ALICE TO GERTRUDE. 
DEAK Gkkty : Tom will give you this; 
He leaves us by this evening’* boat; 
No chance of seeing you he’ll miss, 
And so I’ve made him take this note, 
And pattern too. You'll see the cape 
Is half turned back, which brinks in view 
The rose- tint, and improves the shape, 
And makes the whole effect quite new. 
Speaking of ToM-you must recall 
A week before you went from town, 
That waltz at Mrs. Ur HAM’S ball. 
When all your lovely hair came down. 
Well, Tom * not been the same stuce then, 
Not that he’s said a word to me : 
But I’m eighteen, and 1 know men ; 
And I’ve got eyes, and 1 can #ee. 
Two weeks ago lie went away 
To spend some days at Haiiry Bkight’s; 
Mania and I both saw our way 
To set the fellow's room to rights; 
So in we went. Oh, such a pile 
Of clothes and books thrown hit and miss 1 
But. darling 1 can see you smllo— 
’Midst the disorder I found this: 
“ If your eyes were dusky gray 
Instead of azure rare; 
If your bloom should fade away, 
Still would you be fair; 
E'en though your lovely smile went too, 
Still, still would yon he fair 
If you but kept your hair, my love, 
If you but kept your hair, 
“ When its heavy coil* unrolled 
Amidst the bull-room's glare, 
In n floating cloud of gold 
You stood an Instant there: 
And then you blushed and fled away— 
My heart wont with you there ; 
You bound it in your hair, my love, 
In the meshes of your hair,’ 1 
Well, dear, are you surprised or not? 
It’s a nine piece of work you’ve made ! 
Isn’t It lucky you forgot, 
That evening, to put on your braid ? 
Tom's heart, at last Is really gone; 
It seems so awfully absurd ! 
So, darling, as etnilrs go on, 
Be sure you often write me word. 
Tom’s a good fellow, you must own; 
And handsome, too, ns all eau see, 
A bettor brother ne’er was known 
Than Tom has always been to me. 
So, Gekty, though you'll flirt, of course, 
Still give his woes a speedy end; 
And please, now. don’t use all your force, 
For he’s the brother of your friend. 
[Old and New. 
oo 
'tones for lUvruItsts. 
LIGHT OUT OF DARKNESS, 
“ I hate everybody,” cried the woman. 
“ And wliy does thee hate everybody?" 
The questioner had just taken some work 
in that little, faded room, and pitying the lit¬ 
tle, faded woman, so wearily stitching, be- 
c .ase she liad found her in team, she had 
sat down to talk with, and try to comfort her. 
‘‘I’ll tell you why; because I’ve been de¬ 
ceived all my life, from the time 1 was a 
child—nothing but deceit from the cradle to 
the grave. Anyhow, I don’t look for much 
else.” 
“ Thee will find that 1 shall not deceive 
thee” Laid the other, softly. 
The woman turned to the face in the neat, 
gray bouuet, and scanned it for a moment. 
“ You’ll be the first, I was about to say— 
the Lord forgive me. I believe my trouble 
lias made me bitter, somehow. There have 
been a few of your kind good to me—you’re 
a Quaker, ain’t you ?” 
“ Yes,). belong to the Society of Friends,” 
was the quiet reply. “ But there are mauy 
outside our Society who would be just as 
kind, Thee mustn’t lose faith in human na¬ 
ture entirely." 
“ You see I’ve been so cheated!” the wo¬ 
man wailed again—“ at least it seems so. 
When I was a child I had a step-mother— 
yes, two,—but the first was as kind as my 
own mother could possibly have been; the 
second—O, my dear madam! it makes me 
shudder to think of her deceit, of lier mean¬ 
ness, of her cruelty. My father suffered as 
well as I for ten long years, and at the end 
of that time 1 was married. Everything 
promised well then; my father gave us a 
house, and we were happy. But my hus¬ 
band—he, too, liad deceived me; his habits 
were bad. For a time all went well; it was 
only gradually the truth leaked out, for my 
husband loved me, and tried to do his best 
by me, but the faults of his youth clung to 
him. 
“ The first time he came home drunk, I 
was in agony. 1 prayed God to let me die, 
for 1 had never seen such a sight before. 
Well, I need hardly tell you bow it went on; 
how, year after year, we grew poorer, until 
with five little children, I found myself one 
day in a miserable tenement house, and 
something standing in the middle of the floor 
that I hope you may never see—a husband 
brought home dead. 
“ All! that was a dreadful time. My fath¬ 
er had died, and my step-mother possessed 
her part of his property, so that l had scarce¬ 
ly a friend. Still, some of his relations 
buried him, for which 1 was very thankful, 
but they did little for me and the children. 
“Oil, it was a trouble to live all those 
years; you would have thought so, and five 
little children to bring up. I couldn't, give 
much time to them, and I was so hurried 
and driven by work, that I couldn’t bring 
them up properly. They mixed with bad 
company, and saw the worst examples, and 
I’ve often been thankful that my little Lottie 
died, and got out of the way of temptation. 
She was a beautiful child, was my Lottie; 
too beautiful to grow up in poverty, and the 
Lord took her. She died when she was just 
ten years old, and ‘ I kept her in comfort, if 
I half starved the rest,’ ” cried the woman, 
with a laugh that was terrible to hear. 
“ Not a comfort did the darling want, not 
one. I begged —1 believe I would have 
stolen,” she added, with a hard look, “ be¬ 
fore she should have suffered. Her talk 
ought to have made Christians of us all, for 
I do think she saw the very angels of heav¬ 
en, days and days before she died. Dear 
little soul! she wasted away to a shadow,” 
sobbed the woman, wiping her eyes on the 
coarse, work she was busy on. “ I see her 
every night, though it’s fifteen years ago, ly¬ 
ing in that corner, her great, pitiful blue eyes 
fixed on me, and masses of shining curls all 
over the pillow—for the disease made her 
hair grow—and 1 never saw sueh hair on 
anybody in my life — like yellow gold, al¬ 
most. 
“ Ah, dear Lord—well, it’s a comfort to 
think of her in heaven, and almost the only 
comfort I’ve got, too. 1 know she can’t suf¬ 
fer, nor make me suffer,” she added, with 
half savage energy. 
“ But what became of the rest of the chil¬ 
dren ?” 
A bitter look crossed the careworn face. 
“ They grew up—two boys and two girls. 
Lottie said they’d be a comfort to me, but 
I’ve looked and looked for that., and not 
found it yet. 
“ Mary and Anne were handsome girls, 
but Mary did the same thing with her eyes 
open, that I had done ignorantly—she mar¬ 
ried a drunkard, and is living in New Yolk 
in worse misery than 1 am. But 1 warned 
her, and l don’t know as I’d help her if 1 
could. Why did she put herself deliberate¬ 
ly in the fire? She writes to me sometimes, 
but she’s always worse off, and worse off; 
and now there’s a prospect of her going into 
consumption. She has two little children to 
live in misery, 1 suppose.” 
At this moment the postman tapped at the 
door. He brought a letter. The widow tore 
it open eagerly, read it, and burst into tears. 
“ Well—oil! it’s only more trouble. I’ve 
been expecting it. There’s never good news 
comes to me,” she cried, defiantly. “ They 
talk of God remembering all his children— 
no, no—He's clean forgotten me. He cares 
nothing for me.” 
“ Oh, I cannot hear tliee talk so,” cried 
tier visitor, in a distressed voice. 
“ Of course not, because you know noth¬ 
ing of the misery that is killing me by inches, 
day after day. 1 dare say you have a pleas¬ 
ant borne, and everything to make you hap¬ 
py. Whntfshould you say if you hold in your 
hand a letter telling you that your daughter 
writes from a sick bed, that her husband 
died last week, and asking in God’s name 
for a shelter with her mother, for herself and 
two miserable children. 1 am in such beau¬ 
tiful circumstances you see—barely earn 
bread for myself.” 
“Do try and trust God, my poor sister, 
lie has sent, me here, and I pledge thee my 
word 1 will do all I can to help tliee and thy 
child. There; there!” she said soothingly, 
for the woman had relapsed iuto piteous 
weeping—more at the kind, sweet tone of 
sympathy than for her own trouble. She 
got so little of it, poor soul! 
“ I didn’t tell you about my boys; one of 
them followed the ways of his father,” she 
said after a short pause, “ and is a wanderer 
I know not where. The other—my noble, 
my brave boy Benny—went into the army, 
and the last I heard of him was that lie died 
at Andersonvillc. Oh ! that broke my heart! 
The poor boy went into the army to help me 
as well as to help his country; for work fell 
slack, and just before that we were getting 
along so nicely. Sometimes I lie awake 
nights, thinking of him, till 1 am near crazy. 
Oh! I would liave gone in the midst of dan¬ 
ger, only to see him before he died; but the 
good Lord of heaven only knew whether lie 
starved to death or went mad; they tell sueli 
horrible stories, you know. Then there’s 
Anne—she left, me because I would not let 
her have anything to do with a wild young 
man who wanted to keep her company. One 
day we had high words, and she said things 
no child should say to a mother. I told her 
to leave my house. Heaven knows they 
were thoughtless words, but she went. The 
next day she was not to be found, nor have 
I beard from her from that day to this. Ah! 
that was a year of suffering! I traveled after 
her—I advertised—I wore myself sick—but 
she was gone! lost, perhaps, in more terrible 
ways than that one of running away from 
home. 
“ There you have all my history—a. poor, 
heart-broken woman’s history; but you can’t 
know, only from the words I speak—you 
never could know—what awful anguish I 
have suffered; and that lias made my hair 
turn gray before lain an old woman. Would 
you believe that 1 am only forty-one ? and 
every year of that life lias known something 
of the bitterest anguish. Do you wonder 
that I say and feel that I have been deceived 
from my youth up ?—that sometimes I have 
no faith in God?” 
“ But never, never lose faith in Him, my 
friend,” said the visitor, in tearful earnest. 
“ Remember what He has of thine in keep¬ 
ing, and can tliee not trust One who has 
taken to His own heaven the good and pure 
child.” 
“ You have given me comfort,” murmured 
the pale seamstress. “Others have been so 
cold and mercenary, seeming to look on me 
as if I were a machine, little dreaming that 
I liave known as well as themselves what it 
was to have some luxuries at toy command, 
an elegant home, and a kind father. But I 
know it is wrong to mourn so; something 
tells me that I should be less rebellious, and 
so happier. You see, however, that one 
trouble comes crowding on another. Now, 
in what way shall I bring my poor child 
home; and how support her and the chil¬ 
dren when they come?” 
“ Trust in God,” whispered the other, with 
shining eyes in which tears glistened. 
There was a thoughtful pause, then a fer¬ 
vent answer. 
“ I will try; I promise you I will try." 
Two days after that a letter came to the 
widow, inclosing sufficient money to pay for 
the removal of her daughter and the children. 
On the Bame afternoon an expressman 
drove up to the door, inquired for the widow 
Clarke, and lifted from the wagon a large 
parcel, which he placed in the small, neat 
room. The widow declared that there was 
some mistake. 
“ There's the name," said the man, bluntly, 
“ and all chargee paid,” and off he went. 
A neighbor helped her unpack the box, 
and there, under all the wrappings, stood a 
beautiful sewing machine. A card lay on 
tlie shining plate, and the widow,.stooping, 
read with tear-dim mod eyes: 
“ Trust in the Lord and do good. So shaft 
thou dwell in lhe!and,and verily thou shalt 
be fed.” 
“ It is the fir«t time I ever trusted Him," 
she sobbed; “ my heart has been full of re¬ 
vengeful thoughts and accusations. Oh ! 
from henceforth will I not trust that Power 
1 have so misjudged.” 
A plain, neat house was that in which 
Sarah Winchester lived. It was true, as the 
poor sewing woman had said, friend Sarah 
had never known want, and in her life there 
had been few severe trials. She always 
seemed placidly content, and those who 
knew her best were well aware that most of 
tier small income vrtrt spent in charity. Stic 
was alone—she hud neither husband nor 
child — but she was never unhappy, and 
never idle. * * * * * * 
“ There's a splendid carriage driv up, Miss 
Sarah, and the lady’s in the parlor this 
minute, asking to see you. It's a splendid 
carriage, Miss Sarah.” 
“ The carriage seems to have impressed thy 
imagination” said Sarah Winchester, smil¬ 
ing at the girl’s wide, bright eyes , “ did you 
never see a splendid carriage before ? ” 
“ Never none so nice as this, Miss Sarah,” 
replied the girl, as friend Sarah untied the 
strings of her black silk apron, preparatory 
to going iuto the parlor. 
As she went down stairs, she tried to con¬ 
jecture who it was that had called upon her 
in such style, for she had few acquaintances 
of that sort 
The parlor was darkened a little, but she 
saw the outlines of a woman fashionably at¬ 
tired—a young woman who arose from her 
seat as friend Sarah came forward. 
“You will excuse me, 1 know,” she said, 
in a quiet, low voice, “calling upon you so 
unceremoniously, but I was certain you 
would not know my name ii 1 scut a card, 
as I am a stranger here. Yesterday I came 
to this city from New York, and I am search¬ 
ing for my mother. From wliat I have 
learned, 1 think you can help me find her.” 
“ Thy mother, friend! ” said placid Friend 
Sarah, quite disturbed. 
“Yes, a Mrs. Mary Clarke; I don’t think 
she lias lived here mauy years. When I left 
her, (her face flushed) she was in Boston. 1 
have searched for her in this city over a 
week, and had almost given up in despair, 
when I happened to overhear something 
about you in connection with a widow 
Clarke. Oh! if it should only be my poor 
mother! ” 
“ Friend, I can take thee to thy mother,” 
said Sarah, a glad light overspreading her 
gentle features. “ She is comfortable now, 
but has beeu very needy.” 
“ Yes, comfortable through your Christian 
efforts! ’’ cried tlie young woman, the tears 
raining down her cheeks. “ Oh! thank 
God that I am able to repay your kindness. 
Will 3 'ou go with me now? I have a car¬ 
riage at the door.” 
To the astonishment of little Sue, the small 
maid in that establishment, Miss Sarah Win¬ 
chester drove off in splendid style with the 
stranger, and it was not twenty minutes 
after, that the equipage stopped iu front of 
the tenement house. 
“ You must tell her — prepare her,” cried 
the latter, tremulously. “ Say that I have 
brought home riches, and she shall never 
suffer more. When she is ready, just hold a I 
handkerchief to the window, and I will 
come.” 
Friend Sarah went in with a beaming 
face. Mrs. Clarke sat sewing, or rather 
basting, with one of the little children on 
her knee, while near by another child, tidily 
dressed, was overlooking the beautiful ma¬ 
chine with eyes full of wonder. Seated in 
a large, old rocking-chair, across the room, 
was the mother of the two children, a sad 
serenity in her eyes. 
The widow was pale, but her face looked 
like an illuminated picture as friend Sarah 
entered. 
“ I was just telling this little girl that a 
good angel sent, grandmamma the machine,” 
she said, cheerfully, “and this is the good 
angel, my dear.” 
“ If I am a good angel for doing thee this 
small service, I wonder what thee will think 
of the good angel waiting outside,” said 
Friend Sarah. 
Tlie widow looked up puzzled, then set¬ 
ting the child down, peered through the 
window, seeing only some way off a splendid 
carriage and a lady in soft garments. 
“ Friend, thee must be very calm,” said 
Sarah, loosening her bon net-strings, for she 
felt, the blood rushing over her own face. 
“ Some one wishes to see thee—who also 
asks thy forgiveness—who promises hence¬ 
forth to care for thee the rest of thy life and 
to surround tliee and thine with blessings.” 
“ Who can you mean ?” cried the mother, 
with clasped hands. “ There Is but one who 
could ask my forgiveness, and she—” 
“Is hare,” cried a low, rich, trembling 
voice; for unable to bear the suspense, the 
stranger liad left the carriage and entered 
the miserable house. 
“Mother! Anne I” was the simultaneous 
cry; and mother and child were close clasp¬ 
ed iu each other’s arms. 
It did not take long to tell her story 8he 
had left home in anger, had fallen in with a 
family who were going to California, and 
had there married a rich man, and according 
to her glowing statement, as good as he was 
rich, Now she had returned to make her 
mother and poor sister comfortable for the 
rest of their days. For the latter, it needed 
Only to smooth her passage to the grave, for 
care and grief had done their work, and she 
was fast hastening where the hectic, and the 
cough, and the wearing fever are unknown. 
Anne took her mother to New York, 
bought her a neat house, and furnished it. 
One day Friend Sarah received a letter from 
t he widow Clarke, from which I make tlie 
following extract: 
“ It seems as if from tlie moment 1 made 
up iny mind to trust God, blessings multi¬ 
plied. Anne is the kindest daughter that 
ever lived—she is everything to her poor, 
dying sister. The little ones are hers now ; 
she has adopted them both, and is like a ten¬ 
der mother to them. But what else do you 
think I have to tell you ? Benny has come 
home. He did not die in that horrible Au- 
dersonviile prison. He has beeu very ill in 
hospitals at the South, and unable to get 
word to me; but here he is at home, and 
rapidly becoming strong under my care. 
And I have heard from that other son- 
have learned that he is steady and indus¬ 
trious, and has given up all his wild habits. 
It was only a week ago that a carriage 
drove up; and as I went to the door iu the 
twilight, something tall, thin, and covered 
with a monstrous beard, it seemed to me, 
caught me in his anus, crying out; — 
• Mother, don’t, you know me ?’ 
“Well, I had given him up ; buried him 
long ago; and there he was, from the grave’s 
mouth—my own brave boy—my own good 
son—with the signs upon him of getting 
strong and well. Do you know, when 1 
came to—for I fainted with great joy—it 
seemed to me that 1 could see sweet little 
Lottie, her hah’ hanging round Her like a 
golden glory, and the luster of a great joy 
shining in her beautiful eyes. The vision, if 
a vision it was, lasted but a moment; yet, 
oli! it was very sweet. 
“ I thought of the time when, before she 
died, she told me that my children would be 
blessings to me, and it appears now like a 
prophecy. 
“ You will not fail to come and see us— 
you who, under God, seem to have been the 
means of bringing us all these blessings, who 
first taught me the meaning of the word 
‘ Trust.’ ” 
■ * - 
The Difference.— Some one has thus 
defined the various types of national charac¬ 
ter ;—Put an Englishman into the garden of 
Eden and he would find fault with the whole 
“ blasted” concern ; put a Yankee in, and he 
would see where he could alter it to advan¬ 
tage; put an Irishman in, and he would 
want to boss the thing; put a Dutchman in, 
and he would proceed at once to plant it 
with cabbages. 
-♦-*->- 
One watch kept right will do to try many 
by; but, ou the other hand, one that goes 
wrong may be the means of misleading a 
whole neighborhood ; and the same may be 
said of the example we individually set to 
those around us. 
lit ml r trnmor. 
WISHING. 
Of all amusements for the mind. 
From logic down to fishing, 
There Isn’t one that you can And 
So very cheap as “ wi.vhlng.” 
A very choice diversion, too, 
If we bnt rightly use It, 
And not, ns we are apt. to do. 
Pervert It. and abuse It. 
I wish—a common wish, indeed,— 
My purse was somewhat fatter. 
That I might cheer the child of need, 
And not my pride to flatter; 
That I might make Oppression reel, 
As only gold can make it. 
And break the Tyrant’s rod of steel, 
As only gold can break it. 
I wish—that Sympathy and Love, 
And every human passion 
That has Its. origin above, 
Would come, and keep in fashion ; 
That Scorn, and Jeulousy, and Hate, 
And every base emotion. 
Were burled fifty fathoms deep 
Beneath the waves of Ocean! 
I wish—that modest worth might be 
Appraised with truth and candor; 
I wish that innocence were free 
From treachery and slander; 
I wish that men their vows would mind ; 
That women ne’er were rovers; 
I wish that wives wore always kind, 
And husbands always loverB ! 
-♦_*_*- 
GOOD-NATURED PARAGRAPHS. 
Get on Your Drawers. 
A precious but modest little lady of two 
summers was shown some pictures, including 
one of the Greek Slave. 
“ Mamma,” inquired she, “ is it a boj T ?” 
“ Well, you may call it a boy,” was the 
reply. 
Another look at the nude figure, the 
young critic gravely said :—“ Boy, you go 
and get on your drawers as quick as you 
A Dusty Bon Mot. 
Little Frank hud been told to believe 
that we are all made of dust. One da}’, as 
he stood watching at the window, while a 
strong wind was whirling tlie dust into ed¬ 
dies, and hurrying it away into holes and 
corners, and there piling it up with tlie dried 
leaves, his mother asked him what he was 
thinking of. “O,” said he with uncommon 
seriousness for so young a philosopher, “ I 
thought the dust looked as if there was go¬ 
ing to be another little boy.” 
A Itusalnu Linguist. 
One of the Russian singers at Pittsburg, 
the other day, thought he had got far 
enough along in English to call for food at 
the table, and accordingly asked the lady at 
his side to pass him “ some kiss.” She 
blushed, and he repeated it with tlie unfor¬ 
tunate appendix, “The same as you gave 
me this morning.” She rose from her seat 
with indignation, the boarders glared ou the 
wretch who would thus flaunt liis crimes, 
while lie barely retained strength enough to 
get up and reach the desired viand. It was 
cheese. _ 
How to Watch nud Pray. 
The congregation of a well-known church 
in the south of Scotland has recently had 
under discussion the question of the proper 
attitude in prayer James M-, rather 
a character iu the town, being asked by a 
lady of the congregation if he wanted to 
conform to the recommendation of tlie miu- 
iiter that all should kneel, replied very em¬ 
phatically, “Never a bit will I kneel. The 
Bible says ‘Watch an’ pray,’ and hoo can 
everybody watch on their knees, \vi’ their 
e’en steekit? Na, na, I’ll just stand an’ 
glower about me, as I hae aye done.” 
“No Use Talking.” 
A young enthusiast was talking to his in¬ 
tended, urging upon her speedy marriage 
and a start to spend the honeymoon in Cali¬ 
fornia. 
“ I tell you,” said he, his face glowing with 
enthusiasm, “California is the paradise of 
this earth; there’s uo use talking !” 
“No use talking exclaimed the lady, with 
a look of some surprise. 
“ No use talking,” he replied. 
“ Well, if there’s no use talking,” said the 
lady, “ what in the name of sense do you 
want with a woman there? I don’t go !” 
About Eurly Rising. 
The old maxim, “ Early to bed and early 
to rise,” etc., has been the innocent cause of 
many wonderful poetical effusions. Punch 
remarked long ago that 
** Early to bed and early to rise 
Is the way to be stupid and have red eyes.” 
Since which it lias been asserted that 
“ He who would thrive, must rise at five,” 
and 
“ He who’d thrive more, must rise at four.” 
Therefore it is a natural inference that 
“ He who’d still more thrivirg be 
Must leave his bed at turn of three; 
And who this latter would outdo, 
Will rouse him at the stroke of two; 
And he who’d never be outdone, 
Must ever rise as soon as one.” 
The climax of all is : 
“ He who’d flourish best of all, 
Should never go to bed at all.” 
