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FIRST LOVE. 
BY WILLIAM SAWYER. 
Turning over papers — 
Dead-leaf drift of years— 
In the midst a letter 
Stain’d and dim with tears! 
Face of any dead one 
Scarce had moved me so: 
There my First Love lying, 
Buried long ago. 
Darling love of boyhood, 
What glad hours we knew— 
Tears so sweet in shedding, 
Vows that were so true ! 
Dear face, round and dimpled, 
Voice of chirping bird, 
Hardly then, for heart-throb, 
Any word I heard. 
But to know she loved me, 
Know her kind as fair, 
Was in joy to revel, 
Was to walk on air. 
Happy, happy love-time, 
Over-budded spring, 
Never came the summer 
With its blossoming. 
BABY ON THE PORCH. 
Out on the porch, by the open door, 
Sweet with roses, and cool with shade, 
Baby is creeping over the floor— 
Dear little winsome blue eye-maid! 
All about her the shadows dance, 
All above her the roses swing. 
Sunbeams in the lattice glance, 
Robins up In the branches sing. 
Up at the blossoms her lingers reach. 
Lisping her pleading in broken words, 
Cooing away in her tender speech, 
Songs like the twitter of nestling birds. 
Creeping, creeping over the floor, 
Soon my birdie will find her wings, 
Fluttering out at the open door, 
Into the wonderful world of things. 
Bloom of roses and balm of dew, 
Brooks that bubble, and winds that call, 
All things lovely and glad and new. 
And the Father watching us over it all. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
“TIME IS WINGING US AWAY.” 
The sunlight has faded out, and the long shad¬ 
ows that threw their sinewy forms about the 
hills have merged and blended into the robe of 
twilight. Hither and thither busy feet are fly¬ 
ing — some to rest, others to toil again, and I, 
sitting here by the open window, am thinking- 
only thinking. To-morrow another month will 
be born, to live its brief day and then die that 
another may live. 
There is always connected with the closing of 
each year, each season, each month, and even 
each day, something sad yet pleasing, — a kind 
of mournfulness we would not forego, even at 
the expense of tears and a lew heartaches. Per¬ 
haps to every one this is not so. Some find all 
their delight in gay assemblies and crowded 
lecture rooms, glad of any excitement to rid 
them of unpleasant retrospections and self-con¬ 
demnations, that unconsciously, in moments of 
leisure or idleness, creep into the heart, striving 
with their deep furrows to break up the weedy, 
noxious growths that have gathered root there, 
and prepare the soil for plants of heavenly 
beauty and usefulness. If those who spurn 
these silent monitors would ouce give heed to 
their teachings, something of sorrow in the 
after-time, either of time or eternity, might be 
averted. 
Old days to me are old friends, and when the 
month that has spanned a few of them is de¬ 
parting, I feel to bid it a friendly good-bye— 
often a tearful one,—knowing it has taken what 
it never can bring again. Other days will come; 
perchance as bright and replete with mercies as 
the old ones, but no resurrection of the exact 
olden times that the oldeu days witnessed will 
ever waken us with its wished-for glory. A halo 
is thrown around them, and enveloped in its 
sheeny folds forever will lie the scorn of (he old 
days. 
And to-night what memories come to pay 
homage to the dying summer. Loved remem¬ 
brances of little pleasantries enwrapped some¬ 
where in its shining bands, stir the deep of the 
heart, and we cling with a death-like grasp to 
the princess of blooms, and fain would keep her 
ever as near, that our precious bit of cherished 
memory may recede no farther from our touch. 
But ah! the sun will rise and set and include 
a day between, and the days after awhile will 
count weeks and the weeks are months shortly, 
and thus gliding, ever gliding are we, “ our lit¬ 
tle boats rocking from side to side,” and whither 
are they drifting ? Are the sails white and pure, 
and the breezes heavenly that fill them ? If so 
it is a safe harbor we will gain, and though we 
may not descry it now with earthly vision the 
eye-glass of faith catches a view of the beacon 
light hung out from the mountain of the other 
shore and we are secure. 
Whither are we tending — you and I? Time 
lingers to hear above the answer, and what will 
it he? Either upward or downward our feet 
are pressing, and which is it ? Looking in upon 
the soul the reply will frame itself, and we pause 
to make the 6elf-examination. a. 
August 31, 1866. 
The Golden Rule for a young lady is to con¬ 
verse with your female friends as if a gentleman 
were present; and with young men as if your 
female companions were present. We’ll war¬ 
rant it to he chaste and becoming. 
AN EDUCATED HOUSE - KEEPER’S VIEWS. 
“What are you studying?” asked a young 
man of a friend who was taking her last year’s 
schooling at an Academy. “ The common 
branches, physiology-, chemistry, rhetoric and 
natural philosophy,” was the reply. ‘ 1 What on 
oxrth will you do with such learning In farmer 
G.’s kitchen ?” exclaimed he, naming a worthy 
man to whom she was betrothed. “I am afraid 
you will find yourself so well fitted for some 
other sphere that your education will be a dis¬ 
comfort rather than a source of happiness.” 
The answer given to this proved that the 
young lady possessed an educated mind as well 
as book learning. She said, “How little yon 
know about house - keeping! You talk as 
though it were like turning grindstone, or walk¬ 
ing on a tread-mill, needing only plenty of music 
— and the less brains to make one uneasy the 
better. Why! my mistaken young friend, 
there’s room for science, and thought, and skill 
in managing a household properly, than you’ll 
ever find in yonr dry-goods stores, with a bank 
and a grist-mill thrown in. It requires philoso¬ 
phy properly to make a fire, wash clothes, sweep 
a room, ventilate an apartment, regulate a clock, 
and a hundred other matters you never dreamed 
of. Cooking is an every-day application of 
chemistry. A woman can mix and heat up pro¬ 
visions without knowing anything about it, but 
the art; butBhecan make better bread, butter, 
roast, broil, or boil more nicely, put this and 
that together in her puddings, pies and cakes 
with greater success, if she knows the why as 
well as the how. Then, what is a poor, broken- 
down wife good for ? Physiology teaches how 
to keep health in the family; and then when we 
have all finished the day’s work, having applied 
science all the way through, we shall want to 
look over the papers and books winch tell what 
the rest of the world is thinking about; and 
then don’t you see how nicely some little knowl¬ 
edge belles-lettres and the laws of mind will come 
in ? A higher sphere, indeed! If those who are 
so anxious to fill a large place, would only take 
pains to make the place they are now in what it 
might he, depend upon it there M ould he more 
comfort and less complaints, both from them¬ 
selves and those depending on them. I intend 
to try to elevate my work to my own level.” 
“Upon my word,” said the young man, “you 
make out a pretty strong case. I never e&w the 
matter in just that light before, and I doubt 
whether many women view it thus." 
RULES FOR HOME EDUCATION. 
The following are worthy of being printed in 
letters of gold, and being placed in a conspicu¬ 
ous position in every household: 
I. From your children’s infancy inculcate the 
necessity of instant obedieuce. 
3. Unite firmness with gentleness. Let your 
children always understand that you mean ex¬ 
actly what you say. 
3. Never promise them anything unless you 
are sure you can give them what you promise. 
4. If you tell a child to do anything, show him 
how to do it, and see that it is done. 
5. Always punish your children for wilfully 
disobeying you, but never punish when you are 
augry. 
6 . Never let them perceive that they can vex 
you or make you lose your self-command, 
7. Never smile at any of their actions of which 
you do not approve, even though they are some¬ 
what amusing. 
8 . If they give way to petulence and temper, 
wait till they are calm, and then gently reason 
with them on the impropriety of their conduct. 
U. Remember that a little present punishment, 
when the occasion arises, is much more effectual 
than the threatening of a greater punishment 
should the fault be renewed. 
10. Never give yonr children anything because 
they cry for it. 
II. On no account allow them to do at one 
time what you have forbidden, under the same 
circumstances, at another. 
13. To teach them that the only sure and easy 
way to appear good is to be good. 
13. Accustom them to make their little reci¬ 
tals the perfect truth. 
14. Never allow of tale-hearing. 
15. Teach them that self-denial, not self- 
indulgence, is the appointed and sure method of 
securing happiness. 
10. Above all things instruct them from the 
Word of God, taking Jesus for their example In 
patience, meekness and love; teaching them to 
pray morning and evening, and during the day 
once or oftener, as they grow up, as the only 
preservative against error, weakness and sin. 
LESSON ON WISDOM. 
Frederica Bremer, the charming moralist, 
speaks tenderly and truthfully to those occupy¬ 
ing the several family relations : 
“ Many a marriage has commenced like the 
morning, red, and perished like a mushroom. 
Wherefore ? Because the married pair neglected 
to be as agreeable to each other after their union 
as they were before it. Seek always to please 
each other, my children, hut in doing so keep 
heaven in mind. Lavish not your love to-day, 
remembering that marriage has a morrow and 
again a morrow. Bethink ye, my daughters, 
what a word housewife expresses. The married 
woman is her husband’s domestic trust. On 
her he ought to be able to place his reliance in 
house and family; to her he should confide the 
key of his heart and the lock of his store-room. 
His honor and his home are under her protec¬ 
tion,—his welfare in her hand. Ponder this! 
And jou, my sons, be true men of honor, and 
good lathers of your families. Act in such wise 
that your wives respect and love you. And what 
more shall I say to yon, my children i Peruse 
diligently the Word of God; that will guide you 
out of storm and dead calm, and bring you safe 
into port. And as for the rest—do your best! ” 
A MADRIGAL. 
[The following madrigal, by an old English writer, 
we cannot resist the temptation to copy. How like 
It is to the sparkling music of the rill or fountain:] 
I know a lyttle hande; 
’Tys ye softest in ye land— 
And I feel yts presanre blande 
Whyle I singe; 
Lylle-white, andrestying nowe, 
Lyke a rose leafe on my brow; 
Whythe yt.s wlnge. 
Welle I pryze (all hands above) 
The deare hande of herre I love. 
I know a lyttle foote— 
Very cunningelye ’tys putt, 
In a dayntie lyttle botte, 
Where yt hydes; 
Lyke a shuttle yt ever flyes, 
Back and forth before mine eyes, 
As yt glydes. 
Welle I pryze (ail feete above) 
The deare foote of herre I love! 
I know a lyttle barte; 
Yt is free from courtlle arte, 
And I owtic yt (every parte) 
Forre all tyme; 
Ever yt beatee with mn&ique tone— 
Ever an echo of mync owne— 
Ever keepyug with myne own 
Holie chyme 
Well I pryze (all hartes above) 
The dearc harte of herre I love. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
ASSUMPTION. 
Timothy Titcomb 6ay6, “ there is either a 
good deal of human nature in a pig, or else a 
good deal of pig In human nature." And when 
we view the character of Assumption that pre¬ 
dominates in some men, it is hut our own con¬ 
clusion. We often see an individual penetrated 
with a sense of his superior merit, and from the 
summit of his grandeur, as he 6ees himself, 
treats all others with indifference or contempt . 
From youth to old age we see those striving for 
emenince without regard for the feelings of 
others, determined to rise whoever may fall— 
assuming to be what they really are not, and 
ever measuring manhood by the cloth in the 
coat, and brains by the contents of tbe purse— 
assuming themselves that they were not designed 
for mental activity much less manual labor, that 
theirs is a work of light thought, of raeutal fri¬ 
volity, and not at all for physical exertion. Phy¬ 
sical labor they regard as belonging to the illit¬ 
erate exclusively, and this their appropriate 
sphere. The drudgery of the farm, or the mechan¬ 
ic’s shop, is too humiliating for them, and a cal¬ 
loused hand or a sunburned arm argues imbecil¬ 
ity of mind and a want of a just appreciation of 
man's true dignity. 
Such persons may, if they have wealthy or in¬ 
fluential friends, tower upon the hill of popular 
respect. But they are like pumpkins growing 
upon a side hill; when, in the autumn, the 
parent stalk is broken, they roll to the bottom, 
their appropriate place, aud their beautiful, 
golden coat is broken and exposes the vacuum 
it formely covered. They forget that the first 
interrogative to man was to act and think. Hence, 
he is the true man who comes in contact with 
things and ideas and knows by actual experi¬ 
ment how to apply them — who has a well bal¬ 
anced mind aud a robust, vigorous constitution 
—■who can execute as well as plan, and bring to 
bear on a mighty object the complicated machin¬ 
ery of means, Influence, and energy. iEsor 
clearly illustrates the idea by a fable of an a6s 
that was accustomed to throw upon himself tbe 
skin of a lion and “ territabat homines et bestins,” 
but in his haste to frighten a company of pass¬ 
ing travelers he forgot to cover his head, aud 
was thus detected. So with assumption: it 
may, for a time, domineer over modest man and 
woomanhood, yet its mulish ears will stick out 
and sink its patrons to the remotest obscurity. 
What has man ever accomplished by assum¬ 
ing the responsibility of that which does not 
concern him ? How much has the world been 
advanced by delicate, and timid woman exchang¬ 
ing her graceful flowing robe for male attire,— 
elbowiug her way to the ballot box, climbing 
into pulpits, and liftiug her shrill, trumpet voice 
amid the rush of popular assemblies,—claiming 
the exclusive perogative of making herself man, 
while God has assigned her a sphere and made 
her woman? The onlyansiver we can give is 
that they have made their subjects odious, and 
given themselves a lasting place in the popular 
disgust. This is their end. Although they may 
shine for a time, they are like an old tree that 
has been struck by lightning; it may blaze for 
a time, but it is soon left a blackened monu¬ 
ment of heaven’s wrath. 
But modesty, which comes welliog from the 
deep fountaiu of a pure heart, and is fired with 
an enthusiasm such as burned in the master 
minds of our forefathers, and made them felt 
but to be feared, and known but to be prized, 
will ever counteract this influence and turn the 
tide of a world’s thoughts and feelings into 
channels of consistency. Then let not the crys¬ 
tal fountain of a modest mind become a stag¬ 
nant pool, or the flowing rivulets of pure 
thoughts to be dried up. But let it earn a noble 
distinction, by stamping its own impress on the 
whole current of a nation’s life aud fill the 
world with deeds of love and admiratiou. 
West Potsdam, N. Y., 1866. w. w. t. 
Three Kinds.— There are three kinds of men 
in the world: the Wills, the Wonts, and the 
Cants. The former effect everything. The oth¬ 
ers oppose everything. “ I Will” builds our 
railroads and steamboats; “ I Won’t” don’t be¬ 
lieve in experiments and nouseuse; while “I 
Can’t” grows weeds for wheat, and commonly 
ends his days in the slow digestion of bank¬ 
ruptcy. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
NIGHT THOUGHTS. 
All alone by lamp-light, with the crickets 
audible ont-doors; no wind to tune the harp in 
the window. Pale is the moon, the enchantress 
of the night, covering all with her light,—ever 
alone, naked in the sky, by night, by day, ever 
disconsolate. The stars forsake her, the sun re¬ 
gards her not. But she 13 akin to us,—she is of 
the earth, and ours. The stars are distant; but 
the poor cold moon keeps near the earth, proud 
of such an atmosphere-enveloped sphere, that 
bears her on around the more powerful orb, the 
sun, but following the earth, faithful 10 her 
consort. 
She was the red man’s clock, as now the lamp 
Of lovers. Midnight is her glory, winter 
Her brilliance. Then she reigns, a queen indeed, 
And not “ nnkingdomed and a widow,” but 
The empress of the night. High then she rules, 
And high tbe tide of life beneath her sway. 
Has noon such eight, when frosty sparkles light 
The earth, and stars the heaven, and merriest hearts 
Beat in the radiance of her winter's smile ? 
But now ’tis autumn, saddest, loneliest time. 
Only the brook comes sobbing through the night, 
Faintly, scarce heard amid the insect throng, 
Whose hour is this, whose day. There is a tinge, 
Half seen, upon the trees. Ah, what a brilliance! 
What sadness when the sun lights up this scene! 
Revealing wbat, the moon but faintly ehowed. 
Oh, night! with all thy sadness thou art loved. 
Who would not prize thee in the weariness 
Oflife and body, finding rest in thee, 
Who hldest with thy mantle toilsome nature. 
Bidden by thee, I cheerfully obey, 
And seek my mother’s couch, aud rest secure 
With Nature in the tranquil evening hour. 
THE SUBMISSIVENESS OF AMERICANS. 
No matter what extortion may be practiced 
on him by cabmen, omnibus men, hotel-keepers 
or railroads, it is rare to find anybody or any 
number of bodies who will make the smallest 
resistance to it. Those rows which are so com¬ 
mon in England between travelers aud waiters, 
hotel-keepers, porters and cabs, are here un¬ 
known. I never remember to have heard an 
angry word uttered about a hotel bill but once, 
though the hotel charges are barefaced and out¬ 
rageous, and the demeanor of hotel keepers the 
very highest expression of cool insolence. The 
hackney coaches of New York are the dearest, 
worst and most ill-regulated In the world, thongh 
nominally under the control ol’ the law; but no 
one ever thinks of brlngiug the drivers to jus¬ 
tice, no matter what he may suffer at their 
hands. The remedy to which those who are 
swindled by them resort is not to hire them 
again, hut ride in omnibuses or cars, or else get 
carriages at the livery stables; so also the over¬ 
crowding of the street railroad cars, or omni¬ 
buses, has become almost an intolerable nui- 
satice. People complain of it privately, but 
uotliing is done to abate it. 
I am spending this summer twenty miles up 
the Hudson river, aud have to use the railroad to 
get in and out of town every day. There is a 
contempt for the comfort, convenience, and le¬ 
gal rights of the passengers displayed on the line 
which would in England lead to twenty lawsuits 
a week. Here an action against the company is 
a rare thing, complaints to the conductors even 
almost as rare. So also is the matter of the in¬ 
come tax. It might bo doubled, and few would 
propose to head an opposition as long as the 
general sentiment acquiesced in its necessity. 
The cause of this passiveoess in submitting to 
the minor inconveniences and troubles, forming 
such a striking contrast to the energy and vigor 
displayed in resisting the greater ones, is to be 
found, like many other peculiarities of American 
life, in the external circumstances of the people 
ever since the country was first settled. The vir¬ 
tue which is most Etrongly called out by colonial 
life, or perhaps most strongly after that of en¬ 
ergy, is that of patient endurance. Its hard¬ 
ships, trials and disappointments are so great 
that the very first lesson the settler has to learn 
is to meet them with philosophic resignation. 
It has now been so long practiced here that it 
has become a feature in the national character. 
I think Americans take as much pride in not be¬ 
ing put out or ruffled by these things as English¬ 
men in being grumpy and obstreperous over 
them. If a hotel-keeper or a tax-gatherer im¬ 
poses on him, he will be as much ashamed of 
seeming to be annoyed by it as an Englishman 
would be In submitting to it.—A’. Y. Correspond¬ 
ed London Hem. ' • 
CHAPTER OF PROVERBS. 
Benefits, like flowers, please while they are 
fresh. 
Better the feet slip than the tongue. 
He begins to die who hath no desires. 
An evil nature never wants occasion. 
Kind words cost nothing and go a great way. 
Nature cures, aud the doctor takes the credit. 
Few of us are tools always; ail sometimes. 
Let not every pain send thee to the doctor, 
every quarrel to the lawyer, or every thirst to 
the dram shop. 
He is not poor who hath a little, but he that 
desireth much. 
He is rich enough who wants nothing. 
He that strikes with his tongue must guard 
with his hands. 
To learn the value of money, try to borrow. 
A modest woman should often neither see nor 
hear. 
Bells and priests may call others to holiness, 
and know nothing of it ourselves. 
Lies have long legs but weak backs. 
Patience is a virtue, but it is of a very retired 
growth. It comes to maturity much in the 
shade, and when the fruit is manifest is much 
commended, though few like the process of its 
ripening. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
ACQUAINTANCES IN HEAVEN. 
BT MRS. H. M. LINCOLN. 
When I was a child they told me of heaven. 
They called it a beautiful place, where the good 
dwelt with Christ and the angels. When chil¬ 
dren died they said they had gone to that delight¬ 
ful land, and that I, if good, would for Christ’s 
sake go there too. But with all their pictured 
brightness, heaven had no attractions for me 
then. Was not this a most beautiful world 
where all I loved dwelt? Indeed, I had no ac¬ 
quaintances in heaven. They were all strangers 
there. How should I feel among an innumera¬ 
ble throng of strangers without parents to greet 
me with endearing words, without brothers and 
sisters to clasp my little hand and lead me to the 
sunniest places. 
As I grew older this feeling did not lessen; 
but when I thought of Death I experienced a 
sensation of dread, for beyond all was strange. 
But ab, how differently I think of that holy, 
happy place to-day. Thank God, I have ac¬ 
quaintances there! The way seems paved with 
shining links connecting me very closely with 
the dear ones gone before. I well remember 
the first familiar acquaintance that passed to 
the better land. My baby,—my first born, over 
whose wan, wasted face the smiles had never 
flitted until dying—then as If the blessed angels 
were winning her away she smiled, O so sweetly, 
and lifted her great, earnest eyes upward with a 
longing look. O, how my heart ached as I 
thought of my little one going alone through 
the dark Valley. Foolish heart of mine,— was 
not the way lit most gloriously by Christ, else 
why those heavenly smiles as my darling passed 
away ? 
Soon another was added to the very dear ones 
above —little Willie, dear, darling Willie. 
He was my brother’s boy, M’hom I loved almost 
as a mother might. 
Sweet Willie, one though not my own, 
He was my brother's boy, 
The pet, the plaything of our home, 
Its smiling light and joy. 
And close beside his angel form 
My darling babe I see; 
lie’s clasped her little hand in his— 
They’re waiting there for me. 
IIow well I knew him, with his sweet smile, his 
winning, witching ways, his outstretched hands, 
his pleasant voice calling me Aunty. After 
Christ took these, could 1, If permitted to reach 
heaven, be a stranger there? 
’Tis a year now since my father died. He 
whom I loved so much, whom I knew so well, 
has passed, I trust, to that land where there is 
no suffering, no sorrow, no sin. My father, 
whose earnest prayers moved my young 
heart to seek the God he worshipped — my 
father, whose words of counsel and comfort 
cheered me,— he who wept as only lathers can 
weep when I gave Christ my heart—he whom, 
if the pearly gates shall ever open for me, will, 
I trust, greet me with the words I loved to hear 
on earth,—' 1 My Daughter.” ’Tisa sad thought 
we’ve no longer a father here—that our home 
circle has been entered by the Spoiler; yet jot- 
fcl tears sometimes dim my eyes as I remember 
my acquaintances in heaven. 1 would not call 
them back, where there are heart aches and tears, 
dying and death, but rather rejoice that they 
are blessed forevermore. 
Shall I, who have lived so unworthily, so sin¬ 
fully, ever stretch out my hands iu vain, or shall 
1 for Christ’s sake be admitted to the delights 
of that beautiful land for M-hicli I sigh? 
God grant they may not u’ait iu vain 
To welcome me above, 
But all of us be gathered borne 
To sing redeeming love. 
Canandaigua, N. Y., Augus:, 1866. 
Religion is the Bread of Life.— I wish we 
appreciated more livingly the force of such ex¬ 
pressions. Why! I remember when I was a 
boy, I could uot wait till I was dressed in the 
morning, but ran and cut a slice from the loaf, 
and all around the loaf too, iu order to keep me 
till breakfast —If diligence earned wages, I 
should have been well paid; and then I could 
not wait till dinner, hut had to cut again, and 
again before tea, and then at tea, aud lucky it 
did not eat after that. It was bread, bread all 
the time, which I ate and lived on, and got 
strength from. And so religion is the bread of 
life. You make it the cake. You put it in your 
cupboards, aud never have it but when you have 
company, and then you cut It up in little pieces, 
pass it around on your best plates, instead of 
using it as bread, to be eaten every day and every 
hour.— Henry Ward Beecher. 
Little and Big Sermons. — The writer of 
this once heard a lay brother make the following 
remark of his minister, whose pulpit talents 
were quite ordinary“ Our pastor comes to the 
pulpit Sabbath morning aud preaches a little 
sermon; and in the afternoon he comes again, 
and preaches another little sermon. In the eve¬ 
ning he comes into the prayer meeting full of 
love, and we all have a good time praying, sing¬ 
ing and exhorting. Then on Monday, after 
spending the forenoon in his study, he goes out 
and sees a family of his congregation, aud talks 
to them about Jesus; and does the same on 
Tuesday, and each day of the week, and by 
Saturday night the little sermons on Sabbath 
have grown into big ones." One can easily con¬ 
ceive how a people would hi satisfied w.tu 
such preaching. 
Self - Conflict.—I t is easier to set a man 
against all the world thau to make him fight 
with himself.— Tillotson. 
