MOORE’S RUEAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
f> actual. 
CHILD OF THE ANGEL WING. 
BY MRS. U. S. NICHOLS. 
“ Oh! sing me a song as I fall asleep,” 
Said a little one with a lustrous eye, 
“ Or tell me a tale of the flowers that peep 
In the bright green woods, that reach to the sky— 
That peep in the Spring, when the birdies sing, 
And the heavens are blue as our Nelly’s eyes; 
Or tell of the child with the angel .wing 
Who walks in the garden of Paradise 1” 
I sang him the song—I told him the tale, 
And watched by his couch till we thought he slept. 
For his cheek was bright as the moonbeams pale, 
That stealthy and bright near his pillow crept: 
Then my words grew few', and my voice sank low, 
And I said, in thy dreams may the seraphs sing. 
But he whispered soft, as I rose to go— 
“ Oh 1 tell of the child of the angel wing 1” 
Then I sang again—but he restless grew, 
And tossed his young arms as he wildly spoke, 
And a burning red to his forehead flew, 
As the moon went down and the morning broke. 
But he spoke no more of the spring's bright flowers, 
And he thought no more of his sister’s eyes; 
One name alone, in his feverish hours, 
Was breathed in a whisper that pierced the skies. 
“ My mother 1” he said—and his eyes waxed dim, 
For the sense, with their wavering lustre, fled, 
And he never knew that she knelt by him 
Whose sun went down at his dying bed 1 
He has gone where the seraphs sweetly sing— 
His story was brief as the sunset dyes, 
He walks with the child of the angel wing, 
In the flowery gardens of Paradise 1 
Ijc Jhral $fcctr[j ®oak. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
TREASU3ES 
OF EARTH AND OF HEAVEN. 
BY JENNY MARSII. 
“ God help thee, my darling !” burst from 
the lips of a pale mother, as sho pressed 
the fevered brow of her only child who lay 
struggling upon his little couch. 
A few short weeks of suffering had 
wrought sad changes on the once rosy cheek 
of that boy, over whoso head scarce four 
springs had budded, for now his face was 
ashy pale, and there was a strange, hollow 
staro in his bluo eye. The mother’s heart 
was full of anguish, yet sho wearied not 
with the night watchings by that bedside. 
Gently she had smoothod his pillow, as only 
a mother’s hand can do, and softly she had 
sung the songs he loved, to lull him to 
slumber. 
It was then midnight, and she was alone. 
A dark foroboding stole over her heart when¬ 
ever sho met the wild glance of his eye, and 
saw the fevered Hush on his chock. Oh ! 
thought sho, what if the cold, stern robber 
should steal away my treasure, and leave 
my aching heart more weary than before ! 
And a scalding tear fell upon the brow of 
the child, as sho again pressed him to her 
bosom. 
“ Mothor,” said ho, and his once silvery 
toned voice was husky and low,—“ why 
don’t father come and seo his sick baby ?” 
and as ho tossed his curly head upon the 
pillow, ho added, “for I am so tired, mother, 
—so tired!” 
Tears filled the eyes of the watcher, as 
she anxiously gazed upon the time-piece, 
and it was near tho hour of one. But the 
father of her suffering child came not to 
comfort her in the dark hour which she 
feared was approaching. Sho drew asido 
the muslin curtains, and gazed earnestly out, 
but all was robed in darkness. Naught 
could sho hear but the chirping of tho crick¬ 
et and the rustling of tho autumn leaves. 
Then again she turned to look upon her 
darling boy. Too well she know tho reason 
why the father returned not, and the charm 
that was binding him at that lato hour from 
his home. The spell of tho Gambler had 
become woven around his heart, and wither¬ 
ing were tho flowers of affection. 
A low sigh from the sufferer, and tho 
mother hastoned to his bedside, but a shud¬ 
der passed o’er her when sho pressed his 
cold brow. 
“ Is my Willie no bettor to-night ?” said 
sho in a trembling voice. “What shall 
mother do for her Willie, her own darling?” 
and sho clasped his thin hands in her own. 
“Go bring father to seo his poor, sick 
baby,” and as pain racked his tender limbs, 
ho continued, “ for I am sick, mother—so 
sick.” 
Sho gently laid aside his silken curls, and 
bathed his forehead in cold water. But tho 
stifled groans and his convulsivo breathing 
spake a sad tale to tho mother's heart. She 
knew dark clouds were gathering, and yet 
tho partner of her sorrows returned not, to 
answer tho wish of her dying child. Sud¬ 
denly a smile played across the face of little 
Willie, and his sunken eyes brightened with 
joy, and tho mother’s hoart beat quickly 
when she hoard familiar footsteps drawing 
near tho house. Sho brushed tho tears 
from her swollen eyes, and hastened to tho 
entrance. 
The door was thrown rudely open, and 
tho husband and father entered his almost 
broken household. Ills cheek was flushed, 
and dark gloom wreathed his countenance, said the father, « Willie, speak to mo once 
The light of love seemed clouded from his more !” 
eye ; he smilod not upon his weeping wife, A smile lit on the almost rigid features of 
nor asked tho causo of her grief, but fling- the hoy. IIo was whispering to himself, 
ing asido the hand she so gently laid upon and tho mother bent her ear closo to him 
his arm, threw himself, as in despair, upon to hear each precious word. He said a little 
the sofa, and muttering a fearful oath, ex- louder, so as to bo distinguished, “ I can get 
claimed : hither there, yes, I can fret father there !”— 
“ My God ! wo are ruined, Emma ! Yes, Passionately she pressed her lips to his 
I have robbed you of house, homo and hap- brow, but it was cold, marble cold ! The 
piness ! I staked my all this night, and beating of his little heart was still. 
lost, yes, lost, lost all!” and his stern nature 
gave way to tho heavy burden, and ho hid 
his face in his hands and wept. 
But these words had but little effect upon 
th»feelings of that pure and faithful wife; 
1 for what thought she thon, of homo, or es¬ 
tate, when her heart was bound with that treafc in the branches above, and there they 
_ J? _i 1 • . 
of her dying boy. 
“ Charles ! ’ said she in a voice so calm 
poured forth their sweetest songs. 
A bright Sabbath day was drawing to a 
-‘ ^ UUO JU Cb VUIUU SG (Jill 111 O - - J -~ vo 
and subdued as to startle him, “ have you c l° so - There was no hum of tho busy 
forgotten tho light of our homo_our Wil- cr0W( F to break tho sweet repose of nature; 
lie, whom you left sick upon his bed this wbcn two mourners wore seen wending 
morning, and I fear is now,” and her voice thcir wa Y through the resting placo of the 
was broken with rising anguish, “ dying_ dead. A gentleman, truly noble in appoar- 
yes, dying!” ancc, and a lady who bore upon her coun- 
1 hose words fell with a strange power tenance, tho features ot a calm and porfect 
upon tho ear of the gambler. Earthly care res ‘g nat ion. They knelt beside tho little 
was forgotten, and a deeper sorrow crept mound > and silently poured forth their souls 
round his hoart. His lip quivered, and his * n P ra y er - Where is there a place more 
flushed cheek turned pale. Oh, had tho hallowed for a parent’s worship, than at the 
lust for gold, and tho reckless laugh of .§ rave °f a cherished child? For how can 
revelry borne away the remembrance of the Noughts of tho world, its troubles and van- 
jewel of his crown, in the excitement of the 
night ? It was too true ; and now tho truth 
ities, hover around them there ? 
The mourners arose, and the father raised 
©-* , WUU 111A »T liltj l/I cl 111 -- --~ ^ 
dashed upon him, and his guilty conscience bis °y es abovo - “Yes, Willie,” said ho, “ by 
smote him more keenly than before. Dy- tbe S ra ce of Cod, you shall get father there, 
t__u 1 y , , _ A i i 
.vuim UWUI U. O - ’ J ..© J Kau U, 
ing ! no that could not be, and he rushed to ^ or though poor in the things of this world, 
the bedside of his boy. bow groat is my treasure in Heaven !” 
The child -Rochester, N. Y. 
the bedside of his boy. 
I ho child seemed half slumbering when 
the father bent over him; his tears mingled 
with thoso of his wife, but not a word was 
uttered, for both knew tho emotions of tho 
STEPHEN ALLEN’S POCKET PIECE. 
uttered, for both knew tho emotions of tho O UR readers know the character of the 
heart. And whilo ho gazed upon tho snowy lat0 Ste ?. ben Allon ’ who Jost his lifo at tho 
chock of his noble pride, memory was load- d f aste . r of ,‘ he Henry Clay, living 
y. « Rkiuc, lueuiury was ieau- placidly to a ripe old age only to be snatch¬ 
ing him through tho past, when health ed from the world by violence and in tho 
placod her fairest roses upon that cheek, midst of horrors. They know too the many 
and hid sunbeams ’neath those silken lashes. offi ces of trust which he had £lled with honor 
But what a change! Tho ano-el of Death and usefulness, if not with great distinction; 
can naint his cn oc ° • the extent of his ample fortune, acquired by 
can paint ns scenes so as to move the iron well directed exertion and used with equal 
i ius ot tho strongest heart. Tho father prudence and benevolence; the reputation 
could not endure this, and he threw himself which he had for clear, straight, thinking 
upon the bed, and said in a broken voice, cornmon sense; and tho unquestioned relF 
“ God hath cursed me, Emma ! God hath ance °*, aB u P on bis long tried integrity. Be- 
cursed mo!” ing Such a man as he was > could anything 
w .„. ’ , , ,, be more in keeping with his character than 
V lllie caught tho sound of his father’s that upon his person words like the follow- 
voice, and his eyes beamed with joy, and he ing should be found, treasured as his coun- 
reached forth his pale hands toward his seland his guide ! The newspaper slip from 
parent. There was an angel’s glance, beam- ' v b ,‘ tdl tbd6 j is P ril Red ^ that which was found 
infffrftmDioionni. . v., , , m his pocket-book. It is evidently old and 
g 1 ken eye, and it seemed to has been worn out and perused often: 
pierco tho dark heart ot tho gambler. “ Keep good company or none. Never 
“ Oh, father,” said the boy, “ kiss me, for be idIe - lf y our bands cannot be usefully 
I am so glad to see you, and I thought’you ei ?P!°y cd ; attGnd t0 cultivation of your 
,„„„i,i * . A ’ X* J mmd. Always speak tho truth. Live ud 
would never come, and had forgotten your 
Willie !” 
mind. Always speak tho truth. Live up 
to your engagements * Keep your own se¬ 
crets, if you have any. When you speak to 
xi jvu tuij, hiiou juu speaK. iu 
“ My darling child,” said the parent, “ do a person, look him in tho face. Good com- 
not talk so, it will break my heart. I could P an y and g° od conversation are tho very 
never forget you, Willie, you know I could J? of vi , rtu<3 ' Good character is above 
„ & J ’ 5 J all things else. Your character cannot be 
Ut ' „ _ essentially injured except by your own acts. 
“ Gh mother, said tho child, “ things If any one speaks evil of you, lot your life 
have been so curious since I was asleop. I be so that none believe him. Drink no kind 
was in such a prettv place, full of roses and °* int °xicatmg liquors. Ever live, ( misfor- 
birds ! And I thought you were there with tu nes excepted,) within your income. When 
,, , A & J , , you retire to bed, think over what you have 
mo, mother, but you never cried as you do been doing during the day. Make no haste 
now, sometimes. But I looked all around to bo rich, if you would prosper. Small and 
for you, father, for I couldn't bear to be steady gains give competency with tranquil- 
without you, so I asked a beautiful ano-el ^ 0 T dl , ld ’ -^evor play at any kind of 
where you wore, and ho said you were here § am ° of chance ; Av0 d 1 «>«>’ 
J u juu »cie ncre fear you may not withstand it. Earn money 
at home, and c.idn t want to come where boforo you spend it. Never run in debt, 
mother and Willie was. But I told him 1 unless you see a way to get out of it. Do 
could got you there, so I thought I flew,— not marry until you are able to support a 
yes, flew, father, for I had such a pretty pair T?' Never Speak evil of a N ona Bc J ust 
o.' white wings .hat took me whereon 
weie. And you had almost said you would you are young to spend when you are old. 
go and livo with mother and mo among the Road over the abovo maxims at least once a 
flowers, when I woko up, and found you weG ^’ 
right by my side, which made me so glad! t V T b ° c0 " nsels ^ hich AVOllld 
x- ,} • , , , . , more certainly secure the worldly success of 
t is has been such a long, long day.— him who would follow them ? Is there ono 
But, mothor, sing me that little song you man in a thousand who never swerving in 
taught me beforo I was sick. I should love obedience to them from youth upward, need 
to hear it again,” and ho fastoned his gaze ^ ld to , a H a ! n at l eas t that competence with- 
xi ° out which it was once well said a man can 
upon the countenance ot his mother. 1 , . , , . f . : ,, 
1 hardly be honest, accompanied with a well 
Whilo Willie was telling his dream his settled respect from those around him which 
father had sat motionless, and now his taco 
was buried in his hands, and he seemed 
brings more pervading happiness to its pos¬ 
sessor than tlie most dazzling honors which 
an excited peoplo bestow with ono breath to 
ir.of i * t, . aA1 oj.uu.eu puupiu uo&iuw wiiii one Dream to 
lost n a sad and strange rovery. But it take away with another ? The duties here 
was broken by the sweet tones of his wife, enjoined are but those of man to man, or of 
singing the “good night song” of his child. a man to himself. Those cqunsels refer 
“Jesus, tender Sheperd, hear me, only to the daily life of 0110 who seeks not 
Bless thy little lamb to-uight,” ’&c. distinction, but quiot happiness; who strives 
Her voico trembled, yet she san«- it through f 0t eV j n {or wcaltb . or wealth s sake, but so 
g g ,’ to conduct his business that [with modest 
and diio s pale taco seemed radiant with independence lie may command that unim- 
delight. “Let mo give you a kiss, to thank poached credit which is so muih more hon- 
you, mothor,” said ho, “ for it is all I have ora E e to its possessor than hoaps of gold 
to give you now,” and as sho placed hor lips 1 ’® l l u ' r . ed b 3 T devious or oven hazardous means. 
to his, he felt a tear tall upon his face H ° r Ti may f eem iG tone d 
.. applicable only to the oven course of such 
What makes you cry, said ho, “has as seek no farther than to discharge with a 
Willie been a naughty boy ?” clear conscience tho simple duties of a life 
Tho parents solaced him; and he seemed w ^hout ambition and without change, it is 
to bo sinking into a slumber, when he grasp- P i5 C t!°*? ot , coudu et as these 
. i- f . , , iv- , “ p which, if strictly followed, surely raise men 
eJ h« father hand and whispered, an eminence which has the rare addition 
loll mother to light the lamps again, ot stability, 
for it is growing dark, so dark I cannot seo —---- 
JaMts’ Department. 
Long years had passed, and tho grass 
covered the littlo mound in the village 
church yard. No costly slab was at its 
head, but it was decked with the first and 
fairest flowers. The birdlings loved tho re- 
you—kiss mo that I may know you are Every 
here.” tho world 
Tho child was clasped to the breast of the a man C ° 
parent as though to screen him from the An evi 
angel of Death. “ Speak to mo once moro,” heretical. 
Every hoart has its secret sorrows, which 
tho world knows not, and oftentimes wo call 
a man cold when ho is only sad. 
An evil hoart can mako any doctrine 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
A FATHER’S GRAVE. 
INSCRIBED TO MISS MARY E. SMELZER. 
Come, to his grave we’ll go, Mary, 
And watch the sun go down, 
’Tis good an hour thus to spend, 
Far from the busy town. 
Come here and sit thee by my side 
Upon the young green grass— 
We’ll -watch the twilights lingering shades. 
And talk of times long past. 
Draw closer to my side, Mary, 
And place your hand in mine, 
Look softly up into my eyes, 
That I may look in thine; 
They are the same soft blue, Mary, 
As thy loved father’s were, 
And as I gaze methinks I see 
His love-light beaming there. 
Now sing that little song, Mary, 
He taught you ere lie died— 
You used that little song to sing, 
While sitting by his side; 
But now you’re fatherless and lone, 
Your voice is seldom heard, 
Y ou seem all sad and cheerless now, 
Like a young forsaken bird. 
Oh, often may you come, Mary, 
And sit in after years, 
Upon his lone and grass-green grave, 
And shed unbidden tears, 
And when you’re sad and lonely, 
No friend is by your side, 
This spot will be to you, Mary, 
A home at eventide. 
Trumansburg, N. Y., 1852. Farmer's Daughter. 
THE WOMEN OF MAINE. 
Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe has lately 
been traveling over what she terms tho 
“glorious mountains”’of Maine, and gives 
us, through tho National Era, an account 
of her journeyings. Speaking of the hab¬ 
its and character of the Maine women, she 
says : 
You go into a plain farm house, where the 
furniture and all the appurtenances retain 
tho most primitive simplicity; but bo not 
surprised if you see Latin, Greek and Ger¬ 
man books lying on the table. You look 
inquiringly, and are told, perhaps, of a cer¬ 
tain Mary Ann or Marie, who is keeping 
school up at Umbagog, or some other im¬ 
possible, out of the way place, whose books 
these are. She has long done using them— 
she got them when she first began—now 
she has.left them for Cynthia or Louisa, or 
some other fair successor in tho family lino, 
who is equally hardy and energetic in her 
attack upon the tree of knowledge. Ten 
to one you get a glimpse of said Cynthia, 
who proves to be a slender, blue-eyed girl, 
trimly dressed, with a pair of very pretty 
oar rings in her ears, and an air of quiet 
composure and savoir faire, which shows 
you that sho is a princess of the blood in 
her own regions. You talk with hor, and 
find sho has a mind as sharp and keen as 
ono of the quartz crystals among hor own 
mountains. She has been to the academy 
in the neighboring town. She has a fancy 
for drawing, and maybe she shows you a 
crayon head or a landscape which you did 
not expect to see just then—she wishes she 
could get somewhere where sho could learn 
more about it—sho has a cousin who paints 
in oils — sho thinks, perhaps, after she has 
taught a quarter or two, sho will get enough 
to take her to Portland, and take lessons of 
a master. 
One is struck with the intellectual activi¬ 
ty of the Maine women, wherever he travels 
among them. A friend of mine told me 
tho other day, in the clergyman’s family, he 
was surprised to find the walls decorated 
with oil paintings, which he thought far be¬ 
yond the means of his friend to purchase. 
“ Where did you got these paintings ?” ho 
asked. 
“ Oh, these ! my wife painted them,” was 
tho reply. 
The samo gentleman relates, that at an¬ 
other time, when hospitably entertained in 
an obscure settlement, far out in the woods 
of Maine, being struck with the domestic 
talents and agreeable manners of his host¬ 
ess, he entered into some conversation 
with hor. Knowing that ho was connected 
with the collegiate institution at Brunswick, 
she inquired, with great interest, after a 
young gentleman there, adding as an apolo¬ 
gy for her inquisitiveness, “I feel a great in¬ 
terest in that young man, for I fitted him 
for college.” 
My friend, of course, thought sho alluded 
to some such fitting as knitting his stock¬ 
ings, making his shirts—and made a remark 
to that effect, 
“ Oh, no,” said tho lady composedly, “ I 
mean that I taught him Greek and Latin, 
and so on, and ot' course I should wish to 
hear that he was doing well.” It seemed to 
me quite an of courso affair to her — noth¬ 
ing to what she could do. I can assure you, 
by the by, that these women are yeomen 
housekeepers, and that you will nover taste 
the Latin or Greek in sour bread or bad but¬ 
ter, or see the drawing and painting looking 
out of holes in dresses. 
Tho fact is, that a sterile soil, and a harsh 
j climate, though not good for growing any¬ 
thing else, are first rato for raising men and 
women ; and men a.nd women in the full em¬ 
phatic sense of the word, are the staple pro¬ 
duct of Maine. The long, cheerless winters 
here, are powerful educators, both physical¬ 
ly and morally — physically in tho amount 
of oxygon and vitality which they forco into 
the system ; intellectually, in the leisure 
which they force on one for intellectual pur¬ 
suits. Apropos of tho winters, I will relate 
an anecdote which I heard in n\y village un 
der the mountains, which might give some 
of our southern friends an idea of what the 
winter here is like. 
Said ono of our friends, whose house lies 
directly under the mountains:—“Last win¬ 
ter the snow was banked up quite to the 
ridgepolo of the house.” 
“Is it possible?” I exclaimed. “Why, 
what did you all do ?” 
“Tunneled through it,” said my friend 
composedly ; “ wo had a tunnel some fifteen 
feet long to the road.” 
“ And pray, how long did it last T said I 
“ Well, about six months,” said ho. 
“ It made the house very warm, indeed,” 
added his wife, “almost oppressive.” 
I hat was one view of a snow bank that 
had never suggested itself to me. But I 
must add to what I said about the Maine 
women, ono drawback — one is impressed 
with it even in tho most mountainous dis¬ 
tricts—the want of an appearance of robust 
health. I ho young girls are fair, sparkling, 
intellectual looking, but are wanting in tho 
physique. They look like forest flowers— 
very fair, but as it a breath would wither 
them. The mind seems altogether to have 
got tho start of the body. Tho long winters 
may have something to do with this. For 
moro than half the year, tho female sex in 
this climate are very much confined in¬ 
doors, in stove heated rooms, generally very 
partially ventilated, as rooms In cold weath¬ 
er always are. Here they read, and study, 
and sew—and go out, at most, only in pleas¬ 
ant weather—often only in sleighs"with fath¬ 
ers or brothers to drive them, and the sleigh 
is a vehicle that gives no sort of exercise.— 
Can we not seo in this fact the reason for 
that predisposition to disease of the lungs, 
which is constantly the terror of the par¬ 
ents of New England, and which seals, eve¬ 
ry year, hundreds of the fairest of New 
England for the grave ? Think of the con¬ 
trast between the stove-heated room, where 
ono is kept almost at the point of perspira¬ 
tion, and the lungs constantly inhaling warm 
air, and the sharp, keen, cutting air that is 
without. There is no remedy for this, but 
a harder habit of lifo. A young girl in New 
England is never secure against consump¬ 
tion, but by keeping her physical vigor up 
to the highest point. She should go out 
regularly every day, in all weathers, and 
familiarize her lungs with the out door at¬ 
mosphere. She should fortify her skin with 
daily cold bathing, wear short walking dress¬ 
es, prefer walking to the sleigh, practice 
skating and out door amusements after tho 
example of European ladies in a similar cli¬ 
mate, and tho long winter will be to her, 
as it is to the other sex, a discipliner and in- 
vigorator of the system, and not a constant 
enemy. 
My letter is running to a great length.— 
Adieu for tho present. h. b. s. 
A FRAGMENT. 
We find tho following article from the pen 
of “Fanny Fern,” in a New York paper.— 
We wish that lady’s articles were always as 
unexceptionable in style and sentiment: 
“ This is a heartless life to lead,” said Ma¬ 
bel Gray, as she unhanded her long hair, 
and laid aside her rich robe. “ It is a life 
one might lead, were there no life beyond .— 
When I left the heated ball-room to-night, 
the holy stars, keeping their tireless watch’ 
sent a thrill through me ; and the little pray¬ 
er I usad to say at my dead mother’s knee, 
came unbidden to my lip. There’s Letty’ 
now; she’s happier than her mistress.— 
Come here, child; unbraid my hair, and 
sing me that hymn of yours : 
‘ Jesus, I my cross have taken.’ 
That will do, thank you, child; now you 
may go What a sweet voico she has; 
either that, or my tears, have eased my 
heart. I’m too restless for sleep. How 
softly tho moonlight falls to-night! and 
years hence, when these myriad sleepers 
shall have sunk to their dreamless rest, earth 
will still be as fair, the silver moon will ride 
on as triumphantly. How many sad hearts 
she looks down upon to-night; and never a 
thanksgiving has gone up from my lips for 
countless blessings! Soft sleep with balmy 
touch has closed these thankless eyes ; tho 
warm fresh blood of youth and health, has 
flowed on unchecked by disease. I have sat 
at the table ot ‘ Dives,’ while Lazarus has 
starved at tho gate. The gold and purple 
robes ot sunset have been woven for me; 
the bluo vault of heaven arched over my 
head; the ever-changing fleecy cloud has 
gone drifting by; the warm sunlight has 
kissed open the flowers I love; the green 
moss has spread a carpet for my careless 
toot; and I have reveled in all this beauty 
and luxury—tho Lord forgive me—unmind¬ 
ful of the Giver! 
Dear reader, shall it be only at 4 Beihes- 
da’s Pool ’ that you seek your Benefactor ? 
Whilo your life-cup overflows with blessings, 
when the warm blood courses swiftly, shall 
there come no generous response to that 
still small voice,‘Jesus of Nazareth passeth 
by! ’ ” 
Nobility of Woman. —The woman, poor, 
ill clad as she may be, who balances her in¬ 
come and expenditures—toils and sweats in 
quiet, unrepining mood among her children, 
and presents them morning and evenine, as 
offerings of love in rosy health and cheerful 
purity—is the proudest dame, and the bliss 
of a happy homo shall dwell with her forev¬ 
er. If ono prospect be dearer than another 
to bend the proud and inspire tho broken¬ 
hearted—it is lor a smiling wife to meet her 
husband at the door with his host of happy 
children. How it stirs up the tired blood 
of an exhausted man when he hears the 
rush of children upon the staircase_when 
the crow and carol of their Young voices 
mix in glad confusion, and "the smallest 
mounts and sinks into his arms amidst right 
mirthful shouts ! 
We waste our best years in distilling the 
sweetest flowers of life into potions, which, 
after all, do not immortalize, but only intox¬ 
icate. — Longfellow. 
TriE men who flatter women do not know 
them sufficiently; and tho men who only 
abuse them do not know thorn at all. 
