And the golden woodlands redden 
In the blood of the (Ding Run 
At the cottage door, the grandsire 
Sits pale in HU easy chair, 
While the gentle wind of twilight 
Plays with his silver hair. 
A woman is kneeling beside him— 
A fair young head is prest, 
In the first wild passion of sorrow, 
Against his aged breast 
And fsr from over the distance 
The faltering echoes come, 
Of the flying breath of trumpet, 
And the rattling roll of drum. 
And the grandsire speaks in a whisper— 
“The end no man can see; 
But we give him to his country, 
And we give our prayers to Thee.” 
The violets star the meadows, 
The rosebuds fringe the door, 
And over the grassy orchard 
The pink-white blossoms pour 
But the grandsire's chair is empty— 
Tile cottage is dark and still, 
There’s a nameless grave in the battle-field, 
And a new one under the hill. 
And a pallid, tearless woman 
By the cold hearth sits alone; 
And the old cloek in the comer 
Ticks on with a steady drone. 
Written lor Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
MAN’S MISSION. 
A great deal has been said and written about 
the mission of woman, but I don’t remember 
ever hearing anything said in reference to the 
mission of man. 
One would suppose, from appearances, that 
some of the race firmly believe that their mission 
is to show authority, aud lord it overall creation. 
Every motion they make, from the haughty nod 
of their kingly head to the elevation of their kid- 
encased foot to thrust some unoffending member 
of the lower order of animals out of their path, 
shows that they fed themselveB masters. This 
class never had any organ of benevolence, or, if 
they had they have smothered it, as they are 
striving to every one who dares intimate in their 
august presence that they feel themselves almost 
as good as their would-be masters. What a pity 
poor people don’t all understand Phrenology; 
they would he saved many an annihilating and 
“get thee behind me” look. It is not their mis¬ 
sion to assist the unfortunate,—they are not going 
to beggar themselves aud family for the sake of 
filling the pockets of the unpopular, unrighteous 
poor. No. they believe in letting the dead bury 
the dead,—the poor help the poor. They have 
no charity for the acts of others; no one, in their 
estimation, has any right to do wrong; as for do¬ 
ing it. unintentionally that is out of the question. 
They are perfection (?) and every one else might 
be if they tried. And so they live and (lie; ever 
striving to hoist the (lag of tyranny under which 
they are determined every one shall live; forget¬ 
ting how the Lord of heaven and earth came 
down in meekness and lowlines, His very coming 
being first known by the humble shepherds; for¬ 
getting His great commandment “love one 
another” and “do good to all.” 
Then, there is the opposite of this class, a meek, 
smooth-tongued, long-faced sect, who go around 
like wolves in sheep’s clothing, seeking whom 
they may devour. Some of them, while pointing 
you with one hand above, and exhorting you to 
have faith aud trust all to them and Providence, 
would ns soon steal your money or character 
with the other as not, if they had the chance, 
while you, poor unsuspecting mortals, suffer 
yourselves to be blinded and made to believe that 
they are angels sent down for your especial ben¬ 
efit. If I was a man wouldn’t I say earnestly 
“deliver mo ” from such a mission ? My grand¬ 
mother used to say that a thief or u murderer 
she could tolerate, for then she knew just w hich 
commandment had been broken, but these double 
and twisted, olly-tongued, sanctimonious, India- 
rubber conscieneed folks were her detestation. 
Well. I suppose that if it is really their “mission,” 
they are but doing right when they fulfill it. 
One consolation is, that they afford variety which 
is said to be the spice of life, aud also give us an 
opportunity of developing our organ of caution; 
for, as a general thing, we don’t relish the idea of 
holding hot coals in our hands the second time. 
0. why will mau not turn from these soul-de¬ 
grading ways, and be ns God designed him to be. 
Some one has truly said “an honest man is the 
noblest work of God.” but I fancy it would be 
like looking for a needle in a haystack to find 
one. Yet, there are some, a small* minority it is 
true, w ho seem to have a realb dvm that they 
have not to live for themselves alone, but for the 
real good of the whole race, and that if they are 
endowed with more worldly possessions or tal¬ 
ents than their brother, they are to share with 
him. 
Man, generally speaking, considers woman 
very much his inferior, aud it is really quite 
amusing to notice the my patronizing airs which 
some assume when they deign to address us, 
choosing some simple subject for conversation, 
thinking it adapted to our limited minds, I sup¬ 
pose. O you poor mistaken men, will you never 
learn that woman is deeper than you think ? and, 
as a gallant Frenchman once expressed it— 
“ When a man has toiled step by step up a (light 
of stairs, he is sure to find woman at the top.” 
And do you suppose that a w T oman with iwo 
grains of sense, after she has arrived there will 
sit quietly down and say never a word ? No, no, 
my dear Sirs. She will walk demurely around 
the organ of antagonism, and pat your self-con¬ 
ceit, and finally succeed iu getting the silken reins 
in her own hands, and then w'here is your au¬ 
thority and governmet ? Let your mission be to 
elevate woman to your sphere, and be willing to 
Bhow her the honor due her, else by-and-by w T e 
will all find the way up the stairs, and you lords 
of creation will be obliged lo secede. 
Gainesville, N. Y-, 1863. Josephine. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker 
LITTLE WILLIE. 
“ Little Willie ” we called him a short time 
ago, but now we speak softly, and say “Angel 
Willie.” The roses of eight Junes had blos¬ 
somed since Willie was sent to gladden the 
hearts of his friends, when Death, who with Sor¬ 
row’s key unlocks Love’s casket and steals the 
brightest jewels, saw Willie, and marked him 
for his own. It was in vain we tried to save 
him,—our love, strong as it was, could not keep 
our darling from the grave, and one bright morn¬ 
ing he folded his hands across his breast and 
passed over the river to the “ Better Land.” We 
miss him much; the fond parents miss the bright 
eyes and cheerful luugh; the little sister is lonely 
without her playmate, while the occupants of the 
old brown school house heave a sigh as they 
glance at the vacant seat by the blackboard. We 
think, with a sigh and a tear of the little grave 
in the grave yard where lies Wii.uk. We think 
of the cold face as we saw it last iu the narrow 
coffin, and the pale hands folded over the pulse¬ 
less, soundless breast; and then we think of him 
“In tieavonty bower*. 
Think of him midst purest flower*, 
to that sinless home of ours.” 
Our loss was Willie’s gain. He has moored 
his life-bark on the “ Evergreen Shore,”—forever 
safe from shoals and quicksands; he has greeted 
loved friends who had gone before him,—he is 
clothed in shining gurmente, his playmates are 
angels, and he is with Uod. 
“I take the little lambs,” said He, 
“And lay them in tny breast; 
Protection they shall find in me, 
In me be ever blest.” 
Naples, N. Y., 1863. Libbik M. Knapp. 
THE BEAUTY OF AGE. 
There are extremes, my reverend seniors, 
into which we are tempted to fall when we find 
ourselves upon the wane. Declining ladles, 
especially married ladies, are more given, I 
think, than men, to neglect their personal appear¬ 
ance, when they are conscious that the bloom of 
their youth is gone. I do not speak of'state occa¬ 
sions, of set dinner parties, aud full dress balls, 
but of the daily meetings of domestic life. Now, 
however, is the time, above all others, when the 
wife must determine to remain the pleasing wife, 
and retain her J ohn Anderson’s affection to the 
last, by neatness, taste, and appropriate variety 
of dress. That a lady lias fast-growing daughters, 
strapping sons, and a husband at his office all 
day long, is no reason why she should ever enter 
the family circle with rumpled hair, soiled cap 
or unfastened gown. The prettiest woman in 
the world would be spoiled by such sins in her 
toilet The morning’s duties, even in the store¬ 
room and iritclien, may bo performed in fitting, 
tidy costume, and then changed for parlor habil¬ 
iments, equally tidy and fitting. The fashion of 
the day should always be reflected in woman’s 
dress, according to her position and age; the 
eyes crave for variety as keenly as the palate; 
and thou, I honestly protest, whatever her age, a 
naturally good-looking woman is always hand¬ 
some. For, happily, there exists more than one 
kind of beauty. There is the beauty of infancy, 
the beauty of youth, the beauty of maturity, aud, 
believe me, ladies and gentlemen, the beauty of 
age, if you do not spoil it by your own want of 
judgment. At any age a woman may be becom¬ 
ingly aud pleasingly dressed .—Household Words. 
FEMININE PRINTERS. 
Many instances have occurred in this country 
where the widows of printers and publishers 
have continued the business of the deceased hus¬ 
band, often with increased ability and marked 
pecuniary success, Mrs. Franklin, in the early 
days of Rhode Island, was not only printer of 
laws tor the colony, but also of linens, calicoes 
and silks. Margaret Draper published the Bos¬ 
ton yews Letter , the first newspaper established 
In North America, and the only one that was not 
discontinued during the siege of Boston by the 
British. Mrs. Mary Hoyt published the New 
York Journal, and was printer to the State in 
17fi3. William Goddard conducted the M ary land 
Journal, and was repeatedly mobbed for harsh 
Writings. His sister relieved him of his task for 
eight years, adding also job printing and the 
duties of post-mistress, aud escaped flagellation 
through the immunity of her sex. Mrs. Anne 
Timothee was at one time State printer in South 
Carolina. The widow of Nicholas Hassebotch 
printed Bibles in Baltimore iu 1773, and when a 
missionary offered One to the Indians as “the 
Gospel—the Truth —and the Word of God.” 
“What.” said one of them, “ did the Great All- 
I’uwerliil make this book ?” '* Yes,” replied the 
missionary, “ it is His work.” The Indian tak¬ 
ing the literal import of the words, auswered in¬ 
dignantly, “ I believe it lo be a great lie. I go 
to Baltimore last month, when I see Dutch 
woman make Lim. The Great Spirit want no 
Dutch woman to help him.” 
Influence of a Pious Home— The silent in¬ 
fluence of a pious home is illustrated by the 
Prodigal Son. Had that home been repulsive to 
him. or had lus father been a stern, forbidding 
man, that recovering thought about home would 
not have visited him. Take courage, parents of 
prodigals, if you were faithful with God aud 
your family altars. Persevere, parents, in family 
religion. It may be like the fabulous song of the 
sea in the shell to the ear of a child when for 
away from home and from God.—Dr. N. Adams. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
A SONG TO THE APPLE TREE. 
BY 0. 1*. MORGAN. 
Let poets sing the Banyan tree, 
Whose wondrous shoots spread far and free, 
Beneath whose shade the Indian lies 
Safe sheltered from the tropic skies; 
It may be grand, but O, for me, 
My own New England's favorite tree ! 
They tell us in delicious rhjmoR 
Of bluer skies, and blander climes; 
Where fruits ambrosial ever grow, 
Nor l'ear the winter's frost and snow; 
The Apple, with its comely fruit, 
My simple taste would better suit. 
In Youth’s bright, morn, when flow’ry May 
Came from the South land far away, 
Bringing the sunshine and soft breeze, 
Crowning with bloom the orchard trees, 
How sweet beneath their shade to rove, 
To dream Of Glory, or of Love. 
And then when kingly Autumn came 
With purple robe* and crown of flame, 
Wo* it not glorious to behoM 
The ripened fruit of red and gold ? 
Ah, with what shout* of merry glee 
We shook the stalwart AppleJTree I 
But Autumn's ba&uty soon was past 
And howling Winter name at last; 
Yet, gathered round the blazing fire 
We laughed to scorn hi* savage ire; 
How swift, the golden momenta flew 
With pippins fine, and “cider too!” 
Then here's a kindly health to thee, 
O, good and gracious Apple Tree ! 
May’st thou in stately beauty grow 
While green griws spring* and waters flow; 
May every glad return of Spring 
To thee a crown of beuuty bring; 
And every Autumn load thy arms 
With luscious fruit that cheers and charms, 
’Till our starred banner proudly wave 
Above a land that bolds no slave; 
Then side by side, old friend, with thee, 
Shall grow the sacred Olive Tree. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MARTIN FARQ.UHAR TUFPER, F. R. S. 
There is no poet and no man without his 
friends. Every man In private life, whatever 
his excellencies of character may be, is either 
willfully or blindly misrepresented or maligned 
by somebody. The same is true of authors, par¬ 
ticularly pools, as well as of all men prominently 
before the public. An editor recently published 
the following paragraph, which some other edi¬ 
tors have been “ passing round:” 
“ Queen Victoria is about to make a baronet 
of ‘Proverbial Philosophy' Topper. She can 
make him a baronet, but cannot make him a 
poet*” 
Now, the last sentence appeals to us so unjust 
that we are constrained to offer a few words of 
reply, as the editor evidently means simply that 
Topper is not a poet. The very style of the 
paragraph indicates that it, was penned by one 
who can appreciate the “ infamy ” of Byron, or 
the wild flights of Moore's “ triekey ” muse. 
That an author does not infuse into his verse 
the inspiration of affection, seems to us no proof 
that he is not a poet. There is as much poetry 
in Holmes’ “Hymn of Trust,” or Holland’s 
“ Thanksgivingnymu,” in “Bitter-Sweet,” as in 
“ The Giaour,” or any single love poem whatso¬ 
ever. We would not say one word against afi’ec- 
tlonal poetry, lor it is a part of the poet’s mission 
to give expression to the eentimont* of the heart; 
but perhaps it should be spoken iu praise of 
Topper that, in this day when “done” and 
“ love ” are the popular rhymes, he keeps wide 
from the common themes, except to occasionally 
treat of them iu a manner which subordinates 
the romantic to the practical. 
It may be suhl that there is a sameness in Tuf- 
per’s poetry. Those by whom this is affirmed 
would object first aud chiefly to the character of 
the poetry itself, and the objection may be as 
truly brought against, many authors who deserve 
the notoriety which they have attained. Tenn v- 
sox. for example, merits the praises which are 
lavished upon him; but one cannot read a page 
in his volume without feeling that the train of 
thought developed is peculiar to England’s 
laureate. 
Tupper has not the poetical fire or artistic 
excellence of Byron, nor the charming sweet¬ 
ness of Moore, yet there is real value in his 
writings which cannot be anywhere found iu 
theirs. He has not the deep, subtle inspi¬ 
ration and almost “laultily faultless” perfec¬ 
tion of Tennyson, and yet for true worth his 
writings are not approached by anything that 
author has written, if we except his “In Memo- 
riam,” and that has not Tupper’s adaptation to 
the popular mind, (loudness is as conspicuous 
in Tupper as in Cow per, and he has greater 
depth of thought and a more forcible expression. 
Tufpkk’s merit is that he writes of great, prac¬ 
tical truths, and in a manner adapted to the lives 
of men. No one can read him attentively with¬ 
out having purer thoughts aud loftier purposes, 
and thinking better of the capabilities of the 
human heart. 
It is so rarely that we can give our approbation 
to the character of a British poet, that it is pleas¬ 
ant to be able to give our praise in this instance. 
No poet surpasses Tupper iu the nobleness of 
his manhood. Moreover, he has a greater claim 
to the regard of Americans than any poetical 
merit could give him, as he is one of the l’ew of 
our trans-Atlantic brethren who really under¬ 
stand us. and one of a still smaller number who 
have for us a hearty good wiil. Queen Victoria 
deserves praise for her recognition, though rather 
tardy, of Tuppkk’s merits as a poet aud a mau. 
These paragraphs have been written because 
justice seemed to demand them, and we admit 
that Tupper is not our favorite. We linger over 
a 
parts of the writings of authors to whom refer¬ 
ence has been made with an interest which is 
only intensified by repemsal. Still, there is no 
author who exceeds the subject of this mono¬ 
graph in harmlessness and healthy tone, and we 
recommend to all, particularly to those who have 
awakened from the dreamy honrs and recovered 
from the sickly romance so generally connected 
with youth, to secure the invaluable poems of 
Martin Farquhak Tupper. 
Wadham’s Mills, N. Y., 1863. . A. T. E. C. 
EVERY-DAY LIFE. 
BY LEAD PENCIL, ESQ. 
There is one thing that amazes me. It has 
for a long time. And the longer I live, and the 
more I see of the practice to which I refer, the 
more irritable I get on that subject And I think 
I am entirely justified in this irritation. For the 
sight of a man with a colored beard, or a head of 
hair that was grey, made black or semi-scarlet, 
produces a friction upon my senses which cannot 
fail to irritate me. As if any other color were 
better than the natural one ! Do you suppose 
I would color my beard if it were the dirtiest 
yellow ? No. sir! But some people do. And 
the yellowness looks nasty—that is the word pre¬ 
cisely ! There is then no harmony between the 
complexion and the setting in which it is framed. 
I met a man just now on the street. A week 
ago he had a fine head of iron-grey hair—rich 
and beautiful to look upon. His beard, too. har¬ 
monized with his features, and gave a natural and 
dignified expression to his face. Now ho has 
them a dirty, dingy, lustreless black. He looks 
ghastly ! He looks diseased ! Nature surround¬ 
ed his lace with an appropriate setting. He has 
distorted it by a most wicked act. If such men 
could see just bow they look, as I see them, they 
would believe that all needed punishment for 
misdeeds, come (o them in this life. They would 
hasten to hide their faces from their friends, and 
spare them the pain which they surely inflict on 
all people of good taste. 
I have never yet seen a man nor woman, old 
or young, who was in any degree benefited in 
appearance by the foolish practice of coloring 
the hair, or wearing false colors for any purpose. 
I have seen more passably good-looking people 
made, hideous by it, a great deal. It is an abom¬ 
inable practice and evidence of an abominable 
taste, this Pencil thinks. 
IT’S WHAT YOU SPEND. 
“It’s whatthee’ll spend, my son,”said a sage 
oid Quaker, “ not what thee’ll make, which will 
decide whether tbee’s to be rich or not.” The 
advice was trite, for it was Franklin’s in another 
shape:—“ Take care of the pence, and the pounds 
will take cure of themselves.” But it cannot be 
too often repeated. Men are continually indulg¬ 
ing in small expenses, saving to themselves, that 
’tis only a trifle, yet forgetting that the aggregate 
is serious, that even the sea-shore is made up of 
petty grains of sand. Ten cento a day Is even 
thirty-six dollars and a half a j ear and that is 
the interest of a capital of six hundred dollars. 
The man that saves ten cents a day only, is so 
much richer than he who does not, as if he owned 
a life estate in a house worth six hundred dollars; 
and if invested quarterly, does not take half that 
time. But ten cents a day is child’s play, some 
will exclaim. Well, then, John Jafcob Astor 
used to say that when a man who wishes to be 
rich, has saved ten thousand dollars, he has won 
half the battle. Not that Astor thought ten 
thousand much. But he knew that, in making 
such a sum. a man acquired habits of prudent 
economy which would keep him advancing in 
wealth. How many, however, spend ten thou¬ 
sand in a few years in extra expenses, and then, 
on looking back, cannot, fell, as they say, “where 
the money went to.” To save, is to get rich. 
To squander, even in small sums, is the first step 
towards the poor-house. 
“BLUE” WHITE LETTER PAPER. 
The practice of blueing the paper pulp had 
its origin in a singularly accidental circumstance, 
which not merely as a historical fact, but as form¬ 
ing an amusing anecdote, is perhaps as worth 
mentioning. It occurred about the year 1790, at 
a paper mill belonging to Mr. Buitonshaw, whose 
wife, on the occasion iu question, was superintend¬ 
ing the washing of some linen, when accidentally 
she dropped her bag ot powdered blue into the 
mist of some pulp, in a forward state of prepara¬ 
tion, and so grea: was the fear she entertained of 
the mischief she had done, seeing the blue rapid¬ 
ly amalgamated with the pulp, that allusion to 
it was studiously avoided; until on Mr. Button- 
shaw’s inquiring in great astonishment tvhat it 
was that had imparted the peculiar color to the 
pulp, his wife, perceiving that no great damage 
had been done, took courage and at once disclosed 
the secret, for which she was afterwards reward¬ 
ed in a remarkable manner by her husband, 
who being naturally pleased with an advance of 
so much as four shillings per bundle, upon sub¬ 
mitting the “improved'’ make to the London 
market, immediately presented a costly scarlet 
cloak (somewhat more congenial to taste in those 
days, it is presumed, than it would be now,) with 
much satisfaction to the sharer of his joys.— Her¬ 
ring’s Paper and Paper Making. 
Riches a Burden.— “ And Abram was very 
rich in cattle, in silver, and iu gold." The He¬ 
brew reading is, Abram was very heavy, etc* 
Riches are a burden. There is a burden of care 
in getting them, fear in keeping them, temptation 
in using them, guilt iu abusing them, sorrow iu 
losing them, and a burden of account at last to 
be given concerning them .—Mathew Henry. 
It is always right to make the best of a bad 
position, but not to put ourselves in a bad posi¬ 
tion because we can make the best of it 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
UNDER THE LEAVES. 
Under the leaves in the forest old, 
When the winds of winter are blowing cold, 
When the air is filled with snow flakes white, 
And the farm house fire sheds a cherry light— 
Under the leaves of the forest dead, 
Sleeps the violets blue and red 
Under the leaves they await the spring, 
Wait for the *ong that Nature will sing, 
Wait for the son to come forth from the cloud 
That hns mantled hi* form so long like a shroud, 
Wait for the tidings to come on the breeze 
That bids them come forth from under the leaves. 
Under the leaves that life's Autumn wind 
Has scattered over the human, mind, 
When the snow-flakes of age and discontent 
Are filling onr future firmament— 
Under the leaves in the depth of the past, 
Are sleeping the flowers we will count at last. 
They sleep ’neath the leaves in the mazes of thought, 
When the lessons of life arc nearly forgot; 
Though the unfolding blossoms wo sec not on Earth, 
Yet the Heavenly spring-time will surely give birth 
To the seeds of Knowledge, of Virtue aud Truth, 
That we sowed in our hearts in the season of Youth. 
Somerset, N. Y., 1863. B. e. r. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
WITH GOD. 
God gave two little beings to Earth. They 
gave unusual exhibitions of goodness and intel¬ 
ligence-, and were the pride and joy of their 
parents. They seemed Instinctively to recognise 
a kinship above that which merely earthly ties 
can give. Love in them, led to a simple, child¬ 
ish devotion, that seemed almost unearthly. 
God reached down to Earth from Heaven, and 
took one to his breast! The little heart of the 
mateless darling was sad. Passing by the 
grave, soon alter the sod had been displaced for 
the burial of the lost one, “Let me go to Laura’s 
grave, mother,” said the living child. But the 
snow had already fallen upon the now resting- 
place. “Nay,” said the mother. And she 
pressed her dear child to her breast, whispering 
to her heart, “You live, my child, and I can 
keep you.” Ah! there was a hidden and higher 
purpose with the Infinite Mind. The matelees 
dove pined for its mate. God touched Earthinito 
bumuu life again, and in a few days Tkyphena 
was with Him and her ktodred spirit! Oh, how 
sweet! Never to know sin, and selfishness, and 
woe of the earthly life. Their little lives 
dawned, and sped quickly at God’s merciful 
bidding from the unconscious innocence of the 
below to the eternal brightness of the above! 
Tearful mother, sitting in the great darkness 
which fell upon you when the light of your life 
died out, let me whisper a word fur your heart. 
Can you be crowned with a greater honor than lo 
give, by God’s grace, a being to Him? 
Wadliam’s Mills, N. Y., 1863. A. T. E. C. 
FAITH AND FAITHFULNESS. 
“The kingdom of God,” says Jeremy Taylor, 
“ does not consist in words, but in power, the 
power of godliness; though now we are fallen 
into another method; we have turned all religion 
into faith, and our faith m nothing but the pro¬ 
ductions of interest or disputing.—it is adhering 
to a party, and wrangling against, all the world 
beside; and when it ia asked of what religion he 
is, we understand the meaning to be, whatfaction 
does he follow; what are the articles of his sect, 
not what is the manner of his life: and if men be 
zealous for their party and that interest, then 
they are precious men, though otherwise they be 
oovetoua as the grave, factious as Dathuu, schis- 
matieal as Ivorab, or proud as the fallen aDgels. 
Alas, these things will not deceive us: the faith 
of a Christian cannot consist iu strifes about 
words, and perverse disputing* of men. 
But the faith of a Christian is the best security 
in contracts, and a Christian’s word should be as 
good as his bond, because He is faithful that 
promised, and a Christian should rather die than 
break bis word, and should always be true to his 
trust; he should be faithful to his friend, and love 
as Jonathan loved David. This is the true faith, 
to hurt no man, but to do good to all, as we have 
opportunity. 
Faith and faithfulness are identical in the 
Christian vocabulary.” 
WHAT WE MAY DO. 
No human being can be isolated and self-sus¬ 
tained. The strongest and bravest and most 
hopeful have yet, ackuowled or unacknowledged 
to themselves, moments of hungry soul-yearn¬ 
ings, for companionship and sympathy. For the 
want of this what wrecks of humanity lie strown 
about us. Youth wasted for the mocking sem¬ 
blance of friendship. Adrift at the mercy of 
chance, for the grasp of a tine, firm hand, and a 
kiudly,'loving heart, to counsel. It is affecting 
to see how strong is this yearning, so fatal to its 
possessor, if not guided rightly, such a life-anchor 
is safely placed. “ Friendless ! ” What a trage¬ 
dy may be hidden in that one little word. None 
to labor for; none to weep or smile with; none 
to care whether we lose or win in life’s struggle. 
A kind word or a smile, coming to such an one 
unexpectedly at some such crisis of life, how 
often has it been the plank to the drowning mau, 
lacking which he must surely have perished. 
These, surely, we may bestow as we pass those 
Less favored than ourselves, whose souls are 
waiting for our sympathetic recognition .—Fanny 
Fern. 
-4-^-t- 
With the sinking of high human trust the dig¬ 
nity of life sinks too: we cease to believe in our 
own better self, since that also is part of the com¬ 
mon nature which is degraded iu our thought. 
/ 
\ 
