MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL, LITERARY AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
Jerks’ |)ort-Jfoto. 
CONDUCTED BY AZILE. 
TO AN ABSENT WIFE. 
by GEO. I>. PRRNTICK. 
'Tis morn—the sea breeze seems to bring 
Joy, health, and freshness on its wing : 
Bright flowers to me all strange and new, 
Are glittering in the early dew ; 
Its perfumes rise in every grove, 
Like incense to the clouds that move, 
Like spirits, O’er yon welkin clear, 
But I am sad—thou are net here. 
'Tis noon—a calm, unbroken sleep 
Is on the blue wave of the deep ; 
A soft haze like a fairy dream 
18 floating over wood and stream. 
And many a broad magnolia flower, 
Within its shadowy woodland bower, 
Is gleaming like a lonely star, 
But I am sad—thou art afar. 
’Tis eve—on earth the sunset skies 
Are painting their own Eden dies : 
The stars come down, and trembling glow 
Like blossoms on the wave below, 
And, like an unseen sprite, the breeze 
Seems lingering ’mid the orange trees— 
Breathing its music round the spot ; 
But I am sad—I see thee not. 
Tis midnight—with a soothing spell 
The far-off tones of ocean swell— 
Soft as the mother’s cadence mild. 
Low bending o’er her sleeping child ; 
And on each wandering breeze are heard 
The rich notes of the mocking bird, 
In many a wild and wondrous lay ; 
But I am sad—thou art away. 
I sink in dreams—low, sweet, and clear, 
Thy own dear voice is in my ear ; 
Around my cheek thy tresses twine— 
Thy own loved hand is clasped in mine— 
Thy own soft lip to mine is pressed,— 
Thy head is pillowed on my breast; 
Oh I I have all my heart holds dear, 
And I am happy—thou art here. 
THE YOUNG PEDDLER. 
One rainy afternoon in the earliest part of 
Autumn, I heard a low knock at my back 
door, and upon opening it, found a peddler.— 
Now peddlers are a great vexation to me; 
they leave the gates open, they never have 
anything I want, and I don’t like the faces 
that belong to most of them, especially those 
of the strong men who go about with little 
packages of coarse goods, and I always close 
the door upon them, saying to myself—lazy. 
This was a little boy, and he was pale and 
wet, and looked so cold I forgot he was a ped¬ 
dler, and asked him to come in by the fire. I 
thought he appeared as though he expected I 
was going to buy something, for he com¬ 
menced opening his tin box, bnt I had no such 
intention. He looked up in my face very 
earnestly and sadly, and wheu I told him to 
warm himself by the fire, and that 1 did not 
wish to purchase anything, he rose slowly 
from his seat, and there was something in his 
air which reproached me, aud I detained him 
to inquire why he was out in the rain. He 
replied : 
“ I am out every day, and can’t stay in for 
a little rain ; besides, most peddlers stay at 
home then, and I can sell more on rainy days.” 
“ How much do you earn in a day ?” 
“ Sometimes two shillings, sometimes one, 
and once in a while I get nothing all day, and 
then, ma'am, I’m very tired.” 
Here he gave a quick, dry cough, which 
start ed me. 
“ How long have you had that cough?” 
“ I don’t know, ma’am.” 
“ Does it hurt you ?” 
“Yes ma’am.” 
“ Where does your mother live?" 
u In heaven, ma’am,” said he unmoved. 
“ Have you a father ?” 
“ Yes ma’am, he is with mother,” he replied 
in the same tone. 
“ Have you any brothers or sisters ?” 
“ I have a little sister but she went to moth¬ 
er about a month ago. 
“ Wnat ailed her?” 
“ She wanted to see mother, and so do I, 
and I guess that’s why I cough so.” 
“ Where do you live?” 
“ With Mrs. Brown, on N-street.” 
“ Does she give you any medicine for your 
cough ?” 
“ Not doctors’ medicine—she is too poor, 
but she makes something for me to take.” 
“ Will you take something if I give it to 
you ?” * 
“ No, ma’am, I thank you; mother took 
medicine, and it didn’t help her, though she 
wanted to stay, and you see I want to go ; it 
would not stop my cough. Good day, 
ma’am ?” 
“ Wait a minute,” I said, “ I want to see 
what you carry.” 
He opened his box, and for once I found 
what I wanted. Indeed, I didn’t think it 
would have mattered what he had. I should 
have wanted it, for the little peddler had 
changed in my eyes—he had a father and 
mother in heaven, so had I. How strange 
that peddlers had never seemed like people— 
human, soul-filled beings, before. How 
thankful he was, and how his great, sunken 
bine eyes looked into mine when I paid him. 
“ You don’t ask me to take a cent less,” 
said he, after hesitating a minute. “ I think 
you must be very rich." 
“ Oh, no,” I replied ; I am far from that: 
and these things are worth more to me now 
than I gave you for them. Will you come 
again ?" 
“ Yes ma’am, if I don’t go to mother soon.” 
“ Are you hungry ?” 
“No ma’am, I never feel hungry now. I 
sometimes think mother feeds me when I 
sleep, though I don’t remember it when I am 
awake. I only know I don’t wish to eat now, 
since my sister died.” 
“ Did you feel very sad ?” 
“I felt very big in my throat, and I tho’t 
I was choked, but I didu’t cry a bit, though I 
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1. As a rose tree, ever giving Fragrance to the air, 
2. As a river, seaward gliding, Seeks the ocean’s breast, 
3. A 3 a golden cloudlet' floating, Wreathed in vesper light, 
Till its leaflets, earthward fallirg Waste and wither there; 
There to sweetly 'blend its waters In a calmer rest; 
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Tending upward till its splendors Fade upon the sight; 
So is life forever breathing Stronger faith and trust 
So is life forever tending Onward to its close, 
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So the spirit, heavenward springing From the earth away, 
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Till its honors, all de - part - ed, Mingle with tho dust. 
When the mortal of its being Shall in dust re - pose. 
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Wreathed in robes of light immortal, Seeks the realms of day. 
felt very lonely at night for a while ; but I’m 
glad she’s up there now.” 
“ Who told you you were going to die ?” 
“ Nobody, but I know I am. Perhaps I’ll 
go before Christmas. 
I could not endure that, and tried to make 
him stay, but he would run and tell Mrs. 
Brown what good luck he had met with. He 
bade me good day again, cheerfully, and went 
out into the cold rain, while I could only say, 
“ God be with you, my child !” 
He never came again, though 1 looked for 
him every day. At length, about New Y ear’s 
I went to ihe place he called home. Mrs. 
Brown was there, but the little pilgrim ! his 
weary feet were at rest, and never more would 
his gentle knock be heard at the doors of 
those, who, like myself, forgot the necessity 
and stern want that often sent about these 
wanderers from house to house, and their em¬ 
ployment might be far more unseemly to them 
than annoying to ns.— Mrs. Gilderslecve. 
CHILDREN. 
It is a mistake to think that children love 
the parents less who maintain a proper au¬ 
thority over them. On the contrary, they 
respect them more. It i3 a cruel and unnat¬ 
ural selfishness that indulges children in a 
foolish and hurtful way. Parents are guides 
and counselors to their children. As a guide 
in a foreign laud, they undertake to pilot them 
through the shoals and quicksands of inexpe¬ 
rience. If the guide allows his followers ail 
the liberty they please; if, because they dis¬ 
like the constraint of the narrow path of so¬ 
ciety, he allows them to stray into holes and 
precipices that destroy them, to slake their 
thirst in brooks that poison them, to loiter in 
woods full of wild beasts, or deadly herbs, can 
he be called a sure guide ? And is it the same 
with our children ? They are as yet only in 
the preface, or, as it were, in the first chap¬ 
ter of the book of life. We have nearly fin¬ 
ished it, or are far advanced. We must open 
the pages for these younger fainds. If chil¬ 
dren see that their parents do not find fault 
without reason ; that they do not punish be¬ 
cause personal offence is taker, but because 
the thing in itself is wrong—if they see that, 
while they are resolutely but affectionately 
refused what is not good for them, there is a 
willingness to oblige them in all innocent 
matters—they will soon appreciate such con¬ 
duct. 
If no attention is paid to the rational wish¬ 
es—if no allowance is made for youthful 
spirits—if they are dealt with in a hard and 
unsympathizing manner—the proud spirit will 
rebel, and the meek spirit be broken. Our 
stopping to amuse them, our condescending 
to make ourselves one in their plays and 
pleasures at suitable times, will lead them to 
know that it is not because we will not, but 
because we cannot attend to them, that at 
other times we refuse to do so. A pert or 
improper way of speaking, ought not to be 
allowed. Clever children are very apt to be 
pert, and, if too much admired for it, and 
laughed at, become eccentric and disagreeable. 
It Is often very difficult to check our own 
amusements, but their future welfare should 
ba regarded more than our present entertain¬ 
ment. It shou'd never be forgotten that they 
are tender plants committed to our fostering 
care—that every thoughtless word, or care¬ 
less neglect, may destroy a germ of immortal¬ 
ity—“ that foolishness is bound up in the heart 
HAVE AN AIM IN LIFE. 
Every man, rich or poor, ought to have 
soma absorbing purpose, some active engage¬ 
ment, to which his main energies are devoted. 
SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL. Not enjoyment but duty, daily duty, must be 
* the aim of each life. No man has a right to 
by a utred TKN’ NTsos. li ve U p 0Q this fair earth, to breathe its air, to 
Srr down, sad soul, and count. consume its food, to enjoy its beauties, pro- 
The moments flying ; duomg nothing in return. He has no right 
Come—tell the sweet amount to 6njoy thG bl6SSlDgS of ClYlIiz&tlOD, Or SO- 
That’s lost by sighing. ciety, aud of civil liberty, without contribu- 
How many smiles—a score v ting earnest and self-denying labor of head, or 
Then laugh and count no more, heart, or hand to the welfare of mankind.— 
For day is dying I Certainly no man can be truly religions who 
Lie down, sad soul, and sleep, makes gratification, as distinct from self-deny- 
And no more measure ing exertion, the great object of life, and the 
The flight of Time, nor weep idler puts pleasure exactly in the place of 
The loss of leisure ; duty. 
But here, by this lone stream. This principle of life admitted, however 
lie down with us, and dream, manifested, will produce daily deterioration of 
Of starry treasure ! character, until thoroughly abandoned. Ev- 
We dream ; do thou the same, ery bodily appetite, every mental appetite, 
We love forever ; every mental fancy, every momentary fashion, 
We laugh, yet few we shame, will c ] amor till indulged. The body will be 
The gentle, never ; pampered, appetite Will lead on to gluttony, 
stay, then, till sorrow i e3 w ine ^ drunkenness, luxury to every evil in- 
“ethine^forev^n 8 ' dulgence, while the mind, excited only by 
_^ ,, ,, _ _ novelties, and enfeebled by the lack of con- 
irnw qwtft ttmp piqqpq l < inual exertion, sinks into utter vapidity and 
liUiY oWirl IlMLi rAoo.no. uselessness. There is more hope of the relor- 
. . mation of the worst sinner than of the idler. 
“ We take no note of time, save by its pas- p 0 ygrty will sometimes scourge the vice of 
sage,” says the immortal bard; and he might idleness out of a man. But the love of a 
have added with equal truthfulness, its passage higher and a better mode of life, is once tasted, 
even is scarcely noted by the mass of men. Min- is the chief hope. 
utes glide into hours, hours into days, and 
days into years so rapidly, that men are as¬ 
tonished when they look backward to the fast 
receding landmarks of the past. 
THE SUMMER SONG. 
Summer is the time to sing; sing in the 
woods aud fields ; sing by the running streams; 
«-> - WUUUO ttliu JUVSAVAO , y 
It seems but yesterday since a race of men, sing among the hills. A world of songs have 
• _ ,i _i.„_ _ii Kqq.i irryifton oninniftr snnxrs. Newnoetsare 
who in our youth stood at the head of all bu¬ 
siness affairs, were full of activity and life,— 
been written—summer songs. New poets are 
rising every day ; there is a tuning of harps 
smess anairs, were mu oi activity auu uie,— b - j ~ .? 
, ’ . , .. » U on every hand. But the old poetry is the 
when the framing aud the execution of the sweetes / afu}r all . n ke old wine and old 
laws, the teachings of the pulpit and the hooks, geem to grow riper and richer with 
schools, the management of commerce, the di- time. Bryant has written a melodious song 
rections of agriculture, and the manipulations for summer, but we think there is a very old 
of the trades, were in their hands ; and it poet, who never edited a newspaper, who a3 
, , ,. . , ,, .. • written a better. There are some of our read- 
seemed to us the destinies of the nation musf ^ probably, who do not now remember it. 
sink without their sturdy support. Where are R ^ ng some thing after this fashion : 
they now? A majority of them are in the (iThou makest, 0 Lord, the_outgolng of tho*moraliig 
grave, aud those who still remain are totter- ant i evening to rejoice. _ 
log on the outer verge of human life, their ac- Thou Visits the earth, and watereal tt ; thou greatly 
tive duties passed over to their children, and tll0u prepares! them corn, when thou Juts”so "provided 
the world scarcely any longer benefited by for a. 
of a child”—and that we must ever, like 
watchful husbandmen, be on our guard agaiust 
it. It is indeed little that we c.in do in our 
own strength, but if we are conscientious per¬ 
formers of our part—if we earnestly commend 
them in faith and prayer to the fostering care 
of their Father in heaven—to the tender love 
of Him. the Angel of whose presence goes 
before them, and who carries these lambs in 
his bosom—we may then go on our way re¬ 
joicing—for he will never leave or forsake 
those who trust in him. 
KINDNESS. 
Would it not please you to pick up a 
string of pearls, drops of gold, diamonds, and 
precious stemes, as you pass along the streets? 
It would make you feel happy for a month to 
come. Such happiness you can give to oth¬ 
ers. How, do you ask ? By dropping sweet 
words, kind remarks, and pleasant smiles, as 
you pass along. These are true jiearls and 
precious stenes, which can never be lost; of 
which none can deprive you. Speak t> that 
orphan child ; see the diamonds drop from her 
cbee s. Take the hand of that friendless boy; 
bright pearls flash in his eyes. Smile on t e 
sad and dejected; a joy diffuses his cheek 
more brilliant than the most precious stones. 
By the wayside, mid the city’s din, and at the 
fireside of the poor, drop words and smiles to 
cheer and bless You will feel happier when 
resting upon your pillow at the close ot the 
day, than if you had picked a score of per¬ 
ishing diamonds. The latter fade and crum¬ 
ble in time; the former grow brighter with 
age, and produce happier reflections forever. 
Bf.autiful Prayer. —Lord, bless and pre¬ 
serve that dear person whom thou hast cho¬ 
sen to be my husbaad ; let his life be long and 
blessed, comfortable and holy; and let me also 
become a great comfort and blessing unto 
him, a sharer in all his joys, a refreshment in 
all his sorrows, and a meet helper for him in 
all the accidents and changes of the world ; 
and make me amiable forever in his eyes, and 
very dear to him. Unite his heart to me in 
the dearest union of love and holiness, and 
mine to him in all sweetness, charity and com¬ 
pliance. Keep me from all UDgentleness and 
ill-humor, and make me humble and obedient, 
useful and observant, that we may delight in 
each other according to thy blessed word and 
ordinance, and both of us may rejoice in thee, 
having our portion in the love and service of 
God forever. — Mother's Magazine. 
The heart is childhood’s seminary. ’Tis 
here that the importont duties of life are learn¬ 
ed. ’Tis important because it is universal— 
the dreariest cot in all the land has its sacred 
heart. The maxims here inculcated become 
woven with the woof and web of after life, and 
give it color, texture and form. 
The approbation of our families, who are 
with us in our secret hours, h* ar our private 
converse, know the habits of our lives and the 
bent of our dispositions, is, or should be, to us, 
far more pleasing and triumphant than the 
shouts of the multitude, or the worship of the 
world. 
Tms good will of the benefactor is th 1 
fountain of a'l benefits ; nay, it i3 the benefi 1, 
itself; or, at least, the stamp that makes i 
valuable and current.— Seneca. 
their presence. * * 111011 waterest the ridge3 thereof abundantly ; thou 
__ * , , , „ .. iji • settlest the furrows thereof; thou makest it soft with 
Youth looks forward to manhood, .longing showers . thou blessest the springing thereof, 
to encounter the duties and responsibilities Ot Thou cr0 wnGst the year with thy goodness, and thy 
that period ; and imagines the slow moving paths drop fatness. They drop upon the pastures of the 
years yet intervening between him and it to Thepastu ’ re8areclotUed with flock3; the valleys are 
be drawn oat to an unmeasurable length; but als0 covered corn ; they shout for joy ; they also 
the epoch comes upon him only half prepared S ing.” 
to play his part creditably to himself and ben- That river of God, whose branches interlace 
eficially to the race. He is astonished that it the world-that outgoing of rejoicing morn- 
; n{r an H evening, like the glad birds from a 
has arrived so soon, and looks back with a ro ble3eed glie ] ter — wkat can be more beautiful ? 
versed instrument over an apparently vastly ^hat a picture of merry little hills is there; 
diminished space. an d that clothing of the pastures with flocks 
The man of middle age looks forward to the —was the poet indeed singing of the clearings 
fulfillment of some cherished scheme, and longs of God,^and the flocks that ma e t eir unwo- 
to enter upon the enjoyment of his iuture sue- ^ n d is there not to-day, a song in all the 
cesses; the clearing of his premises from an ya i[ e y S) an( j i 3 it not articulate ?— Chicago 
encumbrance, the assumption of political hon- Journal. 
cesses; the clearing of his premises from an 
encumbrance, the assumption of political hon¬ 
ors, the attainment of a certain amount of 
property to which he has in his own mind fixed 
the limit of his fortune. Months or years 
ORDER IN HUMAN LABOR, 
the limit ol his tortune. montns or yeais What wooderfal order there is in all human 
must pass before these hopes can be realized, , Whilst the husbandman furrows his 
and, in the folly of the moment, he piuesat the j an j au( j prepares for every one his daily bread, 
intervening spacs, and would gladly leap over the town artisan, far away, weaves the stuff in 
it to the attainment of his aim. But the which he is to be clothed ; the miner seeks un- 
swift footed hoors speed away, and when he der the ground the iron)or ns plow; the 
mmnt soldier defends him against the invader , tne 
arrives unexpectly at the designated point, tokeg can3 that the law protects his 
some other hope or desire loom3 up in advance, . t h e tax comptroller adjusts his private 
beckoning onward to the future in exclusion interests with those of the public ; the mer- 
of present enjoyments. The Syren song of chant occupies himself iu exchanging his pro¬ 
hope is heard far onward in his pathway, and ducts with those of distant countriesthe n«n 
, „ ,, . ,. . r of science and art add every day a few horses 
bright flowers bloom in distant perspective. ^ tQ tbig ; deal teani) w hich draw along the ma- 
So he hastes along the dusty road of life with- ter ; al wor j c [ ^ s t.eam impels the gigantic trains 
out pausing to take breath, while time is busy railroads ! Thus all unite together, ail 
planting grey amid his locks, and withdrawing help one another ; the toil of each benefits him- 
elasticity from his footsteps. Men rising up self and all the world ; the w01 k has been afn 
„ ’ „ ,, portioned among the different members ot tne 
after and following in ta pathway, cal him of „ tacit agrecm cnt. If, in 
middle aged, while he imagines himself yet a pp 0r ti 0 nment, errors are committed—if 
young ; and then old while he still believed cer tain individuals have not been employed ac- 
’ • -cording to their capacities, these defects of 
himself in the full vigor of life. 
O „ „„ n fUr HPp iLp detail dimmish in the sublime conception ot 
So we go, one after another, like the shift- ^ ^ Tfae p00regt maQ included in thi3 
iDg images of a fantastic dream. Men call us a8SOclatioQ has his place, his work, his reason 
children, and then vanish out of our sight; f or being there ; each is something in the 
children call us fathers, and then push on whole. % 
themselves to assume our title and our position, ■**’”*■ 
leaving us no standing places this side of the Appearances are Deceitful. —Upon the 
Appearances ark Deceitful. —Upon the 
ltaiYIUg U.O AAV/ OWUUiU 6 ---- -- ; - ‘ 
line which separates time from eternity. What subject of dress and appearances the New 
x J . A York T'nies says:—“A coat that has the 
folly then to ignore present enjoyments and ^ of ^ up J Q ig a r6COmme ndation to 
long for imaginary future good! Ihe same of genge) aud a hat with too smooth a 
mood, if indulged in, will accompany us U ap and too high a lustre, is a derogatory cir- 
through life and lay us in the grave at last, cumstance. 
The best coats are on the backs 
with our ends aud objects still unattained— of penniless fops, broken down merchants, 
T , , • . i_ • nnd apppnt fr, dftV clerks on pitiful salaries, aud men that don t 
Let us strive to do right, and accept today up ^ heaviest gold cbains dangle 
the good a beneficent 1 rovidence vouchsafes jrom tbe f 0 b 3 0 f gamblers and gentleman of 
to us, content to leave future evils and enjoy- ver y limited means; costly ornaments on la¬ 
ments to the time appropriated to each as it dies indicate to eyes that are well open, the 
arrives • for “ sufficient unto the day is the fact of a silly lover, or a husband cramped for 
evil thereof;” and equally so, compared with f unds - Alld w ^ en ®■ pretty woman goee y 
, , i j \ , „ , . m a suit of plain and neat apparel, it is ttie 
our deserts, is the amount of gcod meted out to that she httS fair expectations, 
every son and daughter of Adam. acd a husband who can show a balance in bis 
evil tbereot;' anu equauy so, oompureu wnu ;-. — ~~ : . -, 1 * £ Ja 
, , 1 j r in a suit of plain and neat apparel, it is ttie 
our deserts, is the amount of gcod meted out to pre8un)ptioi * that she has fair expectations, 
every son and daughter of Adam. acd a husband who can show a balance in bis 
-- favor. For women are like books—too much 
Fear is imp’anted in us as a preservative gi ding makes men suspicious Uiat the binding 
from evil; but its duty, like other passions, is is the most important point.” 
not to overbear reason, but to assist it; nor 
should it be suffered to tyrannise iu the imag- There is a time in the life of men advanced 
iuation, to raise phantoms of horror, or beset j Q y ear3) w h en they begin to fear a failure in 
life with supernumerary distresses. t heir faculties; but when that time has passed, 
--— they then lose all doubt of their capacity and 
As from habit one looks at a watch which competency. Franklin was a proof of this, 
no lonsrer goes, so turns the eye to those of His mind was ever green. And the Greciau 
beauty from which love no longer looks out Republic flourished 500 years because they ad- 
t0 yg/ • mitted old men only iu their counsels. 
