that ? " Why, the Gymnosophist hiraself, stand¬ 
ing ujion his pillar in breathless contemplation 
of Ills toes, with bare-head and folded arms, 
unheeding the rising or the setting sun, the 
scorching glare of noonday on the drenchiDg 
dews of night, hardly excels your true fisher¬ 
man in absorbed devotion to one object. 
O if a similar zeal might only be manifested 
in pursuits more worthy of a man’s ambition ! 
Every community in our land Is Infested with 
scores of young men who are “ waiting for a 
bite” —waiting, MiCAwnKR-like, lor “some¬ 
thing to turn up.” They Eeem to be applying 
the “masterly inactivity” principle to civil 
life; and to expect, by present Idleness, to gain 
rich future rewards. They indulge a hope that 
there will, sometime in their lives, be that happy 
concurrence of fortunate events which will 
establish their success; and they believe it would 
be useless to strive nntil that time arrives. But 
alas! for that vaiuest of human expectations! 
They will learn at length that no one is needed 
in this world only as he makes himself so; that 
society never carves out a comfortable and hon¬ 
orable position for any man, and elevates him to 
it gratuitously; but that each one has to strug¬ 
gle and elbow his way through the mass of his 
fellows, before he can get and maintain even a 
solid footing. 
Perhaps we may learn some practical life-lesson 
by observing what the angler deems essential to 
successful fishing. 
In the first place the sportsman ascertains 
what fleh are in season; then he learns where he 
may reasonably expect to take them. These 
two important matters decided, he next inspects 
the condition of his tackle, choosing the kind 
particularly adapted to his purpose, and putting 
it in prime order. Then he prepares the bait 
which experience and observation have taught 
him is the most tempting to the fish at that 
period of the year. All these and other neces- 
h.try provisions being made, he sets out, laugh¬ 
ing at hardships and fatigue, setting hunger, 
cold and danger at defiance. When he has cast 
his line he can afford to “ wait for a bite ” — the 
carp will 6urely come. 
How many yotiDg men, just starting ont in 
life, are waiting for the success they will never 
attain, because they have neglected some one 
or more of these essentials! They are fishing 
out of season; or their tackle Is out of order; 
or their bait not suitable; or they get fatigued 
and lose their patience. Perhaps they heedlessly 
commit the mistake which was made by a certain 
judge, much given to fits of abstraction, whom 
a neighbor found, late one evening, sitting in 
banco by a creek. Approaching him, the gentle¬ 
man saw a little frog squatting on a stone by his 
side, and evidently enjoying the prospect. Call¬ 
ing the judge’s attention to thebatraehian stran¬ 
ger, he asked him what It meant. 
“ Well, I declare,” exclaimed the judicial func¬ 
tionary, “if it isn’t my bait! And there I sup¬ 
pose it has sat ever since nine o’clock this 
morning.” 
Yes. too many young men, who are “ waltlDg 
for a bite," neglect even to throw in their omt. 
The opinion is universal, that patience Is a 
very admirable virtue; and the number of pan¬ 
egyrics which have been written upon it would 
fill volumes. But patience alter all Is of little 
utility in the abseuce of other virtues. L'nac- 
compauled by prudent foresight and earnest 
endeavor, It can accomplish nothing. pAtleuce is 
a virtue in the skillful fisherman who “vexes” 
the streams where fish abound, but It Is folly in 
the little child who dabbles with a pin-hook in 
a pall of water. 
We say then to young men, who still have all 
the world before them, don’t “wait for a bite,” 
nntil you are sure that you have exhausted all 
the resources iu your power to increase the 
chances of your success. When you have done 
this, arm yourselves with fortitude, endure and 
wait—and you will catch your fish. 
nature something of its original glory, some¬ 
thing to tell what it has been, and what it may 
become. There is death, hut there may be a 
resurrection. There arc germs which, 'watered 
by the dews and enlivened by the light God de¬ 
signed for them, will become fair and strong 
growths. We are disappointed iu others be¬ 
cause we forget that “ with the same measure ye 
mete it shall be measured to you again.’i The 
rule holds good whatever the exceptions may 
be. It was Christ who said “ Give, and it shall 
be given unto yon; good measure, pressed 
down, and shaken together, and running over, 
shall meu give Into your bosom.” Exola, 
WAITING FOR CHRIST 
Written for Moore’s Ktiral New 'Sorter. 
THE MUSIC OF THE RAIN 
FAIREST OF THE RURAL MAIDS 
We wait for Thee, all-glorious One! 
We look for Thine appearing; 
We bear Thy name, ami on the throne 
We. see Thy presence cheering. 
Faith even now 
Uplifts Its brow. 
And secs the Lord descending, 
And with Him bliss unending. 
We wait for Thee through days forlorn, 
In patient self-denial; 
Wo know that Thou oar guilt hath borne 
Upon Thy cross of Trial. 
And well may we 
Submit with Thee 
To bear the ctob* and love it, 
Until Thy hand remove it. 
We wait for Thee; already Thou 
Hast all our hearts’ submission; 
And though the spirit sees Thee now, 
We long for open vision; 
When ours shall be 
Sweet rest with Thee, 
And pure, unfading pleasure, 
And life in endless measure. 
We wait for Thee with certain hope,— 
The time will soon be over; 
With childlike longing wc look up 
Thy glory to discover. 
O bliss! to eharc 
Thy triumph there, 
When home, with joy and singing, 
The Lord His saints is bringing. 
[Freon the German of Hiller. 
El- WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, 
BY CLIO STANLEY. 
O fairest of the rural maids. 
Thy birth was In the forest shades; 
Green boughs and glimpses of the sky, 
Were all that met thine infant eye; 
Thy sports, thy wand'rings when a child, 
Were ever in the sylvan wild; 
And all the beauty of the place, 
Is in thy heart, and in tby face; 
The twilight of the trees and rocks, 
Is in the light shade of thy locks; 
Thy step is aa the wind that weaves 
Its playful way among the leaves; 
Thine eyes are springs in whose serene 
And silent waters, heaven is seen; 
Their lashes are the herbs that look. 
On their young figures in the brook; 
The forest paths by foot ^pressed, 
Are not more sinless than thy breast; 
The holy peace that fills the air 
Of those calm solitudes is there 1 
Wren I hear the night wind fretting 
Round my close shut cottage door, 
Telling over all its story of the Autumns gone before, 
I can smile, almost forgetting, 
As the hoarse wind files along, 
Bearing with It doubts and fancies that to darker 
moods belong. 
When I see the sweet sun shining 
Ou the crimson forest leaves. 
And I read there the fair story that its light and shad¬ 
ow weaves, 
When I hear the tender rhyming 
Mt.de by robins in their nest, 
When the5r love is all the sweeter but by being half 
contest.— 
When I hear the gentle purling 
Of the tiny meadow brook 
Telling over its old story to the hidden, mossy nook,— 
When 1 see the faint smoke cnrling 
Up from many a happy home, 
And remember that to-day we two are living, each 
alone; 
Still 1 look and sigh and listen— 
Yet the sigh is not of pain. 
As I linger for the music of old days to come again ;— 
Half remembering, while tears glisten 
In these eyee. nnnsed to weep, 
That I never more may hear it save it rings out in my 
sleep. 
Butalack a-day! when night-fall 
Brings the sobbing Autumn rain, 
Then I live the days of sweet anticipation o'er again ; 
Woman’s grief and bitter wailing 
Come to curse me in their might ;— 
Fond and brief have been the moments when the 
curse was out of sight. 
Oft onr eyes are dim with weeping, 
Oft our voices choked with sighs 
That drift out upon the night-wind toward the chilly 
midnight skies, 
While we sit beside our hearth-stones, 
Thinking o'er the happy past. 
Thinking over days acd hours that were all too bright 
to last. 
Yet the rain has music in it 
For the hearts that laugh to-night, 
For glad soul* that watch the future shining ever clear 
and bright, 
For the happy ones that always, 
In the sun or in the rain, 
Listen for a vanished footstep that is sure to come 
again. 
But for us—the future looketh 
Toward the night when stars are out, 
When the drifting clouds shall gather all the darkness 
o’er the hear!; 
So the rain Calls in the twilight 
Of this gloomy autumn night, 
Dashes ont the faint uprising of the new moon’s holy 
light,— 
OTbi.’e tt stilus ol olden fancies 
That hope am)i. almost ui»u.c , 
Sings of love and trust and quiet that seemed once so 
surely mine: 
Sings or summer sunshine falling 
’Mid the far-off forest trees, 
And the humming of the Joyous, honey-laden little 
bees; 
Of the brook, and of the rhyming 
Of those bird songs in the nest, 
On the day when by the river our young love was first 
confest; 
And I bow my head in sorrow 
For the dream that died away, 
Among the tender shadows of my youth’s bright early 
QUEEN ELIZABETH AS A MUSICIAN 
A graphic account is given by Mr. James 
Melvil, the Scottish Ambassador of Queen Eliz¬ 
abeth’s performance on the Virginal. It is 
quoted in Dr. Rimboult’s work on the piano¬ 
forte:—“After dinner,” writes Melvil, “my 
Lord of Hudson drew me up into a quiet gallery, 
that I might hear some music (but he durst not 
avow 
it)—where I might hear the Queen play on 
the ‘ Virginals.’ Alter I had hearkened awhile I 
took up the tapestry that hung by the door of 
the chamber, and seeing that her back was 
towards the door I entered within the chamber, 
and stood a pretty space from her, hearing her 
play excellently well. But she left off immedi¬ 
ately as 6con as she turned about and saw me. 
She appeared to be surprised to see me, and 
came forward, seeming to strike me with her 
It is hardly a .summer morning; yet, sitting hand, alleging she used not to play before men, 
here in the hollow under the apple tree, I hear but when she was solitary, to shun melancholy. 
the call of the phoebe-bird perched on the ridge 
of the granary, and the clouds float lazily as t hey 
do in hot summer noons, and the monotonous 
green of the forest Is scarcely softened. The air 
is sleeping—not dead. Ton feel that it is living, 
and that a slight cause may waken it in all its 
strength; that its next waves may bring to 
your ear, instead of the droning of insects, 
the roar ol’ the tempest. Yet everywhere 
then seems to be a hushing to rest. There is a 
consciousness that the burden and heat of the 
year are past, and that nature is preparing her¬ 
self for burial. There is motion through all her 
veins, but the pulse has a measured, muffled 
beat. Now a leaf loosens itself from the tree 
and flutters,to the ground, and then the dull 
sound of a falling apple echoes through the 
orchard. The bird call has a quieter tone than 
in the early summer, as if the little heart that 
sent it forth, though true and loving still, had 
ceased to sing in hope of that fullness of joy 
it sang in days ago; as though the romance 
of the spring-time had gone, and while loving 
her none the less, he had learned that his phmbe 
was not an angel, though she have wings; had 
learned to look at the world in a Eober way, had 
become, indeed, a sadder and a wiser bird. 
We are a little inclined to sit down, these 
quiet autumn days, and in our increased worldly 
wisdom grow sad. Somehow, perhaps by the 
hint of death all around us, we are made to feel 
•hat life is real, and that we and others are 
squandering it miserably; are making it any¬ 
thing but sincere and earnest. We reflect that 
we do sometimes have earnest, noble thoughts, 
that we do now and then catch glimpses of a 
higher life and long to live It; but wc look 
around among our associates and say;— “There 
are none to join, none to help me; they are all 
careless and self-satisfied, having no desire for 
better things than their poor lives now give 
them.” 
We are wrong. Yesterday I read in a letter 
from, a friend: — “ I went to see Fannie to-day; 
found the blues had fast hold of her; she hod 
lost respect for herself and was afraid everybody 
had for her; she has been living a useless, aim¬ 
less life, and is tired of it now.”. Fannie we 
knew as a careless, light-hearted girl, whose 
soberest moments were when her chosen ad¬ 
mirer had left her for some new star; whose 
most earnest thoughts were of her dress for the 
next party. And I had met her as the butterfly 
she appeared; had tossed her the thoughts I 
judged she would appreciate and left her, not 
thinking how even then she might be longing 
for sympathy and encouragement in nobler 
things. So friends meet every day, going per¬ 
haps from solitude, where out of the depths of 
their souls they have been drawing precious 
things to enrich their own lives and others’; 
where seeing the treasures which are indeed 
theirs, they had bowed in humble, self-abase¬ 
ment that they had allowed them to lie hidden 
and idle so long; have gone from reflective soli¬ 
tude, where were born noblest resolves and 
highest aims, to meet each other with ull these 
thoughts filling their hearts, only to pass the 
light jest and careless tale, to give each other 
the straws and foam which float on the surface 
of the deep where are buried priceless treas- 1 
ures. Is it any wonder they part, tired and sick 
of themselves and of the world? 
We are not true to ourselves or to others. Do 
we not all feel that the world has not seen the 
best side of our natures—that we have not given 
it the richest gifts in our power? Do we not 
find our best thoughts choked in thu utterance 
aud dying cm our lips, while our lower oika 
come forth without hindrance ? The light or 
hasty thought flows easily from our tongues; 
but the thoughtful or repentant one, Unit comes 
alter, can hardly find words in which to clothe 
itself. How seldom are our best resolves em¬ 
bodied in action 1 We do not live nobly, and so 
The nobleness which lies In others, “sleeping 
but never dead,” springs not in majesty to meet 
our own. 
Neither do we learn wisdom from our own 
experience, but judge others by their exterior. 
So we go mourning all our days because ruin 
and death arc In the land. There is ruin ; hut 
just as we find, in those old, fallen cities, stately 
columns, arches and halls, with carving and 
ornament standing still among the debris by 
which they are surrounded, so we find in man’s 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
SUMMER MORNINGS.-No. VI. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker, 
THE SHEPHERDS OF THE JURA. 
During the early spring, the valleys around 
the base of the Upper Alps furnish pasturage for 
large flocks. At a great altitude, and shut out 
from the light of the sun on all sides by the 
mountains, the herbage is of scanty growth, 
and as the season advances soon becomes ex¬ 
hausted, so that the shepherds are forced to 
seek fresh pasturage farther up the mountain¬ 
sides. Having found a suitable spot they start 
with their flocks upon the toilsome ascent. 
Dark vales and yawning abysses have to be 
crossed, barren wastes and treacherous glaciers 
traversed; and as they advance on their journey 
the wearied and way-worn flocks become dis¬ 
couraged, stray and lag behind, until they can 
neither be led nor driven farther. Then it is 
that the shepherd resorts to an expedient that 
never fails. He takes in his arms a little Iamb 
from the flock, and holding it so that all can see, 
he climbs over the wastes of rock and Ice to the 
sheltered fields of green beyond. The rest of 
the flock follow, lnred onward by the bleating of 
that one little lamb. Finally, the goal is reached, 
whore, in Borne, cloud - encircled glen. Nature 
unfolds her emerald wealth, making summer 
«(>om hut the more lovely from its ley sur¬ 
roundings. 
What a lesson may be drawn from this artifice 
practiced by the simple-minded Swiss shepherd. 
As we toil upward and onward In life’s great 
journey, our pathway at times is rugged, steep, 
and lies through dark ravines “ where there is no 
light.” We long again for the bright scenes 
that lie far below ua In the spring-time of our 
youth; but those pastures are exhausted —it 
cannot be. Before ns lies “ the dark valley of 
the shadow," but onr spirits are faint, and foot¬ 
sore and weary we sink by the wayside. But, 
“ Let us be patient; these severe afflictions 
Not from the grounu arise. 
But oftentimes Celestial benedictions 
Assume this dark diagalsc." 
Then It is that our Good Shepherd takes from 
our flock one in whom Is centered our brightest 
hopes and tenderest feelings, and carrying it 
before ub leads us onward to the bright realms 
above,—making light out of the darkness that 
intervenes, so tfiat we no longer dread the 
shadows that encompass us. Wo seek but to 
reach those green fields In that Haven of Repose, 
where, safe from all harm, under the fostering 
care and guidance of onr Shepherd, we aio at 
rest, and eternal summer reigns. 
Let us not murmur then at what seems to be 
a mysterious and unfathomable dispensation of 
Providence. If all below was permitted to be 
PRESIDENT JOHNSON’S FAMILY 
FEMININE TOPICS 
Autumn, 1 So5. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker, 
WAITING FOR A BITE.” 
It is a trite remark, that if a rogue would only 
apply to some honorable pursuit the Industry 
and ingenuity which characterize his dishonest 
practices, he would surely attain success, if not 
distinction. 
The observation is no less true than trite. 
It is also true that men who have the real, 
native love of “sport” in their composition, 
will often display in their favorite pastimes an 
endurance of hardships, a perseverance amid 
difficulties, a patience under disappointment, 
and withal a thorough relish for these trials 
themselves, which we rarely see manifested in 
the serious occupations of life. 
Take, for example, the disciple of Izaak 
Walton. 
Your fisherman may be a slender man, and 
one of a dyspeptic habit; but he rises betimes, 
lunches on coarse bread and cold meat, shoul¬ 
ders a pack which would moke a porter stare, 
and Is off lor the woods. He tolls over steep 
hills and drags himself through spongy marshes, 
lie never heeds the stinging insects that assert 
“squatter sovereignty” on every inch of brawn 
which he exposes. The penetrating shower, or 
the fierce rays of the noontide sun cannot arrest 
his progress. He reaches the field of his opera¬ 
tions and casts his line, and is straightway 
oblivious of everything but one idea. The 
world recedes from his rapt vision ; the familiar 
scenes of life vanish from memory; the wild 
mid picturesque beauty of his surroundings ap¬ 
peals to him In vain; he “ takes no note of time,” 
aud no space has significance to him except the 
little spot upon which his gaze Is riveted. He 
is “waiting for a bite." 
I declare there is something sublime in that 
ludicrous story which Is related of a gentleman, 
who, passing by a small stream one Saturday 
afternoon, observed u fisherman seated on the 
bank, aud called out to him: 
“ Hallo, there! Got a bite?” 
“Bite, no!” replied the angler; “I came 
here only last Wednesday.” 
Talk about “ Patience on a monument” after 
CHANCE CHIPS, 
