Written for Moore’a Rural New-Yorker. 
WHAT’S THE USE OF FRETTING. 
BY M. 11. GARDNER. 
Why will our poets sigh and moan 
O’er withered hopes and flowers, 
When fresh joys spring again as soon 
As sunshine after showers. 
Our dullest hours, if rightly spent, 
Will quickly pass away, 
And pleasant smiles from those we love 
Will cheer the darkest day. 
’Tis all in vain to mourn and weep 
O'er milk that has been spilled, 
And just as vain to idly wait 
To have the pail refilled. 
I never drop my buttered toast 
Upon the sanded floor, 
And if I did I’d leave it there, 
And calmly butter more. 
Nor do I find this world so cold, 
Or friends so hard to win, 
And where we have so much to love, 
To grumble is a sin. 
Northville, Mich., 1S59. 
“BETTER TRUST ALL.’ 
BY FRANCES ANN BUTLER. 
Better trust all, and be deceived, 
And weep that trust, and that deceiving, 
Than doubt one heart, that if believed 
Had blessed one’s life with true believing 
Oh, in this mocking world, too fast 
The doubting fiend o’ertakes our youth! 
Better be cheated to the last 
Than lose the blessed hope of truth. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
BE TRUTHFUL WITH THE LITTLE ONES. 
It was a cold morning some years ago, when I 
donned my cloak and muff and went down Broad¬ 
way a shopping. That splendid thoroughfare of 
New York was crowded, as usual. Merchants 
were hurrying to their stores, clerks to their 
counters, and lawyers and brokers to their offices; 
while ever and anon the young wife would trip 
past, leaning lovingly on her husband’s arm, as 
she enjoyed the cold, bracing air and morning 
walk—not at the end of it to take her place as 
head clerk in his establishment, the way the 
Parisian lady does, but to be transferred to an 
omnibus, in which she may return home at leisure. 
Some few, like myself, were out purchasing goods, 
and what with them and the hooped, models by the 
doors (for only the models then woite hoops,}! had 
full opportunity for viewing the new fashions and 
the latest whims of the late obscure Mademoiselle 
de Montijo, now bride of Napoleon and Empress 
over thirty millions of people. Eugenie cloaks, 
Eugenie plaids, Eugenie headdresses, etc., filled 
the windows till I was tired of seeing the name, 
and by way of relief, tried to turn Lavater, and 
read the disposition of this or that person who 
passed me by and whose countenance my eye 
singled out as a peculiar one. 
Again, I thought of a new plan, and that was 
the sort of dress they wore, the color they chose, 
and their mode of arranging it. Som'e wore 
bright, gay colors, others almost Quaker-like in 
their plainness; and it amused me to see one wear 
her victorine in such a' manner as to display her 
rich gold breastpin, another keep one hand outside 
her muff to show her taper fingers and new kids, 
and a third wear her velvet mantilla folded back, 
so that her watch and chain might see the light. 
I would have liked to walk all day and read in the 
living book thus opened before me, had I not 
arrived at Stuart's, and as my country friend 
requested I should there purchase the trimmings 
for her dress, I hastened to fulfill her injunction. 
The clerk who waited on me was also in attend¬ 
ance on a lady who appeared to be selecting some 
embroideries, and whose little girl, soon after my 
entrance, accosted her with, “ Mama, can’t I have 
the money now to buy my doll? You said last 
week when Emily Ross got hers that I might have 
one when we went shopping Monday.” “But I’ve 
got to spend all my money to-day, Carrie,” re¬ 
turned the lady. 
My attention was now fairly attracted, and I 
scanned as closely as politeness would permit, the 
finely dressed woman before me. In figure she 
was a tall, stately person, rather a brunette in 
complexion, but with dark, flashing eyes, such, 
enpassant, as only brunettes can boast off. She 
had, too, that easy, graceful manner which is hard 
to attain save in good society. Her dress was a 
purple French cashmere, and her bonnet was on 
her head, not her neck, as the fashion now is; it 
was a white, uncut velvet, with crimson roses 
and strings, and adorned outside with white mara¬ 
bout feathers as light and airy as the tiny snow 
flakes then settling on the window sills. A rich 
broche shawl enveloped her splendid figure, and 
no wonder that I almost envied her whom I rightly 
considered as one of the bon ton. “You said four 
dollars was the price of this handkerchief; it is 
the pattern I want, but you ask too much,” she 
said, addressing the clerk. “No, madam, it is 
very low indeed; the material, you perceive, is 
linen cambric, and it is French needlework.” “ I 
suppose I can tell what it is by looking,” she 
replied a little haughtily, apparently nettled that 
the clerk should suppose her ignorant of either 
the material or work. “ Mama, let me have the 
three shillings now, won’t you? I can buy it 
while you” — “Carrie, hold your tongue,” and 
she gave the child a look, which, if it didn’t anni¬ 
hilate her, it almost did me, or at least sent the 
blood tingling through my cheeks and finger ends, 
though whether in sympathy for the child or 
shame for the mother I couldn’t tell. But, seem¬ 
ingly taken aback that she had shown so much 
temper, she drew out her portmonnaie, and with 
the utmost suavity desired the clerk to put up the 
kerchief, handing him a five dollar bill, but pro¬ 
testing that he charged her at least a dollar too 
much. “You’ll be pleased in the wear of the 
article, madam,” he said, as he stepped to the 
cashier’s box. His back had scarcely been turned 
when the lady (?) stooping down, said in a low, 
spiteful voice, “Now, miss, you shan’t have the 
doll at all, for the way you’ve teased me about it 
this morning.” 
Poor Carrie; she absolutely wilted with mental 
suffering and disappointment. I tried to tele¬ 
graph her a look of sympathy, for I knew the 
young heart had sore trials, but just then the clerk 
returned with the change, and the lady, bidding 
him a courteous good-morning, tripped gracefully 
down the long aisle of the store, followed by the 
sad little Carrie, who waa either too sad or too 
much afraid to indulge in that safety-valve of 
childhood, tears. “Thank God my mother never 
told me a lie,” my heart echoed as she was lost in 
the distance. Poor child!—better were you the 
daughter of the humblest seamstress in this great 
city, were truth and kindliness her motto, and 
were the flowers of feeling springing up in your 
youDg heart only watered by the dew of affection, 
that they might in after years yield sweet perfume. 
Fair Haven, Carroll Co., Ill. M. J. Stephenson. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
WHY AMERICAN WOMEN ARE DELICATE. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE HOUR OF TWILIGHT. 
Comparisons are frequently made between the 
pale, delicate American women, and the plump, 
rosy-cheeked English, attributing the latter to 
their out-of-door exercise, and our fragility to con¬ 
finement to household labors—which may be true, 
but let us look at the facts a little. 
The English ladies, who have been so much 
admired for their freshness and bloom, have 
leisure to spend in the open air all the time they 
choose—to walk or ride. They have their house¬ 
keepers, their nurses, their servants, their car¬ 
riages, &c. While, on the other hand, the English 
peasantry live in such small houses, and on such 
plain fare, and in an unfashionable, unostentatious 
manner, that they also spend much time in the 
fields and garden. But in this country, bow dif¬ 
ferent are all our social arrangements! We have 
no titles, no hereditary property, and no class of 
people kept down, for the benefit of the nobility. 
Every man may rise to wealth and distinction 
who has the industry and ambition, and as there 
is no lack of these, what a scrambling and haste 
to get rich! Riches bring cares, and nearly all 
of the farmers and their wives do a great share of 
their own work, with the help of one or tw® ser¬ 
vants, perhaps, who are considered a part of their 
family. And there is scarcely an American woman 
in a thousand, who can get a moment’s time to 
spend out of doors. The farmer worth twenty or 
thirty thousand, has no idea of keeping a carriage 
or riding or walking out with his family, or of 
stopping a moment to enjoy life in any manner. 
With him, it is plow and sow, and reap and mow; 
mid with his wife, h«r children,her breakfast, din¬ 
ner and supper, her wardrobe, her company, and 
general supervision from garret to cellar. No 
wonder she never gets time to breathe the fresh 
air, and the bloom is departed from her thin face 
and form. 
The great scarcity of permanent or competent 
girls to assist us, is becoming the worst and most 
formidable evil American women have to contend 
with. It is a fact, that we must hire such raw, 
ignorant help, as are worse than none, or do with¬ 
out. Scarcely any farmer’s wife, who cannot 
accomplish the whole of her housework within 
her own family, can say she has in her kitchen a 
competent, trusty girl or woman. Such help as 
she is obliged to accept is only an addition to her 
cares. And thus, many a woman who is able to 
pay for good help, and be glad to do it, is com¬ 
pelled to attend constantly to her household, and 
be thankful to have a chance to sit down long 
enough to eat, and for the night, when she can 
rest. 
“ We speak that we know, and testify that we 
have seen.” Our husbands need not compare us 
to the fair, robust, English women, while tbeir 
pride, and ambition, and haste to be rich, makes 
them forget that flesh and blood can, and will, and 
does wear out, and that speedily, under our pres¬ 
ent social arrangements. A Farmer’s Wife. 
CAN A MOTHER FORGET 1 
Can a mother forget? Not a morning, noon or 
night, but she looks into the corner of the kitchen 
in which you read Robinson Crusoe, and thinks of 
you as yet a boy. Mothers rarely become con¬ 
scious that their children have grown out of their 
childhood. They think of them, advise them, 
write to them, as if not fully fourteen years of age. 
They cannot forget the child. Three times a day 
she thinks who are absent from the table, and 
hopes the next year, at the furthest, she may have 
“just her own family there;” and if you are there, 
look out for the fat lamb or a fried chicken, and 
the coffee which none but everybody’s own mother 
can make. Did Hannah forget Samuel ? A short 
sentence, full of household history, and running 
over with genuine mother-love is tellingly beauti¬ 
ful. “Moreover, his mother made him a little 
coat, and brought it to him from year to year, when 
she came up with her husband to the yearly 
sacrifice.” 
A mother mourning at the first-born’s grave, or 
closing the dying eye of child after child, dis¬ 
plays a grief whose sacredness is sublime. But 
bitterer, heavier than the death stroke is the des¬ 
peration of a son who rushes over a crushed heart 
into vices which he would hide even from the 
abandoned and vile. 
Napoleon once asked a lady what France needed 
for the education of her youth; and the short, 
profound reply was, “Mothers!” 
A mother once asked a clergyman when she 
should begin the education of her child, which she 
told him was then four years old. “ Madam,” was 
the reply, “you have lost three years already. 
From the first smile that gleams over the infant’s 
cheek, your opportunity begins.” 
Deakly I love, at that beautiful hour 
Chaining the heart with its mystical pow’r, 
Daylight departing—retiring to rest, 
Gently enfolded in arms of the West; 
Lingering long in her parting embrace, 
Kissing the shadows that each other chase, 
When the mild Eve in her beautifuLrest 
Whispers of peace till she maketh us blest, 
Dearly I love in sweet visions to roam. 
Spirit e’en scorning its tenanted home, 
Breaking the fetters that bind it to earth, 
Soaring away to the place of its birth. 
Surely the soul had its birth-place above, 
There ’mid the reigions of beauteous Love, 
Fain through the empire of thought as we roam, 
Then does sweet Memory silently come, 
Bearing us blessings on wings of the past, 
O’er us a mantle of glory to cast. 
Twilight, thou heaven-sent messenger here, 
Bearer of freedom from harrowing care, 
Leaving the gates far behind thee ajar, 
Whence cometh streamings of peace from afar; 
Op’ning the windows that we may look in 
To the blest mansions where dwelleth no sin; 
Taking us near to the portals of bliss— 
Angel of love, from that bright world to this, 
Thou art a type of the twilight of life, 
Aye, in the hope of that happiness rife, 
Merging in dawn of reality’s day, 
Usher to scenes in that holy array. 
Piffard, N. Y., 1859. Jane E. H. 
write what we have said of the song-sparrow, we 
would say that the robin is our sweetest summer 
singer. This universal favorite has a variety of 
songs. All are sweet, but one rises far above all 
the rest. At evening, the sun gone down, the 
cows returned from pasture, the landscape radiant 
with its salient points, but growing dim and solemn 
underneath, then, as you sit musing in your door, 
you shall hear from a tree on the lawn, a little dis¬ 
tant, a continuous calling song, full of sweet im¬ 
portunity mingled with sadness. It is the call for 
its absent mate. Sometimes it rolls and gurgles 
for but a moment, when a shadow flits through the 
air, and a sudden flash of leaves, the song stops, 
two birds glide out upon the sky, and fly to their 
home. But at other times the bird’s grief is your 
gain. No coming mate shortens his song. Some 
remorseless boy has brought him down, to sing, 
and build, and brood no more; some cat, or hawk, 
or gazing snake has dined upon the fair thing. 
And so, though the twilight falls, and the evening 
grows darker, the song calls on, pausing only to 
change the manner, throwing in here and there 
coaxing notes and staccato exclamations of impa¬ 
tience, but going back soon to the gushing, pining, 
yearning home-call. Take all my strawberries if 
you want them, oh singer! Come to-morrow for 
my cherries! You pay me in one single song for 
all that you can eat in a summer! and leave me 
still in your debt; for there is no such thing as 
paying for that which touches your heart, raises 
your imagination, wings your fancy, and carries 
you up, by inspired thoughts, above the level of 
selfish life. The heart only can pay the heart for 
good service! As to cherries, I’ll take my chance 
when my betters are served. Eat what you wi3b, 
sweet sir, and if there are any left, I will think 
them all the sweeter as a part of your banquet. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS. 
It may seem a broad assumption, and be con¬ 
demned as an exaggerated expression, yet we are 
constrained to believe that if the practice which 
seems so completely and fanatically to influence 
multitudes of mankind to meddle, to pry into and 
acquaint themselves with other people’s business— 
to comment and judge with freedom and harshness 
upon their manners and actions when profoundly 
ignorant of the motive or cause, and report and 
discuss all their impudent assurance has discover¬ 
ed, no matter at what sacrifice of justice or truth, 
or how much to the detraction or injury of the 
person under espionage, were completely wiped 
out from practice, two-thirds of the sin, the dis¬ 
turbance and malice current in human society 
would be utterly expunged. Were all the idle 
regiment now engaged in completing Satan’s mis¬ 
chief, to seek some useful employment, and make 
over them a motto and rule of action, obeying 
strictly its sentiment and teaching, would they not 
toil to much greater Ajmt and pleasure, than to 
labor where the death,” and a most 
happy reformation result? It is almost a univer¬ 
sal fact, that each community or neighborhood, 
however small or retired, numbers among its 
members a class who find no employment other 
than attending to the concerns of others, too many 
of whom profess belief and obedience to the pre¬ 
cepts and teachings of that neglected Book whose 
moral code and elevating and ennobling sentiments 
have never yet been equalled here, utterly ignor¬ 
ing and forgetting its commands and exhortations 
“ A little fire kindleth a great matter.” So, even 
one of these Paul Pry’s in a community, whose 
tongue and limbs are never weary in reporting, 
commenting, and spreading all that his prying 
curiosity has learned, will stir up strife in brother¬ 
hoods, sunder friendships, and destroy the peace 
of families, and harmony of neighborhoods. And 
how little peace and quiet, or time to work with 
their own hands, can one have who is constantly 
occupied in meddling and studying into the affairs 
of others ? No action or business, however private 
or personal, is sufficiently sacred or respected, to 
prevent their Argus eyes from discovering, or 
their unwearied tongues from publishing in detail, 
and criticising and remarking freely, as the mood, 
may find them. 
How much of the unhappiness and evils in society 
may be traced to such a source—innocence blight¬ 
ed, character defamed, friendship made a mockery, 
and life a burden, by these vampires in human 
society. There can be no advantage or improve¬ 
ment derived from such a class. “They have 
taught their tongues to speak lies, and weary 
themselves to commit iniquity.” Their friendship 
i3 the charm of the basilisk — their company the 
shade of the Upas. 
-“ like a moral pestilence, 
Before his breath, the healthy shoots and blooms 
Of social joy and happiness decay.” 
Rich and full are promises to the attentive and 
industrious, and “ the hand of the diligent shall 
bear rule”—while the tale bearer shall be cut off, 
and to the slouthful want shall come as an armed 
man, and though he beg in harvest he shall have 
nothing. s. F. h. 
Barry, Michigan, 1S59. 
A CANNON EALL IN THE HAT. 
THE ROBIN’S SONG. 
An anonymous writer, generally supposed to be 
the Rev. Henry Ward Beecher, after describing 
how, when a boy, he stole a cannon ball from the 
Navy Yard at Charleston, Mass., and with much 
trepidation and more headache, carried it away in 
that universal pocket of youth, winds up with the 
following reflections, which though philosophically 
trite, are conveyed with much force and freshness: 
When I reached home, I bad nothing to do with 
my shot. I did not dare to show it in the house, 
nor tell where I got it, and after one or two soli¬ 
tary rolls, I gave it away on the same day to a 
Prince streeter. 
But, after all, that six-pounder rolled a good 
deal of sense into my skull. I think it was the 
last thing I ever stole, (excepting a little matter 
of heart now and then,) and it gave me a notion of 
the folly of coveting more than you can enjoy, 
which has made my whole life happier. It was 
rather a severe mode of catechising, but ethics 
rubbed in with a six pound shot are better than 
none at all. 
But I see men doing the same thing—going into 
underground and dirty vaults and gathering 
wealth, which will, when got, roll io'ua<l -iheir 
heads like a ball, and not be a whit softer because 
it is gold instead of iron, though there is not a 
man in Wall street who will believe that. I have 
seen a man put himself to every humiliation to 
win a proud woman who has been born above him, 
and when he got her, he walked all the rest of his 
life with a cannon ball in his hat. I have seen 
young men enrich themselves by pleasure in the 
same wise way, sparing no pains, scrupling at no 
sacrifice of principle, for the sake at least of carry¬ 
ing a burden which no man can bear. 
All the world are busy in striving for things 
that give little pleasure and bring much care; and 
I am accustomed in my walks among men, noticing 
their ways and their folly, to think, there is a man 
stealing a cannon ball; or there’s a man with a 
ball on his head—I know it by the way he walks. 
The money which a clerk purloins for his pocket, 
at last gets into his hat like a cannon ball. Pride, 
bad temper, selfishness, evil passions, will roll a 
man as if he had a ball on his head! And ten 
thousand men in New York will die this year, and 
as each one falls, his hat will come off, and out 
will roll an iron ball, which for years he has worn 
out his strength in carrying. 
Happiness in Childhood. —It is wonderful how 
near happiness used to be. It lay about, like the 
sunshine, within arm’s length of everybody. It 
used to grow in the field; we have found it there, 
but not lately. Sometimes five speckled eggs in a 
grassy nest constituted it; sometimes four beauti¬ 
ful ones in the lilacs. It used to swim in the 
brooks, and turn up its silvery and mottled sides, 
like a polished little sabre, sprinkled with the color 
of fame, which is generally understood to be crim¬ 
son. We have found it many a time beside a 
mossy stone, when it looked very much like a first 
flower; we have seen it come down in the shower, 
and heard it descend in the rain. What a world 
of it used to be crowded into a Saturday after¬ 
noon ! An old newspaper, with cedar ribs, a tail 
like three bashaws, and a penny’s worth of twine, 
have constituted many a time—that is, many an 
old time—the entire stock in trade of one perfectly 
happy. 
A correspondent of the Rev. Henry Ward 
Beecher complains bitterly to him that the Birds 
eat all his cherries and leave him and his family 
none. He has tried in vain various means of driv¬ 
ing them off, and dislikes exceedingly to shoot 
them, being fond of birds and their songs, as every 
man of taste and feeling is. Mr. Beecher replies 
to him in the Independent , in a very beautiful and 
characteristic article in favor of the birds. The 
correspondent had, more particularly, found fault 
with that pert little thief, the Wax Wing, known 
by the different names of Cedar Bird, Bohemian 
Chatterer, Pea Bird, &c. Mr. Beecher says if any 
bird deserves death it is that plunderer, for he 
never sings, being only on his passage through the 
Northern States when he steals our cherries, but 
adds that he would not fire a gun at him lest he 
should hurt the feelings of the robins. He admires 
the robin, and pours out the following eloquent 
strain in speaking of him : 
Indeed, if it were not too much trouble to re- 
Truth Better than Cant. —Teach a child there 
is harm in everything, however innocent; and as 
soon as it discovers the cheat, it won’t see sin in 
anything. That’s the reason deacons’ sons seldom 
turn out well, and preachers’ daughters are mar¬ 
ried through a window. Innocence is the sweetest 
thing in the world, and there is more of it than 
folks generally imagine. If you want some to 
transplant, don’t seek it in inclosures of cant, for 
it has only counterfeit ones; but go to the garden 
of truth and of sense. Coerced innocence is like 
an imprisoned lark; open the door, and it is off 
forever. The bird that roams the sky and the 
grove unrestrained, knows how to dodge the hawk 
and protect itself; but the caged one, the moment 
it leaves its bars and bolts behind, is pounced up¬ 
on by the fowler or the vulture.— Sam Slick. 
Written for Moore’a Rural New-Yorker. 
THE TIMELY LESSON. 
I love to sit by my window and look out upon 
the rich and varied landscape, which spreads away 
to the “blue distance.” The silver pathway of a 
river winds along below the road, and its cool feet 
walk through a little valley, partly framed in with 
distant hills. Broad meadow-land, interlaced with 
neat fences, stretch to the South, until they are 
met by a green-robed army of sentinels—the first 
trees of a forest, whose crown is cut very clearly 
against the sky. One afternoon I sought my favor¬ 
ite retreat with a sad heart. A restless spirit had 
taken possession of me. Life seemed vague, and 
my path so hidden that I groped blindly in the 
dark, and the fair September landscape, with the 
golden sky bending over it were both wrapped in 
a pall. 
A hundred voices shouted through the dim gal¬ 
leries of my soul, “Wake up!—what dost thou 
here!—seek another abiding-place, where your 
sphere of labor will be more extended.” I listened 
to these demons of Discontent with increasing im¬ 
patience of controlling circumstances, and my 
eager vision strove to catch a glimpse of the “ time 
coming” when I fancied that a broader field of 
action would spread out before me. Then all the 
bright promises from anticipation’s silver lips 
would flow in upon me like a river of light, while 
my feet walked through thornless paths. An im¬ 
patient, bitter cry, burst from my lips—“ Icannot 
wait!" and leaning my head upon the window-sill, 
convulsive sobs shook my frame. But suddenly a 
sound of sweet, low music arose to my ear; I 
listened, and it seemed as if fingers were wander¬ 
ing in an uncertain way over the keys of my in¬ 
strument down in the parlor. I started to my feet 
exclaiming, “ Who can that be! ” 
The strange, sad music still continued, and I 
hastily flew down stairs through the hall. The 
door was open, and looking in I beheld the bowed 
figure of an old man sitting at my instrument. 
One hand was resting upon his staff, while the 
other was busied in drawing forth those magical 
sounds. His snowy hair was long and fell over his 
shoulders like a cloud. I immediately recognized 
him to be a blind man of my acquaintance from the 
neighboring village of C-, and I suddenly re¬ 
called his last words to me the preceding day—“ If 
my son rides out to his farm to-morrow, I will call 
to hear you play, Miss Mary.” He was passion¬ 
ately fond of music, and I always delighted to 
gratify him, whenever an opportunity offered. 
“ Ah, Mr. Graves, you have fulfilled your promise.” 
I laid my hand upon his arm, and said this before 
he was aware of my presence. “ Oh, yes, Miss 
Mary —your mother showed me in here, and I 
thought I would amuse myself until you came in.” 
He rose, and resigned his seat to me, notwithstand¬ 
ing my entreaties for him to continue his perform¬ 
ance. “ No, I never have learned how to play, but 
I will sing you a song by-and-by,” was his promise, 
and I chose a wild, sad piece which suited my 
feelings. He listened intently, and when I had 
ceased, his first words surprised me. 
“Your spirit is troubled to-day, Miss Mary— 
perhaps I can say a few words, which may soothe 
and strengthen you—for I have passed through 
many trials. Life is a great blessing! we ought 
to accept this gift, with humble gratitude, and not 
let the days go by, ‘like shadows o’er the heart.’ 
Providence sometimes places us in situations where 
our path is hidden, and we look in vain for a way- 
mark. This is a trial of our faith. I am blind, 
and dependent upon the charities of others, but 
God knows that every day carries my thanks to 
the Throne of Grace, that I am still spared to 
labor in His vineyard—for I have been taught that 
a * patient enduring to the end ’ is my mission on 
earth. It is harder labor than you may imagine— 
still through grace I am enabled to wear a cheerful 
countenance, knowing that its influence is working 
for Christ. My son gives me a home, but his 
children are not taught to respect me, and my 
presence is a burden to them; sometimes their 
unfeeling remarks make me almost weary of lift) 
but Christ’s words recur to my mind, ‘ Let patience 
have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and 
entire, wanting nothing,’ and they comfort me. 
Helpless old age is not reverenced as it used to be.” 
The blind man wiped a tear from his eye, but the 
wrinkled face soon resumed its usual calm, unruf¬ 
fled expression. “I will sing for you now,Hiss 
Mary.” His voice was quite clear and steady for 
one of his years, and I listened with delight to the 
quaint old song. The chorus of each verse was, 
“ I am happy and contented 
Wherever I may be. ” 
As the closing strain died away, a rough voice 
said, “Well, father, are you ready to go?” and 
looking up I beheld the old’s man’s sou standing 
in the door. My visitor departed, but bis voice 
rang in my ears; and now, when I am tempted to 
repine, that placid face rises before me, with the 
snowy hair falling around it, and the words a 
patient enduring to the end," sounds a “Peace, be 
still,” o’er the troubled waters of my soul. 
Michigan, Aug., 1S59. A. D. 
There is always some measure of evil in the 
end which a man is endeavoring to attain when he 
is willing to avail himself of disorderly means in 
order to arrive at it. 
Jesus. —The name of Jesus is not only light) but 
also food; it is likewise oil, without which all the 
food of the soul is dry; it is salt, unseasoned by 
which, whatever is presented to us is insipid; it 1S 
honey in the mouth, melody in the ear, joy in the 
heart, medicine to the soul; and there are no 
charms in any discourse in which his name is not 
heard.— Pearls of Thought. 
The Religion of the Heart. —A holy calling 
never saved any man without a holy heart; if 0111 
tongues only be sanctified, our whole man must bt 
condemned.— Flavel. 
Real difficulties are the be3t cure of imaginary 
ones, because God helps us in the real ones, an 
makes us ashamed of the others. 
