[Written for Mooro’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE LAST OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 
BT AXNIK M. BKACII. 
Sns in living alone in the old brown house, 
Where her parent* livctl and died,— 
The loved and the cherished have gono to sleep 
In the church yard, ride by side. 
She has watched them all, while the damp of death 
Has settled upon each brow, 
Till she, the oldest, is left alone 
In her father’s mansion now. 
Still burns the fire on the old hearth stone, 
But she sitteth there alone, 
Where once the light of the cheerful blaze 
On a happy household shone. 
It is New Year Eve,—but they will not come, 
As they came in the days of yore,— 
Those brothers and sisters, a welcome warm 
To find at their father's door. 
The teakettle sings on the ample fire, 
And she spreadeth the board with care, 
And putteth the chairs in their places 'round, 
As she did when they all were there. 
Then she taketli the Bible—GOD'S book of truth — 
And reads where her lather read; 
And they seem not BO very far away — 
The friends who are with the dead. 
They are gone,—hut she knoweth the road they went, 
Twas “ the straight aud the narrow way,”— 
They are only hid from her eight awhile, 
In the light of a purer day. 
She will soon be done with the “ cares of earth,” 
And will go from the mansion old, 
O’er the darkly rolling river of Death, 
“ To that City whose streets are gold.” 
And when another New Year Eve comes round, 
They may all have met once more 
In the mansion which was not made with hands, 
On the beautiful, Shining Shore." 
Cambria, N. Y., 1801. 
one to two years for a hundred dollars,— and when 
we have got it earned, half of it is gone to save tis 
from being naked. We are expected every time we 
bake and cook, to put tilings together as nicely as any 
learned man who makes gas or gun powder could do, 
— all for a few shillings per week. 
When a fellow comes to fix mistress, teeth, he 
takes dinner with the family,—we can’t, when they 
consider themselves up in the w orld. 
I have observed that when people do their own 
work, they frequently scorch the bread and over salt 
the pudding, hut they seem to relish it better and 
have more charity for themselves, than for us, when 
we do the like. 
I aint agoing to say but wbat people bad better do 
their own work. I guess it is heat neither to hire or 
be hired. Folks seem to he made on the plan of 
working for themselves, they work so much better. 
But if people arc too proud to work, or wont, or can't, 
I reckon it might help 'em in their minds to consider 
that it might he worth say one shilling a week to 
baVo Bridget look after the lires, -one shilling to 
bring in the water, two shillings to trot round with 
the youngest, and something to put tip with the 
oldest, that I never could see was ao lovely as mis¬ 
tress seemed to suppose, —one shilling for getting 
the sauce and washing it, <tc., Ac., Ac., even if we 
had to be told every other time to go and do it. 
Don’t let those that hire us expect too much for too 
little. Make up your minds to take a dollar and a 
half’s worth of work for a dollar and a half,— 
and when th>■ meanest of all work t.v done for the 
meanest of all pay ,— rail it even. A Hiked Girl. 
KISSING. 
[Written for Moore's Rural Ncw Yorker.J 
CHILDREN’S THANKS-A LIFE SKETCH. 
It was a pleasant, sunny day in the curly Autumn. 
The leaves were yet green upon the trees, and the 
flowers, having as yet lost none of their varied and 
endless beautiful colors, still displayed their wonted 
loveliness. In the yard front of the cottage I had, in 
the spring, stocked a few flower beds with a variety 
of plants, such as I knew were pretty and fragrant, 
and would eontinuu in bloom a good part of the 
season. On this pleasant day, as was my custom, I 
was out watering and training them, and silently 
admiring their exquisite bounty,—musing, too, of 
that Great Creator who could thus design, paint, and 
endow with life these frail, beautiful, and perfect 
types of our life and its fieetness,—when my ear 
caught the lisping murmur of children’s voices. 
Looking up 1 saw two little ones,—a boy and a girl,— 
approaching the inelosure, prattling along with won¬ 
dering eyes, busy as usual with every surrounding 
object. The hoy, about five years of age, was leading 
by the hand his little sister, who might have boon a 
year or two younger than himself. They were both 
well dressed, pretty, and interesting in appearance. 
Ciimbling upon the fence they watched my motions 
fora time, expressing praise of the flowers in their 
childish way. As I had often seen them when 
passing hand in hand, I felt somewhat interested in 
them, and determined to have some conversation 
with them. Accordingly I asked the little fellow, 
what was his name. “Hunky 11-," he lisped in 
reply,— his large brown eyes sparkling with pleasure 
at the notice I had taken of him. “Where do you 
live?” I questioned again. “ Way off there,” he said, 
pointing down M— street. Observing 1 had culled a 
fine bouquet, he asked me wistfully, “What for you 
pick the flowers?” “Do you love flowers?” I said. 
Half abashed he replied, “Yes, ma'am,- what for j 
you pick theiu?” he repeated, eagerly eyeing the 
hunch I held in my hand. “For you, my little man,” 
I said, stepping forward, and placing them in his 
outstretched hand. “What to do with them, eh?” 
“Give them to your mother to put in the bouquet 
holder.” 1 knew lie had a mother,- motherless 
children do not look so tidy and cheerful. With a 
half credulous look he Deposited, “to put Into the 
vase,—yes.” Evidently highly elated with his prize, 
yet hardly knowing what to say, he scrambled down 
from the fence with a smile on his face. “Come 
Iiia,” said lie, as the little girl lingered, “come Ida.” 
Sho was soon on tho ground, and taking her hand 
they walked away, occasionally looking hack at me. 
Ere they were out of hearing from his prattling 
tongue, 1 caught the grateful exclamation, “kind 
lady, ain’t she, Ida?” 
Money or thanks could not have repaid my kindness 
like those simple words,— “ kind tody," —spoken not 
as mere words of courtesy, but from the heart of a 
little child unlearned in artfulness or deceit, and as I 
turned away to resume my pleasant labor, 1 could not 
wonder that the Saviok blessed little children, and 
said “ Let them mine unto me and forbid them not.” 
Michigan, 1881. Mas. 8. F. HADDOCK. 
A PLEA FOR HIRED GIRLS. 
Mu. Moore:— 1 have heard you were a good sort of 
a man, and i suppose you are no respecter of persons, 
so you will print for the “ hired girl " as well as the 
“mistress.': Now, I want to say a few words to “A 
Farmer’s Wife,” who wrote a distressing account of 
hired girls. She said if you hire an oldish single 
woman, she can’t be turned from her ways any more 
than the north pole; in a little while she is mistress, 
and you stand and look on in mute astonishment, 
with folded hands, ami weak, submissive counten¬ 
ance, wondering what will he the next thing in the 
programme. If you try a youngish girl, you are in 
perpetual spasms. She will not assume any care or 
responsibility. She must run to see every passer-by, 
and stand and chat with a companion, while tho 
bread burns to cinders.” 
So it seems that an old girl is about as bad as “the 
old boy,” and a young girl, if possible, worse. She 
says “when 1 have three, 1 am in purgatory,—when 
I have two, I am driven to distraction,—and when I 
have one, 1 am harrassed within an inch of my life! 
I must say I feel something sorry for “Farmer's 
Wife,” but I always thought the lured girls had the 
hardest of it. If we don’t, it is because fretting is 
worse on the constitution than work, hut then we 
aint allowed to spell mistress at that when we are 
willing to. We are expected to he as amiable as the 
angels, at a dollar a week,— if we venture to be other¬ 
wise, even in the worst of storms, like St. Paul, 
“the hour of our departure is at hand.” 
Now, I suppose we do as well as we are paid. I 
have been told that a lawyer frequently gets a hun¬ 
dred dollars for a day’s work,— we must work from 
A kiss is like a sermon; “itrequires two heads and 
an application It deals with the hidden spirit by 
means of tangible symbols. It Is like faith, in that it 
is “the substance of things hoped for.” It is the lan¬ 
guage of affection, the echo of love and the concen¬ 
tration of bliss; it is of “good report,” and pleasing 
to our ears; it is eloquence “dwelling with sweet 
accents upon the lips.” It is both vocal and instru¬ 
mental “ harmonies” in a language and with a senti¬ 
ment intelligible in all languages and in all ages. It 
is the “seal” of a father's blessing, the “witness” 
of a mother’s love, the “guarantee” of a brother’s 
protection, the “surety" of a sister’s devotion, the 
“gate” to a lover’s heaven, and something that mere 
friends have nothing to do with. 
It is very fashionable for Missi s of' a certain age to 
insist that “ it is all foolishness, and decidedly silly.” 
We never hear such an expression without thinking 
of a circumstance that actually occurred, somewhere 
in Indiana, if we rightly remember. A gentlemen 
stopped at a house by tho wayside lor information as 
to the route he was taking, and found a woman iron¬ 
ing, with her little child trying to amuse itself upon 
the floor; the little one was some two-and-a-half 
years old, very neatly dressed, evidently scrupulously 
cared for, and eminently handsome. The gentleman, 
while talking to the mother, picked up the child and 
kissed it; I lie little one looked up in such perfect 
astonishment that the gentleman remarked, •• Why, 
my little dear, one would think that you were not 
used to being kissed.” The mother answered for the 
child, “I don’t believe, sir, that she was ever kissed 
before in her life. I'm sure 1 never did such a tiling, 
and never knew Its father to do so.” Lord have 
mercy on that child and send it somebody to love it, 
was tlio gentleman's prayer, as he made sure that his 
wallet was in its place, and took himself out. of the 
house as fast as possible, Not to know the holy kiss 
of a mother, the fondling embrace of a father, the 
earnest lip-press of brother and sister, is to fail in 
the development of the soul ill an essential and vital 
degree; and surely what is so wondrous holy in 
infancy, so rcliuing in childhood, so worthy in 
parents, and so prevalent upon the hearthstone, is 
not a matter to lie disposed of with a sneer, or dis¬ 
missed with a “pooh!” 
“ Kissing, like the marriage bells, or the blessed 
truths of the blessed Bible, never wears out; it is, like 
them, always new, fresh, and interesting; and, for 
the same reason, viz., it deals with the affections, 
which, unlike the intellect, loves tho familiar; de¬ 
lights in the old, and is coy of the new arid strange. 
The. variety of kisses is not small. There is the kiss 
paternal, the kiss fraternal, I In- kiss connubial, (and 
pre-eonnuhial,) and the kiss promiscuous. The last 
two varieties arc the only ones to which we object. 
We have often thought, in reference to the kiss pro¬ 
miscuous, one of the blessing* of the man over the 
woman consisted in being relieved of this Conven¬ 
tional duty. It seems to us, in very many instances, 
like casting pearls before swine; and in illustration 
of the old adage, " Familiarity breeds contempt.” A 
man ora woman who ymkes himself common in this 
respect, must not wonder if they are not always 
appreciated. 
Notwithstanding all that we have said, wc are not 
slow to confess that in many eases the practice 
is carried to unseemly and ridiculous lengths. What 
sense is there in a lady’s receiving every feminine 
caller with the same expressions that she would greet 
the return of a long absent brother or husband? 
Is it not a hypocritical lie for Mrs. Jones to thus 
express affection for Mrs. Quidnunc, when, in her 
heart, Mrs. J. wishes Mrs. Q. at home?- Is it. not 
outrageous to he expected to put a mother’s lips to 
everybody’s baby, clean or dirty?— London Critic. 
♦ * ♦ • ♦ 
A Mother’s Grave. —Earth lins some sacred spots, 
where we feci like loosing shoes from our feet, and 
treading with reverence; where common words of 
social converse seetu rude, and friendship’s hands 
have lingered in each other; where vows have been 
plighted, prayers offered, and tears of parting shed. 
Oli! how thoughts hover around such places, and 
travel hack through unmeasured space to visit them! 
But of all the spots on this green earth none is so 
sacred as that where rests, waiting the resurrection, 
those we have once loved and cherished our broth¬ 
ers, or our children. Hence, in all ages, the better 
part of mankind lniva chosen and loved spots ol the 
dead, and on these spots they have loved to wander 
at eventide and meditate. But of all places, even 
among tho charnel-houses of the dead, none is so 
sacred as a mother’s grave. There sleeps the nurse 
of infancy, the guide of our youth, the counsellor of 
our ripei' years—our friend when others deserted us; 
sho whose heart was a stranger to every other feeling 
hut love—there she sleeps, and we love the very 
earth for her sake. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
TWO DREAMS. 
Complaisance, which is a willingness to please 
and to be pleased, renders a superior amiable, an 
equal agreeable, and an inferior acceptable; it 
smooths distinctions, sweetens conversation, and 
makes every one in the company pleased and cheer¬ 
ful; it produces good nature and mutual benevo¬ 
lence; it encourages the timorous, soothes the turbu¬ 
lent, and promotes universal harmony; it is a virtue 
that blends all orders of men together in a friendly 
intercourse of words and actions. 
BT V ■ B. GUIWITS. 
Last jnmiT rane- IIORPHKCS to mjr bed, 
And softly to my spirit said, 
“ Come, follow me;” 
Then, through the “ivory gate,” I passed 
Into a realm, with storm o'ercast, 
Of land and sea. 
I saw, upon the seething waves, 
Men fiercely battle o’er their graves, 
Then sink within; 
1 saw them spread with ruin o’er 
The land that stretched from shore to shore, 
A fame to win. 
Then sorrow sat upon my soul,— 
But spake a voice above the roll 
Of the great strife,— 
“ Is there no peace upon the earthy 
Scan closely thou its broadest girth 
For Joyful life." 
Then sought I in the woodland shade, 
Where Solitude her couch had made; 
And in the town, 
Where steps throng on, and faster still, 
In measure with the tireless will, 
Both up and down 
But all were eager all were evil, 
Each had a dagger, each a devil 
About his heart; 
The air was poison’d with their breath, 
Each brooklet muttered o'er the heath 
Of deadly art. 
In grief I cried, "It is not well,— 
All, all is wrong!” then swept a 9woll 
Over my soul, 
Of sound unearthly, demon-bom; 
The sun forsook the lurid morn, 
Tho moon her goal. 
Then 1 awoke, and breathed a prayer, 
Such horrors ne'er again to bear,— 
Then slept again. 
This time my dream had sweeter tone; 
1 wandered in a peaceful zone, 
Free from all pain. 
My soul was like a healing wound; 
There was a balm in zephyrs’ sound; 
And with caresses, 
Tho bird-notes came to my relief, 
Like cooling spring and rustling leaf 
In wildernesses. 
From every -limb a welcome hung, 
And each sound was a welcome sung 
At my approach. 
This was the region of sweet peace, 
Where gladsome spirits ne’er decrease, 
Nor cares encroach. 
Again I woke, when well 1 knew 
In those two dreams there was a view 
Of human life; 
The oue, as life is, without hope,— 
The other, when with her (lowers its slope 
Is richly rife. 
Avon, N. Y . 186b 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
DAY AND NIGHT. 
A pai.k shimmer ol greyish light illuminea the 
eastern skies, and the stars grow pale in their west¬ 
ward course. Soon a soft, rosy flush overspreads the 
gray dawning, and glorious timings, as of sunset, 
follow, till the horizon is robed in clouds of glorious 
hues,—the flame-color ami gold, the softly flushing 
pink, and the golden-hued amber. As the so arise, 
tho stars retreat toward the trcc-cownod hills of the 
west, and tho birds awake, filling the air with melody 
that declares “It is day.” From every tree-top their 
pure notes swell out upon the cool air of the night- 
winds now bidding adieu to the earth in their 
solemn, deep, and dreamy breathings among the 
foliage. The lark, from his home in the sweet dewy 
grass of the meadows, wings his way upw. rd to meet 
the sun, and poising in mid-air, be surveys the glory 
above and beneath, and pours forth his welcome to 
returning light in songs of praise to the Creator. 
Lighter and lighter grow the skies, till the sun 
rises, outshining all tho stars and glory-tinted clouds. 
Earth’s face upturned to heaven shines more sweetly, 
sparkles more brightly in the sunlight, and the birds 
sing on; the beast* awake and join in the full chorus 
of welcome. From the meadows may he heard the 
lowing of cattle, and man, the nobler creation, rises 
to the labor of another day. 
“Day unto day uttereth speech.” Life on the 
earth speaks of a sustaining power, an Almighty, arm 
renewing earth’s gladness and beauty. Too soon the 
sunlight drinks the flashing dew-drop* from the 
bending flowers and sparkling grass, the holiness aud 
loveliness of day-break passes away, and life’s bristle 
and activity commences. “Man goes forth to his 
labor,”—the farmer to his barns and yards, the 
merchant to his store, the mechanic to his shop, 
while the “gmle wife" prepares tho breakfast, aud 
the little ones commence another day’s mischief. 
The hours fly on ami the great thoroughfares of hu¬ 
man activity fill with those Intent upon their several 
cares and plans, foi which they have come forth. 
Through all the day the minds unwearied continue 
their unending labors,— it is wo ok, work, work; 
think, think, think; from daylight to dark. 
But the day declines,— night approaches. The sun 
sinks behind the western hills, and the glorious 
pageantry of day-dawn is renewed in the golden 
robes of sunset. These, too, pale and lade; and the 
stars, “ ever vigilant watchers,” come forth, faintly 
at first, but brighten and beam upon the earth in its 
mantle of twilight with all their olden glory,—the 
glory ol' the new creation when the ** morning Stars 
sang together, and all the sous of God shouted for 
joy.” The rosy clouds have faded, and the pearly 
shadows on the blue ether grow firmer and more 
distinct as night approaches. The moon lifts her 
head above the mountaintops, and with majestic 
grace pursue* her glowing path, rivalling all the stars 
in the glory of her brightness. The evening winds, 
in solemn melody, chant among the trees the eternal 
anthem,— “ Praise God.” The birds carol their 
evening hymn aud repose in their leatly bowers,—the 
dews fall gently, and the flowers bend their heads 
upon their stalks and rest,—the streamlets and 
fountains are softened in their music, for the night 
is come. 
The stars, unwearied, keep their western way, and 
“Mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,* 
save where a lamp declares the lone night vigils of 
some weary soifl,— perhaps friends bending over the 
wasting form of a dearly loved one. And, may be, 
’neath the tender light of the stars, in the holiness of 
the midnight hour, the immortal passes from its earth 
home, an«l in the solemn hush of night tho recording 
Angel writes, “From earth departed, iuto eternity 
entered an immortal soul.” The stars look pityingly 
down on the agony of bereaved ones, yet stay not in 
their eternal march. Under another roof the bowed 
head of the student, as he pores over his books, 
declare* some soul searching for that “ which is more 
precious than gold, whose price is above rubies.” 
He toils late, arid by perseverance conquers,— then 
he rises and looks out upon the night The stars 
above shame his dimly burning lamp, and extinguish¬ 
ing its feeble flame he gazes forth upon the glory of 
the lights above. There shine the Pleiades,— here, 
in its eternal vigilance, stands Ursa Major,— l^eo 
lights another portion of the heavens.—and from 
another point Orion and Gemini look steadfastly 
down upon the smiling earth. The moon has 
reached the zenith, and with pride beholds herself the 
seeming center of the Universe, and her satellites 
glory in their proximity to such loveliness. Looking 
out upon this grand page before him, surely the 
aspirant can say, " Night unto night showeth knowl¬ 
edge.” 11c wonders not that Pythagoras and 
Galileo studied the phenomena of the sky. 
Gently the zephyrs of night whisper in the bowers, 
gently the flowers nod assent to the whispering; 
softly the waters glide and the moon and starlight 
brightly bathes the whole, revealing the beauty, the 
holiness of night. Night is holy, ami with its calm¬ 
ing, soothing power influencing him, the student 
seeks repose, for soon the rosy dawn and rejoicing 
earth shall proclaim the birth of another day,— the 
gilt of another flower for man to wreath in tiis gar¬ 
land of life. Day comoth and calls him to the 
fulfillment of the eternal law of activity, assuring 
him that his labor shall not be in vain. For, “while 
the earth reinaineth, seed-time and harvest, cold and 
heat, summer and winter, day and night, shall not 
cease. Iona. 
Girard, Penn., January, 1881. 
PARENTAGE OF JEFFERSON. 
The following from the pen of Hon. D. I’. Thomp¬ 
son, we find in the editorial columns of the Green 
Mountain Freeman: 
The circumstances of ths union from which sprung 
the illustrious American statesman, Thomas Jeffer¬ 
son, have never, we think, except in such general 
terms as would convey no definite idea of their pecu¬ 
liar character, yet reached the eye ol' the public. 
But having learned them from the aged neighbors of 
Mr. Jefferson, during a former sojourn in Virginia, 
and being well convinced of their entire truth, wc will 
venture to relate them for the amusement of our 
readers. 
Mr. Jefferson’s father was poor, hut an industrious 
and intelligent mechanic; and. as society was con¬ 
stituted in Virginia, he was wholly excluded from the 
ranks of the aristocracy, and could have had no hope 
of forming a family connection with them, but for 
the following incident: 
One of the proud and lordly Randolphs wishing 
some repairs to he made on the doorsteps of his 
mansion, and having heard of the expertness of the 
young carpenter, Jefferson, who resided in the same 
parish, sent for him to come and do the work. In 
this family there were several bcnutifhl and accom¬ 
plished daughter* who were the acknowledged 
belles of that part of the country; while one of the 
sisters was so far behind the rest, either in accom¬ 
plishments or the faculty of showing off to advan¬ 
tage, that she was subject to mortifying neglect by 
the young men who thronged the establishment, 
being generally left at home while her more favored 
sisters were taken off for the constant rounds of 
parties and pleasure excursions in vogue among the 
wealthy families of the place. It was during oue of 
these instances of neglect that young Jefferson 
happened to be at work on the steps, and the respect¬ 
ful attentions he then hud an opportunity of paying the 
slighted girl, so strongly affected her with the com 
trast with those she had been accustomed to receive 
from all other young gentlemen who were admitted 
to the house, that her actions soon revealed to the 
quick eye of the ambition* young mechanic a condi¬ 
tion of heart that he thought he might improve to 
advantage. And acting on that belief, lie persevered, 
and so well profited by his opportunities that within 
a few days a mutual engagement was formed, and a 
runaway match concocted and carried into ©fleet. 
There was, to ho euro a terrible rumpus kicked up by 
the proud Randolphs when it was discovered that one 
of the family had disgraced them and herself, as they 
esteemed it, by running away with, and marrying a 
poor mechanic. But finding there was no help for 
it, learning, upon inquiry, that the young man was 
as smart as he was bold, they at length recalled the 
truant daughter with her husband, installed them 
into the family, and gave them their patrimony. 
From this match sprang, wc believe, two sous and 
several daughters, a part, of whom, like Thomas 
Jefferson, (be subsequent statesman and president, 
strikingly inherited the intellectual characteristics 
and enterprise of the father, and the other part, the 
quite ordinary and common traits of the mother. 
• •* 
NATURE’S ALPHABET. 
Nature's alphabet is made up of only tour letters, 
wood, water, rock and soil; yet with those lour let¬ 
ters she forms such wondrous compositions, such 
infinite combinations, as no language of twenty-four 
letters can describe. Nature never grows old; she 
has no provincialisms. The lark carols the same 
song in the same key as when Adam turned his de¬ 
lighted ear to catch the strain; the owl still hoots in 
a b flat, yet loves the note, and screams through no 
other octave; the stormy petrel is as much delighted 
to sport among the first waves of the Indian Ocean as 
in the earliest times; birds that lived on flies laid 
bluish eggs when Isaac went out into the fields to 
meditate at eventide, as they will two thousand years 
hence, if the world does Hot break her harness from 
the orb of day. The sun is as bright as when Lot 
entered the little city of Zoar. The diamond and the 
onyx, and the topaz of Ethiopia are still as splendid, 
and the vulture’s eye is as fierce, as when Job took up 
his parable. In short, nature’s pendulum has never 
altered its strokes. 
•*- • • -*• 
A Contented Man. —I tell you, if a man is 
come to that point where he is content, he ought to 
be put in his coffin, for a contented live man is a 
sham! If a man has come to that state in which he 
says, “I do not want to know any more, or do any 
more, or be any more,” lie is in a state in which he 
ought to he changed into a mummy. Of all hideous 
things, mummies are the most hideous; ami of mum¬ 
mies, those arc the most hideous that are running 
about the streets and talking .—Henry Ward Ileecher. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New Yorker ] 
THE BETTER LAND. 
« _ 
Thkrk is a land far, far away, 
Unseen by mortal eye; 
Unstained by sin, undimuied by care, 
Where pleasure* never die. 
Unlike tills sinful world of ours, 
Ite skin* are ever bright; 
No clouds o'empread its sunniest hours. 
Nor day gives place to night. 
No tempest, with its rode alarms, 
Invades those regions fair; 
But soft and ragrant zephyrs fill 
The pure, celestial air. 
No fervid ray of summer’s sun 
Falls on the radiant brow, 
But light effulgent from the throne 
Illumes their pathway now 
No blasting winds, or winter's cold, 
Can chill the fadeless forms; « 
They’re safe within the heavenly fold, 
Secure from earthly storms. 
They dwell with CHRIST, a happy band, 
Redeemed from sin and pain — 
By them alBiction, sorrow, death, 
Is never known again. 
Friends are not called to gather there 
Around the dying bed 
Of loving ones, and bid adieu. 
Or farewell tears to shed. 
No, no; tbeir sufferings now are o’er, 
Their happiness complete; 
For on that bright, eternal shore, 
No sorrows shall they meet 
But ever in the glorious beams 
Of Con’s eternal love, 
They’ll dwell throughout unending day 
In that bright world above. 
nart’s Grove, Ohio, 1861. S. A. P. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE CREATOR’S WORKS. 
We find ourselves in an immense Universe, where 
it is impossible for us, without astonishment and 
awe, to contemplate the glory and the power of Him 
who created it. From the greatest to the least object 
that we behold,—from the star that glitters in the 
heavens, to the insect that creeps upon the earth, — 
from the thunder that rolls in the sky, to the flower 
that blossoms in the fields, — all things testify a pro¬ 
found and mysterious wisdom,—a mighty and all- 
powerful hand, before which we must tremble and 
adore. 
Neither the causes nor the issue of the events 
which we behold, is it in our power to trace; neither 
how we came into this world, nor whither we go 
when we retire from it, are we able of ourselves to 
tell; but, in the meantime, find ourselves surrounded 
with astonishing magnificence on every hand. We 
walk through the earth as through the apartments of 
u vas palace, which strike every attentive spectator 
with wonder. All the works which our power can 
erect, all the ornaments which our art can contrive, 
are trifling in comparison with those glories which 
nature everywhere presents to our view. 
The immense arch of the heavens, tin* splendor ef 
the sun in his meridian brightness, or the beauty ot 
his rising and setting hours,—the rich landscape of 
the fields, and the boundless expanse of the ocean,— 
are scenes which mock every rival attempt of human 
skill or labor. Nor is it only on tho splendid appear¬ 
ance* of nature, but amidst its saddest forms that we 
trace the hand of Divinity. In the solitary desert, 
amid the high mountains,—in the hanging precipice, 
the roaring torrent, in the aged forests,—though 
these he nothing to cheer, there is much to strike the 
mind with awe,—to give rise to those sublime and 
solemn sensations which elevate the heart to an 
Almighty. All-creating power. 
Kendall, N. Y., 1861. William H. Higgins. 
The Clearing of the Cloiob. —There is nothing 
in what has befallen, or befalls you, my friends, 
which justifies impatience or peevishness. God is 
inscrutable, but not wrong. Remember, if the cloud 
is over you, that there is a bright light always on the 
other side; that the time is coming either in this 
world or the next, when that cloud will be swept 
away, and the fullness of God’s light and wisdom 
poured around you. Everything which lias befallen 
you, whatever sorrow your heart bleeds with, what¬ 
ever pain you Buffer, nothing is wanting hut to see 
the light that actually exists, waiting to be revealed, 
and you will be satisfied. If your life is dark, then 
walk by faith, and God is pledged to keep you as 
safe as if you could understand everything. He that 
dwclletb in tho secret place of the Most High, shall 
abide under the shadow of the Almighty. 
At the Cross. — Calvary is a little hill to the eye, 
hut it is the only spot on earth that touches heaven. 
The Cross is foolishness to human reason, and a 
stumbling-block to human righteousness; but there 
only do Mercy and Truth meet together, and Right¬ 
eousness aud Peace kiss each other. Jesus < iikist 
was a man of low condition, and died a death of 
shame on an accursed tree; hut there is salvation in 
no other. There is no Mercy-seat in the universe hut 
at His feet. But, lying there, wc shall not only be 
accepted, hut shall not lack some gracious word from 
His lips. There the broken heart shall hear its best 
music—a still small voice, it may be, hut God will 
! he in the voice, and the contrite spirit shall he re¬ 
vived.— Dr. Huge. 
Flowing Water is at once a picture and a music, 
which causes to flow at the same from my brain, like 
a limpid and murmuring rivulet, sweet thoughts, 
charming reveries, and melancholy remembrances. 
Alphonse Karr. 
Profanity.— In the use of profane words, no idea 
■ is to be expressed, no object 1* to be attained, no end 
secured, no ear to be pleased, no appetite is to be 
administered to, no passion to bo fed, no title to be 
acquired, no wealth to he earned, no possible good, 
either real or imagined, is had in view. They mean 
nothing. They arc wicked cheats, playing a game of 
deception; attempting to palm off a blustering sound 
for a substantial thought. Profanity is surely a good 
witness of a terrible dearth Of wisdom — a frightful 
scarcity of ideas. Nor will any one pretend that 
there Is any go'-” 1 in profanity; for, besides being an 
arrant cheat, it is an idle and wicked use of the 
name of the greatest being in the Universe—the best 
and truest friend of every human being. 
Pulpit Controversy.— 1 The proper controversy of 
the pulpit is controversy with sin, which is the great 
heresy. It is better to overcome evil with good, 
to absorb error in truth. Vtrtutrm, vidennt. We 
must observe the errors which appear in the places 
where we preach; those, at least, which have footing 
therein; but we must not do them the service of 
publishing them, and propagate while we oppose 
them.— Vinet. 
