'6)y familij Cirth.
THE VAUD OIS.
0 lady fair, these silks of mine
Are beautiful and rare ;
The richest web of the Indian loom,
Which beauty's self might wear;
And these pearls are pure and mild to behold,
And with radiant light they vie ;
I have brought them with me a weary way ;
Will my gentle lady buy?"
The lady smiled on the worn old man,
Through the dark and clustering curls
That veiled her brow as she stooped to view
His silks and his glittering pearls ;
And she placed their price in the old man's hand,
And lightly she turned away,—
But she paused at the wanderer's earnest call,
"My gentle lady, stay.
"O lady fair, I have yet a gem
Which a purer lustre flings
Than the diamond flash in the jewelled crown
On the lofty brow of kirigs ;
A wonderful pearl of exceeding price,
Whose virtues shall not decay,
Whose light shall be as a spell to thee,
And a blessing on thy way."
The lady glanced at the mirroring:steel
Where her youthful form was seen,
Where her eyes - ghone bright, and-her dark locks
waved
Their clasping pearls between 4
" Bring forth thy pearl of exceeding price,
Thou traveller gray and old ;
And name the price of thy precious gem,
And my pages shall count thy gold."
The cloud went off from the pilgrim's brow,
As a small and meagre book,
Unchased by gold or diamond gem,
From his folding robe he took,
" Here, lady fair, is the pearl of price,
May it prove as such to thee,—
Nay, keep thy gold, I ask it not,
For the Word of God is free."
The hoary traveller went his way,
But the gift he left behind
Hath had its pure and perfect work
On the high-born, maiden's mind,
And she bath turned from the pride of sin
To the lowliness of truth,
And given her human heart to God
In the beautiful hour of youth.
And she hath left the old gray halls,
Where an evil faith has power,
And the courtly kniklits of her father's train,
And the maidens of her bower,
And she hath gone to the Vaudois isle,
By lordly feet untrod,
Where the poor and needy of earth are rich
In the perfect love of God
- TINY DAVY.
At ten years of age, Davy was scarcely
taller than a flour-barrel, and it was decided
that he would never be able to look over
that familiar article. A tiny, delicate waif,
he seemed most like some pretty flower that
had blown, by chance, in a kitchen garden,
without any one to tend and nurture it ac
cording to its needs; for Davy's home was an
almshouse, his toys the chips and blocks and
rusty nails that collected in the yard from
time to time, his playmates the rough raga
muffins who slept under the same roof as
himself—hardy little fellows, who had in
herited quick tempers and poverty in com
mon with Davy, but to whom Nature had
added the further endowment of rosy cheeks
and healthy frame she had denied to him.
But, after all; Davy had his aspirations, his
miniature day-dreams, his castles in the air.
He aspired to be a man,--to be a tall man,
and wear a coat like the overseees, and go
wherever he pleased, and do as he liked, and
read without spelling his words, like the
clergymen who visited the almshouse, and
to earn his own living. Wasn't it odd that
he should have set his heart on this? Pour
Davy! he really believed there would come
a day when all the benefits of Manhood
should be his own; when he . would leave
the gloomy almshouse and its uncouth in
mates, all but old Aunt Nancy,—Aunt
Nancy, who was everybody's aunt, perhaps
because she had never been anybody's; who
tucked him up on cold winter nights, and
sung to him with her quavering voice, and
cosseted him as well as her slender means
would allow. He used to stroke her gray
hair, and say : "Dear Aunt Nancy, when
I'm a man, I will buy you a red gown and
a rocking-chair; and you. shall live in my
house, and keep yonr myrtle-tree in the
sunny windows; and your pussy shall sleep
all day before the fire, and nobody shall
tread on its tail,—\when Tm•a man."
And so Davy used to plan about being a
man, till one day when the overseer set the
other boys to piling wood in the yard. Davy
was seldom given any a such tasks, because
he was such an infant; so he built"mud forts,
while the others worked away at the wood,
some of them secretly envying the little en
gineer.
"Why don't Davy pile wood?" asked one,
at length.
"Don't you see? Because he's too little,"
was the reply. •
"No, I'm not too little," said Davy, who
really seemed to sleep with one ear open,
and eagerly resented being called little; so
he caught.at the sticks almost as long as
himself; and tugged and pulled and piled
them with a will, till his hands were torn
and his strength exhausted. Then ho sat
down on a log, and listened' to the boys, as
they talked of what they should do when
they grew up,—for they all seemed infected
with,,the desire of " growing up."
One lazy little fellow fancied he would be
a shoemaker„” Because. he. sits all day on a
bench, and pegs away like a clock."
"And that's awl!" put in the would-be
wit.
" I am going to be u farmer, and have lots
of apple-trees , remarked another, who was
uncomfortablyfond of apples, since he seldom
got them.
"And I'll be a - soldier, and have a gun that
will go Bang!" continued another.
"Humph!" rejoined a fourth, "I won't be
any of those things; I'll be a tailor,—l will,
—and have as many new coats as I like."
"Well, I mean to be like Mr. Blue; I heard
some one say he was the richest man in
town, and a banker; so I'm going to be a
banker!" declared one more ambitious than
his neighbors
"A banker !" they all sang out, opening
their eyes and mouths at the same time;
"what's that 1"
" I don't know," answered the young
banker, rather brought to bay; " but that's
no matter. 0, he takes money out of a
bank !"
"Well," said Davy, rising, and thrusting
his hands into his empty pockets, " I'm
going to be a man to put money into the
bank."
"Pooh," returned the tailor, 'you won't
ever be a man; you're nothing but a dwarf."
"Never be a man ! Sha'n't I?" Davy ask
ed of the others, all white and trembling at
the idea.
" Keep still,—can't you ?" said the little
shoemaker to the tailor; " don't you know
better than to twil, a fellow? If he, doesn't
grow to be a man, he wont't have to do• a
man's be ?"
" Bat that's what I want to i when I
grow up'
"You won't.ever grow up,•l tell you," per
sisted the wicked tailor. "You will never
be anything but a baby, and , by and by you'll
be taken round for a show. There !"
Davy's eyes glowed like sparks, he shook
like a leaf, doubled up his tiny fists, and de
clared war.
"Pooh !" said the tailor again, as if he
were blowing a feather, " I am not going to
fight you; I should knock you into a eoeked
lat-and-cane in a minute.
This was too great a blow to Davy's dig
nity, and he fled, and hid himself in a dim
passage-way, where his wrath could dissolve
into tears, and be take heart to disbelieve
mischance. While the great sobs tore
their way up, as if they would bear his little
life away with them, some one came along
the passage, and laid a gentle hand on Davy.
" Crying ? What's the matter with my , little
man ?" It was the clergyman, on his semi
weekly visit at the almshouse.
" I'm not a man. I never shall be a man;"
cried Davy, forgetting all his awe of the
great man; "he said I shouldn't. I'm a
dwarf, and he can knock me into a cocked
hat-find:cane. 0, I hate do !"
" I had much rather be a dwarf than hate
any ono, Davy," Mr. Kirk answered' him.
" You—you would? Isn't, it, then so bad
to be a dwarf?"
WHITTIER
" Not so bad as to hate ; not bad at all
only a little inconvenient."
"But I don't know, sir; nhat do you
mean ?" sobbed Davy,—" I shall always be
a little boy ?"
"We all have a soul, you know, as well as
a body," began the good clergyman.
" 0 yes, I feel, it here !" saki Davy, press
ing a hand on his breast.
"Weil, then, did you feel it just now when
you hated some one ?"
" 0,.1 forgot it then ; I only thought about
—about my body."
" Y,es ; so you see that, when you hate, it
dwarfs your soul; and a dwarfed soul is a
much greater mlsforturie than a dwarfed
body." •
" Then my soul will grow, if I am not
wicked ? Will it grow to be a man's soul ?
as big as a man's?,
"Certainly."
" I dont% see-"'.said Davy; "" won't it
grow too' big for my. body ?"
"In that case you will be given a spiritual
body," said Mr. Kirk, feeling that the child
could 'understand him ; and then he' went
on to tell him that .this present body was
the temple of his soul, that through it all
his worship must ascend to God; and, no
matter how small or• mishapen it might be,
one should not despise it, nor grieve about
only one preserved it, unsoiled by ill
temper and unholiness, a pure shelter for
the wayfaring soul.
So at last Davy dried his tears, and for
gave the naughty tailor, and tried hard to
put up' with being &dwarf. But, somehow
or other, be couldn't enjoy himself as before;
all his castles in the air were tumbling down
about his ears, and he couldn't find heart
to build more,
nor Materiaki even: It seemed
to him everyday harder to keep down- the
angry words when the others provoked him,
and he would think, "If I were only as big
as they, I think I could do it" and then he
would remember that the victory would be
so much the greater as he was smaller, and
so he often stopped short in the middle of
a cross word, and got the better of hiMself.
He declined to have Aunt Nancy tack him
into bed any longer, fancying that,' if he
couldn't have the stature of a man, he might
at least have a man's independence in a
measure; but Aunt Nancy brought the ar
gument of tears to bear against his pride,
and he relented. He marked off his height
with charcoal against the white wall, and
every morning ran to see if he had not
gained upon himself. In his dreams, like
Sack's beanstalk, he grew into the heavens,
and on such occasions he could hardly per
suade himself, after waking and remeasur
ing, that he had r,ot overstepped the black
mark. Mr. Kirk surprised him; one morning,
taking the guage of his inches. "You are
thinking too much about it, Davy," said he;
' which of us by taking thought can add
'ope cubit to his stature?" And Davy ne
glected to measure himself thereafter.
,One day a stranger came to see Mr. Scre
wum, the overseer; and Mr. Screwum, having
a great deal of sympathy for the towns-peo
ple who were taxed to support the alms
house, and very little for the town's poor—
Mr. Screwum, I say, made Davy over to the
stranger for a certain time, to be , exhibited
wherever the stranger pleased,--as the wick
ed little tailor had • said, to "be made., a
show!'
You may , imagine ,the, distress of poor
Davy, so sensitive as he was; ,to be shown
off by gaslight, nightly, to a thousand people;
standing on the backs of chairs, acting in
THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN THURSDAY, JULY 2, 1868.
pantomimes, singing comic songs, dancing
hornpipes till his head was lighter than his
heels, cracking other people's jokes, and
breaking his own heart.
It would have been strange indeed, if the
old Adam had not risen in him then; and
often, when the audience expected some
thing comic of him, he had half a mind to
tell them, boldly, that it was probable that
their eyes and ears bad been given them for
more Christian uses than to go out of their
way to see and hear a dwarf make a fool
of himself.
But all this was not to last long; he got
a fall one day,—a fall that injured his spine
the doctors said, and Davy was sent back
to the almshouse ; and there Aunt Nancy
cared for him in her feeble but affectionate
way; there Mr. Kirk came often, and read
lines; to him tender Bible and ere, last
of all, came the little tailor, begging Davy
to forgive him "before he went to be an
angel.
And so, one evening, when the sunset yet
smouldered in the west, Davy sent for. Mr.
Kirk. "Poor Aunt Nancy,'' said he, "I had
promised her such a pretty red gown,and a
rocking,chair when, . I. grew up; and now,
you know 4 shall never grow up."
"I will see to that," said Mr. Kirk.
"But I shall be changed,—you said ?"
"We shall all be changed,—in a moment,
in the twinkling, of an • eye,"
"And,l shall not be a dwarf any longer?
I shall be a man, = shall I not? man like'
you ?" and he caressed the clergyman with
his failing fingers.
"Dear " said he, "not like me, but
like. Him,; who shall change,.our vile body,
that it maybe fashioned like unto His glo
rious bofiy."
"In the twinkling of an eye," repeated
Davy, smiling.baek on him from the thres
hold of eternity, and in a minute• more the
great .gates had closed behind him, and the
minister sat alone. .
Davy had left the almshouse forever.=
Mary N .Prescott, in " Our Young Folks."
A DOMESTIC SKETCH.;
"I have lost my, whole fortune," said a
merchant, as he returned:one evening to
his home • "'we can no longer ,' keep ouecar•••
riage. 4 - e must leave this large • houie.
The children• can no longer go to expensive
schools. Yesterday I was'a rich man; to
day there_ is nothing I can• call my own."
" Dear husband," said the' wife, "we are
still rich in each 'other: and' our children.
Money may pass away, but God has given
us a better treasure,in those active hands
and loving hearts."
"Dear father," said the children, " do not
look so sober. We will help you get a By
',
"Wha . can :ion do, poor things?" said ;
be:
"You shall see, you shall see," answered
•severalAheerfuLvOices. "It is, a pity if .we
have:l:4o4o seltociEfor nothing. How can
the father of eight children be poor? We
shall work and: make you rich again."
"I shall help," said the yoUngest girl,
hardly four years, old, I not have
any new things bought, and I will sell my
great doll."
:The heart of the husband, and father,
:which had sunk within his bosom < like a
stone, was lifted up. The sweet enthusiasm
cheered him, and his nightly prayr was
like a song of twill*);
They left the iltiltelv house. The 'ser
vants were dismiis4 ".E!ictiwes and u plate,
rich carpet and furniture were sold, and she
who had been mistress of the mansion , shed
no tears. " Pay every debt," said she ; "let
no one suffer through us; we may yet be
happy."
lie rented a neat cottage and small piece
of ground a few miles from the city. With
the aid of his sons he cultivated vegetables
for the market. He viewed: with delight
ind astonishment the economy of his wife,
nurtured, as she, had :heen,,in wealth, and
the efficiency , which his daughters soon ac
quired under her training .•
The eldest one assisted her, in the work
of the. household, and also instructed the
younger children. Besides, they executed
various works which they had learned as
accomplishments, but whichtkey found
could, be disposed of to advantaTe- Thq.Y
embroidered with taste some of the orna
mental ,parts of female apparel,.. which was
readily solditola merchant in the city.
They cultivated flowers, .and sent bou
quets to market in the: cart that conveyed
the vegetables -= they plaited straw, they
painted maps, they executed plain needle
work. . Every one was at her post, busy
and cheerful. The cottage was like a ,bee
hive.
"1 never enjoyed such health before,"
said the father.
"And I never was so happy before,' said
the mother.
"We never knew how many things ;we
could do when we lived - in the great house,"
said the children, " and, we love eachlother
a great deal better here. Yoa call us your
little bees."
"Yes," replied the father, "and yon make
just such honey as the heart likes to feed
on."
Economy as well as industry was strictly
observed; nothing was wasted. Nothing
unnecessarily purchased. • The eldest daugh
ter became assistant teacher' in a distin
guished femalemseminary, and the second
took her place as instructress to a. family.
The little dwelling, which had always
been kept neat; they, were soon able to
beautify. Its construction was improved,
and the vines and flowering trees were plant
ed around it. The merchant was' happier
under his woodbine covered porch, in a
sum'mer's evening, than:he had been in his
showy dressing room.
"-We are now thriving and prosperoji,,kr,
said he ; ,, i` shall-we return to-the city
no, , no," was 'the unanimous reply.
"Let us remain," said the wife," where
we have 'found health and contentinett."
„ Father ” said the youngest, " all we
children hope you are not a going to be rich
again—for then we little ones were shut up
in the nursery, and did not see much of you
or mother. Now we all live together, and
sister who loves us, teaches us, and we learn
to be industrious and. useful. We were
none of us happy when we were rich, and
did not work. So, father, please don't be a
rich man any more."—Mrs._AS'igourney.
ROME POLITENESS.
Should an acquaintance tread ,on - your
dress, your best,, your very best, and by ac
cident tear it, bow profuse you are with
" your never minds—don't think; of it—l
don't. care at all." If a husband doesit, he,
gets a frown I if a child , he is chastised.
Ah these are little things, say you!
They tell mightily on the heart, let us as
surf) you, little as they are.
A gentleman stopped at a friend's house,
and finds it in confusion. "He don't see
anything to apolegize for,--never thinks of
such inatters—everything is all right"
cold supper—cold room—crying children
perfectly comfortable."
Goes home, his wife has been taking care
of the sick ones, and worked her life almost
out. " Don't see why . things 001 be kept
in better order—there Lever werersucti,e,ross
children before." No apologies, except away
from }lame.
l'irhy:not be polite at home ? Why not
use freely the golden coin' of `courtesy?
How sweet they sound, those little words,
"I thank you,', or "You. are veu kind!'
Doubly, yes, thrice sweet from the lips we
love, when heart,smilessmake the eye spar
kle with the clear light-of affection.
Be polite to your children. Do :you :ex
pect them to be mindful df our - welfare? To
grow glad at your approach ? To bound
away to do your pleasure before your .re
quest is half spoken? Then, with all your
dignity and authority mingle politeness.
Giye• it a niche in your household temple.
Only then will you have -the true secret of
sending out into the world really finished
gentlemen and ladies.
Again we say unto all—be polite.
J U 141 E.
I gazed upon the. glorious sky •
And the green mountains .round
And thought that when I came•to lie
Within the:silent ground,
'Twere 'pleasant-that, in ilowery"June,
When brooks send up a cheerful tune,
'And groves•a joyous sound, •
The sexton's hind; my grave to make,
The rich, green mountain turf should break
A cell-within the frozen,mould,.
,-A co'ffin borne throughrsleet,
:And icy clods,above it rolPd;
'While fierce the tempests beat—
wayl7—l, will tot- think •of these--
'Blue be the sick and soft-the' breeze,
Earth, green beneath the feet,:
And
And be, the damp mould gently premed
Into my , aarrow, place of rest:.
There, through thelingilons summer hours
The golden light should lie,
And thick young herbs and groups of flowers
Stand in their beauty by.
The oriole should build and tell
His love.tale close beside my cell;
butterfly . •
Should rest him *re, and there,be heard
The housewife bee Sand humming-bird.
And what if •cheerful shouts, at noon,
Comte, from the. village sent;
Or songs of maids ,beneath the-moon,
-With fairy laughter. blentT
And what if, in: the evening light,
Betrothed lovers:walk in sight
Of my low,monament?
I would the lovely scena,around
Might know no sadder sight, nor sound
know,.l know I should not see
'The.season's glorious show,
Nor would its-brightness shine forme,
Nor its wildlnusic 'flow;
•But if, around,voy place of, sleep, •
The friends I love.should-come to, weep,
They might pot haste .to.go.
Soft airs, and song, and light,.and bloom
Should keep them linger - trig by Loy tomb
These to their softened hearts should bear
The thought of what has been,
Ansi speak of oue who cannot share
The gladness of the,scene;
Whose:part in all the pomp that fills
The circuit of
.the summer hills .
Is- , --that his grave.is green ;
And deeply would their hearts rejoice
To hear, again, his loving voice.
WILLIAM 0. BRYANT
LOVE JESUS BEST.
"Mother," said little Hugh, coming in
from an evening prayer-meeting, where he
had met the Saviour, 'and held in his little
heart sweet communion With him—" moth
er, would it hurt your feelings if I_should
love .Christ more than I love you?"
" No, my son !" replied the trembling
mother; as she hardly dared to think she
had heard aright,—" no! Jesus has done a
great deal more for you than any mother
has done, or can do, for her dearest child."
Looking up into her face earnestly, Hugh
Said
I asked you first because I do, mother."
How many mothers would be willing to
have their "feelings hurt" in this way?
Then let 'them pray for the Spirit; for it is
the Holy Spirit alone. that can . unlock the
heart of even a little child, and open it to
such love. We may instruct them in the
must blessed Bible truths, but the Spirit
must "take-of these truths, and show them
unto them." The disciples; on their way,
to Emmaus, talked with Jesus himself ; but,
'until their eyes were opened, they '"knew not
that it was Jesus." The Spirit can open the
eyes of the blind, unstop deal ears, and
make the dumb to. sing; even more,.it can
call the dead - to life.. .And this Spirit comes
in answer to.,prayer. If you would have
younchild love Christ more than-he loves
you,i not as " alroot out of dry-ground," but
as the " chiefeat- among ten thousand, the
one altogether seek 'for it through
the Holy Spirit. '
SHE SAW THE DOXOLOGY,
A little girl, ten years old, went up Mount
Washington on horseback. She was ten
then;
if she lives till next summer she
will be twenty. The ladies and gentle
men of our party dismounted upon the
rugged summit, where the only vegetation
that dared nuke an attempt to .grow
was a little stunted, pale green moss, and
crazed as those lilted up from the world into
limitless space. Below, stretching outwards
in all directions, lay , a deep silver sea of
clouds, amid which lightnings were .seen to
part and writhe like •gilded serpents, and
from which the thunxler came up tothe ear,
peal after peal. We knew .that down there
rain was descending in.a torrent; while on
us who were above the clouds,shoneithe sun
in ,unobstructed and awful splendor. The
eye' wandered away like the dove from
Noah's ark, that found no place to rest her
foot.
" Well, Lucy," said her father, breaking
the silence, "there is nothing.to be seen, is
there ?"
The child caught her breath, lifted iner
clasped 'hands, and , responded, reverently,—
"CS paya,'l' see' the doxology I" '
Yes, every'Were4itttre speaki to as,and
!34Y.8)---
4 ' Praise God; 'from w.hom all blessings flow."
THE WORLD OWES ME A =NG.
-This is 'one of the vile,istereotyped false
hoods that loafers and roughs of all sorts
use as an apology for their laziness and
other rasealities.
The..Teremy Diddler who sponges, on 'so
ciety comforts ,himself with.the idea that he
is onlygetting some of the .debt which the
world owes him,
The thief sometimes intimates that, in
helping himself-out of somebody's till, he
was merely.taking his own. It was A part
of the debt nacancelled that society—that
enormous bankrup,t—thad refused to pay.
The whole theory is.false and fraudulent.
The rule is the Teverse. .We owe-'the world
an upright life, and in - return'the world will
give us a living., •
The loungar about the grof k -shops, or
other plapes of loafing, may fold , isarras in
idlenesN,under the consolation . .of .being so
large a , creditor; but we'll just 'tell him how
the world will pay him ultimately. ' It will
square off with an inatalment of hunger,
poverty, contempt, degradation, and ;the
almshouse. It will give him rich ,dividends
of scorn and starvation, and.finally pay him
in full with six feet of earth in the pauper's
grave. Perhaps, as he goes along, • lie will
receive occasionally payments"on account,"
by generous orders on the county jail or
State Prison. In the latter place , we believe
the world throws in a new suit of clothes
of beautifully variegated colors.
Our advice to young men is to trust to
their, two good hands, their brains, their
economy, !their industry, and their honesty
for a living. - With such aids—encl. - strong
self-reliance, backed by indornitiable perse
verance—there are but a few indeed who
fail otreacliing the goal at which they aim.
The world is full of glorious illustrations
of this truth. We see young •men rise from
obscurity and poverty . - to - reputation and
wealth, and we wonder how they get'along
so well. It seems a myitery, but the whole
mystery lies in, the qualifications ~..above
named. They commence right they con
tinue right, and they end right.'
If
If we mark thelistory of such: a man, we
shall invariably find that he has been a - hard
worker and careful manager. He ha look
ed after . the spiggpt as wants the blinghole
of his business. Ile has husbanded his earn
ings, and added them to his capital, instead
of leating them all at the box office of the
theatres or wearing them upon his back,
or pouring them down his throat.
We said he was a hard worker. That
we, apprehended, is the great' difficulty with
the loafer ; He would be perfectly willing,
no doubt, to hold the hat, if providence
would shower gold into it; or, if it would
'rain roast beef, he would have a platter
ready to catch it. but to work, and-work
hard--" there's the rub." Let fortune came
to him in any - other shape than that.
But,, young, man, work it.must be--work,
work, work. - It was designed , from..the be
ginning that man should earn his bread,
not by loafing, but by the sweat of his brow.
Those drops the industrious man coips into
the golden mint drops that fill his ccgers.
" FOR JESUS."
To aid in a benevolent work in which'she
was engaged,' a lady received a gift of
twenty-five dollars,with the.following note:
"Our God says that all I have in this
world is His, aB T
am His, BO I send youa
little of God's money, to help to carry on
God's work. I am. God's child, and am will
ing to use my money and myself to forward
His cause."
The gift was timely, and the cheerful, un
ostentatious manner in which it was be
stowed made it most welcome. Soon after
this a circumstance eccurred,which proved
the donor to be a young soldier. He had a
short time before given himself to the Sa
viour; and he wished to bring to his new
Master the tribute of a graceful heart. When
asked why he had so secretly bestowed his
gift, he answered, "Because,l wanted to be
sure that I was acting from right motives:
that it was indeed love• to God, and not de
sire for human approbation, that actuated
me. I Wanted to be sure that I was doing
it for Jesus."
If from such a motive all our services were
rendered, how much more ,the Saviour
would be honored If love for Jesus were
ever constraining- us, how sweet would be
every toil, how easy every yoke, how light
every cross, how cheerlfully performed every
-act of self-denial!- B. S. Times.