MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
OCT. 2. 
do not live as the schools of folly and fashion dic- 
tate,”—and you might as well, for you are useless 
N ~“ > living) and, shall we say it, unhonored when dead. 
~ ■ ■ 1 - ■■ - The world will roll od, we believe, just as well 
Written for Moore’s Kara] New-Yorker. without you; and we hope your papa and hus- 
THE FISHER S "WIFE. band, if you have any, (though we pity them if you 
have,) will soon withdraw their support from the 
by olaxa augusta. schools of folly and fashion, and leave folly’s dupes 
_ ,. ”, “alone in their glory.” 
Roared the wild swelling billows J 
Out on the lonesome sea; " When each fulfills a wise design, 
Upsprang the pearl-clear foam-caps own orl> D be will shine." 
Chasing the wind in glee; “ Did ever Proteus, Merlin, any witch 
While the grey skies, melancholy, Transform themselves so strangely as the rich? 
Low in their mockery bent, Well, but the poor—the poor have the same itch; 
Like the dismal drapery of funeral, They change their weekly barber, weekly news, 
Or cofiin cerement. Prefer a new japanner to their shoes." 
Light gleamed in the fisher's cottage, We close with a quotation from Bishop Tillot- 
streamed thro’ the heavy night, bon:—“I f the show of anything be good for aDy- 
waiting there, sad and white; thlDg> 1 am 8Ure 7“ centy 18 better; for why does 
Listening the lend wind’s screaming- 3ny per80B dl986mble , or 866111 to be that which he 
Praying the vengeful waves 18 no > but because he thinks it good to have such 
To guide him in through the darkness, qualities as he pretends to; for to counterfeit and 
In from the sea’s black graves. dissemble is to put on the appearance of some real 
Over the mountain of waters excellence. Now, the best way in the world to 
Struggled the fisher boat, Beem to bo anythin#?, is really to be what ye would 
With never a hand to guide her, Beem to be. Besides that, is it many times as 
Never an oar to float! troublesome to make good pretence of a quality 
Down in the shell-paved temples— as to have it; and, if a man have it net, it is ten to 
Naiads the vigil to keep— one that he is discovered to want it, and then he 
Sleepeth the bold fisher sailor, has a]1 hi(j pain8 for nothin „ >. 
Low in the halls of the deep! vr v icso _ 
v .Byron, N. Y., 1858. Truth Seekek. 
Woman! extinguish the watch-fire! --—_ 
THE PARTICULAR LADY. 
One there is up in Heaven 
Doeth all for the best! „ ,, 7" 
Lie down on thy wretched pillow, TnKaE j 8 B coldnBBB aad Precision about this 
Ask for the dream god’s spell- person s dwelling that makes your heart shrink 
Far down in the sea thy husband back (that is, if you have the least atom of 
Sleepeth soundly and well? sociability in your nature) with a lonely feeling, 
Farmington, N. H., 1858. the same which you experience when you go by 
♦ yourself and for the first time among decided 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. Strangers. 
BEAUTY. Everything is in painful order. The damask ta- 
_ . t -- ble cover has been in just the same folds ever since 
Z n Zl h T y} n °\T : h ° W jt came from tbe vender’s shop, eight years ago; 
These are but flowers and the legs ° f tbe chairB bave 1)6611 on the exact 
That have their dated hours diamonds in the drugget they were first placed on; 
To breathe their momentary sweets, then go— by-the-by, do you ever remember of seeing that 
'Tis the stainless sou] within same drugget off the carpet underneath? No_ 
That outshines the fairest skin.— Sib A. Hunt. for she never has company; the routing, the unti- 
What is beauty? This question may have been diness tbe Y would occasion, would cause the poor 
often asked and as frequently answered, and the Bonl 1)6 8nb J ect to Ate for the rest of her natural, 
inquirer have found himself as little satisfied and or ratber unnatural—life. Though untidiness is a 
as much perplexed as before. It is an almost fanlt a11 P 60 P le should avoid, especially the young, 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
BUMMER’S DEATH. 
BY ELLEN C. BAKU. 
Gone out from the emerald meadows, 
Off from the breezy hills, 
Through an archway of twilight shadows 
That sunset’s glory fills; 
The summer that came, torrid-hearted, 
Out of the grave of May, 
With Autumn has met and parted 
Full in the western sky. 
There were gifts of red-flushing roses 
That dropped in days of June 
From the wealth of the reign that closes 
At break of night’s dark noon; 
There were billows of grass-bloom floating 
Under July's red sun, 
And grain-fields wore a golden coating 
When August days begun. 
There were misty, fanciful dreamings 
Deep in the woodland aisles, 
There were days that seemed but red gleamiDgs 
Of far-off tropic smiles; 
There came, as Faith’s clearest fountains 
Start in the wastes of pain, 
From clouds that seemed dark-browed mountains, 
Flashes of summer rain. 
But at last, with its crimson banner 
Furling in twilight's haze, 
With no anthem or church-bell’s clamor 
Over its dying rays, 
The summer that brought us rare roses, 
The summer full of hope, 
Goes downward where the darkness closes 
Over the hill-top’s slope. 
Redden slowly, oh, autumn morning 
The starry eastern skies, 
The thought of another bright dawning 
Over the heart’s pulse lies;— 
Send no flashes of triumph beating 
Around the vacant throne, 
Though the grain-fields wait for your reaping, 
Summer is dead and gone. 
Charlotte Centre, N. Y., 1858. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
LETTERS FROM OUR FARM.—No. II. 
Strange that yon never noticed it by day—now its 
steady roar seems to swell as you listen, coming 
nearer, and filling all the night. There is some¬ 
thing in that rush of water that carries you away 
from the present into that wonderful future whith¬ 
er you feel yourself tending silently day by day. 
Something that sounds solemn to you, as if a voice 
from eternity cried out to your souL You do not 
like to listen to it now, when the Summer has just 
floated away from your grasp, bearing with it so 
many treasures that should have been yours, but 
which can now only shine dimly upon you when 
you catch occasional glimpses into the storehouses 
where the wealth and the beauty that “ might have 
been ” is laid up. So you turn away with a sigh 
that is more than half contrition, and might be a 
prayer, and then you hear other tones. The Katy¬ 
dids are gossipping as noisily as ever up in the 
trees, telling the old tales that used to move your 
childish wonder, when you lay broad awake, on 
pleasant moonlight nights, in the chamber close 
under the eaves of the old brewn homestead among 
the hills. 
Don’t you remember how you, and the owner of 
a little curly head on the next pillow, speculated 
about that “ Katy,” and how you crept softly out 
of bed, and pattered across the floor with your 
little bare feet, and stood on tip-toe at the open 
window to listen? Have you forgotten how you 
stood there, watching the bats as they circled 
about, and how you leaned out to see if you could 
find the “ Great Dipper," that was always such a 
wonder to your eyes, thinking, in your simple faith, 
that you were looking at the very floor of heaven? 
If a white wing of some wandering angel had 
flitted across the blue, it would not have very much 
surprised you, for stare and angels were closely 
linked in your minds, ever since the time when 
that loving mother told, in her sweet words, the 
story of the heavenly host that sang to the Shep¬ 
herds of Judea, and the star in the east, that led 
to the Babe of Bethlehem. So you listened and 
wondered, and by and by stole back to bed, and 
fell asleep with your hearts brimful of love and 
happiness. 
All the while the concert goes on. One can 
hardly analyze the music without making discord 
of it, but Nature blends it all admirably, so that 
not a note jars unpleasantly on the ear. A whole 
tribe of crickets keep up a constant chorus in 
every tone, from the mournful cry of the fall 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
SABBATH MUSINGS. 
BY P. E. AUSTIN. 
How sweet the holy light of Sabbath eve 
When Nature’s voice is hushed, and all is calm 
As an infant’s slumber. When all earth 
Seems hushed into repose—when the still air 
Scarce moves the quiveriDg leaf, or waves the flower 
Whose fragrant odors mingle with the air, 
In sweet perfume, and hues of heaven’s own dye 
To breathe into the weary, troubled heart 
The light of heaven—the goodness of a God, 
Who rules o’er earth and sky. 'Tis then the soul, 
In sweet communion with her God, looks np 
To the blue dome above, and in its bright 
And glorious canopy can read those words 
Of hope and promise there—“the pure in heart 
Shall meet again," e’en though a Jordan's flood 
May roll between, yet in that blissful home 
Beyond the skies, where all is joy and peace— 
Where God, unchangeable, eternal reigns— 
Where all is pure ecstatic praise to Him— 
Where all the ransomed hosts together dwell 
In realms of pure, eternal, changeless bliss— 
Where faith is lost in sight, and prayer in praise. 
There, in that blest abode, from sin set free, 
The pure in heart shall see their God, and meet 
Each other there; and know as they are known, 
And praise the name of Him who safe has brought 
Them through this world of tears, and while the long, 
Unknown, unnumbered years, the countless ages 
Of vast eternity rolls on, their souls, 
Attuned in unison with heaven’s choir, 
Harmonious shall sing the song of praise— 
The song of Moses and the Lamb—till heaven 
Resounding with the holy strains, the spheres 
Shall join the heavenly song, the saints shall sweep 
Their harps of gold with hands untaught by man, 
And in the holy, heavenly harmony 
The soul shall lose itself, and back to Him 
From whom it came, with heavenly joy return, 
In realms of pure, eternal, changeless light. 
To dwell forever with its Father God. 
Ottawa, in., 1858. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yerker. 
LIFE AND DEATH. 
“What is death?” 
often asked and as frequently answered, and the BonI to be subject to fits for the rest of her natural, “Lady Summer, fair and youDg, ' jlLUV OI cncK6T8 xee P up a constant chorus in “ Tell me, first, what life is.” 
inquirer have found himself as little satisfied and or rather unnatural—life. Though untidiness is a Bale and dead is lying." every tone, from the mournful cry of the fall “ Death is the absence of life.” 
as much perplexed as before. It is an almost fault all people should avoid, especially the young, A stranok spell has come over the beautiful cncket > with ite 80(1 “summer’s gone,” to the “ But life is not the absence of death, for with 
Indescribable something, which, from remotest ages, y6t for mercy’s sake, urge them not to be partial- 6arth > and breathed itself into the soft airs aboHt men Y little household visitor, welcomed at many life commences death. When we begin to live, we 
has received the homage of all classes. The low- lar% She will become as hateful in the sight of her us * The heart is oppressed, in spite of fair skies a fir6side in spite of his mischievous pranks with also begin to die. Life, at best is uncertain,—Death 
ly peasant and the monarch's crown have alike friends as a sloven. and undimmed sunshine, with a sense of something tbe good wife?8 carpets, for the sake of the old sure and inevitable. Death is the great rock 
been influenced to bow at beauty’s shrine. And The particular lady generally lives in the kitch- 8weet an<1 precious gone from it. There is little Scotcb proverb, “a cricket on the hearth is good round which the waves of life dash, and foam, 
surely no one should be censured for having a en—and an excruciatingly tidy one it is. The heart in us for laugh or song, and yet we can luc/c t0 t/u ^ 0US€ \ Down in the meadows the frogs an< l fret, and then vanish away, while the dark 
taste for the beautiful; for it is a quality that the great parlors, with their crimson curtains, Turkish bardly tell why. The glory of the green earth is B6nd ° Ut 7 mu8ical a chorus as if November were rock stands unmoved, bearing upon its rugged 
Creator has instilled into all the productions of carpets, mammoth mirrors, beautiful mantels, and not dimmed ? et > but looking wistfully upon it all, nevCr c ? ming; wb ile their noisy cousins, the tree- surface no marks of the surge that ha 3 been wash- 
hishand; and has calculated it to be a source of elegant paintings, always closed. Nobody visits we sig b as we wbl8 Per regretfully, —“Summer's toadp ’ bld away among the branches in their in- 1D R It for these thousands of years. Death is as 
pleasure and enjoyment to all of his creatures; and them; nobody enjoys them; the children tread on £ one ” visible livery, trill out their long quavers inces- perpetual as time; but Death cannot enter eternity. 
not only for their enjoyment, but for their improve■ tip-toe to steal a glance into them, their eyes ex- Tru6 > tbe forests kc-ep their green livery, and eantIy ’ _ 1118 tbe shore of time, bnt sinks and is lost in the 
ment. For (as it is often said, the character of the pressive of wonderment and a cautious air of not a leaf is gone from the bough; the meadows There are a thousand soft, nameless sounds that ocean of eternity.” 
maker is shown in his works,) it exerts an influence dread. show no tints of umber, and even the uplands are y0U are QOt conscious of hearing, that come in to “Death, then, only marks the boundaries of 
upon the seeker after aspiring thoughts, and leads She is all the time dusting and washing and scarcely browned. The sky wears the stainless blue up the harmony. They are like the semitones time. It is but a monument. It hath no terror, 
the mind toward the fountain of all beauty. scrubbing, and scrubbing and washing and dusting. of tbe young June, and the white clouds wander m painti ng, helping to blend smoothly together no power of harm—only as it is clothed therewith 
Again, I inquire, what is beauty? We have the Tho do o r - st eP 8 , the wash-boards must be daily slowly over it, blown about by as sweet a wind as ^ 6uId oth6rwis6 be in too striking contrast, by the human mind. To those whose lives have 
testimony of pretending connoisseurs that a pol- scrubbed, though immaculately white they already that which shook down the apple blossoms on J hey fib the soul, and quiet it, so that the grating been well spent, the passage of thi3 boundary 
ished and intellectual looking brow, sparkling eyes, b e. The very knives, forks and spoons are rubbed y° ur face > when you lay dreaming in the orchards • ,amngof a11 the machinery of toil and trade gives no alarm; no phantoms pursue them.” 
a finely turned nose, clear and blushing cheeks^ thin and genteel by repeated cleaning. in May. You wore not sad then—why are you 18 foi ’ - tbe <]me f° r g°tten. The blessed influence “But those whose lives have been badly spent?” 
- JL> LA L L III UB l * -— U ~ ,, v* LAAt. »1UU, *1 nT . X x , , - --~ « vwiai 
beg leave to differ with them, unless something 8< l uare - for fear of being splashed; and even in prophecies of the good and the beauty that were 11181 H’wara toward heaven. pamons. It was no idle prayer of the prophet 
more be added to these attractions. An inherent dry w6at her she crosses on the joints of her toes, to be; note, you are only thinking of the dismal e 7 e f ,°* tearf(l1 P eni tence for the evil done, who said, * Let me die the death of the righteous, 
virtuous disposition—a goodness and grace of ac- and bolds her dress above her ankles. Hereon- Winter, waiting, with winding sheet of snow, to dig ^ of hopeful resolves for the future to walk and let my latter end be like his.’ ” 
tion which arises from a gentle and affectionate 8tant fid g et wears the flesh from her bones and tbe grave for all this summer bloom. ’ humbly before Gon,—meekly and lovingly toward Such thoughts often come into my mind- 
heart, is indispensable to beauty, that beauty which color from her cheeks. She never can get a ser- Tb e first days of Autumn are very mournful men ‘ , But With the m ° rn com6s anew the stern always when I have seen any one die; often 
never fades, but ever blooms the same. Conse- vant to stay long with her. We never heard of but They are like the passing away of the flush of grappling with labor,—'the bitter temptations with- when I have plucked a rose, 0 r even pulled up 
quently, a person having rather irregular features— one “particular lady” who retained a domestic y°ntb and beauty. When one first realizes that he “ ut and doub tmgs within, and the prayers and a noxious weed. But lately my mind has dwelt 
one that is not remarkable for particular personal lo nger than a year, but then she was as “particu- bas reached the meridian of life, and that heart and PopeH are a11 forgotten with the sounds of the much upon the subject, and it formed the web of 
attractions—by cultivating a kind and gentle dis- lar ” 68 ber mistress. brain are beginning to ripen and mature into that °P temb er night. n. my musings as I came home the other night from 
position, by schooling the soul, that it may shine --- perfection so soon followed by decay, then comes -- a friend s bouse, wherein lay the mortal remains of 
out brightly through the roughness of the ex- YOUNG LADIES AND HOUSE-WORK. a brief strug 8 le with regretful longings, that H0W T0 TAKE LIFE ' a cbUd - She was just bursting into the mature 
terior, and the mild expression of the face - would fain cling a little longer to youth’s summer m Vf . loveliness of early womanhood—the pride of the 
speak the goodness of the heart, such may A friend of ours, remarkable for strong good time ’ Bat when that is past—when the heart takes AKE ife lue a man * Take it just as though it household, a loving and lovely girL I had known 
be ranked with the beautiful Ladies, when son 88 , married a very accomplished and fashions- borne a full realization of the grandeur of earnest * 1S_ea ^ nest ’ Vlta1 ’ e8sentia l affair, her from her childhood—even from her infancy 
you are spending your precious moments in ble young lady, attracted more by her beauty and and perfected manhood—when life grows solemn a ' e 11 JU8t as “^Rb you personally were born Within a year or two she had been much at our 
adorning yourselves that you may appear fair, at- accomplishments than by anything else. In this, and real > 68 itB bigb aims dawn upon the soul, and V 88 / ° . P ^ f0 ™ 1Dg a m6rr Y P art 1£ » it^-as house, (whilst teaching our village school,) and I 
tractive, and charming to those, your friends of it; must be owned that his strong, good sense did the life to come look8 nearer and more tangible— T °, Ug l ° , waited for Y onr coming, can see her, as she often came into the library, and, 
the opposite sex, do not forget that true beauty, not 866m very apparent His wife, however, prov- lhen com6B a time of ri P 6r than the passionate ;! IVlH An-!* * WaS a grand 0 PP° rta nity to in her girlish way, sat down upon the carpet by 
and leave the mind uncultivated and unadorned- ed to be a very excellent companion, and was hours of youth ever knew. Steadfastly the face is , “ 1 achieve, to^carry forward^ great and good my side when writing, just where I now sit, and 
nor that the expression that arises from a grateful deeply attached to him, though she still loved com- set towa rd the grave, not seeing that so much, as “ , h , epand 8 B8 f ei ' IDg ’ W6 f ry ’ ^ f we thns had man Y hours of pleasant conversation, 
heart to an open countenance is far more charm- P any - and B P 6n ‘ more time abroad than he ex- the eternity beyond it; one by one cherished follies —J L r6 ven br other. The fact is, life is Sometimes grave, sometimes gay, and always in- 
ing than any artistic blushes you can produce. actly approved. But, as his income was good and weaknesses drop away, leaving the soul to ,- a l <,ir gT a majon y ° f “ an ^ n<L Jt structl ve, for she had a mind that relished knowl- 
And remember that every gentleman prefers a and his house furnished with a good supply of do- grow and ripen in the sunshine that shines freely i!^ t b 6case ’ edge ’ and cra v 6d the companionship of those 
_.... _v_ , _ b u “B“iG”yuiuo _ _ Where is the man or woman who accomplishes whose experience Rnnnk 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
PUFFED-UP FOLKS. 
We wonder if Amelia wears hoops? And what 
of it if Bhe does? —nothing, only we think of 
no objections to it will be when these first days of Autumn sadness 17Tv v* 7 7 7 * , 7, „ 7 1CV ‘ uow scions memory is of the forms 
One div some few mnntk l- • are over. We shall enjoy the mellow richness of ed ’ thou gbt8 crushed, aspirations unfulfilled, and of beauty! I can see her now as she came into 
ou??rienZ’oncominH hoitn a Z m!iTn&ge ’ September, and the deepening glory of October ? Ck ° f ^ ne ° eSSary &nd p0S " the r00m ° ne cveniDg aft6r ber school had been 
our friend, on coming home to dinner, saw no ap- ith kind f harminLf , ’ 81 .ble effort! If we knew better how to take and dismissed for the day, swinging her hat bv the 
g ‘“rouble i'L”«a f °” na " ,e in tM, r "P°A tbe aeben ekiee of doil 6*ater then Bring,, all radiant with beauty, and taking her an- 
8 .Trrru steaa ' — ,. , , it is- Low and then a man stands aside from the customed seat, inquired “what I was writirur? 
hat s the matter?’ he asked. J P 8 ave g ™wn very silent already, crow d, labors earnestly, steadfastly, confidently, It could be no love-letter she was sure, for I wls 
T;r eQtoffatten ° ,ciockthis h-T 1H r attheFa ™- sure ’ forIwaa 
SSSHS 
the ox. The woman that sweeps along the street °^ Lo ^ .* , nf Rummer All 111 2? , ^ i orche8tra trates what each may do if he takes hold of life given way to the feelings which such an event is 
or side walk, with a dress spread three or four feet HniS W i ^ l l 011 ®, ° nder your direc ' fitni „ day ’ whlle the sunshine lies warm with a purpose. If a man but say he will, and fob wont to call out While reading the page her eyes 
,h , et Pf ‘ fragrant Ha- -Why s»r asked the hu.band in wrpriae,-von He in dream, languor, and hear no sound, ^pon the temtaed taMrit ° 
tana, would fain lead n„ belieTO he i, lord of certainly do not mean to ,a,th.t you eanno cook »»« »e»‘ wind, aave the faintest of voice, from P ^ ,0 b , e Y””' 7 ™“emb«rea when we arodead. Will 
diiB lower realm.” "What are the words this young a dinner.-- 7 t yon cannot cool t^e leaves, that seem aa ill with evety fibre relaxed^ „ - T . «"J'Hod, nay such good thing, of me when I am 
what a - P’ ob ? b P use, should he speak out -1 certainly do, then,” replied hi, wife “How the, were too idle to give back a rustle to the f„i thi ' momory “ ako R0 ftutll ‘ g0 “ ! 
what the discerning observer of human . ,, T 1 ... ' v now , 8 ful a servant a slave. Remember Atlas was weary. The young and beautiful girl has been takpn 
plainly reads in bis walk, gestures dmT cane and Jhe hn«3“f ? g i* w' C ^ k ; Dg? ” th V* * * y ’ ^ Have aB much reason 88 a camel - to riae ^ben thou and the old man left, and he now sits in the^ame 
cigar? “Beho ld !whata g manTam -hSn! ment^^ *®? k ^ ** locnste ap the bast thy full load. Memory, like a purse, if it be chair, and is writing at the same table and in the 
other business than to make a show of myse/and “ You loolc h ’ S Tif'v , Zlhlrv tev Tt a scream from some over-full that it cannot shut, all will drop out of it. sameplace; but the beautiful and animated form 
associate with a species of butterflies ” ^ 1 sarpnsedsbe 8aid - aft6r Wh ® n 41 . tlie dee ? ° f , the 8 ^ Take h6 ed of gluttinous curiositie to feed on many that sat beside him, 
dressed in the e.-trT™ 777-—” unuer my direction! l should like to see a U P wim a new giory me orown wneat fields, and expect to accompli* 
twirls his walking stick and “f ^ dinn6r C °° ked Under my dir6Ction *” flooding the hills with a mellow radiance, yon may c le, no secret to hii 
vana. would fainiend net i P i ff 8 , fragrant Ha - “t.Yhy so?” asked the husband in surprise, “yon be in dreamy languor, and hear no sounds upon the termined in spirit, 
JStolSm! t0 ^ heve iB l0rd 0f certain,y d0 not raean t0 Bay you cannot cook west wind, save the faintest of voices from — 
We h0pe ’ a —t or two had elapsed. 
for humanity’s sake, these butterflies are'inThe “ 7Zr:7;:i77 C1 ^ BCU - „ „ , begins to fade out, and the great drifts of snowy things, lest the greedinesse of the appetite of tby «Never more on her 
last stage of their mundane existence- but it i« • a d t \ an 7 6red ; ' as much sur- cloads wander over the western horizon, and memory spoyl the digestion thereof. Spoyl not Shall fall the friendly eye. She was not made 
not likely they will become obsolete unless hntlr P 7 Sed 8h ° Uld b6 ^ the Captain of one 8 ^ ab , 8nnset slope ’ buiIding a grand thy memory with thine own jealousie, nor make it Through years of grief the inner wei « b t to bear, 
fly mothers become women of sense i^tead of of my sh,ps nnacquamted with:navigation. Don’t Pillion for the dying day-god, then begins a bad by suspecting it. How canst thou find that Which older hearts endure till they are laid 
fashion’s dupes. ’ ^ ° f y0Q know bow to cook, and the mistress of a fami- new scene. true which thou wilt not trust? Marshal thy no- ZTZITmT T ^ 
“ The tens are nainf»e v „ ! y? , Jan6 ’ lf therC 18 a cookin R 86 bool anywhere The west wrnd drops away till not a leaf quivers tions into a handsome method. One will carrie Sin 77 7 
That flutter for a day, U “ in the city go to it, and complete your education, m the stillness. The sky slowly changes from twice more weight, trust and packt up in bundles, A little " mound Tn7he Tillage cemeterv marks 
rr u a Ter7 ,mpor,ant part,cDiar -” sars^srs fiapptas atan ‘ his 
paXT^“rs7:r„pr 
“stuck over with ribbons and hung roundwiT centeTce thaTtlS T™ 7 rtb a woman ’ 8 ac ' before - Tb6 n if the harvest moon comes np, full those around us! We might explain many a cold! A nametos^ 
strings?” “Behold! how much greater I am than ouenUv gathered asehiLl anrp ® thinga t ®° ,^ re ‘ and red, over the forests, and lends the magic of ness, could we look into the heart concealed from Forgetting what it was to die” T 
God made me—I am for sale toTe fiSeS £tito m °° nl i ght to the 8cene ’ a11 be ready for the us; we should often pity where we hate, love when SSlT!!_ 
meet, who can say soft words, and has got money _ aiQ 6m * serenaders, that are already sending out solitary we curl the lip with scorn and indigation. To No Compromise.—G od does not allow us to part 
enough, or, I think, can support me in genteel A woman without poetry is like a landscape nerhLT 16 there - tuniDg their ^truments, judge without reserve of any human action is a with an inch of his ground, though we might there- 
ldleness. I really think I shall faint and die, if I without sunshine p „. p ' culpable temerity, of all our sms the most unfeel- by gain the peaceable possession of all the rest— 
, nunout sunsmne. BTnrt comes to yonr ear the sound of the river, ing and frequent. T. Hardcaslle. 
on many that sat beside him, 
“And so I am,” he answered; “as much sur- clouds wander over the western horizon, and memory spoyl the digestion thereof. Spoyl not 
risfiri ns T shrmlri La in .a _ rrnfhni. 4 V.a nr.-..,..* _ l _jtj.-__ v ° f u 
“ Never more on her 
Shall fall the friendly eye. She was not made 
Through years of grief the inner weight to bear, 
Which older hearts endure till they are laid 
By age in earth. Her days and pleasures were 
Brief but delightful, such as have not 
Staid long with her destiny." 
young and gentle friend i3 
“ Away, away, without a wing. 
O’er all, through all, its thoughts shall fly, 
A nameless and eternal thing, 
Forgetting what it was to die.” T. 
No Compromise. —God does not allow us to part 
