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MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
APRIL 19. 
SCENE IN A LOG CABIN. 
It was nearly midnight of Saturday night 
- that a passenger came to Col.-, requesting 
conducted by azile. him to go to the cabin of a settler, some three 
-—-—' miles down the river, and see his daughter, a 
a home scene. gi r l of fourteen, who was supposed to be dying. 
a wipe waiting por her husrand. Col.-awoke me and asked me to accompa- 
' ny liim, and I consented, taking with me the 
The noon-day sun has set, and still she stands, . . . . , T i 
<The oft-read letter rustling in her hands,) sma11 package of medicines which I always 
Gazing aslant along the glimmering lane, carried in the forest,' but I learned soon there 
Her pressed lip breathing on the clouded pane ; was no need of these, for her disease was past 
The evening shadows darken round, and see ! cure. 
With misty lantern twinkling through the tree, „ She ig a strange child,” said the Colonel- 
The ponderous wagon rolls its weight along, - « ,, . , 
Cheered by rude gladness of a rustic song ; her father » as strange a man. They live to- 
High in the air the swinging canvas flows, gether alone on the bank of the river. They 
Brushing the twilight foliage as it goes. came here three years ago, and no one knows 
Now deeping fast on her attentive ear, whence or why. He has money, and is a keen 
Up the green path a shadowy step draws near ; ,. „ 
And winds he now beneath those branches dim ? shot. The child lias been wasting away for a 
No—other cottage faces look for him, • year past. I have seen her often, and she seems 
And other cottage cars his steps await; gifted with a marvellous intellect. She speaks 
Hark! down yon field rebounds his garden gate. sometimes as if inspired, and she seems to be 
Sadly she shuts again the parlor door, . , . -, , „ 
And through the parted shutter, on the floor, fche onl 7 ko P e of her fathel ’ 
The pallid rays of autumn moonlight fall, W e reached the hut of the settler in less than 
And the quick fire-light flickers on the wall. half an hour, and entered it reverently. 
Now, pensive, in the chair, she thinks awhile The scene was one that cannot easily be for- 
O’er the fond parting sweetness of his smile. ,, „ 
, . gotten, there were books, and evidences of 
Now to the window goes, and now returns ° . ’ 
And now hope dies away, and now it burns. luxury and taste, lying on the rude table in the 
In vain with book she soothes the hour of grief, center. A guitar lay on the table near the 
startled by every rustle of the leaf. small window, and the bed furniture, on which 
Oh, joyous sound!—her tearful vigil past, ,, , ■ _ . , , », ,, 
mu t. U i . , , ,, the dying girl lay, was as soft as the covering 
The threshold echoes now—he comes at last! j o a j > fo 
_ 4 , 4 _ of a dying queen. 
[Communicated for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] , h>he was a fair child, with masses of long 
A MODEL LETTER. black hair lying over her pillow. Her eye was 
from a sister to a young brother. dark and piercing, and as it met mine, she 
_ „ ,, . —-r , started slightly, but smiled and looked upward. 
The following excellent letter was addressed 1 8poke a few wdg to her father , and , turning 
by a young lady now at the South, to her boy to bei . asked ber if sbe knew her cond ition. 
brother, (aged 14,) residing in Newport, N. Y. T . J , 
It was not written for publication, but is an un- . I know that my Redeemer liveth, said she, 
studied epistle, abounding in sisterly advice, * n <l V01ce ^ 1080 me 01 A ' as Pie s '" eeles ^ 
e.manat.infr snontanoonsl v from the heart. Tf tones of an Eolian. 1 ou may imagine that the 
emanating spontaneously from the heart. If 
more sisters would “go and do likewise,” there 
would be many a better man in the world. 
Leesburg, Va., Jan. 7, 1856. 
Dear Brother George :—Had I written you 
answer startled me, and with a few words of 
like import, I turned from her. A half hour 
past, and she spoke in the same deep, richly 
melodious voice : 
— — — —; “ ' t j “Father, I am cold; lie down beside me”- - , .™. n ' T 7 7 
at any period previous to this, I could, with all , , ’ , Home, sure enough, but is it reallv Annl at 
. * , 1 . . , . .. . ., .. a and the old man lay down by his dying child, ■>»- i tt n 0 AT , , J F ** 
propriety, have dated my letter at the “ Sunny . . . , J { J & , ’ Maple Hill ? Never before did the snow banks 
o L „ 1 , *, • and she twined her emaciated arms around his , , , A 
South,” but now it would seem very inappro- , . , . loom so high or linger so late around us. and it 
. , - . . . f neck, and murmured m a dreamy voice,«Dear , . , ,, " ’ , 
uriate. for to mv ureat errief and utter discom- . J ’ seems more like mid-winter t.ban tto mnntli i™ 
“ Nay, father, for my soul is strong.” 
“ Seest thou the thither shore ?” 
“ T mo f *i , ., . . earth and the dull drab stubble fields,” coming 
I . see fatber 5 and lts b anka are green im arain into a 
priate, for to my great grief and utter discom- j- ajbe ’. dear p b ] ier » 7 ’ seems more like mid-winter than the month in 
fiture on last Saturday, old Boreas honored us ,, „ which we have seen pencil blossoms and dande- 
with a snow-storm which would compare very flood ” eem dee {o thec „ lions. But there is a heavy “run on the banks,” 
favorably with any of your home scenes;—in- « m f n P f „ and they are “breakiiu;” here and there, so 
deed I think he has left us a snow mantle of at a ay ’ '! H ’ ’ S0X1 1 18 s ’' )ng ' that, to vary the landscape, we have “ the brown 
least a foot in thickness, and great, I assure you, u LCS ,|° U ' 1 101 8 101 e ‘ earth and the dull drab stubble fields,” coming 
is the excitement attendant thereon. Everything see 1 > a ei > its an-s are green U p again into the sunshine. And they come up 
n < i i-i , i . witn immortal verdure. , ^ * 
that bears the most remote resemblance to a TT . .. . „ . . , , more and more every hour Not manv weeks 
, • , , , , , , , “ Hearest thou the voices of its inhabitants ?” , „ J Juau J 
sleigh, from a dry goods box upwards, has been <( T , • . 111 , shall pass ere the greenery of spring shall ap- 
i , , . . . “ 1 hear them, father, as the voices of angels. • ,,. „ J1 ^ 1 
placed upon runners and brought into requisi- _, . ,, .... , . pear—ere the crown of. and name-giver to, the 
tion by the gentleman and ladies of L-. f ™“ afar lathe stll J and sole ™ n ^ HomeStead-a noble sugar maple,-shall redden 
To me these vehicles look anything rather than _^ 'i^ieiirdU then ^ °°’ at 161 with bursting huds—to be followed by myriad 
comfortable, but the parties more intimately «Doth she b eak to thee ?” pale yellow blossoms, and the silver-lined 
concerned, consider them quite luxurious. They ‘ “•* ‘ _ leaves of our noble native tree. 
with immortal verdure.” 
“ Hearest thou the voices of its inhabitants ? 
up again into the sunshine. And they come up 
more and more every hour ! Not many weeks 
oiiv VUIOCO WA JLLO XIlliaUJLLCtUlO l n ,1 
“I hear them, father, as the voices of angels, lhe S‘'eeaery of spnng shall ap- 
■alling from afar in the still and solemn nit-ht- 1™™°* T ' TtT ^ r 
ime ; and th.v call w.i. J,.... Homestead-anoble sugarmaple,-shallredden 
also have what they call the “ basket-sleigh,” 
a kind of cutter of woven willow precisely like 
our baby wagons for summer use. You doubt- 
“ Doth she speak to thee?” pale and the silver-lined 
. (C! i , , ,,, leaves of our noble native tree. 
“ bhe speaketh m tones most heavenly!” it a -i a . T 
“ Doth she smile ?” J How April came to me m the city, I can well 
.. . . ., . t> i. remember, since it was (really) only yesterday 
“ An angel smile ! But a cold, calm smile. . TV , , .1 „ 7,7 L 
it I am cold—cold—cold ! that 1 ( meta phor.b’h;) “shook its dust from off 
^T 11 A n ^ -.1 f -n , iAiu.ua. ) SJIUUK lbb UUbb irUIII U 
less think these would need the extra comfort . , . , ° ° \ ’ a ° r ’ 1 iere s a my feet/’ and turned rby face homeward with 
mist in the room. You’ll be lonely, lonely. Is ,7,, . 
of a robe, and occasionally such a superfluity is 
.,, , , . 1 y this death, father ? 
met with, however, not frequently, m these re- , 
gions seen. Aud s0 shc passed away.— JV. Y. Observer. 
One morning last week we had a magnificent 
spectacle presented to our view. During the TIlB PIJ ' ri ES OF A mother 
night a rain liad frozen as it fell, consequently By the quiet fireside of home, the true moth- 
covering all vegetation with an incrustation of e r in the midst of her children, is sowing as in 
ice, giving it the appearance of a crystallized vases of earth the seeds of plants that shall 
town. But as old Sol advanced in his meridian sometime give to Heaven the fragrance of their 
couise om frost-flowers and silvered trees grad- blossoms, and whose fruit shall he as a rosarv of 
heart that has ever yearned for its quiet joys 
and humble cares, and that here hopes to live 
its remnant ol life on earth. And you can re¬ 
call what, four years ago to-night, I wrote to 
you, from my lonely room : 
It is an April eve, and I have been 
Out in the city street across the river, 
Joying once more to breathe a milder air, 
And thinking of the signs of spring which now 
Gladden the country. I have heard to-day 
A blue-bird singing on a leaden roof— 
Where not a bough or blade of grass could greet 
My eye or his,—and the sweet song called up 
The old, dear memories of April days, 
And April rambles o’er the yet brown fields 
Of some late spring like this, unto the wood 
Where maple sweets were gathered, 
course ou irost-nowers ana suverea trees grad- blossoms, and whose fruit shall he as a rosary of A blue-bird singing on a leaden roof— 
ually disappeaied. I shall endeavor not to angelic deeds, the noblest offering that she can Where not a bough or blade of grass could greet 
greatly murmur at the change of temperature, make through the ever ascending and expand- My ey ° or his ~ and tl,e sweet son S called U P 
for this Snow lias keen much desired for i T . , .. i The old, dear memories of April days, 
surinus and The whetr ^ f ° ^ ChlldrCn t0 ^ Eve ^ April rambles o’er the yet brown fields 
1 A ° “ I. _ , , word that she utters goes from heart to heart Of some late spring like this, unto the wood 
And you are attending Prof. M— s school, vvith a power of which she little dreams. Phi- Where maple sweets were gathered, 
I am delighted to hear it, for I consider him a losophers tell us in their speculations that we a nd when I have a ramble through those woods 
superior teacher, and I feel so much more than cannot lift a finger without moving the distant again, I will tell you more about it— 
anxious for your rapid advancement. I hope spheres. Solemn is the thought, but not more I will not 
you will improve to your utmost every advantage solemn to the Christian mother than the thought Now P aus0 to taste again the sweeter sweets 
you have. \ ou have now attained an age from [hat every word that falls from her lips_every Which memory has kept,—which we enjoy 
which you will seem to grow old very fast,- expression of her countenance, even in the shel- ° Dly the better that we *“* them often ’ 
but by no means allow the physical growth to tered walk and retirement of home, may leave The Roblus have come ! Tlie N do » ot 
outstrip the mental. Knowledge is the safest, an indelible impression upon the young souls to showa ny dissatisfaction about the weather— 
the most valuable capital for a young man, and around her, and form as it were the underlying they Slng 88 j°Y full y as heart could desire— 
as we have no other to expect in the future, let strain of that education which peoples Heaven and 1 takc co ' ,rage frora their ho P efld strains, 
us give this great culture, its due appreciation. with celestial beings, and gives to the white Aud tbat farailiar red squirrel which had made 
I know that you have many difficulties to en- b row of the angel next to the grace of God its “ regular tri P s ” from the butternut tree to the 
I know that you have many difficulties to en- b row of the an£ 
counter,—many obstacles to overcome—but look crown 0 f glory^ 
not upon these as discouragements ; rather con- _ 
sider them as aids to the strengthening of your ^ Mother’ 
character. I make not this assertion upon in- . H _ 
wagon shed, eveiy day for years, is yet here, 
despite the cats and dogs, though many a time 
his life has seemed iu imminent peril. He has 
gained a right to chatter saucily from the tall 
^ • y,uu A Mother’s Love.—T he intensity of mater- 7 T 111 P eni - ile aa s 
character. I make not this assertion upon in- nal affection was well ii hl8trated j/ the obser- galaC & nght to cbatter saucil y from the tal1 
sufficient grounds; I know they will prove such vatioil of a sweet little boy, who after reading apple tre6_a ngbt to hide in tbe wood P ile 
if you will only consider them m their true „ p ilgrira - 8 Progress ,” asked b is mother which wh ? n bard Pf ssed - aad a right to corn-crib 
light, and apply them to good advantage. of tbe characters she liked best. She re,,lied ^ rafc - bl f- Pnnce and S P ot ’ Ring and Roam- 
Now please do not look upon this advice as „ Chri stian, of course ; he is the hero of the f’ h T a T e als ° a nght to catch bira if tbe F can ’ 
cold and unsympathising, for I give it in no such , T.7 V 7 7 Z m . U1U 
7 . 65 , story.” He responded :—“ I like Christiana 
spirit, instead you will find no one more readv , . , . 
, * best, because when Christian set out on his pil- 
and Wlllinpf to listen In vrmr trantiloc nn,] . I 
and willing to listen to your troubles, and will- • , , . . . / 
• . ■ , n J . ... grim age he went alone, hut when Christiana 
mg to assist you whenever right is on your side. , , , , , , ,, . ... . „ „ , 
n u . , 7,, . . ... J ... started she took the children with her.”— Sel. 
Cultivate an affable and obliging disposition.— 
Shun evil as you would a contagious disease. 
You are old enough and possess sufficient judg- _ 
ment to distinguish between the right and the As stars upon the tranquil sea, 
wrong—to discern good and ill. Remember In miraic K lor y shine, 
you are a youth and will soon he a man—then So words of kindness in tlle heart 
cultivate such principles that you will not be 0 then be kind, whoe’er thou art, 
ashamed of them when you become a man.— That breathest mortal breath, 
You are our “ one brother” aud many hopes and Ana it shall brighten all thy life, 
fond wishes are centered in you. A Mother And sweet en even death, 
looks to you for consolation and happiness— .... ~ 
1 1 HAVfV_TT^-rtr -Al__ L I 
rse ; he is the hero of the ^7 tT als ° a ngllt to catch bim if ^ey can, 
ided :-“ I like Christiana / 0 f * ^ b< T long before tbe ^ succeed 
Christian set out on his pil- Sequent and lively attempts to do so. 
alone, but when Christiana 1 look across the fields and see our kingly 
j children with her ."-Sel. )aksand q J UOen 1 1 ^ Elms ’ uncrowned ’ d is true 
_ but alive and unharmed, and the life-sap already 
iindness. beginning to stir in every pore—an earnest of 
- the regal honors they soon shall wear again so 
ion the tranquil sea, proudly. A hale old oak is mightier than gold 
! g,ory slline > or silver, “ Old trees in their living state,” says 
f kindness in the heart t ___ >i xi , ,, J 
be Hource divine; Landor, are the only things that money cannot 
:ind, whoe’er thou art, command. Jtiveis leave their heds, run into 
ithestmortal breath, cities, and traverse mountains for it; obelisks 
1 brighten all thy life, and arches, palaces and temples, amphitheatres 
iten even death. and pyramids, rise up like exhalations at its 
TTTTi . , bidding; even the free spirit of Man, the only 
e than beautiful thou art!— , 1 , , ’ •> 
i . r . . ,, ... thing great on earth, crouches and cowers in its 
THE VALLEY BROOK. 
Fresh from the fountains of the wood, * 
A rivulet to the valley came, 
And glided on for many a rood, 
Flushed with the morning’s ruddy flame. 
The air was fresh and soft and sweet ; 
The slopes in spring’s new verdure la}’, 
And wet with dew-drops, at my feet, 
Bloomed the young violets of May. 
No sound of busy life was heard, 
Amid those pastures lone and still, 
Save the faint chirp of early bird, 
Or bleat of flocks along the hill. 
I traced that rivulet’s winding way ; 
New scenes of beauty opened round, 
Where meads of brighter verdure lay 
And lovelier blossoms tinged the ground. 
“ Ah ! happy valley stream,” I said, 
“ Calm glides thy wave amid the flowers, 
Whose fragrance round thy path is shed 
Through all the joyous summer hours. 
“ Oh ! could my years, like thine, be passed 
In some remote and silent glen, 
Where I could dwell and sleep at last, 
Far from the bustling haunts of men.” 
But what new echoes greet my ear ! 
The village schoolboys’ ‘merry call; 
And mid the village hum I hear 
The murmur of the waterfall. 
• I looked ; the widening vale betrayed 
A pool that shone like burnished steel, 
Where that bright valley stream was stayed, 
To turn the miller’s ponderous wheel. 
Ah! why should I, I thought with shame, 
Sigh for a life of solitude, 
When even this stream, without a name, 
Is laboring for the common good ? 
No longer let me shun my part, 
Amid the busy scenes of life, 
But, with a warm and generous heart, 
Press onward in the glorious strife. 
[Communicated for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
MAPLE HILL LETTERS. 
Maple Hill, April 3, 1856. 
Home, sure enough, but is it really April at 
Look :or a spring-time letter soon, for it not 
only thaws but rains. The brook is rising—the 
meadows begin to overflow. But the bed, where [Concluded from i age 13I] 
I have had many a good night’s rest, is waiting ^ think, ®aid Mis. S., “ children can scarce- 
and I am weary. Goodnight! *. h. *. ly develop theii natuial affections in the city. 
g , 4 _ There is nothing for them to cling to, nothing 
[Translated from the German for the Rural New-Yorker.] to awaken their admiration and interest there.” 
THE FIRST GRAVE. “ Except toy-stores, which certainly do wake 
- up an immense amount of admiration and inte- 
Tiie storm roared, and dark clouds came rush- res t in the small fry, Mrs. S.” 
ing along and hid the splendor of the sun. It “True, but they are better off with a few oc- 
was a gloomy day, and the soul of the first hu- casional presents. I know how happy they are 
man pair was also sad and gloomy. Adam and f or a short time with them ; but I fear me the 
Eve sat by the brook, and before their eyes lay excitement is not productive of good. Toys 
the corpse of their son Abel, who had been slain produce more strife among the little ones than 
by his brother. The waves impelled by the all the pleasure is worth. For my part, I al- 
storm rolled on furiously. The wind howled most dread to see them come into the house, 
through the branches and leaves, and the tears although I do feel gratified in witnessing the 
of our first parents fell down upon their loved, surprise and delight with which they are re¬ 
murdered son. ceived by the children.” 
“ What,” at length asked Adam, “ what shall « This is a clear case.” 
we do with this dear remnant ? “ If you want to see a picture,” continued 
Eve shook her head and mutely gazed upon Mrs. S., full of the theme, and putting down 
the corpse, for her grief could find no words ; her sewing, “I think I can show you one worth 
and again she moistened the corpse with tears, looking at.” 
“ As long as we keep the dead son before our (One short puff, and one eye shut, expressive 
eyes,” continued Adam, “our distress will be 0 f an anxious desire to see the picture.) 
boundless, and will at last consume us.” Mrs . Sparrowgrass rolled back the library 
Thereupon a bird fell down from a tree which window shutters, and the flood of white light 
a sudden gust of wind had violently shaken. It tba t poured into the room fairly dimmed the 
fluttered several times with its wings, but mus cand ] e on [he table. There was the pure white 
soon lifeless. It was a young ciow 'which had S now; and the round, full moon ; and the lus- 
fallen out of its nest, and was not yet able to fly; trous stars; and the hazy line of the Palisades • 
the fall had killed it. It was not long before and the long reacb of river glistening with a 
the old crow flew down, and seeing that the t h 0US and brilliants. For from every point of 
young bird was dead, scratched and scraped the ice there shone a nebulous light, so that the riv- 
earth with its beak and feet, till a small open- er seemed a galaxy studded with magnificent 
ing was made in the ground, into w uc l it cai- planets—and as we stood gazing upon this won- 
ried the dead nestling. It then scraped the droug scene, we heard the sound of an approach- 
earth back again into the opening, and aftei i n g train, and then,suddenly reddening through 
having well covered the dead bird with the the stone arch in the distance, there darted forth 
LIVING IN THE COUNTRY. 
[Translated from the German for the Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE FIRST GRAVE. 
earth, flew away. 
into the night, the Iron Meteor with its flaming 
“ Behold, said Adam, “ now we know what forehead, and so flying along the curve of the 
to do with the corpse of our son. road, thundered by, and was presently heard no 
Adam and Eve imitated the noble example of more- 
the crow, laid the dead Abel into a cave, and j thiTlk M rs. Sparrowgrass rather surpassed 
covered him with earth. Thus was made the herself when she conjured up this splendid 
first grave for man. s. t. vision, for she became very errave and silent. 
nrst grave tor man. s. t. vision, for she became very grave and silent. 
PLEASURES OF CONTENTMENT. . “ Ttus beautiful scene,” said I, “this glisten- 
_ mg river, reminds me of something, of a scien- 
I have a rich neighbor that is always so busy title fact, which, although true in itself, sounds 
that he has no leisure to laugh ; the whole busi- like language of oriental fable. Did you 
ness of his life is to make money. He is still know, my dear, that those vast Palisades yon- 
drudging on, saying that Solomon says, “the d#r rest upon beds of jewels ?” 
diligent hand maketh rich.” And it is true “Beds of jewels!” echoed Mrs. Sparrowgrasss. 
indeed, but he considers not that it is not in the “ ^ es » m y dear, beds of jewels ; for these are 
power of riches to make man happy, for it was basaltic rocks of volcanic birth, and at some 
wisely said by a man of great observation, that lime were spouted up from the molten caverns 
“there are as many miseries beyond riches, as below the crust of the earth, in a fluid state ; 
on this side of them.” And yet God deliver us then the y spread out and hardened on the sur- 
from pinching poverty ; and grant that, having fa ce > so that if we go to, or a little below, low 
a competency, we may he content and thankful, water-mark, we shall find the base of them to 
Let us not repine, or so much as think the gifts ke ^ ke ok l rc( l sandstone, upon which they rest.” 
of God unequally dealt, if we see another “ I thought,” replied Mrs. S., “ they went 
abound with riches ; when, as God knows, the down very deep in the earth ; that they were 
cares that are the keys that keep those riches, like all other rocks.” 
hang often so heavily at the rich man’s girdle, “ No,” I answered, “ they are not rooted at all, 
that they clog him with weary days and rest- hut only rest upon the top of old red sandstone, 
less nights, even when others sleep quietly.— Well, in the crevices between the basaltic and 
We see but the outside of the rich man’s happi- sandstone rocks, the mineralogists find the best 
ness ; few consider him to be like the silk- specimens of amethysts, onyxes, sapphires, ag- 
worm, that when she seems to play, is at the ates, and Cornelias. And that this is the case 
very same time spinning her own bowels, and with the Palisades, has been often proved at 
consuming herself. And this many rich men Fort Lee, where the cliffs begin. There the 
do — loading themselves with corroding cares, sandstone is visible above ground, and there the 
to keep what they have already got. Let us, specimens have been found imbedded between 
therefore, be thankful for health and compe- the strata.” 
tence, and above all, for a quiet conscience.— “ You are sure the idea is not imaginary ?” 
Isaak Walton. said Mrs. S. 
-All true, my dear.” 
MESSING WITH ARABS. “ Then I shall never think of them in future, 
without remembering their old jewels; I won- 
The mode in which we ate, (I say we, for we der if thej were to tumble down now and ex- 
followed the Arabs in this respect,) was as p()Se tbeir ri ches, whether the amethysts and 
primitive as the banquet itself. Each sunk his onyxes would compare wit h the brightness of 
fingers into the pile of rice, made up a portion tbose f rozeu gem8 ? » 
MESSING WITH ARABS. 
of it into a ball, dipped it into the butter, and 
then swallowed it. A venerable sheik who 
sat beside me, seizing one of the choicest pieces 
“'Certainly not.” (Shutters close.) 
“ And now,” continued Mrs. Sparrowgrass, 
I want to show you another picture ;” aud 
of the sheep, tore off a handful of the flesh, and wifch that she lifted the candle and walked soft- 
presented it to me with the usual word of invi- ly up 8tair8 before me i nto the nursery ; there 
tation and compliment, “tefuddel." Fully sen- were five little wb ite heads, and ten little rosy 
sible of the honor done me, I thanked him, and c h eek s, nestled among the pillows, and I felt 
ate the savory morsel. Each one round now a proud> pai . enfca l j oy in gazing upon their 
seemed desirous of emulating him in politeness, he althy, happy faces, and listening to their ro- 
aiul we were deluged with these tit-bits till na- bll st breathings 
ture could hold out no longer, and we were re- 
‘ These,” said Mrs. S., in a whisper, as she 
luctantly compelled to withdraw. Under other sbaded the light, “ arc my jewels, 
circumstances it might have been quite as agree¬ 
able to have used our own hands in the process 
of carving, especially as it was impossible to 
“And mine too, Mrs. Sparrowgrass,” said I. 
“Yes,” whispered Mrs. S., very seriously, 
“and if ever I should be taken away from them 
asceitain how many Meeks had passed since I-want you to promise me one thing.” 
those of our entertainers had enjoyed the luxury „ Tell me what it is,” said I, very much de- 
of a wash ; but those who are in the desert, if te rmined that I would do it, whatever it might 
they would not be laughed at and despised, be 
must follow desert customs. - gorier s r ive „ Pr0 mise me,” said Mrs. S„ “ that while they 
Ycai s in Damascus. are growing up you will keep them from the 
city ; that their little minds and bodies may be 
DO GOOD. J J 
_____ trained and taught by these pure influences ; 
Thousands of men breathe, move and live — that, so long as they are under your direction, 
pass off the stage of life, and are heard of no y oa will not deprive them of the great privilege 
more. Why ? They do not a particle of good they now enjoy—that of living in the country. 
in the world, and none were blessed by them, -■*-•♦- 
none could point to them as the instrument of Little Things. — Springs are little things, 
their redemption ; not a word they spoke could but they are sources of large streams—a helm is 
be recalled, and they perished; their light a little thing, but it governs the course of a ship 
went out in darkness, and they were not re- —a bridle-hit is a little thing, but see its use 
membered more than the insect of yesterday.— and power ; nails and pegs are little things, but 
Will you thus live and die, 0 man immortal ? they hold the large parts of large buildings to- 
Live for something. Do good and leave behind gether ; a word, a look, a frown—all are little 
you a monument of virtue that the storm of things, hut powerful for good or evil. Think of 
time can never destroy. Write your name in this, and mind the little things. Pay that little 
kindness, love and mercy on the hearts of debt—it’s a promise, redeem it—if it’s a shilling, 
thousands you come in contact with year by hr.nd it over—you know’ not what important 
year; you never will be forgotten. No, your event hangs upon it. Keep your word sacredly 
name, your deeds, will be as legible on the —keep it to the children, they will mark it 
hearts you leave behind, as the stars on the sooner than any one else, and the effect will 
brow of evening. Good deeds will shine as the probably be as lasting as life. Mind the little 
stars of heaven.— Dr. Chalmers. things. — Selected. 
Porter's Five 
younger sisters for an example ; therefore, I en- bn S°vi k ' Howmor ® thaa beaa tiful thou art! tbing great on eart h, crouches and cowers in its 
treat of you never do that for which you may etween Te soullnd^?^ 10 ? ‘ f ^ P resence - R P «««*» ™>* V and vanishes before no- 
have cause to blush or they to weep. Life is I t 11 "; Does it not seem like sacrilege to cut 
before you ; choose your position, place your fche ^7 Qf ^ affec l a ^ J* *7* ’ them down ? We do not refer to the forest, 
mark high, and then pause not short of the top- , , , , . . ,^ eC1 °' which must supply our timber and fuel, but 
most round of the ladder, and remember that beartb ! ^ ° 1CU1 mS aK>Un ran< l ml speak of those trees which have a character and 
all depends upon your starting right. It may---a mission—an individual existence, as trees, 
be many long years of life s struggling ere we Blessings which we have slighted when in which no other can supply the place of in the 
meet, but then let me be proud to own a man our possession, are more highly prized when landscape. 
as my brother. there is danger of our being deprived of them ; The shadows are deepening and the night will 
It is now after midnight,, and wishing you and our hearts are more keenly touched by the soon fall upon the earth. I sit by the “ open 
sweet sleep and pleasant visions, I bid you good anticipations of loss than by the fullness of en- fire-place” and watch the ruddy blaze—that is 
night. T ours, Affectionately, Gertrude. joyment. one pleasure which summer does not give us. 
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