HAPPY WOMEN. 
BT PHEBE CARY 
Impatient women, as you wait 
In cheerfnl homes to-night, to hear 
The Bound of steps that soon or late, 
Shall come as music to your ear: 
Forget yourselves a little while 
And think In pity of the paiu 
Of women who will never smile 
To hear a coming etep again. 
Babies that in their cradles sleep, 
Belong to you In perfect trust; 
Think of the mothers left to weep, 
Their babies lying in the dust. 
And when the step yon wait for comes, 
And all your world is full of light, 
O, women, safe in happy homes, 
Pray for all lonesome souls to-night. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
A CHAPTER POE HOUSEWIVES, 
beefsteak and coffee-with an introduction. 
Mr. Editor:—I think a great many Rural 
readers would be very glad to attend the lec¬ 
tures ot oar interesting little French gastro¬ 
nome, M. Blot, and hear what he lias to say 
on that very appetizing subject, cookery. But 
only a few of us arc so near Cooper Institute 
that we can leave our households to listen to his 
instructive and chatty discourses. I hope the 
interest M. Blot is awakening amoug our city 
folks may extend to the ruralists, so many of 
whom have all the means at their disposal for 
setting the finest tables In the world. What a 
happy thing it would be for our American peo¬ 
ple if M. Blot could marshal a host of culinary 
reformers and send them on a “ home mission” 
Into all the kitchens of our Union! To make 
all our women skillful cooks would promote 
the comfort and well being of their homes far 
more than to tuke them all out of their kitchens 
several times a year and send them struggling 
Up to the ballot box. 
I do not entirely agree with M. Blot in all 
hja views. Mach of what he says suits the 
meridian of Paris, but becomes false reckoning 
at New York. Our climate is not the climate 
of Franco, and our people are not Frenchmen 
by descent or in taste. I do not suppose a hund¬ 
red M. Blots, blowing with all their might, will 
ever induce the American people to become to 
any great (atent soup eaters, or to abandon our 
well-known taste for good puddings. M. Blot 
is a strong believer in soups, and considers pud¬ 
dings a stupid aod barbarous invention ; but so 
inbred is the liking for this last dish, which taste 
we inherit from our English ancestor#, that cli¬ 
mate aud nature ninst change before we relin¬ 
quish it. 
It is really surprising that eating such large 
quantities of fresh meat as wc do, it so seldom 
comes upon any of our tables in such a style as 
to be at onccithe most grateful to the taste and 
most easily lifei mi feted by the organs of diges¬ 
tion. WC mid of steaks that are rich, tender, 
juicy, delicious t How often do you eat one, 
Mr. Editor, unless at your own table ? What a 
pity that while we are making so many sumptu¬ 
ary laws in this country we should not introduce 
a clause into the new constitution abolishing the 
use of frying pans. Why, dear me, Mr. Editor, 
if I ever do get a vote aud get into any legisla¬ 
tive body the first thing I shall propose will be 
an enactment' prohibiting the unwholesome, un¬ 
savory and ruinous practice of quenching and 
smothering all the fine, delicate, sapid juices of 
beefsteak in a flood of hot grease. Yes, Mr. 
Editor, I shall go for putting down tills abom¬ 
inable practice by law, for in truth I believe it 
has produced as much mischief as tobacco or 
tight-lacing. 
Why can’t we learn to broil our 6teaks, and 
have them crisp on either side, with a delicate 
rosy tint running down the middle? In the 
first place, in order to realize our ideal, we 
must begin at the meat cart. The habit with 
our butchers is almost universal of cutting their 
steaks Just about one-third of an inch thick. 
Not all the line of French cooks from Brii.liat 
Savakin to M. Blot could take such a piece of 
meat and make good steak of it, though they 
might, with their Inexhaustible culinary skill, 
convert it into something very good; for a thor¬ 
oughly accomplished French cook will make a 
crow taste like a chicken. Until your butcher 
is fully drilled in your tastes and habits .you 
must go to him and very pleasantly, but with 
firmness, insist that he cut your steak thick, 
no matter what he does for your neighbors. 
Not much less than an inch, no matter from 
which of the steak-yielding parts it is cut. In 
these days of high prices, the sirloin and porter¬ 
house are delicacies beyond the command of 
most purses, but after numerous experiments 
and frequeut calculation I have become settled 
In the conviction that when 1 buy a pound of 
good juicy round I am purchasing as much food 
as the cost of a pound will buy. Some people 
say they can’t afford to buy beefsteak. The 
truth is, Mr. Editor, they can’t afl'ord to go 
without it. Beefsteak is like advertising — it 
costs and it pays; you are getting your money’s 
worth. 
Having procured steak of the proper thick¬ 
ness and quality, lay it in a clean earthen dish 
with a tight cover, to keep it from absorbing 
odors, and sot it in a cool place until yon are 
ready to broil it. If the weather is very bad 
Lay a clean cloth over it and sprinkle dry salt 
on the cloth. This will be necessary during 
only a small part of the year. Just before your 
family assemble, aud all the other dishes are 
ready, bring out your steak plate, lay a lump 
of bnttur in the middle of it, and set it where 
it will become quite warm. Have^a fire of hot 
coals, (anthracite coal is better than any other 
fuel for this purpose,) and if the construction 
of the stove admit of it, though your fuel ordi¬ 
narily be wood, remember to throw iu about 
two quarts ol' small coals half au hour before 
meal time. As soon as tbe gas which emits the 
blue tlamc is expelled from them they are ready 
for broiling. Use a folding wire gridiron some¬ 
times called a toaster, lay your steak on it, 
sprinkle both faces with a little black pepper, 
and place over tbe coals. The heat should be 
such as to crisp the side next the coals immedi¬ 
ately. if it begins to burn, turn it, and keep 
turning It every half minute for about five min¬ 
utes, or until each outside third is firm under 
tbe knife, leaving the middle third thoroughly 
heated, but not stiffened. Then put it upon the 
melted butter on tbe hot platter, adding salt to 
taste. Let the family be all at their places when 
this delicacy is served, and in cool weather let 
all their plates be warmed. Now, Mr. Editor, 
I will agree that if auy of your readers, after fol¬ 
lowing these directions closely, and using good 
butter, report a failure, I will furnish M. Blot’s 
cook-book, or auother one as good, gratis; for, 
as u woman and a housekeeper, I cannot wish a 
greater earthly boon for any of my friends than 
the satisfaction of pressing their forks into just 
such morsels of Juicy, toothsome steak. 
One more tit bit, of advice, if the leugth of this 
column will allow. I hope your readers all know 
how to make good coffee, but I am very much 
afraid that some of them do not even know what 
good coffee is. In the first place let me be earn¬ 
est and if possible eloquent on this fundamental 
point. Let no one dream that she can make 
good coffee by using tbe abominable mixtures 
which are sold in those shiny square packages 
in the shops, “ ready ground for use.” Not a 
pinch of that detestable black powder ever saw 
the island of Java or the coast of Brazil. Would 
you sip ideal coffee, nectar fit for the gods, se¬ 
lect your coffee raw, parch and grind it yourself; 
parch it very evenly, at first over a slow fire, aud 
let the heat Increase. Remove when It has the 
color and gloss of a ripe chestnut, aud put im¬ 
mediately into a tight vessel. Allow for each 
person a large tablespoonful. Fifteen minutes 
before breakfast time mix with the ground cof¬ 
fee part of the white of an egg, adding a Little 
cold water; stir it well together and add boil¬ 
ing water; let it boll from two to five minutes 
only, keeping tbe coffee-pot at the lid and spout 
as tight as possible. Let the milk be scalded, 
aud place iu each cup, if you can, a tablespoon- 
ful of cream. Tbe milk and cream together 
should fill the cup at least half full. Then ifdd 
trie noble infusion; it will leap from the spout 
of your coffee-pot, showing the color of amber 
and exhaling the odor of musk. 
If in the beginning you purchased the genuine 
Asiatic berry, and follow these ceremonial# re¬ 
ligiously, then will you set before your happy 
guests a beverage that will deserve the lofty en¬ 
comium pronounced upon coffee by An as a nr 
Djezeri Anbali, son of Maiiomet : — “ Coffee 
is as innocent a drink as the purest milk, from 
which it is distinguished only by its color. Lin¬ 
ger with thy coffee in the place of its prepara¬ 
tion, and kind gods will hover above thee and 
share in thy feast. Thus the graces ol the 
saloon, the luxury of life, the society of friends, 
all unite to form a picture of genuine happiness. 
Drink with confidence, anil regard not tbe prat¬ 
tle of fools who despise it without having felt 
its charms, and condemn it without founda¬ 
tion.” L. E. L. 
Stamford, Conn., Oct., 1867. 
BE HAPPY. 
A cheerful temper, a kindly heart, and a 
courteous tongue, can not be too carefully or 
too sedulously cultivated. Ou the other baud, 
a disposition to be gloomy and captious, to be 
bitter and ill-natured, to be cynical and slander¬ 
ous, eau not be too cantiously avoided. The 
one habit, too, is as apt to grow and become 
powerful as the other. If we permit ourselves 
to look constantly on the dark side, and to view 
every thing with distrust and jealousy, wc shall 
seldom be able to realize and enjoy auy thing 
that is bright, beautiful, kindly or generous. 
There is, moreover, nothing so calculated to im¬ 
pair health, deface beauty, and take away from 
tbe human countenance all those rosy, shining 
lights which are admirably suited to brighten 
and adorn, as a disposition to fret, vex, and be 
miserable. The soul is thus reflected through 
the hurnau countenance, Just as it is often 
mirrored iu the eye, 
A Good-Night Kiss. —Always send your lit¬ 
tle child to bed happy. Whatever cares may 
trouble your miud, give the dear child a warm 
good night kiss as it goes to its pillow. The 
memory of this, in the stormy years which may 
be in store lor the little one, will be like Beth¬ 
lehem’s star to the bewildered shepherds; and 
welling up in the heart will rise the thought: 
“Myfather; my mother — loved me!" Lips 
parched wtih fever will become dewy again at 
this thrill of useful memories. Kiss your little 
child before it goes to sleep. 
A Harpy Woman. —A happy woman! Is she 
not the very sparkle and sunshine of life ? A 
woman who is happy because she can’t help it— 
whose smile even the coldest sprinkle of misfor¬ 
tune cannot dampen. Men make a terrible mis¬ 
take when they marry for beauty, for talent, or 
for style; the sweetest wives are those who pos¬ 
sess the magic secret of being contented under 
any circumstances. Rich or poor, high or low, 
it makes no difference; the bright little foun¬ 
tain of joy bubbles up just as musically in their 
hearts. 
An argument in favor of enlisting female 
soldiers, may be derived from the sentence of 
Montague, that “ Men are generally more afraid 
of women, than women are of them.” 
(Jifioirc ^RisciIIattn. 
HAPPIEST DAYS. 
The clouds in many a windy track 
Are sailing east and west. 
And sober sun* are bringing back 
Tbe days I love the best. 
The poet, as he will, may go 
To summer’s golden prime, 
And set tbe roses In a row 
Along bis fragrant rhyme: 
But as for me, I ring the praise 
Of fading flowers and trees, 
For to my mind the sweetest days 
01 all the year are these: 
When stubbly hills aud hazy skies 
Proclaim tbe. harvest done, 
And Labor wipes his brow, and lies 
A dreaming In the sun— 
And idly bangs the spider on 
Her broken silver stair, 
And ghosts of thistles, dead and gone, 
Biidi: slow along the air— 
Where all is still, unless perhaps 
Tbe cricket makes ado, 
Or when the dry-billed heron snaps 
Some brittle reed In two— 
Or school boy tramples through the burs 
His tangled path to keep, 
Or ripe mast, rustling downward, stirs 
The shadows from their sleep. 
Ay, he that wills It so may praise 
The lilies and the bees; 
But as for me, tbe sweetest days 
Of all the year are these. 
Written tor Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
RAVELINGS. 
BY T. RAVELER. 
NO. XI. — DEMONSTRATIVE PEOPLE. 
I don’t like demonstrative people. The 
sincerity of those persons who are continually 
making a great “to do” over everything, I am 
apt to question. Quiet, unpretending forms of 
expression are the most natural, aud mean the 
most. The heart never gets up on stilts. 'When 
the hands and tongue do, the heart has little 
part or lot in the matter. That friendship which 
speaks only through warm hand-clasps, and inar¬ 
ticulate sympathy, is the truest. That sorrow 
which is breathed forth simply in low moaning?, 
hushed to the faintest sobs, cuts deepest iuto tbe 
heart’s core. 
Demonstrativeness in toto is below par with 
me. If in love, I might bid high for repeated 
demonstrations of affection from my adored. 
Undoubtedly I should. But being In love, I 
have come to believe, upsets all a mun’6 philoso¬ 
phy. Mine Isn't upset. I look upon things 
without the stM-jOiemus which love seems so 
universally to cause. Therefore affectionate 
demonstrativeness—billing and cooing—in pub¬ 
lic, is ray especial aversion. Why in the name 
of Curio can’t young ladies and gents do up all 
their tender business, if it’s got to be done, at 
home, instead of parading themselves and their 
“pheclinx” directly in tbe face and eyes of 
everybody V 
Amaranda and Augustus come into the car, 
and take the first seat In front of me. Of course 
any one with half an eye, even, can see that she 
is his Amaranda, aud he her “ dear Augustus,” 
I am assured, at once, by the flow of conversa¬ 
tion which they maintain, that they are not yet 
married, because married people don’t think it 
worth while to talk to each other only at rare 
Intervals; and I know they are approaching that 
catastrophe by the manner of both. Well, 
by-aud-by the arm of Augustus rather bashfully 
creeps aioug the back of the seat until it finally 
encircles her sylph-like form, and Amaranda 
looks up iuto his eyes with such an expression 
as the countenance of a djring deer may be pre¬ 
sumed to wear, and down goes her head, water¬ 
fall and all, upon his shoulder. Then the 
conversation dies away into whispers, or low 
articulations, or — ceases entirely. Quite as 
likely the latter. Why should he speak, when 
tli rough his arm the electric message of love is 
gliding, and her form thrills in response ? Why 
should she say aught when it is his bosom she is 
leanlug upon ? 
Now, much as I dislike demonstrativeness in 
general, this in particular puts me iu a terribly 
disagreeable humor. It reminds too keenly that 
I am a bachelor. And though I cling to my 
bachelorism, I am a trifle inconsistent, and feel 
for the moment that there are other mortals 
more highly blessed than myself, /haven’t any 
Amaranda — why should he have V There isn’t 
any pretty little simpleton of a girl to lean her 
head upon my breast, und look so touchingly, eo 
harrowir.gly, into my countenance. The only 
feminine’eompauion I ever have in my joume.y 
is an old maid aunt— Jerusha Forshrew— and 
any one who knows her will readily admit that 
she isn’t just the person to enact one part of a 
love scene. I take her with me, now and then, 
for the same reason that I eat pickles. (Some¬ 
thing Bour and sharp makes the sweets go down 
with a better relit^h. What soured my Aunt 
Jerusha, I don’t know. She probably has her 
own story, and I leave her to tell it. Age 
alone hasn’t made her what she is. For she’s 
not the oldest, nor the most pinched-up 
old maid you ever saw. My mother was her 
elder sister by nearly a score of years. So my 
aunt has not seen so many more years than 
have I. If all the acids of life didn’t seem to be 
feeding her nature, I should think she might 
lose some of her augulamess, and, with a few of 
the artificial aids which they know so well how 
to use, come to rival many of her sex who pride 
themselves upon their youth and prettiness. 
Aunt Jerusha doesn’t make a bad traveling 
companion. But I don’t want her with me 
always. Pickles are not good as a regular diet. 
When Amaranda and Augustus do the lore' 
scene I find my aunt’s company less satisfying 
than ever. If a younger and more susceptible 
sat in her place, why, may be — but pshaw! I 
forget that I am not demonstrative. My coat 
sleeve Mould rebel against doing what that of 
Augustus takes so kindly to. And yet there 
was a time when-Ah, me! May be, after all, 
that the tableau just, in front of me is the more 
provoking because it sets me thinking of what 
never more can be. 
The wisest of us have seen our foolish days. 
You will remember the time, my brother bache¬ 
lor, when yon sat in the arbor with ma belle 
Kate, and whispered sweet words into her will¬ 
ing ear. You were demonstrative then; and 
you told more thrilling things than your tongue 
was responsible for. Your time for telling all 
these has gone by. Yon have grown older, and, 
you think wiser. “Yes, wc have all seen our 
foolish days, you echo,— and yet there’s a bit of 
a sigh floats up from your heart as you thluk of 
yours. And your eye lights up with a tenderer 
glow than it has known iu a twelve-month, at 
the recollection I have awakened. Yon thought 
life was a beautiful poem then. You bare come 
to believe it only a dull, prosy essay. 
-An essay. And is life any more? We 
essay —we attempt —all along through the 
years. Do wc get farther than this ? Do we 
accomplish —do wc complete? Always essay¬ 
ing—what have we done? The care of each 
day is to attempt to do. 
“Sleep knits up the raveled sleeve of care.” 
So every waking moment is but an unraveling. 
And of what? 
These ravelings of mine may be often broken 
and disconnected,— little bits of thread which I 
pick ont, here and there, from the tangled web 
of a rambling and restless life. If I slip away 
from my pretended subject it will not do you 
auy good to tell me to mind my knitting. 
Another has done the knitting—I’m only amus¬ 
ing myself by picking it apart. 
— But about demonstrativeness. I have inti¬ 
mated that I have a dislike for it in general and 
an especial aversion for It in particular. Profes¬ 
sions don’t mean anything. Feeling is valuable 
only as it is delicate and refined. That brazen¬ 
faced sentiment which has no objection to an 
erpo*c. among outside lookers-on, lacks, it seems 
to me, the finer elements which would make it 
lasting. It is only a thing of the hour. Some¬ 
thing of this philosophy I learned too young. 
The wonderfully sweet words of my step¬ 
mother—(may she rest in peace!) the tender 
accents which she gave to “ dear Tommie,” 
when there were visitors present,—I soon came 
to know were succeeded by others of a very dif¬ 
ferent tone when we were left alone. From 
that time I lost faith in professions, and con¬ 
ceived a poor opinion of sugar-coated pills. 
There are too many sugar-coated things in the 
world that arc dreadfully bitter and disagreeable 
at the heart. Gloze a mean morsel over with 
sweetness as much as you may, soon after swal¬ 
lowing it you will suffer from sickness at the 
stomach. 
If love upsets a man’s philosophy and makes 
him demonstrative, a dozen other things shape 
his philosophizing, and bend it to the same end. 
Ditto a woman’s. Woman is of the linmau 
family, and has about all the little selfishnesses 
and personal purposes, spites and Jealousies, 
ambitions and aspirations that man is heir to. 
Only they are done np in prettier parcels, and 
there may he a difference iu tbo quality of the 
article. But demonstrativeness for a purpose is 
better than this sickly kind “my dear Augus¬ 
tus” indulges in. Philosophy upset isn’t so 
good as that which is bent to a certain aim. On 
the whole, demonstrative people whose main- 
sprlug is either love or sorrow, are the ones to 
set little store by. Pretty Mrs. Widow lost, her 
husband, and makes a great flourish of mount¬ 
ing. Of what account are her costly black 
dresses and very cheap tears? If she would 
pack her dresses out of sight, and shed her tears 
when people were not around, they would mean 
more. I always think, when I see her wiping 
her eyes at mention of her “dear departed,” 
what a pretty town crier she would make. 
No, let me reiterate, I don’t like demonstra¬ 
tive people. That is, I should like them better 
if they would hide their demonstrativeness 
under a bushel, aud not make such a parade of it. 
! Especially the lovely kind. I may be like a cer¬ 
tain retired aetor. It is said of him that after 
leaving the stage he never could be prevailed 
upou to enter a theater. Indeed, he would 
not pass the door of one if he could avoid it. 
He did not wish to sue what he could no longer 
take part iu. Just my ease, exactly. So let me 
adjure every Augustus to keep out of my range 
of vision when he and his Amaranda are fancy¬ 
ing themselves “all the world.” I much prefer 
that they should waste their demonstrative 
sweetness, or their sweet demonstrativeness, 
upon the desert air. 
-- 
Pets— Pets should always be tolerated, for 
they have their proper place in every household. 
If they furnish to the young imaginary play-fel¬ 
lows, if they help older people to forget the 
cares of the present, and soften in them the 
austerities of this hard world’s life, if, above all, 
they can be made morally significant, let us not 
contemn them as unworthy of onr regard. Frol¬ 
icsome kittens, sweet singing birds, brave old 
dogs—and shall we not add merry-hearted chil¬ 
dren—have brightened aud gladdened and sweet¬ 
ened this world to many. 
“Forty years once seemed a loDg and weary 
pilgrimage to make. It now seems but a step; 
and yet along the way are broken shrines where 
a thousand hopes fade into ashes, footprints 
sacred under their drifting dust, green mounds 
where the grass is fresh with the watering of 
tears. We will garner the sunshine of these 
years, and with chastened steps aud hope push 
on toward the twinkling where the waters are 
still and the storms never beat.” 
•SaBBallj Uta&ttttj. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
IN THANKFULNESS. 
BY A. A. HOPKINS. 
I fold my bands in idleness, to-day; 
My heart is yielding its thank-offering, 
“Of little worth am I, O Lord,” I say; 
“ And little can I to Thine altar bring, 
But that T fain would give to Thee always;” 
And in my heart I chant a psalm of praise. 
I backward look upon my life, and see 
Above it, through the years, a Presence bent, 
And know what came, of good or ill to me, 
Was by that Presence in all kindness sent; 
And If some joys I want, in thankfulness 
My heart goes out for those I do possess. 
The skies above me wear a sunny smile; 
The clouds may come—it will not wholly fade; 
And sunshine creep* into my life, the while. 
With warmth such ns but it and love e’er made. 
My finer being feels a thrill divine 
As on my way the pleasant sunbeams shine. 
There may have been some cherished blessings lost— 
I may have felt some momentary pain ; 
My will, by God's, may often have been crossed: 
Bat losing much has only been my gain ;— 
And thankful for the lost, as for the won, 
I fold my hands and say “ Tby will be done!” 
To-day is mine. To-day Is very broad: 
It has the fhllness of the Infinite. 
It reaches from my narrow life to God, 
And holds witliiu it a supreme delight. 
It has the work, aud partly the reward— 
The rest will come to-morrow, praise the Lord ! 
THE GRANDEUR OF THE BIBLE. 
If you have ever tried it, you must have been 
struck with the few solid thoughts, the few sug¬ 
gestive ideas, which survive the perusal of the 
most brilliant of human books. Few of them 
can stand three readings; and of the memora¬ 
bilia which you had marked in your first reading, 
on reverting to them you find that many of 
those were not so striking, or weighty, or origi¬ 
nal, ns you thought. But the Word of God is 
solid; it will stand a thousand readings; and the 
man who lias gone over It the most frequently 
and carefully is the surest of finding new won¬ 
ders there.— Rev. James Hamilton. 
1 have for many years made it a practice to 
read through the Bible once a year. My custom 
is to read four or five chapters every morning 
immediately after rising from my bed. It em¬ 
ploy' about an hour of my time, aud seems to 
me the most suitable manner of beginning the 
day. in what light soever we regard the Bible, 
whether with reference to revelation, to history,- 
or to morality, it is an invaluable and inexhausti¬ 
ble mine of knowledge and virtue.—/. Q. Adams. 
When I commenced my duties of professor of 
theology, T feared that the frequency with which 
I should have to pass over the same portions ot 
Scripture would abate the Interest in my own 
mind in reading them; but after more than fifty 
years of study, it is my experience that with 
every class my interest increases. — Prof, Leon¬ 
ard Woods. 
1 have always found in my scientific studies, 
that when I could get the Bible to say anything 
upou the subject, it afforded me a firm platform 
to stand upou, and another round in the ladder 
by which I could safely ascend.— Lieut. Maury. 
“I KNOW THY WORKS.” 
In all our changeful life there is no hiding- 
place where our Saviour cannot find us. Alike 
iu the clear, bright sunshiue, or in the darken¬ 
ing gloom of the winter storm, his eye is over 
his people, and his infinite knowledge weighs 
them ill the balance. When the hill is 6teep, 
and briars aud thorns grow up its steep ascent, 
lie is watching the weary flock, and helps and 
pities them, as they strain up the mountain 6ide. 
When the road lies through velvet lawns, and 
beside peaceful waters, the Shepherd gazes ten¬ 
derly, yet fearfully, upon them, for these are 
the “Enchanted Grounds,” where there is 
danger that the pilgrim fall into u fatal sleep. 
Jesus kuows tbe works of his people. He 
knows whether they are walkiug on the skirts 
of the dread forest of the world, or whether 
they are earnestly striving after a closer union 
to himself. He knows when they extend a help¬ 
ing baud to the pale children of sorrow, and 
when they shut their ears to the cry of the deso¬ 
late. Their motives are all open before him. 
Men judge by results. Christ sees the secret 
spring. 
Let the thought that our Maker knows our 
works stimulate us to do aud dare for him. 
When the spirit is weary in well-doing, let it 
lift its eyes to Jesus, who went about doing 
good. Iu the hour of prayer let it take encour¬ 
agement, because He who knows of its secret 
wrestlings will hear and sustain. Upborne by 
tbe everlasting arms, and looking to the Author 
and Finisher of our faith, let us press on to the 
joy that is set before us.—Christian Intelligencer. 
Helping the Minister.— “I am past useful¬ 
ness,” said an old lady to her minister; “the 
Lord spares my days, but I can do no good now.” 
“You are doing a great deal of good,” said the 
minister. “You help me to preach every Sab¬ 
bath.” Of coui’fee she was very much surprised. 
Help her minister preach! “ Why, how?” “ In 
the first place,” said he, “you are always'in 
your seat at church, and that helps me. In the 
second place, you are always wide awake, look¬ 
ing right up into my face, and that helps me. 
In the third place, I often see tears running 
down your cheeks, and that helps me very 
much.” 
It is harder for a penurious man to be hone6t 
than for a gourmand to keep a fast. 
