93 
Muidliitteous, 
For the Rural New-Yorker. 
THE SLAVE OF SLEEP. 
'On a downy couch in a splendid room, 
A man is stretched at his ease, 
His eyes are closed, and his waving hair 
Is touched by the gentle breeze. 
The sun's broad glare falls on his face— 
A face that shows want and wo. 
Oh yes, for it needs the morning air, 
To give it a healthy glow. 
He is thin in fle-h, and weak in mind,— 
Tis by sleeping night and day, 
For he will not work, and he cannot eat. 
Hut there in bed he will stay. 
Sleep on, poor man, but too late you will find, 
A iiarvest sad you must reap, 
You’ve ruin’d your body, and ruin’d your mind. 
By being a slave to sleep. 
Orangeport, N. Y., 1852. j. g. 
A WORD ON HOSPITALITY. 
Genuine hospitality is voluntary—antici- 
pative. It bids the weary wanderer in, nor 
awaits with suspicious eye and contracted 
brow his faltering petition for a morsel of 
bread and a cup of water; but eagerly wel¬ 
coming the approach of the destitute as a 
divinely-granted opportunity for the exer¬ 
cise of its nature, hastens to forestall the 
timid request by its own generous offer. 
It is no respecter of persons. Its door 
opens as promptly and with as hearty good 
will, whether the learned, or the simple, 
the rich man, or the bogger stand outside; 
nay, it feels a lovelier satisfaction in seeing 
the hungering, shivering children of want, 
to whom life seems given for an endurance 
rather than an enjoyment, regale themselves 
on its viands, or bask in the glow of its fire, 
than in spreading an entertainment for kings 
or emperors. 
It stands not upon ceremony—is never 
flurried by an unexpected arrival. No 
I anxious solicitude as to the state of the lard- 
I er mars the joy of a sudden visit from a 
j friend; no unworthy blush betrays a disturb- 
| ance of its usual repose, if, perchance, it 
bo able to set before that friend none but 
tho homeliest fare; nor is any lack ap¬ 
parent; tho kind warmth of its manner 
supplies all else, and tho guest, if ho havo a 
soul to appreciate true greatness, goes away 
feeling that his host has paid him a far high¬ 
er compliment by the respectful familiarity 
with which ho has treated him, than if he 
had employed a regiment of French cooks 
to prepare him a dinner. 
No, reader, hospitality requires not that 
men build great houses and furnish them 
splendidly for tho reception of their friends; 
nor that troops of servants stand ready to 
execute every service that luxury can desiro 
for their comfort; nor that air, earth, and 
sea be laid under contribution for tho grat¬ 
ification of their appetites ; nothing of all 
this; but only, or chiefly, that whatever is 
proffered, whether food, shelter, or compan¬ 
ionship, bo accompanied by that cordial 
welcome which marks the true entertainer; 
and wanting which, no expenditure of time 
or means in tho preparation of a feast com¬ 
pensate for tho deficiency. a. 
BIRDS AND TREES. 
It is refesliing to read occasionally an in¬ 
cident like that related in No. 48 of tho Ru¬ 
ral, for ’51, and to find that there arosonu 
men in the world, who have a heart as well 
as a head, or a “ pocket.” Friend Luther, 
I give you my hand, and will join with you 
in planting “a thicket” for tho exclusive use 
of tho “ singing birds.” 
But I havo in some measure got the start 
of you. I have already set out two little 
groves of forest trees, although I have left 
one, and expect to leave the other, for those 
“ that shall como after me.” As my object 
is, not to raise timber, but to cultivate a 
grove, a miniature• forest, I select trees ol 
various kinds, and set them in a random 
manner, at various distances, varying from 
three to six feet from each other. They 
can bo thinned afterwards if necessary, anel 
this plan gives mo a grovo in a few years. 
Such is my love for tho woods, that I look 
with regret upon their rapid, and as I think, 
in many cases, unnecessary disappearance 
from our country; and as a substitute, 1 
make it a matter both of taste and of duty, 
to set out and cultivate forest trees to the 
extent of my opportunities. It appears to 
mo, that thero can hardly be a more pleas¬ 
ant and beautiful appendage to a rural 
dwelling, than a little grove of forest treos. 
rendered musical and animated by these 
littlo innocent and faithful friends of man. 
Down Ea«t, 1852. H, 
Real grief is never clamorous. It seel 
to shun every eyo; and breathes in selituc 
and silence the sighs that come from tl 
heart. 
It is a complaint against some young mil 
isters, that while their bodies are in tlxopu 
pits their hearts are in tho pews. 
The boys game of ball is as much a stud 
of laws as tho any fixation of Newton an 
Herschell. 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL 
TRAINING FOR CONGRESS. 
An essay in Graham’s Magazine for March, 
on “ Law and Lawyers,” by John Neal, 
shows the well known hand of that bold, 
original writer, and presents a number of 
home-truths equally edifying to the pro¬ 
fession and the public. An extract will 
prove that Neal’s ancient strain has by no 
means died out: 
Let us take one of our young attorneys, 
and follow him up year by year, and step 
by step, to the Halls of Congress, and see 
how ho gets there, and what lie is bound to 
do—for ho can do nothing else—after he 
gets there. 
In the first place, it should bo borno in 
mind, that the lawyers wo send to our leg¬ 
islative bodies are not often the ablo nor 
even the ablest of their class—I speak of 
them as lawyers only, and not as orators, or 
Statesmen, or Scholars. They cannot afford 
to serve the people for the day wages that 
your stripling, or blockhead of" an attorney 
who fives only from hand to mouth, would 
snap at. He who can havo a hundred dol- 
! lars for a speech, will never make speeches 
at two or three dollars a day, in our State 
Legislature, nor be satisfied with eight dol¬ 
lars a day in Congress. 
And these youngsters of tho bar, these 
third and fourth-rate lawyers, who are held 
to be good enough for legislators, because 
they cannot support themselves by their 
profession, how aro they trained for that 
business ? 
You first hear of thorn in bar-rooms and 
bowling-alloys; then at ward caucuses ; and 
then at all sorts of gatherings whore they 
may bo allowed to try themselves and their 
hearers ; and then at conventions or town- 
meetings ; and then, after being defeated 
half a dozen times, perhaps, till it is ac¬ 
knowledged that if they are not elected 
they aro ruined for ever, they get pushed, 
head-foremost, into tho State Legislature. 
And onco there, what shall they do ? how 
shall they manage to becomo notorious, or 
distinguished ? They must contrive to be 
talked about in tho newspapers; to be heart¬ 
ily abused by somebody, that they may 
heartily be praised by somebody else belong¬ 
ing to another parish. Their names at least 
will he mentioned, and grow more and more 
familiar every day to tho public ear, until 
they become a sort of household word; or 
it may ho a rallying cry, by the simple force 
of reputation, like proverbs, or slang phra¬ 
ses. “ Why do you tako every opportunity 
of calling yourself an honest man T said a 
neighbor to another of doubtful reputation. 
“Why, bless your simple heart,” was the 
reply, “ don’t you see that I am laying a 
foundation for what is called public opinion; 
and that after a few years, when my char¬ 
acter is fairly established, tho origin of tho 
belief will bo forgotten.” So with your 
newspaper characters. Idols of the day— 
at tho end of a few months, at most, they 
aro dust and ashes; and the people begin to 
wonder at themselves that they should ever 
have been made such fools of. 
But how shall they manage to bo talked 
about in tho newspapers, and most glorious¬ 
ly abused ? Thero is only one way. They 
must make speeches—if they cannot make 
speeches, they may as well give up tho ghost, 
and be gathered to their fathers; for most 
assuredly, (whatever may bo their worth, or 
strength, or talents, in every other way,) if 
they cannot make speeches, not a man of 
them will over be remembered—long enough 
to ho forgotten. And they must make long 
speeches—the longer tho better; and fre¬ 
quent speeches—the more frequent tho bet¬ 
ter, and ho their own correspondents and 
report themselves for the newspapers, with 
tart replies and eloquent outbreaks, and 
happy illustrations, never uttered nor dreamt 
fc»f till the unpremeditated battlo was over, 
like some that were made by Demosthenes 
himself, years after tho occasion had passed 
by, and there was nobody alive to contracict 
him ; or like the celebrated oration of Cicero 
against Cataline. 
But thoy cannot mako speeches about 
nothing at all—at least such is my present 
opinion; it may he qualified hereafter, and 
I am well aware that common experience 
would appear to be against mo, and that 
much may be said upon both sides, as well 
as upon neither side, in such a question.— 
They must have something to work with— 
and to talk about; something, too, which is 
likely to mako a noise out of doors; to set 
people together by the ears; to astonish 
them, and to give them a good excuso for 
fretting, and scolding, and worrying. In 
othej’ words, they must introduce a new law 
—tho more absurd the better—or attack an 
law, the older the better; and seek to mod¬ 
ify it, or to change or repeal it. 
And what is the result? Just this: that 
every Legislative Hall in the land, from tho 
least to the greatest, from tho lowest to the 
highest, becomes a debating school; and the 
business of the whole country is postponed, 
month after month, and year after year, to 
the very last days of tho session, and then 
hurried througli —just a little too late, 
wherever tho national honor is deeply con¬ 
cerned, as in the case of French spoliations, 
and other honest debts owed by tho Gov¬ 
ernment to the People—with a precipitation 
so hazardous and shameful, that much of 
the little time left in future sessions must 
bo employed in correcting the blunders of 
tho past; and all for what ?—merely that 
the Lawyers may bo heard month after 
month, and havo long speeches that were 
never .delivered, or when delivered, not 
heard, reported piecemeal, and paragraph 
by paragraph, in perhaps two or three thou¬ 
sand newspapers—that are forgotten before 
the next sun goes down, and literally “ per¬ 
ish in the using.” 
He who waits for good luck to come to 
him, is destined to die in poverty. No one 
has the right to expect fortune, unless he 
goes to work and doservos it. 
THE OLD-FASHIONED FIRE. 
^ Down goes the mercury to the zero of 
Celius and Reaumur. Down it goes again 
to tho 0 ot I ahrenheit. The frost is creep¬ 
ing, creeping over the lower panes, one af¬ 
ter another. Now it finishes feathers; now 
it completes a plume ; now it tries its hand 
at a specimen of silver graining. Up, up 
it goes, pane after pane, clouds and feathers 
and grains. Here a joint, there a nail 
cracks like a craft in a racking storm, but 
all is calm and cold as death. Clink goes a 
forgotten glass in the pantry. The door 
latch is plated; half hidden nail heads hero 
and there in tho corners, are “ silvered o’er 
with ”—frost. 
But what cared we for that, as we sat by 
the old-fashioned fire? Back-stick, fore¬ 
stick, top-stick, and super-structure, all in 
their places. Tho coals are turned out 
from their glowing hod between the sentinel 
andirons — the old-time irons, with huge 
rings in tho top. One of them has rested 
for many a day, on a broken brick, but what 
ot that i Many a beautiful tree, nay, a 
whole grove maybe, has turned to glory and 
to ashes thereon, and will again, winters and 
winters to come. 
A handful of “ kindlings ” is placed be¬ 
neath this future temple ot flaine ; here and 
there a chip, a splinter, a dry twig, is skill¬ 
fully chinked into the interstices of the struc¬ 
ture ; a wave or two ot the housewife’s wand 
of power, and the hearth is “ swept up.”_ 
Tho old bricks in that altar-place of home, 
begin to grow bright, and “as good as new.” 
A little spring flame, ambitious to be some¬ 
thing and somebody, croeps stealthily up, 
and peeps up through the crevices, over 
this stick, under that one, looking like a little 
half-furled banner of crimson. Then comes 
another and another, and down they go 
again, the timid flames that they are! ” By 
and by they grow holder, and half a dozen 
altogether, curl bravely round tho “ foro- 
stick,” and up to the “ top-stick,” and over 
tho whole, like the turrets of a tower at 
sunrise, one, two, three, four, five spires._ 
Then they blend together a cone of flame. 
Then they turn into billows and breakers of 
red, and roll up the blackened wall of the 
chimney, above tho jamb, above tho man¬ 
tle-tree, away up the chimney it roars, while 
tho huge “ back-stick” below all, lies like a 
great bar, and withstands the fiery surf that 
beats against it. 
The circle of chairs is enlarged ; the “ old 
arm-chair in the corner, is drawn hack; 
one is reading, another is knitting; a third, 
a wee bit of a hoy, is asleep in the corner; 
they look into each other’s tacos, look beau¬ 
tiful to each othei', and take courage and 
are content. There is not a shadow in the 
spacious room; the frost creeps down from 
the windows ; the ice in tho pail in the cor¬ 
ner gives a halt lurch like the miniature ice¬ 
berg it is, and over it goes with a splash.— 
Tho fire is gaining on it. The latch and 
tho nails lose the bravery of their silvering ; 
the circle round tho fire grows larger and 
larger; the old-fashioned fire has triumphed. 
It is summer thero, it is fight there. The 
flowers of hope spring up around it; the 
music of memory fills up the pauses; the 
clock ticks softly from its niche above the 
mantle-piece, as if fearful of letting them 
know how fast it is stealing away with the 
hours—hours the happiest, alas ! we seldom 
live hut once—hours whose gentle light so 
often shines from out the years of the long 
gone morning, on into the twilight of life’s 
latest close. 
Ah ! necromancers swept the magic circle 
in times of old, hut there is none so beauti¬ 
ful, none with charm so potent, as the cir¬ 
cle of light and ot love around tho old- 
fashioned fire !— Chicago Journal. 
AN INDIAN STEAMBOAT. 
The first steamboat that entered the Co¬ 
lumbia river was a small ono belonging to 
the Hudson’s Bay Company. When the In¬ 
dians saw it they were very much astonished, 
and called it the fire land. As soon as thev 
could get on board they examined the ma¬ 
chinery, and found that by some means the 
boiling of water would make tho wheels go 
round. 
In a day or two, tho officers of the boat 
wero as much astonished as the Indians had 
been, to see coming from the shore a verit¬ 
able steamboat, tho wheels turning round, 
steam whizzing, and a dense smoke issuing 
from tho smoke-pipe. At last she came 
along side, and tho mystery was solved. 
The Indians had taken one of their larg¬ 
est canoes, and in the centre had built a fire 
place of stone, in which was firmly set a 
large iron pot, with the fid perfectly tight, a 
piece of old stove-pipe, which they had' pick¬ 
ed up during some of their trades with the 
Company, served to carry off the smoke, and 
the motive power was given by two Indians, 
who lay on their hacks in the’bottom of the 
boat, and turned tho rude crank and wheels! 
When they wished to stop they threw a 
bucket of water on the fire, and another on 
the Indians, who, in this case, were opera¬ 
ting as engines. The imitative power of the 
Indians on the coast is very great, and in 
fact they possess a tar greater degree of in¬ 
tellect than the diggers of the interior.— 
They can carve very well in stone. At Shel¬ 
ton’s Museum may he seen a pipe carved 
from a species of slate, representing a row 
of figures, men and women, sitting down by 
the bo-vl of tho pipe, which represents the 
common cooking utensil of the Indians. 
If thero be a class of human beings on 
earth who may properly bo denominated low, 
it is that class who spend without earning, 
who consume without producing, who dis¬ 
sipate on the earnings of their fathers or 
relatives, without bringing in aid of them¬ 
selves. 
2 It wao not the magnitude of the Grecian 
army, nor tho martial skill of Achilles, their 
leader, that conquered tho city of Troy, hut 
ton years' perscverence. 
AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
jCuMn?’ Jf'pnrtatnt. 
For the Rural New-Yorker. 
THE BRIDE TO THE BRIDEGROOM. 
As the hart pant-s for the waters, 
As the hind speeds to the mountain, 
As the bird seeks for a shelter, 
As the riplet to the fountain ; 
As the spark ascendcth upward 
Where the sun is ever burning; 
So my heart turns fondly to thee, 
All its fetters quickly spurning. 
Quickly spurning all that binds if, 
Turns my spirit to thy side; 
As the oak is to the ivy. 
So the bridegroom to the bride, 
As the prince of all the forest, 
To the violet neath llte tree; 
So the tall and manly bridegroom 
To the slender bride shall be. 
As the oak grows old and fadelh. 
And the ivy by its side; 
As the birchen leaves have fallen. 
And the violet loo hath died; 
So will we, my bonnie bridegroom, 
Each storm of life outweather, 
Clasp our hands in firmer faith, 
And so grow old together. 
As the breath of spring reviveth 
The dead violet neath the tree, 
As the oak shall put forth blossoms, 
And the ivy green shall be; 
As each flower shall live in freshness, 
That in wintry hours had died. 
From death's sleep we’ll wake together, 
Thou the bridegroom, [ the bride. 
Wake together on that morning; 
Oh its beauties shall not fade ! 
Then the dove will seek the shelter 
Of its own accustomd shade. 
Fearful morning, glorious morning ! 
Bathed in blood of Christ, that died ; 
Thou and I will stand together 
Saved, the bridegroom and the bride. 
Fulton, N. Y., Feb., J852. Isadora Inoi.e. 
THE STORY OF A FLOWER. 
BY ELIZA WOODWORTH. 
It was a long, long time ago, at that love¬ 
ly season ol tho year when all Nature’s 
children awake from the deep slumber that 
has clasped them in snowy embrace during 
the dark and dreary reign of winter, that I 
sprang from tho bosom of tho earth. It 
was when tho bright little birds began to 
sing, and the beautiful buds were struggling 
forth from their hiding places, and the bril¬ 
liant beams of tho sun came, without fear, 
to visit tho world once more. I bloomed in 
a lovely grove, where the green trees proud¬ 
ly waved their scepters, whore the gentle 
dew-drops fell from the blue, bending heav¬ 
ens, and the sunbeams often played merrily 
at hide-and-seek among the singing leaves. 
I cannot tell you of the many beautiful 
things I saw in the rosy dawn of the sun that 
first smiled upon mo. 
Many bright days and dark nights have 
passed since that well remembered time. I 
have felt the warm breath of Spring as sho 
bent over me with a blushing cheek, and a 
tearful eye, and kissed my pale brow; and 
as she passed from my side, a sweet voice 
echoed hack, though I ne’er thought it true— 
“The flowers that lift their pearly cheek. 
To spring time's azure sky, 
And every lovely leaflet meek, 
IJnfoldctI), but to die 1” 
I have seen the beautiful form of Summer, 
and often has she gazed on mo with laugh¬ 
ter-loving eyes ; and when my spirit was sad 
and my heart was lone, and I had wept 
through the silent night, her angel smile of 
affection, lias dried my tears, and chased 
the gloom away, and brought joy and glad¬ 
ness once more. But she passed from earth, 
like all beautiful things, and as she passed 
away, a tone ot melody, liko the music of 
the wind-swept lyre, stole through tho dim 
forest. The zephyr lias twined round mo 
in love, and whispered strange words of 
beauty in my listening ear, and oft waked 
his tuneful harp to sounds that have thrilled 
to my soul; the moonlight has wandered 
softly to my side, and looked tenderly upon 
me, and sweetly have I slumbered in tho 
“ smile of tho angel ray.” 
But all that’s fair, must fade. Spring, in 
her smiles and tears, has passed away.— 
Summer, in her beauty and brightness, has 
departed ; tho golden sunbeams have fled; 
the silver moonlight has flown ; the leaves 
are withered, and the cold, cold winds of 
autumn, are crying among tho shivering 
trees. My days will soon be finished, arid 
my race is almost run; my eyes arc growing 
dim, so that I hardly see the pure heavens, 
that have ever bent over me in love. I shall 
bend beneath the keen northwest, and lie 
buried with my companions in the dark, 
damp ground. Hut mortals, listen!—I havo 
faded, and soon I shall fall; and so wilt 
thou! Young and beautiful aro ye, but 
death waits not for gray hairs and wrinkled 
brows. He loves to hear ye away in your 
brightness and innocence. He loves tho 
beautiful buds and tho glittering gem, as 
well as yo. Fond youth, with gladness on 
thy brow, and melody in thy heart, may no 
darkling shadows, like thoso of autumnal 
gloom, rest upon thy memory ; but a bright 
halo of beauty and glory linger behind thee, 
like tho last rays of arsu minor's setting sun, 
that hides not beneath dark and angry 
clouds, but wanders into the golden gates of 
paradise. 
LEARN TO HELP YOURSELVES. 
Almost overy ono with whom wo meet 
has complaints to make of the difliculty of 
procuring help, or a more general grum¬ 
bling that the servants they do obtain are 
nearly useless. There is much cause for 
such complaints, and a very general desire 
to be relieved from so disagreeable a posi¬ 
tion. A writer in the Now York Tribune 
has been giving a few words of advice to 
thoso thus afflicted which seems to us, so 
much the words of truth and soberness that 
we ask the attention of our readers to them. 
He says : 
Did you over try to help yourself? If so, 
I am sure you never found yourself so cheer¬ 
fully waited on, nor ever had your work so 
faithfully done by any ono who served you 
for wages. 
I hold it for a good rule, if not carried to 
extremes, that no man or woman should call 
upon another to do that which he or she can 
just as well do, and has just as much time to 
do, as any other person. What an endless 
source of fretting and scolding, of cross 
looks and cross words, of squabbles in the 
kitchen, and of fault-finding at the dinner- 
table, of domestic strife in every department 
of many a household, would the adoption of 
this simple rulo remove ? 
If you, my worthy Sir, had started for 
your counting room a few minutes sooner 
the other morning, instead of stretching 
yourself before the fire, with your newspa¬ 
per and cigar, until tho last minute, you 
would havo had time to go round a few 
squares, and chooso for yourself a tender 
turkey, instead of tho old patriarch of tho 
flock which your servant bought for you that 
day. You would not then have hail such a 
tedious time of carving, wearing out your 
patience, until you came near cursing aloud 
at farmer, market-man, servant, cook, and 
house-keeper, and that before your young- 
children; besides splashing the gravy on ev¬ 
erything around. 
And you, my good lady, when you had 
those grand folks at dinner the last week, 
and had been telling the ladies what a beau¬ 
tiful new fashioned pudding tho cook had 
promised them, would not have been obliged 
to blush like a basket-full of beets, when 
you found out too lato, (for it had been 
sent to every one at tho table,) that tho 
sauce had been sweetened with salt, in place 
of loaf sugar. You need not have blushed 
so, I say, if you had spent an hour in the 
kitchen in place of yawning over a stupid 
novel the whole forenoon, complaining of en¬ 
nui, and half tired of your life for the want 
of something to do. 
“But what havo I to do with going to 
market ?” “ And what have I to do with 
cooking dinners ?” you answer both in a 
breath. It is plain, from tho little domestic 
incidents just alluded to, that you have a 
great deal to do with such matters. But I 
see where tho trouble is. You are a little 
above giving your personal attention to such 
small matters. But, look you, friend, that 
is simply ridiculous. Above attending to 
your own interest, your own health, com¬ 
fort and happiness ? Away with such ab¬ 
surdity ! 
Grant that theso are small matters, yet 
they make up human fife. As the ocean is 
formed of drops, and as the mountains aro 
but grains of sand piled up in masses, so do 
these small and every-day matters make up 
the sum total of our existence. Grant, too, 
that you havo plenty of money to hire oth¬ 
ers to do them; yet who will do another’s 
work as well as his own ? Few or none—at 
least, not for hire. 
How many a pale cheek would glow with 
health—how many a constitution, enervated 
if not ruined by idleness and dissipation, 
would be reinvigorated,—could these chains 
of ignoble sloth and of contemptible, despi¬ 
cable pride be broken from tho limbs of the 
children of wealth and ease ! Then, too, 
might tho oppressed and overworked sons 
and daughters of toil find a littlo respite 
from their incessant labors; a little time for 
social enjoyment and for self-improvement; 
and thus becoming conscious of the rights 
and the dignity of human nature, bo the 
better qualified and fitted to act well their 
part in whatever station they are placed. 
THE SECRET. 
“I noticed,” said Franklin, “a mechanic 
among a number of others, at work on a 
house orecting but a little way from my of¬ 
fice, who always appeared to he in a merry 
humor, who had a kind word and a cheerful 
smile for overy one ho met. Let the day bo 
ever so cold, gloomy or sunless, a happy 
smile danced like a sunbeam on his cheerful 
countenance. Meeting him one morning. I 
asked him to tell me the secret of his con¬ 
stant happy flow of spirits. ‘No secret, 
doctor,’ he replied, ‘ I liavo got ono of tho 
host of wives, and when I go to work, she 
always has a kind word of encouragement 
for mo, and when I go homo, sho meets me 
with a smile and a kiss, and then tea is suro 
to be ready, and she has done so many littlo 
things through the day to please me,/hat I 
cannot find it in my heart to speak an un¬ 
kind word to anybody.’ What an influence 
then hath woman ovor the heart of man. to 
soften it and make it tho fountain head of 
cheerful and pure emotions. Speak gently, 
then; a happy smilo [and a kind word of 
greeting, after the toils of the day are over, 
costs nothing, and go far toward making a 
home happy and peaceful.” 
Deal gently with those who stray. Draw 
back by lovo and persuasion. A kiss is 
worth a thousand kicks. A kind word is 
more valuable to the lost, than a mine of 
gold. 
If you wish to havo caro. perplexity, and 
misery, bo selfish in all things; this is tho 
short road to trouble. 
