patted me on the head the 
other day and said, “ George my boy, this is 
the happiest part of your life.” I guess Aunt 
Libby don’t know much. I guess she never 
worked a week to make a kite, and the first 
time she went to fly it the tail got hitched in a 
tall tree, whose owner would’nt let her climb up 
to disentangle it. I guess she never broke one 
of the runners of her sled some Saturday after¬ 
noon, when it was “ prime ” coasting. I guess 
she never had to give her biggest marbles to a 
great lubberly boy, because he would thrash her 
if she didn’t. I guess she never had a “ hockey 
stick” play round her ancles in recess, because 
she got above a fellow in the class. I guess she 
never had him twitch off her best cap and toss 
it in a mud-puddle. I guess she never had to 
give her humming-top to quiet the baby, and 
have the paint all sucked off. I guess she 
never saved up all her coppers a whole winter 
to buy a trumpet, and then was told she musn’t 
blow it because it would malce a noise. Now 
—I guess my Aunt Libby don’t know much; 
little boys have troubles as well as grown people, 
—all the difference is they daren’t complain. 
Now, I never had a “ bran new ” jacket and 
trowsers in my life—never—and I don’t believe 
I ever shall; for my two brothers have shot up 
like Jack’s bean-stalk, and left all their out¬ 
grown clothes “to be made over for George;” 
and that cross old tailoress keeps me from bat 
and ball an hour on the stretch, while she laps 
over, and nips in, and tucks up, and cuts off 
their great baggy clothes for me. And when 
she puts me out the door, she’s sure to say- 
“ Good bye, little Tom Thumb.” Then when I 
go to my uncle’s to dine, he always puts the big 
dictionary in a chair, to hoist me up high enough 
to reach my knife and fork; and if there is a 
dwarf-apple or potato on the table, it is always 
laid on my plate. If I go to the play-ground 
to have a game of ball, the fellows all say—• 
“ Get out of the way, little chap, or we shall 
knock you into a cocked hat.” I don’t think 
I’ve grown a bit these two years. I know I 
haven’t, by the mark on the wall—(and I stand 
up to measure every chance I get.) When 
visitors come to the house and ask me my age, 
and I tell them that I am nine years old, they 
say, “ Tut, tut! little boys shouldn’t tell fibs.” 
My brother Hal, has got his first long-tailed 
coat already; I am really afraid I never shall 
have any thing but a jacket. I go to bed early, 
and have left off eating sweet-meats, I haven’t 
put my fingers in the sugar-bowl this many a 
day. I eat meat like my father, and I stretch 
up my neck till it aches,—still I’m “ little 
George,” nothing shorter; or, rather, I’m shorter 
than nothing. Oh! my Aunt Libby don’t know 
much. How should she ? she never was a boy. 
—Chicopee Weekly Journal. 
-» 9 •- 
Accepted. —An elderly lady writes to a 
friend:—“ A widower with ten children has 
proposed, and I have accepted. This is about 
the number I should have been entitled to, if I 
had been married at the proper time; instead 
of being cheated into a nonentity.” 
