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Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
TTER. HEAD UPON MY SHOULDER. 
One dark and dreary winter day, 
When snow-drl/te fast were melting. 
And 'gainst the window’s dewy pane 
The rainy flakes were pelting, 
Before the red hearth's genial blaze. 
As outer blasts blew colder, 
I was seated at my Birdie’s side 
With her dear head on my shoulder. 
I heeded not the storm without; 
Within the the sun was shining; 
The clouds of life were lifted then, 
I saw the silver lining; 
And as my darling sweetly smiled, 
My throbbing heart grew bolder; 
I dreamed, as I had never dreamed, 
Till her fair head pressed my shoulder. 
I dreamed of riches and of fame 
Acquired by honest labor, 
A name to live when 1 am dead. 
And wealth to help my neighbor; 
I dreamed, too, of a happy home 
Where, growing old and older, 
Her little hand clasped close in mine. 
Her head upon my shoulder. 
The tide of years may bear us on. 
Perchance our paths diverging; 
The froBtB of time may blast the bnd, 
And freeze the love that’s surging; 
But not until each heart-throb cease. 
And dust to dust shall moulder, 
Shall I forget the blissful hour 
When her head lay on ray shoulder. 
Marion, N. Y., Feb., 1867. P. j. b. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
DOMESTIC BLISS. 
Now, my kiml readers, should I chance, in the 
course of my remarks, to differ somewhat from 
the sentiment that has been so abundantly dealt 
out to you in every periodical, from the “ Child’s 
Paper” of simple anecdotes, to the very eclat of 
fashion, love and nonsense, do not turn up that 
organ that is so ready to express the scorn of its 
very fastidious hearer, and throw aside the paper 
with an impatient—” Pshaw! ” And you, espe¬ 
cially, young ladies, who have been declaring 
your age at “precisely eighteen” for the pact 
ten years, do not twist your rosy Ups in scorn 
and Bcruech out “ A crusty old bachelor I ”—but 
condescend to hear me through, and then look 
abont yon, and I can assure you that you will 
find the world full of living examples to prove 
the truth of the assertions herein made. 
I do not wish, ns so many have done, to bo all 
alive to the one side of this question and appa¬ 
rently dead to the other; I shall not present all 
the dark spots of the picture and conceal the 
light ones; but, as you well know, light and 
shade ranst be combined in order to produce a 
pleasing appearance. It is in this combining of 
light and darkness that so many have failed in 
portraying “ scenes from life.” They lead you 
up where all is light and beauty; they tell you 
of the gentle breezes that play about you; 
they direct your attention to the light of the 
sun, in whose congenial rays you may ever bask 
in peace; they recouut to your dazzled mind the 
joys, pleasures and luxuries awaiting you; but 
they never warn you of the storms and tempests 
that may come; they fail to tell you that the 
same mild rays of the sun may not always fall 
upon you, and that night must, as ever, succeed 
the day; they fail to enumerate the trials, per¬ 
plexities and disappointments which lie in the 
pathway of nearly all of us during onr journey 
here below. They continually revolve the glow¬ 
ing spots before the eyes of the reader till lie is 
led to believe the pictures thus painted but a 
common leaf from the volume of human life. 
They gaze upon these gilded scenes, where ail is 
sunshine and felicity, till they 6eem to forget 
that the place is nothing more than earthly aud 
that the characters are only human. 
Why is it that such trash should be continually 
before the people and so many maintain silence ? 
Why should the minds of our young people, es¬ 
pecially, be thus overladen with such views of 
an ideal life, and so little of the real be present¬ 
ed them ? Ah, there conies a revolting confes¬ 
sion ! We, as a people, are given too much to 
romance and dreams. The young (and often 
those who are not so young) arc too fond of the 
silly, yellow-covered literature, with which the 
shelves of our book stores and news ofllces are 
laden, and neglect the ponderous tomes of their 
fathers’ well-stocked libraries and, above all 
that great volume of Nature, from which we 
may glean many a profitable lesson. 
All of you have seen the dusty, rough and 
rusty mechanic, farmer or miller, as he ap¬ 
pears duriug sLx days of the week, aud know' full 
well how pleasing is the change produced by 
washing, combing, &c., on the Sabbath. We 
would know him, covered with dust and dirt and 
clad in his ragged and patched garments; bin 
the change produced by the ncyv apparel, put on 
for a day, renders him almost a new person. We 
fail for a time to recognize him. It is under 
such a dress that these scenes of which I have 
spoken are sketched. There are times in the 
lives of all when the sun shines brightly, fortune 
seems to smile aud we are Indeed happy; but it 
is only the one day in seven. 
Aud what effect, do you ask, has marriage 
upon society? Why should all these compari¬ 
sons have been introduced to represent “ home 
scenes ? ” Ah, that is no secret if you will but 
read from the open volume of living facts, every 
day before you. Look at the record of that pen¬ 
niless youth who, five years ago, led to the hy¬ 
meneal altar a happy aud trusting maiden, and 
on whose brow rested not a line of care or 
trouble. Interpret for us the language of that, 
wrinkled brow, the ashy pallor of the once rosy 
cheek, and the dullness of the once Hashing- eye, 
and then ask yourself, if you will, if you can 
sanction the cry of “marry, marry!” The 
honeymoon always lasts for awhile, aud the hap¬ 
py couple almost forget that they are of this 
world, where all things perish and life brings its 
trials to all, when some stern reality culls them 
back to their old existence. “Old existence,” 
did I say? Ay, except more ha- been added to 
the burden beneath which he was before strug¬ 
gling. No matter what opportunities he may 
have for business In other places, he is now 
bound to that place which he calls home. And 
such a home! The unmarried man may go 
when and where lie will, remain as long as he 
desires, and return when his business shall have 
been completed, knowing that no “ affectionate ” 
wife is waiting at home, hoping, lookiug and 
longing for his return, and ready to greet him 
with the never-failing “curtain lecture,” for his 
having been so long absent. Happy, happy are 
they who are not compelled to bow to their pet- 
ticoated rulers and ask if they may go, and how 
TO CONTRIBUTORS. 
The following contributions are respectfully de¬ 
clined, for the reasons annexedAre there Flow¬ 
ers in Heaven ?" U. Rhythm badly mixed. Other 
accepted.-“March," M. A. D. Same lines are very 
fine, but others are incomprehensible.-“How the 
New Year is Going,” 8. L, C. The figure Is long 
pince worn out. “To Mothers” and “Sweet Flow¬ 
ers of Spring.” Some stanzas very pretty, others 
quite slip-shod. You hardly need be reminded that 
“crib" and “lid” do not rhyme, nor “hearts" and 
“flock," nor “yield” and “he&L” Schoolboys and 
the Spanish proverb tell us “ there are no birds In 
last year's nest;*’ yon say “RobinB will come to the 
last summer’s nest.” Other article accepted.- 
“Arithmetical Question,” G. W. F. Not correct. 
-J. A. F. M. Your article fa well done for so 
young a writer; bnt we do not publish any thing sec¬ 
tarian,-“Home,” “Woman Suffrage,” H. Not 
new. Other accepted--“A Leaf from the Fast,” 
A. E. II. Your style fa good, but the theme and plan 
are old.-Contributors might save themselves and 
long they may be gone, and ever stand lu fear of na a deal of lroublc dropping the pernicious habit 
being Candled. Oh, wretched, wretched are ° r ^.racoring ever, third word. Some articles 
being Caudied. Oh, wretched, wretched are 
they who arc subject to the whims and caprices 
of nervonB, notional and pettish woman! 
Do not understand me to maintain that happi¬ 
ness may not be found in tlie married state. 
That is not my position. I believe it the duty 
of many to marry; but 1 am likewise of the 
opinion that the world would become better, 
and the human family, as a class, be rendered 
happier if many who arc married had remained 
single. For boys not out of their teens to take 
upon themselves the burden of caring for a wife 
and family when they are, in reality, incapable 
of supporting themselves, seems to inc to be a 
little unwise and out of character. 
I know that poets and novelists tell us much 
of the poor who plunge into domestic life, where 
are to be seen “ the happy and contented wife, 
the affectionate and loving husband, with a rosy 
little cherub playing about in childish glee;” 
but such are the mere brain-creations of runntu- 
tic lovers, who have never seen, or, having seen, 
know little of the realities of life and glory in 
the mistaken opinion that domestic life is a con¬ 
tinual play of eestaey. But do the thousands of 
poverty-stricken families who arc actors in the 
great drama of life realize that to them It is a 
paradise? Oh, the weary, weary toil, from morn 
till night, the cold, desolate aud scantily furnish¬ 
ed hovel, in which they manage, by the strictest 
economy, to support life, the dirty, noisy, sickly, 
squalling young ones, the unhappy, disap¬ 
pointed and heart-broken wife, and the discour¬ 
aged, “hard-hearted" and “unfeeling" hus¬ 
band! Such examples arc dally crying aloud 
to the young who contemplate taking upon 
themselves an additional burden, to “ Consider, 
consider!” What are your pecuniary circum¬ 
stances? What salary do you command? Many 
married men are there, within the circle of my 
acquaintance, whose yearly income does not ex¬ 
ceed three hundred dollars. That must be a 
pleasing prospect for contemplation to those 
who are to subsist on such an allowance! A 
young man leading a quiet and temperate life 
might possibly manage to live on that amount; 
but when one or more shall have been added to 
draw from the scanty store, that renders it quite 
a more difficult affair to manage. Oh yea, I un¬ 
derstand why some of you have no tears. You 
settle down in the immediate vicinity of an affec¬ 
tionate father who will not see you suffer, well 
knowing that a little may he received daily from 
his supply. Yes, that is noble! that is magnan¬ 
imous! But when that opportunity shall no 
longer be afforded you — wliut then ? Oh, you 
will “ scrimp ” and save, economise and borrow, 
enslave yourself and family, till death shall call 
you away, then take your departure from this 
world, leaving not enough effects to defray your 
funeral expenses. 
Young men, tills is no overwrought picture. 
Look about yon, and you will sec the world full 
of witnesses for the truth of my position. Let 
me exhort you, then, before you take this im¬ 
portant step to consider well your situation. 
First, know yourself. Enter not “ in vlnculis 
nuitrimoniV till you kuow that you have an 
abundance; but if your allowance is small, bet¬ 
ter by far pass to your grave with no one to 
mourn your departure than drag through distress 
aud poverty a sorrowiug wife and helpless fami¬ 
ly, to be left to the mercies of nu unfeeling 
world- Again I say, “ Consider! consider!" 
WilUamsflcld, Ohio. C. T. Leonard. 
-> . « — 
Mrs. President Johnson.— The appearance 
of the President’s wife, at a late reception at the 
White House, is thus described;—“Mrs. John¬ 
son appeared at the reception lor the first time. 
I felt a deep anxiety to see the woman who had 
taught her husband to read, and inspired him 
with that lofty ambition which led to place and 
power. She stood near the President to his 
right; pale, thin, stamped with care and sick¬ 
ness, a countenance of thoughtful sadness, an 
expression of deep curiosity. Looking for a 
moment at each person introduced, her eye 
would drop immediately in meditative thought¬ 
fulness, as if her mind and heart were filled 
with thoughts and emotions far different from 
the giddy throng passing by. All who know 
her speak well of her." 
Royal Courtbst.—A peer, when dining with 
Queen Victoria, was challenged by a royal duch¬ 
ess to take wine with her. He politely thanked 
her, but declined the compliment, stating that 
he never took wine. The duchess immediately 
turned to the Queen, and jocularly said:—“Your 
Majesty, here is Lord-, who declines to take 
wine at your Majesty’s table.” Every eye was 
turned to the Queen, aud not a little curiosity 
was evinced as to the. manner in which the ab¬ 
stainer would be dealt with. With a smiling 
and graceful expression the Queen replied: 
“There is no compulsion at my table.” 
“ Anything to please the child,” as the nurse 
said when she let the baby crawl out of the 
window. 
would look perfectly ridiculous. If printed as written. 
Remember that where everything fa emphasized 
nothing fa emphatic. Construct your sentences cor¬ 
rectly, and any intelligent reader will inflect them 
properly without the aid of Italics. 
#tisceEatig. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
DEPARTING WINTER. 
Brave old Winter, tbon’rt passing, yes, passing 
away, 
And the fair spring Is dawning upon us to-day; 
We will welcome thy advent, O beauteous guest, 
For thy bowers resemble that home of the blest. 
In my dreams I have wandered the fair meadows o’er, 
I have fancied mo seated on Catatunk’s shore; 
There to watch ita pure waters so silently flow, 
As they wind round most grnccftilly forming a bow, 
To the bold Susquehanna, the Chesapeake bay, 
And the dark rolling ocean where dashes the spray ; 
But return, O my mind, to my youth's happy home, 
Where my memory with pleasure s® often will roam. 
To my eyes has been painted the woodland so gay, 
With rich clusters of wild flowers to cheer up the 
way; 
The sweet carols of songsters mcthlnks 1 have heard, 
As the leaves of the forest their melody stirred. 
And the soft rustfiDg whisper methinks 1 can hear, 
As it Comes like a spirit all gentle and clear 
To release ono from labor or lull to repose 
A heart that is wearied and laden with woes. 
Yes, the plowboy's loud whistle doth echo full well. 
From farm-house to cottage Just over the dell; 
While the spring Is approaching, and lowing of herds 
Is mingled with songs from the long absent birds. 
Spencer, N. Y. n. e. e. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
ELIA. 
An, gentle Elia, whither has fled thy power? 
We have essayists many aud humorists many, 
but thy health is not in them. In vain we seek 
for thy tender grace, thy humor delicate as the 
leaves of the mimosa. 
Preeminent upon our shelf stands Macaulay 
in stately majesty. We turn the leaves of our 
Carlyle and are thrilled by his sturdy vigor, 
his earnest manliness. Leigii Hunt, the appre¬ 
ciative, himself doe6 not fail of appreciation. 
With dear old Christopher North we love to 
ramble through fields and woods and hills, e’en 
at the striding pace of seven miles an hour; and 
in the same society we joy to catch the dew 
bom of “Ambrosial Nights." 
In these and many others our soul delights to 
revel; but thou, O Elia, art the frequent com¬ 
panion of our night watches; and the first light 
of the morning doth often crown thy open page. 
Perennial ia thy charm. Thou art not our king, 
but our brother. 
In thy “ Complaint of Married People,” our 
young friends who arc hut Just emerging from 
the halo of the honeymoon, and they who have 
passed far beyond its doubtful gleam, arc led to 
sec their follies and sometimes, yet too rarely, to 
avoid them. In these times of more than Jew¬ 
ish prejudice we bless the days without tri- 
chime, that gave us the “ Dissertation upon 
Roast Pig.” Iu the long winter eveiiiugs, when 
we would shuffle away the time, the worthy 
“ Sarah Battle ” becomes our oracle. Behind 
our chair her figure seems to stand with linger 
pressed on lip, and not in her countenance can 
we discern either “ominous conjecture” or 
assured success. Speechless as marble, expres¬ 
sionless as glass, she watches the varying for¬ 
tune of the game, yet seems to control it by 
some weird influence. Patron saint of whist is 
Sarah Battle. 
Under all the current of thy cheerfulness our 
minds project the dark tragedy of thy life, and 
we see that the sparkling ripples hide depths of 
darkness from whose silent gloom only a strong 
arm and steadfast heart have enabled thee to 
rise. We see thoe walking with thy “ poor, 
dear, dearest sister;” we joiu the social gather¬ 
ings at thy home; we enjoy the “ linked sweet¬ 
ness” of thy hesitating wit; and we go away 
rejoicing, feeling stronger and better for thy 
genial companionship. 8incerely do we thank 
our stars, O Elia, that, before we were born, 
they shone over thee, and that underneath their 
mild radiance thou didst work out through trial 
and sorrow so grand a simplicity of character. 
Alexander Dumas, Jr., was reeontly asked, 
“How happens it you no longer go into compa¬ 
ny?” “ Because I saw company made me more 
stupid, and I did not make compauy more 
sprightly." 
Sidney Smith said that a certain person was 
60 fond of contradiction that he would throw up 
the window in the middle of the night, and con¬ 
tradict the watchman who was calling the hour. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
TIRED. 
Tired, physically tired, weary with labor, 
trembling and faint, with aching brow and 
throbbing temples, with stiffened muscles and 
unsteady 6tep, with drooping form and limbs 
that refuse to do their bidding—the vigor of 
the body departed, nothing but weariness — 
tired! 
But the night cometh, and the weary shall 
rest. The aching head shall be softly pillowed, 
the toiling hands shall be folded lightly over the 
tranquil breast, the labors and perplexities of 
the day shall give place to quiet dreams. In 
sweet forgetfulness of daily toils and exhausing 
cares, sleeps the tired one, while the Father 
above tenderly takes care of His helpless child. 
Cometh also the morning. New vigor animates 
the muscles. The current of life goes bounding 
joyfully through the syBtem. Firm in nerve 
and fresh in spirit, he goes forth to his daily 
work. God be thanked for the night, but 
more for the morning! 
Tired, mentally tired, weary of problems, of 
theories, of speculations, of ancient authors, of 
“ unusual constructions,” of iambic trimeters, 
of exponential curves. Weary of books, of large- 
hooks, of little hooks, of books with paper cov¬ 
ers, of borrowed books, of books In which are 
only words and sentences and chapters. Tired 
of recitation rooms with their black-boards and 
rows of benches, tired of petty deception, of 
assumed worth, of conceited ignorance—tired, 
very tired t 
But the summer will come, the beautiful green- 
robed summer, the ever joyous summer, and will 
bring with it a release from wearisome duties, a 
rest for the tired bmln. Know- we each of a 
blessed nook somewhere on thfa wide earth, a 
cheery cottage with vino-covered porch where 
Mother sews and Father reads the paper, or, per¬ 
haps, a dear old farm-house, with cherry trees in 
the yard and the “ten acre lot” stretching be¬ 
yond, which, brother writes,fa “sowed to wheat 
this year." Know we each of some such place, 
where we shall breathe a purer atmosphere, 
where warm hearts shall welcome us, where wo 
shall lay down our burden of cares, where the 
mists shall gently roll away from our befogged 
understanding, and leave us ourselves again, 
light-hearted and free, no longer known as 
erudite students, bnt simply the dear children 
at home again. And so we labor on patiently, 
inspired by the thought of the well-earned rest 
that awaits us. 
Tired, spiritually tired, w eary of broken reso¬ 
lutions, of half-formed purposes, of partial con¬ 
secrations ; weary of in-dwelling sin, of vain 
imaginings, of envious promptings, of rebellious 
uprisings. Tired of yielding to temptation, ti red 
of an unbelieving heart, tired of doing the “ evil 
I would not;” tired of sin, unspeakably tired! 
But shall the conflict always last ? Is there no 
respite iu the struggle against Satan and sin ? Is 
God loss merciful tu him who labors in His serv¬ 
ice, than to him who labors for himself? “ There 
remaincth therefore ft rest,” when we shall have 
finished our work, when the sun of our life shall 
have set, whether It go down in the purple splen¬ 
dor of a fair summer’s eve, or whether it be ob¬ 
scured by the gray sleet of adversity. Then only 
shall we know the full import of the precious 
assurance of “ rest for the weary.” But, except 
we labor faithfully, except we be tired, rest is 
not rest. The more tired wc arc, the sweeter the 
repose, the more glorious the awakening. 
DEAN SWIFT’S RESOLUTIONS. 
The following resolutions were drawn up by 
Dean Swift to be observed “ when I come to be 
old 
Not to marry a young woman. 
Not to keep young company, unless they de¬ 
sire it. 
Not to be peevish, morose or suspicious. 
Not to tell the 6ame story over and over to the 
same person. 
Not to be covetous—the hardest of all to be 
kept. 
Not to be over severe with young people, but 
to make allowance for their youthful follies and 
weakness. 
Not to be influenced by or to give ear to the 
knavish tattling of servants. 
Not to be too free of advice, nor trouble any 
but those who desire it. 
Not to talk much, nor of myself—very hard 
agaiu. 
To desire some good friend to inform me which 
of these resolutions I break or neglect, and to re¬ 
form accordingly. 
PERSONAL INFLUENCE. 
Blessed influence of one true loving human 
soul on another! Not calculable by algebra, 
not deduclble by logic, but mysterious, effectual, 
mighty as the hidden process by which the tiny 
seed is quickened, and burets forth iuto tall stem 
and broad leaf, and glowing taaseled flower. 
Ideas are often poor ghosts; our sun-filled eyes 
cannot discern them; they pass athwart ns iu 
thin vapor, and cannot make themselves felt. 
But sometimes they arc made flesh; they touch 
us with soft, responsive bauds; they look at us 
with sad, sincere eyes, and speak to us in appeal¬ 
ing tones; they are clothed iu a living human 
soul, with all its conflicts, its faith, and its love. 
Thou their presence is a power, then they 6hake 
us like a passion, and we are drawn after them 
with gentle compulsion, as flame is drawn to 
flame.— Blackwood's Magazine. 
A wicked wag says the reason young ladles 
look so bold and fierce in these days, is because 
they tie their hair so tightly on the back of their 
heads that they cannot shut their eyes. Another 
rightly says that brushing the hair back on the 
temples and forehead gives them a^bare-faeed 
appeurance. 
*SatiBalli fba&ittg. 
NIGHT-SONG IN LENT. 
ET RICHARD STORES WELLIS. 
Mournful night is dark around me, 
Hashed the world’s conflicting din, 
All is still and all fa tranquil— 
Bnt this restless heart within I 
Wakeful still I prese my pillow, 
Watch the Biars that float above, 
Think of One for me who suffered, 
Think and weep for grief and love. 
Flow, ye tears 1 though in your streaming 
Oft yon stars of Hfa grow dim! 
Hallowed is the grief He wakens, 
Blest the tears that flow for Him, 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MORNING ASPIRATION'S, 
Again 1 wake from my dreams to the thrilling 
pulsations of real life. The modest blush of 
morning overspreads the face of Nature, and it 
creeps tenderly tbrongh the lattice of my lonely 
chamber, luring me forth into the battle of life. 
Behold the first throbblngs of another day ! 
The mighty sun draws nigh, borne on the fleet 
chariots of the air; his glittering messengers, 
mounted in the eastern sky, hail the sleeping 
world and herald his glorious advent as with a 
thousand trumpets. And all nature seems to 
wake with invigorated spirit and shout for joy 
over the birth of day. The proud pine trees, 
arrayed upon a thousand hill-tops, shake their 
flowing banners triumphantly in the breath of 
morning. The venerable mountains chronicle 
the glad event, writing their rude, dark figures 
os the ambient parchment of the sky. The 
gentle stars look down the world a sad farewell 
and fade before the glory, dew - dropping the 
earth with their parting tears. All the mighty 
elements arc mingling their voices in harmoni¬ 
ous communion. The very air we breathe 
comes down to us through those golden depths, 
laden with a charm. 
And I awake and catch the inspiration. My 
soul assumes a lofty tone correspondent with 
the deep grandeur around me. It flutters witli 
joyous emotions. I inhale the mighty aspira¬ 
tions of the wakening world. I seem to stand 
upon high thrones and to quaff the spirit of the 
universe. From all around some whisperings of 
cheer. Something awakes new fire In my spirit. 
Something would raise me higher. Something 
would spur on my soul to noble energies while 
yet there fa time. Hail glorious morning, hail! 
A welcome to our world ! Thou coinest with 
eloquence of joy to my yearning soul. It has 
not come in vain. It is the dawning of a new 
life to me. It cometh as the harbinger of better 
days. The future looms up full of pleasant 
prospects and radiant as the morning. 
What untold hours have I squandered in tri¬ 
fling. We have no time to fool away. Each day 
must show its progress if wc would attain any¬ 
thing like excellence. The days of life are few. 
Let me here end this course of l'olly. Henceforth 
I will act In a different manner. Awake, O my 
soul, awake! Why dost thou live to so little 
purpose iu this great and glorious world ? Make 
mighty efforts to redeem the misspent past. Let 
yonder rising sun mark the beginning of a new 
era in iny history. Let me grasp effectually the 
omnipotent present. Let the great turning 
point be sow. Let me show how much I can 
achieve to-day. Let me 6tretch every nerve, 6eize 
every second of time and improv e it in the no¬ 
blest occupation. May I take a long dayfa jour¬ 
ney toward immortality. Let me live whole 
weeks of common days in this one day. Let it 
be the most gloriouB day that has ever dawned 
on me. Let this week murk higher accomplish¬ 
ment than any in all my life before. And let 
each succeeding day and week and month be 
brighter than its predecessor. Lot me fight val¬ 
iantly aud invincibly against all mighty obstacles 
that oppose themselves, and all weaknesses of 
nature, and trample them beneath my feet. 
Though hedged about with difficulties, let me 
toil through with unconquerable zeal. Let me 
throw my whole soul into all my undertakings; 
and let me bring forth something worthy of my¬ 
self. Let me not breathe the. glorious breath of 
life in vain. Frank. 
“THY WILL BE DONE.” 
On the deck of the great 6hip at sea a mother 
sat gazing at something lying before her, while 
tears flowed like rain. For days and nights she 
had been watching and praying over her little 
child, so anxious and so earnest that it might 
live. But the beautiful flower drooped, and 
faded, and died. And she was now looking at 
its waxen face and hands as it lay in its rude 
little coffin, ready to he buried in the great deep, 
where no stone could mark its grave. A single 
sweet flower, the only one in the whole ship, 
was clasped in its tiny hand. The passengers 
were all gathered round, silent and sympathiz¬ 
ing, and many in tears. The great ship glided 
swiftly on, knowing nothing of the sorrows 
within her. 
The hardy sons of the ocean had been piped 
“ to buiy the dead;" and, grouping around the 
windlass, they thought of the beantiful child 
that so lately was their pet. One spoke of the 
sweet face, another of its playfulness, and an¬ 
other of the mother's loss. All was ready now. 
The coffin was placed on the main hatches as a 
bier. The fresh winds moaned through the cord¬ 
age. The maintop was hove to the mast, and the 
great ship paused and stood still. The captain 
read the funeral service. “ we commit thfa body 
to the deep.” The bell tolled the knelL The 
little coffin plunged in and sank down, down, 
down. But the mother, without a doubt that 
the eye of Jesus would follow her little one, and 
his voice raise it from the ocean grave at the 
last great day, stayed her soul upon Christ, and 
meekly bowed and said, “Thy will be done.”— 
g. A'. Times. 
