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on® MOOBJE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
DEC. 6. 
fate’ Iflrt-Jfiilifl, 
CONDUCTED BY AZIDE. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
ISLE OF THE SEA. 
Isle of the sea ! like a gem of the ocean, 
Set in the shrine of the tropical deep, 
Bound thee the wavelets with gentle commotion, 
Dance in their glee when the winds are asleep. 
Not for thy beauties alone do I love thee, 
Not for thy forests so green and so fair, 
Nor for the birds that so sweet sing above thee, 
Isle of the ocean, my birth-place teas there! 
There on the shore where the bright waters glistened, 
Gathered we many a pebble and shell, 
While to the whispers of ocean we listened, 
Music we loved in our childhood so well. 
There is the grave where my sister lies sleeping, 
Lovelier spot for her rest could not be. 
Only the night-dews above her are weeping, 
Safe wilt thou keep her, thou Isle of the sea. 
Gone from my gaze 1 thou art gone, and forever, 
Why, native home, from thy scenes should I part ? 
Now the oroad oceans, how widely they sever 
Me from the treasure so dear to my heart I 
Gone from my gaze, like a beautiful vision, 
Still in my fancy at twilight alone, 
Once more I view thy sweet bowers Elysian, 
Hear thy sweet music,- that murmuring moan. 
Oft to our vision comes memory bringing 
All the loved scenes of those infantile years, 
Every bright form of the past gently winging, 
Dimmed not by sorrow, unfaded by tears. 
Far mid the isles of the Indian ocean, 
Dear to my heart shall thy memory be, 
Cherish thy name with a tender devotion, 
Sacred forever, sweet Isle of the sea 1 
Nnnda, N. Y., Sept., 1856. Lyka. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE HEART EVER YOUNG. 
“’Tis said the heart grows old,” but can it 
ever be that this strange, mysterious, this better 
part will fade ? The thought that we could not 
draw from this pure fountain, when all outward 
charms have flown, that this would dry up be¬ 
fore the body dies, would mar my happiest 
moments. Who would outlive the heart ?— 
Youths’ flush may pass from the face, the 
gleams of fancy from the mind, the form may 
lose its grace and beauty, but time shall never 
claim a victory over the heart. Till life’s last 
hour the heart remains unchanging and un¬ 
changed. Even in the closing scene of life, the 
body may be racked with pain, the senses be-, 
numbed, but through all this the heart retains 
its power of feeling, never ceasing to act until it 
ceases to beat. Heath may carry it hence, but 
can never claim a victory over its feelings. 
And in life, sorrow may weigh the spirits 
down, “ the altar of the heart be broken,” the 
flowers of feeling may be crushed and trampled, 
or bow beneath affliction for a few short years, 
but at length will rise above sorrow, beautified 
and refined, and go forth on its bright and glo¬ 
rious mission, an Angel of earth. But what a 
strange affair is the human heart; when the 
sun of prosperity shineth long upon it, how 
parched and dry becometh the soil; when nur¬ 
tured in coldness, how chilly is its atmosphere ; 
hut when sorrow is buried there, how soft and 
quick is every tender feeling. Who can tell 
the desolation of the heart forsaken by Friend¬ 
ship, Hope, or Love ? Or who can tell how 
easily the heart may be broken by unkindness. 
It is said that the face is the index of the 
heart; hut how fallacious an index it has often 
proved. The face may be decked with smiles, 
but the heart may be mocked and pained with 
the idle show ; the laugh may be merry, but 
how mournful is the echo within. The brow 
can never reveal the inner depths of feeling; 
pride or sorrow may put on a disguise for a 
while, but a single look, one word of kindness 
may tear away the veil, then can we see the 
sorrow that would fain have been hidden.— 
Could we but enter the “ sacred temple of the 
heart,” how much we would find to love. Hot 
until we can explore every hidden recess, can 
we fully appreciate its worth,—’tis the heart 
that gives value to all we say or do, or gives ac¬ 
tions their claim to our regard. The good 
man’s heart is an overflowing fountain of benev¬ 
olence, shedding joy and sunshine all around 
it—a dim shadow of the eternal,—a paradise 
within itself, where Angels love to hold com¬ 
munion. 
Then keep thy heart from evil; guard well 
this treasure from the dangers that beset thy 
pathway here, nor fear that it will eve? grow 
old; the same Great Being who gave it, and 
who watches over it here, will keep it unfading 
through life’s darkest scenes, and at last will 
carry it safely over the stream of death, ’till 
moored on the peaceful shore of a happy eter¬ 
nity. Carrie. 
Port Glasgow, Sept., 1856. 
A CHAPTER ON CHILDREN. 
“ Children ! have you seen any children late¬ 
ly ?” asked an old cynic, as we jotted down our 
subject. “ Because if you have,” he added, de¬ 
liberately adjusting his spectacles, “ I wish 
you’d tell me what they look like, for /haven’t 
laid eyes on anything less than sixty, in panta¬ 
lettes for some years back.” 
“Well, my crusty sir, we’ll tell you what 
they look like, for we have seen some real and 
some unreal children in our day, and we class 
them under the heads of tbe “ Tumbling Child,” 
the “Aged Child,” the “Spoiled Child,” the 
“Sunny Child,” the “Monkey Child,” the 
“ Angel Child," the “ Churchyard Child,” and 
the “ Genuine Child.” 
THE TUMBLING CHILD 
is the best illustration of perpetual motion ex¬ 
tant. He doubles his fist when born, and tum¬ 
bles the first week of his existence, either out 
of bed, or out of his nurse’s lap. As soon as 
he begins to crow, it takes two to keep him from 
killing himself. Wythes and bonds are as flax 
to him—he breaks them all; gets into mouse 
holes, circumvents one nurse, two grandmoth¬ 
ers, three servants, mother, father, the doctor 
and the hand-irons. Tumbles over every chair in 
the house, in his anxiety to become a proficient, 
and always has a bump on his forehead, and a 
blue spot on his nose. 
the aged child. 
On the contrary, this adolescent bit of hu¬ 
manity is too slow to tumble. By the time he 
learns to double his fist, he is half through the 
year, and it takes him a week to get over it.— 
The aged child does not smile, he only wrinkles. 
He never finds a mouse hole, and does not 
know the labyrinths of a chair back. The aged 
child is perfectly subservient to his grand¬ 
mother. 
THE SPOILED CHILD. 
An unpleasant subject, but a very common 
one. This offspring of indulgent fondness has 
a private calliope of his own, and as the steam 
is always up, or getting up, you may expect to 
lose your hearing if you venture within ear¬ 
shot. His poor kitten has only hair left to an 
inch of surface; both ears are cropped, both 
eyes disfigured, and if ever cat needed claws 
or crutches she is the one. The spoilt child 
has canine qualities which he displays by bay¬ 
ing at the moon ; he is of a reflective turn and 
frequently cries for the looking-glass. He is 
inhuman towards the dishes—kicks everything 
that can feel—enjoys a pug nose, and pugna¬ 
cious things generally. The spoiled child pulls 
his grandmother’s hair. 
THE SUNNY CHILD. 
God bless him ! Look at him, there, revelling 
in sunbeams. See him, his curls all afloat on 
the breezy wind, baking mud pies in the gut¬ 
ter, with a shout for failure, and a laugh for suc¬ 
cess. Everybody throws off care when he comes 
in. Little ripples of sunshine emanate from 
his dimpled cheeks and chin, (the sunny child 
always has a “ dimple in his chin,”) to the cold¬ 
er hearts of age. Pain falls more lightly, and 
the sensitive nerves shrink not at his touch.— 
The sunny child is a diamond of the first water, 
strung on the necklace of love. He is a fairy 
story, making us believe in perpetual youth and 
beauty. He is a bit of pure sunny child. His 
kitten is roly poly, with bright eyes, trim 
whiskers, and undamaged paws—a veritable 
ball, puffed out like a tea-biscuit. His grand- 
, mother adores him. 
THE MONKEY CHILD 
has a face like a catchouc, and is forever trying 
to alter it. Laughs on one side and cries on the 
other. Can roll himself into a French twist, 
and make a necklace of his feet. Before you 
know it, he is astride of your best bonnet; the 
coal scuttle frightens you by crossing the room 
—he is under it. You can never look at the 
monkey child without laughing. He is droll, 
and usually squints. He is always meditating 
a jump. He is fond of starched things, hats 
and hair generally. He will pull them off for 
nothing. He is always addressed as “ oh, you 
little monkey 1” and takes kindly to the title. 
His grandmother is afraid of him. 
THE ANGEL CHILD. 
Eyes of a deep, delicious blue ; quiet, little 
hands, often folded, upward glances and golden 
curls. Child of Heaven, with thy mysterious 
ways, folded about with the drapery of uncon¬ 
scious purity; sinless in all thy pretty thoughts, 
strange in thy reverence for the simple temples 
of age—airy as a spirit, holy as charity, beauti¬ 
ful as Paradise. Why strayest thou this way, 
angel, looking unutterable things out from the 
deep well of thine eyes ? Why do we fancy 
the shining of wings above our folded arms, 
when thou liest within ? Why falls a sweet 
calm upon the heart, ’gainst which thou dost 
nestle. 
“ White-winged angels meet the child 
On the vestibule of life.” 
Aye, meet, and claim, and tear them away 
from our clinging grasp, and shut them within 
the golden gates, while we stand mourning 
without. Silence, sad soul! is not the angel 
child always an angel ? Silence, sad soul 1 she 
bends in glistening beauty over this brief page 
and makes it whiter than it seems. 
THE CHURCHYARD CHILD. 
Poor, pale victim, it knows no infancy. It’s 
precocious little brain is stuffed and crammed 
till it looks like an unwieldy carpet-bag awk¬ 
wardly packed. Its eyes are hollow and lus¬ 
treless ; its motions languid, and its blood load¬ 
ed with the impurities of immoral generations. 
A poor, sad, pale, collapsed little victim ! we 
repeat again, is the churchyard child. It 
usually has a grave mother, perfectly (unpre¬ 
meditated) who thinks Tommy knows too 
much, and who hustles him out of the world by 
an over-dose of books. The churchyard child 
never smiles; is aged in his ways (if a girl so 
womanly 1) Has a pleasant epitaph, and is 
very like a nice alabaster tombstone carved 
with a death’s head. Mothers, don’t encourage 
churchyard children, unless you love your 
neighbor, the doctor, better than yourself. 
THE GENUINE CHILD 
has not a quality of the aged, or the church¬ 
yard child, but a spice of all the rest. Is some¬ 
times bewitchingly wilful and delightfully cross. 
He has his sunny streaks, and his monkey 
tricks ; looks like an angel (when asleep), with 
the warm hue of health on his red lips, and the 
rose-leaf fixture of his dimpled cheeks, and is 
altogether a whole-souled, frolicsome, careless, 
loving, genial, provoking, hearty bread and 
butter eating youngster, with whom you may 
nerve yourself to have many a tussel, but who 
will be genuine all through, and genial to the 
end.— Olive Branch. 
fjtallauij. 
The choicest pleasures of life lie within the 
range of moderation. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
LINES 
On Receiving a Garden Rose in November. 
BY ELIZABETH B, ENSIGN. 
• Bose in thy loveliness, 
Budding in loneliness, 
Sweet is thy fragrance and balmy as May ; 
Emblem of purity, 
Besting in surety, 
Where was thy hiding-place on this wintry day. 
Beautiful thy sepals. 
And crimson thy petals ; 
Say, what gave thee being ? What gave thee birth, 
For surely ’tis treason, 
Thus out of thy season, 
To be found in loneliness here on the earth. 
Is not summer’s gay prime, 
Thy own halcyon time, 
Why didst thou come on this cold dreary day? 
Art thou Grief’s harbinger,* 
Better Love’s messenger, 
Bearing l{ glad tidings” of those far away. 
I greet thee with pleasure, 
Thou tiny robed treasure, 
If joy is the message thou bringest to me, 
Tho' dark hours may sadden, 
No bright beam to gladden, 
Thy mission is pure and lovely as thee. 
* There is a superstitious notion prevailing among cer¬ 
tain classes of society, that a flower blooming out of its 
season is a precursor of evil. 
For’the Rural New-Yorker. 
MORE ABOUT SIRNAMES. 
Eds. Rural :—Some weeks ago we made a 
list of Family Names derived from Birds, &c. 
inserting only such as we knew to be so em¬ 
ployed, and we had never heard of any similar 
attempt. It was therefore with some surprise, 
and much gratification, that we saw the list in 
the Rural of the 22d inst. Your correspondent 
is a workman, and we would offer our respects. 
One of our number, however, tried to tie up 
those names in bundles with verse—all that we 
had were included. He read them to a few as¬ 
sociates, but denied every application for a 
copy, on the ground of their trivial character, 
though he was not quite sure that the attempt 
might not be misinterpreted, and give umbrage 
to some very worthy people, where certainly 
none was iniended. Since the subject has been 
brought before the public, however, he allows 
me to enclose a copy ; and if it is unworthy of 
a place in the Rural, please send it to your 
correspondent. x. 
BAGATELLE. 
Can anything be more absurd 
Than giving men the name of Bird, 
Or call him Cock when not a feather 
Has he to guard him from the weather i 
A Wren, Finch, Sparrow, Jay, or Pye, 
Standing up almost six feet high ? 
An Eagle, Buzzard, Ifymck, or Kite, 
Without a hooked bill to bite, 
And aid him at a feast, or fight I 
When Swan, Coot, Brant, and Duck, and Drake 
Can’t float upon our quiet lake ! 
Near flowing stream, or swampy ground, 
Is Heron, Crane , or Woodcock found r 
Not so —they like to be, as well 
As other folks, where ladies dwell. 
A Starling, Robin, or a Partridge 
May be, has loaded guns with cartridge, 
And shot the birds of his own name— 
And never thought himself to blame. 
Cayuga Co., N. Y,, Nov , 1856. 
For the Rural New-Yorker. 
FREAKS OF A SUNBEAM. 
Swiftly through the morning air a sunbeam 
glanced to earth. The tiny messenger, fresh 
from boundless space, bore happiness wherever 
it went. The birds warbled a sweet welcome 
to it; the flowers, feeling its warming influence, 
unfolded their petals, and their fragrance filled 
the air—and the dew-drops, those bright and 
beautiful flower-mirrors, glistened with re¬ 
newed brilliancy, these were exhaled and 
went to heaven. The sunbeam noticed these 
changes, and wondered if man would so elo¬ 
quently thank him. It fell upon the face of a 
sleeping child—sweetly the babe smiled, for he 
dreamed the light was from heaven. How soft¬ 
ly the sunbeam stole through the grated win¬ 
dow of a prison, filling the narrow cell with a 
mild and holy radiance—and at the sight of it, 
hope once more revived in the bosom of the poor 
prisoner. Full many a cavern in the briny 
deep did the ray fill with light, and the waters 
blushed, “till even the pearly shells grew 
rosy.” Evening came—the sun set, and with 
it the beam departed. Fanny. 
Rochester, N. Y., Nov., 1856. 
The Hand. —Look at the hand. A little or¬ 
gan, but how curiously wrought 1 How mani¬ 
fold and nece-sary are its functions ! What an 
agent has it been for the wants and designs of 
man ! What would be the mind without it ?— 
How has it moulded and made palpable the 
conceptions of the mind ! It wrought the statue 
of Memnon, and hung the brazen gates of 
Thebes ; it fixed the mariner’s trembling needle 
upon its axis; it heaved the bar of the first 
printing press ; it arranged the tubes of Galileo ; 
it reefed the topsails of Columbus ; it held the, 
sword with which freedom fought her battles ; 
poised the axe of the dauntless woodman ; 
opened the paths of civilization. It turned the 
mystic leaves upon which Milton and Shaks- 
peare inscribed their burning thoughts, and it 
signed the charter of England’s liberty. Who 
would not render honor to the hand ? 
Trust the plain and positive promise, when 
you cannot see through the dark clouds of Provi¬ 
dence. The present gloomy night may termin¬ 
ate in a bright and glorious morning. 
POPULATION OF RUSSIA. 
The census of the Russian Empire, taken by 
order of the Emperor at the time of his acces¬ 
sion to the throne, gives the following results as 
to population, people, &c.: 
The total number of the population amounts 
to 60,000,000, the principal elements of which 
give results unknown to the rest of Europe. 
The clergy of the Russian church stand-for the 
enormous number of 510,000; that of the tol¬ 
erated creeds, 35,000 ; the hereditary nobility > 
155,000; the petty burgeoise, including dis¬ 
charged soldiers, 425,000; foreigners residing 
temporarily, 40,000; different bodies of Cos¬ 
sacks colonized on the Oural, the Don, the 
Wolga, the Black Sea, the Brikal, the Baschkira, 
and the irregular Kalmucks, 2,000,000; the 
population of the towns, the middle and lower 
classes, 5,000,000 ; the population of the coun¬ 
try parts, 45,000,000; the wandering tribes, 
500,000; the inhabitants of the trans-Caucas- 
sian possessions 1,400,000 ; the kingdom of Po¬ 
land, 4,200,000; the Grand Duchy of Finland, 
1,400,000 ; and the Russian colonies in America, 
71,000. At the accession of the Emperor Nich¬ 
olas, the census then taken only gave a popula¬ 
tion of 51,000,000. The large increase in the 
space of 30 years, may, however, be readily 
understood, when it is considered that the 
Russian territory has now an extent of 22,000,- 
000 of square kilometres (a kilometre is % of a 
mile,) and a length of coast of 27,000 kilome¬ 
tres. If the population continues to increase 
in the same proportion, it will by 1900 amount 
to 100,000,000. The Russian Empire, accord¬ 
ing to the same document, contains 112 differ¬ 
ent peoples, divided into 12 principal races, the 
most numerous of which is the Sclavonian, in¬ 
cluding the Russian, properly so called; the 
Poles, the Cossacks and the Servian Colonies of 
the Dnieper. These populations inhabit the 
finest and the most important provinces of the 
empire. 
OLD ENGLISH MANNERS. 
In the reign of James I., men and women 
wore looking glasses in public—the men as 
brooches or ornaments in their hats, and the 
women at their girdles, on their bosoms, or 
sometimes, (like the ladies of our day,) in the 
centre of their fans, which were then made of 
feathers inserted into silver or ivory tubes. 
At feasts, every guest brought his own knife, 
and a whetstone was placed behind the door, 
upon which he sharpened his knife as he en¬ 
tered. 
In 1664,a Dutchman named William Boonen, 
brought the first coach into England ; and it is 
said the sight of it put both horses and men 
into amazement. Some said it was a crab shell 
brought from China ; and some imagined it to 
be one of the Pagan temples in which the can¬ 
nibals adored the^Devil. 
In 1634, two rich widows desired to marry 
the Earl of Huntington for the sake of the title- 
One of them offered to lay down £20,000 on the 
day of her marriage. The other offered £5,000 
a year during his life, and £6,000 cash down— 
he to go with her to the church and marry her ; 
immediately after the ceremony, they were to 
take leave at the church door, and never to see 
each other again. 
In Clarendon’s paper is the following:—At 
Henleys, upon the Thames, a woman, speaking 
against taxation imposed by Parliament, was 
ordered by the committee to have her tongue 
fastened by a nail to the copy on a tree by the 
wayside on a market day, which was accord¬ 
ingly done, and a paper in great letters, setting 
forth the heinousness of her crime.— English 
Annals. 
The Love of Children. —Tell me not of the 
trim, precisely arranged homes where there are 
no children, “ where, as the good Germans have 
it, “the fly-traps always hang straight on the 
wall;” tell me not of the ne^er disturbed nights 
and days, of the tranqu il, unanxious hearts w here 
children are not; I care not for these things.— 
God sends children for anothei purpose than 
merely to keep up the race—to enlarge our 
hearts, to make us unselfish and lull of kindly 
sympathies and affections ; to give our souls 
higher aims, to call out all our faculties to ex¬ 
tended enterprise and exertion ; to bring round 
our fireside bright faces and happy smiles, and 
loving, tender hearts. My soul blesses the 
Great Father every day, that he has gladdened 
the earth with little children.— Mary Howitt. 
Modesty. —A simple and modest man lives 
unknown, until a moment, which he could not 
have foreseen, reveals his estimable qualities 
and generous actions. I compare him to the 
concealed flower springing from an humble 
stem, which escapes the view, and is discovered 
only by its perfume. Pride quickly fixes the 
eye, and he who is always his own eulogist dis¬ 
penses every other person from the only obliga¬ 
tion to praise him. A truly modest man, emerg¬ 
ing from his transient obscurity, will obtain 
those delightful praises which the heart awards 
without effect. His superiority, far from being 
importunate, will become attractive. Modesty 
gives to talents and virtue the same charm that 
chastity adds to beauty.— Droz. 
APPROACHING DEOAT. 
The hemlock broods above its rill, 
Its cone-like foliage daiker still, 
While the white birch’s graceful stem 
And the rough walnut receives 
The sun upon their crowded leaves, 
Each colored like a topaz gem ; 
And the tall maple wears with them 
The coronal which autumn gives, 
The brief, bright sight of ruin near, 
The hectic of the dying year.— Whittier. 
Only weak minds allow their judgments to 
be warped by sympathy or indignation. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
A STORY OF LIFE’S ENDEAVOR. 
[Continued from page 396.] 
In a richly furnished room the merchant and 
his wife are sitting, the one embroidering a del¬ 
icate sleeve, the other in a rich dressing gown 
and slippers reclining in a large arm chair.— 
There is an air of satisfaction upon his face as 
he surveys the comfortable room, and the pret¬ 
ty wife by the table, and he evidently thinks 
himself a very fortunate as well as a very 
worthy sort of a man. 
“ So you have really taken Henry Eaton into 
the store ; isn’t he a silly, conceited simpleton ? 
I am sure I wouldn’t have him about me.” 
“ Well, he isn’t overstocked with brains, but 
he’ll make a tolerable salesman ; and then you 
know it was necessary to accommodate the old 
gentleman. His family purchase heavily of 
me, and I could not afford to lose their custom, 
which I certainly should have done, had I re¬ 
fused that young bud of promise a berth.” 
“ But I thought Mrs. Lathrof’s son made the 
first ap- lication.” 
“ So he did, and I do believe that Henry ap¬ 
plied just to spite him ; some old hatred be¬ 
tween them. Fred, seems to be a smart boy 
enough, but then I don’t like the stock ; his 
father had no business talent, made a miserable 
failure—and, at any rate, as I said before, they 
are poor and the Eaton’s are rich, and that set¬ 
tles it;” and the merchant gently swayed his 
rocking chair, as if to rock his conscience to 
sleep, and the pretty wife by the table looked 
sad as her slender fingers moved to aDd fro over 
the muslin—and if our mortal eyes were not 
too much earth-blinded, perchance we might 
see how an angel drooped his wings, and sighed 
as he wrote down in the book of remembrance 
the proud man’s false, cold words and deed. 
A pale boy is walking very wearily up the 
crowded street of a large city, jostled by the 
busy passers-by, brushed by the rustling silks 
of haughty beauties, yet heeding none of them. 
At length he enters a large, handsome building, 
and stands hesitating near the door. “What 
can I do for you, my boy,” says an elderly gen¬ 
tleman, with a kind, benevolent face. 
“ I come, sir, to seek for a situation as clerk, 
and saw your advertisement in the paper, this 
morning.” 
“Ah, that’s it, is it ? What shall I call your 
name ? 
“Frederic Lathrop, from Newton.” 
“ Lathrop 1 yes, yes, I knew your father well; 
we sold him goods for fifteen years. An hon¬ 
est, upright man, but with a better heart than 
head. Sit down, my boy, and rest you ; I’ll try 
you a few days and see how we can agree.” 
These words of encouragement made Fred¬ 
eric almost forget how weary he was, and how 
faint from hunger. He sat for some time watch¬ 
ing the busy clerks, and most of all the sun¬ 
shiny face of the good merchant, as he moved 
about, giving a hint here and there, or himself 
waiting upon some one that was likely t£be 
overlooked. Bye and bye the rich, bright 
goods grew into a dim, wavering vision ; the 
streams of comers and goers into an indistinct 
crowd of fantastic shapes ; the many voices sank 
into a confused hum ; and then the boy saw 
again the little white cottage twenty miles 
away ; he put aside the vines from the window, 
and saw the sweet, patient, loving mother, her 
brown eyes full of tears as she thought of him 
away in a strange city, and he heard her mur¬ 
mur, “ The God of Abraham and of Isaac, the 
angel that redeemed Israel from all troubles, 
go with the lad.” Then a heavy hand was laid 
upon his shoulder, and a pleasant voice said, 
“ Why, bless me, the boy’s asleep.” Frederic 
started up, and brushing the tears from his eyes, 
saw that the store was growing dark and al¬ 
most deserted. 
“You had better come home with me, Fred¬ 
eric, and get some supper, and then we can 
talk over some business matters.” So saying, 
the merchant left the store and Frederic glad¬ 
ly accompanied him. As they approached a 
large stone dwelling Frederic saw a little round 
face pressed against the parlor window, as if its 
owner were watching for some one, and in a 
moment more, as they ascended the steps, the 
door was thrown open, a merry little girl of 
some six years sprang laughing into the arms 
held out for her, and was borne into the parlor 
upon the old gentleman’s shoulder. A fair, 
gentle lady, dressed in the simple garb of the 
Quakers, came forward to meet them, and as 
her husband presented Frederic to her, she 
said in a sweet, motherly way, “ thee is very 
welcome here, my son.” In a few moments 
more the family were seated at the well-fur¬ 
nished tea-table, the stranger lad, feeling not 
at all a stranger, and little Mary peering shy¬ 
ly at him, more than half disposed to make ac¬ 
quaintance. 
If my reader wishes any further introduction 
to this family, it may be given in a few words. 
John Howard and his wife Ruth were of Qua¬ 
ker birth, and in characte’r possessed all the 
simple, unalloyed kindness, and Christian be¬ 
nevolence, which we sometimes see so beauti¬ 
fully developed among that people. Like one 
of old who “ came not to be ministered unto, but 
to minister,” John Howard had through a long, 
active life, given liberally to all that had need, 
and so far from being impoverished, he had 
been prospered in all his ways, so that at the 
age of sixty he was independently rich. True 
he had not been exempted from those trials that 
are the common lot of all—an only daughter 
had been suddenly cut down by death, leaving 
a babe of but a few months, which at her dying 
request her husband had given to her mother, 
to be nurtured by her,—the Mary of my story 
—and tbe little one knew no mother, save the 
tender grand-mother, and so she was to the be¬ 
reaved parents in the room of the one they had 
lost. 
[Conclusion next week.] 
. .......WWW.. . ....-... 
