“WHEN OUE SHIP COMES IN. 
A little child dwelt by the flowing sea, 
And her home was the home of poverty; 
She ran with hare t'eet o'er the golden sands, 
And gathered shells with her small, brown hands. 
Gay strangers entne in rir.b robes flight, 
But the little maiden shunned their sight; 
And shaliiug her curls o’er blushing fate, 
Sped away like a ton that flies the cliASC. 
When the strangers were gone, said the mother mild, 
“ What was it dismayed thee, my darling child?” 
“ O, mother! tny feet were hare and brown, 
I had no bonnet, and then—this gown"' 
She held up the skirt of her faded frock, 
Sadly rent by the jugged rock; 
And she said, with a deep and long-drawn sigh, 
“ Will 1 have such dresses as they by-and-by?” 
Her mother smiled with ft grave, sweet grace, 
As she smoothed the curls from the half grieved face, 
And said, " When our ship comes in from sea, 
You shall have garments and all things free.” 
“ When our ship conies in!” said the little one, 
And away to the highest rock she run, 
And watched till night-shadows dimmed the shore 
For the freighted ship and its treasured store. 
Long and often she watched in vain, 
No ship for her sailed over the main. 
How many watchers In life there he 
For the ship that never comes over the sea! 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
A MAIDEN’S KEVEEIE. 
How cool these rain drops are; what a musical 
patter they make on our old door-stone, and how 
the light breeze sends in through the open window 
the fragrance they have drawn from leal and flower. 
Dropping my head on my idly-clasped hands, and 
looking dreamily through the glistening, dripping 
vine leaves, my heart puts away all present cares, 
and goes back to a Past which is not “dead,” and 
cannot be “ buried,” though the years, in their swift 
passing, have thrdwn a shadowy vail over the ways— 
some ol pleasantness and peace, some of darkness 
and unrest — through which I have “come up 
hither.” 
Just as softly and caressingly as now the clouds 
of the summer sky dropped their pure baptism on 
my brow in the long-past days; as clearly have 
these green hills ever framed my home-picture; and 
the stars that seem dropping their calm light into 
the deep places of my soul, have been in my sight 
fairy lamps, glorious worlds, and Infinite mysteries, 
changing as 1 came up into the “ways of the world,” 
and learned its stern lessons, just as our hearts 
change from childhood's unquestioning trust, to 
looking for something hidden, asking for something 
proved. 
There are times when many hearts, weary of their 
cares, pains, and unanswered hopes, look back to 
childhood’s dreaming days, and say, yearningly, 
“Would they were mine again, tbeir’swas life’s only 
happiness;” but for me, standing before the shut 
gates of the Future, looking back to the days that 
are bound with sweet memories and laid in the 
garner of the Past, I would go onward , not forget¬ 
ting, yet still not mourning for the brightness of the 
“ Has Been.” and trusting that, though rough paths 
and dark shadows may attend it. some sunlight will 
gild the “Must Be.” 
Gon sends to the outer world wild storms and 
fierce dasbiugs ot rain; and though trees are up¬ 
rooted by the one, and leaves beaten and torn by 
the other, the Life of the earth, the quick-pulsing 
streams, and cool-breathed breezes, are. but stronger. 
Aud so it seems to me. thinking of the lessons of my 
years, has been my Father’s care of me. When I 
used to lie under the green orchard trees, looking 
up through the boughs to “God’s Heaven,” my 
soul was learning its first lessons of life —was 
thrilled by the first yearnings ol its immortality— 
and felt awakening within it the thoughts and hopes 
of its spring-time. Very swiftly these germs in the 
garden of the heart grew, while I came onward into 
the paths of maidenhood, throwing out tendrils that 
clung to earth's idols, and to castles whose founda¬ 
tions were of air. But soon quick lightning flashes 
fell over them—flashes from the. dark clouds of Death 
and Reality; aud while yet blinded by the glare, the 
storm came on, passed, and left Hopes uprooted by 
sharp blasts of Pain. Joys beaten down by wild 
showers of Tears. 
And yet I bear to-night a calm and peaceful 
heart. I look upward as my childish eyes could not: ■ 
for I have learned that God's care is the right care, 
that his chastening is but the fitting of the life to its ] 
purposes; and 1 have found, too, the quick streams 1 
of an unfailing strength gushing within my soul; 
streams that were fed drop by drop when the tears * 
that fell over my dead Hopes were dried by Faith’s 1 
sunlight. 
Ah, no. “ Would 1 were a child again,” is no song 
for me. The hardly conscious happiness of an un¬ 
awakened and untried heart, pure and sinless as it 
is, is not the highest !ior the most holy emotion 
of which our souls are capable. They are pained 1 
and most sorely tried, oftentimes, in their lessons ot ' 
maturer life; but the pains aud trials are God's cut- t 
iure, and we need but to bear aud trust , while the 8 
storms last. We shall Cud the soul’s inward e 
strength greater for the crushing of some Hope- a 
tendrils which twined with the outward and perish- v 
able. e. c. l. k, e 
Charlotte Center, N. Y., 186:2. I 
before us in sustaining and encouraging those who 
have left home and friends to secure to us and future 
generations that liberty for which our forefathers 
pledged “their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred 
‘ K , ’ - ’ „ [Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
honor. Mart Elizabeth Carter. 
Detroit, Mich., Aug., 1862. THE FKIEND IN CHEER LESS WEATHER. 
' ' * ' ’ BT WILLIAM E. KJfOWLKS. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] - 
TRIFLES There never is a lack of friends 
_ When fortune smiles and gold is plenty; 
It was only a trifle of time it took to put a hand- Bat ,e ‘ ,<m 8,rik f th * dividend ?’ 
ful of sweet peas down under the brown earth-mold Heartless and hollow, why should they 
by the door-sill, arrange the strands for iheir sup- share iM the fhaDie of - ^ uoh diB f aV or, 
port, and guide up the first trail tendrils. This When friendship bound them but to day, 
done, the warm summer sunbeams, the evening And left them then as free to waver? 
dews, and the morning showers, took the future But hanl as this may be to bear, 
responsibility. How they leaped up, reaebingtheir we are not friendless altogether; 
fine clasping fingers higher and higher up the trel- For through the tears of grief and care, 
Jis bars; then but a few days, and such a wealth of We see the friend in cheerless weather! 
delicate, perfumed flowers opened their petals as to a Time cannot change that human heart, 
thousand fold repay, by their fragrance and beauty, Change cannot chill that hearts embraces; 
for that one trifle of lime. Passing people admired A " d when the f, 
their beauty, inhaled their sweetness, and wished 
“ they had just such a trellis of sweet peas at home.” An<J thus “ is ,ve realize, 
You offer them seed, tell them the planting time, And, realizing, heed it better, 
but likely enough, if the next year you should That friendship in its common guise, 
chance to pass by their dwelling places, you would And vet lhig musl be qualifiedi 
discover nothing Of the blossoming vines. When They are not debtors altogether; 
the planting time came, they were forgotten, that For one the balance-sheet has tried, 
one little trifle was neglected, and the paths to their And found him friend in cheerless weather. 
doors yet remain barren of aught save a variety of August, 1882. _ ^_ 
ungainly weeds. 
- ' [Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
Only a trifle of self-denial it required to pass by THE LESSON OF THE STORM, 
the showy millinery establishment of- with a 
two year old bonnet on and a live dollar bill in Who can gaze upon the rising storm without 
your porte-uionnaie. down further to the end of the feeing® of sublimity and awe. The dense black 
street, and round the corner; not a fashionable cor- c ^ ou, i rising step by step in all its solemn majesty— 
ner, with broad flinty steps leading up to the ele- i,a comil ’g heralded by the thundering of heaven's 
vated homes of millionaires, but rickelty wooden dread artillery, until the earth and sky seem to 
ones, leading to apartments dingy and comfortless, ecbo !U1( i re-echo with its direful music. Dread and 
where sickness and woe brood in the stifling atmos- fearful is that bonr when ear,b » darkened by a 
phere; where on couches, far different from your wal1 of cloud - and nature seems as if terrified to 
own downy ones, lie pitiful objects of Buffering b 'de her face. Who, gazing upon this scene ot 
i humanity. ‘ There five dollars will get the hungry grandeur, is not filled with feelings of reverence 
children a breakfast and supper, and medicines for aQ d °* awe at the insignificance of man before the 
the poor, feeble mother, whose husband sleeps, omnipotence of Gon. 
unrecorded, ’neath the blood-stained slope of a The storm king rages in all his fury, until slowly 
Southern battle-field. It was but a trifle of self- and gradually the clouds begin to disappear, the 
denial, but Gon will count that trifle. sky is bright and clear, and the earth radiant with 
- the golden beams of the sun. The storm has passed, 
Only a trifle of forbearance did it need to skip and all is now a scene of beauty and of life. Has 
those angry words that rose so hastily to the tongue it passed in vain? No, it has taught us a lesson in 
when the “girl ” disobeyed your wishes; or the chil- the path of life. IIow often do the storms of trou- 
<lren worried you with their unending queries; but ble and disappointment gather around the horizon 
that trifle would save numerous trifles more of dis- of the soul, until the bright sun of hope almost 
agreeable jarring in the household. Cross looks ceases to send his beams of healing and of light 
and sour words destroy the harmony in how many upon the heart. In such a storm of trouble, how 
homesteads, thoughtlessly indulged in and heed- often we brood over misfortunes and gloomy cares, 
lessly spoken, yet none the less dangerous in their and almost wish that our lots had never been cast 
consequences. Greater for good is the influence of in a world of shades and shadows, of darkness and 
a cheerful lace than all the expounded logic in of sin. Yes, we have even perhaps envied the 
Christendom. Everybody loves to find one. In- pleasures of others, who smiled at disappointment, 
stautly, as we think of it, we recall those of our and laughed dull care awuy, and seemed, even in 
friends who are wont to carry sunshine with them; spite of all the raging storms ol fortune, to glide 
not those who, like a showery day. give an over- safely down the stream of life, 
bright smile with an omiuous Cloud verging over it. Why this despondency, ye care-worn pilgrims of 
But some there are, (not very many, perhaps,) but earth? Why this fear and trembling at the passing 
u lew, who have a kind, appropriate word, at home waves and billows upon life's tempestuous sea? 
and abroad, for each and all. young and old, pros- c eage y 0ur moaning. ‘Look around you for beauty 
perous and unprosperous; and those few everybody and for good. Do not search the dark and gloomy 
welcomes. But think you it never cost those per- comers of the heart for troubles which will never 
sons a trifle of self-denial, or forbearance, so to be? become realities. Look abroad and see the free 
Only an occasional tempest may ruffle the cur- and happy faces of contentment on every side, 
rent of one's whole life-sea; only a few trifles of They have perhaps not half the real comforts which 
thoughtfulness may render it less rough and tem- you enjoy, yet. they are free from every care, and 
pestuous. Erie. think it “life to live,” not slopping to gaze with an 
Henrietta, N. Y., 1862. eagle’s glance into the dark and misty vale of f'utu- 
rity. Imitate their example, and you will not be 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] troubled with cares and sorrows all along the path 
LONELY. of life. 
- Life is what you make it. If you are searching 
God willing, we shall soon meet, my darling.^ j A , t(a . for the thorns which fortune has cast in your way, 
0 T i , , ’ you will not seek them in vain; while if you search 
Could I but see your dear face, mother, aud :. .. ., . * . ,, J ... .. . 
... , , . . . , . , ;1 ’ , ’ tor the roses that deck the pathway, vou will find 
listen to your kind voice fo-uieht! But so many „ . „ , : 
them in all their beauty, even overhanging your 
miles are between us, and time is so tardy in flight ,, , . , , ?.. . 
n .... ... ,, r . . , pathway, and strewn along your course. Lite has 
Gon willing! Well, I tore peUence, but {„ ^ Tbe >vinils J ;„ l5 f orl „ nt , mI16t Potm . 
am so ont J "' hl - M ' M * "' l - 1 * times blow: tbe clouds of adversity wit! rise; dark- 
(or companions, bathed in waves of silver light, arid ,, . „ . , . , . . , . 
.. , 1 ,, . , . . , ness—that thick darkness which may be lelt—will 
the low, sweet notes ol a viol, creep in with the ... . . . ,. 
. , . ! 1 at times hover around, and even the rains .of 
moonbeams white, bomnus brings no sleep o my . f ... . 
... , . ...... J trouble may descend, until the frail bark of lde is 
J ye!ids, and to-night it is past the art of silver moon , . ,, , , 
• . , almost swallowed up by the waves. These winds 
)r the sweetest tune, to bring any ioy to my heart. , , , , ... 
T „ ' .. . ° J and clouds soon vanish, and the blight and radiant 
In my ears, funereally ringing, are the sad bells ... ... . , r) . ,, „ . 
, , sun ol hope again throws bis beams oflight around, 
d memory's chimes; and with face hid in my hands ... 
, , .... : The storm is over, the gloomy past has fled, and the 
have wept, like the child that I am, sometimes. , . , .. . . • ,. . 
. , , , , ’ , t, sky once more is clear, the future bright and prom- 
1 want, oh! I want you , my mother! I’m “sae • . (r ' or 
reary” and “fu’o’care;” it would rest me to sit al 1S1 r I . I “’, . ,, . -, .. 
, , „ . ’ . , , . Such then is the storm of life, and greatly does it 
7; ee ’ an ‘ “ 7i' U 80 ° l , K °? air ' resemble the storms of rain and wind which some- 
- SZ2" ,r.’ y ; T y T ! ” ” ly n “ D . times cause fear aud trembling, butiu tbe end make 
ny sorrows to share. Ah. in this wide world there s ,, . . ... I . .... 
„ ,, all nature reioice with new beauty and new liie. 
lo other Jove like the love our mothers bear „ .. \ J , ... 
“Gun willing.” Well. I'll try to have patience 1 rGSS lorward ’ lhen ’ thr0l)gb Btorm whlcb 
f /., • 7 t0 . nave I aT e . nce > may assail yoUl with the pleasing hope that “ after 
ud some day 111 forget this pain, when, with kisses ... .. A 1 . 
„ - . , the storm comeB the sunshine. Arno. 
ud tender embraces, my mother and 1 meet again! ... ,. 
T..iv iftfto .Oberlin, Ohio, 1862. 
a cheerful lace than all the expounded logic in 
Christendom. Everybody loves to find one. In¬ 
stantly, as we think of it, we recall those of our 
friends who are wont to carry sunshine with them; 
not those who, like a showery day. give an over- 
bright smile with an ominous cloud verging over it. 
But some there are, (not very many, perhaps,) but 
a few, who have a kind, appropriate word, at home 
and abroad, for each and all. young and old, pros¬ 
perous and ullprosperous; and those few everybody 
welcomes. But think you it never cost those per¬ 
sons a Lritle of sell-denial, or forbearance, so to be? 
Only an occasional tempest may ruffle the cur¬ 
rent of one's whole lil'e-sea; only a few trifles of 
thoughtfulness may render it less rough and tem¬ 
pestuous. Erie. 
Henrietta, N. Y., 1862. 
- * •♦■ --»- 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
LONELY. 
“ God willing, we shall soon meet, my darling.” 
[ Mother’s Letter. 
Could I but see your dear face, mother, aud 
listen to your kind voice to-night! But so many 
miles are between us, and time is bo tardy in (light! 
“Gon willing!” Well, I must have patience, but 
1 am so lonely to-night. I sit, with sad thoughts 
for companions, bathed in waves of silver light, arid 
the low, sweet notes of a viol, creep in with the 
moonbeams white. Somnus brings no sleep to my 
eyelids, and to-night it is past the art of silver moon 
or the sweetest tune, to bring any joy to my heart. 
In my ears, funereally ringing, are the sad bells 
of memory’s chimes; and with face hid in my hands 
I have wept, like the child that I am, sometimes. 
1 want, oh! I want you , my mother! I’m “sae 
weary” and " tu‘ o’ care;” it would rest me to sit ai 
your feet, and feel your soft touch on my hair. 
1 long for you, sadly, my mother, in my joys and 
my sorrows to share. Ah, in this wide world there’s 
no other Jove like the love our mothers bear! 
“God willing.’’ Well, i’ll try to have patience, 
aud some day I’ll forget this pain, when, with kisses 
and tender embraces, my mother and 1 meet again! 
July, 1862. ’Barbara G. Moore. 
breath into his very face. He paused, and smiling 
sadly in rqturn. bent down as if to kiss them. He 
said nothin»but I knew the breath of <he rosps had 
found its through the windows of his soul, and 
warmed into life the withered roses in the urn of 
memory. But one day a wicked boy came along, 
and broke off the loveliest of them all. It stung 
him, and struggled with ail its might; but he bore 
it away, and then—they all pined away and died. 
Poor dead roses! 
There was a rose in the garden of our hearts. 
When the June roses were young, and the birds 
were singing the prelude to the song of summer, it 
blushed into being. The dews ot lime and sun¬ 
shine ot smiles nourished it. and it opened its leaves 
and twined its little roots closely round the cords 
of our hearts; and when the field roses died, it 
bloomed right on, amid the winds of winter and 
showers of snow, and grew larger and fairer, till 
we almost thought it could not die. But one night, 
when its young life had fairly blended with our 
own. there was a blighting frost, and an angel came 
down and bore it away, lest the frost should kill it. 
And now there is another rose in the gardens of 
paradise. We sometimes catch its fragrance when 
the breeze from the gardens is fair, and our hearts 
long for it, but we do not murmur, lest the frost 
should come again and the angel come not There 
is a little family register, and in the column where 
kneels a mourner by a tombstone, is written, all 
alone, Rose—aged three years. 
Turin, N. Y., 1862. Charles M. Dickinson. 
STONE FROM A GLASS-HOUSE. 
Dandyism, like the measels, should be gone 
through with in early life. On a fine, handsome 
boy, of sixteen or eighteen, it sits gracefully, and 
offends no one. After that we look to see him in 
earnest about something besides bright neckties and 
cream-colored kids—well enough for a Broadway 
gambler, lounging on a sunny corner, but accord¬ 
ing to our female ideas, eschewed by men of brains. 
It may be weakness, but a pair ot light gloves on a 
man, except on some festive occasion, immediately 
inclines our nose skyward; dark gloves, Messieurs, 
if you please, and — as you love us — noglilterof 
watch ebaiu or shirt fixin’s. Then — though you be 
no Solomon—we know you sometimes think. In 
this connection would it be too much to ask what 
madness has seized the male portion of New York, 
to array themselves, like so many footmen, in these 
long pettieoaty coats, which now caress their heels, 
making day hideous? Talk of “female servility to 
fashion,” when short, dumpey men allow their tail¬ 
ors to swallow them up in these swaddling clothes, 
by which even the tallest man escapes utter ugli¬ 
ness, “ so as by fire!” 
We regaled our eyes for a whole block, the other 
day. with a sight of a gentleman who had the moral 
courage to go out and face fashion in a bran-new- 
short-bub-tailed-coat! No man in tbese footman¬ 
like coats is allowed a waist—the two defining black 
waist-buttons being placed where a sitting position 
might lie supposed to render them uncomfortable. 
In short, no monstrosity of female fashion was ever 
uglier. Now, in our view, consistency demands 
that the other sex should be dumb—from this time— 
henceforth and forever more—upon the “compul¬ 
sory vagaries of female fashion.” As to “ female 
extravagance,” contemplate $45 for a man’s coat; ’ 
$05 for a dozen shirts; $12 for a vest; $14 for a pair 
of pants; $12 a dozen for gloves, each pair to be ( 
worn once; and $300 for a watch; all expended by 
unhappy young men, who “would be glad to be 
married were not the women of the present day so 
extravagant!” 
I’m disposed to be lenient on the boot question; 
for, if I have a weakness, which is a matter of doubt 
among those who know me best, it is for a row of f 
nicely fitting gaiter boots, all my own, and paid for. c 
1 know it is weakness to pay for them, but that is a ' 
provincial relic of my down-east birth-place, iu £ 
Portland, Maine, where the girls are as sound as the 
timber, and the men are primitively honest.— 
Fanny Fern. c 
-- -v 
OUR LANGUAGE. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
DEATH EVER PRESENT. 
11 In the midst of life we are in death." 
Going daily from our hearthstones. 
Going hourly from our hearts; 
Death, relentless monarch, heeds not 
Where he Kings his arrowy darts. 
“ In the midst, of life,” lol always 
Death stands knocking at the door,— 
Cottage home or gilded palace, 
‘Mid the rich and 'mid the poor. 
Not. the battle-field revealeth 
All the terror of its sway; 
Into quiet homes it stealetli, 
Bears the light and life away. 
Cheek that mocked the summer roses 
With its bright, its healthful bloom, 
Pale and blanched in Death reposes, 
Emblem of an early tomb. 
Manhood, strong and vig'rous manhood, 
Proudly sailing down life’s main, 
Sinks beneath the swelling torrent, 
Nevermore to rise again. 
Aged pilgrim slowly journeying 
Down tbe steep decline of life, 
Sees the conqueror wave his scepter, 
Meekly yields and ends the strife. 
Childhood’s smiles, so sweetly wreathing 
Fairest lips and sparkling eyes, 
Bright with health, and joy, and gladness, 
Seems his most befitting prize. 
Going daily from our hearthstones, 
Going hourly from our hearts, 
Death, relentless monarch, heeds not 
Where he flings his arrowy darts. 
“Forest Cottage,” Dauby, N. Y. 
Mary A. B. 
CRYING SPELL. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
AN APPEAL TO THE WOMEN OF THE NORTH. 
It was about five o’clock in tbe afternoon when 
I arrived at the hospital. Soon after my entrance, 
I was stripped, and bathed in a large tub full of 
tepid water, shown to a bed, aud a nice clean white 
shirt and a pair of drawers were given me. 1 soon 
encased my tired anatomy in my new wardrobe, 
and while so doing my eyes caught sight of the 
words, “From the Woman’s Aid Society of North¬ 
ern Ohio,’’ stamped in black ink on each garment. 
I laid down, pulled the blanket over ray head, and 
thought of my situation. Here 1 am in a hospital, 
prostrated by disease, worn out in body and mind, 
over eight hundred miles from any spot that I can 
call home. My own good mother and sister long 
since were numbered with the dead, but the noble- 
hearted women of Northern Ohio, those angele of 
mercy, are supplying the place ol both mother and 
sister, not only to me, but to thousands of suffering 
soldiers trom every State in the West. Presently I 
felt two large tears coursing down my cheeks and 
running into roy moustache, followed by myriads of 
We have, many of us, sighed for an opportunity sin ce were numbered with the dead, but the noble- 
to extend our sphere of usefulness ; and is there not, Parted women of Northern Ohio, those angele of 
at present, ample scope for that indulgence? There mei> cy- are supplying the place of both mother and 
is at this time of our country's need, no lack of sister, not only to me, but to thousands of suffering 
opportunity to be useful. Many have nobly soldiers trom every State in the West. Presently I 
responded to the appeals that have come from ^ * wo large tears coursing down my cheeks and 
different parts of our once happy and prosperous running into my moustache, followed by myriads of 
country, to supply our sick and wounded soldiers offers dropping on the sheet under my chin, form- 
with the comforts and luxuries ofliie; but are there * a o innumerable little salt water pools. When well 
not many of us who have done little or nothing for I am a strong man, and it requires some suflden 
this worthy object? Let us examine ourselves care- and deep griet to move me to tears; but tears of 
fully and see whether we have done our whole duty gratitude flowed trom me that evening as freely as 
in this particular. There are many of ns that could dro P s of rain Iron 1 an April cloud; and, like a 
also contribute largely toward the bounty fund, to spoiled and fretful child, I cried myself to sleep.— 
encourage enlistments, without making any sacri- Letter from a soldier “in Tennessee. 
flee; and if it should subject us to some self-denial, --—— 
ought we to hesitate on that account? Is it not as 
much our duty to make sacrifices as it is for our 
husbands and brothers!' Are we less interested than 
they? It is true, we are not expected to do duty on 
the battle field, but we have a great and noble work , 
I compare the art of spreading rumors to the art 
of pin-making. There is usually some truth, which 
I call wire; as this passes from hand to hand, one 
gives it a polish, another a point, others make and 
put on a head, and the pin is completed.— Newton. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
ROSES. 
Who does not love them — those “stars of the 
lower world” —those rich censers in the temple of 
Nature? The sunshine loves them, though they 
Bleal its rich colors; the breeze loves them, though 
they burden it with fragrance. The sun does not 
dazzle their eyes as they look up to heaven—the 
rain does not wash out their delicate colors, for they 
are fast They are dyed with sunset, and defy the 
artist to rival their loveliness. How they blush 
when we look at them! 
How eloquent they are! They come to us in 
letters, as one came to me this morning, saying— 
but why should I tell you?—what else could a rose¬ 
bud say? And there they swing in their emerald 
seats—like halcyon nests, hung 'twixt earth and 
heaven—dying, that they may preach to us of man’s 
mortality—blooming again, that they may tell us 
of the spring-time of resurrection. Fair and fra¬ 
grant—the gift of Flora, strewn on the bosom of 
summer; pleasant, yet thorny—emblems of human 
life. Truly, “the baud that made them is Divine.” 
There was a big rosebush in front of my window, 
and one spring a lot of little ones sprung up all 
around it. Each day they wandered further and 
further from their parent's side, till, by and by, they 
reached the fence, and then they put their faces 
through the openings, and said to the passers-by. 
“Look at us—see how pretty we are!” And the 
village maidens gazed at them and sighed for their 
loveliness, and the boys put their faces down to 
them, as if to tell them how much they loved them. 
A man passed along, whose brow bore tbe marks 
of time and care, and whose heart hated the world, 
because the world hated him; but the roses smiled 
on him just as sweetly, and blew their fragrant 
A little girl was looking at the picture of a 
number of ships, when she remarked, “ See what a 
flock oi ships.” We corrected her by saying that a 
flock of ships was called a fle et, and a fleet of sheep 
was called a flock. 
And hero we may add for the benefit of the for¬ 
eigner who is mastering the intricacies of our lan¬ 
guage with respect to its nouns of multitude, that a 
flock of girls is called a bevy, and a bevy of wolves 
is called a pack, and a pack of thieves is called a 
gang, and a gang of angels is called a host, and a 
host of porpoises is called a shoal, and a shoal of 
Buffalo is called a herd, and a herd of children is 
called a troop, and a troop of partridges is called a 
covey, and a covey of beauties is called a galaxy, 
and a galaxy of ruffians is called a horde, and a 
horde of rubbish is called a heap, and a heap of 
oxen is called a drove, and a drove of blackguards 
is called a mob , and a mob of whales is called a 
school, and a school of worshipers is called a con¬ 
gregation. and a congregation of engineers is called 
a corps, and a corps of robbers is called a band, aud 
a band of locusts is called a swaim, and a swarm of 
people is called a crowd, and a crowd of gentle folks 
is called the elite, and the elite of the city’s thieves 
and rascals are called the roughs, and a miscellan¬ 
eous crowd of city folks is called the community or 
the public, according as they are spoken of as the 
religious “ community” or the secular “public.” 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
A HASTY SPIRIT. 
Much of our unhappiness in this life arises from 
judging too hastily of the motives and feelings which 
govern others iu their conduct toward ns. Many an 
unhappy hour, many a sleepless night, is tbe pen¬ 
alty paid for misjudging tbe words and acta of 
others. IIow many do we find who are but too 
ready to construe a thoughtless remark into a sneer, 
a kind act into a gratuitous insult, or a little harm¬ 
less pleasantry as but a disguise for intended ridi¬ 
cule, Could such individuals, in their haste to 
condemn others, but exercise a little fervent obarity, 
a spirit of gentle forbearance, they would not (infre¬ 
quently discover, sooner or later, their error, and 
save themselves tbe chagrin incident to a too hasty 
expression of their first erroneous impressions. 
Experience teaches that we are prone to be gov¬ 
erned, in the daily intercourse of life, more by pas¬ 
sion and impulse than by reason; and when these 
passions do not act in harmony with reason and 
conscience, but rather in opposition to them, the 
result is a trouble and disquietude of mind which 
render life unhappy. To examine ourselves and 
discover how far we are governed by perverted 
passions and wrong impulses, is the duty of each 
one. Not a few. if they will but thus examine them¬ 
selves iu the light of reason and Divine truth, will 
find that, one of the prominent sources of their 
unbappiness is their undue haste in condemning 
the conduct of others. 
Let each one of us be wise and examine his own 
heart, and if there be found a disposition to act 
without due reflection in pronouncing against the 
feelings which others may at times seem to mani¬ 
fest toward us, let, us remember we must subdue 
and correct such a spirit tf we would rid ourselves 
of one great foe to our peace of mind. Nor must 
we forget that in this, as in all our self-examinations, 
and all our efforts to subdue and control every 
wrong spirit discovered within us, we have need of 
Divine assistance, that we may not deceive ourselves, 
or fail of the end we seek to obtain, by reason of the 
weakness of our own efforts unaided from above. 
House, of Refuge, Rochester, N. Y., 1802. E. M. C. 
-,i^i—*- 
FLOWERS AND FAITH. 
The Secret of Success.—Raleigh flung his 
laced jacket into a puddle, and for his reward got a 
proud queen’s favor. A village apothecary had the 
good fortune to be visiting the State apartments at 
the Pavilion when George IV was seized with a fit. 
He bled him, brought him back to consciousness, and 
made him laugh by his genial and quaint humor. 
The king took a fancy to him, named him his phy¬ 
sician, and made his fortune. I have often beard 
it remarked by men who have seen much of life, 
that nobody, not one, goes through the world with¬ 
out two or three such opportunities presenting them¬ 
selves. The careless, the indolent, the unobservant, 
and the idle, either fail to remark or are too slow 
to profit by them. The sharp fellows, on the con¬ 
trary, see in each incident all that they need to lead 
them.to s uccess. _ 
If governments would only determine not to ex¬ 
tend their dominions until they had filled them with 
happiness, they would find the smallest territories 
too large. _ _ 
If you would have applause, don’t excel others 
too far. You can’t keep in the world’s eye, if you 
soar out of sight. 
The vital instincts of flowers correspond to some 
characteristics of faith. They seek the light. Put 
a flower-pot on your parlor window, and its flowers 
will invariably turn towards the light without. No 
matter how often you change the position of the 
plant,, the flowers will always turn towards the 
window. Faith aud piety seek the light; sin seeks 
darkness. Some love darkness rather than light, 
because tbeir deeds are evil. Put a plant in a dark 
room, with but a single ray of light penetrating 
through some crevice in the shutter, and it will turn 
towards the place where it enters. Different per¬ 
sons enjoy different degrees of spiritual illumina¬ 
tion. Some have their eyes but half opened, seeing 
men as trees walking; others walk in the meridian 
effulgence of the sun. Conversion turns the eyes of 
the soul Christward. “ He that followeth after Me 
shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light 
of life.” 
Flowers turn the face of their hearts heavenward. 
Thus uplifted and open, tbe sun shines down into 
tbeir inmost being; the dew gently distills into their 
leaves and hearts’ core, until its drops gather on 
tbeir petals and leaves like glistening pearls, re¬ 
flecting the colors of the rainbow. For a flower to 
turn its face earthward, is unnatural and ruinous; 
for its petals thus form a roof, to keep out of its 
heart rain, dew, and sunlight. 
EVERY MAN’S LIFE A PLAN OF GOD. 
Every human soul has a complete and perfect 
plan cherished for it in the heart of God—a Divine 
biography marked out, which it enters into life to 
live. This life, rightfully unfolded, will be a com¬ 
plete and beautiful whole; an experience led on by 
God, and unfolded by the secret nurture ot the 
world; a drama cast iu the mold of a perfect art, 
with no part wanting; a Divine study for the man 
himself and for others; a study that shall forever 
unfold, in wondrous beauty, the love and faithful¬ 
ness of God; great in its conception, great in the 
Divine skill by which it is shaped; above all, great 
in the momentous and glorious issues it prepares. 
What a thought i9 this for every human soul to 
cherish! What dignity doe9 it add to life! What 
support does it bring to the trial of life! What 
instigation does it add to send us on in everything 
that constitutes our excellence! We live in tbe 
Divine thought. We fill a place in the great ever¬ 
lasting plan of God's intelligence. We never sink 
below His care, never drop out of His counsel.- 
Dr. Bushnell. 
