MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
iJistdlaiuRits 
be presented to the eye only, poetry has the 
advantage of being presented to both the eye 
and the ear, and from its capability of being 
indefinitely multiplied, it is more generally dif¬ 
fused than either of the other two arts. The 
humble peasant may gladden his heart with the 
creation of the poet, as well as the prince in 
the gorgeous palace. The sailor upon the 
ocean can enjoy and preserve the works of 
the poet, as well as the nobleman in the costly 
libraries of the city. Poetry h;ts another mi- 
vantage in delineating the passions of the soul; 
for she can trace them from their cause to 
their effects, while the other arts can only por¬ 
tray some fleeting moment. Description is. 
another advantage in poetry: she can soar 
Irom the brilliant beams of the sun to the 
glimmerings of pale moonlight, from torrid to 
frigid climes, giving, at the same time, all the 
interesting associations connected with every 
scene. 
He who entertains a taste for polite litera¬ 
ture, will find little time, and will have no in¬ 
clination to read novels, nor will he be in 
hazard of being a burden to himself. For, bv 
AMERICAN TRAVEL, 
Harriet, home, school, everything had chan¬ 
ged. To her, Willie was gone ! 
Often and often those simple, childish words 
come back again—for in the pathway of our 
life, we have to grow familiar with a vacant 
place. We, who then stood before that school- 
house door, are—oh ! how changed ! Many 
are sleeping with Willie the sleep of death ; 
others have learned, each in a different way, 
the stern lessons of life. We have all known 
how sad it is to grieve for dear ones gone to 
rest. The teacher has again and again been 
stricken ! aye, her hearth is left desolate. In 
the church-yard, four graves tell the story of 
her household. A little while ago, I visited 
her. An empty crib in the chamber where I 
slept—a high chair set away in the comer—the 
portrait of a pure young girl—a miniature 
which she put into my hand, and turned away 
in speechless sorrow—told the tale of her be¬ 
reavement. I thought of little Willie— of 
the few words she had spoken years ago, “You 
will all know what it is to weep for those you 
love ; you will all one day die, too ;” but I did 
not recall them to her memory. She has long 
ago forgotten them, and she will never dream 
how faithfully the solemn lesson is remembered 
by another. 
Burlington, Ky. 
Tiie late celebrated Mr. Clay was a man of 
great resolution and considerable daring. He 
once told the following anecdote to a friend of 
ours : 
“Traveling, in early manhood, in a public 
conveyance in a Southwestern state, he found 
himself in the company of three other persons, 
consisting of a young lady and gentleman, her 
husband, and an individual muffled in a cloak, 
whose countenance was concealed, and who 
appeared to be indulging in a tele a tele with 
Morpheus. Suddenly a big, brawny Kentuck¬ 
ian got into the coach, smoking a cigar, and 
frowned fiercely around, as much as to say,— 
‘Tm half horse, half alligator; the yaller flow¬ 
er of the forest, all brimstone but the head 
and care, and that’s aquafortis.’ In fact, lie 
looked as savage as a meat-axe, and puffed 
forth huge volumes of smoke, without reference 
to the company within, especially that of the 
lady, who manifested certain timid symptoms 
of annoyance. Presently, after some whisper¬ 
ing, the gentleman with her, in the politest ac¬ 
cent, requested the mail not to smoke, as it an¬ 
noyed his companion. The fellow answered, 
‘ I reckon I’ve paid my place. I’ll smoke as 
much as I-please, and all-shan’t stop 
me, no how.’ With that he looked dangerous, 
and roiled his eyes around as fiercely as a rat¬ 
tlesnake. It was evident he had no objection 
to a quarrel, and that if it occurred it was 
likely to lead to a deadly struggle. The young 
man who had spoken to him slirunji back and 
was silent. 
Clay felt his gallantly aroused. lie consid¬ 
ered for a moment whether he should interfere; 
but experienced a natural reluctance to draw 
upon himself the brutal violence of his gigan¬ 
tic adversary. In that lawless country he 
knew his life might be sacrificed unavenged.— 
He knew himself to be physically unequal to 
the contest, and he thought, after ail, it was 
not his business, Quixotically to take up anoth¬ 
er mail’s quarrel. Feeling pity for the insult¬ 
ed, and disgust towards the insulter, he deter¬ 
mined to take no notice ; when very quietly 
indeed, the cloaked figure in the corner assumed 
an upright position, and the mantle was suf¬ 
fered to fall from it without effort or excite¬ 
ment. The small but sinewy fiame of a man, 
plainly dressed in a tightly buttoned frock 
coat, with nothing remarkable about his ap¬ 
peal auce, was seen, and a pair of bright gray 
eyes sought the fierce optics of the ferocious 
Kentuckian. Without a word, this ‘lay fig- 
m e 1 passed his hand under his collar at the 
back of his neck, and slowly and deliberately 
pulled forth a long—extremely long—and glit¬ 
tering knife from its sheath in that singular 
place. ‘Stranger,’ he said, ‘my name is Col. 
James Howie, well known in Arkansas and 
Louisiana—and if you don't, put that cigar out 
of the window in a quarter of a minute, I’ll 
put this knife through your bowels, as sure as 
BY HARRY CORNWALL. 
Now, thrust my thimble in its case, 
And store the spools away, 
And lay the muslin rolls in place, 
My task is done to-day; 
For, like the workman’s evening bell, 
A sound hath met my ears, 
The gate-clink by the street doth tell 
Papa hath come, my dears. 
Bear off the toy-bos from the floor— 
For yonder chair make room; 
And up, and out, unbar the door. 
And breathe his welcome home; 
For ’tis the twilight hour of joy, 
When Home’s best pleasures rally; 
And I will clasp my darling boy, 
While papa romps with Allie. 
There, take the hat and gloves, and bring 
The slippers, warm and soft, 
While bounds the babe, with laugh and spring, 
In those loved arms aloft; 
And let each nook some comfort yield— 
Each heart with love be warm, 
For him whose firm, strong hands shall shield 
The household gods from harm. 
Our love shall light the gathering gloom; 
For o’er all earthly hope, 
We cherish first the joys of home; 
A glad, rejoicing group; 
And through the twilight hour of joy. 
We turn from toil to dally 
With thy young dreams of life, my boy. 
And gaily fondle Allie. 
WnK\ the merry lark doth gild 
With his song the summer hours ; 
And their nests the swallows build 
In the roofs and tops of towers; 
And the golden gorse-tlowcr burns 
All about the waste; 
And the maiden May returns 
With a pretty haste; 
Then how merry are the times! 
The Summer times 1 the Spring times! 
Now, from off his ashen stone, 
The chilly midnight cricket crieth: 
And all merry birds are down ; 
And our dream of pleasure dieth ; 
Now, the once blue laughing sky 
Saddens into gray; 
And the frozen rivers sigh, 
Pining all away I 
Now, how Holemn arc the times 1 
The Winter times, the Nighttimes t 
Yet, he merry; all around 
Is through one vast change revolving; 
Even Night, who lately fiown’d, 
Is in silver dawn dissolving; 
Earth will burst her fetters strange. 
And in -pring grow free; 
All th ngs n the world will change. 
Save—my love for thee! 
Sing, then, hopeful are all times! 
Winter, Summer, Spring times 1 
WOMAN’S MISSION, 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
[ Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
POLITE LITERATURE. 
ANECU0TES OE TIIE “ LITTLE ONES.” 
BY MRS. 8. WEBSTER LLOYD. 
The greatest of dramatists has said that 
there are 
“Sennons in stones, books in the running brooks,” 
meaning that Nature should be our instructor 
since she is replete with lessons of faith, and 
love, and reverence. It is indeed a pleasure, 
and one of great value, to receive her silent, 
but effective instructions in her many an 1 differ¬ 
ent schools. But a teacher, though perfect in 
moral excellence and wisdom, yet whose-lessons 
are without introductions or explanations, is 
not always intelligible to the uninitiated. The 
uncultivated mind, save one of rare and pecu¬ 
liar organization, can seldom read “ sermons in 
stones.” It has been, and still is, the oilice of 
men of genius to point out the moral of na¬ 
ture, to trace the analogies between the spir¬ 
itual and the natural. By the rude and ig¬ 
norant man, the loveliest works of nature are 
disregarded. He cannot understand the voice 
of springs and fountains,—the language of 
flowers is unintelligible to him. The twinkling 
Stas’s, the variegated rainbow, the gentle and 
musical whisperings of JKolus, the raging storm, 
the roaring thunder ,—all are as mute to the un¬ 
taught. Though they may produce an uncon¬ 
scious effect, he perceives not the soul of na¬ 
ture. 
But the man who has visited the various 
schools of nature in company with the poet, 
finds that a primrose, for instance, will recall 
sweet thoughts of spring, bright memories of 
vernal seasons past, and brighter hopes of an 
everlasting revival from a state of wintry tor¬ 
por. So much, and much more, has been ac¬ 
complished by the great poets. 
Ilapp]’, indeed, is he who has acquired a 
relish fur polite literature. The most busv 
man is not always engaged in business. Me¬ 
chanics and merchants, as well as the farmer, 
have their leisure hours. Even professional 
men cannot always be on the stretch of se¬ 
rious thought. To be idle during the’ hours of 
leisure, will certainly have a bad influence.— 
To have no employment subsidiary to that of 
a man’s main pursuit, will often cause life to 
languish, even of the most busy man. Cheer¬ 
ful recreation is necessary to the mental as well 
as the physical state. Indeed, many cases of 
prolonged sickness might be traced to the 
want of some such proper recreation from our 
slavish devotion to business. But by the study 
of polite literature, we are entertained by the 
exercise of our imagination, and such enter¬ 
tainment is highly conducive to health. “De¬ 
lightful scenes,” says Addison, in his Pleasures 
of the Imagination, “ whether in nature, paint¬ 
ing, or poetry, have a kindly influence on the 
body as well as the mind, and not only serve 
to clear and brighten our imagination, but are 
able to disperse grief and melancholy, and to 
set the animal spirits in pleasing and agreeable 
motions. For this reason Sir Francis Bacon 
in his essay on health, has not thought it im¬ 
proper to prescribe to his reader a poem or a 
prospect, where he particularly dissuades him 
from knotty and subtle disquisitions, and ad¬ 
vises him to pursue studies that fill the mind 
with splendid and illustrious objects, as histo¬ 
ries, fables, and contemplations of nature.” 
When we speak of polite literature, let none 
mistake the fashionable novels for polite. _ 
Novels might as well not be read, for they 
seldom make a person the better or the wiser 
for it, while in the majority of cases it were far 
better that they bad been left entirely alone. As 
soon as tiie novel is excluded, we need not be 
told the meaning of polite literature. As 
poetry occupies the highest rank in this litera¬ 
ture, and is one of the fine arts, it may be well 
to dwell a moment upon its excellences, com¬ 
pared with those of two of her sister arts,_ 
painting and sculpture. While the latter can 
r J he “ wise payings of children ” have occu¬ 
pied considerable space in the “ gossip pages” 
of the Knickerbocker .Magazine , recently, and 
have thence been diffused pretty extensively 
through the newspapers. They show a curious 
compound of the ready, witty, and odd ideas 
which the “ little folk ” entertain, and are not 
without touches of genuine wisdom, both 
amusing ami profitable to their elders. I have 
known and “heard tell ” of a variety of such 
sayings,—and below, write out a few of them 
for a corner in the Rural.—b. 
Harbinger of early spring, 
From the grouted awakening, 
Ere another flower would dare 
Breathe the cold and chilly air, 
Thou hast raised thy little head. 
From its cold and wintry bed. 
Like a messenger, to say 
Winter chill hath passed away. 
And we love thy presence well. 
Little snow-drop! Thou dost tell 
Lovely Spring hath come again, 
Spreading sweets o'er hill and plain. 
All along the woodland path to school, the 
early spring flowers blossomed. Before the 
snow-banks had left the shelter of the over¬ 
hanging rock, the liverwort had sprung up, 
with its delicate and many-colored petals, deck¬ 
ing some sunny knoll; and from the time our 
eager eyes first caught the tiny blossoms, our 
hands seldom went empty to school. Ob, how 
memory loves to linger around those early 
days! How I love to trace the history of those 
school companions ! How I love to recall 
some event, trifling in itselfj and only worthy 
to be remembered, because of its awakening 
some dormant power of the mind, or of im¬ 
pressing some great truth upon the heart! — 
Such a memory lingers around little Willie 
V - . Willie was the only son in a family 
of seven ; and natural feebleness of constitu¬ 
tion had made him an object of the tenderest 
care, not only with the parents, but with the 
I sisters who accompanied him to school. The 
sisters were chubby, rosy-cheeked, red-haired 
children ; the brother, delicate, with clear, al¬ 
most transparent complexion, and jet black 
hair. Very timid in disposition and gentle in 
manners, he was greatly endeared to us all.— 
I can see him now, with his pale cheeks, sweet 
blue eyes and black hair,— and the image tells 
me now, (although I did not know it then,) that 
our little playmate was one of those pure spir- j 
its who are lent a little while to earth — that j 
the parents of Willie V-entertained an 
angel unawares. 
Spring had come ; flowers filled our baskets 
and our Hands, and thousands were left ungatli- 
ered beside our path. Willie was passion¬ 
ately fond of flowers, and one noontime we 
found him lying on a sunny bank where violets 
grew. He said he was sick. His sister Har¬ 
riet led him to the school-room, where sun- 
bonnets and aprons made him a bed ; and all 
the afternoon he slept, while a bright red spot 
burned upon each cheek. At night we liter¬ 
ally carried him home—and many of us never 
saw him again. One week from that day he 
slept in the village church-yard, where his 
grave is now lost among the hundreds of name¬ 
less ones within its precincts. Well as if it 
were yesterday do I remember every particu¬ 
lar of that humble burial: the little coffin 
with its black pall—the wagon containing the 
stricken parents and the almost broken-hearted 
sisters—the three other vehicles, and a few men 
on foot As the proeession neared the school- 
house, the teacher said, “They are carrying 
poor Willie to his grave ! you may all go to 
the door;” and, under her direction, we ranged 
ourselves, in silence, with uncovered heads, 
on either side of the road, and, as the humble 
procession passed along, we strewed the path¬ 
way with fresh-gathered flowers. Tearfully we 
watched, until all were out of sight; then we 
entered the house, to listen to a very few words 
fitly spoken, and were quietly dismissed. How 
vividly everything comes back to me! — the 
teacher—the children—the old school-house ; 
because then, for the first time, the- reality of 
death impressed itself upon my mind. 
That evening I met Harriet V-, and 
would have passed her without speaking,— for 
childhood has a strange awe of grief—but she 
caught my hand. “ You have been to school 
to-day, Sophy ?” “ Yes,” I answered. “Ah! 
how does it look there, without Willie?” For 
as that of men; and the paltry high heels and 
whalebone supports of mere drawing-room con¬ 
ventionality and young ladyhood withering up, 
we shall stand in humiiily before God, but 
proudly and rejoicingly at the side of man !— 
1 Afferent always, but not less noble, less richly 
| endowed. And all this we may do, without 
losing one jot or one tittle of our womanly 
spirit, but rather attain solely to these good, 
these blessed gifts, through a prayerful and 
earnest development of these germs of peculiar 
purity, ot tenderest delicacy and refinement, 
with which our Heavenly Father has so es¬ 
pecially endowed the woman. Let beauty and 
i grace, spiritual and external, be the gai incuts 
of our souls. Let love be the very essence of 
our being—Love of God, of man, and of the 
meanest created thing,—Love that is strong to 
endure, strong to renounce, strong to achieve! 
Alone through the strength of Love, the no¬ 
blest, the most refined of all strength—our 
blessed Lord himself having lived and died 
teaching it to us, have great and good women 
hitherto wrought their noble deeds in the world; 
and alone through the strength of an all-em¬ 
bracing love, will the noble women who have 
yet to arise work noble works or enact noble 
deeds. Let us emulate, if you will, the strength 
of determination which we admire in men, their 
earnestness and freeness of purpose, their un¬ 
wearying energy, their largeness of vision; but 
let us never sigh after their lower so-called 
privilege, which when they are gifted with a 
thoughtful mind, are found to be the mere 
husks and chaff’ of the rich grain belonging to 
humanity, and not alone to men. 
The assumption of masculine airs or of mas¬ 
culine attire, or of the absence oi tenderness 
and womanhood in a mistaken struggle after 
strength, can never sit more gracefulhyipon us 
than do the men’s old hats, and great coats, 
and boots, upon the poor old gardeueresses of 
the English garden. Let such of us as have 
devoted ourselves to the study of an art—the 
interpreter to mankind at large of God’s beau¬ 
ty—especially remember this, that the highest 
ideal in life, as well as in art, has ever been the 
blending of the beautiful and the tender with 
the strong and the intellectual —Miss Hoivitt’s 
Art-Student in Munich. 
A little boy had a colt and a dog he 
Called and thought his, (though doubtless, the 
boy’s colt, when grown up, was “ father’s 
horse,”) and his generosity was often tried by 
visitors asking him—“just to see what he 
would say ”—to give them one or both of his 
pets. One day he told a gentleman present he 
might have his colt—reserving the dog, much 
to the surprise of his mother, who asked: 
“ Why, Jacky, why did’nt you give him the 
dog?” 
The boy, who had planned out a very sage 
stratagem of his own slily replied: 
“ Say nottin’, say nottin, mother,’ when he 
goes to get the colt, III set the dog on him!' 
Willie F. heard of “Santa Claus,” this 
Christmas, for the first time, and hung up his 
stocking with a great deal of wonder. Waking 
up in the night, and hearing the dog walk¬ 
ing across the room, he says: 
“ Fa, Old Santa Claus is here; I hear him 
hopping ’round.” 
’ He was sure he had been there, when he 
looked in his stocking in the morning. How 
little it takes to fill to the brim the cup of a 
child’s happiness. 
What curious ideas children have of God 
and prayer, don’t they? A “bit of a boy” 
was sitting in his aunt’s lap, and kept putting 
his hand into her pocket, for which his mother 
reproved him. He was loth to stop, so she 
added: 
“What! is my Frank going to steal? He 
will have to be taken to Batavia and shut up 
in the jail, if he does not keep his hands out of 
Aunt Betsey’s pocket.” 
“ Well,” replied he, “I don’t care if I am, I 
can pray to the Lord, and hell let me out 
quicker than percussion.’’ 
His father was “earnest in prayer,” and 
“strong in faith,”—probably Frank derived 
his notions from him. 
The following, which occurred in this neigh¬ 
borhood, may bo found in the Knickerbocker 
for February. 
“ A blacksmith’s little boy, some three years 
old, was often in the shop among the workmen, 
one of whom delighted in teasing him. One 
day he lingered long in the house near his 
mother; until, noticing his seriousness, she 
asked: 
‘What does my Lyman want, what is he 
waiting for?’ 
4 Why, ma, I want to know who made me?’ 
When his mother had explained that ques¬ 
tion so puzzling to all ‘little folk,’ telling him 
that God made him, and the world, and all 
things, his smile returned, and he ran off to 
rtie shop as usual. As he came near the anvil, 
his tormentor exclaimed: 
‘Now, boy, I’ll cut your leg of!’ 
His mother’s lesson fresh on his mind, he 
did not shrink this time, but shouted back 
again: 
4 1 don’t care! I can go to God’s skop and 
get it mended?” 
never played marbles. He never played “ ho- 
ky.” He never drove a tandem of boys with a 
string. He never skated on the pond, or pla]'- 
ed ball, or rode down hill on a hand-sleigh.— 
And Eve, she never made a play-house; she 
never rulled a hoop, or jumped the rope, or 
pieced a baby quilt, or dressed a doll. They 
never played “lilind man’s buff,” or “pussy 
wants a corner,” or any of the games with 
which childhood disports itself How blank 
must their age have been wherein no memories 
of early youth came swelling up in their hearts, 
no visions of childhood floating back from the 
long past, no mother’s voice chanting a lullaby 
to the ear of fancy in the still hours of the 
night, no father’s words of kindness speaking 
from the church-yard where he sleeps. Adam 
and Eve, and they alone of all the countless 
millions of men and women that have lived, 
had no childhood.— Register. 
Why is a carpenter who is putting a roof 
over a schooner, that fights on her own hook, 
like a girl weeping in solitude for her lover? 
Do you give it up? 
Because he is shedding a private tear.” 
“Tis strange,” muttered a young man, as he 
staggered home from a supper party, 44 how 
evil communications corrupt good manners.— 
I’ve been surrounded by tumblers all the eve¬ 
ning. and now I’m a tumbler myself.” 
Severe. —“ She has destroyed my hopes for 
ever!” exclaimed an infatuated lover. 
44 ITow?” inquired a sympathizing friend. 
44 By realizing them!” 
Fights are very easily got up. All that is 
required are three participants, two block¬ 
heads, and a pint of new rum. 
Nothing can we call our own, but death: 
and that small model of the barren earth, 
which serves as paste and cover to our bones. 
Correction does much, but encouragement 
does more. Encouragement after censure, is 
as the sun after a shower. 
Fidelity, good humor, and complacency of 
temper, outlive all the charms of a fine face, 
and make decays of it invisible. 
How many men we meet who 44 might be ” 
something, and how few are! 
Words are the daughters of the wind, but 
actions are the sons of the souL 
Winter. —The seasons of the year have been 
aptly compared to the various stages in the 
life of nuui. Spring, when nature bursts into 
new life, and with such grace spreads out its 
growing charms, amidst alternate smiles and 
tears, beautifully shadows forth the period of 
infancy and youth. Summer, with its full 
blown beauties and its vigorous powers, repre¬ 
sents the maturity of manhood. Autumn, 
when the golden harvests are reaped, and the 
fields are stripped of their honors, and exhaust¬ 
ed nature begins to droop, is a striking figure 
of the finished labors, the gray hair, and the 
advancing feebleness of old age. Winter, cold, 
desolate and lifeless, indicates with an accura¬ 
cy not more remarkable than it is affecting— 
the rigid features and the prostrate energies of 
the human frame in death.— Duncan. 
“ Mother,” said a Spartan boy, going to bat¬ 
tle, “ my sword is too short.” “Add a step to 
it,” was the reply of the heroic woman. So 
should it be with all our duties of life. When 
we cannot reach a height we aim at—add a 
step, and keep ou adding until we reach it 
Sweet Thought. — Whenever we find our 
temper ruffled toward a parent, a wife, a sister 
or a brother, we should pause and think, that 
in a few more months or years, they will be in 
the spirit land, watching over us, or perchance 
we shall be there watching over them left be¬ 
hind. 
One of the most distinguished physicians of 
New England ascribes the fearful increase of 
cases of paralysis to the use of stoves in close 
rooms, partieulaaly in sleeping apartments. 
