MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
FEB. 20. 
)Mu»’ l?0rkt®li0. 
Written for Moore's R*ral New-Yorker 
CHANGES. 
Bt the fireside, I am musing 
O’er the changes time may bring, 
And around my heart, confusing 
Are the shadows that they fling. 
Memory paints a picture, glowing 
With the tints of other days, 
And along my heart-strings flowing 
Are discordant, jarring lays. 
Where are those I loved in childhood, 
With a love so glad and true? 
Oh! where is the balmy wildwood, 
That around my cottage grew? 
And the cottage?—that has perished— 
And the rose-bush near the door? 
Gift from one so kindly cherished— 
Bloometh never for me more. 
Naught of my dear home remainetb. 
Save an ancient nut-wood tree; 
Sadly now my heart complaineth, 
Childhood’s friends are lost to me. 
Some are in the churchyard sleeping, 
Some in distant lands reside, 
Some o’er blighted hopes are weeping, 
Some in brighter hopes confide. 
All are changed—the youthful feeling 
Cometh not, save as a dream, 
Softly, calmly, sweetly stealing, 
With a bright, celestial gleam. 
Yet, sweet hope, the dove-like cheerer, 
Points where changes are unknown, 
Where the loved of earth are dearer, 
Where the flowers of peace are strewn. 
Ah, I hope again to meet them 
In the realms of light and lore, 
Hope, with sinless heart, to greet them, 
In the holy home above. 
-, N. Y., 1858. L. A. L. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
SHE WILL DIE EARLY. 
“ Loveliest of lovely things are they 
On earth, that soonest pass away.” 
Dip you note the bright rose upon her cheek, 
fading slowly but surely away, — and the pale lily 
assuming its place, more touching in its white 
beauty—because it tells that the flower within 
droops and sighs for its native bowers in Heaven? 
Did you mark the deep, dreamy restlessness of her 
gaze? The spirit is looking out with longing earn¬ 
estness, from its fringe-curtained windows, while it 
plumes its quivering wings for its upward flight— 
There is a voice in every motion that bespeaks her 
frailty. See, how quick the mind hastes to do its 
appointed work! Look, how the warm gushings 
of the heart go forth, shedding sweet influence on 
all around. It is because she hears spirit-voices 
calKng, “Sister, come!” : Tis because she feels the 
gentle presence of angels hovering near, and knows 
they wait for her. 
She will die early; early in life’s morning, while 
the gentle dews of innocence yet linger on the 
half-bloomed bud. Early shall earth gather to its 
bosom one of our most cherished treasures. Too 
soon shall the willow sigh mournfully over her 
tomb, and the wild bird cliaunt a low requiem 
among its branches for the departed. Too soon 
shall the mild stars look calmly down in their holy 
watches, over the slumbering dust She will die 
early; and one other gentle hand shall tune the 
golden harp in Heaven, — one other sweet angelic 
voice shall join the choir to sing the glad anthem 
of the redeemed above, — one other spirit unseen, 
shall flit around the path of life, and bid the weary 
traveler through the vale look upward and be com¬ 
forted. Adnii.e. 
Michigan, Feb., 1858. 
OUR BABE-GOD TOOK HER. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
BY MBS. FIDSLET. 
LISTEN, GIRLS. 
Will you permit me, Dear Rural, to address a 
few words through your columns to those of my 
own sex, particularly the farmers’ daughters? Al¬ 
though much to be regretted, it must be acknowl¬ 
edged that the girls of the present day, generally 
speaking, are sadly deficient in the very knowledge 
they ought to pride themselves in possessing. It 
is no uncommon thing, with shame be it spoken, to 
hear young ladies now-a-days boastfully declare 
“they don’t know how to go to work to make a loaf 
of bread.” Sometimes, when the knowledge and 
ability are not wanting, there seems to be a desire 
to make no use of them—or worse still, to deny 
their existence; as though there was anything to 
be ashamed of, either in knowing how to make a 
bed, to sweep a floor, or in being found engaged in 
like employments. 
I hold that it is the duty of every woman to be 
skilled in all the operations that the management 
of the house involves, in all its departments. She 
ought to be able to wash a dish—and, by the way, 
there’s a nicety in the art of washing dishes, sim¬ 
ple as it may seem. You must know hou> to do it, 
to do it neatly and well—to dust a room, to carve 
a turkey, to make a shirt, to darn a stocking, and 
to milk a cow, as well as to preside with grace at 
the evening repast, perform with ease at the piano, 
enliven the social circle, entertain the guest, or 
impart instruction to the listening ear of childhood. 
Womanly abilities and lady-like deportment are 
perfectly consistent. 
What is there woman should not be skilled in? 
The place of abode, the position in life, matters 
little. Let it be high or low, rich or poor, in city 
or country, hill or prairie, there is need that she 
have able, willing, useful, active, cunning hands.— 
Head-work is good—if the hands are properly em¬ 
ployed, the head must needs be called into active 
service. Heart-work is good—the hands cannot 
work without it; or, if they do, it is cold, formal 
work; but head and heart will accomplish little— 
their work must be imperfect—if the trio be not 
completed by willing, busy hands. We want the 
head for directing the machinery—we want the 
heart for setting it in motion, and imparting life, 
spirit and vigor to the work—and we want the 
hands to do the actual labor. 
Would you be a valued daughter, “an olive 
plant,” of whom it might be said, “ many daughters 
have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all?” 
Would you be a desirable wife, deserving to be 
called “a crown to her husband?”—would you be 
a matchless mother, whose “ price is far above 
rubies?” use the talents Gon in wisdom has com¬ 
mitted to your keeping. It would be wise to often 
and attentively peruse the 31st chapter of Proverbs, 
and aim at imitating the character therein por¬ 
trayed. 
I do not say we ought always to be engaged in 
culinary avocations, but what I do say, and insist 
upon, is, that we ought to be thoroughly compe¬ 
tent to take charge of and superintend all house¬ 
hold matters. Economy and harmony, order and 
regularity, are utterly impossible in a house where 
the person having charge, of the culinary depart¬ 
ment, particularly, is not so qualified, and where 
these are wanting, comfort and happiness will never 
be found. I have seen a young lady, who had more 
time than means at her disposal, send a dress to 
the dressmaker to have the skirt mended and turn¬ 
ed. What a valuable wife she would make! I 
could name another, who, unable to make bread, 
but too proud to ask a neighbor for direction, 
wasted a barrel of fine flour in the attempt. One 
more example, and I have done. I once heard it 
said of an acquaintance:—“She can do everything 
—she teaches school, can weave, spin, knit, do tail¬ 
oring, dressmaking, millinery, quilt beautifully, 
make leather-work, artificial flowers, and in cook¬ 
ing, baking, Ac., cannot be excelled.” What a 
contrast! 
I believe we are too apt to think that the gentle¬ 
men look for those who have pretty faces, white 
hands, can “ play well,” talk bewitchingly, waltz 
gracefully, Ac. They do seek their company for 
hours, but seldom for days and years. Mary. 
Montreal, Canada, 1858. 
True Enough ! —What merchant or politician I 
has a longer list of daily avocations than a good 
house-wife? and yet how little are they considered! I 
Onck we had a little girl. The dew of infancy 
was on her brows, and the soft light of heaven lay 
in her blue eye. Before her lips had learned to 
speak her eyes told worlds of love, more precious 
than words. There was but one out of heaven 
dearer than she; and the dearer one was the mother 
in whose arms the blue-eyed babe was nestling. 
One day when we came from work to the cot where 
mother and babe were waiting for us, we found 
them there, but a shade of sadness was on the 
mother’s face as she received the evening kiss, and 
her eyes rested on the child that lay across her 
knees. It was awake, but a dreamy look was in her 
eyes, as if she were asleep and looking at things 
invisible. The head was hot and feverish. The 
I child was sick. It was restless that night, but as 
! morning came it seemed to be more quiet We 
called in the doctor, and he made a few inquiries, 
looked steadily and long into the eyes of the child, 
darkened the room and held a candle before its 
face; made his prescription, and went away with 
few words. Mary and I felt sadly, but said little to 
each other. We thought much that we did not like 
to speak. The day wore away, and the child slept 
through all its long hours, or woke sometimes with 
a start, and then sank down into a deeper sleep.— 
We sat by it all night. Mary would not leave the 
child, and I would not leave Mary. The next day 
the doctor told us the child’s brain was affected; he 
spoke of effusion — water on the brain — he would 
do all he could — feared it would be a bad case — 
hoped we would be prepared for the worst Then 
we woke. We had not breathed our fears; but now 
we owned them, wept them right out, and Mary 
laid her head on my breast, and I thought she had 
fallen asleep, when a great sob burst forth, and she 
cried, “ What shall ice do?” 
I had no words to answer. I kissed her over and 
over again, and we tried to pray. A start in the 
cradle roused us. The babe threw out both its 
hands, clenched its little fists, strained every mus¬ 
cle of its tender limbs, and the agony of a strong 
convulsion was upon her. Another followed, and 
soon another. It was dreadful to behold her.— 
Friends told us that she did not suffer, but she 
seemed to suffer, and our hearts were bursting. 
She comes out of one of these paroxysms, and a 
sweet sleep succeeds. She smiles when she wakes, 
and puts up her lips for a kiss when her mother 
bends over her. She smiles again, and for an hour, 
oh, what an hour of joy was that!—she was our 
sweet laughing babe again. In the fullness of our 
hearts we thought the worst was over, and that she 
would live. A tremor seizes her. The drops of 
dew stand on her forehead; the light of her eye 
fades away. She raises her hand and waves it to 
and fro as though she were making signals to some 
one we could not see. We call to her but she an¬ 
swers not We take her hands in ours, and breathe 
her name into her ears, but she hears us not.— 
Her eyes are open, but she does not see. She 
breathes, but her breath is quick, and hard, and 
irregular. Mary throws her arms around my neck 
and fairly screams, “George, she is dying!” 
Even so, Father in heaven—for so it was good in 
thy sight. We lost our babe, but God took her. 
Many a bright-eyed girl to-day, who works worst¬ 
ed and dances divinely, does not know that a moss 
rose is a first cousin to a French turnip, and the 
Mangel Wurtzel a poor relation in the Poppy 
family. Flowers are not trifles, as one might know, 
if he would only think how much pains God has 
taken with them everywhere; notone unfinished; 
not one bearing the marks of brush or pencil.— 
Fringing the eternal borders of mountain winters; 
gracing the pulseless breast of the old grey gran¬ 
ite; everywhere they are humanizing. Murderers 
do not ordinarily wear roses in their button-holes. 
Villains seldom train vines over cottage doors.— 
B. F. Taylor. 
On Marriage. —We must judge of character, of 
temper, and abilities; be certain of the energy and 
endurance of a manly mind, before we promise to 
obey its dictates. We must be sure that we are 
loved, not merely as a useless ornament to his 
home, but as a friend—the companion whose love 
must last when time steals on. We must feel that 
our opinion is sought, our judgment appreciated; 
that confidence, the brightest ray in the diadem of 
married life, is ours; that not only are we loved in 
the sunshine, but trusted in the storm. Then, oh! 
then only, may we safely climb life’s hill together. 
The love of society is natural, but the choice of 
our company is a matter of virtue and prudence. 
Flowers are ’neath my footsteps springing. 
Smiles are beaming here and there; 
Sunny rays my pathway cheering. 
Life to me is passing fair. 
Kindly voices greet my coming— 
Loving eyes a welcome give— 
Hearts, with warm emotions throbbing, 
Make it more than joy to live. 
Love o’er all her mantle flinging— 
Buds and blossoms everywhere; 
Hope’s bright garlands round me clinging. 
Who than I, more free from care? 
All around is bright and beaming, 
Shadowless as path may be; 
Rays of sunshine o’er it streaming,— 
Life can be but sweet to me. 
The Rectory, Truxton, N. Y., 1858. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THERE IS NOTHING LOST. 
Did you ever think of it, reader? Nothing lost. It 
matters not how small the particle of matter, it is 
preserved for future use. The very atoms which 
compose our being are as old as the creation, and 
will last as long as time. The tiny flower that 
unfolds its petals by the wayside may wither, its 
leaves fall off and decay, but its fragrance is wafted 
on the passing breeze, and while it enlivens the 
passer-by, who can say it is lost? The drop of rain, 
so small that it seems of no use, does its part 
towards refreshing the parched earth and then wan¬ 
ders on to the brooklet perchance, and from thence 
to the river, but is never lost The little seed that 
is thrown broadcast over the earth, decays and we 
fancy it is gone forever; but from its ruins comes 
a germ that grows into a lofty tree to give shelter 
for man and beast—it is not lost No; there is 
nothing lost That little word in kindness spoken, 
how may the heart be gladdened by it Did you 
never see a poor disconsolate one made happy by 
one gentle word? Oh, speak them always; they 
are never lost 
Our Rural bears ever on its pages words of wis¬ 
dom for us all—and they will not be lost They 
will have an influence for good when those who 
pen them shall have gone the way of all the living. 
Think' of it; nothing lost; no thought, no word, 
no deed; all are known to our Creator; and for 
them we are to give account How necessary, then, 
that we live in reference to this fact 
Cayuga, Feb., 1858. Amelia. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
HOME. 
It is pleasant to think of home. The world is 
the place for the working hours. The office, the 
shop and the field are the places for labor, and we 
toil there willingly, for we toil in hope. We think 
of home as a place of rest, and that we may enjoy 
the repose of our homes, we toil on. Our home is 
our refuge. We go from it when we are strong, 
but we return to it whes^!/C arc weak. We go from 
it when we are full, and return to it when we are 
hungry. We go from it when we are well, and re¬ 
turn to it when we are sick. There we love to lin* 
ger. There we rest and are refreshed. There we 
recover from sickness, and there we die, if we die 
in peace. How pleasant the sound. Even the way¬ 
ward traveler, who lingers long in distant countries, 
as he nears it on his return thinks of it with fond¬ 
ness and delight. The child sickens when taken 
from his home, and longs to return. 
Happy indeed is the traveler in life who looks 
forward, hopefully and trustfully, to his home, his 
heavenly home, pushing onward in the path of 
duty, and lingering not in all the plain, till he 
reaches the end of his journey, and finds himself 
welcomed to the eternal home. Fitch. 
New York, Feb., 1858. 
WHAT FAMILY GOVERNMENT IS. 
It is not to watch children with suspicious eye, 
to frown at the merry outbursts of innocent hilari¬ 
ty, to suppress their joyous laughter, and to mould 
them into melancholy little models of octogena¬ 
rian gravity. 
And when they have been in fault, it is not sim¬ 
ply to punish them on account of the personal in¬ 
jury that you have chanced to suffer in conse¬ 
quence, unattended by inconvenience to yourself; 
pass it without rebuke. 
Nor is it to overwhelm the little culprit with an¬ 
gry words; to stun him with a deafening noise; to 
call him by hard names which do not express his 
misdeeds; to load him with epithets which would 
be extravagant if applied to a fault of tenfold 
enormity; or to declare, with passionate vehe¬ 
mence, that he is the worst child in the world, and 
destined foa an evil end. 
But it is to watch anxiously for the first risings of 
sin, and to repress them; to contract the earliest 
workings of selfishness; to repress the first begin¬ 
nings of rebellion against rightful authority; to 
teach an implicit, an unquestioning and cheerful 
obedience to the will of the parent, as the best 
preparation for a future allegiance to the require¬ 
ments of the civil magistrate, and the laws of the 
great Ruler and Father, in heaven. 
It is to punish a fault because it is a fault; be¬ 
cause it is sinful and contrary to the commands of 
God, without reference to whether it may or may 
not have been productive of immediate injury to 
the parent or others. 
It is to reprove with calmness and composure, 
and not with angry irritation; in a few words, fitly 
chosen, and not with a torrent of abuse; to punish 
as often as you threaten, and threaten only when 
you intend and can remember to perform; to say 
what you mean, and infallibly do as you say. 
It is to govern your family as in the sight of 
Him who gave you authority, who will reward 
strict fidelity with such blessings as he bestowed 
on Abraham, or punish your criminal neglect with 
such curses as he visited on Eli .—Religious Herald. 
HAPPY NANCY. 
There once lived in an old brown cottage, so 
small that it looked like a chicken coop, a solitary 
woman. She was thirty years of age, tended her 
little garden, knit and spun for a living. She was 
know everywhere, from village to village, by the 
cognomen of “ Happy Nancy.” She had no money, 
no family, no relatives, she was half blind, quite 
lame and very crooked. There was no comeliness 
in her, yet there, in that homely deformed body, 
God who loves to bring strength out of weakness, 
had set his royal seal. 
“ Well, Nancy, singing again!” would the chance 
visitor say, as he lounged at her door. 
“ La! yes, I’m forever at it. I don’t know what 
people will think,” she would say, with her sunny 
smile. 
“ Why, they’ll think as they always do, that you 
are very happy.” 
“La! that’s a fact, I am just as happy as the day 
is long.” 
“I wish you’d tell me your secret, Nancy; you 
are all alone, you work hard, you have nothing very 
pleasant surrounding you—what’s the reason you 
are so happy?” 
“ Perhaps it’s because I haven't got anybody but 
God,” replied the good creature, looking up.— 
“ You see, rich fellows, like you, depend upon their 
families and houses; they’ve got to keep thinking 
of their business, of their wives and children; 
they’re always mighty afraid of trouble ahead. I 
ain’t got anything to trouble myself about, you see, 
’cause I leave it all to the Lord. I think, well, if 
he can keep this great world in such good order, 
the sun rolling day after day, and the stars shining 
night after night, make my garden things come up 
the same, season after season, he can sartainly take 
care of such a poor simple thing as I am—and you 
see, I leave it all to the Lord, and the Lord takes 
care of me.” 
“Well, but, Nancy, suppose a frost should come 
after your trees are all in blossom, and your little 
plants out, suppose-” 
“But I don’t suppose; I can never suppose, ex¬ 
cept that the Lord will do everything right. That’s 
what makes your people so unhappy—you're all 
the time supposing. Now why can’t you wait till 
the supposed time comes, as I do, and then make 
the best of it?” 
“Ah! Nancy, it’s pretty certain you’ll get to 
heaven, while many of us, with all our wisdom, will 
have to stay out.” 
■‘There, you’re at it again,” said Nancy, shaking 
her head, “ always looking out for some black cloud. 
Why, if I were you, I’d keep the devil at arm’s 
length, instead of taking him right into my heart— 
he’ll do you a despirit sight of mischief.” 
She was right; we do take the demon of care, of 
distrust, of melancholy foreboding, of ingratitude, 
right into our hearts, and we pet and cherish the 
ugly monsters till we assimilate to their likeness. 
We canker every pleasure with this gloomy fear of 
the coming ill—we seldom trust that pleasures 
will enter, or hail them when they come. In¬ 
stead of that, we smother them under the blanket 
of misapprehension, and choke them with our mis¬ 
anthropy. 
It would bo well for us to imitate happy Nancy, 
“ and never suppose.” If you see a cloud, don’t 
suppose it’s going to rain; if you see a frown, don’t 
suppose a scolding will follow—do whatever your 
hands find to do, and there leave it. Be more 
childlike towards the great Father who created 
you; learn to confide in his wisdom, and not in 
your own, and above all, wait till the “suppose” 
comes, and then make the best of it. Depend upon 
it, the earth would seem an Eden, if you would fol¬ 
low happy Nancy’s rule, and never give place in 
your bosom to imaginary evils. 
Kind Words—WhyUsb Them? —1. Because they 
cheer him to whom they are addressed. They 
soothe him if he is wretched. They comfort him 
if he is sad. They keep him out of the slough of 
despondency or help him out if he happens to be 
in. 
2. There are words enough of the opposite kind 
flying in all directions—sour words—cross words 
—fretful words—insulting words—irritating words 
—overbearing words. Now let kind words have a 
chance to get abroad, since so many, so different, 
are on the wing. 
3. Kind words bless him that uses them. A 
sweet sound on the tongue tends to make the heart 
mellow. Kind words re-act upon the kind feelings 
which prompted them, and make them more kind. 
They add fresh fuel to the fire of benevolent emo¬ 
tion in the soul. 
A. Kind words beget kind feelings toward him 
that loves to use them. People love to see the face 
and hear the voice of such a man. 
Kind words are, therefore, of great value in these 
hard times. 
It is not wisdom, but ignorance which teaches 
men presumption. Genius maybe sometimes arro¬ 
gant, but nothing is so diffident as knowledge. 
The Art of Being Happy. —The art of being 
happy is less cultivated in this land than almost 
any other. We make extravagant preparations for 
it; we give no bounds to our enterprise, we heap 
up material; we go through an immense experience 
preparatory to being happy. But, in the main, it is 
the very thing which we forget to extract from an 
abundant preparation. Contentment is a quality 
which few know how to reconcile with aspiration, 
and still less with enterprise. Satisfaction, there¬ 
fore, is the bright ideal of the future. It never 
blossoms to-day. It is always to-morrow. Men 
never come up with their hope. The short and in¬ 
tense excitements which we mis-name enjoyment, 
are paroxysms, not steady pulsations. At length, 
it comes to pass that men do not enjoy life in the 
midst of heaped-up prosperity. And amid re¬ 
verses they bemoan themselves when the topmost 
leaves of the banyan tree are plucked by the wind, 
and refuse to shelter themselves beneath the vast 
breadth of what remains.— H. W. Beecher. 
Charity.— Having in my youth notions of severe 
piety, says a celebrated Persian writer, I used to 
rise in the night to watch, pray, and read the Koran. 
One night when I was engaged in these exercises, 
my father, a man of practical virtue, awoke while I 
was reading. “Behold,” said I to him, “other 
children are lost in irreligious slumber, while I 
alone wake to praise God.” “ Son of my soul,” said 
he, “it is better to sleep than to wake to remark 
the faults of your brethren.” 
» 
Written for Moore’s Rnral New-Yorker. 
“ BE NOT FEARFUL; ONLY BELIEVE.” 
BT ELLEN 0. LAKE. 
These sweet words of thorn-crowned Jbstts. 
Sounding down the long-past years, 
Hold a tone that hushes heart-wails. 
Keep a breath that drieth tears. 
Have you forgotten when He spoke them, 
Ye who mourn o’er stone-cold brows? 
How Death led a fair young maiden 
Where the dark-waved river flows. 
And the father, human-hearted, 
Trusting in Christ’s given words, 
Knelt before him with his loving 
Into words of pleading poured? 
Then, sad ones, in pity given, 
Came these words as balm for pain; 
Why not bind them o’er the bleeding 
Of the wounds on yovr heart’s lain? 
He, the Healer, walks no longer 
The dark way to Calvary's cross, 
We are ransomed by the suffering 
Of the life he gave for us; 
Yet, doth he but smite our idols 
In the “ chastening through his love,” 
We bow down above their grave-sods, 
All too blind to look above. 
Through this blindness, this sad heart-dearth. 
One our nature, both our pain: 
’Tis slight wonder that we’re fearful 
Of the burdens on us lain. 
“ Only believe /” O'er the death-paU 
Of your life’s sweet love or hope, 
Drop these words of holy comfort 
That to one who mourned, Hh spoke, 
And the waves that surge your heart’s depths 
Shall beat back at sound of “ Peace;” 
All the moanings of your anguish 
In the calm of Faith shall cease. 
Charlotte, Centre, N. Y., 1858. 
THE “SABBATH MUSINGS” RE-INSTATED. 
Ix arranging the first number of our present volume, 
we found so much “ matter” in type as to render it neces¬ 
sary to omit or defer a large portion. While discussing 
the subject of arrangement and contents, one of our As¬ 
sistants—a devout man and Superintendent of a Sabbath 
School—suggested that the “Young Ruralist” department 
be substituted for that of “Sabbath Musings.” To this 
we at first objected, when it was remarked by another 
member of the corps that, as most of our reading was 
pure and good enough for the Sunday Column, the special 
department might be omitted. Hence the change. But 
we find that “ Sabbath Musings ” are regarded as an es¬ 
sential feature of the Rural, and have received so many 
letters expressing regret at its omission, that we have 
concluded to re-instate the department. Of several recent 
letters alluding to the subject, we give the following from 
a clergyman in Kalamazoo Co., Mich.: 
Mr. Moore: —The Rural is a great favorite with 
us. Parents and children greet it as a family 
friend, in whom we may confide. It comes up 
nearer to our ideal of what an agricultural and 
horticultural periodical, for the family, should be, 
than anything in the Union, or in the language.— 
We prize it for its neat dress, its chaste, cultivated, 
intellectual bearing, and for its earnest moral char¬ 
acter. And it finds its way, with a hearty welcome, 
into the families in our rural districts, because of 
its fellowship with Christianity. This one thing is 
now extending its circulation and influence. 
That corner for “ Sabbath Reading,” with its gems 
of thought and devotion, is to thousands of its 
patrons “ like apples of gold in pictures of silver.” 
I hope your correspondents who know how to fur¬ 
nish short, attractive articles, full of marrow, for 
that corner, will be called upon to renew their dili¬ 
gence. Since the opening year they have not been 
heard from. Milton Bradley. 
_Another letter, received same day as the above, 
says:—“ I am very sorry to see the Sabbath Musings 
omitted in the Rural this year. That was what 
constituted it a family newspaper, I thought.” 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE ROYAL INVITATION. 
“ Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden 
and I will give you rest.” 
As the trickling of running water in the midst 
of the desert to the traveler’s ear; as the patting of 
rain drops upon the roof in time of drouth; as the 
welcome sound of the coming-home carriage to 
waiting friends, so is the divine promise to the o’er- 
wearied spirit:—“Come unto me all ye that labor 
and are heavy laden and I will give you rest?” 
“ Come unto me." Lo! the loving words of invita¬ 
tion, heard only by a listening few in the far-off 
land of olden Palestine, are entering now the homes 
and hearts of earth’s myriad nations, with a mighty 
power that has lost nothing of its glory in the flight 
of ages, gathering to the love feast of Heaven, the 
dark-browed son of the tropics and the fair Circas¬ 
sian. From burning Indus to the frozen pole the 
message is circling the earth, and the Isles of the 
ocean echo to the sound; and the prophecy of long 
ago is even now being fulfilled:—“The Gentiles 
shall come to thy light and kings to the brightness 
of thy rising,” “all they gather themselves togeth¬ 
er, they come to thee,” and “ thy people shall be 
all righteous.” 
Not the great, the titled and the honored of the 
world, only, are bidden to the royal festival of “ the 
King of Kings,” for it is written, “Come unto me 
all ye that labor and are heavy laden.” “ The poor in 
spirit” and the bowed in heart, they to whom life’s 
pathway is like a rugged road, traveled through 
the darkness of a winter’s night, painful, and cold, 
and dreary, on whom the sunlight of affection sheds 
not its kindling beams, and who are ready to sink 
wearied with the toilsome journey; to them is sent 
the herald of the Prince of Peace; and as the lost 
wanderer amid the Alpine snows, sees the light—it 
may be far off—and hears the voices of those com¬ 
ing to his rescue, so do they behold through the 
gloom, the rising of that dawn, “ which is to bright¬ 
en more and more unto the perfect day;” and as 
they listen, hear a voice above the tempest, saying, 
“Faint not;” and they know that aid is at hand.— 
And lo! the words of Jesus Christ, our Savior, 
“ Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy 
laden, and I will give you rest.” 0, glorious gift! 
0, heavenly reward of patient endurance, “ And I 
will give you test;” rest from all the cares and sor¬ 
rows of the world; rest from “the ceaseless strife 
within;” rest, forever and ever with the angels in 
I the very presence of the Incarnate God! 
Mexico, N. Y., 1857. Rosklia. 
