I OBITS 
“ Mother, you are not dying?" quivered tin- 
girl, in a low, awful voice. 
“ Yes, I am, dear; I’m not afraid; it’s the 
Loud .Tksus. Remember what I've said, dear 
child. Let me say the benediction on your 
head.” 
“Janie guided the clammy, nerveless 
hands above her forehead. She heard the 
sinking voice strain along each holy word 
with an insensibility that was worse than 
agony. Her precious mother could not be 
dying, was the one thought that tilled up her 
mind. 
Suddenly a pair of feet stamped outside, 
and tbmbled for the doorstep. The wife 
smiled a flickering smile of joy “ Her¬ 
bert !” she whispered. 
“ Herbert” came in. Herbert Storms, 
lie who had once been a grand man, — an 
educated, cultured man, — now staggered 
about his home, as swine stagger, exploring 
their pens. 
“ I-i-s supper ready, sis? IIow do, Mrs. 
Storms? Got up there, sis; 1 want to ad¬ 
mire the old woman myself.” 
“ O father,” said the girl, t urning upon him 
bitterly, “ you might have staid sane the last 
night of my mother’s life!” 
“What’s this!” cried the man, with a 
strange fierceness gathering in his eye. 
The departing woman stretched out her 
hand to him. Her ineffably tender face 
ought to have melted a brute; but, with a 
curse full of madness and.despair, he smote 
that slender thing,— like a wavering chain 
of hope reaching out of heaven to him,— 
hack to her breathless side. Jamxk sprang 
to her mother. The troubled soul had 
passed. 
Turn away. Let the wings of innumer¬ 
al tie angels crowding after the bridegroom 
curtain that scene. 
Janie Storms had been motherless six 
weeks. She walked about the room pre¬ 
paring her father’s tea, as she had done on 
the evening, with many mixed feelings in 
her heart. She thought of the man who 
was now her sacred charge with grief and 
horror. Ho had existed in her sight a 
moody, self-wrapped man ever since lie lmd 
excited this horror in her. lie came home 
sober every night and seemed exhausted. 
She did not know where he spent his days; 
hut his evenings passed by him while lie sat 
before the hearth, staring fixedly into the 
coals. lie had been a professional man,— 
but who will trust a drunken physician? 
He had latterly, when he occupied himself 
at all, worked as fi cooper. 
To-night J'anim placed his chair for him 
as usual, and on it. a faded dressing gown 
and pair of slippers, as her mother had long 
ago taught her to do. She toasted bread for 
him, too, till her pale face was scorched, and 
worked faithfully to perform the letter of her 
vow; but the spirit of it was far from her. 
Herbert Storms opened his door and 
came in. He was changed; even to Janie 
he looked changed, as she glanced aside at 
him. 
“Let me help you off with your coat, 
father,” she said softly, coming to him. lie 
sank upon his seat trembling like a child. 
“Oh, Janie, I struck her!” he groaned 
from the depths of his great masculine be¬ 
ing. “Oh, lstruck her!” 
“ i walk — I’ve beep like a madman 
through the woods and around the valley; 
but I can’t get away from this remorse. It’s 
worse than the thirst that used to nearly 
hum me up. Oh, Janie, my manhood was 
gone before, but. my dcvilhood has begun 
now!” 
Janie Storms drew nearer to her shaking 
parent. Her mother’s soul seemed to enter 
her that, moment, or rather the holy soul 
touched her bosom and left a flame in it. 
She had thought the work left, her an im¬ 
possible work, and here was God treading 
down t he way before her. 
“Father,” she whispered, laying her arm 
on his shoulder. 
“Oh, Janie, 1 struck her!" he sobbed, in 
concentrating agony. 
“ But, precious father, she loved you, and 
she loves you yet.” 
“ I think it was the devil that nerved my 
arm, Janie.” 
“ And she knew it was because you were 
in the adversary’s power, dear father. She 
wants you to be free from him. Won’t you 
try to get free? It would be the fullest rep¬ 
aration she could ask from you. She said 
I must not. come to meet her without you; 
and I will take you, father!” 
“ Jane,” said the mail solemnly, lifting his 
forehead, and speaking as if he addressed 
his wife, not her namesake, “ I vow to you 
now, with God’s help, to come up out of 
this! By my degradation, my remorse, by 
your sweet memory and life, 1 vow to you 
to come up out of this! Amen.” 
Janie knelt, by him. They ate no sup¬ 
per. That evening they were by the gates 
of heaven. It was an evening Her¬ 
bert Storms might look back to through 
eternity. 
Janie came down stairs from her little 
bedroom next morning to find her father 
Of clays without any night. 
And nights without any day; 
Of famine, and sickness, and blight. 
When the prayerless man would pray 
Of wretchedness, sorrow, and cold 
No sound save ilie panting breath — 
The young face of yesterday, old, 
Or smoothed by the hand ol - death. 
O God ! let me close my cars 
To these fearful words, l pray; 
Sure these are but maiden tears. 
And not what the storm-winds say. 
Cling closer, my sister dear. 
The night is dreary and chill; 
But we have no cause for fear, 
If we have no cause for ill. 
ten-tom 
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of other equally practical aud useful items of 
Information. There are two hundred illustra¬ 
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The night is storttty and dark ; 
And iny lover is on the sea; 
To the storm-winds lot me hark, 
And see what they say to me. 
They will not speak as before; 
Their videos are dying away. 
Or lost in the wild Uproar— 
I cannot tell what they say. 
Again lot me strain my ear— 
Perchance they are whispering low 
A tale I shall shudder to hear, 
A story 'twero death to know. 
List! softly again they Speak, 
Through tempest and driving rain ; 
Why paletb the blood In my cheek 
To hear the story again l 
They tell of the lonely bark, 
Pursuing her perilous way — 
Ilark —hark to the storm-winds, hark! 
What in it thi jj will- not nay t 
To the storm-winds let tne hark, 
Aud see what they say to me. 
They tell of a Simimer-day, 
Of a cleat- and cloudless sky. 
When along the sandy buy 
Wo walked - my lover und I; 
Of a gallant ship In the stream, 
Of a boat beside tins shore, 
Of the fading Hash and gleam 
Of the last-receding oar; 
Of a figure upon the deck. 
Another upon the strand; 
Of the parting ship—a specie; 
Of a lading cloud - the land. 
They toll of a hod of pain. 
And many a weary night, 
When the fevered pulse and brain 
Have watched and longed for light. 
And of the blessed relief 
Which came to the long despair— 
For a maiden'-: earliest grief 
Is a fearful thing to hear. 
****** 
The night is stormy and dark, 
And my lover is on the sea ; 
To this storm-winds let me hark. 
And see what they say to me. 
They tell of the frozen stones, 
Where the Icebergs plunge and dip, 
By the Arctic winds o'erthnnvn, 
W here speeds that gallant ship ; 
Of the " field," with it* icy glare, 
Where drifts the falling snow ; 
Of the chill and cutting air, 
And of the fearful “ fine. 
Of “ hummock," and *• berg,” and “drift”- 
Full enough to blanch the lip. 
To tell how they grind and lift 
That helpless and lonely ship: 
Cast Up by the Sea Bv Sir Samuel W. Baker, 
M A., F. R. G. 8 . Gold Medalist of the Royal Geo¬ 
graphical Society; Author of the " Albert N'Yauza 
Great Basin Ot the Nile, ' ” TheIfUft Tributaries of 
Abyssinia," ‘ The Ritieand the Hound in Ceylon,” 
etc. Complete with Ten Illustrations by Hi t akb. 
[12mo.—pp. 419.] New York ; Harper A Brothers. 
Sir Samuel Baker gave us travel sketches of 
Africa and India that fvct-e full of deep interest, 
and that proved him expert with the pen, as 
with tho*rifie. He now turns story teller, a la 
Mavne Kkid, and puts forth a thrilling tale of 
exaggerated possibilities, quite Retd-able. Ned 
Grey was "cast up by the sou," as u babe; fol¬ 
lowed the sea, as a youth, by favor of an Eng¬ 
lish press-gang; was shipwrecked off the African 
coast; passed through more hair-breadth escapes 
than Othello ever dreamed of; and returned, 
after several years of detention among sable 
tribes, to tell of teem to a pretty Desdemona, 
commonly known us Edith Jones, and to find 
that, he wasn't Ned Grey, by any means, but 
Edward Neville, a gentleman born, though 
not so gently bred, all after the manner of gen¬ 
uine romance, which is told in a style not the 
most connected and artistic, but not especially 
objectionable. 
THE LOVER ON THE SEA. 
The night, is stormy and dark, 
And my lover Is on the sea — 
To the storm-winds let me hark, 
And sec what they say to me. 
How wildly around the house 
They murmur and moan to-night! 
Is it strange such n wild carouse 
Should cause a maiden affright? 
They rattle the window shutter; 
And madly against the pane, 
And on the roof and gutter. 
They drive the pattering rain. 
They thunder at window and door, 
At scuttle and gable and thatch — 
Till 1 hear a step on the tloor. 
And the click of a falling latch. 
# ♦ W * * 
How tightly my sister's arm 
Around me. in sleep, is thrown ; 
She. hears not this wild alarm, 
Or hears It in dreams alone. 
She pillows her girliBh head 
Close, close to my aching breast, 
And never cun know t.lic dread 
Which is stealing away its rest. 
8he has no lover at sen, 
To awake her maiden fears, 
Till her heart has grown to be, 
Nightly, a heart of tears. 
To her the storms may blow; 
As long as the hearth is warm, 
Iler Cheek will not lose its glow — 
The storm In unly a nto-rrn. 
The Vision; Or Hell, Purgatory and Parodist) of 
Dante Alighieri, Translated by the Rev. Henry 
Francis Cary, A. M. With the Life of Dante, 
Chronological View of his Age, Additional Notes, 
and Index. From tliu Last Corrected London Edi¬ 
tion. f llimo.— pp. ftS7.] New York : D. Appleton & Co. 
Unless we except Mr. Longfellow’s recent 
elaborate translation, which has yet to stand the 
test of popular usage, Mr. Cary’s Dante is the 
best given to the public. The spirit of the origi¬ 
nal Divine Comedy is probably us faithfully ren¬ 
dered as it well can he, while the numerous notes 
upon the text arc- compiled with cure. This edi¬ 
tion In paper is fairly printed, and is desirable 
on account of its remarkable cheapness. 
The ntght is stormy and dark. 
And my lover Is on the sea; 
A WINTER FUNERAL. 
tscfllang 
fndts fur Hunt lists 
White Lies. A Novel. By Charles Reade. [16 
mo.—pp. 280.] Boston ; Fields, Osgood & Co. 
In a handsome dress of green, and with tee 
author's autograph in gill, upon the cover, wo 
are here presented with the first Issue of a 
"Household Edition” of Charles Reaue’s 
works, the only uniform edition published In 
this country, very neat, tasty, and cheap. "While 
Lies" is a curious extravaganza, in which every¬ 
body misapprehends everybody else, and a fib is 
told to cover each misapprehension. It enforces 
a lesson against the telling of petty untruths; 
and this is all of good which we can conscien¬ 
tiously say concerning it. 
To bury a friend in winter is a kind of trial 
that connects strange inward emotions of 
feelings which it is difficult to master. Wo 
have cleared away the snow, and hewn a 
passage down through the solid pavement Of 
the frost, and then in that inhospitable place 
we come to bury our departed; belt child, 
or wife, or mother, or much-loved friend, our 
heart shudders in convulsive chill at the for¬ 
lorn last, offices we are come to perform. 
While our feeling is protesting, till- solemnity, 
so-called, goes on, anti before we have gotten 
our own consent the “ tribute of respect” is 
ended. The frozen chips of earth, loosened 
again by blows, are piled on the loved ones’s 
rest, and we turned to go. “Will it storm 
to-night? The wind, alas! is howling even 
now in Hit: trees, and the sleeting is already 
begun. O God, it shall not be! We were 
going to be fools, we see, but now the spell 
Is broken. Our departed is not in that grave 
and we scorn to say our farewell over it, 
Let the snows fall heavy, if they will, and 
the winds rage pitiless and wild above, ours 
it shall be to thank thee, Father, Lord of 
the warmer clime, that our dead one lives 
with thee.” Practically, almost nothing will 
more surely compel a faith in immortality, 
even if one chances to be unbelieving, than 
to bury a friend in winter. And, as a mat¬ 
ter of fact, it is not in the fresh, unbursting 
life of the spring, or in any other softer sea¬ 
son of the year, that we think of immor¬ 
tality with half the tension that vve do at 
winter funerals. We ask it instinctively, as 
we do a fire for the cold - - Dr. Iiushmll. 
A SERMON ON TOYS, 
JANIE STORMS 
Children like to “ make believethere¬ 
fore mamma buys little horses and carts, lit¬ 
tle cups and saucers, little chairs and tables, 
little dolls and doll-houses. These thing's are 
all well; but a child should not be confined 
entirely to them, since they stimulate but one 
part of the mind. Especially should the 
mistake be avoided of buying expensive, 
ready-made toy apparatus of this class, such 
as is imported from Europe, and giving it to 
children, who find in a few hours, that there 
is nothing left for them to do but to admire 
what has been done for them. 
The children of Nuremberg or the Black 
Forest, who make these elaborate toys get 
all the good out of them; for they are edu¬ 
cated to skill in then 1 pretty handiwork. But 
the pampered city boy or girl who receives 
one of these marvelous complete sheep-folds, 
or baby-houses, or train of cars, with passen¬ 
gers and conductor and baggage complete, 
and an engine which papa must wind up be¬ 
fore it will go, can do little with it exc<*j)t to 
smash it; and this healthy instinct we are 
glad to say is generally followed. 
Children are popularly said to be destruct¬ 
ive. So they are; but in many cases their 
destructiveness is famished and hungry con¬ 
structiveness. Your boy would make a 
whistle if he had a chance; but you buy him 
one and he breaks it. Among the toys for 
the imagination, to which we have alluded, 
there are many which call into activity what 
might he called the practical application of 
imagination—ingenuity, inventiveness, etc. 
For girls no dolls arc so instructive, and 
amusing, too, as paper dolls. When girls 
can sew, it. is almost a wicked waste of their 
time to have them sewing clothes for those 
great monstrosities of dolls which require as 
much labor and care as real babies, and are 
horribly ugly after all. But paper dolls give 
larger dividends of entertainment, beauty 
and education, both in taste and dexterity, 
than any others. 
BY AGNES RAIN. 
CHAPTER I. 
On a December evening, in the Ohio vil¬ 
lage of Hampstead, a girl made a vow to her 
dying mother. The evening was as clear 
and beautiful as if the sky had been burn¬ 
ished for the descent of angels; but the 
people in Hampstead’s snug houses did not 
go out to see it. They preferred, sitting 
around their fires and inwardly congratula¬ 
ting themselves on being sheltered from such 
a still, cold night. 
This girl, my heroine, was not an excep¬ 
tion to those who lost that wonderful west; 
if she expected an angel’s visit, she was not 
in haste to go out to meet it. And there 
was enough for her to do indoors, with 
making ready, like patient Martha, for the 
holy guests. Her home was a log house 
(Hampstead had not yet rid itself of all 
these primitive structures,) and in it she 
moved carefully about, alternately going to 
lean over a sick woman’s lounge, and laying 
her father’s supper. 
“ .Janie,” said the invalid (her voice had 
sounded very hollow and unnatural to you 
or tne, but Janie was used to her consump¬ 
tive mother’s tones.) 
“ What is it mother ?” replied the girl, 
leaning by her tenderly. 
“ Raise my bead up, dear. Now draw 
that chair close. I want to talk to you. I 
must talk to you now, or you will never 
know what I want my daughter to do. T 
am going, pretty soon. You love mother, 
don’t you ? O, 1 don’t want to leave my 
little comfort; but I know God lias much 
for her to do. Perhaps 1 le may let her re¬ 
claim her father. Janie, 1 have tried to 
wean him from his vice; you know that, 
dear. But something tells me, — I think 
God gives me a foreknowledge of the cer¬ 
tainty in my dying hour, — that you tire to 
bo the instrument of saving the man we 
both love. 
“ He was so good, so grand when we were 
married. O, Janie, when you come up to 
meet me, don’t come without your father!” 
The wasted frame was now convulsed with 
coughing. When the spasm had passed, she 
fell back, like a corpse, on the pillow. 
The Poetical Works or Alexander Pope. Ed¬ 
ited by the Rev. II. F. Gauy, M. A. A New Edition, 
Carefully Revised. To which Is prefixed a Bio¬ 
graphical Notice. [161UO.—pp. 165. j New York; D. 
Appleton & Co. 
The “Globe Edition of tee Poets,” whereof 
this volume forms a part, is on every account 
highly desirable. In cheapness, accuracy of 
text, completeness and beauty it is unsurpassed. 
It adds a new inducement to peruse the good 
things of great masters In verse. Fine paper 
and good clear type add not. a little to the charm 
of pure diction and cultivated rhythm. 
Which Wins? By the Author of "Robert Joy’s 
Victory,” -' Christian Manliness,” etc. [16mo. —pp, 
110.] Boston: Henry Hoyt. 
We shoo Id like to see this book In the hands of 
every boy in the land. It teaches most important 
truths, — teaches them attractively, through the 
medium of a well arranged and effectively writ¬ 
ten story, it cannot fail of doing good. 
The Waverley Novels. By Walter Scott, Bart. 
Rob Roy, The Monastery, Old Mortality. The Pi¬ 
rate, The Black Dwarf. Illustrated with Steel and 
Wood Engravings. [i2mo.—pp. 79ft.] New York; 
D Appleton & Co. 
Five volumes of Scott's beat romances are 
here put forth in one, with a very showy out¬ 
side. We have commended the edition here¬ 
tofore. 
BOOKS, PAMPHLETS, Etc., RECEIVED 
Sorrow.— Sorrow sobers us and makes 
the mind genial. And in sorrow we love 
our friends more tenderly, and the dead lie- 
come more dear to ns. And just as the stars 
shine out in the night, so there are blessed 
faces that look at us in our grief, though be¬ 
fore their features were fading from our recol¬ 
lection. Suffering! Let no man dread it too 
much, because it is good for him, and it will 
help him to make sure of his being immortal. 
It is not in the bright, happy day, but only 
in the solemn night, that other worlds are to 
be seen shining in their long, long distances. 
Aud it is in sorrow, the night of the soul, 
that we see farthest, and Itnow ourselves na¬ 
tives of infinity and sons and daughters of 
the Most High .—Breathings of the Better Life. 
Griffith Gaunt; Or, Jealousy. By Chas. blade. 
[llimo.—pp. 32T>.| Boston; Fields, Osgood & Co. 
The Poacher. By Captain Marryatt. Author of 
" Naval Officer, 1 ' " Peter Simple,” etc. [12 mo.—pp. 
316.] New York : D. Appleton & Co. 
Foul Play. A Novel. By Charles Rkade and 
Dion BouCicavlt. Household Edition, [llimo.— 
PP. 2A5.] Boston : Fields. Osgood Jc Co. 
The Pacha or MasyTales. By Captain Mauky- 
att, Author of " Naval officer,” “Jacob Faithful," 
“ Peter Simple,” etc. [12 ruo.—pp. 391.] New York ; 
D, Appleton it Co. 
The Chaplet of Pearls • Or. The White and Black 
Ribauiuoat. By the author of ' The Heir of tted- 
c-lyffe.' With Illustrations. [Svo.—pp. 381,J New 
York: D. Appleton Sl Co. 
The Talisman, The Two Drovers, My Aunt Mar¬ 
garet's Mirror, The Tapestried Cham Per, The 
Laird's Jock. By Sir Walter Scott, Bart. [12 
mo.—pp. 173.J New York: D. Appleton & Co. 
American Watchmaker and Jeweler: A clear 
and Complete Exposition of All the Lulls t and 
Most Approved Secrets of the Trade. By .J. PARISH 
Stelll, A Practical Watchmaker. New York; J. 
Haney & Co. 
The PA 1 *'™.’* Manual; Containing the Best 
Methods and Latest Improvements in tee Vurious 
Branches ot the Art, also Principles of Glass Stam¬ 
ina, Harmony and Contrast of Colors, etc., etc. By 
a Practical Painter, [12 mo.-pp.88.] New York: 
Jesse Haney & Co. 
Industry.— Every young man should re¬ 
member that the world will always honor 
industry. The vulgar, the useless idler whose 
energies of body and mind are rusting lor 
want of occupation may look with scorn— 
it is praise—his contempt is honor. 
“ Professor of the accumulative art,” is 
the California term for thief. 
