f 
:»dira* gqwvtnmit. 
Written for Moore'e Rural New-Yorker. 
THE NEW YEAE. 
BY KATE CAMEKON. 
Another mile-stone have we how passed 
In our homeward journey, perduu.ee t he last. 
Little wc know what the year will bring, 
Savu the winter snow* and the buds of spring, 
The summer bloom, and the autumn gold,— 
The same old story by Nature told, 
The seasons still in their order roll, 
But who can foretell the life- of the soul? 
Will Gladness or Grier walk by onr side? 
In darknese or light shall we abide? 
Shall we revel still in Hope's bright dreams, 
Or mourn the ruin of blighted schemes ? 
And with peaceful smile, or with bitter tear, 
Shall wc watch the close of another year? 
Shall we cling to life with a loving grasp, 
Or our hands lie cold In death's icy clasp? 
Ah! well for us that, wc do not know 
What the future holds of joy or woe; 
And well that we, creatures of the dust, 
Should place iu our Maker perfect trust; 
Will not lie, our gracious Father and Friend, 
Winch over us all until life’s eml? 
The day aud night are alike to Him, 
Why should our faith in God grow dim? 
Welcome, New Tear! with your scenes untried, 
When lights and shadow* together glide; 
We may not look fof unmingled joy, 
Earth’s pleasure has ever- some alloy; 
But one thought should set our hearts at rest,— 
What God ordains must tie for the best ! 
And trusting in Him, life will be sweat, 
And death will but make our bliss complete. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
HEARTS NEED FOOD. 
BY M A V MAPLE. 
“Wont you go out riding with me this morn¬ 
ing?” said my husband, just as we were sitting 
down to breakfast. 
“I would really like to go,” I replied, “and 
think it would do me a great deal of good. But 
what would become of all the work; and who would 
prepare your dinner ?” 
“ Oh, let the work and the dinner take care of 
themselves; you will have plenty of time to clear 
away the breakfast and set back the chairs while 
I’m harnessing Jupe; and your dress and hair are 
well enough now. So, dear, you’ll go with me, 
wont you?” 
“Most certainly, if that’s the case! I’m sure it 
will be much pleasanter to go with you than it 
would be to stay here alone.” 
We had been married two years; yet I was just 
as well pleased with an invitation to go out riding 
or walking with my husband, now, as I was when 
be was only a lover. And I frequently accepted 
these invitations, much to the annoyance of my 
less favored neighbors. By the time my husband 
was at the door with the carriage, I was ready to 
join him. The dishes were washed, the rooms 
swept, the. furniture dusted, and the “chairs set 
back.” My toilet bad been made with care before 
breakfast; so all I had to do was to pul on my lmt, 
cloak aud gloves, and I was ready to take my seat 
in the carriage by the side of one who ever seemed 
pleased with my society. It was a beautiful spring 
morning, and I gassed with unfeigned pleasure upon 
the early violets and golden buttercups that be¬ 
spangled the fields, the fresh, green foliage and 
soft tufted grass. The birds, too, added to the 
glories of the morning, by filling the air with their 
soft, thrilling notes. From my earliest childhood I 
had loved the flowers and the. birds with a love that 
amounted almost to adoration, and this morning 
my soul seemed to go out to them in sweet oom- 
munings as we rode quietly over the smooth, wind¬ 
ing road. 
“See here, Mrs. Courtney,’* said my husband, 
rousing me from the pleasant reverie into which 1 
had fallen, “I did not invite yon out to ride for 
the sake of having you get perfectly intoxicated 
with the rich beauties of this lovely morning. I 
want you to talk some, instead of giving your 
whole attention to every bird aud flower that flits 
past us, forgetting that 1 am near you.” 
“But, my dear Lewis, I do not forget that you 
are by my side, and that it is to you that I owe this 
pleasure—this luxury—the blessed privilege of see¬ 
ing so much more of mutlier Nature s woik than I 
should if I were obliged to stay at home month 
after month, as many do.” 
After this there was no more silence between us; 
although I did not cease to take in all the glories of 
the morning, which was inspiration itself, with its 
azure sky and soft, fleecy, floating clouds, and the 
brightest of golden sunshine. At length wc drew 
upl.o a pretty farm house, where he hud some busi¬ 
ness matters to arrange; and as it would take some 
time, Lewis thought I had better go in and make 
the acquaintance of the farme r’s wife. I was some¬ 
what surprised as I went up the pretty gravel walk 
to see no flowers in the yard, for the house and 
grounds were in a flourishing condition. The grass 
was growing luxuriantly over the yard; the garden 
a little east of the walk looked promising, as far as 
vegetables were concerned. 
My husband went into the house with me, and 
introduced me to Mrs Johnson, and then inquired 
for the master of the house. He was directed to 
the barn, where be went presently, leaving me to be 
entertained by my hostess. She was a fine looking 
woman, just in the prime of life. She was strong 
and resolute, and looked well able to assist a farmer 
in gathering in the dollars and cents; there would 
be nothing wasted where she had tie managing of 
the domestic affairs. 
“Mr. Courtney invited me out to ride this morn¬ 
ing,” said I, for the sake of saying something; “ so 
I thought I would improve the opportunity.” 
“ La%akes! I should as soon think of going on a 
visit to the moon as to have my husband ask me to 
go riding with him anywhere, though he is on the go 
every day; it’s a wonder Mr. Courtney caught him 
at home this morning, aud he wouldn't if he had 
come a half hour later. Why, he has not asked me 
to go with him half ft dozen times in a dozen years, 
1 do think.” 
“Is it possible, Mrs. Johnson? Why, I should 
feel very sad if I thought my husband would ever 
be 60 neglectful of my happiness.” 
“Oh! as for that, I don’t know as Mr. Johnson 
thinks he neglects me; he knows I always have so 
many cares on my mind that it would be almost im¬ 
possible to leave. In fact, perhaps he’s not so 
much to blame, now wheu I think of it. The first 
year after I was married he used to ask me to go 
with him very often—well, until our Sammy was 
born; for some time after that my health was very 
poor, and having the care of him I didn't care for 
eoing as I had previously. Husband used to tell 
me it would do me good to get away from baoy 
awhile and get the frosb air. But I was so 'fraiil 
something would happen to the little treasure 
during my absence that it was seldom he could pre- 
Ud tqron me to go. Then when Sammy was old 
enough to leave, and needed less care, a little baby 
girl stepped in among us, and then it was the same 
i story over again; until I suppose he got tired of 
being refused, and thus he ceased to disturb me 
with invitations.” 
“But now your children are so nearly grown up I 
6bould think you might enjoy some of the privi¬ 
leges and pleasures of your halcyon days again.” 
« Oh, I don’t know! We always have so much lo 
do here; he always keeps a good many farm hands 
at work, and if I left iuy work all to hired girls we 
should be without food in a very short time, they 
are so wasteful. 
“You need not leave all your work to the girls; 
but to leave the work to them occasionally will do 
you all good. They will see that you place confi¬ 
dence in their services, and will certainly try to do 
as well as they can during your absence; aud you 
will gain vest and strength, anil he the better able 
to perform your duties.” 
At this time my husband came to the door with 
Mr. Johnson, and I arose to take leave. I was 
somewhat acquainted with our host, so 1 said to 
him, “ Next time you ride over to our house, please 
invite your wife to ride over with you. ’ 
“Well,” said lie, “if it would do any good I 
would like to invite her often; but she never has 
any time to go anywhere,”—turning to her—“do 
you, wife ?” 
“ But you can invite her,” said I, before she had 
time to reply; “wont you, now? There’ll be no 
harm done, ami I think she’ll come.” 
He promised to do as I requested, and we took 
our leave. On our way back 1 asked Lewis if he 
supposed the lime would ever come when he would 
cease to invite me lo go with him ? 
“Not while you accept the invitations,” was the 
reply. “But I can imagine how it, would be if, 
when I asked j'ou to go, you should refuse time 
after time. I'm pretty sure 1 should get tired of 
hearing the song. ‘I can’t go. I've so much to do;' 
and after awhile I should cease to desire your com¬ 
pany.” 
“I believe that’s the secret of so many com¬ 
plaints,” said I, “of women always being obliged 
to stay at home.” 
“That’s just it; the fault is their own. More 
than two-thirds of the women of our land, who 
complain of neglect on the part of their husbands, 
are themselves to blame, at first, for a great share 
of that neglect.” 
“Why, Lewis, that’s a very sweeping assertion; 
two-thirds reaches a long way !” 
“ I know it; but just note it for yourself. See if, 
when you go back to the first cause of the majority 
of them, yon will not owu that they were at the 
first to bluuie. I do not doubt but that some men 
are negligent; and some arc not careful to give 
their invitations when it Is convenient for the wife. 
Neither did they know before they were married 
what work was to be done; yet the fair ones would 
manage to be ready at the appointed time. Work 
could be laid by then; why not afterwards as well ?” 
“But, Lewis, just think how much better your 
dinner might have been, if I had 6tayed at home, 
than it will be now. Don't you think I would have 
shown my love for you better than in going with 
you because 1 shall enjoy this glorious morning in 
the open air, if l had stayed at home aud made a 
nice plum pudding and broiled you a nice EtcakV 
As it is, you’ll have to put up with a cold dinner to 
pay for the pleasure of my delightful society for the 
last few hours.” 
“The dinner will be no disappointment; for I 
don’t expect you can be in two places at the same 
time. I’m as fond of good living as any one. But 
I believe our hearts need food as well as our stom¬ 
achs; and a good dinner would hardly have paid for 
the pain 1 should have felt had you denied me your 
society.” 
Now let me say to those who have just entered 
the. matrimonial state, always keep yourself in readi¬ 
ness to go with your husband at any time. Keep 
your clothes in perfect repair and your person tidy. 
If you chance to have a little one to love aud care 
for, don't be afraid to leave it occasionally in trusty 
hands, or else fix it up prettily aud take it with you. 
Remember Unit hearts need-food. 
It is now many years since I took that well re¬ 
membered ride, and ray husband is just as lover¬ 
like iu his attention to me as in the days of our 
honeymoon. Mrs. J. accepted her husband’s invita¬ 
tion to ride to our place the following week, and 
she has had many others since then. 
GOSSIPY PARAGRAPHS. 
A Boston man advertised for a wife “ for a man 
of means,” and received nearly a thousand photo¬ 
graphs in reply. 
Count SteitIaBOY, manager of the popular theater 
of Muuich, aged sixty-live, has married Mile. Oss¬ 
wald, a chorus singer, of fifteen. 
A lady recently died in Bristol, England, who 
had not tasted animal food iu her lifetime of eighty- 
four years, and has always been in good health. 
Out of 30,000 couples married last year in Ireland, 
11,000 of the men and 15,000 of the women affixed 
their marks instead of their signatures to the register. 
All the feminine convicts sent to the French 
penal colony of Cayeuue, have secured husbands 
there, iucludiug one who had murdered her first 
one at home. 
Susan B. Anthony canvassed both Houses of Con¬ 
gress and obtained many subscribers to her new 
paper—the Revolution. Think of a lady doing 
that in the English House of Parliament! 
Black hair is to succeed golden, and a raid is to 
be made by the agents of the hair-dressers of Paris 
among the long silky-haired tribes of South Amer¬ 
ican Indians to supply the anticipated demand. 
August Slagek of Illinois has lost his wife, aud 
advertises for her as follows: —“ Everybody who 
knows something about my wife s residence, which 
I lost three years ago, is herewith requested to call 
at the office of the YVestlich Post.” 
With a true wife the husband’s faults should be 
secret. A woman forgets, when she condescends to 
that refuge of weakness, a female confidant. A 
wile’s bosom should be the tomb of her husband’s 
failings, and his character far more valuable, in her 
estimation, lhau life. 
“ Women arc not extravagant by nature,” says the 
London Spectator. “ Let a man tell a woman that 
he has so much, and wants to save out. of that, and 
it will not be her fault if he does not save, but his.” 
It adds, in proof of its assertion, that the very satir¬ 
ists allege that the ladies are “ always after the cu¬ 
rates,” who have the most “ moderate establish¬ 
ments” of any gentlemen iu England. Some of 
our own unmarried clergymen will acknowledge 
the force of this remark in our own country. 
Choice lUtswIlang. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE CHILD AND THE RILL. 
by grace g. si.ough. 
Merrily, merrily down the hill, 
Danced ami sang a little rill; 
Merrily ever along the way 
It filing in glee it* shining spray, 
That; 'neath the wings of the happy hours 
Kissed the lips of the laughing flowers. 
Gaily, gaily a little child, 
With a laugh tlmt, rang out merry and wild, 
Coming along, espied the hrook 
That sang all day In that sheltered nook, 
And the dimpled feet, so white and hare, 
Were dipped iu the waves that sparkled there. 
Sweeter, sweeter the water sang; 
Louder the peal* or laughter rang 
Forth from the merry coral lips, 
That childhood had touched with its finger-tip*, 
’Till the deep blue sky looked down and smiled, 
O'er the golden hair of the happy child. 
The years went by, hut the little rill, 
Danced gladly a* ever adown the hill, 
When one bright mom a maiden came 
She stood by t he stream, and breathed a name, 
I listened—when home on the air above 
A sweet voice murmured—“ It is love.” 
Softly, softly the years go by; 
Lovingly bends the deep blue sky 
Above the waves of the singing rffi. 
Above a grave in the shade so still, 
Where golden hair, and eyes so deep, 
Are softly hushed in a gentle sleep. 
-- 
Written for Moore's Kami New-Yorker. 
HOME AMUSEMENTS. 
BY MUS, LAI RA E. LYMAN. 
Now that winter is here, and the sun goes to 
his long slumber an hour and a-half before six 
o’clock, we must hunt up all our games for amuse¬ 
ment, recreation and profit. These long evenings 
afford ample time, certainly, for chess and draughts 
players to make full exhibition of their skill. But 
for those who do uot fancy such difficult amusement, 
something else must be substituted. 
There is the game called “ Consequences,” which, 
though perhaps familiar to ninny, may be made very 
funny and entered into by old and young with equal 
zest. Let all participating in this he provided with 
pencils and slips of paper, two incites iu width aud 
three or four in length. Each one writes but ouee 
on the slip in his hands, folds over what he has writ¬ 
ten, aud passes it to his neighbor on the left, receiv¬ 
ing at the same time a slip from his neighbor on the 
right, written on and folded over. The first thing 
written is a gentleman's name, then a lady’*, then a 
place, then what lie might have said, then her reply, 
and lastly the c.onscqaeuces. When these have all 
been written, each one unrolls his slip and reads, 
after this fashion, perhaps“ Solomon Brown” 
met “Jerusha Bellkbuokle ” in “Thames Tun¬ 
nel.” Said she—“A fair good morning, dearest! ” 
Said lie—“Does your mother know you’re out?” 
Consequence: “The moon fell from the sky.” The 
words not in quotations are supplied when the slips 
are read. It is well to have some person who under¬ 
stands the game give out what is to be written. 
Various circumstances may be added, according to 
the ingenuity of those,who play. 
Another mode of pleasantly passing time is in 
playing “Magic Music,” which is, in reality, only 
another version of “hot and cold," which we all 
played in our childhood. Let a thimble, or small 
article of any kind easily seen, be selected, and after 
one of the company has gone from the room, let it 
be put somewhere in sight, but not too conspicu¬ 
ously placed. Then, while some one plays on the 
piano, let the excluded person come in and hunt for 
the hidden toy. As she approaches it, let the music 
grow louder, and softer as she recedes from it. The 
piano may he so placed as to allow the performer to 
see everything in the room, or some one at her side 
may tell her when to increase or diminish the tones 
of the instrument. This is an elegant as well as in¬ 
nocent diversion, and will amuse all the members of 
a family. 
Fur the seniors, grandpa, grandma, father, mother 
and the adult sons aud daughters, the “ Intellectual 
Game" will be found as edifying as it is agreeable. 
Let one of the party leave the room, and the rest 
select in his absence some well-known object, as 
Noah's Ark, the leaning tower of Pisa, the Atlantic 
Cable, or the Great Eastern, Then let the person 
he called back, and go round the room asking ques¬ 
tions about the object selected, until he guesses 
what it is. His first question may he, “ Is it animal, 
vegetable, or mineral?" His next, “Did it exist 
before Christ or after Christ?” “Is it on earth 
or in the sea? ” and so on until he solves the riddle, 
if he fails to guess it, as a penalty he must again go 
out and try to 6olve the next selection. There is 
opportunity in this game for the display of all sorts 
of information and learning hr every department of 
humau knowledge, and this display will be limited 
only by the intelligence of the persons engaged in 
the play. 
There is another highly instructive and very 
pleasing amusement recently iuvented, which is 
played after this manner: A and B go out of a room 
full of people into another apartment, and A tells B 
a story or tale of some sort. Then A returns and 
sends out C, to whom B tells she story as exactly as 
he can. A, meantime, writes it down, so as to be 
sure and remember just what he said. B comes in 
and sends out D, who, in his turn, hears the tale and 
relates it to E. When it has gone the round of the 
company iu this manner, the last person who hears it 
enters the room and tells it to the company Then A 
reads the story as he told it, aud each one comments 
on the additious, subtractions and substitutions tlmt 
have inadvertently been made as the tale passed 
from mouth to mouth. One sees in playing this 
game how easily every feature of a narrative may he 
changed so that the original relater shall not recog¬ 
nize his own story at the mouth of the fourth or 
fifth even of the successive hearers of it. 
Between these intellectual games others may be 
played which appeal simply to the tact and shrewd¬ 
ness of the party. Of this kind is the play called 
“ Crossed or Uncrossed." The interest of this will 
depend on the fact that a large part of the company 
are not in the secret of the game. Let them all be 
seated iu a circle or row, and the ladies sutlei the 
tips of their shoes to appear beyond their skirts. 
The leader of the play takes a pair of scissors, aud 
with great ceremony opens them far apart, and 
winds a thread around the opening of the blades, 
and then transversely making the threads cross each 
other at right angles. With her feet crossed she 
looks carefully at them and says "ero&sci," then 
paspes them to her next neighbor. He takes them, 
examines them carefully, and if he is uot iu the 
secret, will certainly pronounce them “crossed,” 
not noticing whether liis feet arc crossed or not. If 
the latter, she says “no, uncrossed,” and he passes 
them to the next, and so on round. The fun con¬ 
sists in the bewilderment and perplexity the unini¬ 
tiated will feel at hearing that pronounced uncrossed 
which they certainly know, or think they know, is 
crossed. 
Of this same character is the play “ Little can he 
do tlmt can’t do this.” Let one of a party take a 
walking-stick, and, holding it in one hand, rap gently 
on the floor, repeating “Little can he do that can’t 
do this;" then take it in his other hand and pass it 
to some one else, who, in turn, does the Batne. The 
catch will be that those who do not understand it 
will not pass it from one hand to the other before 
giving it to their neighbor. 
These simple games give zest to the life of chil¬ 
dren. And whyslionld not their early years be made 
as bright and sunny as possible ? ’ “ Care and age 
come unawares.” Let them be gay, and cheerful, 
aud happy. Rays from a sunny childhood shoot, far 
forward into life, and make bright with pleasant 
recollections many au otherwise sad and dreary hour. 
The old grow young again iu the mirth and merri¬ 
ment of their children and grandchildren. The frosts 
of age give way before the warmth and brightness of 
childish fun and frolic. Let us all keep young as we 
can, and carry into the autumn and winter of life the 
blossoms and roses of May aud June. 
- « ■*-»•- 
A PITY TO HAVE AN EMPTY CHAIR. 
The following records a beautiful example, and is 
suggestive to every young reader of what true benev¬ 
olence consists in; 
A few weeks ago a gentleman was obliged to goto 
a distant depot at an hour when there was no con¬ 
veyance thither. So, although very weary, and not 
strong, lie. was obliged to set. out on a walk of two 
or three miles. After he had gone a little way, he 
was overtaken by a gentleman aud little boy in a car¬ 
riage. The flue horse was at once reined in, aud the 
owner said, with a smile, “I presume, sir, you are 
going but a Bliort way; but this little, fellow insists 
on ray asking yon to ride with us. I told him 1 had 
no doubt you were going to the first station, but he 
said, 1 The gentleman is a stranger, father; it is very 
easy to ask him. It always seems t.o me such a pity 
to ride with au empty seat!’ ” 
Now that, ride which cost the gentleman neither 
money, time, nor trouble, was a real blessing to a 
weary minister of Christ, and lie told him so when 
he thanked him and the dear hoy who prompted the 
kind civility. 
“ It is a way he has, and always had, sir,” replied 
the father. “ From his cradle he could never enjoy 
what ho coqld not share with others. If he has any 
new gift or pleasure, his first thought is for those 
less favored. It is a way he got from his mother." 
It was truly a beautiful “ way” the boy had, and it 
should be a lesson to all boys' mothers, who hear of 
him. Remember this, you who have horses at your 
control t.o use fur convenience or pleasure: “ It is a 
pity to have an empty seat.” Remember it, mothers, 
when training your boys for lives of usefulness. The 
little things of to-day will grow into great things of 
yearn to come. The buy who is selfish with his toys 
and his comforts will be so with his moucy and his 
sympathies when a man; for the heart grows harder 
rather than softer by the flight of time.— Youth's 
Companion. 
.—- < ii < »♦> 
PERSONAL GOSSIP. 
On the third evening of Dickens’ readings iu Bos¬ 
ton, Whittier went, aud with his companions is thus 
described by a ladyThe most interesting thing of 
the evening was that Longfellow, Whittier and the 
eider Dana all sat together in a front seat—Long¬ 
fellow with large head and streaming white hair and 
beard; Whit tier with closer cut white hair aud firm, 
erect head, aud Dana small, with ft long fringe of sil¬ 
very hair around his bald crown. They were a won¬ 
derfully striking trio. 
A description of Longfellow says:—His aspect 
is that of a bal'd in the full affluence of his years 
and the full wealth of his genius. His silvered hair 
is long aud wavy. His beard grows white ftnd thick 
beneath his chin, looking more like a deep lace ruff 
than anything else. His voice is as melodious as 
an organ, aud ltis features, handsome as ever, have 
been touched with new lines by the action of 
thought and sorrow. His maimers are very beau¬ 
tiful to all persons, aud he carries about him that 
indescribable atmosphere that marks the perfect 
cultured gentleman. 
A German traveler, Mr. Christian Friedrich Scha¬ 
fer, who at last accounts was making a pedestrian 
tour in Australia, is thus spoken of:—Mr. Schafer 
is of dwarfish stature, from the effects of au acci¬ 
dental injury to the spine, received in youth; but 
in spite of this physical drawback he has, during 
the last fifteen years, traveled over a great part of 
the surface of the world, and mostly as a pedestrian. 
He has ui this manner passed through every coun¬ 
try in Europe, through Asia Minor, Syria, Egypt, 
North Africa, and across the width of North Amer¬ 
ica from the Atlantic to the Pacific, on foot, and 
alone, lie has, in the course of his wanderings, 
compiled a large mass of observations on the cus¬ 
toms and character of the various populations 
through which he has passed; and, moreover, car¬ 
ries with him a book of credentials, iu which his 
passports are attached, and iu which he has an 
assemblage of autographs of potentates, ambassa¬ 
dors, generals, governors, consuls, mayors and man¬ 
darins, which, when his tour is completed, will be 
a uuique and most interesting collection. He pro¬ 
poses to make a complete tour of the Australian 
colonies, and to pass through Eastern Asia (India 
and China,) finishing his long rumblings by a bold 
journey on foot through Russian Tartary back to 
his home. 
—-^ n ♦ ««♦-- 
SANDWICHES. 
Clerical rates —Curates. 
Uncommon sense—reticence. 
Even truth lies—at the bottom of a well. 
A favorite author with domestics—Cervant-es. 
Advice to a man with a pain in his stomach is, to 
wear a “ sash.” 
The fever of love is too often succeeded by the 
chill of wedlock. 
For what reasons does a fisherman blow his horn ? 
For sell-fish reasons. 
It is a mistake to suppose the sun is supported 
in the sky on its beams. 
A man who lives almost exclusively upon tick— 
The telegraph operator. 
Why is bread one of the necessaries of life ? Be¬ 
cause it is always kneaded. 
It Is a Greek proverb that “He who is about to 
many is on the road to repentance.” 
Punch thinks there is an obvious propriety in go¬ 
ing out lo dinner in a swallow-tail coat. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
WORDS AND DEEDS. 
BY KATE WOODLAND. 
A certain man unto his sons 
Came, in the olrlen lime, and said; 
“ Go, in my vineyard work to day, 
For pee, the fruit Is rlpa and red.” 
The first one said, “ l will not go," 
But afterward, repenting, went: 
The second said, “I go,” but lo I 
In idleness his hours were spent. 
And not unlike those sons of old, 
Are we, who through life’s vineyard stray, 
Where.want and suU’cring untold, 
Attend our footsteps day by day, 
The Father bids us labor here, 
’Till evening shades are closing dim. 
The heavy burdened aid and cheer, 
And bear the gathered fruit to Him. 
In costly church on velvet seats, 
With gilded bible clasped in hand. 
One goes each Sabbath and repeats 
“I go, sir.” answering the command. 
. Bnt when the hours of labor come, 
When want and misery throng his way, 
He shuts his eyes, is deaf and dumb, 
And idly glides the golden day. 
Another, scorning to deceive, 
And doubtful of his strength and power, 
Disdains the promised word to give: 
But when the shades of evening lower. 
The needy, sntl'ering. and sad 
Bring fortli for him a goodly spoil; 
Unnumbered weary hearts made glad, 
Bear witness to his loving toil. 
Oh idle words, and idler hands 1 
Of wbat avail is all your boast, 
In answering to your Lord's commands? 
He loveth best, who doi/h most. 
Not every one who crieth “ Lord,” 
Shall in llis Kingdom have a share; 
But they whose gentle deeds accord 
With perfect love, thrice blessed are. 
Van Buren Co., Mich. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
WHAT HAVE WE WRITTEN? 
The result of every word wc have uttered, of 
every line we have penned, and of every look or 
deed, is now beyond our influence. Each hour we 
may well call to mind the thought—“ What 1 have 
written, I have written!" No word can bo recalled. 
There stands the record either for or against us. 
How, as we look back through the past old year, 
does the page appear to us? Is it full of loving 
words, of looks and acts of kindness? Or is it blur¬ 
red and blotted by the promptings of a selfish heart? 
Du we see, along the backward track, a scattering 
of perfumed flowers ? Or do we find in the path of 
those wc loved a hedge of thorns which we have 
set, and which must be parted by tlieir torn hands, 
and pressed by their bleeding feet? 
If we have wounded or grieved by suspicion, 
hatred or revenge—if we have refused a word or 
a look of sympathy to a hungry or thirsty heart 
—if we have added one pang to a sorrowful soul, 
or clouded one ray of light from the eyes of 
another, or crushed still lower the unfortunate 
aud fallen—if we have slighted the poor, or neg¬ 
lected the old—if we have, by an angry or impure 
word, sullied the heart of some little child whom 
Jesus loves,— we have in these placed again the 
crown of thorns upon llis brow, have driven anew 
the nail3 through His hands and His feet, we have 
pierced llis side, and crucified, our Lord afresh. 
And now as the year has gone by, aud the page we 
have written therein, to our glory or our shame, is 
thrown back to us by Memory's unerring mirror, 
we hear a well-known voice saying, “ Inasmuch as 
ye did it unto the least of these, ye did it unto me.” 
Brooks' Grove, N. Y., Dec., 1867. a. a. r. 
--- 
PARDON FOR OMISSION. 
Dr. Samuel Johnson, in writing to his mother, 
says: — “ You have been, I think, the best mother in 
the world. I thank you for your indulgence to me, 
anil I beg forgiveness of all 1 have done ill, and all 
that I have omitted to do well.” 
8o in the prayer he composed at the same time: 
“Forgive me whatever I have done unkindly to 
my mother, and whatever I have omitted to do 
kindly.” 
There is a deep meaning in this. Our offenses 
against God and our fellow men are far greater in 
the omission of duties than in the commission of 
sins. Let any one think it over faithfully, and sec if 
the weight of condemnation does not rest there. 
And how much point in the expression—“omitted 
to do kindly.” Wc might often at least almost as 
well not speak the truth at all, as to speak it not in 
“ love; ” so it may often happen tlmt an act iu itself 
eminently proper, has a dreadful omission about it, 
simply because it is' not done kindly, What is 
charity, however bountifully bestowed, if sympathy 
be wanting? It was love that made the widow’s 
mite outweigh all the* riches given by others. 
Our prayer should be like the prayer of David, 
“Cleanse Thou me from secret faults.” 
GOLD DUST. 
In the United States Mint at Philadelphia, when 
the visitor reaches the gold-working room, the 
guide tells him that the singular floor is a net¬ 
work of wooden hare to catch nil the falling parti¬ 
cles of the precious metal. When the day’s labor 
is done the floor, which is in sections or parts, 
is removed and the gold dust is swept up, to be 
melted and coined. About §30,000 annually are 
saved in this way. 
Life’s highest improvements and success in this 
respect, like tire sweeping of the gold-room, depend 
on the “spare moments”—the careful use of the 
fragments. No worker for time and eternity ever 
reached high success without this wise economy, in 
which Christ gave us, by precept and example, the 
perfect illustration. 
Said Gen. Mitchell to an army officer who apolo¬ 
gized for a little delay:—“Only a lew moments; I 
have been in the habit of calculating the value of a 
thousandth part of a second." 
In wars, spiritual and temporal, in life and death, 
the golden sands of time decide great Issues; they 
have swelled the songs of heaven with grateful 
thanksgiving, and the lamentations of the lost with 
unavailing remorse.— ConyreyationaUst. 
An old Clergyman once said, “ When I come to 
die I shall have my greatest grief and my greatest 
joy; my greatest grief that 1 have done so little for 
the Lord Jesus, aud my greatest joy that the Lord 
Jesus has done so much for me.” 
riisilaP 
