Choice 
ancients“ A sound mind in a strong ooay: Ana 
if women desire to be a strong force in the world, 
let them take the first step to that end by obtaining 
more bodily strength. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
UP AND BE DOING. 
Written for Moore’s Rural Ncw-Yorkes 
A DOST CHIDD. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
32 EXPECTED. — A FRAGMENT, 
WOMEN AND MARRIAGE 
BT ILADEL 
I have speculated a great deal on matrimony. 1 
have seen young and beautiful women, the pride of 
the gay circles, married, as the world says, well. 
Some have moved into their costly houses, and their 
friends have all come and looked at their furniture 
and have 
and committed them to their sunny 
It is natural to 
Up and be doing—heeding the Master's 
“ Work in my vineyard while yet it is day 
Up and he doing—toiling and watching— 
Gathering the lessons that scatter Ihe way. 
Time never wearies, and life is uncertain, 
Death with his arrow is marking ns all; 
Up and he doing—our lamps trimmed and burning, 
Lest while we loiter the Bridegroom should call. 
Up and he doing—we who are bowing 
Low at the shrine of proud fashion and sin ; 
We who are seeking, with quick, eager footsteps, 
Pleasure's charmed circle that beckons us in 
Grasping for self the allurements of mammon; 
Rearing clay idols our pathway beside; 
Building all daily, on sandy foundation. 
Houses that glitter with splendor and pride. 
We who are writing—we who are reading— 
Will it he our? to receive the “Well done— 
“ Come and inherit—ye Mess'd of my Father- 
Faithful o'er little, the kingdom is won ?” 
Or ail too late bowed with trembling and mourning. 
“Ye slighted, scoffed me. and grieved me away; 
Oft called me Lout), yet ye did not my bidding— 
Depart, to the fires that will never allay!’’ 
Up and he doing—using probation— 
Winuing Ihe stars to bejewol our crown : 
Faithful, and loving, and kind, a«d forgiving. 
Treading temptations courageously down. 
Better to never have known the glad tidings. 
Than to turn backward to pleasure and sin; 
Up—that when death bears us near to the city, 
Through the gate Beautiful vve'il enter in I 
My little one, with eyes so bine, 
And tangled hair of golden hue. 
And restless hands that mischief seek, 
And roguish face with glances meek, 
Where is the nest from which tbou’rt flown, 
What, mother fond calls thee her own ? 
Srjmt one is surely'watching now 
For thee, and fondly thinking how 
The coming of thy little feet 
Will make more bright the dark’ning street; 
Oh little one. no longer roam 
From mother fond, and shelt'ring home. 
The city stretches far and wide, 
The cold, dark river’s cruel tide 
Might seize that lit tie dimpled form ; 
And mother dear, and fireside warm 
So cheery now. would he. at best, 
A stricken bird, an empty nest. 
Oh mother, clasp him to your breast, 
(A mother's arms—aweet place of rest!) 
So soon, so soon may come the day 
Bis feet thro’ darker paths will stray. 
More dangerous far tbau pathway wide 
That stretches by the river's side. 
Is (here a sharper, fiercer dart 
Than this, when cruel Death doth part 
From clinging arms your little child, 
Unheeding tears and anguish wild? 
And yet—alas! how many know 
A sharper pain, a fiercer woe! 
Oh mother-hearts, that vainly weep 
For little ones whom angels keep, 
’Tis not for earthly sight nr sense 
To see or know the Love intense 
That spared yon not this present pain. 
For them eternal joys to gain! 
Full safe the little forms that rest 
Within the heavenly fold, aud blest 
That angel hand whose infant feet 
Walk evermore the golden street: 
So safe, so blest, that we arc blind 
Who. tin)' bereaved, no comfort find. 
Yea, we are blind; we walk alone 
By faith, not sight, until we come 
To ace the things believed before, 
And Thy mysterious love adore, 
And know the bliss which they ve attained 
Who've borne the Cross, their Crown have gained 
I am waiting, I am longing, for the shining of the morn 
That shall light* my lover’s coming, though he comes to 
one forlorn. 
Oh, my heart it throbs so wildly when I think of that 
New Year, 
And the mask of his manly voice again I seem to hear 
As he clasped my baud with trembling, saying—“Will 
you be my Wife ?” 
And “I love yon better, truer, than I love my very life. 
Speak. 0 tell me. dare I press you on a joy o'erflowing 
heart ? 
Dare I whisper ‘mine forever, Death himself not long 
can part ?’ ” 
Then the tears of joy flowed swiftly, and I bowed my 
head and prayed 
Never o'er that warmth of feeling might there come a 
blighting shade. 
Ever on life's nigged pathway through the sunshine and 
the storm 
Still our hearts might beat as truly, still our love might 
burn as warm. 
Years of toil and years of travel since that day his faith 
have tried; 
Many countries he has wandered, now again he seeks my 
side. 
Bringing riches, bringing honors, and a heart as true as 
then. 
Dreaming of a blissful future, and of parting ne’er again! 
Ah 1 bright visions of fond lovers, in the golden days of 
youth, 
When the mirage of the Future looms before the bitter 
truth. 
Ye are like the foam of ocean, pure and gladsome, pass¬ 
ing fair. 
As we stretch our hands and grasp it, vanishing in empty 
air! 
Now a shadow darkens o’er me cast from out the cloud 
of Fate. 
And T hear a solemn summons—Death is knocking at the 
gate! 
Yes, the strength of health is failing—paleness sits upon 
my cheek— 
Yet once more, oh God ! permit me him to see, to hear 
him speak 1 
At the last sad solemn parting may my head lie on his 
breast,— 
May I feel his true heart beating as mine sinks to endless 
rest. 
I will tell him, when the day fades, and upon my grassy 
grave 
Balmy odors from the winds fall, and in darkness branches 
wave. 
In the loneliness of midnight , in the great mysterious sky, 
He shall hear familiar music and shall feel that I am nigh! 
and their splendid home for happiness, 
gone away 
hopes, cheerfully and without fear, 
be sanguine for them, as the young are sometimes 
carried away with similar feelings. 
I love to get unobserved into a corner and watch 
the bride in her white attire, aud with her smilidg 
face and soft eyes meeting me in the pride of life, 
weave a-waking dream of future, happiness, and per¬ 
suade myself that it will be true, 1 tliiuk how they 
will sit upon the luxuriant sofa as the twilight falls, 
and build guy hopes, and murmur in low tones the 
Dot now forbidden tenderness; and how thrilling 
the allowed kiss and beautiful endearments of wed¬ 
ded life will make even their parting joys, and how 
gladly they will come back from the crowded 
and empty mirth of the gay to each other’s quiet 
company. 
I picture to myself that young creature, who 
blushes even now at his hesitating caress, listening 
eagerly for his footsteps as the night steals on, wish¬ 
ing lie would come, and when he enters at last, with 
an affection as undying as his pulse, nestling upon 
his bosom. I can feel the tide that goes (lowing 
through the heart, and gaze with him upon the 
graceful form ns she moves about in the kind offices 
of affection, soothing all his unquiet cares, and ma¬ 
king him forget even himself in her young and un¬ 
shadowed beauty. * 
I go forward for years, and see her luxuriant hair 
put soberly away from her brow, and her girlish 
graces resigned into dignity and loveliness, chastened 
with the gentle meekness of maternal affection. Her 
husband looks on with a proud eye, and shows the 
same fervent love aud delicate attentions which first 
won her, and her fair children are grown about them, 
then the whittle blows shrilly and long; there is a 
rub-a-dub jolt of the car; the braketnan shouts out 
the name of a station, aud my pretty, fanciful pic¬ 
ture floats away as the old lady soliloquizes—" Half 
way there! ” 
In front of me there is a merry quartette of school 
girls. They’ve been enjoying vacation, and now are 
going back to boarding school and bllletdoux, les¬ 
sons and lovers, One has light hair, with a hit of 
gold in it, large eyes, deep with tenderness, and 
would make a proper heroine for a proper fashion¬ 
able novel. Another has fire in her eye, and scorn 
on the lip too young for knowing aught but loving 
and trustful kisses. They set me dreaming—these 
two—with only half-shut eyes, I dream out their 
young lives as they have been, with but the deep 
eyes and the scornful mouth to guide my fancy, and 
as they may be, with the tenderness and the scorn to 
shape them, Oue will make a heart and a home 
glad, sometime; and the other—ah! there is bitter¬ 
ness in scornful pride, and the scornful lips may 
taste it! ’T would be pleasanter to fancy otherwise, 
but I can't, somehow. Mayhap a kiss of love may- 
press the lips into winningness aud the heart into 
trust. Love can do much; can it do this V 
I close my eyes, and the monotonous hum of the 
iron wheels blends dreamily with the laughter of the 
school girls. Their lives and mine are forgotteu. I 
cut adrift from mortality, and glide out on the white 
sea that stretches away and away—whither ? I am 
in a light, airy shallop, that rides on without an 
effort. Around me are other shallops, and other 
sailors, and the balmy breezes that bear us on are 
full of intoxicating delight. If the shrill whistle 
sounds I hear it not. The murmurous Laughter be¬ 
comes softer aud sweeter,—the low humming 'inks 
down lower still,—my fancy is lost in a vague rnist, 
then the sharp cry of “Tickets! ” and a touch of the 
Conductor's hand bring me back to myself. I see 
the old lady gathering up her satchels and band¬ 
boxes, and volunteer to assist her off the car. But 
John comes in at that moment, and gives her a good, 
warm embrace, after which she is obliged to wipe 
her spectacles, — for they’ve grown dim, strangely 
enough. Then John takes his mother out; she 
shakes my hand, as she goes, ns my grandmother 
used to, and a care-worn little woman comes in, with 
a baby in her arms, and takes the old lady’s seat. 
The baby’s red. chubby fists drive me off on an¬ 
other journey of fancy. I trace its life out in many 
a way. I follow ii through a profession, or a trade, 
or under a home-roof, and wonder if the mother’s 
woru face wouldn’t light up a trifle did she know the 
bright future 1 am weaving for her first-born. The 
small edition of humanity laughs to itself, quietly. 
It has some railway faneic? I can’t even hope for. 
Perhaps I had them, sometime. But my baby travels 
were not extensive. Besides, they slid out of my 
memory when the baby teeth dropped out of my 
uneasy little jaws, If I could only think the little 
one’s thoughts! 
So I dream on. I feel thankful for railroads. They 
are dull, and dry, and tiresome, says my friend Dent. 
He is wrong. But then he doesn’t know about my 
fancies. He sees straight ahead always, and never 
looks around a corner of human nature. Another 
friend does better. 11c is somewhat of a poet. He 
writes his prettiest rhymes to the music of the train. 
It is an odd notion he has, that lie can write by steam 
easier than when sitting in his quiet, room at home. 
Consequently he journeys, and maybe you’ve read 
his railway fancies done in rhyme, even as you have 
read these prosy ones of mine. 
THE HIGHEST GOOD 
A valued correspondent of the Rural sends us 
these closing words of a lecture delivered to the 
students of Eastham College by Mahalah Fav, a 
worthy Quaker of Richmond, Indiana: 
“I would by no means represent intellectual cul¬ 
ture as the highest good. We have a better part, a 
nobler endowment than the faculties of the intel¬ 
lect—a higher destiny than to be well educated. To 
be virtuous is better than to be intelligent, aud to 
be good is the highest wisdom. Science does not 
unfold the faith by which the. Christian walks the 
troubled seas of life; learning gives not that hope 
which over ihe wreck of earthly joys sustains the 
sinking heart; knowledge cannot save the soul from 
sin, nor redeetn it from the consequences of trans¬ 
gression but for tin hope of salvatiou, for the 
gift of eternal life, the learned aud the ignorant 
must a lik e come to Jesus. Not on the mighty 
intellect, not on the tutored mind, but on the meek, 
the merciful, the pure in heart, did the Saviour pro- 
uounee the blessing. The way to holiness, and 
hope, and heaven, is lighted from above, uot from 
the human understanding. Jesus is himself ‘the 
way, the truth, and the light.’ The glad tidings of 
His love and mercy are to all—to those sunk in 
ignorance as well as to the learned. His offer of 
pardon, of salvation, of restoration to unity with 
the Eternal Father, is freely made to all the children 
of a fallen race, repentance and faith in Chiust be¬ 
ing the only condition of acceptance with Him. 
“But the goodness of our Heavenly Father has 
so framed oui iuental constitution, that there is no 
antagonism b ,itwc ' e 'n the intellect and the heart; 
but each is def el "Ped best when both are developed 
conjointly. Mn' see , the law giver, and Paul, the 
apostle, are examples where the highest intellectual 
training has been dedicated to tbe service of Goo- 
examples sufficient to show us that learning is not 
incompatible with humility and holiness, and that 
he who has reached its highest attainments may yet 
‘do justly, love mercy, aud walk humbly with his 
God.”’ 
I wonder how many girls tell their mother every¬ 
thing. Not those “ young ladies,” who. going to 
and from school, smile, bow and exehauge notes and 
carte* de >m>t, with young men who make fun of 
them and their pictures, speaking in a way that 
would make their cheeks burn with shame if they 
heard it. All this, most incredulous and romantic 
young ladies, they will do, although they gaze at 
your fresh, young faces admiringly, and send or 
give you charming verses and bouquets. No matter 
what “other girls” may do, don’t you do it. 
School-girl flirtations may end disastrously, as many 
a foolish, wretched young girl could tell you. Your 
yearning for some one to love is a great need of 
ever? woman’s heart. But there is a time for every¬ 
thing. Don’t let the bloom and freshness of your 
heart be brushed off In silly flirtatious. Render 
yourself truly intelligent. And, above all, tell your 
mother everything. Never be ashamed to tell her, 
who should be your best friend and confidante, all 
you think and feeL It is very strange that so many 
young girls will tell every person before “ mother,’ 
that which is most important that she should know. 
It is very sad that indifferent persons should know 
more about her own fair daughters than she does 
herself .—Fanny Fern. 
RAVELIN GS — NEW SERIES, 
WOMANLY STRENGTH 
NO. II-RAILWAY FANCIES. 
Next to a church,—for, after all, a church is the 
best place for dreaming. The sweetest fancies that 
ever made perfect bliss of a half hour have come to 
me while sitting in some dim old cathedral. There 
is a kind of dreamy spell on the very atmosphere in¬ 
side of hallowed walls. It wraps me in its charmed, 
intangible folds, aud bears me far out from all ordi¬ 
nary surroundings, The organ tones float away to a 
faint echo ; the solemn service becomes like a misty 
memory; the worshipers seem to have stolen out 
from their worshiping, and pleasant fancies flit be¬ 
fore me as I journey on in the beautiful paths we 
travel only when our coarser nature is asleep. 
Thos* are mysterious paths, albeit beautiful ones, 
and wc*are borne along them, sometimes on curious 
vehicles. A line of an old hymn has carried me many 
a year into the past,—out of the church walls and 
into a temple where the names of the dead are writ¬ 
ten on tear-stained bits of marble. A fragment of 
song lias wafted me on wings of melody over hills 
and through valleys, by gurgling brook* and beneath 
rustling tree - tops,— where all songs are but frag¬ 
ments, caroled out,—mere snatches caught from the 
grand oratorio of the great Master Composer. I have 
floated upon a few words of a prayer up, up, almost 
to the very door of Heaven, until I wanted to make 
the prayer my own and stay with it there forever! 
Blessed dreams of the sanctuary! Sweet, aud 
tender, and holy,—if only we could glide put of our 
hundreds of times before. Such being the case, it 
seems hardly worth while to print it, much as we 
should like to gratify the fair author. But there are 
certaiu “ inalienable rights” which woman possesses, 
that are not commonly treated of. The considera¬ 
tion of these we deem of great importance. Why 
do not the ladies write more about them ? 
The right to be physically strong iB woman’s, 
indisputably. It is her solemn dnty to claim it, 
and in all earnestness. "We know she neglects It, 
at times, and purposely, it is quite probable,—pur¬ 
posely because she foolishly imagines weakness is 
womanly, and feminine blood must never warm to 
a vigorous, lively flow. We have long thought to 
say a few words regarding this. Some one, how¬ 
ever, has spoken so terecly that, we cannot refrain 
from making his words our own, and only regret 
that we are unable to give the proper credit: 
Physical strength is a glorious thing. We are 
mocking 
we despise it. 
In a book recently published there is the follow¬ 
ing gossip about tbe ladies of one portion of South 
America:—“ The women of Quito are generally 
healthy in appearance, and many of them are quite 
handsome. The faces, however, always lack that, ex¬ 
pression which intellectual culture only can give, 
Their hair is almost always black aud coarse, and 
red hair is. very highly prized. Bonnets are hardly 
ever worn, and the ladies either go bareheaded, or 
with a soil of shawl covering the head, face, aud 
shoulders. Most of the women paint their faces and 
wear very gaudy dresses. They arc lazy and indo¬ 
lent, and the chief aspiration of a young lady iu Quito 
is to get a husband. When sire has accomplished 
that she resigns herself to indifference, taking care 
only not to excite the jealousy of her husband. The 
women generally read little but their prayer-books, 
aud their husbands are no better off' intellectually. 
There are about oue hundred and twenty pianos in 
Quito, but few women can play well, and those who 
sing, sing through the nose. The gnitar and the 
harp are great favorites. Married women are not 
known by their husbands’ names, and their visiting 
cards contain both their own names and those of 
their husbands.” 
LONG SERMONS 
A lawyer who often consumes three or four 
hours in arguing a question of law relating to the 
ownership of a barrel of apples, is indignant at his 
minister for exceeding twenty-five minutes iu uu- 
folding one of the great principles of morality, in 
observance of which the tolerable existence of so¬ 
ciety depends. The judge who tills two hours with 
his “opinion” on the right of the counsel to chal¬ 
lenge a witness, grumbles at his minister because 
he lias prolonged the discussion of fundamental 
laws of human progress to thirty minutes. The 
physician who takes ten minutes to prepare the 
medicine for a headache is nervously restive if his 
minister spends only twice as many in attempting 
to relieve a chronic heart ache. The belle who has 
spent — how long?—in adjusting the bows of her 
bonnet, is remorseless iu her criticisms on the min¬ 
ister who does not finish his meditations on the 
Fatherhood of God iu fifteen minutes. The fop 
who has combed, and stroked, aud perfumed, and 
waxed his beard and mustache for half an hour, is 
mortified past endurance if the poor minister is not 
through his discqssion of the immortal life “ inside” 
of twenty minutes. 
at God for one of his noblest gifts when 
The woman who can hold a twenty- 
pound weight on the palm of her hand, with her 
arm straight out from her body ; can row a boat or 
swim swiftly aud gracefully; or, better still, can do 
the kitchen work of a whole household, is more to 
be envied than Helen of Troy. It is better to be 
able to walk ten miles without fatigue, than to 
speak ten languages. A soul is of no account in 
this world without a body. The acquiring of all the 
physical strength in her power is certainly as much a 
woman’s duty as a man’s, and it is simply idiotic for 
her to talk of coping with man, in even the lightest 
employments, until she attends to this duty. Until 
she can walk a mile or so in stormy weather as in 
fair, let her not ask for herself the lighter kinds of 
manual labor. It is all nousense. 
Physical perfection is, iudeed, a glorious gift, but 
strength and beauty must exist together, or there 
can be uo perfection. A beautiful arm is lovely, 
but when a beautiful arm is also a strong arm, it is 
splendid. A beautiful woman i6 fair, tolft when her 
soul’s casket is full of electric life and power in 
every fiber, she is magnificent, There can be uo 
true physical beauty without strength. No beauty 
of soul, either, for that matter, unless one cau be 
crippled in the spine and t urn saint Without one’s 
joints in their normal condition, however, it is cer¬ 
tainly impossible to have a noble soul without also 
a good body. The good body outside must take 
care of the noble soul inside, and if there were no 
soul at all in the question, the body has still itself 
to provide for. The struggle for animal life is a bat¬ 
tle of material forces alone, and sickly women will 
never be a match against healthy men. Those ca¬ 
daverous, hysterieky creatures who seek to leave 
the old-fashioned sphere, may as well go back aud 
stay there. The working world has no call for them 
with their puny bodies. No matter how strong their 
wills are, they will prove but stumbling blocks to be¬ 
lievers. Take an average city girl, with her weak, 
white hands, her colds, her head-aches, her nervous¬ 
ness, her everlasting tendency to “burst into tears ” 
at any moment, and what does she amount to, even 
with a wealthy “Pa v ” What, then, will become of 
this helpless potato sprout when turned out to com¬ 
pete with an active, muscular boy 1 Poor little po¬ 
tato sprout! Who would be free must be strong. 
If the mothers of feeble girls would only allow them 
to become healthy instead of making them genteel 1 
It is a pleasure, In perusing the early annals of the 
Beecher family, to find that their father encouraged 
his sons and daughters to romp alike. Aud what a 
satisfaction it is to be able to read that “ little Har- 
the biggest romp of them all I And that 
Loud talking and screeching laughter are so pe¬ 
culiar to Americans that they are known by them in 
Europe, where the people, as well bred, never tolerate 
it. Even in the most social circles it is considered a 
mark of ill-breeding belonging only to the lowest 
class. 
Aside from this conventional protest agaiust it, 
there is a regular objection to it, in the injury it does 
to the vocal organs. Talking through an evening, at 
the top of the voice, is very painful and fatiguing, 
and yet the noise made by the whole company is so 
great that no one can be heard who speaks low, or in 
a natural tone. Many throats are made sore and 
many heads are made to ache by this unnecessary 
noise, and persons subject to bronchitis are obliged 
to avoid it entirely. 
In all European society the voices are kept lower 
than usual in large parties, and a general hum pre¬ 
vails, iu which every person is easily heard by those 
he addresses. The loudness of Americans is very 
marked, and produces disgust and indignation when 
it breaks the stillness of picture galleries aud other 
public places where nothing but whispers are ever 
allowed. When a loud voice is heard from an Amer¬ 
ican traveler every one is startled and looks round 
to see whence, it comes, agd the comments on this 
breach of good manners are very severe.— Northwest¬ 
ern Advocate. 
as the tones of a magic lute. Maybe it lulls me into 
dreaming with shut eyes, and senses closed to all 
around me. Perhaps it conjures up odd fancies that 
I see while I look at the pilgrim?. 
Railway fancies shift with strange rapidity. .Now 
they are sober, sentimental; now sad, tender; now 
grotesque, even ludicrous. They take color and tone 
mainly from ihe surroundings. A car full of people 
is wonderfully suggestive. What a combination of 
alms aud ambitious, of hopes and happinesses, of 
faiths and fears, of loves and longings! What a 
curious collection of outward movements and inward 
motives. What a rare museum of human nature, 
any way. 
—I believe in humau nature. I like to see all its 
developments. There’s a good deal of human nature 
iu a pig, somebody says, or else a good deal of pig in 
humau nature. But wherever I find it I greet it with 
a welcome. Sometimes I fancy the pig side of the 
humau is, on the whole, the most interesting. And 
that, you know, is seen to capital advantage in n car. 
A man has a right to be supremely selfish away from 
home. Of course. Judged by the standard of this 
right a large number of my acquaintances are away 
from home all their *tives 1 They cling to then' 
“ rights" on the road, and everywhere else, most 
tenaciously. They do valiant battle for them at 
hotels, on steamers, and in cam. They show the pig 
side of the human, admirably developed. 
The old lady with spectacles, who sits just to the 
right of me, is “going out to John’s,” she says, 
and is going alone. It’s a great undertaking. She 
talked, about it a whole mouth before she started,—I 
can that to a certainty. John wanted her to 
come, Jor he had been getting married and fixiug up 
a snug little home of his own, aud ’twouldn't seem 
just tla thing if mother didn’t come and stay awhile. 
Aud so the old lady starts me oil' in a pretty fancy 
with her little chance remark about her destination. 
John was always a good boy, 1 think. There’s a 
gratified smile around the old lady’s mouth, which 
means that she is a bit proud to have such a son to 
go an(i visit. When be went away from home she 
counted on his doing nicely, and gave him her small 
hoard of pocket money with her bible and her pray¬ 
ers, and has hoped and prayed for him ever since. 
Then he married a dear, good girl, to be sure, and 
Ladies sometimes do not value their husbands 
as they ought. They not unfrequently learn the 
value of a good husband for the first time by 
the loss of him. Yet the husband is the very 
roof-tree of the house—the corner-stone of the edi¬ 
fice — the key-stone of the arch called home. He is 
the bread-winner of the family — its defence aud its 
glory — the beginning and ending of the golden 
chain of life which surrounds it —its consoler, its 
lawgiver, and its king. And yet we see how frail is 
that life on which so much depends. How frail is 
the life of the husband and the father ! When he is 
taken away, who shall fill his place? When he is 
sick, what gloomy clouds hover over the house! 
When he is dead, what darkness, weeping agony! 
Then poverty, like the murderous assassin, breaks 
in at the window—starvation, like a famishing wolf, 
howls at the door. Widowhood is too often an asso¬ 
ciate of 6ackelotli and ashes. Orphanhood too often 
means desolation and woe. 
The First Twenty Years. —Live as long as we 
may, the first twenty years form the greater part of 
our life. They appear so when they arc passing, 
they seem to have been so when we look back to 
them. If this be so how important that they should 
be passed in planting good principles, cultivating 
good tastes, strengthening good habits, and fleeing 
from all those plasures that lay up bitterness and sor¬ 
row for the time to come! Take good care of the 
first twenty years of your life, and you may hope that 
the last twenty years will take good care of you. 
A Lazy Faith.— It is easy to trust the Lord in 
fair sailing, but there is sometimes a disposition to 
trust him in rough times, because it is easier to do 
that than to lay hold of the oar and try to right 
matters. Things go awry, but the man folds his 
hands in a pious way and says to his wife, “Let us 
commit our cares to the Lord," and takes great credit 
to himself for his resignation. There is a laziness of 
faith which must be very abominable in the sight of 
our Father. To appreciate the untoward event, to 
measure out unstintedly all one’s strength in the 
effort to retrieve the loss, and then, if unsuccessful, 
to lay an untroubled heart into the keeping of the 
Lord—that is the blessedness of true trust. 
As Ouk Mothers Do.—The other evening three 
little girls were playing among the sage bushes in 
the back yard. Two of them were “making believe 
keep house” a few yards distant from each other— 
neighbors as it were. One of them says to the third 
little girl:—“There, now, Nellie, you go to Sarah’s 
house, and stop awhile and talk, and then yon come 
back and tell me what she says about me; and then 
I’ll talk about her; then you go and tell her all I 
say, aud then we’ll get mad and wont speak to each 
other, just like our mothers do, you know. Oh 
that’ll he such fun.” 
Near the Heart.— We should keep our senti¬ 
ments near the heart. When we accustom the 
heart to love what exists but for the mind, we have 
no ties but to abstraction, and to these we readily 
sacrifice realities. When we give so much love to 
men in the gross, we have none left to distribute iu 
detail: all our good-will has been expended On the 
mass—individuals apply too late. These philosophi¬ 
cal affections, which are not entertained without 
effort, dry up and destroy our capacity for loving. 
beet” was 
other Harriet, over there at Rome, (Harriet Hos- 
mer, the artist,) she whoso name is mentioned in 
the papers now and then, in her childfibod was that 
horror of all modem mothers, a regular tom boy. 
One would not mind having a few more Harriets, 
even though they were every ene romps. For all 
human excellence of what nature 6oever, depends 
upon the application of that golden saying of the | happiness. 
Age and Youth. —A writer in the Atlantic, phi¬ 
losophizing on the continual rouud of decompositiou 
and recomposition going on in physical nature, ar¬ 
rives at the conclusion that nothing is old but the 
mind. He might have said, with equal truth, no¬ 
thing is new but the mind’s manifestations; for men¬ 
tal developments are often as novel as varied. 
Prayer is the key of the day. and the lock of the 
night. And we should every day begin and end, bid 
ourselves good-morrow and good-night with prayer. 
This will make our labor prosperous, and our rest 
sweet. — Lord Berkeley. 
