THE DEAR LITTLE GIRL IS DEAD. 
A little song is still! 
A little warble that one summer made 
So sweet a melody in our garden bowers 
It brightened all the blooming of the flowers. 
Alas, the garden bowers are clothed in shade, 
The little song is still. 
Two little feet have fled! 
Two little, busy feet are heard no more 
To fall as lightly as the summer rain 
Upon the grass plot—ne’er to come again, 
And trip in joy across our cottage floor. 
The little feet have fled. 
Look upward in the night! 
When you are bowed with grief and wild alarm, 
See from the shining window of your star, 
To beckon you to her bright home afar, 
Your loved one reaches forth her beaming arms. 
Look upward in the night! 
Hearken when all is still! 
Can you not hear the song an angel sings ? 
“ Of sueb. heaven’s kingdom is,” your God has said. 
Pale mourners, from the dust lift up your heads, 
And hear the music borne on zephyr’s wings,— 
Hearken when all is still! 
Henceforth let murmurs cease! 
“Suffer the little children,” said the Lord, 
“ To come to me, of such heaven’s kingdom is,’* 
Let sorrow cease, let faith take hold on this, 
His promise -for eternal is His word. 
Henceforth let murmurs cease! 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
A CIL1T WITH YOUNG HOUSE-KEEPERS. 
I AM not going to come at my object through 
any circumlocution of preface or introduction, but 
stepping, in imagination, (a swifter way than by. 
steam,) into the sitting-rooms or kitchens of you 
Lucvs, and Jennies, and Annes, who have of late 
taken upon yourselves the vows of “ love, honor 
and obedience,” I settle myself, —as though I 
were an aunt that you had known all your lives,— 
for a comfortable and cosy chat. 
I am neither a prying “ old maid,” nor a med¬ 
dling matron, however,— that I must give you to 
understand at once, or lose entirely the hearing 
sense of my auditors, — for the days of my youth 
lie not so far in the past that I have forgotten 
how peculiar and incurable is the spite which 
beginners in the art of managing ” have against 
these neighborhood nuisances. I know nothing of 
city ways or life, so I speak only to you who are 
rurahsts, who, having taken upon yourselves 
new responsibilities, are earnest to do for the best, 
and make the most of your beginning. 
First of all,—attacking the enemy at the most 
formidable point,—please don’t say to yourselves 
“I guess I know enough to keep house without 
going to other folks for assistance.” Perhaps 
you do,—it may be that you have grown up under 
the eye of a mother whom you were willing to 
learn of, yet, again, it may not be, and perhaps 
something of the experience of one who has kept 
“ eyes and ears open ” as to the ways of doing, and 
the ways of leaving undone, may be of benefit in 
either case. I take it for granted that you have 
carried into your new sphere something of the 
romance of girlhood, for only the real cares, per¬ 
plexities and sorrows of life can entirely uproot 
this, and I trust that they have not yet "fallen to 
your portion. But with the romance of your new 
situation, with its happiness and bright fancies, 
have you room in your hearts also for thoughts of 
the duties it imposes; for reflections that should 
you take the wrong path at the beginning, a few 
years will bring you into a maze of perplexities 
and pains where you hoped to find your Eden,—a 
maze from which you will find that only the clue 
of Love can lead you, and that only through stern 
endeavor? 
You must think of this, not only after but 
before you are bound by ties that nothing but 
death can sever, for it is no light thing to take into 
your keeping the happiness and well-being of a 
heart—perhaps the destiny of a soul. 
You must have ambition, — not the article that 
bears the name, when it should be labeled ava¬ 
rice..—bat ambition to do right, to be useful, to do 
all that woman can do for the happiness of others, 
— to be a thorough, practical keeper of the house 
which is your home. 
will be loose ends in your household, temper- 
flashes between its inmates, and discord generally. 
“ You must have”—I might go on saying to the 
last lines of a quire of paper, but I have not time 
to think of all your needs for you. If you have 
the will to be as nearly perfect in your sphere of 
life as you may be, you will not fail to think for 
yourselves, and that is all lam writing for, — to 
set you thinking. Yet I may enlarge a little on 
what I have said. 
There are few among young house-keeper 3 who 
have not the first requisite,—ambition,—yet there 
are many who have not the right kind. It is not 
hoiv much you can do alone, but how much you 
can do well. I don’t like to see young people 
lazily moderate in motion, but to my mind'there is 
such a thing as “ going on the jump ” too much. 
It is destructive to shoe-leather at the least, and 
in the end you seldom accomplish more; for it is 
an old, a tried, and a proved saying, that “haste 
makes waste.” Guard against a habit of saying, 
in reference to your work, or habits of doing it, 
“it would have been better, but I couldn’t spent 
time.” Time is used to the very best advantage 
in doing work thoroughly and well. 
As to calculation, you all ought to know what it 
means, for economy can’t live without it. There 
are a thousand little ways in which you can plan 
for convenience and comfort as well as saving, if 
you try. To prove it, never consign an article to 
the garret, or food to the pig-trough, until you have 
thought in vain of a way to make it useful. 
But you must think for yourselves, I say again. 
The secret of all success lies in this, yet how few 
think it applicable or necessary in just keeping 
house ! Try it,—sit down to the task; for it will 
be one if you are not used to it, and if you do not 
find it the best oil ever applied to domestic 
machinery, you may doubt the word of 
Oak Grove Farm, N. Y., 1859. Aunt Mary. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
GIVING. 
If o’er thy sunny pathway 
A shadow dark is thrown ; 
Or in a heart of purity 
Some evil seeds are sown— 
Know, then, the voice of duty 
By thee has oft been spurned, 
Or, from the poor, the lowly, 
Thy footsteps have been turned. 
Kind words thou hast not given_ 
The mourner’s heart to cheer; 
Or from the suflPrers eyelids deigned 
To wipe away a tear; 
No voice amid earth’s weary ones 
Doth rise, thy name to bless; 
No wonder earth seems dark and lone, 
Or life a wilderness. 
0 , wouldst thou find some gentle balm 
To sooth these shadowy hours, 
Go forth amid the lowliest ones 
And scatter joyous flowers; 
Give gentle words—give freely 
From thy heart’s secret store — 
Nor think the blessing lavished 
Will come to thee no more; 
For, oh! if on the waters 
Thy bread is freely cast, 
Ne’er deem it lost, for plenteously 
It will return at last; 
If fortune’s smile thy path illumes, 
And life seems glad and free, 
Give freely, oh, give thankfully, 
As God hath given thee. 
South Danby, N. Y., 1859. Map.y A. B. 
Indians and wild beasts—a country beyond the 
boundaries of civilization, present or prospective 
But now,— who need comment on the changes 
which eighty years hath wrought? 
Mrs. J. W. Willard. 
Zumbrota, Minn., 1859. 
PROSE POETRY. 
THE LITTLE HAND. 
The little hand! bless it, how confidingly it is 
placed with our own. It trusts in its helplessness 
and weakness for guidance. Every nerve rests 
tranquilly, as its tiuv fingers are encircled by a 
firm and loving grasp. Watch the footsteps of the 
little one as he ranges the lawn, and with his little 
hand he gathers the purple violets, and with child¬ 
ish glee he strews them around. His dark eyes 
look up roguishly as he runs laughingly on saying, 
“ Catch me if you can.’ 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
A MAGAZINE OF THE LAST CENTURY. 
The poet-editor of the Chicago Journal, B. F. 
Taylor, Esq., gives the following beautiful des¬ 
cription of the Northern Lights, that were so bril¬ 
liantly displayed recently: 
The Northern Lights. —If we could alwavs get 
change for that noble word-coin, “Aurora,” and 
think of aurea hora —the golden hour—we should 
like Aurora Borealis” better; — the northern 
golden hour, the northern morning. And a gold¬ 
en hour it was on Sunday evening last, when thou¬ 
sands of eyes brightened in the colored lights that 
shone through God’s painted window in the north. 
Its only parallel within our remembrance was 
eight years ago, when we penned a little descrip¬ 
tion that is as fanciful as was the display. How it 
seemed to us was wrapped up in a rhyme for con¬ 
venient transportation; and here is the whole of 
it: 
To claim the Arctic came the Sun 
With banners bright of burning zone, 
Unfurl’d, they streamed from airy spars, 
And froze beneath the light of stars. 
But the prose part of the description capered 
after this wise: Last night, the moon, in a new 
coat of silver, rode high in the west, while in the 
north and north-east, pure, pearly white, overlaid 
the blue—then deepened to an orange—then turn¬ 
ed to a crimson; until it looked like a pillar of fire 
in the wilderness, or a daguerreotype of sunset._ 
Anon it changed; the crimson was pink; the blue, 
a blush; and the pearl a delicate green. 
What they were doing up aloft, is more than we 
know. Whether rehearsing sunset or sunrise; 
shifting scenes for the never to-be-performed drama 
of “To-morrow;” or spreading out rainbows on 
the upper decks to dry, is a mystery. 
Now and then, white, silvery looking spars were 
lifted from the northern horizon, and converged in 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
‘GOD’S FIRST TEMPLES.” 
BY ELLEN C. LAKE. 
Looking over a. collection of old volumes, the the zenitb ’ and il occurred to us, that, may be, 
other day, I found a magazine printed in London, tbey were re P airin S this great blue tent we live 
in 1777,— a volume which, I doubt not, my great- under ’ and that we saw the blue spars and the red 
grand-mother read, many long years ago, with as hnings of the curtains that were thrown up, to 
How lovimrlv thp lit+io ,. great pleasure as in these modern davs her un- bee P tliera out of Ike way of the aerial craftsmen, 
fingers among vour curls or jLnf" f ^ WOrthy descendant s peruse the pages of the Allan- And tben again ’ as ft crimsoned, and pearled, and 
knee lisnc V • r *> ’ clas P 1D g them at your tic, or columns of the weekly newspaper Each clouded so exquisitely, we fancied it might be Ileav- 
ir r 1 T?rr for ~ ** - w. *»- 
whispered it from heaven Beautifu childhood . and romance ’ fashmns, family government, medi- covered at last. 
would it could be always shielded from tlthnl' T7 •?^ ^ ^ and music ’ r M T°* T’ * XT’. ** ° f red 
from corroding care and corrnnt7n™_ r!5 ^ a "&*** lf not a Seleet f l uant ity of reading llght ’ s , treamed out !nto the ^t, and over the 
material. The volume is embellished by a variety stars ’ that we would be sure i4 must come from 
of wonderful copper-plate engravings. The first tleaven s painted window, and that somebody— 
of these represents a lady of rank seated before P erha P s somebody that we once knew and loved— 
her mirror, while her maid, who stands behind her, was P assin S to and fro, giving us, without the 
is performing the difficult task of hair-dressing.— walls > a 8 lim P se or two of the glory within. And 
A large number of hair pins, with ornamental who knew that it might not be the evening of some 
heads, form a soi l of^-riiyU- inmonnectioD with a forgotten an( t l°ug past yesterday, thus “revisit- 
largc puff above her/brcJW. Her robe is trimned iDg the S Iim P ses of the moon,”—one that you and 
with an immense ,quantify t of ruffles and flounces, we loved > and have sighed for, more than we could 
which would make one groan, even to think of care to and would give a dozen to-morrows to 
making. Her father, her lover, and a page, are see again ‘ 
all present, watching, with evident interest, the ' ve ^°c k cd, it changed, and the heaven, from 
structure which is being reared. The page p’lays far below the “ di PP er ” to the zenith, was a flut- 
the guitar, the lover assists the maid by passing ter% Throu g h the silver lace-work shone the stars, 
the hair pins, and the father, seated near, with his and the blue and tbe g ala xy itself. What could it 
hand raised and a smile of pleased surprise on his ba ’ bu ^ the d * m scarfs of the loved and lost, thus 
countenance, admires her beauty. waved in token of remembrance to the earth be- 
In another No. is a charming representation of a neath? And why not? How beautiful and how 
lady’s head-dress, “A la Zodiague.” Near each calm lay that earth beneath the great Argus sky! 
ear are five curls of various dimensions, the re- At eyes of hundreds were turned towards heaven, 
mainder of the hair being combed over an im¬ 
mense cushion at the back of the head. This 
cushion is several times larger than the head, and 
in the form of a hemisphere. Around this is a 
band upon which the signs of the Zodiac are em¬ 
broidered in gold and silver, jewels representin 
“ Tiie groves were God's first temples. Ah, why 
should we, in the world’s riper years, neglect God’s 
ancient sanctuaries?” 
No sound of solemn organ-tones 
Breaks through the quiet air, 
No chiming of cathedral bells 
The winds of summer bear; 
No gorgeous arches echo back 
The hymning of our praise, 
No marble pillars make the strength 
Of temples here upraised. 
Only the whispers of the wind 
Under the maple bough, 
Blent with the joy-hymns of the birds 
In the rippling music’s flow; 
Only the clear and holy calm, 
The silent air of rest, 
Wake to a life both true and warm, 
The faith within our breasts. 
Of old the prophets stood and spake 
Where’er the spirit bade— 
We of these years go up to pray 
Only in churchly shade. 
But struck apart from other souls 
By wounds of pain or sin, 
The changeless temple of our God 
C alls us to enter in. 
Under their arches, broad and deep, 
One Eye alone can see, 
One Priest doth shrive and comfort us 
Whate’er our pain may be; 
For all the mysteries of the creed 
Are compassed by a word, 
The Love that ransomed us, for lovo 
All prayers of earth hath heard. 
Charlotte Centre, N. Y,, 1859. 
oding care, and corrupt influence. Look 
at little bands stretched out for help from a harsh 
father, or an intemperate mother. There are five 
little ones, the eldest not more than seven, with 
large dark eyes and curling hair. She stands in 
front of a band of little ones, singing and keeping 
time with her little hands, for there are uoDe to 
molest or make her afraid. Shq has been taken 
away from the dark fate that awaited her child¬ 
hood’s home, and the beautiful boy that she points 
out as her brother, that unnatural mother had 
placed a rope around his neck to strangle him, but 
was discovered and arrested in her dark design, 
in time to save his life. There he is, not four years 
old, with a doll in hand, and he looks up, his 
face radiant with smiles, as he replies to our simple 
question of “ are you fond of dolls ?” He has large 
daik eyes, and a noble head; we could predict a 
splendid career for him in the future, if rightlv 
guided. 
Little hands are all around us, seeking for guidj 
ance, relying upon the protecting influence of those 
older than themselves. Would that we kept our¬ 
selves pure, so that we could perform our duty 
faithfully and well. That nature must be hardened 
indeed that can see a tear drop fall from the eyes 
of childhood, or the little hand stretched out in 
vain. 
Who cannot recall to mind little hands they 
have caressed and tenderly cared for, that have 
now passed on to the spirit land ? Our darlings 
were laid to rest in their narrow house, their little 
hands filled with white rose buds, the last of sum¬ 
mer s offering. Though now all unseen to our 
mortal gaze, their angel hands are still invisible 
ministers of love, drawing us to them in their 
beautiful home. Cherish, then, the little hand, and 
guard and guide it while you may, for it is an 
angel in your household. You know not how soon 
their wings will unfold and soar upward and on¬ 
ward into the world of love and light, leaving you 
in your anguish to mourn and lament over their 
brief stay. Blessed memories of the little hands 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
SELF-KNOWLEDGE. 
-yr , . . * --—v/j. Liat 11LLIC II11 LI US 
lou must have pride,— -not the pride that carries that have clung to you in their simple, child-like 
a high head in contrast with modesty, but pride in 
doing well whatever you find to do,— pride that 
will not let others do for you what you can and 
ought to do yourself. 
1 ou must have calculation ,—not the counting of 
dollars and cents alone, though this is necessary 
knowledge; but a quick and true perception of 
the best uses of the one, five, or ten talents which 
you hold, and a head clear enough to adapt your 
needs to your means. 
You must have order. If the “bump” is not on 
your cranium, perhaps you may think that you 
are not accountable for leaving your bread-loaf in 
one pan, the slices cut from it in another, and both 
a temptation to flies,—for hanging or dropping 
your dish-cloth where half an hour of hunting 
will not find it, or for having half your chairs in 
the middle of the room, the table at right-angles 
with the wall in one corner, and the curtains with 
one end of the roll nearly at the top, and the other 
at the bottom of your window, but-if you want 
to be a good house-keeper and have a happy home, 
my advice is that you raise such bump by bring¬ 
ing your head in contact with the next hard sub¬ 
stance that you meet; for, though I pretend to no 
knowledge of Phrenology, I have an idea that 
fretting lies next to order, and when the latter is 
not fully developed, the former has rather too 
much development,-running into the vacant 
ground adjoining. 
u Y °u must have patience. It is one 
“ Divine attributes ” in any situation, but as a 
w Ue and a house-keeper, you must have it, or there 
taith and trust. Oh! may those memories never 
be laden with harshness or unkinduess, “ for of 
ovtstVt 4-1* ~ t r: .1. /. -rw .. 
Mag. 
that, during the broad and glaring days forget 
there is a heaven, and a treasure in it. They re¬ 
membered it then, and remembered it in turn._ 
Ah! if our fancies were only half true! But while 
we gazed and mused, the vision vanished; the 
window was curtained, the rehearsal over, the sea 
“Know Thyself” is one of the most compre¬ 
hensive precepts in the whole moral system. It 
was considered of such vast importance by the 
ancients that it constituted one of the three pre- 
oepts consecrated in golden letters at the temple 
of Delphos, and was supposed to have been given 
originally by Apollo himself. As that idolatrous, 
superstitious people conjectured that this sublime 
precept originated with their God, and was trans¬ 
mitted to them from heaven, should not we in this 
enlightened age, ferret out its origin, and strive to 
comprehend and appreciate its value ? What they 
conjectured we are sure of. This oracle is uttered 
and unfolded to us in many ways in the revelation 
of God’s word. One great design of the scriptures is 
to teach man to know himself,—to know his fallen 
and depraved condition by nature, and his incli¬ 
nation to remove still further from the standard of 
virtue. 
stars ornament its extensive surface, and over the | °j the , ^ nt “ as good as 
left ear is a half moon. Do we wonder that a cen¬ 
tury ago hair-dressing was considered one of the 
fine arts! 
new,” the last scene shifted, and the old yesterday 
faded out. 
such is the Kingdom of Heaven .”—Mothers 
Friendship.— We know that earthly affection is 
deepened and intensified by increased familiarity 
with its object. The friendship of yesterday is not 
the sacred, hallowed thing, which years of grow¬ 
ing intercourse have matured. If we may with 
reverence apply this test to the highest type of 
holy affection, (that love which dwelt in the bosom 
of the Father from all eternity towards his Son,) 
what must have been that interchange of love 
which the measureless lapse of eternity had fos 
tered—a love, moreover, not fitful, transient, 
vacillating, subject to altered tones and estranged 
looks—but pure, constant, untainted, without one 
shadow of turning! And yet, listen to tbe words 
of Jesus, “ As the Father hath loved me, so have I 
loved you!” It would have been infinitely more 
than we bad reason to expect, if He bad said, “As 
my Father hath loved Angels, so have I loved 
you. But the love borne to no finite bein 
appropriate symbol. 
ag is an 
noiseless. The days come softly dawning, one af¬ 
ter another; they creep in at the windows; their 
fresh morning air is grateful to the lips that part 
r , 1 . i f° r lt; thair music is sweet to the ears that listen 
ot the | to it; until, before we know it, a whole life of days 
has possession of the citadel, and time has taken 
us for its own. 
Lysidas and Elfrida illustrate a pastoral tale. 
Sheep and cows, the most distant of which, in vio¬ 
lation of all perspective, are as large as those 
nearer the foreground, walk with great com¬ 
placency down perpendicular hills, and unexpect¬ 
edly find themselves in very small valleys and be¬ 
hind very singular trees. Four pages of “poeti¬ 
cal essays” are inserted in each No., in most of 
which some rustic swain, bewailing his lot, 
threatens to retire from public life and take up his 
abode in some lonely cave. 
In the “Foreign News” the speedy surrender of 
the rebel army is prophesied, and the victories of 
the English troops and the humanity of General 
Howe, spoken of in the highest terms of praise._ 
The most amusing thing, however, is an account 
of “the trial of Mr. Horne for a libel.” The first 
charge is that an advertisement has been inserted, 
in the Public Advertiser, “ purporting to be anac- 
count of the Constitutional Society having met on 
the 7th of June, and agreed that the sum of £100 
should be raised, to be applied to the relief of the 
widows, orphans, and aged parents of our beloved 
American fellow subjects, who, faithful to tbe 
character of Englishmen, perferring death to 
slavery, were for that reason only inhumanly mur¬ 
dered by the King's troops near Lexington, or Con¬ 
cord.” This was signed by John Horne, and for 
this offense, after a loDg, and what now seems 
very amusing trial, he was sentenced to pay a fine 
of £200, to be imprisoned twelve months, and at 
the expiration of that time to give security tor his 
good behavior for three years. 
A magazine of the last century! There flits be 
fore my mental vision scenes of those good old 
English days — lords and ladies, and more com¬ 
mon folk clad in garments to the fashion of which 
BEWARE OF PARTING. 
W wears sIippers of Iist , and Ms tsead J 
room” fire to hear news of the war — fathers with 
listening ears, and mothers with anxious counten¬ 
ances the one eager to hear of a son’s bravery— 
the other anxious lest the news should be of defeat 
and death. And then there rises a far off view of 
a aistant land — a land thou ght by many a sturdy 
Englishman to be fit only for the dwelling place of 
Bulwer, the master novelist, writes a reflection 
which will appeal to the sensibilities of every man 
and woman: 
“There is one warning lesson in life which few 
of us have not received, and no book that I 
call to memory has noted down with an adequate 
explanation. It is this, ‘Beware of parting!’ The 
true sadness is not in the pain of the parting, it is 
in the When and How you are to meet again with 
tbe face about to vanish from your view! From 
the passionate farewell to the woman who has 
your heart in her keeping, to the cordial good- 
by exchanged with pleasant companions at a 
watering-place, a country-house, or the close of a 
festive day’s blithe, or a careless excursion—a 
cord, stronger or weaker, is snapped asunder in 
every parting, and Time’s busy fingers are not 
•practiced in re-splicing broken ties. Meet again 
y<>u may; will it be again in the same way ? With 
the same sympathies ? With the same sentiments 
Will the souls, hurrying on in divers paths, unite 
once more, as it the interval had been a dream? 
Rarely, rarely ! Have you not, after even a year, 
even a month’s absence, returned to the same 
place, found the same groups re-assembled, and 
yet sighed to yourself, ‘But where is the charm 
that once breathed from the spot, and once smiled 
from the faces?’ A poet said, ‘Eternity itself 
cannot restore the loss struck from the minute: 
Are you happy in the spot in which you tarry with 
the persons whose voices are now melodious to 
your ear ? Beware of parting! or, if part you 
must, say not in insolent defiance to Time and 
Destiny ‘ What matters ! we shall soon meet 
a gain.’ Alas, and alas! when we think of the lips 
which murmured—‘Soon meet again,’ and remem¬ 
ber bow in heart, soul, and thought, we stood 
forever divided the one from the other, when once 
more, face to face, we each only exclaimed, ‘Met 
again!’ ” 
Self-knowledge is commendable, because it is 
the root of all wholesome information. Man 
should know what he is, that he may know what 
he is to be, and have some faint idea of what he 
can be. It teaches man his mental capacities, his 
deficiencies, his most prominent traits of charac¬ 
ter, and his besetting sins. It points out too fully 
developed passions, which need subduing, and it 
brings to light those weak points which need 
guarding and fortifying. It is the keystone in the 
fabric which man is rearing for himself. It is the 
trusty pilot who can guide with unerring hand our 
barque across the troubled sea of life; and steer 
our course from those siren isles ivhich so often 
wreck the thoughtless voyager. This knowledge 
is preferable because it is attainable by all persons. 
To become versed in it does not require that depth 
of thought and force of penetration which is de¬ 
manded by the sciences; those of common capacity 
can call home their rambling thoughts, turn them 
in upon themselves, and watch the motions and 
intents of the heart. To do this effectually, we 
have got to raise that veil which the deceit of the 
heart has thrown around us, and discharge the 
fawning sycophant and delusive flatterer who has 
so loDg stood sentinel at the door, forbidding the 
admittance of ambassadors of truth and inspection. 
When this is done, we can then probe the heart in 
all its labyrinths and reveal the dormant germ and 
hidden sin. We shall then have access to the 
fountain head, where we can search out the bane 
which has alloyed its source, and poisoned the 
whole stream. We shall find the bitter waters of 
self-seeking, sweeter than the waters of the Gan¬ 
ges to its Hindoo worshipers. Though the master¬ 
mind of the royal sage, feast on the mysteries of 
wisdom, yet shall ignorance of self bow down the 
spirit of a Solomon to idols. j s 
Prospect Hill, N. Y,, 1859. 
Don’t take your Bible and say, “I don’t want to 
but I will, and keep praying till I do feel like it.” 
I am in the habit of likening the Savior in my 
thoughts to some great and noble friend—don’t 
you suppose, if you went to the door of such a 
friend and said to him, “ I did not want to see you 
a bit to-day, but I was afraid you would feel hurt 
if I did not come, and would treat me according¬ 
ly , that he would say, “ If you don’t want to see 
me, I am sure I don’t want to see you;” and do 
you suppose that God is less delicate in friendship 
than an earthly friend?— Beecher. 
One contented with what he has done in this 
woild, stands but a very small chance of becoming 
famous for all he may do hereafter. He has laid 
down, and the grass will soon be growing over him. 
God s Bounty. —The flowers do not implore the 
sun to meet them. He looks down with genial 
warmth, and draws them forth from the dark 
ground to rejoice in his light. And why should 
we implore God to grant us the spiritual mercies 
we desire, as if He were cold and unwilling, when 
over us He hangs, like the sun over the earth, rich 
in all bounty, and longing to bestow it? 
