"Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
OBSOLETE WORDS. 
Choice fHfaffltang 
we won’t have any more of them than is tece6sary 
in fiction ” 
Thus one after another of the suggestive manu¬ 
scripts does a kindly thing for ns. Delicate little 
pages of “ note,” larger ones of “ letter,” and 
great unwieldy ones of 11 foolscap,” which vex the 
typos, all serve to eke out an occasional hit of senti¬ 
mentalism. The largest and the daintiest are alike 
welcome. Prosy or poetic, we can clasp their au¬ 
thor’s hands in imaginative way, and make our 
thanks. 
By referring to our dictionaries we find many 
words marked as obsolete. This is well enough, 
we suppose, for in this progressive age language is 
oeing constantly improved, and there are words 
which no doubt more than supply the places of 
those superseded. But there are some words which 
are fast becoming obsolescent without apparent 
reasou,—certainly not because they are not com¬ 
prehensive enough, nor yet because their places can 
be supplied with better ones. For instance, the 
Sacred appellations of father and mother arc by 
many rejected, and in their stead we hear the 
“empty nothings’’ —“pa” and "ma.” It may be 
the names father and mother are not fashmwhle 
enough to suit the preeeut generation, yet we are 
led to the conclusion that the young lady or gentle¬ 
man who makes use of these odious perversions does 
not fully realize the beauty or dignity of the origi¬ 
nal appellations. 
There is another word fast going out of use,— 
Sabbath. That this should be called “Sunday” we 
are charitable enough to believe is the result of 
thoughtlessness; for surely in this day of gospel 
light no one is presumptuous enough to give the 
heathen name of a day on which they assembled to 
worship the sun, to the “ Day of days,” — that day 
on which the Loud rested from His work of the 
creation, and which He himself blesses and calls 
Ihe Sabbath. There can be no advantage gained by 
the use of the word “Sunday;” it is not more j 
easily pronounced, it has no more pleasant sound; 
and even granting that to Borne it might possess 
either of those properties, Ihe use of the word is 
wrong. The tendency is to beget a careless habit 
of speaking of sacred things. This is not surpris¬ 
ing, for it, would be rather difficult to attach such 
solemnity to a heathen day of worship. But who 
is he, be he ever eo hardened, that can 6peak jest¬ 
ingly of the Babbath ? 
Then consider this matter. Ask yourself if those 
who make use of these perversions arc not disre¬ 
garding the promise which is to them who honor 
their father and mother, and are not in danger of 
forgetting the command—“Kemember the Sizbbalh 
day.” If the picture I have drawn be a true one, 
are we not right In denouncing those impious inno¬ 
vations which are making almost obsolete some of 
the best words in onr language ? Lenie. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
“OUT OF THE DEPTHS.” 
Written for Moore's Rnral New-Yorker. 
the mystery of death. 
“ Out of the deplhs have I called to Thee 
And Thou hast heard my voice 
Because my trust is firm in Thee, 
So shall my soul rejoice. 
Up through the mist T stretched my hands, 
Thy pitying ones replied, 
And drew me gently to the light, 
My Saviour and my Guide. 
No more let gloom and doubting hide 
The Saviour ol' my choice, 
“ Out of the depths have I called to Thee 
And Thou hast heard my voice.” 
Porter, N. Y., 1863. a. 
BV WILLIAM WINTER. 
BY A. A. HOPKINS. 
He loves not well whose love is bold; 
I would not have thee come too nigh; 
The sun's gold would not seem pure gold 
Unless the sun were in the sky. 
To take him thence and chain him near 
Would make his beauty disappear. 
He keeps his state: do yon keep thine- 
And shine upon me from afar: 
So shall I bask in light divine 
That falls from love’s own guiding star. 
So shall thy eminence be high, 
An d so my passion shall not die. 
But all my life shall reach Its hands 
Of lofty longing towards tby face, 
And be as one who speechless stands 
In rapture at Borne perfect grace. 
My love, my hope, my all shall be 
To look to heavcu and look to thee. 
Thine eyes shall be the heavenly lights, 
Thy voice shall be the summer breeze, 
What time It sways on moonlit nights 
The murmuring tops of leafy trees, 
And I will touch tby beauteous form 
In June’s red roses, rich and warm. 
But thon thyself shall not come down 
From that pure region far above; 
But keep thy throno and wear thy crown- 
Queen of my heart and qneen of love 1 
A monarch in thy realm complete, 
And I a subject at thy feet. 
There comes a sleep that is not all a sleep— 
In mystery its sister born, and twin; 
When life and all its essence out ward creep, 
And come not back tbeir tenement within 
A sleep that leaves the after-morn content, 
Because no waking with the mom is sent! 
O mystery of dealh 1 It crowns, always, 
The mystery of life. To all it comes 
With unknown paths,-a dark mysterious maze 
Whose only portals are the narrow tombs! 
It comes with steady march along the years, 
And muflled footfalls mortal never bears. 
It wraps its veil around all earthly things, 
And so they fade away. The bird that flies 
So gladly heavenward, on airy wings, 
Sinks gasping down, ere long, and feebly tries 
To speed again its flight, and skyward soar,— 
Its flights are done, its songs are heard no more. 
The roses blooming on the garden wall 
Exhale their sweetness on the summer air. 
Then droop and wither; and their fragments fall 
Neglected to the earth, and moulder there, 
And leave hehind them but a memory 
Of rarest fragrance that has ceased to be! 
The leaves that drink the juices of the trees, 
Expanding in the balmy breath of -June, 
That mnnnnr gtLt’est music when the breeze 
Among them plays, are blasted all too soon, 
And with a mournful rustling float away 
Upon the winds of an autumnal day. 
Within all life the seeds or death are sown, 
And these will bud therein, or soon, or late — 
Will bud and grow; and when they shall have grown 
To that completeness which they now await, 
The life will float away, as floats a prayer 
From lip? of faith, npon the willing air 1 
Out through the door of being softly steals 
That undefined, mysterious something—whence ? 
The veil between all life and death conceals 
Our vision, aLd we may not. follow 1 hence; 
But this we kuow: death is not absolute; 
The tree but dies to yield eomc other fruit. 
Life goetli out, but lingers somewhere, yet: 
Some other form develops it anew; 
Within some other casing It ie set; 
Some strange unknown disguise it looketh thro’. 
We may not. know It in its later dress,— 
It is the life that vanished, not the less. 
So death Is marvelous; ’lis wondrous strange! 
It is the mystery that blinds us most. 
And yet what. Is It but an outward change— 
Something translated, nothing wholly lost? 
But such translation all a marvel seems 
As comes thro’ sleep that never brings its dreams 1 
One of the ruling ladies of the earth has come to 
grief. Queen Isabella of Spain, has been com¬ 
pelled to flee her country and to take refuge under 
a foreign power. At one point in her flight she is 
said to have declared to an official attendant,—“ If 
I could wear pantaloons 1 would go hack to my 
Capital!" 
It is a sad sight, indeed, — a woman long used to 
royal power, fleeing in tearful haste from before the 
people who refuse longer to brook her reign. Re¬ 
verses of any kind are rot pleasing to witness, and 
a dethroned monarch,—late served by a kingdom, 
now so poor as to receive honor from none,— is pe 
culiarly a painful object. And when that monarch 
bears the proud title of Queen, although the de¬ 
thronement is in the interest of justice, popular 
sympathy is naturally called forth. 
Isabella has no characteristics that entitle her to 
national regard as an individual. She Is represented 
as coarse, violent, un-queenly. While the world 
feels something of sympathy for her, therefore, it 
cauDot wish her re-instated in Madrid. It will be 
content to see her remain in the Castle of Pan, 
which the Emperor of France has assigned to her 
in her exile. This retreat is situated In the town of 
that name in the shadow of the Pyrenees. It was 
the birth place of the first of the Bourbons, and has 
undergone as many changes as the fortunes of that 
disenchanted family. It is near the frontier, and 
when the Q'.een is on the Spanish side of the cha¬ 
teau she can hear the shouts of the revolutionists 
and the blows of the image-breakers, who are put¬ 
ting an end to the statues aBd emblems of royalty, 
as well as to royalty itself. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
“ WE ALL DO FADE AS A LEAF.” 
Fading, dying! The 6mile of the sunlight fails 
to bring back the life-bloom, and the sighing wind 
calls in vain,—it cannot waken them. All summer 
long the breeze whispered sweet tales of love to 
the dancing leaves, and they clasped hands above 
young golden hair, and locks all silvered o’er with 
age. But now they are falling,—they who in the 
spriDg-time thrilled with delight,—who in the sum¬ 
mer whispered “rest” to the weary, and of late 
have robed the grand old trees in glorious apparel. 
They have put off their royal robes; the light, 
graceful trembler has lost its fullness, the life-cur¬ 
rent flows no longer in the veins and arteries; 
rudely the chill wind tears it from the clinging 
arms of the parent tree, it falls, and the angel of 
the snow will come and shroud it In white. 
We are fading too,—dying, hourly. The form 
may be erect, the cheek blooming with health, 
but ah, hidden forces are at work. Slowly but 
surely the blows are aimed at the citadel of life, 
and at l&3t it crumbles away into gray ruins. 
Happy childhood fades into hopeful youth, youth 
into thoughtful manhood, and manhood as surely 
into old age, and amidst the white waves of the 
winter’s snow, old age withers away into the tomb. 
Verily we do fade as the leaf. The seeds of death 
are within, and as they spring up one by one, the 
form loses its roundness, the roses fade from the 
cheek where they neBtled in beauty, the luster of 
the sunlit eye goes back to God. 
Djing leaves 1 bow they whisper to us of the 
waning hours,—it is the voice of God. Fading, 
fading; and yet who would not have it so? Where¬ 
fore the bridal-robe when the bride has gone! We 
gather not roses when the summer has passed away. 
Then let the angel wrap the folds of the white 
shroud about them. “Though a man die, shall he 
not live again?" The spring-time will come, and 
I wonder what grandma is tbinking about, 
As she sit? in the corner there. 
With the firelight shining into her eyes, 
And over her silver hair ? 
She ha? laid her knitting across her knee, 
And folded her hands so thin. 
And I know that her thoughts are far away, 
In spite of tlie children’s din. 
I’m sure It Is something strange and sweet, 
That brightens her eyes so dim; 
Perhaps she is seeing the golden gates, 
And hearing the angels’ hymn 1 
And she smiles to think that she soon will cross 
Where the wonderful river rolls, 
And galhor the roscB of youth again, 
In the beautiful garden of souls I 
CORSETS AND TIGHT-LACING. 
Wb suppose that women will wear comets as long 
as the world lasts, 
GRAVES OF HUMBOLDT AND NEANDER 
The wearing of cprsets does not, 
however, necessarily involve tight-lacing, so that a 
good deal of the well-meaning censure which is ap¬ 
plied to corsets in the abstract may be spared. To 
denounce excessive tight-lacing is one thing; to 
anathemize the wearing of corsets at all is quite 
another. 
We find the corsets mentioned in “Homer,” or 
Eight miles from Berlin is Tegel, a quiet place in 
the forest, with only a modern castle and its ap¬ 
pendages. From the castle by a winding foot-path, 
at first- through an over arching jungle of lilacs, and 
then through native woodlands, one is led a long 
distance, till he is unexpectedly brought to a little 
dell with an inclosure of graves covered with ivy. 
One of the sleepers in this place of quiet beauty is 
Frederick Henry Alexander Von Humboldt, who 
was born iu 1700, and died at the age of ninety years. 
At the bead of the incloEure is a neat monument of 
red granite, surmounted by a beautiful figure of 
“ Hope” in white marble. Long arms of oak, reach¬ 
ing out horizontally toward the sleeper, some of 
them more than fifty feet long and ever green with 
the m 066 of many years, give to the secluded spot a 
venerable surrounding. The April breeze, whisper¬ 
ing through the boughs of spruce and cedar, told 
the visitor to speak low and walk softly, and my 
feelings were in a mood readily to hear and heed the 
gentle monitor. 
In one of the church cemeteries nut naif » mile 
from my lodgings in Berlin, in a retired corner, are 
the remains of Augustus Neander, the eminent 
Church historian. A plain headstone has sculptured 
on it a side view of his attractive face. Under the 
work of the sculptor is this inscription:—“ A sister 
to an unforgotten brother. ” Professor Tholuck, 
speakiug to me yesterday of his lovely traits and 
great excellence, said—“ If it were the custom now 
to have saints, Neander would surely be canonized.” 
I love often to step in and take a fresh look at the 
serene face of Neander. Not old, but ripe; he died 
at sixty-one; and evidently worthy of the laurel in 
his department of life’6 work .—The Advance. 
A BIT OF SENTIMENT 
May not even an editor be a little sentimental at 
times? It is a very practical world that we live 
in, to be sure, and the toilers in it seldom have 
much opportunity for seeing other than its most 
practical side. Cooking victuals, washing dishes, 
mending clothes, washing, ironiug, etc., Ac., are 
sternly practical; so are writing “ leaders,” edit¬ 
ing communications, correcting, condensing, ar¬ 
ranging, ami reading the proof of all the “ mat¬ 
ter” that week after week goes to make up the 
Rural. If any doubt the latter, we advise them 
not to turn editor, that they may continue in the 
enjoyment of that agreeable doubt! 
But for all this practicality, acknowledged or 
doubted, wc ask again,—may not even an editor 
be sometimes a little sentimental ? Into every 
prosy work of life a touch of poetry may come, we 
think. Through every dull routine of duty a gleam 
of fancy may shlue. If wc were obliged to harness 
our thought down to legitimate hard labor, all the 
day long, we should drop the pen and scissors and 
forsake our vocation. There would be no lighten¬ 
ing up of toil, no menial rest. Not so. The mind 
plays truant nearly every hour,—only just a mo¬ 
ment or two, perhaps, yet enough to get a fresh 
breath of air and to feel stronger, more active. 
Many suggestive things come before us, in our 
labors, 
pose. The Circassian womeu, from time imme¬ 
morial, have used a corset made of morocco, and 
furnished with two plates of wood placed on the 
chest—a much more clumsy article, as well as a 
cruel one, than that used by fashionable ladies of 
modern days. Iu the old Roman times, a broad 
bandage, or swath, was used, which auswered the 
purpose of stays. After the fall of the empire, 
through the invasion of the Goths, the art of mak¬ 
in i: these corsets was lost; but soon after, indeed 
as early as the ninth century, the French women 
began to wear another style of corset, which is de¬ 
scribed as being exceedingly still'. From that period 
down io the present time, a corset, in some shape 
or other, has been worn among all civilized people. 
At constantly occurring epochs, during this inter¬ 
val, tight laciug hus also prevailed. Neither the 
censures of veligion, nor the penalties of the law, 
nor common sense, have been able to prevent this 
absurd and dangerous practice. In the reign of 
Queen Elizabeth, not only the ladies, but gentle¬ 
men also, laced tightly. It seems curious to know 
that Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Philip Sidney, and oth¬ 
ers of that stamp, heroes and men of genius, laced; 
yet such is the fact. In our day, the only men who 
lace are the second-rate dandies of Paris. 
The corset was abandoned for a Lime in France. 
Among the other classical revivals of the French 
revolutionary period, was an attempt to copy the 
costume of ancient Greece, whose main features 
were loose bodies, long trains, and Bhort waists, 
unlaced. This did not last long, however, and in 
1810 the practice of lacing was resumed with all 
its former rigor. “The span” was reestablished 
as the standard of fashionable measurement, and 
female chests again had to suffer the evil conse¬ 
quences ,—Home Journal. 
INDIAN SUMMER 
The Rural Messenger, Chicago, devotes a portion 
of an October chapter to the beauties and glories of 
“Indian Bummer.” Fifty pears ago this “sum¬ 
mer,” in the West, was worthy of special mention; 
bat jear by year, afi the forests have disappeared be¬ 
fore the devastating ax and devouring fire, its glories 
have faded till now it presents but a faint rcfiectlon 
Then it was safe to count on 
of what it then was. 
six weeks of this s’.fvr-summer, when the atmos¬ 
phere was dimmed with smoke, giving the sun a 
subdued and golden 'me peculiar to that season. 
The warring elemeuts seemed hushed to repose, 
and the axmau, as L: pioceeded to hia daily work, 
or the huntsman, ai> he plunged Into the solitude 
of the forest, lelt a degree ol elasticity and vigor 
which no other portion of the year could supply. 
It was, too, the harvest time of the bee hunter, 
who, armed with the trust}’ rifle and the other im¬ 
plements of his ealling, traversed the forest with 
elastic 6tep, elate with the hope of good “ lines,” 
rich deposits of bee stores, and the not less wel¬ 
come accessory of a good fat buck to garnish the 
etrimney of the log cabin he called his homo. Se¬ 
lecting some point suitable for the purpose, the 
double hunter would watch, in dreamy listlessness, 
his comb and honey pot. Anon the hum of a bee 
is heard, as he circles oround the tempting bait. 
He settles, at last, and commences filling his sack. 
The hunter watches, with a complaceut smile, the 
rnomeut when he shall depart with his booty. 
But what is that approaching stealthily among 
the clustering trees ? It is a buck—a fat one, too! 
Bees are forgotten! The rifle is cautiously trained 
on the advancing deer, lie stops and sniffs, as 
though all was not right; beats the ground with 
his fore feet, and gives manifest indications of a 
purpose to retreat, when crack goes the rifle, and 
the poor beast spriugs into the air and falls quiver- 
ingly and convulsively to Die ground I 
Daring all this time no thought is taken of the 
bees or of their line or flight, but when the buck is 
properly disposed of upon a branch of a tree, they 
come hack to remembrance. The decoy honey box 
is approached, and what a change has taken place! 
Instead of a single bee there are scores at work. 
Now one rises with his load and bears away north. 
That is the line. But hold! Here is another going 
south, and a third oil' westward! There are three 
bee trees in striking distance, probably. Now the 
buck is forgotten in his turn, and the bees claim all 
attention. It is lively work to trace them home, 
but perseverance will do it, and, as the shades of 
night settle down over the forest, the whole are 
found and the trees spotted. 
This was a portion of the Indian Bummer work, 
in the West, when this season was in its prime; 
when it meant more and was more than modem 
seasons supply. It was the carnival time, so to 
speak, of the wood chopper, as well as the bee 
hunter. The former was off to the woods by the 
peep of day, with elastic step, ready to strip for the 
work before him. How fast the trees went down 
before his stalwart blows, making the surround¬ 
ing forest vocal with the crash of failing timber! 
This was Indian Summer, as it was known fifty years 
ago. But now its reign is diminished as the forest 
has disappeared, and its glories are departing with 
accumulating years and the aggressions of the ax. 
Yale Indian Sammer! 
GOD IS GOOD 
A minister was placing in the grave the body of 
a beloved child. After the coffin was let down, and 
the boards were laid over Ify another minister who 
was attending the funeral turned to the minister 
and asked him if he had anything to say to the peo¬ 
ple. “ Yes,” said he, and turning toward them he 
addressed them in the following word6In my 
prosperity and your adversity I often told you that 
God was good. Now my darling boy is taken from 
me, and as it is the best opportunity I shall ever 
have, I wish to tell you aguin that God is good." 
Thus was uttered a precious testimony to the value 
of the Christian religion, as was shown by the fact 
that when those words were spoken there was not a 
dry eye in the whole assemblage. Such testimony 
is given by God’6 people every day. In the midst of 
the sorest afflictions the Christian says God is good. 
He is enabled to say with Job, “The Lord gave and 
the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of 
the Lord,” and bo ie he happy, happy in God, even 
when his dearest earthly treasures are taken away 
from him. To the Christian in bereavement those 
are sweet words of the Prophet Nahnm, “ The Lord 
is good, a stronghold in the day of trouble, and he 
knoweth them that trust in him.” 
He would he lacking in imagination, curi¬ 
osity, and mayhap a half dozen other qualities, who 
could peruse daily the numerous communications 
of varied character which find their way to the 
Rural sanctum, without sometimes sentimentally 
ruminating. Here and there a favor comes from 
a friend personally known, with whose habits of 
thought we are familiar, and wc wonder what cir¬ 
cumstances prompted the writing. With it are a 
score of articles in prose and verse, each of which 
has its little history, no doubt,—and what may that 
history be ? 
Here are a few verses from “ Bertha,” very cred¬ 
itable as to rhythm and rhyme, with a genuine 
poetic thought or two done up in the versified 
prose, and neatly written,—so neatly and beauti¬ 
fully transcribed, in fact, that we query if “ Ber 
tha” isn’t a trim, delicate body, always careful, 
doing her “ prettiest ” whatever she has to do, 
and just the kind of body a good wife should be, 
although she is given to scribbling! 
“Katie” writes very charmingly about “Our 
Old Home,”—very charmingly, almost poetically. 
It is a subject that intereate her; aye, and it inter¬ 
ests us. TFe had an “old home” once; and be¬ 
fore we are aware our thought has drifted far back¬ 
ward until we stand again at its door, and hear the 
brook and the birds sing down in the orchard, and 
the voices that must be echoing always there as 
they now echo in our heart, and see the faces that 
are only brighter and more lovable than they used to 
be because they have been translated. “ Katie’s” 
home may be like that,—who knows ? And “ Ka 
tie” herself may be another such a glad, merry, 
warm-hearted sister as ought to make every home 
“the dearest spot on earth” for the big brothers. 
“Our Old Home” has awakened pleasant recol¬ 
lections, and it deserves a better fate than consign¬ 
ment to the waste basket. Itskall make a “leader” 
for “ Miscellany,”—but no; the “old home” has 
been written of times without number, and must 
now give way to newer subjects. “Katie” will 
be sorry, maybe; we are sorry now. The good old 
things that we cherish most should not be thus 
carelessly put aside for the new and the untried. 
But the present is practical, recollections are only 
sentimental, and the purity of yesterday is a re¬ 
proof to the viciousnese of to-day. 
This story by “ Abigail Wrenn” is not well 
written, yet it attracts our attention. The bold, 
masculine chirography in which it is transcribed, 
is its suggestive feature. Is “Abigail” of the 
strong-minded typo ? Are her characteristics rather 
{ masculine than feminine ? We read on. The hero- 
(\ ine is a hoydenish creature, with a loud voice and 
k manners hardly refined. Would she be thus drawn 
k if the writer’s taste did not incline in that direction ? 
^ Perhaps, and perhaps not. We cannot reason in 
* regard to it; we can only speculate. Our specu- 
r lation ends at length, in questioning why “Am- 
i, gail” did not sketch a fairer picture, and in men- 
tally saying “It won’t do, ‘Abigail.’ That class 
of womankind may be abundant in real life: but 
“ Common sense,” says Dr. Emmons, “ is the most 
uncommon kind of sense.” 
No evil propensity of the human heart is so pow¬ 
erful that it may not he subdued by discipline. 
The difference between perseverance and obsti¬ 
nacy : _One is a strong will—the other a strong 
won’t. 
Conceit i6 to nature what paint is to beauty; it 
is not only needless, but it impairs what it would 
improve. 
Always be particular in observing where the wind 
drops; you may be called upon to raise it at a mo¬ 
ment’s notice. 
The aim of an honest man’s life is not the happi¬ 
ness which serves only himself, but the virtue which 
is useful to others. 
There is only the difference of a toss between 
some vegetables. Throw up a pumpkin, and it will 
come down a squash. 
It is safer to affront some people than to oblige 
them; for the better a man deserves, the worse 
they will speak of him. 
Great souls are not those which have less passion 
and more virtue than common souls, but only those 
which have greater designs. 
“Ideas,” says Voltaire, “are like beards. Men 
only get them when they grow up, and women never 
have any.” What a wretch! 
Lord Svdmouth said one day:—“My brains are 
gone to tiie dogs this morning.” Sir H. Nicholas 
at once ejaculated, “Foot dogs!” 
The most common things are the most useful; 
which shows both the wisdom and goodness of the 
great Father of the family of the world. 
Adversity has ever been considered as the state 
in which a man most easily becomes acquainted with 
himself—particularly being free from flatterers. 
Modesty and Prudery.— Women that are the 
least bashful are not unfrequently the most modest; 
and we are never more deceived than when we would 
infer any laxity or principle from that freedom of 
demeanor, which often arises from a total igno¬ 
rance of vice. Prudery, on the contrary, is often 
assumed rather to keep off' the suspicion of crimi¬ 
nality than criminality itself, and is resorted to to 
defend the fair wearer, not from the whispers of 
our sex, but of her own ; it is a cumbersome pano¬ 
ply, and, like heavy armor, is seldom worn, except 
by those who attire themselves for the combat, or 
who have received a wound. 
How beautiful and how touching are the words of 
the twenty-third Psalm; — “ The Lord is my Shep¬ 
herd.” How often has the fainting, trembling soul 
been blessed and strengthened by the sweet assur¬ 
ance, “ The Lord is my Shepherd! ” How precious 
to realize in your own heart of hearts, that though 
all earthly prospects may fade, though friends may 
pass away from our sight, and all the fond ties of 
affection bo severed, yet if we can look up and put¬ 
ting our band into the hand of our Father, can say, 
“ The Lord is my Shepherd,” we are indeed blessed. 
For does not the Good Shepherd gently lead his 
flock into “green pastures and beside the still 
waters ? ’ ’ Does He not gather tbe lambs in His arms 
and carry them iu His bosom ? Uh, let us remem¬ 
ber in our day of trial and sorrow, that our God is a 
“ very present help in time of need; ” and looking 
with confidence and faith to that source whence all 
our blessings flow, take to our hearts these comfort¬ 
ing words, “The Lord is my Shepherd.” 
Woman’s Strength. —That singular character, 
George Francis Train, is an ardent admirer of 
the ladies, and prides himself on being Woman’6 
especial champion. Referring to the talk about 
the weakness of women, he says:—“They always 
conquer the strong. Who was wiser than Solo¬ 
mon?— a woman. More patient than Job? — a 
woman. Stronger than Sampson?— our young 
friend Delilah.” Train has a pithy way of put¬ 
ting things. 
Policy. —Nothing annoys a man more than to 
be eagerly questioned when he comes home tired. 
Give him a neatly served dinner, or a pair of easy 
slippers and a cup of tea and let him eat and drink 
in peace, and in time he will tell you of his own 
proper notion all you wish to know. But if you 
begin at the tack too soon, the chances are that you 
will be rewarded by curtly spoken monosyllables. 
Put down that piece of wisdom in your note book, 
girls; it will serve you well some day. 
Tampering with the Bible. — If you once be¬ 
gin to tamper with the authority of the Bible, you 
have no ground to stand upon. Your feet are 
already gone. Yourtreadings have already slipped. 
To give up miracles and prophecy, and all that is 
supernatural in Christianity, and attempt, notwith¬ 
standing, to retain what is natural, is impracticable 
and preposterous. The natural portion falls at once 
to the ground if the supernatural be removed. 
It is a curious fact that almost all flowers sleep 
during the night. Go out into the garden at twilight, 
and you will observe many blossoms just shutting 
themselves up. There are, however, some except- 
tions. The N’crht flowering Cereus begins to ex¬ 
pand its sweet-scented blossoms at twilight, and is 
in full bloom at midnight, and closes forever at 
the dawn of day. 
Words and Work.— A great many men would 
be real forces of goodness in the world, if they did 
not let all their principle and enthusiasm escape in 
words. They are like locomotives which let off - so 
much steam through the escape valves that, though 
they fill the air with holse, they have not power 
enough left to move the train. If you have got 
any principle, any faith, any euthusiam, any fire 
in your soul, keep the tongue-valve close, and let 
the spiritual forces move your hands to noble deeds, 
and make your feet run on errands of mercy. 
A Lock or Hair. —Hair is at once the most deli¬ 
cate and lasting of our materials, and survives us 
like love. It is so light, so gentle, so escaping from 
the idea of deatb, that with a lock of hair belong¬ 
ing to a child or friend, we may almost look up to 
heaven and compare notes with the angelic nature; 
may almost say “ I have a piece of thee here, not 
unworthy of thy being now .”—Leigh Hunt. 
Geo William Curtis says: —“The summer is 
over, the harvest ending. The earth, like a deco¬ 
rated temple, stands heaped with the treasures of 
the- field; and now, like a Roman conqueror return¬ 
ing with the spoils of victory to the capital, comes 
the farmer to his festival with all the fruits of hi6 
triumphal year.” 
A house built on sand is, in fair weather, just as 
good as if buiided on a rock. A cobweb is as good 
as the mightest cable when there is no strain on it. 
it is trial that proves one thing weak and another 
strong. 
Tub following sentiment is attributed to Na¬ 
poleon Bonaparte :—“A handsome woman pleases 
the eye, but a good woman pleases the heart. Tne 
one is a jewel—the other is a treasure.” 
Love is of the nature of the burning-glass, which, 
kept still iu one place, fireth; changed often, it 
doeth nothing.—No- John Suckling. 
