[Written for Sfoore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
‘HOUSES IN THE SAND.” 
BT ADKLA1DK STOUT 
“ Willie" reared a palace 
Of the gJittringsand; 
Sure, he found the model” 
In the fairy land! 
Arched the tiny doorway 
O'er his baby feet, 
Pearl-like shell for windows 
Made it all complete. 
“ Willie ” left his palace 
With the arched door; 
Kings have left their treasures 
Just as loath before. 
Finding at the dawning 
Not a single trace 
Of the mimic paiace. 
, O’er his fair young face 
Fell the first dark shadow; 
Fell the hitter rear. 
I'll nothmile. my darling. 
Nestle softly near. 
And I’ll tell thee. Willie, 
Hoy my stronger hand 
Many years had fashioned 
“ Houses iu the sand.' 
Wind and tide. O. quickly 
Swept them all away; 
Yet I have a Mansion 
Very strong to-day. 
Lift thy fhee up softly 
In a sweet surprise. 
Beyond the tidal tinwing 
That bright Mansion lies' 
" Garts of pearl " are open 
For all weary feet. 
Leading to that Mansion, 
Lo, a il Golden street!” 
There’s no sun at noonday. •• 
There’s no moon at night; 
Of those Mansions. Willie. 
God Himself is light. 
Buffalo. N. Y.. 1862. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
LETTERS FROM HILLDALE FARM. 
interesting, and 'tis this, that I have been foolish 
enough to correspond with u stranger. I received 
_ one of the nicest letters from a “ tamer’s boy.” so 
different from those received from any other 
stranger, that I just sat down and answered it [Written for Moorep Kural Yorker.] I notice one fact in my walks among and talk 
•Twas so frank and manlv like - and you know 1 TO THE SOUTH WIND. men. It js worthy of record, and may grow 
love fanners anywhere -and thinking him a lad, WRITT ~V~ . ARY >e a P rofitable suggestion to some one, viz:-That 
perhaps not out of his teens. I considered nothing -■ w f ld appreciates simplicity, whether in the 
could be wrong in it.. He wants to come and see From th .v own fair cerulean, character of men. a theory, a practice, an implement 
me. He evades all lay inquiries about himsolf so Thy sun. with ray serene, i or machine, or in whatever object, idea, or axiom 
adroitly that I tun completely puzzled in regard to ^ oVp U,e , n * ****** i ma >* a,tract ,te attentions. 
him. I let father read his first letter, and he com- „. n °. u< . uUv< ‘ n ' froth is simple: neither complex or ostentatious: 
mentedthns upon it,—“I guess he wouldn't love Thou comest, »mil W anti whatever is not simple is distrusted—as it ought 
you if he should see yon.” I didn’t tell him I Again the wood-bird near * to ’ n most cases. But it is a fact that all that 
answered it, for I knew how he would “ storm.” And children on the green. seedia complex is not so; that complexity is a rela- 
His last letter - I've had six or eight -says he will M , lattlw flower is dr0 , low j tiv . e term ; and « determined when applied to the 
visit Ililldale at hi* earliest- convenience. What will Long J«a she yearned for thee; object only when wo estimate rightly the magnv 
fether say to that ? I’ll tell you of his visit in my And now t hear the music of | of ,bc work ,0 be accomplished, and the power 
next. Yours for the truth’s sake. Thy coming o’er the lea. ! and contrivances necessary to its accomplishment. 
Minnie. Bearing the minstrelsy 1 he greatness of an invention is guaged in the 
* * ♦ • • i- From softened soutliern plains— • popular mind entirely by its simplicity. Its practi- 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker ] The old enamoring strains— , cal value among the mass of men is estimated 
AN APPEAL TO MOTHERS. Beneath the. trysting tree. according to its simplicity. Tts popularity is entirely 
- Oh. enter at the casement whieh dependent upon its simplicity, utility, and dura- 
It has been the lot of the writer to associate much • l‘ve opened wide, to-day; j bility; and in most cases simplicity governs the 
with children, and to care for them (in her former But at the gable, first, awhile, latter qualities. 
life.) and she realizes what they are by nature, can- ■ t * 1>roundp!ay: I remember Steele says, “Simplicj^r. of all things, 
readily enter into their sports and listen to their 1 Q . <)h ’“ a > is hardest to be copied.” This is doubtless true' 
ever free and joyous laugh, without one fear of a An<1 hoRr ein , iuiet pS8 j m • when applied to the habits of life. AVhetber tme or 
crazy brain, or distracted thoughL It is often re- That brings the olden day! • • not in ifo application to effort to duplicate ma- 
marked that children are jewels. To almost every StarkviUe, N. v.. lsoe. K. q. 1 chinery, it is true that there is no more difficult task 
family one or more of these jewels are entrusted, -*• * ♦- than to create a simple, effective machine. And it 
and how selfish are the possessors! They lmvo no [Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] ' may be proper to repeat the remark, that the greatest 
wish that others may behold the beauty of the jewel. PEDIGREES AND FIRST FAMILIES; j contrivances or inventions impress tiff tyro with 
— they make it as disagreeable as possible—dim its - j their simplicity, and he "wonder* that it was never 
lustre until it looks like brass, not gold. Is it a Christian duty to love and admire people! thought of before.” Simplicity of character and 
Indulgent mother, will j-ou listen to Aunt who have distinguished pedigrees, and “ let patience habit. is not always valued as it should be. And I 
Martha, while she relates to you some of the have her perfect work,” when such people begin to 1 do not mean that quality of mind best indicated by 
grievous troubles to which she and her neighbor- talk about them? I have no respect for those iildi- the term "silly.” I do mean the simplicity of great- 
|P 
EVERY - DAY LIFE. 
LEAD PENCIL, 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
TO THE SOUTH WIND. 
WRITTEN IN JANUARY 
From thy own fair cerulean, 
Thy sun. with ray serene. 
Looks o'er the glittering pageantry. 
Wi lb out a cloud between. 
O'er all this wintry scene 
Thou Cement, and I hear 
Again the wood-bird near 
And children on the green. 
My lattice dower is drooping low 
Long lias she yearned for thee; 
And now t hear the music of 
Thy coming o’er the lea. 
Bearing the minstrelsy 
From softened southern plains— • 
The old enamoring strains— 
Beneath the trusting tree. 
Oh. enter at the easement which 
I’ve opened wide to-day; 
But at the gable, first, awhile 
Pipe thy low roundelay; 
Then softly sloop. Oh, may 
* She once more taste thy balm ^ 
And hear tie. quiet psalm 
That brings the olden day! • 
StarkviUe, N. Y,, 1862. j.\ G. 
-«- 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
PEDIGREES AND FIRST FAMILIES'. 
hood friends tire subjected. It’so, you will see what 
a wrong you are doing to yourself and others not to 
polish these, your jewels. 
Mrs. B. is a woman very much beloved in the 
community where she resides. Her friends love to 
visit her. and she is ever ready to receive her 
visitors will) the utmost cordiality. Mrs. B. has her 
parlpr arranged with neatness and care, everything admired and respected, irrespective of dead progen- 
in its place. Mrs. N. and Mrs. K. scud their com- itors or distinguished relatives, are regular nobodies. 
laiK anout them ! i have no respect for those nidi- >he term "silly. I do mean the simplicity of great- 
viduals who are forced to rifle the graves of dead And truth—the simplicity that is insensible to 
ancestors, or count up the virtues of living notabil- tllf) frivolities of life: that is not attracted by its 
ilies who happen to belong to their lineage, in order ar >d glitter, by its follies and false pleasures— 
to bring themselves into notice. I like that style of the simplicity that ignores its vapid vanities and 
greatness, or goodness, that can stand on its own reaches after its realities, and the real riches that 
foot. Those men and women who have not stain- result from constant intercourse with the best minds, 
ina enough to make something of themselves, to be the purest lives and thoughts of the good and the 
LETTER THE FIRST. 
Sept. 25/7).—I’ve been sitting here in the shadow 
of the jasmine. Jf.nme. darling, wondering how 
it happened that you,—a great, noble, earnest- 
minded woman, ever canto to know me well enough 
to begin your letters with "Minnie Pegasus." 
How much formality we use about commencing 
letters. Sometimes l fee] just like calling somebody 
u dear,” and when feeling so. it doesn't matter to 
whom Fra writing, “dear” makes its appearance, 
much to tin* astonishment of the cool-blooded re¬ 
ceiver. who not unfrequently thinks I'm becoming 
attached. You remember Gkoruk Bradgox ? 
Well, he always reminded one o t a great bird. He 
wrote to me once, and when 1 answered the letter 1 
began with “ My Dear Great Eagle.” I don't know 
how he relished the compliment, but I never heard 
from him again. 
Hilldale is in all its glory. The Dahlias and As¬ 
ters were never finer. One of the Snowball bushes 
has borne blossoms all summer, and several are on 
it now. The neighbors say 'tis the •• sign if a death 
in the famJy." As you have never been here, I 
think I must tell you something of our farm and its 
inmates. The grandest and uppermost of all, is the 
blue, calm bosom of Cayuga, lying at our feet. Our 
house is a substantial farm one — white, with green 
shutters. There are two front piazzas —the larger 
one shaded at one end by the jasmine wbpre I'm 
writing. Father has threatened many times of cut¬ 
ting it away for fear of its causing decay,—I should 
feel sadly enough to see it done, for 1 had such a , 
time to get a trellis made for it and finally did that 
piece of carpentry myself. We have none of those 
lino articles of furniture that rich people pride them¬ 
selves upon possessing.— Helen's piano is the only 
article of rosewood. The keys and the dear fingers 
arc both very white, and seldom touch each other. 
How I've sat for hours and listened to that child's 
music! Her voice always grew fuller, clearer, and 
of greater compass after a half hour's singing. J 
never heard a voice that suited me so well. .She is 
Tory, very pale and thin now, Jennie; but I cannot 
bear to think otherwise than that she will recover, 
and vet I fear greatly. 1 don’t know what I could 
do without her—'(would lie utter desolation. 
Then there's father and the boys—three of them. ! 
One, of course, in the army— the eldest. Every 1 
family ought to give a country offering, and he teas 1 
ours. Many he not prove a sacrifice. 1 
Father never loved me as he did the other child- 1 
ren. He often says I cause him more trouble than 
all the rest together. If anything is broken, or out y 
of place, of course nobody hut I did it. Mother £ 
died when I wa.vmch a little girl (hat 1 can but just 1 
remember her pale calm face. 1 know if she hud 1 
lived 1 should have been vastly different. Father 
married again, but in all one’s life time one never 
has but one mother. Father seems to think now 
that I've not a redeeming quality. Nearly every 
day I have the rehearsal of my faults, and a full 
exegesis Upon the same. He never gives mo a word 1 
of encouragement, hut is always ready with taunt- 1 
ings and upbnudmgs. I have prayed many, many 0 
times to die, when lie has said he wished I would a 
go away and never tome back! I would have felt (i 
happy to know that the life which had become so 
burdensome was ebbing rapidly away. v 
l had an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. a 
How I've toiled and sacrificed to obtain it, and how 11 
plimonts. and will visit, her in the afternoon. She is 
most happy to receive them, and they are accotn- 
r panied by Master K. Mrs. B. fails to become inter¬ 
ested in (he conversation.'she is fidgeting about, 
. wonders why she enjoys the visit so little. Let us 
i see why. The daguerreotypes are scattered about, in 
■ confusion. Nowq Mrs. B. dislikes this very much, 
- (or there are faces imposed within those cases that 
she never w ill see on earth again. But she must 
keep her mouth closed tor fear of offending. Mama’s 
Choice books are taken from the table, — chairs 
whirled topsy tiirvey. to iiie destruction of some.— 
cake crumbled upon tile carpet, and so on. Mrs. B. 
wonders why it is that she never discovered a mar 
on the polished surface of their parlor chairs or 
sofas, or that their daguerreotypes were minus the 
covers. 
Mrs. H. has just retired to her room on account of 
a severe headache, when company is announced. 
She descends to receive them, and in the hall dis¬ 
covers great trunks, little trunks, band-boxes, and 
bundles. In the parlor she meets Mrs. IV., is intro¬ 
duced to Mrs. J. aud her promising children. Mas¬ 
ter John is riding one of her best chairs, she is so 
choice with. She gently objects. He soon throws a 
ball amid the ornaments' upon the mantle, and 
relieves the table of its contents. Mrs. ft. persuades 
the youthful hero to retire to the hark yard to seek 
amusement, but she soon finds that it is no place for 
him. Her hen-yard is bombarded, eggs destroyed, 
and old speckle turned into a horse. Oh! deal-, 
sighs Mrs. II.. I wonder bow r long they intend to 
, stay. 
There are. many instances of this kind that have 
come under the writer’s observation, but she thinks 
these are sufficient. She knows of intimacies which 
have existed for years in families to he broken up 
on account of this troublesome neglect on the part 
of mothers. It cannot he expected that Mrs. B., 
Mrs. IL, or Mrs. R. will invite these mothers with 
(heir rough children to their afternoon gatherings.— 
they prefer a quiet tete-tete, or sociable chat with¬ 
out a jewel. 
Indulgent mother, this*appeal is to you. Will you 
take it home to your own heart. If you love your 
children, why will you not make them lovable in 
the eyes of others? Do not cause your friends to 
fee!, when you are entering their house, that they 
must hang their chairs on nails, lock their daguer¬ 
reotypes up. put their choice books on the top of 
the house, and, finally, take out every article of fur¬ 
niture with which the room is filled. 
This appeal goes forth with the assurance that it 
will do some good. If it will enable one mother to ] 
examine her mode of management, with regard to j 
the children, then Aunt Martha will feel that she j 
has not written in vain. Aunt Martha. \ 
River Fails. Wis., 1862. 
and never were and never will be anything better. 
There’s one of my acquaintances, Miss Sofuron- 120118 ^frh their growth in simplicity and humility God, in His infinite wisdom, does not always 
istiA Matilda Green, by namu, (she bears the l ^ at ” ! P r0 P 0, ' , i° n as we discover the beauty of prosper His own children, or defeat the plans of His 
name of one of her great grandmothers, you per- , we c ' xcbl ' in at wisdom that rendered enemies. ** The rain falls alike upon the just and 
gloss and glitter, by its follies and false pleasures— ^ ° one fives tails to exert an influence either 
the simplicity that ignores its vapid Vanities and for 8 ood or ovil Upon those about them. It is im- 
reaches after its realities, and the real riches that possible to do otherwise. .As the circles in the 
result from constant intercourse with the best minds. water " rnw wider and wider until they break in 
the purest lives aud thoughts of the good and the n PP 1<; ‘ s upon the shore, so do the influences and 
great. . , ' examples ot our daily lives strengthen and deepen, 
Noteworthy is it, that the wisest men live the sim- un,il ^tetr fruits are landed upon the “strand of 
plest lives—that their growth in wisdom is synony- Eternity. 
HOLD STILL, 
Front Si. German nf Julius Stvrm. 
BY CHARLES T. BROOKS. 
Pain’s furnace-heat within me quivers, 
God’s breath upon the iiame doth blow, 
And all my heart in anguish shivers 
And trembles at the fiery glow: 
And yet I whisper—As God will! 
And, in His hottest tire, hold still. 
He comes and Inys niv heart, all.heat.ed, 
On the hard anvil, minded so 
Into his own*fall* shape to heat it, 
With his great hammer. Mow on blow; 
And yet 1 whisper—As God will! 
And. at His heaviest Mows, hold still. 
• He takes rny softened heart, and'bcats it. 
The sparks fly off al every blow; 
He turns it o’er and o’er, and heats it. 
And lets it cool, and makes it glow ; 
And yet I whisper—As God will! 
And, in His mighty hand, hold still. 
Why should I murmur - for the sorrow 
Tlius only longer-lived would he; 
Its end may come, and w ill to-morrow. 
When God has done His work in me; 
So I say, trusting—As God will I 
And, trustiug to the end. hold still. 
He kindles for my profit, purely. 
Affliction's glowing, fiery brand. 
And all Iiis heaviest blows are. surely. 
Inflicted by a .Master-hand; 
So I say, praying—As God will! 
And hope in Him, and suffer still. 
-» ■ ♦ ■ .-1- 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
STRAY” THOUGHTS. 
No one that lives tails to exert an influence either 
for good or evil upon those about them. It is im¬ 
possible to do otherwise. .As the circles in the 
water grow wider and wider until they break iu 
oeive.) nobody has a grain of respect for her, and 
the chief reason is that she belongs to a good family, 
aud is always boasting of it. On the very first 
evening cd Our acquaintance, she favored me with a 
detailed account of the whole arrangement, grand¬ 
fathers, uncles, cousins, and all. not omitting, of 
course, the inevitable silver plate which all first 
tamilies are supposed to have preserved from time 
immemorial. On learning that I had just come 
from a neighboring State, she took occasion to 
inquire if I were acquainted with Ex-Governor B.. 
who resided there. The reply that I had never had 
the good fortune to he so honored did not, in the 
least, interrupt her plans, for the ice being thus 
broken, she launched forth into her family pedigree 
and relationship at once. She informed me that 
her mother's grandmother's niece married Daniel 
M kbster's cousin, and their son was Ex-Governor 
B. Her mother's uncle's wife was a cousin of .Mar¬ 
tin Van Birk.v. and her father’s step-mother a 
daughter of Thomas Jefferson. I learned at the 
same time that her brother was the President of a 
flourishing college, and that his son was a Professor 
therein: that her eldest sister had lately married 
the wealthiest man in the State, and her niece was 
soon to wed the wealthiest man somewhere else. 
Of course, I smiled, and said "Indeed,” and seemed 
highly edified, though long before she had finished 
i wished her and her whole race at the antipodes. 
Tct. say what she niighi. the stubborn fact that Miss 
G. herself was squint-eyed, and exceedingly plain 
it so simple and comprehensible to finite minds, the unjust,” The warm rays of the cheerful sun 
Again, that the difficulty in our search after shine as equally upon the rank weed as upon its fair 
truth is. that we overlook it by seeking for some- ami delicate neighbor whom it chokes and destroys, 
thing wonderfully complex. We refuse the modest Oh! is it not wise that in the other world it will lie 
native flower and look for the showy exotic. the heart., not the life—the spirit, and not the deed— 
-* — -—— that shall justify or condemn us? Is it not good 
SHORT DAYS AND THEIR LESSONS. t,lat this world, with its •• golden dreams and leaden 
- . realities,” is but an ame-chamher. dull and comfort- 
Tuk Springfield Republican speaks thus aptly and less in comparison with the glories of that untried 
SHORT DAYS AND THEIR LESSONS. 
happily of the lesson taught by short days: 
*• The days are now at their briefest, the sun show¬ 
ing himself above the horizon for only nine hours 
ot the twenty-four. But Nature makes the most of 
this brief period of daylight, and so in truth should 
we. She condenses the air we breathe until we 
inhale vitalizing draughts, instead of the faint breath 
that fans the languid leisure of the summer. Sbo 
intensifies the siyilight. usually by reflecting it from 
a surface of dazzling snow. At night the stars shine 
with double brilliancy, the moon walks with addi¬ 
tional brightness, and a wintry aurora flaunts and 
flickers in the uortb. 
“The fire, too, which our changeable climate 
requires su large a part of the year, becomes cheer¬ 
ful and chattering, like the groups that surround it. 
The drowsy runnel coal hums its small song from 
the glowing grate, and. amid wars and their rumors, 
puffs ever the pipe of peace. And wherever ooen 
wood fires are yet retained, it is pleasant to watch 
the quick dissolution of that whieh grew so slowly, 
yielding in an hour the light and warmth stolen 
and unseen world, where there shall be no more 
tears, nor parting of friends, and where there shall 
be no more going out forever? 
As the ripest fruit suffers most from the greedy 
birds, so do the noblest minds and purest hearts 
suffer most from the vicious tongues of envy and 
jealousy. % 
Some one, who it matters not. has said that 
flowers are the alphabet of the angels, and that 
with them great and mysterious truths are written 
upon the hill-sides and valleys. It is a beautiful 
thought, and Fanny Forester continued it when 
she said that alone in the depths of a forest the 
scent of the wild flowers made her feel safe, for 
flowers always betray the presence of angels. 
It is fluwers that are woven in among the locks of 
the blushing bride, as she stands in the pride and 
beauty of her womanhood, upon the threshold of a 
future made bright with fond hopes, and gilded with 
the glorious tints of joy aud happiness. And it is 
flowers that we [dace in the hands of dear dead 
friends, when the light of their eyes are dimmed, 
looking, was con^antly before me. and my convic- from the sunshine of a summer, and crowning its the sound of their voices hushed and the fragrance 
li.i n r r.n H-.nt -_— - 2 — .. 1 . t i * __t _ .L. - _fit. H - e n , n _ 
tions on that subject were in no wise altered when I 
learned that her deceased grandmother was a per¬ 
fect Venus, and her father's father a second Apollo. 
1 he knowledge that one of her great aunts danced 
like a fairy, and sang like a nightingale, did in no 
wise prevent me from observing that Miss Sopitron- 
ihba turned her toes in when she walked, and 
possessed an extremely harsh voice. Though her 
uncles, aunts, and grand parents may all have been 
distinguished ns poets, linguists, and scholars, I 
received painful evidence that Miss G. had never 
even learned to converse in her own language cor¬ 
rectly. and her talents are, I am sure, less than 
mediocre. 
Mr. D.. another of my "first family" acquaint¬ 
ances. centers aii his affections on the Scotch aud 
English nobility. As *• out of the abundance of the 
heart the mouth speaketh." so good Mr. P.'s mouth 
is exceedingly voluble on the - lord and lady” sub¬ 
ject. His great-graud-father'.s father was a Scotch 
laird.—his grandmother's sister wedded - a fine old 
English gentleman: and when you go to his house 
pale ashes with flowers of flagrant flame. 
Vo should borrow a hint from the economy of 
Nature. \\ e should intensify our efforts as she con¬ 
denses the air we breathe and the water we drink. 
We should fill with wise activity the brief, beneficent 
day. Our cherished thoughts should lie bright as 
the winter landscape and healthful as its air. While 
around us is only strength and purity, we also should 
lie pure and strong. And the thousand appliances 
we require for our comfort during bitter nights and 
inhospitable days, should remind us of those whose 
only chance for shell comforts lies in the hope to 
receive them at our hand. May our hearts afford us 
as warm a -heller as the firesides by which they 
throb, and our smile beam as brightly as the sun¬ 
shine on the hills. May our love burn as cheerily 
as the fuel upon the hearth, whether the flames 
mount upward in gladsome glory, or the red coals 
blush through the white ashes like the cheek of the 
bride through the folds of her snowy vail. May our 
thoughts catch the graces of the season, and be 
crisp and sparkling as the wholesome frost without. 
has Iuit one mother. Father seems to think now W BEAUTIFUL SONG, 
that I've not a redeeming quality. Nearly every 
day I have the rehearsal of my faults, and a fail Ekre one of the most beautiful songs in the 
exegesis upon the same. Ho never gives me a word * all y ua o e - Imagine a sweet, little girl, for whom 
of encouragement, but is always ready with taunt- ***'' 8 morn * n £ ,H? fr has just rung "five,” the light of 
ings and upbnudmgs. t have prayed many, many ^Hd-like beauty clustering round her brow, slowly 
time? to die, when In* lias said he wished I would au< * thoughtfully repeating it. between daylight and 
gif away and never Come back! I would have felt <lru lc ' 
happy to know that the life which had become so . T ' ,1C is open, and through the swinging 
burdensome was ebbing rapidly away. Tine that drapes it, the young moon seems rocking 
l had an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. anchor*in the evening breeze, and the little 
IIow I've toiled and sacrificed to obtain it, and how n '^ Jt ^ ress nestled in the shadow, and syllable 
father always opposed it. Iiis plea was. that I ^y syllable, like the music of the lapsing of a brook, 
would never make anything if sent to school mv I ' 01ue ther* words: 
he will show you, along with the old genealogical aU( l warm aud benignant as the genial fires within.” 
tree, a piece of a silk bodice which belonged to one I -» « ♦ • «- 
lifetime. In truth, he made* me out .quite idiotic, 
and I've often wondered jf I was really his own 
child, or one taken in infancy to rear. I would 
have felt relieved if 1 had known 1 was not, for then 
his treatment would not be quite so unnatural. 
Under such discipline I have grown hard, cold, 
proud and bitter—but not heartless after all, Jen¬ 
nie, il one knows how to touch the heart-strings, 
sweet music is discoursed. Wa the strings are 
ruddy swept, one cannot expect to hear pleasant tones. 
I’m so strange — father says so — that no one knows 
me hardly, hut yon—and I always thought it strange 
you should. How sad to he always misunderstood! 
I have never loved any body, scarcely, but mv 
sister—and her I've idolized. I think, sometimes. 
I’m almost devoid of affection — the result of my 
training. I was never taught to h>ve. and if I had, 
father would have said ’twas just my foolery. Great, 
strong men have given me their love, and I could 
hardly yield them my friendship. It always seemed 
strange that one should love me —so full of faults, 
and ribvor trying to win love. I arn making this 
letter tedious, Jennie, aud all about myself! But 
let me tell you of an incident, trifling, yet somewhat 
■' 1 tiiink when I read that .sweet story of old, 
W hen Jesus was here among men, 
How He called little children, as lambs, to his fold. 
I should like to have been with them then. 
11 * ' v ' s h that His bands had been placed on my head, 
That Kis amis had been thrown around me. 
And that I might have seen His kind look when He said. 
' Let the little ones come unto me.’ 
" but !l beautiful place He has gone to prepare 
For all that are washed and forgiven! 
And many dear children arc gathering there. 
‘ For such is the kingdom of Heaven! 
And if that evening vision has passed forever 
away, and in dreams a circlet of gold is about the 
radiant brow, and the little white night-dress has 
been changed for a garment from the wardrobe of 
Ileaven. those words she said hav e grown holy as a 
.'scripture, and hallowed as the spot where we laid her. 
I 1 an NY Fern says, to her eye, no statue that the 
rich man places ostentatiously in h’s window, is to 
be compared to the little expectant face pressed 
against the window pane, watciiiug for its father, 
when his day’s labor is done. 
of his ancestresses, who w as maid of honor to 
"Good Queen Bess." The old man is never so 
happy as when engaged in leading his patient 
guests along the ramifications of his ancestral tree, 
tracing out the tangled way of births, marriages, 
and deaths, from John Dobson himself, the young¬ 
est of fourteen children, up to Sir Leopold, and 
Lady Maud, and William Wallace Dobson, the 
noble laird, and father and grandfather to them all. 
But, be that as it may. the present John Dobson is 
only a grocor in a small w ay. in a small country 
town, and not one w hit wiser or better, as I can see, 
than it' his father had been a button maker, and his 
grandfather a tin pedlar. 
For my part, I am quite satisfied with being 
descended from old Father Adam, w ho, though only 
head-gardener in Eden. and. without doubt, totally 
ignorant of such splendid beings as lords and ladies, 
kings and queens, was! at least, as honest and 
respectable as any of his sons. Simple-hearted 
creature- were Adam ami hi- wife. and. no doubt, 
after they left Eden would have been better pleased 
with the gift of a few simple flowers from that bliss¬ 
ful garden, than lo have been dubbed “lord and 
lady” a dozen times. a. m. p. 
DEPTH OF QUIET PEOPLE. of heaven in his soul.” Look at John in fact. He 
- is agitated, sending to Christ, not able to rest, 
Some men dawn upon you, like the Alps. They, grim doubt wrestling with bis soul, misgiving 
impress you vaguely at tirst, just as do the hundred for one last black hout whether all his hope 
faces you meet in your daily walks. They come had not been delusion. There is one thing we 
across your horizon, like floating clouds, and you remark here by the way. Doubt often comes from 
have to watch a while before you see that they are inactivity. We cannot give the philosophy of it, hut 
mountains. Some men remind you of quiet lakes, this is the fact. Christians who have nothing to do 
places such as you have often happened upon, but to sit thinking of themselves, meditatiug, senti- 
w here the green turf and the field-flower hang over meutalizing, (or mysticizing.) are almost sure to 
you and are reflected out of the water all day long, become the prey of dark, block misgivings. John 
There is nothing remarkable about the flowers, only struggling in the desert needs no proof that Jesus is 
of their lives exhaled to a purer atmosphere. 
As we remember the sweetness of the perfumes 
j of bright summer flowers in the dreary winter time, 
when the leaves have withered and gone, and the 
winds make wild music about us.—so do we remem¬ 
ber the virtues and warmth of noble hearts once 
near and dear to us, hut now gone from us forever, 
when we are weary on the road of the journey of 
life, and when sorrows and troubles sweep about us 
like the December storms. 0. s. n. 
Buffalo. N. Y-, 1802. 
RELIGIOUS DEPRESSION. 
It is the strange truth that some of the highest of 
God’s servants are tried with darkness on the dying 
bed. Theory would say, when a religious man is 
laid up for his last struggle, now he i> ulune for deep 
communion with God. Fact very often says. “ No; 
uow he is alone, as his Master was before him. in the 
wilderness, to be tempted of the devil.” Look at 
John the Baptist in imagination, and you would 
say, “ Now his rough pilgrimage is doge. He i.*» 
quiet, he is out of the world, with the rapt foretaste 
of heaven in his soul.” Look at John in fact He 
is agitated, sending to Christ, not able to rest, 
grim doubt wrestling with his soul, misgiving 
for one last black hour whether all his hope 
had not been delusion. There is one thing we 
remark here by the way. Doubt often comes from 
inactivity. W’e cannot give the philosophy of it, hut 
this is the fact. Christians who have noihing to do 
but to sit thinking of themselves, meditatiug, senti¬ 
mentalizing, (or mysticizing.) are almost sure to 
become the prey of dark, black misgivings. John 
Fayetteville. X. Y. 
•• When you seek advice.” remarks Montaigne, iu 
one of his essays. •• there are two things to he con¬ 
sidered. See that you a-k the most competent per¬ 
son to give it; and that his condition- are such that 
he may give it without prejudice.” 
that they seem so much like love and kindness, gentle¬ 
ness. and those other every day ordinary little virtues. 
Perhaps you become attached to the lake because itis 
a genial spot, and whether you lived near a lake or 
not, it seems to remind you of home. But you never 
dream of its being in any way wonderful. Some 
day or other, you carelessly drop a line into the 
clear depths, close by the side of the daisies and 
daffodils, and it goes down, down, down. You lean 
over and sound deeper, but your line doesn't bring 
up. What a deep spot that is! you think, and you 
try another. The reflected daisies seem to smile at 
you out of the water, the turf looks as green as ever, 
but there is no shallow spot beneath. You never 
thought it, but your quiet lake is all around unfath¬ 
omable. You are none the less impressed from the 
fact that it is a qitiot lake.— Williams Quarterly. 
son to give it; and that his condition- are such that Tiie tasks set to children should be moderate, 
he may give it without prejudice. Over-exertion is hurtful, both physically and intel- 
1 ' ♦ - lectuallv, and even morally. But it is of the utmost 
ir a boy loves reading, reward him with a play- importance that they should be made to fulfill all 
thing; it he loves sports, with a book, lou may their tasks correctly and punctually. This will 
easily lead him to value a present made thus, and train them for an exact, conscientious discharge of 
to show that he values it by using it. their duties in after life. 
ihe.Christ. Johu shut up, became morbid and doubt¬ 
ful immediately. Brethren, all this is very marvel¬ 
ous. The history of a human soul is marvelous. 
We are mysteries: but here is the historvof it all; 
for sadness, for suffering, for misgiving, there is no 
remedy hut stirring and doing.— Robertson. 
The Divine Mercy. —However old. plain, hum¬ 
ble. desolate, afflicted, we may be, so long- as our 
hearts preserve the feeblest spark of life, they pre¬ 
serve also, shivering near that pale ember, a starved, 
ghostly longing for appreciation and affection. To 
this attenuated spectre, perhaps a crumb is not 
thrown once a year; but when ahungered and 
athirst to famine—when all humanity has forgotten 
the dying tenant of a decaying house—Divine 
mercy remembers the mourner, and a shower of 
manna falls for lips that earthly nutriment is to pass 
no more. Biblical promises, heard first in health, 
but then unheeded, come whispering to the couch of 
sickness: it is felt that a pitying God Watches what 
all mankind ban* forsaken; tlio tender compassion 
of Jesus is recalled, and relied on; the fading eye, 
gazing beyond time, sees a home, a friend, a refuge 
in eternity .—Charlotte Bronte. 
