2?4 
OOBE’S BUBAL MEW-YOBKEB 
ABB1L 28 
BEAUTIFUL SPRING. 
BEAUTIFUL Spring! 
Beautiful Spring! 
Coming again on thy wandering wing. 
Sunshine and beauty and pleasure to bring; 
Gladly we welcome thee, beautiful Spring! 
Virgin of purity, bounty i» tlilne, 
Height Is thy brow, ns the lode of the mine, 
Fair is thy cheek, us the flush of tlio rose, 
Sweet is thy smile, as an Infant’s repose. 
Kobed with u mantle of gorgeous array. 
Girded with tendrils of Miniirasths gay, 
Gemm’d with bright flow rets of every hue. 
Fresco’d with sunbeams and spangled wit!) dew. 
HollOW-cheek’d Sorrow and Sadness and Gloom 
Vanish away to their wintry tomb; 
Grief bows her fennel-crowned head to the sway, 
Time, Hite a phantom, glides swiftly away. 
Genial laughter and frolicsome mirth 
Herald thy coming again upon earth, 
Welcome thee buck to lliy throne in our bowers, 
Queen of ibo empire of beauty and flowers. 
Everything beautiful, noble, or grand, 
Wakes into life at tile wave of thy wand; 
Karth dona her mantle of radiant sheen, 
Azure and purple, and scarlet and green. 
Hedgerows and forests hurst out into bloom, 
Flowers load the air with delicious perfume; 
Winds hull thy coming with boisterous e.hcers. 
Clouds lu their gladness gush out into tears. 
Birds sing thy praise with a sonorous voice, 
Trees clap their broad waving bands HDd rejoice, 
Lambkins and fledglings the chorus prolong, 
Streamlets gush out Into rapturous song. 
Mortals, enamor’d, bow down nt thy shrine, 
Painters portray thee a goddess divine. 
Poets, the landmarks of every clime, 
Praise and extol thee in epic sublime. 
Everything beautiful, noble or bright. 
Hails liiy approach with u shout of delight, 
Welcomes then hack with n Jubilant ring, 
Radiant, sunny-eyed, beautiful Spring I 
[George JZtalh. 
(Our StcJIcr. 
HOMELY STORY. 
BY KENNETH DUNN. 
“Hang it nil! there la no use in helping i hose 
who will not help themselves!” exclaimed Un¬ 
cle John. 
Now, “ Hang it all 1" was an uncommon ex¬ 
pression for John W est to use. If, In Its place, 
lie had substituted “ Indeed!" my pen would 
have been more ready to transcribe bis thought. 
Hut, this vulgar, meaningless sentence did es¬ 
cape Ids lips, and having expressed himself 
thus, lie seemed relieved. 
Uncle John had a favorite nephew, and this 
nephew bad a wife. Uncle John whs rid i. and 
owned several flue farms. On young John’s 
wedding day the unde brought no gift or gold 
or silver or plated ware — “nothing; not so 
much as you could wind around your finger," 
the bride said that night when, far from home, 
the newly-made husband and wife discussed 
the events of that eventful day. But when 
John returned from his wedding tour, Uncle 
John paid them a visit, and said quietly, as he 
was ready to leaveWhat arc you going to 
do now, Jonx >" 
“1 think of taking Jorl Henson’s farm, on 
shares, for a year at least.’’ 
“You can do better than that; here Is your 
wedding giftand placing some papers In his 
hands, lie hastily left, 
The papers wereFirst, the deed of a valu¬ 
able farm; with, second, a mortgage upon it 
(awaiting, of course, young John s approval 
and signature) of just half its value said mort¬ 
gage to bo paid in. small annual Installments. 
The land was line ; the house nearly new, and 
all the outbuildings in excellent condition. 
The tears sprang to John’s eyes as he read 
ii; he was sensitive to the very - heart's core. 
“Oh, won’t that be grand!" exclaimed his 
wife, w hen he showed the papers to her; “ now 
you ran buy that now carriage and a silver- 
mounted harness. I shall want to go a great 
deal. He will never expert you to pay anything 
more than the interest, and give the rost to 
you by-and-by; anyway, when he dies-” 
“Never!” exclaimed John, looking at her in 
amazement; "he has given me enough already. 
He the times good or had, 1 shall pay the inter¬ 
est, and the installments as they are due." 
You see. he had a little of the aid John in 
him. The sequel would seem to show that the 
bride had said under (he breath, “ Wc w ill see." 
It was just two years from Ibis lime that 
Uncle John used that inelegant expression; 
and ho said more than that; ho said:—“Such a 
woman as that deserves no better home than a 
Kansas dug-out,” 
The t ruth was, Mrs. John was not very young, 
but she teas very selfish and designing. She 
courted John bo assiduously and yet so deli¬ 
cately; and lie—he had nothing but a good 
head and strong hands; and his heart—well, he 
had never tried his head yet, and the fair-skin¬ 
ned, golden-haired woman, he foil sure, loved 
him. She was poor, too; together they might 
make a home. She had always been obliged to 
work; of course, she would be willing to work 
with and for him. 
Poor Jou n ! " Bat he deserves his fate,” you 
say. What, when his failing was his perfect 
faith in womanhood? 
It was Uncle John's faith too. Once a clear- 
eyed, sunny-bro 1 wed little girl had called him 
“Dear John;” but ere he had ever pressed a I 
husband's kiss upon Iho Juno lips, the angels g 
called her. In those early days he thought all 1 
women were like his lost darling; hut as years 
passed, he came to know that she bad been one 
of the few lent to earth, to show all woman- v 
kind what they might become. It was the c 
memory of her sweet, self-sacrificing life that 
made John West, though seeming a lonely II 
man, so strong. f 
For the reason that, young John's wife had ' 
worked hard and lived economically all her 8 
young life, was to her sufficient reason, now 
that she was the wife of the favorite nephew 1 
of a rich bachelor uncle, that she should “live ' 
like other folks," meaning by this, like people * 
of wealth; never seeming to realize that happl- ,J 
ness is of the heart, -never stopping to think 
that a largo share of the gains from the farm 
must be r< t timed to it in one shape or another, 11 
and that farm life means to most a home, and * 
its comforts and pleasures. 
How few realize that, a work greater than ' 
that of any artist i« given American farmers’ 
wives and daughters to do; to show In the 
world what a home may be—a place where work 
and culture shall dwell togethor. The bouse 
was very pleasant, and hiring hands might, with 
simple means, have made of It a beautiful pie- * 
lure. John proposed tofurnlsh only t he kitch¬ 
en, dining-room (which they would use for » ’ 
sitting-room) and their own room opening from 
it; but Mrs. John had set. her heart on having 
her parlor furnished (on the Henson farm they 
would have lived in a tenant house, small hut ' 
comfortable, and there would have been no * 
parlor to furnish ; but It has boon proven many ' 
times that only a wcll-bnhuioed mind can bear 
sudden prosperity). Hut John was Arm. 
“ Wait, OK El A,” lie said, “ until we get ahead ( 
a little; then you shall furnish the house from 
top to bottom to suit yourself;” and Cbeia 
knew that he meant It, for John had not a 
miserly trait about him. Well, if she could not 
furnish the parlor, she would furnish one of , 
the chambers. 
“What will It cost?” John asked. 
“About a hundred dollars.” 
“ Well,” said John slowly, with a cloud upon 
his brow, and a pain which ho would give no 
breathing space oppressed him; but the pain, 
put into words, would have been, “ Does this 
woman truly love me?” 
John owned a good span of horses and a 
heavy light wagon before he was married; he 
bought a yoke of oxen early In the spring to do 
the heavy work of Ids farm during the summer, 
proposing to fatten them the coming winter, 
and considered himself well equipped for Ids 
summer's work. CEEiA waited until ho had 
completed all bis arrangements, and then peti¬ 
tioned for a horse aud carriage for her own use. 
“It is impossible, dear,for me to- buy them 
this year; only be patient and help mo along, 
and In a few years we will be able to have al- 
mosi anything we pleoso. It will be Impossible 
not to make money off from this farm, with 
good management,” he continued. 
“I know It, und so I think wc might have 
things as we go along; it will all come right in 
the end." Cella answered. 
For the sake of your opinion of John's man¬ 
hood, I am sorry to say that t he horse and car¬ 
riage were bought, with a new harness not sil¬ 
ver mounted. 
Two years had passed. At the end of the first, 
John came to his uncle to pay the interest.; he 
could pay hut part of the installment. “I am 
ashamed, uncle,” he said, frankly, “but I can’t 
raise another cent.” 
“ Well, no matter; you may he able to pay It. 
with your next year's payment." But Uncle 
John could not help thinking that the amount 
paid fur the furnished chamber (which they 
seldom used) and the horse and carriage, would 
have more than paid the other half. 
There was a flue Durham cow belonging to 
his unde that John was anxious to possess; 
her price was a hundred dollars. If he could 
have made his payment, lie would have asked 
his uncle to take his note for her until fall; but 
he had not the face to do it now. 
The next winter Mrs. JonN must have a vel¬ 
vet cloak and expensive furs—and she got them ; 
(sin? was a peculiar woman- a quiet, eat-like 
woman; In justice to womankind, 1 will say 
there are but few like her.) 
The second j ear John could pay nothing but 
the interest and the half payment due the year 
before. It was a week after that Uncle John, 
leaning over the fence where the young JonN 
was beginning the spring plowing, he said; 
•* Your farm needs more stock.” 
“I know it; but 1 cannot buy it this year; 
another year 1 must make some change, or sell 
out." 
“Very well, John; if you cannot, I advise 
you to sell by all means," said Uncle John, 
quietly, as he walked away. 
And young John said he had a headache 
when his wife noticed, at dinner, how grave he 
was. 
The summer passed. Celia had had so many 
of her friends staying with her, that, she told 
John slio must have help in the bouse ; so help 
was obtained. John was hospitable, 
i One dull November day, John said “ I be¬ 
lieve I must put the farm in market; 1 can 
make no headw ay. What do you say to going 
i West?” 
• Celia turned pale. “Are you in earnest?" 
she asked. 
“ I am, for once, in earnest.” 
And Celia knew* by his firmly-set mouth, that 
he was. He had been indulgent to the last de¬ 
gree, and this was the end of it; she had pushed ~ 
him too far. 
“ But I don't want to go West,” she faltered. 
"We shali be obliged In go there or some¬ 
where.’* He rose, took down Ids cap, and went 
over to Uncle John's. 
Uncle John w as reading before a bright wood 
lire in Ills pleasant library ; by the way, he had 
furnished John and Ills wife with all the read¬ 
ing nmttereversince their housekeepingbegan; 
several agricultural journals, and two or three 
of t he best literary monthlies found their way 
into their sitting-room before their wrappers 
were removed, and Undo John’s library was 
open at all times to his nephew, who appre¬ 
ciated t heir advantage and profited accordingly. 
Beating himself before the Ure, John said: 
"Please don’t talk to mo, uncle; I am discour¬ 
aged. I w ant to sell my farm. I thought, per¬ 
haps, you would want to take it back.” 
“Certainly; nobody hut a John West must 
own (hat farm while I live. That was my model 
farm, John." 
“I know it, unde, and I will disgrace it no 
longer. Do you want any of my stock?” 
" I will take everything just as it is. I shall 
be obliged to find some good tenant for the 
place. Where do you think of going?” 
“I think of going West this fall, to look 
about.” 
“The sooner the better then, at this season. 
I will see to your stock; my men are trusty. 
Celia can stay here while you are gone; go, 
and find a home In the West, if you can. I will 
take your farm off from your hands in the 
spring; but—," after a pause, “if Celia ever 
finds her senses come back to Hie homo, you 
should never leave; it will lie waiting for you.” I 
John (lushed, and started nervously. “Then I , 
uncle does underst and the 1 rue state of affairs,” 
was his thought, lie made no reply: ho had 
never uttered a word against his wife ; he never , 
would. 
A week later, John and Celia turned the key ' 
in their back door, and went over to Undo 
John's. As he hade them welcome, he looked 
at Celia gravely, and he wanted to say, “Wo¬ 
man. behold your work !” Hut he waited until 
John was gone, and Celia had cried for three 
days, shutting herself up in her room. On the 
morning of the four! h day she made her appear¬ 
ance at the breakfast table. 
*’When do you expect to hear from John?” 
asked Uncle John, abruptly, after his morning | 
salutation. 
“ He said he would write from liis first stop¬ 
ping place. Oh, dear! what did ho want to go 
away, for?” beginning to sob. 
" Celia, stop crying, and listen to me; T want 
to talk wit h you. I feel as badly as you can 
about John's going away.” 
“ I thought you wanted him to go,” she said, 
feebly. 
“ He is obliged to go ; and you have sent him. 
You, by your extravagance, are disheartening 
him. Ho ho* been too good to you; lie needs a 
loving, helpful wife." 
She sobbed piteously; she knew It was true, 
every word of it; ami she respected and reared 
Uncle John West. “I can be that,” she Bald. 
“ You should have been that from the begin¬ 
ning. Thera are few nobler young men than 
my nephew, John West.” 
" 1 know it," she said, simply. 
" You ought to know it; you have tried his 
love and generosity to the utmost.” 
“Don’t, uncle; I can't bear it." 
John seemed dearer to her now than any¬ 
thing else, he was so far away. 
“ 1 have never talked so plainly to you before, 
and 1 never shall again," said Uncle John; 
" but for John's sake, do try aud ntukc a true 
woman of yourself." 
Three days later, John’s first letter came. 
He was stopping at a small village in Minnesota, 
and thought of buying a farm in the vicinity ; 
he would wait, though, until he received letters 
from home. 
“I do not want to go there," said Celia, 
when she had finished reading their letters. 
Uncle John made no reply. 
“ Would you let us take the farm as tenants - 
the farm we left, I mean—if 1 will take hold 
ami help John V” she asked, at length. 
“If you are in earnest, and John wishes, I 
am willing.” 
“ I am In earnest. I w ill do almost anything 
rather than g<> into that out-of-the-way place.” 
“ Well, write to John at once, then.” 
Uncle John wrote too, a long letter, and in a 
; week John was at homo again, not as a tenant, 
but with the pleasant prospect of some time 
' paying for his farm. 
The horse and carriage were sold, and Mrs. 
’ John was content to ride in the light wagon. 
1 She sent her furs to the city, and with their 
price bought the Durham cow for a Christmas 
present for her husband; and another spring 
’ found them living as they should Imve begun. 
JonN was a trifle graver; for this woman lie 
had made his wife had failed him once, and lie 
3 feared to trust her utterly; but CELJA had ef¬ 
fectually mended her ways. 
f 
I Another year a little one came; they called 
3 him John, for the uncle; and if anything will 
cast out selfishness from a woman’s heart, it is 
mother-love. 
Self-love is at once the most delicate and 
most tenacious of our sentiments; a mere noth¬ 
ing will wound it, but nothing on earth will 
kill it. 
THE GOLDEN SIDE. 
There Is many a rest in the road of life 
If we only would stop to take It, 
And many h turn for the better land. 
If the querulous heart would make It! 
To the sunny soul that is foil of hope. 
And whoso beautiful trust ne'er fnileth. 
The grass Is green and the flowers are bright 
Though the wintry storm prevailctli. 
Bettor to hope, though the clouds hang low, 
Aud to keep the eyes Rt.iil lifted, 
For the sweet blue sky wilt soon peep thro’ 
When the ominous clouds are lifted. 
There Is never a right without a day, 
or an evening without a morning; 
And the darkest hour, as the proverb goes, 
Is the hour before the dawning. 
There Is many a gem in the path of life. 
Which we puss in our idle pleasure, 
That is richer by far than the Jowell'd crown 
Or the miser's hoarded treasure. 
It may tie the love of a little child, 
Or u mother's prayer to heaven, 
Or only a beggar's grateful thanks 
For a cup of water given. 
Better to weave In a web of fife 
A bright nud golden ailing, 
Aud to do God's will with a ready heart, 
And hands that are swift and willing, 
Thau to snap the minute, delicate threads 
Of our curious life asunder; 
Aud then blame heaven for the tangled ends 
And sit ami grieve, and wonder! 
-♦-*-*-- 
LOCATIONS FOR PARADISE. 
Among all tho early nations, a paradisical 
abode la alotted to man, upon his first intro¬ 
duction to this mundane sphere, in keeping 
with the idea of Ills being possessed of a celes¬ 
tial nature. This is described as a beautiful 
garden of fruits and flowers, prepared by Deity 
ns the place for his reception, to be frequented 
by celestial beings, and even Deity himself, as 
guide* and guardians of the infant race in their 
first experiences of life. 
The Hindoo Bible gives account of Mt. Merit 
being a celestial paradise, and the blest abode 
of their ancestors, while tho Greeks locate their 
paradise upon Mt. Olympus. 
The Rhodians claim that their Island was the 
cradle of humanity- the paradise of man. This 
was said to be. blest with a beautiful climate— 
that never a day passed without sunshine. The 
soil was ho amazingly fruitful, in consequence 
of golden showers that fell there, that it pro¬ 
duced all kinds of delicious fruits in great 
abundance. 
Tho Zendavesta, or Bible of the early Per¬ 
sians, describes a “paradise of beatitude, the 
earliest abode of their nation the people of 
the, good Deity and the early golden ago, who 
fed on fragrant herbs, amid verdant, and grassy 
pastures, and drank ambrosial dew- divine po¬ 
tation : all resplendent alike in coeval youth.” 
In the Hebrew Scripture wo arc Informed that 
the Lord “ planted a garden eastward in Eden, 
and there lie put man u'hom he had formed 
and that out of the garden ho made every tree 
that was pleasant to the eye and good for food; 
“the tree of life, also, in the midst of tho gar¬ 
den, and the tree of knowledge of good and 
evil." 
Besides these there are other locations for 
Paradise among tho Oriental nations. One is 
near Damascus in Syria, another in Ohaldea, 
a third in the island of Ceylon. Other fables 
claim Atalanta, an immense paradisical island, 
as the first abode of man, lint which lias since 
sunk in the ocean. 
The variety of locations for Paradise'is evi¬ 
dence of the universal belief on this subject; 
for whatever spot presented all the excellencies 
of riclinesH, beauty anti abundance, was natu¬ 
rally supposed to ho the Paradise. Thus, 
although different nations have different loca¬ 
tions for it, all agree as to it being the original 
state of man. M. m. 
East Rush, N. Y., 1873. 
CONSECRATION. 
Consecration, or simple yielding of our¬ 
selves to God, in itseir occupies little time no 
more necessarily than the uttering of an intelli¬ 
gent •* Yes " or “No," whatever the prelimina¬ 
ries that may lead to tills point or the momen¬ 
tous consequences that may follow from it. 
But. however easy this choice may seem to t hose 
who never seriously tried to make It, It requires 
t he greatest possible effort, unless, by the grace 
that workelh when and how God wtllelh, the 
man has been so slowly educated Into it, that 
at no period of his life has he experienced a 
great and conscious struggle between light, and 
darkness, between God and ids own soul. But 
most men have imperceptibly formed the men¬ 
tal habit of indifference to the claims of God. 
-♦♦♦-■ 
THOUGHTFUL PARAGRAPHS. 
Justice is truth in action .—Joubcrt. 
The wealth of a soul is measured by how much 
it can tell; its poverty by how little.- Alger. 
The Infinite and Eternal are words without 
meaning till grief interprets them.— IT. U . 
Beecher. 
If tribulation takes all away from us, it still 
leaves God; for it can never take God away. 
Nay, indeed, it brings God to us Luther. 
