_ 
4©8 
MOOHE’S RBRAL HEW-YORKER. 
C. 21. 
ffafe’ g^artraeat. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
THEN AND NOW. 
BT /HUNT A. HTONB. 
A Yorow I* ringing sweet noil clear 
In tlie leafless ({rove lielow, 
And every nolo of that rippling song, 
And every word, 1 know. 
In my childhood's home I heard it first, 
And my throbbing heart kept time 
To tho words that rang like silver bells, 
And the music of the rhyme. 
The same sweet voire Is singing now 
As it rang in days that are fled, 
But tho magic that chavisied iny soul is lout, 
And my love's young dream Is dead. 
Coold the heavy years bo lifted up 
That are weighing my heart so low, 
The blood might spring »n my cheek again, 
And the fountains of reeling flow. 
Aad yet 1 am listening, pale and still, 
To words that have tilled my heart 
With fir s which tho ice of y ears has cooled, 
Yet never could heal tho smart. 
And the last sweet words go floating pant, 
Love’s life on one frail venture oast 
Grand Rapid*. Mich., 1861. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
FEMALE EDUCATION. 
Woman should beeducated equally with man. The 
mind needs nourishment, it longs for cultivation 
and development,—it desires to he beautifully refined 
and purified. 
Woman should bo educated equally with man be¬ 
cause her capacities are equal. lie may bo superior in 
mere bodily strength, hut not lu mental power. Wo¬ 
men have ranked side by side with men of proudest 
name. We would fail in telling of the Marys and 
Catharine*, Elizabeths and Lady Greys, conn- 
tosses and duchesses who rivaled poets and excelled 
statesmen, who Buhdued kingdoms and routed armies. 
Such cases show the intellectuality of woman. They 
are Indeed striking instances. It may he said that no 
wotnun could stand side by side with Ha CON and 
Newton in philosophy; with Hannibal, Cacsar, and 
Nabulkon, in arms. Hut what have been her oppor¬ 
tunities thus to distinguish herRclf? 
In perception, imagination and sensibility, if not in 
memory, woman is superior to man. Her emotions 
arc more refined, and her affections more lively and 
persistent. None hut a noble woman would ply her 
needle night and day to educate a brother. Who, 
save the poor old grandmother, could deprive her¬ 
self of food and raiment to beep the orphan children 
of a beloved son from the alms-house? 
Woman’s delineations of character are more accu¬ 
rate, and her descriptions of nature more perfect. 
Her views of right arc generally more vivid, and her 
moral impulses more powerful. Pity, gentleness and 
compassion aro among her marked characteristics. 
It is woman that in her pity will administer to tho 
dying invader of her country, even at tho risk of 
her life. 
Surely woman ia worthy of an education as good, 
both in kind and. degree, as man’s, for she is his edit- 
cator. Tho school, the academy, tho college, may do 
much in forming the character of man, but the 
mother more. Show mo an illustrious mother whose 
Bon is not worthy of her. It would bo scarcely pos¬ 
sible. 8ho may be driven by misfortune to the wil¬ 
derness, but even in wood and widowhood she will 
train up a philosopher. 
As soon as the child walks tho earth the mother 1 
begins to givo him some idea of its beauty. As the 
wind howls through the trees at night, she tells him 1 
of the nature of the air ho breathes, so that from tho 
first tho spirit of philosophy shall shut ootidol super¬ 
stition from his mind* As the first ray of the golden 
sun appears in tho east, she begins to teach him the 
law of light. BliO leads him out in the evening, and 1 
as the moon comes forth with her train of stars, sho 
diroots his mind to tho wonders of the great solar 1 
system, and the mind loves to learn that the sun is I 
tho center around which the planetsand their satellites s 
revolve in their respective journeys. c 
Thus that pure young mind, yet unacquainted with 1 
tho evil thoughts of life, is being expanded, being led * 
up in tho paths of truth, and is learning to long for c 
wisdom. Such is woman’s power,—such tho neces- v 
sity of her equal education, O. A. Baxter. b 
Woodhull, N. Y., 1861. k 
MARRIED LIFE. 
In domestic happiness, tho wife’s influence fs much 
greater than her husband’s; for the one, tho first 
cause— mutual love and confidence—being granted, 
tho whole comfort of the household depends upon 
tr/Ues more immediately under her jurisdiction. By 
her management of small sums, her husband’s respec¬ 
tability and credit aro created or destroyed. No 
income can stand the constant leakages of extrava¬ 
gance and mismanagement; and more is spent in 
trifleH than women ran easily believe. The one great 
expense, whatever it may be, is turned over and care¬ 
fully reflected on ere incurred the income Is pre¬ 
pared to meet it; but it is pennies imperceptibly 
sliding away which do the mischief; and this the 
wife alone can stop, for it does not corao wilhin a 
man's province. There is often an unsuspected 
trifle to be saved in every household. It is not in 
economy alone that the wife’s attention is so neces¬ 
sary, but in thoso niceties which make a well-regu¬ 
lated house. An unfinished cruet stand, a missing 
key, a buttonless shirt, a Boiled table cloth, a mustard 
pot with its old contents sticking hsrd and brown 
about it, are severally nothing, but each can raise an 
angry word or discomfort. Depend upon it, there's 
a great deal of domestic happiness in a tidy breakfast 
table. Men grow sated of beauty, tired of music, are 
often too weary for conversation, however intel¬ 
lectual, but they can always appreciate a well-swept 
hearth and smiling comfort A woman may love her 
husband devotedly, may sacrifice fortune, friends, 
family and country for him —sho may have tho 
gcDius of a Sappho, the enchanting beauties of an 
Arm ids.; but — melancholy fact— If, with these, she' 
fail to make his home comfortable, his heart will 
inevitably canape her; and women live so entirely in 
the affections, that, without love, their existence is a 
void. Better submit, then, to household tasks, how¬ 
ever repugnant they may bo to your tastes, than doom 
yourself to a loveless home. Women of a higher 
order of mind will not run tho risk; they know that 
their feminine, their domestic, are their first duties. 
—- ♦ ♦ -+■ • + —— 
MISS FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE. 
inflict IffiSttJlatij), 
The friends of this Inestimable lady will regret to 
learn that her health continues extremely precarious, 
and it will bo seen from the following letter, that 
Miss Nightingale herself appears to entertain but little 
hope of her ultimate recovery: 
“II amtsteah, N. \V., Oct. 22, 18GI. 
“My Dear Rir:- I very well remember the kind¬ 
ness of your 1,800 men when they addressed me some 
years ago from Newcastle. It is tho remembrance of 
that kindness which makes mo feel now that. I must 
answer your note with my own hand, although ill- 
health and overwhelming business seldom ullow me 
to do so, even to my nearest friends. 
“ 1 buvo ventured to send yon, by post, six copies 
of my little book on nursing, which you may find 
useful among your people. Also two books on the 
Crimean army, published some yours ago, and which 
I think I may have sent you before. If so, do not 
trouble yourself to return them. In answer to your 
kind inquiry, I have passed tho last four yearB be¬ 
tween four walls, only varied to other four walls once 
a year; and 1 believe there is no prospect but of my 
health becoming even worse and worse till the hour 
of my release. But I have never ceased, during one 
waking hour since my return to England, five yearn 
ago, laboring for the welfare of the army at borne, as 
I did abroad. And no hour have I given to friend- 
ship or amuaementjjuring that time, hut all to work. 
To that work tho death of my dear chief, Sidney Her¬ 
bert, has been a fatal blow. I assure you It is always 
a support-giving strength to me to find a national 
sympathy with tho army and our efforts for it,—such 
a sympathy as yon express. Believe me, dear Sir, 
sincerely yours, Florence Nightingale. 
[Written fur Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
BROADWAY MUSINGS. 
ST KBO W, DRAI-RR. 
[To Tins Editor:—T hem, lines of mine—written for Mookb'b 
Rural Nkw-Yokkrr —express some of the cogitations and 
queries of a Pluralist on that famous street of mir great 
metropolis-Broadway—G W. D ] 
Wk strolled on big Broadway one day, 
And what do you think thought wo? 
That you, or any other man, 
Could here find much to soe. 
We saw bouquet* of blooming beries, 
With petalit fair apd sweet— 
How strange that flowers so bright will bloom 
On such a stony street. 
We’re seen fair flowers in forest wtW 
And on the prairie wide, 
We’ve seen their smiles in modest vale 
And on the mountain side. 
In those wild haunts the seeds of Art 
Had never yet been sown, 
And “ Nature’s sweet and cunning hand ” 
Won trophies ail her own. 
But here within this ‘mighty mart," 
This “center of thn world," 
Nature lies low beneath “ the rocks* 
Which Art so fiercely hurled. 
A few sad trees are struggling still 
To branch out a la nw/lc, 
Forlornly hoping still to dwell 
In Broadway’s rocky road. 
Since Nature’s breast, so wondrous kind. 
Has here been turned to stone, 
Trees faint and die, and Nature yields 
No sympathetic groan. 
When Adam and hi* loving Evh 
T hrough Eden took their way, 
Hid tbeir prophetic eyes behold 
Their children in Broadway? 
When Evh sewed fig leaves for a dress, 
And longed for nothing more, 
Did she suppose her “girls’’ would trade 
At Stmivart » mammoth store? 
That primal pair knelt all alone 
Unseeu by other people, 
And little thought what crowds would bend 
’Neath Trinity'* proud steeple 1 
They little thought of many things 
That happen in opr day, 
Still lers did Cither ever dream 1 
Of this, our hip Broadway. 1 
Geddes, N. Y., 1861. < 
'- » » ♦ - --- 
(Written for Mooro's Rural New-YorkorJ) 
EVERY-DAY LIFE. 
that while his father is perfectly willing to borrow a 
paper, he is not willing to pay for one. Accordingly, 
- since the war broke out, Zkb. made an arrangement 
with neighbor Nelson, who takes a daily himself, by 
which be receives two, one of which belongs to Zkb. 
individually, he having paid for it out of his own 
savings. Accordingly, while his father supposes he 
is borrowing it, Zkb. receives regularly, and reads Ins 
* ovm paper. Father does not seem to notice that the 
t paper has never been unfolded- that it is received ten 
minutes after tho mail comes in. There is no one 
who listens more eagerly to the news; but he care 3 
little for aught else. It ia wicked to deceive, I know; 
but I had rather risk the evil that follows such decep¬ 
tion, than let rny boys starve for want of knowledge. 
Zkb. saved bis father fifty dollars a few weeks ago, 
by watching the wool market. Ho was on the point 
of selling at low flgnres. Zeb., satisfied that it would 
rise, when sent to tell tho man that he could have it, 
told him ho could no? have it. The next day he told 
his father that wool wiih going up. The buyer of 
course did not come for it. and finally Mr. Nimble 
said be should not have It If be did come. The wicked 
Zeb. was, of course, pleased. Yesterday, the wool was 
Bold at juBt $50 more than it was going for when Zeb. 
blocked the sale. That is only one item of tho boy’s 
capers. He is going to toll his father all about it 
when the right time comes.” 
— “Most excellent checBO —very fine, Mrs. Nim¬ 
ble," I was caroful to say, as we re-entered the 
kitchen. 
“ Cheese are awful low—no profit on cheese this 
•year, said Nkhemiah. 
Zkr. just then came In, and flashed a proud twinkle 
from his eye over to me as he held up his “ borrowed 
paper," at tho same time saying, “ Father, Mr. Nel¬ 
son had not opened this paper to read it when I got 
there, hot be banded it right over to me to take 
homo and read first; don’t you think we ought to bo 
ashamed for asking for it under such <i re am stances?” 
“ Why, if he don’t want to lend it, why don’t he 
| way so? If ho can afford to lend it without reading 
j it, I am sure we can afford to borrow. But it docs 
look rather mean that’s a fact. 
Zkb.’r eyes flashed like meteors, ns ho unfolded the \ 
paper with emphatic jerks. Lead Pencil, Esq-, bade 
tho family “ good evening," and walked home. 
Now 1 happen to knout that the Rural is “bor¬ 
rowed’’ by that family in precisely tliia way; and I 
wish to tell Mr. Nimble (for lie will read this article,) , 
that I regard him excellent material for a traitor. ' 
He would be the first fellow I should select. 
Lkad Pencil, Esq., begs leave to say that this ‘ 
idiosyncracy of Nimble's is meanness with a moun¬ 
tain’s proportions. But it is one of the phases of 
every-day life. 
[Written for Moore’* Rural New-Yorker.] 
REST FOR THE WEARY. 
BT NAROAKKT BLLIOTT. 
Ip I were lying;, stretohefl and atilt. 
With cold hands folded on my breast, 
Oh, blessed respite from Life 1 * ill, 
How calmly, swrotly should I rest! 
I should not think then of the past, 
Its smothered pains, it* buried wrong; 
Ah, no! my lips wonld thru have learned 
From angel lips the angels’ gong. 
Ah, me! Death brings so sweet a rest 
That we, tired children, turn from life, 
Glad to abut out it* loud turmoil. 
Its vain regrets, its ceaseless strife. 
Gainesville, N. Y., 1861. 
A LAND BEHIND THE MOUNTAINS. 
IWrltten for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
ACT NATURAL. 
BY lead pencil, esq. 
COLD UNINVITING ROOMS. 
I Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.) 
A PLEA FOR •• YOUNG LADIES.” 
“It is an uncommon thing to find a young lady now-a 
days that half pays for the food she eats." — Hural New- 
Yorker. 
A “ sweeping assertion ” truly, and as unjust ami 
libelous us it is broad. There may bo “young ladies," 
brought up in all the luxury of wealth, who live in 
selfish indolence and ease, and do not “ hall pay for 
the food they eat.,” but it would bo an “uncommon 
thing" to find such an one in onr country and village 
homes. We believe the majotity fully and fairly earn 
all they get. 
Why, what would yon have us do? Wo knit and 
sew, wo taken willing part in every department of 
domestic labor, and find time to “crochet a little,” 
and read the papers beside. If not needed at home, we 
go out from its protecting shelter and seek employ¬ 
ment elsewhere, toiling in the kitchen, in the shop, 
or in the school room, for tho half pay which is 
allowed to woman for hor labor. What would you 
have more? Is it necessary in order to “half pay for 
the food wo eat" that wc should do all the milking, 
the spinning, and weaving, ns did onr grandmother* 
and great-grand mothers? Some of us even do this, 
but do you not know that the wheel and loom are not 
as generally used now as they oneo were,—that tho 
former was long ugo stored away in the attic, and the 
latter burned for kindling wood? 
\ ou may call us lazy! So would the savage, be¬ 
cause wc do not cultivate the maize, gather the 
wood, and bring home the hunter’s game. You call 
us delicatel Perhaps wo do not possess tho bodily 
vigor and the power of endurance that our ancestors 
did, but we have the strength and ability to take care 
of ourselves, and while we pOMCBB those, Bcorn to bo 
dependent upon any one. 
Yes, wo do earn, not only our food, but our cloth¬ 
ing, our entire living, and in many instances a thor- 
ough, practical education. Omega. 
Jamestown, N. Y., 1801. 
Peokle who arc always talking sentiment, have 
usually no very deep feelings. The less water you 
have in your kettle, the sooner it begins to mako a 
noise and smoke. 
The following from one of Beecher’s recent, ser¬ 
mons, contains a good hint: 
“When yon go into some men’s houses you find tho 
halls gloomy and forbidding. The old pyramids of 
Fgypto.ro not so dark and bleak as tho entrances to 
some dwellings. It seems to mo on though the door 
ought to be the most attractive place in a house, so 
that on approaching It one should feel assured that 
there was hospitality within. A nd the hall should bo 
cozy aud warm. I hate- narrow halls, I bate a hall 
with bare walls, that seem to say, ’Starve! starve! 
starve!' But tho halls of many a house are cold and 
barren and uninviting. And some people keep their 
parlor everlastingly in order, as if It were arranged 
for a funeral; and nobody goes into it without feel¬ 
ing us IT he was at a funeral, except that the minis¬ 
ter and the services aro wanting, The carpet says, 
'Do not touch mo;’ and every chair aud sofa says, 
‘ It is an impertinence to sit on me;' and every piece 
of furniture says, ‘ Let me alone;’ and the whole room 
says, ‘ What are you doing here?’ A man lends you 
through an inhospitable door and a disagreeable bull 
into a stiff parlor; and you say, ‘If the people that 
live here arc like these things, I do not want to have 
anything to do with them.’" 
» - ^ ^ ^ ^ 
Pisai’I’Ointmknt in Marriage.—" Listen, I pray 
you, to the stories of the disappointed in marriage; 
collect all their complaints; hear their mutual re¬ 
proaches; upon what fatal hinge do the greatest part 
of them turn? They were mistaken in the person— 
some disguise, either of body or mind, is seen through 
in the first domestic scnfile; some fair ornament— 
per Imps the very one which wont he heart, the orna¬ 
ment of a meek and quiet spirit—fallH oil'. It is not 
the ltachel for whom I have served. Why hast thou 
then beguiled me? Be open; be honest; give your 
self for what yon arc; conceal nothing; vanish 
nothing; and if these fair weapons will not do, bet¬ 
ter not conquer ut all, than conquer for a day; when 
the night is passed ’twill never be the same story. 
And It came to pass, behold, it was Leah!”— Timothy 
Titcomb. 
Children are a good deal of trouble, no doubt, 
(your mothers made the remark years ago,) but no 
married gentleman’s house is complete without them. 
The tidiest and prettiest fireside in the world is a cold 
affair, in spite of wood or coal, if there are no “olive 
branches" about. Wo have seen such, aud found 
them 
“ Cheerless a* a pew 
In a cold church without .1 lass iir view." 
The sweetest and most satisfactory connections in 
life are those formed between persons of congenial 
minds, equally linked together by the conformity of 
their virtues, and by the ties of esteem. 
When children who aro born with silver spoons in 
their mouths grow up, there is seldom anything of 
them left but tho Bpoous. 
I, The writer hereof has no sympathy with the class 
t who decry ambition—who clothe every continued 
r effort to get more, in the garb of avarice. Lead 
I'kncib, Esq., docs not look on lire with a morbid 
8 mind with an eye swift to detect and magnify 
P ''“-‘HO molehill Idiosyncracies of men’s characters 
,. into mountains of meanness. It is a gratification to 
, be able to dispose of these delicate questions relating 
N t0 the motives of men, by the mental assertion, “Blr, 
, 11 none of your business; you do not, and cannot 
stand precisely where you can look at the same object 
with the same light aDd from the same point that 
' your neighbor docs. Attend, therefore, to your own 
, affairs, if you please, sir." 
I But- 
, 1 down in neighbor Nimble’s kitchen the other 
night —a great, big, back kitchen, with a great, big, 
black stove in it, on which was a great, big boiler, 
containing pumpkin, “stewing to dry," Mrs. Nimbi.h 
told me, when she saw I looked into the steaming mass 
as I passed it; “for,” said she, “Mr. Nimri.k is very 
fond of pics, and pumpkin Ih easily dried, arid makes 
excellent pies, without costing much for sweetening, 
yon know,"- 
“ Which is an all-fired big item these war times, 
I swow," said Nkhemiah Nimble, as he sat in 
one corner of tho large room, astride an apple¬ 
paring machine, which he was plying with great 
vigor, in order to keep l.is two big boys and the two 
bigger hired men employed during the autumn even¬ 
ing. “ I tell you, Mister Pencil, a fellow has got to 
squeeze and Shrew every way these days in order to 
keep the breath of life in him, and things a moving." 
1 consider that I’ve seen sumo hard times in my day. 
When I used to wear tow breeches all winter, and 
live ou bean porridge,"- 
“Hot or cold?" abruptly asked a wicked-looking, 
blaclt-eytd youngster, called Zeb. Nimble, tbe young¬ 
est of the family. 
“You slict up, sir, and look out that you don’t 
cut, away so much of that tipple with the core. Don't 
let me see such a big core as that cut from an apple 
again, Hir!-and, us 1 was saying, I’ve seen some 
hard times In my day, but I swow, never anything 
like this; we have to dig night and day, and don’t get 
on much, mither. The fact is, our Government don’t 
seem to care how much wo do spend to put down 
this infernal rebellion, and- 
“ Father, I've finished them apples; now mayn’t I 
run down to Mr. Nelson’s and borrow bis paper? 1 
beard Jim Crow say to day that Washington was 
took, and Lincoln had put to Bea in a canal boat to 
escape tho Seteah. I reckon there’s stirring news by 
this time say. mayn’t I go?" and the young hopeful, 
Zitn., winked one of his black eye* at Lead Pencil, 
Esq , and a* he stooped to pick up his knife he had 
let lull on purpose, he whistled and murmured in my i 
ear, “O wind a whopper!.—but father wont take n i 
paper, and fie don’t know any better." 
“Yes, run right down ua quick as you can, Zeb.— i 
be spry abt nt it and tell Mister Nelson that I hope i 
he won't t! ink that we Want to sponge bis papers to 
read. I vow, It’s jnst us I uxpeoted; they’ve likely got i 
Washington and the White House and them Patent i 
Office see ls, and all in spite of Old Scott and all tho < 
rest of ’em.” I 
“ Why! don’t yon take any paper, Mr. Nimble?" ? 
“ No, sir; I made up my mind three years ago that t 
Pd never have another paper in my house. They are ( 
a distraction to me; and 1 can't get my boys or men I 
to do anything of an evening when tbcre’B a paper j 
about; it is read, read, read, and they burn out more i 
candles than they corn during thn day. Why, sir, l 
my Z b. there, is crazy most of the time nf ter papers, s 
and argues with mo that it is economy to take a half <: 
dozen I But I won’t have ’em around me, — do hurry i 
up, Zeb., and get that paper of Nelson's; I want to l 
know what the news is." t 
There was on exchange of significant glances 
between Zkb. and Ms mother; the lutterinvited Lead r 
Pencil, Ebq., to go and see her cheese, and Zeb. L 
bounded out of the door. Once in the cheese-room, o 
Mrs. Njmbi.k said, “Zeb. insisted 1 should tell you h 
Foa conscience sake, whatever you do, act natural. 
Don’t put on airs und try to imitate somebody, else 
yon only make a fool of yourself. You may mince, 
and simper, and wriggle, and twist, it. is all the 
same if it Is not natural,— people will soe through it 
and make fun of you. Don't feel so big because the 
wealthy Mr. Blank happens to notice you a little, or 
you chance to be better dressed than your neighbor. 
Ono person is no better than another in this country, 
except as he behaves better. Act natural, uct as 
though you had some sense. When you talk, talk 
natural. It is no sign of a smart man that you are 
obliged to carry a dictionary in your pocket in order 
to on ill ratand him. The best educated use the sim¬ 
plest words. When yon write, write natural. Bo 
original. Don't try to palm off some other person’s 
thoughts for your own. If yon hav’nt got any 
thoughts, lay down yonr pen ntid keep yonr head 
shut. Don't give ns a “ wishy washy” mixture com 
posed of hits gleaned from different writers, but pur¬ 
porting to come from the brain of Miss Angelina 
Serai-tuna Dolabkli.a Twiggs. Why, you can’t 
deceive anybody. Bbkohek has a style of his own; 
Fanny Fern ia Fanny Feiin everywhere; none but 
Bryant cun write bis poetry; und when you tiro silly 
enough to try to Imitate them, you must not wonder 
if you make yourself ridiculous, I don’t believe we 
should be troubled with quite as much sloppy literu* 
ture as we are. There are enough in the world who 
can write,— and I wish to goodness that those who 
can’t would be silent. But my text is, act natural; 
and I s»y it again, whatever you do — whether you 
eat, drink, walk, or talk—bo natural. It makes yon 
look and feel better in ail places. “ Thus endeth the 
first lesson.” x. 
November 1861. 
' J The little child was dying. Ilia weary limbs were 
racked with pain no more. The flush was fading 
t from bis tbin cheeks, and the fever that had been for 
weeks drying tip bis blood, was now cooling rapidly 
under the touch of the Icy bund that was upon him. 
There were sounds und tokens of bitter but sup¬ 
pressed grief in that dim chamber, for the dying boy 
was one very dear to many hearts. 
s They knew that he was departing, and the thought 
was hard to bear, but (hey tried to command their 
j feelings, t hat they might not disturb the last moments 
of their darling. 
t The father and mother, and the kind physician 
stood beside dear Eddy’s bed, and watched his heavy 
5 breathing. He had been silent for some time, and 
, appeared to sleep. They thought it micht be thus 
that he wonld pass away; but suddenly his blue eyes 
r opened wide and clear, and a beautiful smile broke 
; over his features. He looked upward and forward 
first, then, turning his eyes tipon his mother’s face, 
said in a sweet voice: “Mother, what 1 b the name of 
the beautiful country that I see beyond the mount¬ 
ains—the high mountains?” 
“I can see nothing, my child,” said the mother; 
“there aro no mountains in the sight of our house.” 
“Look there, dear mother,” said the child, point¬ 
ing upward, “yonder aro the mountains. Can yon 
soe them now?” ho asked in tones of the greatest 
astonishment, as his mother shook her head. 
“They aro near me now —bo large and high; and 
behind them the country looks so beautiful, and the 
people are so happy— there are no sick children therel 
I’apa, can you not see behind the mountains? Tell 
me the name of that land." 
The parents glanced at each other, and with united 
voice*replied: “Tho land you see is heaven—is it 
not, my child?" 
“Yes, it is heaven. I thought that muBt bo the 
name. Oh, let me go-but how shall I cross those 
mountains? Father, will you not carry me? Take 
me In your arms and carry me, for they call me from 
the other side, and 1 must go." 
There was not a dry eye in that chamber, and 
upon every heart thorn fell a solemn awe, as if tho 
curtain which concealed its mysteries was about to 
ne withdrawn. 
“ O, mother—O, father! do not cry, but come 
with me and cross the mountains—oh, come!" and 
thus he entreated with a strength and earnestness 
which astonished all. 
The chamber was filled with wondering, awe¬ 
stricken friends. At length ho turned to his mother, 
with a face beaming with rapturous delight, and 
stretching out his little arms for the last embrace, ho 
cried, “Good-by, mother, I am going, but don’t you 
be afraid the throng man has oome to carry mo 
over tho mountains." 
These were his parting words. Upon his mother’s 
breast he breathed bis last, and they laid the little 
fair body down again upon the pillows, and closed 
tho lids over tho beautiful blue eyes, over which the 
mist of death had guthored heavily, and bowing by 
tho bedside they prayed with submissive but bleed¬ 
ing hearts, and said: “ The Lord gave, and the Lord 
taketh away: blessed bo tho name of the Lord." 
-——-- 1 + - . _ 
RE-UNION IN HEAVEN. 
THE DEATH OF TIIE WAR HORSE. 
Very Hno things have been said and painted about 
the death of the stag, tho death of the boar, und kin¬ 
dred subjects, but much more terrible and impressive 
is the death of tho war horse. Tho war steed is noble 
as he “pawetli in the valley and rejoiceth in bis 
strength!" He is fearful in the pride of his onset, 
snorting and tramping like the White horse of Hen- 
gist in the front of the battle; and ruBhing with 
his rider through the fiery turmoil of the thundering 
fight! 
“ Neigh in thy pride, my courser brave— 
Trample beneath thine hoof tyrant and slave!” 
But he is most terriblo in his grandeur as ho “saith 
among tho trumpets Ha! Ha!" his fury roused by a 
mortal stroke! When that yourigand gallant soldier, 
Col. Wm. H. Lytle, left Cincinnati at the head of the 
10th Ohio regiment, certain of his friends presented 
him with a splendid black charger. That it was as 
lino a horse for martial purposes as ever reveled in 
the pastures of Ohio or old Kentucky, we were assured 
at the time, and wc believed it, for we knew the man 
who selected him—* dealer fit to have bought and 
sold Bucephalus himself. This horse Col. Lytle rode 
iu the late battle on the Gauley river, in Western 
Virginia, where Floyd defended his lntrenchments 
uutil dark, and then lied with precipitation under 
cover ol' the night. Then and there the noble black 
charger died "in harness,” while his gallant, rider 
fell before the enemy’s embrnzures, stricken with a 
severe, but happily not mortal wound. With ringing 
shout and bloody spur und saber flourished high, tlie 
Colonel was leading ou his valiant men to charge 
Floyd’s intrenchment, when a shot struck his leg and 
passed through it into the body of bis horse. Almost 
upon the parapet they were. The wounded leg had 
loBt its clip, and with a mad bound into the air the 
steed threw his rider. Still with bis front to the 
cannons of the foe, welling up life-blood and snorting 
with a frenzied fury, the war-horse made another 
bound or two. cleared at one lust leap tho parapet of 
the intrenched camp, und falling, died inside. 
The foe, with boundless admiration at the chival¬ 
rous courage of the man, thought they had killed 
him; and then dividing his pistols and accoutre¬ 
ments among their officers, lamented the death of 
his gallant black horse.— Wilkes' Spirit. 
How short is the earthly history of a family! A 
few short years, and those who are now embraced in 
a family circle will bo scattered. The children, now 
the objects of tender solicitude, will have grown np 
and gone forth to their respective stations in the 
world. A few years more, and children and parents 
will have passed from this earthly stage. Their 
names will be no longer beard in their present dwell¬ 
ing. Their domestic Iovcb and anxieties, happiness 
and sorrows, will be a lost and forgotten history. 
Every heart in which it was written will be moldering 
in the dust. And is this all? Is this the whole satis¬ 
faction which is provided for some of tbe strongest 
feelings of our hearts? How can such transitory 
beings, with whom our connection is so brief, engage 
all the love we can feel? Why should not our feel¬ 
ings toward them he as feeble and unsatisfactory as 
they? But blessed be God, this is not all. Of this 
ho has given us perfect assurance in the Gospel of his 
Son. Though to the eye of an unenlightened nature 
the ties of domestic love*eem scattered into the dust, 
the spiritual eye of faith perceives that they have 
been loosened on earth, only to be resumed under far 
happier circumstances in the region of everlasting 
bliss and love. Though the history of a family may 
*ecm to be forgotten when the last member of it is 
laid in the grave, the memory of it still lives with 
immortal souls, and when tho circle is wholly dis¬ 
solved on earth, it is again completed in heaven. 
-» i » —» -- 
There ark no Trifles. —There are no such things 
as trifles in the biography of man. Drops make up 
the sea. Acorns cover the earth with oaks, arid the 
ocean with navies. Hands make up the bar in the 
harbor’s mouth, on which vessels are wrecked; and 
little things in youth accumulate into character in 
age, and destiny in eternity. All tho links in that 
glorious chain which is in all and around all, we can 
see and admire, or at least admit; but the staple to 
which all is fastened, and which is the conductor of 
all, is the Throne of Deity. 
»•♦»■»- 
Desponding Christians. — When in a despondent 
mood, look on the good things which God has given 
yon in such bountiful profusion, and at tho greater 
good things which he has promised you in the next 
world, and a cheerful gratitude may take tho place of 
despondency. Don’t dwell on the dark side of 
things, but on life’s brighter aspects. “ He who goes 
into bis garden to Reek for cobwebs and spiders, no 
doubt will find them; while ho who looks for a 
flower may return into hiB house with ono blooming 
in bis bosom.” 
