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MOOSE’S RU&AL 1EW-YOE 
BIRDS, BEES AND SQUIRRELS. 
HOW TO MAKE A HERBARIUM. 
Eds. Rural: — Seeing an inquiry in the 
Rural of May 2Sth for the directions for 
making a herbarium, I send mv modus ope- 
randi, as I learned it from “ Orays Lessons in 
Botany.” I presume the inquirer knows how 
to press the flowers, which much he done well, 
in order to have a good herbarium. The speci¬ 
mens should be fastened to sheets of paper, by 
slips of summed paper, or by glue applied to 
the specimens themselves. Each sheet should 
be appropriated to one species only. This 
should consist of the flower, stem, leaves and 
roots if they are fibrous and can be pressed. 
The generic and specific name of the plant 
should be added to the lower right-hand corner, 
either written on the sheet, or on a ticket, and 
pasted down at the corner: the time of collec¬ 
tion, the locality, color of the flower, and any 
other information the specimens themselves do 
not afford, should be recorded on the sheet or 
ticket 
The sheets of a herbarium should all be 
exactly of the same dimensions. Sixteen and a 
half inches by ten and a half is about the right 
size. The sheets containing the species of each 
genus should be placed in genus covers , made of 
a full sheet of thick, colored paper, (such as 
strong manllla hemp paper,) and the name of 
the genus written on one of the lower corners. 
These are collected into orders and covered with 
a larger sheet, with the name of the order, and 
a catalogue of the genera written on the outside, 
and the whole kept in a cabinet or bound in 
large folio volumes. 
To protect the plants from insects, pieces of 
camphor gum should be placed among them. If 
the whole is done nicely the person will be 
amply repaid for his trouble: for a well arranged 
herbarium is quite an acquisition to a library or 
a cabinet. Geo. A. G-. 
Cassadaga, N. Y., 1864. 
NATURE AN ECONOMIST. 
What an economist is nature, so made by 
God! She economizes even the light she so im¬ 
mensely possesses; catches it on the moon as a 
candle, after the suu has goue down, as we say, 
when he is but rising on other lands, and sends 
it inconceivably far to us from the stars. She 
economizes heat, equalizing It fori lie life and 
health of the whole world, by currents in the 
air and ocean and of the electric fluid. She 
economizes water, to answer a thousand suc¬ 
cessive important purposes. In a thousand differ¬ 
ent places, with the same drop. IIow nicely 
and carefully she sifts out its minutest portions 
from the briny sea, to cleanse the air and levive 
the plants at this season, to fill the springs, and 
paint the sky, and support all human life! How, 
with her mighty elemental agencies, she 
crumbles and bears down the barren rock from 
the mountains and the hills, to fertilize, for 
boundless and endless crops, the valley and the 
plain! How she makes the ashes even of the 
dead spring into grass, and .blossom into flow¬ 
ers ! How, applying the same economy to crude 
mineral, from the very gravel in the ground 
she distills a eurioos, delicate wash to protect 
the tender stalks of the growing grain, though 
you may not think what perhaps cuts your 
hand to bleeding in this varnish of flint. 
How she saves every hair, particle, nail¬ 
pairing, and exhalation, to turn it to some 
account! How she converts ice, and the snow 
that manures the poor man’s ground, into har¬ 
vests of corn and wheat!How she nourishes 
her vegetable offspring, so that her animal may 
uot die of hunger! The roots of a shrub, 
thirsty for a supply that had been drawn aside 
by an artitical channel, have been known, in 
their resolution not to be defrauded, to find their 
way to the aqueduct under ground, and bore a 
hole through its soft wooden plug, that every 
fibre might drink its fill, as was divinely in¬ 
tended. To one who looks with a careless view 
on Nature, it seems as if everything with her 
were in extravagant excess. We quote the 
line about “many a flower born to blush 
unseen,” and we talk of the floods that are 
poured away to no purpose. But a closer in¬ 
spection corrects this error, and shows how 
frugal her utility and perfect her order, euougb, 
but “no room to insert a particle,” however 
Art may re-arrange her forms to educate and 
give scope to human power.— Rev. t'. A. Bartol. 
INFLUENCE OF THE SUN. 
The sun has long been known to be the great 
center of light and heat to our system: but 
recent discoveries indicate that motion and life, 
all the great changes in the physical character 
of the earth, in the past, and all progress in the 
future depend on the sun’s heat. Prof. Tyndale 
says:—His warmth keeps the spa liquid and the 
atmosphere a gas, and all the storms which 
agitate both are blown by the mechanical 
power of the suu. lie lifts the rivers and the 
glaciers up to the mountains; and thus the 
cataract and the avalanche shoot with an energy 
derived immediately from him. Thunder and 
lightning are also his transmuted strength. 
Every lire that burns, 'and every flame that 
glows, dispenses light and heat that originally 
belonged to the sun. in these days, unhappily, 
the news of battle Is familiar to us, but every 
shock and every charge is an application of the 
mechanical force of the huh. He blows the 
trumpet, ho urges the projectile, he bursts the 
bomb—and remember, this is not poetry, but 
rigid, mechanical truth. He rears, as I have 
«iid, the whole vegetable world, and through it 
the animal; the lilies of the field are his work¬ 
manship, the verdure of the meadows and the 
cattle iq>ou a thousand hills. lie forms the 
1. I’ve been ait - ting by 
2. I’ve been stand-ing in 
8. I’ve been look-ing in 
YIT"? 
hill - side, Where the birds flew gay - ly round ; 
gar - den, Where the bees are buzz - ing round; 
the mead - ovr, 
the swal - ldwa o’er the brook 
. Tft 
sing - mg, What a 
hum-ming. Go - ing, 
dip - ping, What a 
j* j* r> 
WTTTTT t r i- * 
springing, From their nestlings to t .e ground; What a 
com-ing. As their hon-cy cells they found.; What a 
" ’ ■ look; What a 
is droll e - nough to 
r* n * 
_ -ft: jp 
sing - ing, What a springing, From their nestlings to the ground, ground 
humming, Go-ing, com-ing. As their hon - ey cells they found 
dip - ping, What a dripping, It is droll e - nough to look. 
* « • 0 s S „ N ,\„ s 
ip 11 - -1-- 
4. I’ve been wandering by the woodland 
Where the squirrels * sport so free, 
What a springing, 
Running, leaping, 
Up and down, from tree to tree. 
5. While all creatures are so happy, 
While they sport in beaming light, 
El be striving, 
El be thriving, 
Ever cheerful, ever bright. 
6. Soon the neighbors now will join us, 
With the sun’s departing ray, 
Then with singing, 
Voices ringing, 
We will elose a happy day. 
* Pronounce either sqinmi (short i as in the first syllable of miracle), or tjurrel. 
muscle, he urges the blood, he builds the brain, 
nc not only grows the cotton, but he spins the 
fiber and weaves the web. There is not a 
hammer raised, or a wheel turned, or a shuttle 
thrown that is not raised, and turned and 
thrown by the sun. His energy Is poured 
freely into space, but our world is a halting 
place where this energy is conditioned—here 
the Proteus works his his spells; the self-same 
essence takes a milliou shapes and hues, and 
finally dissolves into its primitive and almost 
formless form. The sun comes to us as heat, he 
quits us as heat; and between his entrance and 
departure the multiform powers of our globe 
appear. They are all special forms of solar 
power—the molds into which his strength is 
temporarily poured in passing from its source 
through infinitude. 
A Soldier’s Letter, 
AND A TRUE WOMAN’S ANSWER. 
Hospital, June—. 
I write with a great deal of pain, dear girl; 
I’ve not been able before since the fight. 
And my brain is still so much in the whirl 
That X can tel! you hut little to-night. 
I'm wounded—don’t start—'tie not very had, 
Or at least it might he worse; so 1 said, 
When I thought of yon, " I’m snre she'll he glad 
To know that I’m only wounded—not dead!” 
I've lost my left arm—there, now you know all! 
A minnic hall shattered It and I fell; 
The last that I heard was onr captain’s call, 
Until—th* rest is too painful to tell. 
I've had throughout the most excellent care, 
And I’m doing finely, the surgeon says— 
t?o well, iudeed, that the prospect is fair 
For a homeward trip before many days. 
But I've something else, dear Mary, to say, 
And I’d say it if It cost me my life; 
I’ve thought of It well—there’s no other way— 
You’re released from your promise to be my wife; 
You’ll think me foolish at first; then you'll think 
Of the loose, armless coat sleeve at my side; 
And your proud and sensitive heart will shrink 
From the thought 6f being a cripple’s bride. 
’Tis A bitter struggle to give you up, 
For I've loved you more than ever of late; 
But down to the dregs I’ve drained the cop. 
And I'm calm, though my heart is desolate 
I'm coming home, and of course wo must meet; 
My darling, this once, one boon I Implore, 
Lot us still be Mends, for that will be sweet, 
Since now, alas! we can be nothing more. 
Sweet Home, June —. 
My Robert, how noble and brave you are' 
Too brave and too noble, I know, for me; 
But you've too little faith in mo by far, 
If you believe I want to he free. 
I'm not released from my promise—no, no! 
’Twcrc never so sacred to me before; 
If you could but know how I've longed to go 
And watch by your side, you’d doubt me no more 
I read your name in the terrible list, 
But the tears froze back that sprang to my eye! 
And a tearful pain that I could not resist, 
Crushed my heart till 1 only longed to die. 
The blessed tears, by and-by, came again, 
And I felt as you In your letter said, 
A feeling of gladness, ’mid all my pain, 
That Robert was only wounded—not dead. 
Oh, darling! to think you have suffered so, 
And I, all these long, weary miles away; 
You’ve needed mo very often, I know, 
While 1 could do nothing but hope and pray 
But hardest of all is the bitter thought, 
That you have been suffering so much for me; 
Poor Robert! your manly letter has brought 
A strange mixture of joy and misery. 
But you're coming home to my arms and heart; 
You’re right—I am proud ami sensitive too; 
But I'm only so when we arc apart. 
And now, 1 shall only be proud of you! 
You’re coming homo to be happy and rest, 
And I wait tho moment of blissful calm 
When I shall be held to a Soldier’s breast 
By a Patriot Hero's one strong arm! 
A Loyal Quaker. 
When David Blake took the charge of his sis¬ 
ter’s orphans, he inwardly vowed to be a true 
father to them as he lived. Perhaps I wrong 
tho principles of the worthy Quaker —for 
David was a zealous member of that per¬ 
suasion in asserting that he made a vow, 
even to himself. But he certainly made a 
solemn affirmation to that effect, whether it 
took the form of an oath or not. And all who 
saw the tender care bestowed upon James and 
Harry during the helpless years of childhood 
and orphanage, could attest the sincerity of 
their noble hearted protector. This was thought 
the more remarkable when it was known that 
he was not at liberty to bring up the boys after 
his own views, their dying mother having 
specially desired that they should not become 
Quakers. Uncle David was a bachelor. 
Neither he nor his prim housekeeper, Esther 
Lake,' were used to the society of children. 
But the old hall was opened wide like the heart 
of its owner to receive them; and even solemn | 
Aunt Esther soon learned to greet the boys 
with a smile. 
James and Harry well repaid their uncle’s 
kindness. They loved him warmly; and showed 
both their affection and gratitude by a devoted 
attention to his wishes. In his large manufac¬ 
tory they early made themselves useful, and 
when of suitable age began to fill situations of 
trust and responsibility. Harry Eaton was 
twenty years old, and his brother two years 
more than that when the fall of Fort Sumter 
startled the loyal North, and sent its young men 
from the shop and plow to the camp and the 
battle-field, 
“What shall I do, James? ” said his younger 
brother. •• I must go to my country’s help; I 
cannot stay away. But Unele David does not 
believe in war, and I suppose will thiuk me a 
head-strong and hair-brained boy for wishing to 
fight.” 
“Yes,” replied James; “Uncle is a peace 
man, of course; all the Quakers are by profes¬ 
sion. You will not get his leave to be a soldier; 
it is of no use to think of it, Harry.” 
“ But I must, brother; I can thiuk of nothing 
else. All the blood in my veins is throbbing 
for Union and liberty; and my arms are strain¬ 
ing for the musket to avenge this treachery, and 
put down rcbolliou. Uncle David dare not 
keep me back from service in such a cause.” 
“ Ask him and see," was the reply. 
Harry did ask, though to face and to displease 
his uncle tried his courage more than to confront 
the foe in arms. 
“ What docs thee want to tight for ? ’’ was the 
aaiswer. “ Thy fair cheek, so like thy mother’s, 
is too tender and smooth for a sword-cut or a bul¬ 
let-hole. There’s something beside poetry in 
war, my boy.” 
Harry’s cheek flushed and his eye glistened, 
but he stood his ground like a man. In a few 
words he spoke of his country’s peril; of the 
call to its defense; of the deep and ready re¬ 
sponse which his heart made to that call; and 
implored his uncle to let him serve his country, 
and If need be to die for It. 
“ Thee is a brave boy, Harry, and I do not 
love thee less for this,” said his Uncle David 
with a choking voice. “ But war is contrary to 
my faith, and I cannot send thee to fight. 
Neither, Harry, will I say thee nay. Thee 
must be free to do as the inward voice bids thee. 
And. Harry, whatever thee ueedest, ask Aunt 
Esther and Jamie for. I will see that they have 
a full purse. God bless thee, and keep thy 
youug head from harm." 
So Harry Eaton became a soldier. Six 
mouths passed, and the smooth cheek and 
strong arm of the young patriot were laid low; 
and he was buried beside his mother. The blood 
which throbbed so warmly for Union aud liber¬ 
ty had beeu spilled in his first battle, but it 
had not flowed in vain. James Eaton was 
roused from his indifference, ami felt that he 
had a double mission,—to avenge Harry, and to 
defend the cause for which his young brother 
had laid down his life. Yet he kuew that his 
uncle could ill spare him. The shop was full 
of workmen, and he (young as he was) had the 
oversight of them. How could he ask to be re¬ 
leased ? The struggle in his mind wore upon 
him: lie grew thin and pale. 
Uncle David watched him closely, though 
James never suspected his observation. At 
length he spoke. “ I see how it is, Jamie; thee 
is pining for Harry’s musket. Why does 
thee not go, even as he did?” 
“ I want to go, indeed, undo; you have rightly 
guessed. But how can you get along without 
me?” 
“Well, Jamie, I’ve been thinking about it; 
and I do not feel free to keep thee from thy 
duty. Perhaps the rest of the boys would like 
to leave the shop, too. I don’t hold to war, thee 
knows; and it would ill become to turn recruit¬ 
ing officer. But if the Government must fight, 
surly it had better have all the men it needs. 
And so, Jamie, if the shop-boys want to go, I’m 
not the man to say them nay. We will shut up the 
factory till the war is over; and then all oi those 
who are spared to come back shall have their 
places again, if the Lord will. And, Jamie, 
here’s my bank-book; 1 couldn’t buy powder and 
shot, thee knows, that wouldn't do for a Quaker. 
But surely I’m bidden to feed the hungry and 
clothe the naked, so thee may buy as many 
blankets and rations as thee pleases.” 
James Eaton led a gallant and well-equipped 
company to the war. When he was badly 
wounded, Unde David thought it right to go 
and tend him; and now that he is again fit for 
service, he has re-filled the emptied purse, and 
bid him good-speed. 
Ether and the Wounded. 
Day before yesterday some three hundred 
rebel wounded fell into our hands. Of these 
twenty-one required capital operations. They 
were placed in a row, a slip of paper pinned to 
each man’s coat collar, teiling the nature of the 
operation that had been decided upon. Dr. 
Morton first passes along, and with a towel 
saturated with ether puts every man beyond 
consciousness and pain. 
The operating surgeon follows and rapidly 
ami skilfully amputates a leg or an arm, as the 
case may be, till the twenty-one have been sub¬ 
jected to the knife and saw without one twinge 
of pain. A second surgeon ties up the arteries; 
a third dresses the wounds. The men are taken 
to tents near by, aud wake up to find themselves 
cut in two without torture, while a winrow of 
lopped off members attest the work. The last 
man had been operated upon before the first 
wakened. Nothing could be more dramatie, 
and nothing could more perfectly demonstrate 
the value of anesthetics. Besides, men fight 
better when they know that torture does not 
follow a wound, and numberless lives are 
saved that the shock of the knife would lose to 
their friends and the country. 
fMiwj tw the fjfiuttg. 
Written lor Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
“NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP.” 
How many children, as they are preparing 
for the quiet hour of slumber, have repeated 
the prayer of which the above is the commence¬ 
ment! How many mothers have remembered 
when their mothers first taught them to breathe 
to God this simple prayer! Perhaps there is 
more truth, more humility, conveyed in these 
few lines, than in any prayer man can offer! 
At the present time, when this once glorious 
and prosperous country Is engaged in the most 
powerful struggle for liberty history has record 
of, for the annihilation of many traitors in its 
land, mothers, do not fail to impress upon 
the minds of your children, that God will 
guard the soldier boy, if you will only pray for 
him. Children, God, to whom that simple 
prayer is offered, will hear you, if you'will pray 
for the soldier upon the battle-field, in the hos¬ 
pital, raging with fever, in Southern prisons, 
who is pouring forth his blood for your liberty. 
Pray for them! E. S. Short. 
Brockport, N. Y., 1864. 
ALL RIGHT; OR, TRUE OBEDIENCE. 
Grant at Checkers. 
The Watertown Daily Reformer relates an 
anecdote of General Grant. It says:—“When 
the General was a young Lieutenant, he was 
stationed for some time at Saoketts Harbor, and 
in those days paid frequent visits to our village, 
lie was a famous checker player, and was wont 
to spend many an hour at the old American Hotel 
in this absordiug game. But there was one of 
our citizens (whose name we are forbidden to 
mention) who could beat the Lieutenant at his 
favorite game. But young Grant would never 
give up, and 1 would insist on his competitor 
playing with him till he came out ahead, which 
he would, at last, always do. To secure this 
end he sometimes kept his friend up nearly all 
uight, aud would stay in town three days, study¬ 
ing his long headed moves, and forcing his op¬ 
ponent to play until he heat him in the wind. 
If the man declined playing when he was ahead, 
the Lieutenant was offended, and thought him 
ungeutlemanly in the extreme. Grant is now 
playing checkers in the same style with Lee on 
the Virginia board. 
A General’s Son and Poker. 
An army correspondent relates an incident 
of camp life, showing the precocity of a youth 
of sixteen, the son of a General, on a visit to 
his father in the field. On one occasion, when 
the General’s purse was getting’.low, he remarked 
that he would be obliged to draw on his banker 
for some money. “Howmuch do you want, 
father?” “ I think I shall send for a couple of 
hundred,” replied the General. “ Why, father," 
said the sou. very quietly, “ I can let you have 
that amount.” “ You can let me have it!” ex¬ 
claimed the General, In surprise, “ where did 
you get so much money ? ” “ I won it by play¬ 
ing draw poker with your staff, sir,’’ replied the 
hopeful youth. It is ueedless to sav that the 
9:40 train next morning bore the "gay young 
gambolier” toward his home. A sad commen¬ 
tary on army morals! 
“ Aunt Mary, may I go up on the top of the 
house and fly my kite ?” asked Henry Alford, 
one day. Henry was a visitor in the city, and 
almost a stranger to his aunt. He saw the little 
boys on the tops of the neighboring houses, fly¬ 
ing their kites with great success, and the 
thought struek him that he would have special 
fun if he could do the same. His aunt, of 
course, wished to gratify the boy in all reason¬ 
able enjoyment, but deemed this particular feat 
very unsafe; and. though she did not know how 
it might affect Henry, she felt that she must 
refuse his request. 
u I dou’t want you to go, Henry," said she; 
“ I consider that a very dangerous thing for a 
little boy like you to attempt.” 
“All right, then. I’ll go out on the bridge,” 
replied Henry. 
His aunt smiled. I hope you’ll always he as 
acquiescent, my lad," she said to herself. 
“Henry, what are you doing?” called his 
mother, on another occasion. 
“Spinning my new top, mother.” 
“ Can't you take the baby out to ride ? Get 
out the carriage, and I’ll bring him down.” 
“ All right.” shouted the boy, as he pat his 
top in his pocket, and hastened to fulfill his 
mother’s request. 
“ Aunt Mary, may I go that errand for you? 
I know I cau find the place; andJI like to find 
my way round the city so much.” 
“Well, you go straight down P street to F, 
and then cross that, and a little further down is 
J street. Go into that, and about three blocks 
down—0 no, Henry, it’s of no use; there are so 
many crooks and turns in the way. you never 
can find it. Wait until Robert comes home, and 
you shall go with him.” 
“ All right," was the cheerful reply. 
“ Uncle William, may I go over to vour store 
this morning. I want to see those baskets again 
I was looking at yesterday." 
“ Oh yes, Henry, I shall be very gladjto have 
you.” 
“But I can’t spare you to-day, Henry," said 
his mother. “ I want you to go out with me; 
you shall go to the store another time.” 
" All right,” responded the child. 
No matter what request was made of Henry, 
what wish of his was refused, what disappoint¬ 
ment or task it was necessary to impose upon 
him, his uuiform answer was, “All right.” 
Not a word of expostulation or teasing ut " 
tered; no " Why can’t I.” or “ ^ ’ or “Do 
let me," or “I don’t Li,” was ever heard 
froru his lips Bis aunt thought he was a model 
for all boys. 
“ This is obedience that is worth something,” 
said she: “prompt, cheerful, uniform, and un¬ 
questioning.” 
Pity all boys and girls were not like Henry. 
What a comfort they would-be to their parents 
—aye, and to themselves, too! What a deal of 
vexation, trouble, and sorrow, they might save. 
Be on Good Terms with your Pillow. 
— The iustant the head is laid on the pillow is 
that in which conscience delivers its decrees. If 
it has conceived any evil design, it is surrounded 
by thorns. The softest down isjhard under the 
restless head of the wicked. In order to be 
happy, one must be on good terms with one’s 
pillow, for the nightly reproaches it can make, 
must be heard: yet it is never so delicious, so 
tranquil as after a day on which one has per¬ 
formed some good act, or when'one is conscious 
of having spent it in some useful or substantial 
employment. 
Ik you step out of the ranks the crowd may 
pass on; the vacant space may be occupied; and 
you may never be able to fiud your place again. 
There are more men than there are holes, and 
all the holes get filled up. 
Much of the pain and pleasure of mankind 
arises from the conjectures which every one 
makes of the thoughts of others; we all enjoy 
praise which wa do not hear, aud resent con¬ 
tempt which we do not see. 
There is always good policy in keeping one’s 
temper. As often as temper is lost, a degree of 
influence is lost with it; aud while the former 
may be recovered, it will be found more difficult 
to recover the latter. 
Am u: rioN often puts men to doing the mean¬ 
est offices — as climbing is performed in the 
same posture as creeping. 
