184 
JUNE 5 
MOORE'S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
PLEASURES OF AGE. 
Oh! they tell me 'tin sweet to be yonng and gay 
Ere the ages of sorrow have rolled; 
But with me only lingers life’s last closing day, 
And I read by its light I am passing away, 
Yet ’tis sweet to be thus growing old. 
Do ye wonder why I so joyfully greet 
The calm sunset of life’s transient day 5 
The farmer rejoices to see in the Spring 
Every blade that will promise his harvest to bring, 
Wliile the Summer is passing away. 
But far higher his rapture when summer is pa6t 
And the quiet of Autumn has come, 
When his family smiles round his well-furnished board, 
When the grain is all gathered—the vintage all stored, 
And they join in the chorus of home. 
So my Autumn of life with its harvest has come, 
And I’ve gathered my sheaves one by one, 
All the seedlings of kindness I sowed in life’s spring, 
An abundant harvest of blessings will bring, 
When my labors of life are all done. 
I am growing old! 0, the soft twilight hour 
Is far sweeter than the mid-day to me, 
When the noisy commotion of daylight is past, 
When we come to the quiet of evening at last. 
Like the lull of the tempest at sea. 
Oh, the lays that once charmed me were hush’d long ago, 
To the years of the past they have rolled, 
Now I hear the sweet music of Heaven to come, 
And I feel in my spirit that I’m going home; 
Oh! ’tis sweet to be thus growing old! 
Nunda, N. Y., 1858. Lyra. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
THE BROKEN SPIRIT. 
Reader, didst thou observe the countenance of 
yonder child? What melancholy looked forth from 
those large, spiritual eyes, so heavenly blue,—the 
smiling lips were wreathed with sadness, and fea¬ 
tures so delicate, were pensively sweet. Did you 
not long to clasp her to your bosom, and shield her 
meek form from the chilling blasts of this heart¬ 
less world? Would’st thou know the true grief of 
this lone one? Follow her as she hastens forward 
to the narrow walk, that weary, sorrowing feet have 
worn so smooth. Here have the aged, the young 
and gay, found their last rest; and here, lies the 
dear mother of our little friend. Now she kneels 
by that flowery mound, and with a broken spirit, 
cries to God for help in this dread hour. Oh, will 
not her soul soon burst its fetters, and find fulness 
of joy at the “living fountain.” 
Markestthou, the fair young bride? What means 
that fixed look, that nervous start? Where is the 
holy light of love that bo lately beamed from those 
dark lustrous eyes now so stony, so dead? What 
has quenched that brightness—what hath set the 
seal of despair upon that pure brow? Is it because 
she has bid adieu to the “ parental hearth,” to oc¬ 
cupy her place there no longer—because she hath 
loosened the “ golden chord” of friendship and 
twined it around one, her chosen friend! That is 
but adding to her happiness, she holdeth nothing 
too dear to give, even her noble soul is lain at his 
feet. She asks no return but his free, hearty love. 
And had she not that? Does not the world know 
her as the wife of his bosom? She bears his name 
—adorns his home—and what more can she hope 
or wish for? Kind husbands, you that rest quietly 
in your “self-complacency,” answer what Have 
you ever thought of the great sacrifice she made 
when leaving her childhood’s heme, to grace your 
own? Have you been careful to show her the ten¬ 
der love that marked your earlier acquaintance? 
or, do you meet her with that haughty, sovereign 
air, that solicits only obedience? Could you but 
look at the “ sensitive heart,” in its true light, 
would you ever again assume such coldness—and 
wound afresh that broken spirit ? 
Seest thou the fond mother? How radiant her 
smile—how cheerful her tone—how warm the wel¬ 
come. Every burden loses its weight, and care sits 
lightly, where love so predominates. Her weary 
soul finds repose, as she gazes upon the little form 
before her, and views a flowery pathway for those 
tender feet, never dreaming of the “ hidden thorns’’ 
that will pierce his soul, or listening to the “ ser¬ 
pent-like’^ hisses of vice and jealousy, that will 
send fire to his brain. Years pass—we again be¬ 
hold the mother bowed with grief, her cup of sor¬ 
row o’erfloweth. Her loved son, is in darkness, 
and in chains. Those “ hidden thorns” have en¬ 
tered his heart—those hisses have sounded in his 
ears; and.altho’ he dies—yet it is in Hope, for his 
mother’s prayers have been heard though offered 
with a broken spirit. M. A. E. H. 
Shuslian, Washington Co., N. Y., 1858. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
YOUR ABSENT DAUGHTERS. 
Not long since, I noticed an article in the Rural 
relating to sons absent from home, attending 
school, and thought that some of the ideas there 
thrown out, would apply equally as well to our 
boadng-school misses. Parents little realize, while 
they art cozily enjoying the perusal of their numer¬ 
ous periodicals, that their daughters are deprived 
of this privilege, that they not only pass days and 
weeks, but e-*en months without a single paper, 
either secular or religious, and can, therefore, 
know nothing of what is passing on in the world 
without. We inmates of a Seminary are a little 
world of ourselves; we pass over the same routine 
of duties from week to week, u ,. • regardless of 
those without, during a period of from Bix to nine 
months, and at the end of t‘ at time, return to onr 
homes. 
Then it is we fully realize th?t we are entirely 
ignorant of many events which have occurred 
during our sojourn at school. Thi. is only one of 
the numerous disadvantages resulting from a non¬ 
perusal of those journals, with which we are so 
familiar, when at home. Would not you.- daugh¬ 
ters return to you, possessing a far greater degree 
of intelligence, were they supplied with the useful 
literature of the day, during their absence? Won. 1 j 
not the improvement over-balance the expense? 
Try and see. Linda Lake. 
Cayuga, N. Y., 1858. 
Deference to superiors in age and station is not 
servility, but good sense. 
HINTS TO MOTHERS. 
Young women, particularly those brought up in 
luxury and indolence, are too apt to consider do¬ 
mestic concerns beneath their notice. This is a 
great mistake. Women should from their infancy 
be accustomed to have the direction of some de¬ 
partment in their father's house; they should keep 
the accounts, learn to purchase the various articles 
used in housekeeping, and know how each may be 
employed to most advantage. Meanwhile, care 
must be taken that economy degenerate not into 
avarice, explain the folly of this passion, remind 
them that it increases with age, that it is very dis¬ 
graceful, and that a prudent woman should only 
endeavor, by a frugal and diligent life, to avoid the 
shame attached to prodigality and extravagance. 
It is necessary to curtail all useless expenses in 
order to be more liberal in acts of benevolence, 
charity, and friendship. Frequently that which 
costs most at first, is ultimately cheapest, and it is 
a general good management, not a mean parsimony, 
that is truly profitable. Do not fail to represent 
the folly of those women who eagerly save a wax 
candle, while they suffer themselves to be cheated 
in objects of importance. 
Teach your daughters to pay great attention to 
neatness and regularity, and accustom them not to 
suffer anything dirty or slatternly about their per¬ 
sons or in their houses. Tell them nothing con¬ 
tributes so much to economy as keeping everything 
in its proper place; this rule, though apparently 
trifling, is highly important, and should be strictly 
observed. When your daughters first begin to at¬ 
tend to domestic concerns, let them commit some 
errors, as it is well to sacrifice something to im¬ 
provement; point out what they should have done 
to avoid these inconveniences, and teach them 
what you have yourself learned by experience. Be 
not afraid to tell them of similar mistakes you 
committed While young, for by these means you 
will inspire them with confidence in themselves, 
and without which they will never do anything 
welL— Selected. 
WOMAN THE EQUAL OF MAN. 
The relation between man and woman is the 
most beautiful expression of the great law of na¬ 
ture. Woman is simply the equal of man—nothing 
more, nothing less. We have no right to deter¬ 
mine what is woman’s sphere by any arbitrary pre¬ 
judices. I cannot recognize any such fact as man’s 
rights or woman’s rights; I only recognize human 
rights. Woman’s orbit is the orbit of her human¬ 
ity, and hence she ought to be man’s equal—equal 
before the world, before the law, as before God. 
And let no one be disturbed by visions of strong- 
minded women, with spectacles, lecturing on 
Kansas. The question is, what is truth, and not 
what are the imaginable consequences. Man may 
run against God’s will, but cannot alter it. I urge 
that woman should actually be something more 
than she has been held to be. She has been placed 
above the scale and cast below it; she has been 
man’s slave and his empress. 
In one place you may see her, the poor drudge 
of the wash-tub or the needle, working to support 
a drunken husband; in another place we see her 
in some parlor listening to the confectionery of 
small talk furnished by some dandy. Society 
around us is but little more than a modification of 
these two pictures. What we want is some way of 
deliverance for woman from being a mere slave, 
and something more substantial than those accom¬ 
plishments which make her a mere gewgaw. 
The true idea of civilization will never be un¬ 
folded till woman has been placed upon an equality 
with man. In the cabin of the Mayflower — in the 
war of the Revolution, when the wives loaded the 
muskets, there were such men, because there were 
such women. The grandest transaction of history 
is unfolded, when she stands nearest to man as an 
equal; and when Christianity shall have reached 
its highest point, her heart will be near his hand. 
Let women stand upon the ground of their human 
nature, then there will be mutual honor and mutual 
help; then there will be no discordant music in the 
march from the paradise which they left together— 
to that paradise which they hope to attain. — Rev. 
E. II. Chapin. 
ON GROWING OLD. 
A writer in Chamber's Edinburgh Journal makes 
the following remarks on females growing old:— 
To “ grow old gracefully”—as one who truly has 
exemplified her theory, has written and expressed 
it—is a good and beautiful thing; to grow old 
worthily, a better. And the first effort to that end 
is not only to recognize, but to become personally 
reconciled to the fact of youth’s departure; to see, 
or, if not seeing, to have faith in the wisdom of 
that which we call change, yet which is in trnth 
progression; to follow openly and fearlessly, in 
ourselves and our own life, the same law which 
makes spring pass into summer, summer into au¬ 
tumn, autumn into winter, preserving an especial 
beauty and fitness in each of the four. 
Yes, if women could only believe it, there is a 
wonderful beauty even in growing old. The 
charm of expression arising from softened temper 
or ripened intellect, often amply atones for the loss 
of form and coloring; and, consequently, to those 
who never could boast either of these latter, years 
give much more than they take away. A sensitive 
person often requires half a lifetime to get thor¬ 
oughly used to this corporeal machine, to attain a 
wholesome indifference both to its defects and per¬ 
fection—and to learn at last, what nobody would 
acquire from any teacher but experience, that it is 
the mind alone which is of any consequence; that 
with a good temper, sincerity, and a moderate stock 
of brains—or even the two former only—any sort 
of body can in time be made useful, respectable 
and agreeable, as a traveling dress for the soul.— 
Many a one, who was absolutely plain in youth, 
thus grows pleasant and well-looking in declining 
years. You will hardly ever find anybody, not 
ugly in mind, who is repulsively ugly in person after 
middle life. 
Conversation. —The most casual remark lives 
fi rever in its effects. There is not a word which 
hat not amoral history. And hence it is that every 
“ idle word ” which men utter, assumes a character 
so impt’ tant, hat at- inquest will be held on it in 
the genei.’l judgment— Harris. 
TRIP LIGHTLY OVER TROUBLE. 
Trip lightly over trouble, 
Trip lightly over wrong; 
We only make grief double 
By dwelling on it long. 
Why clasp woe’s hand so tightly? 
Why sigh o’er blossoms dead? 
Why cling to forms unsightly? 
Why not seek joy instead. 
Trip lightly over sorrow, 
Though this day may be dark, 
The suu may shine to-morrow, 
And gaily sing the lark; 
Fair hope has not departed, 
Though roses may hare fled; 
Then never be down-hearted, 
But look tor joy instead. 
Trip lightly over sadness, 
Stand not to rail at doom; 
Wo've pearls to string of gladness, 
On this side of the tomb; 
While stars are nightly shining, 
And heaven is e’erhead, 
Encourage not repining, 
But look for joy instead, 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
“ WAIFS" — HO. V. 
Teasing. —If there is any one thing under the 
sun to be detested more than another, it is teasing. 
Flattery is good for an emetic, but teasing is a 
regular blister. We never could abide it, and we 
never shall; our patience always gave way under 
its inflictions, and we hope it always will, thinking 
indignation, in such a case, is of the kind called 
“ righteous.” 
There are few, we fancy, who have not, in some 
one of life’s unlucky moments, been assailed by a 
tongue proficient in this art, and fairly beaten out 
of breath in a contradiction, if not,—lacking the aid 
of an elevated organ of firmness and a broad one 
of conscientiousness,—entirely vanquished in the 
“ battle of tongues.” 
Firstly, there are the peddlers, swarming through 
the country ’till one might wonder if another 
Moses with his “rod” has come into existence; 
deeming the “ plague” as woeful as that'of “ frogs 
and locusts” which besieged the hardness of Pha¬ 
raoh’s heart, in Jewish history. Any one who can 
listen unmoved to a greasy Dutchman’s “palaver” 
about the contents of a piece of bed-ticking, which 
fancy might suggest had been bitten by a mad dog 
and went into fits at the sight of water; any one 
who can endure the laudations of a strainer-like 
fabric which its owner designates as “fine Irish 
linen, ma’am, sellin’ it chape, sure;” any one who 
is not afflicted with a frantic wish for “ ventilators” 
in the nasal region when a battered tin trunk, con¬ 
taining “ the purest of essences, pills, lotions, salves, 
etc.,” is deposited beside a just filled tea-table; any 
one who can do this, we say, is a good deal nearer 
possessing the attributes of patience, meekness 
and endurance, than we e\pr hope to be. But to 
add teasing to all this,—to ibe told that you need a 
thing when you affirm that you do not,—to be as¬ 
sured when you say “ mother has plenty of table¬ 
cloths,” that you should beku tting some yourself,— 
to be asked, impudently, «Tt|r you have been eyed 
and quizzed, your looks “soft-soaped” and your 
age guessed at, if you are “the lady of the house?” 
with the addition of “thought you looked rather 
young,”—and to have the last “ drop in the bucket” 
put in by a pitiful lie about “suffering friends,” 
“ starving children,” etc., is carrying aggravation 
beyond the limits of human endurance. 
Then there is the neighborly teasing. When one 
takes her work, intending to spend an hour or two 
with a neighbor and return in time for the fulfill¬ 
ment of duties at home, it is anything but agreea¬ 
ble to have the comfort of a reflection as to the 
pleasantness of such a call thoroughly spoiled by 
the assurance when you ai’ise with the remark that 
you “ must be going,” that you must not do any 
such thing, you’ve got to stay to tea, why won’t 
you? Ac. No one can be blamed for thinking such 
a free use of “ must not” and the like, not strictly 
in accordance with the code of good manners. 
And the hospitable teasing. Haven’t you, when 
taking tea with people who have the best of inten¬ 
tions, but the worst way of making them apparent, 
had each morsel of food stopped midway between 
mouth and plate by “ do take some of this,” “you 
must have some of that,” “ why can't you eat,” or 
“you must taste of what I made on purpose for 
you?” And have you always been able to add 
“ thank you” to your “ no ?” 
Ah, well, a good kind of ill, may be the comment 
of philosophy, but we pray for patience. 
Bird-Songs. —“ The time of the singing of birds” 
has truly come. The quick notes have a glad ring 
outside our chamber window in the early mornings, 
they drop down to us from choirs that worship with 
music under the arches of “ God’s first temples,” 
and looking *)r the first blossoms on the orchard 
trees, there are yellow coats and blue coats, cherry- 
colored vests and brown neckerchiefs from under 
whose downy foldings come rich gushes of song, 
mellow, with an exquisite finish of nature in every 
trill which art may never hope to reach. 
We pity the one who never notices bird-songs— 
who cares nothing for them. Some chord on the 
“harp of a thousand strings” must be sadly out of 
tune when one cannot pause to listen to the beauty, 
the happiness, the religion that is in them—some 
spark of an “evil and consuming fire” must be 
within the' heart that has not its deepest feeling 
awakened by the glad exhortation that swells 
through their bounding measures, and sinks to the 
slightest sound of melody in their lower cadences. 
But there is nothing more sad than a mournful 
bird-song, nothing that strikes quicker to the 
heart’s human pity. We heard one outside our 
home-door the other morning, and looking out 
saw the tiny singer swinging on a maple-bough, 
but there was only the song, the repeating of a 
long, low grief-note, as a clue to its sorrow, and 
that we could not interpret, though fancy took 
broad license and wove a romance for the bird such 
as is sometimes lived out by mortals. 
Perchance some naughty “birdie dear” had 
brought to the wee heart a “ magic passion,” foster¬ 
ing it by coquettish songs and coy glances, only to 
give it the word of death when another admirer 
came, or it might have been that the heart-mate had 
died, or dreary rains had spoiled the “nest,” or,— 
well, the reader probably possesses as good “ guess¬ 
work” for foundation of other “ might have beens” 
as we, so the rest may be imagined. 
But we say to you—when the daylight looks in 
at the “ window of the soul,” calling it to action, 
to strong endeavor and high purpose,—go out first 
and listen to the morning psalm of these sweet 
singers, let the beauty of the light in which you 
stand and the stirriDg life that is around you give 
you strength that seems not of earth but Heaven, 
and you will know then what the religion of nature 
is, that its height and breadth and depth, its undy¬ 
ing strength, and the seal of its communion with 
God, lies in its "good works." 
Charlotte Centre, N. Y., 1858. Eli.em C. Lakh. 
LIVE WITHIN YOUR MEANS. 
Wk'don’t like stinginess. We don’t like “ econ¬ 
omy” when it comes down to rags and starvation. 
We have no sympathy with the notion that the 
poer man should hitch himself to a post and stand 
still while the rest of the world moves forward.— 
It is no man's duty to deny himself of every 
amusement, every luxury, every recreation, every 
comfort that he may become rich. It is no man’s 
duty to make an iceberg of himself—to shut his 
eyes and ears to the sufferings of his fellows—and 
to deny himself the enjoyment that results from 
generous actions—merely that he may hoard wealth 
for his heirs to quarrel about 
But there is yet an economy which is every man’s 
duty, and which is especially commendable in the 
man who struggles with poverty — an economy 
which is consistent with happiness, and which 
must be practiced, if the poor man would secure 
independence. 
It is every man’s privilege, and it becomes his 
duty to live within his means; not up to, but with¬ 
in them. Wealth does not make the man, we ad¬ 
mit, and should never be taken into the account 
in our judgment of men. But competence should 
be secured when it can be; and it almost always 
can be, by the practice of economy and self-de¬ 
nial to only a tolerable extent. It should be secur¬ 
ed, not so much for others to look upon, or to raise 
us in the estimation of others, as to secure the 
consciousness of independence, and the constant 
satisfaction that is derived from its acquirement 
and possession. 
We would like to impress this single fact upon 
the mind of every laboring man who may peruse 
this short article—that it is possible for him to rise 
above poverty, and that the path to independence, 
though beset with toils and self-sacrifice, is much 
pleasanter to the traveler than any one he can en¬ 
ter upon. 
The man who feels that he is earning something 
more than he is spending, will walk the streets 
with a much lighter heart, and enter his home 
with a much more cheerful countenance than he 
who spends as he goes, or falls gradually behind 
his necessities in acquiring the means of meeting 
them. 
Next to the slavery of intemperance there is no 
slavery on earth more galling than that of poverty 
and indebtedness. The man who is everybody’s 
debtor is everybody’s slave, and in a much worse 
condition than he who serves a single master. 
For the sake of the present, then, as well as fSr 
the sake of the future, we would most earnestly 
urge upon every workingman to live within his 
means. Let him lay by something every day—if 
but a penny, be it a penny — it is better than 
nothing; infinitely better than running in debt, a 
penny a day or a penny a week. If he can cam 
a dollar let him try, fairly and faithfully, the ex¬ 
periment of living on ninety cents. He will like it. 
“ People will laugh.” Let them laugh. “ They 
will call me stingy.” Better be called stingy than 
say you do not pay your debts. “ They will won¬ 
der why I do not have better furniture, live in a 
finer house, and attend concerts 8nd the play 
house.” Let them wonder, for a while, it won’t 
hurt them, and it certainly won’t you. By and by 
you can have a fine house, and fine furniture of 
your own, and they will wonder again, and come 
billing and cooing around you, like so many pleas¬ 
ed fools. Try the experiment. Live within your 
means.— Maine Farmer. 
Vanity of the “Lords of Creation.” —Who 
does not know that the man is a thousand times 
vainer than the woman? He does but follow the 
analogy of nature. Look at the red Indian, in that 
blissful state of nature from which (so philosophers 
inform those who choose to believe them) we all 
sprang. Which is the boaster, the strutter, the 
bedizener of his sinful carcass with feathers and 
beads, fox tail and bear’s claws—the brave, or his 
poor little squaw? An Australian settler’s wife 
bestows on some poor slaving gin, a cast-off French 
bonnet; before she has gone a hundred yards, her 
husband snatches it off, puts it on his own mop, 
quiets her for its loss with a tap of the waddice, 
and struts on in glory. Why not? Has he not the 
analogy of all nature on his side? Have not the 
male birds and male moths fine feathers, while the 
females go soberly about in drab and brown?— 
Does the lioness, or the Bod, rejoice in the grandeur 
of a mane? the hind, or the stag, in antlered pride? 
How know we but that, in some more pefect and 
natural state of society, the women will dress like 
so many quakeresses, while the frippery shops will 
become the haunts of men alone, and “brooches, 
pearls and owches,” be consecrated to the nobler 
sex? There are signs already, in the dress of our 
young gentlemen, of such a return to the law of 
nature from the present absurd state of things, in 
which the human heathens carry about the gaudy 
trains which are the peacocks’right— Two Years 
Ago. _ 
What I call an old man, is a person with a 
smooth, shining crown, and a fringe of scattered 
white hairs, seen in the streets on sunshiny days, 
stooping as he walks, bearing a cane, moving 
cautiously and slowly; telling old stories, smiling 
at present follies, living in a narrow world of dry 
habits; one that remains walking when others have 
dropped asleep, and keeps a little night lamp flame 
of life burning year after year, if the lamp is not 
upset, and there is a careful hand held round it to 
prevent the puff's of wind from blowing the flame 
out. That’s what I call an old man.— Selected. 
Deeds are fruits—words are but leaves. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
PASSING AWAY. 
Though the circles of pleasure seem happy and bright, 
And nature looks smiling and gay; 
Yet oft to the heart amid scenes of delight, 
Come tokens of passing away. 
Ah, yes! ’tis a fact ever mournfully true, 
Though pleasure and folly deny; 
Those scenes that are brightest and dearest to view 
Are quickest to vanish and die. 
You may wander o’er earth thro’ her sunniest vales, 
Where youth blooms in beauty alway, 
Yet there, on the wingB of the balmiest gales, 
Are wafted the seeds of decay. 
Go search for the rose, dyed with crimson and red, 
That yesterday bloomed 'neath the hill— 
Its leaflets are scattered—its beauty is fled — 
Its breath only lingers there still. 
Go view the stout oak, whose branches are spread 
In the depths of the forest aVay, 
The leaves of his crown are withered and dead, 
He must yield to the breath of decay. 
Go visit the hovel where poverty dwells— 
Where sorrow and wretchedness stay— 
Ah! sad is the story the broken heart tells 
Of hopes that have withered away. __ 
In the fondly loTed home, where affection’s bright chain, 
Like a rainbow encircles the hearth \ 
The sorrowing heart and the ties rent in twain, 
Tell of gems that have faded from earth. 
Ye are passing away—it is thundered around 
By the voice of the cataract's roar, 
And ocean re-echoes the sorrowful sound, 
Till it vibrates from island to shore. 
And oft the wild winds as they sweep o'er the plains, 
Where empires and kings lie forgot; 
Repeating their story in sad wailing strains, 
Will whisper, “ they were, but are not.” 
Thus Nature, and Reason, and Time will reply 
That earth with its joys must decay, 
That Heaven alone, in those mansions on high, 
Hath pleasures that pass not away. 
Somerset, N. Y., 1858. W. C. W. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THE ORPHAN'S PRAYER. 
It was a clear, cold night. Overhead the blue 
sky and quiet stars looked down upon earth and 
smiled serene and sweet Beneath, with robes of 
purest white flung O'er her peaceful bosom, earth 
slept Activity cea-ed its humjand^sank to rest 
cradled on the pillow of repose. In the homes of 
the affluent the favored ones of earth reclined on 
their couches of luxurious ease, little dreaming of 
the dark-winged sorrow that hovered round the 
couch of the lowly—little dreaming that the sunny 
smile of fortune which gilds their own bright life- 
path beams not equally upon alL On such a night 
angels visit earth on missions of love and oftenest 
look in upon the humble inmates of the lowly cot 
—oftenest whisper peace and hope to the home¬ 
less little ones who wander through this bleak cold 
world alone. No, not quite alone. There is a 
friend—unlike to earthly friends—who turns not 
away in cold disdain when chill adversity casts its 
dark shadow athwart the way, but kindly promises 
to be a father to the fatherless, and the orphan's 
God. 
Little Made)), was no stranger to this cheering 
promise, though a stranger to earthly friends and 
fortune, and as she sat at the low casement of her 
garret chamber and pressed her pale cheek close 
against the cold window pane, turning her tearful 
eyes heavenward, the soft murmured prayer, from 
the hearts deep “fount of feeling” quivered on her 
parted lips. “Father in heaven pity Mabel, poor 
orphan Mabel, and take her to that bright home 
above, where mother's gone.” It was the artless 
child’s petition, yet it was heard in heaven—heard 
and answered there. All night long moved on in 
their silent course, glancing brightly down upon 
the sleeping earth, the frost-king's busy fingers— 
wearied not in their toil, painting curious and fan¬ 
tastic pictures on the window pane—hanging the 
crystal icicle from the bending eaves—crisping the 
tiny snow-flakes—fettering the babbling brook in 
icy chains—stiffening with cold theMittle form 
wrapped in its one thin coverlet. All night long, 
and the morning came—the rosy light crept in at 
the garret window and fell upon a little beauteous 
face upturned and smiling sweetly, though beneath 
those little hands, folded quiet on the still bosom, 
no heart beat with the pulse of life—from out those 
blue eyes beamed no glance of awakening con¬ 
sciousness. The beautiful clay tenement remained, 
but an angel had been there and borne away the 
spirit. Mabel had gone home. Lina. 
Sandstone, Mich., 1858. 
The Bible deserves to be out before the world. 
It interests the world—historically, legally, evan¬ 
gelically, and prophetically. I would like to add, 
philosophically: for the soul of all philosophy is 
here. I would like to add, poetically: for the 
bloom of all poetry is here. I would like to add, 
divinely: for the unveiled splendor of the majesty 
and government of the Eternal Jehovah is here. 
Here, and here only, is an absolutely inexhaustible 
universe of reliable intelligence: personally and 
socially, temporally and eternally interesting to 
every faculty and to every destiny of onr race. 
Stockton. 
nearer. 
One sweetly solemn thought 
Comes to me o’er and o’er; 
I’m nearer my home to-day 
Than I’ve ever been before. 
Nearer my Father’s house, 
Where the many mansions be; 
Nearer the great white throne, 
Nearer the jasper sea, 
Nearer the bound of life, 
Where we lay our burdens down; 
Nearer leaving my cross, 
Nearer wearing my crowu. 
Faith in Aged Christians.— After many years 
of piety and usefulness, Thomas Cranfield said. 
« My mind is towards God—seeking him as though 
I never sought him before, alone through the 
atonement and rightousness of Christ. I find I am 
nothing, and can do nothing. I am a poor lost 
sinner, and throw myself at the foot of the cross. 
Time.— Nothing is more precious than time, yet 
nothing is less valued,— Bernard. 
