[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
PROMISES. 
deceived him with my “ dunno’s,” but in truth I did 
not know who he was. He might he Mr. some¬ 
body else, and a villain, too. I did not believe it, 
though. I supposed he came to see me, but did not 
know but some other business drew him here. 
Father conversed but little with him—asked him if 
there were any “ peace men ’’ in the vicinity where 
he resided. 1 thought he looked wonderfully like 
one as he raised his great, calm looking eyes full in 
his lace, and replied that “ he thought not-he knew 
of none.” Ho remained enough longer to tell me 
he liked me immensely, and asked what had become 
of Bridget. Whereupon 1 disclosed the deception, 
but told him I had never attempted the brogue 
before for the edification of the public. I little 
thought when we school girls used to gather 
together to try our skill upon foreign tongues, that 
those rehearsals would ever prove beneficial; but 
you see now, .1 knnie, there is but little but may be 
made useful. 
Mr. Norwood departed after asking about seeing 
me again, correspondence, &c,, to which I gave him 
nothing definite. I suppose you’ll want to know if 
it was venij vide , vici. You have the result of the 
veni and vidi, — I’ll tell you of the vici, — 1 liked 
A promise is either expressed or implied, verbal 
or written, made by one person to another, and 
which binds the promise/, either in law or honor, to 
do or forbear some particular thing specified. All 
promises are morally binding upon the maker, even 
if not legally binding. You may say that you will 
do thus arid so, and yet, do very differently; though 
you violate the moral law, civil law takes no cogni¬ 
zance of the matter. 1 think there is an adage, 
“Quick to promise, slow to perform,” and it is much 
to he feared that this is frequently the case, from the 
readiness with which some people make them; but 
it is certainly very wrong. If you make a promise 
to a person, he has a right to expect that you will 
perform it, unless you have a sufficient excuse. 
Instances have occurred ot people who said they 
would give a specified sum to be applied to a cer¬ 
tain purpose, but did not wish to sign the paper. 
Supposing their word to be good, it was counted as 
much as if it had been money in hand: but upon 
calling for it, payment was refused—had changed 
their mind, or gave some equally frivolous excuse. 
This was going quite tou far in the matter of prom¬ 
ises. The law should, and perhaps would have 
held them to the performance, but it was not thought 
best, as voluntary offerings only were desired. It 
would have been much better if they had said no at 
once, as they would then have had a clear con¬ 
science, have wronged no one, and not have had 
people lose confidence in them. 
Promises should never he made unless there is a 
reasonable expectetlon that they can be performed, 
except conditionally. If you append your name to 
a subscription, the law holds you responsible 
according to the terms of the writing, so that care 
and discretion will lie exercised before you affix 
your name. An equal care in all cases shows that 
the person desires to promise nothing that ho cannot 
perform. On the other hand, if a person promises 
too readily, he may soon forget it unless again 
reminded, and then, perhaps, think you must be 
mistaken. Others, from a natural weakness, a 
desire to, please, or from fear of displeasing, are 
ready to say yes to almost everything, however 
extravagant, and will endeavor to fulfill their prom¬ 
ises, even at much personal inconvenience. The 
experience of such people will, after a while, effect¬ 
ually cure them of making real promises. 
Again, promises made to children should bo faith¬ 
fully kept. Naturally frank and ingenuous, they 
expect every promise to be performed to the letter; 
and if it is uot, they will not only be greatly disap¬ 
pointed, but their faith and trust in you will ho 
shaken. Parents, then, cannot be too careful in 
keeping their promises to their children, in the most 
trifling matters, if they would have them frank and 
open-hearted. If you promise them any thing, that 
particular thing they must have, or they are not 
satisfied. Besides, to give them their first lessons in 
distrust and suspicion, as sometimes happens with 
young children, is something of which 1 hope few 
parents would be guilty. You cannot, then, be too 
careful in making promises. Let your motto be, 
“ Slow to promise, quick to perform,” and many of 
the evils resulting from rash promises will be 
avoided. c. a. f. 
South Gilboa, Schoharie Co., N. Y., 1862. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
SNOW. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE MOTHER’S CHOICE. 
BY FI.OKBXCi; I’ERCY. 
Soft i ,y the fleecy snowflakes fall, 
Seeming spirits of Jove and light. 
Weaving for our desolate Mother-Earth 
A beautiful rube of white; 
They are filling the air with their starry forms 
In their downward fall from the sky, 
While all along the brandies bare 
Little ridges of snow Hakes lie. 
They whiten the sides of the brown tree-trunks, 
And the evergreens bend low, 
And the deserted bird s nest of the summer agone 
Is piled with the fleecy snow; 
They are capping the fence-posts all along, 
And beautiful curves they form 
Around the feet of the desolate trees, 
So grim in the wintry storm. 
The carpetings green of the meadows 
Are hidden away from our view, 
And the beautiful flowers that spangled them, 
And opened their eyes to the dew, 
To the golden light of the summer-time, 
But a few short months ago, 
Ail withered and dead are lying 
Under the cold, white snow 
The quivering leaves of the forest trees, 
With their shadows cool arid deep,— 
Among which the summer breezes lulled 
So many birds to sleep,— 
Grew gorgeously bright in October’s reign, 
Then sadly fell by the way, 
And are mouldering back to the dust again 
’Neath the tlceey snow to day. 
It. is sifting over grave-yard mounds, 
Forming a pure white pall 
Over sleeping forms that have often watched 
The fluttering snowflakes fall; 
O’er many who welcomed the spring-time bright, 
Now lying so silent and low, 
Where the troubled sleep and the weary rest 
Under the drifting snow 
Rome, N. Y., 1802. E 
Beside the toilsome way 
Lonely and dark, by fruits anil flowers unblest, 
Which my worn feet tread sadly, day by day, 
Longing in vain for rest, 
An angel softly walks, 
With pale sweet face, and eyes cast meekly down, 
The while from withered leaves and flowerless stalks 
She weaves my fitting crown. 
A sweet and patient grace, 
A look of firm endurance, true and tried, 
Of suffering meekly borne, rests on her face 
So pure—so glorified. 
And when my fainting heart 
Desponds and murmurs ut its adverse fate, 
Then quietly the angel's bright lips part, 
Murmuring softly, “Wait;” 
“ Patience!'' she sweetly saith,— 
“ The Father's mercies never come too late; 
Gird thee with patient strength and trusting faith 
And firm endurance—wait!” 
Angel, behold, I wait, 
Wearing the thorny crown through all life’s hours,— 
Wait till thy hand shall ope the eternal gate, 
And change the thorns to flowers! 
BY KATE WOODLAND. 
A mother sat one summer eve within her little room, 
Her children hovered by her side amid the twilight gloom; 
She thought an Angel spake to her— 1 ' I've come,” he said, “to 
bear 
A little lamb from out thy flock, a birdling from thy care; 
But first I give thee power to choose with which thou first 
wouldst part, 
Which little blossom of thy love thou’dst pluck from out thy 
heart." 
The mother gazed in grief and woe, “ Oh. do not take,’ she 
cried, 
“ My eldest horn, the Rose that blooms so sweetly hy my side; 
She's grave and thoughtful, faithful, kind, and true in word 
and deed, 
50 watchful o or the younger ones, and mindful of their need; 
Our home would be so desolate, and dark the sunniest day, 
Were we to lose our little girl, our darling Ellen May. 
“ Her little sister? No, oh, no! Within our household bower 
51 10 is the Honeysuckle sweet which gladdens every hour— 
Light-hearted and affectionate, each wish and want is twined 
With sweet content and love around her sister's guiding mind; 
At work or play, hy night or or day, apart they do not dwell; 
’Twere cruel now to separate—oh, leave my Clara Bell. 
“ And yet I cannot spare my son, my brave, my only boy; 
His father’s Morning glory and Ills mother's Evening Joy; 
He’s agile as a mountain deer, as reckless and as free, 
And yet a warm and loving heart has little Wendell Lee. 
His father’s heart would burst with grief and mine bo filled 
with woe, 
Were we to let from out our home our merry prattler go. 
“ Yet, oh, I cannot, dare not say that thou, my youngest pet, 
My Violet, my Daisy, my fragrant Mignonette, 
Art any less beloved by me. because that love is brief; 
Thou art. to me what morning dew is to the summer leaf; 
I cannot bid thee take my babe, good Angel, bear my prayer; 
I cannot choose; then leave them all to bloom beneath my 
care.” 
The Angel sadly turned away, but soon he came again, 
And bore away the eldest flower; the mother’s tears were vain. 
She laid her darling in the grave, and thought her heart would 
break, 
And yet she blessed the holy Power which gave and could 
retake, 
That He in wisdom did not add the deeper, heavier woe, 
Of choosing which of those she loved should he the first to go. 
Carlton, N. Y., 1862. 
“ Take hold of iny hand,” says the little one, 
when she reaches a slippery place, or when some¬ 
thin”; frightens her. With the fingers clasped tightly 
around the parent’s- hand, she steps cheerfully and 
bravely along, clinging a little closer when the way 
is difficult, and happy in the beautiful strength of 
childish faith. 
“ Tuko hold of my hand,” says the young convert, 
trembling with the eagerness of his love. Full well 
he knows that, if he rely on any strength of his own 
he will stumble and fall; but, if the Master reach 
forth his hand, he may walk with unwearied foot, 
even on the crested wave. The waters of strife or 
of sorrow shall not overwhelm him, if he but keep 
last hold of the Savior. 
“ Take hold of my hand,” falters the mother, feeling 
that she is all too weak for the great responsibili¬ 
ties that throng in her path. Where shall she learn 
the greatness of the mission—the importance of the 
field that has been assigned to her? And learning 
it, how shall she fulfill it, if she have not the sustain¬ 
ing, constant presence of One who loves his people? 
“ Take hold of my hand,” whispers the aged one, 
tottering on through the shadows and snows of 
many years. As the lights of earth grow dimmer 
in the distance, and as the darkening eye looks for¬ 
ward to see if lie can discern the first glimmer of 
the heavenly home, the weary pilgrim cries out, 
even as the child beside its mother, lor the Saviour’s 
hand. 
0 Jesus! Friend and elder Brother, when the 
night cometh, when the feet are weary, when the 
eyesore dim, “take hold of our hand .”—Christian 
Treasury. __ _ 
[Written for Moore's Ruial New-Yorker.] 
LOOK OUT, NANCY. 
“Now, Nancy,” said good Mrs. Brown, as she 
was superintending the packing of her daughter’s 
trunk preparatory to her leaving home for the first 
time to attend a distant school. “Now, Nancy, I 
feel some way as if 1 had a great deal to say to you, 
but I don’t know exactly how lo say it. If I could 
only give you some of my experience without your 
having the bad feelings I have had in getting if, I 
should be glad; but one can’t learn for another. 
But you just remember that when you go among 
strangers, it ain’t always them as is most friendly 
and forward at first that will bear acquaintance best. 
It’s the nature of some to be taken up with new 
things; so don’t put too much dependence on the 
first friends yon make, especially them that says the 
most. ’Taint them that talks the most about being 
good that are* really the host, you'll find. When 
you hear anybody always quoting a sense of right, 
and a sense ol' duty, as an excuse fcr telling you 
something another has said against you, look out 
for them. Those who say so much about right 
actions do lint live any more consistent than other 
folks, generally speaking. You just go right along 
and do as near right as you can, and your happiness 
and progress will depend on that more than on any 
body round you. b. c. d. 
Geneva, Wis., 1802. 
LETTER FROM THE CAMP. 
Dear Rural:—I feel quite in the mood for 
writing you a familiar letter, this afternoon; for 1 
must confess that tent-life hasn’t cured mo of my 
natural fondness for the lady-like employment of 
gossiping; and although I’ve no important news to 
give you, yet perhaps I can find enough ol‘“nothing 
in particular” to fill a sheet. 
Yesterday, 1 was delighted to receive three Janu¬ 
ary Rukals; and they were eagerly read around 
our blazing wood fire. 
Our friend, the Lieutenant, seized upon Colonel 
Plow HANDLE'S letter, and the column of Wit and 
Humor, while your bumble servant was delighted 
with the beautiful poem, “ The Picket Guard,’’ a 
theme which, in this country, has an added power 
and reality. 
You have heard a thousand times of the “sacred 
soil of Virginia.” yet 1 presume yon have never 
thought of i l as a fluid; but I assn re y oil it has been in a 
liquid condition for a number of days past. Whether 
it will become sufficiently consolidated to admit ol a 
speedy advance movement., remains to be proved. 
“To march” or “not to march," is still an open 
question. 
At the present moment, the sky is overcast with 
clouds, the wind is blowing, and the sleet driving 
against our tent, in a way that forebodes a stormy 
night. Ever and anon heavy firing may lx 1 heard— 
artillery practice, I suppose. There really is a great 
deal of music in the whistling of a cannon ball; but 
it may be one of the sounds to W’hich distance lends 
enchantment. 
1 can’t help pitying all the denizens of cities and 
towns who are compelled to burn coal in close, dis¬ 
mal stoves. They cannot imagine how cosy, and 
comfortable, and cheerful, a great fire-place with a 
blazing wood fire is. I think our grandfathers and 
grandmothers were wiser than their descendants 
arc; for they never thought of warming their houses 
in any other way; which fact may have had some¬ 
thing to do.with their longevity. But these camp 
fire-places have an additional recommendation, inas¬ 
much as they are built of secession brick, well plas¬ 
tered with the “sacred soil.” The wood being 
provided by Uncle Sam, of course burns well. 
Don’t fancy that we are beyond the reach of daily 
papers, and their carriers. Six mornings in the 
week shrill boy-voices are heard shouting u New 
York Herald, Tribune , and Times’* —and a little 
while afterwards we hear “ Btdlhnore Clipper "— 
upon the arrival of which there is always a great 
out-cry among the soldiers, they are so anxious to 
get the latest news; and “this way, Clipper is 
heard from every direction. There is also the 
“ Sunday Morning ( 'hronidc ” tor those who have 
no conscientious scruples In regard to reading secu¬ 
lar papers on the Sabbath; and that class is cer¬ 
tainly in the majority here. 
1 think we excel our brethren at the North in one 
virtue, and that is pedienee. "We do not expect that 
everything can be done at once; and because there 
is not a battle every day. We do not ask if they are 
ever going to do anything? It is well to remember 
that “ Rome was not built in a day.” Our men are 
anxious to move forward—anxious lo fight—but they 
are willing to wait until /he moment comes; and they 
have great confidence in our brave Commander-in- 
Chief, who has a strong hold on all soldiers’ hearts. 
However. 1 will leave this field to wiser heads and 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
LETTERS FROM HILLDALE FARM, 
October nth. —I promised to tell you of the 
“Farmer Boy’s” visit in one of my epistles. His 
letters bore the signature, “ Edgar Fenton Nor¬ 
wood.” The time not being fixed for his visit, 1 
endeavored to keep myself “in trim,” as he was 
liable to come any day. Perhaps he thought that 
women who write lor newspapers never wear soiled 
dresses, and their hair is never out ol order. Be 
it as it may, he came on Monday. I had just 
finished washing, and in emptying the tubs had 
spilled nearly the whole contents of one upon my 
dress, so that 1 looked as though 1 had just received 
a fresh baptism. In this plight 1 went into the 
sitting-room to survey myself in the old-fashioned 
long mirror, and couldn’t help observing that I 
looked like the picture of the witch of End or in our 
old family bible. To complete the resemblance. I 
drew off my net, and running my fingers through 
the curls, soon Had a huge-looking mass of hail' 
streaming down my shoulders. By this time I 
looked worse than the picture, when I heard the 
clinic of the gale latch, and in that brief glance saw 
a carriage at the gate, and a stranger half way up 
the walk. I never was in the habit of running, if 
not “dressed up,” and could not do so now, lor no 
one was in calling range. (Perhaps I should tell 
you that this occurred before brother’s illness.) I 
half suspected who he was, but never discovered 
myself in so great a dilemma but that I found some 
means of extrication therefrom. Snatching up my 
sun-bonuet, I drew it down far over my face, 
appeared at the door in answer to his knock, when 
the following colloquy ensued: 
“ Does Mr. M-reside here?” 
“ Shu re an’ be does." 
“ Is Miss M-at home?” 
“ An' I'm sorry to till ye the Mistiness is abroad.” 
“ I wished to see the young lady—Miss Minnie,” 
and the stranger smiled faintly. 
“Oh! an’ beggiu' yer honor’s pardon, its Miss 
Minnie ye're afther saying. Come into the parlor 
and I'll be af'lhor tolling her. 
Bridget handed the gentleman a seat, and was 
about departing, when she added. “ An' what will 1 
till her if she’d be aftlior kuowin’ who ye might be?” 
The smile was not so faint this time, as the gen¬ 
tleman hastily wrote on the back of a card, “ Edgar 
F. Norwood.” 
Bridget, thus satisfied, beat a hasty retreat, and 
soon after found herself in her own room convulsed 
with laughter. 1 had not laughed so heartily in a 
long time, Jennie; but the whole thing was so 
ludicrous, how could 1 help it? Instead of a lad in 
his teens, I saw a man not loss than twenty-five. I 
thought ho looked a little like father, too. He was 
tall, rather slender, and had great, deep-looking 
gray eyes, while father is only of medium height, 
and has black eyes. His hair was nearly if not 
quite black, moustache and whiskers ditto. You 
know of the latter I’m a great admirer, —think 
they’re a decided improvement to a man’s face. In 
truth, l think men should duly observe that, passage 
of Scripture which says “ thou shalt not mar the 
comers of thy board.’' But what should 1 do? There 
I was in my wet dross, hair hanging at random, and 
a gentleman in the parlor waiting for me. I sat 
down at my desk and informed the gentleman that 
I regretted a half hour’s engagement, but hoped lie 
would feel at ease, &c., and dispatched Bridget 
with it. He seemed rather disappointed at seeing 
Bridget again, but acknowledged her kindness 
witli a graceful “ thank you.” 
The half hour elapsed, and I re-descended the 
stairs. Of course my hair did not half curl, nor 
could I find my white apron .that I thought looked 
so charmingly with my dark calico dress. He rose 
and came toward me at my entrance, saying he 
hoped he had the pleasure of addressiitg the 
“ Farmer’s Girl.” I answered with a blunt “ yes;” 
but bis manners were so bland, so frank, and gal¬ 
lant-like, that at tho end of five minutes we were 
talking at a rapid rate. 
He lived two hundred miles away, therefore his 
visit was not very brief. Next day. w hile I was pre¬ 
paring dinner in the kitchen, father said, “ Who is 
that fellow?” “ I dunno’.” “ What is he here for?” 
“I dunno’.” “Well, I think ’tis rather strange,” 
and he resumed his paper. Perhaps I partially 
MEN WANTED 
NOTHING FINISHED 
Men are wanted who are willing and able to do 
the work of life faithfully and unflinchingly. The 
Church of Christ wants men! Oh, it is pitiful to 
look over the vast hosts which are professedly 
marshalled on the side of the Redeemer, and see 
the numerous dead bodies among them — soulless, 
lifeless forms of (forgive the paradox) animate 
matter, which clog the enterprise of thoso who, 
accepting their position in the church as men, strive 
to be something better than drivelling parodies 
upon the name. Who has not seen and felt the 
want here spoken of? IIow many churches are 
fast sinking in tho mire and quicksands of a spirit¬ 
less orthodoxy, or a heartless morality! How many 
ministers of the cross arc struggling against this 
l'eai-fiil want of the times! Their hands are almost 
powerless, because, to the ordinary opposition to 
truth is added the weight of soulless bodies, which 
—like all other matter—possesses immobility, and 
will neither assist nor get out of others’ way.— 
Christum O'oardian. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
DISCONTENT. 
I once had the curiosity to look into a little girl's 
work-box. And what do you suppose I found? 
Well, in the first place, I found a “ bead purse,” 
about half done; there was, however, no prospect 
of it ever being finished, for the needles wore out, 
and the silk upon the spools all tangled and drawn 
into a complete wisp. Laying this aside, 1 look up 
a nice piece of perforated paper, upon which was 
wrought one lid of a bible, and beneath it the 
words. “ 1 love;” but what she loved was left for 
me to conjecture. Beneath the bible lid I found a 
sock, evidently commenced for some baby foot; but 
it had come to a stand just upon the little heel, and 
there it seemed doomed lo remain. Near to the 
sock was a need 1 o-book. one cover of which was 
neatly made, and upon the other, partly finished, 
was marked, “ to my dear.” 1 need not, however, 
tell you all that I found there; but this much 1 can 
say. that during my travels through that work-box, 
1 found not a single article complete; and mute as 
they were, those half finished forsaken things told 
me a sad story about that little girl. They told me 
that with a heart full of generous affection, with a 
head full of pretty and useful projects, all of which 
she had both the means and the skill to carry into 
effect, she was still a useless child— always doing, 
but never accomplishing her work. It was not a 
want of industry, but a want of perseverance. 
Remember, my dear little friends, that it. matters 
but little what great things we undertake. Our 
glory is not in that, but in what we accomplish. 
Nobody in the world cares for what we mean to do; 
but everybody will open their eyes by-and-by, to 
see what men aud women and little children have 
done.— Selected. 
and conditions of society. From the “hewer of 
wood and digger of ditches ” up to the King on tho 
throne, discontent makes sad havoc of a large por¬ 
tion of man’s allotted share of happiness. At the 
touch of its deadening vims, all enjoyment withers 
and decays, leaving nothing but a wreck of blasted 
hopes and insatiable desires. The millionaire, as 
he rolls along in liis glittering equipage, may feel 
that he is monarch of all he surveys. His mansion 
may be decorated with all the ornaments that wealth 
can command. Music, society and ease, may all 
contribute to bis enjoyment. Like Dives of old, he 
may be “clothed in purple and fine linen, and fare 
sumptuously every day;” but.let once tho subtle 
influences of discontent begin to affect him, and peace 
and pleasure will flee from his domicil, and misery 
will become his daily companion. 
But, when once the lesson of contentment with a 
little has been learned, the rudest cottage may 
become the favored abode of contentment with all 
its sweet pleasures. 
Every one has heard of Diogenes, the Grecian 
philosopher, who went about barefoot, dressed in 
shabby clothes, and carrying a jug, a bag, and a 
staff. Ilis house was a tub, which he lugged about 
all day, and slept in at night. This philosopher at 
one time indulged in the luxury of a ladle to drink 
with, but on seeing a shepherd boy drinking out of 
his hand, Diogenes threw his ladle away, as a use¬ 
less encumbrance. He believed that the fewer a 
man’s possessions are, the greater his enjoyments. 
Though this doctrine does not harmonize with the 
ideas of our wealth-seeking Americans, yet it would 
be well for a large proportion of our people to 
imbibe something of its spirit. 
To be continually fretting about that which has 
passed away, and lhat which a wise Providence has 
denied Us, is a foolish aud wicked habit, by which 
nothing is ever gained, while much is lost. To go 
grumbling and discontented through life, as if there 
were nothing good in this world, is certainly 
ungrateful toward that Good Being, who is the 
source “whence all our blessings flow.” We,— 
undeserving creatures,—enjoy all those comforts 
and conveniences which ought to make us happy; 
but the Savior, when on earth pursuing his mis¬ 
sion of good-will to man, had not even where to lay 
his head. Let us then cure ourselves of this 
unlovely evil, by considering how much more unde¬ 
sirable our position might be in life. Let us say 
with the poet: 
I cure not, fortune, what you me deny, 
You cannot rob me Of free nature’s grace ; 
You cannot shut the windows of the sky, 
Through which Aurora shows her brightening face; 
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace 
The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve; 
Lot health my nerves and finer fibers brace, 
And I their toys to the great children leave; 
Of fancy, reason, virtue, naught can me bereave.” 
Belleville, Pa., 1802. K - «• 
The End of the Pilgrimage. —Fear not, thou 
that longest to lie at home. A lew steps more and 
thou art there. Death to God’s people is but a fer¬ 
ryboat. Every day, and every hour, the boat pushes 
off with some of the saints, and returns for more. 
Soon, () believer, it will bo said to thee as it was to 
her in the Gospel, “ The Master is come, and calleth 
for thee.” When you are got to tho boundary of 
you race below, and stand on the verge of heaven 
and the con fines of immortality, then there will be 
nothing but the short valley of death between you 
and the promised land; the labors ot your pilgrim¬ 
age will then bo on the point of conclusion, and you 
will have nothing to do but to entreat God, as Moses 
did, “ I pray thee, let me go over, and see the good 
land that is beyond Jordan, that goodly mountain, 
aud Lebanon.”— Toplady. 
THE GOOD OLD TIME 
What has become of the old-fashioned teaching 
of sewing, in schools, for girls? How, many girls in 
New York could either make or mend a garment 
decently? We have plenty of French and drawing 
lessons; these are very well in their place, but do 
the young ladies who pride themselves on those 
accomplishments own a Ifwmblc? or, owning a gold 
one, perhaps, in a rosewood work-box, do they 
know liow to use it? Could they make a button¬ 
hole, or sew on a missing hook and eyo, or darn a 
stocking, in case of emergency? Or are tlioy as 
utterly helpless in this regard as if they might never 
become wives of men who had not Lhe riches of 
Croesus, or be the mothers of little girls whom iu 
after years they might be sorry not to be able to 
instruct in this old-fashioned branch of knowledge. 
For one. I deplore that fashion has so utterly ban¬ 
ished it from our female schools; it is a disgrace to 
any American girl or woman not to he independent, 
if necessary, of any assistance in the way of plain 
sewing. Mothers, of course, are more to blame 
than teachers; for the latter generally Leach what ia 
required by those who entrust children to their care. 
Alas, for the good old dame who used to inspect 
seams and button-holes so remorselessly that every 
graduate was dismissed perfect in all these particu¬ 
lars, so essential to the comfort of a family. No 
woman, when she is married, can say that she can 
always command the assistance necessary for this 
department of labor. Is not the subject at least 
worth a thought from the “ accomplished ” mothers 
of the present day, with regard to their pretty but 
useless daughters? 
When a man becomes a Christian he will not be 
exempt from tears, from losses, from sickness, cares 
and death; but be will bear theso things with a 
patience that the world has not; and he will see, 
overruling these things, a hand that the world does 
not see; and he will learn that great problem which 
Christianity alone selves, that out of evil God is 
still educing good. 
A Beautiful Fancy,— In the “Legend of the 
Tree of Life,” published in New York, in 1776, 
occurs the following: “Trees and woods have 
twice saved the world—first hy tho uric, then by the 
cro§s ; making full amends for the evil truit ot the 
tree in Paradise, hy that which was borne on the 
tree in Golgotha.” 
Haste. —The eagerness and strong bent of the 
mind after knowledge, if not warily regulated, is 
often a hindrance to it. It still presses into further 
discoveries and new objects, and catches at the 
variety of knowledge, and therefore often stays not 
long enough on what is before it, to look into it as 
it should, for haste to pursue what is yet out ot 
sight. He that rides post through a country, may 
be able, from the transient view, to tell how iu 
general the parts lie, and may be able to give some 
loose description of here a mountain and there a 
plain; here a morass, and there a river; woodland 
in one part, and savannahs in another. Such super¬ 
ficial ideas and observations as these he may collect 
in galloping over it. But the more useful observa¬ 
tions of the soil, plants, animals, and inhabitants, 
with their several sorts and properties, must neces¬ 
sarily escape him; and it is seldom men ever dis¬ 
cern the rich mines, without some digging.. 
Make a Stir. —If a man is a skillful physician, 
lie must demonstrate that fact before implicit confi¬ 
dence can be reposed in him- A lawyer may 
possess taleDts equal to those of a "Webster, yet it 
he fails to disclose the fact, he will unquestionably 
suffer for the lack of clients. The world will be 
convinced of the tniths of Christianity when all 
its professors shall exemplify its precepts in prac¬ 
tical life. 
Dress plainly — the thinnest soap-bubbles wear 
the gaudiest colors. 
