MOORE’S RURAL MRW-YORRRR. 
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Mj 1 
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Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
“COMING HOME." 
BY ADELAIDE STOUT. 
Bwt.et Alice, o'er ttiv eoul-lit ryes a veil 
Ethereal a* the mist that mellows oft. 
The glad browed summer morn is resting now. 
I watch the play of thy quick fancies, child; 
They have a chastened brightness 'minding me 
Of the llec’d light that steals so softly down 
Thro’ Sabbath stiUnioa of the greenwood aisles. 
A flash of light o'er thy sweet face, and lo, 
The mystic veil is rifted I Thy rapt brow 
Is haloed by th’ light from love's own altar. 
“O, teli me now when din of war shall cease 
From our dear land v ” 
I heard that our beloved 
March homeward. At th’ springtide then we’ll keep 
A glad, glad holiday 1 O, even now 
The tender green steals o'er our hillside slopes. 
“They’ll all come home,” she trilled it sweetly forth 
As some wild bird repeat* its choral strain. 
All trembling as the. wild bird with it* song 
I drew her closely to my quiet breast. 
We’d wandered far in the. still wood since morn, 
Its depths were throbbing like an earnest heart 
With the first motions of the early spring. 
The chili! with a sweet, eager look had watched 
For the first opening flower as if it name 
A harbinger of the beloved who now 
We’re yearning, hoping, for a quick return 
To peaceful homes. 
My lip* caught up the words 
As a faint echo, “They're all coming home.” 
Thro’ the deep silence flowed the tide of thought. 
Oh, mother, o’er thy brow the frost of ago 
Has stolen silently these feiv short mouths, 
Else we had never known how drear must be 
The winter of the heart, that reigns beneath 
The seeming calm. The feet of thy beloved 
Leaped as the hart's at the lirst call “To Anns I” 
Ye dropped the parting blessing silently, 
And trod 80 firmly on, we quite forgot 
How dear the ILIng sacrifice ye laid 
Upon “our country’s altar.” 
Thou hast been 
A wife, my sister, but three short years, 
And yet all sparkle of thy girlhood’s mirth 
Has vanish’d a* th 1 dew before th’ noontide sun. 
I fear th’ saint like meekness of th’ palid brow 
More than all noisy grief. Thou’lt teach the child 
Thy soldier left to string on its sweet lips 
The pearls of speech; beguiling thus thy woe. 
Oil mother, and sad wife, tread firmly on; 
And for a charm to lighten cv'ry grief 
Speak meekly yet “ When the helmed come home.” 
The hopeful words have higher meaning 
Than their surface breathe*. We re marching home. 
At morn we strike our tents with joy, and then 
At quiet eve we pitch them nearer to 
Th’ perfect rest remaining for earth's weary. 
If our beloved should steal a homeward march, 
Nor halt to greet us; yet a little while 
O tread unfalt’ring on; they'll wait us 
More eagerly than now wo watch for them. 
“They’ll all come home’' after the tong, long march.” 
Black Hock, N. Y., 1863. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
A HALF YEAR’S CHANGES. 
I always look forward with pleasure to the 
coming ot spring time, and watch eagerly for the 
first tiny blossom that opens to the warm sun¬ 
light. New joys and hopes are awakened in the 
heart as the grass and flowers come forth, making 
earth lovely, A delicious blending of song and 
fragrance makes this spring morning realize to 
us our dreams of fairy-land. The soene before 
me is indeed charming. On my right is a pleas¬ 
ant v illage, its glittering spires pointing heaven¬ 
ward, and all these bright mornings, at the hour 
of seven, the deep-toned bell has summoned the 
crowd to turn from pleasure and business and 
spend one hour in prayer. I hear Us rich tones 
floating far away over the water or echoing in 
the still woodland, and think how glorious will 
bo that day when •• all shall know and worship 
the Lord.” On the left stretches a line of grace¬ 
ful oaks, while before me, reaching far away, the 
green wheat fields impress me sensibly with the 
fact that 1 am not on C henango's pleasant hills, 
but far away In the beautiful West, and had I no 
home or friends elsewhere 1 should doubtless lx> 
willing ,tu “ pitch my tent* in this goodly land, 
although in heart I yield the palm of superiority 
to none, save onr own “ Empire State." the west¬ 
ern portion of which, at leas I. roaches nearly 
enough vny ideas of excellence or beauty. My 
opinion is, of course, pardonable, for T am de¬ 
cidedly partial to home, and even before since 
childhood have I waited spring’s return, within 
the shelter ol the homestead, watched the moon 
rising o’er the tree-tops of the “grand old 
woods" which skirt the eastern sky. That forest 
how magnificent when enlivened with the soft 
hues ol spring, or when autumn weaves amid the 
shades of hemlock and pine its rich crimson and 
gold. Ever have I heard the first bird-notes 
amid the maples, or warbled from the tall giant 
tree that stood through winter s blast and sum¬ 
mer's sunlight as a sentinel o'er the humble farm 
house, bong since the hand that set the sapling 
in the earth was folded peacefully to rest. “When 
the autumn flowers faded and bird-songs ceased, 
a voice was hushed no more to utter music; one 
form laid to rest, and the flowers of many sum¬ 
mers have bloomed and withered upon his grave. 
A little since and the old tree fell, prostrated by 
a strong blast, and when tire last year’s leaves 
had fallen, and the snow fairies spread their first 
thin drapery o’er the ground, an adventitious 
gale suddenly wafted me from my moorings on 
the dear hill-side; hut I trust ere long to press 
its velvet turf once more. 
What joy to the stranger’s heart, in a strange 
land, to receive tidings from home. When those 
dear letters reach us we know some friendly 
hand has traced, we seem Lo hear them speaking 
and see the smile wreath their lips; but they tell 
of change. Since we left, on either hand In the 
neighborhood ot ■■ home’’ has death been busy. 
One whose life has been fraught with pain and 
weariness has gone,—the long years of sickness 
are ended,—the tired spirit released,—and to that 
weary one how sweet must be the rest of the 
“ grave,—of heaven ? But a venerable and dearly 
loved one has passed away. A few months since 
I took her hand and kissed good-bye upon her 
pale, thin lips- How the tear drops trembled in 
her sad, dimmed eyes, and how 1 strove to crush 
back those within my heart, and for her sake 
wore a smile, and spoke hopefully of meeting 
again. Ever since, in dreams of the past, has 
that sorrowful face been before me; but now it 
is placid in death. The eyes that were dim with 
tears are closed, peacefully closed in that sweet 
repose which comes so kindly to all who “sleep 
in Jesus." and another note is struck iu heaven, 
•which swells the chorus of the redeemed. I 
read another name. In life’s morning has he 
fallen,—those lips sealed,—that face calm ’neath 
the coffin-lid,— the grave-sod heaped above it. 
Gone,—when life was beautiful,—its day-dreams 
blight. Insatiate Death! Could not one fair 
young girl so lately taken from that household 
baud suffice,—but. thou must cast thy shadow 
o’er the eldest born, just into manhood passed, 
ami bear him hence? But the grave cried, 
“gather them in,"—a mighty power bade thee 
go forth, and when our selfish hearts would ques¬ 
tion why is this, we hear but one response,—“ He 
dootli all things well." 
A letter just at hand says, “ Our home is deso¬ 
late, desolate, for our darling, our idol brother 
lies sleeping in the grave-yard. Yesterday we 
laid him there, and lingered while the heavy 
earth fell upon his form." And that “idol 
brother" Is the dark-eyed cousin I knew and 
loved so well and hoped so soon to see again. 
Not by disease, but terrible, crushing “accident" 
wa9 he taken, shutting out at once all realization 
of suffering. Like the lightning’s flash has it 
fallen. No wonder, like the strong oak rent iy 
the tempest, that father moans so piteously, “M/ 
son, my son, why do you not come when I cal 1 , 
why don’t you answer me?” No wonder th..’ 
gent le mother’s wail of agony rang out so wild/, 
when they told her that her only, her idolized 
boy, who but a short time since had left he:, 
strong In the flush of health, was dead! God 
pilyand comfort them for no earthly aid can give 
relief to the heart's deep anguish. 
0 change, change! A few months, and it 
seems that death has spread the pall of desola¬ 
tion over my early home. The same sunlight . 
rests upon it, — the same moonlight, quivers 
through the maples, but the shadow of gloom is 
over it. and sighs for the dead are fitfully swell¬ 
ing on the breeze that once brought the echo of 
cheerful voices, as the young, the loving, the 
loved and hopeful met on the green hill side. 
Would that there alone the mourner’s voice was 
heard, the farewell spoken. But one universal 
pall seems draping the blue sky. Brother meets 
brother on the “ field of strife," and amid scenes 
of horror of which wo can form no conception, 
thousands upon thousands yield up their lives, 
and the groans of the suffering and dying are 
answered by the wail of stricken hearts all over 
our lair, our still glorious, though erringcountry. 
When will “peace" lold its snowy pinions over 
it, and the wild refrain lor those who have gone 
forth to battle and “fallen,” cease to echo from 
our hill sides and valleys? “In God is our j 
trust.’’ and 
When we humbly how, His guidance crave, , 
He will bless our cause, aDd our country save. 
Silverdell, 1863. Bell Clinton. t 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THE WOOD-ROBIN. 
BY JAMES O. CLARK. 
How calmly the lingering fight 
Beams back over woodland and nuun, 
As an infant, ere closing its eyelids at night, 
Looks back on its mother again. 
The wood-robiu sings at my door, 
And her song is the sweetest I hear 
From all the sweet birds that incessantly pour 
Their notes through the noon of the year. 
’Tw&s thus in my boyhood time— 
That seasoo of emerald and gold, 
Ere die storms and the shadows that fall on our prime, 
Had told me that pleasures grow old; 
I loved, in the warm summer eves, 
To recline on the welcoming sod 
By the broad spreading temple of t wilight and leaves 
"Where the wood-robin worshiped her God. 
I knew not that life could endure 
Tlie burden it beareth to day, 
And I felt that my soul was as happy and pure 
As the tone of the wood robin's lav. 
O 1 beautiful, beautiful youth, 
With its visions of hope and of love, 
How cruel is fife to reveal us the truth 
That peace only liveth above. 
The wood-robin trills the same tune 
From her thicket iu garden and glen, 
And the landscape and sky, and the twilight of June 
Look lovely and glowing as then; 
But I think oi the glories that fell 
In tlie harvest of koitow and tears, 
Till the song of the forest bird sound* like a knell 
Tolling back tliro’ the valley of years. 
Sweet bird, as tbou siugest, forlorn 
Tbo’ the visions that rise from the past, 
The deep of the future is purpling with morn, 
And its mystery melting at last. 
I know that tlie splendor of youth 
Will return to me yet, and my soul 
Will float in the sunlight of beauty aud truth 
Where the tides of the Infinite roll. 
OI I fain would arise and set *aU 
From the lowlands of trouble and pain, 
But I wait on the shore for tlie tarrying gale 
And sigh for the haven in vain, 
And I watch for the ripples to play 
And tell me the breezes are nigh, 
Like a sailor who longs to be wafted away 
To the land that lies liid in the sky. 
But the whip po-will wails on the moor, 
And day has deserted the west,— 
The moon glimmers down thro" the vines at my door, 
And the rohiu has flown to her nest. 
Adieu, gentle bird, ere the sun 
Shall line the far forest with light, 
Thou'lt wake from thy slumbers more merry than one 
Who heard thee and blessed thco to-night. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MORNING AND EVENING. 
WOMAN'S EDUCATION. 
At no period in the world’s history has woman 
occupied so high a position, intellectually, as at 
the present day; such is the boast of our civiliza¬ 
tion. It is now a question whether she can be 
taught the abstract sciences and the elements 
of a classical education: but she Is drugged with 
an indiscriminate jumble of dead languages and 
living sciences, mathematics and ethics, galvan¬ 
ized \s ith showy accomplishments—all completed 
and set out in the world a matured young lady, 
at an ago when her elder brother is still with his 
tutor. It is easy to guess what kind of a rehash 
of intellectual knowledge such a woman will be 
able to serve up to her children, when, after a 
few years given to the bewildering maze of 
fashionable life, she assumes a new dignity 
among the matrons of the land. There is no 
doubt that woman is as capable of receiving a 
classical education as man. The trouble lies, 
rather, iu that forcing process which oppresses 
tlie brain at the expense of health and a com¬ 
prehension ol her studies. American beauty is 
fragile; hence the undue haste in exhibiting it to 
the world. It strikes us, however, that this 
fragility is attributable to the same causes, aud 
that, with a proper and gradual development of 
the brain-power, aud a proportionate degree of 
culture bestowed on physical education, Ameri¬ 
can girls might be made to compete successfully 
in health and strength with their English cousins. 
Mrs. Jameson treats the subject very truthfully 
in her “Characteristics of Women." As. for 
instance; “It appears tome that Ihe condition 
of women in society, as at present constructed, 
ia false iu itself—injurious to them. That the 
education of women, as at present conducted, is 
founded in mistaken principles, and tends to 
Increase fearfully the sum of misery and error 
in both sexes. " * * ” A time is coming, 
perhaps, when the education of women will be 
considered with a view to their future destina¬ 
tion as the mothers and nurses ol statesmen and 
legislators, aud the cultivation of their powers of 
reflection and moral feeling supersede the excit¬ 
ing drudgery by which they are crammed with 
knowledge and accomplishments.” — Kuiional 
Quarterly Bevieie. 
I have never known a house without a baby 
that got along as well as other houses. I never 
knew a baby that didn’t pay its way in smiles and 
kisses to beguile the toil-worn and weary. 
It is morning. The air is pure, fresh and en¬ 
livening. The appearance of the landscape, 
just as tlie sun rises and gilds the hill tops and 
tallest trees, and casts its beams over all nature, 
is truly beautiful aud forms a grand; picture, 
which even a Raphael could not portray with 
accuracy. The warblings of the merry songsters, 
praising God in their own sweet way, wafts 
softly to us on the rose-scented breeze, and causes 
us to say, 
“Shall I be mutt, Great God, alone, 
'Midst nature’s loud acclaim 1 
It is a time for serious thought and meditation, 
as we reflect of the blank page in tne “ Book of 
Remembrance.” on which the “Recording 
Angel" will write our every thought, word and 
action, placing there with ready band aud'smil- 
ing face all the good deeds and thoughts, then 
with sad countenance aud tearful eye, writing iu 
dark characters all those things which were not 
dune with an “ t-yo single to His glory." Let us 
then commence the day mindful of all this, and 
with a song on our lips to Him, conscious that 
He will guide us aright if we only put our trust 
in Him, and meekly ask in prayer, believing. 
Youth is tbe morning of life. 
“ At first the pages of the book, 
Are blank and purely, fair; 
But time soon writeth memories, 
And painteth pictures thert.” 
Ah! that the “memories" were ever sweet, the 
“ pictures" ever fair, that never a foul spot or 
dark stain might disgrace the pages. Morning 
of life, happy season! But doubly so when the 
the heart is full of love and hope, the mind free 
from care, the spirits buoyant, and the form 
glowing with health and vigor. 
But there is an evening to the day, when the 
sun sinks to rest behind the western hills, and 
all nature seems to retire as if wearied with the 
day’s labors,—when the gladsome strains which 
have proceeded from the winged songsters are 
heard no more, the silence all unbroken, save by 
a child’s merry laugh, or-the song of the farmer 
returning home. It i- a lime to muse, just as 
twilight is throwing iis dim mantle around,—a 
time devoted to dreams of the past, thoughts of the 
present, aud sweet hope and wild yearnings of 
the future. Loved memories of “ by-gone days" 
are called up, aud our mind wanders from daily 
cares and duties, and our heart, over which we 
thought a crust was formed, is touched, and tears 
flow plentifully. We form new resolutions, and 
go forth better, happier and wiser after these 
silent coimnunings. Ob! if’twere not for these 
sweet memories of some loved parent, brother, 
sister, or friend, we would become hard and cold, 
and all choked up with tlie cares of the world. 
There’s an eventide in life, too. And why may 
it not be beautiful if the morning and noon time 
has been well spent? What matters it if the once 
glossy locks are threaded with silver,—the full, 
rosy cheek snnken,—the robust form bent, if the 
soul is only fresh and pure, and the heart warm 
and true? 
“ If the heart, the heart be beautiful, 
I rare not for the face; 
I n*k not what the form may laek 
Of innocence or grace." 
EDglishville, Mich., 1863, Hattie Herbert. 
-♦» ♦-— ■ 
Written for Moore’a Rural New-Yorker. 
THE OLD FARM. 
I have often noticed the manner with which 
men, not at all remarkable for sentiment, refer to 
“ the old farm." Some peculiar practice in agri¬ 
culture is being discussed, when, as a closing 
argument iu favor of their own side of the ques¬ 
tion, they relate how things were done on Ihe old 
farm, as if nothing more need be said on the sub¬ 
ject after that. It makes no difference if they 
themselves are occupying farms whose fertility 
and beauty far surpass tbe old stony, hilly one 
whose most conspicuous disadvantage and de¬ 
formity was its multitude of stumps. There is 
ever a charm lingering about that well-remem¬ 
bered home. In the mind of the most matter-of- 
fact business man the old farm seems like fairy 
land. They do not judge it with their present 
eyes, but with the careless gaze of boyhood. The 
plentiful bunches of elder bushes that grew along 
the edge of the pond; the bare, unsightly stone 
wall on whose top he walked lo gather the pur¬ 
ple raspberries; the rickety old bam where he 
enjoyed playing “hie-spy,” are all lovingly 
remembered. This feeling is by no means con- 
lined to those Who follow farming as a livelihood, 
but those vrho have entered what is called the 
learned professions, and whose, busy life-path has 
led them hundreds of miles away from the old 
homestead, still dream and speak of making one 
more journey back to the “old farm." before they 
die. This tender, life-long attachment to (lie 
home of childhood seems strongest with those who 
have been reared in the country. b. c. n. 
Wisconsin, 1863. 
THE GUEST. 
BY HARRIET M’EWEN KIMBALL. 
“Behold, I stand at the door and knock ; if any man 
hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to him, 
and will sup with him, and he with Me.”— Rev. 3: 20. 
Speechless Sorrow sat with me; 
I was sighing wearily 
Lamp and fire were out; the rain 
Wildly heat the nlndow pane. 
In the dark we heard a knock, 
And a hand was on the lock; 
One in waiting spake to me, 
Saying, sweetly, 
“ I am come to sup with thee I” 
All my room was dark and damp; 
“ Sorrow,"’ said I, “ trim the lamp; 
Light the fire, and cheer thy face; 
Set the guest-chair in its place.” 
And again I heard the knock; 
In tlie dark I found tlie lock— 
“ Enter, I have turned the key I 
Enter, stranger, 
Who art come to sup with me I” 
Opening wide the door, He came ; 
But I could not speak His name ; 
In the guest-chair took His place, 
But I could not *ce His face; 
When my cheerful fire was beaming, 
When my little lamp was gleaming, 
And the feast was spread for three, 
Lo! my Master 
Was the guest that supped with me I 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
SADNESS AND JOY. 
EFFECT OF ONE’S OCCUPATION. 
Down to the minutest division of human occu¬ 
pation it will be found that Ihe men whose pur¬ 
suits bring them in contact with inanimate nature, 
enjoy their avocations much more than those who 
are conversant with humanity, and all modifica¬ 
tions of the social and moral system. Ohamport 
observes that tbe writers on physics, natural 
history, physiology, chemistry, have been gene¬ 
rally men of a mild, even and happy tempera¬ 
ment; while, on the contrary, the writers on 
polities, legislation, and even morals, commonly 
exhibited a melancholy and fretful spirit. No¬ 
thing more simple; the former studied nature, 
the other society. One class contemplates the 
work of the great Being, Ihe other fixes its ob¬ 
servation upon the work of man — the results 
must be different. The nymphs of Calypso, as 
they caressed and fondled the infant Cupid, be¬ 
came unconsciously penetrated with his flame, 
and if the power of love be thus subtle, that of 
hatred is, unfortunately, not less pervading. We 
cannot handle human passions, even to play 
with them, without imbibing some portion of 
their acrimony, any more than we can gather 
Mowers amid the nettles without beiug stung. 
Into everything human a spirit of party becomes 
insinuated, and self-love is perpetually forcing 
us to lasto of its bitterness; but there is no rival¬ 
ry with nature; our pride docs not revolt at her 
superiority, nay, we find a pure and holy culm in 
contemplating her majesty, before which we 
bow down with mingled feelings of delight and 
reverence. Contrast this with the effects pro¬ 
duced upon us by human grandeur and eleva¬ 
tion. Hence the charm of solitude; it places us 
in communion with things, whereas society fixes 
our regards upon man. 
FREEDOM OF OPINION. 
— 
If all mankind minus one, were of one opinion, 
and onlyone person were of the contraryopinion, 
mankind would be no more justified in silencing 
that one person, than he, if he had the power, 
would be justified in silencing mankind. Were 
an opinion a personal possession of no value 
except to the owner; if to be obstructed in the 
enjoyment of it were simply a private injury, it 
would make some difference whether the injury 
was inflicted only on a few persons or on many. 
But Ihe peculiar evil of silencing the expression 
of an opinion is. that it is robbing the human 
race; posterity as well as the existing genera¬ 
tion; those who dissent from the opinion, still 
more than those who hold iL If tbe opinion is 
right, they are deprived of the opportunity of 
exchanging error for truth; if wrong, they lose, 
what is almost as great a benefit, the clearer per¬ 
ception and livelier impression of truth, produced 
by its collision with error. We can never be 
sure that the Opinion we are endeavoring to 
stifle ia a false opinion: and if we were sure, 
stifling it would be an evil still. — J. Stuart Mill 
Character. —The differences of character are 
never more distinctly seen than in times when 
men are surrounded by difficulties and misfor¬ 
tunes. There are some who, when disappointed 
by the failure of an undertaking from which they 
had expected great things, make up their mind 
at once to exert themselves no longer against 
what they cull fate, as if thereby they could 
avenge themselves upon fate; others grow des¬ 
ponding and hopeless; but the third class of men 
will arouse themselves. “ The more difficult it is 
to attain my ends, the more honorable it w ill be;” 
aud this is the maxim which every one should 
impress upon himself, as a law. Some of those 
who are guided by it, prosecute their plans 
with obstinacy, and so perish; others, who are 
more practical men, if they have failed in one 
way, will try another. 
The light of the understanding — humility 
kindleth it, but pride extinguishes it 
“ Why that look of sadness, 
Why that brow of care, 
Can no note of gladness, 
Leave its impress theref” 
It has been often questioned whether there is 
more of joy or sorrow in life. This is a point 
which cannot well be settled, since onr lives arc, 
to a very great extent, what we make them. 
We may drink bitter waters from the ctip of life 
if we choose, or we may sip nectar draughts. 
Looking up with grateful hearts to our Heavenly 
Father, we may rejoice in the sunlight of a 
happy spirit, and convert our cares and trials 
into food for the immortal soni; or we may close 
our eyes upon all thut is good and beautiful 
around us, and dwell so continually in the 
gloomy regions of discontent as to poison the 
fountain of our own happiness and cast a sombre 
shadow in the pathway of others! True, there 
are some dark hours lor all, but even ill the 
darkest hour earth is not all a desert waste. 
Many an oasis is scattered here and there, where 
we may quench the spirit’s thirst, and hope, life’s 
guiding star, points to a light beyond the gloom, 
whose radiance may brighten all our path below. 
Does the storm-cloud of adversity hover over 
you. and w ith its gathering blackness threaten to 
envelop you, trust in Him who is the Ruler of 
the storm, and the tempest will pass away and 
and leave thy sky calm as that mirrored in the 
Rea of Galilee when the voice of the Redeemer 
stilled its angry waters! It Is uot great troubles 
that most annoy us; they seem from their very 
nature to bring with them u power of endurance; 
but it is the little every day vexations that chafe 
the spirit! Mind them not, live above their in¬ 
fluence! Or, rather, let us engage in our daily 
avocatiops w ith a spirit so high and holy that it 
will ennoble and sanctify all. When lonely and 
sad, sit not idly down and complain, but be up 
and doing. Go out and extend a friendly hand 
to one, a smile of welcome to another, and kind 
words to all, and see if the sunshine of gladness 
will not come back again! 
It has been truly said that you cannot pluck 
thorns from another's path without planting roses 
in your own. When we have learned to act 
from right motives, — to cast away from us all 
envious, jealous, selfish feelings, — to rejoice in 
the prosperity of others, and live only to do 
good, llies we may partake of the joy of angels, 
— then we may go joyfully on, pluckiug the 
golden fruit of happiness from every bough of 
life’s fair tree, and when age shall unfit us for fur¬ 
ther action we may rest in the bowers of peace till 
called •• over the river" to tbe unseen land! 
Though care-worn and wear}-, 
Still joyous be, 
For o’er the dark river, 
There's light for thee. 
North Java, N. Y., 1863. M. E. N. 
- ♦ » ♦ - 
Abraham’s Burial Place.— A letter from 
Palestine states that while the Prince of Wales 
was at Hebron he and his suite obtained permis¬ 
sion to visit the cave of Macpelah, Abraham's 
burial place. They are the first Christians who 
have been allowed to enter it since the crusaders, 
nearly seven hundred years ago. They report 
that everything Is kept in the most beautiful 
order, and nothing could be more satisfactory 
than the state in which the tombs are preserved. 
Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, Sarah, Rebecca 
and Leah are buried there. 
Look at the heavens above you. There is star 
after star, all through the infinite realm of space, 
—some shedding down streams of glorious radi¬ 
ance, some bestowing only a feeble light—but, 
nevertheless, all pouring their tribute of bright¬ 
ness from their golden urns, and all fulfilling, in 
the general system of the universe, an office ot 
good and of blessing. So every man may shed 
his portion of light and perform his function of 
benevolence, whatever may be his station in so¬ 
ciety as respects wealth.—Chapin. 
In the lace of the sun you may see God's beau¬ 
ty; in the fire you may feel his heat warming; 
in the water his gentleness to refresh you; it is 
the dew of beaven that makes your field give 
yos bread. 
