MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER, 
NOV. 28. 
fates’ fort-jfolk 
CONDUCTED BY AZI1E. 
For Moore'* Rural New-Yorker. 
TRUE FRIENDSHIP. 
LINKS DEDICATED TO a fbiknd. 
BT MKH. 8. K. FURMAN. 
O, fancy It ».nt like a blomom born 
In the smiles of a sunny hour, 
Whose fragile beauty more radiant beam* 
In the noon-tide’s kindling power, 
Bat foldeth Its cup when the chill winds aigh, 
Or the evening shadows lower. 
Nor liken it to the warbling bird, 
Who all the glad snnimer time 
Enlivens onr home with his Bong of love, 
But flies to fairer dime 
When the wlldering shoot of the storm-king blends 
With autumn's mournful chime. 
0, no! but like the «wed bird and the flower, 
More gladly and chiserly we dwell, 
When ’round on the HU'digbt of friendship has thrown 
Her charm-ilk* and magical spell. 
The green spots of joy in our journey of lift) 
Which longest on memory tell. 
But dearer it Is in adversity's gloom, 
When sorrow its mildew hath shed 
A cankering blight on the heart’s cherished hopes, 
And o’er ns a darken’d w.ng spread, 
The friendship nothing comes softly to cheer, 
And lift up the sulferer’s head. 
And gently to us she hath ever yet been 
A soft cooing dove sweetly true, 
Whose white downy pinions above us hath woo’d 
In joying* and norrowings too. 
And dearer more dear hath the lovely bird seem'd 
As older and fonder it grew. 
And pensively now when the bright orb of day 
Has gone to t ie low, rosy rest, 
And sapphire tissue hath beautifully draped 
His gorgeous couch in the west, 
Then backward I go to the halls of the past, 
AU greenly with memories dress'd. 
And gliding along with a noiseless step, 
Half tearful, yet fondly I trace 
The lights and the shades of each dear olden scene 
Which distance nor time can efface, 
And brightly enwoven with revery’e dream 
Thy dear smiling image hath peace, 
Aod oft the soft notes of those low plaintive lays, 
My voicB maketh vocal again, 
We were wont, to repast In the still twilight hours, 
And ever each sweet meltingatraln 
Will flit o'ar the chords of ray heart's lonely lute, 
Breathing music no words can explain. 
Bn t, not alt of earth Is ihe friendship we prize, 
On missions dfvto* she hath corn*, 
To win our affbcUoAu all fervent and pure 
To the joys of her bright happy home, 
0, give wo her room foi thl* two-fold embrace, 
Which shat! Whd os beyond the dark tomb. 
Then calmly wo’ It gatfcar from life's mazy way, 
As over its pathway we rove, 
The buds that will bloSsora and cheer ns to-day, 
And centre our soul's fadeless love 
On the Savior whose friendship for us will be given 
Bright mansions in glory above. 
East Clarkson, N. Y., 1807. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
HIAWATHA’S COURTSHIP. 
RKNDHRKD INTO PKOBK BY a N. BXMKNT, 
« A 6 to the bow the cord Is, 
So onto the man is woman; 
Though she binds him, she obeys hfm ; 
Thong/ she draws him, y«t she follows, 
Useless each without the other.” 
[ Song of Hiawatha. 
THUS the youthful Hiawatha Hah! within him 
self and pondered, ranch perplexed by vaiious 
feelings—listless, longing, hoping, fearing, dream¬ 
ing still of Minnkhaha, of the lovely Laughing- 
Water in the land of the Dacotabs. 
“Wed a maiden of your people,” warning said 
old Nakomis; "go not eastward, go not westward, 
for ft fttranger, whom we know not! Like a fire 
upon tho hearthstone is a neighbor’s homely 
daughter; like the starlight or the moonlight is the 
handsomest of strangers!” 
Thus spoke Naxomib, and Hiawatha answered 
only this:—"Dear old Nakomis, very pleasant iB 
the firelight, bnt I like the starlight better—better 
do I like the moonlight!” 
Then old Nakomis gravely said: —"Bring not 
here ftn idle maiden—bring not here a useless wo¬ 
man, bandH unskillful feel unwilling; bring a wife 
with nimble fingers, heart and hand that move 
together,—feet that run on willing errands!” 
Smiling answered Hiawatha: — "In the land of 
the Dacotabs lives the arrow-maker’s daughter, 
Minnkhaha, Laughing-Water, handsomest of all 
the wo era 1 will bring her to your wigwam,— 
she shall run upon yonr errands, be your starlight, 
moonlight, firelight, bo the sunlight of my people 1” 
Nakomis, still dissuading, said:— “ Bring not to 
me a stranger from the land of the Dacotabs!—ver y 
fierce are tho Dacotabs, often is there war between 
us—there are feudH unforgotten, wounds that ache 
and still may open!” 
Laughing answered Hiawatha: —"For that 
rcuson if no other, would I wed the fair Dacotah, 
that our tribes bo nulled,—that old fends might be 
forgotten, aud old wounds be heuled forever!” 
Thus departed Hiawatha to tho land of the 
Dacotabs—to tbc laud oi handsome women; strid¬ 
ing over moor and meadow, through interminable 
forests, through uninterrupted silence. With hiH 
moccasins ot magic, at each stride a mile he mea¬ 
sured; yet the way seemed long before him; and 
he journeyed without resting till lie heard the cat¬ 
aract’s laughter—heard the falls of Minnehaha 
calling to nitn through tho silence. " Pleasant is 
the soondt” he murmured, “Pleasant is the voice 
that calls me!” 
On the outskirts of thoforeBt, ’twixt the shadow 
and the suushiue, herds of deer were feeding, but 
they saw not Hiawatha; to his bow he whispered 
"Fail not!”—to his at row whispered "swervenotl” 
sent it singing on its errand, to the red heart of the 
roebuck; threw the deer across his shoulder, and 
sped forward without pausing. 
At the doorway of his wigwam sat the ancient 
arrow-maker, in tho land of the Dacotabs, making 
arrow-heads of jasper—arrow heads of chalce¬ 
dony. At hl« side, in all her beauty, sat the lovely 
Minnkhaha,—B at his daughter, Langlilug-Wuter, 
plaiting mats of flags and rushes; on the past tho old 
man’s tho’ta were, and the maiden’s of the future. 
He was thinking, as ho sat there, of the days 
when with such arrows he had struck the deer and 
bison, on the Mnscoday, the meadow; shot the 
wild goose, flying southward, on the wing, the 
clamorous Warva, (wild goose) — thinking of the 
great, war parties, how they came to buy his ar¬ 
rows—could not fight without bis arrows. Ah, no 
such noble warriors could be found on earth as 
they were! Now tho men were like women, only 
used their tongues for weapon*! 
She was thinking of a hunter, from another 
tribe and country, young ftud tall and very hand¬ 
some, who one morning, in spring-time, came to 
buy her father’s arrows, sat aud rested in the wig¬ 
wam, lingered long about the doorway, looking 
back as he departed. She had heard her father 
praise him—praise his courage and hiH wisdom; 
would he come again for arrows to the falls of Min¬ 
nehaha? On the mat her hands lay idle, and her 
eyes were very dreamy. 
Through their thoughts they heard a footstep — 
heard a rustling in the branches, and with glowing 
cheek and forehead, with the deer upon his shoul¬ 
ders, suddenly from out the woodlands Hiawatha 
stood before them. 
Straight the ancient arrow-maker looked np 
gravely upon Ills labor, laid aside the unfinished 
arrow, bade him enter at tho doorway, saying, as 
he rose to meet him, "Hiawatha, you are wel¬ 
come!" At the feet of Laughing-Water Hiawa¬ 
tha laid his burden; threw the red deer from his 
shoulders; and the maiden looked up from her 
mat of rushes,— said with gentle look and accent, 
"You are welcome, Hiawatha!” 
Very spacious was the wigwam, made of deer¬ 
skin dressed and whitened, with the gods of the 
Dacotahs drawn and painted on its curtains, and 
so tail the doorway, hardly Hiawatha stooped to 
enter—hardly touched his eagle feathers as he en¬ 
tered at the doorway. 
Then up rose tho Laughing-Water, from the 
grouud lair Minnbhaha, laid aside her mat unfin¬ 
ished, and brought forth and set before him, water 
brought them from the brooklet, gave them food 
in earthen vessels—gave them drink in bowls oi 
basswood—listened while tho guest was speaking, 
listened while her father answered. But not once 
her lips she opened, not a single word she uttered. 
Yes, as in a dream she listened to the words of 
Hiawatha, as he talked of old Nakomis, who bad 
nursed him in his childhood — as he told ol his 
companions, Chibiabos, the mcslciun, and the very 
strong man Kkoabind, and of happiness aud plenty 
in the laud of the Ojlbways, in the pieasant land 
and peaceful. 
After many years of warfare, many years of strife 
and bloodshed, there is peace between the OJib- 
ways and the tribe of the DaootabB. Thus con¬ 
tinued Hiawatha, and then added, speaking 
slowly, “ That this peace may last forever, and our 
hands be clasped more closely, and our hearts be 
more united, give me as my wife this maiden, 
Minnkhaha, Laughing-Water, loveliest of Dacotah 
women!” 
And the ancient arrow-maker paused a moment 
ere he answered, smoked a little while in silence, 
looked at Hiawatha proudly, fondly looked at 
Laughing-Water, and made answer very gravely: 
“ Yes, if Minnkhaha wishes; let yonr heart speak, 
Minnhhaha!” Aud the lovely Laughing-Water 
Beemed more lovely, us she stood there, neither 
willing nor reluctant, as she went to Hiawatha, 
softly took u seat beside him. while she said, and 
blushed to *iy it, "I will follow yon, royhusband!” 
This was Hiawatha's wooing!—thus it was be 
won the daughter of the ancient arrow-maker, in 
the land of the Dacotahs ! 
From tho wigwam he departed, leading with 
him Laughing-Water; hand and hand they went 
together, through the woodland aud the meadow, 
left tho old man standing lonely at the door way of 
bis wigwam, heard the Falls of Minnehaha calling 
to them from the distance, crying to them from 
afar oif, " Fare thee well, 0 Minnkhaha!” 
Aud the ancient arrow-maker turned again unto 
his labor, sat down by his ancient, door-way, mu 
sing to himself, Baying: "Thus it is our daughters 
leave us, those we love, and those who love us! 
just when they have lehrned to help us—when we 
are old and lcun upon them — comes a youth with 
flaunting fcatuers, with his flute of ree *, astranger 
wanders piping through the village, beckons to 
the fairest maiden, and she follows where he leads 
her, leaving all things for the stranger!” 
Pleasant was the journey homeward, through in¬ 
terminable forests, over meadow, over mountain, 
over river, bill and hollow. Bbort it seemed to 
Hiawatha, though they journeyed very slowly, 
though his pace he checked aud slackened to the 
steps ol Laughing- vater. Over wide and rushing 
rivers in Ins arms he bore tho maiden; light he 
thought her as a feather—as the plume of bis head¬ 
gear; cleared the tangled path-way ior her, bent 
aside the swaying branches, made at night a lodge 
of brunches, and a bed with boughs of hemlock, 
and a fire before the doorway with the dry cones of 
the pine tree. All the traveling winds went with 
them, o’er the meadow, through the forest; ail the 
stars of the night looked at them, watched with 
sleepless eyes their slumr/er; from his ambush in 
tho oak-tree, pooped the tqulrrol, Adjidaumo, 
watched with eager eyes the lovers; and the rab¬ 
bit, the Wabasso, scampered from the path before 
them, peering, peeping from his burrow, sat erect 
upon his haunches, watched with curious eyes the 
lovers. 
Pleasant wus the journey homeward! All the 
birds sang loud aud sweetly songs of happiness 
and hearts ease; sang the blue-oird the Owaissa, 
“Happy are you, Hiawatha, having such a wife 
to love you!” sang tho robin, tho Opecher, 
"Happy are you Laughing-Water, having such a 
noble husband!” 
From the sky the sun benignant looked upon 
them through the branches, saying to them, “ 0, 
my children, Love is sunshine, bate is shadow, 
liie is checkered shade aud sunshine, rule by love, 
0 Hiawatha!” 
From the sky the moon looked at them, tilled 
the lodge with mystic splendors, whispered to 
them, "0 my children, day is restless, night is 
quiet, man is imperious, woman feeble; hulf is 
mine, although 1 follow; rule by patience, Laugh¬ 
ing-Wateri” Thus it wus they journeyed home 
ward—thus it was that Hiawatha to the lodge of 
old Nakomis brought tho moonlight, starlight, 
firelight — brought tho sunshine of bis people, 
Minnkhaha, Laughing Water, handsomest of ull 
the woman in the land of the Dacotahs, in the land 
of handsome woman. 
Cjioitf Ulistdlim]). 
For Moore'* Kara] New-Yorker. 
AUTUMN WINDS. 
Blow on, blow ou, ye Autumn Winds! 
Dark cloud* arc o’er me flying, 
A* underneath the ohesfoul tree*, 
I ii«ten to your r.ighlng— 
No more the wild bird greet* the dawn. 
Waiting the ear h to gladness. 
But silent groves and sunless skies, 
Kill every heart with ssdner*. 
Wail on, wail on, ye Autumn Winds, 
Kor Xnmmnr now 1* dying, 
Where bloomed tbo violet and the roso 
The withered leave* are lying. 
And still your wild, mynterlou* tones, 
O'er hill and forest sweeping, 
Seem like the voice of spirlte, 
A HOlenm death > watch keeping. 
Sweep on, aweep ou, ye Autumn Wind*! 
Dark clouds are o'er me flying — 
My bienkiug heart but echoes back, 
Your wild and mournful sighing; 
For 'round me now, like withered leaves, 
The hopes of youth are lying, 
And from litre’s dark and cheerless path. 
Both I.ight and Love are dying. 
Woodland, N. Y., 1867. Mag. 
4 «»- 
For Moore'* Rural New-Yorker 
LABOR EBBENTIAL TO HAPPINESS. 
TnK great Creator so made man thut bo is not 
long content to remain inactive. He is continual, 
ly seeking some employment either for the body, 
or the mind. The mind is ever busy, and one ob- 
Je t for the aooomplishmentof which it has tolled, 
is no Boonor achieved, than its energies start oat 
in pursuit of another. None of ns, could for a 
single day, sit down and fold onr bands in idleness, 
and suy at its elotje, that we hud spent It happily. 
Is there one in the wide world who lives without 
labor? Then there is one on whoso brow discon¬ 
tent sits enthroned and in whose heart unhappi¬ 
ness reigns. 
Place a man in & position that will enable him 
to live withont labor. Let his dwelling be a pal¬ 
ace, in the midst of a garden as beauteous as 
Eden. Supply all his wants, but give him nothing 
with which to busy himself, and place bofore him no 
object for which to live. Will he be contented? 
Will be be happy? Will a life of idleness please 
him? Though the beanty that surroands him on 
every hand, woos him with every enticement she 
can offer, he will not feel the strong attraction.— 
In vain will Nature clothe herself in garments of 
more thuu usual loveliness, he will not see her 
charms. The poor man, who rises with the dawn 
and goes forth to toll until set of sun, and then re- 
tnrns to hi* little cottage home, and eats his slm 
pie meal with u thankful heart, Is far happier than 
he. There may bo some among the millions, who, 
huving never known the pleasures of activity, can 
livo in idleness and enjoy it, but they urc few; and 
even they would no longer be happy, could their 
nobler energies be aroused from the state of tor¬ 
pidity, in which they have bo long lain. 
If lubor is not essential to our happiness, why is 
it necessary that we shonld toil? He who made 
all things for onr comfort and enjoyment, know 
thut tabor was needed v/bou he said to man:—“ In 
the sweat of thy face shall thou eat bread till thou 
return to the ground.” Why do men grow restless 
und nubnppy trom inactivity and idleness, if lubor 
is not intended for their happiness? Wo must have 
labor, either " of the brain, the heart, or the hand,” 
else life would be wearisome. What pleasure 
would there he in life, If it consisted of nothing 
but mere exiBtenco? if we had nothing to do but 
sit idly and told our hands in slothfulness and ease? 
But this, God never designed to have us do. Our 
energies, powers, and talents, were not given uh 
that we might livo in idleness. If so, they would 
never prompt us to active employment. Then, no 
object could be placed before the mind’s eye, suffi¬ 
cient to lead us to toil with undying ambition and 
unremittingly, until it was accomplished a» wo do 
now. When a worthy motive presents itself, we 
use onr noblest powers, und onr moat vigorous ef¬ 
forts are called forth to accomplish the end. 
If labor, then, is so essential to happiness, why 
is it called ignoble? Why call that whioh con 
tributes so much t.o our real enjoyment disgrace¬ 
ful? Is it right? Is it just? May the time com 
ing hasten its approach, when the great truth that 
toil is honorable shall be felt by oil. When the 
farmer, the merchant, and tho mcchanio shall 
stand on an equal looting, and their sous and 
daughters, fill the same honorable positions in so¬ 
ciety, When the tiller ot the soil shall no longer 
be ashamed of his sunburnt face. When tho hard 
hand of an honest day lahorei, will be as eagerly 
grasped as the soft palm of the millionaire. When 
infth shall no longer Judge of his fellow man, from 
his outward appearance, but Horn the lnwurd 
adorning of the iniud. When true worth will be 
appreciated, in however hnmble a garb it may be 
luuud. When tho laborer shall be considered 
greater and more worthy of esteem than the idler. 
When we shall bestow honor upon those only to 
whom honor is doe. “It is time this opproblum 
of toll were done away.” 
All men were created free and equal. The rich 
nud Ihe poor are alike subject to the laws of the 
laud, aud a murderer is condemned to death, 
whether he is from the class of self-styled aristo¬ 
crats, or from the humbler walks ol life. Though 
the wealth und iniioence ol the one, may ou some 
pretence, procure him a pardon, he is not lesB 
guilty than the other, nor is the crime of a less 
magnitude. There is true nobility in labor, and 
those only who dots not appreciate its worth pro¬ 
nounce it ignoble? No true rnuu is ashamed to be 
found holding the plow or considers it a disgrace to 
be engaged in any useful employment. In the 
words of another, “ To some field of labor, mental 
or manual, every Idler shonld hasten, as a chosen, 
coveted field of improvement.” i. m. p. 
Gorham, N. Y., 1867. 
■ — ■ - ■ ■ - 
OniLDHKN should be inured as early as possible 
to acts of churlty and mercy. Constantine, an soon 
us Lis son could write, employed his hand in sign¬ 
ing pardons, and delighted in convoying through 
hu month ull the favors he granted—a uoblo intro¬ 
duction to sovereignty, which 1 h iustituted for the 
happiness of mankind. 
MORNING. 
Thb morning itself, few people, inhabitants of 
cities, know anything about. Among all our good 
people, not one in a thousand sees the sun rise once 
in a year. They know nothing of the morning. 
Their idea of it is that it is part of the day which 
comes along after a cup of coffte and a beef steak 
or a piece of toast. With them, morning is not a 
now issuing of light, a new bursting forth of the 
sun, awaking npof ail that has life from a sort of | 
death, to behold again the works of God, the hea¬ 
vens aud tho earth: it is only a part of tho dorniB- 
tioday belongingtoreading newspapers, answering 
notes, seeding tho children to school, and giving 
orders for dinner. The first streak of light, tho 
earliest purpling of tho East, which the lark 
springs up to greet, aud tho deeper and deeper 
coloring into orange uni red, till at length the 
" glorious sun 1 b seen, regent of tho day”—thie they 
never enjoy, for they never seo it I never thought 
that Adam had much the advantage of us from 
having bcou the world while it wus new. The 
manifestations of tho power of God, like his mer¬ 
cies, are "new every morning” and fresh every 
mornunt We see as fine risings of the suu ns ever 
Adam saw, and its risings are as ranch a miracle 
now us they were in his day—and, I think, a good 
deal more, because it is now a part of the miracle, 
that for thousands and thousands of years he has 
come to his appointed time, without the variation 
of a millionth part of a second. Adam could not 
tell how this might ha. I know the morning—I urn 
acquainted with it, and I love it. I love it fresh 
and sweet as it is—a daily new oreation, breaking 
forth and calling all that have life, and breath, and 
being, to new adoration, pew enjoyment*, and now 
gratitude.— Webster. 
RIGHT LIVING. 
"To love and to labor iB the sum of living, and 
yet how many think they livo who neither labor 
nor love.” 
What a gem-thought it is, set iu this quaint old 
Saxon! The first part of the sentence is a beauti¬ 
ful text for one’s life, while the other is an equal- 
ly sad commentary on tho "living” of a great 
portion of barnaultj ! An i »ro not these twain, 
tho loving a id the laboring, the one " royal law ” 
of the Bible, and do they not bring with them 
their “own exceeding great reward?” Ye who 
seek after happiness, behold, here is the keyt 
This sitting dowo, folding tip one’s hands, and 
moping away one’s life in vain yearning afier af¬ 
fection, will never do you good. 
JoBt step out of yourself, and live for and in 
others. Go out with a Grave spirit into the world, 
aud minister to the wauto of humanity. Evory- 
were bauds are reaching out to you for help; 
everywhere bleeding hearts are needing tho balm 
of sympathy and tenderness. The little children 
want yonr smile, the old people want some com¬ 
forting word; and this strongest aud the best have 
their hears of weakness und of need. 
Bo don’t sit still, we pray yon, for this is not 
living. Bnt " Wbaiaoever your hand findoth to 
do, do it with your might,” with a true, honest 
heart and purpose; and no matter how heavy may 
be the darkness of the night through which you 
are walking, I’uo looming wlil rioc, Uni flowers will 
bioBsom, and the birds will sing about you.— 
Arthur's Magazine. 
OLD SCENES REVISITED. 
Thk progression of life is so simple, and in the 
greatest number of persona so quiet, that meuonly 
know, at length, that they are changed, but seldom 
perceive the process of changing. We know tlmt 
we arc no longer boys, but cannot tell when wo 
crossed the lino. Wo are conscious thut ws have 
reached manhood, and that youth has departed. 
But so gently did it go, that we are as those who 
listen to a bird singing in a troo. After it hns 
Down, they listen still, aud only know its flight be- 
caaso it no longer sings. 
But now nnd then we are turned back, and 
brought face to face with tho pust, in such a way 
that two lives guze at each other; and wo walk as 
if one identify Pad two expressions. 
The recollections of tho past boat upon the heart, 
and we stood in its door, as a parent to whom 
comes back tho child not seen for scores of years, 
uncertain whether to doubt, or to accept the fa¬ 
miliar strangeness. After long absence, let any 
one revisit the scetes of his childhood-home, and 
see whether these things be not so. There will lie 
a soli bewilderment, aud a Mad Joy of excitement, 
which, perhaps, ore may not bo able to analyze, 
bat which is, in fact, the flowing together of 
the two great streams of life, the past and the pres¬ 
ent.— Henry Ward lletcher. 
DEATH OF GEORGE IV. 
No man clung to life with greater eagerness 
than George IV., or was more unwilling to hear 
from those about him any hint or suspicion of his 
apparent decay. When confined to his room, and 
his case had become evidently hopeless, bo sti I 
felt the vital stamina so strong in him that ho 
would not believo his owu danger; be talked of 
preparations for the approaching Ascot races, 
which would he attend in person, and showed a 
confidence iu bis recovery which all uronnd him 
knew to be impossible. Ou the 27th of May, 1830, 
prayers were ordered to be read iu tho churches 
fur the restoration ot the King’s health, aud al¬ 
though the work of death was gradually approach¬ 
ing, tho most contradictory accounts weio con 
stantly circulated of his real state. At longtli tho 
awful moment arrived. He went to bed without 
any particular symptom on the night of tho 25'h 
of Jane, but ut three o’clock in the morning be 
seomed to awake in great agitation, and called for 
abaistance. Sir Wntbeu Waller, who was In at¬ 
tendance, came to bis bedside, aud ut his request 
helped to raise him from his bed. He then ex¬ 
claimedWatty, what is this? It i* death!— 
Tuey have deceived me!” and iu thut situation 
withont a struggle expired.— KaiJtes. 
- — - ^ --- - 
Wk Look too Far —Sterne says:—"The grand 
error of life 1b, wo look too tar; we scale tho heav¬ 
ens; we dig dowu to the centre ol the earth for 
systems, aud we forget ourselves. Truth lies bo¬ 
fore us; it is the highway path, and tho plowman 
treads on it with olonted shoes.” 
'* WK'tiL ALL Mf’Bl' AGAIN IN THB MORNING.'- 
Seen was the exolnmation of a dying child, as 
the red rays of the sunset streamed on him 
through the casement—“Goodbye, papa, good¬ 
bye! Mamma has come for mo to-night—don’t, 
papa! we'll meet again in the morning !" It was as 
if an angel had spoken to that father, and his 
heart grew lighter under its burden, for something 
assured him that his little one had gone to the bo¬ 
som of Him who Baid, "Suffer little children to 
come unto me, for of such is the kingdom of 
heaven.” 
There is something cheering and inspiring to all 
who ure in trouble, in this—"We’ll meet again in 
t ie raornipg.” It roust s up tho fainting soul like 
a trumpet blast, and frightens away forever the 
dark shapes thronging the avenues of tbo outer 
life. Clouds may gather upon our paths—cares 
press their venotned lips against, our cheeks—dis¬ 
appointments gather around ns like uu array with 
banners, but cannot destroy the hopes within us, 
if we have this motto on our lips: " All will he 
bright in the morning.” 
Here is one who is doomed tu roam awhile in a 
foreign land, lar from the scenes and friendships 
of his earlier yearB. Day by day, as he trudges 
on his pilgrimage, meeting only the cold smile of 
the stranger, his heart yearns for tho communion 
of the loved ones ut home, and silent prayers steal 
from his lips that the good God will watch over 
and protect them from every peril. To such an 
one how preciously dear is the thought that, though 
the darkness may now shadow his path and dis- 
tuuoe lie like a Dead Sea between him and his 
friends, he Bball yet “ meet them all in the morn¬ 
ing.” 
Yunder is one who sits over a desolate hearth, 
stone. The wife of his love—she whoso voice has 
cheered him on to great and noble deeds—whoso 
sympathies have been an/Egis,protecting bimfrom 
every storm of Fate—whose prayers brought down 
a balm from Heaven lor his every sorrow—this one 
has broken away from rbe bome-shrino and wan¬ 
dered out in the shadowy realm whence none can 
ever return. Day by day, hour by hour he has 
watched tho shadows creeping toward her—the 
sunshine lading from her life, aud now, us her cof¬ 
fin lies before him it seems as if there was not one 
bright hope left him for tho morrow. Bnt the 
spirit, of the departed one, hovering uronnd him, 
whispers a moment in his ear, aud be ronseB np 
from the lethargy of grief, strong still in the hope 
that he shall meet the loved one “again in the 
morning.” 
A pilgrim is wandering over Life’s dreary waste, 
hopeless and cheerless. To him, earth's choicest 
fruits have been ns the poison of uspB, and its 
greatest conquests bnt gilded mocktrie*, withering 
as flowers do within hia grasp. And now, see age 
scatters its dead blossoms in his way; he is grow¬ 
ing foot sore and weary, and he longs to sit down 
and enjoy the calm of Death. But even us he 
sinks fainting at the road side, there is a rustle of 
wings around hlrn, a whispering of sweet words, 
and with the strength of a giant lie leaps again on 
his way, singing the song of thanksgiving and de¬ 
liverance. Hope is risen from the dead, he feels 
that " all will be blight in the morning.” 
So it is ever. Trouble may come upon us aud 
for awhile obscure tbe brightness of our lives — 
But it will not last forever. The cross we hear 
upon onr shoulders may bo heavy—onr faith in 
Heaven msy have gone down in doubt and dark¬ 
ness, lint all is not yot lost—some one star stiff 
twinkles in the heaven above u*. Therefore, ob, 
brother! despond not wholly—look not always 
back. There b- a rest in store; the day break will 
soon dawn in golden fullness upon tho darkness.— 
Be patient, cheerful—bear your triala us the olden 
martyrs did, and you shall yet find that all will be 
made right Iu "tlfc morning.” 
Ob, wild I* th« templet and dark 1* the night, 
But soon will tbii daybreak be dawning; 
Then the friendship* of yore 
Shall blossom once more, 
“ And wt'U all meet again \n the t" 
HUMAN EXPERIENCE. 
Wr look abroad. We sweep along yon busy 
street with tho teeming multitude. It seems like 
a wave upon the restless to », heaving and moaning 
onward ever. Look ut the care in each man’s 
face—tho busy, troubled eye, und anxious glance; 
Bee bow harried are onr fellow men, us though they 
engaged in a contest with time, and It was out¬ 
stripping them like a racer on the course. See 
bow changing is everything. Few years may 
elapse since wo last looked upon the sceue, but at 
every step wo see something new. Old landmarks 
aweptuway; tho familiar places of our earlier days 
have given room to novelties. Wo look upon the 
homes where those we loved once lived, but they 
are gone. 
Strange faces that stare cold ignorance into our 
eyeH give us no welcome now by the hearth that 
was our childhood’s home, and consecrated with 
its to ride rest ic membranous. Our fathers, where 
are tb>y? onr friends, whoro aie they? Is time 
writing Us wrinkles upon every brow? and death 
sU etching Us baud over everything wo love? and 
change laying its sharp scythe to tho roots of all 
the early blossoms of onr hope? Bo it is; there is 
noihlng permanent; wo feel that the very earth 
beneath ns is moving, changing, restless, and 
trembling under our feet to ongnlf ns, as it soon 
will; wo look above ub, und that, fleeting clouds are 
sailing over tm, now dark, now light, but passing 
ever; and we exclaim, "will nothing rest? will 
nothing Btay?”— Belle,w. 
Growing Old.— Many a poet has Huug lament* 
over departed worth. Did ever any sing or 
ohunt, ior it would he like a psalm, the pence, the 
joy, the comfort of growing old? Of knowing 
passions dead, temptations conquered, experience 
won, aud vain fantastic hopes merged Iu Faith, 
which makes of death its foundation stone, and 
has for its snmmit Eternity? The " Hymn to Old 
Age” wonUl be one not uuwortby of a poet Who 
will write it? 
-. . — 
Tdkrk are ideal trains of events whioh run par¬ 
allel with tbe real ones. Seldom do they coincide. 
Mon aud accidents commonly modify every Ideal 
oveut, or train of events, so that it appears imper- 
lect, and its consequences are equally imperfect. 
Thus it was with tho Reformation;—instead of 
Protestantism, arose Lutheranism. 
