though truants ye are 
shall lie at my pleasure 
every one, ye free, glad creatures. A concert ye 
will give every day, opening with a solo by the first 
lark that awakes; then a duet, a trio, a quartette, 
until the sun rises, when all the birds join in a lull 
chorus that wakes the silence in the valley and the 
mountain echoes; and the concert ceases not until, 
with drooping wing and sleepy eye, they chant a 
goodnight hymn, and through the still night are 
dreamers in the wildwood. Bessik Day. 
Hillsdale, Mich., 1862. 
plunging him into some sea of oblivion which no 
breath ol popular applause ever ruffled. 
But, however this catastrophe might affect Mr. 
Bragg personally, to the world it would boa god¬ 
send. The truth is, the sooner the earth is cleared 
of these braggarts, of both sexes, the better; for 
true merit has been compelled to hide its diminished 
head too long, i like the learning, and talent, and 
goodness that have the riog of the real metal about 
them; but this stucco-work, aud veneering, and 
meretricious show, are worthy of nothing but con¬ 
tempt l like to have people, however wise and 
good, permit their acquirements to speak with silent 
tongues occasionally, and not go trumpeting every 
brave and clever thing they do, through the country, 
as though there were no other “ brave and clever ” 
people in the world but themselves. 
I wish this earth possessed a few more of the 
“flower-born-to-blush-unseen” stamp, or, at least, 
people who are willing to be noble, and wise, and 
good, for the principle of the thing, without being 
so over-anxious and tremulous lest the world should 
never hear of their acquirements. True goodness 
is always perfumed with that sweetest flower of 
heavenly birth, viz., Humility; and the greatness of 
Newton’s intellect will be forever illuminated by 
the remark which, after all his wonderful discoveries 
and achievements he had the wisdom to make, that 
he felt like a child gathering pebbles on the strand, 
while the infinite ocean of knowledge laid before 
him unexplored. a. m. p. 
Fayetteville, N. Y., 1862. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
’TIS MAY AGAIN. 
[Written for Moore'B Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE SOUTH WIND. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE MISSIONARY HERO. 
BT JAMKB A. Si’MASTKR. 
BY M. A. HKRNHARt) 
[With regard to the mission at Oahu, Sandwich Islands, we 
can barely report its existence, tho presence of the mission¬ 
ary there, and that when last heard from he was courageoua 
and hopeful with regard to final sueocss .—Missionary Report 
for 1859.] 
Firm in the faith of Gop, he went 
Through danger, pain, and toil, 
To sow the prerions seeds of life 
In far Oahu's soil. 
He mourned the cruel chains that bound 
Those pagan tninds in thrall, 
And wept that darkness, deep and dread, 
O’erspread Uiem like a pall. 
With tireless zeal the man of God 
Toiled through the weary years, 
Sure that his Father's hand would bless 
The seed thus sown in tears. 
And yet no pagan son l was moved 
When, by the orange grove, 
%e told, with deeply yearning heart, 
Tho tale of Jtest's’ love. 
At eve, beneath the rustling palm, 
None bowed with him to pray, 
For Error, far rb human view, 
Still held her dismal sway. 
From Christian hearts, in native land, 
The solemn inquiry came,— 
“ flow many souls hast won this year 
To thy Redeemer's name?” 
“ I may not tell," the toiler said; 
“ 'Tis only known to God; 
My Father sent me—here 1 rest 
Upon his faithful word. 
His promise Lb enough—I know 
That He will surely bless, 
And one day crown my labors here 
With glorious success " 
Hast thou this faith and trust sublime, 
O, earnest, toiling one? 
Then joyful mny'st thou labor on 
TUI God shall call thee homo. 
Upon thy life work nobly done 
The light of heaven shall rise, 
And God, in His own time, accept 
Thy willing sacrifice 
April, 1862. Minerva. 
• A breath of wind on land and sea, 
And the snow Lb fading silcutly. 
The snow that lay so pure and white 
And motionless in the moon’s cold light, 
Shrouding each lovely hill and vale, 
Like a form which lies all cold and pale; 
The pulses still and each heart-throb hushed, 
Where the tide of feeling so freely gushed 
A form that lies in so silent n sleep 
That we who loved her ran only weep 
As we look oil the shroud so cold and white 
That hides her forever from our night. 
But the south wind breathes on land and sea, 
And the snow is fading silently, 
And forest, and valley, and hill are seen 
Alive and arrayed in living green. 
And the Spirit of Life shall send his breath 
Like a soft south wind on the land of death; 
And the shroud shall fade from each pale, cold form, 
And the pulse shall throb and the heart, beat warm, 
And our blest ones all shall appear arrayed 
In robes of light that ran never fade. 
Murray, Orl. Co., N. Y.. 1862. 
Tis May again! The sweet, sweet month, 
My favorite since childhood's hour, 
When I, on sunny hill-side, sought 
The op'ning bud and blushing flower 
O, joyous days, remembered still, 
As islets green in life's rough sea; 
May, with all her budding cliarmB, 
Brings ever fresh the thoughts of thee. 
Tis May again! With hlusliing bloom, 
She's smiling now on hill and plain; 
She stretches forth her flowery arms 
To woo me to her lap again. 
I gaze enraptured on her charms, 
1 drink entranc’d her melody, 
Till early memories, bright and fresh, 
Come with their fragrance back to me. 
’Tis May ngaiul but to my heart 
Joy springs not tip as when, of yore, 
Its balmly breezes kissed my cheek 
While sporting on the pebbly shore. 
The flowers bloom as freshly now, 
The birds trill now their gushing lay, 
In the dear haunts of olden time, 
From dewy morn till close of day. 
Tis May again! and yet my heart, 
Once ever joyous, now is sad; 
E’en May, with all her hud and bloom, 
Has lost the power to make me glad. 
I know, I know it can’t he long 
That I may gaze on scenes like this; 
A few more crushing griefs and pains; 
A few more fading dreams of bliss. 
Tis May again! Why should I sigh 
That I another ne’er may see? 
Her glories ne'er may greet my eye, 
Yet brighter ones are waiting me. 
I know when on these gorgeous scenes 
My eyes forever, ever close, 
A peaceful " Rest” awaileth me, 
Secure from earthly cares and woes. 
Cleveland, N. Y., 1862. 
If “ education makes the rnan,” it also makes the 
woman. Knowledge is her power as well as his. 
No charter has given him the monopoly. The same 
powers and capacities of mind that the Creator has 
bestowed upon one, have also been given the other. 
True, “ woman is not called to wrangle in debate, nor 
contend upon the political arena, nor plead at tho 
bar, nor minister at the altar; her influence is noise¬ 
less and unseen, yet all-pervading as tho sunlight. 
She may wield a moral power that may. tell on a 
nation’s destiny, and a nation’s hopes. She may I 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
A WORD TO MOTHERS. 
What a great diversity of character your borne 
nest affords! And how extremely cautious you 
need to be in your method of procedure with each 
Warbling little one. Their tender minds are suscep¬ 
tible of being shaped in any manner which you, 
mothers, may choose. Each mind has an organiza¬ 
tion peculiar to itself, and requires a course of cul¬ 
ture in accordance with this peculiarity. The timid 
need strengthening and encouraging; the rude, 
boisterous mind wants taming down and its rough 
points smoothing off; the hold, energetic character 
should bo restrained, (be careful not to place too 
groat restriction, or you will mar the beauty of its 
energy); the self-willed and proud nature be sure 
and subdue; the shrinking, sensitive little beings, 
Thu following by Dr. Holland, of the Springfield 
Republican, is as beautiful as it is seasonable: 
The violet is the spring’s own flower, the beautiful 
elder sister of the group of early blooms. Fitting 
type of nature's tender and true, it lifts its sweet 
face shyly to tho sun, but neither fades nor falters 
in the hitter frost. In these early April days fair 
hands have gathered its first blossoms from beneath 
the snow, while the arbutus is yet shivering in shel¬ 
tered hollows, and thi\anemone is lingering in its 
winter’s dream. With the sight ol its purple petals 
the gardening instinct in all flower-loving natures 
wakes to vigorous life. Fresh footprints indent the 
walks, sofl voices float among the brown steins once 
heavy with lilacs, and smiles sweeter than the April 
sunshine fall upon the not ungrateful soil. The 
violet whispers of the rose, and the eye of fancy 
invests the damp, unsightly borders with all the 
bloom and fragrance of June. With practical peo¬ 
ple, who know that the seed time precedes the har¬ 
vest, all Is hustle and pleasant preparation. Cata¬ 
logues are consulted, new favorites selected, and 
hot-beds prepared for the more delicate seeds; while 
discerning mind. A womau admired alone lor her 
beauty of person, either real or artificial, may charm 
and amuse for a time; but “ time draws a vail o’er 
beauty's face,” and beauty, like the. summer butter¬ 
fly or fading flower, is soon past; while an educated 
mind, like the towering oak, defies the tempests of 
years. Beauty, wealth and friends may forsake, but 
a mind adorned with virtue and intelligence, in 
which the improvement of the heart has kept pace 
with the enlargement of (he understanding, will 
live when all things else have expired. A virtuous 
and well educated woman is more to be prized than 
rubies — she is a blessing and vision of gladness to 
all around her. She imparts a high and noble cast 
of character to those with whom she associates. It I 
is not to he expected that all may or can become 
authoresses and embalm their names in the grateful 
remembrance of posterity. Her power and influ¬ 
ence is elsewhere; she is at home in the domestic 
circle — this is her appropriate sphere. Yet the 
page of history, from tho days of queen Semiramis, 
the first female sovereign, down to Catharine of 
Russia, and Victoria of England, has shown what 
she can do —that she is not inferior to the sterner 
sex, the “lords of creation”—in prowess,in literary 
excellence, or in all that constitutes moral greatness 
or real worth. The names of Mrs. Summerville, 
Caroline Herschel, and Emma Willard, are indelibly 
registered on the pages of science and history. The 
names of Isabella Graham, Harriet Newell, Mrs. 
are associated 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
CONCERNING Mr. BRAG. 
oh! fold them closely to your heart, for there only 
will they thrive. These latter claim the most gentle 
and judicious care. 
Now, mothers, see that your own hearts are 
rightly disciplined. Tuke the Bible for yonr day¬ 
book, and its pattern ol’ meekness as your example. 
Cultivate patience, and then do not be afraid to 
exercise It. Use the rod when necessary, blit 
beware how you hold it in anger; for one angry 
blow may awaken a long train ol evil passions, 
which no after teaching cau counterbalance. Do 
not scold. If you place any estimate on the happi¬ 
ness of childhood, I repeat, do not scold. Suppose 
your little ones do tear their clothes, you can mend 
the rents; but the wounds you inflict by crosswords 
can never, uover be healed. Oh! how my heart 
aohes for your dear little specimens of humanity, 
when I hear you utter fretful words. Just stop and 
think. If you are a few years older, you are noth¬ 
ing hut grown up children; aud, really, I believe 
yon would indulge in a long fit of crying should 
your husbands happen io even look liko being cross. 
You do not half realize the power example has 
over your sprightly little prattlers. Every act of 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
LIFE’S VOYAGE. 
Have tho pleasure of introducing me to Mr. 
Buncomhe Brag? No, sir, emphatically. I de¬ 
spise his whole race, great and small. It’s enough 
for me to have heard him talk, nis conversation is 
a continual pendulum-like swing, between great I 
and little you. He is the very prince of bombast, 
face. 
From the violet it is not a long step to the rose, 
although it is a step upon a damp and yielding soil. 
But we will not heed the exposure, forwe are lovers 
of completeness, and we feel that a summer without 
flowers would he like an autumn wilhout fruits. 
Now is the time to plan and arrange, to purchase 
and transplant; the time for gentle hands to hear 
the baby roses from tho nursery before they wake 
and weep. Now is the time to consult the manual 
of the season, lying ready npou Ibe table. No 
fashion plates flaunt between its plain brown covers; 
ils pages borrow no interest from the legends of 
romance; and yet it is brimfilll and running over 
with the very sweetest suggestions, and its language 
is the lover’s own, for it is the language of flowers. 
Judson, and Florence Nightingale, 
With all that is lovely, estimable, and enviable, in 
life. The names of Mrs. Sigourney, Mrs. Hemans, 
and Hannah More, will shine as stars of the first 
magnitude in (he intellectual firmament, as long as 
poetry holds its charms to please. 
We trust the day is dawning when no son may lie 
found to spurn the ignorance of his mother, or chide, 
the want ofintelligence in a sister—Ihe day when an 
enlightened and well cultivated Christian 
THE COUNTRY DOCTOR, 
woman¬ 
hood shall throw around our patriotic sons the shield 
of safety, honor, and prosperity, and both America’s 
sons and daughters shall rise to fill the high destiny 
that Providence has apparently marked out for 
them in the scale of exalted being.— N. Y. Teacher. 
“Well, now!” ejaculated the nurse, “he is a 
good, kind man, he is. What we poor people 
should do without him, I don’t know. He is just as 
kind and attentive to us as to the great folks; and 
he don’t care what trouble he takes.” There are 
hundreds of such men in England, whose whole life 
is spent in unostentatious gooduess. Men are they, 
who scarcely know what a night’s rest is, whose 
time is passed in the- bouses of the poor, the abodes 
of wretchedness aud suffering, the haunts of fever 
and of death; men of whom the scientific annals 
make no mention, but whose names are gravcu on 
the hearts, and borne upwards and heavenwards in 
the prayers aud thanksgivings of the dying aud the 
bereaved; men who give their time and liveH for 
their fellow-creatures; and who do this without the 
idea ol reputation, and without the patronage of tho 
great, hut from simple, Christian love. There are 
hundreds of these men whose reward here is the 
consciousness of a charity that “ is twice blessed,” 
but whose reward hereafter will he just. We have 
seen them in the homes of wretchedness, disease, 
and death. The faces of poor sufferers have bright¬ 
ened as they looked upon that hope-giving coun¬ 
tenance, listened to the words of comfort, and felt 
the support of a strong arm with them in their 
weakness and despondency. 
CALICO 
Calico dresses are grand institutions. Delaines, 
silks, and even satins, are good enough, iu their 
place—in the parlor or band-box, and all such; but 
after all,- the old “stand-by,” the substantial, is 
smiling calico. Care must he taken not to soil the 
silk; nothing must come in contact with the nice 
dress that will rumple or stain it, 
But the calico is 
made for work, and. as the highfalutins say, “ nobly 
does it fulfill its mission.” Silk rarely finds its way 
into the realities of life—that is, into the kitchen at 
home, or the tint of the sufferer abroad. But calico, 
oh! what rich meals we get by it! how it cheers the 
suffering, as with its bright colors and cheerful 
presence it stands with soft aud gentle hands, min¬ 
istering to our distresses. Calico seems to he 
always more ready and willing to give to want than 
silk- It is a curious fact of our nature, that the 
nicer our dress the harder our heart is, as if when 
dressed iu silk we changed our natures, and rose 
above base and worldly things. What! our silk 
dresses to be seen near enough to that poor work¬ 
man to give him assistance, or drabbling into a 
dirty hut! No, never! Calico might do it—silk, it’s 
just impossible! But when, in addition to all, calico, 
comes in rosy with the excercise of kitchen duties, 
which it knows how to do so well, and loves to do 
so dearly, and sits down hi the piano or melodeon, 
and makes the liquid melody flow sweetly forth, 
aye, even blending its own sweet voice with the 
music of the instrument, then do we appreciate and 
admire calico .—Saturday Evening Post, 
Whenever they have 
entered, they have brought consolation; and when¬ 
ever they have left, they have been followed by the 
benediction of the poor in spirit.—From “ Yes and 
No; or, Glimpses of Ike Great Conflict." 
Good-By.— Fervently, falteringly, tearfully, how 
many times it has been said, since they went out of 
Egypt, of old. There is a tone in the word, like the 
tone of an evening bell a great way off, very sweet 
but very sad. “Farewell” may do as a harmony 
for a “ knell ” and “ fell; ” there may be a something 
grander about it, but then “good-by” is a dear, 
homely word, that we must all keep in the home¬ 
stead, for it was so ordained, Imt only used in its 
full significance three or four times in the course of 
a life. And all it means is a good going , a single 
Saxon wish; but what more can we say, or what 
matter if we could? Were “ adieu ” only our tongue; 
if only we had heard it when we were young; if 
our dear old mothers had said it, aud knew pre¬ 
cisely what it meant, “ adieu” would be the word; 
for in its to God is comprised everything we can do, 
whose arms cannot encircle the world. 
God’s Promises. — The thought once occurred to 
Bunyan, while in a troubled mood, “Begin at the 
beginning of Genesis, and read to the end of Reve¬ 
lation, and see if you can find there were ever any 
that trusted in the Lord and were confounded.” 
This thought, he tells us, “was very comforting to 
him.” And it may be so to other tempted, despond¬ 
ing onoB. Entertain it, dejected believer, and pro¬ 
ceed to act upon it. “Never has God stud to the 
seed of Jacob, seek ye my face in vain; trust ye in 
the Lord Jehovah; for in the Lord Jehovah is ever¬ 
lasting strength.” Search the Scriptures and you 
will Hud it to be thus; and many other cheering 
truths you will find there. 
“ That field of promise, how it flings abroad 
Its oder o'er the Christian's thorny road I 
The soul, reposing on assured relief. 
Feels herself happy amid all her grief." 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
MINSTRELS OF THE SUMMER-TIME 
From your southern home ye have come again, 
bright birds, serenading the lair young spring, re¬ 
hearsing the more perfect music that shall charm the 
summer-time. Did ye tiro of tho blooming beauty 
of thntsunuy land? Did ye tire of the shining skies, 
the laughing water, and the wealth of floral treas¬ 
ure that never fades? Or, perchance, it was a 
missionary feeling hade ye plume your bright wings 
and speed your flight to a colder climate, bearing 
with you a word of love from the sunlight, a breath 
from the flowers, 
Yo have learned sweeter songs since ye went 
away. Did some southern minstrel of brighter 
plumage teach ye its lay? or did ye learn it from 
the murmur of fountains, the low voices of the 
flower-bells, or the tone of the flirting zephyr? Or, 
methinks, in your flight so near the skies ye caught 
, some truant notes from an angel harp, and trill them 
;. out so sweetly and so skillfully that birds of heaven 
f will hear and answer to your call. It is a song from 
[l heaven—a bird’s song. ’Tis a glee for the glad of 
A heart, a psalm for the trusting, a prayer for the sor- 
T rowing. Alas! earth has no lexicon to interpret the 
g language, no pen to write the music, only each 
! heart for itself may set words to the music, and 
make its own responses. 
Ye have co^pe again—ye have come again, bright 
¥ birds; and through the long day a whole orchestra 
engines oi nomtiast and sett-conceit which he man¬ 
ages. lie is now in his element, with abundance of 
elbow-room. Beginning with that immortal boulder, 
Plymouth Rock, which America’s orators must 
have worn thread-bare long ago, were such a thing 
possible, he comes down at length to the wonderful 
present century, embellished by the talents of him¬ 
self and his brethren. Having affirmed that his 
own particular farm is the most extraordinary in tjie 
world for its size, be eulogizes Uncle Sam’B in tie 
same way, only more so. lie assures his gaping 
audience that the wise-acres who work it are the 
most expert cultivators in existence, and tho ma¬ 
chinery for tilling and reaping said farm, which 
machinery his great-grandfather had a hand in con¬ 
structing, the m*st wonderful inventions patented. 
Aided by the wings of such high-flown words, the 
American eagle and Mr. Buncombe attain such a 
height of grandiloquence as the grand bird alone 
could never dream of reaching. From this emi¬ 
nence, all the other farms on the globe dwindle into 
insignificance, while the great American plantation 
assumes more colossal proportions that ever. 
It is fortunate for Mr. B. that the pinions of our 
wonderful bird have been somewhat clipped of late, 
for otherwise his “ spread-eagle declamation ” might 
have carried him so high as to prove, like the waxen 
wings of Icarus, the means of his destruction — 
despair. No condition is hopeless where the wife 
possesses firniness, decision, and economy. There is 
no outward prosperity which can counteract indo¬ 
lence, extravagance aud lolly at home. No spirit 
can long endure had domestic influence. Man is 
strong, but his heart is not adamant. He delights 
in enterprise and action; but to sustain him, he 
needs a tranquil mind and a whole heart. He needs 
his moral force in the conflicts of the world. To 
recover his equanimity and composure, home must 
be to him a place of Tepose, of peace, of cheerful¬ 
ness, of comfort; and his soul renews his strength 
again, and goes forth with fresh vigor to encounter 
the labors and troubles of life. But if at home he 
finds no rest, and is there met with bad temper, sul¬ 
lenness or gloom, or is assailed by discontent or 
complaint, hope vanishes, and he sinks into despair. 
Tub End of Literary Discipline, — To attain 
a power of exact expression, is tho one end of true 
literary discipline. To put liis whole thought and 
express his actual emotion in his words, not to inter¬ 
polate clever embellishments, is the object even of 
the careful writer, when he takes pains to revise 
what he has written. It is true that men write 
feebly who write as they speak. Spoken language 
has eyes, hands, every movement of the face, every 
gesture of tho body, every tone of the speaker’s 
voice, to illustrate it as it flows. To written lan¬ 
guage all these aids are wanting, and the want of all 
must be supplied by care for the right use of words. 
— London Quarterly Review. • 
A living faith in moral and religious truth 
expands the mind, quickens the intellect to grasp 
all truth that comes within its reach, excites the 
imagination to admire the beautiful, and finds 
delight in tracing out the works of God, with all 
their benevolent arrangements, through which we 
are led to love and adore our common heavenly 
Father. This is true human progress. 
A religious life is not a thing which sheds itself 
like a bright bubble on the river surface. It is 
rather like the river itself, which widens continually 
and is never so broad or so deep as at its month, 
where it rolls into the ocean of eternity.— Beechtr. 
