MOOKE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND LAMELY NEWSPAPER. 
JAN. 5. 
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CONDUCTED B Y AZILE _ 
SUNNY DAYS. 
How many are our childhood’s days, 
How full of life and glee,— 
A halo beams o’er all our ways, 
Our hearts how light and free : 
Unfetter’d as a bird on wing 
Our happy spirits bound. 
Nor dream that time can ever bring 
A note of sorrow’s sound. 
How bright all nature to our view, 
Its every change a charm— 
The silv’ry stars, the skies so blue, 
The summer days so warm : 
The pearly streams, the tiny brooks, 
The woods and forests wild— 
How dear were then their quiet nooks, 
How oft the hours beguiled. 
And Autumn with its faded flow’rs 
And leaves of varied hue, 
Brings still its joys for weary hours, 
Its sports so fresh and new— 
And Winter with its chilling winds, 
And frost, and hail, and snow, 
Hath visions bright to youthful minds 
Of pleasure’s ruddy glow. 
The seasons each with equal zest 
Amusements gay impart, 
Where dwells content within the breast 
And sunshine in the heart: 
Our childhood’s wishes are but few, 
To make life glad and bright— 
In later years we oft pursue, 
In vain, the hidden light. 
Rochester, N. Y. Azile. 
THE SNOW - BLAKE. 
“ Now, if I fall, will it be my lot 
To be cast in some low and cruel spot ? 
To melt or sink unseen or forgot ? 
And then my course be ended ? ” 
’Twas thus a feathery Snow-Flake said, 
As down through the measureless space it stray’d, 
Or, as half by dalliance, half afraid, 
It seemed in mid air suspended. 
“ Oh, no,” said the Earth, “ thou shalt not lie, 
Neglected and lone, on my lap to die, 
Thou fine and delicate child of the sky, 
For thou wilt be safe in my keeping ;— 
But then I must give thee a lovelier form ; 
Thou’lt not be a part of the wintry storm, 
But revive when the sunbeams are yellow and warm, 
And the flowers from my bosom are peeping.” 
Miss Gould. 
THE NEW YEAR. 
Merrily cliime sweet musical bells—lightly 
glide joy-freighted sleighs—cheerfully sound 
gay, happy tones, and hopefully beat fond 
hearts—and feastings rare, and viands choice, 
and spirits full of mirth and glee, greet the new 
guest, and welcome in the young NTew Year. 
Cold, dreary hearths, and desolate homes— 
famished, shivering forms, and larders void of 
cheer—sad, wearied hearts, and mourning souls 
—and guilty, wretched minds, usher in the un¬ 
hidden stranger ; but not with cordial saluta¬ 
tion. The arrival brings no brightened hopes— 
no joyous expectations — no dreams of bliss in 
store—no tableau rich in coloring, of plenty, 
comfort and happiness. 
It is thus the NTew Year makes its advent, 
’mid scenes of contrast wide of joy and woe. 
Associated with pleasant thoughts of the festiv¬ 
ities enjoyed during the holiday season in 
abodes of ea-se and prosperity, is the knowledge 
that many homes are full of bitterness and 
gloom, instead of merriment, these anniversary 
days; and many, instead of gathering round 
social hoards, are suffering from want and de¬ 
privation. 
Would those blest Avith abundance, improve 
the present occasion of gift-offerings and feast- 
makings in extending their kindly feelings be¬ 
yond the cherished circle of affection and friend¬ 
ship, by distributing a portion of their bounte¬ 
ous store ’mid the destitute, they would greatly 
enhance their own happiness, and add zest to 
their own entertainments. In addition to the 
boundless gratitude of the recipients, and the 
commendation of their own consciences, they 
would receive the smiles and approval of One 
who notes every mission of charitable design. 
The consciousness of rendering one needy crea¬ 
ture joyous, would lend deeper pleasure to their 
feasts and peaceful gratification to their minds- 
Surely the satisfaction derived from giving, is 
reward sufficiently great to compensate for all 
bestowed. 
The commencement of a nqw year ever awa¬ 
kens in reflective minds, thoughtful, serious 
contemplation. The future, with its uncertain¬ 
ties, lies still before, hut the past is gone forever. 
Wasted moments, unimproved opportunities for 
mental cidture, or kindly acts, are beyond re¬ 
call. Regrets are unavailing, but the remem¬ 
brance of neglects and omissions should induce 
parents, guardians and youth to begin the year 
with firm resolves for the fulfillment of duties 
incumbent upon them, in the several relations 
they sustain towards each other and community. 
May we all adhere to such determinations with 
unwavering purpose, and steadfast zeal, and the 
world will he the better for our existence — our 
own enjoyments more secure, and calm and 
peaceful our retrospections. Azile. 
Reserve in Wedded Life. —Reserve is perhaps 
one of the greatest evils attendant on the mar¬ 
ried life ; if once encouraged, it will eat like a 
canker into tho very heart of your comforts, and 
leave you without even the appearance of felici¬ 
ty. Much of your happiness depends on this; 
study, therefore, to avoid it, by a conduct which 
shall evidence the most endearing familiarity, 
openness and candor. 
Safety of Silence. —I beg you to take to 
heart one maxim, which for myself I have ever 
observed, and ever shall — it is, never to say 
more than is necessary. The unspoken word 
never does harm; what is once uttered cannot 
he recalled, and no man can forsee its conse¬ 
quences.— Kossuth. 
FLORENCE NIGHTXNGALE. 
The character brought prominently before the 
world, in noblest and boldest relief by the East¬ 
ern War, is that of a woman— Florence Night¬ 
ingale, the nurse, the sister of her sick and 
wounded countrymen in the fatal Crimea. Miss 
Nightingale, of whom we give a portrait on the 
opposite page, is about thirty-three years of age, 
her family is one of high position and competent 
fortune in Hampshire, England, and she is one 
of the most accomplished women of the time.— 
Of superior talents, highly educated at home, 
and polished by extensive travel and residence 
abroad; with acquirements far beyond the usual 
average of her class and sex, she seemed pecu¬ 
liarly fitted for the work which she has perform¬ 
ed. Still better, however, was she prepared by 
her generous disposition, by her yearning sym¬ 
pathy for the weak, the oppressed, the suffering, 
and the desolate. The schools and the poor 
around her, knew her as their visitor, teacher 
and consoler. Never, whether at home or 
abroad,—in Embly Park, in houses of charity 
on the Continent, or in her journey to the Cata¬ 
racts of the Nile, did she forget to succor the 
needy, and sympathize with the distressed.— 
She gave all her energies to the establishment 
of a hospital for sick governesses in London, 
until success crowned her labors and failing 
health sent her home. 
There, the wail of agony from the Crimea 
reached her ears. That Expedition was one 
series of blunders from the beginning—the sol¬ 
diers were exposed to untold hardships before 
they reached the scene of contest. Without 
shelter, without proper means of transport, the 
heats of day, the chilling cold of night, fatigue, 
want of proper supplies of every sort, induced 
cholera and other virulent diseases, of which the 
men died by thousands, often when they had 
fallen exhausted on the march. This state of 
things grew worse, especially after the great 
battles of Alma and Balaklava. It is enough to 
chill the blood in one’s A r eins, to read the scenes 
of horror which occurred daily. But we cannot, 
we would not, dwell upon them. 
The French expedition Avas better planned in 
every respect. Besides, five hundred Sisters of 
Charity accompanied it, whose services in the 
hospitals were of the greatest conceivable ben¬ 
efit to the inmates. It Avas probably this fact, 
which suggested to Miss Nightingale the idea 
of organizing a hand of English nurses, which 
should emulate the self-sacrificing spirit of the 
French Sisters, in the hospitals tenanted by their 
suffering countrymen. Undeterred by danger, 
regardless of her delicate health, and obedient 
only to the impulses of her Avoman’s heart, she 
announced her plan, secured her assistants, and 
sailed for the scene of suffering. 
What she did there—the great change she Avas 
the instrument in working in the condition of 
the hospitals and their inmates— the Avorld 
knows and applauds. Would to God there were 
no need of such a work, hut Avhile that need 
prevails, may the world ever have a Florence 
Nightingale for the task, and such a band of Sis¬ 
ters as accompanied her, and now remain there; 
though she Avho gave the impulse and spirit to this 
noble work, has returned home broken in health, 
but unboAved in spirit and as tender, as full of 
sympathy and loving kindness, as human heart 
can be. 
DON’T DESPISE SMALL THINGS. 
The possibility of a great change being intro¬ 
duced by a very small beginning, may he illus¬ 
trated by a tale which Lockman tells of a vizier 
who, having offended his master, was condemned 
to perpetual captivity in a lofty tower. At night 
his wife came to Aveep beneath the Avindow.— 
“ Cease your grief,” said the sage ; “go home for 
the present, and return hither when you have 
procured a live beetle, together with a little ghee 
(or buffalo’s oil,) three clews, one of the finest 
silk, another of stout pack thread, another of 
stout pack thread, another of Avhip-cord; finally 
a stout coil of rope.” When she came again to 
the foot of the tower, provided according to her 
husband’s commands, he directed her to touch 
the insect with a little of the ghee, to tie one 
end of the silk thread around him, and to place 
him on the wall of the tower. Seduced by the 
smell of the butter, the beetle continued to as¬ 
cend till he reached the top, and thus put the 
vizier in possession of the thread, who drew up 
the pack-thread by means of the silk, the small 
cord by means of the pack-thread, and by means 
of the cord a stout rope capable of sustaining 
his weight; and so at last he escaped. 
Tears. — Robert Hall considered the Avord 
“tear” surpassingly beautiful. It belongs to 
the Saxon family he so dearly loved. The tear 
itself often glows like a diamond on the cheek 
where the rose and lily blend. Its moral 
beauty, as a perfect daguerre of compassion and 
benevolence, is still greater. It shone thus on 
the Saviour’s cheek at the tomb of Lazarus, and 
when he Avept over Jerusalem. It still shines 
in his disciples in their missions of mercy. 
There are, indeed, tears of deceit, like those 
fabled of the crocodile. Let them pass. None 
hut a fallen angel would gather them up. There 
are tears of gratitude, of joy. These sparkle 
like the morning dew. 
There are tears of penitence. Angels celebrate 
them with their heavenly harps. Though no 
tears can open to us the gates of paradise, yet 
the tears of penitence, of piety, and such as are 
shown in the path of our pilgrimage, by sorroAvs 
meekly borne, will become gems to enrich and 
adorn our heavenly crowns. 
The world is full of poetry; the earth is 
living with its spirit, and the waves dance to 
the music of its melody. 
I The wealth of mind and heart, of faith and 
love, no change can take from us. 
THE REALIZATION; 
OB, ANOTHER YEAR OE RURAL LIRE. 
BY MAJ. W. KLOVER. 
The year has almost gone. We are in the 
midst of the Holidays—those days which seem 
by common consent in all ages to be consecrated 
to the dying of the old and to the birth of the 
neAY year. How much of the happiness of our 
lives is croAvded into those few days, hoAV many 
a long cherished hope becomes a pleasant reality. 
How many an airy castle ceases to be the 
“Baseless fabric of a vision,” 
and settles down upon the substantial founda¬ 
tion of solid earth. Those same airy castles,— 
Castles de Kspagne, as they call them in the old 
countries,-—have been to me, as I doubt not to 
many another one, the source of pleasant enter¬ 
tainment. I have reared them many a time.and 
oft in mere wantonness to see them tumble over 
into the misty clouds, and then moralize upon 
their ruins. 
You, my dear young lady, have just been 
building one. You have built many since this 
time last year. But the one yon built to-day 
had a fine young gentlemen as one of its tenants, 
and a lady whose face you saw in the glass this 
morning, was Avith him, leaning confidently up¬ 
on his manly arm, and looking forward to the 
time when you and he would henceforth journey 
along life’s road as one. My dear girl, may all 
your fondest anticipations be more than realized. 
And you, young man, when at church last Sab¬ 
bath, and the minister tried hard to get your 
mind and thoughts Heaven-Avard, you could 
see no angels that did not resemble the fair face 
that has been gazing out of your airy castle this 
last year. I hope, when you pop the question 
this winter she Avill say yes, and that you will 
make her a good and loving husband through life. 
My reflections had taken something of the 
hue of my own heart as I sat at the window of 
the snug little parlor at my Uncle’s just as the 
daylight Avas fading into twilight and dusk. 
We had been to tea. The women of the 
household Avere busy clearing aAvay the tea 
things from the sitting-room, for at my Uncle’s, 
they ha\*e dining and sitting-room in one. The 
memory of recent events gave an odor to the 
parlor that Avas most grateful to the heart. At 
length the preliminary ahem, of my Uncle, 
aroused me from my reveries, and I joined the 
family which Avere gathering together in that 
dear old family room. This time my good 
Uncle Avas not the only man in the room who 
had slippers that had been worked by a young 
lady! 
The old gentleman had brought home from 
the post-office the letters and papers, Avhich lay 
upon the table, and had already settled doAvn 
into his old arm chair with the Rural. My 
Aunt had taken up her knitting, and Mary, my 
Cousin Mary, was reading a letter -Avhich, being 
Avritten in a very pretty, lady-like hand, excited 
no other feeling in my mind than that of idle 
curiosity as to who the writer Avas, and what 
one young lady could find to write about to an¬ 
other. 
I was no longer on the anxious seat—and 
thereby hangs a tale. I made up my mind at 
the commencement of the year that before its 
close, I would know whether I had any interest 
in Mary’s heart. I think I hinted something 
of the kind to yon then in my letter, which you 
did me the honor to publish. I had loved her 
for a long time. Other young ladies were as 
handsome, some more so—others as accomplish¬ 
ed ; hut Avith those I could talk, and dance, and 
walk, and ride, and forget them before I got out 
of sight. But not so Avith my cousin ; her dear 
image was ever present. And yet I Avas always 
uncomfortable in her company. I could talk 
freely with others, but some how with her, it 
was a very unsatisfactory sort of silence. I 
have framed many a fine’ speech to make to her, 
but when I got into her presence it jvould, like 
Bob Acre’s courage, “ Ooze out at my palms,” 
and I would stammer out the most ordinary 
common-place observations,—while there was 
Brown, one of the young merchants at the vill¬ 
age, that would talk as cool and glibhy as lady 
could Avish. To do Brown justice, for I hear 
him no malice noAv, he was rather a good fel¬ 
low, dressed well, looked Avell, and had a pleas¬ 
ant off-hand way with him, that is rather taking 
Avith young ladies, especially when hacked by 
a fast horse and handsome buggy. There Avere 
others that Avere partial to Mary, but I made up 
my mind, after a careful examination of all the 
parties, that Brown was my most dangerous 
competitor. He had more leisure than I, a fast 
horse and fine carriage, which I had not. But 
then I had the advantage of being cousin, and 
was therefore, if I had the courage, on the in¬ 
side of the track in the race for her hand. I 
called often at my Uncle’s, and would some¬ 
times get into a pleasant chat with Mary, and 
think, now I’ll tell her hoAV I feel, when up 
would drive that confounded Brown. If he had 
been a’rooster I should have wrung his neck.— 
Sometimes she would go out to ride with him, 
though I used to think rather reluctantly. But 
as she made it a point to treat all Avell who were 
worthy of her regards, she would go. However, 
I thought she Avas getting rather shy of me, and 
that Brown was becoming the favored man.— 
She did not talk half so freely to me as she did 
to him, and went to balls and parties quite often 
with him, for I pretended to get very indiffer¬ 
ent, and did not ask her nor go often myself 
and if I did visit my Uncle’s would do my talk¬ 
ing with the old people. The fact was I had 
come to the conclusion that she did not care for 
me, simply because she did not do all the court¬ 
ing. How much misery we make ourselves and 
often our dearest friends, because we are cowards. 
I passed a dreadful summer. I had placed 
my poor cousin at an awful distance. I was 
very stupid as well as blind. Things Avere get¬ 
ting from bad to worse, till a feAV weeks ago my 
Uncle had a raising. We had nearly finished 
getting up the frame, Avhen in moving a stick of 
timber I was throAvn from the frame, and fell 
upon a pile of stones below. I was picked up, 
senseless, and carried into the house. It might 
have been an unlucky fall, but it was not, tho’ 
I Avas severely bruised and disabled for some 
weeks. It seems I lay unconscious for several 
hours. The first thing I remember distinctly 
was hearing a SAveet low voice say— 
“ Doctor, do you think he will die ?” 
I did not hear the answer, hut I did hear a 
sob. I could not realize Avhere I was, for the 
room was dimly lighted. But I moved a little, 
which made me groan quite audibly. The next 
moment my cousin stood over me. 
“Oh! White,” said she, and laid her face 
doAvn by the side of mine. 
I had heard my name spoken in all sorts of 
ways before, but never as then ; it seemed as 
though the emotions of a life Avere concentrated 
in those two words. If we are ever permitted 
Avhile on earth to get a taste of Heaven I took a 
large mouthful at that moment. 
“Well, White,” said my Uncle, laying down 
his paper, and very deliberately taking off his 
spectacles. “Well, White, mother says we 
have got to make yon a New-Years’ present.” 
“ Did I, Benjamin ?” said my Aunt, looking 
up very demurely. 
“ I shall be obliged for any present you may 
give me, and prize it greatly. Perhaps it Avill 
he a good warm comforter, such as Aunt gave 
me last year, and Avhich did such good service,” 
said I, pretending not to know what he was 
driving at. 
The old gentleman gave one of his heartiest 
laughs. 
“Wait, White, till you have been married as 
long as I have, before you talk about a wife be¬ 
ing a comforter.” 
“Have I been other than a comfort to you 
Benjamin,” said my Aunt, with rather a mourn¬ 
ful, sad voice. 
My Uncle made no answer, hut rose lip from 
his chair, walked to my Aunt, and taking her 
hand in one of his and putting his other arm 
around her neck, imprinted upon her cheeks as 
hearty a kiss as affection ever gave. The ex¬ 
ample was contagious. So, throAving my arms 
around the fair form beside me, I assure you I 
did no injustice to a lesson, I shall never cease 
to love imitating. And my cousin did not resist. 
Just then Smith came in for his annual sub¬ 
scription to the Rural. 
“Smith, you have come in the very nick of 
time,” said my Uncle. “This young dog,” and 
he shook his big fist at me, “has robbed me.” 
“Robbed you,” said Smith, looking serious. 
“Yes, sir, robbed me,” continued he, “robbed 
me of the dearest treasure in my house, except 
one,” and hear he laid his great hand affection¬ 
ately upon my Aunt’s shoulder. She took it in 
both hers and kissed it. 
“The scamp,” said the old man has stolen 
Mary’s heart, and I want to expose him.” 
“ When is the Avedding ?” Smith inquired. 
“New Year’s day,” said my Uncle, “and I 
am going to just put him in the Rural to pay 
for some of his tricks upon me.” 
“A good idea,” said Smith, “and as I am go¬ 
ing to send on the new subscription list that 
day; give me the particulars and I will fonvard 
them, and eat a piece of the wedding cake for 
my .trouble.” 
“Are you doing as well this year as last,” in¬ 
quired my Aunt. 
“ Oh, yes,” ansAvered Smith —“if all the agents 
gain as much as I have, Mr. Moore will have at 
least fifty thousand subscribers.” 
“Good,” we all said in a breath. 
“I think White and Moore,” began my Un¬ 
cle. “By the way Smith, hasn’t Moore any 
military title ?” 
“Why, yes, I have heard him called Colonel, 
at any rate he dined with a military company 
once,” said I, ansAvering his question. 
“Well, if he is not a Colonel he ought to he 
so, its all the same, and Ave will call him Colo¬ 
nel,” said the old man, looking very quizzical. 
“ Well, I say, White and Col. Moore have 
been courting these six years, and have only 
just got through. One has been after our Mart, 
and the other after Miss Public, and both have 
won, and New-Year’s Day sees the realization 
of their happiness and schemes.” And the old 
felloAV rubbed his hands and laughed with 
great glee. 
We all joined in with him. But I have not 
stopped castle building. My castles have dif¬ 
ferent tenants now, for Mary and I do not seem 
to he alone in them. 
Perhaps your subscription list has become so 
full that your castles do not groAV populous, but 
that the Rural may be read by increased thou¬ 
sands every year, is the New-Year Avish of 
Your Happy Friend, 
White Klover. 
December, 25th, 1855. 
When you meet with neglect, let it rouse you 
to exertion instead,of mortifying your pride.— 
Set about lessening those defects which expose 
you to neglect; and improve those excellencies 
Avhich command attention and respect. The 
world may not love you, hut they cannot with¬ 
hold their respect when you continue to de- 
Four Good Habits.—T here were four good 
habits, which a wise and good man earnestly 
recommended in his counsels and by his own 
example, which he considered essentially nec¬ 
essary for the happy management of temporal 
concerns, — these were punctuality, accuracy, 
steadiness, and despatch. 
Written for the Rural New-Yorker. 
USES OE THE BEAUTIFUL. 
Whatever excites pleasant emotions in the 
mind, contributes to happiness. Objects of 
beauty produce these emotions to a great extent, 
therefore those Avho endeavor to render every¬ 
thing about them beautiful and attractive, do so 
much toward promoting their own and the 
happiness of their felloAV beings. We cannot, 
then, justly condemn that person who expends 
time or money in what some people call mere 
ornament. All the labor of life, of whatever 
kind, is for the gratification of either body or 
mind. Then why condemn anything which 
produces our happiness, Avhether useful or 
ornamental ? 
We know of many men Avho raise the voice 
of opposition against the cultivation of flowers, 
planting ornamental trees and shrubbery.— 
Some plead they have no land to spare; some 
no time or money to spend for such things. 
But does it not discover a heart Avhich is almost 
a stranger to many of the pure joys Avhich 
nature and art afford ? 
That man who spends a certain proportion of 
time, money and material, in trying to render 
his buildings, yards and lands pleasant to the 
beholder, does so much toAvard promoting the 
happiness of his neighbors, or community where 
he lives. He renders his own place more valu¬ 
able, more salable, and also those of his own 
neighborhood or village. Thus we see that 
persons providing for their own happiness, often 
unconsciously contribute to the happiness of 
others. Alamora. 
--«»-•-*----- 
ABOUT LUCK. 
Henry Ward Beecher in a recent lecture, 
says:—“I may here, as well as anywhere, im¬ 
part the secret of what is called good luck and 
bad luck. There are men who supposing Prov¬ 
idence to have an implacable spite against them, 
bemoan in poverty of a wretched old age the 
misfortunes of their lives. Luck forever ran 
against them and for others. 
One, with a good profession, lost his luck in 
the river, where he idled away his time a fish¬ 
ing, when he should haA r e been in the office.— 
Another, with a good trade, perpetually burnt up 
his luck by his hot temper, Avhich provoked all 
his employers to leave him. Another, with a 
lucrative business, lost his luck by amazing dil¬ 
igence at everything but his business. Another, 
who steadily followed his trade, as steadily fol- 
loAved his bottle. Another, who Avas honest and 
constant at his work, erred by perpetual mis- 
judgments; he lacked discretion. Hundreds 
lose their luck by endorsing ; by sanguine 
speculations; by trusting fraudulent men,— 
and by dishonest gains. A man never has good 
luck who has a bad wife. I never knew an 
early rising, hard working, prudent man, careful 
of his earnings, and strictly honest, Avho com¬ 
plained of had luck. A good character, good 
habits and iron industry, are impregnable to the 
assaults of all the ill luck that fools ever dreamed 
of. But when I see a tatterdemalion, creeping 
out of a grocery late in the forenoon, with his 
hands stuck into his pockets, the rim of his hat 
turned up, and the croAvn knocked in, I know he 
has had luck—for the worst of all luck is to he 
a sluggard, a knave or a tippler.” 
THE TROUBLESOME NEIGHBOR. 
A few years ago, a poor mechanic, of a very 
quarrelsome disposition, settled near a Christian 
farmer, whose friends expressed to him their 
sympathy in the annoyance he was likely to re¬ 
ceive. “Nevermind,” said the good man, “I 
have never yet quarrelled Avith a neighbor, and 
I am too old to begin now.” 
Some six months passed, and then began a 
series of petty annoyances, which the farmer 
bore uncomplainingly; but this only irritated 
his neighbor the more, until meeting the farmer 
one day in the height of passion, he poured upon 
him a torrent of insult and abuse. “Friend,” 
said the farmer gently, “ no man under the in¬ 
fluence of passion can reason clearly; come to 
me calmly, and Ave will discuss your grievances.” 
The angry man raised his clenched hand to 
strike him, hut was restrained by some unseen 
influence, and both went on their Avay. 
About a Aveek after, the mechanic was passing 
the farmer’s house with a load of grain. It was 
at the foot of a hill, and the load Avas heavy.— 
He coaxed, threatened and beat his oxen, hut all 
to no purpose. He must leave his load or ask 
aid of the man he had injured. Presently he 
saw the farmer unhitch his oxen from a load of 
hay, and come toAvards him. With kindly 
words the farmer proffered his assistance, drew 
him safely to the summit, and without Avaiting 
for thanks, departed as he came. Here was a 
simple act, hut mighty in its influence. The 
mechanic was humbled, acknowledged the pu¬ 
rity and power of that religion that could “ hear 
and forbear,” and has since that time never wil¬ 
lingly provoked his friend.— Selected. 
The Charm of an Old House. — I love old 
houses best, for the sake of the odd closets and 
cupboards, and good thick Avails that don’t let 
the wind bloAV in, and little out-of-the Avay 
polyangular rooms with great beams running 
across the ceiling — old heart of oak, that has 
out-lasted half a score of generations — and 
chimney-pieces with the date Of the year carved 
above them, and huge fire-places that warmed 
the shins of Englishmen before the house of 
Hanover came over. The most delightful asso¬ 
ciations that ever made me feel and think, and 
fall a-dreaming, are excited by old buildings — 
not absolute ruins, hut in a state of decline. 
Even the clipped yews interest me; and if I 
found one in any garden that should become 
mine, in the shape of a peacock, I should be as 
proud to keep his tail well spread as the man 
who carved him.— Southey's Life. 
