264 
AUGUST 14. 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
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Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
ONE HARSH WORD. 
One harsh word—’twas thoughtless spoken, 
Yet how deep the wound it gave; 
True friends severed, fond hearts broken 
Now lie silent in the grave. 
One harsh word—oh, think how often 
It has caused the cheek to pale, 
Caused the laughing eyes to moisten, 
Mutely telling the hearts wail. 
One harsh word—'twas to thy mother, 
Yet thou didst not mark the sigh 
That escaped her throbbing bosom, 
Nor the tear that dimmed her eye. 
One harsh word—thine aged father 
May have heard that word from thee, 
O’er his brow do furrows gather 
Oft to pain thy memory. 
One harsh word—oh, loving sister, 
Sped life’s sunshme, once so bright. 
Casting o'er thy path a shadow 
Deeper than the shades of night. 
One harsh word—a brother heareth 
By a sister heedless said, 
Mark how soon and sure it sealeth 
Up affection's fountain head. 
One harsh word—oh, father, mother, 
Speak not thus to childhood’s ear, 
Loving sister, noble brother, 
Gently speak to those who hear. 
Sandstone, Mich., 1868. Adxjle. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
LITTLE STOCKINGS. 
Clarence was tired, so he climbed into his 
mother’s lap and pillowed his golden head on her 
loving breast. The happy mother kissed the up¬ 
turned forehead, and cradling him closer in her 
arms sung a good-night lullaby, until the blue eyes 
languidly closed, and the delicate form drooped 
sleepily. Then a clean white night-dress took the 
place of the little frock and apron,—little stock¬ 
ings were drawn from the baby toes,—and Clar¬ 
ence was left to his peaceful slumbers. I watched 
the careful mother as she performed these offices 
of love for her darling, and as my eyes rested on 
the worn shoes and tiny stockings, I thought of 
my own happy childhood, when I too slept in my 
mother’s arms and wore little stockings. 
Weeks passed. It was the Merry Christmas Time 
and a joyous group were assembled in the old pa¬ 
ternal mansion. Light-hearted children had sat 
upon grandfather’s knee, played with his scattered 
locks, and counted the wrinkles on his dear old 
face. But now good-nights resounded all through 
the old homestead from chamber to trundle-bed, 
and little stockings of all sizes and colors hung 
suspended from every unoccupied nail. How cun¬ 
ningly they looked—round and plump as though 
they still held those restless feet in their embrace. 
When day-light peeped through the blinds what 
a commotion did it witness—what a rage for little 
stockings—how bright eyes sparkled at their con¬ 
tents, and little heads were puzzled to account for 
the capacious dimensions of their once little stock¬ 
ings. Clarence, the youngest pet of all, was in 
high glee—seated on the carpet he clapped his 
chubby hands as he drew forth, one after another, 
the gifts of Santa Claus and scattered them 
around him. 
Winter with its frosts and snows had long since 
passed, and flowery May was fast casting her 
blooming honors at the feet of June, when I visit¬ 
ed once more that cottage home, but Clarence 
came not to meet me on the gravel walk. I en¬ 
tered the cheerful sitting room but my little pet 
was not there to welcome. Perchance he was 
chasing butterflies in the garden, or gathering 
daises in the meadow ? His gentle mother answered 
my queries by pointing to an open drawer in her 
Bleeping apartment. I looked. There lay pure 
white linens nicely folded—little frocks and aprons 
—and in one corner, side by side, rested those lit¬ 
tle stubbed shoes and red stockings. It was 
enough. She said nothing, but I knew she was 
thinking of a mound in the grave-yard, 
“ A calm and sure retreat, 
A marble tablet at its head 
And violets at its feet.” 
0 happy are the w'earers of little stockings,— 
guileless and free, the simple unassuming trust of 
childhood is theirs; and blessed are they who 
shall be called to their “ Father’s home in the Bky” 
ere they attain the perfect growth of man and 
womanhood—ere grief casts a shadow over their 
spirit’s lightness—ere care sets his seal on their 
foreheads, or disappointment blights the fair blos¬ 
soms of hope. The earth is full of snares and 
pitfalls—happy those who escape them ere they 
know of their existence. Omega. 
Wyoming, N. Y., 1858. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
A LEAF FROM MY DIARY. 
June 7th, 18—. I have just left sweet Ella’s 
bed-bide—she is dying. For hours I refused to 
leave her, hoping the dreadful suspense endured 
during that crisis might be followed by the joyful 
prospect of a speedy recovery. But the crisis has 
passed and the destroyer has set his seal on that 
fair young brow, and well we know ere another 
morning dawns upon this beautiful earth, her 
spirit will have escaped its tenement of clay and 
soared to meet its God. I could not see the last 
sore struggle of Nature to retain the lovely spirit 
—I could not see those pretty, speaking eyes glazed 
and fixed in death. I have, therefore, imprinted a 
farewell kiss upon her marble cheek, pressed her 
emaciated hand for the last time, and sought my 
room to assuage my grief in tears. I have wept 
till the fountain is dry, and have derived great 
consolation from the Word of God, which tells me 
we Bhall meet again. 
8th.— Ellen is dead. At the calm twilight—the 
hour she loved so well—she passed from her 
earthly home to a brighter one in Heaven. They 
have folded her pure white hands across her still 
and lifeless bosom, plaited her hair upon her cold 
palo brow, as oft I have done in days gone by, and 
within her narrow coffin have laid my friend. 0, 
how little worthy of our toil and care have all 
things earthly seemed as I have gazed upon that 
loved form still and motionless in the embrace of 
Death. Let us cherish friends fondly and truly as 
mortals may, we cannot shield them from the ar¬ 
rows of the ‘‘swift-winged messenger”—we cannot 
prolong their stay e’en for a moment 
9th.— Ellen lies in the silent tomb. Naught can 
wake her peaceful slumber until “the great trump 
shall sound and those that are in their graves shall 
come forth.” How lonely now will be our hearts 
that have cherished her so tenderly here. Oft 
when cares and sorrows mingle with our earthly 
lot will we Bigh to enter the portals she has passed 
—for there no sorrows come. And if, like gentle 
Ellen, we have, while here, communed with the 
Father of Spirits, we need not fear the grave—it 
will but open the gates of glory to our souls. 
Rush, N. Y., 1868. Nellie. 
FOR WHAT IS WOMAN RESPONSIBLE, 
As a mother, she is responsible, to a very great 
extent, for the order, neatness, the general propriety 
of behavior of her children; for their moral and 
general habits, and in a great degree for their tem¬ 
pers and disposition. 
The government and intellectual improvement 
of the child does not usually arrest the father’s at¬ 
tention until after the period properly belonging 
to infancy shall have passed. Engaged in the 
active business of life, he has not leisure, nor does 
it appear to him that his time should be devoted to 
the mental culture of his children. Tbeir early in¬ 
struction is consequently left almost exclusively 
and entirely to the mother’s watchfulness, care and 
attention; their habits, disposition, modesof think¬ 
ing and acting, may be effectually formed, and 
these may counteract all his judicious efforts for 
their correct education. 
Who does not see, then, how all-important it is 
that those who will so early and so powerfully in¬ 
fluence the minds of the young, consequently affect¬ 
ing so materially their after conduct and destiny, 
should be richly endowed with those gifts and ex¬ 
cellencies so indispensably necessary to the respon¬ 
sible position they occupy. 
The mother should remember that the education 
of the child commences almost with its first breath. 
The mother’s look, the father's tone of voice, either 
in approbation or reproof, a word, a gesture, all 
those apparent trifles go to make up the education 
of the child. As the mother sows the seed of vir¬ 
tue, gentleness and knowledge, so shall the harvest 
be. Let her not only educate or cultivate the 
mind, strengthen the physical system by wholesome 
air and exercise, but also let her see to it that the 
affections and the heart be not neglected. Let her 
remember that she is exercising an influence which 
can never die. The destiny of the child is, to a 
great degree, in her keeping; she cannot overlook 
this part of her duty and her vast responsibility. 
There is another consideration of pressing im¬ 
portance demanding our attention, which is con¬ 
nected with the mother’s bigh and holy mission, 
and that is the consideration of the public good. 
Public happiness is but the aggregate of individual 
or domestic happiness; well-regulated families 
make a well-regulated community; from these 
seats of affection and discipline, and the wholesome 
principles which bind men together in the bonds 
of affection as well as interest, is imparted that so¬ 
cial order that tends so essentially to the general 
welfare. 
The children now reposing upon the lap of ma¬ 
ternal tenderness are to be the future arbiters of the 
State. They are to form our magistrates, legisla¬ 
tors and rulers. To their keeping is to be commit¬ 
ted all the immunities that we possess. In every 
point of view, then, how important is this sphere of 
woman’s duty—how vast her responsibility in rela¬ 
tion to her position in society, and her influence 
upon the destiny of mankind.” 
HBSBANDS AND WIVES. 
In the flush and brilliancy of early married love, 
the first faint impressions of the future husband 
and wife commence. As lovers, their separate dis¬ 
positions were in a state of pleasant antagonism; 
as a wedded pair, they are presumed to be amalga¬ 
mated, and form an entirety which recognises 
mutual interests, advantages and concessions, as 
the basis of their mutual happiness. The husband, 
then, even in the dawn of his marital bliss, should 
begin to create in his wife’s mind those favorable 
sensations which are the precursors of those more 
solid ideas which bind woman to man — by that 
strong intercommunion of soul which only death 
can interrupt. This obligation is equally impera¬ 
tive on the wife. In the heyday of her husband’s 
love, while his heart beats responsive to her every 
wish, and his mind is a fair tablet on which none 
but summer thoughts are engraved, she should be¬ 
gin the study of his character, so that when the 
necessity arises she may be able to accommodate 
her own plastic one to it, without effort or incon¬ 
venience. Indeed, with both of them this should 
early be an object of anxiety, so that gradually 
there should grow up between them a conciliatory 
predisposition of tone and manner, which, when 
brought into requisition, would appear more a 
habit than a duty. Both husband and wife object 
to anything that looks like compulsion; they each 
turn away from even a duty, when clothed in 
repelling garments; and from this it will be appa¬ 
rent how necessary it is that the soil of their tem¬ 
pers, and peculiar mental and moral idiosyncrasies, 
should as early as practicable be sown only with 
those seeds which in after years will yield the 
sweet-smelling flowers that shed such a delicious 
perfume over hallowed and long-tried wedded 
love.— Ponsonby. 
Father and Mother. —Some writer embalms 
these two holy names in the following beautiful 
thoughts:—“ Sweeter praise can never be than that 
of a dying parent, as he blesses the hand that led 
him from sorrow, and is even now soothing the 
cold brow, damp with the spray of Jordan. And 
dear the thoughts as your tears fall upon the sod 
that covers the gray-headed father, that you were 
very kind and loving to him; and you gave cheer¬ 
fully of your abundance, and never caused him to 
feel that you were doing a charity. 
“Never can we repay those ministering angels 
we call father and mother. Angels, though earthly 
have they ever been, from the time that Adam and 
Eve gazed upon their first born, as he slept amid 
roses, while the tiny fingers, the waxen lids and the 
cherub form were all mysterious to them.” 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker 
MUSIC AND BEAUTY. 
BT AMANDA T. JONES. 
I love all things beautiful— 
All thiDgs pure and true; 
Every simple wild-flower. 
Every drop of dew, 
Every curling wavelet, 
Every tender leaf, 
Fresh from the hand of Nature, 
Charmeth away my grief. 
I love all things musical— 
Murmur of wind and wave, 
Voices low and solemn 
As the dirge o’er a loved one’s grave; 
Dropping of dew in the forest, 
Bong of woodland bird— 
Sweetly by music’s wild numbers, 
The depths of my spirit are stirred. 
But, oh, the fullness of beauty 
Lies hid in the soul-lit eye, 
When 1 see 'neath the lifted lashes 
A love that cannot die. 
And of all things full of muBic, 
Naught maketh my heart rejoice, 
Naught stirreth my yielding spirit, 
Like the sound of a loving voice. 
Black Rock, N. Y., 1668. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MR. PLOW1IAKDLE EXCITED. 
Karttail Cottage, July, 1858. 
Col. Moore:— It’s been a long time since I wrote 
to you, not but what I’ve had plenty to wiite about, 
but I’ve been so plaguy busy that I couldn’t find 
time and pluck to sit down to it. Writing don’t 
come natural to me, and then my hand gets so stiff 
that it’s hard work to make my fingers hold the 
pen. Ho wsomever, things has tui ned up lately that’s 
taken all the stiffnin out of my fingers, and I can’t 
hold in any longer. 
WHAT STARTS HIM. 
You see I was over to the corners to get my pa¬ 
pers and letters, at the Post Office, which the mail 
brings in on Friday, and, as the mail hadn’t come 
it yet, I just stepped into the store to wait a few 
minutes for it. Well, who should be there but 
Jones, and a lot of them Buckera as he keeps about 
him for change. As soon as he saw me come in, I 
see him wink at Bill BROAnswARTii, who does his 
laffing, so I knew there was mischief, but I don’t 
like to be backed off till I get ready, so I made up 
my mind I’d stay. Jones owes me a grudge, and 
as to that there is no love lost between us, so says 
he—“Waiting for that picture, I suppose, Mr. 
Plowhandle,” and, at that, Bill haw-hawed as 
loud a3 be could. “ Considerable brass round 
here,” says he. “ By the way,” says he, “ I under¬ 
stand you don’t mean to go in for Supervisor, next 
spring.” A nd then they all laffed enough to split 
their pesky throats. 
I can stand almost anything without winking, 
and don’t often mean to get riled, hut when a fel¬ 
low gits among a pack of mean, contemptible 
scamps, who do all th.e talking, and can out-laff 
him more than two to one, he’s got to be stronger 
hooped than I am, if he don’t burst some. If I’d 
only had somebody to laff for me, I wouldn’t have 
minded. Because, if you’ve got a good laffer or 
two, it ain’t much consequence whether you say 
anjthing smart or not, for you can laff a fellow 
down any time. So the contemptible vagabonds 
had me under the leg, and all I could do was to 
grin and bear it. However, the mail come, and, 
without saying much, I took my papers and start¬ 
ed for home. But you may he sure, Col., I was a 
good deal wamble-cropped. * I felt angry and kind¬ 
er mistifled, and a good deal down in the mouth, 
so when I got home, I didn’t go right into the 
house, hut sat down on the stoop to open the pa¬ 
pers and read them. Of course I opened the Ru¬ 
ral first And, as luck would have it, almost the 
first article I come to was that where you say— 
“Mr. Plowhandle on Awarding Committees at 
Ag. Fairs.” I rubbed my eyes and read on, and 
my feelings began to change, and when I got down 
to where you congratulate me on “ becoming so 
widely useful and famous,” I got right up. 
an explosion. 
I couldn’t stand it any longer, hut just rushed 
right into the room where mother and Susan was, 
and I took off my old hat and set it down on the 
floor, and gin it such a smashing kick, and says I, 
—“Golly morry, whoorraw!” The women looked 
up perfectly astonished. I swung round the pa¬ 
per, and says I—“ Hail Columbia, Yankee Doodle, 
glory!” 
Says mother, “ What’s the matter John?” 
Says I, “Just cut my gallowses and see the bal¬ 
loon go up.” 
“ Why,” says she, “ John, have you been drink¬ 
ing?” 
Says I, “I’ve been drinking from the biggest 
pitcher of glory anybody ever drank from yet.”— 
Says I, “just read that” So I handed her the pa¬ 
per and kinder squeezed my feelings up so as to 
appear cook 
She took the paper and wiped her spectacles, 
and them began to read. Says I “read it out 
loud,” and so she did, and I just stuck my thumbs 
in the arm holes of my jacket, and spread myself 
as I’de seen other great men do, when they come 
round making speeches before election. 
MRS. PLOWHANDLE PHILOSOPHICAL AND SENSIBLE. 
After she’d read it all through, “Now,” says I 
“you see the wood that made the teakettle boil.” 
“ Well, John,” says she, looking up kinder pleas¬ 
ed, “I’m certainly glad if you have been able to do 
good.” 
“ Do good,” says L “Now I know how General 
Jackson felt when he whipped the British, and 
how David felt when he killed Goliah, and how 
Thomas Jefferson felt when he wrote the Consti¬ 
tution of the United States, [ YVe would respectful¬ 
ly suggest that Mr. P. means the Declaration of In¬ 
dependence,) and how Clinton felt when he got the 
canal finished, and how any man must feel when 
he’s become great.” 
“ Ah, John, greatness don’t bring happiness, I’m 
afraid.” 
“Give me fame anyhow.” 
“ But fame won’t give you the rest and peace of 
mind, and happiness that we have had thus far.” 
“ Well, now, but just look at it, if I hadn’t writ 
that letter about the fair, who’d ever heard of me? 
And now you see I’m known all over New Eng¬ 
land, and very likely Old England, and everybody 
quote me, and say, ‘As Mr. Plowhandle says.’ — 
Why, they can’t do any more nor that, for Henry 
Clay or Daniel Webster.” 
“ Yes, my dear John, but are you any more hap- 
py?” 
“ Happy? ain’t I chuckfnl and running over with 
happiness?” 
“ The apple tree that grew down in the corner of 
the yard, John, by the side of the road, when it 
bore only common fruit, was never disturbed; no¬ 
body broke off the branches, or threw clubs and 
stones into its top.” 
“ Of course not” 
“ But after you grafted it, and it began to bear 
nice, good apples, just look how it has been broken, 
and scratched, and the hark peeled off, and see the 
clubs and dead limbs in its top.” 
The fact is, I hadn’t got over smarting where 
those vagabonds, down at the corners, had rubbed 
off the bark, but I didn’t say a word about it.— 
“ Well,” says I, “ it’s no use talking, it’s human na 
tor. Old Eve wan’t satisfied till she stuck her 
tooth in the apple, and nobody will believe the 
same fire will burn their fingers as bad as it did 
another’s. I’m in for glory anyhow.” 
CONSENTS TO A CHANGE IN HIS DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 
It’s pretty plain now to my mind that I shan’t be 
at home much next winter, and, if I go away, I 
want mother with me, of course, so I shall let Sam 
have my full consent to marry Sarah. Besides, 
you see we country people have a great many 
things to learn when we get among high people, 
and Sarah can learn us first-rate how to cross our 
legs properly under grand folk’s mahogany, least¬ 
wise she acts though she’d been where people eat 
off that kind of wood. 
If you do print my first letter again, I wish you 
would send a paper to Jones, just to spite him. 
WANTS ADVICE. 
I’ve been thinking I eught to change my name 
a little, so as to make it look a little more high- 
like. Don’t you think it sounds too kinder com¬ 
mon now? Wouldn’t it look more foreign to write 
it John Plowh Andle or J. Plowh Andi.e? I’d 
like your idees on the subject It ain’t on my ac¬ 
count that I want the change, for I like the good 
old honest name I’ve borne so long, but I didn’t 
know but the admiriDg public would rather see 
me in a more distinguished light 
Yours to command, John Plowhandle. 
Remarks.— In regard to change ef cognomen, 
we hardly know what to advise. If friend John 
spends next winter away from home—say at Albany 
—perhaps it will he easy for him to arrange the 
matter with his associate members of the “ Assem¬ 
bled Wisdom of the State.” And, inasmuch as he 
is becoming somewhat fast and uproarious, as well 
as famous, we would suggest a change to J. Steam 
Plow —allowing the handle to slide, (as a ceitain 
Statesman would the Union,) until some literary in¬ 
stitution, appreciating onr friend's ability, shall sup¬ 
ply the deficiency by adding LL.D., or some like 
honorary title. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
LEAVES FROM MY PORT-FOLIO.-No. L 
SUNLIGnT—MOONLIGHT—STARLIGHT. 
It was morning—bright and beautiful seemed 
all things beneath the smile of summer. A young 
maiden roamed amoDg the blushing flowers, and 
twining garlands of roses, bound with them her 
floating curls. Not one shadow had fallen on her 
sunny pathway. It was the joy of girlhood’s free 
and careless years that she felt, and as the bright 
hours of that lovely day flitted by on rain-bow pin¬ 
ions, fondly did she dream that those pleasures 
would be lasting as life itself; and not sweeter was 
the caroling of the birds, than the melody of her 
voice as she warbled in silvery cadences a soDg 
of joy. 
But already were the roses fading that encircled 
her brow, and a feeling of sadness stole over her 
as she watched the sun descending in the west— 
The gorgeous clouds of eventide were lost in the 
clear azure, and then the fair moon arose, and once 
^nore was the maiden happy. The chain of love 
now bound her spirit, and the glad past was for¬ 
gotten in the dreamy delights of the present. How- 
lovely seemed the earth in that soft, radiant light! 
The night-blooming flowers unfolded their per¬ 
fumed petals, while a glittering coronal of dew 
crowned each blossom. And the maiden’s heart 
was wild with bliss, and the blushes mantling her 
cheeks told of the thoughts thronging there. 
But clouds, at first light and fleecy, floated over 
the sky; soon they grew darker, more heavy, until 
the moon beams no longer fell upon the flower- 
strewn path of the young girl. All was dark!— 
Burning tears spoke too truly of the bitter anguish 
of her who had seen her brightest hopes vanish.— 
Long did she weep—at length she raised her eyes 
once more to the heavens. The clouds had disap¬ 
peared—the moon, iadeed, was no longer shining, 
but the calm holy stars beamed there, and their 
peaceful light awoke a purer happiness in the 
maden's soul than she had ever known before, and 
this was destined to remain. Joy and Love had 
been transient guests, hut Faith abode with her 
forevermore! Its light was her^guide through 
this earthly pilgrimage, and^oinrod her to the en¬ 
during pleasures of Heaven. 
Rochester, N. Y., 1858. Kate Cameron. 
About Marriage. —Robert Southey says a men 
may he cheerful and contented in celibacy, hut I 
do not think he can ever be happy; it is an unnat¬ 
ural state, and the best feelings of his nature are 
never called into action. The risks of marriage 
are for the greater part on the woman’s side. Wo¬ 
men have so little the power of choice, that it is 
not perhaps fair to say that they are less likely to 
choose well than we are; hut I am persuaded that 
tl^ey are more frequently deceived in the attach¬ 
ments they form, and their opinions concerning 
meji’jiMq less accurate than men’s opinion of their 
s$j£. %ov, if a lady were to reproach me for hav¬ 
ing.said this, I should only reply that it was another 
mode of saying there are more good wives in the 
world than there are good husbands, which I verily 
believe. I know of nothing which a good and sen¬ 
sible man is so certain to find, if he looks for it, as 
a good wife. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE HEAVENLY VOICE. 
Oh, list, my soul, from out the heavens, 
There comes a sweet, attractive voice; 
It thrills through every quivering pulse 
And bids my inmost heart rejoice. 
“ Come, follow me,” the sweet words ssy, 
“ Bear now the cross, wear soon the crown; 
Deny thyself, I’ll beep thy way 
Till at death’s door thou liest down; 
Heaven’s gates I'll then unfold to thee 
And thou shalt dwell for aye with me.” 
I’ll follow, Lord, thy own bright path 
So radiant 'tis with deeds of love; 
In meekness doing all tby will, 
And looking for my rest above. 
Easthampton, Mass., 1858. H. E. 0. 
“NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP.” 
“Now I lay me down to sleep, 
I pray the Lord my soul to keep; 
If I should die befoie I wake, 
I pray the Lord my soul to take.” 
Who are you, man or woman, for whom this 
prayer has not old, sweet associations; who, hear¬ 
ing its words, hear not, too, the “memory bells” 
ringing up from the golden plains of your child¬ 
hood, and feel not the soft gales from the morn¬ 
ing land of your life ^weeping over your soul?— 
You may be a man now, in the pride and strength 
of your years; you may have carved out for your¬ 
self an honorable name and destiny in this world 
—mayhap you are the owner of broad lands and 
proud homes, and your heart has grown hard in 
its battle with the world. But stop a moment, and 
listen to this little verse, so simple that the merest 
babe who learns to lisp the words can comprehend 
them, so grand in its sublime significance and faith 
that the wisest sage shall only have learned fully 
the true lesson of life when his soul can utter them 
as it uttered them in his infancy. 
Let’s see! how many years ago wa3 it! twenty 
thirty, forty; no matter, at the old sound of “ Now 
I lay me,” they have all rolled back their massive 
doors, and you go down through them to the old 
red one story house, where your life first took on 
its morning. You see the little window on ihe 
right side, close under the ratters; ah! you slept 
a sounder slumber, and dreamed sweeter dreams in 
that old garret, than you ever have in your lofty 
chambers, with the gilded ceilings, and snowy 
draperies; and what matter if your bed was a 
straw one, and your coverlet made of red and yel¬ 
low “patches” of calico, you never snuggled down 
so contentedly upon your spring mattresses and 
under Marseilles counterpanes. 
“Now I lay me;” how softly sleep would come 
and weigh down your eye lids, as you repeated the 
words after her; ah! you can hear her very tones 
now, stealing across your heart, though it is so 
many, many years since death silenced them; and 
you feel, too, the soft touch of her hand on your 
pillow, and the tender lingering of her kiss on 
your lips—you break down here, proud man as you 
are, the memory of your mother is more than you 
can bear. If she had only lived, you would not be 
what you are now; but, blessed be God, she left 
you something holy and blessed beyond all nam¬ 
ing; something that cannot grow old nor dim, not 
even in the “ unspeakable brightness” beyond the 
shining gates—tho memory of a loving, praying, 
Christian mother. 
Reader, it may be many years since you prayed 
this prayer; or, alas! may be that in the din and 
struggle of life you have forgotten to pray at all, 
and that night after night you have lain down on 
your pillow, never thinking of the shining ranks 
of angels that God’s mercy stationed around yon, 
or thanking him for the day and for the night.— 
But come back, we beseech yon, come back to the 
old prayer of your childhood. You cannot have 
outgrown that, no matter if your hair is frosted 
with the snows of.life’s December, and if your 
years are three-score-and-ten. Kneel down by your 
bedside, and uttering these words, see if something 
of the old peace and faith of your childhood does 
not come back to you; if something of its dew and 
its blessing fall not upon your slumber! And re¬ 
member that, sooner or later, you must “ lie down 
to sleep,” when this prayer will be all your soul 
can take, all that will avail of your rank, or wealth, 
or fame, whatsoever you most prize in this world, 
which is but the shadow of eternity. Ah! we 
shall soon pass the 
“ Green thresholds of our common graves,” 
but this little prayer, the first, it may he, that we 
took upon our childish lips, shall follow us as we 
sail out under the solemn arches of the “ River of 
Death”—follow us, a sweet, faint, tender air from 
the shores, and when we shall ca3t anchor— 
“ The Lord our souls shall take.” 
Treasures in Heaven. —We read of a philoso¬ 
pher who, passing through a mart filled with arti¬ 
cles of taste and luxury, made himself quite happy 
with this simple, yet sage reflection:—“ How many 
things there are here that I do not want!” Now 1 , 
this is just the reflection with which the earnest 
believer passes happily through the world. It is 
richly furnished with what are called good things. 
It has posts of honor and power to tempt the rest¬ 
less aspirings of ambition of every grade. It kas 
gold and gems, houses and lands, for the covetous 
and ostentatious. It has innumerable bowers of 
taste and luxury, where self indulgence may revel. 
But the Christian whose piety is deep-toned, and 
whose spiritual perceptions are clear, looks over 
the world and exclaims, “ How much there is here 
that I do not want! I have what is far better. My 
treasure is in heaven.”— Dr. Tyng. 
Prayer. —One hour of solitude passed in sincere 
and earnest prayer, or the conflict with and con¬ 
quest over a single passion or bosom sin, will teach 
us more of thought, will more effectually awaken 
the faculty, and form the habit of reflection, than 
a year’s 6tudy in the schools without them.— Cole¬ 
ridge. 
Christ never seems to us so sweet and glorious 
as wheu he mbs himself over the sea of our sinful¬ 
ness and ingratitude.— Beecher. 
