241 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
IrscfllaiwHS. 
IWritten for the Hural New-Yorker.J 
SUMMER—A PASTORAL. 
How with delight my ardent bosom thrills, 
Warm with the hope thin pleasant hour instills. 
While ’round me sit with open hearts and ears. 
The intelligent of youth and riper years; 
Pure as the joy returning Summer brings, 
Pure as the stream that from the mountains springs. 
The soul’s deep gratitude unconscious flows, 
Dissolving hearts in Nature’s kindred glows. 
Lot from the South the lovely season dies, 
Borne on the breeze to these more genial skies. 
Fair as the morn in silv’ry gems adorn’d, 
The soul of alure—life of all things form’d. 
With wreaths ambrosial, soft her brow is prest, 
And golden fruits her bosom rich invest; 
And earth and skies with sweetest smiles suffus’d, 
High lift their voice to tuneful praises used. 
Now varied charms possess the ravish’d sight, 
And op’ning grace the senses well delight; 
Reviewing wide, the plains in softest green, 
Extern! afar most happy to be seen ; 
And field by field the ripening harvests stand, 
All wavy now by gentle breezes fann’d ; 
While with the first gray light of balmy dawn. 
Ere Phoebus smiles upon the tufted lawn ; 
The farmer, joyous with the lark’s gay song, 
Is heard far Uown the mead, with robust throng. 
Whose jocund laugh and merry ringing steel, 
Loud rise upon the air in many a peal. 
The flirting bobolink with crazy mate, 
Quick rising, twirls on easy wing elate, 
As wild with glee he strains his polish'd throat, 
lu some short prelude, or melodious note. 
The red-breast, cheerful with the morning sun, 
lle-umes his scale with peremptory run ; 
While, Seized with mirth at each vain warbler’s strain, 
The mimic cat-bird sings them o’er again. 
But come into the wood, or leafy glade. 
While the air is fresh and cool with shade; 
Come, while with praise the wildwood deep resounds. 
And birds pourforth their clear mellifluous sounds. 
Then, love, thro’ every spray pure harmony breathes, 
And gladness issues from the enraptur’d trees; 
And valleys, charm’d, to valleys give reply, 
And e’en the rocks, reverberating, cry. 
Deep in the forest, from noisy stir remote, 
In wild ravines thro’ which cool breezes float, 
O haste me on, nor cease where grandeur dwells, 
My wand'iing steps;—the narrow winding dells, 
The wide-extending grotto, horrid, deep, 
Where screeching owls, (heir nightly revels keep; 
The cliffs high towering, Hashing with the sun, 
The n ountaiu, down whose sides the torrents run, 
Hoarse thundering, spreading devastation ’round, 
Commingling earth and trees, tierce sweep the ground 
lu one dense rushing mass : these, these sublime, 
Entrance the sight, and feast the soul divine. 
But see 1 at high meridian walks the noon, 
And Nature, languid, sinks in gen’ral swoon 1 
The husbandman, with steps relax'd and slow, 
Reseeks ttie shade his weary members know; 
The lolling ox—submissive fiiend of ail— 
Uutramel'd, seeks, beneath the sunbeam’s fall, 
Tne cooling pool, sweet umbraged and serene. 
And there enjoys the dear invig’rate screen; 
The bleating flocks along the feuces trail. 
And bow d, tin ir faces ’neath the bushes veil, 
From teasing Hies, and insects gay with heat, 
luiesting long, most bold in sanguine feat. 
The hawk alone, on towering wing, ascends, 
Thro’ glowing ether high above the plains. 
And in •outinued circlescuts the air. 
Or, darting, drops as with the lightning’s glare, 
From lolly poise, his deadly talons spread, 
And swoops the wretched dove, transfix’d with dread, 
And bears him quivering to the fatal wood, 
A victim, mangled and defil’d with blood. 
Perch’d ’pou a branch the wily villain rest. 
Bent o’er his prey with claws deep in its breast, 
Oft peering, guarding with distended eye. 
As tho’ in l'eir some foe were lurking nigh. 
Hid thus from view the murd’rous wretch delays. 
And at his leisure 'pou his victim preys. 
But now the circling hours begirt the sky, 
With crimson, azure golden tints that lie 
Skirling the calm horizon, soft’niug, mild, 
As sinks the day-god, dancing o’er the wild, 
Yet peaceful verge of night. The shadows flit, 
Fantastic o'er the checker'd lawn, where sit, 
Cheer'd with the scene, and mus’c of the hour, 
Perchance in amorous mood, ’neath some sweet bow’r, 
The sylvan youth, and his bright charming fair, 
Cheerful and lovely as the twilight air. 
’Tis now, delighted most, oh bear me hence. 
To some enchanting spot, some grove immense. 
Or thro’ ambrosial gardens, broadly spread, 
Give me to stray by some fair Flora led; 
When Nature woos, benignant in her bloom, 
Charging the zephyrs with hallow’d perfume; 
When mu l in’ring by, the purling rills rejoice. 
Dancing to music of the Nai.id’s voice ; 
’Tis then sweet music lends her holiest charm, 
And Dove and Harmony go ai m in arm. 
Thus pass’d the hour, the evening twilight spent, 
Night draws her curtain ’round with kind intent; 
Earth, left at irst, reclaims that she hath given. 
And quiet, drinks the nectar drops of heav’u; 
Infusing vigor, breathing peaceful sleep, 
Thro’ all creative life, imbuing deep 
Wiih renovating power, mankind the blest. 
As worn with toil they calmly sink to rest. J. W. C. 
THE I1ELLE BOY. 
Two specimens ejus nomenis have already 
been presented, and there is one other yet to 
come, to wit., the Belle Boy ; or, in other 
words, The Ladies’ Man. In the ordinary ac¬ 
ceptation, it is a term of contempt, and stamps 
upon a man a character as unenviable ns it is 
contemptible. Who can not call to mind 
within the circle of his acquaintance, the La¬ 
dies’ Man, decked out with finery, rings, and 
chains, perfumery and gloves ; proud of his 
lily fingers and bear-greased pate, as destitute 
of bruins as it is profuse in Macassar. S niling 
as a summer day, he lavishes his compliments 
upnn young ladies, especially if they happen to 
be good-looking, or well dressed, or have hon¬ 
orable or wealthy papas ! 
Scorning honest labor, either of the hand or 
brain, if compelled by the force of circum¬ 
stances to do something for a livelihood, he 
lets himself to a pin and needle vender, or 
some person of kindred employment, and in¬ 
trudes himself into a station which could much 
more appropriately be filled by the sex which 
is the pretended goddess of his idolatry ; thus 
circumscribing the range of female employ¬ 
ments, and compelling the poor friendless wo¬ 
man to receive lower wages for her toils. lie 
affects to worship the sex, to be the champion 
of woman ; while, at the same time, he stands 
in the path of her advancement, and looms up 
like a blighting shadow across her way. lie 
would run after, and pick up a lady’s hand¬ 
kerchief and present it to her, with all the grace 
of an Adonis ; but his heart is too black and 
craven to save her from a yawning gulf. He 
would go down on his knees before a belle in 
silk, while, at the same time, he would spurn a 
starving beggar woman in the street. He 
carries himself loftily in the presence of the 
hard-fisted artizan, the bronzed agriculturist, 
the industrious student; and shows his deli¬ 
cately-moulded proportions off proudly beside 
their rougher-hewed exterior ; but he turns no 
thought either to the paucity of his own head, 
or the vileness of his own heart. He can 
smile, and play the polite parts at an evening par¬ 
ty or a public reception ; but he knows noth¬ 
ing of that chivalrous devotion to the sex, 
such as distinguishes the true man from the 
false. 
An honest admiration of woman, a high 
and holy reverence for her, a feeling of genuine 
friendship for the sex, such as would induce a 
man to sacrifice his own life for her protection ; 
such as would cause him in case of a ship¬ 
wreck, to place her upon the plank, and trust 
his own safety to the vigor of his arm ; such 
as in a conflagration would prompt him to ef¬ 
fect her rescue before his own ; such as makes 
a man an obedient son, an affectionate broth¬ 
er, and a loving husband, is a true test of 
greatness of soul ; but this test is by no means 
confined to the man of polished exterior, or 
aristocratic pretensions. It is not unconsonant 
with even a rusty garb and uncouth manners, 
although as a general thing, it goes hand in 
hand with high moral and mental cultiva¬ 
tion. The lower a man sinks in the scale of 
(.being, the less consideration he feels for the fe¬ 
male sex. The genuine savage is always the 
tyrant of his wife, and he only becomes her 
chivalrous protector, so far as he elevates him¬ 
self in the intellectual and moral scale. 
f here is no trait in a young man’s charac¬ 
ter more worthy of commendation than a true 
admiration for the character of woman ; an 
admiration which would induce him to protect 
her from insult, shield her name from defama¬ 
tion, and remove obstacles from her paihway, 
too often hedged in by thorns. It shows un¬ 
mistakably that his youthful training has been 
under the eye of a judicious mother ; that he 
lias been reared under the roof where female 
influence has shed its genial rays, and that the 
lessons of his childhood will not be lost upon 
him in after years. Such an one is not the 
•‘Belle Boy ’’ it is our purpose to condemn.— 
We would hold the former up as an example 
worthy of imitation, the latter as one of con¬ 
tempt ; pure gold in one case, glittering tinsel 
over a base metal in the other ; and the touch¬ 
stone of adversity or peril would develop 
each in its true character. The former grows 
brighter the more it is rubbed ; the latter 
blackens under the same process irretrievably. 
“MARRIED YESTERDAY.” 
Every day in the journal that with the first 
gleam of the sun is flung within our portals, 
we read this little sentence :—“ Married yes¬ 
terday, So and So.” Every day there is a 
wedding-feast in some of the mansions of 
earth ; a clasping of hands and union of hearts 
in the dim aisles of some holy temple ; a 
pledging of eternal love and constancy during 
all the hours that are yet to come down, like 
spring flowers upon life’s pathway. Each day 
some new marriage-crown is put on, and she 
who wears it, leaning upon him whose love is 
the brightest jewel set amidst its leaves, steals 
avvay from the “ dear old home,” and nestles 
tremblingly in the fairy ^ot where Love’s hand 
has trained the honey-suckle over the latticed 
porch, and placed uEolian lyres in all the case¬ 
ments. 
“ Married Yesterday.”— There are pearls 
and gold shining now amid the flowers that 
fringe Love’s pathway, and stars gleaming like 
great chandeliers in the firmament of Hope.— 
There are harps tinkling now whose melody is 
sweeter lhan the sound of evening bells, and 
joys falling like a shower of amethysts upon 
the hearts that yesterday were wed. Life now 
is become beautiful ; the soul soars upwards 
from the dust, like a dove loosed from its cage; 
there is melody in every breeze and every 
place; yea, there are angels in every path, 
with crowns for those who are pressing onward 
with song and prayer. 
“Married A esterday.” —It seems now a 
long distance to the grave—a long road to 
the final rest. But soon ihe shadows will 
come, and life lose its summer bloom. Then, 
as the patter of tiny feet is heard about the 
grandfather’s house, and little bairns cluster 
about his knee, who were “ married yesterday,” 
mayhap will turn back to the records of the 
past, weeping silently the while, remembering 
that their summer is gone, their harvest ended, 
and that soon, gathering up their sheaves, they 
must pass beyond the gates of pearl, where 
will evermore be but one marriage—-that of 
the Lamb with his chosen people .—Newark 
Daily Mercury. 
[Written for the Rural New-Yorker.j 
CHILDHOOD AND AGE. 
There are, within the sound of my voice, 
two characters, showing the harmony of child¬ 
hood and age, of summer and winter. Come, 
S., and watch them from my window. See 
how, with a woman's watchfulness, that man ol 
eighty gaurds in her play the child for which 
even a mother has little anxiety, while attended 
by him. Mark how he leads her to the grav¬ 
eled track, and while she plays with the peb¬ 
bles, watches to snatch her away at the ap¬ 
proach of a carriage. How he must love that 
child, to control his aversion to dogs, and, for 
her sake, caress her “bow-wow,” till at last he 
has learned to love the poor brute, which, 
without her, is only less lonely than himself— 
He shares her joys, and lakes part in all her 
sorrows. 4 
I know nothing of his history or character, 
save as exhibited in his devotion to that deli¬ 
cate child—for she is almost his only associate ; 
but 0 ! it is a loving heart against which she 
rests, ids he bears her in his arms. Why did he 
never marry ? Was there never one willing to 
gladden his heart by placing her image in its 
every chamber ? Is this little child his first 
love ? Cod can tell. 
But I know many a woman is won by a man 
who, with all his superiority of intellect and 
polished address, loves far less purely than that 
simple old man, whose heart rejoices in the 
thought that there is one on earth for him to 
love. Suissao. 
Honest Labor.— Labor, honest labor, is 
right and beautiful. Activity is the ruling el¬ 
ement of life, and its highest relish. Luxuries 
and conquests are the result of labor—we can 
imagine nothing without it. The noblest man 
of earth'is he who puts his hands cheerfully 
and proudly to honest labor. Labor is a busi¬ 
ness and ordinance of God. Suspend labor, 
and where is the glory and pomp of earth— 
the fruit fields and palaces and fashionings of 
matter for which men strive and war! '"Let 
the labor-scoffer look around him, look at him¬ 
self, and learn what are the trophies of toil.— 
From ihe crown of his head to ihe sole of his 
foot, unless lie is made as the beast, he is the 
debtor and slave of toil. The labor which he 
scorns has tracked him into the stature and 
appearance of man. Where gets he his gar¬ 
ments and equipage? Let labor answer. "La¬ 
bor makes music in the mine, and the furrow, 
and at the forge. 
A Robin with Mechanical Tastes. —The 
Superintendent of the l prlland Works, says 
they have a little overseer down, there that 
commands the love of all'the workmen. The 
boiler shop of an engine establishment every¬ 
body knows, is just the noisiest place this side 
of Pandemonium—and yet this is the home 
which a robin Inis selected to bring up a flour- 
i-hing family. She has built her nest right 
below one of the ventilators, through which 
she passes in and out. What could have pos¬ 
sessed the creature to leave quiet groves and 
hedges, for a residence amid such an eternal 
clatter and banging—is a question that would 
have stumped Audubon himself. But she 
seems to enjoy it—sits on her nest and feeds 
her young as unconcernedly as if she were in a 
deserted ruin. Perhaps Nature sent her there 
for the encouragement of the industrious fel¬ 
lows who are doing so much for the benefit 
and credit of our State.— Port. Ad. 
Goon manners is the art of making those 
people easy with whom we converse. Who 
ever makes the fewest persons uneasy, is the 
best bred in the company. 
Men are sometimes accused of pride, merely 
because their ancestors would be proud them¬ 
selves were they in their place.— Shenslone. 
Dialects of Birds. — I believe there i 3 a 
dialect in the songs of birds. The somr, for 
example, of a thrush near London, or even in 
any of the home countries, has Title resem¬ 
blance, except in tone and specific character, 
to that ot the same in Devonshire, or near Ex¬ 
eter. The same notes, I suppose, will be de¬ 
tected, but they are arranged for the most 
part in a different tune, and are not sung in 
the same way. They are given with different 
valves, and the singing is pitched in a different 
key. One great distinction between the two 
eases is the number of gutteral notes, of which 
the song of a Devonshire thrush is often made 
up, but which near London are heard only at 
the end ol a bar, or even much less frequently; 
while those chief notes which mainly constitute 
the song of the other bird, and make it so im¬ 
pressive, are rarely pronounced by the Devon¬ 
shire thrush .—Jesse a Country LiJ'e. 
Seven Foods. — 1 . The envious man—who 
sends away his mutton, because the person 
next to him is eating venison. 
2. The jealous man—who spreads his bed 
with stinging nettles, and then sleeps in it. 
3. The proud man—who gets wet through 
sooner than ride in the carriage of an inferior. 
4. The litigious man—who goes to law in 
the hopes of ruining his opponent, and gets 
ruined himself. 
5. 'I'he extravagant man—who buys a her¬ 
ring, and takes a cab to carry, it home. 
f>. 'I’lie angry man—who learns the ophi- 
cleide, because he is annoyed by the playing 
of his neighbor’s piano. * * v 
7. The ostentations man—who illuminates 
the outside of his house most brilliantly, and 
sits inside in the dark.— Punch. 
CONDUCTED BY A- 
OF HOME. 
BT ALICE CARET. 
Mr heart made pictures all to-day 
Of the old homestead far away. 
It is the middle of the May, 
And the moon is shining full and bright— 
The middle of May and the middle of night. 
Darkly against the southern wall, 
Three cherry trees so smooth and tall, 
Their shadows cast—we planted all, 
One morning In March, that is long gone by, 
My brother Marian and I. 
I hear the old clock tick and tick 
In the small pallor,—see the thick 
Unfeathered wings of bats, that stick 
To the moon-lit windows, and see the mouse, 
Noiseless, peering about the house. 
I’m going up the winding stairs, 
I’m counting all the vacant chairs, 
And sadly saying. “They were theirs, 
The brothers and sisters, who, no more 
Co in and out at the homestead door.” 
I hear my sweet-voiced mother say, 
“ Leave, children, all the work to-day, 
And go into the fields and play.” 
And the birds are singing where’er we go_ 
How beautiful to be dreaming so. 
And yet, while I am dreaming on, 
I know my playmates all are gone; 
That none the hope of our childhood keep 
That Ron.e are weary and some asleep; 
And that I from the homestead am far away 
This middle of night and the middle of May. 
[ 'V’ritten for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
COUNTRY MOONLIGHT SCENES. 
Dr. Arnold wrote poems on principle, but 
he never published them. Tom Moore tells 
of a gentlemen who, when he was short of 
money, always threatened his family with the 
publication ol his poems. The immediate re¬ 
sult was as much cash as he wanted. 
A little white cottage, partially hidden by 
trees, exceedingly “simple and unpretending” 
in its appearance,—one that would scarcely be 
noticed by a careless observer. ‘ Upon the left 
side of the walk leading to the door, may be 
seen a splendid, time-honored Mountain Ash, 
which has enjoyed the sunshine and firmly 
borne the storms of many years—has been the 
pride and admiration of at least two generations, 
and yet it stands and yet it flourishes. Though 
its first admirers have long since been laid 
in the tomb, and the fair lips which spake its 
praise long since silenced, vet the hearts 
which now beat beneath its branches are 
not insensible to its beauty. The innumer¬ 
able stars are all up, gemming the blue vault 
above our heads, in this very same spot 
years age, with the very same shiners for wit¬ 
nesses, may have gone up to heaven, and been 
recorded, many a “ whispered tale of romance.” 
’Neath- these widely spreading branches stands 
a rustic seat, and upon it three figures are re¬ 
clining—a guitar lying near, though as yet the 
strings remain silent, except an occasional vi. 
bration caused by the fanning wings of some 
careless zephyr, as it hastens to its frolicking 
among the misty, delicate foliage of the locust. 
Not a harsh sound dare break the holy quiet. 
Only the lulling roar of-old “ Kauyahoora,” and 
the faint, happy chirp of the cricket may be 
heard. 
“Come,” says cousin James, (the only gen¬ 
tleman of the party,) who had remained some 
time in silent meditation, “ what say you for a 
sail, girls? 'Tis not well to allow this splen¬ 
did moonlight to pass unimproved; and see, the 
river is calm and quiet to-night as an angel's 
brow.” 
“ Is it not too late?” says Madge, (a spright¬ 
ly little black-eyed Venus.) “ The town clock 
has already struck the hour of eleven, and that, 
ought, to be a sufficient admonition for me to 
return to my home.” 
“ F shawl” says James, “’tis never too late to 
enjoy such an evening as this. Come, come 
you sad paragon of propriety; do not think of 
wasting this glorious night in idle slumber.— 
I’ll settle it with old Morpheus.” 
James has at bust proven, to his own satis¬ 
faction, that his persuavive powers are mighty. 
A moment more and the trio are seated in a 
little skiff and pushing from the shore. The 
great “ Universal Beaulifier” never shone upon 
a happier group. 'I’he sky was as clear and 
radiant as the eye of childhood, and pure as if 
made for angels to travel. Each ripple was 
mirrored in the bosom of the clear stream o’er 
which we so gracefully glided. Our sagacious 
little boat, guided by an experienced oarsman 
seemed not afraid to venture to the very edge 
of the rooks, over which the merry ripples seemed 
dancing a hornpipe. The edges of the rocks 
o’er which the water poured, were silvered with 
*■ fairy moonlight,” and the proud old queen of 
night, caring not, a whit, for our steady, imper¬ 
tinent gaze, seemed quite conscious of her own 
beaut}’. Indeed the longer we gazed the more 
expanded her honest Yankee countenance 
seemed to grow,—for it was now at its full._ 
The stars, “ mansions built by nature’s hand,” 
seemed also to look down and twinkle more 
brightly upon observing the reflection of their 
bright eyes; and the stars in the water tried in 
vain to rival in brilliancy those of the heavens, 
Alexander Smith’s beautiful linesseemed only 
too applicable upon this romantic occasion: 
“Sorrowful Moon! seemiiig so drowned in woo, 
A queen whom some errand battle day has left 
Unkingdomed and a widow, while the stars. 
Thy hand-maidens, are standing back in awe. 
Gazing in silence on thy mighty grief.” 
In vain did the mountains of clouds threaten 
to hide from our view her radiant face, for each 
time did she emerge from them and stand forth 
in brilliant defiance. O’er many a dark cloud 
did she “ throw a silver lining,” and though for 
awhile nought but dense darkness could be dis¬ 
covered, there would at last roll up a bright 
j silver edge, showing us that behind many a 
dark frown there is hid away a soul-cheering 
smile. How much we enjoyed the victorious 
rising of some tiny cloud, over a huge one that 
threatened to destroy it, so like a timid soul 
just rising from obscurity, treading on (unper¬ 
ceived) toward the intellectual horizon. For 
a time it may not be noticed, so small is its ap- ■ 
pearance, so unostentatious in its display, yet 
suddenly it rises, as by magic, and supersedes 
in its brilliant career many a huge cloud which 
had long defied its approach. 
We could have watched those clouds forev- 
ever. They fill one with such towering ambi¬ 
tion, lofty hopes, and heavenly aspirations. On 
the shore opposite (called the “sand-bar,”) 
stand several magnificent elms, whose branch¬ 
es, gracefully veiling their ancient trunks, kissed 
the moonlighted water. Under the soft shadow 
of these (the most graceful of all our trees) we 
finally halted; the shining oar was carefully laid 
upon f heedge of our bark, we sang a sweet fare¬ 
well ode to moonlight, and paddling for our own 
shore, returned home to ramble down to dream¬ 
land through a path shaded with pleasant 
thoughts. 
Gan the intellectual stars of Maple Grove, 
Idle-wild, or Sunny-side, with all their ardent 
admiration of Moonlight, Music and Love, (for 
we had them all,) find in their suburban re¬ 
treats a more romantic spot than Valley Home 
and Old “ Kauyahoora?” u. w. k. 
Newport, July, 1854. 
THE LAND BEYOND THE RIVER. 
It was a lovely day. 'I’he balmy breath of 
June wafted the rich fragrance of the summer 
flowers, while the warbling songsters of the 
grove chanted sweetest melodies to their Crea¬ 
tor God: and in their most melodious strains, 
vied with all created nature in rendering praise 
to the Fountain of all blessings. The°golden 
orb of day was just sinking behind the western 
wave, and its last lingering rays, as though 
loth to leave the scene, still shed their halo°of 
mellow light upon it, lighting up the arch of 
heaven, and gilding the fleecy clouds with the 
tints of Paradise. The whole scene is one of 
surpassing loveliness. But, kind reader, while 
your heart is filled with praise and love to the 
bountiful Giver of all good, go with me and 
learn to adore his richer love. 
Little Ella was dying. Pain no longer rack¬ 
ed her weary limbs. Under the touch of the 
icy hand of death, the fever that for davs had 
been drying the blood in her veins was rapidly 
cooling, and the flush was fading from her thin 
cheek. The dying little one was dear to many 
hearts; theirs was the grief too deep for utter¬ 
ance, and in the silence of bitter, tearless ago- 
ny, they stood arouud her dying couch, for they 
knew that she was departing. The father and 
the mother and the kind physician stood bend¬ 
ing over the form of the lovely child, watching 
her labored breathing. In" apparent sleep, 
she had for sometime been silent, and they 
thought that it might be thus she would 
pass away. But suddenly her blue eyes open¬ 
ed, and a smile of heavenly sweetness rested 
upon her features. She looked eagerly for¬ 
ward at first, then turning her eyes upon her 
mother’s face, said in a sweet voice— 
“ Mother, see that beautiful country be- 
those dark rushing waters. O, how beami: .l! 
What is the name of that country, mother?” 
“lean see nothing, my child,” said he moitur.* 
“ Look there, dear mother,” said trie uiild, 
pointing again, “can you not ee it n< 1 ' — 
See how those angry wav f ... ins those 
rocks; and oh! what a beautiful 
yond—the sun shines so plea ,1 i see 
such beautiful flowers, and the birds sing so 
sweetly; oh! they ar me now, I can al¬ 
most touch i u.un .vita .y hand, ana the peo¬ 
ple all look ao happy there. Oh! pa:... can 
you not see beyond ike river? Teli me the 
name of that land.” 
The parents ex. hanged glances, and replied 
together. ‘ I'he land you see is heaven, is it 
not, my child?” 
“ Oh, yes, ;hat is its name; I thonghtit must 
be heaven. Oh, let me go. But how shall I 
cross that d( -p, dark river? Father, carry me, 
will you not'; See, the angels are waiting for 
me on the other side; they are holding out 
their arms for me. Oh, father, take me in your 
arms, and carry me across the river. 1 must go.” 
A solemn awe pervaded the room, as if they 
stood upon the very verge of eternity—as if 
the curtain was about to be withdrawn that con¬ 
cealed the unknown glories of the eternal world. 
“ My child will you not wait with us a little 
longer?” said the father; “stronger arms than 
mine will soon bear you across the river. Stay 
with your mother a litile longer—see how she 
weeps at the thought of losing you.” 
“Dear mother, do not cry, but come with 
me and cross the stream. me, father, come 
—angels are whispering in my ears, and I see 
one standing upon the other shore who is smil¬ 
ing upon me, and stretching out his arms to 
take me. Now he is coming down into the 
river to carry me across. I must go—come 
with me!” And stretching out her little arms 
for the last embrace, she said, “Good-bye, 
father — good-bye, mother. Don’t you be 
afraid; he has come to carry me safely across 
the river.” 
And these were her last words. Gently did 
they lay her fair form back again upon the pil¬ 
low, and kneeling at the bedside, those grief- 
stricken hearts thanked God for this lesson of 
love, and prayer for resignation, saying, “ I’he 
Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away, 
blessed be the name of the Lord.” 
