MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
FEB. S3. 
CONDUCTED BY A.ZILE. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MY MOTHER. 
“Thou wert welcomed to the world on high 
Just as I entered this.” 
My Mother, on my natal day, 
My thoughts they turn to thee ; 
I could not bear that by thy child, 
Thou should’st forgotten be — 
And from thy sinless home above, 
0, dost thou look on me. 
I can recall no look or smile, 
No lineament of thine, 
Yet in my lonely heart there lives 
An image most divine, 
Earth never knew a filial love 
More sacred than is mine. 
Thy grave 1—it is a sacred spot, 
A Mother's grave to me, 
I cannot keep the tear-drops back 
When’er that place I see, 
For Oh 1 it holds thy precious dust, 
All that remains of thee. 
I’ve read the number of thy years 
Upon that simple stone, 
To-day my own are just the same, 
That number is my own ; 
0 have I lived as long as thou, 
Those years—how quickly flown. 
They tell me of the faith and hope 
That blessed thy dying hour, 
Oh 1 how that knowledge cheers my heart, 
With gentle, soothing power ; 
Worth more to thy poor child of earth 
Than gold or richest dower. 
And when my weary way is tread, 
Life’s conflicts all are o’er, 
My angel Mother 1 may we meet 
Upon that peaceful shore, 
Where parting sounds are never heard, 
And sin will harm no more. 
February, 1856. Fanny. 
-- 
For Moore s Rural New-Yorker. 
COMING HOME—A CONTRAST. 
Susie left. How distinctly each word then ut¬ 
tered came back to her mind, and not a few 
silent tears found their way down her face, as 
the dread truth forced itself with fearful dis¬ 
tinctness upon her, that similar scenes were 
never more to be hers to act. Memory recalls 
those few years, and scene after scene rises be¬ 
fore her with the rapidity of lightning—she 
sees her idolized father, wasting slowly away 
on a sick bed, rejoicing that he is so soon to 
meet his beloved companion in the skies ; yet 
filled with unutterable sorrow at the thought of 
leaving his precious children orphans ; but the 
consciousness that they are prepared for the 
stern conflict of life consoles him, and he passes 
away in peace—“ like a shock of corn fully 
ripe”—leaving bleeding hearts behind, while 
his freed spirit soars to the mansions of the 
blest, to meet, in the bosom of his Savior, her 
lie loved so well on earth—and the sorrowing 
children wish him not back, though sadly, and 
all too soon, they must hide their deep sorrow, 
and go forth into the world, atone. And then 
she sees the parting from the dear old home— 
where all, save the eldest brother, first saw the 
light. ISTo longer a common, household band, 
each striving to assist the other, but separate 
and alone, each one toiling for themselves only, 
with no cheering thought of a pleasant reunion. 
Poor Susie keenly felt her loss that night, as 
she sat there alone, “a stranger in a strange 
land,” with no earthly counsellor or guide. Can 
we wonder that she passed a sleepless night, or 
that her pillow was wet with tears ? 
But faint not, sorrowing one. Thy afflictions 
may prove blessings in disguise. Joy and sor¬ 
row, go hand in hand. Toil on, for thy reward 
is in Heaven, and thy grateful spirit will from 
thence, look back, and thank thy God for the 
way in which he hath led thee. Unalloyed 
happiness is not of earth, and though the way 
be thorny, ’tis the path thy Savior trod. 
Ellen. 
-- 
A TOUCHING TRIBUTE. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
WINTER NOON. 
How fair and beautiful is the frozen snow, 
How white and lustrous to our dazzled eyes, 
When the slant beams of Winter glint upon it, 
The line of fire that crests the curling drift, 
Where the sivift wind has played the architect, 
The-fading blue that marks the graceful curve, 
The thousand varied hues, the thousand gleams 
Of emerald and gold, and pearly white, 
Outvie the splendors of the Orient mine. 
The glare ice clingeth to the ragged bark, 
And from the drooping boughs the icicle 
Hangs like a jewel. The sere brown winter woods, 
Glow with a sheen resplendant as the trees 
In Aladdin’s most magical grove of yore ; 
The crisp snow crackles underneath the foot, 
The merry bells chime through the frosty air, 
Sounding so silver sweet and fairy voiced — 
Throughout the woods, the pendulous ice doth make 
Magical melody 1 Sounds innumerable 1 
Distant, yet blended, rises winter’s hymn, 
That ever goeth upward to the sky. 
How the far distant seemeth to approach ; 
Seen through the Winter noon, yon crested hill, 
That show's in summer sunlight, misty, dim, 
Cometh anear, and circling closer round, 
The horizon lessens, while the blue o’erhead 
Grows deep and deeper, till the soul is lost 
In soaring wildly through the fathomless height. 
This hath its moral. In the summer time 
Are the green leaves, and in the gay green woods 
The delicate flowers are delicately, blossoming 
And in the summer are the singing birds, 
And musical rustling of the tremulous leaves, 
And the glad voice of u’atcrs ; insect netes 
And voice of herds I A multitudinous choir. 
And in the summer is the golden haze 
That robes the hills in mists, and veils the earth, 
Half hiding, yet enhancing all its beauty. 
So in the heart that hath a kindly glow, 
That runneth over like a bubbling spring, 
It will be summer with its leaves and flowers, 
Its sheen the beauty of the dewy leaves, 
But the dim haze comes ever with the heat. 
But in the mind that liveth by itself, 
Whose thoughts are kingly, measureless ; whose words 
Are glittering swords, and in whose ear 
The inanimate and invisible, the w'lieeling stars, 
Thoughts, actions, and high purposes are anthems, 
Whose eye commands the distant, as the near, 
It may be Winter,—but ’tis Winter Noon. 
Rochester, Feb., 1856. G. S. 
-- 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
KINDRED, HOME AND FRIENDS. 
It was evening—clear and cold, out of doors— Mr. Bradbury, one of the conductors of the The inanimate and invisible, the wheeling stars, 
warm*and pleasant, in the comfortable sitting- New York Musical Review, thus writes on the Thoughts, actions, and high purposes are anthems, 
room of a pleasant family who were eagerly death of Ins child. Kittle Lizzie, at the age it may be Winter,—but ’tis Winter Noon. 
awaiting the return of the eldest daughter and of five years Was ever anything more touch- Rochester, Feb., 1856. G. S. 
sister, from school. The tea-table stood in ingly penned ? -- 
friendly nearness to the stove, loaded with good Kittie is gone. Where ? To Heaven. An For Moore's Rural New-Yorker, 
things—not excepting the platter of “ cold vict- angel came and took her away. She was a KINDRED, HOME AND FRIENDS. 
uals,” for, as the mother said b v way of apology, lovely child—gentle as a little lamb ; the pet - 
“ Julia has not had any since she left us, and I of the whole family ; the youngest of them all. Among the various blessings God has kindly 
know they will taste good.” Little Charlie But she could not stay with them any longer, conferred upon ( us which make life desirable 
has stationed himself at the front window, and She had an angel-sister in Heaven who was an d cause it to move pleasantly and happily 
by dint of breathing on the pane,and constant- with us only a few months, but she has been in ;don g> stands pre-eminent that of kindred.— 
ly rubbing it, keeps the frost off from a very Heaven many years, and she must have loved Dear reader, often while plodding your way on- 
small place, and is rewarded for his efforts by Kittie, for everybody loved her. The loveliest ward through the numerous difficulties and be- 
being the first one to see the stage, whose com- flowers are often soonest plucked. If a little setments ot life, with the hand of a dear one in 
ing he announces at the top of his voice. And voice sweeter and more musical than others y° ur own, and a gentle voice ever whispering in 
now all is confusion among the children to see was heard, I knew Kittie was near. If my your weary heart, “ be ot better cheer;” have 
who shall get the first kiss, and while trunks, study door opened so gently and slily that no y ou not blessed God for those who were bound 
band-boxes and carpet-bags are tumbled down, sound could be heard, I knew Kittie was com- 1° y° u by a stronger, closer and firmer than 
the father opens the stage door, and looks ing. If after an hour’s quiet play, a little that which unites the great brotherhood of man - 
eagerly among the passengers for his eldest shadow passed 'me, and the door opened and bind ? Have you not blessed Him for a father, 
pride. He is not long left in suspense, for Ju- shut as no one else could open and shut it “so by whose timely warnings, admonitions and in- 
lia’s bounding heart impels her to sudden ac- as not to disturb papa,” I knew Kittie was going, st ructions you escaped many an unseen pitfall 
tion, and in an instant she is in her father’s When in the midst of my composing, I heard 111 , tlie “ slippery pjtHi of youth for a kind, 
arms—who hardly recognized in the tall, finely a gentle voice saying, “ Papa, may I stay with loving and election ate mother, whose life has 
formed young lady before him, the chubby you a little while ? I will be very still,” I did been a contlnued consecration to your interest 
girl he parted from a year before at D not need to look off ray work, to assure me that and welfare >' ' Those generous heart has been. 
Seminary. it was m y little lamb. You staid with me too 18 andwi11 ^ a fountain °f l 5ure ’ disintei " 
Julia is well-nigh torn in pieces by the time long, Kittie dear, to leave me so suddenly : and c,tcd m * ’ * us un ? out tu " ,u 1 * 1 011 ^ dk ds 
she is fairly in the house, and has greeted all you are still now. You became my little as- ’ount c. ss ^ inpat les.ant u lose eiventprayeis 
the little ones. The mother quiets the noisy sistant, my Lome angel, my youngest and sweet- yi ° °' w > 011 0 - c 8 ray e, or oigiving, gen- 
group and assists her to unrobe, quietly asking est singing bird; and I miss the little voice 1 e si j deis ’ v ‘ 1080 ove 1 e ' sun " d ’ a 
after her health—if she has recovered from the that I have so often heard in an adjoining room, cieet U,HSS am l °pe, ias in.ii c nappv many 
cough she mentioned in her last letter—and if catching up and echoing little snatches of mel- an °t unwise one y oui, an v lose compan- 
she was much exposed to the cold in her ieur- ody as they were being composed. I miss mnship has softened and mellowed your rougher 
ney, <&c., all which, being satisfactorily answer- those soft and sweet kisses. I miss the little jj a1 c -’ <!1 Rotieis unc ant no > e, wit i leaits 
ed, she leaves her, and completes the prepara- hand that was always first to be placed upon 11 geneious v ai nit i am sympat y, and 
tions for tea-while Julia sits by the fire, be- my forehead, to “ drive away the pain.” I miss hands read y for a kmd ’ lieroiC deed ? 
tween father and sister Annie, with Charlie at the sound of those little feet upon the stairs.— All who have been sheltered by the parental 
her feet, baby Emma in her lap, and Johnny I miss the little knock at my bed-room door in r0 °f W L° have helped to form the cheerful fire¬ 
standing by her chair, all listening, while she the morning, and the triple good-night kiss in side gathering, and mingle for awhile in the de¬ 
gives her tongue a free permit to run as fast as the evening. I miss the sweet smiles from the lightful circle of home, know what it is to enter- 
it pleases. sunniest of faces. tain these feelings of genuine gratitude to the 
will follow you to the grave; for forgiving, gen¬ 
tle sisters, whose love like the sun-light, all 
cheerfulness and hope, lias made happy many 
an otherwise lonely hour, and whose compan- 
tain these feelings of genuine gratitude to the 
But who is tjiat pale-faced young lady sit- I miss—oh ! how I miss the foremost in the ® lver cda 00 ’ 
ting a little apart, and watching the group so little group who came out to meet me at the Alas ! alas ! for those poor, homeless wander- 
eagerly ? It is the village teacher, who is gate for the first kiss. I do not stoop so low c,s > y t 1io never knew a mother s tender care, or 
boarding there—a poor orphan; and though she now, Kittie, to give the first kiss. I miss you felt the love that encircles the household follow- 
cannot be more than twenty-one years of age, at the table, and at family worship. I miss Lig them in their dark and weary way! Oh ! 
yet her face bears the traces of sorrow. But your voice in “ I want to be an angel,” for no- Low sad a spectacle is a man without a relative ! 
why does her heart to-night beat so rapidly, and body could sing it like you. I miss you in Like a day without a sun, or a night dark and 
such a great lump arise in her throat ? Ah ! Tides and walks. I miss you in the garden. I cheerless, without one solitary star to gild the 
she well remembers but a few years past when miss } r ° u everywhere; but I will try not to miss gloom ! 
she was the principal actress in another coming you in Heaven. “ Papa, if we are good, will an YVhat untiring effort for each other’s happi- 
home, unlike this in only one respect_(but angel truly come and take us to Heaven when ness, what unceasing devotion, do we find in the 
that one how great!)—the gentle mother was we die ?” When the question was asked, how sheltering bosom of home. Enter that sick 
not there to greet her—and as she this evening little did I thi*k the angel was so near ! But chamber. Why the care - worn face,— the 
watched the kindling of the mother’s-eye as Ire did “truly” come, and the sweet flower is weary, noiseless step and suppressed tone of her 
the stage was announced, and saw the look of transplanted to a more genial clime. “Ido who watches by the bed-side? None can ap- 
happiness resting upon her face, now that all wish papa would come home.” Wait a little ply the cooling bath to the feverish brow, oi¬ 
lier earthly treasures were around her, she could while, Kittie, and papa will come. The jour- make the weary hours of night go by so fast as 
not shut out the recollection of her feelings ney is not long. He will soon be “home.” she. And those eyes have not been closed ex- 
when, on entering her home, her eyes glanced -•+-*-+•—-- cept in -fitful, dreamy slumber, since many 
involuntarily to the vacant arm-chair, and her royal children. -weeks ago, disease laid prostrate that strong 
joy at returning was chastened by the thought It may be interesting to American families, and man1 ^ forra ’ Slie has ke P t lier constant 
that her dear mother was not there to greet her perhapS) to kBO w how the royal children of vl S d nl S ht and da ^ and Wlth a zeal that 
-but she remembered the time she stood by England pass their time. They breakfast at 8, kn0WB not the wcl S ht of slee P or weariness, and 
that dying bedside, and watched the lamp of and dine at 1 O ’ c i oc k, and their various occupa- an energy that will not yield in endurance ; she 
life flicker, and then go out, and as she recalled tions arc allott ed out with almost military ex- has antici P ated and gratified every want, wheth- 
the dying counsels of that sainted mother, she actne s S . An hour is devoted to ancient, and er fancied or reaL And ^ does she seera to 
felt resigned. - another to modern authors; they are trained in han S u P oa tke countenance of the physician 
All this came vividly to her mind, as through military exercises, then succeed music and danc- w5lde bc fe els the fevered pulse . That sick 
the evening she watched the happy, animated ing. Next they proceed to the riding school, man is a Lusband, and ske is lus wife, 
group—and she saw the happy look of her own and when the girls go on with their appropriate Absence but strengthens the affections that 
dear father as he helped her to alight, and re- | exercises, the young princes go to work in a I binds together kindred souls. How many hearts 
marked on her improved appearance—the al- carpenter’s shop, fitted up expressly for them, Lave almost leaped from their ribbed casement, 
most motherly, yet at the same time, sisterly with a turning lathe and other tools Accessary when far away in a distant land among stran- 
smile of that older sister, as she warmly press- to a perfect knowledge of the craft. This done S ers aud unfamiliar scenes, a sweet vision of j 
ed her hand, saying, “ I’m so glad to see you they take their guns for a shooting stroll through Lome of father, mother, brother, sister, husband, 
again, Susie darling,”—then her brothers, as the gardens. The evening meal, preparation y,dfe or cbdd > comes looming up in life-like 
they pressed eagerly forward to receive the for the morning’s lessons, and brief religious Leauty and loveliness, before the waking fancy, 
ready kiss—how plainly she saw them all, and instruction, close the day. A noble ship, proudly bounding over the 
how kindly they smiled upon her— little —-». » ——- swelling waves, is pointing its brazen prow to- 
Frankie too, bounding into her arms, and de- A generous mind does not feel as belonging Awards the soft and genial clime of life-bestow- 
claring they had not been happy since sister to itself alone, but to the whole human race. ing Italy. On the deck, surrounded by a group 
of friends,—some drawn by sympathy and oth¬ 
ers by idle curiosity,—lies a dying youth. But 
a few days ago, he bade “ good bye” to the loved 
ones at home, cheered with the hope that the 
pure air and lovely scenery of Italy would restore 
the color to his faded cheeks and strength to his 
feeble frame ; but alas! death has sealed him 
for his own. Suddenly he awakens from his 
dreamy sleep, so like to death. His frame quiv¬ 
ers—the blood comes back to his pale cheek— 
the heavy eye-lids unclose and let in the day¬ 
light, and the eyes glisten with unwonted bril¬ 
liancy. He would speak. Bend low and catch 
the faint, soft whisper ! It is his dying request. 
0 ! could he have died in the dear old home, 
where his mother could have watched the lamp 
of life go gently out, and sisters fanned His 
burning, throbbing temple, he had died happy. 
And now he asks, (and it is a precious boon,) 
that they will not bury him in “ the deep, deep 
sea,” but that he may be laid in the church¬ 
yard there, oq the green hid-side near those he 
loved in life. 
When we have witnessed this unceasing affec¬ 
tion—these marks of deathless constancy—we 
have thought there was no stronger tie on earth, 
than that which brings together the household. 
But kindness and affection of one towards 
another is not entirely confined to the family 
circle. Happy it is for us that kind words and 
noble, generous deeds, the offspring of every 
God-like soul, go out into the world, seeking 
for worthy objects, on which to lavish their 
power and beauty. The world has many such 
glorious spirits, whose life breathes around them 
the perfume of kind words and deeds, as the 
rose breathes its sweetness on the surrounding 
air : and you and I, dear reader, have felt, no 
doubt, the blessed influence of these almoners 
of God’s bounty when, in despondency, their 
voices have cheered us or when, in sickness, 
their kind hands have ministered to our wants, 
eased the pain in our throbbing temples, and 
cared for us as a mother would—watching by 
our bed-side through all the weary night.— 
Happy ! thrice happy they, who, wanderers 
from the dear fireside, find such broad and am¬ 
ple sympathies, ready to encircle them, in their 
hours of despondency and sickness, and willing 
hands ever ready to hold them up when falling, 
and hearts that continually say, to each of them, 
“ God speed thee, my Friend and Brother !” 
Charles Dickens closes one of his Christmas 
Tales, by making an old picture that hangs on 
the wall, breathe this prayer : “ Lord keep my 
memory green.” We, too, would say. Lord 
keep our memories green. Blessed memories ! 
in thy tender embrace, hold all our past, wheth¬ 
er of joy or sorrow ! Keep ever fresh and green 
As the banks along the babbling rills, 
Or the summer leaves on the laughing hills, 
the recollections of home, kindred, friends— 
childhood, boyhood, manhood,— and life when 
in all its sublimity, it broke in for the first time 
upon the dreaming soul! Keep them all green , 
even when we shall have ripened like the yel¬ 
low corn, for life’s autumn harvest ! s. a. e. 
Rochester, Feb., 1856. 
AN AMENDMENT. 
The article published in the Rural of Jan. 
19, by Garbutt, on the importance of useful 
labor, for promoting the health, happiness and 
prosperity of community, is well worthy of care¬ 
ful perusal, but I think he omitted an essential 
item in not noticing the Ministers of the Gospel, 
for none are more truly honorable than those 
who deservedly occupy the sacred desk, and dif¬ 
fuse the heavenly balm of charity, peace and 
good will around their sphere. "They who warn 
the young against the contaminating influence 
of the vice and folly which will surround them 
as they pass through the checkered scenes of 
life, and who with congenial love entwine the 
anxiety of worldly cares wiili a desire for heaven, 
and lead the admirer of nature’s beauties to the 
contemplation and reverence of their Creator, is 
truly great and justly deserving of honor. And 
when declining years have loosened life’s anx¬ 
ious cares, and the conscious soul realizes that 
it must soon take its departure, a visit then from 
tli^much beloved Pastor, is a heavenly zest, 
that smoothes the pilgrim’s path, and makes 
life’s departure a peaceful calm, which no earth¬ 
ly honor can ever give. * t. d. 
Monroe Co., N. Y., 1856. 
A PEEP AT TOM CAMPBELL. 
In a letter of the late Thomas Campbell, just 
printed, the deceased poet expresses himself as 
distressed at his inability to discover materials 
for a life of Mrs. Siddons, “ dear, good Mrs. Sid- 
dons.” He writes : 
“ She was a very angel, but devils make bet¬ 
ter stuff for a biography than angels. The old 
toothless ladies — once dashing beauties — that 
were her sworn friends, heap upon me reams of 
proof of her piety and purity ; but, Lord help 
me, I can make no use of all their twaddle. * * 
Had she been a fie-fie, or a drunkard, or a ter¬ 
magant, I should have had comparatively a si¬ 
necure in my biographical duty to her. Never¬ 
theless, there are some interesting particulars 
about her : her great grand-uncle was executed 
for being a Catholic priest. I have some faint 
hopes of being able to prove that he was even 
burnt alive ; but, unhappily, that is not certain. 
Poor man ! it would make no difference to him 
now by what death he died ; but. to me it 
would be most desirable, if possible, that, he 
should have died by tire, for the sake of an ex¬ 
citing impression on my amiable readers." 
Holiday Presents. —The Boston Post is re¬ 
sponsible for the following :—“A friend says he 
had two, a kiss from his wife and another from 
his daughter. The first he valued for its rarity, 
and the second for its disinterestedness—being 
given for a gold bracelet.” 
.HOUSE MEMORIES. 
In the House, at length, a man finds his own 
life re-written. Dumb and inanimate things 
forget their nature, and both live and speak.— 
His joys are recorded all over it. His sorrows 
are registered therein. To the stranger, there 
is no hand-writing on the wall. To the owner 
every inch is covered with invisible records of 
past experiences. Nothing will ever efface the 
remembrance of the early days of wedded joy— 
the mysterious sense of-a double being; a dou¬ 
ble heart beating love’s perpetual reveille ; even¬ 
ings that seemed bright as mornings, nights as 
light as day; hours that ran in musical num¬ 
bers through the day, and framed time to a har¬ 
mony of wondrous joy. YVhat if none other eye 
can see these things painted on the walls ?— 
The owner sees them ! Memory can fresco the 
plainest walls, and empty spaces even, as no 
outside artist, working with pigments, can do. 
We have domes in our house mighty as St. Pe¬ 
ter’s. We have pictures beyond Raphael’s; but 
we can not show them to others. It is not 
our eye that sees them, but our soul! The 
doors recall days and evenings ; the windows 
are perpetual ministers, whispering the airy 
memories of old days. The floors have a mean¬ 
ing. The sounds of a latch, the different 
echoes of shutting or opening doors the creak 
of the plank, the hum of the winds in different 
rooms, all are suggestive and historic of domes¬ 
tic life. And, as the early Christians covered 
the dingy walls of the catacombs with rude 
sketches, and journalized there their hopes, and 
joys, and faith, so doth the heart, everlasting 
artist ot beauty, inscribe its fancies and its feel¬ 
ings through all the dwelling.— Beecher. 
OLD AGE. 
The neglected portion of the great American 
family is old age—we are sorry to say. Not that 
we as a nation are disrespectful to the old, or 
that they are denied or grudged anything. YVe 
perform the negative duty to them, by avoiding 
all which shall occasion to them offense or de¬ 
privation—but we do not perform the positive 
duty of assiduously seeing that they occupy, 
always and only/the places of honor and prom¬ 
inence ; nor, more particularly, do we study to 
contrive, untiringly and affectionately, how to 
comfort, strengthen, cheer and recuperate them. 
The old man in one house may have his chair 
in the drawing-room, and his place at the table, 
and be listened to when he speaks, and obeyed 
when he commands. But in another house he 
will have his easy chair cushioned and pillowed, 
and his arm-chair at the table, and the cook will 
be busied most with what will newly nourish 
or refresh his more delicate appetite ; while all 
listen first for his words, and address conversa¬ 
tion to him as a centre, and eagerly seek for his 
commands as an authority. This (we assure 
the reader, from our own well weighed observa¬ 
tion in both countries,) is a fair picture of the 
difference between old age in America and old 
age in England. YVe have been sad to admit this, 
to the commenting traveler. 
It is an unconscious fault in our country—an 
oversight of our life too busy, our attention too 
overtasked, and our plans of home and pleasure 
too unsettled and immature—but the feeling for 
better things is in us, and time will bring this 
feeling into action.— N. P. Willis. 
STEADY WORK FOR IDLE MOMENTS. 
Nothing to do, say you ? You have the grain 
threshed, wood drawn, fencing stuff got out, the 
pork and beef marketed, and now nothing to do ; 
but you want steady work ! Be up and doing, 
then. There’s a swarm of bees settling down 
around you; one by one, and hour by hour, 
they are to be taken. Hive them, feed them, 
make them the inmates of your home, and part¬ 
ners of your every act. They fill your heart 
with nectar, delicious and unalloyed. Lest you 
should mistake any of them, please find below 
a list of the Queens : 
B patient, B prayerful, B humble, B mild, 
B wise as a Solon, B meek as a child ; 
B studious, B thoughtful, B loving, B kind, 
B suie you make matter subservient to mind. 
B cautious, B prudent, B trustful, B true, 
B courteous to all men, B friendly to few. 
B temperate in argument, pleasure and wine, 
B careful of conduct, of money, of time. 
B cheerful, B grateful, B hopeful, B firm, 
B peaceful, benevolent, willing to learn ; 
B courageous, B gentle, B liberal, B just, 
B aspiring, B modest, because thou art dust. 
B patient, B circumspect, sound in the faith, 
B active, devoted, B faithful till death ; 
B honest, B holy, transparent and pure, 
B dependent, B Christ-like, and you’ll B secure. 
MORE PRECIOUS THAN RUBIES. 
YVould it not please you to pick up strings of 
pearls, drops of gold, diamonds, and precious 
stones, as you pass along the street ? It would 
make you feel happy for a month to come.— 
Such happiness you can give to others. How, 
do you ask ? By dropping sweet words, kind 
remarks, and pleasant smiles as you pass along. 
These are true pearls and precious stones, which 
can never be lost; of which none can deprive 
you. Speak to that orphan child ; see the pearls 
drop from her cheeks. Take the hand of the 
friendless boy; bright diamonds flash in his 
eyes. Smile on the sad and dejected; a joy 
suffuses his cheek more brilliant than the most 
precious stones. By the wayside, amid the 
city’s din, and at the fireside of the poor, drop 
words and smiles to cheer and bless. You will 
feel happier when resting upon your pillow at 
the close of the day, than if you had picked a 
score of perishing jewels. The latter fade and 
crumble in time ; the former grow brighter with 
age. and produce happier reflections forever.— 
Selected. 
- - - ^ - 
Ruling one’s anger well, is not so good as 
preventing it. 
