THE YEARS TO BE. 
BY A. A. HOPKINS. 
O grandeur of tlie Years to Be! 
O Future all sublime ! 
Fulfilled within thyself we see 
The promises of Time! 
There bloom within thy balmy air 
The raront flowers of speech, 
Anti action In thy sun shall bear 
The sweetest fruit for each! 
We sow the goodly seed to-day 
Thy many hands shall reap; 
Wo give the golden grain away 
Thy garners soon shall heap! 
Who tills to-day the teeming field 
Blight recompense shall earn; 
Thy harvest-time shall only yield 
The glorious return ! 
TUv nights with newer stars shall blaze, 
Thy suns shall brighter glow; 
No gladder, grander yesterdays 
Thy consciousness shall know. 
Thy song shall he a pean grand, 
Borne proudly on the brm«o, 
Re-echoed over every land, 
And wufted o’er the seas. 
We plant to-day a single tree. 
Or drop a single seed, 
And millions in the Years to Bo 
Shull praise the simple deed. 
The thing we do outrouchos far 
Beyond our furthest thought; 
The tellings of the present are 
With freest blessings fraught! 
With thy new light, O Years to Be! 
Shull beam a brighter morn, 
And manhood with tliy dawn shall see 
Its truest being, born ! 
The earth will ring thy coming in 
With gladdest peal on peal, 
For then shall gloriously begin 
Humanity's best weal! 
And then shall all the echoes aheer 
Han's rapid onward mareli : 
For him angelle hands shall rear 
A grand triumphal arch! 
No land shall know a desert hare, 
No track less waste u sea. 
The world shall smile a garden fair 
Within the Years to Bo I 
tones for lUmtliste* 
WHAT I LEARNED. 
BY HOWE BENNING. 
I had lingered by my chamber window a 
moment that bright September morning, and 
at length, unmindful of all duties, present 
and future, had given the hour to musing. 
A mountain ash, in its vivid green and (dus¬ 
ters of scarlet berries, shivered gently in the 
morning air, almost within reach of my 
hand. “Tree holding its own bouquets/’ 
my little Agnes had called it; “Tree of 
beauty,” my lipa had named it. Tt, seemed 
to he so rich in its own life, so full of joy 
that it could not help hut share its bright¬ 
ness with the world. 
Years ago 1 had chosen it as the emblem 
of my life, that through all its years should 
gather leaves of joy, and at length pass away 
in a glorious fruitage, But that was when 1 
had just graduated from a noted Female 
Seminary, when life was all before me, and I 
thought “ to suffer and he strong,” a grand 
and “sublime” lesson. Now lkneivtliatto 
others it might lie, but I had no such expe¬ 
rience. The channel of my way lmd been 
very smooth and clear, and only now and 
then moments of disgust, like the present, 
came, when I said “ not a single cluster on 
my boughs,” “ nothing hut leaves,” as the 
refrain of a Sabbath School hymn ran 
through my brain. 
“Mrs. Ellery, Joe has kilt one of those 
spring chickens. Ye will have iL fur the 
dinner, 1 suppose V” 
Nora spoke through the keyhole, with a 
peremptory tone in her voice, that warned 
me my “ help ” thought I was spending alto¬ 
gether too long a time from the kitchen. 
“Yes, you may dress it, ancl I will come 
and iron while you are busy. Are the flats 
hot?” 
“ Shu re and they are consumed with hate 
for the last hour," and the stout maiden clat¬ 
tered down tlie stairs before me. 
Aunt Patience, with her gentle face in 
its frame of silvery white, looked up - from 
the beans she was shelling with her usual 
smile. 
“ Thee hast had a call, Evelyn, but as I 
could do, I thought not best to disturb thee.” 
Aunt Patience had passed her youth among 
the Quakers, ami the mingling of their edu¬ 
cation and the world’s had produced a sweet 
quaint ness of way and speech. 
“ Who was my caller, aunt?” 
“ Neighbor Murdock. She and John 
have been hasty again, and I verily believe 
he lifted up his hands in severity, for her 
face was bruised and her scanty garments 
rent badly.” 
“ The coward!’’ and I struck my finger so 
sharply upon the heated iron as to leave a 
white ridge. “Why in the name of common 
sense does the woman stay with him ?” 
“ A woman’s heart, Evelyn ; thee know’st 
what it is. ’Tis hard to give up the dreams 
of one’s youth.” 
Ah yes, I knew, and the iron fairly flew 
in my hand over the rough articles, and yet 
mine had been in the ewes of the world, a 
remarkably fortunate life. A pleasant home 
—kind husband—healthy son and daughter. 
How the Mrs. Grundys of the village would 
have smiled at mj r fierce thoughts, hut then 
they never knew how much I had hoped to 
be, “so much more than this,” (so I said in 
my blindness.) If I were strong, no other 
soul hud ever felt its blessedness. My hands 
had filled themselves with little toils, and 
my lips tasting of them had been satisfied, 
and asked no other bread. How I despised 
myself in the light of that fair day, while the 
sun crept higher and laid his lances of light, 
broken by the quivering leaves, upon my 
hot and hurrying hand. 
Nora, who had taken time enough to 
dress a regiment of chickens, made her ap¬ 
pearance at lust, and flushed and tired I toolc 
a low seal by Aunt Patience. There were 
sunbeams all over her, from the hem of her 
dress to the silver crown; but brightest of 
all in the dear eyes that three score and five 
years of sorrow and weeping had not yet 
dimmed. It rested one just to look at her; 
so no word was spoken until Neddie threw 
a letter in ni} - lap, and L had read it twice 
through. Then I said,— 
“ Sophie is coming here, aunt. She says, 
‘ Expect me the last of the week. I am 
very tired and must take one look at the 
solemn mountains for a rest. Do not expect 
me to talk or lie talked to. I am selfish as 
ever.’ ” 
One shadow, just one, crossed the serene 
face before me, then peace again, and I knew 
in that brief moment the temple within the 
heart was opened, and the wayward niece 
left with the “ Angel of Prayer.” 
“ What shall we say or do, aunt ?” 
“ Thee forgetteth she forbids the one. For 
the rest lift no hasty finger. It may be thy 
hand will find plenty, but do not snatch it. 
Bide its coming.” 
“Your philosophy shall aid me, auntie; 
but just to keep my mind quiet I will go and 
see that the linen for the spare bed is 
properly aired and all tilings made ready for 
our fair coz. Let’s see, it is more than six 
years since she was last here; not since that 
sad marriage. I wonder how she has 
changed. She was so strong, so willful,— 
and I wonder, aunt, if we shall ever know 
why the two lives that we believed one 
drifted so widely apart ? No wonder she is 
tired and needs resting, with only bitter 
memories.” 
When, two days later, the shadows fell 
long over our home, Sophie came. Even in 
this gray twilight I answered my own ques¬ 
tions, and knew those fair set lips would 
part with no tale of complaining or prayer for 
aid. If there were graves in her heart there 
were no monuments raised for the curious 
gaze. I determined to take Robert’s advice 
and “ be sensible.” I would try and make 
her visit pleasant in my poor way—it might 
he, who know, one of the “ occasions drift¬ 
ing by.” 
Bo our cousin was allowed to have her 
own will at all times. It might he in the 
morning she would call in the kitchen a few 
minutes, when Aunt Patience and 1 busied 
ourselves in homely duties, and then we 
would not see her again until night. No 
questions were asked, 1 only took care to 
have a good warm supper, and I noticed 
that the mountain ramble, with its food of 
“ bitter thought,” was a good appetizer. 
By-aud-by, perhaps she grew ashamed of 
such exclusiveness, or piqued at our silence, 
for she began to wander in oftener of a 
morning, or, with light work in hand, spare 
a later hour for the parlor. At such times 
Aunt Patience and I talked of the mutual 
friends—the mother whom Sophie scarcely 
remembered, or tbe sister long since sleep¬ 
ing. I used to love to watch her then. The 
face growing more intent and eager, the sad 
eyes forgetting to veil themselves until the 
old Sophie seemed almost with ns again. 
IIow gently Aunt Patience would speak 
their names—with what simplicity tell of the' 
humility and faith that made them counted 
noble, and once I even saw, or thought I 
did, a tear fall from the proud Sophie’s eye. 
She had been with us about two weeks, 
when, nearly dark one evening, having occa¬ 
sion to go to her room, I tapped at the door 
and found her sitting in a low chair by the 
west, window. It had been a sunset of un¬ 
usual brilliancy, and lofty Mt. Verona still 
wore a crown, as if loth to part with so 
much beauty. 
Sophie had not looked toward me, but as 
I turned to leave the room, she said, with 
tremulous voice: 
“Come, here a little while, Evelyn; I 
want to talk with you." 
Oh, how good it seemed in the old place 
by her side. We had loved to sit, in those 
days of our youth, so far away now, and 
give the evening hour to our fancies and 
hopes. 1 think both hearts were full, for the 
silence had been a long one, and .Alt. Verona 
had donned a mantle many shades darker 
before Sophie spoke again. 
“ I wrote j'ou, Evelyn, that I wanted to 
come to you and find rest. I thought it such 
a mockery for me even to speak the word; 
but, Birdie, (that had been my pet name in 
the long ago,) it is no longer a mockery. I 
thought the mountains were so cold and 
high, they might teach me strength to bear 
and ‘ give no sign ; ’ but I did not find my 
lesson there after all.” 
“ Where, then ? ” I asked. 
“ Here, in your home. Listen, I will tell 
you, for you are again the sister friend I used 
to love so well. * Oh, Evelyn ! I have not 
felt an arm about me in so long, and I have 
longed for one so often. I came to you—my 
letter told you for what. I remembered how 
Aunt Patience used to cure all my troubles 
with ginger-cakes or turn-overs, and I bad 
a vague idea that she would comfort me, 
somehow, now. But my woman’s griefs 
were a different matter, and when I first 
came to your home, its sweet peace in con¬ 
trast to my restless self almost drove me 
wild. I cannot tell you all. Tbe gentle 
words of Aunt Patience and your accept¬ 
ance of each daily cross have brought me to 
a haven at last. I am at rest, to-night, dear 
Evelyn, upon a foundation stronger than 
the mountains, and you have given it tome.” 
After a little she spoke again. 
“ It is five years, Evelyn, since the light 
went out of my life. You know what I was 
before, how willful and proud; but when I 
met Herman I became to him gentle and 
humble. I idolized him, and could not im¬ 
agine anything higher. We were married, 
and for one j’ear life was all that I thought 
it. You will think it strange, but when my 
loved one grew daily more worthy and noble, 
I began to turn away. You cannot imagine 
a heart Jealous of its Creator, but mine was. 
I grew cold toward him as 1 saw that love 
for a Higher was making me second. I will 
spare you all my bitter words, my terrible 
wishes. At the close of the year I bade him 
choose between the two loves. I ivould 
listen to no entreaty, and when 1 found that 
lie could not be moved, I turned from him, 
telling him it was ‘ forever.’ Since then I 
have fought the battle daily. No word of 
prayer lias ever passed my lips, and, so 
far as possible, I have made myselt a stran¬ 
ger to all.” 
“ And Herman ?” 
“Has labored for his Master nobly and 
without fail.” 
“ And now ?” 
“ I shall write him his wife is waiting for 
him.” 
“ You never doubt his coming?” I said. 
“Evelyn, I know him,” was all the reply, 
but I was answered. 
The many-colored lines ot the woods had 
not many days deepened when Herman 
claimed his wife, 71 m my turn ‘forever’" 
lie said. 
He was a noble mail, and we learned tbe 
strength “born of suffering,” in the few days 
that he visited us. 
Then they left us, and in the waning 
month I looked out upon my mountain ash. 
The green was flecked with gold and scarlet, 
and the berries were faded and shriveled; 
but I no longer contrasted them with my 
barren life, for the words—“ You have taught 
me,” sounded In my ear like a symphony, 
and I knew that all lives are noble, if having 
an earnest heart. 
--♦»»- 
THE UNEXPECTED SON. 
One summer afternoon, Mr. Malcom 
Anderson arrived with his family at his 
native town. Putting up at the little inn 
lie proceeded to dress himself in a suit of 
sailor-clothes, and then walked out alone. 
By a by-path he well knew, and through a 
shady lane, dear to his young, hazel-nutting 
days, all strangely unchanged, he Approached 
his mother’s cottage. He stopped for a 
moment on the lawn ont-aidc, to curb down 
the heart that was bounding to meet that 
mother, and to clear liis eyes of a sudden mist 
of happy tears. Through the open window ho 
caught a glimpse of her, sitting alone at her 
spinning-wheel, ns in the old time. But alas, 
how changed I Bowed was the dear form, 
once so erect, and dimmed the eyes, once so 
full of tender brightness, like the dew-stained 
violets. But the voice, with which she was 
crooning softly to herself, was still sweet, 
and there was on her check the same lovelj r 
peach-bloom of twenty years ago. 
At length he knocked, and the dear re¬ 
membered voice called to him in the simple, 
old-fashioned way,—“ Coom bcn!" (come in.) 
The widow rose at sight of a stranger, and 
courteously offered him a chair. Thanking 
her in an assumed voice, somewhat gruff, he 
sank down, as though wearied, saying that 
he was a wayfarer, strange to the country, 
and asking the way to the next town. The 
twilight favored him in his little ruse; he 
saw that she did not recognize him even as 
one she had ever seen. But after giving 
him the information he desired, she asked 
him if he was a Scotchman by hirtli. “ Yes, 
madam,” lie replied; “ but I have been away 
in foreign parts many years. I doubt if my 
own mother would know me now, though 
she was very fond of me before I went to 
sea.” 
“ Ah, mon! it’s little ye ken about mitli- 
ers, gin ye think soe. I can tell ye there is 
no mortal memory like theirs,” the widow 
somewhat warmly replied; then added— 
“ And where hae yc been for sae long a time, 
that ye hae lost a’ the Scotch fra your 
speech V” 
“ In India—in Calcutta, madam.” 
“ An, then, it’s likely ye ken something o’ 
in^’ son, Mr. Malcom Anderson.” 
“ Anderson,” repeated the visitor, as tlio’ 
striving to remember. “ There he many of 
that name in Calcutta; but is your son a 
rich merchant, and a man about my size and 
age, with something such a figure-head?” 
“My son is a rich merchant," replied the 
widow, proudly, “ hut he is younger than 
you b 3 f many a year, and begging 3 'our par¬ 
don, sir, far bonnier. He is tall and straight , 
wi’ hands and feet like a lassie’s; he had 
brown, curling hair, sae thick and glossy'! 
and cheeks like the rose, and a brow like 
tbe snaw, and the blue con, wi’ a gliut in 
them, like tbe light of the evening star! 
Na, na, ye are no like 1113 ' Malcom, though 
ye are a glide enough body, I dinna doubt, 
and a decent woman’s son.” 
Here tbe masquerading merchant, con¬ 
siderably down, made a movement as though 
to leave, but the hospitable dame stayed 
him, saying: "Gin ye hae traveled a’ the 
way fra India, ye maun be tired and hungry. 
Bide a bit, and eat and drink wi’ us. Mar¬ 
gery ! come down and let us sot on the 
supper 1 ” 
The two women soon provided quite a 
tempting repast, and they all three sat down 
to it — Mrs. Anderson reverently asking a 
blessing. But the merchant, could not eat. 
He was only hungry for his mother’s kisses 
—only tliirst 3 ' for her joyful recognition; 
yet lie could not bring himself to say to her, 
“I am your son.” He. asked himself, half 
grieved, half amazed, “ Where are the un¬ 
erring natural instincts I have read about in 
poetry and novels ? ” 
His hostess, seeing he did not eat, kindly 
asked if he could suggest anything he would 
be likely to relish. “ it does seem to me 
that I should like some oat-meal porridge, 
such as my mother used to make, if so be 
you have an}'.” 
“ Porridge ? ” repeated tbe widow. “Ah, 
3 r e mean parritch. Yes, we line a little left 
frae our dinner. Gie it to him, Margery. But, 
mon, it is canid.” 
“ Never mind; I know I shall like it,” lie 
rejoined, taking the howl, and beginning to 
stir the porridge with a spoon. As he did 
so, Mrs. Anderson gave a slight start, and 
leaned eagerly towards him. Then she sank 
back in her chair with a sigh, saying, in an¬ 
swer to his questioning look— 
“ Ye minded me of my Malcom then, just 
in that way lie used to stir his parritch— 
gicing it a whirl and a flirt. Ah ! gin’ ye 
were my Malcom, my poor laddie 1" 
“ Weed, then gin I were your Malcom,” 
said the merchant, speaking for the first time 
in the Scottish dialect, uml in his own voice: 
“ or gin your braw young Malcom were as 
brown, and bald, and gray, and bent, and 
old as I am, could you welcome him to your 
arms, and love him as in the dear auld lang 
syne? Could you milher?” 
All through this touching little speech the 
widow’s eyes had been glistening, and her 
breath came fast; but at the word “ wither ,” 
she sprang up with a glad cry, and tottering 
to her son fell almost fainting on his breast. 
He kissed her again and again —kissed her 
brow, and her lips and hands, while the big 
tears slid down his bronzed cheeks; while 
she clung about his neck and called him lay 
all the clear old pet names, and tried to see 
in him all the dear old young looks. By-aiul- 
loy they came back—or the ghost of them 
came back. The form in her embrace grew 
comelier; love and joy gave to it. a second 
youth, stately and gracious; the first she 
then and there buried deep in her heart — a 
sweet, beautiful, peculiar memory. It was a 
moment of solemn renunciation, in which 
she gave up the fond maternal illusion she 
had cherished so long. Then looking up 
steadily into the face of the middle-aged 
man, who had taken its place, she asked: 
“ Where hae ye left the wife and bairns ?” 
“ At the inn, mother. Have you room for 
us all in the cottage?” 
“ Indeed I have—twa good spare rooms, 
wi’ large closets, well stocked wi’ linen I hae 
been spinning or weaving a’ these lang years 
for ye baith, and the weans’.” 
“ Well, mother dear, now you must rest,” 
rejoined the merchant, tenderly. 
" Na, na, I dinna care to rest till 3 T e lay me 
down to tak’ my lang rest. There’ll be time 
enough between that day and the resurrec¬ 
tion, to fault! my hands in idleness. Now 
’twould be uncoirksome. But go on, my 
son, and bring me the wife—I hope 1 shall 
like her; and the bairns—I hope they will 
like me.” 
I have only to say, that both the good wo¬ 
man’s hopes were realized. A very happy 
family knelt down in prayer that night, and 
many nights after, in the widow’s cottage, 
whose climbing roses and woodbines were 
but outward signs and types of tbe blessed¬ 
ness of the love and peace within.— Little 
Pilgrim. 
--—♦♦♦—--- 
What we hold closest we commonly lose 
soonest, and that proves least safe which is 
most deal*. 
bokt fttisfriknn. 
’V" _ 
THE EARLY SNOW. 
BY MINNIE WARD. 
The early snow sifts softly clown to earth this au¬ 
tumn day. 
Ere brown has grown the waving grass or birds have 
flown away; 
It whitens all the harvest fleld where stand the late 
corn sheaves. 
And whispers of their early death to brightly colored 
leaves. 
The vine leaves droop from trellis bars with edges 
curled and brown. 
And ask each other what Is this that comes so softly 
down 1 
Then answers each, “We do forget ’tls rain grown 
old and white 
A 3 the hair of him who sought our shade when Au¬ 
gust days were bright.” 
The summer home of singing birds—a firmly budded 
nest, 
Where morning called for songs of praise, and night 
brought breeze-rocked rest, 
And guarding leaves let softly In the gleam of sun 
and star. 
Is drifted full of fleecy snow, and the birds are scat¬ 
tered far. 
The starry eyes of hardy flowers gleam brightly ’mid 
the snow. 
And grass that waved in softer winds is meekly 
bending low; 
While now nnd then a golden leaf sweeps downward 
to its death, 
And the wind goes by with fitful sigh and chill upon 
its breath. 
O, sifting snow of autumn-time now whitening the 
earth! 
Your soft flakes fall on graves of summer’s beauty, 
summer’s worth, 
And rest on grassy mounds where sleep our own 
beloved dead, 
While with the mournful winds we sigh for friends 
and summers fled. 
We fancy this the first dark lock that time has 
touched with white 
Upon the autumn's tearless brow, where gleam leaf- 
garlands bright; 
But golden sunshine surely yet will set the leaves 
a-glow, 
And harvest cheer hold sway again ere drifts the 
winter snow. 
October, 18C9. 
-♦♦♦—- 
DAY AND NIGHT. 
Nature has her night. The rolling world 
is half in gloom. “ Yes,” says the morbid 
conscience, “ a symbol of the sin it bears and 
the wrath in store for it.” “ No,” replies 
the sunny heart, “not so; but rather an em¬ 
blem of quiet and rest.” And the world 
rolls on the while, with the dark shadow 
clinging to a hemisphere. 
But mark the revelation that it brings. 
When the sun shone, our eyes never wan¬ 
dered to the skies. A thousand filings about 
us claimed attention. We were too busy, 
buying, selliug, driv ing bargains, “ cooking 
victuals, lighting fires,” to think of finding 
anything higher to worship than our dollur- 
god. But now, even though we shudder at 
the gloom, behold the shining legions of 
stars. We thought the darkness was an 
enemy. Evil doers seek its cover, we said. 
Whoever would say an evil word or do an 
evil deed, would seek the darkness. But it 
has unrolled a page of the grandest story 
ever read by the eye of man. It teaches 
hope, and immortality, and God. 
So there are days and nights in human 
experience that are measured by no fixed 
hours. The clock of the soul has an error 
and rate which the books do not explain. 
The law of the chronometer of moods has 
never been determined, but it needs no argu¬ 
ment of mine to prove that, like the world, 
WO are tinning now in sun and now in 
shadow, and that no psychological Newton 
lias shown us the law of tlicir succession. 
And are we quite certain of our judgment 
when we count it a misfortune to find the 
gloom about us? May we not read a lesson 
from nature here? May it not be that in 
these nights of ihe soul there comes to it a 
celestial astronomy as much higher than the 
science of the books as that is greater than 
the little earth to which the sunlight limits 
our vision V 
Possibty the sunny spirit, when all about 
us seems too bright to ever be eclipsed, is 
like the sunny day for our active and com¬ 
mon life, while the deeper mood that comes 
like the darkness of a sorrow, is destined to 
reveal something beyond the world—it, too, 
teaching hope, and immortality, and God. 
J. W. Quinby. 
■4 -- 
Laughers. —There are different kinds of 
laughers—dimplers, snulers, grinners, horse- 
laughers ancl sneerers. And what a vast dil- 
ferencc there is in the childish smile of inno¬ 
cence, the smile of a 3 'oung mother, the smile 
of a lover, the smile of the rewarded poor, 
the smile of a friend, the smile of a politician 
who has gained the day, the smile of a co¬ 
quette or a sharp rascal, the smile of an or¬ 
thodox believer, and the smile of a fool or 
idi<>t. Robespierre would only acknowledge 
one talent of Lafayette—his eternal smile. 
■---—• 
As Hannibal’s soldiers, after triumphing 
over the frozen Alps, were vanquished by 
the luxuries of Capua, so has many a strong 
spirit, after its victories over adverse fate, 
been conquered by the prosperity it wearied 
every energy to obtain. 
--- 
Conscience is a judge placed in the inte¬ 
rior of our being. 
