88 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND EAAIILY NEWSPAPER 
MARCH 1-3 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
HEART ECHOES. 
There are echoes, poets say. 
Which o’er the trembling heart-strings play; 
While from the soul’s most secret cell 
Low strains of richest music swell. 
And oft along the sounding wire, 
Like secret sighs, or hidden fire, 
Those waking echoes, ling’ring steal. 
Revealing thoughts we would conceaL 
’Tis thus, when friendship wakes the heart 
To new delight, these echoes start; 
And when its joys have passed away, 
Like sunny fountains, still they play. 
I hear them pealing, even now, 
As mem’ry points a youthful brow 
Whose merry laugh, when last we met, 
Within my heart is ringing yet. 
When youthful scenes come thronging back 
To garnish o'er life’s checkered track. 
The many hopes we cherished then, 
With echoes fill the soul again. 
And faces dear—companions true— 
By fancy’s aid again we view; 
Each one though dimmed by years of care, 
Wakes in the heart an echo there. 
But strains of sorrow often flow. 
As in life’s weary way we go— 
Remembered partings sadly tell 
That echo breathes a last farewell. 
And thus, whatever path we take, 
The passing scenes will echoes make; 
And each shall joy or sorrow bring, 
Till death in silence seal the string. 
Somerset, N. Y., 1858. W. C. W. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
KNITTING-WORK vs. EMBROIDERY. 
Grand-mama with her knitting-work has long 
been a favorite figure for story-writers to introduce 
into their pictures of domestic life. The use of the 
character in fiction bids fair to continue beyond 
the existence of the original. Knitting grand¬ 
mothers and, much more, knitting grand daughters, 
are fast ceasing to he a fact. Modern mothers, 
instead of knitting substantial stockings for their 
families, devote no small portion of their time to 
disfiguring their own and their children’s garments 
with embroidery, to the effect of destroying the 
simplicity that good taste pronounces the highest 
beauty—economical young ladies declare it a waste 
of time to knit their own stockings, when they can 
buy them so cheaply, and they wonder at the reso¬ 
lution that can undertake, and the patience that 
can effect, the construction of a pair of line thread 
hose, while they spend weeks and months at some 
favorite piece of needle-work — and little misses, 
always ready to imitate their elders, are allowed 
and encouraged to spoil cloth with hideous cari¬ 
catures of leaves, flowers, &c., instead of learning 
to do something useful and sensible. 
It is, of course, useless to say a word against the 
prevailing mania for embroidery, but there are 
certain advantages about knitting-work, as an 
occupation for odd hours, that ought to commend 
it to universal favor. It is especially suited to the 
social visit. Requiring but little attention, it 
leaves the mind free to follow the turns of conver¬ 
sation, without the distraction that needle-work 
occasions, while the eyes are at liberty Uf assist the 
understanding in appreciating fine shades of mean¬ 
ing that are often conveyed by looks rather than 
words. Again, knitting is an employment that 
may be carried on in connection with reading. A 
girl of twelve years may be so skillful a knitter, 
that she will need to look at her work hut very 
seldom, and thus, while her lingers are engaged 
with the needles, her eyes and mind may be occu¬ 
pied with a book or newspaper. A little practice 
will enable one to prosecute these two kinds of 
business together, working as successfully at each 
as if the whole attention were directed to it “No 
time to read,” is a very common complaint with 
persons who complacently exhibit the great quan¬ 
tities of fancy needle-work they have done. Let 
them exchange embroidery for knitting, and they 
may easily provide themselves with an article far 
superior to what the stocking-weaving machine 
can produce, and find no difficulty in keeping up 
with the principal literary and news publications. 
Another advantage that knitting has over both 
common and fancy sewing, is the slight demand it 
makes on the eye-sight No one was ever made 
near-sighted or weak-eyed by plain knitting, while 
there are thousands of cases of impaired vision, 
caused by the unavoidable application to plain 
sewing, or the insane rage for embroidery. The 
progress of invention, however, does away with the 
necessity for any injurious devotion to the needle 
for purposes of common sewing; for the sewing- 
machine stands ready to make up garments in a 
negt, substantial manner, while every consideration 
of health, economy, social enjoyment, and mental 
improvement, urges females to throw aside em¬ 
broidery, and take up knitting-work. a. 
South Livonia, N. Y., 1858. 
Tub Mother Moulds the Man. —That it is the 
mother who moulds the man, is a sentiment beauti¬ 
fully illustrated by the following recorded observa¬ 
tion of a shrewd writer: 
“When I lived among the Choctaw Indians, I 
held a consultation with one of their Chiefs re¬ 
specting the successive stages of their progress in 
the arts of civilized life; and, among other things, 
he informed me that, at their start, they fell into 
a great mistake — they only sent their boys to 
school. These hoys came home intelligent men, 
hut they married uneducated and uncivilized wives 
— and the uniform result was, their children were 
all like their mothers. Their father soon lost all 
his interest in both wife and children. And now,” 
said he, “ if we would educate but one class of our 
children, we should choose the girls, for when they 
become mothers they educate their sons.” This is 
the point, and it is true. No nation can become 
fully enlightened when mothers are not in a good 
degree qualified to discharge the duties of the 
home-work of education. 
- —- 
Right principles and conformable means are the 
first necessities of a great enterprise; but without 
right apprehensions and tempers, and expedient 
methods, the most beneficent purposes must utter¬ 
ly fail. 
ALWAYS IN THE WAY: 
A STORY FOR CAREFUL PERUSAL BY MOTHERS. 
“Rain, rain, rain; will it never stop?” thought 
little Amy Howard, as she pressed her small face 
close to the window-pane, in the vain attempt to 
see further round the corner, whence sister Anna 
must come from school. It was not one of those 
rainy days which every one loves, when the drops 
fall steadily and cheerily, and one feels sure that 
they are completing their mission as rapidly as 
possible, in order to treat us to a rainbow. It was 
a cheerless, mizzly, drizzly rain, that seemed un¬ 
willing to leave cloud-land, and bent upon making 
everybody sympathize with its ill-humor. 
Poor little Amy looked the embodiment of for- 
lornityas she watched the long, pendulous branches 
of the elms sway hither and thither in an uncom¬ 
fortable manner. She wondered what made the 
rain fall, and if the poor little doves felt it through 
their glossy leathers; but she knew it was quite 
useless to ask her mother, for she would only tell 
her not to ask so many questions, and to keep out 
of her way. 
Mrs. Howard loved her child, but she was a hust¬ 
ling energetic woman, whose chief care was to 
keep a well-ordered and tidy house, and she did 
not understand the delicate nature of the little 
Amy, who had been from infancy a feeble child, 
and stood sadly in need of loving and tender sym¬ 
pathy. She was not beautiful; but for those who 
loved her, there was a depth of love in her little 
heart, which only needed answering sunbeams to 
make it bear sweetest blossoms, and light up her 
wan face with the beauty of contentment. 
This had been such a sad day. In the morning 
she had climbed into a chair to watch her mother’s 
proceedings at the pastry table, when an unlucky 
motion of her hand sent a dish of flour to whiten 
the floor, calling forth an impatient reprimand 
from her mother. Choking back a rising sob, she 
left the table, and essayed to play with her blocks, 
building with them a wall to confine White Lily, her 
kitten. But kitty, impatient at such close impris¬ 
onment, made vigorous efforts to free herself, and, 
as she succeeded, scattered the blocks in every 
direction. 
“What a looking room!” exclaimed Mrs. H.— 
“ I declare, it’s no use to clean up, you get things 
in the way so.” 
No more house-building for Amy after that, so 
she walked up and down the room, singing softly 
to the kitten in her arms, till it was time to look 
for Anna’s return from school—Anna, the dear 
sister, who loved the little one, and never told her 
to keep out of the way. 
At last her patient waiting was rewarded by a 
glimpse of Anna’s bonnet, and with a cry of joy 
Amy bounded to the open hall-door to greet her 
sister with outstretched hands and the words, “ I 
thought you would never come!” 
“ What ails my pet?” said Anna as she took the 
child in her lap, and parting the dark hair from 
her pale face remarked the look of weariness in 
her eyes. 
“ Nothing,” answered Amy, “ only my head aches 
so, and I can’t play without troubling mother.” 
Anna sighed, for she knew the little heart had 
sore trials; so, far into the dusky eve she sat with 
Amy’s head upon her shoulder, telling of the olden 
time when the fairies danced by moonlight upon 
the greensward, when every hill and dale, every 
river and tiny streamlet, was haunted by unearthly 
beings. Then she told of heaven, made glorious by 
God and the angels, and, as Amy listened, her eyes 
beamed with delight, and she exclaimed, raising 
her head with animation: 
“ Anna, I must go there, I must—is it such a long 
way?” Suddenly a shadow darkened her face, as 
she said sadly, “Perhaps, though I should get in 
the way of the angels—I am so careless.” 
“ Never, darling,” said the sister, clasping more 
closely the little form, which an almost prophetic 
sense was too surely fading away. 
At midnight there were hurried steps and anxious 
questions, as the household was awakened by 
Anna’s cry that Amy was very ill. After days of 
watching, a weeping group surrounded the bed of 
the dying child. 
“Mother,” said Amy’s feeble voice, “I didn’t 
mean to be naughty, and get in your way so much. 
I hope I shan’t trouble the angels — good-bye, 
mother, I am going to sleep.” And little Amy 
was dead. 
Long years the grass has grown on Amy’s grave, 
and harebells have rung their fairy chimes above 
it, while the birds sing requiems in the shadowing 
trees; but nightly, as she lays her head upon her 
pillow, Mrs. Howard sees the pale weary face of 
her child, and hears a sweet voice say, “ Mother I 
did not mean to get in the way.” Not all in vain 
was the lesson taught by those dying lips. Seeds 
of gentleness and patience were sown in the 
mother’s heart, which, watered with the tears of 
repentance, give promise of an abundant harvest 
of peace.— Little Pilgrim. 
SMALL TALK. 
“Of all the expedients to make the heart 
lean, the brain gauzy, and to thin life down into the 
consistency of a cambric kerchief, the most success¬ 
ful is the little talk which, in some charmed circles, 
is courteously styled conversation. How human 
beings can live on such meager fare—how continue 
existence in such a famine of topics and on such a 
short allowance of sense—is a great question, if 
philosophy could only search it out. All we know 
is, that such men and women there are, who will go 
on dwindling in this way from fifteen to fourscore, 
and never a hint on their tombstones that they died 
at last of consumption of the head and marasmus 
of the heart! The whole universe of God, spread¬ 
ing out its splendors and terrors, pleading for their 
attention, and they wonder ‘where Mrs. Somebody 
got that divine ribbon to her bonnet?’ The whole 
world of literature through its thousand trumps of 
fame, adjuring them to regard its garnered stores 
of emotion and thought, and they think, ‘It’s high 
time if John intends to marry Sarah for him to pop 
the question!’ When, to he sure, this flippery is 
spiced with a little envy and malice, and prepares 
its small dishes of scandal and nice hits of detrac¬ 
tion, it becomes endowed with a slight venomous 
vitality, which does pretty well, in the absence of 
the soul to carry on the machinery of living, if not 
the reality of life.” 
I LOVE TO LIVE 
“ I love to lire,’’ said a prattling boy, 
As he gaily played with his new-bought toy, 
And a merry laugh went echoing forth 
From a bosom filled with joyous mirth. 
«I love to live,” said a stripling bold— 
“ I will seek for fame—I will toil for gold,” 
And he formed in his pleasure many a plan 
To be carried out when he grew a man. 
“ I love to live,” said a lover true, 
“ Oh, gentle maid, I would live for you; 
I have labored hard in search of fame— 
I have found it but an empty name.” 
“ I love to live,” said a happy sire, 
As his children neared the winter fire; 
For his heart was cheered to see their joy, 
And he almost wished himself a boy. 
“ I love to live,” said an aged man, 
Whose hour of life was well nigh ran— 
Think you such words from him were wild. 
The old man was again a child. 
And ever thus in this fallen world 
Is the banner of hope to the breeze unfurled; 
And only with hope of life on high, 
Can a mortal ever love to die. 
I LIVE TO LOVE. 
«I live to love,” said a laughing girl, 
As she playfully tossed each flaxen curl; 
And she climbed on her loving father’s knee, 
And snatched a kiss in her childish glee. 
“ 1 live to love,” said a maiden fair, 
As she twined a wreath of her sister’s hair; 
They were hound by the cords of love together, 
And death alone could these sisters sever. 
“ I live to love,” said a gay young bride, 
Her loved one standing by her side; 
Her life told again what her lips had spoken, 
ADd never was the link of affection broken. 
“ I live to love,” said a mother kind— 
«I would live a guide to the infant mind,” 
Her precepts and example given, 
Guided her children home to Heaven. 
«I shall live to love,” said a fading form, 
And her cheek was bright and it was warm 
As she thought of the blessed world on high, 
She would lire to love and never die. 
And ever thus in this lower world, 
Should the banner of love be widely unfurled, 
And when we meet in the world above, 
May we love to live and live to love. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
“GOOD-BYE. ” 
The house is an old one, so old that were it not 
for the vines that cling so tenderly round it, one 
would almost fancy the grey, uneven stones could 
hardly keep their places, for there are wide cracks 
where the mortar has all crumbled away, and the 
little tendrils go creeping in to see what they can 
do to keep the old house together a little longer. 
But there has been music and sunshine in that 
home for many a year, for the old walls have caged 
as sweet a bird as ever warbled out of Paradise, 
and a pair of fond, doting old parents have watch¬ 
ed a human flower as it budded and blossomed 
into perfect womanhood, trembling lest the sweet 
voice should he hushed, or the light foot falter.— 
“ Bless her, bless her,” they have whispered, as a fair 
young girl flitted from room to room with a heart 
full of happy dreams, and a hurst of song forever 
upon her red lips. 
But what was it the old man was saying this 
morning about the eagle and the dove? They are 
all together in the old hall now, father, mother and 
child. There are tears upon the mother’s cheek, 
and bright drops trembling in the young girl’s 
eyes, with a rainbow of love and hope breaking, 
oh! so brightly, through the mist And another 
is there,—a tall form, with a strong arm on which 
the maiden leans, and a dark eye that watches lov¬ 
ingly her April face. There is a voice that draws 
her heart-strings far more strongly, whispering, 
“ come love, come,” than those old trembling ones 
that can only murmur, “dear child! good-bye, 
good-bye.” 
Thus the dove forsakes the parent nest 
When the eagle conies to woo, 
And leaves the loving, faithful friends 
For the untried and the new; 
With sunlight on her sunny wings, 
And music in her breast, 
She follows, when the loved one leads 
To share her eagle’s nest. 
Home again,-. The house looks older than 
ever in the dim December light, and the winds go 
moaning in and out among the naked vines. There 
is snow on the roof, on the chimneys, on the trees, 
—everywhere. The grey stones look still greyer 
through their covering of ice. And there are long 
icicles hanging from the eaves, from the windows, 
from the old porch, from every place where the 
snow could find a lodgment before it melted, and— 
froze again. And oh! there is ice upon the heart 
too. A slight form glides through the narrow 
gate-way, and with foot-steps light as the falling 
snow, gains the porch, and passes into the old hall. 
There is hope for the little flowers crushed down 
by the heavy snow drifts, a hope of Spring, of 
resurrection, of a new life; hut there is no hope 
for the heart that is clothed with ice, no melting, 
no thawing on this side the tomb. And what if 
it should melt a little in the warmth of the old 
home, the home where a blessed babe was born, 
and a fair girl dreamed? Melt a little, only to form 
icicles. The old father and mother have their 
child again, all to themselves. Their child! A pale 
face, white hands, a black dress, and a heart cov¬ 
ered with ice. The winter nights are long and 
dreamy to the sleepless one in the old chamber, hut 
—“ the heart knoweth its own bitterness.” Father, 
mother and child are together once more; hut 
there is no longer music and sunshine in the old 
house, only a long silence, and a very dim twilight 
that lasts forever. 
The dove comes back to the parent nest 
When the eagle’s eye grows dim, 
But all the light of her youthful life 
Goes down to the grave with him; 
No rest for the weary, aching heart 
On a hopeless mission sent, 
Forever longing to wander forth 
The way that her eagle went. 
Hadley, Mich., 1858. Jenny A. Stoxe. 
SATURDAY NIGHT. 
“Beautiful, exceedingly," used to he the ap¬ 
proach to Sunday in old times, with its threshold 
made of a Saturday night. The tide of passion 
and the glow of ambition went down with Satur¬ 
day’s sun, and life’s fever was followed by a sleep. 
The blacksmith’s bellows grew breathless, and his 
hammer lay silent upon the anvil; the fitful tink¬ 
ling of a bell denoted the last wanderer of the flock 
safe in the fold; the mill’s “big wheel” stood still, 
and the upper and lower sections of its battened 
door were closed; the “ironing” of the old-fash¬ 
ioned mother was aired, and folded, and laid away; 
the last loaf was drawn from the glowing cavern 
of the old brick oven; the boys had come back 
from the creek, their brown feet twinkling lighter 
in the grass, and their damp hair a shade darker 
than it was; a light glimmers dimly through the 
great windows of the church; young men and 
maidens go in by pairs, and pretty soon, through 
the shadowy air, there float the blended voices that 
we used to love, in Windham, Mear and Silver 
Street, “Dundee’s wild and warbling measures 
rise,” and sweet old Cornith falls upon the ear; 
the moon surmounts the woods, and rides a mo¬ 
ment like a ship upon the leafy waves, then hears 
away for the blue waters of God’s yEgean, and over 
all that scene the night it rules. The dews grow 
radiant and restless in the grass beneath it, as if 
earth were our mother, and she really breathed; 
the mist of grey that with the willows fringe the 
stream, are silver, and the memory of that hour is 
gold.— Chicago Journal 
HOW TO TAKE LIFE 
Take life like a man—take it by the fore-lock, 
by the shoulders, by the spine, by every limb and 
part Take it just as though it was—as it is—an 
earnest, vital, essential affair. Take it just as 
though you personally was born to the task of per¬ 
forming a merry part in it; as though the world 
had waited for your coming. Take it as though it 
was a grand opportunity to do and to achieve; to 
carry forward great and good schemes; to help 
and cheer a suffering, weary, it may be heart-sick¬ 
ened brother. 
The fact is, life is unvalued by a great majority 
of mankind. It is not made half as much of as 
should he the case. Where is the man or woman 
who accomplishes one tithe of what might be 
done? Who cannot look back upon opportunities 
lost, plans unachieved, thoughts crushed, aspira¬ 
tions unfilled, and all because of the lack of the 
necessary and possible effort. If we knew better 
how to take and make the most of life, it would be 
far greater than it is. Now and then a man stands 
aside from the crowd, labors earnestly, steadfastly, 
confidently, and straightway becomes famous for 
wisdom, intellect, skill, greatness of some sort— 
The world wonders, admires, idolizes; and yet it 
only illustrates what each may do if he takes hold 
of life with a purpose—by the head and shoulders. 
If a man but say he will, and follows it up by the 
right effort, there is nothing in reason he may not 
expect to accomplish. There is no magic, no mi¬ 
racle, no secret to him who is brave in heart and 
determined in spirit. —Boston Mirror. 
BRIDE AND GROOM A CENTURY AGO. 
To begin with the lady. Her locks were strained 
upward over an immense cushion that sat like an 
incubus on her head, and plastered over with po¬ 
matum, and then sprinkled over with a shower of 
white powder. The height of this tower was some¬ 
what over a foot One single white rosebud lay 
on its top like an eagle on a hay stack. Over her 
neck and bosom was folded a lace handkerchief 
fastened in front by a bosom pin rather larger than 
a dollar, containing your grandfather’s miniature 
set in virgin gold. Her airy form was braced up 
in a satin dress, the sleeves as tight as the natural 
skin of the arm, with a waist formed by a bodice, 
worn outside, from whence the skirt flowed off, and 
was distended at the top by an ample hoop. Shoes 
of white kid, with peaked toes, and heels of two 
or three inches elevation, inclosed her feet, and 
glittered with spangles, as her little pedal members 
peeped curiously out 
Now for the swain. His hair was sleeked back 
and plentifully befloured, while his cue projected 
like the handles of a skillet His coat was a sky 
blue silk, lined with yellow; his long vest of white 
satin, embroidered with gold lace; his breeches of 
of the same material, and tied at the knee with 
pink ribbons. White silk stockings and pumps 
with laces and ties of the same hue completed 
the habiliments of his nether linen. Lace ruf¬ 
fles clustered around his wrist and a portentous 
frill worked in correspondence, and bearing the 
miniature of his beloved, finished his truly genteel 
appearance.— Selected. 
Life. — Life is no speculative adventure with 
those who feel its value and duties. It has a deeper 
purpose, and its path becomes distinct and easy in 
proportion as it is earnestly and fully pursued. The 
rudest or the most refined pursuit, if adapted to the 
wants and capacities of the pursuer, has a truth, a 
beauty, and a satisfaction. All ships on the ocean 
are not steamers or packets; hut all freight-bear¬ 
ers, fitted to their tasks, and the smallest shallop 
nobly fulfills its mission whilst it pushes on to¬ 
wards its destined port, nor shifts its course be¬ 
cause ships career to other points of the compass. 
Let man ride himself on the ocean of Time. Let 
him learn whether he is by nature a shallop or a 
ship; a coaster or an ocean steamer; and then, 
freighting himself according to his capacity and 
the market he should seek, fling his sail to the 
breeze, riding with wind and tide, if they go his 
course, hut heating resolutely against them if 
they cross his path. Have a well chosen and 
defined purpose, and pursue it faithfully, trusting 
in God, and all will be well. 
Humility. —It is a thing morally impossible, for 
persons proud and ambitious to frame their minds 
to a religion that teaches nothing but self-denial 
and the cross. Humility is the Christian’s greatest 
honor; and the higher men climb, the further they 
are from Heaven.— Burder. 
Advice, says Coleridge, is like snow; the softer 
it falls the longer it dwells upon, and the deeper it 
sinks into the mind. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THEY TELL ME I AM GROWING OLD. 
BY LOIS. 
They tell me “ I am growing old”— 
That on my brow are lines of care— 
That years have left their furrows there— 
That Time, with fingers gaunt and cold 
Is weaving in my auburn hair. 
His lines of frost as if he would prepare, 
For Death, a pathway, and his labors share. 
And 1 repeat “ I am growing old,” 
Then as I pause to ask the meaning 
Of words that uato me are seeming 
Like to an idle tale oft told, 
Or like the vagaries of dreaming, 
I see a light from out the distance streaming— 
The light of life in mellow radiance beaming. 
The light of life, the light of heaven 
That on the wings of love is flying 
To win us from our bitter sighing— 
A holy light by which ’tis given 
To know that Time is only trying 
The bands to sever, that are ’round us tying 
Our worn out garments, and we call it dying. 
Go tell that merry-hearted child, 
Whose little feet are pattering o’er 
The pebbles on life’s sandy shore,— 
Whose laugh rings out so free and wild, 
He’s growing old, because the clothes he wore, 
With so much pride, a month or two before, 
Are now, with rents and patches covered o’er. 
Ah, just as well, as talk of age, 
To me because the garb I’m wearing 
Looks dull—because decay is staring 
Upon me from life’s fairest page. 
New robes are even now preparing, 
And Angels soon shall shout the re-appearing 
Of life’s worn book, the seal, immortal bearing. 
Then talk no more of growing old 
To one whose life shall last for aye— 
Life that throughout unending day 
Shall still in higher forms unfold. 
Well might the blest Redeemer say, 
“They, who on me believe, shall never die!” ' 
Well may we shout, “ Oh, grave, where is thy victory!” 
Columbus, Ohio, 1858. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
“TRUST IN GOD.” 
God employs various means to bring His children 
into a closer union with Himself. He alone un¬ 
derstands our different dispositions, and the neces¬ 
sary discipline in every case. We are erring mor¬ 
tals, and, destitute of grace, are constantly inclined 
to wander from God and place our affections on 
the sublunary things of earth, and God sees fit to 
visit us in affliction that we may rightly appreciate 
the blessings He bestows. Some of us are called to 
walk with poverty; deprived of the comforts of 
life grim want stares us in the face, and it seems 
that all earthly help has failed us, yet we are to 
“trust in God” knowing that “all things shall 
work together for the good of them that love Him.” 
Friends that are dear to us as life itself, are laid 
in the silent grave. God has seen tit to remove 
them in order to teach us the frailty of our own 
natures, and that our affections may be more fully 
centered in Heaven. 
Often temptation crosses our pathway, and it 
seems as though we were left in the tempter’s pow¬ 
er. We are to look to no earthly help, but rely 
upon the promises with an unfaltering trust, and 
the language of our hearts should be, “ though He 
slay me yet will I trust in Him.” 
Want may be ours to endure, friends may prove 
false, or be removed by death, all our earthly pros¬ 
pects be blasted; yet we are to trust in the Lord, 
and in His power to save. We are to lay hold of 
Ilis promises with an unyielding grasp, realizing 
that 
“ Earth has no sorrows that Heaven can not cure.” 
Stafford, N. Y., 1858. Lydia A. Mkewin. 
The Word of God. —When we buffet with a baf¬ 
fling tempest, how gladdening is the glimmer even 
of a lamp seen through the drift, telling us of com¬ 
fort and of home! When we have long been 
driven by the waves and tossed, so that hope has 
fled and exertion become paralyzed, how welcome 
the haven of our rest! When strangers have long 
been our only associates in a foreign land, where 
no face was near to greet us with its smile, how 
pleasant to know, 
“ There is an eye will mark 
Our coming, and look brighter when we come.” 
And how much more gladdening that word of God 
which irradiates the path of a believer, a pillar of 
cloud by day, a pillar of fire by night! In joy or 
in sorrow, in youth or in age, in his place of toil or 
of business, amid unceasing activities, or when the 
sands of life are ebbing low, such a man has a di¬ 
rectory at every hour of need, a counsellor in every 
difficulty—enough to crown his weary life with a 
portion of the joy of his God.— Rev. W. K. Ttceedie. 
Things Lost Forever. — The following words 
from the pen of Lydia II. Sigourney, are full of in¬ 
structive meaning. “ Lost wealth may he restored 
by industry; the wreck of health regained by tem¬ 
perance; forgotten knowledge restored by study; 
alienated friendship smoothed into forgetfulness; 
even forfeited reputation won by patience and 
virtue. But who ever looked upon his vanished 
hours, recalled his slighted years, stamped them 
with wisdom, or effaced from Heaven’s record the 
fearful blot of wasted time. The foot-print on the 
sand is washed out by the ocean wave; and easier 
might we, when years are fled, find that footprint 
than recall lost hours.” 
Tread Softly. —The Jews wmuld not willingly 
tread upon the smallest piece of paper in their way, 
but took it up; for possibly, said they, the name of 
God may he on it Though there was a little super¬ 
stition in this, yet truly there is nothing hut good 
religion in it, if we apply it to men. Trample not 
on any; there may be some work of grace there 
that thou knowest not of. The name of God may 
be written upon that soul that thou treadest on; a 
soul that Christ thought so much of as to give his 
precious blood for it; therefore despise it not. 
Christian Love. —The more believers love God, 
the more they love one another; as the lines of a 
circle, the nearer they come to the centre, the 
nearer they come to each other.— Chamock. 
