if®! J! 
sgffi 
Us 
IWritten for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
OUR LOVED AND LOST. 
lege of imparting gladnesB to the sorrowing heart, 
will come no more. 
r Ob'- why are we so unmindful of other’s needB? 
. —why bo Blow to pity the sorrowing, to reach 
forth a helping hand to the tempted one, or seek 
VjftN) the reBCue of the already fallen? Why so unlike 
S® Christ? Lina Lee. 
SberburD, N. V., 1860. 
- ~ ■ — 
HOME CONVERSATION. 
nr mrb. a. 
hohtoh. 
Lightly fold away the tresses from the death-pale brow, 
Though she heeds not the earesse* lavished o’er her now, 
Softly move Jus though still listing for her gentle call, 
Light, as near an infant slumbering, let your footsteps fall. 
Let no aahlc pall bn lying o’er the loved one here,— 
Let fair flowers, like her now dying, fade upon her bier. 
Bring the flower* she loved and cherished, to whisper 
word* of truth, 
For the one thus early perished in her gladsome youth. 
Round her brow, the bright Immortelle — type of death¬ 
less mind— 
With the gTeen leaves of the Myrtle, for a chaplet bind. 
In her hand a pure White Rose-bud, scarco half open, 
place, 
Let the Lily of the Valley upon her bosom rest. 
On the heart once warmly beating, 
Rome of purest thought, 
Lay the flower,—e’er entreating 
“ Loved ones,—Forget-me-not.” 
Seek the spot where in the spring time 
Bloom the Violeta fair, 
Where the Mosses are the greenest, 
Lay our darling there. 
Northville, Mich., 1860. 
«««- 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
OILINESS vs, BLUNTNESS. 
In a late issue of the Rural, “Amelia’' says, 
“rather be saucily blunt than use so much oil” 
Children hunger perpetually for new ideas, 
and the most pleasant way of reception is by the 
voice and the ear, not the eye and the printed page. 
The one mode is natural, the other artificial 
Who would not, rather listen than read? We not 
unfrcquently pass by in the papers a full report 
of a lecture, und then go and pay our money to 
hear the self-same words uttered. An audience 
will listen closely from the beginning to the end 
of an address which not one in twenty of those 
present would read with the same attention. 
This is emphatically true of children. They 
will learn with pleasure from the lips of parents 
what they deem it drudgery to study in the 
books; and even if they have the misfortune 
to be deprived of the educational advantages 
which they desire, they cannot fail to grow up 
intelligent, if they enjoy in childhood and youth 
the privilege of listening daily to the conversa¬ 
tion of intelligent people. Lot parents, then, 
talk much and talk well at home. A father 
who is habitually silent in iris own house, may 
be, in many respects, a wise man; but he is not 
wise in his silence. We sometimes see parents 
who are the life of every company which they 
enter, dull, Bilent, uninteresting at home among 
their children. If they have not mental activity 
and mental stores sufficient for both, let them 
first provide for their own household. Ireland 
exports beef and wheat, and lives on potatoes; 
and they fare as poorly who reserve their social 
THE ALPINE CROSS. 
BY JAMES T. YIELDS. 
Benighted once where Alpine storms 
Have buried hosts of martial forms, 
Halting with fear, benumbed with cold, 
While swift the avalanches rolled, 
Shouted our guide, with quivering breath, 
“ The path is lest fo move is death!" 
The savage snow-cliffs seemed to frown, 
The bowling winds CAme fiercer down ; 
Shrouded in ouch a dismal scene, 
No mortal aid w hereon to lean, 
Think you what music ’twn* to hear, 
“ / tee the Crete! — out if ay is ele.ar 
We looked, and there, amid the snows, 
A simple cross of wood uprose ; 
Firm in the tempest’* awful wrath 
It stood, to guide the traveler’s path, 
And point to where the valley lies, 
Serene beneath the summer skies. 
One dear companion of that night., 
Has passed away from mortal sight; 
He reached hia home to droop and fade, 
And sleep within his native glade ; 
But as bis fluttering band I took, 
Before he gave his farewell look, 
He whispered from his bed of pain, 
“ The Alpine Cross I see again /" 
Then, smiling, sank to endless rest 
Upon bis weeping mother 1 * breast' 
Now, we, with nil due rt’Bpoct to the opinions of charms for companies abroad, and keep their 
others, would choose the last extreme, as being 
the least of the two evils. Thongh not possessing 
this faculty of oiling over every thing ourselves, 
we are not disposed to condemn it in others who 
are more fortunate in this respect On the con¬ 
trary, we thluk it highly advantageous. Its 
universality alone is an argument in its favor. 
The common blessings of life, those most neces¬ 
sary to tho happiness and well-boing of all, arc 
the ones most evenly distributed among the 
children of men. Bo with regard to this quality 
or faculty of the mind, there are few persons who 
do not possess it in a greater or less degree,— 
very few who know not how to cover blemishes, 
conceal defects,—in fact put tho “best side out,” 
and in a conspicuous place, too. And how much 
more pleasant it is to 1mvo all our faults and 
short-comings nicely smoothed over,— oiled, if 
you please,—than have them exposed in all their 
deformity, or, perhaps, made to appear even worse 
than they really ate, by the blunt remarks of some 
“ saucily blunt” person, ilow much better to slip 
through the world easily than run against every 
sharp angle or corner that comes in our way. 
O, this oiling propensity is nil important in the 
world, and, though like all thingB else, it may bo, 
and doubtless often is, perverted and abused, it is 
none the less important on that account It 
smooths the lines of grief and lightens the brow 
of care,— it gives an added joy to the happy 
heart, lifts the load from the sorrowing one, 
gently checks the tears of the mourner, and, by 
frequent and lavish applications, it keeps iu re¬ 
pair the complex machinery of society, which 
would otherwise soon wear Itself out with frletiOD. 
This saucy bluntness, this saying things, which, 
when once said, sound oftentimes worse than was 
intended, Is a very undesirable trait of character. 
It wounds unintentionally and without hope of 
cure. It creates jealousies, green-eyed and terri¬ 
ble, in the hearts of neighbors, keeps one aloof 
from strangers, And even separates long and tried 
friends, and in addition, ita unfortunate posses¬ 
sors are called by the misunderstanding world, 
the “odd ones of earth,” “curious bodies,” or 
perhaps “crosB, crabbed, disagreeable, or top- 
pish,” when a warm, pure heart beats within their 
bosoms, which wonld not willingly give utterance 
to a harsh word. A little “ oil,” with skill and 
aptness in applying it to all with whom they come 
in contact, would work an almost miraculons 
change, converting them into very agreeable 
persons. 
Wo Bpeak from experience as well as observa¬ 
tion. Tliis saucy bluntness, this free out spoken 
nature, has been, and still is a great misfortune to 
us; and if its opposite, of which we have been 
speaking, was a marketable commodify, wc should 
certainly order a good supply at once. 
Columbus, Pa., 1860, Omega, 
-- 
IWritten for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
PITY FOR THE LIVING. 
“ Like many another of earth’s martyrs, she was better 
loved and understood when she was dead, than she had 
ever beeu in life; and they who had despised and re¬ 
proached her when with them, mourned sincerely when 
she was gone forever."— Anonymous. 
A strange, inexplicable thing is the human 
heart. Carelessly we jostle each other as we 
tread the highways of life, unmindful of each 
other’s burdens, until one who walked by our side 
is gone forever. Then we remember the faltering 
step, and the tearful eye imploringly lifted to ns 
for pil.v, and wonder that we did not impart of our 
sympathies, and minister to the needs of the 
weary heart, which neither our reproaches nor 
appreciation can any more reach. Alt ! little 
matters it then that we assume the habiliments of 
woe,—that we plant flowers above their dust, and 
water them with tears of sorrow,—tho arrow with 
which we pierced the now pulseless heart can 
never be recalled.—the burden we should have 
helped bear, Death has lilted, and to us is left 
only the useless longing,—the unavailing regret 
In vain then do we pity where we had blamed, 
and mourn the coldness and scorn that made 
darker the lonely way. The life that might have 
been bright and beautiful in the sunshine of 
loving sympathies is spent, and to us the privi¬ 
dullness for home consumption, it is better to 
instruct children, and make them happy at home, 
than it is to charm strangers or amuse friends. 
A silent house is a dull place for young people, 
a place from which they will escape, if they can. 
They will talk or think of being “shut up” 
there; and the youth who does not love home, 
is in danger. Make home, then, a cheerful and 
pleasant spot Light it up with cheerful, in¬ 
structive conversation. Father, mother, talk 
your best at home. 
—--»•« 
HEBREW WOMEN. 
The Hebrew woman in her love for her 
kindred, soars above her Christian sisters. The 
tender devotion which the daughters of Israel 
bestow upon tlieir parents, especially upon their 
father, is full of beauty and pathos. In the dark 
alleys of the World’s Ghetti, when the old Hebrew 
man toddles home from his dally strife with 
prejudice and lucre, a wondrous chaDge trans¬ 
forms his face us he crosses the threshold of his 
weather-beaten house. The furtive glance ex¬ 
pands, the crooked gait ia made straight, the 
many wrinkles of his brow are made smooth, the 
crouching form of the peddler disappears, and 
the old man stands erect, as if he were worthy of 
better things; the smile loses its sinister grin, and 
is clothed with genial beauty. 
Rebecca has kissed away the ugliness of the 
money-changer; and to see him sit down at his 
table after having sent up to Jehovah a prayer 
for good luck nud ft plenty of gain for tho coming 
day, and chat with hia daughter, who delights in 
humoring his jokes, is a treat for an artist in 
search for tho picturesque, or for a poet in quest 
of the romantio. Rebeccas abound not only in 
the region of the Ghetti, hut In the middle, 
higher and highest order of Hebrew abodes. 
Here we find the daughter, as a class, watching 
with argus eyes fathers’ and mothers’ happiness 
and comfort. Here on the domestic Bhrine, all 
the fires of love and affection are burning so 
vigorously, that unwittingly even the sympathies 
are created, which are wanted to kindle the great 
flames around the sacred altar of common liu* 
manity*— Selected. 
- 
Over-Worked Women. —An over-worked wo- 
mau is always a sad sight — sadder a great deal 
than an over worked man, because she is so much 
more fertile in capacities of suffering than a man. 
She has so many varieties of headache — some¬ 
times as if duel were driving the nail that killed 
Siserainto her temples — sometimes letting her 
work with half her brain, while the other half 
throbs as if it would go the pieces —sometimes 
tightening round the brows as if her cap-hand 
were Luke’s iron crown—and then her neuralgias, 
and her back-aches, and her fits of depression, iu 
which she thinks she is nothing, and less than 
nothing, and those paroxysms which men speak 
slightingly of as hysterical — oonvulsions, that is 
all, only not commonly fatal ones—so many trials 
which belong to her fine and mobile structure, 
that she is always entitled to pity, when she is 
placed in conditions which develop her nervous 
tendencies.— Dr. O. II. Holmes. 
Baby’s Rival— There are many persons who 
make a practice of saying to little children, to 
whom has come the gift of a brother or sister: 
“Now, baby, your nose is put out of joiut; you 
never can be mother's baby any more, for she has 
got another.” This is said in thoughtlessness — 
often with glee; hut it sinks like a stone into the 
baby heart, t,o which it is addressed. Were one to 
go to a grown man and tell him that his house, 
and all that rested within it, had gone, none knew 
whither, but where he never more might hope to 
see them, it would not be a more cruel blow to 
him than it is to a little two or three years’ old 
child, to tell hiui that he can never be bis 
mother’s baby anymore. It makes him a poor, 
frightened little outcast in a moment; and any 
one that., realizing this fact, cun so sport with the 
feelings of a tender babe, Is worthy of being pro¬ 
moted to the office of chief torturer in some bar¬ 
barous despot’s court.— Clara Sidney. 
to® 
IWritten for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.) 
CUTFIZ AND READAM-No, IL 
THE WHEAT DISTRICT. 
Dwellers in Western New York are wont to 
regard that section of country as a goodly land,— 
very Eden-like in the quality and productiveness 
of its soil,—a land than which there is none bet¬ 
ter. Thoae upon whom fortune has smiled, ami 
is smiling, who are well off and raakiug money, 
are remarkably contented,—as may he the case 
elsewhere with such people. On the other hand, 
we are told, there are some unlucky, shift¬ 
less people even here,—if they haven’t all gone 
“West” to number their acres by a significant 
figure with a few ciphers after it, instead ol count¬ 
ing them, as they did here, by ciphers alone,— 
who have neither the ’• little farm, well tilled,” nor 
the “purse well filled;” and they may hold slightly 
modified opinions of the same country. We 
should not choose the future historian of Western 
New York from that class. But leaving it to the 
well-satisfied inhabitants to glorify and cultivate 
their own territory, we assert that a life here is a 
distinctive thing,— much unlike living in other 
portions of tl>- s:iiue SL.ujA 
For instance, take a swp«|iof counties eastward 
and southward from the ilejatcr of the State,—as 
far, if you please, as to tht Hudson, and to Penn¬ 
sylvania,—and compare them with the portion 
westward of that center. Perhaps the Census 
will assist you to find the line, on the one side of 
which butter and cheese slightly predominate 
over the grains, and thence increasing toward the. 
east, rule supreme and gloriously in those famous 
and historic dairy counties that spread the aristo¬ 
cratic bread of New York city; and on the other 
side of which, wheat begins to come Into notice, 
and swelling into importance, makes its way, like 
the star of empire westward, throwing prema¬ 
turely rich spurs down between the small inland 
lakes of Indian name, until it culminates at length 
in the wonderful “ Genesee Country.” There yon 
may hear of the “almighty wheat,” for it rivals 
the dollar in man's regard. The people even 
make it a standard for judging of character, 
indorsing a man most effectually by saying, “ He 
is ns good as the wheat,” But perhaps we ought 
to UBe the jiast tense and say “ was, and is not.” 
For has not the midge, for a few years, wrought 
havoc and gloom? Has not the people’s confi¬ 
dence in their idol been shaken? lias not the 
West, the “granary of America,” overshadowed 
Western New York by sheer extent, thongh not 
by native fertility? Rut never fear,—the clouds 
are rolling away! 
The section east of the line we have drawn, we 
will call the Daily District, and that west of it, the 
Wheat District. A common observer wonld read¬ 
ily define his position while on his way to the 
heart of either section, or, if conducted thither 
blindfold, just 60 soon as Ills eyes were freed. 
First, we will visit the Wheat District 
We go directly to its center, to Western New 
York,—to the famous Genesee Country. This is 
that land of promise whither the wistful eyes of 
New Englanders turned three-fourths of a century 
ago. The tillers of hard and sterile hills knew 
what a fertile and beautiful country was, and 
when the Indian titles were extinguished, how 
they flocked hither on foot, on horseback, in boats, 
and on ox-slods! A line drawn north and south 
through Seneca Lake to Lake Ontario, and to the 
Pennsy lvania line, is the eastern boundury of this 
region. We leave it to the old pioneers to dilate 
upon its earlier glories and game, fish aud fevers, 
hardships and successes. We leave scientific 
men to discuss the old question whether wheat 
cm be profitably raised south of the lime strata 
that runs east and we9t through the center of the 
Btate, or whore the streams rnn southward. Suf¬ 
fice it to say, tbut here the streams have moBtly a 
northern tendency, and the foundations of the 
eaith are chiefly- limestone, so that tea-kettles will 
be coated, and wheat grown for some time to 
come. 
A great variety of scenery belongs to this tract. 
Here are the wild and romantic hills aud ravines; 
and here the smooth, park-like beauty of stretch¬ 
ing slopes, crested with dark oak and walnut 
groves, and with maple forests scattered along 
down thejr sides. Here are the rich flats and 
lowlands burdened with heavy fleeces of grass, 
out of which rise the parasol-like elms, most 
graceful of trees, with their long fringe drooping 
low, as if to drink the dew beneath; and here 
wide uplands undulating in gently risings and 
sinkings, and tablelands covered by a perfect half 
sphere of sky, aud rimmed by a regular ring of a 
horizon,—a true western prairie, but for occa¬ 
sional forests, which prairie* do not have. 
Situated WVtou i s northern and western boundary 
of large lakes, this region enjoys a very favorable 
climate. Ceres, the grain deity, and Pomona, 
the goddess of fruits, w e may suppose, tAke spe¬ 
cial delight in their conjoint reign over this, their 
favorite domain. The former once lavished boun¬ 
ties on a good son of hers here, at the rate of 
sixty-nine bushels of wheat to the acre, and still 
offers equal prizes to the agriculturally wise; and 
the latter is very kind and bountiful, hut she is 
not yet fully believed in—she finds many infidels. 
V erily! we do not begin to realize how excellent 
a fruit-growing region wc possess. 
The Wheat District is the best exponent of ag¬ 
ricultural life and enterprise. Its farmers are 
pre-eminently business men. Here you do not 
find the deliberate movements which characterize 
the quiet Dairy District. Here, pastimes are out 
of sight,—labor monopolizes everything. The 
traveler along the road has always heen struck by 
the peculiar harvest hurry of this farming coun¬ 
try. Everywhere is heard the clicking of mowing 
and reaping machines, where but a few years 
since, files of men were seen with scythes, and 
cradles, aud rakes, turned into the fields and 
doing battle with a “70’’-like spirit. The sight 
of the new inventions is pleasant, as was the 
measured ring of the whetstones in the olden 
time. Hoeing and cultivating corn, haying, har¬ 
vesting, summer fallow plowing, and sowing, come 
treading on each other’s heels, and are often 
almost “neck and neck.” Men and boys, horses 
and oxen, in different fields, singly and doubly, 
are st one aud the same time carrying on the dif¬ 
ferent processes of husbandry. In one field the 
newly turned earth smokes with a peculiar, wavy 
vibruting exhalation, while the stubble glares and 
glints in another, and the corn catches and throws 
the sunlight in a third. The sun is warm and 
bright, and aids in giving the general busy look 
to the landscape, as also the endleBs variety that 
it wears. 
Such is the busy, sunny, and fertile Wheat Dis¬ 
trict Burrburg is a town in this district, and 
CotI'iz a resident of that town. Rcsman. 
- • 
The Memory of Bcrns. — The memory of 
Burns—1 am afraid heaven and earth have taken 
too good care of it to leave us anything to say. 
Tho west winds are murmuring It Open the 
windows behind you, and hearken for the incom¬ 
ing tide, what the waves say of it The doves, 
perching always on the caves of the,stone Chapel 
opposite, may know something about it. Every 
name in broad Scotland keeps his fame bright 
The memory of Burns—every man’s, and boy’s, 
and girl's head, carries snatches of his songs, and 
can say them by heart, and, what is strangest of 
all, never learned them from a book, hut from 
ruouth to mouth. The wind whispers them, the 
birds whistle them, the corn, barley, and bul¬ 
rushes hoarsely rustle them; nay, the music- 
boxes at Geneva are framed and toothed to play 
them; the hand-organs of the Savoyards in all 
cities repeat them, and the cbimeB of bells ring 
them in the Bpires. They are the property and 
the solace of mankind.— .ft. W. Emerson. 
-- 
Greatness, —All greatness consists in this—in 
being alive to what is going on around one; in 
living actually; in giving voice to the thought of 
humanity; in saying to one’s fellows what they 
want to bear at that moment; in being the con¬ 
cretion, the result of the present world. In no 
other way can one affect the world than iu re¬ 
sponding thus to its needs, In embodying thus its 
ideas. You will see, in looking in history, that 
all great men have been a piece of their time; 
take them out and set them elsewhere, and they 
will not fit so well; they were made for their day 
and generation. The literature which has left 
any mark, which has heen worthy of the name, 
has always mirrored what was doing around it; 
not necessarily daguerreotypiug the mere out- 
Bide, but at least reflecting the inside — the 
thoughts, if not the action of men —their feel¬ 
ings and sentiments, even if it treated of appa¬ 
rently far-off tberneB. 
-- 
How to get Rkpohk in Old Ack. — I strongly 
recommend to you to follow the analogy of the 
body in seeking the refreshment of the mind. 
Everybody knows that both man and horse are 
very much relieved and rested, if, instead of lying 
down and falling asleep, or endeavoring to fall 
asleep, he changes the muscles he pots in opera¬ 
tion; if, instead of the level ground, he goes up 
and down hill, it is a rest both to the man and the 
horse which he rides,— a different set of muscles 
are called into action. Bo, I say, call into action 
a different class of faculties, apply your minds to 
other objects of wholesome good to yourselves as 
well as of good to others, and depend upon it, 
that is the true mode of getting repose in old 
age. Do not overwork yourselves; do everything 
in moderation— Lord Brougham. 
■» • -»- 
Little Acts Great. —Little acts are the ele¬ 
ments of true greatness. They raise life’s value 
like the little figures over the larger ones in 
arithmetic, to its highest power. They are tests 
of character and disinterestedness. They are the 
straws upon life’s deceitful current, that show the 
current’s way. The heart comes all out in them. 
They move on the dial of character and respon¬ 
sibility significantly. They indicate the char¬ 
acter and destiny. They help to make the im¬ 
mortal man. It matters not so much where 
we are as what we are. It ia seldom that acts 
of moral heroism are called for. Rather the 
real heroism of life is to do all its little duties 
promptly and faithfully. 
-- 
“We see,” said Swift, in one of hia most sar¬ 
castic moods, “what God Almighty thinks of 
riches by the people to whom he gives them.” 
[Written for Moore'e Rural New-Yorker.] 
SHALL WE DESPAIR? 
BY FANXIR CORWIN. 
’ When our lives seem almost dreary 
With the weight of anxious care,— 
When our souls are sorrow-weary, 
Shall we hopelessly despair? 
When our “ dear ones" are departed 
To the better Isnd above, 
And we’re weeping, broken-hearted, 
Lone, and sad, without their love,— 
When our earthly home* and treasures 
Melt away as morning dew,— 
“ Sunshine” ft lends and social pleasures, 
With misfortune's frown grown few,— 
When the wide worlds dark before ns, 
Gloom around ns everywhere, 
Never hope-star shining o’er us, 
Shall we even then despair? 
Never! oh, be not repining,— 
See ye not the flashing sheen 
Of the dark cloud’s “ silver lining? ” 
Gleams there not the light between? 
God is true! Oh, trust Him ever,— 
Tread by faith the way o’ercast,— 
Doubt this precious promise never, 
“I am with you to the last." 
Genera, N. Y., I860. 
» • » 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE WORK OF LIFE. 
As on a sunshiny day flying cloudB cast their 
shadows over the fields, one moment at our feet, 
the next moment gone from sight, leaving no 
traces of their passage, so do we come and go 
fron^curth. leaving no trace of our course. Tho’ 
there is a path marked out for us only, along 
which are joys and sorrows for us alone, and in 
which we may Individually work out the great 
task of life, given us by our Maker; jet we turn 
aside, and losing ourselves in the multitude of 
travelers, journey as “strangers in a strange land ” 
to an unknown city. 
We must leave "footprints ” behind us,—re¬ 
cords of lives well spent,—writing each day in the 
hearts of our fellow men lessons of self-denial, 
love, truth, and obedience, so that the “mile¬ 
stones” of our route shall not speak of Divine 
counsel slighted, privileges abused, vows broken, 
and sin triumphant,—telling the passer-by that 
here pride made us stumble, and there sloth took 
ua captive,—but shall speak of holy purposes 
realized, noble deeds performed, self-sacrifices 
enjoyed, temptations overcome, and grace victo¬ 
rious,—telling the passer by that here our faith 
was strengthened, and there our courage was 
renewed. 
We live only in the present The past is gone 
forever, and the future is not ours. Day by day 
we are writing our own biography, to be read by 
coming generations, not iti a “new and revised 
edition” with an “errata,” hut in the same old 
book, with its sad mistakes, foul blots, and false 
teachings. May we keep the page clean, the style 
clear, and the thoughts pure. Let us cast our¬ 
selves a “living sacrifice ” upon the altar of God, 
and the incense thereof shall reach Heaven, and 
blesB the world. E . 
Iona, N. Y., 1880. 
SKEPTICISM. 
Tbk first step toward the abyss of infidelity is 
a doubting or skeptical state of mind in regard 
to some parts, or the whole, of the Scriptures; 
the next is either into the wilderness of univer¬ 
sal doubt, or into the abyss Itself. Skepticism is 
a most dangerous state of the mind. Like mod¬ 
erate drinking, it leads on its unhappy victim 
from bad to worse, till both mind and heart are 
ruined and damned forever. It is the moral ine¬ 
briation of the man in ita incipient stages. Be¬ 
ware of it, ye young men, as ye would the conta¬ 
gion of death. It has no power of fascination. 
Its breath is tainted and repugnant. Ita admin¬ 
istrations to the soul are those of sorrow. Break 
away from the first symptoms of its deadly ap¬ 
proach. Let not a corrupt and unbelieving heart 
beguile thee with the promises of a proud and 
vain philosophy. There is no safety in a cul¬ 
tivated intellect, nor in all the resources of a 
Christian education, the watchfulness and teach¬ 
ings of friends—no, not even under “ tho drop¬ 
pings of the sanctuary.” In the faith of Jesus 
only there is safety. Believe in Him to the salva¬ 
tion of the bouI; then will you “know tho truth, 
and the truth shall make you free.”— Congrega¬ 
tional Journal. 
Watch.—W atch, for the time is short. The 
days make haste. The hours fly swifter than any 
meteoric body that ever astonished the world by 
its fleetuess. Watch, for it will be but a few days 
before you will put your foot upon the shore of 
the eternal world, when with wide circumspec¬ 
tion, you will see the height, and depth, and 
length, and breadth of that treasure which awaits 
you there; and when all the tears, and all the 
strifes, and all the watchings of earth, will seem 
to you as nothing, the meanest price, to pay for 
such endless dignity and glory. 
“And what I say auto you, I say unto all, 
Watch! ’'— Beecher. 
--- 
Leaves are light, and useless, and idle, and 
wavering, and changeable; they even dance; yet 
God has made them part of the oak. In so doing 
he has given us a lesson, not to deny the stout¬ 
heartedness within, because we see the lightsome¬ 
ness without 
--*-*♦—- 
God is all to thee. If tbou be hungry, He is 
bread; if thirsty, He is water; if darkness, He is 
light; if naked, He is a robe of immortality.— St. 
Augustine. 
