,‘I‘PT 
WHAT DOES BABY THINK - ? 
BY J. G. HOLLAND. 
What is the little baby thinking about? 
Very wonderful things, no doubt— 
Unwritten history! 
Unfathomed mystery! 
Yet Ue laughs and cries, and eats and drinks, 
And chuckles und crows, and nods and winks, 
As If hi* head was full of kinks 
And curious riddles as any sphvns- 
Warped by colic and wet by tears, 
Punctured by pins and tortured by fears! 
And he'll never know 
Where the summers go; 
Ho need not laugh, for he'Ll find it so. 
Who can tell what a baby thinks ? 
Who can follow the goesmar links, 
By which the manikin finds his way 
Out from the shore of the great unknown, 
Blind aDd wailing and alone, 
Into the light of day! 
Oat from the shore of the unknown sea, 
Tossing in pitiful agony- 
Of the unknown Eca that reels and rolls, 
Speckled with barks of little souls— 
Barks that were launched on the other side, 
And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide ? 
What does ho think of his mother's eyes ? 
What does he think of his mother’s hair ? 
What of the cradle roof that files 
Forward and backward through the air ? 
What does he think of his mother’s breast— 
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, 
Seeking it ever with fresh delight— 
-Cup of his life, and couch of bit rest ? 
What does he think when her quick embrace 
.PrcsseB his hand and bruises his face 
Deep where the heart-throbs eiuk and swell, 
With a tenderness eho can never tell. 
Though she murmur the words 
Of all the birds— 
Words she lias learned to murmur well! 
Now be thinks he’ll go to sleep! 
I can see the shadows creep 
Over his eyes in soft eclipse. 
Over his brow and over his lips, 
Out to his little fluger-tlps! 
Softly sinking, down he goes I 
Down he goes! Down he goes! 
See I He Is hushed to sweet repose! 
For Moore’s Rural NeW-Yorker. 
ADVICE TO THE GIELS. 
BY MAY MAPLE. 
The first thing to be considered alter leaving 
school, Is, how to entrap a beau, if you have not 
already found such an appendage. It’s no mat¬ 
ter if you get two or three, or even half a dozen, 
provided you can manage to keep them all at¬ 
tached to your most adomblo self. But in order 
to do this you must ignore every thing which 
pertains to the kitchen kingdom: for it’s not. 
to be supposed that your mode of subsisting can 
possibly have anylhiug to do with so humble a 
place — you are far more etherial thau that. Be¬ 
sides, if papa’s not able to keep 6ervant6, mama 
can do what they ought to. She is used to it, 
even though her head does ache, or her feet grow 
so weary, aud she cau rest when it comes night. 
You have a finished education; your place is in 
the parlor. Of course when the weather is fine, 
you will he dressed in some dainfy gossamer 
costume, that will make you look no angelic; 
and in the winter rich, heavy fabrics, such as 
silks and velvet, will be a great addition to your 
style of beauty, and will help you to look so 
queenly , While you are waiting for callers, Etudy 
the art of reclining gracefully upon the sofa, and 
of displaying your 6oft, snowy hand in the most 
captivating manner. 
Select your beau-ideal from among those that 
have nothing to do; for, of course, they must 
be gentlemen. To select one from the laboring 
class would be downright vulgarity. After you 
have made your choice, be sure to accept every 
invitation to go with him, either riding or walk¬ 
ing. Always look into his face in a confiding, 
innocent way, with those lovely orbs you pos¬ 
sess ; he will be so much more interested in you. 
If you should chance to spy a prettier mustache 
upon the promenade, beg an introduction at the 
earliest opportunity. Then just give your pres¬ 
ent encumbrance the 11 slip,,’ aud attach your¬ 
self to the new coat-sleeve. By the time you 
have spent a couple of years in this way, you will 
begin to have some experience in the matter. 
How you will begin to notice political gentle¬ 
men, and find they are quite a popular race. 
What a fine thiog it would be to become a Sen¬ 
ator’s wife; of course you would not object to 
a position in the “ White House.” Just throw 
off your last coat-sleeve; select some energetic, 
ambitious law student. Be certain that his 
lather has a fine property, then put on your 
most fascinating smiles, win his whole heart: 
don’t make any half-way work of the business. 
Manage to be his afliauced as soon as possible; 
for ho is an aspiring youth, and it will make 
your name more popular to be the promised 
•bride of a rising young man. Accept all the 
presents he chooses to give you, and of course 
there can he no harm in occasionally hinting 
that such things as you may fancy would be ac¬ 
ceptable. If his father is rather close, aud does 
not think it necessary for a student to have much 
spending money, that is no matter of yours; 
neither is it any of your concern if he goes with¬ 
out some real necessities or works hours that 
should be used for rest. Of course he ought, to 
be willing to make sacrifice^ for the sake of such 
a treasure. 
Continue to keep a good “lookout,” as you 
mingle in society, even if you are a promised 
bride. “ Promises are like pie-crust, made to 
be broken.” If y ou should chance to see a dis¬ 
tingue looking personage, with a slightly foreign 
accent, just imagine he is some great lord or 
duke, and then think how grand it would be to 
be called “Lady” or “ Duchess” Fitzgerald or 
any other Fitz. Don’t be in too great haste to 
“be off with the old love, and on with the new,” 
because it will be far more interesting to win a 
young lady from her afliaoced lover, — that will 
be quite an affair of “ honor” for your distingue 
looking gentleman. Meanwhile you cau con¬ 
tinue to accept the most costly presents from 
your real lover, just as usual. Co out oecsslon- 
ally with the famous foreigner, who sports the 
finest broadcloth, the glossiest beaver, a silver 
mounted revolver, and a gold-headed cane — 
which last, by the way, contains much more 
brains than its owner. 
Presently your loving but rather passionate 
Charlet, thinks that all is not as fair as it 
might be, and perhaps the “green-eyed mon¬ 
ster” gets rather a strong hold of him, as it is 
apt to of those possessed of strong and earn¬ 
est affections; he gets into a towering rage at 
your fiirtation, and declares you have no right 
to treat him in such a manner. This you will 
tell to your most esteemed Fitzgerald; he 
deeply sympathizes with you and very vaguely 
hints that Charley has probably taken to much 
“ spirits.” This is a good opportunity for you; 
the very next time he calls, just tell him you 
will never marry a man that drinks, and leave 
him at once; don’t wait for any explanations. 
If he should chance to be desperate in his terri¬ 
ble disappointment, and ali for his great love 
for you, just laugh about the “ great simple¬ 
ton” with your intimate friends, aud have a 
“right smart deal of fun" over his downfall. 
Don’t return the gifts unless he demands them, 
for that would be honorable. Ladies used to 
feel under obligations to return all letters and 
gifts to a discarded lover. They lived in the 
eighteenth century, but tec live in a progressive 
age, aud “honor” is a very old-fashioned word. 
Finally, accept a new engagement ring as soon 
as possible — which will be a diamond ring, in¬ 
stead of a heavy plain gold circlet. Ah! how 
it sparkles on your delicate white hand, and how 
your beloved Fitzgerald lavishes kisses upon 
it—the baud of course,—which he calls his own, 
his precious gem. The wedding day must be 
named within a month, for he will be in great 
haste to present his “ dear angel" to his friends 
in Europe. Oh ! isn’t It perfectly delightful to 
contemplate—a bridal tour on the old continent ; 
uow you are quite sure he is 60 me great person¬ 
age in disguise. You will probably wonder why 
he does not offer to purchase the wedding out¬ 
fit, as Charley had so often proposed doing; 
but then he is not such a “great simpleton.” 
Now don’t cry, nor feel very much disappoint¬ 
ed, if, after the grand affair is over, and you have 
boarded a whole week at the hotel in your native 
village, your elegant husband does not say one 
word about going to Europe. Aud w hen you 
gently hint to him the propriety of starting on 
your voyage, for you are already tired of stay¬ 
ing in that dull place, don’t be very much sur¬ 
prised, 1 say. if he tells you he is tired of it too, 
and as soon as your pa will band over the “ coin” 
he is ready to start, for the landlord has called on 
him already for the amount of a week’s hoard 
for two aud he don’t know where the “deuce” 
he is to get it unless your “ dad” does begin to 
count over pretty soon, for he is not worth a 
“durned penny.” Probably by this time you 
will observe that your beautiful “ diamond cir¬ 
cle” blacks your finger, and that the surface of 
it is covered with green specks—pinchbeck is 
apt to be so. In something less than two months 
you will get a bill of divorce, and go home to 
pa’s quite contented. 
Oakland Co., Mich., August, 1SC8. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
GONE. 
How much I miss her—the sweet smile of the 
baby face—all! To me she was a fragrant for- 
gent-me-not of the world beyond, to come. She 
was a little being, all too pure and saintly for 
our soiled and yet beautiful earth. God knew 
it, and He took ber up to Himself. Angels were 
His messengers, who bore her above, and now 
she is a member of that 6ame hand—one of 
God’s sweetest angels! 
Dear Bister Belle ! she is gone. The world is 
very dark. A large luminary is shut away from 
my life. I breathe on, but it is like a star-struggle 
with clouds! I can see nothing. My soul ebihos 
not. It is buried in a cave of impenetrable 
darkness. Belle was the joy of my heart, the 
light of my existence and the idol of all my 
dreams and affections. Heaven, kind Heaven, 
extend thy mercies and consolation in this hour 
of sore trial! Dry up my tears, drive anguish 
from my soul and bury me in the loving lap of 
Jesus who reconciles us to the ills of life! 
How well I remember her! Every surround¬ 
ing object 6peaks of her presence—the flowers, 
the birds, the trees, the wind, and all that was 
the soul of melody!—But Belle is gone ! 
Hamlet, Mercer Co., Ill. Geoege H. Powers. 
THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
The present life is not wholly prosaic, tame 
and finite. To the gifted eye it abounds in the 
poetic. The affections which spread beyond 
ourselves, and stretch far into futurity—the 
workings of mighty passions, which seem to 
arm the soul with an almost superhuman en- 
ergy—the innocent and irrepressible joy of in¬ 
fancy— the bloom and buoyancy and dazzling 
hopes of youth—throbbings of the heartwhen 
it first awakes to love and happiness too vast for 
earth—woman, with her beauty, aud grace, and 
gentleness, and fullness of feeling, and depth of 
affection, and blushes of purity, and the tones 
and looks which only a mother's heart can in¬ 
spire—these are all poetical. It is not true that 
the poet paints a life that does not exist. He 
only extracts and concentrates, as it were, life’s 
ethereal essence, brings together its shattered 
beauties and prolongs its more refined but ev- 
1 auesceut joys. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
OUR FLOWERS. 
BT FLORENCE E. BRINK. 
When fickle spring came marching on, 
With her ever varied tread, 
Each sprightly bad burst peeping forth 
From Its lowly green-capped head. 
Sun, rain and cold, in order, walked 
Throughout their pretty bower, 
But struggling on. each soon became 
A fall, expanded flower- 
And, through the long, long summer days, 
Their beautiful, bright hues 
Have cheered our hearts, tho’ soon we know 
Wc must our flowers lose. 
The autumn days are passing by, 
And soon the frost-wind’s breath 
Will rudely o'er our flowers sweep, 
Their beauty smite with death. 
Ah! it is thus with friends we love 
And cannot always keep; 
Earth’s beautiful, it’s brightest, best, 
The gamer, Death, will reap. 
Another spring will give us back 
The flowers we loved so well, 
Who taught us by their absence brief, 
The worth we could not tell. 
A few more years aud we shall meet 
The dead we hold so dear, 
Yet only by their loss we learned 
How well we loved them here. 
The brightest flowers, the fairest forms, 
Must fade from earth away, 
And though each sleep, they but await 
A resurrection day. 
West Fayette, Seneca Co., N. Y. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
autumn. 
It is a time now for the wasps, humming with 
soft sound round broken apples in orchards, 
where the sun is warm, and his beam mild and 
slant—just before the setting in of winter. It is 
a beam both ead and joyous. 
There is a great quiet no other such has the 
yearin the woods how still! The dropping 
of leaves as well as of nuts is heard, the leaves 
sllght-gratiDg where they touch: that is their 
sorrow, the only voice of the leaf, that has been 
so merry during the summer, when the wind 
could not sever it from the tree, —now it falls 
without a will of Us own. It mu9t make way 
for another leaf—its coming fellow, just as we— 
wc arc hut leaves, nurtured on the parent stem, 
and then dropped to earth, where among the 
multitude that has no end wo take our place. 
Little space it is and of little account. 
If the orchard is pleasant with its fruit and its 
wasps, so ts the forest edge with its corn-field 
and Its grape-vine, where the shy, bushy gray 
squirrel is seen, attracted by the corn. He is in¬ 
teresting from his wildness, venturing so near 
the haunts of man, as if he knew, from old ac¬ 
quaintance and right, the use of the plant culti¬ 
vated so long by the Indian. Here he comes to 
see again his favorite grain, not now growing in 
vales and patches of the wood. A new order is 
here, aud he 6c-es it, is careful, brings his mate 
with the same careful glide, or slightly, inaudi- 
bly breathing,— disputing perhaps the right of 
the use thus made of his plant. He must be 
careful or his wild life will fall a victim to the 
hand that is in waiting to slay him. 
Stubble-fields seem saddest of all now. Here 
the harvest went of late, the reapers, and the 
maidens that joined in the glee. This is pasto¬ 
ral, as we have pages of ancient like scenes. 
These live yet — Theocratic, with his bowery 
bees and rustling corn; aud later, Virgil’s 
fruitful fields; and Bacccs too. These line and 
are part of thi6 barren stubble-field — trans¬ 
planted here, because they are the common her¬ 
itage of man. Here in this (then unknown) 
new world are these kindly influences. Then, 
there is our own ancient world, the days of our 
youth, which hallow these fields as no Greek or 
Roman lore can hallow them. All this is written 
on the pages of these etubble-fields. 
The wind is the music to the thought, awak¬ 
ing new memories that Ue sleeping all 
around us, whose history has even escaped 
us, the history of these fields when they were 
yet woods, and the wUd Ufe was the only life. 
Since then crickets have usurped it, aud the fire¬ 
flies at night.—and the omnipresent bat family 
flits by and over these acres by forest edges,— 
for it is there we still are. How then when we 
come nearer our habitation, where the brook 
lisps that has ever been lisping in our ears, and the 
plain extends like—itself: with its thoughts and 
its images, there is nothing like it—nothing like 
its evening stretch when gentle shoots of one’s 
own thoughts of innocence and childhood live 
there in summer twilights and pensive autumn 
WORK AND FEE. 
It is physically impossible for a well-educated, 
inteUectuai, or brave man to make money the 
chief object of his thoughts; as physically im¬ 
possible as it is for him to make his dinner the 
principal object of them. All healthy people 
like their dinners, but their dinner is not the 
I main object of their lives. So ail healthy minded 
people like making money—ought to like it, 
and to enjoy tbe sensation of winning it; bu» 
the main object of their Ufe is not money: it is 
something better than money. A good soldier, 
for instance, mainly wishes to do his fighting 
well. He is glad of his pay — very properly so, 
and justly grumbles when you keep him ten 
years without it—still, his main notion of life is 
to win battles, not to be paid for winning them. 
So of clergymen. They like pew-rents and bap¬ 
tismal fees, of course: but yet, if they are brave 
and well educated, the pew-rent is not the sole 
object of their lives, and the baptismal fee is not 
the sole purpose of the baptism; the clergy¬ 
man’s object is essentiaUy to baptise aud preach, 
not to be paid for preaching. So of doctors. 
They like fees, no doubt,— ought to like them: 
yet, if they are brave ad well educated, the en¬ 
tire object of their lives is not fees. They, on 
the whole, desire to cure the 6ick; and—If they 
are good doctors, and the choice were fairly put 
to them,—would rather cure the patient and lose 
their fee, than kUl him and get it. And so with 
all other brave and rightly trained men; their 
work is first, their fee second — very important 
always, but stUl second. 
But in every nation, as I said, there are a vast 
class who are ill educated, cowardly and more 
or less stupid. And with these people just as 
certainly the fee is first and tbe work second, as 
with brave people the work is first and the fee 
second. And this is no Email distinction. It is 
the whole distinction in a man; distinction be¬ 
tween Ufe and death in him, between death and 
hell for him. You cannot serve two masters — 
you must serve one or the other. If your work 
i& first with you and*y<> ur fee second, work is 
your master, and the lord of work, who is God. 
But if your fee is first with you and your work 
second, fee is your master, and the lord of fee, 
who is the devil; aud not only the devil, hut the 
lowest of devils—the "least erected fiend that 
fell.” So there you have it in brief terms: Work 
first—you arc God’s servant; fee first—you are 
the fiend's. And it makes a difference, uow and 
ever, believe me, whether you serve Him who 
has on His vesture and thigh written “ King of 
kings,” and whose service is pefect freedom; or 
him on whose vesture and thigh the name is 
written, “slave of slaves,” and whose service is 
perfect slavery.— Buskin. 
PARIS PRICES. 
Having told how dresses are made, let me add 
a word concerning their expensiveness, com¬ 
pared with the same fabrics in America. It 
seems to me that, exchange and duties allowed 
for, our merchants must make short and usu¬ 
rious profits. We cau buy in Paris, a good sum¬ 
mer silk for 0 francs a yard—a dollar and twenty 
cents. Black silks, which at home are $3.50 a 
yard, are here $1.00. French cambrics, for which 
we pay To cents, are here 30 cents. Kid gloves, 
for which we give a dollar, are fifty cents in Par¬ 
is, aud at Naples 20 or 30 cents; $2.30 gloves 
with us, are here $1 a pair! Six months ago in 
America, coarse flannel was 50 or 75 cents a yard; 
here it is 18 or 20. Lace edging for which a 
friend paid S3 cents last month at Mudge’s in 
Boston, I patterned here for 11 cents. Lubin’6 
Boap for which I paid Harris & Chapman 81.25, 
I found in Genoa for 80 cents, and am told it is 
less in Paris. Lubin’s extracts for which our 
druggists charge 81.50 or $1.25, are here 25 cts. 
A point lace collar and cuffs, for which at home 
we pay $25, are here $12. A lace shawl for which 
we pay $400, is in Paris 8200, at Brussels, where 
it is made, $150. Black trimming lacc of narrow 
width for which we pay 75 cents, is here 30 cts. 
As for bonnets, which with my last American 
experience were at fabulous prices, such as from 
$20 to $80 the ordinary price of a handsome one 
in Paris is 85, often only $4, with fine French 
flowers. Those with blonde lace trimmings are 
$0 or $8, and the most exhorbitant milliners 
charge 815 or $1S. Yet ribbons are from some 
unknown reason, as expensive in Paris as in 
America. So are boots and shoes, provisions, 
rents, aud a few other things. Under garments 
of all kinds can he bought here ready made and 
elaborately trimmed, for what the mere cotton 
costs at home. One is suspicious of cheap ready 
made clothes, so often the tears of the poor are 
worked into them; hut as I waited the other 
day in a large shop of this kind, observed the 
neat little sewing-girls who brought home their 
work in a handkerchief, and they look smiling 
and prosperous. A French woman lives upon 
an inconsiderably small sum, aud provisions are 
bo subdivided to suit their economy that a few 
evenings, the old red moon rising to show its sous procures them a luxurious dinner; once or 
objects, sad, too sad for long thought,—for all twice a week a few lodgers in the attic ol some 
this must perish, go to the hands of strangers, great house club together and order a dinner 
aud they live over in turn the same. So let it which is really luxurious, though it is paid for in 
he, for it is not in the field, in the squirrel, that hardly earned sous — and this is all they ask.— 
the happiness lies; it is in U 3 , in the heart of Extract from Fan * Letter. _ 
man ; these objects touch the strings, and it re¬ 
sponds,—it will ever respond. f. g. 
Books.— Give us a house famished with books 
rather thau furniture! Both, if you can, but 
hooka at any rate! To spend several days in a 
friend’s house, and hunger for something to 
read, while you are treading on costly carpets 
and sitting down upon luxurious chairs and 
sleeping upon down, is as if one were bribing 
your body for the sake of cheating your mind. 
Books are the windows through which the soul 
looks out. A house without hooks is like a 
room without windows. A hook is good com¬ 
pany; it is full of conversation without lo¬ 
quacity. It talks to you, not through the ear, 
hut another way. 
A Family History. —The Manchester Mir¬ 
ror says that there is in Brookline, N. H., a 
house built in 1801, by a young man then un¬ 
married. He afterward took to himself a wife, 
moved into his new house, and has dwelt there 
ever since, both himself and wffc being now 
alive at a hale old age. They have four sons 
named Europe, Asia, Africa and America, and 
then having runout their list ” f male named, 
they brought i couple of dw. hters. These 
six children si. me fried, and the old people be¬ 
came grand par cut- of a very largo family. The 
Six children - • v * - and a it number of 
the grand-chi! .- and vd the oh. house, sixty- 
firp rears olo. has never ecu the scene of a 
marriage, deo or Amend. 
THE SABBATH. 
BY AGATHA ERNEST. 
Sweetly as the angels’ breathing 
Through the eoug of “Peace on Earth,” 
Came this holy Sabbath morning. 
Morn of high celestial birth! 
Sacredly and all-serenely. 
By the Father's presence blest. 
And the Saviour's heavenly teachings, 
And the Holy Spirit's rest, 
Move along the Sabbath hours; 
May our eonls harmonious be 
With their beauty, truth and temper. 
With their worship, high in key! 
As the Sabbath evening closes 
With its benedictions deep I 
May we wrap our garments, purer, 
Round oar souls, and calmly sleep. 
Nearer home one Sabbath’s journey, 
Nearer all that’s good and true, 
Blessed with Light from God Eternal, 
To proceed with Heaven in view I 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
“GOD'S PICTURES.” 
How very, very beautiful they are! — the dim 
blue hills, green fields, bright with clover blos¬ 
soms,—deep, dark forests, and glorious, ever- 
new sunsets. We forget to notice them some¬ 
times. Our thoughts are so filled with life's 
trifles, that we walk thoughtlessly amid all the 
beauty and glory God has given us in such rich 
fulness. 
The sunbeams of Spring glance and glimmer 
through myriads ef light green leaves on deli¬ 
cate mosses and wild-flowers down below. Sum¬ 
mer has its cool, shadowed nooks, where brooks 
gurgle musically,—its sunlit lanecapcs of min¬ 
gled green and gold, its silent, solemn evenings, 
with their moonlight and starlight. What won¬ 
drous beauty is found hi God’s Autumn pictures, 
with tbelr rich tints of brown and gold, of crim¬ 
son aud green. Even the cold, white snow-pic- 
turcs of winter are beautiful in their purity. 
Beauty and grandeur, like all God’s other 
blessings, are given us in the fulness of His own 
infinite nature. He would have ns love them in 
his works; but far beyond the glory of the cre¬ 
ated is the glory of the Creator. Let us love 
him best whose beauty and glory eternity can¬ 
not compass. Constance. 
Clinton, N. Y., 1666. 
CHRISTIAN DUTIES. 
There are many things to he done by Chris- 
tains, which, in themselves, are unpleasant; 
many duties to be performed, which, separated 
from the command of Christ, and our obliga¬ 
tions to Him are unwelcome. Some of these 
expose us to the danger of awaking the wrath, 
hatred, revenge, of our fellow men against us. 
Some require a great sacrifice of ease and bodily 
comfort. Others require of us a large diversion 
of property from uses pertaining to ourselves 
and onr families, that we may devote it to the 
relief of the distressed, and to the diffusion of 
the gospel The prompt and vigorous perform¬ 
ance of such duties as these—such as require 
self-denial, is taking up and bearing the cross. 
This is imitating our Master, who pleased not 
himself. The Christain, who is constitutionally 
lazy, takes up his cross when he is prompt to 
every call of duty, and discharges that duty 
with energy.— Ex. 
KEEP A LIST. 
1. Keep a list of your friends , and let God be 
the first in the list, however, long it may be. 
2. Keep a list of the gifts you get; and let 
Christ, who is the unspeakable gift be first. 
3. Keep a list of your mercies; and let pardon 
and life stand at the head. 
4. Keep a list of your joys; and let the joy be 
unspeakable and full of glory in the first. 
5. Keep a list of your hopes; let the hope of 
glory be foremost. 
0. Keep a list of your sorrows; and let sorrow 
for sin be first. 
7. Keep a list of you enemies; and however 
many there maybe, put down the “old man 
and the “old serpent”—first. 
8. Keep a list of your sins; and let the sin ot 
unbelief be set down as the first and worst of 
aiL— Journal and Messenger. 
Scitable Earnestness.— Because 1 am in 
earnest, men call me an enthusiast, but (I am 
not; mine are the words of truth and soberness. 
When I first went into Gloucester, and was walk¬ 
ing on the hill, I saw a gravel pit fall in and 
bury three human beings alive. I lifted up my 
voice lor help so loud that I was heard in the 
town below, a distance of a mile. Help came, 
and rescued two of the sufi’erers. No one called 
me an enthusiast then; and when I see eternal 
destruction ready to fall upon poor sinners, and 
about to entomb them irrecoverably in the eter¬ 
nal mass of woe, and call aloud for them to 
escape, shall I he called an enthusiast now? 
Rowland Sill. 
Prayer Meetings.— Fill up the prayer meet- 
|n<'S. They need it. Let no seats be vacant. 
Fill them not only with yearning Christian 
hearts, hut with those gathered by Christian love 
from the highways and hedges. F ill them wi j 
living, waiting souls. Fill them with earnest 
utterances of praise and prayer. . It Christian 
fill them with a right spirit, they will soon be 
filled with anxious inquirers and rejoicing ecu 
verts. A great need in all the churches, au 
gent duty resting on ail professed disciples, i*» 
“ to fill up the prayer meetings.” 
