;jp famity
NAUHAUGHT THE DEACON.
Nauhaught, the Indian deacon, who of old
Dwelt, poor but blameless, where his narrowing Cape
Stretches its shrunk arm out to all the winds
And the relentless smiting of the waves,
Awoke one morning from a pleasant dream
Of a good angel dropping
in his hl►nd -
A fair, broad, gold-piece, in the name of God.
tit 4 1
He rose and wentfor e early day
11
Far inland, where theltok*.of , the waves
Mellowed and mingled with' tche whispering leaves,
As, through the tangle of the low, thick woods,
He searched his traps. Therein nor beast nor bird
He found; though meanwhile in the reedy pools
The otter plashed, and underneath the pines
The partridge drummed: and as his thoughts went
back
To the sick wife and little child at home, ,
What marvel that the poor man felt his faith
Too weak to bear its burden—like a ropii
That, strand by strand uncoiling, breaks above
The hand that grasps it. " Even now, 0 1,614!
Send me," be prayed, " the angel of my dream!
Nauhaught is very poor ; he cannot wait."
Even as he spake, he heard at hiibtire'reet
A low, metallic clink, and, looking down,
He sew a dainty purse with diskroflold
ilrowding its silken net. KWhile he held
The treasure up before his eyes, alone
With his great need, feeling the wondrous coins •
Slide through his eager fingers, one 'by one.
So then the dream was true_ The angel brought
One broad piece only ; should he take all these ?
Who would be wiser, in the blind; dumb woods ? -
The loser, doubtless rich,. Wotild scarcely miss •
This dropped crumb from a table always full.
Still, while he mused, he'seemed to hear the cry
Of a starved child ; the sick face of his wife
Tempted him. Heart and flesh' in fieica revolt
Urged the wild license' of his 'savage youth
Against his later scruples, Bitter toil,
Prayer, fasting, dread of blame, arid pitiless eyes"
To
To watch his.halting—had he lost for these
The freedom of the woods—the hunting grounds'
Of happy spirits for a walled•in heaven .-.
Of everlasting psalms ? One healed the sick
Very far off thousands of moons ago :
Had he not prayed him night and day to oome
And cure his bed-bound wife? Was there 'a hell?' - -
Were all his father's people writhing there—
Like the poor ahell-fisli set to boil alive—
Forever, dying never ? If he kept •
This gold, so needed, would the droadful God
Torment him like a Mohawk's captire stuck
With slow consuming splinters ? Up in heaven
Would the good brother deacon grown so rich
By selling rum to Indians laughlo see him
Burn like a pitehline torch? His Christian garb
Seemed falling from him; with the'tear'and shame
Of Adam naked al the cool of day,
He gazed around. A blick snake lay in coil
On the hot sand, a crow with sidelong eye •
Watched from a dead bough'. All his Indian lore
Of evil blending with
.a convert's faith ,
In the supernal terrors of the Book, .
He saw the Tempter in the coiling snake
And ominous, black-winged bird ; and all the while
The low rebuking of the distant waves
Stole in upon him like the voice of God ,
Among the trees of Eden. 'Girding up
His soul's loins with a resolute band, he thrust
The base thought. from him: Nrilthaught, be a man!
Starve, if need be; but while you live; look out
From honest eyes on all men, unashamed,
God help me ! I am deacon of the church,
A baptized, praying Indian! Should 'I do
This secret meanness, even the barken knels
Of the old trees would turn to eyes to smelt,
The birds would tell of it, and all the leaves
Whisper above me: 'Nauhaught is a thief!'
The sun would know it., and theaters• that hide
Behind his light would * watch me, and at night
Follow me with their sharp, accusing eyes. ,
Yea, thou, God seest me Then Nauhaught drew
Closer his belt of leather, dulling thus
The pain of hunger, and walked bravely beck
To the brown fishing-hamlet by the sea ;.
And, pausing at the inn -door, cheerily asked:
" Who•hath lost aught to day ?"
"I," said a voice;
"Ten golden pieces, in a silken purse,
My daughter's handiwork." He looked, and lo!
One stood before him in a coat of frieze,
And the glazed hat of a seafaring man,
Shrew-faced, broad- shouldered, with no trace of
• wings. ,
Marvelling, he dropped within the stranger's hand
The silken web, and turned . to go his,way.
But the man said.; " A tithe at least is yours;
Take it in God's name as an honest man."
And as the deacon's dusky fingers closed
Over the golden gift, "Yea, in God's name
I take it, with a poor man's thanks," he said.
So down the street that, like a river of sand,
Ran, white in sunshine, to the Summer sea,
He sought his home, singing and praising God ;
And when his neighbors in their careless way
Spoke of the owner of the silken puyse—
A Weltleet skipper, kndiv,n in, every port
That the dupe opens in its sandy wall— •
He answered, with a wise smile to himself:
"1 suw the angel where , tkey see a man."
Wurrilza in the Atlantic Monthly
POLLY SYLVESTER'S DREAM.
Little Polly Sylvester lay fast asleep 'on her
cot bed in Mrs. Tarbox's garret. It was a cold,
dreary place, where the rats scampered about, and
the mice scuffled and squeaked in every corner;
there were broken panes in the window, that let
in the bitter November wind, and all about hung
streaming cobwebs, bundles of dry herbs, hanks
of yarn, and wisps of flax, till you could hardly
see that there was a window; but through its
dingy glass what little light there was on that
gray morning, fell aoross the bed and rested on
Polly. She lay very still; the tangled mass of
deep chestnut curls was brushed away from her
pale, delicate face, the great eyes were shut tight,
and their heavy fringe of dark lashes never
quivered; but there was a smile on her parted
lips, sweet as summer's owns sunshine, and so
wistful it would have made anybody with a heart
ache to see it.
But Mrs. Tarbox hadn't any heart, or if she
had, and ever felt it throb in her breatit, it had
its ears boxed long ago, and was now hard and
silent.
She came lumbering up the stairs this morning
with Fish in her arms, in a great passion.
"Get up,'you little carrot-head ! get up, I say!
You're lazier thault snail. If I git at ye Iguess
you'll move pretty.considersble spry !"
" Dit up, tulle% hed, else I 11 bang oo !" echoed
Fish, who sys 6 idthoSt three years old, but a baby
still, and alo#id.cige.
The smile on 81allf, tender little mouth changed
to a piteous quiver in; she Sung aside the bd
clothes, and with a abiver .
„jumped out of bed. "
was dreamin'," she in such a sad voice.
" Dreamin' 1 1 4 11 be bound you're alias dream
in', day in and day out but you've got to dream
out o' bed °adieu ors, mornin's, now I tell,ye.
Autry Up come • down ! There, he's most
PHILADELPHIA, THURSDAY, DECEMBER 30, 1869.
ready for his breakfast, 'nd I've had to lug this
great feller all round, and Vi-oh-ly she wants her
shoes tied 'nd her thing hooked up."
" Turn along tick, ' fore j: ' me kick oo !" shouted
Fish ; and Polly, having huddled on her thin
and ragged clothes, slipped into her shoes,—an
old pair of Mrs. Tarbox's,—and scuttled down
stairs as fast as she could. She didn't stop to
comb her hair or to wash her face, but took Fish
in her arms and went into the bedroom to dress
Viohly, (whose name was Viola !) a scrawny girl
some eight years old, with thin light hair, weak
blue eyes, and a sallow complexion•, fretful and
sickly, but, after all, kinder to Polly than any
body else in the house, and loved accordingly.
Master Fish was set down on the floor while his
sister's boots were laced, her hair brushed, her
clothes fastened, and the rent in her pink calico
frock basted up; and he amused himself by over
turning his mother's mending-basket, which Polly
must set to rights; then she spread np the bed,
and shouldering' Fish, , Went into the kitchen.
There at the breakfast-table sat the rest of the
family,—Jehiel Tams, the father, a rough,
stingy, coarse farmer, whose loose lips, red eyes,
and stupid expression; told the road he had taken
at Mice; Viohly, her mother, and two big boys,
Jackson and Everett, the terror and torment -of
Polly's life,—two young brutes who thought a
poor trembling child fair game, and took pleasure
in her shrieks and supplications. Now Mrs. Tar
box took Fish on her lap and fed him with fried
pork, cold cabbage, and hot biscuit yellow with
soda, while Polly fried cakes over, the, hissing
stove,—not fast enough by any means to suit the
boys or their father.
"Hurry up your cakes, Silly Poll !" shouted
one, "or I'll let the old bull out into the barn-'
yard 'nd Set Yen to catChin' chickens there."
1 ° CoMe on, Polly Syl I" chimed the other;
" fetch along your slapjackS, or I'll conic 'ad stir
ye up,"-La process Polly had experienced before,
and stood in mortal fear of.
But when breakfast was scrambled through,
and Polly allowed to eat her serape of food stand
ing at one.end of the table, and, because she had
slept too late , denied the one, thing that could
hayalii,ide her ' scanty meal tolerable to her.--a
Ciip'of - the 'hot 'drink "they called coffee,—Mrs.
Tarbox began to map out her day's work.
" - OurtrplAion't — be':,,a . Atandin' there all day ;
swaller your viteres quick 'nd fly round.. There's
heaps 'nil heaps to do. After you've fed the
chickens, '.ndeniptied the, swill pail, 'nd ,drove
the mows,' iri'd - g6tiVigh' to sleep, 'nd righted
-things-generallyq thereW tiro barrels o' red apples
-thetls got to fixed for dryin'; Viohly she can
string 'em, I guess."
" gay, - Marreitn't - I go down to the pastur',lot,
long of Polly i " whined Viohly.
Yes, if you're a mind ter, only don't hang
round there all day ; get home quick."
So when Polly bad done, her first " chores,"
and established Fish safely in a dry•goods box
with a heal') of Sand, an ear of corn, and a string
Of thread, spools to play with, in which primitive
nursery he was used to coetent himself for; an
hour at a time, perhaps, the two girls put on their
hoods and shawls, such as they were, and set off.
Polly opened the cow-shed door and let the mild
eyed, friendly creatures out into the.lane, saying
a word;or two to each. of the. three as they passed
they had been friends.
is "tithe o tic to introduee our little girl. Her
father , hailheet 'flourishing Young carpenter in
a Varmint/linage, .that,hid itself among vast and
verdant hills like a nest in the crotches of a fir
tree. Sam Sylvester loved his sweet little wife
so' Oat, lirllken one tlay)she died and left
him, he wanted to die too; and nobody could com
fort hitn,—not even the tiny baby that lay and
wailed,in,iikold.graclitt wit' it felt, what, it could
not yet --
,know,the sorrows of a motherless child.
There was no one in Ifillvale in any way related
helitiSitti - Orptildi, like his wife, and any
relatives he -might have in the seaboard
:England town• 'where las father had lived he had
never seen- or•heard frourkso;that when
,he made
up his -mind.to .try. his fortune in 'California, be
cause` Hill Vale was desolate to him now, he put
Tauliiie,ewho was' named for her mother,
under the care, o, : f his next-door neighbor, a Mrs.
Mobie, leaiing money enough, to pay her for a
year, and promising to send on more. He went
away with a sad heart; but when he got to Cali
fornia, the voyage and the change had taken 'his
thoughts off his own trouble, and, hard work - at
the mines did so still more. He was quite sue
eessful. In the meantime Pohy grew up under
kind and Motherly Moore's care- into- a fat
and happy baby.
One day, aVotit.,a'year after he left home, a
souge•of his nsining„ruates,who had been down
to San Francisco for stores, stepped into his tent,
and after standing about uneasily for a moment,
one of them spoke.
"Say, Sylvester ! you didn't come from Hill
vale, Vermont, did ye ?"
"Yes.l did, to be sure."
The two men exchanged a glance, and the one
who had not spoken sauntered out. Bill , Decker
went on ;=
"Anybody there related to 'ye any ways r.'
"Nobody but my little girl."
"Name's Mary, ain't it."
"No, Pauline."
"Good Jupiter!"
" What are you asking for, Bill Decker?"
"0 nothin', nothin', 'only suthin' or other
turned up queer down in Frisco."
" Tell me what it was, quick!" said Sim, rising
to his feet with a pale face and angry eyes.
" Well, my mate and I we went into a saloon
like to get a drink, 'nd ther' was a paper a lyin'
round loose on the bar, 'nd I chanced to see 'Syl
vester' on't. I kinder thought it might be some
o' your folio lied
,kicked the bucket, and so I'd
tell ye.about it; and I read it, an' it sed Pauline
Sylvester was dead, up to Hillvale."
Sam sat down on a box and put up his hands
as if to wipe away some mist before his eyes.
Baby was dead then; the little creature he had
hoped would grow into as sweet a woman as her
dead mother,'while she waited for him to come
back and claim her.
" Well 1" said he, slowly, "that's the last on't;
but I may as well go to work," and he did. No
thing more was heard of him in Hillvale, and he
never knew that the paper Bill Decker had seen
was an old one,—so old that it was his wife's
death in the register, not his child's.
In the , meantime g ood Mrs. Moore, not receiv
ing any money, or 'h earing any news from Sam
SYlvesteristill took care 'of We lovely little child
as if it had been her own. It had found its place
in her great tender heart, and though she was
poor sh would never give Polly up. The child
was six years old when Mrs. Moore died suddenly,
and sing a childless widow, with no property to
leave behind her, Polly Sylvester was sent to the
selectmen of the town, and by them bound ont to
Mrs. Tarbox. Two long years ago, and six months
beside, had Polly taken her place in this new
family,—for it was not a new home. When she
came there she was a plump and rosy child, with
rows of shining chestnut curls, eyes as brown,
clear, and large as a flying squirrel's, and neatly
dressed. To.day she was what we have seen her;
the long drudgery, unkindness, improper food,
and no care had made little Polly a forlorn sight.
We left her driving the cows with Viohly.
"Say, Polly, what makes you shiver so?" in
quired the other little girl.
"0, I'm dredful cold; seems as if. I should
freeze, Vi!"
"I ain't! the coffee was real warm "
"But I didn't have any coffee, because I didn't
get up quick:" •
" Well, why didn't you get up ? you 'most atlers
do."
"0 Viohly, I had such a splendid : dream!
Don't you know we had; that picture-paper Miss
Slater let us take one time, and it had aboUt
Christmas in it, and how children somewheres
hanged, up their stockings; and you said it was
real splendid, 'nd you wish your folks had a
Christmas; 'nd I said I guessed if my father and
mother wa'nt dead I should have one, because
Mother Moore always told me what clever folks
they was ? And then don't you reklect that (peer
picture of let's see, what's his name , ?—oh! Sand
Claus filliri.' the stockio's ? Whey, Rainbow,!"
—shouting-to a cow
,that left the line of march
tempted by a turnip field with the bars down.
" Well,-I dreamed that Santi Claus came down
chimney right there in the garret somehow, and
hung the dredfullest great big red stockire you
ever did see, clost totheloot: of mibed.• 'nd When
I looked at him he kinder laughed and said, 'Get
up, Polly, and look in „your stockin' ; it's Christ
mas day.' So I looked in and the stockin' grew
bigger 'n bigger, and there was a most
,splendid
kind of a wagon or somethin' drawed by two white
borses, ant in it—O Viohly, what do you think?
—my owns really truly fathei and mother hoidin'
out their arms to mei—d dear!"
The tears , streamed down those little pale, hol
low cheeks„and Polly, sat down on a stone sob
bing bitterly; for she had driVen the cows into
the lot a,nd put up the bars while she told her
story.
Viola was not a bad child, and she was a child;
a certain dull sympathy filled her heart for the
! poor little thin.. who sat there tryipg not to sob,
and mopping her face with the boner of her
ragged calico apron.
" Say ! don't ye cry no more, Polly. I'll give
ye a real soft apple to stop ; don't no more, now."
"I can't help it-; Viohly, I'm so tired ; 'nd
sometimes I'm so scared np garret nights, and
the boys do pester me the •whole time. I wish,
0 I do wish, I had a real live father and mother !
Seems as if I couldn't stand it no longer. Miss
Slaterosometimes she talks to me 'about hevin' a
Father - 4 in the sky ; but I expeot He's' forgot
abouCnieffie has such sights of things to see to 1"
Poor tiny soul! He had not'forgotten you!
Day after l day went by, and Polly grew yet
more pal` and pindhed. Autumn had brought
its still4arder work than summer, and when
winter came, with drifts -of pitiless -snow over
mountains and valleys, and the fierce winds blew
more and more keenlY upon Poll Y's half-clothed
body and poor pretence 'of a. bed, the child seem
ed to, shrink away daily; there was no place for
her by the fire at night, no warm and nourishing
food by day, and ' . when she was worn out- with
hard work she crouched and shivered under her
scanty bedclothes at night, falling asleep from
fatigue, without being warm.
One mornina—it was the day before Christ.
mas, but Polly did not know it, for no record- of
any holiday but Titanksgiliing Was ever kept in'
the Tarbox fainity—she was found in her.garret
so drowey, and stiff with cold that=' Mrs. 'Tarbox
took alarm lest some day her bonn'd girl might be
unbound, and leave her for the house of that Fa
ther whom the' poor child thought had forgotten
her.
So they told her she might bring' her bed
dawn at night and spread it in a- corner of the
kitched, if it was done. Only after r the family had
gone to bed and retrieved before they got' up.
That night the moon , shone full and clear Over
the sheeted snow, silvered the crests 'otthe great
mountains that bore up its drifted piled and
streamed into the darkest depths of the valleys.
By its- light Polly crept up garret and loaded
her trembling shoulders with the husk mattress
and cotton comfortable Everybody in the house
was warm in bed, and just as she flung her . bur
den down on the kitchen floor there 'came a loud
rap at the door. Polly was frightened, and Mrs.
Tarbox Called from her bedroom,—
" Open that are door, Poll, pretty quick;
don't stand gawpin' round 'as of you was' city
folks!"
The startled little creature" did as she was bid;
and there on .the doorsteps stood a - man, while
beyond him, , in• a sleigh heaped with furs the,
moon, now shining like day, showed to Polly a
lady muffled to .the throat, andjust holding`aside
a silvery veil to look out ; and the lady saw a
slender, pallid child, With large soft eyes and a
head of tangled curls shiVering' on the doorstep
before the strange gentleman. This took but
one instant's glance, and the stranger asked if
Mrs. Tarbox lived there. . •
" Yes, sir," said Polly.
The man seemed choked with his next ques
tion, it came so painfully and so slow,—
" What is your name, child'?"
" Polly Sylvester; sir !" • •
" My own baby I" was the deep, low answer ;
and Polly rested right in her father's arms,
sobbing so herself she could not hear the answer
ing throbs of his heart, though her poor tired
head lay upon it.
Polly, shut that door!" screamed Mrs. Tar
box,; but there was no answer. Out she hopped
from her bed, fully intending to give Polly a
trouncing, , and came upon the sight we have
seen. " Well ! I should like to know—" '
" You shall," interrupted the stranger. "Mrs.
Tarbox, I am Polly Sylvester's father; you have
treated my little darling, whom I believed dead
long ago, worse than a dog, and she shall not
stay another rainitejn`Your house I"
" I guess there's two folks to settle that bar
gain. Fustty how do I know you be her father?"
" Look at me !" said he, lifting his cap.
" Why, Sam Sylvester !"
" Now you have committed your own self,
Mrs. Tarbox. I haven't changed too much in
nine years to be known again."
" Anyhow there's the s'lectmen, and the bond,
'nd I'll have you persecuted sure's my name's
Tarbox, 'lid hey the law on ye of you tetch to
take her away !"
Sam Sylvester laughed.
" Do it if you dare !" said he, and taking the
great traveling shawl off his shoulders, he wrap
ped Polly all over in it and carried her off , bodily
to the sleigh.
" Darling,", said he, as. he put her into the
lady's arms, " I have brought you a new mother
as sweet and good as your first one was."
Polly did not doubt that the lovely face bending
over her with kisses and fond words was all her
father said ; and when he, sprang into the sleigh
and the driver let his impatient horses bound
away and shake their silvery bells along the
smooth road, Polly. only ..whispered, " This is
better than my dream
It seems that Sam aylvester, o,ll' a rich, man,
and married to a young English girl he had met
and loved in San Francisco, had, about three
months before, met a .Hillvale man fresh from
home, who; after he had got over his surprise at
beholding Sam alive , and well, told him ail, about
Polly ; and of course the father, set out at: once
to find his child.
They drOve' over to Drayton, the nearest large
village to Hill Vale, and there „ after a warm bath,
and a good supper , happy Polly fell Sound asleep,
holding her new mamma's handl but when
. she
woke up next morning her grst words,'in answer
to the loving 'smile of thOse blue"eyes were,
" Mother, is it Christmas `day, r"
" Yes dear r '1
" And' dici you come out of 'a red . stOokina• ?"
•
" Why, no, my little girl.!"
" 0, I'm so glad ! then it isn't a dream'!"
—Rose Terry, in Our Young Folks.
MOTHERS, HEED THE WARNINU.
" Ain't it splendid ?" .1 heard a little boy
exelaini, as he took A huge bite from the
brandy-peach his'play - mate had offered.
"What makes it so good, Lewis ?"
" You little godse, don't you know ? Why,
it's the brandy, of coarse," was his compa
nion's
" Then brandy must be very
good if it
makes peadhos. taste so nice," said Frank,
I smacking' his lips.
"Prather think it is," answered Lewis.
" I coax Mother to give me a spoonful every
time she opens a jar. Father don't like for
her to do it, though. HersAYs I Might grow
up to be a drunkard; but mother sAysthere's
no danger, and I say so too; for 'I do think it
is awful mean for a man to ,get drunk and
go staggering about the streets, and rolling
in the gutter. No, indeed, I'll never—never
be a drunkard ?"
Years passed, and I was one day strolling
'through the still, Shadowy groves of Green
wood Cemetery, when a funeral procession
filed slowly in. I followed it, and when til'e
mourners and others left the carriages, I won't
with thercuto the open grave, and stood near
to the pall-bearers as they deposited their
burden, for a few moments, on the'rude boards
placed to receive it. The coffin was very rich
and costly, and as a sunbeam, the farewell of
the departing day, flashed across the silver
plate on the: lid, I read--
"Liwis ABBOT. Aged' 18."
" So young," thought I, sadly; "'cut down
in the very spring-time of life." When the
coffin was lowered, the mother, whola;d been
strangely calm, soddenly sprang away from
the arm on which she had been leaning,
threw herself on her kneed beside the grave,
with her hands clasped andler tearless eyes
gaiing wildly downward into the dark re
ceptacle
" 0 my precious 136 - y ! Lost, lost forever !
Sent to' perdition by.your mother's hand !"
As this dei,spairing cry burst from her lips she
threw her arms. upward, and, with a deep
'groan of mertallinguish, fell back death-like
and inanimate. She was removed by her
friends to the house of the officer in charge of
the cemetei7, and 11 shocked and startled be
yond measure, .16N-the place with that ter-
rible cry of Self-reproach ringing.in my ears.
As I passed 'out, I met. a friend to whom I
related what had.transpired, mentioning the
name of the' you th.
"I heard of his death this morning. Poor
Lewis! It is a brief but sad history, andilas
I have knoitin the family for yearn, I can
ex
plain the scene you have witnessed.
" Mrs. Abbot was famed for her brandy
peaches, and allowed , her children to eat of
them freely. Lewis, the oldest son, seemed
to have a special fondness for them, carrying
one to school 'almost every day as part of his
liinch. After a time he began to beg for the
brandy in which they were preirved, and
the indulient mother often gave him a spoon
ful, until, at last, it began, to disappear very
rapidly and strangely, and Lewis was
caught, one day, drinking from the jar. Mrs.
Abbot was appalled ; but her work could not
be undone. Her jars were locked away
safely, but it was too late. The infatuated
boy spent his pocket• money for brandy; and
when that was withheld, sold his skates,
then his watch, then his books; his medal,
which he prized so highly, and even arti
cles of clothing were all sacrificed to.the fa
tal appetite that was consuming every at
tribute of his high, noble nature. For four
years he has been rushing madly, recklessly
to his doom, and. now the star, of his young,
life haagone out in everlazting darkness. Ris
last words were full of the most fearful im
port ' Those infernal brandy-peaches, mo
ther—they gave me the first start on the
downward road. Remember that, mother "
Ah ! might the heart-broken mother
reproach herself in the bitterness of despair
at the grave of her lost boy.; truly her hand
had done the work., •
Q mothers ! heed the warning. In every
crystal jar of peaches and.eherries ; , from
which the brandy, Ames arise 4 in ever,y,glaps
of the sparkling, domestic wind your hands
have so skillfully prepared, lurks a fiery
fiend which may relentlessly and cruelly
crush and blight the fairest, the noblest, and
the dearest of all your cherished household
treasures.--Advocate.
LOOK OUT FOR HIM.
For the great adversary who always aims
at the open point in the harness. A shrewd
writer says :
"Does not Satan attack us in our weak
est point ? How he suits his mode of temp
tation to the disposition of the victim ! Are
you vain ? In how dazzling a lustre will he
place the pleasures of this poor world be
fore you! Are you ambitious ? In what
splendid honor wily he make the great
things of man appear I Are you disconten
ted? In what exalted light will he place
the advantages of others before your eye s ?
Are you jealous ? In what strong con
trasts will he place the kindness of the per
son you love toward another than you!
Are you of an ill temper ? How he will
make you think everybody hates you, neg
lects you, despises you, or intends to slight
you l Are you indolent ? How wearisome
will he make the slightest effort for another's
good seem in your eyes! Are you too ac
tive ? .116 w useless will he make the quiet
hour of prayer, and thought, and reading
seem to you ! He tempts us to what our
nature is moat inclined; he snits hie allure
ments -to our inclination. If we are of a
quiet temper, he will not tempt us there; if
we are only , ambitious, he will take care to
make us jealous ; if we are too active, he
will not tempt us to be idle. He knows us
well; he drives oar inclination to its far ex
treme.'
INFLUENCE OF SUNLIGHT.
In his lecture on this subject, Dr. Grissom
said : Sunlight, particularly in dwellings,
has become absolutely necessary to health
and comfort. The lecturer illustrated how
carbonic acid gas is deleterious to human
life, by exhaling into a bottle the air from
his lungs, and then placing a light therein,
which was immediately extinguished. The
life of a living insect, he said, would have
been extinguished there with equal rapidity.
The oxygen necessary to human life is de
rived from plants through the operation of
the sun's rays—the yellow ray—and the
Vegetables in return absorb the poisonous
carbon eXhaled from the human lungs. Both
these operations take place only in the sun's
rays, hence the impropriety of sleeping with
plants in our rooms. With man, the sun's
rays play a part very important. Under
their operation continual change is taking
place in the human system; a constant
chemical process is in operation. The ac
tion of death was a mere chemical opera
tion, produced by the incapacity of the
system to inhale the necessary oxygen and
exhale the poisonous carbon of the system.
TO preserve this condition in life, and a
healthy system, as well as the development
of the mental powers, alike in old and young,
a due proportion of sunlight is necessary.
BUDOT : .9F ANECDOTES.
—Mr. Gray had not - been long minister of the
parish .before he noticed an odd habit of the
grave-digger; and one daY (*mint , upon John
smoothing and • trimming the lonely t ' bed of a
child which had been buried a few days before,
he asked why he was so particular in dressing
and keeping the graves of infants. John paused
for a moment at his Work, and looked up, not at
the minister, but at the sky, and said,' Of such
is the kingdom of heaven."
"'And •on this account you tend and adorn
them with so much care," remarked the minis
ter who was greatly struck with the reply.
"Surely, sir," answered John, "I cannot
make overbraw and fine the bed-covering of a
lisle innocent sleeper that is waitin' there till it
is' God's time to waken it and cover it with- a
white robe, and waft-It away to glory. When
sich grandeur, is awaitin' it yonder, it's fit it
Should be decked out fine here. I think the
SSviour will like to see white clover spread
above it; dae Ye no thinksae tae, sir ?"
"But twhy not cover larger graves also ?"
'asked the minister, hardly able to suppress his
emotions. "The dust of all His saints is pre
cious in the Saviour'ssight."
" Very true, sir," responded John, with great
solemnity, a but I canna be sure ho are His
saints, and, are no. I hope there are many of
themlying in this kirkyard, but it wad be great
prestimption to mark them out. There are some
that I am gey sure about, and I keep their
graves as nate and enod,, as I can. I plant a bit
&tire here and there as a sign of my hope, but
daurna gie them the white skirt." referring to
the white clover: . "It's clean dilleren, though,
wi the bairns."—Dr. Thompson's' Seeds and
Sheaves.
—The narrator, at that time surgeon of a
Pennsylvania regiment, was seated in Washing
tou's tent a day or two before the battle of Trenton.
The general was engaged in writing, when sud
denly tearing off a piece of the paper on which
he had just scribbled 'something, he crumpled it
in his hand, and rising from his seat threw it on
theground, and then paced the floor absorbed in
thought. This act was repeated several times,
and the doctor's curiosity being aroused, he put
his 'foot on one of the pieces of paper which hap
pened to fill at his feet, and as Washington
walked away transferred it to his pocket. On
reaching his own quarters he •found the words
written were, Victory or Death, This phrase was
given out the next day to'the troops as the coup
tersign.--From, the January number of lifppin
cott.
—lt is related of a, distinguished Senator, who
had been in, rather bad health, that he was ac
costed by a constituent during one of those breath
less periods of the late war when the very desti
nies of the nation seemed to our excited fancies
to hang upon the fortunes of the hour.
" Oh, Mr , I am so ; glad to see you!"
•
said the friend. "Is there have you any news ?"
" Thank you !" responded .the Senator, with
grave serenity—" Thanlf.ypu : I am much bet
incott's Magazine.
terr-J-Janual number of Lipp