Choice |UijSccUang 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
NEW YEAR’S NIGHT. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE PHASES OF WOMAN. 
BY J. G. WHITTLES, 
BT W. T. COGGESHALL 
I know not what the future hath 
Of marvel or surprise, 
Assured alone that life and death 
His mercy underlies. 
And. if my heart and flesh are weak 
To bear ah untried pain, 
The bruised reed He will not break, 
Bur strengthen and sustain. 
t I 
No offering of my own I have, 
Nor works my faith to prove; 
I can bat give the gifts He gave, 
And plead His love for love. 
And so beside the Silent Sea 
I wait the muffled oar; 
No harm from Him can come to me, 
On ocean or on shore. 
I know not where His islands lift 
Their fronded palms in air; 
I only know 1 cannot drift 
Beyond His love and care. 
O brothers, if ray faith is vain, 
If hopes like these betray, 
Pray for me that my feet may gain 
The sure and safer way. 
And then. O Lord, by whom are seen 
Thy creatures as they be, 
Forgive me if too close I lean 
My human heart on Thee. 
Twas “ New Year's Night"—the wind blew cold. 
The window shutters rattled loud, 
White on tiie street the swinging sign 
Creaked hoarse above the passing crowd. 
The requiem of the dying year 
The wind is shouting thus, I said; 
The poor old year; its end draws near. 
’Twill soon be numbered with the dead. 
Seated before the open grate, 
I watched the embers bnrnitig low, 
Whose flickering light quaint shadows made 
That spectral-!ike moved to and fro. 
And as I watched T dozed awhile, 
And in my dreams strange fancies came, 
As when 1 watched the glowing pile, 
So filled they still my teeming brain. 
I dreamed the old years passed away, 
In ghastly garb as from the dead; 
Before me passed In close array. 
With solemn mien and measured tread. 
And with them mem'ries of the past 
Of shadowy shape kept time and step, 
While buried hopes cairn- trooping fast. 
From out the graves where they had slept. 
The joys and hopes Of vanished years. 
All helped to swell the phantom train; 
And looking through niv blinding tears, 
I seemed to live my life again. 
Ah me 1 T thought, bow sad to know, 
That after all ’twas but a dream; 
And so awoke to watch again 
The dying embers fitful gleam, 
And listen, while the night, wind blew. 
And hoarser creaked the 6ign, and loud, 
While noisier yet the shutters grew 
As onward surged the merry crowd. 
New Brunswick, N. J. 
I saw her. a bright and a lovely thing, 
As she press’d t he lips that taught her, 
Like a rose-bud nnrsed in the lap of Spring.— 
She bloomed, and T called her "daughter.'' 
Again I gazed as she passed along, 
And a brother smiled and kissed her; 
With her ringing laugh, and her witching song, 
’Twas a joy to call her "sister." 
I saw her again in her queenly pride, 
As a rapturedtlover claimed her; 
She stood at the altar, his brilliant bride. 
And his charming " wife" he named her. 
I saw her a matron, in riper years. 
When she clasped t.o her heart another: 
It lay and gazed on her grateful tears,— 
Then smiled and called her "mother 
I saw her last as she passed away. 
With her household bending ’round her; 
A convoy came front the realms of day-, 
And an "Angel" form they found her. 
O let me repose upon woman’s breast; 
Let her lap in childhood hold me; 
And in ripe old age, when 1 sink to rest, 
May her guardian arms enfold me. 
Oxford, Ga. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
GETTING THE BABY TO SLEEP 
Written for Moore's Rural N'ew-Torkes 
“GLAD TIDINGS.” 
“ I declare,” exclaimed Mrs. Smith, fretfully, 
“it’s high time Tommy had his nap; and I don’t see 
how I can stop, either, hut I must, or he will be 
cross all the afternoon.” 
So resolutely turning her back on the work, she 
caught the little yawning subject, and seating herself 
in an arm chair began, as if from habit, to rock and 
sing,— 
“ From Greenland’s icy mountains, 
From India's coral strand.” 
The time had been when site always sang at her 
work. She had been too many years a farmer’s wife 
for that, now, and often at night when she sat down 
to get little Tom my to sleep her husband would ask,— 
“ Lucy, why don't you sing to him ?— he likes music 
and will go to sleep a great deal quicker if you do,” 
before she recollected that she could sing. 
But to-day she sang as a matter of business to get 
him off her hands us quickly as possible, but seem¬ 
ingly all in vain, His little eyelids refused to close, 
not a sound was lost on his ear, and to her imagi¬ 
nation every noise was louder than usual. Just as 
she began to hope that he was forgetting himself 
down dropped the tongs, and with a start up came 
the little head from her shoulder, wide awake again. 
Mrs. Smith changed his position and began another 
Lymn, when presently tramp, tramp, eaine the boots 
of Johnny, the little tive-year-old, with “Where’s 
my ball, mu V” in his shrillest key. His mother made 
despairing gestures at him to keep quiet, which lie 
It was night in far-off Judea. The evening winds 
had murmured their low, sweet cradle-song to 
the quivering forest-leaves, and they were hushed 
to rest Hours, agone, the flowers, drooping their 
bright heads, whispered “good night,” and now the 
pearly dew-drops lay on their pure, faces,—on the 
still air there- came no sound save the murmur of 
Kedron s waters, as they glided along to their-home 
in the. silent sea. The city lay like a bushed infant, 
cradled among the hills, and above its silent towers 
the full moon rose in splendor, its rays fulliug like 
an angel's benediction over all, while out on the 
plains tin- Jewish shepherds watched their flocks as 
was their wont to do, ever and anon, with faces 
upturned to the blue midnight-sky, they pondered 
starry mysteries. 
But look! beyond the walls and towers of Beth¬ 
lehem, far away in the eastern sky, a wondrous 
light appears,—brighter and brighter it glows, its 
heavenly radiance dimming the silvery shequ of 
moonlight, and a look of strange surprise and fear 
passes over those honest peasant faces. Yet list! 
Strains of heavenly music quiver on the still night- 
air, like sweet melody from harps of gold, and from 
angel-lips drops the new song of “peace on earth, 
good will to men,” as the heavenly host walk the 
shining pathway. What wonder human lips are 
mute, and htmiau faces pale with fear at the celes¬ 
tial glory! 
Yet listen 
THEY WON’T TROUBLE YOU LONG. 
Children grow up—nothing on earth grows so 
fast as children. It was but yesterday, and that lad 
was playiug with tops, a buoyant boy. He is a 
man, and gone now! There is no more childhood 
for him or for us. Life has claimed him. When a 
beginning is made, it is like a raveling stocking; 
stitch by Stitch gives way till all are gone. The 
house has uot a child in it—there is no more noise 
in the hall—boys rushing in pell-mell; it is very 
orderly now. There are no more skates or sleds, 
bats, balls or strings left scattered about. Things 
are neat enough now. There is no delay for sleepy 
folks; there is no longer any task, before you lie 
down, of looking after anybody, and tucking up 
the bedclothes. There are no disputes to settle, 
nobody to get off to school, no complaint, no 
importunities for impossible things, no rips to 
mend, no Angers to tic up, no faces to he washed, 
or collars to be arranged. There was never such 
peace in the house! It would sound like music to 
have some feet to clatter down the front stairs! Oh 
There was completed in the beautiful city of New 
Haven, Conn., last summer, close by the time-w«m 
structures of Yale College, a building designed ex¬ 
pressly as a School of Fine Arts. It will in future 
add another to flic numerous attractions that may 
be found in and around the “City of Elms." The 
objects in establishing such an Art School, are, to 
foster a love and study of art, and to further these 
by gathering together a splendid collection of paint¬ 
ings, statuary and other artistic articles. Yale has 
long possessed many excellent works of art, and 
these have of course been placed in the new building, 
Others are being added from time to time. 
We give above an illustration of a life-size statue 
of Ruth, a new and valuable contribution to the 
collection, which was placed in the north gallery not 
long since. It is the work of Mr. G. IV Lombard of 
Rome, and was presented to the Art School by Mr. 
William Tuompson. Among the female characters 
treated of in the Old Testament none are more touch¬ 
ing and beautiful than Ruth, the gentle Moabitcss, 
in her clinging, trustful love; and she furnishes a 
very suggestive study for the artist. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker, 
“NO TIME.” 
BY ELIZA WOODWORTH 
those toiling sons and daughters of Adam feel 
I obliged to remain at home, where one may find 
them cither driving with immense zeal at somewhat 
that might easily be omitted altogether, or, at the 
worst, he committed to less valuable brains, or 
dawdling over endless little bits of work. 
Why, I know a young lady who, during a whole 
winter, scarcely left the house because she had so 
much Crochet-work on hand! To be sure, by spring 
she had a goodly number Of tidies, lamp-mats and 
triangular yokes, aud in a pleasing variety, too, of 
materials and colors; for she had cord, and thread, 
and zephyr, Berlin wool, and Shetland in white, red, 
blue, buff and so ou. But, alas! their owner’s 
cheeks had very little of any color iu them, and in 
the sweet spring weather she needed to pay in doc¬ 
tors’ nauseous bills a.« much money an would have 
bought a whole trnukful of performances in crochet. 
Of course, she is one of those j 
again! One with shining wings has 
drawn near, mid .with love-beaming eyes resting on 
wondering shepherds, whispers, “fear not, for be¬ 
hold I bring you glad tidings of great joy, which 
shall be to all people.” Glad tidings! falling like 
holy dew from the pure fountain of God’s eternal 
love, baptizing with a “great joy” the hearts of 
these humble .shepherds, and forever hallowing the 
plains of Judea, And quivering along, over the 
white cliff- of the eternal years, the blessed tidings 
come to u.-; and softly floating iu and out amidst 
the glad ringing of the Cluistmas-bells, a heavenly 
voice murmurs as iu the olden time, “peace ou 
earth, good will to men.” 
Aud not alone on 
stream the rays of divine g 
Edinonia Lewis is a little American girl, scarcely 
twenty-two years of age, bom in Greenbush, oppo¬ 
site Albany, on the Hudson, of Indian and negro 
parentage, and bearing in her face the characteristic 
types of her origin. In her coarse but appropriate 
attire, with her black hair loose, and grasping in her 
tiny hand the chisel with which she does not diB- 
dain — perhaps with which she is obliged —to work, 
and with her large, black, sympathetic eyes brimful 
of simple, unaffected enthusiasm, Miss Lewis is un¬ 
questionably the most interesting representative of 
our country in Europe. Interesting, uot because 
she belongs to a contemned and hitherto oppressed 
race, which labors under the imputation of artistic 
incapacity, because she lias already distinguished 
herself in sculpture—not, perhaps, in its highest 
grade, acceord i ng to the accepted canons of the art, but 
in its naturalistic, not to say tlis most pleasing tone. 
r-ions who never 
have any “time.” She is always hurried about- some 
tittle Insignificance. When she is married matters 
will wax worst and worse, and she will probably 
bring up the whole of her children to he ” no-time” 
people. This i>> indeed, the common way in which 
that race is kept up. The disorder appears to be 
hereditary, although occasionally it will break out 
in an eetray member of a sensible family. It is also 
seldom cured, but afflicts the individual during the 
whole term of his or her natural life. Whether such 
persons will ever get any leisure in a future state of 
eastenee is questionable, although we know that 
eternity is very long— 
u On-stretching through Immensity.” 
Now 1 lay it down as a rule that the hardest work¬ 
ing people have the least time. I know it sounds 
paradoxical, but it is a truth. By hard-working 
people I do not mean what are commonly called 
laboring-folk—those who earn their living by the 
sweat of their brow. Dear, no! When their daily 
stint of ten bourn is past, their work is done and 
they know it. If they are uot too tired they can 
then actively enjoy themselves, and if they are, they 
can rest. The hardest working person whom 1 ever 
knew was my friend H. He was worth his thou¬ 
sands; no one to care for hut himself and wife; 
large farm, beautiful house, and capital “stock.” 
What a stfiam-engine life he made of it! Out all 
day driving about his men; beginning in the. early 
spring, superintending the building of a stone wall 
around some remote field, or the digging of a drain 
through a worthless piece of land which might as 
well have remained in natvra ; and then on, with 
one refrain of work, w’ork, work, through the entire 
year. In the long winter evenings, while his meu 
were telling merry stories over their apples iuul nuts 
in the kitchen, he wa« hard at work over his ac¬ 
counts, and when, occasionally, these were finally 
finished, and there was a chance at last for a little 
rest, he would with great toiling' write a little 
article on “sheep,” or “clover,” or “cows,” for 
his Agricultural paper. He never had any “ time;” 
those pleasant plains now 
lory;—other eyes have 
seen the wondrous star iu the east, other cars than 
those of Israel have listened to the thrilling story 
of the babe of Bethlehem-Judah; and the ignorant, 
the poor and lowly ones, with the wise and great, 
have drawn near, and kneeling at the feet of Him 
who lay in the manger, have felt the touch of the 
healer. Last night again the herald came, and hi the 
pale moonlight wrote amidst the treasures of the 
frost and snow that gleamed upon the breast of the 
sleeping earth, “peace, good will.” Another 
Christmas dawn has wafted up to the great white 
throne holy incense from the unnumbered altars 
that the angel of the snow had made white and 
pure for the sacrifice. From hill and valley where 
the “ light’ lias shone, the matiu-prayer goes up to 
the Eternal, the blue sky looks bluer, and seoms 
to bend more lovingly above its white-robed child, 
than is its wont to do,—while stealing o’er the far- 
off hills and thro the valleys, come the glad chimes 
that tell the anniversary of the Saviour's birth, and 
softly from out the clear, eternal depths above drops 
the answer, “Glory to God in the highest, on earth 
peace, und good will towards men.” 
Gently falls the echo on distant shores that have 
never thrilled with the glad music of Christmas 
morning bells. Ou towering mountain and in pur¬ 
ple valley, where idol-shadows have crept in dark 
lines over waving palm and lovely flower, the 
blessed voice whispers as it did so long' ago over 
moonlit Judea, the news of the Messiah's birth; 
—then softly floats along on the perfumed air, 
lower, still lower, uutil it dies away iu prophetic 
murmurs ou the coral strand; and now the sleeping- 
shells have heard it, and above a saluted Judsox’8 
tomb the waves have caught the whisper;—ucarer, 
yet nearer, it comes, until the white-robed priest¬ 
hood of the sea clasp hands and kneel upon our 
Christian shores, aud the low, sweet, murmur has 
become a swelling anthem, that bursts upon the 
hallowed uir, mingled with the refrain, “glad tidings 
unto all people.” 
Have you not heard it, dear reader? And you, oh 
dwellers in loving homes, as ye sat last night by 
your happy firesides, and watched ’mid the light 
that lay around your hearthstones, the gleaming of 
young, brown and golden hair, aud as ye listened 
to the fairy laughter, did you not hear the herald’s 
call come pealing across the snow, and did you not 
kuow home-voices were all echoing it? And you, 
oh weary wanderer, have you not heard the silver 
chiming? Away down in some dim, forgotten aisle 
in your heart, did you not hear a low, sweet mur¬ 
mur like the echo of far-off anthems, tenderly 
burdened with the words so old, so blessed—“Be 
glad, be glad?” Grace G. Slocgh. 
Dee. 25,18(57 
DON’T WHIP THEM 
Mothers don’t whip them 1 Treat God’s lambs 
tenderly. Compel obedience, but not with the rod. 
The other evening the maternal face appeared at the 
door of a pleasant little home I had often noticed, 
and loudly ordered a little lad of three or so to 
“ come in, and see if she did not do as she said she 
would.” The mother in her wrath at being dis¬ 
obeyed, re-entered tin* house, not hearing the little 
one’s sobbing explanation that be had stepped out¬ 
side to fetch the baby in. Directly the blows and 
piteous cries fell upon my ears. Undoubtedly the 
liltlcone had gone beyond the prescribed bounds; 
but it was to bring the wee toddling thing inside, 
wfio, as yet heeded not commands, however harshly 
given, and his full heart and meager use of words 
withheld the power of explanation, Poor little man, 
how my heart ached for him ! Kisslcss and sad he 
went to his bed. 
Mothers, do not whip thorn! Do not yourselves 
make shadows in the sunlight with which God always 
surrounds children. Do not let them be lulled to 
sleep by the falling of their tears, or by tlieu- own 
sad sobs and sighs. For pleasanter it is, when you 
go to tuck them in at night, to find pink feet on the 
pillow, dimpled knees in air, toys yet in embrace, 
and smiles on their sweet mouths. Yourselves bear 
in mind their last words, “If I should die before I 
wake." Treat them tenderly. I took my little man 
a shol-gun to-night, and, handing it over the gate, I 
said, “Now will you mind your mamma, and stay 
inside when she tells you?” I am sure the “me 
will” was very sincere; but if they forget, bear with 
them. If childhood’s days cannot be free from sor¬ 
row, surely none ever may.— Selected. 
OUR SPICE BOX, 
It is now winter, dead winter. Desolation and 
silence reign in the fields; no singing of birds is 
heard, no humming of insects. The streams mur¬ 
mur no longer; they arc locked up in frost. The 
trees lift their naked boughs like withered arms into 
the bleak sky, the green say no longer rises in their 
veins; the flowers and the sweet-smelling shrub? 
arc decayed to their roots. The sun himself looks 
cold and cheerless; he girts only light, enough to 
show the universal desolation. Nature, child of 
God, inu.urne for her children. A little while ago 
and she rejoiced in her offspring; the rose spread its 
perfume upon the gale; the vine gave its fruit; her 
children were springing and blooming around heron 
every lawn and every green bank. 0 Nature, beauti¬ 
ful Nature, beloved child of God! why dost thou sit 
mourning and desolate? Has thy Father forsaken 
thee? Has he left thee to perish? Art thou no 
longer the object of his care ? 
To curb a fast young man—bridle him. 
What is the key-note of good breeding ? B natural. 
The new moon reminds one of a giddy girl, because 
she’s too young to show much reflection. 
What would this world be without a woman ? A 
perfect blank—like a sheet of paper—not even ruled. 
Hans, who is a judge of morals as well as money, 
says that being tender to another man’s wife is not a 
“legal tender.” 
Pride and opulence may kiss in the morning as a 
married couple; but they are likely to be divorced 
before sunset. 
A little boy being asked what meekness was, 
replied, “Meekness always gives smooth answers 
to rough questions.” 
“ Marriage, ” 6aid an unfortunate husband, “is 
the churchyard of love.” “ And you men,” replied 
the not less unhappy wife, “ are the grave-diggers.” 
Some men are like eats, You may stroke the fur 
the right way for years, and hear nothing but purring. 
But accidentally tread ou the tail, and all memory of 
kindness is obliterated. 
A yodno lady at school, engaged in the study of 
grammar, was asked if kiss was a common or proper 
noun. The girl blushed deeply us she replied in a 
low tone;—“ It is both proper and common.” 
A poor fellow protested to His girl in the hay-field 
that his two eyes hadn’t come together all night for 
thinking about her. “ Very likely they did not,” 
replied the sweet plague of his life, “ for 1 see your 
nose is still between them." 
The present bishop of Amiens, a pious but face¬ 
tious man, was lately requested by a lady for permis¬ 
sion to wear rouge. The lady’6 character was half 
coquettish, half devotional. “I can give you per¬ 
mission, madam, for one cheek only." 
An editor says his attention was first drawn to 
matrimony by the skillful manner in which a pretty 
girl handled a broom, whereat a brother editor says 
the manner in which his wife handles a broom is not 
so very pleasant. Whereat we say its very pleasant 
to see a girl handle a broom at all! It shows some 
energy. 
Better bow your head than break your neck. 
A sake robbery is not always a safe operation. 
A sanctified heart is better than a silver tongue. 
The gayest smilers are often the saddest weepers. 
Adversity is a good teacher. It teaches wisdom, 
What should a man do when his boots leak ? Take 
to his pumps. 
What is higher aud handsomer when the head is 
off? A pillow. 
“ I am transported to see you,” as the convict said 
to the kangaroo. 
Why has a clock a bashful appearance ? Because it 
keeps its hands before its face. 
What is that which people wish to have, and then 
wish to get rid of? A good appetite. 
No man is ever indifferent to the world’s good 
opinion until he has lost all claim to it. 
If ail meu knew what others said of them there 
would uot be four friends in the world. 
A person who is considered landless has some¬ 
times two or three achers in his mouth. 
“ If all the world were blind, what a melancholy 
sight it would be! ” said an Irish clergyman. 
It isn’t pleasant to be in the company of persons 
who are only what a sandwich should be—half-bred. 
Rev. Dr. Chapin says that a man, living in the 
activities of the nineteenth century, is a condensed 
Methusaleh. 
A dancer once said to Socrates, “You cannot 
stand on one leg as long as I can.” “ True,” replied 
the philosopher, “ but a goose can.” 
Female Attire.—I f women would only let their 
own hair be just bound down as a natural covering 
to their heads when out of doors, would clothe their 
bodies sensibly without pinching themselves into 
hideously unnatural shapes, would wear well-shaped 
boots in which they might walk comfortably and 
taste the pleasures of exercise, there would soon bo 
an end to that representative class of the female sex 
about whom doctors know a great deal. The race 
of chlorotic girls, of ailing wives and inefficient 
mothers, would be improved. The scrofulous, con¬ 
sumptive. dyspeptic, pimpled women who crowd 
the physicians’ waiting-rooms, and swallow every 
advertised remedy from Fan’s pills to Pancreatic 
emulsion, would no longer need medicine.— Lancet, 
A Happy Home.—“S ix things,” says Hamilton, 
“are requisite to create a happy home. Integrity 
must be the architect, and tidiness the upholster. 
It must be warmed by affection, and lighted with 
cheerfulness, and industry must bo the ventilator, 
renewing the atmosphere, aud bringing in fresh 
salubrity day by day; while over all, as a protecting 
glory [and canopy, nothing will suffice except the 
blessing of God.” 
An item is going the rounds which says that the 
oldest couple in Ohio are Mr. and Mrs. Boyd, at Iron- 
ton. He is 110, and she 107. They quarrel every lit¬ 
tle while, and threaten to obtain divorces. The other 
day the dame refused to sew on a shirt button for 
her spouse, when he indignantly inquired “if he had 
got to live so all Ms life." 
