MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER 
225 
isaHatuffttis. 
FARMERS’ GIRLS. 
Up in the early morning, just at the peep of day. 
Straining the milk in tire dairy, turning the cows away. 
Sweeping the floor in the kitchen, making the beds up 
stairs, 
Washing the breakfast dishes, dustiDg the parlor chairs; 
Brushing the crumbs from the pantry, hunting for eggs at 
the barn, 
Cleaning the turnips for dinner, spinning the stocking- 
yarn, 
Spreading the whitening linen down on the bushes below, 
Ransacking every nse adow, where the red strawberries 
grow; 
Starching the “fixens” for Sunday, churning the snowy 
cream, 
Rinsing the pails and strainer down in the running stream, 
Feeding the geese and turkies, making the pumpkin pies, 
.logging the little one’s cradle, driving away the flies; 
Grace in every motion, music in every tone, 
Beauty of form and feature thousands might covet to own, 
Cheeks that rival spring roses, teeth the whitest of pearls— 
One of these country maids is worth a score of your city 
girls. [ Tribune. 
ON THE SETTING SUN. 
Those evening clouds, that setting ray, 
And beauteous tints, serve to display 
Their great Creator's praise; 
Then let the short-lived tiling called man, 
Whose life’s comprised within a span, 
To him his homage raise. 
Wo often praise the evening clouds, 
And tints so gay and bold, 
But seldom think upon our God, 
Who tinged these clouds with gold. 
[ Sir fValter Scott. 
THE BELL-BUOY. 
Bell-Buoy, phonographically spelled, has 
very different significations to ears nautical and 
to ears terrestrial; bat spelled in the old fash¬ 
ioned, Anglo-Saxon, non-progressive, and per¬ 
haps after all the better way, the interpolation 
of a u, marks significantly the nautical bell- 
buoy from his landsman brother. 
The noble steamship, as she nears a danger¬ 
ous coast, where rocks and sunken shoals lay 
concealed beneath the surface, is not unfre- 
quently saved from wreck by the timely warn¬ 
ings of the bell-buoy. Darkness and fog shut 
in the light of day; the faint glimmerings of 
the beacon perched upon the -adjoining cliff, 
is unable to penetrate the gloom, and even the 
fierce bright blaze of the Fresnel light, that 
crowning production of optical science, is pow¬ 
erless against the thickly settling gloom and hor¬ 
ror. The compass, faithless to its trust, warped 
from its line of duty by some local attraction, 
more powerful because in closer proximity than 
the far-off pole, is pointing in a direction that will 
inevitably produce wreck; and the Master of 
the noble craft, following its direction, is dash¬ 
ing on, unconscious of danger. In imaginary 
security, the crowd of passengers are enjoying 
themselves at the prospect of a speedy and 
happy termination of an ocean voyage. They 
are nearing port, and the rising and setting of 
one or two more suns will see them safely 
moored in the docks of their own loved shores. 
The tireless engine labors on unceasingly, mov¬ 
ing backward and forward day and night its 
herculean arms, as with a more than giant’s 
power it revolves the immense wheels, and 
drives the huge ship through waters beneath. 
But hark! the tolling of a bell strikes upon 
the ear—faintly, and afar off it seems, amid the 
roaring of the sea, as the waters are tossed up 
in white foam by the wave-compelling wheels. 
It is not far off, however, but iu close proximi¬ 
ty. The officer of the deck, ever watchful and 
alert,has caught in alarm the first faint sound; 
the pilot signalizes the engineer, at his post be¬ 
low, to reverse the engine, and instantaneously 
the huge wheels commence a counter revolu¬ 
tion, throwing the white foam up to the very 
figure head of the ship; the huge hull taken 
suddenly aback, creaks and quivers in every 
plank and timber; the helm, turned hard aport, 
rends the vessel off upon another track, and, 
just grazing a beetling cliff, that is now seen to 
loom up fearfully out of the mist, she glides 
close beside a sunken rock, and escapes into 
deep water. 
The whole tiling is so sudden, so terrific, 
and so quickly over, that it seems like a brief 
vision of the night; one of those fearful dreams 
that come upon us iu an instant, and then 
vanish away. Not a cry is heard, not even an 
exclamatiou of terror, for the danger is past 
before it is half comprehended by the uninitia¬ 
ted spectator; but when it is understood, the 
passengers give utterance to their profound 
gratitude to God. The countenance of the 
irou-visaged Master, however, remains un¬ 
changed and rigid, as if every muscle was cast 
iu bronze; but those accustomed to read the 
expressions of a seaman’s face and eye, cau see 
that a tempest within has come and gone, and 
that the soul, undaunted even while the peril 
lasted, has resumed its wonted and unrutlled 
tone. 
What was it saved the gallant ship and its 
priceless burden of human freight? The toll¬ 
ing of a bell attached to a buoy! The cease¬ 
less pulsations of the great deep — the eternal 
beatings of the ocean’s heart — the rise and 
fall of the bosom of the sea, as if moved by an 
internal power of respiration, give impulse to a 
floating buoy, which, by its motion, tolls in¬ 
cessantly the warning bell, and gives notice of 
danger to the unwary or bewildered mariner, 
when the lights of heaven are shrouded in 
gloom, and the terrestrial beacon upon the cliff 
is obscured by mist. Such is the bell-buoy of 
the ocean; and the bell-boy of terra-firma will 
be duly chronicled in another chapter. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
OLYMPIAS, THE MOTHER OF-ALEXANDER 
THE GREAT. 
[A Rabliinical Tradition, compiled from the Talmud.] 
After the death of Alexander the Great, 
in Babylon, one of his generals brought a let¬ 
ter to Olympias, the contents of which were 
as follows: 
“Alexander sendeth his mother a final 
greeting! In this writing thou wilt receive 
the news of my death. I wish and hope that 
thou wilt not, as is the custom of mothers, 
break forth in loud and bitter laments. Weep 
not! Mourn not! I was, indeed, a great 
prince; but thou knowest that everything pass- 
eth away. The greatest empire crumbleth 
unto dust, the mightiest monarch dieth, and 
his dominion is ended. The tree, that to-day 
spreadeth his strong arms far and wide, may be 
uprooted by the storm to-morrow. The flame, 
that blazeth with greatest splendor, is soon ex¬ 
tinguished; the blooming flower of the morn¬ 
ing is withered in. the evening, and everything 
vanisheth like a shadow and a dream! 
“ If thou wouldst truly honor the names of 
thy son, then erect a gorgeous palace, adorn it 
with everything that is precious, and give a 
banquet to my memory. Invite kings, princes, 
generals, and every distinguished man; but let 
it be proclaimed that no one appear at the 
banquet, who had suffered any wrong; but let 
every one come with joy and gayety, for it 
must be a day of great cheer.” 
The mother of Alexander shed not a tear. 
In compliance with her son’s last request, she 
ordered a palace of great dimensions to be 
erected; she adorned it with gold, variegated 
pictures and statues, so that it was the most 
magnificent mansion on earth. When all the 
preparations had been completed, she invited 
the kings, princes, and the other great men of 
her empire. The day of the festival was 
drawing nigh. The halls were fragrant with 
the odor of myrtles and pomegranates, waxefi 
candles burned, and the queen traversed the 
rooms of the palace, feeling an inward satis¬ 
faction in fulfilling the last will of her son. 
Hour after hour passed away, and the sun 
was already lowering on the horizon, but no 
guest appeared, and the queen walked in soli¬ 
tude through the magnificent apartments. At 
length she called one of the generals, and said: 
“Is it thus that the friends of Alexander 
honor his memory 7 and my command? Has 
not one appeared?” 
“Noble princess, replied the general, “dost 
thou forget the contents of thy proclamation? 
Thou saidst that he only should come, who 
never suffered or was aggrieved. No one has 
come, and no one will come; for there is none 
on this earth free from pain or sorrow.” 
“ O Alexander ! Alexander ! my son,” 
cried Olympias, “ thy wisdom was as great as 
thy valor; thy consolation hath mitigated my 
grief;” and she repeated the words of her son: 
“The tree that to-day spreadeth his strong 
arms far and wide, is uprooted by the storm 
to-morrow; the flame that blazeth, is soon ex¬ 
tinguished ; the sun is darkened by the clouds, 
and the full moon soon loseth her effulgence; 
the stars disappear, and princes vanish like a 
shadow and a dream.” 
The blossoms of myrtles and pomegranates 
breathed fragrance, and the caudles burned 
splendidly; and Olympias, without a tear, left 
the banqnetiug-hall. s. t. 
Advice to Parents. —Be ever gentle with 
the children God has given you; watch over 
them constantly; reprove them earnestly, but 
not iu auger. Iu the forcible language of 
Scripture, “ Be not bitter against them.”— 
“ Yes, they are good boys,” I once heard a 
kind father say, “ 1 talk to them pretty much, 
hut do not like to beat my children—the world 
will beat them.” It was a beautiful thought, 
though not elegantly expressed. Yes, there is 
not one child in the circle round the table, 
healthful and happy as they look now, on 
whose head, ft' long spared, the storm will not 
beat Adversity may wither them, sickness 
lade, a cold world trown on them; but amid 
all, let memory carry them back to a home 
where the law of kindness reigned, where the 
mother’s reproving eye was moistened with a 
tear, and the father frowned “ more in sorrow 
than in anger.” 
To Ruin a Son. —I. Allow him to have his 
own way. 
2. Let him have plenty of money. 
3. Let him roam about on Sunday. 
4. Let him be disrespectful to his parents. 
5. Give him bad companions. 
6. Call him to no accouut for his evenings. 
7. Give him no steady employment. 
Rest satisfied with doing well, and let others 
talk of you sis they please. They can do you 
no injury, although they may think they have 
found afla\V in your proceedings, aud be deter¬ 
mined to rise on your downfall, or profit by 
your injury. 
A DEN OF HORRORS. 
Kirwan, in a recent volume of Travels in 
Europe, gives the following account <of a fear¬ 
ful chamber in the castle of the Duke of Baden 
Baden, in Germany: 
But the underground apartments possess 
fearful interest. With lighted torches’we went 
down into the cellar of the palace; thence by 
a spiral inclined plane, we went down, down, 
until, by a door of one huge flag, and fitted to 
its place with remarkable exactness, we enter¬ 
ed a small oval room, perhaps ten feet in di¬ 
ameter, and hewn out of the solid rock. The 
door was shut behind us, and we were under 
the mountain! A ray of light came from 
above, and we could look up, as through a 
narrow chimney; a stone was removed beneath 
our feet, and we could look down perhaps two 
or three hundred feet, and could see a little 
glimmer of light upon a das]iing current whose 
murmurings came to us from beneath. And 
all around the room were seats dut out of the 
rock. And what was the object and history 
ef this awful room? 
Its history, as given us by our guide, and 
within its walls, is briefly as follows:—In the 
days of feudal clemency, and inquisitorial piety, 
those suspected of political or religious heresy, 
were suddenly seized and confined in some of 
the adjacent cells. The little room above de¬ 
scribed, was the room of judgment, aud the 
judges were let down by machinery through 
the opening above. The accused were then 
introduced, and the heavy stone door.was shut! 
And there, shut out from every eye save that 
of God and their judges, they were tried aud 
condemned, if not guilty, the accused were 
hated or feared, which made condemnation 
worse than guilt. When cond*emned, they 
were commanded to kiss the image of the Vir¬ 
gin in the apartment; in the movement, they 
touched springs, which caused her to embrace 
them, and in the embrace, to pierce them thro’ 
with daggers. Then a trap was sprung beneath 
their feet, which let their bodies fall upon a 
wheel, armed with knives, which was kept in a 
constant revolution by a stream of water; by 
those knives they were cut in pieces, and the 
mutilated fragments fell into the stream below. 
And there we were receiving this awful nar¬ 
rative in the very apartment where these atro- 
ities were committed in the name of justice and 
religion, with the tunnel beneath us, through 
which the bodies of their victims were let down 
for mutilation, so as to be beyond the reach of 
recognizance! For a moment our blood ran 
cold, and we were filled with horror! Oh! if 
those stone seats, aud those walls of solid rock 
could speak—if the injunctions of perpetual 
seeresy were removed by Him who upheaved 
the mountain, what an awful narrative they 
would give of the scenes of treachery, hatred 
and blood there perpetrated in the name of 
God and Religion! 
The stone door sw;ung open, and we groped 
our way through a labyrinth of chambers and 
passages, dark as midnight, into the open air. 
We all breathed easier, and a feeling of fear 
gave way to one of security. YYe* were soon 
after on the railway for Fraukfoiteon-the-Xlain, 
deeply affected by the - ’beauty’and wickedness 
of Baden Baden, thankful that its days of penal 
tyranny were at an end. 
WnAT GEO. S. HILLARD SAYS. 
“ To a young man away from home, friend¬ 
less and forlorn in a great city, the hours of 
peril are those between sunset and bed-time, 
for the moon and stars see more evil in a single 
hour than the sun in his whole day's circuit.— 
The poet’s visions of evening are all compact 
of tender aud soothing images. It brings the 
wanderer to his home, the child to its mother’s 
arms, the ox to his stall, and the weary laborer 
to his rest. But to the gentle-hearted youth 
who is thrown upou the rocks of a pitiless city, 
and stands ‘‘homeless amid a thousand homes,” 
the approach of evening briugs with it an ach¬ 
ing sense of loneliness and desolation, which 
comes down upon the spirit like darkness upon 
the earth. Iu this mood, his best impulses be¬ 
come a snare to him, and he is led astray be¬ 
cause he is social, affectionate, sympathetic and 
warm-hearted. If there be a young man thus 
circumstanced within the sound of my voice, 
let me say to him that books are the friends of 
the friendless, aud that a library is the home of 
the homeless. A taste fur reading will always 
carry you into the best possible company, and 
enable you to converse with men who will in¬ 
struct you by their wisdom and charm you by 
their wit, who will soothe you when fretted, re¬ 
fresh you when weary, counsel you when per¬ 
plexed, and sympathize with you at all times. 
Evil spirits, in the Middle Ages, were exorcis¬ 
ed and driven away by bell, book aud candle; 
—you want bat two of these agents, the book 
and the caudle.” 
Anecdote of Gibbon. —One of the drollest 
occurrences in.the annals of gallantry is related 
of Gibbon, the historian, who was short in stat¬ 
ure, aud very fat. One day being with the 
beautiful Madame de Crouzas, he dropped on 
his kuees before her and made a declaration of 
his love in the most passionate terms. The as¬ 
tonished lady rejected his suit, and requested 
him to rise. “ Rise, Gibbon, I beseech you, 
rise.” Mr. Gibbon still kept his posture. — 
“ Mr. Gibbon, will you have the goodness to 
get up?” “ Alas, Madame,” faltered the un¬ 
lucky lover, “ I cannot” He was too fat to 
regain his feet without assistance. Madame 
de Crouzas rang the bell, aud said to her ser¬ 
vant, “Lift up Mr. Gibbon.” 
The longer we live in this world of roses and 
thorns, the more we learn to revere those phi¬ 
lanthropic axioms: “ Bear and forbear;” "Live 
and let live;” and to reverence a faith whose 
Christian founder has made it a condition of 
having our trespasses forgiven that we should 
forgive the trespasses against us. 
Men of the noblest dispositions think them¬ 
selves happiest, when others share their happi¬ 
ness with them.— Taylor. 
Shims’ geprimcitt. 
CONDUCTED BY A-E. 
[For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
HEART MUSIC. 
BY MRS. JENNY A. STONE. 
Where art thou roaming, 
Loved of my soul ? 
The river’s bright waters 
Still Rongfully roll; 
Leapiug in music 
That dies on the shore, 
But the music within me, 
I hear it no more. 
I listen at twilight. 
My spirit is still, 
But ttie night-birds are singing 
O’er valley and hill; 
Then memory’s waters 
All hopelessly surge, 
The whippowil's warble. 
It sounds like a dirge. 
I sit ’neath the maple 
Ere sunset has fled, 
And dream of the absent, 
The false and the dead; 
I lean my hot forehead 
Against the rough bark, 
It cannot line deeper 
Than grief s crushing mark. 
I sigh for the glory 
Now faded and fled, 
I sigh for my gladness 
When first we were wed; 
Mine eyes to yon heaven 
All tearful 1 cast. 
And wish that my life 
With that moment had past. 
I have sent thee a message 
By many a dove, 
A message of patience, 
Of faith, aud of love; 
But the glancing of wings 
As they shiningly dart. 
Seem but to bear- with them 
Each hope from my heart. 
I send a fond prayer 
To-night by a star, 
It must draw thee hither 
Though thou art afar; 
Its words are of silver, 
In music they roll, 
0, heed their sweet voicings, 
Thou loved of my soul 1 
[For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
HOME. 
Who has not felt the sweet emotions that 
swell the heart at the thoughts of home ? that 
cherished spot where first our infant tongues 
began to lisp in broken accents the names of 
father and mother, brother aud sister! Though 
years may have passed away, and the swift¬ 
winged messenger of death may have borne 
from our fond embrace those cherished ones, 
and w 7 e. become strangers in a strange land; 
yet how oft fond memory flits on unfledged 
pinions back to the rural retreats of early child¬ 
hood, when the sunny morn of youth rose bril¬ 
liantly, and scattered its rosy light over the 
bright perspective which then seemed decked 
with the flowers of Eden, but which has dis¬ 
appointed the sanguine hopes of many a bosom, 
and taught the instructive lesson, “ that earthly 
hope blooms but to fade!” There is also a 
charm which hangs around the place of our 
birth, which the changing scenes of after life, 
or the wasting influence of time, can never 
eft ace. 
There is no inscription more deeply graven 
upon memory’s tablet, than that which records 
our childhood’s feelings, and the joyous scenes 
of our early home,—joy3, which never felt a 
care,—scenes, whose summer knew no cloud,— 
and feelings, whose artless buoyancy would 
yield to no restraint That was iudeed the 
spring-time of our being; the period when 
thornless flowers seemed strewn along life’s 
pathway, through which we were to ramble 
forever amid fragrance and sunshine. YVhat 
warm emotions are still excited at the mention 
of “ home!” How many tender sensibilities, 
how many thrilling recollections are awakened 
by that simple word! It is the very poetry of 
life—the centre around which throng the hap¬ 
piest reminiscences of our existence—the green¬ 
est spot on which the eye cau rest, as it glances 
down the long vista of by-gone years. 
How many, in early life, have bid adieu to 
the romantic retreats of their native laud, and 
perhaps crossed the foaming billows of the 
ocean iu pursuit of the laureled wreath of fame 
in far-distant climes. They may have trod the 
classic shores of Greece, aud been fanned by 
the mild and serene atmosphere of Italy; they 
may have lingered around the vine-clad hills of 
France, and reveled on the rich fruit of her 
vineyards; yet from all these, in the moment of 
despondency, the forlorn heart has turned away 
and sighed for home. 
So strong is our attachment to home—the 
place of our birth—that we never can forget it, 
until the waning taper of mortality shall throw 
its last flickering ray on all the associations of 
life, and the fixed sad heart sthall beat no more 
with love’s sweet, soothing, soft emotion. This 
attachment seems to be an innate principle, 
An evergreen that, stands the northern blast. 
And blossoms in the rigor of our fate. 
It is at home, around the domestic hearth, 
we realize the greatest share of earthly bliss; 
there spriug the tenderest emotions that swell 
the human heart, aud soothe and soften many 
of the ills of life. Who would not wish to 
breathe their last, expiring breath at home. 
among their kindred and friends? When the 
cold sweat of death shall settle down upon the 
pallid brow, who would not wish to repose his 
languid head upon the lap of conjugal affection, 
and breathe his life out sweetly there? 
Dear reader, have you ever wandered far 
from the home of your early childhood, and 
been destined to weep in astrange land? if you 
have, how oft has your mind reverted to that 
hallowed spot, while the language of your sad 
heart has been, 
Sweet home! thy name upon my heart 
Engraved shall ever he; 
Though mountains rise and rivers roll 
Between my friends and me. 
Seneca Castle, N. Y. Carrie. 
AMERICAN FE MALE LITERATURE. 
If any shrewd Futurist had told our grand¬ 
mothers that two or three generations from 
their girlhood, women would become a Literar 
ry power in America, he would have been set 
dotvn as a fortune-teller. Our grandmothers 
could not but smile at such a vain prophecy. 
For in their day it was fashionable for female 
talent to employ itself otherwise. A great 
deal of the work now done by machinery w r as 
then done by their skillful hands; and whenev¬ 
er they had leisure, it was devoted to the edu¬ 
cation of their children. Woman had much 
more responsibility of a domestic kind fifty 
years ago, and society expected a far larger 
amount of service from them. But public 
opinion has withdrawn itself from such in-doors 
surveillance. Women have managed these 
private matters to suit themselves, and without 
any aid from Conventions or Platform Speech¬ 
es, have secured themselves greater means of 
liberty and leisure. 
Whatever differences of opinion may exist 
as to the merit of our recent female writers, 
there can be no doubt as to their popularity 
and influence. Neither Irving nor Cooper has 
been read in anything like the same numerical 
ratio as Fanny Fern, Miss Wetherill, and oth¬ 
ers of the same class. The fact is significant. 
No doubt, their talents have had a share in 
this unprecedented popularity. But it were 
folly to attribute the result to this cause main¬ 
ly. There is no sort of proportion between 
the genius shown in these volumes and the im¬ 
mense sales they have had. The true reason 
is a combination of circumstances, among 
which are to be enumerated the present pre¬ 
possession of the public mind in favor of any¬ 
thing good that ladies undertake to do, and 
consequently the ease with which they secure 
the public ear. Women of any intellectual 
force find the American world more than ready 
to do them justice. They are really anxious 
to admire them. If an American woman of 
pretension and position writes an inferior 
book, she cannot be half so sorry for it as the 
tender-hearted public. 
There is something in this, to be remember¬ 
ed by our aspiring women. To make men, 
you must treat them as air-condensers treat 
the water in a fire engine—put six or eight ad¬ 
ditional atmospheres in pressure on their 
brains, and by resistance call forth their 
strength. They must have obstacles to sur¬ 
mount—suffering to test their fortitude—dan¬ 
gers to arouse their courage. Facility in the 
sense of easiness is the worst enemy of manly 
genius. But for the impediment in Demos¬ 
thenes’ utterauce—the misfortunes in Sir Wal¬ 
ter Scott’s circumstances—the poverty of 
Burns, and the deformity of Byron—their ge¬ 
nius would never have impressed the world so 
potently. But womanly mind loves sympathy, 
admiration, praise. The fragrant atmosphere 
which these create, must float around the 
plant of her genius ere it can flower in Sum¬ 
mer fullness. 
What, then, are the tokens? They are very 
favorable to the ladies—altogether, indeed, on 
their side. For here and nowhere else, are 
they just in the social position to give scope 
to all their genius. Whatever a woman is or 
has, she is very sure of full reciprocation in 
these States. She always has the open ear, 
the awaiting heart, of the best public; and 
thereby her sensibilities are put exactly in such 
a relation to her intellect as to supply all the 
inspiration she can use. A good time is com- 
iug for hes in this country; and strangely 
enough, Republicanism is destined to effect 
more for her than for the other sex. Our 
prophecy is—that the most popular forms of 
our future literature will be written by Ameri¬ 
can women. They see to-day, further into the 
meaning of American life, character, and pros¬ 
pects than men do. They are nearer the 
hearts of humanity—deeper into the spirit of 
the age—happier in the revealings of faith, than 
their rivals among men.— JYeio York Times. 
W OMEN . 
The following charming passage is from 
“ Rural Hours,” by Miss Cooper, daughter of 
the late J. Fennimore Cooper. It so beautiful¬ 
ly expresses the sentiments of all women of pure 
feelings and correct principles, that it should 
be widely circulated:— 
“ We American women certainly owe a 
debt of gratitude to our countrymen for their 
kindness aud consideration of us generally.— 
Gallantry may not always take a graceful form 
in this part of the world, and mere flattery 
may be worth as little here as elsewhere; but 
there is a glow of generous feeling toward 
woman in the hearts of most American men, 
which is highly honorable to them as a nation 
and as individuals. In no country is the pro¬ 
tection given to woman’s helplessness more full 
and free—in no country is the assistance she re¬ 
ceives from the stronger arm so general—and 
no where does her weakness meet with more 
forbearance and consideration. Under such 
circumstances, it must be woman’s own fault if 
she be not thoroughly respected also. The 
position accorded to her is favorable; it re¬ 
mains for her to nil it in a manner worthy her 
own sex, gratefully, kindly aud simply; with 
truth and modesty of heart and life; unwaver¬ 
ing fidelity of feeling and principle, with pa¬ 
tience, cheerfulness aud sweetness of temper— 
no unfit return to those who smooth the daily 
path for her.” 
