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Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
A PICTURE. 
s H Hi I. K r CLAIR. 
Thk red moon hanps above the hill, 
Bright stars are gleaming in the sky, 
While from the vide the whippowil 
Sends forth his mournful cry. 
O’er hill and dale the pebbly rood 
Winds Hire n streak of white, 
And from the village on the hill, 
Gleams many a twinkling light. 
And where the winding road is seen 
To cross the purling rill, 
With rose and jessamine half embowered 
A cottage decked the hill. 
The sloping lawn, with graveled walk 
And wicket gate of white, 
With purple asters' growing pale 
Beneath the moon’s red light. 
Upon the knoll the maple wood 
With Autumn splendor shines, 
Ami purple frost grapes ripening hang 
In blushing clusters from the vines. 
The harvest moon hangs o'er the hill, 
The whippowil has sought hh mate, 
And ’neatli the moonbeam’* shadowy light 
The lovers stand beside the gate. 
Oh I harvest moon, streaming so bright 
O’er wood and blossoming heather, 
What time more fitting is than thine 
To bind two hearts together V 
Oh ! lady moon, veil, veil thy tight, 
Oh! bird resume thy song of woe: 
My soul is sad with unshed tears, 
And haunting thoughts of long ago. 
We stood beside the wicket gate— 
Hide, hide Oh ! moon, behind the lull, 
Leave me to darkness and to fate— 
Break, break sad heart, or “peace, be still.” 
Cincinnati, Ohio, 1803. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THE ONLY CHILD. 
One of the most unfortunate conditions in the 
world, in my humble opinion, is that of an only 
child — idolized by its foolish parents, und doted 
on hy its graudmiimaa and great aunts. It’s a 
marvel to me that it over lives to grow up,— for 
what with being nursed and dosed, and petted 
and pampered, and flattered and worried over, 
and coaxed and kissed, I should think its little 
body and soul would both be worn out before it 
was a dozen years old. One would suppose the 
race of children was about to become extinct — 
that they w ere all to lie cut off, like the first-born 
of Egypt - judging by the great ado that is made 
over this one poor thing. No wonder that tho 
badness of the unfortunate only child has become 
proverbial, and that people have learned to apol¬ 
ogize for its numerous misdeeds with, “ Oh. he’s 
an only child, and has always bad Ills own way;"' 
or, “she is the only daughter, and has been very 
much petted, you know.” As for myself. I cannot 
endure to visit at the house where an only child 
lives; for if the dear, precious youngster is nut 
committing some mischief, whereby his mama 
and 1 arc kept every moment on the qvi rfvc, (he 
other alternative is that his fond parent is all the 
time talking about him, and the latter, if possible, 
is less endurable than the former. “ Johnnie it 
remarkably precocious," she says, with u solemnly 
sad countenance, “and his papa and I think he 
won’t live long so we try to let him enjoy him¬ 
self while he can. 1 * And enjoy himself he does, 
T assure you. He may overturn the ink on the 
parlor carpet — throw his papa’s business letters 
into the fire —abuse the dog — torment the cat — 
threaten the house-maid — eat up all the sweet¬ 
meats and plain cake, and yet never get punished 
for it, because, forsooth, “he's an only child, and 
may not live long, and ought to enjoy himself all 
he can." Why should he not grow up selfish, 
conceited and overbearing? Does he ever cry 
for anything and get refused, or ever do anything 
for which lie's not pmisod? Does he over receive 
a whipping when he deserves it. or is lie ever 
taught that any one's rights are to la 1 respected 
but his own? However, “ the only child” is not 
to blame for all (his; for if he had been blessed 
with sensible parents, and a dozen or more 
brothers and sisters, he would doubtless have 
been quite another child. 
Just so it would have been w ith the daughter 
of my cousin's cousin, Miss Anna Marta Jones, 
who is another only child, and as much more 
spoiled than master Johnnie as she is years 
older. She is now eighteen, just out of school, 
and tis vain, selfish and unmanageable as you 
please. But it’s not at all surprising. Her w ill 
was always law — to father, mother and servants. 
She is the petty tyrant of the household, and a 
princess could scarcely be treated with more at¬ 
tention. To gratify her darling only child has 
always been and is the sole aim and object of the 
mother's life. But to see her. when tho precious 
creature is llie least ill, would have fairly broken 
your heart. At the least choking sensations in 
her bronchial tube, or at tho slightest pain in 
her delicate body, the agonized mother wrings 
her hands in helpless distress, and the pater 
familiar, donning his coat und boots, rushes for 
the doctor like an insane man. 
It was tiresome enough to hear the recital of 
her numberless gifts and graces in tho days of 
her infancy and childhood, when she was com¬ 
paratively modes! and amiable, considering her 
training. But now it is positively unendurable. 
I sit “like Faience on her monument,'’ while tho 
fond mamma goes through the catalogue of the 
dear Anna Maria’s virtues and accomplishments. 
First it is •• Ann a Maria, dear, bring your draw ¬ 
ings," and then, “Perhaps you would like to read 
some of Anna Marta’s prize compositions;" and 
u Here is my daughter’s diplomas, you can judge 
from that how highly her teachers respected her, 
and what brilliant talents she ha&” Yes. I think, 
but do not sav, if only the same highly respectful 
and exceedingly complimentary diplomas were 
not given to thirty or sixty other young ladies, 
and if only they meant anything more than that 
said young ladies had sat so many hours, of so 
many months. In a certain school-room, and re¬ 
cited lessons from a given number of books, and 
then graduated. Well, 1 scrutinize the drawings, 
read the compositions, admire the diploma, and 
then the piano begins to sound. Just when her 
papa and I have entered into an interesting con¬ 
versation, about the latest war news, Anna 
Maria begins to bang. If ever I should consider 
the misfortune of deafness to lie a downright 
blessing, it is when a third or fourth-rate musician 
sits down at a piano. But, of course, not being 
blessed with any impediment iu my organs of 
hearing, I am forced to listen, more especially 
when the dear young lady’s mama, her finger 
on her lips, interrupts the conversation with, “Do 
pray listen, that’s my favorite piece;" or. “That's 
the new song Anna Marta’s teacher composed 
and dedicated to her because sh<- had made such 
remarkable progress in music." 
At last, when the “peal on peal” of the piano 
has closed, and I begin fondly to hope that the 
obtruded name of Miss A nna M a kj a is to be laid 
on the shelf for a while, the affectionate parent 
iM'lhinks herself of her daughter's personal attrac¬ 
tions. First she descunts on her beauty of face, 
then her gracefulness of figure, und next (oh. 
what next 1 say. inwardly,) comes to the “pretty 
little hand.” Just as though I eared ait iota what 
sort of a hand the young lady owned. “Anna 
Maria has quite a pretty little hand,” she says, 
admiringly, “do you not think so? A sculptor, a 
friend of ours, hogged her the other day, to per¬ 
mit, him uf take a cast of it.” The young girl, 
who i-' present, takes it all as a matter of course, 
and I try to say some thing civil in reply, though 
laughing in my sleeves all the while, as polite 
and good-natured people, like myself, arc in the 
habit of doing, when they see other people ma¬ 
king fools of themselves, and don’t wish to tell 
them so. 
The latest, greatest subject of anxiety to Anna 
Maria's loving mother is a suitable match. 
Where is there any gentleman good enough to 
wed such an angel. She distresses herself, day 
and night, tearing lest her future son-in-law will 
forget that her darling is an only child, has been 
very delicately brought up,— is accustomed to 
have her own w ay.—and that it would break her 
poor, sensitive heart to be treated harshly. The 
deluded mama fancies that every young man 
who puts his head in at the door comes to make 
love to her fascinating daughter, and conse¬ 
quently she expects every day to see her paragon 
affianced to some one utterly unworthy of her. 
But her mama's solicitude would bo quite un¬ 
necessary, provided the young lady’s gentlemen 
friends knew her character as well as I do, for a 
man in his senses would prefer remaining single 
to tlie day of his death than to tie himself to such 
a compound of vanity and selfishness. Marry 
the petted, only child of a weak-headed, soft¬ 
hearted mother — why one Avould better shoot 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
ARCADIA. 
nr ouvb c. fkrkiss. 
A MS3HAGK whs Drought unto me one night,— 
One night in the autumn time,— 
All day had I basked in the amber light 
A* I listened to the rhyme 
The sweet wind* told to the dark fir trees 
Of a Beautiful Land that is over the seas, 
An Orient land and clime. 
All day, all day, 'till the sun went low, 
And the gold and crimson Weet, 
Seemed like 3 glory flooding glow 
From the city of the Blest,— 
The Immortal Oily out of sight 
Where day ne’er fadetli into night, 
And the “ weary are at rest.” 
All day, in the shade of the spreading lime, 
In the old arched window seat, 
Had I sat and dreamed away the time 
Like the kitten at my feet, 
’Till the evening shadows soft came down, 
And night putou her robe and crown, 
And her “ voice grew low and sweet.’’ 
All day, all day, 'till the living stars 
Throbbed into the vaulted sky, 
And the moon sheen fell in silver bars, 
Anil the vesper breeze went by, 
Hail 1 sat and watched the falling leaves, 
And I thought how the Autumn spirit grieves 
When the Summer's children die. 
But a voice stole in on my pleasant dreams 
With a burthen of heavy grief, 
Ah me, when the heart tile lightest seems 
Its joy is the soonest brief. 
For the Reaper, Death, went abroad that day, 
While the mum was yet in its twilight gray, 
And gathered an early sheaf. 
And so when the waning day grew dim 
In the haze wrapped eventide, 
While the great trees sang their vesper hymn, 
And file night waned deep and wide, 
A message came with sorrow fraught, 
Anil these the words to cae it brought,— 
“ At break of day he died.” 
Ah me, ah me, how wo grieve and mourn 
That the great and good must die, 
Oh *ay should we weep that noue return 
From the blessed home on high ? 
The home where the crowned Immortals dwell 
And none e'er speak a last farewell, 
Ami tears ne'er dim the eye. 
Ah me, ah me, on the wings of prayer « 
My soul is away to-night. 
May we all, all meet in file I dossed Tnnun 
Where fadetli ne’er the light— 
In the Beautiful City built in the skies, 
By the crystal river in Paradise, 
In file realms forever bright. 
Little Mountain, Ohio, 1803 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
HOPE - MEMORY. 
onosdf first! 
But now. having perhaps Loo freely expressed 
my mind, the season for apology begins. If I 
have injured any body's sensibilities, or said any 
thing slanderous, 1 beg to be forgiven—only I 
would advise you, as a Mend, Mr. Papa and 
Madam Mama, that if you are so ill-starred as 
to have “ an only child” in your keeping, to send 
it from home as soon as possible. To my mind, 
the more speedily a house of refuge is established 
for these poor unfortunates, the better, that they 
may, therein, tind an ay-slum from the tender 
mercies of their floating parents. Philanthro¬ 
pists and lovers of the human race, ought, cer¬ 
tainly to look into tho matter. a. m. p. 
Fayetteville, N. Y., Jan., 1863. 
SCARCITY ADDS TO VALUE. 
Woman is vastly more influential in America 
than in England, yet it is here that they are the 
minority ! Thus say the statistics :—“There is, 
according to the census, an excess of seven hun¬ 
dred and thirty-three thousand two hundred and 
fifty-eight males over females in the United 
States. The. fact is note-worthy and ought to 
quiet the apprehensions of those who feared the 
war wouid cause an undue preponderance of 
women after peace should be declared. No mat¬ 
ter how bloody the war may be, or how long it 
lasts, if eaunot make away with three quarters 
of a million of lives. The waste of life may 
make the sexes nearly even ; but even wo shall 
bo better off than England, where the females 
are in excess by nearly a million, and the social 
problem of the day is how to provide them with 
husbands or occupations." 
-*44- 
Home Like. —Even as the sunbeam is com¬ 
posed of millions of minute rays, the home life 
must lie constituted of little tendernesses, kindly 
looks, sweet laughter, gentle words, loving coun¬ 
sels; it must not be like the torch-blaze of natu¬ 
ral excitement, which is easily quenched, but like 
the serene, chastened light which burns as safely 
in the dry east wind as in the stilled atmosphere. 
Let each bear the other’s burden the while—let 
each cultivate the mutual confidence, which is a 
gift capable of increase and improvement—and 
soon il will be found that kindliness will spring 
upon every side, displacing constitutional un¬ 
suitability, want of mutual knowledge, even as we 
have seen violets and primroses dispelling the 
gloom of the gray sea-rocks. 
“ Tia a little thing 
To give a cup of water; yet it* draught 
Of cool refreshment, drained L>y fevered lips, 
May give a shock of pleasure to the frame 
More exquisite than wheu Nectarean juice 
Renews the life of joy in happiest hours.” 
[Talfourd. 
It is beauty’s privilege to kill time, and time's 
privilege to kill beauty. 
\V r E live in the past, and in the future. Tho 
present is given us for action, for work; but. Oh, 
how tedious were existence if life was confined 
within its narrow boundaries. 
The Past,— Memory Hashes back through its 
shadows and its sunshine, and through its instru¬ 
mentality we live over again and again those 
happy honrs upon which imagination loves to lin¬ 
ger. Wo foul again asorstwe teitthegriefsandsor¬ 
rows which a benign and overruling Providence 
laid uponusto chasten and to bless. Thank Heaven 
for Memory! Say you not so, old man, tottering 
upon the confines of eternity? Ah! how that 
aged heart thrills, and those quickened pulses 
throb, as the mind wanders back to life’s spring¬ 
time. and mingles once more in the joyous scenes 
of youth. How that aged bosom heaves with 
emotion, and those time-dimmed eyes kindle 
with a softened radiance, as Memory recalls the 
image of that gentle one whose plighted faith 
was thine, and who in trust and confidence 
walked by thy side till summoned to the Shining 
Shore. 
The Future, — Hope beams upon us from 
its unknown realms, and through its inspir¬ 
ing influence we live in anticipation of happy 
hours to come. We look forward with pleasant 
expectancy to the consummation of some long- 
cherislied wish, und the heart thrills in con¬ 
templation of the happiness which shall then 
be ours. Bless Gm> for Hope! Say you not so, 
young man, just starting upon the journey of 
life? Ah! how gloriously the future looms up 
before you, as with noble aspirations and lofty 
aims you picture to yourself a life of honor and 
happiness in the years to come. With ever- 
renewed ell'orts and untiring zeal, Hope bids you 
onward in the path of duty and of usefulness, and 
offers you, as a rich guerdon for a well-spent life, 
a green old age, honored and respected—a quiet 
and approving conscience, and finally a peaceful 
transit from the shores of time to the happy con¬ 
fines of the illimitable Beyond. 
Hope and Memory! Blessed twain! Though 
the one may sometimes be sad and unpleasant, 
and the other often withered and disappointed, 
yet what were man without them! Chained to 
the narrow enjoyments of the present, a wretched 
creature. Cut off from the pleasing recollections 
of by-gone days—shut out from the bright pros¬ 
pect of happiness in this world and the world to 
come—intelligence and reason would be but a 
curse, and man more miserable than the unrea¬ 
soning brute. Without Hope to rob death of its 
terrors and light us over the dark valley of 
shadows, the ignorance of the brute would be 
bliss indeed. But since both Hope and Memory 
are given us, let us so act in the present that 
when it has tiown back into the past its remem¬ 
brance shall be sweet, and Hope will not tail to 
illumine our pathway. Rcsticus. 
January, 1863. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
“HE DIED AT BREAK OF DAY,” 
COMPILED FROM WORDSWORTH'S GREECE. 
Arcadia is the central province of the Pelo¬ 
ponnesus — the Peninsula of Southern Greece. 
It resembles a large natural camp, fortified by a 
lofty and impregnable circumvallation of moun¬ 
tains. Four of these—namely, Krymanthus and 
Cyllene at the north, and Lycams and Macnalus, 
at the south — stand aloft like the castellated 
towers of this mural circumvallation. Having 
no outlet but one on its western verge, this prov¬ 
ince seems as it were imprisoned within itself, 
Numerous streams fall down into its vales from 
the mountains around it, but aro unable to find 
any exit for their pent up waters, except by 
mining for themselves a channel through the 
limestone rock of which these mountains are 
composed. 
The only valley through which these streams 
discharge themselves, is at the northern foot of 
Mount Lyoeeus. Through this gorge, which 
tends to the north-west, the rivers which flow 
westward from the centre of Arcadia find their 
way into the Ionian sea. having united themselves 
to the stream which receives the waters of nearly 
all the rivers of the west of the Peloponnesus 
namely, the Alphens. 
On the eastern side of Arcadia, no such outlet 
exists for the discharge of its streams ns is found 
in the valley at the roots of Mount Lycmus. The 
waters there are left, either to stagnate in the 
hollows of the valley, and te expand themselves 
into lakes, or to force their way by subterranean 
chasms through the rocky banner of the hills. 
The limestone strata of which they consist, allow¬ 
ing of easy perforation by the agency of the 
rushing waters, these streams, which seemed 
destined to be pent up within their rocky prisons, 
have opened for themselves valves and sluices by 
which the inland country has been rescued from 
inundation, and the ulterior provinces fertilized 
as if by a process of artificial irrigation. 
To the lively imagination of a Greek, those 
struggles of nature were the acta of Supernatural 
Powers. The subterranean passage of the lake, 
or rather the river of Stymphaliis, into the Argo- 
lic territory, was in the popular estimation, the 
work of Hercules; and to this may be traced 
the establishment of Lis worship in Arcadia. 
Arcadia is a picturesque and richly wooded 
country, with well-watered valleys, abounding 
in rugged and rocky mountain scenery. Tin 
soil and climate determined the character, pur¬ 
suits. and tastes of the inhabitants of the country. 
The lift! uf the inhabitants was necessarily pas¬ 
toral. The same leisure, the same freedom, and 
familiarity with grand and beautiful scenes, 
which the pastoral life in a fine country supplies 
in abundance, and which has produced the moun¬ 
tain melodies of Switzerland and the Tyrol, made 
the land of Arcadia, iu earlier times, the cradle 
of the pastoral music of Hellas. On the sum¬ 
mit of Oytlonc. Mercury found the lyre; and it 
was Pan, the deity of Arcadia, who invented tho 
pipe — the favorite musical instrument of the 
swains of Greece. 
Whatever was connected, in the mind of anti¬ 
quity, with the occupations and enjoyments of a 
country life, was produced and cherished in 
Arcadia. The pastoral Poet of Italy, when com¬ 
mencing his didactic poem upon the affairs of 
rural life, is carried away from his own country 
into Greece; and derives his inspiration, not 
from the rivers and mountains, from tho meadows 
and the vineyards of his own beautiful land,— 
not even from those which adorned the fairest, 
part of it, in which he was then writing,— but 
from the rude hills and barren sheep-walks of 
Arcadia. Not the majestic steeps of the Appen- 
ines, nor the vine-clad slopes of Vesuvius, but 
the Arcadian mountains of Maenalus anu Lycaeus, 
supplied f.he landscapes from which Virgil 
drew his pastoral scenes. 
-“The Ljcsnan woods, 
Arcadia's flow’ry plains, aud pleasing floods.” 
Rochester, N. Y., Jan., 1863. K. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
HOW, WHEN AND WHERE. 
BT OKACK GUtJtK. 
How would I die ? What matters it to tne 
What may the means of my departure be,— 
Save that no human hand be raised in passion’s mood, 
And stained with my heart's blood ? 
When would 1 choose to die ? I care not when 
The dust that was returns to dust again,— 
If but the soul be ready for its flight from Earth 
To Him who gave it birth. 
Where would I wish to die ? Nor care have 1 
Where easts my soul this irksome body by,— 
So that the fetters all at last be riven 
That keep me back from Heaven. 
Michigan, 1863. 
DEATH OF A CHILD. 
Christ Prei'ioi s.— The Savior is. precious to 
every believer,but some rise to a higher apprecia¬ 
tion of His character and love, and a more inti¬ 
mate communion with Ills life. The record of 
President Edward's last hours is very touching: 
When the great theologian was dying, having 
«ken leave of his family, he looked about him 
and said. “ Now. where is Jesus of Nazareth, my 
true and never-failing friend?'' And so he fell 
asleep, and went to the Lord he loved. How un¬ 
failing is the instinct which leads the pious heart 
to cry out for ,J mis in the last hour! The mighty 
intellect of Edward's, after all its acquisitions dur¬ 
ing a life of usefulness, must then lean upon the 
Saviour’s arm with the same helpless dependence 
as a young child just able to syllable that precious 
name. 
AN EXCELLENT HINT 
The way to keep money is to earn it fairly and 
honestly. Money so obtained is pretty certain to 
abide with its possessor. But money that is in¬ 
herited, or that any way comes without a fair and 
just equivalent, is almost as certain to go as it 
came. The young man who begins by saving a 
few shillings, and thriftily increases his store— 
every coin being tho representative of good, 
solid work, honestly and manfully done—stands 
a better chance to spend the last half of his life* 
in affluence and comfort than he a lio, in his haste 
to become rich, obtains money by dashing specu¬ 
lations, or the devious means which abound in 
the foggy region lying between fair dealing and 
actual fraud. Among the wisest and most 
thrifty men of wealth, the current proverb is, 
“ Money goes as money comes." Let the young 
make a note of this, and see that their money 
comes fairly, that it may long abide with them. 
God ever Good. —Omnipotence may build a 
thousand worlds, and fill them with bounties; 
Omnipotence may powder mountains into dust, 
and burn the sea, and consume the sky, but 
Omnipotence can not do an unloving thing to¬ 
ward a believer. Oh! rest quite sure, Christian, 
a hard thing, an unloving thing frory God toward 
one of his own people, is quite impossible. He 
is as kind to you when he casts you into prison 
as when he takes you into a palace; he is as good 
when he. sends famine into your house as when 
he fills your barn with plenty. The only ques¬ 
tion is, art thou his child? If so, he hath rebuked 
thee in affection, and there is love in his chastise¬ 
ments.— Spurgeon. 
Intercourse with Superior People.— It is 
a great event of life to find, and to know, and 
love a superior person; to find a character that 
prefigures heaven and the saints on earth. Such 
a one is left alonp, as the gods are. in all the 
superior persons 1 have met. 1 notice directness, 
simplicity, truth spoken more truly, as every¬ 
thing like obstruction and malformation had 
passed away. What have they' to conceal? 
What have they to exhibit? Between simple 
and noble persons there is always a perfect 
understanding. They recognize at sight and 
meet on better ground than the talents and skill 
they chance to possess, namely, on their sincer¬ 
ity.— Emerson. 
In saying that our days are few, we say too 
much. We have but one; the past are not ours, 
1 and who can promise us the future? 
Application.—I t cannot be too deeply im¬ 
pressed on the, mind that application is the price 
to be paid for mental acquisitions, and that it is 
as absurd to expect them without it, as to hope 
for a harvest where we had not sown the seed, 
Truth. —He who sets one great truth afloat in 
the world, serves his generation. No truth can 
be unimportant or be without advantage if ut¬ 
tered. But the nearer a truth lies to the great 
centers, the more important is its utterance. To 
utter one such is more than to gaia a field at 
Granicus or Waterloo. To attain such truths is 
one of the great objects of living. Prayerful 
thought in moments deemed idle is often fruitful 
of such. They r come iu muuy a moment of re¬ 
pose. and absence from books and papers. We 
are less masters of our own train of thought 
than we flatter ourselves. 
-—►- 
The Relioion that will have Vitality.— 
The fact is, the age in which we live is full of 
people who are always working, and scarce of 
people who are ever waiting. Hence, a great 
deal of our religion is public-meeting religion, 
platform religion, speech religion, missionary 
and Bible-meeting religion, having a place and 
a proper place, and a most useful place; but 
that religion will never have any vitality, or 
vigor, or growth, or victory, unless it be fed by 
the secret, silent, unnoticed, and unrewarded 
upon earth, waiting upon the Lord. 
Humility. — In the school of Christ the first 
lesson of all is self-denial and humility; yes, it is 
written above the door, as the rule of entry or 
admission, “ Learn of me, for I am meek and 
lowly of heart.” And out of all question, that is 
truly the humblest heart that has the most of 
Christ in it— Leighion. 
Wk have sometimes seen a little coffin, like a 
casket for jewels, all alone by itself in a huge 
hearse, melancholy with plumes, and gloomy as 
a frown, and we have thought not so should 
we accompany those a little way who go in the 
morning. Wo half wondered why they did not 
take the little coffin into the carriage with them, 
and lay it gently on their laps, the sleeper there 
lulled to slumber without a bosom or a cradle. 
We have wondered what there was for tears in 
flucl) a going in the early morning from home to 
home—like fair white doves with downy wings 
emerging from nether night and fluttering for 
entrance at the windows of Heaven. Never has 
there been a hand wanting to take the wan¬ 
derer in, and shut out the darkness and the 
storm. 
Upon these little faces it never seemed te us 
that death should place his great seal; there is 
no thought of tho charnel-house in those young 
listeners to the invitation, whose acceptance we 
are bound not to forbid; there should be morn¬ 
ing-songs, and not sighs; fresh flowers, and not 
badges of mourning; no tears, nor clouds, but 
bright faces aud bright dawning* together. 
Fold up the white robe; lay aside the forgotten 
toy; smooth the little unpressed pillow, and 
gently smile as you think of the white raiment, 
of the harp of gold, and of the fair brow with its 
diadem of light; smile as you think that no years 
can make that memory' old. An eternal guileless 
child, waiting about the threshold of paradise for 
the coining friend from home. Here the glad 
ips would quiver with anguish; the bright curls 
growing grizzled and grey; the young heart 
weary and old—but there, changeless as the stars, 
and young as the last new morning. 
Ik you would not have affliction visit you twice, 
listen at once to what it teaches. 
