430 
OOBE’B BUBAL WEW-YOBKIB 
feb aa, 
WHEN THE WIND BLOWi. 
O the dancing of the leaves. 
When the wind blows! 
And the rushing noise of trees. 
Shouting, shrinking on the leas, 
Like the sound of seething seas, 
When the wind blows 1 
O the bending of tho boughs. 
When the wind blows! 
The quaver and the quiver 
Of reeds along the river— 
The shudder and the shiver— 
When tho wind blows! 
O the shifting of the clouds. 
When the wind blows! 
Sailing swiftly on between 
The. wide blue world and the green. 
Casting stripes of shade and sheen. 
When the wind blows! 
O tho drifting of the snow, 
When the wind blows! 
Showing In the oold moonlight 
Fallen trees hid under white. 
Like, groat ghosts In bed at ntgbt. 
Whon the wind blows! 
O the comfort of the Are, 
When the wind blows! 
To hear the Bong and the chat 
Of the kettle and the cat. 
And the cricket on the mat, 
When the wind blows! 
[Guy Ronlyv. 
€hir ^torg-SMlip. 
THE MOTE CHILD. 
BT ANNIE BARNARD. 
[THE writer of tho following story Is not Its heroine; 
but sho Is a deaf mute and a teacher in a deaf mute 
institution. The story Is not fiction; and we know It 
will add to the Interest with which it will be read to 
team these facto concerning Its author.—EDS. RURAL 
NE\v-YouKr.n.] 
The last rays of the setting sun threw a flood 
of mellow splendor over a landscape rich with 
green meadow land and fields of waving grain. 
It, touched the old woods In tho distance! shone 
across brooks and streamlets, making their 
rippling water sparkle like gold, and poured 
into the open windows of a vine-covered farm¬ 
house. The scene was very beautiful; but those 
within that farm-house saw nothing of the 
beauty and gladness without. The bright sun¬ 
light,the soft Summer breeze, and the song of 
birds were all forgotten In tho shadow of the 
dark angel’s wing, which seemed hovering, over 
them. All was still within the farm-house save 
the echo of hurried footsteps and the faint 
sound of whispering voices; for In a room, 
through whoso closed bllndathosunlight strove 
in vain to piorce, a little child lay dying—a girl 
baby, whom God had given to cheer tho heart 
of her parents for two short years, mid now It 
seemed Ho would take her from them forever. 
“There is no hope," said the gray-haired 
doctor, sadly ; and the mother bowed her head. 
The father stood apart, pale but tearless, look¬ 
ing at his darling. These three sat watching at 
the bedside to see tho frail little life go out, 
until tho pale rays of t he moon shone over the 
scones late Illumed by the sunset's splendor. 
But still the unconscious babe lingered on ; and 
at last, ns the first streaks of dawn shone in the 
East, the brown eyes slowly unclosed. Then 
the doctor turned and said to the father: 
“Tho change is for the better; sho may live 
yet." 
The mother’s quick ear caught the words, 
and, with a low “Thank God ! " she bent to kiss 
her child. 
The babe did live. Each day brought signs of 
returning health; but instead of the old merry 
light, the brown eves had a wistful look. No 
baby-voice responded to the mother's fond 
words, or childish prattle greeted the father. 
This they did not understand at first,, but one 
day the t ruth dawned on them with the words 
of the old doctor; 
“God lias spared your child," ho said; “but 
he has sealed her ears from the sounds of the 
world and her lips from framing her thoughts 
Into words. That is, your child will never hear 
or speak again." 
Words cannot tell the mother’s feelings at 
this news. What, was sho never again to hear 
those baby lips call her mother !—never hear 
that merry voice make musical her silent home? 
It seemed almost too much; but the mother- 
love in her heart grew stronger than before. 
She became, if possible, more gentle and tender 
with her darling; but her heart would ache 
Avhen she caught the gaze of those wistful 
brown eyes, and strove to read the meaning 
conveyed In her child’s mute gestures. 
So time passed ou, and brought back health 
and strengt h to the little Li r/r. Once more sho 
went about tlic house and mingled with her 
Utile playmates; but her voice and laughter 
were no longer heard, and sho seemed atone 
among her playmates. In thelrromps and merry 
games she seldom Joined, lion, in sealing her 
ears and lips, seemed to have Isolated her from 
everything in the world around her. She had 
no means of sharing lier childish joys and sor- 
swift and varying expression of her face and c 
every glance of her eye. Thus, living In silence, g 
unbroken save (It may be) by the sound of angel 
voices, little I/ILY passed the years of her child- h 
hood. She was very beautiful; but with a beauty p 
seldom found In children. The chief attraction t 
of her face was her eyes—large, dark and deep. u 
They spoke. In a measure, the language which 
her lip* could not frame, and gave a meaning to a 
those sign* and gestures by which she tried to 
convey her thoughts to others. People who t 
met her said, pityinglyIt it sad that one 
so lovely should be shut out from all which 
makes life beautiful.” a 
But It never ocourod to them that a means t 
might be found by which to remove the barrier , 
that separated her from the world, and bringhcr 
into free communication with those around her. f 
Tho village near the farm-house, owing to the 
beauty of Its surrounding scenery, bad become r 
a popular Summer resort. Each Summer people ^ 
from the city came hither to find rest and reo- ( 
reatlon among tlic hills, woods and fields, and j 
inhale tbo fresh country air. In their walk* and t 
drives llio 6 .e people often passed the farm-house, ^ 
and whenever they saw Lily at the door, they 
gave a socond glance ere they wont by. . 
One day. eight Summers since the time our ,, 
story opens, a lady from the village, in one of 
her rambles through the country fields, mot t 
Lily, and paused—as many others had done ) 
before her -at sight of thcchlld'a beautiful face, j 
“What Is your name, little one?" she inquired, j 
Lilt shook her head, and raised one hand to , 
her ear, while the expression of her eyes showed 
that the question was not understood. , 
The lady tried again, but with the same result, , 
“She cannot hear,” thought the lady at last, j 
“and Is mute, too. But 1 must know' more of , 
her. Such a bright little thing! Where does i 
she live, I wonder? Can It b« <r» tb^fArm-house , 
yonder?" i 
Then she raised her Anger and pointed t oward 
the house, her eyes asking that question. The , 
child understood her In an instant and nodded, 
her face lighting up with a s mile. Then, per- i 
oetvlng she would go there, Lilt led the way 
through the fields, the lady, meanwhile, 1 tying 
to converse with her In signs. At the farm- 
liouso tho st ranger saw Lily’s parents, and from 
them learned what she desired of her. TIiIr 
served to increase hor interest in the child, and 
her first visit was followed by another and an¬ 
other. She learned to love the route child dear¬ 
ly, and Lilt seemed to return that sentiment. 
One day she came, and said to Lily’s mother: 
“What would you do to havo your child's 
voice restored to her again ?" 
“What would I not do!" exclaimed the moth¬ 
er; “ but, she added, sadly, “why speak of things 
that are impossible?” 
“ Yet, at least, your daughter can be taught 
like other children. She is a child of uncom¬ 
mon intelligence. I cannot be mistaken in that. 
Let me take her away with me, and do what I 
think can be done for her ?’’ 
“ What Is It you can do for her ?” 
“Thisyou will see when I bring her back to 
you,” answered the lady. 
“ But will she be cared for as she is at home ? 
How can I let her go ?" 
“ You have my assurance that she will be ten¬ 
derly eared for. And if you really desire your 
daughter’s good, you can bear a few years’ sepa¬ 
ration from her." 
After a time, It was arranged that Lily should 
go away with her new friend. And one day, 
when tho leaves of tho maple and beeches were 
deepening into the Autumnal pomp of gold and 
scarlet, she left the farm-house. 
It was lonely there after she was gone—lonely 
for the mother, to whom the silent child had be¬ 
come dearer than any one else in the world; and 
for the father, who missed her kiss In the morn¬ 
ing, and her silent t hough glad greeting when he 
came back from the fields at evening. They 
never had n child save Lilt, and so they were 
alone when she was gone. Letters camo from 
their friend. She wrote that Lily was well and 
happy; but.that was all, and her parents were 
forced to be content. 
So time went on unt il four years were gone by. 
And one day, when the mother felt that she 
could endure tho separation from her darling 1 
no longer,a letter came“ Your Lily is coming | 
home," it said, “ and with her coming a joyous 
surprise awaits you." 
The mother wondered what it could be, and 
anxiously counted the days till the appointed 
one came. It wasasoft Juneday,andthesplen- 
dors of sunset were illuminating tho landscape 
when she stood at the gate waiting for the car¬ 
riage that would bring her child. It came at 
last, and as it stopped at the gate a light form 
sprang into her arms. 
“Dear mother!" said a soft voice in hercar. 
She started. It surely could not be her child 
that spoke; but again the voice asked: 
“ Mother, arc you glad to see mo ?" 
Before she could answer, Lily's friend came 
up and said“ I havo brought your child back 
to you. Do you feel repaid for tho years of sep¬ 
aration from her?" 
“My child !" said the bewildered mother. 
“She looks like my Lily; but she could not 
apeak. Is this a miracle? No; the days of mlr- 
[ acles are gone by.” 
“ Lily," said the lady, turning to her, “tell 
caused this change. I only know that you have 
gratified the dearest wish of my life.” 
“ But this is not all," the lady went on ; “you 
know nothing ran restore her lostsense of hear¬ 
ing; but a means has been found of supplying 
this want. Speak to her yourself. She will J 
understand you." 
“Are you happy now, Lily?" the mother 
asked. 
Again Lilt watched the motion of the lips 
that spoke, and then answered : 
“ Yes, dear mother; I am so very happy.” 
The father, who had been watching them in 
silence, but not unmoved, now took his child In 
hi* arms and spoke to her. She answered him 
with the same readiness. 
“It is you, kind friend, whom we have to thank 
for this happy change," he said, to the lady. 
“I may have had a share In aiding her. I did 
not say before that I was a teacher of a school 
where others like her are taught to speak and 
underst and speech from tho motions of the lips. 
I placed her In that school; and I thought that 
by keeping t his a secret for a time, I might give 
you a pleasant surprise." 
“ A happier surprise wa* never thought of; 
and for what you have done we can never thank 
you sufficiently." 
Then, together they went into the house; and 
the sun slowly sank to rest behind the western 
hills. One by one tho stars came out, and t he 
pale moon shone over a silent world; but It 
looked down upon no happier hearts than those 
within the old farm-house. 
Kind reader, the story I have related is no fic¬ 
tion. Lily la living still ; but she has grown to 
womanhood, with a woman’s thoughts and feel¬ 
ings—and more, sho is a happy wife and mother 
now. The barrier that her misfortune raised 
between her and the outside world has long 
since been removed. True, the world is still a 
silent, one to her; but her lips are no longer 
mute, and by her art of reading on the lips, she 
can bold free Intercourse with those around her, 
while she enjoys all the advantage* education 
brings. 
But there are many other mute little ones 
among us, some whom it may be your lot to 
meot; and it is possible that their condition 
rnay be alleviated in the same way, even to an 
extent which, in days of old, would have been 
considered a miracle. 
v'-”" - - - , n 
rows with those she loved the most. The sweet your mother who you are. 
tones of human sympathy, the melody of sing- Lily watched the quick motion of the lady’s 
ing birds and the glad sounds of the happy lips, and then exclaimed: 
world, were all unknown to her. Yet sho had “Do you know me. mother? I am your Lily.” 
her thoughts, though her mute lips could not The mother folded her child in her arms. “I 
give thorn utterance. They might be seen in the do not ask,” she said to the lady, “ what has 
SPARKS AND SPLINTERS. , 
Texts for sinners—pretexts. 
The array does not always fly when it extend# 
it* wings. 
The increase of the corn crop this year is a- 
maizo-ing. 
Mean temperature—the thermometer at 40® 
below zero. 
Currant events generally occur during the 
tart and jam periods. 
It is true, but odd, that, after canal boats go 
down, they lock them up. 
March is said to be a good time for riding, 
there are so many driving rains during that 
month. 
Talk about the modern falling off of home 
affections! Our wives are becoming dearer 
every day. 
A poetic Hibernian explains that love 1s com¬ 
monly spoken of as a “ flame” because it’s a tin¬ 
der sontiraent. 
Spicer, who has recontly been newly shod, 
says his now foot-coverings are not street shoes, 
but oHe//-(/fitters. 
ANSWER, to a correspondent—Dog's tails In¬ 
cline to the left, because that is the tip of the 
fashion in dog society. 
An Omaha bride was married barefoot because 
her lover’s kinfolks dressed that way, and she 
did not wish to seem proud. 
What Is the difference between a plan of a 
battle-field and a roasted pippin ? One is a war- 
map, the other a warm apple. 
What cord is that which Is full of knots, 
which no one can untie, and in which no one 
can tie another? A cord of wood. 
Ir your neighbor’s hens are troublesome and 
steal across the way, don’t let your angry pas¬ 
sions rise, but (lx n place for them to lay. 
Which is the oldest. Miss Antiquity, old 
Aunty Deluvlan, Miss Ann TeriOr, Miss Ann 
Cestnr, Miss Ann T. Mundane, or Miss Ann T. 
Cedent? 
A WAGGISH friend of ours, says the Worces¬ 
ter, Mass., Budget, attempted to count the 
sleepy-heads in tho church. He reached as far 
as fifty, and—fell asleep himself. 
An independent old lady, speaking of Adam’s 
\ naming all the animals, said she didn’t "Think 
he deserved any credit for naming the pig—any 
one would know what to call him.” 
“ A rt, Mr. Simpkins, we have not chairs enough 
for our company, said a gay wife to her frugal 
husband. “Plenty of chairs. Mrs. Simpkins,” 
he replied, “but too much company.” 
“Tom," said a man to his friend, “ I think it 
j hlghlydangeroustokeepthebillsofsmall banks 
on hand now-a-days." “Tim,” said the other, 
“I find it far more difficult than dangerous." 
“ Murder Is a very serious thing, sir," said an 
Arkansas Judge to a convicted prisoner; “ it is 
next to stealing a horse or a mule, sir, and I 
shall send you to the State Prison for six years, 
“AT EVENING TIME IT SHALL BE 
LIGHT. " 
BY A. CLEAYELAND PRINDLE. 
Light at evening (—blessed promise 
That life’s darkest storms shall flee,— 
That each bitter eloud of sorrow 
Shall but bright reflectors he 
Of the radiance which shall hover 
Bound the spirit’s evening time. 
Singing lullabya of heaven 
Which with angel harplngs chime. 
In the morn of life the sunbeams 
Flooded all out path with light. 
But the noontime found the tempest 
Clothing the same path In night. 
Then, amkl the muttering thunders, 
Lo, a gentle voice we hear: 
“ Hope and trust —beyond these shadows 
Shall tho evening light appear.” 
Half way o’er our pilgrim Journey. 
Half life’s storms and sorrows o'er. 
Wistfully we watch the shadows 
Which above our spirit soar,— 
Watching for the golden glimmer 
Which will banish sorrow’s night,— 
Waiting for the blessed promise, 
“ Lo at evening cometb light." 
-- 
AN ELOQUENT PASSAGE. 
It cannot be that eart h is man’s only abiding 
place. It cannot be that our life is a bubble 
cast, up by the ocean of eternity t o float a mo¬ 
ment upon Its waves, ami sink into nothingness. 
Else, why these high and glorious aspirations 
which leap like angels from the temple of our 
hearts, forever wandering unsatisfied? Why la 
It t hat the rainbow and cloud come over us with 
a beauty that is not of eart h, and then pass off 
to leave us to muse on their loveliness ? Why is 
it that atarB w hich hold their festival around the 
midnight throne, are set above tho grasp of our 
limited faculties, forever mocklDg us with their 
unapproachable glory? And, finally, why Is It 
that the bright forms of human beauty are pre¬ 
sented to our view and taken from us, leaving 
the thousand streams of our affections to flow 
back in Alpine torrents upon our hearts? We 
were born for a higher destiny than earth. 
There la a realm where t he rainbow never fades, 
where the stars will he spread out before us like 
the islands that slumber on tho ocean, and 
where the beautiful beings that pass before us 
like shadows, will stay forever in our presence.” 
— G. D. Prentice. 
-- «♦» -- 
^THOUGHTFUL PARAGRAPHS. 
When the sun rises there is light. Why, I do 
not know r . There might have been light with 
out the sun, and there might have been sun that, 
gave no light, but God has been pleased to put 
these two things t ogether—sunrise and light. So 
w’hcnever (here is prayer, there is a blessing. 1 
do not know why. There might have been pray¬ 
er without a blessing, for there Is in the world 
of wrath ; and there might have boon a blessing 
without prayer, for It often is sent to some who 
sought It not. But God has been pleased to 
make this a rule for the government of the mor¬ 
al and spiritual unlverso, that there shall be the 
answer to prayer.— Spurgeon. 
Being a Christian is not, being faultless; it is 
not being in a state in which you will not stum¬ 
ble nor fall; it is being In that state in which you 
recognise the hatofulnoss of sin and seek to 
overcome it. Taking the soil, uncultivated as 
it is, and putting in the right kind of seed, and 
giving it the right tillage, and then waiting pa¬ 
tiently for the harvest—that Is what makes you 
one of Christ's husbandmen. - limiter. 
Don’t tremble at the thought of death ; don’t 
think of the parting, when human ties are 
broken, and therefore separation must take 
place; think of the meeting; think of the re¬ 
ception; think of the Master, of the glory; 
think of the bourne to which you are going, and 
of the now ties and hopes and loves the joys 
and delights that are treasured for you there. 
The spirit of true religion breathes gentleness 
and affability; it is social, kind and cheerful- 
far removed from gloomy, illiberal superstition 
and bigotry, which cloud the brow, sour the 
tamper, deject the spirit and impress morose¬ 
ness on the manners. 
Patiently suffer that, from others which thou 
canst not mend In them; until God please to do 
it for thee; and remember that thou mend thy¬ 
self, since thou art so willing that others should 
not offend in anything. Isaac Taylor. 
Let thy thoughts be such to thyself as thou 
art not ashamed to havo God know them ; and 
l bat if It should be suddenly asked, “ what thou 
thinkest on," thou mlghtest not blush to toll.— 
Jeremy Taylor. 
In all good things, give tho eye and the ear full 
scope, for they let Into the mind ; restrain the 
1 tongue, for it is » spender; few men have re¬ 
pented of silence—Bishop Hall. 
Repentance is the greatest business wo have 
t to do In this world, ^nd the only harbinger we 
i can send to provide for our accommodation in 
, the next.— Clarendon, 
Every man hath not only a talent of time, 
j but a talent of opportunity to improve his talent 
5 ! in some measure, put into his hand.—Sir 
I Matthew Hale. 
, A straight line is the shortest in morals as in 
geometry.— Rahcl. 
