Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A 
RAIN-DROP. 
I scarcely know at what period I became 
conscious of an existence. I have an indistinct 
recollection of being borne ulong through the 
higher regions of the atmosphere by some un¬ 
known power, in an easy, passive state of equi¬ 
librium. At this early period in my history, 
while my form was so insignificant as to require 
the aid of the microscope to bring it to view I 
remember I was fearful of losing my identity’in 
the midst ol the myriads of like forms that were 
floating above, below, and around me. It might 
hare been similar fears on t he part of my fellows, 
or the love of individuality, or possibly the law 
of affinity , that led to the policy of the gradual 
enlargement of our spheres. For rnvself. 1 Re¬ 
written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker 
Mr. Moore:— I wish your five hundred thousand read¬ 
ers to enjoy the following little gem of a song. It was 
written by a young lady who deems it unworthy of pub¬ 
lication, jet gives a more perfect and beautiful expression 
to a common sentiment than any poem I hare read of its 
length. James G. Clark. 
SUNBEAMS ’MONG THE SHADOWS. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
DEEDS OF DEATH, 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker 
CONSOLATION. 
There is one solace, let what will befall, 
One comfort sweet when darkest glooms appall, 
One ray of joy that lights the troubled breast, 
And lulls the tumults of the heart to rest. 
Tis that whate'er in life be our success, 
God will the good intention surely bless, 
Will bless the worthy thought, and still uphold, 
If we in virtue's ways are true and bold. 
Be such sweet consolation mine, and still 
Teach us submission to our Maker's will, 
O, may He look into my heart, and bless 
Whate'er is there of any worthiness. 
Elkhorn, Wis., 1863 B n 
BY JENNIE. 
There are sunbeams 'mong the shadows, 
There are diamonds in the sky, 
There are flowers in the darkest wild, 
And a hope In every sigh; 
And they say each cloud has a sunny side, 
A noon the darkest night, 
And the angel guides to heaven 
Are never out of sight. 
Then why should fainting heart despond 
Or lose its wonted calm, 
When, if it were but sought aright. 
Each grief might hare its balm f 
Let us seek to find the sunbeams 
When shade* about us crowd, 
And look, when blows the tempest, 
For the rainbow in the cloud. 
Let us learn to follow meekiy 
When* the angel-guide shall lead, 
And strive to shun all error 
Of practice or of creed,— 
Then the spirit of Contentment 
Will be ever near to bless, 
And on earth’s sunny side we ll find 
Our heaven of happiness. 
TILL HE COME 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
RURAL LETTERS.-NO. III. 
“ Till He come ”—0! let the words 
Linger on the trembling chords; 
Let the little while between 
In their golden light be seen; 
Let us think liow heaven and home 
Lie beyond that— 11 Till He come. 
When the weary ones we love 
Enter on their rest above, 
8 eems the earth so poor and vast. 
All our life joy overcast 1 
Hush, be every murmur dumb; 
It is only—“Till He come.” 
Clouds and conflict® round us press: 
Would we have one sorrow less f 
All the sharpness of the cross, 
All that tell* the world is loss, 
Death, and darkness, and the tomb, 
Only whisper—“ Till He come.’ 
See, the feast of love is spread, 
Drink the wine and break the bread: 
Sweet memorials—till the Lord 
Call us round His heavenly board: 
Some from earth, from glory some, 
Severed only—" Till He come.” 
The sun bag gone down in a bank of mist, 
and the quail, that knowing little philosopher, 
tosses his head on one side, and pompously fore¬ 
tells, " more wet/’ Far away, over the hills at 
the right, comes the meluuoholy cry of the prai¬ 
rie birds, and the night-hawk adds his glorious 
anthem to the general chorus. 
Twilight on the prairie! Twilight, with the 
fragrant breath of flowers, the songs of birds, 
and the surpassing glory of summer clouds! 
Slowly tho light fades away from the distant for¬ 
est and dimly seen hills, from the rushing river 
and quiet hamlet, and night settles gently down 
upon the landscape. 
’Tis the hour of meditation, when the soul, 
casting aside all earthly aspirations, prostrates 
And solemn and tad arc the visages there; 
The singers are mute and the dancers are pale, 
And mournful am! loud U tho widower’s wall 
For there was the maiden, whose covenant truth 
Was recently sealed to tire choice of her youth. 
And in the high hall was heard the song 
Of the fair haired beauty, the life of the throng; 
And felt by all was the glow and the trance 
Of her who led iu the mazy dative — 
But soon the brightness that shone in the hall 
Was robed in a dark and mournful pall_ 
For /was there.’— and the life that gushed, 
From the heart of the maiden forever is hushed, 
The singers are mute and the dancers are pale, 
And mournful and loud 1* the widower’s wail. 
“ I have been to the sea—and the *torm king’s breath 
I bade to the wrecking sweep; 
And he ha* gone forth iu ray terrible wrath 
To madden the winds in the mariner’s path, 
On the wide and trackless deep. 
“ To sorrow, fond mother*, for those who have died, 
And widows have doffed their charms; 
And maidens are mourning the ocean beside, 
For lovers to them by affection allied, 
No more to return to their arms. 
“ No more shall grief, with the grasp of the hand 
In rapture be scattered away ; 
For some are now laid on the deep sea’s sand, 
And some are cast upon the wild desert strand, 
To the shrieking hyena a prey. 
" I have been to the field, and the carnage of war 
Has wrought desolation around and afar; 
I’ve feasted on thousands and thousands of slain, 
Whose bones arc strewed o’er the red, gory plain; 
The’ the blast of the bugle in silence is hushed, 
And coated is the life tide that rapidly gushed— 
Tho" tlm gleaming of spears and neighing of steeds, 
No longer give note of such terrible deeds; 
One gash of the sabre in one noble heart, 
In many a bosom lia® fastened my dart_ 
And many arc dying devoid of sear, 
For grief is completing the carnage of war.” 
La Grange, N. Y., 1863. Katie. 
w men I obeyed and commenced my descent 
to the earth — that beautiful earth which the 
clouds had hitherto shut out from my view. I 
soon emerged from their dark drapery, and a 
flood of golden light revealed the earth in all 
its beauty beneath. Grateful for the great law 
that was drawing mo to her bosom, I seized a 
sunbeam, reduced it to its primitive colors, 
painted each distinct and clear, and hung the 
picture on my oval walls, for the admiration of 
the sons oi earth. This feat retarded not my 
motion earthward in the least, and i was think¬ 
ing what excellent time I wag making, with a 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
FRETFULNESS. 
What can blight tho joy, the peace, the happi¬ 
ness of the domestic circle more effectually than 
fretfulness? How soon it obscures the beautiful 
light of affection which should radiate the spirit 
of home. It matters not what may he the cause 
of fretfulnesF. f if cause there is,) or by whom it 
is indulged, its effects vary but little. It pro¬ 
duces wretchedness and gloom wherever its 
voice or influence reaches. We speak of the 
home of the drunkard as being wretched, of (he 
abode of the poor as cheerless, yet if the mem- 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
SABBATH EVE. 
blessed hour! Stillness reigns supreme o’er 
the green-clad earth. Cankering care and labor 
are alike forgotten, and our thoughts turn from 
this life to the immortal life beyond. ’Tis an 
hour for solemn, retrospective thought; for self- 
mv estigation; for heart-study and soul-refresh¬ 
ing. 
To pious hearts it is a sweet season of reflec¬ 
tion. as they return to the time when, low bowed 
at the foot of Sovereign Mercy, the dews of par¬ 
doning peace descended making them to shout 
for joy. It carries the aged pilgrim back to the 
sunny days of childhood when, a rosy, bounding 
boy. he leaned his curly head upon a loved 
mother’s knee, and listened to her musical 
into a dark and deep reservoir. How long I 
remained here, it is Impossible to tell. I was 
calculating the chances of escape from my dark 
and dreary prison, when our fraternity were set 
in wild commotion by the powerful strokes of a 
lever directly above. I now felt myself drawn 
irresistibly up through a passage, till now unob¬ 
served, into daylight, and safely deposited in a 
burnished dipper. 
After a moment’s rest here, during which I 
discovered there were preparations for some 
nice investigations, a person approached, and 
with a steady hand selected me from my fellows 
and placed mo beneath some magic instrument, 
through which he would send bis searching 
glances at me as if I were no better than the 
veriest drop thief that infests Broadway. I 
have since learned that by the aid of his detec¬ 
tor he read me through and through—that I am 
not a pure rain-drop, but sailing under false col¬ 
ors, and that all my life I have been cruising 
with myriads of willing captives on board, which 
but for the microscope would never have been 
found in my possession. After this searching 
investigation was concluded I was deemed of no 
further use, and cast out through the lattice into 
the open air. There was a blushing ruse ’neath 
the window, upon whoBe soft bosom I fell. This 
reception was so unlike that I received upon the 
house-top, that I congratulated myself on finding 
so good a place for repose. Here I rested, and 
tho dewy drops of the night nestled around me, 
and the morning light revealed a deeper blush, 
a lovelier tint on the cheek of the rose. Its 
beauty was coveted, a rude hand severed it 
from the parent stem, and 1 was cast from its 
embrace upon the earth. Here again I resumed 
. voice 
as she sought to impress upon his young mind 
Iife‘8 great coming duties. How carefully she 
pointed out to him the path of virtue,—bow wise- 
he feels her pure kiss of love on bis brow, again 
hears the loving good-night. The boy, the 
mother’s pride, is now the aged pilgrim; and the 
mother passed on before to her blissfiil home, 
where Sabbath, eternal Sabbath reigns. A crown 
of rejoicing decks her spirit-brow: fitting reward 
of the faithful mother's mission. 
Sabbath! It comes to us with refreshing pow¬ 
er, stilling the world-tossed spirit, strengthening 
us lor coming conflict. It comes to the wanderer 
fraught with many tender associations speaking 
(in the still small voice borne upon the evening 
breeze,) of home, of loved ones, of a mother’s 
grave, a father’s prayers—of noble brothers in 
whose love we reposed so confidingly, who now 
rest from the war's dread alarms in lonely south¬ 
ern graves. We recall the tender images of the 
dear departed; muse till the whispers of the 
evening zephyr steal upon our ear like spirit- 
whispers from white-robed bands. 
Thank God! for Sabbath evenings; 
They calm the troubled breast, 
Their zephyr’s gentle breathings 
Speak of sweet, eternal rest. 
August, 1863. Cornelia M. Earle. 
PERSONAL INFLUENCE. 
11 w urcame lorm us fragrance, or one star 
depute to another star its shining. Your indi¬ 
vidual character, the special mould atnd temper 
of your being, is different from that of all other 
beings, and God. in creating it, designed it for a 
special use in Hig Church. Your relations to 
your fellow men are peculiar to yourself, and 
over some minds,—some little group or circle of 
moral beings—you can wield an influence which 
it is given to no other man to wield. Your place 
and lot in life, too, is one which has been assign¬ 
ed to you alone. For no other has the same part 
been cast. On your particular path no other- 
footsteps shall ever leave their print. Through 
that one course, windiu, 
whore I could find them,”—when, undoubtedly, 
they were just where he left them, or put up in 
their places. No wonder there’s a hush while 
father stays, or that the little ones seek 
their mother to get one peep into her cheerful 
though sad face,—and, at last, when the door 
closes, and the peevish, fretful one is gone, what 
a relief. 
There are few homes without trials, few pa¬ 
rents who are not called to encounter many 
annoyances, to bear many burdens, to get very, 
very weary; but with all the perplexities that 
may crowd into domestic life it should be the 
sweetest, happiest spot on earth,—a place where 
our weary feet may turn with delight, and our 
hearts, saddened by life's ills, beat joyfully as we 
think of home. If our fancied picture of bliss is 
marred by outbursts of passion from father or 
mother, husband or wife, brother or sister, how 
sadly we turn homeward for comfort. If, as we 
cross the threshold where love should welcome 
us, we are only the recipients of fretful words 
and unkind looks, where shall we turn for enjoy¬ 
ment. and sympathy? 0, how many children 
rush into the vortex of sin and dissipation for 
this one cause—al ways being fretted at. Can we 
it is true that too many are naturally in¬ 
clined to choose evil rather than good, and 
hence we observe the importance of early culti¬ 
vation and education. If our minds are natu¬ 
rally prone to evil, our characters may be greatly 
S .__ s s/» #• , _ * 
_ or straight, rapid or 
slow, brief or long protracted, in no other course 
shall the stream of life flow 
on to the great ocean. 
And so to you it is given to shed blessings around 
you. to do good to others, to communicate, as 
you pass through life, to those whose moral his¬ 
tory borders or crosses yours, a heavenly influ¬ 
ence, which is all your own. If this power be 
not used by you. it will never be used. There is 
work in God’s Church which if not done by you 
will be left undone. 
Witnesses Three.—S hortly before he died, 
Patrick Henry, laying his hand on the Bible, 
said: 
*• Here is a book worth more than all others, 
yet it is my sad misfortune never to have read it, 
until lately, with proper attention." 
With voice and gesture pertinent, and all his 
own, John Randolph said : 
i( A terrible proof of our deep depravity is, that 
we can relish and remember anything better 
than the Book.”' 
Y hen the shadows of death were gathering 
around Sir Walter Scott, he said to the watcher 
“ Bring the book." 
£- What book ?' asked Lockhart, his son-in-law. 
“ There is but one Book.” said the dying man. 
upon our respective duties with a firm deform:- that every person has an inner as well as an 
nation to surmount what is surmountable, and m/Jerlife; or, in the old-fashioned words of the 
when compelled to succumb to reverses and Bible. *• that every heart knoweth its own bitter- 
afflictions, we should submit with a becoming ness.' How often is the remark made by super- 
spirit and rise or overcome as we have opportu- ficial observers. How happy such and such 
uity. We should treat with respect and civility persons must be! if I were only they !" when, 
those engaged in other vocations, who are striv- ten to one, these very persons, oblivious of their 
ing to gain a livelihood by honest industry, wealth and position, are weary and heart-sore 
Diversity of pursuits fosters a spirit of emulation with the din and battle of life, 
that is beneficially felt far and wide. Some suc¬ 
ceed by frequent changes in business, while 
others conflue their energies to some favorite 
pursuit, and move steadily forward in spite of 
opposing obstacles. Those enjoy the blessings 
of life with the sweetest relish, if they do not 
accomplish as much, whose minds glide in their 
natural element, and who are favored in their 
daily walk and conversation with the smiles of 
an approving conscience. Farmer. 
Monroe Co., N. Y., 1S63. 
The Darkened Cage— It is a curious fact, 
that while some birds refuse to sing when the 
cage is darkened, others have softer, sweeter 
notes ot song. And so it is in human existence. 
When the soul of one comes under *• the shadow 
of a great affliction,'' it has no longer the voice of 
melody. The resources and the heart of joy are 
gone. But another sits in shadow, and sends up 
to God the purest tones of music—the loftiest 
strains of praise from the chastened spirit. It 
firm and sweet temper, which controls without was ttus with David, whose harpings are never 
seeming to dictate. The essence of all fine 80 heavenly as when they rise from "the depths" 
breeding is in the gift of conciliation. A man bis sorrow. It is not strange that those are 
who possesses every other title to our respect dumb when the days of darkness come.” whose 
except that of courtesy, is in danger of forfeiting &on S of delight lived only in the glare of earth’s 
them all. A rude manner renders its owner transient splendor.— Conyregationalist. 
always liable to affront He is never without -—- 
dignity who avoids wounding the dignity of Revenge is a more punctual paymaster than 
others. eratitnde. 
rmii in Lius nit- ana me ono to oo rn gi afq pending? 
For all our afflictions, our sorrows, our trials, 
there is a remedy. They are not beyond the 
skill and power of the Great Physician to heal. 
If we foolishly venture upon our own strength 
we shall fail: but if our dependence is Christ. 
He hath said, *• we shall not be tempted above 
that we arc able.” 
How cheering the assurance if we go to Him 
tor patience He will impart it if we do as Ho has 
commanded us. Lamentable as it is, this sin is 
the bane of many Christian homes, where only 
paroxysms of reform seize the members, where 
only occasional prayers are offered for meek and 
patient hearts. But why forget ourselves so 
uw eh as to waste this transient existence in fret- 
ting’ It will Burely be our min if no other sin 
