“NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP” 
In tin' quiet uttrsery chambers. 
Snowy pillows yet impressed. 
See the forms of little children. 
Kneeling, white-robed for their rest. 
A11 in quiet nursery chambers, 
While tho dusky shadows creep, 
Hear the voices of the children.— 
“Now I lay me down to sleep.’’ 
In the meadow and the mountain 
Calmly shine the winter stars. 
Bat across the glistening low lands 
Slant the moonlight’s silver bars. 
In the silence, and the darkness, 
Darkness growing still more deep, 
Listen to the little children, 
Praying God their souls to keep. 
“If we die,’ —so pray the children, 
And the mother’s head drops low; 
(One, from out her fold, is sleeping 
Deep beneath this winter’s snow,) 
“ Take our souls; —and past the casement 
Flits a gleam of crystal) igbet, 
Like the trailing of his garments 
Walking evermore in white 
Little souls, that stand expectant 
Listening at tho gates of life 
Hearing, fat away, the mnrmnr 
01 the tumult and the strife: 
Wc who fight beneath those banners. 
Meeting ranks of foemen there. 
Find a deeper, broader meaning 
In your simple vesper prayer- 
When your hands shall grasp this standard. 
Which, to-day you watch from far, 
When your deeds shall shape the conflict 
Id this universal war, 
Pray to Him, the God of battles, 
Whose strong eye can never sleep, 
In the warring of temptation. 
Firm and true yonr souls to keep. 
Wnen the combat ends, and slowly 
Clears the smoke from out the skies, 
When, far down the purple distance, 
All the noise of battle dies. 
When the last night’s solemn shadows 
Settle down on you and me, 
May the Love that never faileth, 
Take our souls eternally. 
[Springfield Republican. 
Written for the Eural New-Yorker. 
NOTHING TO YOU? 
“ Winnie, do not let me see you giving frag¬ 
ments to beggars at the street door again. I 
■will not have the ulrty creatures around.” 
“But, Auntie, it was a little girl, and so miser¬ 
able and ragged. She tried to thank me, but 
commenced crying and sobbed tis if her bear 
would break, poor t hing. How the wind whist 
led through her rags; I wish you could have 
seen how grateful she seemed for the bread and 
cold meat.’’ 
“ I can assure you 1 have no desire whatever 
to come iu contact with such people. What is 
she to me ? 1 have nothing in common with 
street paupers.” 
Can she be anything to you, with your won¬ 
drous beauty, your pride, your riches? To you 
whose home is a palace, whose slightest wish is 
a command, whose jeweled hand has never per 
formed harder labor than that of sending rich 
music flooding through those grand halls, as 
they moved quickly over the pearled keys of 
your rose-wood piano, when the dancers feet 
woke no echoes with their light tread upon 
wreaths of mimic flowers. Can it be that the 
holy eyes of childhood have ever sought jour 
own, that a tiny, dimpled hand ever rested con¬ 
fidingly iu yours, and a bird-like voice chirped 
the name of mother in your car ? Can it be that 
you ever guided with all a parent’s care and 
tenderness the earliest Steps of infancy,— ever 
taught a lisping tongue its “ first prayer?” 
Ah! yes, A shadow sweeps over that proud 
face, a mist of tears hangs heavy over those durk 
eyes, and the curl of scorn on those red lips has 
changed to an expression of deepest sadness. 
Yes, you have a heart, a heart to sorrow and 
ache. It is dark and gloomy now to be sure, 
but once, years ago, a child's love sprang up 
there and threw out its creeping tendrils, beau¬ 
tiful leaves and sweet flowers all over the dark 
walls, filling the deep cells and dismal dungeons 
with the perfume of its lovely bloom. There is 
a picture there ndw, half veiled with the cob¬ 
webs of time, a picture of a little earth angel 
with earnest blue eyes and long twining curls of 
gold, and down through the dim heart galleries 
floats a childish voice that once called you by 
the sacred name of mother. You remember 
how large and bright those blue eye* became, 
how the pink faded from oft' those cheeks day 
by day, and how that ringing voice grow low 
and plaintive like a summer night wind. You 
remember how kind hands straightened the little 
stiffened form you had held so many times 
close to your heart. You remember how they 
smoothed hack the flossy curls and twined a 
white rose bud among them, and placed another 
amid the fleecy folds of the tiny shroud. You 
go often to visit a little mound with Its costly 
monument, bearing the name of tho loved one, 
and weep for the child whoso love lies buried 
away deep in your heart. And you remember 
all this, and say that this little shivering, starv¬ 
ing, weeping child is nothing to you? 
Oh, pause and remember, lest when your rich 
clothing is changed for the death robe,—when 
instead of these grand balls for a dwelling place 
you sleep away the long, long night of death 
amid the chill darkness of the tomb,—when 
your weary spirit feet falter before the pearly 
gates of tho New Jerusalem, the angel who 
keepsjthe golden keys looks pityingly down upon 
you and says, “ My Master knows you not. lie 
ay as an hungered and you fed him not, He was 
thirsty and ye gave him no drink, naked and ye 
clothed him not, sick and in prison and ye visited 
him not. Inasmuch as ye have:not done it unto me 
of these ye have not done it unto Him. Go thy way 
thou hast no inheritance in the Kingdom of 
Heaven.” And away off on the “ Evergreen 
Mountains” you catch the gleam of an angel’s 
robe and your spirit child's voice comes stealing 
through the pearly bare, chanting a song of Love 
and Heaven lost to you forever. Nettie. 
Jamestown, N. Y., 1864. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
MY FOLLIES. 
Written tor llie Rural New-Yorker. 
DEAD! 
It was a foolish investment,—fifty dollars for 
the beautiful, damask, cushioned chair: but then 
I never counted my returns in yellow gold, but in 
the currency of sweet heart thoughts. For six 
months the chair had been the ultimate of all 
my plans of retrenchment, and now it stood 
wheeled on the piazza till the special nook was 
cleared, a few moments only, but long enough 
for the sharp steel, in the hand of a vagrant 
hoy, whose requests at the kitchen door had 
been disregarded, to pass with a sharp ripping 
sound through the strong cloth. In a moment 
a firm grasp was laid on the little culprit. The 
iron had pierced my own soul; the weeks of 
patient toil, the long walks to and from school, 
passed in rapid review. A look at the chair, 
crossed and reerossed by the keen blade, then 
down at the little sin-stumped face. 
I cannot analyze my thoughts, but gradually 
the angry ones passed away, and as gradually the 
hold on the trembling arm relaxed. The child 
made no effort to escape, but stood blinking with 
that cowering, terrible look so often seen in the 
eyes ofthe little ones apprenticed to crime. There 
fell two great unwomanly tears that were lost 
in the folds of my long sleeve. I could see the 
clearer, though, for the tears; they had swept 
away the last thought of anger. A change, too, 
had been wrought iu the hard visage of the 
child; it was brightening as if a new thought 
had rent the cloud that pressed down on that 
young sod. Ah, it was foolish to buy the mere 
luxury- ’.'oojish to weep at its marring—but 
more fi lish still to watch the little brown feet 
moving away (at our bidding,) and to put forth 
no effoi t to arrest them. 
By common consent no allusion was made 
to the mishap, though at times there w T as 
a merry twinkle in the mischievous eyes of 
brother Frank that made me feel uncom¬ 
fortable. Could he have seen me let the 
culprit depart? With a good deal of labor and 
overlaid with the meshes of a large, tidy, the 
easy chair looked passably well. 
A month passed away, when one morning 
Frank entered the sitting-room, pushing before 
him a little ragged boy who looked as if be would 
gladly have beat a retreat. Frank advanced 
With a serio-comic grace, begging me accept ofa 
small token, left, he said, repeating the words 
of the boy, “ For the little woman who did’nt 
nab him for slashing her chair.” He placed a 
seat for tho timid stranger, then succeeded in 
drawing his attention from that painful con¬ 
sciousness of being the “ observed of all obser¬ 
vers.” The little “ token.” as Frank pleased to 
call it, warmed by the fire, was making an 
excursion on the carpet, A turtle’s slow 
gait was not accelerated by the fibers 
of the carpet, and the child joined heartily 
in the merry laugh, elicited partly by the 
awkward movements ofthe turtle, and partly 
by the group of appreciative faces watching it 
so intently. 
The chair has stood in its corner for three 
years; the maid of all work asks why I don’t have 
it upholstered. She docs not know that the bitter 
thoughts have changed to sweet associations; nor 
why 1 linger at the door to speak a pleasant word 
to the little errand hoy who leaves the parcels. 
All! three years have wrought a change! It 
may be the small hands will prove loo weak for 
! breaking of the iron chains of habit; the 
voices from old haunts may recall the feet now 
walking in pleasant paths; leave the future 
trustfully with Him “ who knoweth the end 
from the beginning;” but never think of my 
“foolish investment” with regret; nor feci sorry 
thatl “ remembered mercy.” I f the soul should 
lapse to the old life, there will always he for me 
\ sweeter ring in the Savior’s “ Inasmuch as ye 
have done it unto one of the least, yc have done 
It unto me.” Adelaide Stout. 
LEAP YEAR. 
It must be u subject of solemn reflection to the 
whole estate of bachelorhood that, during the 
entire year 1864 the privilege of making love is 
taken from them and bestowed upon the ladies, 
(t may not be known to all the unmarried what 
their respective rights and duties are. We will 
therefore produce the law on the subject, show¬ 
ing that the advent of every leap-year com¬ 
pletely overturns the old rules which have 
governed the kingdoms of love. In an old 
aw-book, printed in the year 1G0G, where it 
treats of “ courtship, love and matrimony,” we 
find the following: 
“ Albeit, it is now become a parte ofthe. Com¬ 
mon Lawc in regarde to the social rclayticns of 
life, that so often as everie hesextilc year dotho 
return the ladyes have the sole privileges during 
the time continueth of making love unto the 
men, which they may doe either by words or 
lookes, as unto them sccmeth proper; and, 
moreover, no man will be entitled to the benefits 
of the clergy who clothe refuse to accept the 
oilers of the ladyes or who dothe in any wise 
treat her proposals with slight or contumely.” 
Love is not an intellectual admiration, a grat¬ 
ified imagination. It is too intangible for define- 
ment, but the soul knoweth its presence by its 
fullness of content in the beloved.— Mrs. (hikes 
timitlb. 
Many persons write because they have 
uothing to do, not duly considering that they 
have also nothing to say. 
Thptrk arc tidings of a batt le, 
Many soldiers bravo, are slain; 
Is my darling, think yon, lying 
On the fearful bnttteplain? 
Are those uut-hrnwn locks dyed crimson, 
With his life blood in its flow? 
Oh! my Father, look with pity 
On a widowed mother's woe. 
Hark! a newsboy shrilly crying, 
As he swiftly hurries on, 
“There’s another battle fought, 
And a Union victory won," 
Oh! this crncl, cruel anguish, 
And this dreadful, sickening fear, 
If is haunting me. so closely, 
That, I cannot shed n tear 
I remombor how I saw him, 
Tn his manly, noble pride. 
As I bade lum “go,” that morning 
He was knocling at my side. 
Tlow he said, “ Gow hires you mother 
For yonr pure and holy love, 
He is so much like his Father, 
Who is dwelling up above! 
Even our old blinded “ Carlo ” 
Booms to miss him every day, 
For ho whines, and listens for him, 
Kowing lie has gone away. 
The canary scarcely warbles, 
But sils quint, nil day long, 
Missing that clear, ringing whistTc, 
And those merry hursts of song. 
There's his straw hat in the entry. 
There’s his slippers by the chair, 
His guitar stands in the comer, 
Where he placed il with snr.h care, 
Saying, “ When you See this, mother, 
You’ll remember yonr poo- ’> oy,’’— 
God grant his safe returning 
To fill my heart with joy. 
There! I’ve mused so long about him, 
That 1 have not read a word, 
For my thoughts have wandered strangely 
Since tho newsboy's cry I beard. 
I am trembling with emotion. 
And 1 dare not ope the sheet, 
For the list of “ Killed and Wounded," 
I shall bo the first to meet. 
Am T dreaming, is it fancy? 
Cease your throbbings my poor head, 
’Till 1 read again that sentence, 
“Oapt. Wai.tbr Geaham, Dead.'' 
Dead! who will smooth those ringlets, 
Who will close the brh-M, blue eyes? 
1 will go at once and seek him,— 
Who will tell me whore he lies? 
Ahl my heart, cease, cense yonr throbbing*, 
For your ettrgings make me wild, 
Dead! my boy, my only darling. 
Dead! my noble, noble child' 
Oh, this cruel strife and bloodshed, 
Will it never, never cease? 
Will this day of gloom and darkness 
Never sbe the light c' peace? 
Two are waiting now In heaven, 
Two are watching up above, 
Beckoning me from earthly trials, 
To a home, of rest and love 
I am calmer! thou, oh, Father, 
Freely gave, thy only Son, 
I can kiss the rod and murmur, 
“ Not my will, but Thine be done.” 
Rochester, N. Y., 1864. Bebtie. 
-*-»-«- 
Written for Moore's ltural New-Yorker. 
WHAT SHALL OUR FOOTPRINTS BE? 
THERE arc some questions which we would 
do well to ask ourselves every morning—some 
problems which yield weighty solutions every 
evening, as we sit within the veil of our heart* 
and scan thorn thoroughly before its faithful 
monitors—questions which determine character, 
Utd toll upon the principles we are weaving 
through their agency; and which affect not 
only our own Inner selvas, but are constcntly 
moulding the lives and destinies of all around 
us. Conspicuous among those stands the fearful 
query,—What shall our footprints be? 
God has carpeted the earth with a soft, rich 
carpet, and every day wc walk forth upon it, 
hut not in the same old tracks of yesterday— 
they with their prints have flown to that region, 
the nearest, conception of which is eternity, and 
left a record which we shall realize, only in that 
day when tdl records are read. Their steps 
can never be retraced. But new grounds must 
be traveled—new footprints made in the sands 
of time — new records, to-day, traced in the 
journal of Heaven. To matter and mind is 
given a plastic nature; ami every moment we 
leave deathless impressions on surrounding char¬ 
acter-handmarks that can never be washed 
away; but, like the eddying tide, swell wider 
and wider into the ocean of life. More than 
eighteen hundred years have elapsed since there 
came among the children of men one heralded as 
the “ bright and morning star.” Glorious in His 
humility, and blessed above men iu His near¬ 
ness to lies veil. Ills footprints were destined to 
become beacon lights to the world—guides to 
all things right, and good, and patterns for the 
erring. No wonder the glad courts of heaven 
rang with a loud 7’e Hewn of joy, and the mount¬ 
ains of earth eeltoed the song in one long jubi¬ 
lee; for man had now a guide—footprints to fol¬ 
low that, lead to the celestial home—ambitions 
and hopes he had never known before. Siuce 
that time man has had no excuse, To lenow the 
right, involve* the power to do tho right; and 
man in tin's instance is the creator of his own 
destiny. 
Tho laboratories of nature are full of chemi¬ 
cal processes. Their deep workings arc all the 
stronger by being so silent. The metal Is slowly 
but surely being coined. Yet had strict care 
been taken, that those ingredients should not be 
compounded, the metal would never have been 
wrought. 
At the great gale of eternity, wo shall see 
characters that might never have been con 
detuned had a watchfulness perhaps on our 
part been constantly had that no ingredients 
save those of truth and right should form a 
compound so eternal. Selfishness ri in its most 
dangerous state, when it deprives Us from oaring 
anxiously for the mould of our brother's nature. 
Social forces are born in heaven that prompt us, 
in our daily walk and conversation, to carefully 
wield the chisel of destiny. The cry of our 
brother’s blood upon our garments arrest the 
one—the smile of our Father and a home iu 
heaven repay us for the other. Thus it is all 
through life. The little infant, crowned with 
innocent smiles; the child, rearing up a column 
in the home circle; tho young man, making 
strong his arm for the battle of life; and the 
aged one, whose every wriuklc and hair of 
snowy white tell histories great and good,—all 
these have a force in God’s plan concerning us 
that measures only in the infinite. 
The old year has drawn to a close. Its last 
sands have been counted in its hour-glass. The 
mournful cohoes of it* death bell toll upon our 
ears. Pale and cold its form lies dead and mo¬ 
tionless, while around the bier, with bowed 
heads and aching hearts, are gathered ninny 
mourners. Are we among them? Has the old 
year gone down to its long home and lefl us 
sadly mourning many misspent hours, many 
talents perverted, many footprints dyed in 
blood? Do we drop our chisels and view with 
horror the forms we are cutting for tho Great 
Gallery? Does the long path we have traveled 
all this year rise up before us, each step crim¬ 
soned with a brother’s blood? The new year, 
in mercy, throws ajar her portals and an angel 
of hope lifts up our sinking hearts. Hairing up 
our stricken heads, she points to a lone star in 
the distant, horizon, and bidding us keep our 
eye constantly upon its glimmering light, she 
folds us softly within her mantle. ‘Tis the star 
of repentance. We may yet do better. A new 
field lies before us,—pleasant walks and fruitful 
gardens arc all around. Loved companions 
throng our pathway, and within us are strong, 
rich talents. What shall our footprints be this 
} T ear? Mary Price. 
Adrian, Mich., 1864. 
THE CLOUD’S SILVER LINING, 
Sat, when iu pity yc have gazed 
On the wreathed smoke afar, 
That o’er some town, like mist upraised, 
Hung hiding#itn and star; 
Then as ye turned your weary eye 
To the green earth and open sky, 
Were ye not, fain to dotiht how faith could dwell, 
Amid that dreary glare, in this world’s citadel? 
But Love's a flower that will not die 
For lack of leafy screen. 
And Christian Hope ean cheer the eye 
That ne’er saw vernal green; 
Then be ye sure that Love can bless , 
Even in this crowded loneliness, 
Wherever moving myriads seem to say, 
Go—thou art naught, to us, nor wc to thee—away! 
There arc in this loud-stunning tide 
Of human care and crime, 
With whom the melodies abide 
Of the. everlasting dll me; 
Who carry music in their heart 
Through dusk) laues and wrangling mart, 
Plying their daily task with busier feet, 
Because their secret soul? in holy strain repeat. 
Faith, Hope and Love shed heavenly light 
On Mammon's gloomiest cells, 
As on some city's cheerless night 
The tide of sunrise swells, 
Till lower, and dome, and bridge-way proud, 
Are mantled with a goldsn cloud, 
And to wise hearts this certain hope is given, 
“No mist that man can raise shall hide the eye of 
Heaven.” 
“WHILE IT IS CALLED TO-DAY,” 
SOCIAL AMUSEMENTS. 
Put no obstacle in the way of the enjoyment 
of everything that wealth and liberality fan 
contribute to divert the spirits and gratify the 
imagination, and elevate the heart; hut let it ho 
remembered, that over all these preparations, 
the spirit of intelligence and discretion should 
preside; and that there can Ire no permanent 
happiness where there is a departure from pro¬ 
priety. He is not the kindest friend who 
pours forth the most liberally of his abundance; 
but he who so manages his contributions, that, 
while lie promotes the innocent hilarity, he 
does not jeopardize the moral habits of the 
companions collected around him. 
We lire getting to be more dull, and gr:u*c, and 
phlegmatic, than is wise or prudent. The plan 
of our association is too strictly utilitarian. We 
prime off and pare down, until the fruit, as well 
as foliage, is in danger of destruction. We are 
very little of an imaginative people. There is 
not much that scorns to us expedient, unless its 
exact value is first umthenmtieully ascertained. 
The May pole and the Liberty' pole are cut down; 
the sports and gambols of merry England, the 
jocund hilarity of beautiful Franco, the song, 
the dance, the improvisatore of romantic Italy, 
are out of season and out of climate; and our 
public days are too often days of disgraceful in- 
temperancc?. because there are no national 
games, no lawful, pleasurable pastimes, which 
may be lioorstly substituted for the daily labor 
of life.— Jaimes T. Austin. 
AGE AND YOUTH. 
“ I am like the honry mountain, 
Gray with years, and very old; 
And yonr We a sprightly fountain, 
Springs, and loaves me lone mid cold; 
Dancing, dancing on yonr way, 
Down the valleys warm and gay. 
“There you go, Dear, singing, sparkling, 
I can boo your dawn begin; 
While tho night, around me darkling, 
With its death dews, shuts me in— 
Hear you singing on your way 
To tho full and perfect day." 
[Gerald Massey. 
♦ »■*- 
Number of Sonnktteers.—I n all ages, 
and in every nation where poetry 1ms been in 
fa-biou, the tribe of Bonnetteere hath been very 
numerous. Every pert young fellow that has a 
moving fancy, and the least jingle of verse in his 
hetid, sets up for a writer of songs, and resolves 
to immortalize his bottle or his mistress. What 
a world of insipid production* in this kind have 
we been pestered with since the Revolution, to 
go no higher. — Steele. 
To-day, “ while it is called to-day,” is really 
all the time there is. That which is called 
“yesterday,” is time no longer. While it was 
railed “to-day,” it was a reality; it was here; 
it was ours to use, to improve, to enjoy, to pro¬ 
fit by; but since we began to call it yesterday, 
it is ours no longer—indeed, it is a fact no longer; 
it is out of existence. All there was of it, and 
all wo could make of it, was while if teas called 
to-day. Yesterday—last week—last year—these 
arc but phrases denoting periods that existed 
only while they were “called to-day.” 
There is no such thing as to-morrow , and there 
never will be as a real entity, an actual matter 
of fact. “ Boast not thyself of to-morrow,” for 
“ to-morrow” does not exist until it comes to be 
called “ to-day.” “ To-morrow” is only a word 
—an expectation—not a reality. When it comes 
into being, it is as “ to-day,” and not at all as to¬ 
morrow. Strive as we may to peer into the 
future, we shall find nothing there, for there is 
nothing until it comes; and when it conies, and 
while it lasts, it is simply “ while it is called to¬ 
morrow.” 
But to-day, in character and value, is what it 
is very largely as the result of the departed and 
dead yesterdays. They, in their succession, 
while they were “ called to-day,” were working 
out. issues to give shape and coloring to what 
should come after them, and this present, actual 
to-day bears the marks which they have left 
behind. And so to-momm, when it becomes 
to-day, shall be greatly shaped by the mould 
which to-day is preparing for it. Who does not 
know this? yet how few seem to understand it! 
The great art of life, then, is rightly to esti¬ 
mate and well to Improve to-day. To-day is 
everything. “ While it is called to-day,” time 
and opportunity are here for all that is roquired 
of us. But they wait not^they linger not. 
To-day is fast dying into yesterday, and just 
ready to take its place with the dead and buried 
past. May the Great Teacher help us so to 
number our days that wo may apply our hearts 
unto wisdom, “ while rr is yet called 
TO-DAY.” 
Few Books and Many Thoughts.— The 
man of few books, if they be well chosen and 
well read, is master of many thoughts. 
Don’t let your children learn good and bad 
things indiscriminately. To be sure the bad 
might be eradicated in after years, but it is 
easier to sow dean seed than to cleanse the 
dirty wheat.— Mreside. 
The True and False.— Extremity distin¬ 
guishes friends. Worldly pleasures, like a phy¬ 
sician, give us over, when wc ouce lie a dying; 
and yet the death-bed has most need of comfort. 
Christ Jesus standoth by his, in the pangs of 
death, and after deat h at the bar of judgment; 
not leaving them cither in their bed or grave.— 
Bishop llall. 
- t ■» 
A common arm-chair is a more comfortable 
seat thau a throne, and a soft beaver hat a 
lighter and more pleasant piece of head-gear 
thau a crown. 
ENTERING INTO JOY. 
The day of final account will he something 
more than a day of joy, for it will be a day of 
triumph to those who have faithfully labored. 
Amid much discouragement and many re¬ 
proaches they have wrought, and sometime* 
they have been tempted to quit a service which 
seemed to bring to them so little gain, and the 
present promise of so small reward. Still they 
have wrought humbly on in the faith of Him 
whom they have sought dutifully to servo, and 
when the Lord appears their triumph will be 
complete. Archbishop Leighton employs the 
following beautiful language:—“It is but little 
we can receive here, some drops of joy that 
enter into us; hut there we shall enter into joy, 
as vessels put into a sea of happinessf” Happy 
are they who, having faithfully labored for the 
ascended Master, and having abundantly trusted 
iu his worthy name, shall at last triumphantly 
enter into the joy of their Lord .—Boston 
Bccordcr. 
Religious Parents.— There is no earthly 
blessing to be compared with that of a religious 
training. You may he poor. You may have to 
struggle hard in order to procure the necessaries 
of life. You may have had but little opportuni¬ 
ty of acquiring the learning of the schools. You 
may be debarred from the circles of the refined 
and erudite. But having had parent* who 
claimed for you tho right to Christian baptism, 
and instructed you in the truths of the Gospel, 
and set you an example of humble piety, and 
used the requisite means for tho purpose of crush¬ 
ing your tendencies to sin and establishing you 
inhabit* of holiness, -yonr privilege is incom¬ 
parably greater than Unit of those who havo 
been born with a title to the largest estate or the 
most exalted throne.— I lev. J. Nesbit, 
Write your name by kindness, love and 
mercy, on the hearts of the people you come in 
contact with year by year, and you will never bo 
forgotten. 
s’ 
