I 256 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-IORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
AUGUST 8. 
mm’ iutt-Jtolk 
CONDUCTED BY AZILE. 
HEART TREASURES. 
But few rare pour Is are drifted to our feet, 
As on the dreary shore ct' life we stray, 
And when perchance we find them—is it meet 
To cast, in careless acom, such wealth away? 
Bnt one in many, of earth's fairest Bowers, 
Doth wear the gift of fragrance In its heart, 
And should we- spurn each incense, when the showers, 
And sunbeams kiss its trembling leaves apart? 
Few spicybrefv.es o’er the desert waste 
Upon earth's worn and weary pilgrims blow, 
And few sweet springs, which we would stoop to taste, 
Along the burning sands of Jife do flow, 
Volcanoes hide within our vine-clad hills, 
And ruined bamlete strew the vales beneath, 
Even in those blessed dimes where Jove distils 
This sweetness in the south wind's dewy breath. 
But seldom id life's forest solitude 
We find a rest beneath the hay-tree’s shade; 
And on few altars, hewn ol sandal wood, 
The dearest ofTrings of the heart are laid, 
Bnt should we (lad such shade, and such a shrine, 
Were't meet to turn our weary steps away? 
Are they not emblems of a love divine, 
Fragrant in death—the sandal wood and bay? 
And should we mock such love?—Alaal on earth 
There is too little for the soul to prize. 
But too few blossoms crown the summer's birth, 
Too little sunshine droppeth from the skies, 
For us to slight their fragraiwe, or their light; 
And has my spirit felt, in bitter ruth. 
Too oft of hate, and dark deceit the blight, 
To scorn affection, hallowed still by truth. 
Within a dark and thoughtful eye, the beam 
Of love, too strong for proud, stern hearts to hide, 
Seems beautiful to me, as star rays seem 
Reflected from a deep and rushing tide. 
Bright, undimmed, upon that wild, swilt river, 
The glitVring starlight, to the sea may roll, 
And dreams of sinless love may haunt forever, 
Pure and nusnlhed still man's erring souL 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
RULETTE’S DREAM. 
BY S, E, W. 
“An me,” said little Rulette, “If I was some 
rich man’s wife I should not have to stitch away 
from morning till night without a minute’s recrea¬ 
tion as I now do. There is the lady who owns 
this dress that I am finishing, how beautiful she 
looked this morning as she Btepped out of her car¬ 
riage, with her lovely cashmere shawl and magnifi¬ 
cent hat, and what splendid diamonds 6he wore 
too, and how mean my poor little room appeared 
when she entered it. 0, dear, if Charley was 
bnt rich I would marry him just as soon as I could. 
Poor fellow, I know he loves me, and although he 
is very industrious and can’t help being rich if he 
continues to work as hard as be now does, still he 
is poor, and I ought to be a rich mau’s wife. I 
don’t think I’m very agly.” In an instant her dark 
glossy hair was reflected from the looking glass, 
and her eyes seemed trying to look blacker than 
her hair. A tiny gaiter peeped out from her dress 
and Bhe exolaimed, “There 1 I’m sure Miss Jones, 
with all her riches, can't wear as small a gaiter as 
I can, and I know her hands are larger than mine. 
Now Carletta, my landlady, says, that good looks 
are all that it. is necessary for a rich man’s wife to 
have, and she told me only last nigbt, that I was 
the best looking girl in the street Dear me,here 
am I wasting my time and that dress must be fin¬ 
ished by to-morrow morning, for it is a wedding 
dress and those things oan’t be pat off.” Seizing 
her needle she plied it with a rapidity which only 
she could do. The soft Bilk fell in flowing folds 
before her eyes and she Blghed over the reflections 
which it presented. She tried to horn a merry 
song which Charlby had taught her, hut she 
could not rememher the verses, and the tune in 
some unaccountable way would not come outright 
That bewitching silk dress seemed to be saying, 
“ Don’t you wish I was yours?” “ I wish I was a 
rich man’s wife,” she said, for the twentieth time. 
The sun shone quite warm in the little front 
window and Rolette felt very tired, for she had 
sat up nearly all the preceding night so as to be 
snre of having Miss Jones’ dress ready at the ap¬ 
pointed time. It was weary work bnt she perse¬ 
vered, until at length her needle went slower and 
slower, now it stopped a moment and then went on 
again, as if conscious that It ought to keep moving. 
Then her hands fell softly on the silk; her head 
rested itself very cosily on the back of her rock¬ 
ing chair; her black eyes glistened brightly for a 
second or two and then went out, showing very 
conclusively that Rulette was fast asleep. 
In some mysterious way it came into her mind 
that she was MiBs Jones, and that that lady was 
scolding Rulkttk for going to sleep when Bhe 
ought to be finishing her dress. Then Rulette 
promised to have it done at the hour she had 
named, and Mibb Jones or the other Rolette 
stepped into the splendid carriage. The driver 
gathered up his reins, and the dashing steeds 
pranced gaily through the streets until they 
stopped at the entrance of a beautiful mansion.— 
Liveried servants opened the door and awaited 
attentively her commands. She was now no lon¬ 
ger penned up in a sky-parlor Binging the song of 
the needle, but 
" AH that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave" 
was herB. Her little feet trod on beautiful carpets 
—luxurious sofa’s in all the amplitude of damaBk 
and drapery invited repose—while costly mirrors 
and glowing pictures hung upon the frescoed wnllB. 
Even the sun had grown respectful, for ho did not 
nowas formerly intrude his fierce beams within the 
room, but shone softly through the rich curtains, 
until everything seemed to glow like the green 
fields and Btately trees half hid beneath the rain¬ 
bow’s mystic veil. Rolette had brought home 
her dress, it fitted admirably and waB as beautiful 
as she could wish it to be. She remembered that 
she had never seen her future husband, and won¬ 
dered whether he was like Charley, and whether 
he would love her as much as Charley did. Soon 
the bridegroom entered. He was a tall, fine lool# 
ing man, richly dressed, and with a pleasant face 
that bad never been worn by care. Rul —Miss 
Jones thought as he seated himself by her side 
and spoke to her with Buch a musical voices how 
foolish she was to have ever entertained a thought 
of marrying Charley. 8oon the folding doors 
were drawn aside disclosing a gay party of ladies 
and gentlemen who had assemble to witness the 
ceremony that was so mysteriously to transform the 
little sewing girl into a “ rich man’s wife.” Every¬ 
thing seemed to move like phantoms in a dream, yet 
she was conscious that a bright ring glittered on 
her finger—that the bridegroom was mure beau¬ 
tiful than ever as he Btood beside her—thut strange 
faces smiled kindly upon her—that the minister 
raised his bands in silent benediction, and that 
she became the rich Mrs. Carlton. 0! how 
proudly she gazed at the splendid things nround 
her, and how brilliant her life dawned upon its 
new era. Dreams make sad work with time, and 
Mrs. Carlton was already looking on the past, with 
all its changing scenes. Her beautiful husband 
was sadly changed—he appeared thin and care¬ 
worn—his merry laugh was gone, and there was a 
stem dark look in his eyes that made her tremble 
when it met her gaze. Undefined visions of terror 
rose before her mind—the handsome furniture 
seemed to assume fantastic shapes from which 
mournful faces looked pityingly upon her. Then 
she was imploring her husband to take her back 
to her little room again—and then he was gone 
and she sat down and wept in her palace of sor¬ 
row. Anon Rulette appeared looking so happy 
and contented, that she sighed to think that she 
was so rich and so sad. Then the scene changed 
and she was walking the pleasant streets with 
Charley —and having a merry chat with Uarlet- 
ta, and again she was reclining upon a sofa in her 
magnificent prison watching for the return of her 
husband, and trembling with fear. Then be stood 
before her, pale with the agony of despair. “For¬ 
give me Marie,” he cried in tones of passionate 
grief, “My extravagance has beggared my father 
and brought min upon myself and yon. But 
Heaven, which haB too long permitted me to walk 
the paths of crime, has at length brought me to 
the bar of justice. Even now I hear her minions 
seeking to bear me to a criminal's abode, but they 
shaU be disappointed—yes, they shall find the 
prey gone. Quick as thought a pistol flashed in 
his hand and with a fearful shriek he fell dead at 
her feet. Marie uttered a cry of tenor and 
Rulette would have fallen to the floor had not 
the little work stand prevented. “My husband” 
rose to her lips—the room and everything therein 
whirled around in the utmost confusion—the silk 
dress clung r.o her trembling fingers as if every 
fold enclosed a poisonous snake, and for sometime 
the poor girl could scarcely tell whether Bhe was 
Rulette, Marie Jones or Mrs Carlton. Indeed 
she questioned very much whether she was any¬ 
body at alL At last she regained her scattered 
senses, and things began to assume their accus¬ 
tomed shape! “ Heaven be praised,” she said, “I 
am still Rulette. O! what a dreadful dream I 
have had. I declare I shall almost tremble when 
I feel sleepy again for fear of having another one. 
0! bow glad I am that it is not reality, and that 
I am still here in my little room and not in that 
dreadful place of which I have been dreaming.— 
How miserable they must be who are rich, if they 
all suffer as much as I have. Ah! Charley yon 
are a great deal better now than my late husband 
if you are poor. But dear me here is this dress 
not finished. I must have slept all the morning.— 
I Bhftll be so glad when Miss Jones takes it away.” 
That evening Rolette filled to the brim her 
evening lamp, for she had slept so long that she 
feared for the completion of her task. Scarcely 
had she sat down ere a knock sounded on the 
door; with a palpitating heart Bhe opened it and 
Charley entered. “0! dear, how glad I am too 
see yon,” she exclaimed, as she pressed his hand 
in hem “Where have you been so long, and why 
have you not called to see me before this time, 
Mr. Truant? Have you fallen in love with my 
Cousin Clara?” There was an umistakable look 
In her black eyes, and a depth of tone in her voice 
that made Charley’s heart beat almost audibly; 
for be worshipped Rulette. “ Where have I been, 
Rulette?” he replied, “why 1 was here only three 
nights ago.” “But it seems a week, Charley, to 
me.” “Yes, Rulette, much longer, for as I work 
through the long days I wish they were shorter so 
that I could see you oftener.” “Now Charley, 
don't you think that I must be very lonely here 
with no one to talk to me? Only tkink how much 
company you have in yonr shop.” “ But then, 
Rulette, it is not like your company.” “Why 
not, Charley?” “Because yon know I Jove you, 
Rulette.” “But you iims’nt love me, Charley, 
lam married.” “Married! Rulette; are you in 
earnest?” “Yes, I was married this very evening 
to a rich man with plenty of money.” The little 
minx appeared so Berious as Bhe said this, that 
poor Charley began to believe it in spite of bia 
inclinations to think otherwise. “This is a mar¬ 
riage dress that 1 am finishing for Miss Jones, and 
I shall never make another one until I do so for 
myself,” continued Rulette. “And—” “Do 
not trifle with me, Rulette,” exclaimed poor 
Charley, unable longer to bear the painful sus¬ 
pense. “Tell me quickly iB it really so?” "Yes, 
Charley, it is a fact, but my buBband is dead 
now.” “Dead!” echoed the relieved youth. “Yes, 
shot himself with a pistol soon after our marriage.” 
“Ob,” replied Charley, with increased satisfac¬ 
tion. “Was it a” — “Yes, Charley, it was a 
dream.” “Bnt Rulette.” “Well, Charley.” — 
“ I was thinking that—that there is no use in these 
dream marriages. I would rather have real ones.” 
“So would I, Charley.” In less time than 1 can 
relate It, Charley’s chair was drawn close to Ru- 
lettb’s, a delicate little hand fell softly in his — 
loving eyes spoke a language which words failed 
to express, and — pshaw, what’s the use in saying 
anything more about it; they loved each other 
truly, and I don’t, know which popped the question. 
But if any of my readers (if I am so fortunate as to 
have any) wish to acquire further knowledge upon 
the subject, if they will just step into a certain 
house, in a certain town and State, (which for the 
present must be nameless,) they will find the most 
happy, contented, loving couple that they ever 
saw,— who will, no doubt, give them further 
particulars. One thing I may say to the ladies — 
for I am a determined, obstinate old bachelor, and 
wish to save them from the awful gulf of matri¬ 
mony, ere yet too late—beware of silk dresses, 
lovable Charley’s and misohlevoua dreams. But 
— I say bnt—if you are resolved to riiBk headlong 
on destruction in Bpite of my warning — don’t, I 
pray you, marry a husband merely because he is 
Rich. 
Sljfliw fflmfllauy. 
For Moore's Rural Now-Yorker. 
LINES TO A MAPLE TREE. 
BY B. V. BUKLUSOX. 
Majkstic, grand old maple tree! 
Thy tow’riog form I love to st-e; 
For ruem'ries concealed in thee 
Endear thee to my heart; 
A relic of that by-gone age 
When lived the patriot and sage, 
How cauet thou hut my thou Jits engage, 
And ieelings warm impart? 
My father’s aie that cleared tnis land, 
Permuted thee, unbanned, to stand; 
He pruned thee with a skillful hand 
To grace his rustic home; 
Thon hast beheld that cot decay, 
And seen its inmates pass away 
To mingle with their kindred clay,— 
No more on earth to roam. 
Then, as Improvement onward steered, 
Thou’st seen a fairer home upreared — 
Where erst the humbler one appeared— 
And shadowed o'er its walls; 
There thou hast heard birth’B feeble tone, 
And pale sickness, languid moan, 
And death’s deep, dreary, dolefal groaD, 
The eat so much appals. 
And thou hast seen assembled there 
The yonng, the gay, the blithe, the fair, 
Whose hearts knew nought of pain and care; 
A happy bridal throng: 
Then thou again bast seen appear 
The bearer, the pall, the coffin'd bier, 
The sable weed, the flowing tear, 
As death's tram swept along. 
A sinter, next in yea’s to me. 
Whose prisoned soul has long been free — 
Her mom’ry'B embalmed in thee, 
Which time can ne’er destroy; 
I wag forever by her side, 
And range*! w itb her the woodlands wide, 
Nor knew I grief, until she died, 
And blasted all my joy. 
Beneath tby branches we have played, 
Against thy trunk our play-house made— 
And, in thy bre* ze-entlclng shade, 
Gambol'd away the hours. 
Or. at thy mossy base reclined — 
When blandly blew the vernal wind— 
Around each other's brow, have twined 
A wreath of woodland flowers. 
Now, when I gaze upon thy form 
That hath withstood a oentury’s storm, 
Around thee recollections swarm, 
And dim my eje 1 ng-dried. 
And oft the thought, will haunt my breast, 
That, on thy branches lightly rest 
Spirits who watch us, and are blest, 
Who loved us ere they died. 
Stockbrikge, N. Y., 1857. 
-- 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
BARON MONTESQUIEU. 
The author of the “Spirit of the Laws” was a re¬ 
markable man. He was one of those tew great 
minds that appear at wide intervals in the history 
of mankind to elevate and Improve the human 
race. Charles db Skoondat, Baron of la Brcde 
and Montesquieu, was descended of an ancient and 
noble family in the province of Guienna, France, 
and was born at the castle of la Brede near Bour- 
deux on the 28th of January, 1GS9. His superior 
genius and talents were discernible even whiles 
boy, and the workings of his youthful intellect 
truly foreshadowed the splendid mind developed 
in the maturity of mauhood. At the early 3ge of 
twenty he was gathering materials for his most 
celebrated work by making judicious extracts from 
tke numerous volames which comprise the body 
of the civil law. His father, discovering his won¬ 
derful aptitude to learning, encouraged him in the 
pursuit of knowledge. Yet it may be remarked, 
that such a mind as Montesquieu's needs little 
encouragement save what it receives from science 
and literature. If there is a love of learning im¬ 
planted in the mind, no obstacle, however formida¬ 
ble, can turn it aside from its favorite pursuit In 
yonth and in age, the same unfaltering effort and 
energy mark the progress of such a noble mind.— 
The pleasures, vices and follies of fashion, the 
allurements oi wealth, the hardships of want, have 
no power to quench the ardor glowing in the breast 
of the votary of truth and learning. The early 
years of the truly great man have always been 
marked by thoughtfuluess, diligence, the toye of 
excellence, and a determination to excel. No 
man ever became eminent who spent the morning 
of his life in dissipation and folly. He who will 
idle away the dawu shall in the meridian and de¬ 
cline of life he utihonored and unknown; while 
early years devoted to careful study, to treasuring 
up in the memory the accumulated wisdom of 
time, and disciplining the mind will bring honor 
to manhood in maturity, and crown the brow of 
age with the memorials ol reverence and venera¬ 
tion. 
Montesquieu was no exception to this general 
rale, and his youth was devoted to such thoughtfal, 
patient, persevering study, as could not fail to 
bring honor to one eudowed with less brilliant 
powers of mind. He considered that ho might be 
of more service to his country and mankind by 
his writings, than by acting in any other sphere; 
bat to be useful to different nations, for his phi¬ 
lanthropic spirit embraced all mankind, he knew 
that it was necessary for him to know them.— 
Hence he set out upon his travels, that he might 
the better inform his mind of the countries and 
the manners of the different European nations. He 
first visited Vienna where he met with the cele¬ 
brated Prince Eugene, who in the time of peace 
was living without pomp, and a lover and eucoura- 
ger of lettere. He visited Hungary and admired 
the generous and proud people then inhabiting 
that opulent and fertile country. At Venice he 
saw the famous John Law who brought France to 
the verge of bankruptcy by liis wild Mississippi 
Scheme. He then went to Rome. “ Inthis ancient 
capital of the world, which is still bo in some re¬ 
spects, he particularly attended to that by which it 
is at present distinguished, the works of It Aim a ei, 
Titian and Michael Angklo. He had never par¬ 
ticularly studied the fine arts, but the expression 
that shines forth in the master pieces of that kind, 
never fails to strike every man of genius. Accus¬ 
tomed to attend to nature, he knows her when he 
sees her imitated as a good likeness strikes all to 
whom the original is familiar.’' Switzerland and 
the countries of the Rhine, their laws and institu- 
tutions, were studied with that care and scrutiny 
which characterize the philosopher. He next 
turned to England. At this time Qneen Caroline, 
the protectress and enoonrager of learned men, 
and who cultivated philosophy on the throne, gave 
him a glad and generous reception. This was the 
land of Locke nod Newton, and Montesquieu 
loved it for their sake. After having Btudied the 
philosophy of the government, so that, lie perfectly 
understood it, admired the equity of the laws, and 
the civil aud religious liberty fostered by the con¬ 
stitution, he returned to Frauoe. He said “Ger¬ 
many is fit only to travel iu, Italy to reside in, 
England to think in, and France to live in.” 
For twenty years he meditated on his great work 
before he commenced it. The importance of the 
subject cheered and animated him, but its vastness 
discouraged him. Several times he entered upon 
it and as often abandoned it. But bis friends en¬ 
couraged him, and rousing all his strength he 
gave to the world the “ Spirit of the Laws" —a 
work so praised and wondered at iu his owu day— 
so studied aud admired by the learned in our own. 
In the composition of this work he labored and 
read immensely. His two favorite authors were 
Tacitus and Plutarch, yet he confined himself to 
none, bnt borrowed from every source, whatever 
he thought would be of advantage. Some idea 
may be formed of his perseverence when it is 
known that at this time he was almost deprived of 
his sight, and had to depend mainly on others to 
read for him and to write down his reflections.— 
He did not live long after he completed bis 
chef (Tieuvre, but long enough, howevor, to witness 
the beginning of happy results to France from his 
laborB. He died February 11th, 1755, universally 
beloved and sincerely regretted. 
Tie belongs to that noble class of minds of which 
Sir Isaac Newton aud John Locke are the true 
exponents. Mankind has received far more benefit 
from the labors of such men, than from a Marl¬ 
borough, Wellington, or Napoleon. The plumes 
and laurels thut crown the victor’s brow, the huz¬ 
zas uud triumphs that surround the conqueror's 
way may intoxicate the vulgar crowd, but Bober 
posterity will do honor to him, who, laboring in 
the cause of peace, promotes the best interests of 
humanity. The good resulting-from the labors of 
Montesquieu will reach many who may never 
hear his name, but Iris memory will be cherished 
and his writings read and meditated upon by the 
learned of all ages and all climes. a. j. e. 
Rochester, N. Y, 1857. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
KINDNESS. 
What a wondrous power has kindness; it 
softens the hardest heart and tames the most sav¬ 
age beast. Everybody and everything yields to 
its all pervading power. It hinds up the broken 
heart and soothes the departing spirit, — it lends 
an additional charm to beauty and makes plain 
features seem beautiful. 
No one ever did or ever will lose anything by 
kindness. Is anything gained by being cross or 
ill-natured? No, ou the contrary, try the power of 
kindness—be kind to everybody and they will love 
you—no matter what they say or feel at the time. 
That kind word or act will never fade from their 
memory. They will bavo a much deeper respect 
for you, at least, than if you had spoken or acted 
harshly. Even to a servant, speak kindly, it will 
not be lost—they will serve and like you all the 
better for it. Be kind to animals. Is it not better 
to have your dog come bounding out to meet you 
—with a Binile on bis shaggy phiz—laughing and 
frisking in anticipation of your caresses—than to 
Bee him slink away at? the sight of yon — his tail 
between his legs and a gloomy foreboding on Ills 
face of the expected “ get out, sir.” If you be a 
man and married, be kind to your wife and chil¬ 
dren—your wife surely has enough to fret and 
worry her, without, your coming home and begin¬ 
ning to find fault about some trifling thing. No, 
kiss her and tell her not to work so hard, take her 
to a place of amusement occasionally, and you 
will have a much better wife, a much nicer home 
and a much better temper. 
Be kind to your children—if they grow up with 
harsh reproofs and angry words ringing in their 
ears—with scowls and gloomy faces before their 
eyes to chock their innocent mirth —think you 
that they will be good and respectable men aud 
women—that they will love and respect you—that 
they will all try to make your declining years ooni- 
fortablo? No, as soon as they can they will go 
away from such a home—very likely to plunge Into 
all the dissipations uud vices they can find, Yes, 
he kind to your children, speak kindly to them— 
gratify their few desires—join them in their sport9 
—take au interest in their studies—and mark rny 
word—you are laying up ten times more towards 
a truly, happy, cheerful aud comfortable old ago, 
than if you were earning hundreds of dollars at 
the same time. For what profiteth a man if he 
gain the whole world and lose his own soul? 
Buflaln, N. Y., 1857. Aifrid. 
4 »» - 
Appearances. —A coat that has marks of use 
upon it, is a recommendation to peoplo of sense; 
and a hat with too smooth a nap and too high a 
lustre, is a derogatory circumstance. The best 
coats iu Broadway arc on the buekH of penniless, 
broken down merchants, clerks with pitiful sala¬ 
ries, and men that don't pay up. The heaviest 
gold chains dangle from the fobs of gamblers and 
gentlemen of very limited moans; costly orna¬ 
ments on ladies indicate to cyos thut are well-open, 
a silly lover, or a husband cramped for funds. And 
when a pretty woman goes by in a suit of plain 
and neat apparel, it is a sign that she has fair ex¬ 
pectations, and a husband that can show a balance 
in his favor.— New York Times. 
Keep Your Own Door Clean. —“John,” said 
a clergyman to one of his flock, “you should be¬ 
come a teetotaller—you have been drinkiug again 
to-day.” “ Do you never take a wee drap yourself, 
sir?” inquired John. "Ah, but, John, yon mnst 
look at your circumstances and mine.” Verra 
true,” quoth John, “ but, sir, can you tell me how 
the streets of Jerusalem were keepit sae clean?” 
“No, John, T cannot tell you that.” Weel, sir, it 
was just because every one keepit his own door 
clean!” replied John, with an air of triumph. 
SIAMESE .LITERATURE. 
The literature of Siam is in form of both prose 
and verse, and is divided into sacred and profane 
—the former being in the vulgar tongue, and the 
latter in Pali. 
M. Pallegoix has given translations of Borne spe¬ 
cimens of the popular literature. The following 
are examples of Siamese proverbs: 
“When you go to the forest, do not leave your 
axe behind you. 
“ Do not place your bark across the current of 
the river. 
" The elephant, althongh he hath four legs, some¬ 
times trips; and a man, however learned, is liable 
make mistakes. 
“If you continue iu your boat,you may fall upon 
a crocodile. 
“Nobility implies only pedigree, but manners 
the man. 
“ If a dog bite yon, do not bite the dog in return. 
“Why should a mau fear the rain who dwells 
under the sky?” 
The following is a Siamese fable:— 
“Avarice is an enemy to poverty, and may even 
lead to death. A certain hunter was in the prac¬ 
tice of shooting elephants for the nourishment of 
his wife aud children. One day he discharged his 
bow at an elephant, which, struck by his arrow, 
and maddened by the pain of the wouud, pursued 
him in order to kill him. 
The hunter, in order to escape, ascended a white 
ant-hill, on which lay a snake that bit him. En¬ 
raged be slew the snake. The elephant continued 
to pursue, but, the arrow by which he was struck 
being a poisoned one, he fell dead close to the 
ant hill. Tke hunter himself died of the bite of 
the snake, leaving his bow still strung. 
Meanwhile a wolf, in search of prey, came to the 
spot, and rejoiced exceedingly at what he saw be¬ 
fore him. 
‘Behold me rich for this turn,’ said he, ‘for 
good fortune bas befallen me; the elephant, will 
lsst me three months—the man seven days—and I 
will make two meals of the snake. But,’ added 
he, ‘why should I allow the bow-string to be 
wasted? Better that I eat it first to appease my 
hunger.’ 
Thus meditating, he bit the string, and the bow, 
rebounding, broke his skull, and he perished on 
the spot.”— Norxoay Advertiser. 
WATER. 
[The following eloquent Apostrophe to Water 
is ascribed by some to Gough, while others aver 
that it was first delivered by a Texan Missionary. 
Whoever the author, he was at the moment of its 
utterance, sublimely eloquent.] 
“Water! ob, bright, beautiful water for me!— 
Water! heaven-gifted, earth blessing,flower loving 
water! It was the drink of Adam in the parity of 
his Eden home; it mirrored back the beauty of 
Eve in her unblushing toilet; it wakens to life 
again the crashed und fading flower; it cools, oh 
how gratefully! the parched tongue of the fever¬ 
ish invalid; it fulls down to us in pleasant showers 
from its home with the glittering stars; it de¬ 
scends to us in feathery storms of snow; it smiles 
iu glittering dew-drops at the glad birth of morn¬ 
ing; it clusters in great tear-drops at night over 
the graves of those we love; its name is wreathed 
in strange bright color?, liy the sunset cloud; its 
name is breathed by the dying soldier, faraway on 
the torrid field of battle; it paints old forts and 
turrets from a gorgeous easel upon your winter 
window; it clings upon the branches of trees in 
frost-work of delicate beauty; it dwells in the 
icicle; it lives in the mountain glacier; it forms 
the vapory ground work upon which God paints 
the rainbow; it gushes in pearly streams from the 
gentle hillside; it makes glad the sunny vales; it 
murmurs cheerful songs in the ear of the humble 
cottager; it answers back the smiles of happy 
children; it kieses the pure cheek of the water 
lily; it wanders like a vein of molten silver away 
away to the distant sea; oh! bright, beautiful, 
health-inspiring, heart-gladdening water! Every¬ 
where around us dwelleth thy meek presence; twin 
angel sister of all that is good and precious hero, 
in the wild forest, on the grassy plain; slumbering 
in the bosom of the lonely mountain; sailing with 
viewless wings through the humid air; floating 
over us in curtains of more than regal splendor; 
home of the healing angel when his wings bend 
to the woes of ibis fallen world. 
“ 1 Ob, water for mo, bright water for me! 
And wine for the tremulous debauchee.’" 
AFFECTING SCENE. 
A letter to a western editor relates the following 
very affecting scene, of which the writer was an 
eye witness:—“At Michigan City, where wc changed 
cars, we observed them moving a sick girl. The 
party consisted of a brother of about twenty years, 
a sister of about sixteen, and the mother. The in¬ 
valid appeared about twenty-five, very emaciated, 
but with those lustrous eyes so common to her 
disease—consumption—which fascinated while it 
pained us to look at her. The tenderness and de. 
votiou of her people were really beautiful. After 
wo had gone some fifty miles, while she was recli¬ 
ning on her mother’s breast, who was gently and 
carefully smoothing her hair, she suddenly raised 
herself aud fell back dead. Then followed suck a 
scene of wild and frantic grief, mingled with the 
noise of the rushing cars, the scream of the loco¬ 
motive, aud the confusion of the passengers, that 
no power of mine can describe; anti this was con¬ 
tinued for fifty miles more. We old tough hearts 
found there was one spot not quite hardened.” 
Bk Social. — When I am assailed with heavy 
tribulations, I rush out among my pigs rather than 
remain alone by myBelf. The human heart is like a 
millstone in a mill; when you put wheat under it, 
it turns and bruises the wheat to flour; if you put 
no wheat in it, it still grinds on; but then it is it* 
self it grinds, and wears away.— Luther. 
tub youngest, 
I kociu'.d her In the cradle, 
And laid her in the tomb, 8he waa the youngest. 
What fireside circle hath not felt the charm 
Of that sweet tlef The youugeat ne’er grow old,— 
The fond endearments of our earlier (lays 
We keep alive In them; and when they die, 
Oar youthful joys we bury with them. 
