MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER 
heart. And as I have been both pleased and in¬ 
structed in reading iu the columns of the Rural, 
various articles on the “Flower Garden/’ I would 
refer you to them for descriptions and for better 
instruction on the subject than I can give you. 
Oioomingdalo, Ind., 1857. Flora. 
For Moore’* Rural Now-Torkov. 
A VOICE PROM THE PRAIRIES. 
proud, haughty and unbearable, had wept when in 
her delirium she had repeated, “I have no friends, 
no one to love me,” and now vied with each other 
in courtesies and kin due sue a, striving to obliterate 
the past from the mind of Corneille who eventu¬ 
ally proved that the flowers of afleotion need only 
the sunshine of friendship to make them bloom 
with their own true beauty. 
Come out to the prairies—come. The Bpriug 
buds and grasses will welcome you. In the glad¬ 
ness of life and beauty they unfold to the warm 
eon-rays. There are flowers round your own dear 
homes which yon tenderly water and watch; Gon 
only watcheth and watereth these. Come and see 
them. 
Now the husbandman setteth a torch to the old 
years’ withered grass; the fire speeds away, on, 
on to the distant horizon, where the earth seems 
to slope down with a sudden curve—the flames 
pass over—we cannot see where they go, but we 
know while the fuel lasts the lire burns. Come see 
these prairie fires. 
The spring winds are blowing fresh and strong 
—aye, very strong at times. Come out and battle 
them. Come wheve the wild herds roamed, where 
the Indian built, his wigwam, where the chiefs met 
in counoil not mauy suns ago. The wild horse and 
buffalo are gone from the prairies, the oppossum 
and deer from the groves. The red man has 
sought new hunting grounds, and with him has 
passed away the romance and wild poetry of hun¬ 
ter life. But the Great Spirit has not gone from 
this lovely land. Como hither. Yet dream not 
the child-dream, that you have but to 11 arise and 
go in, to possess a laud flowing with milk and 
honey.” Come only with earnest hearts and wil¬ 
ling hands. There is work to be done. Come 
with no luxurious idea of downy beds in palace 
homes; you may be forced to pitch your tent on 
the prairie, with your blanket for a bed. We do 
not want the timid, they will not come; but, 
“Yeomen strong, hitlier throng." 
Your cities are crowded with paupers; send 
them here, there is enough to do. Prairies are to be 
broken, honscs built, canals and railways wait the 
hand of the workman. Teachers, scholars, come! 
we need you too. Are yon afraid you will lose 
your refinement oat here? Are you afraid of the 
ague? Never fear. Rise early, bathe your whole 
body every morning, fill your heart with good na¬ 
ture, take the Rural, and you will never grow 
“ague-ish”or “ b’ackwoodsy.” e. e. 
-Grove, IU, M»y, 1857. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
A WORLD OP BEAUTY. 
CONDUCTED BY AZILK 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
HOPE ON, TRUST ON. 
ItY MISS K. U. CAMPBELL. 
HOW THEY MARRY AND LIVE 
There's beauty all around our pnthB, If but our watchful eyes 
Can trace it midst familiar things, and through their lowly 
guise.— Mrs. Humans. 
“ Trkrk's beauty all around our path," and hour 
By hour, its ever-changing soene, throws round 
Us added charms. And e'sn familiar as 
They are, by every day’s bright vision, yet, 
Our admiration no less ardent grows, 
But rather do we see, from day to day. 
New beauties opening on our sight, that claim 
Our warmest love and gratitude. 
The dawn 
Is beautiful, when uuBeen fingers part 
The curtaiu of the sky, and atar by star 
Grows dim, sod fades away in ether, and 
The pearly light slowly appears, casting 
Its halo of bright freshuess over all, 
As if a newer world hud just been called 
To being, and the pearl-drops of its first, 
Pure baptism, rested yet on its bright face. 
And noon ts beautiful I when o’er the sky, 
The fleeting clouds seem like strange wanderers— 
In a pathleaB way; now tinged with gold or traced 
With silver threads now hiding with their rough, 
Notched edge the sun. And the rich gold-light falls, 
Upon the waving foliage, and stoops 
To nestle 'mid the shining plumage of 
The birdling on its airy wing, or xests 
Aslant the murmuring streamlet mirroring 
Earth's beauty. 
Night, too, is beautiful I 
When the dull routine of our daily care 
Is passed, aud the light breeze steals o'er the flowers 
Asleep amid the dew,—and from their lips 
Comes redolent with sweets,—and little birds 
Have piped their last “ good night," and sunk to sleep 
Beneath the treuibllug leaves Aud every breath 
Comes tnuBic-laden and th' unnumbered stars, 
And moon shine out as if to woo by their 
Pale, spirit mil light, our keurts from Tain 
And earthward yearnings, and to lead our thoughts 
Insensibly to purer aud to holier things. 
Spring, with its fresh, pure breezes, tiny leaves 
And tender vines,—and Summer, with its breath 
Ambrosial, caught from iooonae breathing things ;— 
Its lotty forests clad with clinglDg moss :— 
Its massive storm-clouds, murmuring streamlets ; and 
Its silver cascades, sending wide its wreaths 
Of foaming spray and Autmnn, too, with its 
Fruit-laden vines, ami fields of golden grain, 
Whose tasseled heads are bowed by every breeze,— 
And its bright, changing, falling learee :—and stern 
Old Winter, whispering with frosty breath 
Its words of consolation to the lone 
And disrobed forest trees ;—arraying them 
With glittering star-flakes :—aud its wreaths of snow, 
And flowers of frost, and merry bells :—all, all 
Are full of beauty. 
Yes, oach fleeting hour, 
Is beauty lent to earth. And would we but 
Unseal our hearts and freely drink it in 
From every source, lofty and humble, yet, 
Alike the spring of joy, 0, how much more 
Of spiritual life and love were, ours, 
And how much more would our heart symphonies 
Approximate angelic harmonies. 
Big Flats, Chemung Co, N. Y., 1857. 
A Youno man meets a pretty face in the ball¬ 
room, tails in love with it, courts it, marries it, 
goes to housekeeping with it, and boasts of having 
a home and a wife to grace it The chances are 
nine to one that lie has neither. Her pretty face 
gets to he an old story, or becomes faded, or freck¬ 
led, or Irettod; and as the face was all he wanted, 
all he paid attention to, and all he sat. up with, all 
he bargained for, all he swore to love, honor, and 
protect, he gets sick of hia trade, knows a dozen 
faces which he likes better, gives up staying at 
home evenings, consoles himself with cigars, oys¬ 
ters and politics, aud looks upon his home as a 
very indifferent boarding house. A family of 
children grow up about bim; but, neither he nor 
his “ faceknow anything about training them, so 
they come up helter-skelter; made toys of when 
babies, dolls when boys and girls, drudges when 
young men aud women; and so passes year after 
year, and not one quiet,’ happy, homely hour is 
known throughout the entire household. 
Another young man becomes enamored of a 
“fortune.” ile waits upon it to parties, dances 
the polka with it, exchanges billet-doux with it, 
pops the question to it, gets “yes,” from it, takes 
it to the parson’s, weds it, calls it “wile,” carries 
it home, sets up an establishment with it, introdu¬ 
ces it to his friends, and says (poor fellow!) that 
he too is married, and has got a home. It’s false. 
tTe is not married, and has no home; and he soon 
finds it out. lie is in the wrong box, but it is too 
late to get out of it. He might as well hope to cs- 
oape from his coffin. Friends congratulate him, 
and he has to grin and bear it. They praise the 
house-, the furniture, the cradle, the bible, the new 
baby, and then bid the “ fortune ” and he who hus¬ 
bands it good morning! As if he had known a 
good morning since he and that gilded fortune 
were falsely declared to be one! 
Take another case. A young lady is smitten 
with a pair of whiskers. Curled hair never before 
had such charms. She sets her cap for them; 
they take. The delighted whiskers make an offer, 
proffering themselves both in exchange for one 
hearts The dear miss is overcome with magnan¬ 
imity, closes the bargain, carries home the prize, 
shows it to pa and mn, calls herself engaged to it, 
thinks there never was such a pair of whiskers be¬ 
fore, aud they are married. Married! yCa the 
world oftlls it so, and wo will What is the result? 
A short honeymoon, and then they nnluokily dis¬ 
cover that they are as unlike as chalk and cheese, 
and not to be made one, though all the priests in 
Christendom pronounce it so .—New Haven Pal¬ 
ladium. 
On, say not, there'B no rest for thee, 
No bliss -without alloy. 
No visions bright that never fade, 
No hours of perfect joy. 
Oh, deem not, woe must reign supreme. 
Within the human heart. 
That core and strife will ever bid 
Sweet dreams of peace depart. 
A transient shadow o'er the soul, 
May dim the smile of mirth, 
And phantom forum of unseen ills, 
To sadder thoughts give birth. 
But if clouds athwart your pathway rise, 
And darkness veils the light, 
Let sweet-voiced Hope still upward point, 
And Faith become more bright. 
Sink not beneath each fancied wrong, 
Biit nobly struggle on ; 
If Truth and Meekness crown your life, 
The Victory is won. 
Trust Him who notes the sparrow’s Call, 
Who whispers “ never fear— 
An Angel's robe, an Angel’s lyre. 
For those who conquer here.” 
East Pembroke, N. Y., 1857- j 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
GOING TO GRANDMA’S. 
“Auntie, I’s going to grandma's— I is.” This 
exclamation was uttered by little Willie, as he 
cyme bounding into the room, clapping his chubby 
hands with glee and looking up into my face, with 
his dark blue eyes fairly dancing with pleasure.— 
Soon his little cloak was buttoned around him, and 
his little, tasseled cap tied under his dimpled chin, 
and he whs seated in the carriage beside his father. 
As long as I could see them, his childish voice, 
was borne in happy chatterings, back to me.— 
Bless the little darling ! may his voice ever be 
borne to me thus!—it’s gleeful music telliug the 
happiness of his heart. 
What a world of pleasure in this little sentence 
“I’s going to grandma’B !” Who does not remem¬ 
ber bow their heart beat with pleasure when per¬ 
mitted to say it? How many happy visions it 
brought to ns 1 Grandma, with her dear, sweet 
face, and loving eyes, that beamed upon us so 
kindly, and her silken, Silvery hair, that always 
looked so beautiful to ns, ’neath her snowy cap 
with it’s ample frill; and old, sleek Tabby (who al¬ 
ways had to take a hugging,) sitting in the corner, 
singing, the very picture of contentment; the lit¬ 
tle chickens out in the yard, whose mother has 
left many a scar on onr bands to pay for our offi¬ 
cious nursing of her offspring; the pigs in the pen, 
that looked up at us so cunningly with their wee 
eyes; and there was the nice swing up in the 
orchard, where we have whiled away many an 
hour, bountifully partaking of the luscious fruit; 
then the ramble in the woods too, after flowers and 
bird’s nests; a visit to the pretty brook, that went 
murmuring through the meadow, and where we 
so often have shared our pieces with the tiny 
fishes, that we could see gliding over the pebbly 
bottom; then a call at the barn, to hnnt for eggs, 
from whence, with our bonnets, which, (notwith¬ 
standing mother’s remonstrances) with the strings 
tied and slipped over our arm, always served for a 
basket—filled, we trudged to the house, very proud 
of our treasures; then came tea, and we could al¬ 
ways sit by grandmft and the big plate of oookies, 
to which she helped us so bountifully. How 
quickly these things passed through our minds; 
and, iu our eagerness, how very slow old Dobbin 
seemed to go. Oh, yes! there is a host of pleasant 
memories clinging around that little sentence for 
us! and from the very bottom of our heart, we 
pity the poor child, that lias never known its 
meaning. Ida Cabby. 
Dream Dell, May, 1S57. 
For Moore’B Rural New-Yorker 
DON’T CONDEMN 
FROM OUTWARD APPEARANCE. 
BY MAY MARION. 
“ Do see that proud thing,” said Kate Stanley, 
a bright happy Hebe, of a pale, serious-looking 
school-mate. “She depends upon her uncle for 
every thing that she has, and as far as her ward¬ 
robe is concerned, that is little enough, any one 
knows; and yet she walks thro’ the halls like a 
princess, as tho’ no one was good enough for her 
to speak to.” 
“Hush,” said her companion; “she will hear 
yon;” but the warning came too late, for the cruel 
remarks had been overheard, and an instantaneous 
flash crimsoned the faoe of the object of her re¬ 
marks; yet the sharp retort was withheld, and sup¬ 
pressing the rising tear, she hurried on to the 
solitude of her own apartment, and the gay beauty 
was soon chatting merrily with her associates un- 
concious of the pain that she had caused. 
Had Kate Stanley known Corneille Haw¬ 
ley, and the circumstances of her life, she would 
have judged her less uukindly. Tho’ horn in 
wealth and rocked in the cradle of opulence, at 10 
years of age Corneille found herself a penniless 
orphan, dependent upon the charily of an unchar¬ 
itable relative, whose pride alone kept his brother’s 
child from the alms-honse—although in his family 
Bhe was to fill only an under-servant’s place. But 
down, far in the depths of that child’s mind was 
planted a germ that must grow, despite all efforts 
to crush it;—hence her little garret bed-room be¬ 
came quite a library of old books, and here with 
her silent friends she stealthily fed her thirsty 
mind with useful knowledge, while her wealthy 
cousins were wasting the best part of their lives 
over silly novels, or in sillier gossip. Bat, unfor¬ 
tunately, her utter seclusion was rendering her 
timid and sensitive, unfitting her for passing un- 
wounded down the rooky road of life. When 
she was sixteen, her uncle determined to educate 
her for a teacher, and, by sending her to a distant, 
city, rid himself of an encumbrance; that she had 
been such, Corneille too well knew, and hence 
exerted every energy to master her profession, and 
Becure an independence. Her strong mind grasp¬ 
ed at and conquered every thing within her reach, 
from the lighter studies to the abstruse mathe¬ 
matics and the more abstruse languages of the 
ancients, until she had nearly gained the goal. A 
few more straggles and she would ho paid for 
many long, sleepless nights, and months of unre¬ 
mitting toil. 
ConNEiiiLE was not handsome; her eyes and 
those long, black ringlets that had been her fath¬ 
er’s pride, were her only beauty. She had been 
called a pretty child, when health aud happy 
spirits lent a roseate hue to her cheeks and a bright 
sparkle to her dark eye; but such a nature needs 
congeniality—some one to receive and return the 
affection that it offers — and not unfrequently un¬ 
der the coldest exterior, there beats the warmest 
heart—and when efforts to win confidence and 
love from those that owed it to her, failed, her 
sensitive mind recoiled upon itself, and its con¬ 
suming fire robbed the roses of their bloom, and 
restrained the genial smile. When she mingled 
more with the world, the same rebuffs and cold¬ 
ness had made her shrink farther and farther back, 
until she had learned to fear her own kind, and 
shun them. This had won for her the epithet be¬ 
stowed by Kate Stanley. The jeers and taunts 
of her school-mates, tho’ they stung deeply, were 
usually borne patiently; but now, being physically 
weak, and with highly wrought nervous sensibility, 
they raised a storm of fiery passions, and dark ( 
bitter, burning thoughts rose before her mind, as 
she bowed her head upon her little dealtable. 
She did not hear the door open, or note the en¬ 
trance of Alice Graham, the favorite of the 
school, and she who had reproved Miss Stanley 
for her heedlessness. Alice had admired the 
genius of Corneille, longed to be her friend, yet 
was afraid to make advances where none were 
sought, lest she should be intrusive; but now she 
had noticed the tear that trembled in her eye, as 
she left the hall, and escaping from her compan¬ 
ions, sought her. Laying her arm caressingly 
around her neck, she murmured in a soft, low 
voice, “Corner?” That dear old name of her 
childhood brought back a flood of tender recol¬ 
lections; but the re-action was too powerful, and 
giving one wild, heartbroken shriek, she fell, un- 
concions, into the arms of the only one who had 
spoken kindly to her daring many years. 
Long did the angel of death hover round the 
pillow of the orphan, threatening to pluck the pale 
lily for his Master’s crown, but the constant care 
of Ai.ioe and Kate— the latter having thoroughly 
repented of her hasty decision—restored her rea¬ 
son and won her back to life, but not again to 
loneliness; for those who had condemned her as 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
THE SEASONS. 
Spring wears a crown of beauty. At her ap¬ 
proach the streamlet breaks its icy fetters, and 
frolicB over verdant meadows and through forest 
Bhades, giving fresh vigor to every plant and tree. 
She breathes among the shivering boughs and 
they robe themselves in green. She welcomes a 
band of happy songsters, and decks onr way 
with llowerB. She brings sunshine and gladness, 
and weaves a coronal of violets for the fairy “Queeu 
of May.” 
Soon, bright Summer takeB the crown from her 
sister’s head, and twining new leaves and flowers 
about it, begins her laughing reign. She carries 
on the work which Spring commenced, paints tho 
foliage with a deeper dye; hangs wreaths on the 
forest trees, and clusters on the vine; golden fields 
ware to fanning breezes, and the happy farmer 
shonts his haivest home.” 
Summer, too, resigns her beauteous crown to 
Autumn, and she perfects the work. The flowers 
she brings are of the softest velvet, and the deep¬ 
est colorings. She ripens the corn for the sickle, 
bends the orchards with wealth, and sweetens 
the purple clusters of the vine, until the chilling 
frosts assure her that her reign must close, when 
she drops the fruit of the forest around us; puts on 
a robe of a thousand colors for awhile; then, oast 
ing it at our feet, she lays her crown in the lap of 
stern Winter, who, trampling its fading weaths> 
gems It with frozen jewels and resumes her throne, 
strips the foliage from tree and vine, locks up the 
murmuring stream, and clothes all things in his 
rigid garments. a. e. m. 
Brook’s Grove, Liv. Co., N. Y., 1867. 
AN AMERICAN IN LONDON 
The North American Review tells the following 
good story: 
A countryman of onrs, of somewhat rude appear¬ 
ance, walking in the Strand oftriy in May, saw his 
favorite dish of strawberries aud cream blushing 
at him from the counter of a restaurant. Entering, 
he carelessly called for a bowl, to the marked sur¬ 
prise of several persons present, who knew the ex¬ 
travagance of the luxury, and rightly presumed 
the American was ignorant at what cost he was 
putting himself. 
He had not finished his repast before the curious 
looks of the company suggested his mistake, and 
aroused all his latent pride. 
“ What is to pay?” Inquired he, as he laid down 
his dish, not without a lowering side-look at the 
wise-acres who waited for hiB chop-fallen aspect 
when the victualler’s reply should fall upon his 
waiting ear. “A guinea, sir.” 
Tossing down the coin from a not over-full 
purse, and bridling up with an air of assumed in¬ 
difference, “ I’ll take another!” was the American’s 
only rejoinder. 
It was New Year’s night. An aged man was 
standing at a window. He mournfully raised his 
eyesto wards the deep blue sky, where the stars were 
floatiog like lilies on the surface of a clear calm 
lake. Then ho cast them on the earth, where a 
few more helpless beiugs than himself were mov¬ 
ing towards their inevitable goal—the tomb. Al¬ 
ready he had past sixty of the stages which lead 
to it, and had brought from his journey nothing 
but errors and remorse. His health was destroyed, 
his mind unfurnished, his heart sorrowful, and his 
old age devoid of comfort. 
The days of his youth rose up in a viBion before 
bim, and be recalled the solemn moment when bis 
father had placed him at the entrance of two 
roads, one leading to a peaceful, sunny land, 
covered with soft, Bweet songs; while the other 
conducted the wanderer into a deep, dark cave 
whence there was no issue, where poison flowed 
instead of water, and where the serpents hissed 
and crawled. 
He looked towards the sky, and cried out, in 
his anguish: — “0, youth, return! 0, my father, 
place me once more at the crossway of Jjfe, that I 
may choose a better road!” But the days of his 
youth had passed away, and his parents were with 
the departed. He saw wandering lights float ovor 
dark marshes and then disappear. “Such,” he 
said, “were the days of my wasted life!” He saw 
a star shoot from Heaven, and vanish in darkness 
athwart the church-yard. “Behold an emblem of 
myself!” he exclained; and the sharp arrows of 
unavailing remorse, struck him to the heart. 
Then he remembered his early companions, who 
bad entered life with him, but who, having trod 
the paths of virtue and industry, were now happy 
and honored on this New Year’s night The clock 
in the high church tower struck, and the sound 
falling on his ear recalled the many tokens of the 
love of his parents for him, their erring son; the 
lessons they had taught bim; the prayers they 
hud offered op in his behalf. Overwhelmed with 
shame aud grief, he dared no longer look towards 
that Heaven where they dwelt. IIis darkened eyes 
dropped tears, and with one despairing effort he 
cried aloud, “Come back, my early days! Come 
hack!” 
And his youth did return; for all this had been 
but a dream, visiting his slumbers bn New Year’s 
night. He thanked God fervently that time was 
his own; that he bad not yet entered the deep, 
dark cavern, but that he was free to tread the 
road leading to the peaceful land where the sunny 
harvest waves. 
Ye who still live on the threshold of life, doubt¬ 
ing which path to choose, remember that when 
years shall be passed, you will cry bitterly, but 
in vain, “0, youth, return! 0, give me back my 
early days!”— Selected. 
For Moore’s Barn) New-Yorker. 
THE SPIRIT OF THUS DEMOCRACY, 
Beneath the wide-spread branches of the tree 
of Liberty, whether its roots be imbedded in Athe¬ 
nian or American soil, all the noblest institutions 
of the race vigorously flourish. The spirit of 
true Democracy, tempered by the pure principles 
of an enlightened patriotism is elevating and en¬ 
nobling in its aims. It is this which has given 
permanency and power to our civil and religious 
institutions—improved our social relations, and 
enriched ns with the varied accumulations of gen¬ 
ius and industry. It awoke the energies of those 
revolutionary heroes who cemented the structure 
of American Freedom with their blood. It traced 
the Declaration of onr Independence in such bla¬ 
zing characters as dazzled the eyes of kings and 
despots while they gazed. It was this that nerved 
the patriot's arm on Banker’s bloody height, 
while the cries and shrieks from the midst of 
burning Charlestown sounded like notes of woe. 
It hovered over the hard-fought battle fields of 
Saratoga and Trenton, and Monmouth, aud at 
Yorktown twined the victorious garland around 
the standard of liberty. It is this that has reared 
on the spot., consecrated by the bloo4 Of the gal¬ 
lant Warren, a simple monument proud to per¬ 
petuate the memory of the first great martyr in 
that great cause. This it is which has eansed our 
own country to triumph over every obstacle, and 
to rank in wealth and influence among the first of 
the nations of the earth. It has spread all around 
us the blessings of civilization, converted track¬ 
less forests into beautiful gardens and elofhcd 
desolate wastes with a fruitful tillage—united 
citieB thousands of leagnes distant, and by those 
massive liukB of intercommunication, tho signal 
triumphs over time aud space — our telegraphs, 
and railways, and canals—it baB married the lakes 
to the ocean, though mountains and hills seemed 
to stand ready to forbid the banns. It flows thro’ 
every channel of our national existence. 
The power of Democracy is almost immeasura¬ 
ble. When the passion for liberty is enkindled in 
the bosoms of the citizens nothing is capable of 
withstanding its mighty influence. Despots grow 
pale and tyranny shrinks abashed before it. It al¬ 
ways enlightens, elevates and reforms. Tine De¬ 
mocracy which, from the first, has been the con¬ 
trolling element in American institutions, has al¬ 
ready awakened a kindred zeal among the inhab¬ 
itants of the Old World. And to-day, though there 
be no outbursts of popular commotion or civil tu¬ 
mult, by its love of freedom and hatred of slavery, 
it is exreting a power which will soon undermine 
the strongholds of European despotism. There 
will he among those millions of serfs and slaves 
who are chained to the crushing wheel of servi¬ 
tude such terrific revolutions as will jar the pillars 
of States, and Umpires, cause tyrants to tremble, 
make thrones totter and fall, and grind the iron 
sceptre of misrule beneath the onward march of 
universal freedom. a. J. e. 
Rochester, N. Y., 1857. 
For Moore 8 Rural Now-Yorkor 
Often have I thought while passing our country 
farm houses, and viewing the naked yards, wholly 
destitute of tree, shrub, or flower, how much more 
enticing and beautiful that same yard might be 
made with but Utile exertion aud a small amount 
of .labor. A few moments now and then at this 
season of the year, spent around the door yards 
will, before the summer is over, amply repay for 
time and trouble. Ah, says some thrifty house¬ 
wife, I am loaded with cares, and have no time to 
waste on things that are of no use. Aye, there Is 
the trouble; they are of no use. Why, theD, did our 
Heavenly Father create them, deck them with all 
the colors of the rainbow, aud place them in gor¬ 
geous array before our eyes, if not for Borne wise 
purpose? Who can pass a neat and well-kept yard 
where the fragrance of the lilac, honeysuckle, rose, 
and eglantine are blending tbeir perfume, without 
having hia soul iu some degree touched with a 
love for the beautiful of earth, and with a feeling 
that he is “looking through Nature up to Nature’s 
Gon,” uud who could not exclaim with the poet, 
“A flower I love 
Not for itself, but that its name is linked with names I love; 
A talisman of hope and memory." 
Bat to return to my subject. Ab I am a country 
house wife, to yon, country women and country 
girls I appeal. If your husbands or brothers have 
not already planted shade trees around yonr dwel¬ 
ling, get them to assist you in so doing. If they 
cannot or will not help you, shoulder your mat¬ 
tock yourself, some pleasant evening, select small 
trees that you can manage, arrange them In your 
yard to suit your taste, aud in a few seasons if you 
are not repaid by tbeir welcome shade, and the 
sweet chirrup of the woodland songsters which 
will he sure to collect among their branches, then 
you may set me down ns no prophetess. And if 
you are not aide to afford costly flower pots, all 
that you need to make one nice enough to grace any 
window, is hummer, handsaw, nails and plank.— 
Then a yery little more labor will make your flow¬ 
er beds, and bo sure not to forget to fill your yard 
with rose bushes, lilacs, snow-halls, Ac. I care 
SPORTS AND RELAXATIONS 
We have read of certain sects which have de¬ 
nounced, indiscriminately, all sports and relaxa¬ 
tions; because if allowed, they will be carried to 
excess; aud of others, which have proscribed by 
laws the plainest, coarsest dress, because orna¬ 
ment, if in any measure tolerated, would certainly 
grow np into extravagance and vanity. And is 
this degrading legislature never to end? Are men 
never to be trusted to themselves? Is it God’s 
method to hem them In with precise prescrip¬ 
tions? Does Providence leave nothing to indi¬ 
vidual discretion? Does Providence withhold 
every privilege which may be abused? Does 
Christianity enjoin an exact, unvarying round of 
services, because reason and conscience, if allow¬ 
ed to judge of duty, will often be misguided by 
partiality and passion? IIow liberal, generous, 
confiding are Nature, Providonce aud Christianity 
in their dealiugs with men! And when will men 
learn to exercise towards one another the same 
liberal and confiding spirit?— Charming . 
OriNiONS of a Pisai’I'ointed Man. —The man 
who !b proud of his money has rarely anything 
better to be proud of. Trees with double flowers 
are, too often, tho emblem of friendship—there is 
plenty of blossom, but no fruit. There are many 
men who delight In playing the fool, hut who get 
angry the moment they arc told so. In medicine, 
a Brougham goes much further than knowledge.— 
Society has a right to he particular—it is so often 
deceived. Common sense has become such a rare 
commodity that the world has entered into a tacit 
compact to live without it. Wealth itself is not so 
much despised—it is only the tunu who 1 h the pos¬ 
sessor of it. Every woman i« born with a master¬ 
mind; that is to say, with a mind to ho master, it 
she can. No man living should say an ill word 
against tho doctors. Compliments are the coin 
that we pay a man to hia face—sarcasms are what 
wo pay him out with behind his back. Toad-eating 
is always in season. In France, there is nothing 
vnnntr_excepting your objets (Panttout .— Punch. 
Talking to Children.— The habit of talking 
familiarly and usefully to children, to each accord¬ 
ing to his capacity, is and invaluable qualification 
in a teacher or parent. Its practice should be en¬ 
couraged and cultivated, for it will prove not only 
delightful, but most successful in imparting in¬ 
struction, and enkindling in them a love for 
learning. 
A Parent who strikes a child in anger, is like 
a man who strikes the water—the consequences of 
the blow are sure to fly up in his own face. 
Death has consigned many a man to fame, 
whom longer life would have consigned to infamy. 
