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MOORE’S RURAL: NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER 
JOTTINGS DOWN ABOUT HOMES, 
For Mooro’s Rural New-Yorker. 
ed to the praise of that Savior who, ages long past, 
gathered just such little ones in his bosom and 
said, “Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.” 
« Death found strange beau'y ou that cherub brow 
And dashed it out Foith trow those blue eyes 
There spake a wishful tenternees—will) ruthless haste 
He bound the silken triages of th<-ir curtaining lids 
Forever. There had been a murmuring sound with which 
The babe would claim the mother's ear, 
Charming her eveu to tears—the spoiler set 
His seal of silence. But there beamed a smile so fixed 
And holy irom that marble biow-Dra<h g»xed and left 
Ittbere-he dared not steal the signet-ring of Heaven." 
Orangeville, N. V., 1807. M. A. C. B. 
PEN SCRATCHES FROM REAL LIFE, 
Half a century ago the muse of Keats sung in 
her plaintive tones, so full of pathos, that “ a thing 
of beauty is a joy forever.” For the latitude of 
Italy, with its concentrated wealth of thirty cen¬ 
turies moulded into every form of tasteful bennty, 
and with nature stamped with the last “ascending 
footstep of the God,” the line of the author of En- 
dymion is truthful and suggestive. But a thing 
may in itself be beautiful, and yet when viewed in 
connection with its surroundings — an individual 
in a mass, an element in a whole — it may, from 
the incongruity of the ensemble, strike the be¬ 
holder with indifference, if not aversion. In the 
grouping of objects strict regard mu9t be had to 
the blendings and contrasts, that neither the in¬ 
dividual or the group may by possibility shock 
the sense of taste by reason of the arrangement. 
A single article of vertu will fill a cottage parlor, 
furnished with a simplicity bordering on the plain 
ness, with a perfect atmosphere of refinement— 
But this does not militate against the above pro¬ 
position; for it is singular, aud stands distinct 
from its surroundings, “ a thing of beauty.” The 
taste exhibited in the economy of our homes pre¬ 
sents many phases that claim ft moment’s consid¬ 
eration. And we can safely remark that no one, 
from the young bride selecting for her first essay 
at housekeeping, to the lady of fashion, who 
scorns everything nut. Parisian, and has ordered 
her movables from beyond the seas, has not a deep 
yearning and longing for some special object, 
without which life itself would seem a burden.— 
With one it will be mirrors. Every other article 
of furniture is of secondary consideration, provi¬ 
ded she can see her pretty self at every turn in 
her dwelling. Mirrors must not only adorn her 
mantiepiece, but must stare modest people out of 
countenance on the very stairs and in tho bath¬ 
room. Mirrors in the chambers and mirrors in 
the nursery; and every article ot furniture, re¬ 
gardless of propriety and good taste, must have 
the quicksilver running through its veins and 
oozing out at every joint. The consequence is, 
there is scarcely a dwelling whose garniture doeB 
not strike ns with amazement at its extravagance, 
while it shocks us with its glaring contrasts, and 
freezes us with its cold, cheerless heart; not a 
solitary household god within it to cast a single 
ray of the sunlight of peace. 
These idiosyncracies are but milder forms of that 
most fatal of all diseases, ycleped extravagance.— 
Everything is for display; to agitate with envy 
the bosom of the rival, awe into submission the 
aspiring efforts of a parvenu, or lay claim to a 
still higher seat in the synngogue of mammon.— 
" A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” But does all 
this bring a joy to a single individual? Bather, 
do not the beauties so displayed but tend to ex¬ 
cite the coarser passions, and add another and a 
stronger bar to the good-will that should reign 
among men? 
In our country, ttiis extravagance is carried to 
an extent bordering on insanity, aud many are 
the blighted hopes, the ruined fortunes, the nn- 
happy homes that daily stand a warning aud point 
a moral. We are not ascetic by nature or asso¬ 
ciation; but we neverTounge up one of our crowd¬ 
ed streets without seeing in every moire-antique 
that sweeps by us on its booped-soailo filing the 
embryo of a miserable fireside that find alt its 
warmth in the excitement of the promenade and 
the blaze of the theatre and ballroom- Worse 
than all, look at those in the humbler walks of 
life. The maid who, on her knees, radiant in 
silks and satins that in the olden time would have 
made the reputation of a duchess. This is truly 
an evil, that may indirectly have a greater influ- 
• nee on tho future of onr country for weal or woe 
than the border-rnllians ol Kansas, or the ebony- 
worshippers of MaBsachu-etts. But it is in its ef¬ 
fects on our homes that now more nearly claim 
our attention. 
Our homes! On their virtue and purity rests 
the happiness of individuals and commonwealths. 
As the glories of nature that surround us breathe 
into our hearts a species of religion, so in a les¬ 
ser degree do the surroundings of onr homes 
teud to make us happier and better, and influence 
the whole current of our existence. We are the 
creatures of habit and association. The child 
brought up with uncombed hair and a soiled face 
will make a careless wife aud live in a filthy 
house. Show us a negligent woman in the econo¬ 
my of her household, and we will prove that she 
does not belie tho mother that bore her. Some 
may say, “ it runs in tho blood.” True, we have 
known men who were born drunkards, who 
brought up in the family of relatives, subject to 
strict paternal discipline and watched over with 
a mothei’s solicitude, have on reaching manhood 
deviated from the paths of their boyhood's friends 
and died the death of violence. This is only an 
exception to the most universal rule of our na¬ 
ture. The comforts of home, tho household gods 
that reign within, have as much influence on the 
destinies of tLe man as the mother who watched 
over and guarded his iufunt years. The vice that 
even now tramples under foot the laws of the land, 
that requires military interference to uphold in¬ 
dividual rights, thus exhibiting to the world the 
distressing spectacle of a free people demanding 
protection of the bayonet on approaching the 
ballot-box, may be traced to the early life of the 
stripling without a home, enjoying Mb young Bleep 
on a cold pavement, guarded only by the silent 
watchers of the sky. This is tho extreme case 
where crime becomes the hand maid of poverty. 
In a lessor degree, but no Icbs true is it where the 
young find their attractions not at, tho fireside, but 
' amid the excitement of tho street. Is it not, then, 
incumbent on all parents to cultivate in their chil- 
, dren a homo feeling, to throw around the domestic 
, hearth all the comforts and allurements that will 
make it the very Elysium upon earth, and make 
’ home the garden of the affections, where every 
, flower of pleasure for the present and hope for the 
[■ future may blossom in hues brighter than tho 
, morn—“ft thing of beauty” and "a joy forever?”— 
. National Intelligencer. 
NO HI.— MRS BUNNYSIDB. 
In giving a sketch of Mrs. Scnnyside, I do not 
find as much satisfaction as I did in delineating 
the character of her noble husband. It has often 
been remarked that men of powerful intellects arc 
prone to select wives of a very inferior mold, 
women who never care to look into a book—quiet 
faithful home-bodies, whose reverence for their 
gifted partners is deepened into absolute awe by a 
wholesome knowledge of tueir own mental infe¬ 
riority. 
Would it were in my power to paint Mrs. Sunny- 
side us one of these fine, womanly souls, with a 
sufficiency of intellect, however, to comprehend 
her companion, and enough of veneration to ena¬ 
ble her to accord him the honor and respect bis 
superiority merits. I would not wish ber to be one 
of your “women’s rights” women — the strong- 
minded of onr sex who are ready and eager to do 
battle in behalf of their down trodden sisters, but 
a gentle creature, all love aud womanliness, with 
a thoughtful, inquiring mind, yet quiet and retir¬ 
ing by nature, choosing rather at all times to lis¬ 
ten than to speak, but ready to give a clear and 
opinion upon subjects within the limits of 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
A HANDFUL OF WOOD FLOWERS. 
CONDUCTED BY AZILE, 
For Moore's Rural New-Torkor. 
A LOYE STORY. 
BY 080. W. BUNGAY. 
We wandered through the budding wood, 
Beneath the cold and cloudy skies, 
O’er Sanguinary’s roots of blood, 
And flowers as soft as Sakah's eyes— 
Some white ns snows, 
Some red as Emma’s lips of rose. 
Oh let me kiss the clustering cheeks, 
01 sweet spring-beauties blushing here, 
Where the young leaf » hispenng speaks, 
Words of balm to the bending ear. 
Within these bowi re, 
Witness the waltzing of the flowers. 
Frail Violets, yellow, white nnd blue. 
Fair children of yon orb of gold, 
Look np with eyes of varied hue, 
Like orphans trembling in the cold, 
I’ll take yon home 
In a boquet to cheer my room. 
The White Wake Robin and the Red, 
The Orchis with its leaves of pink— 
The Seal of Solomon, whose head 
Is bowed in thought, if flowers can think, 
Here bees drink up 
Sweet dews irom the Metalla's cup. 
Tbe Eretbronium, niodeBt queen, 
Of all the early woodland flowers, 
Here crowned with gold and clad in green, 
Unrivalled reigns within these bowers, 
Yet none have sung 
The beauty of the Adder’s tongue. 
I love the simple wild-wood blossom. 
With love too pure for words to tell. 
And I would presB unto my bosom 
The rustic lass before the bell, 
Tbe Country Rose 
Will reign where Lilies mock the snows. 
Sweet Flowers grew by the streamlet, 
Where first I learned to love 1 
The song-birdB trilled 'mong the branches, 
And the sun shone bright above : 
Light zephyrs played with tue leaflets, 
And fanned my happy brow, 
While the stream ran on with its murmur 
’Neath the waving willow bough. 
Oh 1 my life was fall of gladness, 
Pure bliss without alloy 1 
The merry notes ot the song-birds 
Were echoes of my joy ! 
To sit by thy side and listen— 
Thy voice!—I hear it now— 
While the stream ran on with its murmur 
’Neath the waving willow bough. 
I’ve sat by tbe rippling streamlet 
In those dreamy summer-days, 
While Fancy aud Hope were Binging 
Their sweet delueive lays 
Of Love and it happy Future, 
No care to shad® my brow 1 
While the stream ran on with its murmur 
’Neath the waving willow bough. 
I often read in the twilight 
Sweet “Memory's tablets" o’er, 
And sigb, that I’d meet thy greeting 
And wondrous siuile no more. 
«< Thou hast learned to love another," 
To greet me coldly note. 
While the stream runs on with its murmur 
'Neath tho waving willow bough. 
The flowers are dead by the streamlet, 
And hushed its musical chime, 
The birds sing not 'mong the branches, 
They’ve flown to a sunnier clime ; 
And my heart’s young love has vanished, 
For “ thou loveat another now,’’ 
And I’ll list no more to the murmur 
’Neath the waving willow bough. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
JUSTICE TO ALL. 
It seems to be a hard thing for erring human 
nfiture, in condemning the faults of others, to look 
on both sides of the matter, with a oalrn, disinter¬ 
ested, unprejudiced eye. If we begin to blame 
any body or thing, we condemn indiscriminately, 
forgetting the influences, or causes, which lead to 
such and Bueh evil.?. For instance, “Mrs. Rural” 
has her grievances and difficulties, and no doubt 
there are many women who have the same, or 
worse; hut “ Mr. Rural" takes up against her, con¬ 
tending that she pictures hut one side. It is not 
evident to me that “ Mrs. Rural,” or any other 
common sense woman, wishes or expects her bus- 
band to stay in the house all day, aud “keep fires, 
rock the cradle, &o.,” nor does she deem it a light 
task, to plow, bow and mow beneath a broiling 
sun. She oomplained of the thousand inconven¬ 
iences and trifles, which summed together, suc¬ 
cessive days and years, added to, and augmented, 
a wife’s and mother’s never-ending, petty careB, 
which form the wear and tear of life. These are 
trifles, which a very little forethought and care, 
often times, wonld spare her constantly taxed and 
wasting energies. 
“Mr. Rural” may not he wilfully neglectfal— 
indeed, I believe few men are—but they postpone, 
overlook, and forget Men labor harder for the 
time being, hut they have seasons of repose, rest— 
the evenings, the Sabbath, and the days of storm 
—when the mind and body are refreshed and re¬ 
cruited, with reading and recreation. But a wife 
and mother—especially a farmer’s—never ceases 
to toil in the kitchen, or nursery. Storm or sun¬ 
shine—all is the same to her. Yet she would not 
grumble; her cares and hardens are precious, if 
sweetened by the sunshine of her existence—love 
and kindness. 
Women and men, cannot “change work;” they 
are each fitted for the peculiar duties of their po¬ 
sition; and we cannot but think, if husbands and 
wives were bound together in one interest, mutu¬ 
ally supporting, loving and forbearing—constantly 
endeavoring to see the good, and forgive the evil 
—we should hear less complaining, and see many 
more healthful, happy faces. Elise. 
concise 
her comprehension, when occasion requires. Mrs. 
Sunnyside is not of this kind. She is a showy- 
lookiug woman of the brunette order; fond of 
dress and display, and the most inveterate talker 
one would meet in a day’s search. One who says 
so much must of necessity say some silly things, 
and Mrs. Sunnyside's Bilty sayings greatly out¬ 
weigh her sensible ones. 
She affects to be fond of reading, and spends 
hours in her husband's library poring, with the 
most praiseworthy zeal, over hooks that are far 
beyond her depth. It is sad, and amusing, too, to 
hear her descant upon things she has read. Her 
impressions are totally different from those of 
other people, or, rather, she loses the point of the 
author’s thought, and takes in only the most com¬ 
mon-place suggestions. 
Farmer Sunnyside invariably listens to her ex¬ 
positions with the most gentlemanly patience, 
never, by a word or look, betraying a knowledge 
of the blunders she is perpetually making. I 
doubt if he ever attempted to awaken her mind to 
a sense of its inefficiency, but if he had, the at¬ 
tempt was foolish and in vaiD. If a thing is black 
in her belief and white in that of everybody’s else, 
she will defend her own judgment against that of 
all the world, and if she resolved to do a thing, she 
would carry it through right or wrong, if all ber 
family and friends were to be grieved and ollended 
thereby. This peculiarity, which is denominated 
obstinacy by most people, is dignified as firmness 
by the lady herself. I shall speak of her again 
at some future day. Adieu for the present 
More Anon. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THE LANGUAGE OF SCIENCE AND OF SENSE. 
There is a language of science and a language 
of sense. The language of science is that which is 
need by philosophers, sages and scholars. In the 
infancy of tbe world's history, science was almost, 
unknown, and hence no lauguage alone peculiar to 
it was needed. But in the progress of time the 
human mind was not satisfied with merely con¬ 
templating natural phenomena and receiving as a 
true interpretation thereof what was simply appa¬ 
rent from a natural and causual observation, but 
began to investigate, reflect and classify. To do 
this advantageously, new terms, different from the 
ordinary language of men, were employed. Grad¬ 
ually, step by step, as the discoveries of science 
were made, the language appropriate thereto was 
improved and enlarged, until the language of 
science is separate aud distinct, and intelligible 
but to those who, by study and reflection, acquaint, 
themselves therewith. 
The lauguage of sense is that of men in the 
everyday business of life. It is the language em¬ 
ployed to convey our thoughts and feelings, and 
impressions of the outward world such as if ap¬ 
pears to out- senses. It describes the impressions 
of objects made on our senses as they appear not 
as they really are. It is the language of nature 
aud uever changes. Neither the accidents ot' time, 
nor the controlling influences of climate or the 
refinements of civilization have any power to 
modify it. The dialect may be different, but the 
language, that lies beneath the mere words, is the 
same. It is the same in the sublime yet simple 
Hebrew tongue, in the flexible and versatile Greek, 
in the terse and rigid Latin, and in the homely, 
vigorous Anglo-Saxon. When we speak of the 
sun rising or setting, or os it is in Hebrew, of his 
coming forth and going in; of the stars as simply 
spangles or round, shining points; of the vault of 
heaven above; of the moon waxing and waning, 
being a full, half, nml quarter moon; of tho high 
seas; wo use tbe language of sense. The sun 
seems to ns to rise in tho east and set in the wost, 
and so we express it. But the language of science 
is, that the revolutions of the earth cause these 
changes, thereby correcting onr imperfect natural 
impressions. Science tells ns that tbe stars are 
suns and planets; that there is no arch above us, 
but an atmosphere or space illimitable; that there 
are no such in reality as a full, half and quarter 
moon, but that from her peculiar positions in rela¬ 
tion to our earth, she merely appears thus to us; 
that the sea is not higher, but lower than the beach 
it laves. 
Tbe language of sense is the language we learn 
and are taught in childhood, and employ in the 
maturer years of manhood, it is used ns often by 
the greatest philosopher as the simplest peasant.; 
by the immortal La Place, Cotkrnicus, Galileo 
and Newton, as well as by the little child or the 
unlearned rustic. The language of science must 
he employed by the philosopher, the sage, or the 
scholar while in the study or laboratory making in¬ 
vestigations strictly scientific, but in tho practi¬ 
cal affairs of life the language of sense is more 
appropriately used. a. j. e. 
Rochester, N. Y., 1867. 
She sleeps by the rippling streamlet 
Where the dewy grass-blades wave : 
And the blrdB sing sweetly above her, 
And violets bloom o’er her grave ; 
The winds moan loud ’mong the branches, 
Yet they cannot disturb her now, 
And the stream rung on with its murmur 
’Neath the waving willow bough. 
We folded the snowy grave-shroud 
Over the still cold breast, 
And wept o'er the young life blighted, 
Now free from wild unrest, 
O’er the “ wreck of her heart’s rich venture 
Yet, “ she ia happy now,” 
We read by the musical murmur 
’Neath the waving willow bough. 
Oneida, N. Y., 1867. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
SOMETHING ABOUT POETRY. 
One would think by the flood of rhyme that the 
tendency’ of the age was all to poetry. The pon¬ 
derous Quarterly is sprinkled with poetry — tbe 
graceful Monthly ie filled with poetry— the regular 
Weekly is headed with poetry, and the commercial 
Daily intersperses poetry with the records of the 
rush aud hurry of everyday life. In fact poetry is 
all the rage just now, and bushels of it can he had 
for a mere song. Tho publisher ia offered it, the 
editor is offered it, and the people are ollered it. 
“Poem” alter “poem” is given to the world and 
never read; volume after volume falls from the 
presp, and only to be neglected and forgotten. 
And yet this is the effect of a natural cause. The 
flood of scribblers has cheapened the standard ar¬ 
ticle, and the imitation has depreciated tbe value 
of tbe original. There Is too much of the Hash, 
aud too little of the diamond. It would Beeni, from 
the most of the fugitive rhymes of tbe day, that 
there was no effort at a clear, elevated Btyle, intense 
earnestness, or exquisite finish — no effort to rise 
above the common place and conventional style so 
universally prevalent, to a graceful command of 
language— a perfect mastery over its sterner rug¬ 
gedness— a hurry and glow of feeling, and which 
always finds a response in some aspiring heart, as 
the expressive utterance of what had long been felt 
This is the elevation at which every poet should 
aim, and by a buoyancy of thought and expression 
strive to elucidate the inner and nobler life of 
every human heart, vrhetber it gives expression to 
its mental conceptions or not. The thoughts that 
flow from such a pen, will make their mark, even 
among the purest, in versification, and thrill a mul¬ 
titude of hearts like some sweet echo that comes 
over from tbe realm of Bound. w. B. k. 
, For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
REMINISCENCES OF JOY AND SADNESS. 
It was evening—bright star-kissed evening. We 
were seated alone at the piano, breathing a song 
of beauly aud joy; and as our fingers glided light¬ 
ly np the silver-keyed octaves, and music, “the soul 
of beauty,” gushed forth respond!ro to out touch, 
it seemed that nowhere in thiB glad earth could 
there be hearts heating heavily, so light and joy¬ 
ous were our own. The last echo had died away 
in the distance, and turning from the instrument, 
onr eye rested upon the silvered locks and bend- 
iDg form of one, whose oountenanco bespoke a pure 
and noble heart We had never met before, but 
he whispered softly, while a smile of beauty 
wreathed his colorless lips: — “Young maiden, 
’twill be sweeter far in Heaven.” 0, how those 
few simple words changed the current of our 
thoughts; and when, in words of winning elo¬ 
quence, he spoke of the comforts of our holy reli¬ 
gion, and urged ns to consecrate onr life, our 
talents, our all, to tbe service of our Maker, we 
too, might know the source of joy; if, like him, 
we, too, might see unfolding, before our spirit’s 
vision, the glorieB of tbe Celestial City. 
Weeks fled, and that old man, wearied of earth, 
folded his thin arms and went, to sleep. They laid 
him to rest, away in the church-yard; hut we 
knew that there was but the casket—that the spirit, 
no longer fettered, was basking in the sunlight of 
the Savior’s smile; and his voice, no longer tremu¬ 
lous, mingled in the anthems of the “just made 
perfect” Y r es, gifted one, the Autumn winds are 
sighing mournfully aronnd thy tomb, and faded 
leaves, typical of life, are scattered o'er thy pulse¬ 
less heart; yet thy influence cannot die. The 
hearts won by tbee from paths of sin, are weaving 
garlands of affectionate gratitude to twine aronnd 
thy memory; and when at twilight hour we 
breathe a song of the “olden time,” beautiful, in¬ 
deed, through the vista of the past, comes the. 
remembrance of those joy-inspiring words: — 
“’Twill he sweeter far in Heaven!” 
There are glad hearts in that little cottage, 
nestling down beside those great hills, with the 
broad expanse of meadow spread ont like a carpet 
at their feet. Happiness has entered there in the 
form of ft sweet, bine-eyed cherub. And as the 
young mother gazes upon those tiny features, and 
presses that tender form to her bosom, she thiDks 
no other in all the wide, wide world so blest as 
she. The father, too, casts a proud, loving glance 
upon the helpless stranger, and raises his heart in 
thankfulness to God for a gift bo precious. 
It is their first—their only. No wonder that 
mother’s heart is filled with a deep, strange yearn¬ 
ing, unknown before. That little embodied spirit 
“ As WELL AH CAN EE Expeoted.”— The room is 
darkened. Tbe fire burns clear and bright; and 
through a door that opens from the bedroom into 
the dressing-room, one can discern another 
brighter fire; a towel-horse, covered with small 
articles of delicate baby-linen, a little cot, shaded 
with curtains of rose-silk and white lace; and on 
the tiny pillow a small head in a little many frilled 
and reeved white cambric cup, and a tiny, soft, 
velvet face of dirnky red, the eyos so lightly closed 
as to form only two lines, the mouth the same, and 
the miniature fists, crimson as the face, tightly 
clenched, as if ready for the “battle of life.” On 
a table, close to the iittle swing-cot, was the bassi¬ 
nette —its central object and chief glory being a 
largo, square, white satin pill-cushion, frilled with 
lace, studded with pins enough to lust a life, if 
pins ever did last, and encircled by a silver wreath 
of the bright heads of these “ 1'riendB in need”— 
the words, “Welcome, sweet daub!” 
The Better Land. — Onr relatives in eternity 
outnumber our relatives in time. The catalogue of 
the living we love becomes less, and in anticipa¬ 
tion we sec the perpetually lengthening train of 
the departed; and by their flight our affections 
grow gradually less glued to earth and more allied 
to Heaven, It is not in vain that the images of 
departed children, and near aud dear ones, are laid 
up in memory, as in a picture gallery, from which 
the ceaseless Burge of this world’s cares cannot ob¬ 
literate them. They wait there for tbe light of the 
resurrection day, to stand forth holy, beautiful and 
happy—our fellow worshipers forever. 
Happiness of Working Men. — The situation 
or social position of the poor—and by that word 
we mean the laboring population—is by no means 
bo deficient in the means of huppiness and comfort 
as many are led to believe. “The mechanics,” 
says Lord Byron, “ and working classes who can 
maintain ibeir families, are, in my opinion, the 
happiest body of men. Poverty is wretchedness; 
but it is, perhaps, to he preferred to the heartless, 
unmeaning dissipation of the higher orders.” A 
popular author says, “ I have no propensity to envy 
any oue, least of all the rich and great; hut if I 
were disposed to this weakness, the subject of my 
envy would he s healthy young man, in full posses¬ 
sion of his faculties, gotng forth in a morning to 
work for his wile and children, or bringing them 
home his wages at, night” — Law Magazine. 
A Beautiful Truth. — Benjamin F. Taylor, the 
author of “January and June,” and one of the edi 
tors of the Chicago Journal, never uttered a more 
truthful and beautiful sentiment (and he has spoken 
many) than when he said that “she who has been 
a good daughter,a loviug wife aud an ofil-tusbion- 
ed mother, is pretty near ready for an abundant 
entrance into the Kingdom of Heaven. A home 
without a girl in it is only hall blest; it is an or¬ 
chard without blossoms, and a spring without 
Bong. A house lull of hojib is like Lebanon with 
its cedars, but daughters by the firesides, are like 
the rose in Sharon.” 
Let us ho careful to distinguish modesty, which 
is ever amiable, from reserve, which is only pru¬ 
dent. A man is hated sometimes for pride, when 
it wus an excess of humility that gave the occasion. 
Gaiety is to good humor as annual perfumes 
to vegetable fragrance. The one over-powers 
weak spirits, tho other recreates and revives tiiem. 
Gaiety seldom fails to give some pain; good humor 
boasts no faculties which every one does not bo- 
lieve in his own power, aud pleases principally by 
not offending. 
A Beautiful Thought. —Some one has said of 
tliOHC who die young, that they are like the lambs 
which the Alpine shepherds hear in their arms to 
higher, greener pastures, that the flocks may follow* 
The moro honesty a man has, the less he affects 
the airs of a saint- 
