172 e familig Cycle. NARK'S MOTHER. BY FRANCES BROWNE. "Mark, the miner is full fourscore, But blithe he sits at his cottage door, • Smokkg the trusty pipe of clay, Which bath been his comfort many a day, In !pito of work and weather; It bade his honest heart amends For the loss of strength and the death of friends; It cheered his spirit through the lives And management of three good wives— But now those trying times are done, And there they sit in the setting sun, Mark and his pipe together. "From harvest-field and from pasture-ground, The peasant people have gathered round: The times are rusty, the news is scant, And something like a tale they want From Mark's unfailing store; For he is the hamlet's chronicle, And when so minded, wont to tell Where their great uncles used to play— How their grandames looked on their wedding day— With al! that happened of chance and change, And all that had passed of great or strange, For seventy years before. "But on this evening, it is plain, Mark's mind is not in the telling vein, He site in silence and in smoke, With his thoughts about him 11 e a cloak Wrapped tight against the t; And his eye upon the old chum spire, Where falls the sunset's fading fire— And all the friends his youth had known Lie round beneath the turf and stone, While a younger generation try To touoh the keys of his memory """rtroo 'Mark! how looked the Lady Rose . Whose bower so green in our forest grows, Whom old men name with a blessing still For the torrent's bridge, and the village mill, And the traveller's wayside well?' 'Like my good mother, neighbors dear, How long she lies in the churchyard here!' 'Well, Mark, that Bishop of kindly rule, Who burned the stooks, and built the sohool, How looked his Grace when the church was new?' '.Neighbors, like my good mother, too, As those who saw could tell.' "'Then, Mark, the prince who checked his train, When the stag passed through your father's grain?' 'Good neighbors, as I live, his look The light of my blessed mother's took, As he bade them spare the corn.' Loud laugh the peasants with rustic shout: `Now, Mark, thy wits are wearing out. Thy mother was but a homely dame, With a wrinkled face and a toil-worn frame; No earthly semblance could she bear To a blahoplearned, and a lady fair, And a prince to kingdoms born.' a 'Nay,' aaith the pastor, passing by, As the stars came out in the elping sky— ' That homely dame bath a place and part Time cannot wear from the old man's heart, Nor many winters wither; And know ye, friends, that the wise and good Are all of one gracious brotherhood; Howe'er their fortunes on earth may stand, They take the look of their promised land— So bounteous lady, and bishop kind, And prince with that royalty of mind, Wore like Mark's blessed mother.'" TEE SATIN DRESS. "How did you soil that new dress so much ?" That was the question which 111inchen's mother asked her, when she came into the room all covered with mud. "0, mother, I fell down in the dirt. Please forgive me this time. Let me put on another dress, and go off again to play with my friends. You can't think how happy we are together. But I cannot enjoy myself unless I have clean clothes on!' Minohen's mother was always very kind, and a lly a difficult Chino to --tor....._nn_yujic,g_i ife n itiWaier tratrilliiina to ask. Ifiis time she granted her request, and after she had taken a nice olean dress from her wardrobe, she told her that she might put it on. Soon the happy girl was out again with her playmates, as neat, too, as if she had just leaped out of a bandbox. One hour later, she was so covered with dirt again, that you would hardly have known her. She came with tears in her eyes to her mother, and implored her pardon once more. Three weeks after this was Minohen's birthday. When she came down to her breakfast in the morning, what should she find waiting for her but a splendid new satin dress. It had cost a great deal of money, and was made in the latest fashion. It was good enough for a princess to wear. When she looked at it, she could hardly believe what her eyes saw. She looked at it with perfect astonishment, and when she commenced to thank her parents for it, she had to stop for want of words to express her gratitude. "It is lovely," she said after awhile. "What will my school friends . think of my satin dress, when they see it 7" "Now you must keep it very nice, my child," replied her mother, "for if you soil it as you have done your other good clothes, it will be a long time before you will get another one like it." "Never mind, mother," said Minchen. care lessly; "don't be afraid of my spoiling such a beautiful dress as this is. it 1 do, 1 will be sa tisfied to wear coarse linen clothes all my "Now remember that. If yon destroy this dress as you have done others, I shall see that you wear linen clothes for a whole year." Quite a number of Minohen's friends were in vited to take dinner with her that day. They bad a table to themselves, and were as proud as little queens. They ate, and drank, and laughed, and talked. When I looked through a Window and saw them around their little table, I thought they were the happiest children I .had ever beheld. In the afternoon, they all went out into the large, shady garden to play. But Minchen took the lead in everything. She ran the fastest, talked the most, and laughed the loudest of them all. Soon she forgot that , she had on a beautiful and costly satin dress. What wonder, then, if it was soon torn in some places. The girls played hide-and-seek. When it came Minohen's turn to, hide, she went away, off to the back of the garden r near the bank of the river,, and hid herself in a very thick bunch of rasp berry bushes. There was just room for her to get in without scratching herself very badly. Then she said, "Let them find me if they can." Her companions searched almost everywhere for her. They even looked up into the trees to see if she was not in one of them. At last they gave her up. Then they went out and called her. At first she would not come out of her good hiding place; bat when she saw that-no one could possibly find her, out she came and ran up to the large grape arbor. When the girls all came to her, they cried out with one voice: "Minchen, Minchen! How you have torn your satin dress." She then thought of her dress for the' first thne. She looked down at it, and found that the rasp berry vines bad torn over a dozen large holes in it. It was completely spoiled. Immediately she remembered her promise to her mother, and - then began to cry. Her friends came close around her, and kissed her and' tried every way to comfort her; ?but' nothing; could console her. She had spoiled her dress, and broken her promise. It was just then that MincheWs mother came into the garden. a*" ,101,1, I could not have believed you so thoughtless as this ruined dress proves you to, have been. Go inje the house. You will find,sy linen'dress on the dole; put it on immediately." The sorrowful , girl walked slowly into the house, and put on the gray linen dress , that was, lying on the sofa. - When her mother saw her -again she said : " You shall wear just such dresses a whole year. A child that will not obey must be made to feel. A linen dress, wein every day in the year by way of punishment, may be a useful lesson to you through your whole life." Minahen was almost beiirt-broken: She fell upon her mother's neck, and kissed her a dozen times,.and begged her to change her mind; but all to no avail. She had to submit to her fate.. A. whole year she wore nothing but coarse li nen clothes. But when her birthday Caw° around again she received a new silk. And this was the first dress she ever took good care of. But it was not the last, for she was always careful in the future. "It is much better to obey than to suffer for disobedience." That was a motto that Mirtehen afterwards worked on a book-mark. JOHNNY MORROW, THE NEWSBOY. One of the moat touching ceremonials I ever witnessed, took place in Brooklyn last Sabbath. While the grand funeral procession, with slow and mournful step, and wailing music, was following down Broadway the remains of one over whom a nation was weeping—the first martyr of our re volution—another coffin was being followed, with many tears, by little children and poor boys in the city of Brooklyn. The ceremony was the funeral of a newsboy—a Christian lad whO, as he scarce had a settled home, was kindly allowed to be buried from the State Street Congregational Church. A homeless, poor boy, with no father, or mother, or sister to weep over the dead body—and ydt with a great audience of children, and newsboys, and friends, filling the church, and shedding many a tear. Unknown hands dropped tender white flowers ou the little coffin, and sobs sounded in the stillness as the newsboys, with voices hoarse with feeling, sang,— "There's a rest for the weary,— A rest for thee." ,neat-rrtutru mptl Gd - - ur - rrnr - befoid; 'noble qualities of the little fellow, and of all he had done, and suffered, and accomplished, we who had known him best felt that we did net half value him. Most of all, when the doctor—whom, of course, much more than preachers or friends, all believe—stood up, and with words almost broken with emotion, said,—" That was the noblest little soul I ever saw in any human body," and told the story of his sickness and his fortitude, we all felt the greatness of the loss. But, perhaps, for the children's sake, I had better give a short sketch of the newsboy's life— Johnny Morrow, as he is called, and, known to so many thousands. About seven years ago, a pale, sweet-faced little fellow, of say ten or eleven years of age, came to the Lodging House and.made his home there. He said he had no father or mother, and he earned his living by selling matches. . Accordingly the boys soon christened him" Matches." One night after some religious remarks made by Mr, Tracy, little Johnny eaine to. him Walking quite troubled. "What is it, Johnny ?" "Please, sir, I have been telling you a wrong story. I was afraid you would send me back to my father, for 1 have got a father. lam very sorry for telling you a lie." He then told how his father drank brandy continually, and sent him and his little brothers out to steal coal, and wood, and vegeta bles—,and if they did - not bring home much, be would beat them dreadfully—andhow they ,often slept in carts and boxes to get out of his way---- and how he had " brandy fits," and 'would try to kill his children. One night they slept on board a ferry-boat, and were fed by the ferry-men. An otherlime they were chased by some rag-picker's dogs, while they were stealing, and nearly hunted down by them; until at last he felt he could bear this no longer, and went to the Lodging House for a home and shelter. Mr. Tracy forgave him his lie, and helped him. Johnny soon succeeded; I be went to Sabbath School and night schciol, learned to read and write rapidly, and shoived great fondness for the Bible—many thought then that he was a truly religious boy. After a while he obtained a place to lodge in the Union Theolo gical Seminary, where he peddled his little wares, and worked away at his education, with the hope of one day being a missiouary,sr a preacher-to a.---„ D oct monde to WAR T :mile_ bad be onged. The students all liked his happy little face, and be delighted in discussing abstruse theological questions with them, or in the more practical enjoyment of making a good bargain with them. One of the hard questions he put-at this time,, a result of. his former experiences, was, "Which is a greater sin, to lie or to steal?" the question having occurredion account of his having lied to his father to prevent his making him steal. At length he went to the New Haven Theolo gical Seminary, not so much because of its theo logy, as because. he hoped there to get .some as sistance, and to sell his little matters. His edu cation in every way was going on well, and finally he completed his success by writing a little bio graphy of himself, which he sold over the country. Probably thousands of my little readers have seen or heard of Johnny Morrow's little book: With its proceeds le supported apart of the time his two younger brothers, and paid off nearly three hundred dollars worth of debts he had incurred in getting his education. He was always doing kind things with his' money. We kneW of 'his giving twenty-three dollars to a poor boy to start him in a trade; and-under his pillow at his death was found .a pocket-book with only a feW pennies of his own, but with a receipt from a poor news boy for three dollars, which he had lately loaned to help him begin in business. If we could carry any thing into the next world, who would not rather take that dirty little receipt with him than all the bank-bills of New York city? For, was it not something done "to the least of these?" Little Johnny had always been lame; and now finding he was growing ill, and that a painful 'ope ration ought to be performed on him, he paid,all his debts, and went over and put himself in the hands of certain physicians in 'Brooklyn, I believe paying . bis,board himself. Dr. SaYres had taken. a deep interest in him, and came over to visit him, -He says he never saw such perfect serenity, and trust, and, courage —and-every one felt his Christian faith. Before the operation was performed, he fequested that it might be very thorough, and, if. possible; that his deformity might be cured. They-gave:him-chlo roform, and - after 'the terrible operation; 'when he, was sufficiently recovered, he asked if he should' be lame still.-- They replied that be would be, probably. " Well,' he said, his natural cheerful ness, running over, though his -body was yet quiverina• b with the surgeon's knife; "'taint so bad after all, for now when I want I can limp and. pass. for half price on the railroad, or I can stretch up and . be a big man." All noticed everywhere this beautiful cheerful news of this lame boy. "It was," said Bev. Mr. Bartlett, with exquisite pathos,." as if one of God's little angels was always with him, singing cheer fully to him, saying; ' Limp a little longer, Johnny; it will soon be over.'" Yes; all through these weary days of sickness the angel sang to him. It told him that poverty, and homelessness, and the world's cold charity, and pain, and grief, and deformity, would soon be past; and the eyes of the deformed, sick, home less lad shone with a strange and quick joy, which the•hystanders could hardly understand. "I do not fear to die," he said. "I feel all ready. I truss in Christ." He was doing well, and would probably' have recovered, but for the very self-reliance which had secured him his sne cess..-He thought he would save the kind , doctor the trouble of binding up his bandages, and that could do it equally well, and one morning un did them, and attempted to clean the sore, when accidentally he opened the tv,ound, and almost bled to death before help ebilld" arrive. This was too much for his weakened frame, and in a short time he died: Suctiwas -the story we heard at the funeral of the Christian newsboy. -.The rough.,boys came and gazed solemnly at the pale wari4ace of the dead; the children of the rich and happy looked at him tearfully; and we all felt a kind of joyful sadness as we stood by. Peace be with thee, little wanderer! Thy days of weariness, thy sickness, and poverty, and lone liness, are all over. Thou didst well thy little part on the earth! The poor. and the unbe Mendel love theek. Tb,pu past died with an ire mgaal faith and love. Heaven's gentle angels that ever watch by the dying bedsides of penitent and loving children, hold thee up. Thou bast all wealth and glory now. Why should we weep for thee? A more heroic life or a morip Christian death, we cannot wish for our own beloved little ones. N. Y. Independent. WHAT SOUTH CAROLINA WANTS. We give below a short extract from a letter to the London Times, from Mr.Sussell, its oelehrated Crimean correspondent, now travelling in , the South. That rich and lordly state, containing about as many white inhabitants as one-third of the city of New York, "admires monarchical in stitutions," "its. privileged classes, "its landed aristocracy and gentry.' These latter have a di vine right to domineer over and oppress the slaves whom they may own. But this is not all; embryo dukes and barons desire to have also the divine right to put their feet upon the necks of the "poor whites" or as they-more chastely denominate us of the , North, "The mud-sills of society." It is for this that secession was inaugurated by that large and flourishing empire (I) whose "landed Y, "."regard with an aversion of whiCh it is impossible to give an Idea," Puritan New Eng land and the democratic northern masses. This State, "founded by gentlemen," hates the liberty of speech and 'of the press, and although her *pub lic officers may violate their solemn oaths to sup port the constitution:under which they live, her noble sons do not think it at all neeessary to be particular in keeping faith with "brutal, bigoted tin - ed. For ourselves we seuld be extremely fn . vorable to the project of- building n wall around that state of " gentlemen and Christians" so that they might not be contaminated by contact with "northern rabble," and then advise them to call King Bomba to the throne-41e would do much better than "one of Victoria's sons." • Nothing I could say can- be worth one fact which has forced itself upon my mind in reference to the sentiments which prevail among the gen tlemen of this State. I have been 'among them for several days. I have visited their'plantations, I have eonVersed:with them freely and fully, and I have enjoyed that frank, courteous, and grace ful intercourse which constitutes an irresistible charm of their society. From all quarters has come to my ears the echoes of the same voice; it may he feigned, but there is no discord in the note, and it, sounds in wonderful'strength and mo notony all over the country. Shades of George 111., of North, of Johnson, of all who-contended against the great rebellion which tore these colo Mei from England, can you hear the chorus which rings through the State of Marion, Sumter., and Pinckney, and not clap your ghostly hands in triumph? That voice says: " If we could ont get one of the rival race of England to rule over us, we should be content." 'Let there be no' mis conception on this point. That sentiment, varied in a hundred ways, has been repeated to me over and over again. There is a general admiesion that the means to such an end are wanting, and that the desire can eot be gratified. But the admiration for monar chical institutions on-the English model,'fiir vileged classes, and for-a landed aristocracy and gentry, is undisguised,- and apparently genuine. With the pride of having achieved her indepen dence is mingled in the South Carolinian's heart, a strange regret at the results'-and consequences; and many are they Who "would - go back to-mor row if we could." An intense affection, for. - the , British connexion, a love of British habits and customs, a respect for British sentiment, law, authority, order, .civilization, and literature, pre eminently distinguish the inhabitants , of this State, who glory in their descent from ancient families on the three islands, whose fortunes:they , still follow, and wily whose -members they main tain, not unfreqeMtly, familiar relations,. regard with an aversion, of whiehlt . is impossible to give an idea to one who has not seen the manifestations, the people of Ne,w, England . and the populations of the Northern 3 S ta tes, whom- they. regard as tainted beyond cure with the. venom of "Pnri tanism." , - The Methodist Whatever may be the cause, this is tho fact and the effect. "The State of South Carolina was," I am told, "founded by gentlemen." It was not established by witch-burning Puritans, by cruel, persecutinc , fanatics, who implanted in the North the standard of Torquemada, and breathed intethe nostrils of