■y—■» 
SI'S 
qravtiucut 
THE LADY’S DREAM. 
bv TnoMAg hood, 
Alas t T have waded through life, 
Too heedless where I trod; 
Nay, helping to tr."*nple my fellow worm, 
And fill the burial sod— 
Forgetting that even the sparrow falls 
Not unmarked of God 1 
I drank the richest draughts; 
And ate whatever was good— 
Fish and fle-sh and fowl and fruit, 
Supplied by hungry mood; 
But I never remembered the wretched ones 
Thai etarve for want of food! 
I dressed as the nobles drops, 
In cloth of silver and gold, 
With silk and - ;*ln and costly furs, 
In many an nple fold ; 
But 1 never membered the naked lambs 
That fro? with Winter’s cold! 
The won - I might have healed 1 
The b tan sorrow and smart! 
And yc - it never was in my bouI 
To play so ill a part; 
But evil is wrought by want of thought 
As well as want of heart I 
She clasped her fervent hands, 
And the tears hegau to stream. 
Large and hitter and fast they fell. 
Remorse was so extreme— 
And yet, oh. yet. that many a dame 
Would dream the Lady’s Dream 1 
-- 
IN TRIBULATION. 
The following letter has excited our deepest 
sympathy: 
“ Dear Mr. Rural I take it for granted that yon are 
a good and benign old gentleman, or you could not have 
published so valuable and useful a paper as the Rural 
New-Yorker for 60 many years, May blessings gutber 
around your pathway, and may your subscription list 
grow longer every hour. Now will yon please take off 
your glasses, and also the pen from behind your cat, 
and give mu your attention for jnst a moment or two? 
“ I will begin by telling you that r am a woman, not of 
the strong-minded sort, hut rather the reverse. If I were 
a little stronger-minded, perhaps I would have had no 
occasion to dist ress your kind heart by this tearful recital 
of mine. As Spring approaches come my troubles also. 
2 have a passionate love for a beautiful yard, tilled with 
choice flowers and shrubs, and my dear husband has a 
passionate love for lambs, calves, pigs, sheep, &c.; and 
he thinks they are a much prettier ornament to a yard 
than flowers, and for my life 1 cannot convince him to the 
contrary. I have had shrubs and climbers from Frost’s, 
rare evergreens and flowers from Ei.lwancer & Barry’s. 
bulbs and seeds from Vick’s, and many more from other 
quarters; but they are things of the past, and I mourn 
for them as Rachel mourned for her children, ’because 
they are not..’ The bleat of a lamb or the grunt of a pig, 
be it ever so ’cunning,’ sends au unpleasant shiver all 
over me and T shall never like the anunuls agaiu. 
u Because they were too tender to he put in the pasture 
with the flock of sheep and other lambs. I had seven of 
the little wooly darlings in the yard during the greater 
part of one summer, and mv heart, still bleeds to think of 
the havoc thoymade amongst, my shrubs, and especially 
the roses. The tender grass was no temptation at all so 
long as there was a shrub or rose sprout left. The little 
Tillains would climb racks and verandas with the agilitv 
of a cat. My husband wonld stand by with the greatest 
complacency and admire his pets with the eye of a con¬ 
noisseur. and if my indignation would boil over occasion¬ 
ally all the satisfaction T would get would he: 
“‘Now, Polly, dear, if yon would only study Pathol¬ 
ogy, Patliognoniy. Physiology. Daman Nature. &c., &c„ 
you would take these thing? more philosophically. Now, 
one of these lambs is worth more than all the roses and 
posies you could crowd in this yard. Just, look at that 
beauty there. Polly— the one nibbling at that white moss 
rose. Well, that lamb is a fortune in itself, I am exceed¬ 
ingly sorry, Polly, that you make such un ado about 
trifles, especially when those lambs' welfare is of so much 
importance.' 
“With that he would walk into the house with the air 
of a deeply injured man. 8o, you see, I was powerless, 
•unless, indeed. I could have been heartless enough to 
pour melted lead into the little wretches’ ears, which I 
was often tempted to do —especially when Pathology. 
Pathognumy, Physiology, Human Natnrc, &c.. &c,. were 
dinged into my ears I could never enter a complaint but 
all those ‘ologics’ would he paraded before me like so 
many accusing angels. 
“ Since that summer, calves, pigs and sheep have pray.. 
«i, browsed and fellow-biped together lovingly, and the 
yard ha? become a sort of hospital for wheezy laiuhs and 
weak and sickly sheep, with now and then a colt thrown 
in With every spring comes the yearning for flowers 
and the desire to work among them; but just as often 
my labor is in vain. Are there any of your lady readers 
who are or have been similarly afflicted ? And if so, can 
they point out a remedy, aside from the knowledge of 
Pathology. Pathognomy, Physiology, Human Nature, &c., 
Ac. ? If they can, they will confer a lasting favor on 
yours, trnly afflicted, Polly.” 
We took olT our glasses and listened to “ Poi-ly” 
very benignly indeed. A woman’s voice is always 
sweet to us, and particularly so when there are 
tears in it. If we were “Pollt’s” husband we 
do not see how we could possibly let the lambs 
and the pigs devastate the yard so : her tender 
appeals would move us to compassion. And now, 
if we knew her husband we would put on our 
spectacles and our most austere look, and read 
him a pointed lecture. Our subject would be 
mainly Yard-ology, though we might be tempted 
to speak of Palh-ology sufficiently to show him how 
bad a path he walks in, and of Human Nature with 
a desire to convince him that his nature is intensely 
selfish and needs looking to. We should paint a 
picture of his home aarit ought to be, with a beau¬ 
tiful yard around it, where flowers blossom and the 
air is redolent with sweetness, and then let him see 
it as it is, a perfect libel ou the name of home. 
We would say to him “ Do not seek to starve 
out your wife’s good taste because you have none 
and therefore cannot appreciate it. Because your 
imagination only sees a solid ‘ porker,’ worth ten 
dollars per hundred, in the pig that squeals about 
the front door, do not laugh at your very much 
better half for seeing beauty and delight in flower 
beds which the prospective ‘porker’ will utterly 
destroy if you don’t drive Mm out and put up the 
fence. Sheep and calves are good—in the field. 
They look far better there, in the estimation of 
every sensible individual, than they do playing on 
your veranda.” 
Having said this we should continue—but we 
forget; we do not know the good man, and, be¬ 
sides, this is the Ladies’ column, and lectures to 
the other sox arc not here in order. We can there¬ 
fore merely repeat our expression of sympathy’ with 
“Polly,” and trust that “Pollys” everywhere 
will join us in that expression. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
INDEPENDENT. 
BY MRS. H. M. LINCOLN. 
Independent ? Yes, I am. Afraid of Mrs. Grun¬ 
dy? Certainly I’m not. Think you I’m going to 
carry a ton’s weight of waterfalls and chignons on 
my head jnst to please her? 
She frowns, and fusses, and gives me one of her 
significant glances, as much as to say, “ Not dress¬ 
ed in style! How dare you thus displease me,—/ 
for whose approval Mrs. So-and-Bo tortures her¬ 
self? How dare you leave your hair as you please, 
instead of arranging it in those graceful chignons, 
and switches, and butter-pats that /, Mrs. Grundy, 
sanction? How dare you,” she imperiously de¬ 
mands, “ leave your waist as God fashioned it, in¬ 
stead of conforming it to my improved model, viz.: 
ten inches in circumference?” 
Now, dear Mrs. Grundy, don’t worry yourself 
about my few oddities any more,—pray don’t. I've 
tried in too many way’s already to please you;—but 
now that you’ve grown old and childish, and your 
mind has become so impaired as to advise your 
daughters to wear a ton’s weight on their heads, 
(not of bonnets,) and lace until the ribs so press 
on the respiratory organa as to cause suffocation, 
you and I must part company. Don't draw up your 
spectacles now, to get a better view of me; there 
are a thousand more as great a wonder as I, and 
surely the homage of these among your numerous 
subjects ought not to be missed by you, or any of 
your well-trained daughters, l would’nt’ for the 
world have you anxious on my account, for I enjoy 
my independence immensely. 
But just think of it:—you arc not satisfied with 
having ns mortals entirely subject to your imperious 
rule in matters of outward appearance. It is not 
enough that the dress and coat, bonnet and hat, 
and everything pertaining to these be subject to 
your severe criticism, and pronounced good or bad 
as you, Mrs. Grundy, may decide. The heart, even, 
must undergo a thorough course of discipline, aud 
in every sense bow down in homage to your hollow 
creed of Fashion. Even religion must be remod¬ 
eled aud improved, that your delicate and refined 
seueibilities may not be disturbed. Beside this, 
your majestic mind would think to improve the 
preaching of the Gospel, and tone down its plain 
troths to suit your very refined feelings. 
After this daring lecture from my insignificance, 
cun you not readily believe that I’m a trifle inde¬ 
pendent ? 
Canandaigua, N. Y., Jan., 1868. 
■-- 
fthflitt lUisfcHafig. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
WIND SPRITES. 
BY ELIZA 0. CROSBY. 
A SENSIBLE LOVE LETTER. 
The following love letter was read in some court 
in France, not long since, pendiug a trial: 
Mademoiselle—It was a saying of the celebrated 
Frenchman Jean Jacques Rousseau, whose name 
you very likely cannot pronounce, that, to write a 
good love letter, you ought to begin without know¬ 
ing What you mean to say, and finish without know¬ 
ing what you have written. Now, with all due def¬ 
erence to Rousseau’s talents in other respects, I may 
say I do not believe this saying to be true, aud I 
shall endeavor to write in opposition to it. I mean 
about what. 1 write to you, Mary, that I may guard 
against poisouing your mind with flattery, or saying 
anything that may offend you. 1 wish you to under¬ 
stand that what I say I mean; that I neither write 
for writing’s sake nor to please my own fancy. I 
I have, I hope, a higher aim and a more honest and 
more noble intention. I need not blush to own that 
my only object is to whisper in your ear a pure and 
tender tale of love. I entreat you to consider it as 
a symbol of the honestness and truthfulness of the 
writer, as a proof of his affection for you, and as a 
bond which shall uuite us forever. Know then that 
from the moment I first beheld you I have felt a 
lively interest in your welfare, and your image has 
frequently presented itself to my mind. This -will 
account for what passed between us on Sunday eve¬ 
ning. “I have loved you for your beauty, but not 
(I hope) for that alone.” “Beauty is hut skin 
deep,” although it is very agreeable as every one 
knows. It is not possible that I can know what 
other qualities you possess, but I should wish you 
to have a good knowledge of household matters. 
You may depend upon it that there is a good deal of 
domestic happiness in a well-dressed mutton-chop 
or a tidy beefsteak for breakfast. The woman who 
can cook contributes more to the happiness of soci¬ 
ety than the twenty who cannot cook. 
“ Oh fairies! beautiful fairies I” 
The trio of children cried. 
As they peered through the frosted window 
At the whirling snow outside,— 
The light snow, newly fallen, 
By the wild wind tossed and whirled, 
Round the fences fleecily drifting, 
Round the tree-trunks wreath’d and curled. 
“It is only the wind and the snow-drifts,” 
The practical Ella said ; 
But l\ illie, the youngest and fairest, 
Had wisely shaken his head: 
“I think they are beautiful fairies, 
All dressed in the shining snow. 
That God sends to wrap still closer 
The plants that slumber below.’ 1 
The children caught at. the fancy, 
And “ Look at the fairies,” cried; 
While I thought that Willie’s image 
Was close to my own allied,— 
That God sends little children 
Onr hearts with love to enfold, 
That we may shield them closely 
From the world’s embittering cold. 
Away through the years’ dim distance, 
I gaze at the trio to-day; 
Ah, two on their locks are finding 
A touch of time’s silver gray; 
And whenever o'er field and garden 
The whirling wind-sprites go, 
I think of the angel-taught Willie 
W hose grave is under the snow. 
Who went to the loving Saviour 
S o many long winters ago. 
--« ■ ■♦»■ »- 
Written Tor Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
“THE RICH ONES.” 
BY C. A. CHURCH. 
A country’s wealth is not in its rich men, nor 
their sons and daughters. That they make it poorer 
is a fact unquestioned. What is the poor man to 
them ? What the struggles of the nation ? What 
the prosperity of the people, except it bring some¬ 
thing into their purses ? I mean those meD who 
were bora rich, and were educated to value money 
as synonymous with greatness, tyranny and power. 
There are such; you have seen them, aud I have 
seen them. We cau tell them in a crowd if they 
say nothing. There is au air of loftiness, perfumed 
of pocket greatness, ever about them, which distin¬ 
guishes them from the self-made rich men as easily 
as the eye can distinguish black from white. What 
does that man know of despairing poverty who has 
never felt it ? He may have seen it in a thousand 
forms, und heard its deep, wild lamentations,—but 
he has never felt it. Deep trouble is still. We talk 
of light afflictions—rarely does the heart tell of its 
keenest sorrow. 
The richest wealth a nation can boast is its hon¬ 
esty, industry and independence. These three make 
a foundation upon which it will stand, and there is 
none other upon which it can. It was not money 
that broke the tyrannical band that bound us so un¬ 
willingly and unlawfully to the mother country. It 
was not money alone that saved ns from the eternal 
destruction we have so lately escaped. As the song 
goes, “ ’Tis true the men who did the fighting were 
the privates of the army.” The conllict would have 
been closed with two-thirds the expenditure if the 
country had known but one-third the rich men it did. 
But man in passing through this world needs 
something to remind him of its emptiness, and 
shortness, and his own soul’s futurity, nud who or 
what could better represent vanity, with all its ap- 
peuduges and iu all its glory, than heirs and heir¬ 
esses? In them we see birth, life, aud death re¬ 
flected in one mirror. Tender, dear, merciful, pity¬ 
ing creatures—stars of the fourth earthly heaven- 
why were ye sent to teach and bless a mortal world ? 
Why were ye bora into such a giftless, laboring, hur- 
rying laud as this V Be patient and mourn not, 0 
ye daughters of tenderness! the evening of Life is 
CONGREGATIONAL SINGING. 
A writer in The Mr cetern Presbyterian thus de¬ 
scribes the singing as he heard it recently in Mr. 
Spurgeon’s congregation, London: 
“ The hymn was read entirely through, and each 
verse was read before it was suug. The singing was 
started—not led—by a person who stood beside 
Spurgeon. 1 welcomed the familiar notes of Old 
Hundred, and for the first time for several months 
essayed to join in singing it. But 1 was surprised 
into silenee by the manner in which the audience 
took possession of the tune. The most powerful 
organ, if there had been anything of tile kind used, 
could not have led them. The second hymn was 
announced to be Jesus, Lover of my Send. The preach¬ 
er said, ‘Lotus sing this precious hymn softly to 
the tune of PleycTs Hymn.'' When the first verse had 
been sung, and after he had read thesccoud, he said, 
‘ Sing it softlyWith a countenance uplifted and 
beaming with fervor, his book in both hands, keep¬ 
ing time involuntarily to the music, he sang with the 
congregation. When he had read the third verse, 
he said, ‘You don’t sing it softly enough!' They 
sang it softly. It was as though some mighty hand 
had dammed up the waters of Niagara, leaving a thin 
sheet to creep through between two fingers, and 
making soft, sweet music in its great leap aud plunge 
into the great basin below. Then when he had read 
the fourth verse, he said, ‘Now, if we feel this, we 
will Bing it with all our souls. Let us sing it with 
all our might.' And the great congregation burst 
forth into song. It was as though the Great Hand 
were suddenly uplifted, and the gathered waters 
were rushing on their united way in awful grandeur. 
“ 1 ha v <- J heard the members of the General Assem¬ 
bly of the Presbyterian Church, with a great com¬ 
pany of their wives and daughters and friends, sing 
Old Hundred with fervor that thrilled me; I have 
heard oratorios rendered iu Exeter Hall by a thou¬ 
sand selected voices, five hundred instruments, and 
a great organ; I have heard operas rendered in the 
Imperial Opera-House of the French Emperor by a 
great number of the best vocalists and musicians 
that could be found in Europe; but I have never 
heard music so pathetic, grand, and soul-stirring as 
that made by those who worshiped with me in the 
Metropolitan Tabernacle. I Was too much carried 
away to take part in it myself. Mr. Spurgeon always 
uses those precious hymns and the old,loved tuues.” 
HI 
ftading. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
WHAT IS MY CROSS? 
What is the cross the Saviour bids us bear 
When He commands “Take it and follow me?” 
Is it to yield our dearest treasures up? 
To give to Death our best beloved when He 
Opens his arms and call? ihe tender lambs 
Back to the heavenly land ? 
Is it to live 
Content in coldness and indifference, 
Tho’ prizing human sympathy and love? 
Is it tho’ loving beauty everywhere 
To live ’mid uncongenial things, nor pine 
At the rough way He leads onr footsteps in ? 
Whate’er the cross, dear Saviour, Thon requir’st 
Of ns to bear, hut point, it out and we 
Would be obedient to Thy command. 
We know that Thou art ever near thine own, 
To strengthen such as faint, to cheer the sad, 
To love Thy children all; and trust that in 
That better borne above Thou wilt restore 
The loved and lost ones to onr fond embrace, 
And for all crosses here wilt give to ns 
Complete and Lasting recompense in heaven. 
Elkhom, Wis., Jan,, 1868. B. c. D. 
-» -«• » ■>» -- 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THE DISPOSAL OF TRUTH. 
OUR SPICE BOX. 
A poor fellow protested to his girl in the hay- 
field that his two eyes hadn’t come together all 
night for thinking about Lev. “ Very likely they 
did not” replied the sweet plague of his life, “for 
16 ee your nose is still between them.” 
A name for a female ball -club—Femi-nine. 
To curb a fast young man—bridle him. 
What do we often drop, and never stop to pick up ? 
A hint. 
The flowers of speech spring from the root of the 
tongue. 
What length ought a lady’s crinoline to be? A 
little above two feet. 
The ’lasses candy wedding is when the first baby 
gets big enough to lick. 
Some one calls the time of squeezing girls’ hands 
the palmy season of life. 
Unfriended indeed is he who has no friend bold 
enough to point out his faults. 
A little girl in Bangor last Sunday astonished her 
Sunday-school teacher with “Blessed are the dress- 
iuakers.” 
“ Are our girls fitted for wives ?” queries a sober 
exchange. “ Are they fitted for husbands ?” retorts 
a young itemizer. 
Why is a young lady just from boarding school 
like a building committee ? Because she is ready to 
receive proposals. 
0. W. Holmes says that easy-crying widows take 
new husbands soonest; there is nothing like wet 
weather for transplanting. 
A wag remarks that he has seen a couple of sisters 
who had to be told everything together, for they 
were 60 much alike that they could not be told 
apart. 
“Never listen to flatterers,” said a mother to her 
daughter. “ Why, mother, how shall I know that 
they flatter without I listen,” was the quick retort 
of the young miss. 
The Saturday Review says : “ There are, it must 
be owned, but few things on earth of less interest, at 
first sight, than a girl in her teens.” The editor 
must be an unfeeling old bachelor. 
Much dress now the female form so grievously encumber, 
That women who can waLk a mile are very few in number; 
Fresh air to health is needful, health to comfort and 
serenity, 
Good looks, good temper, cheerfulness, and conjugal 
amenity. 
A Chinese maxim says : “ We require four things 
of woman—that virtue dwell in her heart; that 
modesty play on her brow; that sweetness flow from 
her lips; that industry occupy her hands.” 
shadowing. We weep over your misplacement and 
misfortunes, hut pity is mockery to wretchedness. 
Born ladies, scorning women, they live ladies, die, 
are buried, aud go home to seek a lady’s reward' 
leaving them blessings (?} — ladies’ children—sweet 
angels ! 
If it is a glorious thing to be a gentleman on sal¬ 
ary, what imagination cau picture the jpyous happi¬ 
ness of h .m who is able to live a gentleman without 
a salary ! I shall not attempt it. But after all, the 
only one difference between a rich and a poor man 
is, to use a common but good comparative phrase, 
one is varnished, while the other is not; aud a little 
varnish ever makes a quicker sale. A little paint 
will do, sometimes ; while too much will not answer 
at all 1 This is a painted world, full of painted ob¬ 
jects, and uo artist could have shaded them better. 
Nature’s emblem is green, make it red, and utterly 
gaudy, and it’s not natural, aud who wants to buy it ? 
— A few months ago 1 came down the Lakes, and 
was lucky enough to be a passenger on a steamer 
along with the elite of a western city simmered down 
to six separate individuals. Their first appearance 
“ astonished the natives.” Their dress—their var¬ 
nish— was brilliant. They spoke a “various lan¬ 
guage,” (soUovoct) and in their “ gayer hours” the 
little wine-glasses went merrily from berth to pantry, 
and pantry to berth. Their wants were well sup¬ 
plied—nZl save one. A barber there was not. There 
was but one alternative, —they must shave themselves. 
Accordingly, one morning one of them took his first 
lesson with the razor. Wonder of wonders! Inge¬ 
nious man ! “ llow smooth! ” “ And hasn’t cut 
himself!” “ How d id you do it?” “Howdare—!” 
The exclamations of those “ladies” came to me 
gratis; this paper did not, or 1 would give the list 
ad infinitum. I retired to my berth and tried to for¬ 
get them in the pages of “Marie Antoinette." 
Often would the wink and smile cross the cabin 
table at some new proof of their ignorance, which, 
though partly concealed by long words, was not 
hidden. One of them actually vowed the Welland 
Canal ran through New Turk, and would not “give 
in" until the captain was consulted. 
Poverty nourishes and strengthens genius; wealth 
degrades, stupefies, kills it Bo it is with labor. No 
man would be rich if there were no poor men; nei¬ 
ther can a country be wealthy without labor. Intel¬ 
ligent labor is the motive power of success. 
Jefferson Co., N. Y., 1868. 
THE IMMORTALITY OF FAIRY STORIES. 
Jack and the Beanstalk, Puss in Boots, the gal¬ 
lant Quixotic Giant-Killer, and dear Cinderella, 
whom every one must have loved, I should think, 
ever since we ever knew her in her little brown 
pinafore; I wondered, as I shut them all up for the 
night between their green boards, what it was that 
made these stories so fresh and vivid. Why did 
they not fall to pieces, vanish, explode, disappear, 
like so many of their cotemporaries aud descend¬ 
ants ? And yet, far from being forgotten and pass¬ 
ing away, it would seem as if each generation in 
turn, as it came into the world, looks to be delight¬ 
ed still by the brilliant pageant, and nover tires or 
wearies of it. And on their side princes an3 
princesses never seem to grow any older; the cas¬ 
tles and the lovely gardens flourish without need of 
repair or whitewash, or plumbers or glaziers. 
The princesses’ gowns, too—sun, moon aud star 
color—do not wear out or pass out of fasMon, or 
require altering. Even the seven-leagued boots do 
not appear to be the worse for wear. Numbers of 
realistic stories for children have passed away. 
Little Henry and his Bearer, Poor Harry aud Lucy, 
have nearly given up their little artless ghosts and 
prattle, and ceased making their own beds for the 
instruction of less excellently brought up little boys 
aud girls; and notwithstanding a very interesting 
article in the Saturday Review, it must be owned 
that Harry Sandborn and Tommy Merton are not 
familiar playfellows in our nurseries aud school 
rooms, and have passed somewhat out of date. But 
not so all these centenarians—Prince Riquet, Cara- 
bas, Little Red Riding Hood, Bluebeard and others. 
They seem as if they would never grow old. They 
play with the children, they amuse the eiders; there 
seems no cud to their fund of spirits and perennial 
youth. 
H., to whom I made this remark, said, from the 
opposite chimney corner, “No wonder; the stories 
are only histories of real living persons, turned into 
fairy princes and princesses. Fairy stories are every¬ 
where and every day. We are all princes and princ¬ 
esses in disguise, or ogres or wicked dwarfs. All 
these, histories are the histories of human nature, 
which does uot seem to change very much in a 
thousand years or so, and we don’t get tired of the 
fames, they are so true to it.”—J/iss Thackeray. 
“Buy the Truth and sell U not.”—Prov. 23-33. 
The wise man counsels us to buy a valuable com¬ 
modity, and dispose of it not. Many are selling it 
who do not fully realize the fact. They are in the 
habit of representing things as different from what 
they really arc, thereby bartering away the truth in¬ 
stead of getting more of it. There are more 
engaged in this kind of business than we at first 
imagine, for the masses arc either buyiug or selling 
the truth, and those who part with it are as numer¬ 
ous as a vast and unconquerable array. 
Let us consider one of the efforts which are made 
to dispose of truth, by this army of buyers and sel¬ 
lers. If a man has anything to sell does he not as a 
general thing represent the article to be a little bet¬ 
ter tban the same kind, which his neighbor has to 
6 ell V The masses are apt to shade their own wares 
with high colors in order to effect sales if possible. 
And are those who have articles for sale the only 
ones who are guilty ? Certainly not, for buyers are 
equally guilty, by trying to make the seller believe 
his wares are of less value than they really are. 
“It is naught, it is naught saith the buyer, but 
when he is gone his way he boasteth.” In the days 
of the wise man the buyer did no more than thou¬ 
sands do at the present day. They do all they can 
to depreciate the value of the article they wish to 
get, hut when it is obtained they are ready to tell 
their friends what a good bargain they have made. 
Before buying they find fault with every little defect, 
But after purchasing the value is rapidly increased— 
the article is faultless. 
Now this is all wrong. How docs a thing increase 
in value by merely passing from the bauds of one 
mau into the hauds of another? Are we not bound 
to apply tho golden rule in selling as well as buy¬ 
ing? If we try to depreciate the value in buying, 
should we uot be hottest, and tell our customers, when 
we sell, that the article is an inferior oue? Let con¬ 
science answer, and hereafter when that faithful 
monitor tells us what we ought to do, may we heed 
the advice and tell the whole truth. In buying and 
in selling, let us get all the truth we can, and part 
with it not; for this is a part of the golden rule ex¬ 
emplified in our dealings with each other. Reader, 
try the truth-buying system, and I assure you, that 
you will find it to be the best system ever tried. 
Chili, N. Y., 1868. John L. Kennell. 
GOD’S TIME. 
WE PASS FOR WHAT WE ARE. 
No one who wishes that conversation should be 
pleasant to his neighbors as well as himself, should 
speak more than two or three sentences at once. 
However much he may have to say, it will be all the 
more agreeably said for giving others the opportu¬ 
nity of assenting, illustrating, qualifying, or even 
contradicting. 
A man passes for what he is worth. Very idle 
is all curiosity concerning other people’s estimate 
of us, aud all fear for remaining unknown is uot less 
so. If a man knows that he can do anything—that 
he can do it better than any one else—he has a 
pledge of acknowledgment of that fact by all per¬ 
sons. The world is full of judgment days, und into 
every assemblage that a man enters, in every action 
he attempts, he is guaged and stamped. Iu every 
troop of boys that whoop and run in each yard and 
square, a new comer is well and accurately weighed 
in the course of a few days, and stamped with his 
right number, as if he had undergone a formal trial 
of his speed and temper. A stranger comes from a 
distant school, with a better dress, trinkets in his 
pockets, with airs und pretentions. An older boy 
says, “It’s of no use, we shall find him out tomor¬ 
row .”—Ralph Waldo Emerson. 
“ Doomed to disappointment, as usual.” 
“ Don’t say 4 as usual,’ ” a soft voice replied; “you 
sometimes are wonderfully prospered.” 
“ Yes, I say, as usual," was the quick, angry re¬ 
sponse; “I find the path blocked up whichever way 
I turn; try hard as 1 may, something or other up¬ 
sets all my plans. 1 might as well give up oue time 
as another.” 
“ Perhaps it isn’t the right time," said the soft 
voice again; “maybe God would prove you before 
he blesses you; perhaps he sees that you are not 
prepared for prosperity. We must take the bless¬ 
ings thankfully as they come, John, and the disap¬ 
pointments too, as part of his loving discipline. 
Everything comes best in God’s time." 
1 es, joy or sorrow, sunshine or cloud, plenty or 
poverty, all come in “God’s time.” Howevermuch 
our own efforts may bring to us, it is well to remem¬ 
ber that God alone orders our success or our failure. 
“ God’s time”—tho best time we shall always find 
it to be, if wo. but look for his guiding aud wait ou 
him. Disappointments, viewed and received aright, 
may prove the richest blessings. 
“ God’s time”—uot that we must idly wait for the 
sun of prosperity to shine upon us, but humbly, 
earnestly, faithfully do each duty as it arises, leaving 
the rest with God, His time will briug us gladness 
aud prosperity, if he sees it is for our good. Thus 
trusting, we shall always “be glad in the Lord,” 
even “though the earth be removed, and though 
the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea; 
though the waters thereof roar and be troubled, 
though the mountains shake with the swelling 
thereof. ’ ’ —American Messenger. 
SOUL’S REST. 
WITH NOTHING TO DO. 
What an anomaly in creation is a human being 
with nothing to do. The most insignificant object 
iu nature becomes to him or her a source of envy; 
the birds sing in an ecstasy of joy; the tiny flower 
hidden from aU eyes sends forth its fragrance of 
happiness ; the mountain stream dashes along with 
a sparkle of pure delight. The object of their crea¬ 
tion is accomplished, aud their life gushes forth in 
harmonious work. Oh, plant! oh, stream ! here in 
man and woman are powers we never dreamed of— 
faculties divine, eternal; a head to think, but noth¬ 
ing to concentrate the thoughts ; a hand to do, but 
no work done; talents unexercised, capacities un¬ 
developed; a human life thrown away—wasted as 
water poured in the desert. Oh, birds and flowers ! 
ye are gods in such mockery of life as this. 
-- 
Singing oils the wheels of care aud supplies the 
place of sunshine. A man who sings has a good 
heart under his shirt front. Such a mau not only 
works more willingly, but he works more constant¬ 
ly. A singing cobbler will earn as much money 
agaiu as a cobbler who gives way to low spirits and 
indigestion. Avaricious meu never sing. 
The needle-point in the seaman’s compass never 
stands still, but quivers and shakes till it comes 
right against the North pole. The wise men of the 
East never stood still, till they were right against 
the star which appeared unto them; and the star 
itself never stood still, till it came right against the 
other Star, which shoue more brightly in the man¬ 
ger than the sun did in the Armament. And Noah’s 
dove could find uo rest for the sole of her foot all 
the while she was fluttering over the flood, till she 
returned to the ark with au olive branch in her 
mouth. Bo the heart of every true Christian, which 
is the turtle dove of Christ, can find no rest all the 
while it is hovering over the waters of the world, 
till it have the silver wings of a dove, and, with the 
olive branch of faith, fly to the true Noah, which 
signifieth “Rest,” till Christ put forth his hand'out 
of the ark, and taking it in, receive it to himself. 
God’s Work. —Be not sudden; take God’s work 
together, and do uot judge of it by parcels or pieces. 
It is, indeed, all wisdom and rurhteousuess ; but we 
shall best discern the beauty of it when we look on 
it in the frame, and when it shall be fully completed 
and finished, and our eyes enlightened to take a 
fuller and clearer view of it than we cau have here. 
Oh I what wouder, what endless wondering will it 
then command I— Leighton. 
