' the different houses in rotation; dining at 
home at 12, assembling at 1 o’clock, and 
working steadily for several hours. It was 
surprising how much work got done; how 
many little petticoats and frocks were made 
in the long afternoons. In less than a mouth 
it would be Mrs. Thompson’s turn to receive 
the company—lor the first, time—and she 
naturally began to consider ways and means. 
For they met for an entertainment as well 
as for sewing; tea In the afternoon, a grand 
meal later when Lhe stitching was over. 
What was Mrs .Thompson to do? Their 
stock of plates and dishes consisted of a few 
odds and ends of cracked dell', that had once 
been a kind of mulberry color. She had 
long wanted some new white ware; she 
wanted it more than ever now. Grover, the 
keeper of the village crockery shop, had a 
lovely set. for sale, white, with a delicate sprig 
of convolvuli and fuchsias, looking every hit 
as good as real china. Mrs. Thompson had 
set her heart, on the set, and that, morning 
had broached the subject to her husband. 
“What’s the matter with the old ones?” 
asked he. 
“Look at them,” she answered. “They 
are frightfully old and shabby.” 
“ 1 dare say the food will taste as well off 
them as off Grover’s set of white ware.” 
“ But. there’s not half enough. We have 
as good as none left.” 
“ Mother bad some best china. Where 
is it?” 
“ That’s nearly all gone. We couldn’t put 
the two on the table together.” 
“ Why not ? ” 
“ Oh Robert 1 Look at this. It is the 
shabbiest, old lot ever seen.” 
“ ’ Twas good enough for mother.” 
Mrs. Robert Thompson disdained com¬ 
ment. 
“ You'd not have thought of this but for 
the sewing-circle having to come here. If 
they can’t come and eat from such dishes as 
we’ve got, they are welcome to stay away.” 
There were tears in Mrs. Thompson’s 
eyes. But she crowded them bravely back, 
lie took his hat. to go out to his mowing. 
“ We really want the things, Robert. 
Those at Grover’s are very cheap. I cun 
get all I want for a mere trille ; do give me 
the money.” 
“ Grover’ll have to keep’em fovus; I’ve got 
no money to waste on fine china,” returned 
the farmer. “ By the way ” — looking back 
from the door—“ Jones and Lee are coming 
to give me a helping hand. I want to get 
the south meadow down to-day, if I can, it’s 
a famous heavy crop; so 1 shall bring them 
in to dinner. Oh, and the Hubbards want 
six pounds of butler to-night.; don’t forget 
to have it ready.” 
With these words, Mr. Robert Thompson 
had marched off, leaving his wife to her 
long, weary day’s work, darkened and made 
distasteful by her disappointment. She was 
botli grieved and angry. It was a little 
thing, perhaps, but it is the little things of 
life that, delight or annoy. 
Existence seemed very bare and homely 
to Jane Thompson that summer day. With 
her love of case, and beauty, and symmetry, 
hovv rude, and course, and hard looked all 
her surroundings. It was only one long, 
monot onous round of homely toil, unrelieved 
by any of the little sweetnesses and graces 
that might make even toil pleasant. She 
did not often think of it; but she remem¬ 
bered that day, with the faintest little air of 
regret, that she might have been far differ 
cntly situated; and ns she looked up to the 
pretty French cottage on the hill, embow¬ 
ered in a perfect, forest of blossoming vines, 
caught the cool gleam of urn and fountain, 
something like a sigh trembled on her lips. 
“ Squire Burnham's wife does not have to 
beg for a paltry bit of money to set out. her 
table decently,” she thought, rebelliously. 
What business had she lo marry Robert 
Thompson ? she asked herself, her slender 
wrists beating away at the butter for the 
Hubbards. For in the green and gloomy 
light that Mrs. Robert Thompson looked at 
things to-day, she quite forgot the fact that 
she had fallen in love with the honest, steady 
and good looking young farmer, choosing 
him in preference to Joe Burnham, whom 
she might have had. Joe had a patrimony 
of his own—two hundred a year at least— 
and a good bit ofland, which he rented, and 
was called “Squire," as his father had been 
before him. He wanted to marry Jane Law¬ 
rence, ami she would not, likes and dislikes 
cannot be cont rolled, and she cared more for 
Robert Thompson's little finger than for the 
whole of poor, under-sized Joe. Squire 
Burnham found another wife, and Mrs. 
Thompson, this weary day, was furiously 
envying her. Mrs. Burnham would come 
amidst the rest of the sewing club, too, and 
see the miserable shabbiness of the mulberry 
ware, and t he home 'enerally. The butter 
got beaten savagely at i '• thought. 
Robert Thompson was not an unkind 
man; only thoughtless. He was a type of a 
very large class, more especially farmers, 
who do not feel the need of lilt's rugged 
pathway being softened with flowers. Ab¬ 
sorbed in bis stock, bis crops, his money get¬ 
ting, he did not realize how T monotonous was 
his wife’s life at home. He had bis recrea¬ 
tions; the weekly market; gossip with his 
brother farmers; politics:—she had nothing 
but work and care. lie did not realize the 
truth that the worn, shabby home told upon 
her; that she needed some brightening to 
come to it as a yearning want of life. And 
so, as the years had gone on, she grew dis¬ 
satisfied at heart, hardly understanding what 
she wished for or what, she did not wish ; the 
intensely unlovely, prosy, dull life somewhat 
souring her spirits. Now and again, when 
she gave back a short or bitter retort, Robert 
wondered; she used to be so sweet-tem¬ 
pered. 
All through the long forenoon, Mre. 
Thompson nursed her wrath. Robert was 
Belllsh and unreasonable, aud she did not 
care who knew it. She would not have the 
sewing-club at the farm, come what might. 
The potatoes got boiled; the big piece of 
beef was simmering on the fire. Before twelve 
o’clock had well struck, 6he saw her hus¬ 
band and his two friends coming through the 
orchard, with red and hungry faces. Mr. 
Thompson always wanted his dinner boiling 
hot; and she hastened to lay the cloth In the 
cool room off the kitchen. Frank and 
Charley, her two boys, came rushing in from 
school, each striving to claim her attention. 
She was heated, tired, and very cross. 
“ Why ? isn’t, dinner ready ?” demanded 
Mr. Thompson, not seeing it actually on the 
table when lie entered. “ 1 told you wc had 
no time to waste to-day,” he added angrily 
in his hurry and hunger. “ Tf I hadn’t any¬ 
thing to do all the forenoon but. get dinner, 
I’d have it ready to time, I know.” 
A bitter retort was springing to her lips, 
but ere it could be spoken Charley clamor¬ 
ously interposed, pushing his new copy book 
before her eyes. 
“ Look, mother! I am going into sentences 
now, like Frank. It’s my first copy. The 
master wrote it; and he said I was to get it 
by heart, too, and always remember it. Do 
read it, mother.” 
Mrs. Thompson, her arms full of the 
cracked old mulberry plates, paused a mo¬ 
ment. to let her eyes fall on the new copy. 
"A soft answer turncth u way wrath,” was 
what she read. It was not that the proverb 
was new; she had read it scores of times, 
but there was something In its appropriate¬ 
ness to the present moment that fell like a 
COOl sweet wind on her heated pulses. 
“I will have it ready in a moment, Rob¬ 
ert.” she said quietly. 
Mr. Robert Thompson looked up. Evi¬ 
dently ho bad not expected so pleasant a re 
ply. If the truth must be told, he had thought 
a good hit. that morning of his wife’s request 
about tbe. white ware. Not in t he way of 
granting it, but. that she would probably be 
sulky over it. when they got in to dinner. 
“it doesn’t feel here as it does in that 
blazing meadow,” he remarked to his friends* 
as they went into the cool north room to 
dinner. “Folks that can keep In-doors this 
weather have an easy time of it; they don’t 
know what heat is.” 
Mrs. Thompson wondered whether this 
was a slap at her. Her face looked scarlet 
enough for any amount of heat. As to sit¬ 
ting down With them, she had enough to do 
to wait on tbe party. It was washing-day, 
and Molly must not he called. 
“This butter must have been kept in the 
kitchen; it’s like oil,” said Mr. Thompson. 
“ I took it out of t he cellar since you came 
in; I will go down and get some more if 
you think 1 had better," was the reply, given 
pleasantly. 
“Never mind. Well, I declare! do you 
Call this meat boiled ? ” went on Mr. Thomp¬ 
son, as he began to carve. “It’s harder 
than a rock. If meat has to be cooked pret¬ 
ty fresh tills weather, it. needn’t, be like this.” 
“ 1 tried to have it nice, Robert.,” she said, 
striving to choke down a rising sob—as well 
as an angry word. 
Mr. Thompson, aroused by a quiver in the 
tone, looked at his wife; his friends glanced 
at one another. She sat. down at length, but 
could hot cat. Mr. Thompson finished his 
dinner in silence. 
He was watching his wife’s face; there 
was something in it he did not understand— 
n kind of patient, hopeless look, as if she no 
longer cared to struggle onward. The old 
mulberry ware did logic dingy on tbe snowy 
white table-cloth; almost too bad for these 
chums of Ids to sit down to; he wondered 
ho had never thought so before. Robert 
Thompson grew thoughtful. 
He passed into the kitchen when they 
were going out. again. How hot and stifling 
it felt with that big fire—as bad as the south 
meadow. His wife had been in it cooking: 
that must have made her face scarlet. In¬ 
doors was not so comfortable a place after 
all, if you had hot, work to do, was the idea 
that flitted through his mind. And, perhaps, 
the work was over much for his wife, who 
at best was but a delicate woman. 
A fresh cool breeze had sprung up from 
the South, as he went out, walking slowly; 
but the sun was burning hot still. Robert 
Thompson waited to wipe his brows; and 
in that moment the voices of his comrades 
came toward him horn the other side of the 
hedge, where they stood in the little shade 
it cast. 
“ I never pitied a woman so much in my 
life,” quoth one of them. “ She works like 
a slave, and does not get even ‘ thank ye’ 
for it from Thompson. lie’s a good fellow, 
but uncommon down upon the work. Strong 
as a horse himself, he thinks, I suppose, 
women must be the same.” 
“ Yes, Bob’s a sterling good fellow, but 
June Lawrence made a mistake when she 
said yes to his asking,” cried the other. 
“ Jones, she wasn’t cut out for a farmer’s 
wife—especially one who keeps his folks to 
it like Thompson does. She’s over sensitive 
—delicate; any lady but her would have 
turned long ago and bid him give her proper 
help. He won’t make Jiis money out of her 
many years if he don’t take better care of 
her; she’ll run down fast. Awfully changed, 
she is. She looks as faded as the old house- 
rooms—and they haven’t, seen a coat o’ paint 
since Grandfather Thompson’s day.” 
“ Ah, she d better have took Joe Burnham. 
The Lawrences used to have things nice in 
their home, and she’d have got ’em so still if 
slic’d married Joe. His wife’s just gone out 
in her pony chay. Isay, Jones, 1 wonder 
whether Thompson’s wile’s ever sorry?” 
Was she ? The unconscious comments of 
these, his warm friends, came crushing down 
on Robert Thompson’s heart and brain like 
a bolt. ol‘ lire. That she rejected Burnham 
for him, he knew, when she came home to 
the old homestead and took care of his in¬ 
valid mot her. Tenderly lmd she done it, too. 
And, could she be wearing out her life in 
hard work for him; she, the mother of his 
hoys; she whom he loved well, for all his 
churlishness ? Robert Thompson stoic away; 
he could bear his thoughts no longer, and lie 
felt that he could almost kill himself for his 
blind hoed less ness. 
The afternoon wore on toward evening. 
Mrs. Thompson had finished her indoor 
work—the washing up of the dinner dishes 
and the putting of the rooms straight—and 
was going in with an armful of fine things 
that, she had taken from t he clothes lines, 
when the sound of wheels made her look 
found, 
“ I’ve brought that white ware, Mrs. 
Thompson," said the brisk voice of Grover, 
springing fijmi Ills cart, and lifting down 
carefully a large hamper. 
“Rut 1 didn’t order it, Mr. Grover,” she 
rejoined, in rather a frightened voice. 
“ The master did, though. Mr. Thompson 
came down this afternoon and said the things 
was to come up to you at once. There’s the 
dinner pet. you admired, and a tea set as well. 
Where shall 1 put ’em?” 
“Bring them in, please,” she answered 
rather faintly. He did as he was bid, and 
then drove oft. 
Mrs. Thow|>son sat down by the hamper 
of crockoL/oriod as if her lioort would 
break. TlteyTwere magical tears, too, for 
they washed all the weariness and despair 
from her face, and the shadow from her eyes 
and heart. She forgot that site was tired,or 
that the day was hot; she only thought 
how kind Robert was, and what, a wicked 
woman she had been for saying to herself in 
her temper that she’d rat her have had Squire 
Bumbant. Then she unpacked the treasure, 
pulling them out. from amidst the hay, and 
singing softly all the while. Oh, it w r as 
beautiful, Hint, ware! with its clear, opaque 
white, and here and there a delicate tracing 
of fttehsia or convolvulus, 
Mr. Thompson came in and found her in 
the midst. “ What is it, Jenny ?” he asked 
—the old fond name he used to call her. 
“ 0, Robert!” taking a step toward him. 
He opened his arms and drew her close to 
his heart, kissing her ns fondly and ten¬ 
derly as lie ever had in the days of his 
courtship. “1 have been a brute, little 
wife,” he whispered, huskily. “Can you 
ever forgive me ?” 
“ Forgive you ? O, Robert! I never was 
so happy in my life! I hive been to blame! 
I have not been as patient and kind as I 
might-" 
“ Yes, you have. You’ve been an angel 
compared to me. I have made a slave of 
you; but all that is over now. I did not 
think, Jenny; 1 did not, indeed.” 
“ But—Robert—” 
“ You shall have more help in the house, 
another servant. We’ll get, her in, Jenny, 
long before the sewing club night comes 
round." 
“ Oh, Robert, how kind you are! I feel as 
as a bin 
“ And you arc almost,” he answered, smil¬ 
ing a little sadly as he looked into her eager 
face, “ We’ll all turn over a new leaf, Jane. 
Heaven knows I did not. mean to be cruel.” 
“ Robert,, you were never that.." 
“Well—we’ll let it. be; bygones shall be 
bygones if you will. Oh, and I forgot to say 
that I saw Leeds this afternoon. It’s a very 
dull time just, now, the poor fellow says, 
without a job on hand, so I thought I’d gi ve 
him one. 'They’ll be here to begin to-mor¬ 
row morning.” 
“ You—are—not going to have tlie bouse 
done up?” she exclaimed in wild surprise. 
“ Every square Inch of it. And, once the 
painting," and that’s finished, we’ll sec what 
else we can do to make it. look a bit brighter.” 
She hardly believed it ; she burst into 
tears. “ And I have been so wicked!” she 
cried. “Only to-day I had quite wicked 
thoughts, Robert, 1 was envying Mrs. Burn¬ 
ham; 1 was feeling angry with every body. 
It was the discouragement, Robert.” 
“ Yes, it was the discouragement," lie said 
quite humbly. “ We will do better for the 
future, Jane; I’ll try another plan.” 
She cried silently for a minute longer; 
soft, happv tears; feeling that light had su¬ 
perseded darkness. 
“ And it lias all arisen from my trying to 
carry out for a hit that blessed proverb: 
* A soft answer turneth away wrath!’ ” she 
murmured. “ Robert, did you ever before 
I see such lovely white ware?”— The Argosy. 
o cow and buy sheep. Did every man con- 
^0rt*r[ 0 0DICS fide * n kia wife, we should hear of fewer 
qp * * bankrupts and homeless families. It is not 
_ - the nature of any, to Bave and deny them- 
TO A BEREAVED PARENT selveS Wbfm the - V kn0W ° f n ° lieCeSsUy fo, ‘ 
TO AV£D p AREN • i t And ]j OW d 0 we know the value of a 
wjikn on my oar your loss wa* knelled, house, or other property, if we have never 
aiki tender sympathy upborn, been told how much it cost, or for how much 
Which once had soothed my bitter thirst; another as good. Sold. It tlicie aie any 
doubting ones let them but try my plan and 
Same portion of It, mild relief. 1 have 110 fear for tbe le8lllt ; 
That, it might ho ns healing dew. But is that law ; “ The wife shall have the 
To steal Home lever from your grief. aae of 0 nc-third,” &c., a just one ? Think 
After nnr chno’* iintrnuhi<!<i breath you if that law had been made the reverse of 
up to the ]'nHior took it* way. w hat it is, it would have stood until now? 
x.iit« u long twilipiit saddening lay; We but ask justice 001 W us. But if you still 
. _ „ , . ^ think we “ Have the best of it,” I, for one, 
And friends camo round with tis to weep .,, , , . . . 
Her little spirit’s swift remove, 'Will willingly change interests with you. 
This story of the Alpine sheep . ■ - 
Was told to us by one we love: 
SELF-DECEPTION. 
‘ They, in the valley’s sheltering care, _ 
Soon crop the meadow's tender prime, . j yy quixby 
And when the sod grows brown and bare, • • H 
The shepherd strives to make them climb 
The impulse to do right cannot be mi3- 
£” a ,''j y t' uslure »k*' ee *h taken ; the rule by which the understanding 
That hungulong the mountain side, f _ 5* 
Where grass und tiowers together lean, determines what is right may be. Now it is 
Aud down through mists the sunbeams slide. j n the method of deducing this rule that we 
“ But nnught enn tempt the timid things arc to look the sharpest for self-deception 
That, stoop und rugged path to try. Many a man justifies himself iu what the 
«■»■»■>■> conscience condemns. Hew docs 
he do it ? 
••Till in his arms their lambs he takes, j an8wcr w a prejudiced and Ullfail’ dis- 
Along the dizzy verge to go, . . ... „ , , <■ . 
Then, heedless ot the rift, wvj breaks, position or Will. He needs U rule of conduct 
They follow on o’er rocks and snow. under given circumstances. Now, what is 
••And in thoso pasture, high and fair, right? 1 lie understanding must respond: 
More dewy soft t imn lowland mead, It must, be by a process of generalization. 
The shepherd drops Ills tender care, m , . e , .ft . , _. 
And sheep and lambs together feed.” The vai ions tacts from which a judgment 
must he made arc summoned. But some of 
T inir 1 rnb 'l.T.' i"*m! h wi!!,urcc these arc not agreeable, ami the will rejects 
Blow 011 uio aft the south-wind free, n J 
O'er frozen brookes that float unsheathed lliClU. Others lire JigTCC&blC, ftlKi the Will 
Pr»m icy thraldom to the sea. welcomes them. The rule is deduced from 
A blissful vision, through tho night, the facts on one side only', the conduct is 
Would all my happy souses sway, conformed to it, and the man calls himself 
Of the Good Shepherd on the height, conscientious Let me illustrate 
Or climbing up the stony way, conscientious. L»ei me liiusuau. 
A man is selling rum. Something dis- 
irotding our little iamb asleep; turbs him, and the question comes, “Is it 
Bounded that voice along the deep, right ?" lie may desire to do right. The 
Saying, “ Arise and follow me v impulse to that may be strong. So be sum* 
_ 1 1 ,hiss cl1 Lou ' e!L mona the facts by which to determine his 
.. „. _rule. He reflects, “ I must support myself.” 
HAVE THE BEST OF IT. „ j£ onC y ina y mighty for good.” “ I 
Sucn was the title of a brief article which have dependent, friends, and it will be gen- 
appeared in our last volume, going to show *» **« I P ‘ bcm " .»“»• ** «"* °, f .° 
lliut woman’s status is oven now preferable Tft ol 3U< ? 'Mnstderalions enters Ins 
to man’s, in so far ns legal rights and rein- "" nd ' £ «“* 00 * ht “ 
lions go. At least one woman demure to #ldCTed ’ ,lnd P uu 11 “ c,Blr ’ stron S ''S 1 "- 
this assumption by the Rural, as witness Presently his eye catches something strug- 
the following letter from a friend in Western £ bn £ tbe corner of his consciousness a 
New York • dark corner not often looked Into—some- 
' I, far one, do not wish to vote. I had tkin £ like this:-“ But rum-selling makes 
much rather stay at home by the fire, and drunkards and widows and orph—” Alas, 
mend my lord and master’s socks, even, than for lhe P oor c , re * ture ’ It w » quickly thrust 
feel obliged to go through snow, mud, or rain 01,1 from ti,( * J^unt lui11 ’ tlmt thc umler ' 
t<> vote. Wc do “ Have thc best of it” in a stna<1m * ftu,s to J? et more tllun l,,e nicrest 
few cases; but not always, nor generally. ? 1,m P 8e of il ; 1 nm 18 P^ing, judgment 
. , .... is pronounced, the rule laid down—the at- 
A voung couple may commence lile with ,. , c . 
, J . v <• tempted intrusion of an unwelcome fact 
almost nothing. In the course of some venrs . : , ... ...... 
, . fa , • , having been so quickly met that the man 
t „ y have accumulated, perhaps, *5 000,and „ „ and b0 couclmks lliat b0 
il,u husband dies, without a will, t ho will can co ;, sck ,„ liol , sll , , 03ccu „. 
say, m almost every ease, the wde has not So ta „ U , 0usaml r , om „,,, pelUcst 
don,, her share toward saying that properly V to , Ue foulest cr!u , e . Bot , ll0 ho , iest 
She most assuredly lias 11 they lived on » raa „ will welcome every fact and set it in an 
hum And she should hove the Best right M b , vhau , vcr it mav cost . and w 
to that property, alter the decease ol the b , Uia a Jnce of his soul, heroic hatllee are 
husband. fought and moral victories achieved known 
But how is it? “The wife is entitled to on i v to God 
il .. V _4-1. )) IP 
TO A BEREAVED PARENT. 
WitKV on my oar your loss was knelled, 
And tender sympathy unburst, 
A little rill from memory swelled. 
Which once lmd soothed my bitter thirst; 
And I whs fitin to hear to you 
Some portion of Its mild relief. 
That. It might he ns hcnllng dew. 
To steal some fever from your grief. 
After our child’s untroubled breath 
Up to the Father took It* way. 
And on our home the shade of death 
Like u long twilight saddening lay; 
And friends came round with 11 s to weep 
Her little spirit’s swift remove, 
This story of the A Ipine sheep 
Was told to us by one we love: 
* They, in the valley’s sheltering care, 
Soon crop the meadow’s tender prime. 
And when the sod grows brown and bare, 
Thc shepherd strives to make them climb 
“ To airy shelves of pastures green, 
That hung along I he mountain side. 
Where grass and Ho wars together lean. 
And down through mists t he sunbeams slide. 
“ But. nnught can tempt the timid things 
That steep and rugged path to try. 
Though sweet the shepherd oaks anu sings, 
And scared below the pastures lie : 
“Till in his arms their lambs he takes, 
Along the dizzy verge to go. 
Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks, 
They follow on o’er rocks and snow. 
“And In those pastures high and fair, 
More dewy soft limn lowland mead, 
Tho shepherd drops his tender cure, 
And sheep and lambs together feed.” 
This parnblo, by nature breathed. 
Blew on me as the south-wind freo, 
O’er frozen brooks that float unsheathed 
Front Icy thraldom to lhe sea. 
A blissful vision, through tho night, 
Would all my happy seuses sway. 
Of the Good Shepherd on the height, 
Or climbing up the stony way, 
Holding our little lamb asleep; 
And. like the burden of t he sea, 
Sounded that voice along the deep, 
Saying, “ Arise and follow me! % ’ 
[.lames Russell Lowell. 
“HAVE THE BEST OF IT.” 
Such was the title of a brief article which 
appeared in our last volume, going to show 
that woman’s status is even now preferable 
to man’s, in so far as legal rights and rela¬ 
tions go. At least one woman demurs to 
this assumption by the Rural, as witness 
New York: 
T, for one, do not wish to vote. I had 
much rather stay at home by the fire, and 
mend my lord and master’s socks, even, than 
feel obliged to go through snow, mud, or rain 
to vote. We do “Have the best of it” in a 
few cases; but not always, nor generally. 
A young couple may commence life with 
almost nothing. In the course of some years 
they have accumulated, perhaps, $5,000,aud 
the husband dies, without a will. Who will 
say, in almost every case, the wife has not 
done her share toward saving that property ? 
She most assuredly lias, if they lived on a 
farm. Ami she should have the first right 
to that properly, after thc decease of the 
husband. 
But how is it? “The wife is entitled to 
the use of one-third her lifetime.” If a man 
is worth a large fortune, enough would be 
left for the widow’s support; but what would 
Otic-third of $3,000 or $4,000 do towards it? 
And the two-thirds goes to persons that, 
perhaps, never helped them to a penny. 
But if she has children? As the law is, 
one would suppose they had done more to 
accumulate the property than had the moth- 
ILLNESS. 
There is no good reason why every 
father and mother of a family should not 
be capable of dealing with all the lesser ail¬ 
ments to which their children are liable. 
For example, it is perfectly easy to ascertain 
whether a child Is suffering from fever, by 
remember one instance, (and 1 wish it observing the tongue, the lips, and tbe pulse, 
was the only one I could name,) that hap¬ 
pened not far from our place. A widower 
with thirteen children, the youngest two 
years old, married a maiden lady. She was 
a good, conscientious woman, and cared for 
those children as tenderly as though they 
had been her own. When the youngest was 
seventeen the father died; thc property was 
divided, and the widow’s income was forty 
dollars a year. 
One child, by shrewd calculation, got 
and any person of ordinary intelligence 
should know what to do in bucIi a case. 
There are doctors who will continue to 
make a mystery of disease so long as people 
arc ignorant of the most elementary condi¬ 
tions of health and sickness. Iu many cases 
they must have their own way. One practi¬ 
cal hiut, however, may lie given to young 
mothers. When your child is ill, and tiie 
doctor is sent for, observe carefully his pro¬ 
ceedings. If, watch in hand, he feel the 
more than his share of the property, the sufferer’s pulse, ask him how he forms ids 
Others were angry, and thought he should opinion, and go through the process after 
take care of mother, they would not. She him. In this way a large amount ol valua- 
took cure of herself for a few years, until she ble knowledge may be gained. 
lost, her eye-sight entirely. Since then she -- 
has been almost kicked from one to another, Feeling not Sympathy. —A little water 
until her daily prayer is, “ Lord, let me die t” may spring in the bottom of thc well; but 
How happy might have been her last days, if it do not increase so as to fill the cavity 
if thc law had given her the whole of that and freely overflow, it will become fetid 
property. Even the most loving of children where it lies, and more noisome than utter 
arc: more thoughtful for a parent’s comfort dryness. It is quite possible, as to emotion, 
aud happiness, if that parent keeps his or her to be very languishing over the misfortune 
property under his or her own control. of others, and yet to do the unfortunate as 
But some will say; “I never saw the littlegooaas thc misanthrope who laughs 
woman that knew enough to keep her at human sorrows.— Itev. William Arnot. 
property if she had it.” Yes you have! -- 
There are a few; and the others should not If you bring up your cliildrcn with bad 
be blamed as long as so many men think it habits, ruin will come, and your tears and 
a weakness to tell their wives anything of prayers to God will be unavailing. But 
their business affairs. A wife should know bring up your children with good habits ant 
just how much her husband owes and who in the fear of the Lord, and He will bless 
is owing him; how much is laid by for tbe you, and your children to the third, aye, to 
next payment; or if it is best to sell the black the tenth generation. 
