Cljt famitg
" I MISS THEE, 'MY MOTHER."
DEAR BROTHER MEARS : —Near the time of
my dear mother's triumphant departure for the
better land, February 7th, a friend sent me the
following lines. As I have just re•read them,
they have afforded me much pleasure and com
fort. You may feel inclined to insert them
in your paper; that others who are saying, " I
miss thee, my mother," may find their own
feelings touchingly expressed
Yours,
VERNON, CONN.
Ow,
" I miss thee, my mother! Thy image is still
The deepest impressed on my heart
And the tablet so faithful, in death must be
chill,
. Ere a line of that image depart,
" Thou wast torn from my side when I treasur
ed thee most,
When my reason could measure thy worth ;
When I knew but too well that the idol I'd los,
Could ne'er be replaced upon earth.
rmiss thee, my mother, in circles of joy
Where I've mingled with rapturous zest ;
For how slight is the touch that will serve to
destroy
All the fairy web, spun in my breast!.
" Some melody sweet may be floating around—
'Tis a ballad I learned at thy knee;
Some strains may. be played and I shrink from
the sound,
For my fingers oft waked it for thee.
"I miss thee, my mother, when young health
- has fled,
i . ,
And I sink n the languor of pain:
Where, where is the arm that once pillowed my
head,
And the ear that once heard me complain?
" Other hands May support, gentle accents may
fall— -
For the fond and the true are yet mine;
I've a blessing for each ; I aintratefnllfoi
But whose care can be soothing as thine?
I miss thee, my mother, in summer's fair.day,
When I rest in the ivy-wreath'd bowery
When I hang thy pet linnet's cage higk on the
spray
Or gaze on thy favorite flower.
." There's the grav4l•path, lob, where I played
by thy side, -
When time had scarce wrinkled thy brow,
Where I carefully led. thee with pleasure and
= pride •
When thy scanty locks gathered the snow.
"I miss thee,my mother! Oh, when do I not?
Though I knew 'twas the wisdoM of Heaven
That the deepest . shade fell on my sunniest
spot,
And such ties of devotion were riven. -
"For when thou west with me my soul was be
low, '
I was chained to the world I then trod,
My affections, my thoughts, were all earth
'bound; but now
• They have followed thy spirit to Cibd I"
OUR CHARLEY.
What is to be done with, our Charley?
Yes, 7 --that is the question ? The fact
is, there seems to, be no plape,in heaven
above, or earth beneath, exactly, safe
and suitable, except the bed. While
he is asleep then our souls haVe reat—
we know where he is, and what he is
about; and sleep is a gracious `state;.
but then he wakes up bright'and early,
and begins tooting, pounding, ham
mering, singing, meddling, and asking
questions ; in. short, overturning the
peace of society generally, for about
thirteen hours, put of the twenty-four.
Everybody wants to know what to
do with him—everybody is quite sure
that he cannot stay where they are.
The cook can't have him in the kitchen,
where he infests the pantry to get flour
to make paste for his kitesi or melt
lard in the new saucepan. If he goes
into the woodshed, he is sure to pull
the wood-pile down upon his head. If
he is sent into the garret, you think for,
a while you have settled the problem,
till you find what a boundless field for
activity is at once 'ope,ned, amid all
the packages, boxes, bags, barrels, and
cast-off rubbish there. Old letters,
newspapers, trunks of miscellaneous
contents, are all rummaged; and the
very reign 'of chaos and• old night is
instituted. He sees endless-capacities
in all, and he, is always hammering
something or knocking something
apart; or sawing, or planing, or draw
ing boxes or barrels in all directions
to build cities or lay railroad tracks,
till everybody's head aches quite down.
to the lower flooliand everybody de
clares that Charley must be kept out
of the garret.
Then you send Charley to school,
and hope you are fairly rid of him, for
a few hours• at least. But he comes
home noisy and more breezy- t,han
ever, having learned 0-g some twenty
other Oharlies every separate resource
for keeping up a commotion that the
superabundant vitality of each can
originate. Ife - gan dance like Jim
Smith—he has learned' to smack his
lips like Joe Brown, and Will Brigg-s
has shown him how to :'mew.' like a cat,
And he enters the-premises with a new
war-whoop learned from, Tom Evans.
,If.e feels large and, valorous • he, has
learned, that he„is, a boy,• and has a
general' impression that he is
. growing
immensely strong
,knowpg, and
despises more thin ever the"conven
tionalities of - parliir life; in fact, he is
tioreftban eVer interruptiOn-in the
'Way 'of decent folks' who want ;to be
.It `is true, that if entertaining per
sona will devote themselves exclusive-
'1 him, reading.and• telling Stories,
he may be• kept quiet ; but then' this
is discouraging work, for 'he swallows
'aqitory as Rover does a pieee'Of meat,
and lOOks at :you for another and an.
other, without - the slightest considera
tion, 'so that this resource is of short
duration, and the the old question
comes , back : What is :to be done with
him?
But after all, Charieji• cannot be
wholly shirked, for - he is art institu
tion—a° ssolernn and :awful fact; and
on the answer of the question, " What
is to be done with hilt ?" depSirds'a
future.
Many a hard, morose, bitter man,
bas come from a Charley turned off
and neglected; many a parental heart
ache has come from a Charley left to
run the streets; that mamma and sisters
might play on the piano and write
Idlers in peace. It is easy to get rid
of him there are fifty ways of doing
that. He is a spirit can be promptly
laid, but if mot laid aright; will come
back, by-and-by„ a strong man armed
when you cannot" send him off at plea,-
sure.
E. P. H
Mamma and sisters had better pay
a little tax to Charley now, than a ter
ribble one by-and-by. There is some
thing significant in the old English
phrase, with which our Scriptures
render us familiar—a ra - Aii - child—a
Mari child. There yoU have the wOrd.
that should make you think more
than twice before you answer the
question, " What shall we do with
ChLrley ?"
For to-day he is at your feet; to-day
you can make him laugh ; you - can
make him cr:r, you can persuade, coax,
and turn him to your pleasure ; you
can make his eyes fill and his bosom
swell with recitals of good and noble
deeds ; in short, you can mould him,
if you will take the trouble.
But look ahead some years, when
the little voice shall ring in deep bass
tones; when:that' small foot shall have
a man's weight and tramp ; when a
rough beard shall cover that little
chin, and the wilful strength of man
hood fill out_ the little round form.
Then you would give worlds for the
key to his heart, to be able to turn
and guide him to your will; blit if
you lose the key now he is.little, you
may search for it carefiilly, with tears,
some other day, and never find it.
Old housekeepers have. a proverb,
that one hour lost in the morning is
never found all day. It has a signifi
cance in, this, case.
One thing is to be noticed about
Charleyi that rude, and busy, and noisy
as he is,'and irksome as carpet rules
and.'parlor ways are to him, he is still
. a social little creature; and wants to be
where, the rest of the household are.
-A room ever so well adapted for play
cannot charm him at the hour when
the fainily, are in reunion '
he hears
the voices in the parlor, and the, play
room seems desolate. It may ,be
warmed by a furnace, and lighted with,
gas, but it is human. warmth and light
he shivers for ; he yearns 'for the talk
of the family, - which he so imperfectly
comprehends, and'he longs to take his
playthings down and play by you,
-and is incessantly promising that of
the fifty.improper tbings.which he is
liable to,do in the .parlor, he will.not
commit one if you will let him stay
there.
The' instinct; ofthe little one is Na
ture's"warning plea' God's adm on i_
' 0, - how many mo s ther.who has
neglected4t,'becanae it'WaS irksome to
have the =child about, , has , longed at
twenty-five to keep her sortby her side,
and he would not.! .Shut.out: .as-a,
,little Arab, - ; ,constantly„.told•that hods;
noisy, that he is awkward and.neddle
soine, and, a plague in - generai, the boy
hasfound at last his own Company in
the streets, in the highWayeand,he4ges,
where he runs till the day comes when
'the parents want their son, tbe•sisters
, their brother, and then they-arescared
at.the face he brings back to -, them, as
.he-comes all Soul and.smUtty from the
companionship to, : Finch they have
doomed him., liepe,pd,upon,it,
too much trouble to keep your boy in ;
society, there4rilT Yelilae,es found for
hini - warmedarid.lighted by nofrienclly.
fires. The - retie - who "finds some mis
chief still for idle hands to do," will
care for him, if you do not. You may
put out &tree, and it- will_ grow vrhile
you - sleep; but a 'Sim yaw cannot-you
, must taket trouble for • him, either a
littlecnow, or.a great deal by-and-by.
' , Let him'-stay with you. at:least some;
portion of every. day.;-.bear hisnoise,
and ignorant ways.. Put aside s ,.your
book or work to, tell, him. a story,, or
to 4ow him,, a picture,,,• „devise still
parlor , play fOr him., for gains no
thing hy beifig allowed to spoil the OM
fort of the whole circle. .A: 'pencil, a
'sheet (of paper, and 'a `fe*patterns, 'will
sometimes 'keep him quierfor you'fbr
an hour, while you' are .talking, or - in
a corner he maybuild , a. block ihouse,
annoying nobody. If the does , now
Nid,...o l en,disturb i you, and if it costs.
,you more care ; and thought to, regu-'
late him, there, balance which is the
- 031turbed , by 'lrin a
nowrorwhen he is a. man.
'Of all can give your Charley, }f
yoil f are, a g,obd than or woman; your life
senee is the best and safest thing. God
never meant hinii'to'l do without you
any more thaaehiekens .withoutt , being
br4ocled
Then, let -him have. some place in
your, ,bouse, where, he ,may-:.hammer.
and ,ppund, and - rna4c9ll the litter his
heiit desires and his various schemes
require. Eiren you can ill afford,
the room, weigh well between the'Safe
aSyluth. and on& ivhich, if denied, he
'may'niake - fdr'hiniself in the street.
Of all deVices for Charley which we
have seen, a few shelves, which he-may
dignify :with the name-of a cabinet, , is
one of the best. He picks up shells,
and, pebbles, and stories, all odds and
ends, nothing comes amiss,; and if you
give him a
is
of -scissors and a little
gum, there is no end to the labels he
will paste on, arid. the hour's he may
innocently_spend' in assorting and ar
ranging:. •
- A: bottle 'of gum is an invalu.-
THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN, THURSDAY, OCTOBER 26 1865.
able resource for various purposes, nor
must you mind though he varnish his
nose and fingers and clothes—which
he will do of course if he does nothing
worse. A cheap paint box and some
engravings to color, is another ; and
if you will give him some real paint
and putty, to paint and putty his cars
and boats, he is a made man.
All these =things make trouble—to
be sure they do—but Charley is to
make trouble, that is the nature of the
institution ; yOu are only to choose be
tween safe and. wholesome trouble, and
the trouble that comes like a whirl
wind. God blesS the little fellow, and
send us all grace to know what to do
with him.
WANTED-AN HONEST, INDUSTRIOU
We lately saw an advertisement
headed as above. It conveys to every
boy an impressive moral lesson.
" An honest, industrious boy" is al
ways wanted, He will be sought for ;
his services will be in demand; he will
be spoken of in terms of high com
mendation; he, will always have a
home; he will grow up to be a man
of known worth and established char
acter.
He Will be wanted. The merchant
will want him for a salesman or a
clerk; the master_ mechanic will Want
ilirn for an; apprentice or a journey
man; those with a job to let will want
him for a .contractor ; clients will.want
him. fora lawyer ;•: patients will want
him for a physician ; religious congre
gations, for a pastor ; parents, for a
teacher of their children ; and the peo
ple, for an officer.
He will be wanted. Townsmen will
want him as a citizen;
acquaintances,
as'a'neighbar ; neighbors, as a friend;
families, as a visitor; the world, as an
acquaintance ; nay, girls will want
him for a beau, andfinally for •a hus
band.
An honest ~,industrious boy Just
think of it, boys, will you answer this
description ? Can you apply for thatl
situation ? Are you sure that you will
be wanted ? Ybu may be smart and
active, but that does not fill the iequi
sition—are'you honest ? You may be
capable—are you industrious ? You
may be swell dressed • and create a fa
varable,impression at first sight—are
you both honest and industrious ?, You
tria,y apply for a, good sltuation—are
you sure that your friends, teachers,
acquaintances can recommend you for
these qualities? Oh, how would you
feel, your character not !being "thus es
tablished, on ;hearing the words, • "I
cannot '-employ you!" Nothing else
will make up for the lack of these
qualities. No readiness or aptness for
busine,as will : do it.--. You must be
honest and industrious--naNdat,,,msork
and labor ; then will your calling,and
election: for Paces of profit and trust,
be made sure.
_WHAT A RUM:SELLER CONTRIBUTES
„ TO SOCIETY, • ,t ' l .
We find the following in an -.ex
change, -without any indication - to, its
origin. It presents the ,business of the
liquor dealer in striking_,,contrast,with
trades which are ;useful ( andhonorable:
kvery individual in
,society is .ex
pected to contribUte sbmething to its
advancement and interest. We re
naeMber•to haVe read, years ago, of a
corifp.iny of IradeSnien, who had
,uni
ted .themselves' together in it mutual
benefit:society, and each one had to re
late what -he ,could. .contribute, to its
support. First the .blacksinith • came
forward and said:
:` Gentlemen, I wish to become a.
theinber of our association.” •
"Well, whiki can you;do?"
" Oh, I can iron" yOur ohrriages 'shoe
your :horses, 7., and - Make , all kinds` of
implements." •
" Very well; come in, Ml... Blac
ksmith."
The mason, applied for - ,admission
into the,-socigy:,,,,
,:•
"And what _can you do, sir?""„,
"I can build barns and ilOuses,
stables and bridgeS.'l
Very well, come in`; we cannot
do without yule
Along comes 'the• shoemaker, and
says:
"I wish. to lciecorde, a - meiaber of
your society."
" Well, what can you dq;?"
" I can Make, • boots _and shoes for.
P: ll ,4•L'
Shoemaker; we must'
have you." x
•
In - turn all the different trades , and,
profession's applied, tiTh lastly, an in:
"dividual- came in who-Vanted.tb' be
come a member. • • ;
"And what are'you?"
"I. am a rum-seller." ..! •
do (?'A- A- rum-seller and: what= can you
"I can build jails and prisons and
poor houses," -
"And is - that all?"
" No, I can fill them I can fill your
jails - With crimnals your - prisons With
convicts, and your, poor-house& with
paupers:" • •
" And ohat else can you do ?"
"I can bring the_ gray hairs of the
aged to:the
.graverwith,sorrow,;,
; I can
break the heart Of the wife, and blast
the , prospects of the friends of talent,
and fill the land with more than the
plagues of Egypt;" "
"Is thaeall you can do?"
"Good heavens'!" triekthe•rtirn-sel
.
;- "i¬Aliat enough?" - • '.
WAITING FOR CHRIST.
We wait for Thee all-glorious One
LWe look for Thine appearing;
Ve hear thy name, and on the throne
• We see Thy presence cheering.
Faith even now
Uplifts its brow, •
And sees the Lord descending,
And with Him bliss unending.
• t
We wait for Thee through days forlorn,
In patient self-denial ;
We know that Thou our guilt halt borne
, Upon Thy cross of trial.
And well may we
Submit to Thee
To bear the cross and love it,
Until Thy hand remove it.
We wait for Thee ; already Thou
/Haat all our hearts' submission;
.And though the spirit sees Thee now,'
We long for open vision, .
When ours shall be
i Sweet rest with Thee,
I And pure, unfading pleasure,
And life in endless measure. •
We wait for Thee with certain hope,-
1
The time will soon be over ,•
'With - childlike longing- we look up
, Thy glory to discover.,
0 bliss I to share
Thy triumph therei
When home, with joy and singing,
The Lord His saints is bringing.
—Prom the German of Hiller
BUTLER'S ANALOGY FOR THE BABY,
It is a serious mistake to think there
must be a great ,coming down, when
we talk to the children. We must avoid,
or define the words which are beyond
their "knowledge, but they will, grasp
great thoughts, and receive great truths,
when they are but just out of baby
hood.
I had been feeling for -a long time
that I ought to impart to, my little boy
some definite idea of the death and dis
solution of the body. He knew of the
exchange of worlds, which, we call
death, but not of the sundering of-the
obody and spirit. He supposed that
' believer§ at death were taken to heaven,
body and soul; and' the . thought of.
eath 'had consequently for • him no
iterror.- I dreaded beyond measure-to
tell him that the body must return to
dust ; for I feared, he could 'not" grasp
the thought of the - separability of the
soul_ and body. I knew -that if he did
not, his keenly sensitive nature would.
revolt in horror frgmthe idea, of death.
BAt,,,it must be done. His eager ques
tions about cemeteries and graves, cof
fins and funerals, could no longer be
eVaded, and =I feared, if I 'continued to
neglect my duty;' the dreaded: truth
would . burst, upon him=withx terrific
power from some open coffinor grave,
it might be my own.
With a silent prayer for.j3ivine aid,
but without the least, definite idea of
what I should say, I• called the child
,
to me, one bright,morning, with a firm
purpose to rierform my much dreaded
duty. But how 7 ' Oh, with what words
should I tell him ! Perhaps - the fair
hands and arms, yet beautiful with
dimpled plumpness of babyhood,
.which lay. across my lap, suggested" , a
.way,, andled to the following,dialogue;
McnEtz.a. (Caressin . g the little hand,)
"What is this ?" .
CHILD. "George's hand."
Yes; it is Geoige's hcm'd
l ..is notGeorg - 6's self. `` = Suppose yOu
were to hurt your hand and arm so
sadly that `they had to be cutoff; you,
my little•son, would be here just the
same. The hand and arm which was
pit off would have ,no, more life, or
,ense or feeling than this marble (lay
-72.,9,,tfte child's hand _on the cold ,table.)
,
shoul4 not care for it any more;
w' l e should call it dead, and - bu4 , it out
of sight in'the•giouitl Can my deoil
0, understand it
1 CHILD (With eager andquietivonder,)
"Yes, mamma:' r• • =
MOTHER. Y' NOW I , ami going t to - sup ,
pose what-twill , never tie;, but just sup
pose3hat your other arm,were gone
and, both your legs. also '
• still
,y 9,11
would be left. There. would ..be no
life`Or feeling in all that was gone, but
Asarlittle . Georgie, who thinks and
would be here just same."
(Very' tlibughtfully)
mamma, so'l. should." •
MOTICER. " Well, my -love, what I
wish to explain to you , is, that. your
body,„ which. is made of flesh ; and
.blood, and bones, your little body here
in nay arms, is not, you. This flesh
; (pres,sinfr_ ii),is not you, who loves me
so. You live in the body, you move
it and use it, but the body '"is not your
self, It' is yourself who speak, and
lane], and cry; and think, ' - and loVe.
Shall I. tell you another name for your
self, Who •live in this - - little - , body of
.flesh:?''__
CHILD. (Eagerly,). "Yes, mammaY
MOTHER:, It. It is soul. We call , the
real Q - eorgie, the real self, the soul. The
soul is quite „able to live without the
body, but not here in this.'wgild, The
soul, betore it can hie with Out the
body, has to go away to another World.
So When the body is So' much hurt' or
so sickthat it dies ; (as the-hand does
when it is. cut off,) the soul cannot stay,
in it anylonger r but goes , away to an
other - World, The.soul, if it trusts and,
loves 4esus, goes. to be with, Him, in
the beautiful heaven where he lives ;
but the cold .) dead, useless body remains'
(Sthiri3attsps wateh
in,4 the effect of her tarl."
CHILD. (Very cheerfully,) " Mamma,
how would my body look, and- <what
shoulliy,ou do with:. it if it were dead,
and I 'were gone away to Jesus in
heaven.?"
MoTxER (Struggling again 4 emo
tion,) " Your 9 body my darling, mightlook, when you first left it, very much, •
as it'now does only instead
iyarm and rosy, 'it' wonld'be White:andl
doh% likethiisi' marble,' andiWoUld hate
no more life, or feeling, or motion.
You asked me what I should do with
your body. I should love the little
body which my G-eorgie had. left, but
I could not keep it, because God, who
at first made it out of the dust, says
that it must return to dust again; so
if I kept it long it would look very
badly, then drop into pieces, and at
last become dust. So; while it was
yet fair, I should dress it in- pretty
clothes, and lay it in a beautiful casket,
(you remember you saw some in the
shop window, and I said I would tell
you some other time what they were
for,) and I should put sweet white
flowers in the dead little hand, which
was once yours, and kiss the dead lips
with' which yon used to speak to me,
and then the casket would be closed,
and the dead body, which my Georgie
had left, would be buried in the ground,
to return to dust, as God has said it
must. - But you, my little son, if you'
loved Jesus, would be very happy
with Him in heaven," (I - other pauses,
pale with suppressed emotion.)
CHILD. (Detecting his mother's emo
tion, and laying his cheek sympathizingly
against hers,) "Mamma, why should
you care so much about the dead body - ,
which Georgie wouldn't want any
more !"
" Oh, strange and precious words
from infant lips I Could I have be
lieved that the child, with his tender
and sensitive nature, could, at that
early age so perfectly comprehend, and
yet so trustingly accept such a truth!
Let me never fear again to say to a
child whatever the Lordbids me.
I need not relate how joyfully I told
my child of the glorious resurrection
of the just, justified:
One day, when I had. been talking
with my husband about this scene, he
said to me,—" Do you realize where
you got the argument, which so readily
convinced Georgie that our gross or
ganized bodies with which we perceive
the objects of. sense, and with which
we act, are no part of ourselves ?"
Why;'l exclaimed, "now that you
quote the words, I realize what I have
never thought of before,_ that I have
been teaching Butler's Analogy to the
baby !"---.Mother's Magazine.
•
THE APPROACH OF DEATH.
Few of us.sie happy'enough to be
the members of an unbroken family
circle: 'Sooner or later death enters
the healthiest home, and a Christmas
or a birthday festival seldom comes
round without reminding the living of
some "vanished hand" or voice that is
still forever. Now, it is Tiny Tim,
whose shrill ;treble no longer. helps, to
swell the merry noise; or again it is
the patriach of the flock, whose vener
able preSenCe' has ceased to make the
chimney corner look sacred. The
"fell sergeant" will not be"denied.
There may sometimes be an unwonted
interval _between his ;terrible • visits,
but the inevitable moment will-..arrive
when drawn blinds and closed shut
ters .will proclaim•to. our neighbors
that there is death in our house. What
a solemn hush falla upon those who
remain behind, when' he soul of a be
loved friend or relation has departed I
Even the most careless and light
hearted !feel - the' sacred influence of
the hour.-; Silence reigns in the cham
ber, where the dead . man lies, and
throughout the,,whole house the .foot
of thernourner falls softly, the voice
naturally,sinks into a whisper„ and,
except In rare cases, we cannot boar
to part with the well kown form now
vacant of Its spirit. We" love to lOok
again and again'"at the " old familik
face." We deck the brow with flowers:
We delaytill 4he lag instant to close
the :doiriti; for it- is onlytheit that we
begin: f.l*lly to feel, the bitterness of
,
bereaVeMent: length, not in. iiide ; :`
corous haste , ,hut when all has
i been
dope that tedernesS and delicacy tan
suggest, bail"; forth' our Add: bUrden
to its grave: A"hurried ftrieral'S
singularly revolting to civilized Habits
and sensitive. dispositions. The Jew
puts- his deaCout of sight almost as
soon as i they Are cold. Re still ; retains
in a, northern climate a custom which
the heat. of the East
,perhaps rendered
necessary. r Yet even in the East some
tribes seem to have heen possessed by
the same repugnance"to speedy Sepul
ture marks' most `ChristiMena
tionk" Hercidotus, indeed, tells us a
story'of. certain of the Arabians who
never ibury their ddad at all They
place the bodies, of their _deceased
tri.ends.withiu,,transparent crystal : pß-
Jars, which _ they afterwards carried forth
to the, cetnetery,pear the p eity., Thus
every' m
became his own tombaone,
Among this 'peoPle, at any rate, there
could hive been no'lying ePitarhis.'
RELliiitiN. IN BUSINESS.
. The North ~British Review says :
", The, pressing need of our faith is not
simply, ; faithful evangelists to, proclaim
its qoctriues, but legions of men con-
Sec t ating their worlillyvocations,
nesiing to that truth on which much
skepticism previil . that Chritianity,
six received as to beconie'au integral
ipart of a man, is omnipotent to keep
him froluthe evil, not bk taking.him
out of the world, but by making him
victorious over it. He is a most worthy
disciple s of -Christ ,who, like. Pallissy,
or Buxton, or i3nclgett, or Pertfies,
xhibitis religion as,the right use of a
man s r WhOle s'elfr--- as the. one thing
gives dignity and nobility =to
4hittieiteitielf sordid ' and.
as the manspring of earnest and .
cessful strivings after loftier' ends • I
a purer life—as the power, outside of
and within a man, which, lifting up
conduct in the individual, raises the
community—and not as a state of
mind mystical, and in active life un
attainable, high up among things in
tangible, separated from contact with
work-a-day life, appropriate to Sab
bath days and special hours, to leisure,
old age, and death-beds. Every man
who is 'diligent in business, serving the
Lord,' is a sermon brimful of the ener
gies of life and truth,a witness to the
comprehensiveness and 'adaptability
of Christ's religion, a ...preacher of
righteousness in scenes where none
can preach so effectually or so well."
NEVER AIORE NIGHT THAN DAY.
Ah I don't be sorrowful, darling,
And don't be sorrowfuly.praY
Taking the year together,,my, dear, ,
There isn't more night tliari(iay-.
'Tis rainy weather, my darling,
rn •
s waves they heavily run;
But taking the year together, my dear,
There isn't more cloud than sun.
We are old folks now, my darling,
Our heads are growing gray;
But takingthe l year all round, my dear,
You will always find a May
We have had our May, my darling,
And our roses, long ago
And the time of the year is coming, my des4
For the silent night of snow.
'And God is God, my darling,
Twilight as well as day, ,
And we feel and know that we can go
Wherever He lead., the way.
A. God . of the night, my darling,
Of the night of death so grim;
The gate that leads to life,
_good wife,
Is the gate that leads to Him.
THE SHEPHERDS OF THE Jun
During the early spring, the valleys
around the base of the Upper, " Alps,
furnish pasturage for large flocks. At
a great altitude, and shut out from the
light of the sun on all sides- by the
mountains, the herbage is of scanty
growth, and as the season advances
soon becomes exhausted, so that the
shepherds are forced to seek fresh pastu
ragerarther up the mountain sides. Hav
ing found a suitable spot they start with
their flocks upon the toilsome ascent.
Dark vales and yawning abysses have
to be crossed, barren wastes and treach
erous glaciers traversed; and as they
advance on their journey, the wearied.
and - way-worn flocks become discour
aged, stray and lag behind, until they
can neither be led nor driven farther.
Then it is that the shepherd resorts to
an expedient that never fails. He
takes in his arms a little lamb from
the flock, and holdi'ng it so that all can
see, he climbs over the wastes of rock
and ice to the sheltered fields of green
beyond. The rest of the flock follow,
lured onward by the bleating of, that
one little lamb. Finally, the goal is
reached, where, in some clou.d-encircled.
glen, Nature unfolds her emerald
wealth, making summer seem but the
more lovely from its icy surroundings.
What a lemon may be draini from
this artifice practiced by the simple ,
minded Swiss shepherd. As we toil
upward and onward in life's great jour
ney, our pathway at times is rugged,
steep, and lies through dark ravines
"where there is no light." We long
again for the bright scenes that lie' ar
WOW "us' in the spring-time of our
youth; but those pastures are exhausted
==-it cannot `be. Before us lies " the
dark valley of the shadow," but our
spirits are faint, and footsore and weary
we sink by the wayside. But,
"Leona be patient; these severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,
But oftentimes Celestial benedictions
' Assume this dark disguise."
Then it is that "our Gobd Shepherd
takes froth. °Ur flock one in whom is
centred our.t- brightest hopes and
tenderest, feelings, and carrying it be.
fore us, leads us onward to the bright
realms above,—making light •out •of
the darkness that intervenes , , so #that
we no longer dread the shadows that
encompass us. We seek tilt to reach
those green fields in that Haimn of lie:
pose,'where, safe from all harni, uruler
the fostering care and guidance of our
Shepherd, we are at reat, - -a'nd eternal
summer reigns. , f.:%7.,
Let us not murmur, then, atwhat
seems to be a > mysterious and _un,
fathomabletdispensation of Providence.
If all,below was •perraitte.d to be just
as we could wish, and we were allcov,o
ever to enjoy the society of thO,Fie near
and dear to us, we should be,:blit illy
prepared for. the great bereAfe'r., Bat
in His wisdom, the Creator thus draws oar 'thoughts toward Heavens; - thus
paves the way for us} `and 'leads us to
desire better to prepare; ourselves to
meet again in Hid- mansions those we
have loved uppivearth, and to fit our
selves to enjoyithe manifold blessings
hobas promised to those that believe
in walk
Him and • Hism re
oo s
Rural.
~ ,,SENTIMENTAL LAZINESS.
Somebody sends a poemlci the Wo.r
cester Transcript on Weariness," be
ginning,
" Weky , of uarth, weary of toil,
Weary of trouble, weary of broil."
The Transcript, remarks : " Our ear ;
respondent, who is so, weary of, every
thing but useful employment, will, em=
ploy Ids talent better, and 'be:better
prepared'for e rest' hereafter, 4 liY going
vigorously to work, doing good to
somebody, and making hiniiklCreally
tuieful;than writidg verki:" '