136 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER ; AN AGRICULTURAL. LITERARY AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
JMks’ i)ml-,folio. 
CONDUCTED BY AZILE. 
ALICE. 
Or MARY CLKMMKK AMICS. 
OR, 
0, my beautiful wee Alice, 
0, my dainty footed Alice, 
Wbat with thee can I compare ! 
With thy wealth of shining hair, 
With thy dark eyes deep and tender, 
With thy lustrous wondrous beauty, 
Mauglil on earth can I compare. 
Singing, laughing, merry Alice, 
Happy, fairy, airy Alice, ; 
like a golden-winged sunbeam, 
FHtting ever through our home, 
Never more shall I be lonely, 
If my fairy Alice only, 
Springs to’moet mo when I coine. 
Gentle, tender, loving Alice, 
Quiet, musing, dreaming Alice, 
Oft I see thy soft eyes lifted, 
Gazing through the sapphire skies, 
On that glorious Elysian, 
Dawning on thy longing vision. 
Where beyond the sky, it lies. 
Contrite, lowly, holy Alice, 
Praying, trusting, saintly Alice, 
With thy heavenward lifted eye I 
Human sin can never taint thee, 
Human words can never paint thee, 
Thou young wanderer from the sky. 
0, thou much beloved Alice, 
liveliest, purest, saintliest Alice 1 
Earth needs more of such as thee. 
Lighting all thy path of duty. 
Pilling all thy life with beauty, 
Perfect in thy purity. 
Much this sinning world my Alice, 
Noedeth angels such as thee. 
nettI1£ay; 
THE MOTHERLESS GIRL. 
BY ELBA FARM AN. 
“ I have no Mother, for she died 
When I was very young ; 
Rut her memory still around u>7 heart, 
Like morning mists has hung.” 
“Mama, Nktta has broken a salver full of 
coffee cups. I wish she could be punished for 
such carelessness,’’ exclaimed Lena Clay, a 
richly dressed girl of sixteen summers, as she 
entered the breakfast parlor one morning. 
“The careless thing!” said the beautiful 
Mrs. Clay, “I don’t know what to do with 
her. It’8 an absolute waste to have her in the 
house. ’ ’ 
“ Clara !” and the husband, a noble looking 
man, spoke sternly—“Clara, I cannot hear you 
speak thus of my child. She may be careless, 
but she is my child, remember. You should 
keep another servant girl if you wish the work 
done properly. Annette is young, and unac¬ 
customed to work.” 
“Mr. Clay,” and the wife’s black ej'cs 
sparkled, “ Mr. Clay, when I became your 
wife I supposed that I could manage the house¬ 
hold as I chose. But I find I was quite mis¬ 
taken. That ugly child of yours wishes to 
manage me and Lena both. She is perfectly 
disrespectful. No mother can see her only 
child thus treated. But you will not permit 
me to manage her at all, Mr. Clay, and I should 
he very grateful if you would do it yourself.” 
“ I never saw a child act as Netta does,” 
said Lena pettishly. “She acts very strange. 
I let her do the ironing last night, and she 
came up about twelve, just as I came home 
from the party, and sat down on the floor and 
began to cry and make such a noise, so I just 
rose and gave her a whipping, which silenced 
her. Then she began to read in that old Bible, 
and I never can sleep with a light in the room. 
She will have to sleep in the garret after this 
But 1 punished her this morning,” and the 
little imperious beauty laughed gaily. 
During Lena’s speech, Mr. Clay’s eyes had 
flashed more than once, and he finished the 
breakfast in silence. As he left the room he 
said to himself, “ I can endure this no longer , 
Clara is my wife to be sure, hut Annette is also 
my child.” 
He paused at the kitchen door, and well he 
might. Upon the cold, hard floor, with her 
golden head resting in a chair, lay his pale 
daughter Netta. She had been weeping, for 
the traces of tears were on her colorless cheeks 
but she was calm now, save the quick beating 
in the veins of her low, meek brow, and trem¬ 
ulous quivering of her sweet childish lips.— 
Her small hands, reddened by toil, were care¬ 
lessly clasped together, and a small red book 
lay amid the folds of her plain calico dress. 
Netta sprang up affrighted as she heard the 
door pushed open, and her cheeks glowed 
crimson as she hid the book in her pocket.— 
But as she saw that it was her father, her 
cheeks paled again, and the tears gushed into 
her eyes. A tear trembled in the father’s eye 
as he saw the worn features of the fair girlish 
face, and the thinness of the slender form, at¬ 
tired in a coarse, ill-fitting costume. ‘ ‘ Netta, ’ ’ 
said he kindly as he went up to her and laid 
his hand on that small head with its mass of 
golden curls, “ Netta, are j’ou sick ?” Alow 
moan was her only reply. Then he said again, 
‘ ‘ Netta, my child, you are pale and sick. Tell 
me what is the matter.” 
Then the fair fragile girl looked up at him 
with those deep blue eyes, half veiled by 
drooping eyc-lashcs, those deep blue eyes so 
like those of her dead mother's, which had so 
often been uplifted to his. Then she wound 
her thin white arm about his neck, and said 
in a low trembling tone,—“ No, papa, I don’t 
think I am sick, hut I am so weak that I can 
scarcely stand upon my feet. Oh, papa,” and 
she sobbed bitterly. 
After a moment’s silence, Mr. Clay said, 
“ Go up into one of the parlors and lie down 
on the lounge. Do as I tell you, Netta, here¬ 
after.” 
“Yes, papa,” said Netta, at the same time 
shivering with terror, “ but don’t tell me to 
go there! She will beat me if I do.” 
“Beat you, Netta! Who will beat you 
darling ?’ ’ asked he tenderly. 
Netta hesitated a moment, and then said 
tremblingly,—“ They said they would beat me 
to death, if I even told you of it. But Mrs. 
Clay, mama I mean, and Miss Lena whip me 
cruelly every day.” 
“ What for, Netta?” said he in a calm tone, 
though his eyes flashed fiercely. 
“ I don’t know, papa,” she replied childish 
ly ; “ yesterday I wen t into the parlor to look 
at my mama’s picture, and I stepped on an 
ottoman to see plainer, and then Miss Lena 
came in and boxed my ears hard, and told me 
to go out; and Miss Lena’s mother came in 
and told me never to come up there again. 
But oh, I did want to see mama’s picture so 
had, and before I thought I told Miss Lena 
was my papa’s parlor, and I had a better right 
there than she, and then they whipped me and 
shut me up in the cellar closet.” 
The red blood rushed in a fiery tide to Mr 
Clay’s cheeks, but he restrained himself and 
said calmly, “ Y’ou should have told me of this 
before, Netta.” 
“ Don’t blame me for it, papa,” said Netta 
imploringly. “ They would have killed me 
and besides 1 didn’t think you would care 
Miss Lena said you didn’t care anything about 
me, now that you had married her handsome 
mother. And I thought you didn’t, papa, for 
you never come and talk with me as you 
used to. There hasn’t been any body to lov 
me since mama died, has there,” and the blue 
eyes uplifted to his were very earnest. 
The father gazed mournfully down on the 
pale, sweet child he held in his arms, and as 
he remembered all his neglect of her for tw 
years, he almost shuddered. And in that one 
moment of silence the image of his dead wife 
seemed to raise up from the far country grave 
in which he had laid her, and stand before him 
And the dead blue eyes, just like those of the 
child, gazing up at him, had a saddened look 
lingering in their depths, and the dead lips 
wore a reproachful expression, and a spirit 
voice seemed to say in low upbraiding tones 
‘ ‘ Hast thou forgotten the pale child I left as 
an only remembrance?” The father sighed 
as the sad vision faded away, and he bore the 
pale little Netta up into one of the gorgeous 
parlors, and laid her by the glowing lire on a 
pillowy lounge, where she could see a sweet 
girlish face gleaming out of a heavy frame — 
the face of her dead mother. 
As Netta laid there in the luxurious stillness 
the soft eyes in the picture seemed like angel 
eyes, and the red lips wore a seraph smile, and 
the golden hair seemed like a crown of glory 
Albert Clay was only twenty-two when he 
married a gentle girl with winning ways. Ten 
summers Annette Lee blessed him with her 
love, and then faded from earth, leaving one 
little girl—Netta—to cheer his loneliness. 
Two years he lived alone in his stately man 
sion with Netta and his widowed heart. But af¬ 
ter along communion with himself, he resolved 
to marry some lovely, amiable woman, to be a 
mother to his little girl who was now ten years 
old. After carefully studying the character of 
his lady acquaintances, he found none among 
them so gentle and amiable, so sympathizing 
with him, the wealthy widower, so idolizing 
his motherless daughter, as the beautiful wid 
ow, Clara Appleton. And her only daughter 
—Miss Lena—a beautiful girl of fortune, loved 
Netta so dearly—always with her at her school, 
never happy away from her—oh, it was all so 
fascinating that the rich Mr. Clay married 
Mrs. Appleton, and took her and Lena from 
their small cottage to his stately mansion. 
For a few months the utmost deference was 
paid to Mr. Clay’s slightest wishes, and little 
Netta was petted more than ever ; she was al¬ 
ways richly dressed and kept in the parlors, 
and when visitors paid fashionable calls, the 
beautiful Mrs. Clara would point to her and 
Lena and say—“ My two darling daughters !” 
especially when Mr. Clay was present. All 
went on merry as marriage bells, and Mr. 
Clay congratulated himself on possessing suffi¬ 
cient sense to have selected such a lovely wife 
from the multitude of maiden ladies, and in- 
consolatc widows, and scheming daughters 
who had crowded liis path, ‘ * thick as leaves in 
vallambrose. ’ ’ 
But after a while there began to be a change. 
Mrs. Clay and Lena did not always wear sweet 
smiles, and the intonation of their voices was 
not always the softest; and somehow Netta 
was not as joyous as she had been at first, her 
face was paler and sadder, and she was far 
more plainly dressed, and not so much in the 
parlors. Thus matters went on, and Mr. Clay 
never saw his motherless girl save in the 
kitchen, and he seldom went there, his mind 
was so occupied by business cares and his beau¬ 
tiful bride, and for a long while he did not 
notice her absence. But when Clara and Lena 
both openly abused her, his fatherly feelings 
were touched, and the old love for his child 
awoke, and at last he saw his mistake in mar¬ 
rying, but too late. Yet he determined that 
they should not abuse the only child of his 
first wife. 
It was a chilly, rainy day, and everything 
looked dismal and cheerless in the city. Clara 
and Lena sat in their rich boudoir where 
blazing fire glowing redly in the grate made it 
warm and cozy. Netta was there, too, for Mr. 
Clay laid down strict orders, and they did not 
dare disobey them by sending her into the 
kitchen, and now she wore as costly robes as 
Miss Lena did, and was provided with books 
and teachers. 
Netta was reading a richly bound book 
Eliza Cook’s Poems. For she, in her loneli¬ 
ness, had found a deep love for all that was 
beautiful, and poetry was to her as stars are 
to mariners far out on the pathless sea. Net¬ 
ta had altered much in two months. There 
was a soft light in her eye, a rosy flush on her 
cheek, and the wearied, toil-worn look had 
vanished ; but the smile on her lips was always 
sad. 
Mrs. Clay, in a brocade dressing robe, was 
lying on a sofa, reading “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” 
and weeping over the misfortunes of Eliza—■ 
for Mrs. Clay had one of those peculiarly 
formed heads which could sympathize with all 
popular sorrows. 
Lena sat in a richly cushioned rocking chair 
busy with her patterns, zephyr worsted and 
velvets. 
But soon she threw them down, petulantly 
exclaiming, “There, I can do nothing more 
until I have two more skeins of that particu¬ 
lar scarlet, and two more of that lightest azure. 
What shall I do ? I ®ught to finish it for the 
Ladies’ Fair.” 
“ I don’t know what you will do ! Where 
did you select?” asked the mother, looking 
up from her reading. 
‘ ‘ At one of the further shops on Broadway, ’ ’ 
replied Lena. “I must have some more im¬ 
mediately rome way.” 
“You will have to go, Annetta,” said Mrs. 
Clay—“ The girls are all busy down stairs and 
cannot he spared, and Lena’s health is too 
delicate to think of her going out in such 
stormy weather, and the worsted must be had 
immediately.” 
Netta shuddered as she shut her entrancing 
book and looked out on the cheerless street, 
and up at the leaden sky from which the rain 
came steadily down, and not one lady pedes¬ 
trian to be seen on the pavement. “Oh, it 
rains so fast, and it will he such hard walking, 
mother,” pleaded she. 
‘ 1 Nonsense, it is nothing for a stout, healthy 
girl like you.” said Mrs. Clay, without look¬ 
ing from her book. 
“ Why not wait until papa comes home ; he 
will got them for you,” said Netta, plead- 
ingly. 
“You indolent thing!” exclaimed Lena, 
imperiously. “ Go get them quick ; I can¬ 
not wait till night. Don’t sit there hesita¬ 
ting.” 
Netta cast a shivering glance at the stormy 
skv—but she knew it would be useless to re 
monstrate, for her father was not there. As 
she rose, Mrs. Clay handed her a thin broclia 
shawl and a common bonnet. Netta glanced at 
them and said, “Oh don’t send me out so 
thinly clad. It is very cold. I shiver to even 
go through the hall. Let me wear my cloak.” 
“Hush, girl,” imperiously said Mrs. Clay. 
“ To humor you would take half my hus¬ 
band’s income.” 
“ I wonder papa does half as much for her 
as he does,” said Lena. “ He is my own pa¬ 
pa,” said Netta, calmly, “ and he loves me as 
much as he does those he shelters beneath his 
roof. ’ ’ 
Mrs. Clay sprung to her feet in a passion, 
exclaiming, “ You saucy thing ! how dare you 
speak disrespectfully of me and Lena ! Go on 
your errand immediately;” and the thinly 
clad, motherless girl was set out into the rain 
to perform a trifling errand which required her 
to go to the other end of Broadway ; and the 
step-mother and step-sister sat in their luxu¬ 
rious boudoir, reveling in sumptuous elegance. 
Mr. Clay passed out of his rich store on Broad¬ 
way, and walked hastily along the pavement, 
thickly and warmly clad in his heavy overcoat 
and fur cap, a large umbrella shielding him 
from the blinding sleet and rain. As he pass¬ 
ed a lofty dwelling with high marble steps, he 
heard a moan strangely low and plaintive, and 
he murmured— 1 ‘ Some poor beggar girl. I sup¬ 
pose ; pity for a girl out in this storm.” 
Then low moans and sobs rose up and fell 
on his ears. He stood irresolute. The wind 
blew the rain and sleet harshly in his face._ 
He thoughtof the warm, pleasant sitting room 
at home, with its soft carpet and crimson cur¬ 
tains and velvet lounges and cushioned rock¬ 
ing chairs. He thought of the warm kiss 
with which Netta would meet him. Then 
like startling voices bidding him turn back, 
came those plaintive moans, and in a moment 
he stood by the marble steps of the lofty 
dwelling. 
The girl was half sheltered by an umbrella; 
beneath it he caught a bright gleam of gor¬ 
geous cashmere. Who could lie moaning on 
those marble steps robed in such rich material? 
He hastily tore the umbrella from the clasp of 
the red, stiffened fingers; but the girl, a slen¬ 
der thing, lay with her face down on the cold, 
wet marble. She did not see the man by her 
side, but moaned on, and Mr. Clay could hear 
her faint, childish voice saying—“Oh, papa, 
come and take me home; I shall die here in 
this cold rain.” 
Oh, why in those low, touching tones was 
there a familiar sound, a household tone which 
thrilled Albert Clay’s heart with a vague, in¬ 
distinct sense of pain ? In a moment, ’ the 
shivering, childish form was clasped in his 
arms. Then the pale, wet face, with its faint, 
white features, met his gaze. It was his own 
daughter Netta. For a moment all was dim 
before his eyes, and the strong man sank 
faintly on the marble steps where his child 
had lain in cold agony. Then he saw the 
parcel of worsted lying on the pavement, and 
he comprehended it all, and he was nerved 
again. As he clasped Netta to his heart she 
opened her blue eyes upon him, and as they 
rested on the saddened face bending tenderly 
over her, she murmured faintly—“Is it you, 
papa? Oh, I am glad that you have come to 
take me home. Take me home to mama—my 
angel mama,” and a tiny arm was clasped 
tightly about his neck, and a golden head 
rested confidingly in his bosom. Netta was 
unconscious. 
Then the father went swiftly on, merely 
pausing to order a physician. He hastily went 
up the steps of his mansion, entered without 
ringing, and with his heavy overshoes and 
dripping coat and hat, he entered his wife 
rich boudoir and laid Netta on a sofa. 
Lena and Mrs. Clay grew icy pale. They 
saw a pall folding tightly around their Future. 
Here is a specimen of your love towards my 
child. See your work. Y’ou heartless, cruel 
woman,” said he sternly, as he glanced for the 
first time upon them. 
The doctor came, and at last Netta fell into 
a quiet slumber, which soon changed into a 
broken, troubled slumber, and her cheeks be 
gan to glow with the crimson light of fever 
heat. At intervals she awoke, muttering inco¬ 
herent sentences. And at the red light of 
dawn she was raving in delirium. All day, 
through that hushed, darkened chamber rang 
Netta’s voice—pleading at times, then in 
frightful tones like those of a wounded bird ; 
then softened down to a cadence low and mild 
as the flow of still waters. Then she would 
moan again, and her earnest voice would be 
heard—“Oh, mother, it is so cold, and the 
shawl is so very thin, let me wear my cloak.” 
Then again she would sob with outstretched 
arms, “Oh, Papa, come and take me home. 
The wind blows and it rains hard. Come after 
me, my own papa, I can go no farther.' ’ 
The mystic hour of midnight had come with 
its mysterious solemnity. Within Mr. Clay’s 
mansion all was hushed. There was no light 
burning save in the chamber of the dying Netta. 
Netta was calmly sleeping. The hectic glow 
that had flushed her cheek had utterly died 
away, and it was as snowy white as the pillow 
on which it rested. Her eyes were shut and 
her golden curls lay in beautiful confusion 
over the pillows, and her tiny hands were 
clasped above her head. The father’s trem¬ 
bling fingers lay on the pulses of one small 
wrist, and the doctor’s on the other. “Can 
she live, Doctor?” eagerly asked the father. 
“ She is waking now,” said the Doctor. 
Slowly the large blue eyes unclosed ; their 
light was as serene as the azure of an uncloud¬ 
ed summer sky, and as they sought her father, 
a seraphic smile wreathed her lips, and the 
childish face shone as if angel-wings were 
shadowing it with their divine presence. Then 
she said — “I have been away, haven’t I. 
papa?” 
“No, Netta,” was the reply, “you have 
been on the bed, and your own papa has been 
watching beside you.” 
“ But I have been away,” she said earnestly. 
“ It was to a very bright, beautiful place, 
where I heard sweet, low voices, and they 
whispered to me that it was the city of Light, 
where there never was any clouds or storms 
there ; and there was a long, wide golden river 
there, a river of flowing gold, and beautiful 
trees rose by it, and voices sweet as the flow of 
the river’s waves, whispered that they were 
the trees of Life. And I saw- the angels, papa, 
and they wore white, and they had crowns of 
sunlight and golden harps, with which they 
made music. And I saw mama, and she asked 
me to come and live in the city of Light with 
her. I may go, may I not, papa? Earth is 
dark with clouds, and cold with storms. You 
will not hid me stay, will you ? The city is 
warm and bright forever, papa ;” and Netta’s 
eyes were gloriously bright, and her face glow¬ 
ed with an unearthly beauty, and strength 
was hers even as if angel arms upheld her. 
Then Doctor P- whispered—“ It is the 
wondrous beauty of death.” 
As if all earthly sounds were hushed, the 
father gazed upon his child and murmured— 
“ It is the angel beauty. Heaven’s gates are 
opening, and the glorious light bursts out in 
brilliant floods—shining down upon my child, 
lighting up the Valley and Shadow of Death.” 
Then earth thoughts came; and bending 
over and kissing Netta’s half-parted lips, he 
said—“Is the city so beautiful that Netta 
must needs go away and leave papa amid the 
cold tempests of earth?” 
Then Netta’s arms folded him in soft em¬ 
brace, and she said—“ Papa, I must go ! The 
angels are unfurling their wings for flight, 
and they whisper—‘Netta, come!’ I must 
go, papa ; mama is beckoning and I must not 
linger. Do you not hear the rustling of the 
angels’ wings that are to hear me away ?— 
Mama is by the gate. Good bye, papa, papa,” 
and the little golden head drooped on his bo¬ 
som ; the intensely brilliant eyes shut, and 
the long lashes lay motionless on the marble 
cheeks, and the arms loosened their clasp 
about the father’s neck. Netta was dead. In 
the mysterious midnight the meek spirit of 
the motherless girl flew up from the dim stormy 
earth, and the angels with starry wings bore 
her through the Eden gates in the city of light; 
and she shall go no more out forever. 
That night Mr. Clay spoke stern words to 
Clara and Lena, and sent them hack to their 
old home ; and soon a divorce would part them 
forever. And those guilty ones, upon whose 
souls the blood of the Motherless Girl rested, 
could not complain, for the judgment was jush. 
The next day tender, careful hands robed 
Netta in spotless white, and strewed pale, 
scented blossoms and green leaves in her cof¬ 
fin, and after a holy sermon the lone father 
bore her away from the noisy, dusty city, into 
the green, blooming country, and buried her 
by her mother’s grave, planted a moss rose by 
the white marble slab on which the inscrip¬ 
tion is: 
NETTA CLAY, 
A G El) 12 YE AES, 
WE 1.0VED HER AND SHE WED.' 
He wet the sod with tears, and ere the flow¬ 
ers of another summer lit up earth with their 
colored radiance, he was away in the distant 
west. 
His Netta sleeps there in the quiet country 
grave, and the blue birds sing in the locust 
above her grave; and the moss rose blooms 
on the green sods which lay on her coffin, the 
golden sunlight sleeps in its pink blossoms, 
the brook’s quiet waters gush near her, and 
its mournful cadences hum a low dirge for the 
Motherless Girl who sleeps on its shores. 
€\akt fjtallang* 
BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES. 
Ark there, I ask, beneath the sky 
Blossoms that knit so strong a tie 
With childhood’s love? Can any please, 
Or light the infant eye like these ? 
No, no 1 there’s not a bud on earth, 
Of richest tint or warmest birth. 
Can ever fling such zeal and zest 
Into the tiny hand and breast. 
Who does not recollect the hours 
When burning words and praises 
Were lavish’d on those shining flowers, 
Buttercups and daisies ? 
There seems a bright and fairy spell 
About their very names to dwell : 
And though old Time has marked my brow 
With care and thought, I love them now. 
Smile, if ye will, but some heart-strings 
Are closest link’d to simplest things : 
And these wild flowers will hold mine fast, 
Till love, and life, and all are past. 
And then the only wish I have 
Is, that the one who raises 
The turf-sod o’er me, plant my grave 
With buttercups and daisies. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE COLOSSUS OF MODERN TIMES. 
THE LOVE OF A TRUE WOMAN. 
“On ! the priceless value of the love of 
true woman ! Gold cannot purchase a gem so 
precious! Titles and honors confer upon the 
heart no such serene happiness. In our dark¬ 
est moments, when disappointment and in¬ 
gratitude with corroding care gather thick 
around, and even the gaunt form of poverty 
menaces with his skeleton finger, it gleams 
around the soul with an angel’s smile. Time 
cannot mar its brilliancy, distance but 
strengthens its influence, bolts and bars can¬ 
not limit its progress, it follows the prisonor 
into his dark cell and sweetens the home mor 
sol that appeases his hunger, and in the silence 
of midnight it plays around his heart and in 
his dreams he folds to his bosom the form of 
her who loves on still, though the world has 
turned coldly from him. The couch made by 
the hand of a loved one, is soft to the weary 
limbs of the sick sufferer, and the potion ad¬ 
ministered by the hand of a loved one, loses 
half its bitterness. The pillow carefully ad¬ 
justed by her, brings repose to the fevered 
brain, and her words of kind encouragement 
survives the sinking spirit. It would almost 
seem that God, compassionating woman’s first 
frailty, had planted this jewel in her breast, 
whose heaven-like influence should cast into 
forgetfulness man’s remembrance of the Fall, 
by building up in his heart another Eden, 
where perennial flowers forever bloom, and 
crystal waters gush from exhaustless foun¬ 
tains.” 
SILENT INFLUENCE. 
It is the bubbling spring that flows gently, 
the little rivulet that glides through the 
meadows, and which runs along day and night, 
by the farm-house, that is useful, rather than 
the swollen flood, or the warring cataract.— 
Niagara excites our wonder, and we stand 
amazed at the power and greatness of God, as 
he “pours it from his hollow hand.” But 
one Niagara is enough for the continent, or 
world, while the ’same world requires thou¬ 
sands and tens of thousands of silver fountains 
and gently flowing rivulets, that water every 
farm and meadow, and every garden ; and that 
shall flow on every day and every night, with 
their gentle, quiet beauty. So with the acts 
of our lives. It is not by great deeds, like 
those of the martyrs, that good is to he done; 
it is by the daily quiet virtues of life—the 
Christian temper, the meek forbearance, the 
spirit of forgiveness, in the husband, the wife, 
the father, the brother, the sister, the friend’ 
the neighbor, that good is to be done.— Rev. 
Albert Barnes. 
Even as the ancients, so have we a huge 
statue in our midst — a living witness of our 
industry, progress and enterprise. Unlike the 
Rhodian Apollo, ivliich was a tangible, existing 
certainty, a tiling to be seen, our Colossus is 
divided into innumerable portions, and is 
usually hidden in uncouth chambers and sun¬ 
less vaults. The ancient “wonder of the 
world” was a physical fact,—ours the subtle 
means of the most powerful, intellectual and 
moral influence which can move the world.— 
The one reared in harmonious and beautiful 
piopoilions,— the other, an “artist in the 
marble,” a rough, unhewn rock, yet invincible 
and strong. One a brazen monument of gross, 
material wealth,—the other, a noble and en- 
dtiling testimonial of elevated mental and 
spiritual riches. Hundreds of laborers in many 
years could rear the olden monster, but ours 
is never finished, yet always begun. Thou¬ 
sands work hourly and daily, and yet we cry 
more and better. Our Colossus is too small, 
too coaise and unfinished to meet the demands 
of our craving age, yet it rests upon a founda¬ 
tion of rock,—the strong hearts of the people. 
While Man is permitted to exist, no wild con¬ 
vulsion of nature can dash it to the earth, as 
once fell a huge statue in the port of Rhodes, 
when an earthquake rent the world. 
Steam, the Leviathan upon land, lends its 
noisy and resistless aid here, as elsewhere.— 
The ancient Giant could span small ships, 
ours can build or ruin them in a day, by one 
silent stroke. A man’s arm could scarcely 
encompass a linger of this olden mammoth,— 
thousands of men could not enfold in their 
added arms the daily productions of ours 
Learned antiquarians may vainly preach of 
past glory and genius,—misanthropes of to-day 
may cavil at the vaunted progress of recent 
ages,—unbelievers, with brazen front, may 
loudly herald modern iniquity and ignorance 
and ancient virtue and skill, but our noble 
monumental pile, in every dwelling, can speak 
lor its voiceless agent,—none can gainsay our 
mighty and ever moving Colossus,—the Print¬ 
ing Press. 
North Fairfield, Ohio, lS5a. 
B. A. T. 
THE SNOW AGE. 
_ There are many who waste and lose affec¬ 
tion by careless neglect. “ It is not a plant 
to grow unnurtured ; the rude touch may de¬ 
stroy its delicate texture forever”—the subtle 
cords of love are chilled and snapped asunder 
by neglect. 
We have just stumbled upon the following 
pretty piece of mosaic, laying amid a multitude 
of those less attractive: “ No snow falls lighter 
than the snow of age ; hut none is heavier for 
it never melts.” 
The figure is by no means novel, but the 
closing part of the sentence is new as well as 
emphatic. The scripture represents age by the 
almond tree, which hears blossoms of the pur¬ 
est white. 
^ “ The almond tree shall flourish ”—the head 
shall he hoary. Dickens says of one of his 
characters, whose hair is turning gray, that it 
looks as if Time had lightly sphished its snows 
upon it in passing. 
‘ ‘ It never melts ”— no never. Age is inex¬ 
orable ; its wheels must move onward ; they 
know not any retrograde movement. The old 
man may sit and sing, “ I would I were a boy 
again, ” but he grows old as he sings. He may 
read of the elixir of youth, but he cannot find 
i u >, may sigh for the secret of the alchemist 
which is able to make him young again, but 
sighing brings it not. He may gaze backward 
with an eye longing upon the rosy schemes of 
early years, but as one who gazes on his home 
from the deck ol a departing ship, every mo¬ 
ment carrying him further and further away. 
Poor old man ! he has little more to do than 
die. 
It never melts.’ The snow of winter 
comes and sheds its white blossoms upon the 
valley and mountain, but soon the sweet spring 
follows and smiles it all away. Not so with 
that upon the brow of the tottering veteran ; 
there is no spring whoso warmth can penetrate 
its eternal frost. It came to stay ; its single 
flakes fell unnoticed, and now its drilled there. 
We shall see it increase, until we lay the old 
man in his grave ; there it shall be absorbed 
by the eternal darkness, for there is no age in 
Heaven. 
Yet why speak of age in a mournful strain ? 
It is beautiful, honorable, and eloquent.—• 
Should we sigh at the proximity of death when 
life and the world are so full of emptiness?— 
Let the old exult because they are old ; if any 
must weep, let it bo the youug, at the long 
succession of cares that are before them. ° 
The greatest esteem which an author can 
express for the public is, never to bring forth 
that which it expects, but what he himself, 
with that degree of culture, native and foreign, 
to which he has attained, discerns to be right 
and useful. 
A duty discharged still seems a debt, for no 
one can satisfy himself. 
. ... 
........... ... ... 
