9 
m 
fell 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
SORROW. 
BY ELLEN 0. U«K, 
TVVPKblt, tenderly, 
Fold the pale hands,— 
Hands that held slenderly 
Life'* we»ry bands,— 
That, ere death’s agony 
Wrenched them apart, 
Rested so prayerfully 
Over his heart. 
Young in the battle-field, 
Well you may say; 
7loo young to lightly yield 
I.ifo’e breaking day. 
Loved,—oh, so tenderly,— 
Truly and well; 
Hme well, retnoraber ye, « 
Tongue cannot telL 
But With all weariness 
Over at last, 
All the night's dreariness 
Evermore past, 
Let them not, lovingly, 
Pity his pain,— 
Say ye, reprovingly, 
“ Death is his gain,” 
Well that for loving hearts 
Slow tears should fall,— 
Meet that the tie that parts 
Saddens ye all. 
Love’s strongest pulses beat 
Over the grnve; 
There all our yearnings meet 
Helpless to save. 
Yet to the faithless soul 
Reaching in vain, 
Out where the waters roll 
Over Death’s plain; 
Say with love’s comforting, 
Tender and blest, 
“ Faith cannot mourn for him,— 
He is at rest,” 
Charlotte Center, N. Y., 1800. 
-- 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
MONUMENTS TO WOMEN. 
What! A monument to woman! Sir, you are 
dreaming! This is the nineteenth century.— 
Bravo aud good, noble, self-sacrificing, enduiing, 
heroic women, have lived, and died, ages and 
ages gone. Sir. would you insult us,—or do you 
seek notoriety by agitating an absurd, and hith¬ 
erto unthought of, project? Monuments to 
womeen! 
You are au anomaly, sir,—a living curiosity! 
What have women ever done to deserve more than 
passing remembrance? Her mission has not been 
to depopulate the earth with the sword,—nor to 
stir np conspiracies, or rebellions. She is not 
famous, as murderer, .prize-fighter, or gambler. 
What little she has done, has been quietly, unos¬ 
tentatiously, and without expectation or hope of 
reward. She was taught from her crudlo to look 
up to, and to give man, all the honor and credit, 
and to magnify it ten times greater than it was. 
Natolkon was distinguished for his success in 
exterminating a great portion of the human race, 
—for breaking the hearts of thousands of noble 
mothers and wives, and for dishonoring one of 
the noblest and loveliest women of France. 
Doubtless, splendid monuments rise to his mem¬ 
ory. Did ever any one think of building one to 
honor the virtues of his injured Joski’iiine? 
Why, sir, monuments are expensive tributes. 
While a woman lives, and her beauty gratifies 
your pride and admiration, she may command the 
sum necessary to rellect credit on her lord and 
master, or slave, as the case may be. But once 
dead, it is enough,—what, more would you have? 
Suppose you try and get up a subscription for a 
monument to the memory of Elizabeth Fry, or 
some other heroic, noble woman. You will see 
the public sentiment on this subject We will 
see if there is a monument built in honor of 
Florence Nightingale, In commemoration of 
the services rendered to humanity and her coun¬ 
try. Please to define what virtues, or services, 
exemplified or rendered by woman, would by 
your sex be deemed worthy of monumental 
honor and glory. 
Monuments arc poor affairs after all,—a misera¬ 
ble effort to extend the memory of a few crumbs 
of dust, which, ere it is begun, arc scattered to the 
four wiuds of heaven. Build monuments, if you 
will, to Truth, Virtue, Goodness, Patience, aud all 
the virtues and graces, hut why say it is in honor 
of this or that heap of dust? Whoever labored 
or died in the cause of justice, with a view of 
earthly reward or renown? And do they kuow 
they are afterwards remembered by country or 
friends,—many of whom die in penury and dis¬ 
grace? 
Woman expects to hear all things, endure all 
things, hope all things, in love and charity, and 
without reward. When she is dead, let her rest 
in peace. But you, sir, whoever you are, if you 
are sincere, deserve to be thanked for your mag¬ 
nanimous expression of good will toward, aud 
kind remembrance of, woman. q. 
- - » ' ■ - 
Local Associations.— To abstract the mind 
from all local emotion would be impossible if it 
were endeavored, aud would be foolish if possi¬ 
ble. Whatever withdraws us from the power of 
our senses, whatever makes the past, the distant, 
or the future, predominate over the present, ad¬ 
vances us In the dignity of thinking beings. Far 
from me and from my friends he such frigid phi¬ 
losophy as may conduct us indifferent and un¬ 
moved over any gTound which has been dignified 
by wisdom, bravery, or virtue. The man is little 
to he envied whose patriotism would not gain 
force on the plains of Marathon, or whose piety 
would not grow warmer among the ruins of Iona. 
—Johnson. 
• [Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE WISHBONE. 
“What! crying, Nellie? 1 ’ and Minnie Leyton 
crossed the room with her quick, decided step, 
und laid her dainty white hand caressingly on my 
head. “What troubles you, best sister?—is your 
pet bird dead, or have you made an awful rent in 
your best dresB? Ah! I have it now; you are 
weeping over a lock ol Ckladoni’h hair, like a 
dear little Amelia, as you are. I see a noble 
steed, ‘all saddled, and bridled, and fit fora fight,’ 
infuriated brothers, desperate cousins, and as 
much chasing and racing as there was on Cam¬ 
bria lea, when the Lockerby maiden gave her 
lover the slip in such an unhandsome manner,— 
all through the telescope of your tears. What an 
enchanting prospect for one of my romantic dis¬ 
position !” 
“ Do hush, Minmk! why will you beRO absurd?” 
said I, half angrily. “Since you will persist in 
making a mystery of such simple things, I will 
give you no opportunity to <lo so now,” and I 
displayed to the astonished eyes of the little 
maiden, a broken wishbone. 
Her red lips curled saucily as she exclaimed, 
“1 do believe I am the very flower that Ukey al¬ 
luded to, ub ‘ wasting its fragrance on the desert 
air!’ Here I have been throwing away my 
romance on you,—even contemplating a novel, 
of which you und the despairing unknown were 
to be hero and heroine, aud already collecting all 
my poetry and eloquence, with which to embel¬ 
lish your speeches,—when you destroy my dream 
of bliss by displaying, instead ol a faded flower, a 
wishbone! What sentiment can there bo about 
it? To he sure, you might make it the arbiter of 
your destiny by suspending it above the door; 
but most probably the first person who passed 
under it would be Cousin Jamie, who Is already 
engaged,—or Mr. Jones, the widower, with car¬ 
roty hair, und nine small children,—or some old 
bachelor, with a heart so completely ossified that 
you despair of making any impression on it, 
without as much ammunition as would suffice to 
capture Gibraltar!” and Minnie flitted gaily away, 
and I heard her flute-like voice warbling some 
simple ballad in the hall below. 
Ah, Minnie! you can see romance in nothing 
but wavy black hair, Ilyronic neckties, and Miss 
Landon’s poems; the holier and sweeter romance 
of common life is hidden from your worldly eyes. 
You would see nothing worthy of remembrance 
in the scenes called up before me, by the simple 
token you so much despise. 
A green, blossoming meadow, flooded with May 
gunshino, a cool, amethystine spring, framed in 
plumy grasses and crimson moss-cups, and shaded 
by tbo tremulous and feathery branches of the 
drooping ossiftr; and two little girls,— Grace 
Caklbton, and myself,—nestled cosily among the 
luxuriant foliage, where the watchful eyes of the 
teacher in the little red Bchool-house could not 
discover us,—how many pleasant thoughts this 
picture had power to awaken. Perhaps we should 
have been in the school-house, poring over our 
primers, hut certainly it was much pleasanter out 
in the breezy fields, wishing all Boris of wild, im¬ 
possible things, and ascertaining whether they 
would come to pass by the simple necromancy of 
blue violets, find wishbones, T remember the 
wishes of which the very wishbone that Minnie 
thought had nothing sentimental about it, was 
the soothsayer. Grace Carlkton was a quiet, 
rational child,—she only wished for a holiday and 
n walk in the woods; hut I, ever fanciful and ex¬ 
travagant, hoped the ship of which my mother 
told me, might come in laden with balm and 
spices from Arahy the Blest,—lustrouB silks and 
shawls of fabulous beauty; things from the For¬ 
tunate Islands of which I loved to dream. Ah, 
me! perhaps the calmer wishes of more sober 
years may he in reality no wiser than those vain, 
childish longings. Laura E. \V. 
Colmcton, N. Y., 1860. 
-- 
NEEDLEWORK. 
There is something extremely pleasant, and 
even touching—at least, of very sweet, soft, and 
wiuning effect—in this peculiarity of needlework, 
distinguishing women from men. Our own sox is 
incapable of any such by-play aside from the main 
business of life; but women—be they of what 
earthly rank they may, however gifted with intel¬ 
lect or genius, or endowed with awful beauty— 
have always some little handiwork ready to fill 
the tiny gap of every vacant moment. A needle 
is familiar to the fingers of them all. A queen, 
no doubt, plies it on occasion; the woman-poet 
cau use it as adroitly as her pen; the woman’s 
eye that has discovered a new star, turns from its 
glory to send the polished little instrument gleam¬ 
ing along the hem of her kerchief, or to dam a 
casual fray in her dress. And they’have greatly 
(he advantage of us in this tespeet. The slender 
thread of silk or cotton keeps them united with 
the small, familiar, gentle interests of life, the 
continually operating influences of which do so 
much for the health of the character, and carry oil' 
what would otherwise he a dangerous accumula¬ 
tion of morbid sensibility. A vast deal of human 
sympathy runs along this electric line, stretching 
from the throne to the wicker-chair of the hum¬ 
ble seamstress, and keeping high and low in a 
species of communion with their kindred beings. 
Metblnks it is a token of healthy and gentle 
characteristics, when women of high thoughts 
and accomplishments love to sew, especially us 
they are never more at home with their own 
hearts than while so occupied. — Hawthornes 
New Romance of Monte Beni. 
There may he little resemblance between a 
clouded sky and the human countenance; and yet, 
when the sky opens and lets through the sun¬ 
shine, we say that it is smiling; and when that 
dull countenance opens and lets out the soul, wc 
say that it. is shining; and in the metaphor we 
feel that we have given a new animation to the 
gun, a new glory to “the human face divine.” 
- »» »- 
Women grown bad are worse than men, because 
' the corruption of the best turns to the worst. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE APRIL RAIN. 
ur GEO. A. HAMILTON. 
The clouds arise, the sky is overspread, 
The brightness gone, 
The earth seems now less fair, and overhead 
A storm drives on; 
And now I hear the echo of its wheels 
Agaiust the pane, 
It is the merry toDe and lively peals 
Of slanting rain. 
I miss the hum that yesterday was heard, 
Life's busy stir, 
Tbe rattling wheels, the warbling of some bird 
In yonder fir; 
The poplar bows its tall and graceful head 
Before the storm, 
Tbe biids have ceased their vernal BODg and fled 
For shelter watm,— 
Nojofous child about the yard is skipping, 
Heartful of gladness, 
The yellow pendent of the willow, drippiDg, 
Seems bowed in sadness. 
Aud yet I love the merry, pleasant rattle 
Of April rain, 
It tells of spring, in tones of childhood praUie, 
Almost as plain,— 
It tells of leaves that soon shall deck the trees 
with garments green, 
And then of blossoms, and of active bees, 
Together seen,— 
It tolls of fruit, and then of waving fields 
Of golden grain. 
And then of merry songs and glad appeals 
Across the plain,— 
It tells of brightness when the Btorm is over, 
Of meadows fair, 
Where waves the bright and sweetly-scented clover, 
'Mid summer air, 
And where the lark shall be a joyful rover, 
Each scene to share. 
Then welcome, welcome are the April showers, 
So fresh and bright; 
They bring to mind the coming of the flowers, 
Fair May's delight, 
And deck the earth in lovely, smiling bowers, 
Through summer's flight. 
Yes, welcome, welcome is the April rain, 
Mildly flowing, 
Laden with beauty, wealth, and flowers again, 
Siniliug, glowiog! 
Welcome to hill, aDd vale, and fertile plain, 
Brightness bestowing! 
South Butler, N. Y., 1860. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
W A. a E s. 
What a wondrous variety we pass day after 
clay, perchance never to meet again, and how in¬ 
delibly some of these faces impress themselves 
upon our minds; Borne expression, or feature, 
never to be forgotten, flow many a time, in some 
crowded street, have we watched the endless va¬ 
riety,—striven to read the varied countenances, 
and imagine their several histories, while the jost¬ 
ling multitude hurried on, each, intent on some 
cherished plan, careless and thoughtless of all 
but self. 
The bust ness man, who scrutinizes every one with 
that peculiar calculating expression as he passes, 
wrapped in schemes of trade and gain. And the 
little beggar children, thronging every corner of 
the great thoroughfares, in lanes and alleyB,— 
everywhere their wan, piteous faces come before 
us, and their sad, beseeching tones greet our ears. 
We never pass one of these poor, dwarfed speci¬ 
mens, without noticing some pretty, childish way, 
or some fine feature,—it may ho a mass of tangled 
curls, an eye as blue and clear as aDy whose 
glances we have orten watched bo lovingly, or a 
small mouth, with pearly teeth, that might speak 
God's name sweetly and reverently, instead of the 
low, profane language, at all times repulsive, hut 
awful, coming from children’s lips. What sight 
canbe more touching than innocent childhood so 
degraded, so old in siD, yet so young in years? 
Then, too, there are such glad, bright faces,— 
young girls, whose cheerful looks seem to tell of 
happy homes, and kind friends to love and guard 
them. The sewing girls, with such worn, weary 
faces, that only need fresh air and kind words to 
call back the roses to cheek and lips.- And the 
widow, guiding, with tender cure, tbe little one 
by her side,— the mourning veil may shroud her 
face, hut still its thick folds cannot hide the sor¬ 
rowing, heart-broken expression, which has set- 
ted upon every feature. Isn't it strange what 
volumes the countenances of these people reveal, 
while they pass on thinking their heart-histories 
deeply buried from worldly eyes ? Even the 
miser, as he carefully picks his way through the 
crowd, peering cautiously aud inquisitively at the 
passers-by, has written upon his face the motto of 
his life, "I have gold, but nobody knows it” 
Young America, in all the glory of standing 
collars and cigar smoke,— portly aldermen, all 
grandeur und {pomposity, while by their side one 
of Africa's sonfl struts quit*' as proudly, his ebony 
visage resplendent with a far better set of ivory, 
and eyes that see something worth grinning at 
whichever way he tarns,— little boys with such a 
leering, artful, old look,— market women and 
hucksters crying out the excellencies of their re¬ 
spective articles, with that peculiar, avaricious, 
pinch-penny expression, — and then one some- 
limes meets a wrinkled, sorrowful face, that tells 
of long, weary years, that have fallen with crush¬ 
ing weight on hearts once a3 young, perchance as 
gladsome, as our own, and we sigh to think that 
the coming years, in their ceaseless round, may 
teach us, too, how much of grief the heart may 
hear. 
As we turn sadly from these faces, another 
meets us. ’Tis a fine face! the features cut so 
regularly, and the noble look on that high, white 
brow, while the curls which fall negligently on 
the temples complete the picture. But the eyes 
have a vacant, stupid glare,— a dissipated look 
has settled around the mouth, and mars the*al- 
most perfect beauty of the countenance. We 
shudder to hear tbe horrid blasphemy which falls 
from his lips, and hurry on, thinking of the 
mother who somewhere is watching for the icturn 
of this, her only son, and of the sister, whose 
tears have fallen unheeded in his behalf. Alasl 
sad thoughts come everywhere. 
Then two clergymen pass; one a tall, pleasant 
looking man, t riking earnestly to the smaller one > 
who answers in a stern, bigoted manner, and 
finally, with a cold bow, leaves his companion and 
crosses to the opposite side of the street, a per¬ 
fect example of injured clerical dignity. We 
gathered enough from their conversation to know 
they were talking of the poor inebriate before 
them, and so we turn jnst in time to see the mild 
one quicken bis pace, and catch the staggering, 
reeling form, and kindly, and tenderly as though 
he were an own son, lead him over the crossing, 
down a side street, to his own home. Involun¬ 
tarily our heart warms toward this Christian who 
can bring his religion down to cvery-day use, and 
guide this erring, wandering one of his flock, 
while the other, Pharisee-likc, passes to the other 
side, disgusted with his brother’s weakness, and 
feeling, more than ever, the necessity of keeping 
apart from the world. Still the living stream 
flows on. Millionaires, poor clerks, bachelors, 
strutting along complacently, giggling school 
girls, crafty politicians, aud strong minded advo¬ 
cates of Bloomerism, each with expressions pecu¬ 
liar to themselves,— a few pretty faces, most of 
them plain, but all interesting to the close ob¬ 
server. And if one form chances to leave the 
crowd, who misses it? 
How often has some stranger-face reminded us 
of friends in our own dear home, or of some 
cherished one, long since mouldered to dust in 
the dreamless rest. Oh! a wondrous thing is the 
human face, so expressive of mirth, joy, or sor¬ 
row,—still stranger is it, that all upon which we 
have gazed will be gathered at length in one vast 
assembly at tbe resurrection. Not as they are 
here, but purified,—incorruptible,—and those we 
have looked on sadly, with blinding tears, as we 
folded the hands peacefully over tbe pulseless 
hearts, are watching, waiting for us on the further 
shore of the Better Lund. Clara. 
Cleveland, N. Y., 1860. 
--- 
A DROP OF INK. 
Think of a Queen’s first signature of a death 
warrant, where tears tried to blanch the fatal 
blackness of the dooming ink; of a traitor’s ad¬ 
hesion to a deed of icbcllion, written in gall; of 
a forgef’a trembling imitation of another's writ¬ 
ing, where each letter took the shape of the gal¬ 
lows; of a lover’s passionate proposal, written in 
fire; of a proud girl’s refusal, written in ice; of a 
mother’s dying expostulation with her wayward 
son, written in the heart’s blood; of an indignant 
father’s disinheriting curse on his first-born, black 
with the lost color of the gray hairs which shall 
go down in sorrow to the grave,—think of these, 
and of all the other impassionatc writings to 
which every hour gives birth, and what a 
strangely potent. Protean thing, a drop of ink 
grows to he! All over the world it is distilling 
at the behest of men. 
Here a despairing prisoner la writing with a 
rusty nail his dying confession of faith on his 
damp dungeon wall. There an anxious lover is 
deceiving all but his bride, with an ink which she 
only knows to render visible. Beleaguered sol¬ 
diers in Indian forts are confiding to the perilous 
secrecy of rice water or innocent milk their own 
Uvea and the fortunes of the country. Ship¬ 
wrecked sailors, about to he engulfed in mid 
ocean, are consigning to a floating bottle the faint 
pencil memorandum of the spot where they will 
soon go swiftly down in the very jaws of death. 
Everywhere happy pairs, dear husbands and 
wives, affectionate brothers and sisters, and all 
the busy world, are writing to each other on end¬ 
less topics, with whatever paper comes to haud < 
whatever ink. The varied stream thus forever 
flowing is the intellectual and emotional blood of 
the world, and no one need visit Egypt, or sum¬ 
mon an Egyptian magician to show him all the 
arts, all the joys and woes of men reflected from 
the mirror of a drop of ink.— Macmillan's Mag. 
---*-#-+- 
COMPANY MANNERS. 
A well bred man has always the Barne man¬ 
ners at home and in society, and what is bad in 
the former is only worse in the latter. It cun 
never be pardonable to swagger and lounge, nor 
to carry into the family circle the actions proper 
to the dressing-room. Even where familiarity 
has nothing shocking in itself, it attacks the re¬ 
spect due to the society of others, whoever they 
may be, and presents the danger of a further 
breach of it. From familiarity to indecency is 
but one step. Thus, not a part of the dress, not 
a shoestring even, should be arranged in the 
presence of ladies. The Hindoos, remarkable for 
the delicacy of their manners, would not allow 
kissing, scratching, pinching, or lying down, to 
be represented on the stage, and at least the last 
three should never be permitted in a mixed so¬ 
ciety' of men and women. There are attitudes, 
too, which are a transitiou from ease to famili¬ 
arity, and should never be indulged. A man may 
cross his legs in the present day, bat should never 
stretch them apart. To wipe the forehead, gape, 
yawn, aud so forth, are only a shade less obnox¬ 
ious than the American habit of expectoration.— 
The Habits of Good Society. 
--— 
Ri les for Goon Halits.— 1. Have a plan laid 
before hand for every day. 2. Acquire the habit 
of untiring industry. 3. Cultivate perseverance. 
4 . Cultivate the habit of punctuality. 5. Be an 
early riser. 6. Be in the habit of learning some¬ 
thing from every one with whom you meet. 7. 
Form fixed principles on which to think and act 
8 . Be simple and neat in your personal habits. 9. 
Acquire the habit of doing everything well. 10. 
Make constant efforts to be master of your tem¬ 
per. 11. Cultivate soundness of judgment. 12. 
Observe proper treatment of parents, friends, and 
* companions.— Todd. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
A PRAYER. 
BY J. NEWTON BARTHOLOW. 
Great God! reach down thine all-upholding arm, 
A fallen son of tby great cause to raise; 
O, Father One, invoke the tempter's harm, — 
Grant me tbe summer of the Christian's days. 
With suppliant heart to Thee 1 bent in prayer 
When but a child, with life unstained by sin; 
'Twas at my mother's knee I sought to tear 
The germs of future passions from within. 
And now I kneel again in manhood's prime,— 
Ob, soothe, Great God! thy torn andaDguUhed son; 
Invade this black and iron heart of mine! — 
Teach wayward feet the heavenly race to run! 
Memphis, Tenn , 1860. 
->-#♦- 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
“I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAYS.” 
These words, which the poet has combined 
with so many pleasing associations to the devout 
heart, seemed to possess a new charm, as they fell 
from the lips of an aged man, upon whose locks 
rested the frosts of thrce-Bcore and ten winters. 
To health he had been a stranger for many weary 
montlip, and as he contemplated his near ap¬ 
proach to the tomb, no dark forebodings came 
over hia soul, for lie felt that he had “a house not 
made with hands,” and as the hoar drew near 
when he expected that the spirit would leave the 
earthly tenement, he would exclaim: “I would 
not live always.” 
For him the tomb possessed no dread, 
Jesus, before, the way had led; 
And the glad spirit fain would fly 
To the bright realms prepared on high 
For those who, ere they pass death's flood, 
Are cleamied from guilt by Jesus’ blood. 
Memory ran swiflly over tbe scenes of his past 
life, and thus he communed with himself: “ How 
strange, that frail man, whose days are as the 
morning dew,—whose life issonm:ertain,—should 
anxiously seek the perishable things of earth, 
while he neglects to prepare for the great future 
soon to open before him,—neglects to cultivate 
the higher and nobler faculties of the soul, that 
it may be prepared to enjoy the society of angels, 
aud ascribe endless praises to the Lamb that was 
slain, forever and ever.” 
How beautiful to see the aged thuB peacefully 
approach death's dark portal, leaning, by faith 
unwavering, upon the promises of a compassion¬ 
ate Savior. 
"Let me live the life of the righteous, that my 
last end may he like his. Mattie. 
Newark, N. Y.. i860. 
-- ■■ 
A LITTLE CHILD AT PRAYER. 
A child at prayer,—a beauteous sight! Dim¬ 
pled hands clasped; eyes lifted heavenward, im¬ 
ploring a bhiailng upon the youthful one. An 
orphan of six summers,—God help the orphan,— 
though not one word was breathed, her looks 
would he eloquent enough. Au orphan! sweet 
child, like a frail hark upon the uncertain sea of 
life, to battle with the waves of sorrow and dis¬ 
appointment. But a mother's spirit watches over 
you, and though the canopy of heaven veil her 
from view, yet she is a talisman. The evening 
hour hears upon its fleeting wings your orisons to 
the shrine of heaven; angels there the record 
write. Who could harm you? Who could say 
one cruel, unkind word, when they gaze upon you 
and rclleet that you are indeed an orphan? An 
orphan! What does that word convey? Tt is but 
a name, alas! of too many thrown upon the un¬ 
feeling world, trusting to kindness when so little 
is to be found. Heaven shield you from all harm: 
pluck the thorns from your pathway, aud strew 
sweet flowers. As I watch you on your bended 
knees, does it not seem an example bidding me to 
“ go and do likewise.” And as the sweet words, 
“Our Father,” full from your lips, angels are the 
listeners. Let it breathe its simple pruyer. He 
who hath said, “Suffer little children to come 
unto me,” will hear your voice, sweet one.— Leis¬ 
ure Moments. 
♦ »«- 
WHAT THE LEAVES SAY. 
You have often gazed upon the many colored 
leaves which fluttered in the autumn breeze, just 
ready to fall to the ground. Did you ever listen 
to hear them talk to you? for talk they do, in their 
silent language,—tolling you of the bright spring¬ 
time, when they drank in tbe gentle dew. aud in¬ 
haled the balmy air, and spread out their delicate 
fibres to the rays of the sun: and, fashioned by a 
divine Creator, took forms of beauty; and, painted 
by His hand, assumed the pleasant green; aud 
how, upheld by His power, they had borne the 
pelting of many a pitiless atom, and the scorch¬ 
ing heat of the noonday sun, wnile many of their 
companions had faded and fallen to the ground. 
And they would tell you that, one by one, they, 
too, should fall. Thus these fading, falling leaves, 
talk to us of lifo's evening, and whisper to us to 
be reudj’, for “we all do fade as a leaf." And do 
not they talk to ns of something brighter and 
better,—of the unfading leaves of the tree that 
grows on the banks of the river of life, and urge 
us to seek that heavenly world? 
--- - — 
Off Guard.—T hou hast contended with Satan, 
and hast been successful. Thou hast fought with 
him, aud he has fled from thee. But, O, remem¬ 
ber his artifices! Do not indulge the belief that 
his nature is changed. True, indeed, he is now 
very complacent, and is, perhaps, singing thee 
some siren song; hut he was never more a devil 
than he is now. He now assaults thee by not as¬ 
saulting thee, and knows that he shall conquer 
when thou fullest asleep. 
