stood out so prominently in lier, that one 
recoiled in looking at her, and cried, “Is 
this a woman ?” Her cottage was u lair; 
it was no home. Slie had hut one or two 
friends, with whom she exchanged chary 
hospitalities. 
Rosine had fallen into orphanhood and 
her absolute power when a very little child. 
Now Rosine was made of fine and sensitive 
flesh, and after a very different pattern from 
her mini. 13 it people cannot live together 
without giving and taking qualities. The 
frightened creature who hid tiuiii the growl 
raised against herself in the collage, natu¬ 
rally reproduced it on outsiders, baring her 
little teeth on passing children with increas¬ 
ing wnltishnesH. As Rosine approached 
young' womanhood she was considered an 
oddity. Her aunt gave her scant clothing, 
taught her no womanly arts, and treated her 
ns Init a thing whose strength and conse¬ 
quent usefulness were increasing. The vil¬ 
lage girls did not know her; the young men 
saw in her a buzzard or a scarecrow. Stic 
sat upon her aunt’s barn roof, with her tat¬ 
tered sleeves hanging about her wrists, and 
her black hair flowing, and saw them troop 
by to many an excursion.^ ' 
Hit body was fid] t>f Just such life as moved 
theirs; her lie^Twas aching for just such glad- 
ness; J>Til ii. was theirs and not hers. Also, 
while the same girls and boys walked learn¬ 
ing’s ways together, she toiled under Hie 
paw of the hrule-like woman, and breathed 
the had tobacco smoke with which the lair 
was assured. 
'• Rail!’’ you say ; “ this picture is exag¬ 
gerated.” 
This picture is life! 
All the written wisdom Rosine acquired 
she got from some old hooks of her fat her’s. 
She learned to read and she learned to think, 
and dearly did she love to exercise these two 
powers. The digesting of Mu, ton’s short 
poems, some .slices from Lamb, some por- 
t tons of (Ji<a uii’s Commentaries, the round, 
ripe, melon-like sketches of Ihvino, and a 
popper-sprinkle of Hum uras, (which she did 
not. understand, but delighted to get on her 
longue,) kept her mental mill from grinding 
itself up and so leaving a vacuum. 
When ItuSINE lifted her dizzy head from 
its rare function Of playing water pot. after¬ 
noon and evening were meeting. 1 likened 
her to a world at the end of a. geological 
period. Her nature suddenly broke up its 
old formation. The waters washed over the 
mountain tops of her old stolidity. She was 
softened down, melting and shifting. All, 
this world had been the habitation of mag¬ 
nified vultures and unCOMlh shapes as long^ 
as it could hear; it was throbbing to shape 
up anew and receive human companionship. 
“If I had something—just a little some¬ 
thing—to make me happy,” trembled the 
weak girl, vaguely, as she sat in the evening 
air, “ 1 would he so thankful!” 
While she so spoke to herself, she saw 
some persons come out of a Catholic chapel 
not many steps away. RostNE had been in 
a church perhaps three limes in her life; the 
occasions being l lie evening prayer meetings 
of a not very spiritual congregation. Her 
memory had retained some solemn faces, 
some awful prayer, and a cheerful hymn 
which tickled her fancy amazingly. When 
in a boisterous humor she rung it through 
the collage with a very smack in her voice, 
particularly on her.favorite stanza: 
“ Your sparkling eyes amt blooming cheeks 
Must wither like the blasted rosu-uh; 
The coltln, ourtli and winding-siieet. 
Will soon your active limbs enclose-uh 1 ” 
Not conscious of possessing the charms to 
which mortality is made, such a comfortable 
neighbor, Rosine sang not to herself; 
neither could anybody suppose she was tan¬ 
talizing her mint. She sang it because it 
was monstrous, like her life, and she liked, 
to put things together which resembled each 
other. Yet she was full of natural religion, 
and had hits of aboriginal prayers, which 
she said on occasions. This instinctive re¬ 
ligion moved her, after looking carefully 
about her for some irresolute minutes, to lift 
herself on her stiff limbs and steal to the 
church. She crossed her arms above her 
forehead to parry the setting sun on one 
side and the gaze of passers-by on the other 
Seeing nobody in the dim room, she went 
softly up the aisle and stopped before the 
door of the confessional to look around with 
curious awe at the small wonders the church 
afforded. While site was so occupied a low 
murmur smote her ear; thou followed a loud 
murmur; then the low murmur took the ear 
again. Rosine listened with great rever¬ 
ence; she caught the words “ O, Father,”as 
they were repeated at intervals, and her 
whole being grew stilled with awe. The 
penilei. came out and looked at Rosine in 
some ash islimenl, but as Rosink’s heart 
and eyes wen toward that comforting closet, 
her fellow slnnc. indignation at her eaves¬ 
dropping was quite ’ >st. on her. 
Rosine at once enli ival the confessional. 
She saw a latticed window, curtained with¬ 
in. But where was the “ Father” to whom 
she was going to appeal for comfort? Hud 
he withdrawn himself because she had en¬ 
tered? Everybody considered her unclean. 
While she trembled, and was washed 
over by the oceans that were remodelling 
lier, and knew not what to do, the curtain 
was drawn suddenly aside, and a stern, 
plump face, cut into diamonds by the lattice¬ 
work, presented its sections before her. 
Through two of the diamond holes two 
piercing bine eyes scanned the ragged, cow¬ 
ering girl, who had never been to confession 
before and was not a communicant of the 
church. The priest thought she was a beg¬ 
gar who had blundered into the confessional 
in order to gain access to him. 
“ What do you waut, daughter,” he asked 
briskly. 
Rosine lifted hands and eyes with passion¬ 
ate energy, Init could not put her trouble 
into sounds, and broke out vaguely. 
“ Something 1 O, Father, 1 want some¬ 
thing!” 
The priest drew up his studious brows, as 
knights may have pushed up their visors, 
and looked at her through hare and tender 
human eyes. Her voice was exceeding sor¬ 
rowful. Tin; good man that moment rcCOg- 
ni/.tri! tiie Haeredness of the heart’s privacy ; 
without asking lie^to lay it open before him 
lie gave her a compassionate benediction. 
“ Daughter, go in peace. The Loud grant 
thee I by petition 1” 
So Rosine went, being one prayer hap¬ 
pier, As she slipped along the walk with 
her arms wreathed about, her faee,she came 
front to front with Julien Chime. 
Now Julian Chime was a goodly being 
to meet, on general occasions. Ho had a 
St. John face, with a background of flowing, 
bushy hair. He had the sharp-seeing, yet 
dove-like eye, which in old or young, de¬ 
notes the dreamer He was the son of a well- 
to-do family in the village, and was looking 
forward, with ambitious swellings under his 
youthful shirt-front, t<> achievements that 
should astonish the world. Oh, this dewy, 
downy, dul ling ardor of youth ! Call it ego¬ 
tism, or call it inspiration, whichever you 
will. It goes almost before it can he chris¬ 
tened. But while il lasts it is wondrous 
sweet and strong. My youth was a Sir 
Pelleas in his modern fashion ; with a very 
soft young heart, hut a very sinewy young 
hand. Rosine hud lilted Julian Chime lor 
having prevented some hoys who caught 
her out in the winter from abusing her with 
snow. But after wards he did not notice 
her. She was piqued; she wanted to have 
him notice her. The strong, much respect¬ 
ed young man was an unconscious object of 
her reverence. Failing to attract his atten¬ 
tion by milder means, or “ by grass only,” 
as .the fable hath it., she began to cultivate it 
with stones. And once she sung in alow, 
mocking voice, through the fence at him 
parodying lier favorite IIudirras: 
“Here woes the meolc-t'aood Moses Crimen, 
Who is a most prodigious rhymer 1" 
Therefore when sou came front to front 
with him on the present occasion, she did 
not consider him as agreeable a being to 
meet ns a rag-picker, or a cow promenading 
the walk, or any other animal akin to her¬ 
self, and whom sim had not injured, might 
have been. Both were pre-occupied, and 
each was anxious to p iss the oilier. People 
who are like-minded seldom clash, except 
when they arc minded to inhabit the same 
space. Julian and Rosine, after a gal¬ 
vanic recoil, began one of those dodging 
exercises so delightful to everybody but ihe 
performers. They concluded with another 
galvanic recoil. To Rosine, in her uncouth 
dress, the embarrassment was agonizing. 
Julian thereupon noticed with whom he 
was playing hide and seek, and that her 
face was taking on a deep pallor; and his 
knightly instincts rose up. 
“ Are you sick, Rosine Bkuntley? What 
is the trouble?” 
Rosine stood trembling, but said nothing. 
Julian took lier arm, ragged sleeve and 
all, upon his helpful forearm and walked 
with her toward lier aunt's house. 
“ Poor child 1 " he said. 
He entered the gate and sat. down by her 
on Lhe grass. Rosine hid her face in the 
faithful ground, shutting her lips firmly and 
holding her body quiet, until she was com¬ 
posed. It was her rigid law never to shed 
tears w hich other eyes might see. She had 
learned when a little child that pitiful brute 
habit of hiding to suffer. When she saw 
Julian’s solicitude, she shut iter lips very 
hard again, and twisted up her long lingers. 
“ You are tile kindest boy in all the world, 
Julian Chime. You are kind even to those, 
who are rude to yon,” she spoke, carefully 
guarding lier voice. “I will tell you what 
troubles me, because you came out of your 
way to help me home when I was so faint. 
I am unhappy. My aunt treats me cruelly; 
she keeps me from learning, and gives me 
scarcely any clothes. I know nothing ex¬ 
cept what is in my dear hooks. 1 have no 
friend. The gills never speak to me, be¬ 
cause 1 look odd. It is, altogether, more 
than I can bear.” 
“ Well, Rosine,” said Julian, looking at 
her in some surprise, “I think the girls 
would do well to notice you. They might 
take lessons of you in arranging their lan¬ 
guage. I used to think you odd because 
you never braided your hair like the rest, 
and had a habit of throwing gravel. But 
! now that I look at you, you seem different. 
How hard your life must, he! Why don’t 
the authorities interfere and take children 
away from people w ho abuse (hem? When 
I have a voice in this world, things will 
change. Can’t you leave this aunt?” 
“ She is my guardian,” said Rosine, “ be¬ 
sides, where should I go?” 
“ You might do housework. But,” stipu¬ 
lated Julian with kindling interest, “it 
should he in some place where you would 
be treated kindly unci respectfully.” 
The suggestion of Rosine Buuntley’s 
being an object of respect, thrilled the young 
heart and sent a crimson wave of pleasure 
over the dark young face opposite Julian. 
She lifted her vivid black eyes, and he, too, 
blushed faintly, as it in reflection of her lace. 
“ When I go home,” said lie, “ I will tell 
my mother about it, and she will help us.” 
As he showed no inclination to go at 
once, Rosine asked him, timidly, to tell her 
what he learned at school, This was smit¬ 
ing a kindred chord in Julian’s bosom. lie 
unfolded the whole rich extent and the vari¬ 
ous uses of education, and explained .such 
sciences as lie had mastered, to her. 
The moon came up as large as a cart¬ 
wheel. There was no evening dew. Ro¬ 
sine forgot that site, had an aunt, or that the 
world had ever held any other experience 
for her than sitting on the grass talking with 
Julian Chime. 
“Rosine,” lie exclaimed, springing up 
suddenly, with the ludicrous sensation of 
having lost his reckoning, “it is late; I 
must go home. Bui 1 have a book 1 should 
like to lend you.” 
“ Have you ?” she cried, eagerly. “ What 
is il?” 
“It is a volume of poems by a great man 
named Tennyson. I. will go and get it at 
once.” 
“0, not to-night,” said she, while her ex¬ 
pectant face belied the prayer. 
“ Yes, to-night,” insisted Julian, who was 
swift and firm in all his decisions. “ 1 shall 
be back in ten minutes.” 
“ When he opened lhe gate on his return, 
he saw a light moving about in the house, 
and heard a growling and shuffling noise, 
lie felt an impulse to go in and protect Ro¬ 
sine from something. She was watching 
for him; she hurried to meet him. She hud 
braided her black hair in the fashion to 
w hicb girls then devoted their locks, and had 
sewed up Lhe slits in her sleeves. This 
change was made pluju^v the moonlight. 
“How prettyexclaimed Ju¬ 
lian. “I wish I could'stay mid talk with 
you forever. What have you done with me, 
Rosa ?” 
Rosa shook as if his breath had been a 
strong wind. She murmured, “ My auut 
will call me soon.” 
“ Will you put your hand on my shoul¬ 
der?” said Julian. “There, let me hold 
your other hand. Little Rosa, I respect you 
more than any other woman. I find that 
you are a thoughtful, clear-sighted, irulh- 
speaking girl. Will you let me be your 
friend ?” 
For reply, Julian lelt his band touched 
reverently by her trembling mouth. 
“ I choose you for my friend. I will keep 
watch over you, dear. Here is the book. 
Goodnight.” 
Rosine went into Hie house and shut the 
door. She was a reconstructed world with 
a little Eden springing in her bosom. 
What reconciles one to life more than the 
knowledge that one is precious in the eyes 
of somebody else? Emerson says love 
surrounds the world like a tine ether. Fam¬ 
ily love, kindred love, friendship, or lover 
love, is wreathed by each human being. 
But I fear me only the smothered people, 
who come suddenly into it, know the full 
joy of spreading their spiritual lungs to this 
perfect air. 
-- 
“LOST AMONG THE MORMONS.” 
Tnis is the title of a sad story told by the 
New York World, and it will he read with 
tho wisli that the blow now threatening 
Brigham Young and his followers limy full 
speedily and bo thoroughly effectual. In a 
Danish lodging house in Buttery Place, New 
York, the other day, a World reporter found 
a respectably dressed and aged gentleman, 
named Rasmus* Clausson, who had just 
arrived from Salt Lake City. We quote: 
The old man appeared to he very low in 
spirits as lie entered his new ulxKle, and after 
seeing his few trunks safely lodged inside, 
placed his hands ou the table, on which lie 
placed his head and gave vent to all outburst 
of sorrowful feelings. The writer, who hap¬ 
pened to he passing soon after the old man’s 
arrival, had his attention drawn to the new¬ 
comer’s stul position, and being acquainted 
with the Danish language, sought an inter¬ 
view with the unhappy mail. Being ques¬ 
tioned as to his trouble, Clausson stated that 
he had Come from Salt Lake City on his 
way home to Copenhagen, and in reply to 
questions put to him he said that he had 
been formerly a farmer in a small town 
called Luwlland, Copenhagen, Denmark, 
where he had done his best to bring up his 
family comfortably, and until within the 
last two or three years all had lived a very 
happy life. 
About that time some missionaries of the 
Mormon persuasion came into his town, and 
.through their influence and position pervert¬ 
ed the mind of his eldest daughter, and sub¬ 
sequently that of his wife. “I used to hear 
them talk all manner of lhodomcntade 
about free love, lhe latter-day saints, as it 
used to he in the days of Abraham, and how 
it would he in the days to come, using the 
Scripture to impress upon llmir minds what 
they intended to convey. I strongly protest¬ 
ed against their coming to my home, but 
they so worked upon my wife and child that 
they would receive them against my wish. 
At length they induced my daughter to go 
to Utah to dwell among those God-forsaken 
beings. 1 told them to think of my age— 
that I did not want to Jose my wife and 
child, as we should never meet, again. My 
daughter did go, however, they paying lier 
expenses by way of Denmark to Liverpool, 
and came to this country by Williams & 1 
Gition’a line, which is noted lor having the 
monopoly of bringing the poor deluded 
e. real ores. After she had resided in Salt 
Luke City sonic months she wrote to my 
wife, stating she had married to a Danish 
gentleman, and although I was sorry to lose j 
her I was glad to find her settled in life. 
She wanted my wife to go out with me to 
Salt Lake City, and after great pressure 1 
consented to go. 1 sold my farm and Block 
which reached $700, and went to Salt Lake 
City. We were met by our daughter, but to 
my indignation I found she had been married 
to a second husband and was living with her 
first husband still. After I discovered her 
my wife, to whom I had always clung, also 
sided with what, she had done, and,” said the 
old man, “ may God forgive her ! She for¬ 
sook me also and was living the life of ft lat¬ 
ter-day saint, and left me after she had spent 
my money ; and finding I could not convert 
either wife or child 1 resolved to go home to 
my native land to die, and Hie authorities of 
Suit Lake City have paid lily expenses. To¬ 
morrow I shall leave this country forever by 
the steamer Nevada, leaving my wife and 
child behind me in that fallen city.” Here 
the old man again hurst into tears and the 
Writer lcfl him to go to liis room. 
-m- 
A WESTERN STORY. 
AT LAST. 
BY ANNA CLEAVES. 
A peculiarly Western Story is told by 
Hie Kansas City Bullet in.milder the heading, 
“A Dash of Wild LiftA-A Daring Rider 
Steals his Child from the City in Daylight.” 
“ A bold and daring deed,” we read, “ was 
perpetrated yesterday afternoon on our 
streets,—one of the kind that smacks of bor¬ 
der life and reveals somewhat of the strange 
combinations of character to be found in our 
motley population. A little child was play¬ 
ing in front of a house door on one of the 
back streets in the eastern part of the city— 
Seventh, we believe. It was a little boy of 
three years. Its mother was within the 
house, probably not dreaming of danger. A 
man on a large, strong horse appeared and 
came riding down toward the child. He 
was in appearance a Texiui, wearing a broad 
sombrero liat, and a long, black beard and 
moustache. His complexion was as dark al¬ 
most. as an Indian’s. He rode on as one who 
was sure of his errand, and merely leaning 
down from his saddle, he picked up the little 
one, and holding it in one arm he turned his 
horse instantly and dashed down through 
the city by Fifth and Bluff streets toward 
West Kansas.” 
This is all the beginning that is necessary 
to a volume novel of western life at the 
very least, and it has the merit of being in¬ 
controvertible fact. We cannot, however, 
enter into the startling story business just 
now. Briefly, the child’s mother married 
the man of the black beard in Platte county 
four years ago. The pair lived together 
two months and then separated, the woman 
to live with another mail in Kansas City 
and the man to go further west and marry 
again. At last accounts neither the boy 
nor the man had been heard from, though 
they had been holly pursued. “ The horse, 
from all accounts," says the Bulletin, 
“ would be an interesting object at a race, 
so superior was it to any that joined in the 
pursuit, and the little fellow in the man’s 
arms, say those who saw them as they flew 
past, seemed to enjoy the ride.” 
----- 
The word Canada luid asingular origin. 
When the Spaniards first visited the coun¬ 
try they found neither gold nor silver, and 
went off saying “A Canadada,” (there is 
not hing here.) When the French came the 
Indians tried to frighten them off by repeating 
it over and over, but the new comers took it 
for the name of the laud, and so called it 
Canada. 
--- 
AND so jou sny the farm Is ours, 
All paid for "clip and clear;” 
’Tis welt! God knows we’ve tolled for it 
This many a Ions, long year. 
There was a time, In days gone by. 
Had this tbinu come to me, 
I could have cried for very Joy: 
And danced In merry glee. 
But now mv pulse beats calmly on. 
My heart seems dead and cold ; 
Too late, too lute! what profit now 
To me, Is land or gold t 
When feet are swift, and arms are strong, 
And soul is fllied with fire; 
Ah! ’lisa happy thing for one 
To gain Ills heart’s desire. 
But when the hands hang listless down. 
And footsteps feeble grow, 
We seem to loose our hold on earth— 
’Tis well, perhaps, ’tis so. 
Bntah ! how changed laid been my life. 
How bright my weary way.— 
Had this thing happened unto me, 
That comes, too lato. to-day. 
My heart had then less anguish known ; 
My form ne’er bent with care ; 
Mine eyes, tindlmmed with tears, in which 
The world could have no share. 
Mcthlnks my eldest horn—whose wail, 
And feeble cry. I hear.— 
Had then been strong, and lived,perchance. 
To hless my latest year. 
And < i i vr., my beauty and iny best, 
Who sat next on my knee, 
Would not have left our scanty board, 
To perish in the sea. 
And baby LoTTlK, nb ! Con knows. 
While she lay on my breast, 
I bravely fought ’gainst want and pain, 
But she is with the rest. 
And now, at last, the farm Is ours. 
Bought with our life’s best years 
And all Unit it. doth bring to me. 
Are vain regrets, and tears. 
Does GOD forget ?—nil, doubting heart! 
His way* are not our own; 
Had this thing been, I might have lost. 
My way to yon bright throne. 
Setauket, L. 1..1K71. 
METHODIST BENEVOLENCE. 
The Methodists seem to he awaking to 
their responsibility in the support of the 
American and Foreign Christian Union. 
The receipts reported for the month of Au¬ 
gust show that out of $55,115 there were 
$879 contributed by Methodist churches, 
and $994 collected at Melliodist camp meet¬ 
ings, making a total of $1,8753, being nearly 
two-thirds of the whole. Probably if lhe 
sums contributed by iudivitlnui Methodists 
were added, it would considerably exceed 
two-thirds of t.hc whole. From Congrega¬ 
tional churches $180 are reported, showing 
how largely they have withdrawn from the 
Society. 
What bird is that which it is absolutely 
necessary that we should have at our din¬ 
ner table, and yet need never be cooked or 
served up ? A swallow. 
THOUGHTS FOR THINKERS. 
Whatever is highest and holiest is tinged 
with melancholy The eye of genius has 
always a plaintive expression, and its natu¬ 
ral language is pathos. A prophet is sadder 
Hum other men; and he who was greater 
than all prophets was “a man of sorrow 
and acquainted with grief.” 
Sneer not at Old Clothes. —They are 
often made holy by long sacrifices, by care¬ 
ful foldings away, that they may last until 
the dear ones are provided for. If many an 
old coat could speak, wliat. tales il would 
tell of tho noble heart underneath ! 
A true friend is he who not only shows 
himself so when the frowns of misfortune fall 
upon ns, but even when we treat him as a 
foe, builds friendship’s altar higher and firm¬ 
er with the very stones cast against him by 
our folly or perverseness. 
Of the two thousand graduates at Am¬ 
herst College during the fifty years of its ex¬ 
istence, seven hundred and fifty-one have 
become ministers of the gospel, and of these 
seventy-five have gone as missionaries to 
the heathen. 
I am for frank explanations with friends, 
ill case of affronts. They sometimes save a 
perishing friendship, and even place it on a 
firmer basis than at first; but secret discon¬ 
tent always ends badly .—Sydney Smith. 
It is by the promulgation of sound mor¬ 
als iu the community, and more especially 
by the training and instruction of the young, 
that woman performs her part towards the 
preservation of a free government — Webster. 
John Busy an was once asked a question 
about heaven which lie could not answer, 
because the matter was not revealed in tho 
Scriptures, atul lie thereupon advised ihe 
inquirer to live a holy life and go and see. 
At the recent Baptist Educational Con¬ 
vention in Rochester, the Rev. Dr. Guriy 
said that there are now more Baptist colle¬ 
giate institutions in the South, male and le- 
male, than of any other denomination. 
The magnificent offering of $15,000 which 
Mr B< eel id’s church has sent, by one of its 
own members, to the sufferers of Chicago, is 
a good proof of his ministry. 
ttSiw i wmw '' 
