[Written for Moore'*Rural Mew Yorker.] 
THE FIRST SFRIN G-PLOWEH 
linger. Perhaps it is childhood’s hours, and again 
we are surrounded by our earl}' friends, and grow 
happy in an existence witbont a care. 
But the past is gone never more to return. We 
can recall nothing that we have said, or nndo aught 
that has been done. Surely this should place a guard 
over every word and deed. It should teach us the 
folly of inaction, and the importance of industiy. It 
should teach us that each day, each hour, has its 
duty to perform, and that he will surely live happiest 
who best performs those duties. J. A. Smith. 
I found it on the last day of March —a pale, little 
Claytonia, lifting its head above the drifted autumn 
leaves. I pitied it, for it was atone, and although the 
son shone brightly upon it, it trembled in the fierce 
March wind, and J knew how Might was its hold on 
the loose soil beneath. KiDd bands took it np, and I 
could bnt think that the delicate pink of its petals 
grew brighter in tbe light of loving eyes. Wna it all 
fancy? All day long the little flower lived in my 
thoughts. J had seen that of which it was tbe type, 
and almost unconsciously linked the two. A life 
lifting tteelf np against the cold winds of the world,— 
a soul shaken with doubts and fears, — a heart strug¬ 
gling with the heartless, — life and soul, and heart, 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.) 
MOUNTAINS. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.) 
THE PROPHECY. 
BT A. MORKKRY 
[It has been our custom to ignore all dedicatory poetical 
fosions, but these “ Lines to Kste ” arc good enough to 
Imit of an exception to a rule heretofore strictly observed.] 
There's something in the name of Kate 
Which many will condemn; 
But listen now while I relate 
The traits of some of them. 
There’sadvo Kate, a charming miss, 
Could you her hand obtain, 
She’ll lead you in the path of bliss, 
Nor plead your cause in vain. 
There’s deli-Kate. a modest dame, 
And worthy of your lore; 
8 he's nice and beautiful in frame— 
As gentle as a dove, 
Communi Kate!* intelligent, 
As we may well suppose; 
Her fruitful mind is ever bent 
On telling what she knows. 
There’* intri Kate, site's so obscure 
’Tis hard to find her out, 
For she is often very sure 
To put your wits to rout. 
I’revari Kate’s a stubborn maid. 
She’B sure to have her way, 
The cav’ling and contrary jade 
Objects to all you say. 
There’s alter Kate, a perfect pest, 
Much given to dispute, 
fTer prating tongue cau never rest— 
You cannot her refute. 
There’s dislo-Kate quite in a pet, 
Who fails to gain her point. 
Her case is quite unfortunate, 
And sorely out of joint. 
Equivo ICate no one will woo. 
The thing would be absurd, 
8 )>e Is so faithless and untrue, 
You cannot take her word. 
There’s vIodi-Knte, she’s good and true, 
And strives with all her might 
nor duty faithfully to do, 
And battles for the right. 
There’s rnsti Kate, a country lass, 
Quite fond of rural scenes, 
Sho loves to ramble o’er the grass 
And through the evergreens. 
Of all the maidens yon can find, 
There’s none like e<lu Kate, 
Because she elevates the mind, 
And aims for something great. * 
Ever welcome are tbe mountains 
To the sight. 
With their brightly-gleaming fountains 
GushiDg in tbe light. 
Far or near, 
Ever welcome, ever pleasant, 
To the peer and to the peasant. 
Whether crowned with morning's star, 
Or with (ironing's crescent; 
Fair in winter, with their bold peaks towering, 
Fair in summer, with their foliage flowering, 
When from fields of hest the pained eye, turning, rests 
On their ever-cooling crests; 
Fair in spring, 
As if, with new-fledged wing, 
Earth strove to bring 
To better view the season’s offering; 
But fairer still, most fair, 
In autumn, when the year, 
Deep (lushed, nod hung with many a tear, 
Is constrained tu despair: 
October hang* bet banner there; 
A thousand eyes will meet it, 
A thousand Hearts will gTeet it. 
Greet its glory and its gloom— 
Till comes November, bleak and frosted. 
And bears its beauty to the tomb. 
Starkville, N. Y., 1861. p o 
bt k. j. risen. 
I kkai) in Hop's own Book the promise given 
To mourners tempest-tossed. 
That though by adverse winds and billows driven, 
Yet they should not be lost. 
A beauteous prophecy it stood before me. 
Calming my troubled breast. 
And when, ware nfter wave, the deep came o'er mo, 
It whispered still of rest. 
Of its fulfillment now I see the token 
That then my spirit sought; 
And by it know the precion* words there spoken 
Shall never come to naught. 
Oh, weary, doubting one, whose life is clouded 
By ever anxious fear*, 
Whose hope is dim, whose star of faith is shrouded 
In grief too deep for tears, 
Look upward! see the bow of promise bending 
With radiant glory bright, 
And from the throne of Heavenly Love descending 
The dawn of Heavenly Light. 
Alden, N. Y., 1861. 
•Juvenal says: “The greatest reverence is due to 
a bov.” Plutarch relates of Cato the Censor, that, 
when his youthful 6on was present, he was as careful 
of his words as though he was conversing with the 
Vestal Virgins, whose lives were devoted to perfect 
purity. Juvenal adds thut nothing unseemly, either 
in words or appearance, should ever touch the 
thresholds within which a boy dwells. These say¬ 
ings commend themselves to every one, and they 
scarcely need illustration or argument to enforce 
them. 
V hen we consider the comparative nuritv of n 
I U " IU ’ tminiuiness, and his ignorance of 
evil, we feel that there Is a sacredncss about it which 
may well command our reverence; und there are few 
who do not feel under some restraint in a child's 
presence. We do not indulge in quite tbe same free¬ 
dom of speech, nor allow ourselves quite the same 
license of action, when we know that a child is 
observing us. But there are few who are careful 
enough, few who give the subject sufficient consider¬ 
ation. V\ e do not keep its importance enough 
before us, nor weigh as we ought the effect which 
our words and actions have on the young. Children 
do not retain their purity as they advance in years. 
Little by little they become contaminated, as wc 
allow them to bo exposed to the touch of evil; and 
some parents have to mourn through all their latter 
years that they were so careless of their children’s 
youth. When we have on white garments we are 
obliged to asm great care to keep them from being 
soiled. So much care, and far more, should wo have 
of children, for the purity of tlu-ir minds is soiled 
with a breath, and we cannot, when we would, wash 
[Written ter Moore's Rural New-Yorker ] 
HOMES OF THE DEAD. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
HOOTT. 
Man dies and “goeth to his long borne.” Tt has 
been decreed of all, and princes and beggars, rulers 
and the ruled, bond and free, bow alike to the 
“King of Terrors.” Wherever may be found the 
habitations of the living, there also are the homos of 
the dead, perliaps more in number, and with tbe 
same distinctions which wealth, rank, and power 
always give. The pyramids of ancient Egypt, those 
Stupendous monuments of stone, so vast and mighty 
that they are the wonder of the whole world, are sup¬ 
posed to have been intended for royal sepulchers, the 
imnjortat resting places of crowned heads. This also 
was the original design of the Catacombs, in whose 
extensive galleries are now gathered all ages, ranks, 
and classes of mankind.— the great congregation of 
the dead. In the far East, set amid onfading green- 
hm Walter Scott was born in Edinburgh, on the 
15th of August, 1771. His father was a writer to 
the “ Signet. ” His mother was a woman of very 
superior intellect, and of respectable poetical talente. 
He wns a sickly child, and his right foot was by some 
so greatly injured as to render him lame 
He was, even In childhood, an inveter- 
oause 
during life. 
ate story-teller, and spent much of his time while lie 
was in school in relating to those who Bat near him 
stories of his own composition. Of course he was 
not remarkable for proficiency in bis studies. The 
time his teachers wished him to occupy in applica¬ 
tion to his books, he spent in day dreaming. Jlut his 
idleness was only apparent; for ho was laying up 
treasures for futnre use. As he roved over tbe hills 
and through the dales of Rcotland, he was getting 
ready for his course of authorship. 
In 1783 he entered the University of Edinburgh, 
and in 171)3 he became an advocate at the Hcottish 
bar. We have not learned that he gained any very 
great eminence as a lawyer. His heart was not in 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
QUERIES FOR AUNT BETSEY 
Dear Atjnt Bbtsbv:—W ill you allow one of the 
“ girls ” who has read what you think of “Woman’s 
RightB ” to say it few words? / like to look at the 
bright side. Now, honored Aunt, I know that 
woman’s home in, in many respects, her “ world,’’and 
that there are many things to learn away from 
hoardin’ schools and ’cudemys; but Aunty, do yon 
really think wc are all going to get our necks broken 
when wc jump oil’ that “precipice” you told ub 
about? I know you did not exactly say no, but then, 
(we have no precipices on the prairies,) in all the 
stories we read abont people jumping or falling off 
them, they are sure to get killed. Do you really 
think, too, that when we “get married” and “go 
tagging after a man,” we shall ‘•never see him at 
borne? 1 A re yon j rare lie never will bring in a pail or 
water or an armful of wood? Will lie never ask if 
there is anything he can do to help us? Do yon 
know ho will be unable to find his own shirt, if we 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
FRIENDSHIP. 
gems, this one with tiro rough setting will not be 
missed. But there comes a change, ^Esop said that 
when Prom rth ki;s took the clay to form man, he 
tempered it with team. Certain it is that the day of 
sorrow ami weeping will eventually cbmc. Whore 
now are all those friends who once reached out the 
cordial hand? They have turned away to greet the 
world’s more favored ones. The region of teats and 
sighs is uncongenial. Strange, is it. to expect them 
to gather around, with the dark wing of misfortune 
hovering over your head.' And thus they hurry 
away to bask in the sunny uplands, while yon carry 
your burden alone in the valley. The friendship you 
repelled from your bosom, how sweet it would be to 
you now. 
If misfortune was attended by no other advantage, 
it would be a blessing in teaching us who are our 
real friends. If prosperity always smiled, wo should 
never fathom our own hearts nor those of others. 
Adversity Is onr teacher. Friendship, at best, Is 
frail. It gleams upo.n our pathway like a bright, 
beautiful star, then vanishes, and we are left in the 
shadow. Why is it that everything bright and lovely 
must perish? The sunset tints vanish as the eye 
seeks thorn,—the rose no sooner blushes in it® richest 
bloom than it begins to lade,- the sweetest songs die 
upon the ear and are forgotten,- and human sympa¬ 
thy and lovo, onr most precious earthly gift, how 
frail it is! An unguarded word, a heedless act, or a ' 
deviation from the patli of rectitude in one we love, 
how does it. chill the heart and open the way for dark 
distrustand prejudice. Why were sunlight, and beauty, 
and music created, and why were wc made with tastes to 
enjoy them? We arc only travelers here, heavenward 
bound, and our Father shows us gleams of beauty to 
allure us onward to a world all brightness and love. 
Wc arc on the sea, and if sunny weather and calm 
waters always surrounded ns, wc should never wish 
for the haven. When wc have passed the vestibule 
of life- this mortal pilgrimage wc shall, if purified 
from earth’s stains, enjoy friendships never to be dis¬ 
solved. Shall we then look back upon the rough 
path of life and think of the heavy burdens we bore, 
and the rouge discipline wo passed through? If so, 
how shall our spirits rejoice over every experience 
by which our hearts were made better. Dark days, 
buried hopes, and false friends, will be looked upon 
as difficult hut needful lessons to teach us that this 
earth was not onr rest. Bbknicb. 
vioiew, aroop in reverence, —where the summer 
breeze sighs and winter winds wail,—where tears are 
shed, prayers offered, and high resolves made by the 
living. 
The sea, likewise, has its home for the dead,— 
many a strong man, many a frail woman, many a 
smiling infant slumber iu its unfathomed caves. 
” On beds of green Ma-tlower* their limbs shall be laid, 
Around their whit* twines the red eoral shall grow, 
Of their lair yellow looks threads of amber bo made. 
And every part suit to their munmo-n below." 
And as we wander over our meadows and fertile 
ttelds, and rustle the fallen forest leaves with our 
careless feet, w ho can toll how many " homes of the 
dead" we are desecrating, how many fearless warriors 
aud brwve hunters are here laid down with their bows 
and arrows iu anticipation of the great huuting 
ground beyond the setting sun. Thus not only are 
our city cemeteries and country grave yards conse¬ 
crated u s the “Homos of the Dead,” but the whole 
earth is a charnel house. 
“ It is the field and aero of our Goo, 
It is the place where human harvests grow.’ 1 
Then it matters not where onr homes may be when 
dead, whether beneath artio r-nows or tropic sun, on 
the arid sands of the desert, or beneath the dark roll¬ 
ing waves of ocean, in town or country, or whether, 
like one of old, "no man knoweth of our sepulchers,” 
providing we are numbered with the great family 
above and have a home with them in Heaven. 
ColumbuB, Pa., 1861. Omkga. 
WOMEN IN THE XIXth CENTURY. 
Mad dogs and turtles are not the only snapping 
animate in the world. It is to be feared that most 
fuinilies are afflicted with one or more “snapper*," 
who are wont to exercise their spitfire propensities, 
especially at the table or around the family fireside. 
Addressing herself to her mother, Mary, with her 
eyes full of twinkling and fun, says:—" 1 took a walk 
at ten o'clock this morning, and 
life, are to be known hereafter. Their numes will be 
gracions words to other generations. They shall 
have justice done them, for the nineteenth century, 
among other inventions and discoveries, has dis¬ 
covered woman! It was not enough that she was 
placed in the garden of Eden for ub. We were blind 
for many thonsaml yOarfr. When the world was 
young, we made her fetch our wood, and cook onr 
food, and play the menial. Incur days of chivalry 
we taught her to be a pretty Amazon, to dress our 
wounds, to bind her scarf about our helmet, to 
receive a fantastic and Insincere adoration. Then, 
as if there were never to he an end to our nonsense, 
wo fancied that she was an Arcadian shepherdess, or 
a lovely wood-nymph, with confused ideas of virtue. 
Then was the sickly, Sentimental, pastoral age in full 
blast. Then did she tap us on the cheek with her 
fan, and smirk and smile, and paint and powder, and 
wear her hair four stories high. That was the 
courtly age. But by-and-by she wearied of these 
follies. We began to treat her with more sense,— 
then little by little she began to assert herself; the 
better we treated her the more she asserted, until at 
last we cried out like Frankenstein: “ What monster 
is this we have created?" But it was not a monster 
it was only a Woman! (treat in her weakness, 
noble in her charity, beautiful in her patience. We j 
have found her out! Hho was 
as now; we have discovered that she has brain as 
well us heart; that she can write verse like Mrs. 
Browning, paint pictures like Bosa Bonlieur, and 
still be all that is gentle and lovable, like Florence 
Nightingale.— Knickerbocker Magazine. 
Here John 
broke in. Now, John was just at that age when a 
youth knows everything under the sun, and more too: 
lie never makes a mistake; is always positive that 
everything he does, says, or thinks, is just exactly bo. 
and could not possibly be any other way. " Why, 
sister, how could yon say it was ten o’clock? it was 
quarter past ten at least!” One sample is enough. 
Every one of observation can, of his own knowledge, 
multiply eases indefinitely. 
The unseemly habit is sometimes observed in fami¬ 
lies whoso position and opportunities of association 
would lead to the supposition that everything vulgar 
and nncourteons would bo instinctively shunned. 
The person criticised, not having sense enough to 
pass over the boorishness, begins a defence; and be¬ 
fore one is aware of it, the whole table or circle is 
silenced, and find themsolves in the awkward position 
of listeners to a scries of angry contradictions about a 
matter of no possible consequence to any one of the 
whole company, in one sense, but of importance in 
another, as there is a certain disagrceablene** about 
it, which all feel more or less. 
shJOTT, Himself, helped to draw off attention 
from hia poems, by the publication of his novel*. 
" Waverly,'- the finest of his productions, was pub¬ 
lished in 1814. Seldom has a work been more favor¬ 
ably received by the public than was this one; and 
for the remainder of his life the author was acknowl¬ 
edged as the great novelist of his ago. Perhaps one 
thing that helped to keep up the excitement in 
regard to these works, was the obscurity in which 
the question of their authorship was so long envel¬ 
oped. For years the appearance of a new “ Waverly 
Novel” produced as much excitement in Great 
Britain as any of the great political events that 
characterized that period. 
Onr poet, had long sighed for admission among the 
aristocracy of Great Britain. He was weak enough 
to suppose that a mere title could confer honor upon 
the author of “ The Lady of the Lake ” and “ Rob 
never so recognized | Roy” In 1820 his wish was gratified, and he became 
a baron oi the United Kingdom. But the prosperous 
part of his life was about dosing: for in 1820 he was 
involved in debt to an immense extent, by the failure 
of his publishers. He set himself at work to pay off 
his liabilities by his pen; and he paid over to his 
creditors the enormous stun of nearly $350,000 dollars 
in about four years. But nature gave way under 
such toil, and on the 21st of September, 1832, he 
expired at Abbotsford. S. L. Leonard. 
Wisconsin, 1861. 
Christianity a Witness. —Christianity is a testi¬ 
mony of a martyrdom; every Christian is a martyr, 
anil has no other calling upon earth than to “show 
forth the praises of Him who has railed him out of 
darkness into His marvellous light.” The disciple 
of a Bedeemer who died for the truth, ought also to 
be willing to die for the truth; if not on the cross or 
in the tiamos, at least by tho perpetual subjection of 
self-love and the constant practice of self-denial; if 
not iu his body, at least in the good opinion of his 
fellow-creatures, whose esteem is deemed a second 
life, and whose contempt is considered little short of 
death. Thus tho distinguishing characteristic, the 
primary seal of Christianity, is testimony, is confes¬ 
sion; and the greatest crime towards God is silence. 
— Vinet. 
thing 
happened n minute or a month later or sooner? it is 
the general statement to which attention is directed. 
Contradictions, criticisms, and corrections in general 
company are clownish? they are clear proof that, in 
almost every case, the person who assumes such an 
ungracious office is a boor of tho first water, and is 
essentially deficient in that refinement and delicacy, 
which are inseparable from a cultivated mind and a 
taste for all that is beautiful, elegant and refined. A 
whale evening’s enjoyment has been frequently 
murred, and all of the company- have gone home with 
a kind of blight upon the sensibilities, in conse¬ 
quence of a jar caused by the impatient contradiction 
or correction of some unimportant fact in a narra¬ 
tion.— Hall’s Journal of Health, 
air, every 
day whenever it is posaiblo. The nursery maids are 
expected to take all the children out every day, even 
to the infant. This is becoming more prevalent in 
this country, and should be pursued whenever it is 
practicable. Infants should be early accustomed to 
the open air. We confine them too much, and heat 
them too ruuob for a rigorous growth. One of the 
finest features of the London Dark is said to be the 
crowd of nursery maids, with their groups of healthy 
children. Tt is so with the promenades of our large 
cities to a great extent, but it is less common in our 
country towns than it should be. 
In consequence of their training, English girls 
Acquire a habit of walking that accompanies them 
through life, and gives thorn a healthier middle life 
tbun our own women enjoy. They are not fatigued 
with a walk of five miles, and are not ashamed te 
wear when walking tbick-soled alines, fitted for the 
dampness they encounter, Half of the consumptive 
feebleness of our girls results from the thin shoes 
they wear and the cold feet they necessarily have. 
English children, especially girls, are kept in the 
nursery and excluded from fashionable society and all 
frivoltics of the season at an age when onr girls are 
thinking of nothing but fashionable life. 
[Written for Moore’* Rural New-Yorker ] 
STRAY THOUGHTS. 
How swiftly do the years glide 
away, Oome and 
gone ere we scarce notice their approach; each suc¬ 
ceeding one seeming more brief than the one which 
proceeded it In the ltorry and bustle, the joys and 
sorrows of life, we almost forget that each one, as it 
passes, shortens our existence here. 
Yet there ure times when this truth comes home to 
onr hearts. With the quiet hush of evening about 
us, and with no companion near but our thoughts, we 
sometimes realize how swiftly time is hearing >is 
along. At such periods memory will be true to her 
office, uud past years will again appear like tiro 
moving scenes of a panorama. Ah! we are almost 
startled at their number, aud as memory recalls the 
scenes that hope pictured to fill their space, how dif¬ 
ferent do they appear. How few have brought the 
pleasure that was anticipated, — how few have Been 
accomplished what was planned as a New Year’s Day 
dawned upon us. 
Still there arc some scenes we would live over 
again, — some chapters in life’s history we should 
love to repeat. — and on such scenes will memory 
Act Your Part. —There is not a spider hanging 
on the kiug’a wail but hath its errand; there is not a 
nettle that groweth in the corner of the churchyard 
but hath its purpose; there is not a single insect 
fluttering in the breeze but acooinplisheth some 
divine decree: and I will never have it that God 
created any man, especially any Christian man, to be 
a blank, and to be a nothing. He made you for an 
end. Fiud out what that end is; find out your niche, 
and fill it. If it bo ever so little, if it iB only to be a 
hewer of wood ami drawer of water, do something in 
this great battle for God aud truth. — Spurgeon. 
Tkuth.—T ruth is always consistent with itself, and 
needs nothing to help it out; it is always near at 
hand, and sits upon your lips, and is ready to drop 
out before you are aware: whereas a lie is trouble¬ 
some, and sets a man’s invention on the rack, and 
one trick needs a great many more to make it goo^. 
Truth can live in all regions, flourish in all soils, and 
become uaturalized in all climes. 
Of all the passions, jealousy is that which exacts 
the hardest service, and pays the bitterest wages. Its 
service is—to watch the success of our enemy; its 
wages — to be sure of it. 
Pleasure is sometimes only a change of pain, 
man who has had the gout, feels first rate whe 
gets down to only rhnmatism. 
