the past to the present, and give to a thankful heart 
an appreciating sense of the blessings which, but 
for the labor of those who first possessed them, 
would never have been yours. e. c. l. k. 
Charlotte Center, N. Y., 1862. 
AFTER THE COWS 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
GO THOU TO DREAM-LAND. 
BY MISS A. ,1. DICKINSON, 
Evening is creeping slowly on. 
The shadows lengthen fast, 
The cool, fresh western breer.es 
Are flitting softly past; 
And in the upland pastures 
The cow hell tinkles shrill, 
And crimson is the clover gross 
Upon the orchard hill. 
Across the verdant hill top 
A ml through the valley shade, 
After the cows at sunset 
Go forth a lad and maid 
Her blue eyes seek for daisies, 
His dark eyes seek her face 
That glowing revelation 
Of perfect girlish grace. 
Shadow is over the forest, 
Grim are the moorland fells; 
Gossamer fairies wander 
Forth from their elfin cells. 
Up the lane to the milk yard, 
Moonlight crowning their brows, 
Come back the lad and maiden. 
Driving the lazy cows. 
TO AUNT BETSEY 
BY MARIA M. JONES. 
I saw a light at the window pane 
On a calm and starry night, 
And I knew there were busy fingers there, 
Making a robe so white. 
And I knew that thoir hearts were light and gay 
As they sewed the udomings fair 
And I knew that they had Carefully laid away 
A beautiful wreath they had twined that day, 
To tie on her pale brown hair; 
And knew they had folded a snowy vail 
To clasp on her marble brow; 
For the one that she loved by her side would stand 
And utter the solemn vow. 
I saw a light at the window pane 
Wlnm the wind w ent sobbing by, 
And cold and fitful drifts of rain 
Fell from the weeping sky. 
And not a star from its home looked down 
On the dwellings of men below; 
And the pale moon shrunk from the fearful frown 
And hid its face in the trailing gown 
Of the clouds, in her grief and woe; 
And I knew there were husy fingers there 
Sewing a rohe so white; 
And a snowy wreath for her pale brown hair, 
Bedewed with the tears of those watchers fair, 
They had twined by that midnight light. 
Away, above, where the sweet-faced stars 
Are singing creation's hymn, 
There shinet.h a glory so pure and bright 
That the light of the sun is dim. 
There I see a concourse of angels fair 
Preparing a robe so white, 
Gemming a crown for the pale brown hair 
Of a beautiful maiden awaiting there 
To he Grtuvned an angel bright. 
Then I knew that one home in this world of ours 
Had witnessed a sad farewell. 
And I knew that the angels had welcomed her 
In their beautiful home to dwell. 
I Dear Rcrai.: — With the permission of ‘‘the 
editor,” I wish to ask Aunt Betsey, or some other 
good old lady who belongs to the Rural family, a 
few questions. In the first place, I want to say that 
it's all about matrimony, so maiden ladies need not 
answer, for experience is the best teacher, or some¬ 
thing like that, my old copy book used to say. 
Now, I am a farmer's daughter, how old I shan’t 
tell, but I very much want to know the proper 
requisites for a good farmer's wife. That is, how 
old must she be?—how much must she know '?—and 
how much mustn't she know'/ What particular 
branches of domestic science must she excel in? 
Should she know all about out door work, or should 
she keep by her domestic affairs, not leaving them 
even in thought? 
Go thou to dream-land, weary one, and rest, 
Too long hath brooding care thy heart oppressed; 
Go thou to rest—yon shining moon "ill keep 
A safely vigil o’er thy loved one’s sleep. 
Thine eyes are dimmed with sorrow's falling tear, 
Thy heart beats wildly 'neath some thrilling fear; 
Go lay thyself in slumber's sweet embrace, 
And sweet repose away each care shall chase. 
Thou must not weep, it will not cal! him back— 
Thy tears but show that thou true faith (lost lack. 
God gave to thee thy child; (was ltis to take— 
Twas His the tender cord of life to break. 
Go thou to rest, and in sweet dreams thou'it see 
Once more his cherished image by thy knee, 
And press him to thy bosom, as of old. 
And hear that merry laugh, nor deem him cold. 
Mourn not that in his childhood's vernal hour 
He faded like a summer's fragrant flower ; 
For aye. earth’s fairest flowers all must die, 
E’en while the landscape's fairest to the eye. 
Look upward—kneel—let pure pray ers arise 
To waft his hl&llt spirit to the skits; 
’Twill soothe thy agitation, calm thy gfief, 
And 'mid thy desolation give relief. 
Weep not., but humbly say 1 God's will be done”— 
He to His breast will fold thy little one. 
Tfis safer there than if ’twas with thee here ; 
Then to thy Savior’s cross in haste draw near. 
Go tliou to dream land, softly close the eye ; 
Night's shadowy cone sweeps calmly, swiftly by ; 
Go thou to dream land, that with the dawn of morn 
Sweet peace to thee may on its wings be borne. 
Detroit, Michigan, 1862. 
One. thing I do know about it,— 
that she should bo perfectly competent to take all 
sorts oi cate of children, and I believe I’m compe¬ 
tent in that line, lor I can recall some seven or 
eight sisterly charges that 1 have aided in reaching 
an independent, stale. 
I don't know, though, as I am particular about a 
farmer's wife's qualifications, for may be 1 shan’t 
marry a tanner. Who knows? I don’t, I'm sure, 
for I’m not engaged, nor have I any prospect of 
that order. But, auntie, you see, 1 was thinking, 
the other day, that almost all our young men, fann¬ 
ers boys, have gone to the war, and os many as 
live to return will probably want to settle,—that’s 
the term, isn’t it.?—and, as a mutter of course, they 
will want good wives. Where will they get them? 
Certainly not among the “young ladies of the 
land, if they are all like those around where 1 live, 
for precious tew of the married couples seem to 
live pleasantly, and I believe it’s the fault of 
their wives; at least a good share of it. We farmers’ 
girls have a good preparatory time now. We 
might, if we knew how to go to work, make our¬ 
selves a prize worth getting, every one of us, and 
then we wouldn’t be obliged to set our caps so 
much, and consequently maiden aunts wouldn't 
have so much to talk about, and—well. 1 think the 
world would be better off. 
Now. auntie, just answer these few questions, 
won’t you? If you will, may be future generations 
will call you blessed. I’m sure I will try and do as 
you direct me. How many others will join me in 
this? 1 think and believe it will do just as much 
good to make ourselves lit for good wives as to join 
a Woman's Rights Convention, or a Cadies’ Reform 
Dress Society, and it will be a great deal more 
modest, and better suited to our proper place in 
society. e. n. w. 
Somewhere, July, 1862. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
FIRESIDE AFFECTION'S. 
The man who sits down in a virtuous home, 
however humble, in which his own industry enables 
him to breathe the atmosphere of independence, 
and his wife’R management to enjoy cleanliness and 
comfort, has a vast scope for the creation of happi¬ 
ness. The minds of his children—of his wife—his 
own mind, are so many microcosms, which only 
ask to be inquired into and developed to reveal 
boards of wealth which may be coined into current 
enjoyment. We are ever too little sensible of the 
good immediately within our grasp; too ready to 
cavil at difficulties, and to declare them impossibili¬ 
ties. A great man once said there were no such 
things as impossibilities, and as all proverbs have 
their foundation in practical truth, this idea may 
receive confirmation from the common phrase, 
“Where there is a will there is a way." It is cer¬ 
tain that the difference between what zeal and 
energy will accomplish with small means, compared 
with what power ill or feebly applied will long 
leave unachieved, is most astounding. Few are 
there who have not to reproach themselves with 
supineness, or a prodigal waste ol time and re¬ 
sources 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
OUR GARRET. 
Clara 
FILL YOUR OWN PLACE 
It takes all sorts of characters to complete this 
world-drama, and somebody must act them. In 
other words, I believe that every man was made on 
purpose; that every man has his place in the world] 
an«i that he was made specially for that place. It is 
only by earnestly filling that place that he fulfills 
liis destiny, and answers the end lbr which God 
created him. Confusion and disappointment only 
arise from our efforts to get into some other place 
than the one for which we were intended. The 
range, of our choice is limited by the character and 
the faculties Gud has given us, and the circum¬ 
stances by which he has surrounded us, and which 
have modified that character and developed those 
faculties. Each rnan is created with certain possi¬ 
bilities, which determine the direction he must go, 
and the height to which be may rise. We need not, 
therefore, remain in doubt as to our duty. Our path 
lies so plainly marked out for us, that it is easy for 
us to find it if we choose. Our work is so near us, 
that wo need not seek long for it, if we have willing 
hearts and willing hands to do it. 
No man is burn into the world whoso work 
Is not bora with him; there is always work, 
And tools to work withal, for those who will. 
The same power that created you and trained you 
for your work, has brought that work to you. Do 
not go out of your way to seek for something grand 
and imposing to do, but take up at once the simplest 
and plainest duty that lies before you, and you will 
not go wrong. Do not stand waiting for signs and 
wonders to reveal to you what God would have you 
do, but listen to the voices within you and around 
you calling you to work. Trust those voices, and 
have faith in humble things; then God will seek 
you, and light and streugth be given to you as your 
path opens wider and higher before your advancing 
footsteps. I believe God calls men to humble duties 
as well as great ones, for to him all duty is equally 
great; and woo he unto him who disregards that 
call. Wo are willing to recognize this call to the 
ministry, then why not to the other pursuits of life'' 
Is preaching the gospel the only duty that God re¬ 
cognizes? It is because we wait for God to manifest 
himself in the lightning and the thunder, that we 
fail to hear His voice in our hearts, and in the indi¬ 
cation of circumstances about us, and thus go 
astray, groping our way blindly, and stumbling on 
through life in darkness and doubt. No man ever 
accomplished much w ho had not this idea of a voca¬ 
tion, who did not feel that he was called of God to 
do that very thing.—Prof. Wilson. 
; few who, when they look back upon the 
field of past experience, but feel how barren they 
have left the track which might have been richly 
cultivated. Let ns instantly reform. The present 
will become the future; let us resolve that it shall 
be rich in fruit: delicious to the spirit of review, 
and yielding good seed for the progressive path 
before us. 
The traveler rarely begins with his own country; 
and, in like manner, the searcher after enjoyment 
too often looks beyond home. Too late in life’s 
journey, when little of either strength or time 
remains, this is regretted. In the case of home, the 
early neglect is usually irretrievable, where, we 
may be certain, if flowers are not cultivated, weeds 
will spring—where the violet and the rose might 
have charmed our senses, the nettle and nightshade 
will offend them. Fknelon was accustomed to 
say, “I love my family better than myself, my 
country better than my family, and mankind better 
than my country; for I am more a Frenchman than 
aFKNELON, and more a man than a Frenchman,” 
This is an instance of reasoning more beautiful in 
theory than reducible to practice. I should be sat- 
ETYMOLOGY AND DRESS-MAKING, 
Walking leisurely through one of the streets of 
Boston, a lady swept by me and swept her dress 
under my feet. The consequence was that I trod 
upon it, and the consequence was that the dress 
gave way. 1 was hastening to make an apology, 
but the lady sailed off in anger and would not hear 
it. The line iu Homer, as Pope renders him, came 
iuto my mind: 
“Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep tiie ground.” 
Thereupon the way opened into a curious field of 
etymology. Tin; proud dames of Rome, as well as 
Greece, must also have swept the ground with their 
garments. For we have veslis, a garment, and from 
this rcslhjia. a track or trail—then vesligo and inves- 
ligo , to lbllow on the track, and by metaphor, to 
track out a tbiug with the mind. Not all in vain, 
then, is this sweeping the ground with long dresses, 
for it has enlarged our vocabulary, giving us vestige, 
to investigate, and investigation. English ladles 
of the olden time indicated their rank by the length 
of their garments. But they did not trail them up¬ 
on the ground. Queen Elizabeth, if we remember 
rightly, employed six maids of honor to hold up the 
trail of her royal robes. Their vestments did not 
make vestiges, like those of Grecian, Roman, and 
A me rican ladie 
can dispute the queenly 
gracefulness of these expanded skirts which “sweep 
the ground.” We hope American ladies will not be 
laughed out. ot a fashion which conduces to grace, 
health, and comfort, and which pleads ancient pre¬ 
cedent in its favor. We only put in an apology for 
the awkwardness of gentlemen, who must some¬ 
times choose between treading upon them and no¬ 
where.— Monthly Religious Magazine. 
DOMESTIC FELICITY 
THE PERSONAL LEAD OF CHRIST, 
I don’t suppose there's a happier little woman in 
the State than me, 
I should like to sec her, if there 
is. I go over home pretty often; and Aunt Mirny 
makes just as much of my baby — I've named him 
John — as mother does; and that's enough to ruin 
any child that wasn't a cherub born. Aud Miss 
Mirny always lias a blotlle of some new nostrum of 
her own stilling every time slut sees any of us; we’ve 
got enough to swim a ship, on the top shelf of the pan¬ 
try to-day, if it was all put together. As for Stephen, 
there he comes now through the huckleberry pas¬ 
ture. with the baby on his arm: he seems to think 
there never was a baby before; aud sometimes — 
Stephen’s such a homebody — I’m tempted to think 
that maybe I’ve marriad my own shadow, after all. 
However 1 wouldn’t, have it other than it is. Lu- 
rindy, she lives at home the most of the time; aud 
once in a while, when Stephen and mother and I 
and she are all together, and as gay as larks, aud 
the baby is creeping round, swallowing pins aud 
hooks aud eyes as if they were blueberries, and the 
fire is burning, aud the kettle singing, and the hearth 
swept clean, it, seems as if heaven had actually come 
down, or we’d all gone up without waiting for our 
robes: it seems as if it was altogether too much hap¬ 
piness for one family. And I’ve made Stephen take 
a paper on purpose to watch the ship-news; for John 
sails captain of a fruiter to the Mediterranean, and, 
sure enough, its little gilt figurehead that goes dip¬ 
ping in the foam is nothing else than the Sister of 
Charity. — Atlantic. Monthly, 
the present day. But here we are, almost at the 
bottom of the chest, and not, one laded manuscript, 
lock of hair, or antique bracelet have we found, on 
which to feed romance. Fads must have been the 
food of the mind at the time—there! what is that? 
It would be hard telling what it used to be called, 1 
think, but it must, have served iu the capacity of a 
“what-not," for what is not in it? Here is a bat¬ 
tered snuff-box, redolent still of the “ real Scotch,” 
and the pictured damsel on the cover gives evidence 
that her head has been “ tapped ” by fingers which 
perhaps were too liberal in conveying “pinches” to 
living heads; a pair of iron-bowed spectacles, a 
well-thumbed hymn book, a steel thimble, a paper 
of “rhubarb,” ah! and a pair of red “baby-shoes,” 
worn at the toes, and showing the shape ot the 
plump, restless foot, which, doubtless, the mother 
used to declare was “into all sorts of mischief." 
There is a white paper in one; oh! that golden curl: 
no one need ask more of the way those feet have 
gone, or of the brow that the curl once shaded. 
The musical patter of the one sounded down a short 
pathway, and hushed at the portals of the grave; 
the pure whiteness of the other was sullied by the 
dust, and faded by the darkness within those portals, 
“ Almost night,” says the last lingering sunbeam, 
and we have imperative duties, but a parting word, 
reader, notwithstanding. 11 you possess a garret, so 
far skyward that you seldom visit it, take some of 
these bright afternoons, when the sun cannot help 
sending in a little light to help you in your explora¬ 
tions, and look over—not forgetting that you are to 
leave them in as good, or a little better, order than 
you found them—the rough tables and chairs, cra¬ 
dles and settles, which were once your mother's or 
grandmother's “household gods.” And as you 
look at them, let your thoughts come from them and 
are, yet without sin. He taught us forgiveness by 
forgiving himself his enemies. He went before us 
in the loss of all things, that we might be able to 
follow, in the renouncing of the world and its 
dominion. The works of love that he requires of 
us, in words, are preceded and illustrated by real 
deeds of love, to which he gave up all liis mighty 
powers from day to day. He bore the cross himself 
that he commanded us to take up and bear after 
him. Requiring us to hate even life for the gospel s 
sake, he went before us in dying for the gospel; 
suffering a death most bitter at the hands of his 
enemies, exasperated only by his goodness, and 
that, when at a word, he might have called to his 
aid whole legions of angels, and driven them out of 
the world. And then he went before us iu the 
bursting of the grave, and the resurrection from it; 
becoming, in his own person, the first fruits of them 
that slept. And finally, he ascended and passed 
within the vail before us, as our forerunner, whom 
we are to follow even there. In all which he is our 
shepherd, going before us, and never behind; call¬ 
ing, but never driving; bearing all the losses he 
calls us to bear; meeting all the dangers, suffering 
all the cruelties and pains which it is given us to 
suffer, and drawing us to follow where he leads.— 
Bushnell. _ _ 
God is no respecter of persons. He wills all men 
to be saved and to come to the knowledge ol the 
truth. _ _ 
It is not talking, hut walking with God, that 
the denomination of a Christian.— 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
DREAMS. 
Dreams! What are they? "Whence come they? 
In what softly tinted Paradise are our weary feet 
stayed, when sleep shuts from our vision the actual 
life beyond our chamber door? Bright skies, sweet 
flowers, and balmy airs, make the beautiful dream¬ 
land a medium between the world that is ours and 
the heaven whose golden streets all, even the most 
reckless, hope some day to tread. Dear forms and 
bright faces make glad those pleasant ways, aud 
loving voices whisper words that send the life-blood 
more quickly through the earth-chilled veins.— 
Hearts long estranged, long dead in coldness and 
indifference, again beat fondly against our own. 
Death, the dark destroyer, holdetb no sway here. 
We meet again the kindly pressure of lips long 
since cold and still; and fingers, amid whose mo¬ 
tionless folds the earth-worm hath nestled many a 
year, close gently in the loving clasp of other days. 
What matter though the storm cloud lower heavily 
without? its shadow can not dim our ideal sky. 
What matter though the garment but now laid 
aside has pressed wearily above a heart fainting 
beneath the trials of earth? there, at least, is a 
respite from pain —a sweet foreshadowing of the 
rest prepared for all, in the “ house eternal in the 
heavens.” 
i he iohow mg w meant to be a companion piece 
to the well-known evening prayer for children, be¬ 
ginning, “Now I lay me down to sleep,” &c.: 
“Now I rise from off my bod, 
I pray the Lord for daily broad; 
Keep me from sinful thought and deed; 
Be with my steps in iiour of need; 
And make my soul, if thou dost take, 
Ail dean and pure for Jesus' sake.” 
‘ Pity it were not as easy to shut the mouth of a 
live talker as the book of a dead writer. 
A man should have an aim in his conversation 
but not take aim like a duellist. 
gives a man 
John Mason. 
v 1 
