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MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
DEC. 13. 
falm^ Ifltt-|ifllifl. 
CONDUCTED BY AZIDE. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
STANZAS. 
BY HATTIE HUNTINGTON. 
Say youth with laughing lip and eye 
And tone of careless gayety, 
Do all thy youthful moments fly 
* In joyous, lightsome revelry — 
Is there, within the bud, no worm, 
No canker in life’s opening germ — 
Does the loud laugh, the sportive jest, 
Proclaim thee purely, truly blest ? 
Why curls that crimson lip in scorn ? 
Why downcast is that sunny eye ? 
I guess the secret—thou wert born 
For higher hopes, but passed them by. 
And found in Pleasure’s syren bowers, 
A sting to goad thy future hours, 
The poison is within the core, 
And vain the balsam I could pour ! 
Say, reverend Sire, with hoary hair 
And furrowed cheek, so sadly pale, 
Are all thy hours a prey to care, 
Is thine a wretched, hopeless tale ? 
Do pain, and feebleness, and gloom. 
Alone attend thee to the tomb ? 
Are there no secret thoughts of joy, 
That may thy lonely hours employ ? 
What means that beam of living light 
That rushes to thine aged eye 1 
I guess the cause, thy thoughts are bright 
With treasured stores of memory. 
In early days thy search was truth, 
And thou enjoyest the hoards of youth, 
Wisdom and peace, and hope are thine, 
Thou need’st no pitying tear of mine. 
Turk-Hill, N. Y., Nov., 1856. 
THE! WORK TABLE. 
The influences of the Work-Table are so va¬ 
rious, that, in whatever direction we look, we 
find something to admire and something to 
excite our wonder. If we consider its effects 
upon the manufactures of all countries, we shall 
be struck with the importance of the results.— 
Iron must be disinterred from the darkest re¬ 
cesses of its primeval resting-place to make the 
minute needle which is held in a lady’s fingers. 
Look at the perfection of its’manipulation, and 
run a passing mental survey along the history 
of the material of that implement, glittering 
with such bright perfection as it receives the 
skillful impetus to its rapid movements. How 
has the rough ore been transmuted into the 
polished steel, and how has the formation of 
this invaluable feminine instrument been im¬ 
proved since the days of Gammer Gurton’s 
needle, of dramatic notoriety ! Then, again, 
what fields of the graceful tapering flax, with 
its delicate pale-blue flower, bending and 
waving with every breeze, have been cultivated 
to fabricate the thread which the lady passes 
through its tiny eye,and what wonderful results 
of industry and application have we attained, 
thus to rival the spider, who must have been 
created as the spinner and the weaver, to inspire 
man with the emulative desire to excel him in 
those his own Heaven-taught arts ! Then, pass¬ 
ing from the flowery flax-fields to the sunny 
south, look at the wonderful tree hung round 
with those bursting balls of cotton which form 
the largest portion of the clothing of the civil¬ 
ized world 1 Then, think again of the fleecy 
covering of the sheep passing through so many 
processes to make it fit for delicate fingers 1— 
Think of the vast groves of mulberry trees, 
whose rich verdure is set apart as a commis¬ 
sariat for the million armies of worms who 
yield their silken swathing-clothes to perfect 
the lady’s rich embroidery I Think of all the 
dyes, mineral as well as vegetable, for which 
the earth is ransacked to make her labors glow 
with the charm of color, in a variety which ri¬ 
vals the bright luxuriance of the very flowers 
which the plenitude of Divine indulgence and 
overflowing goodness has spread so bountifully 
over the whole earth, filling it with beauties as 
pledges of love ! Think—but where should 
thought stop ? We desire only to give it a sug¬ 
gestive impulse. It can have no limitation. 
It is a fact beyond the reach of controversy 
that the Work-Table is a benefit to every dwel¬ 
ling ; but in some it is more—it is even a bless¬ 
ing. The word is not too strong. We scarcely 
know whether it is allowable to say that we are 
the constant recipients of small blessings as well 
as great blessings, since what we call small are 
great beyond our power of appreciation, and 
the abundance poured down upon us in the 
richest showers of Divine benevolence. If we 
are restored from some fearful sickness, we say 
we have received a great blessing; but to be 
preserved in daily health—bright, joyous, cheer¬ 
ful, rejoicing health—health that gives to us 
hat power of enjoyment which makes existence 
happiness, quickening our physical senses into 
a higher appreciation of the glories of the glad¬ 
dening sunshine, richer perfection to the sweet 
odors of the rich world of flowers, a keener zest 
for the delicious fruits of each returning season; 
making exercise pleasure, and rest more de¬ 
lightful still; above all, linking the corporeal 
and the intellectual, uniting what is compre¬ 
hended by the senses of the body with that 
which can only be understood by the soul;— 
surely this day-long, year-long, nay, sometimes 
even life-long, preserving mercy, keeping us 
thus in continual health, ought to be considered 
as a great, great blessing. But let us see under 
what aspect the "Work-Table” may deserve 
to be looked upon a3 a blessing. It is when 
disease or advancing years, or both unitedly, 
take from the poor invalid the bodily pleasures 
which we have glanced at as constituting so 
large a part of life’s enjoyments. We know 
that " we are fearfully and wonderfully made 
and when, among the countless maladies which 
afflict our complicated conformation, some 
stroke of sickness dims all the joys of the 
visible world, and life seems rather a burden to 
be borne submissively than the phase of an 
existence to be passed through cheerily, then 
all that gives interest to the present hour—cal my 
peaceful, innocent interest—may fairly be look¬ 
ed upon as a blessing. 
How many suffering invalids there are, shut 
up in solitary chambers, counting the hours as 
they strike, who have good cause to say that the 
« Work-Table” is indeed a blessing 1 We are 
not now speaking of delicate embroideries, 
which try the eye too seriously, but of the va 
rious occupat : ons which are as easy as they are 
agreeable, and yet produce results worthy of 
descending from the parent to the child of the 
next generation as family heir-looms. Reading 
becomesatax upon the mind ; but the knitting 
needle, which is made to produce so many arti¬ 
cles of warmth and comfort, and household use, 
and still more of drawing-room elegance, offers 
a means of widely varied occupation which 
leaves no weariness behind. What curtains, 
what counterpanes, what cushions, worthy both 
of admiration and wonder, have issued from the 
chambers of invalids ! In their progress they 
have become almost like friends in a sort of 
daily companionship ; and when they have been 
finished, there has been asortof regret that the 
customary occupation was ended, mingling with 
the natural satisfaction of having completed 
some really beautiful and formidable piece of 
work.— Selected. 
INTUITIVE PERCEPTIONS OP WOMEN. 
"In a conversation I once held with an emi 
nent minister of our church,” says Dr. Board 
man, “ he made this fine observation : ‘We will 
say nothing of the manner in which that sex 
usually conduct an argument; but the intuitive 
judgments of women are often more to be re¬ 
lied upon than the conclusions which we reach 
by an elaborate process of reasoning.’ Ho man 
that has an intelligent wife, or is accustomed to 
the society of educated women, will dispute 
this. Times without number you must have 
known them decide questions on the instant 
and with unerring accuracy, which you had 
been poring over for hours, perhaps, with no 
other result than to find yourself getting deep¬ 
er and deeper into the tangled maze of doubts 
and difficulties. It were hardly generous to 
allege that they achieve these feats less by rea¬ 
soning than by a sort of sagacity which ap 
proximates to the sure instinct of the animal 
races; and yet there seems to be some ground 
for the remark of a witty French writer, that, 
when a man has toiled, step by step, up a flight 
of stairs, he will be sure to find a woman at 
at the top ; but she will not be able to tell how 
she got there. How she got there, however, is 
of little moment. If the conclusions a woman 
has reached are sound, that is all that concerns 
us. And that they are very apt to be sound on 
the practical matters of domestic and secular 
life, nothing but prejudice or self-conceit can 
prevent us from acknowledging. The inference, 
therefore, is unavoidable, that the man who 
thinks it is beneath his dignity to take counsel 
with an intelligent wife, stands in his own light, 
and betrays that lack of judgment which he 
tacitly attributes to her.” 
SPEAK KINDLY TO THY MOTHER. 
Young man, speak kindly to your mother, 
and courteously, tenderly, of her. But a little 
time and you shall see her no more forever. 
Her eye is dim, and her form is bent, and her 
shadow falls toward the grave. Others may 
love you fondly ; but never again while time is 
yours, shall any one’s love be to you as that of 
your old, trembling, weakened mother has been. 
Through helpless infancy her throbbing 
breast was your safe protection and support; in 
wayward, testy, boyhood, she bore patiently 
with your thoughtless rudeness ; she nursed you 
safely through a legon of ills and maladies. 
Her hand bathed your burning brow, or 
moistened your parched lips; her eye lighted 
up the darkness of nightly vigils, watching 
sleepless by your side as none but her could 
watch. Oh, speak not her name lightly, for 
you cannot live so many years as would suffice 
to thank her fully. Through reckless and im¬ 
patient youth, she is your counsellor and solace. 
To a bright manhood she guides your steps for 
improvement; nor even then forsakes orforgets. 
Speak gently then, and revently, of your 
mother; and when yon, too, shall be old, it 
shall in some degree, lighten the remorse which 
shall be yours for other sins, to kuow that never 
wantonly have you outraged the respect due to 
your aged mother.— Selected. 
A Good Name. —Always be more solicitous to 
preserve your innocence than concerned to prove 
it. It will never do to seek a good name as a 
primary object. Like trying to be graceful, the 
effort to be popular will make you contempti¬ 
ble. Take care of your spirit and conduct, and 
your reputation will take care of itself. The 
utmost that you are called to do as the guardian 
of your reputation is to remove injurious as¬ 
persions. Let not your good be evil spoken of, 
and follow the highest examples in mild and 
explicit self-vindication. Ho reputation can be 
permanent which does not spring from princi¬ 
ple; and he who would maintain a good char¬ 
acter should be mainly solicitous to maintain a 
conscience void of offence towards God and 
towards man. 
fjlwEllaitg. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
TO WM. H. PRESCOTT, THE BLIND HISTORIAN. 
BY J. MCKIN8TRY. 
The damps of autumn sink into the leaves 
and prepare them for the necessity of their fall; 
and thus insensibly are we, as years close round 
us, detached from our tenacity of life by the 
gentle pressure of our recorded sorrows. 
■When fair Aurora, smiling, opes 
The portals of the morn, 
And many a lengthened shadow slopes 
Along the grassy lawn ; 
And when, exultant at the sight, 
The songsters of the grove 
Greet with ecstatic joy the light. 
And chant their hymns of love ; 
Unseen by thee, the orient ray 
That ushers in the new-born day. 
When over forest, vale and hill, 
Is spread the vernal sheen. 
And nature plies her cunning skill 
To decorate the scene ; 
When rose and daisy sweetly bloom, 
And woo the zephyr’s breath, 
And wild flowers shed their rich perfume 
O’er pasture, mead and heath ; 
Thy sight, alas, drinks not the bliss 
That flows from such a fount as this. 
The arch that spans the brightening sky, 
(The token of God’s love,) 
The gems of night that greet the eye 
In canopy above ; 
The clouds of fleecy drapery, 
And many tinseled hue, 
The sun and moon—the boundless sea— 
And mountains decked in blue ; 
All, all in glorious grandeur Bhine 
To others’ eyes, but not to thine. 
But what though things of time and sense 
Are hidden from thy sight ? 
Comes there not a recompense 
In gifts of inner light ? 
God justifies such stern decrees 
By compensating powers, 
And brighter views thy vision sees 
Than ever gladden ours ; 
For genius soars to realms more bright 
When outward forms are hid from sight 
Greenport, Columbia Co., N. Y. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
WINTER. 
“ See winter comes to rule the varied year.” 
So saDg an old poet; and the intelligence is 
quite seasonable at present. Yes, winter is 
even now upon us, with all its lessons useful 
and profitable if rightly sought and improved. 
It is a matter of curious inquiry why this 
season was named as the commencement of the 
year. Most certainly it is not suggestive of 
youth, and all things in the natural world have 
their birth and beginning with the spring. All 
things, animate and inanimate, are stripped of 
their pleasing aspect, and a chilly mantle of 
desolation is spread over the land. Winter 
shows analogy with feeble, tottering age. The 
hoary head, the trembling gait, the chilled 
blood and benumbed senses are all suggested 
by this period of the year. 
The sympathy between man and the uni¬ 
verse in which he dwells, is beautifully illus¬ 
trated by the various seasons. In Winter all 
nature seems to be silent with sorrow and sad¬ 
ness ; the trees, stripped of verdure, toss their 
withered limbs as if in convulsions of dissolu¬ 
tion, and the animal creation partake of the 
general gloom. It brings in its train cankering 
cares and gloomy doubts. Its whole aspect is 
dark and cheerless. To the aged it says, the 
winter of life is with you — the snows of time 
have bleached your locks, and like the fallen 
plant shall you be gathered to your “home of 
rest.” To the young it presents a picture of 
cold, blight, hollow moan in gs, representative of 
maturer years. Its howling blast and fitful, 
whirling winds fit emblems of the fierce storms 
of strife and passion which too often convulse 
humanity, defacing and tearing all that is no¬ 
ble in the hearts of men ; bringing them to end 
life’s journey crippled and maimed, with scarce¬ 
ly sufficient strength to sustain the weight of 
existence. 
If the mass of human beings which inhabit 
the universe, would but take note of the mighty 
movements which are ever going forward with¬ 
in its circumference, what life-lessons, taught 
by experience, might they gather up. But the 
hurrying call of business and the enticing 
beck of gain, conceals and deadens the soft 
notes of Spring symphonies and discourses no 
beauties for Summer; all the eloquent voices 
of nature are unheeded, and too late we find 
nought left but the chilling winds of Winter. 
Unavailing then the wish that time had been 
belter improved, that we might live over again 
our neglected days; it cannot be—in vain we 
sigh for another Spring. Swollen. 
THE HOME CIRCLE. 
If contentment comes not to the heart here, 
it is sought for in vain. “Ho other circle," 
says an eloquent writer, “ can be compared with 
that of the family. It comprises all that the 
human heart most values and delights in. It 
is the centre where all human affections meet 
and entwine, the vessel into which they all 
pour themselves with such joyous freedom.— 
There is no one word which contains in it so 
many endearing associations and precious re¬ 
membrances, hid in the heart like gold. 
‘ It appeals at once to the very centre of 
man’s being—his * heart of hearts.’ All that is 
sweet, soothing, tender and true, is wrapped up 
in that one name. It speaks not of one circle 
or of one bond ; but of many circles and many 
bonds—all of them near the heart. The family 
home, the family hearth, the family table, fam¬ 
ily habits, family voices, family tokens, family 
salutaiions, family melodies, family joys and 
sorrows ; what a mine of recollections lie under 
that one word 1 Take these away, and earth 
becomes a mere churchyard of crumbling bones; 
and man as so many grains of loosened sand, or 
at best, but as the fragments of a torn flower, 
which the winds are scattering abroad.” 
A CANDID MIND. 
There is nothing sheds so fine a light upon 
the human mind as candor. It was called 
whiteness, by the ancients, for its purity and 
beauty ; and it has always had the esteem due 
to the most admirable of the virtues. However 
little sought for or practised, all do it the hom¬ 
age of their praise, and all feel the power and 
charm of its influences. The man whose opin¬ 
ions make the deepest mark upon his fellows; 
whose influence is most lasting and efficient, 
whose friendship is instinctively sought, where 
all others have proved faithless, is not the man 
of brilliant parts, or flattering tongue, or splen¬ 
did genius, or commanding power ; but he 
whose lucid candor and ingenuous truth trans¬ 
mit the heart’s real feelings pure and without 
refraction. There are other qualities which 
are more showy, and other traits that have 
higher place in the world’s code of honor, but 
none wear better or gather less tarnish by use, 
or claim a deeper homage in that silent rever¬ 
ence which the mind must pay to virtue. As 
it is the most beautiful, so it is the safest of 
moral virtues. Hone fall into so few mistakes 
—none darken and deform themselves with so 
little falsehood and wrong—none so free from 
the pain of doing wrong as those who walk 
amid the pitfalls and miasms, passions and er¬ 
rors, of our tainted life, clothed habitually with 
candor. The rare and comely union of pru¬ 
dence and of principle, of firmness and forbear¬ 
ance, of truth and zeal, of earnestness of feel¬ 
ing, and discrimination of view, is to be found 
only in minds pervaded and enlarged by can¬ 
dor. To love, and to se< k in all things, the 
truth—to choose before all the solicitations of 
passion, or the power of prejudice, or the force 
of public opinion, or the claims of interest or 
power^, whatever is right or true ; to believe at 
every juncture of experience or thought, that 
nothing is so good or desirable, or trustworthy 
as truth; to scent the truth amid all the un¬ 
popular disguises which too often disfigure it 
in this world— this must be safest and best, 
whatever we may think of it, if God really 
reigns, and there be an eternal distinction be¬ 
tween Truth and Falsehood, Right and Wrong. 
In nothing have men so vital an interest as in 
truth. Hothing should we so earnestly strive 
to get,or hold fast when obtained. “Buy the 
truth, and sell it not.”— Green Leaves. 
AMERICAN NEWSPAPERS. 
■English editors make sad work in writing 
on American topics. It has always been a 
wonder to us, how any well-informed man 
could praise the newspaper press of Great 
Britain ; it is almost invariably sleepy, turgid, 
respectably dull, devoted to a few traditional 
subjects, police reports, parliamentary speeches, 
and so on. Outside of Great Britain, whatever 
subject is treated on, is ignorantly treated. 
America is the only land that really has a 
press. Here it is a part of the people. Think 
of three or four New York papers sending out a 
million sheets a week 1 each single two-cent 
copy containing its varied array of perfect 
argument, fine literary composition, news from 
all quarters of the earth, and blunders ! Let 
us hear no more of any press but the American 
press. There are in the United States three 
thousand newspapers ; nineteen out of every 
twenty being conducted by really smart men 
—because no others would be permitted. For 
our part, we see something to admire in every 
newspaper we take up, and can learn something 
from each and all. 
At present there is a great rage for “ story 
papers.” They print romances, tales, adven¬ 
tures, all of the most florid character. Boston, 
Hew York, and Philadelphis are full of them. 
They find their customers, and may have their 
use. They are, perhaps, like the poor track 
beat through the woods aud swamps ; it pre¬ 
pares the way for the plank road — and that 
again, in time, for the railroad!— Life Illustrated. 
THE LIBRARY OF LIFE. 
Life is a library, composed of several vol¬ 
umes. With some these volumes are richly 
gilt; with others, quite plain. Of its several 
volumes, the first is a Child’s Book, full of 
pretty pictures; the second is a School Book, 
blotted, inked, and dog’s eared ; the next is a 
Thrilling Romance, full of love, hope, ruin, and 
despair, winding up with a marriage with the 
most beautiful heroine that ever was; there is 
a House-keeping Book, with the butcher’s and 
baker’s bills increasing every year; after that 
comes the Day Book and Ledger, swelling out 
into a series of many volumes, presenting a rare 
fund of varied information, and jingling like a 
cash-box with money ; these are followed up 
by a grand History, solemnly traveling over 
the events of the past, with many wise deduc¬ 
tions and grave warnings ; and last of all come 
the Child’s Book again, with its pages rather 
soiled, and its pictures by no means as bright 
they used to be. To the above library is some¬ 
times added the Banker’s Book, thick with 
gold, but it is a very scarce work, and only to be 
met with in the richest collections. 
A PRETTY THOUGHT. 
“ Bright things can never die, 
E’en though they fade ; 
Beauty and Ministrelsy 
Deathless were made. 
Sweet fancies never die, 
They leave behind 
Some fair legacy 
Stored in the mind.” 
Selfishness. —Selfishness has no soul. It is 
a heart of stone encased in iron. Selfishness 
cannot feel the pangs and thrusts of hunger.— 
It robs its own grave—sell its own bones to the 
doctors, and its soul to the devil. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
A STORY 01 1 ’ LIFE’S ENDEAVOR. 
[Concluded from page 404.) 
“Hot at all. He may contrive a thousand 
ways to annoy me—no doubt he will do so— 
but he cannot seriously injure me, and I am 
sure the good sense of the majority even of the 
Seniors will sustain me in the position I have 
taken. Only let a few make a resolute stand 
against so absurd and unjust a custom, and it 
will be abolished.” 
Frederic was right. Smith used all his in¬ 
genuity to annoy and insult him, but as he was 
exceedingly unpopular in his class, and Fred¬ 
eric’s firm, manly bearing won universal ad¬ 
miration, he found few to sympathize with or 
aid him in his malicious plans. 
The vouDg student was not forgotten in the 
home of Mr. Howard, and frequent letters, fill¬ 
ed with kind words and sound counsels, found 
their way to him. Nor was substantial proof 
of the sincerity of his friend’s interest lacking, 
and yet pecuniary aid was so delicately ten¬ 
dered that his sensitive nature could not feel 
wounded. 
The four years of study passed rapidly by ; 
bringing to Frederic Lathrop a rich store of 
knowledge and discipline, and few have gone 
forth to the active duties of life more fully fitted 
to adorn society, and act their part well and 
nobly, than did he. It is the night before com¬ 
mencement, and Frederic and his chum, Har¬ 
wood, are slowly pacing the moonlighted walk 
beneath rows of graceful elms. They are si¬ 
lent for a long time, each busy with his own 
thoughts: they are sad, for on the morrow 
they are to leave the halls of learning and go 
forth, each upon his own way, to mingle in the 
struggles of life, and share as they have never 
yet done in its responsibilities. Frederic has 
been reviewing his life, and tracing back his 
course since his father’s death threw him out 
upon the world, and looking forward with hope 
to the sphere he has chosen for the future.— 
What this sphere is may be learned from his 
conversation. 
“It is so strange to me, Fred, that you 
should have determined to make a farmer of 
yourself. You know you have fine talents as a 
speaker, and with sufficient cultivation of your 
power might shine at the bar, and make a name 
and a fortune too. How, you will settle down 
in some backwood’s parish, and bury yourself 
amoDg a set of uncultivated people, and become 
absorbed in the price of buckwheat and pota¬ 
toes. I don’t see what good your education is 
going to do yqu. You would have made a bet¬ 
ter farmer without it.” 
“ I think, Harwood, you altogether mistake 
the business of farming -when you associate it 
with coarse, uneducated people. Ho business 
seems to me more calculated to ennoble men, 
and make them large-hearted, and large-brain¬ 
ed, than one in which they are brought into 
constant and close communion with all the op¬ 
erations of Nature. If any one needs to be 
intelligent and thoroughly educated it is the 
farmer. Who has a better chance for studying 
all the grand laws and minute details of the 
living world than he ? Who has a broader or 
a richer field for reseaich and experiment, and 
who can find a higher or mightier agent to co¬ 
operate with, than the unswerving power that 
brings about the seed-time and harvest, cold 
and heat, in their season ? To me it seems that 
injnental and social position the farmer holds 
the highest stand-point, and the time is, I be¬ 
lieve, not far distant when the wot Id will feel 
and acknowledge this.” 
“I heartily hope it may come, for your sake, 
Fred, yet you must pardon me for saying I 
cannot help feeling that you are hiding your 
light under a bushel.” 
Many years have gone by since Frederic 
Lathrop went out into the great toiling world 
as a worker. Come with me now to a beautiful 
village in Ohio, and enter this dwelling. The 
evening lamps are just lighted upon the table, 
a bright fire blazing upon the hearth, every¬ 
thing speaks of comfort and happiness. An 
aged lady sits in a large arm-chair by the fire, 
a young woman is sewing by the table, while 
two men in the prime of life are engaged in 
earnest conversation. We will listen to them 
awhile. 
“It seems to me, Mr. Lathrop, that it was 
hardly wise in you to encourage Robert Brown 
in his ambitious project of getting a college 
education. He will have to work for every 
cent he has, for his father does not believe in 
educating boys much, and he can never carry 
the thing through. He had better stay where 
he is and be satisfied.” 
“Mr. Carter,” replied the other, “twenty- 
five years ago my mother made shirts to keep 
me in school. A few years later I went through 
the streets of yonder city a penniless wanderer 
in search of employment; I found the employ¬ 
ment; I was encouraged to strive to educate 
myself—and I did it, though not without kind¬ 
ly aid. I have seen many a hard struggle in 
my life, but I am thankful for every one of 
them. They were just what I needed to call 
me out and make me strong, and I met not one 
too many. *L have met much kindness, and 
found helping hands always stretched out to me 
when I needed them. But I do not believe in 
what men call luck. God helps us when we 
help ourselves, and I believe any young man 
that has a soul to dare difficulties may make 
himself almost anything he chooses. I wish I 
could see inscribed upon the entrance of every 
college in our land the glorious proverb of the 
Chinese: “ Men have he»vn through mountains 
to dig channels to the sea; under the whole 
heaven there is nothing difficult ; it is only men's 
minds that are not determined 
if 
