fections, and who now wanders in foreign lands 
teaching the benighted heathen the way to the Sa¬ 
vior, and strivingto prepare himself to meet those 
who have gone before. How much of love she 
breathed into its pages, telling of her sorrow at 
parting with loved ones, yet desiring to bow meek¬ 
ly to the will of Him who “ doeth all things well.” 
Now the flowers she so dearly loved, blossom over 
her grave, and bright birds sing in the drooping 
branches of the willow which nightly weeps above 
the place where she rests passing well.— Corilla. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
POESY VS. AVARICE. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
SHE LOVED MUCH. 
BY CHARLES SWAIN. 
BY MRS. M. P. A. CR07.IER. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
CHERISH THE HUMAN BLOSSOMS. 
The room is cold—the night is cold— 
But night is dearer far than day; 
For then in dreams to Him it seems 
That she’s returned who’s gone away ; 
His tears are past—he clasps her fast— 
Again she holds him on her knee; 
And—in his sleep—he murmurs deep, 
“ Oh! Mother, go no more from me!” 
But morning breaks, the child awakes— 
The dreamer’s happy dream lias fled ; 
The fields look sear—and cold and drear— 
Like orphans, mourning Summer dead ! 
The wild birds spring on shivering wing, 
Or, cheerless, chirp from tree to tree; 
And still he cries with weeping eyes, 
“ Oh ! Mother dear, come back to me!” 
Can no one tell where angels dwell ? 
ne’s called them oft till day grew dim; 
If they were near—and they could hear— 
He thinks they’d bring her back to him ! 
“ Oh ! angels sweet, conduct my feet,” 
He cries, “ where’er her home may be; 
Oh ! lead me on to where she’s gone, 
Or bring my mother back to me!” 
A bird, a dewdrop, or a flower, 
A snow-flake on the wing, 
To him whose god is yellow earth 
Is but a little thing. 
He hears the robin's gush of joy, 
And—let the truth be told— 
Just wishes he could cage the bird. 
And sell his song for gold. 
He sees the dewdrop and the flake, 
The blessed flowers bloom, 
Nor opes his bit of heart to give 
The bits of beauty room ; 
But wishes he could save the drop. 
And melt the flake of snow, 
And add them to the water-power 
That makes his saw-mill go. 
The flowers—what pity they should waste ! 
He hits upon a thought, 
And ties his purse-strings o’er the dime 
The fragrant roses brought. 
The poet comes—as poets love— 
A straying in the wood, 
And with the first sweet forest-song, 
His heart goes up to God. 
The dewdrop which some violet 
Doth humbly bend to wear, 
He snatches to his poet-lieart 
And crystallizes there. 
The snows come softly sailing down 
As white doves from the sky, 
And o’er his soul, as o’er the earth, 
Fling robes of purity. 
The flowers— God made them—and He loves 
To trace in each bright vein 
The riches of that love which he 
Hath written there so plain. 
0, poet of tho heart of God, 
In characters of fire, 
Inscribe the name in ev’ry page 
Of Nature’s awful Lyre! 
And ’neath the name write out his love, 
As God doth write at night 
The azure scroll of heaven o’er, 
In lines of golden light. 
Her sins, which are many, are forgiven ; for she loved 
much.—Luke vii—47. 
Thrice happy she, who knelt in abject shame, 
And washed with tears her Savior’s feet! 
Gladly, the load of sin with which she came, 
Exchanging for this comfort sweet. 
0, timid souls, which falter, faint with fear, 
New courage take, no more defer; 
Trust in that love which, still unchanged, is near, 
And contrite bow rememb’ring her. 
Still Jesus calls, the poor, despised, and weak, 
Shall hear his voice and joyful come, 
That voice which promised blessings to the meek, 
Still guides repentant wand’rcrs home. 
Lov’st thou thy God with strong aspiring heart, 
And lovest thou thy fellow men, 
With love that shrinks not from the humblest part 
That worketh good ?—O, fear not, then t 
Alas! how few the lives which truly bear 
The impress of this law divine, 
We love, but earthly joys and worldly care 
Corrode the hearts love should refine. 
0, gentle Shepherd, hear and pardon me ! 
Though far from thee, I oft may rove, 
My longing soul, in thrilling ecstaey, 
Still cries to thee—Dear Lord, I love ! 
Dedham, Mass., 1658. 
moth and rust to corrupt. Then why guard them 
so tenderly, and protect them from the wind, or 
heat, or faintest breath of frost? Because they are 
lovely, and give forth sweet and rich perfume, and 
combine such delicate, yet such glorious colors.— 
They embody so much that is beautiful in nature— 
such wondrous architecture, such brilliant design, 
and teach us many lessons of love, and soften 
our hearts to see and appreciate all the wonderful 
works of nature. 
Look again at yonder child. How frail, pale, 
and delicate. There is a human blossom, pining 
and drooping, and dying for just such fostering 
care and love as thousands bestow on plants and 
flowers. Many a human heart is like a rare exotic, 
and cannot live and flourish in an atmosphere of 
coldness or unkindness, and whom a cross word or 
look will crush and wither as speedily as does the 
frost your flowers. Gentle, trusting, loving, they 
would cling to some strong arm for support and 
love. Why, because they are not hardy and able 
to laber hard and buckle on the armor of strife, 
will you neglect and treat them coldly, and stern¬ 
ly? Perhaps all they can accomplish is a series of 
small, yet faithful services,—rendered in love, 
with smiles and kind words. And why not value 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
OLD LETTERS. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
WHAT IS OUR INFLUENCE 1 
It is one of Nature’s laws, that almost 
Here is a bundle from Sara. A faithful corres¬ 
pondent, to judge from the size of the package.— 
Shall we burn these, so ancient that the paper 
looks brown, and the writing dimmed by age?— 
They surely are of no consequence—but we’ll read 
them first. They speak cheeringly and bid us 
look with an eye of faith to a future which may be 
rose-tinted—they bid us seek for better than earth¬ 
ly things, for a life whose object shall be to teach 
the ignorant the way to eternal glory, and lead the 
outcast to a river whose waters “ shall cleanse 
from all stain.” Yes, well we remember the days 
of which they speak, days of sorrow and poverty, 
of blighted hopes and heart-burdens which, too 
young, taught us that all below the sun is vanity. 
But these letters bring up thoughts too sad, we’ll 
lay them by, and look at those of later date, for 
they bear the impress of happier hours, when we 
had triumphed over ourselves, and gone bravely 
forth on the battle-field of life, strong to bear its 
trials, and conquer its discouragements. These 
well-filled sheets bring the tears from their fount¬ 
ains—tears, not of sorrow, but joy, for there are 
rich golden memories connected with thoughts of 
those happy years, when the heart ran over with 
its wealth of gladness. We will not destroy one 
of the precious mementoes, but cherish them more 
dearly than ever, for in one we find a tiny fold of 
of white satin, and in another a wedding card, 
which tells the tale. Her letters now reveal much 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
BE PATIENT. 
Learning to waj//has ever proved one of life’s 
most difficult lessons. It has caused many a bitter 
heart-ache, and more burning tears of impatience 
and vexation, ths.u the alphabet ever cost the 
bright-eyed child Jyf four summers, or the board¬ 
ing-school Miss q^er shed over Euclid’s problems. 
As the child, curious to know if his seeds will 
germinate, digs ujf.h q earth where he has planted 
them — or, nt'eaP^*!^* waiting for his flowers to 
bloom, pulls in pieces the buds upon his rose-tree, 
exclaiming, “what lovely roses I have made”— 
which, alas, the sun’s first rays will cause to wither 
and fade — so we, children of a larger growth, un¬ 
willing to abide God’s own time, too often, in the 
pride of our strength and the conceit of our own 
ability, intrude the hand of human agency, to com¬ 
pel to premature development all those plans and 
purposes he has designed for our future well-being 
and happiness, thus marring the noblest schemes 
he has formed for our ultimate good, and ofttimes 
frustrating the very end for which we hope. We 
tear apart all the heart’s sweetest buds of hope and 
promise, saying “what beautiful flowers,” when 
the first breath of misfortune will blight and wither 
that, which if left to attain perfection, might glad¬ 
den with their bloom and fragrance, all our future 
years. 
It is one of Nature’s inflexible laws, that what¬ 
ever is of longest endurance, must be of slowest 
growth. Thus, if the tender annual should say to 
the sturdy oak, “Lol have budded, and blossomed, 
and borne fruit this single summer, whilst thou 
Some persons seem still to entertain the notion 
that young girls need no training except that of 
the mental faculties; that their forms are of less 
consequence than their dresses; and that a devel¬ 
opment of physical strength would impair their 
delicacy, and tend to make them masculine. By 
restricting their physical education, and limiting 
their sphere of activity, they are condemned for 
life to enfeebled health, and an aimless, idle ex¬ 
istence. Let such parents ponder the truth em¬ 
bodied in the following remarks, which we cut from 
Hall's Journal of Health: 
The “Tom-boy” is an eager, earnest, impulsive, 
bright-eyed, glad-hearted, kind-souled specimen of 
the genus femince. If her laugh is a little too fre¬ 
quent, and her tone a trifle too emphatic, we are 
willing to overlook these for the sake of the true 
life and exulting vitality to which they are the 
“escape-valves;” and, indeed, we rather like the 
high-pressure nature which must close off its super¬ 
fluous “ steam ” in such ebullitions. The glancinu 
AMBITION. 
Rightly directed, ambition is a noble trait in 
man. Without this element in the soul the moral 
world would be at a stand still. It is the kaleido¬ 
scope in which the eye of the philosopher discerns 
the color of the passions which the ever varying 
mind unfolds. What, if there now and then arise 
mighty captains, spurned by ambition to clamber 
dizzy heights, revolutionizing nations in their 
headlong march—sweeping with the force of the 
hurricane time-honored customs into the Lethean 
sea? When the storm passes away is not the 
world the better for it ? To be sure, in the path in 
which it raged, mighty wrecks may be seen, but is 
not the political sky more serene, the atmosphere 
purer and more bracing? Napoleon devastated 
Europe, but it came out more refined than when it 
entered. The idees Napoleon have taken the place 
of that feudalism which for so many centuries 
chained the nationalities to the foots-tools of sov¬ 
ereigns ; and to-day, though millions in blood and 
treasure were lost in the fierce struggle, the men of 
Europe are less despised by the potentates who 
rule “by right divine.” Ambition, however, does 
not always lead its possesror to the tented field, 
where the argument of the opponent is ended only 
by the throes of death. It is at times a gentle 
monitor—an angel clothed with the habiliments of 
Mercy. For an Alexander we have a Howard,—for 
a Catharine of Russia a Florence Nightingale. 
Each are as stars shining in the moral heavens, but 
oh, how widely different is their glory! 
The Way to Make a Poor Pastor. —1. Be very 
careless and irregular in attending church. Never 
go, except when you can manufacture no good 
excuse to stay at home. 
2. When at church, be either asleep, or staring 
about. Do not listen to the sermon. 
3. When you go home, complain of the sermon 
as light and chaffy, or dry and uninteresting. 
4. Treat your pastor with a cold and uninviting 
civility, and then complain of him because he does 
not visit you. 
5. Neglect to pray for a blessing upon him and 
his labors, and then complain of him because the 
church does not prosper. 
6. Be always finding fault with your pastor, and 
yet regret that he is not more popular with the 
people. 
7. Be very lukewarm and worldly-minded, and 
yet complain of him for want of zeal. 
8. Neglect to provide for his necessary wants, 
and then complain of him because he wants his 
salary. 
Do all these things, and you will never fail to 
ha ve a poor pastor. 
it., xne contents are too laminar to require a re¬ 
perusal, and their author too dear to let a vestige 
that she has penned perish in oblivion’s grave.— 
We can see her now, with her soul looking out 
from her dark eye. Our hearts were bound by the 
sacred chain of school-girl friendship—our hopes 
and aims were one. Together we studied and 
worked, together we enjoyed our recreations, laid 
our plans and built fairy castles. Fancy painted 
rare pictures to hang in the halls of the future, but 
now, in our backward glance, we see them sadly 
faded. We parted and enjoyed each other’s society 
only through the medium of pen and paper. For 
while her letters were filled with lofty aspirations 
and dreams of future greatness,—she would have 
shone a bright star in the literary galaxy,—but 
there came a long silence, then more letters saying 
that she was more happy with her chosen lord, 
and the wee Winnie, who filled her parent’s hearts 
with gladness, than she should have been in the 
realization of her brightest dreams of fame. Our 
correspondence long since ended, and in life’s 
stern realities, we neither of us find time to indulge 
in the ideal. 
There are many others—some whose writers 
long ago wandered from the homes of their youth, 
and perhaps our names have perished from their 
memory ere this—others whose hearts are forever 
stilled, and their waxen hands are folded for the 
last time over their quiet bosoms. Here is another 
—dearer than all the rest—written by one who was 
the light of home, even in childhood—the pet of 
the neighborhood—the leader of all our childish 
plays—the peace-maker in our petty quarrels.— 
She was the brightest sunlight of our schoolroom, 
and long was the day in which she did not gladden 
us with her presence. Of the whole troup of rosy- 
lipped, laughing-eyed school-girls who daily as¬ 
sembled beside the silver stream in the old woods, 
through whose leafy branches the sun shot golden 
arrows down on our mossy cushions, she was the 
gayest. A smile was always ready for every one, 
and a world of affection beamed from the liquid 
depths of her eyes. Poor Nellie ! thine earthly 
career was short—thou art singing now with an- 
which is nature’s best beauty. The soul and the 
mind will be developed also in due time, and we 
shall have before us a woman, in the highest sense 
of the term. 
When the “Tom-boy” has sprung up to a health¬ 
ful and vigorous womanhood, she will be ready to 
take hold of the duties of life, to become a worker 
in the great system of humanity. She will not 
sit down to sigh over the “ work given her to do,” 
The Patience of God. —How wonderful it is! 
Think what he hears, and sees, and yet though 
immaculately holy, so that sin is infinitely offen¬ 
sive to him, and infinitely powerful, so that he can 
punish it, how he spares! Take the oaths that are 
uttered. He hears them all, and they rear up in 
one horrid chorus to the skies. Take the cries 
which wrong and outrage extort from widows, 
orphans and the oppressed. He hears them all, 
and how—as Abel’s slaughtered corpse called from 
the ground—must they pierce his ear and demand 
vengeance! The blood which is unjustly shed— 
drawn from the viens of innocence—he sees it all, 
and it is sufficient to make rivers. What a foul 
stench reeks up from the corrupt cities, dwellings, 
and hearts of depraved humanity! And it all 
mounts to him. And yet he spares — keeps back 
the struggling thunders. How amazing his pa¬ 
tience! ne is a God and not man; and therefore 
his compassion fails not.— Rev. J. Brace. 
Flattert. —Too much praise, we are inclined to 
think, does more harm than censure. Elation, 
self-conceit, blind confidence, presumption, and 
more or less contempt of others, which are apt to 
attend on indiscriminate praise, are great foes to 
grace, and create an inordinate craving for praise, 
which makes a man something like a spoiled child. 
The difference between praise and flattery is worth 
attending to. It is the difference between true 
coin and counterfeit. Praise is the expression of 
real sentiments; flattery of pretended sentiments. 
One is the homage of the heart; the other an 
artifice of the mind. The true and the base coins 
circulate freely in society—and most people are 
so eager for them that they do not stop to distin¬ 
guish the genuine currency from the counterfeit.— 
Banner of the Cross. 
Home.— We have rarely ever seen a simple child 
story that more touched us than the following, 
which we find in an exchange:—“This is my 
home!” cried a little one, a treasured boy of four 
summers, as, fresh and rosy, he came in from 
school, at the close of a short winter’s afternoon. 
“ Indeed, little Willie,” said his mother’s visitor, 
“ how is it? Suppose you go out on the sidewalk 
and try the next door; suppose you step into the 
entry, throw off your little sack, as you have here, 
and proceed to the parlor—wouldn’t that be your 
home?” “ No, indeed,” said Willie, “ that wouldn’t 
be it.” “But tell me why not?” Willie had 
never thought of this. He paused for a moment, 
then directing his eyes to where his mother sat 
quietly sewing, he replied, with an earnest gesture, 
“ She lives here.” 
and moral world. These are established truths,— 
“ there is no excellence without great labor,”—no 
prize worth securing which can be obtained except 
by toil and sacrifice—no hoped-for good, for which 
we must not earnest]}' seek and patiently wait. 
Knowledge is no common flower, blossoming by 
the wayside, and in waste places untended and un¬ 
cared for; but a century plant of rare growth and 
unfrequent bloom, requiring long years of constant 
care and cultivation to arrive at maturity; but 
when at last it puts forth bud and flower, and ex¬ 
pands its golden petals to the morning sun, glad¬ 
dening our weary eyes with a vision of beauty far 
exceeding in reality what even fancy had painted 
WINTER. 
TnE landscape wears a shroud of snow, 
The cold winds sweep along the plain, 
And all above and all below 
Show winter’s melancholy reign. 
Oh ! well this season may compare 
To that deep sadness of the heart, 
Which comes in withering coldness there 
When Hope’s enlivening beams depart. 
Life is what we mate it. Let us call back images 
of joy and gladness, rather than those of grief and 
care. The latter may sometimes be our guests to 
sup and dine, but let them never be permitted to 
lodge with us. 
