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[Written for Moore'a Kural New-York<?r.J 
THE AUTUMN WINDS. 
J* BY MRS. A. I. BORTOV. 
Mochskoi.i.y, mournfully the autumn wind tigheth, 
Chanting a dirge, a* the fair summer distil, 
List to its wierd song, as wildly it sweeps along, 
Moaning and sighing; 
0, it sounds to my heart like an echo replying 
To the wail of the soul when its last hope is dying. 
Hark! 'tin uot the autumn wind on mine ear falling, 
’Tis the voice of my vanished ones unto me calling; 
Well know I that plaintive strain, heard through the wind 
and rain, 
Pleadingly calling; 
Through the dim, dying clouds, shadowy faces I see, 
And gentle eyes gazing, 0, fondly on me. 
On, on sweep the winds, in full chorus swelling; 
0, fain would my soul leave its clay-cumbered dwelling, 
Seek a world bright and fair—join the freed spirits there, 
Safe from earth's thralling, 
* Where never the autumn winds sadly are sighing, 
Where no hearts are breaking, no loved ones are dying. 
Northville, Mich., 1861. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
WHAT HAS HAPPENED P 
Two years ago my neighbor's house was full of the 
melody of song. The singing birds wore there. At 
early morn the sweet symphony of musical sounds 
went up from that happy abode. Many a time, when 
“tired nature's sweet restorer" had failed to impart 
life and vivacity to my spirit, when i arose still beneath 
the clouds and shadows of doubt and fear, many a 
time has the cloud vanished, und my spirit assumed 
new vigor. How could my heart he sad? how could 
1 repine when the garden of happiness seemed bloom¬ 
ing so near my door? Sometimes it was the joyous 
bursting air of gladness and cheer, and then it would 
be the deep, thrilling tone of heavenly praise. 
The birds seemed to catch the inspiration and sing 
a loridcr strain, when the blossoms were out in the 
garden. Mrs. Norton reasoned, if the birds had 
cause to employ their musical powers to gladden and 
beautify their existence, how much greater cause has 
man to “sing and make melody." If little Rosa, 
who was sometimes fretful, assumed one of her 
peevish moods, Mrs. Norton, instead of boxing her 
ears, would sing to her some favorite melody, which 
proved a most pleasant restorative to the little girl’s 
temper. When Johnny began his monotonous mel¬ 
ody, even if the good lady was busy with some 
perplexing Job of work, instead of snappishly com¬ 
manding him to “stop his noise,”she would help the 
little fellow over the difficult strains, and thus encour¬ 
age the spirit of song in her little hoy's heart. 
Mrs. Norton Baid she had reason to sing. She 
had a peaceful, happy home; and what dearer boon 
can a mortal have this side the grave? Her husband 
was kind and attentive. He did not seek amid the 
various haunts of the world to find a happier place 
than his own quiet home. He seemed to love the 
|M society of his wife and children better than any 
h pther. When he had completed his imperative daily 
duties, he seemed To hear loved and winning voices 
calling him homeward. He knew there were eager, 
anxious eyes at the gateway, watching for his return. 
He knew there was no one quite so welcome at his 
own fireside as himself. What a sweet aud holy 
confidence there is in conjugal and paternal love. 
Sometimes he would pause al the threshold to listen 
to the sweet tones of his wife's voice, in that old, 
touching melody, “Home, Sweet Home.” 
Mr. Norton seemed to understand what nmny hus¬ 
bands forget, or else do not care to remember, that 
nothing can supply the place, in the wife's ideal of 
happiness, of the husband’s company and attention. 
For the want of this, many a confiding wife has 
grown sad and desponding, and has been driven to a 
state of fearful indifference. Many a singing bird 
has been thus cruelly hushed, and its voice stilled 
forever. And then Mrs. Norton says her children 
are cheerful aud happy; but 1 have sometimes 
thought it was only the reflection of her own sweet 
temper. I must confess that the singing of my 
neighbor has almost made me ashamed to fret and 
repine. 
But alas! for a few months past, I have not heard 
the voice of song at Mr. Norton’s. The mornings 
and evenings there have been unusually quiet. I 
have listened, hut listened in vain for those old 
familiar airs which used to east sunshine even in my 
home. What has happened? Why has Mrs. Norton 
ceased to sing? Here is the secret. There is no 
Rosa in that house now. The sweet little girl who 
sometimes cried with pain, has gone to live with the 
angels. When the roses were out in the garden, and 
the robin sang in the cherry tree, then little Rosa 
was laid away in the flowery valley, and burning 
tears were shed above her grave. I remember seeing 
the crape upon the door knob,—I remember stroking 
the yellow curls upon the cold marble forehead of the 
little girl,—1 saw the mother shed warm tears upon 
her pallid cheek; but I did not think that one of the 
sweetest strains in those household songs would be 
no more heard on earth forever. Now, Johnny’s 
feet alone run to meet the weary father,—now, he 
alone plays amid the garden walks, and he wonders 
why sister Rosa does not come back from that beauti¬ 
ful world, and visit her lonely brother. I trust that 
broken string will be repaired. I sincerely hope 
that God, who tunes the heart-strings of his chil¬ 
dren,—who touches its chords with sweetest influ¬ 
ences,—will send back the singing birds aroumd my 
neighbor’s quiet fireside. J. W. Bakkkr, 
Buffalo, N. Y., 1861. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
GIRLS.-NO. II. 
I always thought 'twas strange that the boys 
should go to college and girls into the pantry and 
cellar, f could never sec the reason why .few 
should quote Latin authors, and Jrt.iA, Mrs. Home¬ 
body’s Guide to Housekeeping. I quizzed my moth¬ 
er’s husband about it, and his reply would be, 
“Well, sis, another of your silly questions, hey? All 
that is requisite for you is to manufacture good 
bread, butter, and cheese, — that’s enough for any 
woman to understand. But hoys, you know, they 
will he men some day, and they must have the advan¬ 
tages of school. A woman's place is at home, of 
J course, and 'tisn't necessary for her to have hook 
jP knowledge.” And that was all the satisfaction I 
j would ever receive. “John, ’tend to your book,” 
A and “sis, your dishwater is hot,” became stereotyped 
J expressions. John listened to “chemistry,” “anat- 
n omy,” and “ geology.” I heard, “yeast,” “butter” 
^ and “ Dutch cheese.” 
| Well, notwithstanding all this, a new leaf will turn 
r\ over occasionally. If girls express a desire to know 
^ something aside from mixing cookies, and carry their 
desire into effect, every old granny and “weather 
prophet” within ten milcB around, bold up their 
hands in astonishment, wondering “what the gals 
are a coming tew! Just as though a girl could do 
anything!” ’Tisn’t very strange that they should 
wonder. They never imagined that a girl made a 
Mrs. Browning, a Harriet Kosher, or a Rosa Bon- 
heck. They know that girls dote on embroidered 
pillow-cases, worsted dogs, ami dancing masters. 
'Tis a glorious thing that girlH are boooming 
thirsty, and that there are colleges opening here and 
there, where the cooling drought can allay the fever. 
I do not wish to insinuate that girls should neglect 
Domestic Economy. That is quite too important an 
item to be overlooked. Girls should understand the 
mysteries of housekeeping as Well as men should 
laying stone walls and digging ditches. All of these 
things must he dona. But if a man always looks into 
his ditch, and sees not the sweet, blue Heaven above 
him, he does not know what 'tis to live,—and if a 
woman’s greatest ambilion extends no further than to 
a pile of llukey doughnuts, or a nicely cooked steak, 
she must think that God gave her a great and noble (?) 
mission. Minnie Mintwood. 
Hillsdale Farm, Tomp. Co., N. Y., 1861. 
A FEW WORDS TO MOTHERS. 
One great trial and source of depression to a 
married woman, surrounded with a family of little 
children, is the small amount she can do. It seems 
literally, as month after month rolls by, as if she 
accomplished nothing. Life seems a blank, only 
tilled up with petty cares, that wear out, and corrode, 
and canker the frail tenement of the flesh, hot leave 
no trace behind. 
“Oh! if I could only live for something, I could 
cheerfully bear all the burdens time brings to me!” 
is the desponding cry of many a mother; but, 
mother, look hack on your own ehildhood, and then 
tell me if you do not live for something. Years age, 
tired, hungry from out door play, who brought you 
the nice, sweet bowl brimming with milk, that tasted 
sweeter to you than the rarest dish to the epicure? 
Who folded you in her arms, ami rocked you to sleep 
as gently as the bee is rocked in its bed of roses? 
Who gave bright smiles and Boft kisses when your 
heart was quivering with pain from the harsh, un¬ 
feeling word of some playmate? Whose soft step 
and light touch, and whispered words of prayer, 
drove away the dark images of fear that darknesB, to 
the child, is so often peopled with, and left bright¬ 
ness in the belief of a protecting, sleepless care 
overall? Who fanned your fevered brow, und held 
the pure cooling draught that dripped from the gray 
rocks in the woods, which you bad dreuined of all 
night, tb your lips, and talked pleasantly of heaven, 
when your little feet seemed almost, ready to step 
into d ath'a dark river, and you eh rank trembling 
back from the hurrying waters? Who gave yon the 
pleasant memories of childhood, that have stolen to 
your hearts as gently as the dew to the flower, 
through the long, long years, and brought light and 
joy to the darkest hour of your life? Name your 
price for these memories, and then I can tell yon 
what you are accomplishing! What if God had said 
to your youngest, that pet one, with soft silken ring¬ 
lets and rosy dimpled fat hand, who is catching at 
the buttons on your dress, “He is a little tiling; 1 
will not mind about his sight?” Think of those 
laughing, sparkling, “pretty, pretty eyes,” as you 
have said a hundred times, as sightless orbs; never 
again turning to his little crib, to find him watching 
you from under the Boft lace; never starting from 
sleep as he clasps his arms around your neck, and 
raising your head from the pillow to catch a view in 
the clear moonlight of his loving eyes; never again 
joying at the glimpses of baby's mind through the 
mind’s windows. 
What if God had said, “He is a little thing; T 
will not mind about his intellect!” Just look at 
your sweet baby laughing, cooing, forever touching 
some chord of hope and joy, and then clasp a soul¬ 
less casket in your arms. His check is fair and deli¬ 
cately tinted, his hair golden as the sunbeam, hut 
his poor little mouth ami eyes! No answering smile, 
no grieved look, no wondering gaze, nothing hut a 
vacant stare. Think of watching and yearning so 
for one look of intelligence, and when you catch 
your breath with joy to think it is yours, have it end 
in a smile of mere muscle, a contortion of the lips. 
Oh! the disappointment! The death of a loved one 
brings no sorrow like that! 
God, who said “Let there he light, and there waR 
light,” has great and stupendous things before him, 
but not a sparrow falls to the around without his 
notice; and if a bird is worthy of his care, need 
mother complain that time, talents, strength must 
be given for comfort aud training of the little ones, 
who each have a rouI undying as eternity? Perhaps 
when time passes, aud those loved children go out 
from the maternal nest, and their hearts grow hard 
and callous in the battle of life, some—what you now 
think trilliijg, valueless—act may come hack to them 
as a sweet memory, that will permeate the hard crust 
that is closing around them, and leave it open to all 
kind, pure influences. We cannot see the end from 
the beginning, so let us trust Him who can, and 
accept out- work cheerfully, if it does debar ns from 
entering into the achievement of what we are often 
tempted to think are the great deeds of life.— Selected. 
WHAT A GOOD WIFE DOES NOT DO. 
She never abuses her husband’s confidence. She 
never prefers charges against him in the presence of 
others, or confides the story of her marital wrongs 
to comparative strangers when he is absent. She 
never tells other people that he does not bring home 
money enough to keep the house in food, clothe her 
and the children, pay the rent, and appear respect¬ 
able. She never makes pompous reference to rela¬ 
tions who would rather go without themselves than 
see her and the children starve. She never questions 
the ability of her husband to earn sufficient money 
at his Irade or in his business, or seeks to render him 
incompetent and ridiculous in the sight of others. 
She never usurps authority* in her husband's house, 
or makes him the willing or unwilling instrument of 
her resentment, petty spites, or malignant malice. 
A good wife never does anything of this kind; she 
would rather screen her husband's faults than to hold 
them up to censure. She would rather mend and 
patch old garments for her children than go hysteri¬ 
cally to her friends for a loan. A good wife is 
always mildly proud, independent, self-denying, lov¬ 
ing, seldom findiug fault, hut always endeavoriug to 
render her home, be it ever so humble, as sunny and 
comfortable as her husband's circumstances will per¬ 
mit. We are religionsly convinced that if wives, as 
a rule, treated their husbands with more respect, amd 
reposed more confidence in their integrity, society 
would he spared many of the painful revelations 
which daily appear in the newspaper press. Hus¬ 
bands should be led — not driven. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
IN THE MEADOW. 
by JORN w. ALLEN. 
No lurid ray comes down to-night 
From sun io grandeur riding, 
Nor paler beam with wiisty light 
From moon through azure gliding; 
No cheerless clouds float up the blue, 
The stars are brightly glowing; 
O, we’er a joyous, happy few, 
Down in the meadow mowing. 
The startling voice of Whip-poor-will, 
The breeze with perfume laden, 
The lowing herd upon the hill, 
The song of merry maiden, 
Bring life’s bright days of bliss to view, 
While swift the hour Is going; 
For we’re a joyous, happy fe w, 
Down in the meadow mowing. 
We love o'er Nature’s Held to roam, 
And bear the songster’s ditty; 
Who w ould exchange a rural home 
For palace in a city? 
Give us the country’s loss and gain, 
Where life and health are growing, 
Whether amid the golden grain, 
Or in the meadow mowing. 
The hell’s loud “ nine ” roll* up the arch, 
We’ll home till some hereafter; 
So “ Shoulder arms!" “ Forward, march!” 
With song and merry laughter! 
When life’s dark clouds above us lower, 
And time’s chill winds are blowing, 
We’ll call to mind the starlight hour 
When in the meadow mowing, 
Hidden Vale, 1861. 
(Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker ] 
MAY AND DECEMBER. 
Far across the ocean, upon the walls of an Italian 
studio, are suspended two engravings as large as life. 
One personifies May, und the other December. The 
former pictures a little hoy who, both in attitude and 
expression, Is the very embodiment of fresh, joyous 
childhood—a merry laugh seems to have just parted 
his cherry lips, while life and vivacity are betrayed 
in the large, speaking eyes. A wreath of flowers 
encircles his open brow, and he has just dropped a 
haudfnl upon the green meadow grass at his feet; for 
he is bending forward, all absorbed in the song of 
two robins upon a tree near by. Happy artist! we 
exclaim; how skillful has been yonr pencil in thus 
beautifully representing onr favorite month. 
In the twin engraving wo see an old gentleman 
leaning upon a staff, his silver locks exposed to the 
chilly air; for the wiud is carrying away his hat, 
which lie has been vainly trying to regain. But there 
is a genial glow depicted in his countenanoe; for 
winter as well as summer receives light from the 
natural sun, even as the life of mankind in all stages 
may be beautified by rays from the Sun of Righteous¬ 
ness. 
Yet a still more skillful Artist has pictured in 
human life a counterpart of the months that make up 
the year. Years ago two children were playing 
beneath the branches of some elms that fairly dipped 
their leaves into the waters ot a stream near by. 
Their t ursts of%.G , iter an ’ snatches ot song 
caused the forest to resound with their innocent mer¬ 
riment. Here unsuspecting, hopeful childhood saw 
in the future a perpetual May, a pathway strown with 
(lowers, and bathed in sunshine until lost in the river 
of death. 
Turn we now from this refreshing scene to another 
just as expressive. Mertie is home from a lingering 
absence- a two years’ Separation from the spot around 
which her a flections have long centered. Will she ever 
shed tears again, as she did whew far away, and only 
stranger faces greeted her? or will she ever think, as 
she did then, that, life is n continued rouud of Decem¬ 
ber months, made up of cold storms and devoid of 
roses? She thinks not so now, as she basks in the 
sunny smiles of dear home friends, and trips from 
cellar to garret amid familiar scenes. The old orchard, 
the brook dancing through it, and even old Hover, all 
seein to have a friendly welcome for her, and she 
returns the greeting in her own impulsive, joyous 
way; for spring-time has come to Mkktik again. 
Again we turn, and behold Nature aud Art upon a 
strife; a palace home amid the most romantic scenery. 
“ I covet money as nothing,'' soliloquises the owner 
of this splendid residence, “when by it my idols are 
made happy;" so Carrie, Charlie, and little Bttk 
tread on downy carpets in rooms whose windows are 
draped In curtains, and whose walls are covered with 
paintings the most costly, while music, soft and mel¬ 
low, greets tho car from the sweet toned instruments 
that grace parlor and hall. Without, the carol of 
birds, the murmur of waterfalls over the basins of 
fountains, the tasteful arrangements of a park, all vie 
with each other to make the inmates of this earthly 
Paradise rejoice in perpetual pleasure. 
We now gaze to see what has become of childhood 
beneath the elms, and discover that it has at last 
found its December; for the glad-hearted boy of long 
ago, who caused the forest trees te resound with his 
mirth, is the exact counterpart of our Italian artist’s 
second picture, and the little girl is the deerepid old 
lady you see yonder, who by her eccentric ways is 
adding to the school hoys’ lawless sport. Mertie, 
too, has proved that spring will not always last; she 
is standing beneath a drooping willow, bathed in 
tears, while the marble slab with the simple word 
“ Mother” engraved upon it, tellB us why winter has 
come to her. 
But why iB it still ahout the mansion that we had 
thought was ever to be a scene of gaiety? Why are 
the blinds all closed, and why does father look so 
sternly sorrowful, and little Carrie weep, and mother 
turn away sadly when Cbarlib says. “ Let me play 
the song you love so well?” The last month of the year 
in its most dreary aspect seems too bright a picture 
of their bereaved hearts now, because our pet Sue lies 
in her eottlu bed. Then, can no one find perpetual 
May? Not here, hut amid the green pastures and 
beside the still waters above. l. 
Olivet, Michigan, 1861 
- *— - ♦ ■ •* - 
Pleasures of Prodigality. — It would not be a 
pleasant arrangement, that a man who has to be car¬ 
ried across from England to France shou'd be fixed 
ou a board so weighed that his month and nostrils 
should be on a level with the water, and thus that he 
should he struggling for life, and barely escaping 
drowning all the way. Yet hosts of people, whom 
no one proposes to put under restraint, do, as regards 
their income aud expenditure, a precisely analogous 
thing. They deliberately weigh themselves to that 
degreo that their heads are barely above water, and 
then any uftforaeen emergency dips them under.— 
Atlantic Monthly. 
(Written for Moore’s Rural N«w-Yorker.] 
MODERATION AGAINST INTENSITY. 
I loye the mild westerly glow of the snn, but let 
me be shielded from the scorching glare of noonday. 
The light winged breeze is gentle and inspiring, hut 
I would hide from the reckless wind sweeping on its 
furious way. I love to watch the fair weather clouds 
as they quietly rest against the horizon, hut I never 
stop to look at those sharp, stony clouds that some¬ 
times pile tbemselvea up against the blue wall of 
heaven. They look angry and threatening, and the I 
eye turns from them with relief to lowly ohjecta of 
softer outline. T love to watch the storm that rises 
slowly and grandly up the heavens, hut not. the swift 
tempest that descends with forked lightnings and 
crashing thunderbolts. How lovely are the tints of 
the early flowers. The intenser fires of mid-summer 
may paint more gorgeous colors, but they caunot 
equal the delicate hues of June. 
The moderate emotions of the human heart are 
the most agreeable. Surprise is gently animating; 
astonishment is overwhelming; while amazement, 
the same feeling intensified, is annihilating in its 
effects on the mind. If we were going to personate 
sorrow, we should make her sad but beautiful. Grief 
is painful; and woe is so utterly desolating that we 
hide from its presence. Moderate pleasure is the 
most enduring. The calm sunshine of cheerfulness 
is better than the uncertain flashes of wit and gayety 
that proceed from a lowering sky. It has been truly 
said that the mind raised to heightsof ecstacy is sure 
to sink as much below as it was raised above the 
common level. 
There are intense natures, whose characters resem¬ 
ble a rushing torrent. Opposition only increases 
their motive power, and involves any that undertake 
to oppose the impetuous current of their energy, in 
such commotion that they are soon glad to give free 
scope and dear track. Such characters have great 
brain power, and if righlly directed, it helps to push 
on the world's progress; but they do not possess the 
traits of good companionship. T may admire their 
achievement, but I would not wish them to always 
surround mein my rumblings along life’s pathway. 
They say life is a continual battle. No; 1 should say 
it was a campaign. We have enemies to conquer and 
fortresses to besiege, hut it seems to me that life is 
not quite all action. There are intervals in which we 
may mark our advances and tell of our victories. Let 
me mingle with those who will pause by the way to 
pluck sweet fiowers from the lanes and by-roads of 
life, and search out living fountains in secluded 
valleys. 1 look with wonder at a comet hurrying on 
its fiery path; but the beautiful planets, rolling Bteadily 
in their old familiar orbits, affect me with a deeper 
feeling. I love grandeur; it is elevating and enno¬ 
bling; hut the emotion awakened liy intensity, into 
whatever object it may enter, is always painful. 
There are intense writers, who never let their 
readers stop to enjoy a sentiment, or note a conolu- 
clasion. They hurry on like a locomotive before an 
express train, as if all their mental capacities were 
under the iron dominion of energy. Of snch a 
writer we may say as does one of Shakspeare’s 
characters of Hamlet, 
“He waxes desperate with imagination." 
Such a style may he a good stimulant to an inactive 
mind, but it does not afford the reader that agreeable 
communion which one is sure to find in the pages of 
Ikiimj or Hbyant. Tho reader soon wearies of an 
author whose main qualification is energy of thought, 
and he is glad to seek refuge in the pages of some 
less furious writer. m. o. 
Butler, Wis., 1861. 
THE LOVE OF CHILDREN. 
There iB no such music in the world as the familiar 
patter of the little feet on the stairs, or the cheery, 
crowing voice which salutes our ear as we enter the 
door of home after a .long, weary day of toil and 
care, aud struggle in the rough tug and tnssle with 
all that lies outside of that quiet and secure haven 
of rest. And then, when the little arms are wound 
about your neck, as if they would cling there for¬ 
ever, and the dear little lips are pressed to your 
cheeks In that unselfishness, that parity of affection 
with which no lips but a child’s can ever press 
them, what a rapture of feeling thrills all your body 
and soul! Then, indeed, the crosses of the day are 
forgotten. The rough words spoken, the mean acts 
done, the evil returned for good, and the hard strife 
for bare subsistence, are all, fur the moment, blot¬ 
ted out of the memory, and in their place comes a 
sense that there is one spot at least in all the earth, 
where we are supremely loved, loved for ourselves 
alone, and where we can repose in the midst of 
perfect faith and peace. Oh! what a heaven that 
man enjoys who bus a home that is happy—happy, 
not in the affluence of that comfort and lnxury 
which wealth can purchase, but in that which love 
alone bestows, and above all, a home in which a 
child creates a felicity and a harmony which only 
bis presence can afford, Alas! for the wretch who 
goes through life without a child’s love and the 
love he elicits. The strength of the affection is most 
marked by its expansivenoas. It is distinguished by 
a sympathy that takes in all children. The man 
who has a baby has a sort of involuntary interest 
in and affection for every other baby. The very 
sight of it, anywhere, recalls the image of his own 
little baby, and lie cannot pass it without a caress. 
It reminds him of home, of all its ldest peace, aud 
trust, and love; aud he caunot resist patting the 
little rosy cheeks, and saying a volume of tender 
things, in baby dialect, out of the very passion he 
feels to fondle and prattle with his own little cherub 
at home. But we have made a long introductory to 
a very pretty little anecdote of natural emotion, 
which is related in the following paragraph, taken 
from au exchange paper. The writer says; 
II While standing, a few days since, looking at the 
debarkment of that splendid company, the Lafayette 
Light Infantry, preparatory to their march to th# 
military camp, a stalwart soldier passed by, and 
looking at two little children standing near me, said 
to their father, * Let me kiss these children, if you 
please: I left two just like them at htnne; let me kiss 
these for them,' ami a tear stole down his bronzed 
cheek. The little ones quietly submitted to his fond 
embrace, and all tho bystanders felt that a soft spot 
in their hearts had been touched by the tender little 
Beene. There was a noble, affectionate heart-throb¬ 
bing beneath the crimson vesture, and the sight ot 
these little ones stirred up the tenderest emotions of 
his patriotic soul. I do not know who he was, but 
there and then I sent up a prayer for his safe return 
to the loved ones left behind.” 
Innocence. —What a power there is in innocence 
—whose very helplessness is its safeguard; in whose 
presence even Passion himself stands abashed, and 
stands worshiping at the very altar lie anme to 
deaDoil. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
MIGHTY TO SAVE. 
O, Christian! doth life seem a wearisome way? 
At the thought of its toils art thou filled with dismay? 
Best thou fear in thine own strength it* dangers to brave? 
Then trust thou in Jisstrs—He’s mighty to save. 
Doth it grieve thee to find tblne own wayward heart 
Ib constantly prone from thy God to depart? 
Thinkest thou it murt ever be thug to thy grave? 
No, blessed be .Tksi-w—H e’s mighty to save. 
Both mighty to save and strong to redeem 
From inbred corruption, from fear, and fiom sin; 
To Satan thou noed'et be no longer a slave, 
But made free in Him who is Blighty to anve. 
In seasons of trial, temptation, and doubt, 
Midst fighting within and conflicts without. 
When nigh overwhelmed in forfQW's deep wave, 
Still trust thy Redeemer—Ho’e mighty to gave. 
Have joys that once brightly bloomed faded and fled, 
Have loved ones departed to dwell with the dead, 
And left thee all lonely this side the dark wave? 
Cling close to the Living One, mighty to save. 
Do thorns strew the pathway where once lay the flowers, 
And darkness its shadow cast o'er thy bright hours? 
Remember thy home is beyond the dark grave— 
Trust all in Hi* hands who is mighty to save. 
For soon will thy sorrows below be all past, 
And thou with the ransomed be numbered at last; 
With them sing of vict’ry p’er death and the grave, 
Through Jbscs, the Conqueror, mighty to save. 
Greene, 0., 1861. Nellie K. 
-♦ . ♦ . *- - -- 
’ Writte[i for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE VOICE OF GOD. 
With voices mute, yet strangely eloquent, God 
speaks to us through ail the things His hands have 
formed,— all nature affirms the truth of revelation. 
There is an all pervading power which governs and 
upholds this vast universe,— its fiery volcauoes, 
snow-crowned mountains, forest-robed hills, silvery 
streams aud verdant fields, swarming with life, and 
all so precious in His sight, that not even a sparrow 
falls to the ground unnoted. 
“ The heavenB declare the glory of God,” sang the 
Psalmist thousands of years ago; and now, hb wo gaze 
on the varied phenomena of the skies, the same voice 
speaks to us through the flashing meteor, the deli¬ 
cate, rosy light of the Aurora, the fierce lightning, 
the gorgeous beauty of a golden sunset, the soul-in¬ 
spiring grandeur of the storm-clouds rushing with 
furious haste across the trackless blue, and, 
-“ the glittering star* 
By the deep ear of meditation heard, 
Still in their midnight watches sing of Him." 
Not only the starry world above, hut the beauteous 
earth beneath, In language exquisitely sweet and 
strangely sad, utters wondcrous things of our God,— 
now whispering through the dreamy depths of tho 
forest wilds, where fragrant and richly-tinted flowers 
lift their heads from beds of delicate moss, and silver 
throated warblers untiring sport and sing from 
“ rosy morn till dewy eve,”- then echoing over the 
distant mist wreathed hills, down to the hidden re 
ceases of the cavernous deep, where gray haired sires, 
joyous youth, and prattling childhood, with seaweed 
enshrouded, repose on beds of glittering sheila await¬ 
ing tiie hastening hour, when through the raging 
waters, in thunder-tones resounding, His vou« 
awakes the dreamless hosts below. 
Often, amid the busy scenes and fascinating pleas¬ 
ures of this life, the goddess of this sphere so charms 
and intoxicates our senses that we fail to hear Un¬ 
voice of Him who in tho beginning said, “ Let then 
light,” and from chaos instantaneously sprang forth 
be fiery flashes, and quick at Hiacommund new world* 
Into existence came. But at midnight’s awful Hoar, 
When unseen spirits gather ahout tho loved und dying 
one, as with anguish-riven hearts we watch the fide 
of life ebbing slowly, surety away, and see our hearts, 
most cherished idol crumbling into dust; then float¬ 
ing on the wings of the night through the solemn 
stillness with new awakening oomes the warning 
voice, “ be ye also ready,” and we bow our bends in 
humble submission, though we may have tailed to 
hear, or, in hearing, failed to obey the voice of Gori 
when in toms of love He spoke to us through innum 
me ruble blessings,— bounties bestowed upon us by 
the promptings of His great love toward u*, so free 
and pleanteous, that we, in our abundance, lorgot 
the Giver, instead of rendering unto Him, from 
hearts overflowing with love and gratitude, a jusl 
tribute of praise. F. M. Turner. 
Oxford, N. Y., 1861. 
♦ « ♦ ? » ---- 
Do You want a Congregation? — Get a good 
Sunday school; and if yon want the largest aud the 
best congregation in the town, make your Sunday 
school the best in the town. You cannot do this 
perhaps, in three months, or in six; but you can see 
changes for the better even in as short a period as 
six months, if you will set out for it. Do you 
think that your ends can be secured without liber¬ 
ality in labor, and perhaps pecuniary liberality; net 
to get scholars, but in tho care of those you have. A 
generous course of treatment with your Sunday 
school will verify to you, as readily as you can 
expect, those remarkable words; “Give, and it shall 
be given unto you.” You will he surprised at the 
measure you will get, and find you were never in a 
more paying business.— Methodist. 
♦ ■ ♦ i ♦- 
Study the Bible. —Do you wish to be eminently 
successful in winning souls to Christ? Study the 
Book. This is the two-edged sword that pierces to 
the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, joints snd 
marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and 
iuteuts of the heart. Machinery has been invented, 
which, worked by skillful bands, can furnish to order 
a greater number of nominal converts, manufactured 
in a given period; but “the truth” alone makes 
children of God aud heirs of immortality.— Mc¬ 
Clelland. 
- 4 ■ ♦ »-- 
The Post of Duty. —You have your work to do 
for Christ where you are. Are you on a sick bed . 
Still you have work to do for Christ there, as much 
as the highest servant of Christ in the world. The 
smallest twinkling star is as much u servant of God 
as the mid-day sun. Only live for Christ where you 
are. ^ _ 
“Let the thoughts of a crucified Christ,” said one, 
“he never out of your mind. Let them be jour 
sweetness and consolation, yonr honey and your de 
sire, your reading and your m dRation, youi life, 
death and resurrection.” 
Grace does not destroy nature, but rather perfects 
it. Graee is a noble offspring; it neither turns men 
