little to understand what thou gayest of its 
manuer of rewarding. Grant me only a mo¬ 
ment’s consideration, or let us hear another 
judge in the matter.” 
“Well,” said the serpent, “be the latter 
granted thee.” 
Hereupon 6he drove him along the heath 
towards a bush, under which she had perceived 
the form of an .animal. There they found an 
old, worn-out hunting-dog, who, bound to a 
willow trunk, strove with painful efforts to 
defend himself against the swarms of flies that 
plagued him. 
“ How earnest thou in this critical plight, 
6ince I 60 lately saw thee full of courage, racing 
in the fields after the hares?” questioned the 
serpent. 
But the poor dog whined bitterly, and gave 
his answer: 
“ Such is the world’s reward and the common 
requital of merit. After having served my mas¬ 
ter six long years with zeal and fidelity, and 
made my name formidable far and near to the 
whole race of hares, he has tied me now to this 
tree, and I await bis hunter, who will send me 
from his gun the lust reward.” 
The poor man shuddered, body and soul; for 
now the serpent stretched out the hideons rings 
of her body in order to devour him. No salva- 
vation could be thought of, and therefore he 
prepared himself, in the name of God, to receive 
the fatal bite. Bat lo! before he was aware, a 
fox, who had been listening secretly under a 
bush near by, sprang forth. He stepped be¬ 
tween them both iu a very triendly manner, 
questioned them about the subject of their dis¬ 
pute, and by a hint which the Berpent did not 
perceive, he assured the woe-begone man of 
deliverance if he would promise a certain num¬ 
ber of chickens as a reward. The peasant 
eagerly assented, and the fox now pressed for a 
circumstantial explanation of the matter. The 
si rpent acquiesced, to the astonishment of the 
I'oor man, and conducted them hack again to 
the mark-stone. There arrived, the fox stood 
dubious and mute, surveyed the stone, shook 
his head and tail, and thus began with a rhe¬ 
torical air: 
“ Dear, beautiful and wise serpent! 
A SWEET PHILOSOPHY, 
Tun celebrated teacher, Rabbi Meir, sat dur¬ 
ing the whole of one Sabbath day in the public 
school, instructing the people. Daring his ab¬ 
sence from the honse, his two sons died, both 
of uncommon beauty, and enlightened in the 
law. nis wife bore them to the bedchamber, 
laid them upon the marriage bed, and spread a 
white covering over the bodies. In the even¬ 
ing the Rabbi came home. 
She reached Win the goblet. He praised the 
Lord at the going out, drank and asked : 
“ Where are my two sons, that I may give them 
my blessing? 1 repeatedly looked around the 
school, and 1 did not see them there. Where 
are my sons, that they too may drink the cup of 
blessing?” 
“ They will not bo far off, ” she said, and 
placed food before him that he might eat. 
He was In a gladsome and genial mood, and 
when he had said grace after the meal she thus 
addressed him: 
“Rabbi, with thy permission I would fain 
propose to thee one question.” 
“ Ask it then, my love,” be replied. 
“A few days ago a person entrusted some 
jewels to my custody. He now demands them 
again. Shall J give them up ?” 
“ This is a question,” said Rabbi Meir. “ which 
my wife should not have thought it necessary to 
ask. What! wouldst thou hesitate or be reluc¬ 
tant to restore to every one Ms own?” 
“No,” she replied; “but yet I thought it 
best not to restore them without acquainting 
thee therewith.” 
She then led him to the chamber, and stepping 
to the bed, took the white covering from the 
dead bodies, 
“ Ah, my sons, my sons!” loudly lamented the 
father. “ My sons, the light of my eyes and the 
light of my understanding! 1 was your father, 
but you were my teachers in the law.” 
The mother turned away and wept bitterly. 
At length she took her husband by the hand and 
said: 
“ Rabbi, didst thou not teach me that we must 
not be reluctant to restore that which was en¬ 
trusted to our keeping? See, the Lord hath 
taken away, and blessed be the name of the 
Lord.” 
“Blessed be the name of the Lord echoed 
Rabbi Meir; “ and blessed be His name for thy 
sake too, for well is it written, who hath found 
a virtuous wife hath a greater treasure than 
costly pearls. She openeth her month with wis¬ 
dom, and her tongue is the law of kindness.” 
Written for Moore’s Rural New Vorker 
LEAD ME GENTLY. 
Tarry linger in the garden walk, 
Talking a* only lovers talk, 
Sweet, foolish trifles, love's delight! 
With joy and faith their faces bright. 
Sometimes she stops and plncke a rose, 
To hide the truth her sweet blnsh shows: 
Scattering the rose leaves in the air, 
A dainty shower o'er faco and hair— 
With laughing looks she sees them fly. 
Then sudden stops and breatheB a sigh; 
For youth and love as soon are gone, 
And death and age are hastening on. 
He gathers from the garden plot, 
A tuft of pale rorget-me-not; 
She takes them with a careless jest, 
Then hides them in her snowy breast. 
He lays a rose-bud in her hair, 
Whispering she is wond’rbn* fair: 
While tenderly his loving hands 
Linger o’er the rippling bands. 
They pause to watch the evening sky, 
And see the golden sunlight die; 
A squirrel startled from its lair 
Breaks the calm quiet of the air. 
She trifles with her golden curie, 
Till the bright flag the wind unrurls, 
And blows a trees across his face— 
Touching his lips with soft embrace. 
They reach the great hall door at last, 
He holds her slender fingers fast, 
Then kieses them, as well he may, 
While she, all blushing, speeds away. 
[Saturday Evening Poet. 
BT ENOLA, 
O, what are bney towns unto me; 
Or rivers rolling on to the sea; 
Where the clatter of tne mill 
All the air with noise doth fill; 
And by day and night the car 
Comes and goes with thundering jar 
O’er ihe lea. 
Father, lead me; gently lead me; 
Go before me throngh this life; 
Hands are weak and feet are falt’ring; 
I am fainting with the strife. 
Lead mo with thy strong hand, gently, 
For the path is steep and wild ; 
Thon hast sorely chastened. Father, 
I was but a wayward cbi cl, 
And thy strokes were just, though heavy 
I'U not murmur at thy will; 
Only midst the clouds and darkness, 
Grant that I may trust thee still. 
Lead me gently; far above me 
Stretch the heavens as burnished brass, 
And beneath, the earth is iron 
Where my weary feet must pass. 
Snares and pitfalls, raging waters, 
Lie berore me on my way. 
And my eyes with tears are blinded, 
1 have lost the light of day. 
Lead me gently that I fall not; 
Through the waters be my guide; 
That I stray not in the darkness, 
Be thou ever by my side. 
Nay, I’m sinking; crushed and bleeding 
At thy feet I helpless lie; 
Take me lu tby arms, O Father t 
Lest I huger here and die. 
If I need the wound, strike deeply; 
If the fire, let flames draw nigh; 
By thy pow’r the wonnds shall heal me, 
And the fire shall purify. 
Only let tby arms support me, 
On thy bosom reet my bead; 
Lead me gently, Father, gent'y, 
While the weary way I tread. 
Then farewell to weary toil and care, 
And a welcome to the wild woods rare 
Far from busy mart and shore; 
From the farm honse and the store; 
There, sweet rest mid sunny glades, 
Or, beneath refreshing shades, 
We will share. 
Where the gray crested mountains uprear 
To the clouds their old summits so drear: 
Where from fonnt and sparkling rill, 
Nestling lakes their bosoms fill; 
There, from hill and streamlet pure, 
Nature's treasures we will lure 
For onr cheer. 
With our comrades well chosen and tried, 
O’er the dark flowing waters we’ll glide, 
Where the Deer his thirst doth 6lakc 
By the river or the lake; 
Where the owl doth hoot by night, 
And the Loon hath most delight 
To abide. 
With rifle in our hand we will sail; 
ADd its crack soon shall tell on the gale 
Of the sport we love eo well 
As we hunt iu shady dell:— 
And we’ll watch the thrilling sound, 
From the hill side, of the hound, 
On the trail. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
WORDS OF COMFORT. 
The day is very dark. Through Bwaying 
boughs no sun rays fall to lure the grass and 
flowers to quicker, fresher growth. Under the 
sheltering leaves the bird6 sit dumb, and the 
hurrying clouds drift nearer and nearer. 
My heart is dreary, as well as the day, and I 
long for light to gladden my sonl, as I know it 
will brighten the cloody sky. Behind the clouds 
the sun is 6hlning as brightly as it ever shone, 
and to-morrow the flowers will bloom, the birds 
will sing, and the turf be fresher for the rain 
that washes off' the dust . So behind the clouds of 
sorrow that lower so heavily, there are brighter 
days and hopes that as yet my eyes — tear- 
blinded — fail to see ; and the dust of pride and 
arrogance that days of prosperity have blown 
over my better nature, this bitter rain is beat¬ 
ing off. 
“Our times are in God’s hands, and all our 
days are as our needs.” He who notes the spar¬ 
row’s fall cannot forget His children. “So, 
while we lay onr sorrows at God’s feet, and 
leave all there that He permits, let us bear the 
memory of our griefs about us as a precious 
tiling, hallowing the paths wherever onr feet 
ma6t tread, hallowing the words of our lips and 
the desires of onr hearts; and if the sunlight be 
less joyous, and the song of birds be less grate¬ 
ful than of yore, let us still appreciate the 
loveliness which is a type of that world where 
our treasure is garnered.” 
All arc not dead who sleep, and at the last, 
when the waves of death have swept above our 
earth-worn sandals, the sun that set to ns on 
earth mar rise in brighter glory, and resting in 
the sunlight of God’s smile we shall forget 
earth’s care and sorrow. 
Mourner for some cherished friend, why 
spend the days and hours in unavailing grief? 
If your beloved one went down the dark valley, 
sustained and strengthened by the presence of 
our precious Redeemer, why shed such bitter 
tears ? A little while ago we pressed a kisB upon 
their trembling lips, and murmured 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker, 
“THY WILL BE DONE,” 
When the night is all dark we will “ float,” 
’Mong the lilies we’ll paddle our boat 
Till we hear the splashing feet,— 
’Tis the sound wc love to greet,— 
Soon shall flash the glaring eye, 
That, of danger drawing nigh, 
Takes no note. 
VII. 
O, wherefore did you stop foolish one. 
On the strange light to gaze till undone - 
For the deadly ball is ready, 
And onr aim is true and steady,— 
And you never more shall see. 
From the mountain wild and free, 
The bright sun. 
vm. 
To our camp with the prize we’ll repair, 
Where the bright blazing fire throws its glare 
Then, out-stretched upon the ground, 
With the darkness all around, 
We’ll the watchful hour prolong, 
With our hunting tiles and song, 
Free frl'm care. 
Although 
I doubt of thy right as little as I do of the 
charms of thy queenly body, yet I cannot con¬ 
ceive how thy stately form could find room in 
this narrow hole. If I must be an equitable 
judge, this matter must appear clearly and 
plainly before me.” 
“Of that I will immediately convince thee,” 
said the Berpent, gliding at the same time into 
the hole, wherein she was before concealed. 
Scarcely was this done, when, upon the hint 
of the fox, the man turned the stone over her 
so cleverly, that she was hardly able to stretch 
lorth her head from under the burthen. 
“ Was it possible,” exclaimed the fox, with 
great satirical astonishment, “ that thou couldst 
as much as breathe in this inconvenient posi¬ 
tion?” “Yes,” replied the other, “but lift, 
this stone from my back, or I am dead.” 
She groaned forth these words painfully from 
her compressed throat; but the more pleased 
peasant answered her merrily: 
“ No, no, my lady serpent, we shall take care 
not to do that;” aud he and his shrewd deliverer 
cheerfully withdrew. 
When they had gone a part of their way, the 
fox reminded his companion of his engagement. 
He promised him for the coming morning a de¬ 
licious breakfast of Bix hens from his roost, 
whereupon the fax bade him a friendly farewell, 
and directed his way toward a vineyard. 
The other hastened now with eager steps to 
his village, but even before he saw his cottage 
he heard from the distance the clamorous voice 
of his impatient wife; and scarcely had he 
Submission to the will of God is one of the 
first and most important lessons in the Christ¬ 
ian life. Our Saviour taught it everywhere by 
example, and He makes it important in precept 
by placing it in the prayer which He gave to 
His disciples. He tells us to pray to the Father 
that His will be done on earth as it is in Heaven. 
The true and earnest expression of this prayer 
comes only from a heart oveiflowing with lore 
for God. It asks that we may how to His will, 
whatever be our own. It should be something 
more than a prayer for submission to the con¬ 
trolling will of our Heavenly Father, and some¬ 
thing more than an expression of submission t» 
His will in Buffering; though these are neces¬ 
sary uud C'hrlst-like. The desire of the heart 
should also be for submission to His will of 
command. To obey the will of God perfectly, 
or as it is obeyed in Heaven, we must not only 
be something, but wc must do something. When 
PAUL first saw the Saviour and heard the voice 
of Chhist, on his way to Damascus, he cried 
out, “Lord what wilt Thou have me to do?” 
This is the first utterance of the redeemed soul, 
and it i6 as appropriate ns it is natural. 
Our Saviour manifested this perfect, three¬ 
fold submission to the will ol the Father. 
“Even Christ did not please himself.” The 
very words of this petition fell from His divine 
lips, when in that terrible agony iu the Garden 
He prayed that, if possible, that cup might pass 
from Him. He realized in His own life the in¬ 
fection which lie teaches his followers to emu¬ 
late. It was God’s all controlling will that 
His only begotten Son should die for us. To 
this Christ bowed in submission. It was the 
Father’s will that Christ should suffer. 
The drops of blood upon Tils brow attest His 
agony, yet He docs not murmur. “ As a lamb 
led to slaughter, so He opened not ITls mouth." 
He omitted nothing which it was the Father's 
will that He should do. 
FEMININE TOPICS, 
Church, the artist, is said to be engaged paint¬ 
ing a “Waterfall” which recently attracted his 
attention on Broadway. 
The Boston Post says that three hundred 
orphan girls—daughters of soldiers—are among 
the spinsters who leave for the West on the 
30th inst. 
A woman in Ayr, Scotland, found in the cen¬ 
ter of a potato a gold wedding ring, which the 
ambitious tuber must have inclosed in the pro¬ 
cess of growth. 
“ The greatest wonder of the day ” 
O, what is there that hath such delight. 
As the life that we lead day and night. 
With our home where’er we stray 
From the tolling world away; 
Then let ns ever cherish, 
Till heart and tnem’ry perish, 
Scenes eo bright. 
Rochester, N. Y. 
in London 
is a female “ baby actress," aged two years and 
ten days, who can recite and act a whole Beene 
from King John. 
An Old Maids’ Aid Society was organized 
at Warsaw, Indiana, last week. It has a flour¬ 
ishing membership of thirty. Unmarried gen¬ 
tlemen are requested to attend ths meetings. 
A London correspondent says that Adelina 
Patti 6till “6ings like a bird,” but she is not as 
pretty as she was three or four years ago. Her 
chin is longer and her expression of passionate 
feeling is stronger. 
An editor says his attention was first drawn to 
matrimony by the skillful manner In which a 
pretty girl handled a broom. Another editor 
I says the maimer in which his wife handles the 
broom is not so very pleasant. 
Two hundred ladies and gentlemen attended 
an old fashioned husking Jrolic at Brighton, 
Massachusetts, on the Gth inst. They husked 
about two hundred bushels, and found enough 
red ears to make the occasion pass off pleas¬ 
antly. 
A sensitive wife has sent the following lines 
to an exchange to publish: 
My husband slept—he dreamed a pleasing dream, 
For sunny smiles across his face did beam: 
He dreamt of me, for oft be murmured *• Pet.” 
I pressed him to my heart, close, closer yet, 
To driuk into my ear the precious word: 
A'sb 1 it was PET-ro-ta/m I heard. 
As a specimen of early marriages, none is 
more remarkable than that of one of the Hol- 
kar’s sons at Indore lately, 
1 From the German of Gaal — Translated for Moore’s 
Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE WORLD’S SEWARD. 
On one sultry mid-day, a poor countryman, 
fatigued and exhausted frem the burden of the 
vegetables that he Lad carried to the town, was 
dragging himself back to his homely little vil¬ 
lage, Although he knew that his quarrelsome 
wife awaited him with impatience, and that 
each retarded step would give new sharpness to 
her slanderous tongue, yet the heat was so 
oppressive that he was obliged to lay himself 
down near the “mark-stone” of a field to take 
a quarter hour’s rest. But under the 6tone, 
which to all appearance had been displaced by n 
recent flood, or by some accident, was an im¬ 
mense serpent. When she perceived the man, 
she stretched forth her head and called to him 
with anxious hissing, thus: 
“Welcome, good stranger! Have pity on 
me and free me from the burden of this mon¬ 
strous stone, which every moment threatens to 
crush me to death.” 
The peasant started not a little at the famil¬ 
iarity of tbiB address from so misanthropical an 
auitnal, yet he felt compassion nevertheless; and 
when the serpent still more piteously urged him, 
and said : — “I Conjure thee liy thy mercy, save 
me, and I will reward thee as richly for it as the 
world has ever rewarded benefits” — the good- 
natured man deliberated no loDger, but with 
much trouble wheeled the stone away. 
But how terrified was he, when the delivered 
monster suddenly rushed upon him with all her 
fury, and breathing forth her poison threatened 
to devour him. Scarcely knowing what, he was 
about, trembling in every limb, he stuttered: 
“ Is this the reward thou payest to tby de¬ 
liverer ?" 
The serpent answered very coolly : 
“ Thus the world rewards benefits, and noth¬ 
ing else have I promised thee.” 
These words increased the consternation of 
the peasant still more. Nowhere appeared 
any escape — nowhere help, 
God keep 
you! ” to dear friends whom we might not meet 
again for years. We deeply feel their absence, 
yet with a quiet sorrow that knows the thrill of 
hope we wait for a day of glad re-union. Still, 
those friends may prove recreant to the vowb ot 
friendship; for the world has stepped between 
many loving hearts, and our loved ones are not 
parted so far from U6 by the stream of death, as 
they often are by the changes that life brings. 
But those who loved ns when we stood beside 
their solemn death-beds, we believe will love ns 
with a stronger and purer affection than earth 
knows of, when they wait to welcome ns upon 
the river’s farther shore. 
What a blessed thought it is which come6 to 
the stricken mourner day by day as a message 
from Heaven, that our “loved and lost” are at 
rest, though we are in tears! Why, then, mourn 
that they have secured eternal respite from the 
cares and troubles of this weary world? Sel¬ 
fish must our sorrow be, if we begrudge them 
rest with Christ and peace in Heaven. They 
have but gone home o little while before, and 
when wc are called to put away this mortal life, 
whm leaning on the blessed promises, and fear¬ 
ing no evil, we have passed through the valley, 
throngh the shadow, we shall see them all on 
the Heavenly shore: the old man who tot¬ 
tered on, 
** Till, like a clock worn out with eating time. 
The wheels of weary li fe at last stood still; ” 
the gentle 6i&ter who, long years ago, spake 
with U3 on earth no more; the noble friend 
whom death met on the. field of battle, and the 
spotless babe that, on a summer day, went hack 
to Heaven again. We shall greet them all, the 
sinless and the sin-fergiven, and through the 
endless cycles of eternity we shall miss no more 
the friends we mourn to-day. 
11 s encountered every 
task in meek submission; nor did Ho shun a 
single pang which the justice of God demanded. 
Ho bore the full penalty of our sins. Ho did the. 
will of God as it is done in Heaven. Let us but 
be like Him in our submission to God’s will aud 
wc will follow the Heavenly pattern. 
To do the will of God we must know what 
His will is. Of His controlling will as it finds 
expression In the great constitution of the uni 
verse wc cun know but little. That is a govern¬ 
ment where nun has no voice aud no power of 
resistance. The human mind is too weak to 
grasp such an economy. But we may know 
God’s will of command. It comes to us through 
the medium of revelation. Christ has taught it 
to us by precept and by example. The Holy 
Spirit holds it up before our eyes. Obedience 
itself lights up new paths of duty; and contin¬ 
ued prayer inspires us with new knowledge of 
the will of God. How important it la then that 
we should strive by every means to know the 
will of God; and how sacred Is the responsi 
bility of imparting the knowledge of it to others. 
It is only with such a spiritual attainment that 
the Christian should be satisfied — that he inujr 
look up to his Heavenly Father, uud without a 
murmur, without a thing left undone which he 
ought to have doue, without a single command 
unheeded or disobeyed, say .—Thy will be done. 
Such submission to the will of God would make 
our lleaven begin on eart h; and our happiness 
here would be truly that of lleaven, differing 
not in kind but only in degree. There would be 
no more eln ; Satan would be forever chained, 
The bridegroom is 
only six years old and the bride three years old. 
The head ornaments of one of the elephants 
was made of pure gold. A salute ot two hun¬ 
dred and ten guns announced to the people the 
union of the happy pair. 
In the jiil in Boston arc two babies,—one 
seven and a half years of age, and one of nine, 
both small for their years, and evidently infan¬ 
tile in mind. Their offence was stealing a few 
grapes, and they are committed for non-pay¬ 
ment of fine and costs. Going from the meet¬ 
ing on Social Science, to visit the jail, strangers 
would be surprised to see such a spectacle in 
Bostoi). 
A German professes to have counted the hairs 
on the heads of four women of different com¬ 
plexions, and has just published the results. 
On the head of the blonde there were 140,410 
hairs; on that of the brown-haired woman, 109,- 
440; on that of the black-haired, 102,962, aud on 
that of the red-haired, 83,740. Although there 
was tMs disparity lu the number ol individual 
hairs, each crop was about the same weight. 
The average weight of a woman’s hair is stated, 
on the same authority, to be fourteen ounces. * 
TOO MUCH BALANCING 
It was said of the learned Bishop Sanderson, 
that, when he was preparing his lectures, he 
hesitated so much and rejected so often, that, at 
the time of reading he was often forced to pro' 
duce, not what was best, but what happened to 
be at hand. This will bo the state of every 
man, who, In the choice of bis employment, bal¬ 
ances all the arguments on every side; the com 
plication is so intricate, the motives uud objec¬ 
tions so uutnerous, there is so much play for the 
imagination, and so much remains in the power 
of others, that reason is forced at last to rest in 
neutrality, the decision devolves into the hands 
of chance, and after a great part of life spent in 
inquiries which can never be resolved, the Best 
must often pass in repenting the unnecessary 
delay, aud can be useful to few other purposes 
than to warn others against the same folly, and 
to show, that of two states of life equally con¬ 
sistent with religion and virtue, who chooses 
earliest chooses best.— Johnson. 
But although he 
thought he had no alternative but to be de¬ 
voured by the hideous beast, still with tears and 
u bursting heart he implores mercy, exclaiming; 
“I acknowledge myself to be thy victim, for 
I have neither strength nor courage to combat 
with thee; yet I cannot explain to myself the 
sense of tby words. I am but a poor, simple- 
minded countryman, and know the world too 
Anna Parker, 
Wb see it stated that Mrs. Henry Ward Beech¬ 
er proposes to read her husband’s lectures, 
upon invitations of lycemns and literary as¬ 
sociations, Mr. Beecher’s health preventing him 
from undertaking another lecture campaign. 
Pack your cares iu as small a space as you 
can, so that you can carry them yourself, and 
not let them annoy others. 
CYT^i-r 
