ONE DOLLAR PER ANM INVARIA3LY IN ADVANCE.
• TOWANDA:
nursday Morning, January 3, 1861.
grJUfftb ylt> ■
THE OLD MAN'S DEATH
A CHILD'S TIRST SIGHT OF SORROW.
..Recollections of our Neighborhood in the West/'
BY ALICE CAREY.
chal|( re is the order of nature ; the old
-.tos * !, v for the new ' ° Ver 1,16 per ' shed ,
Wtli of hist year brighten the blossoms of
flic What changes ore to be counted, even
i . i little noiseless life like mine I How many
l' rft ves have grown green ; how many, lately
'ring and strong in hope and courage, are
; ;t ri,i ' and faiiith* ; how many hands that
reached eagerly for the roses are draw., back
Lleedin" and full of thorns ; and, saddest of
ail how many hearts are broken 1 I remem
ber when 1 had 110 sad memory when I first
made room in my bosom for the conacious
uess of deal h.
We have gained the world's cold wisdom now,
We have learned to (.ause and fear;
But where are the living founts whot flow
Was a joy of heart to hear.
I remember the twilight, as though it were
yesterday—grev, and dim, and cold, for it
Vas late in October, when the shadow first
came over my heart, the no subsequent sun
shine has ever swept entirely away I rum
the window of our cottage home, streamed a
column of light,in which I sat stringing the red
berries of the brier rose.
I had heard of death, but regarded it only
with that vague apprehension which I felt for
the demons and witches that gather poison
j.rhs under the new inoon, i:i fairy forests,
l.'r strangle harmless travelers with wands of
willow, or with vines of the wild grape
I yy I did not much like to thick about
I ami yet I felt safe from their influence,
f Tiiere might be people, somewhere, that
would die some time ; I did sit know, but it
would not be myself, or any one I knew.—-
Tlicy were so well and so strong, so full of
ivijtis hopes, how could their feet faltei, and
iiu-ir smiles grow dim,and their fainting hands
Jay awav their work, and fold themselves
together ! No, no —it was not a Ining to he
believed.
Drills of sunshine from that seosan of b!i.-s
--fji ignorance of'fli come hack, as hglitiv
A.s the vvinili of the !l n time fl'ov,
Ami li t (i the sh.til ova b.ightly
As the daffodil li.ls the !tow —
the shadows that have gathered with the
v--trs! it is pleasant to have them thus swept
[ Vf—to fl"d myself a child again—the crown
loi'vile pain and sorrow that presses heavi'v
I V (Illicit, and the graves that lie lonesome-
B ,g my way, covered up with flowers—to
■' . mother's d irk locks fall upon uiy cheek
W> •.. leaflets me the- h-seuu or the prayer—to
Irf nir lather, now a sorrowful old man whose
I ish is thinned and whitened almost to the
I ;t of three score years and ten, fresh and
[rgorous, strong for the race—and to see iny
■fa little child, happy with a new hat and a
■ ik ritibon, or even with the string of briar
ii is that I called coral. N J*' 1 tie it about
IEV neck, and now around uiy forehead, and
!,)*• twist it among my hair, as J have some
where read great ladies do their pearls. The
winds are Mowing the last yellow leaves from
tii e.;errv tree —i know not why, bnt it makes
me snl. I draw closer to the ligli- of the win
dow. and slyly peep within—ail is quiet and
cheerful ; the logs on the hear til are abh.ze ;
civ father is mending a bridle-rein, which
"Traveller," the favorite riding horse, snapt
in two vesterdnv, when frightened at the ele
i bant that covered with a great whith cloth)
went to be exhibited at the coming show, —
rav mother is hemming a ruffle, perhaps forme
I to wear to school next quarter —iny brother
a reading in a newspaper, i know not what,
lint I sec, on one side, the picture of a bear :
Lft me listen—and flattening my cheek against
*> pane, 1 catch lis words distinctly, for lie
M'is loud and very clearly—it is an improhu-
h story of a wild man who lias recently been
lioeovered in the woods of some far-away island
—ii seems to have been there a long time for
■ - mils are grown like claws, and iiis hair in
foajii and matted strings, hangs to his knees;
makes a noise like something between the
howl of a beast and a human cry, and, when
pur.-ued. runs with a niin l lei.ess and swiftness
- it Lalfl • the pursuers, though mounted on
I t.'ie fleetest of steeds, urged through brake and
Mi to their utmost speed. When first seen,
•'C was sitting on the ground and cracking nuts
with his teeth; his urins are corded with sinews
that uinke it probable his strength is sufficient
to strangle a dozen men ; und yet on seeing
homan beings, he runs into the thick woods,
''fling such a hideous scream, lhe while, as
'Dike Lis discoverers clasp their hands to their
**r_ s - It is suggested that this is not a solitary
'"dividual, become wild by isolation, but that
s face exists, many of which are perhaps lar
f r and ot more terrible aspects; but whether
j have any intelligible language, and
u if her they five in caverns of rocks or in
bunks of hallow trees, remains for discovery
■ • some future and more daring explorers.
My brother puts down the paper nod looks
4 the picture of the bear. " I would not read
" foolish stories," says my father, as lie
h'd'ls the bridle up to the light, to see that
'-is neatly mended; my mother breaks the
1 r '" !M i wK icli gathers the ruffle; she is gentle
"id loving, end ( j W9 no p |ik e to hear even
""plied reproof, but she says nothing; little
* rr y. wlto is playing on the floor, upsets his
"°vk-house,arid mv father, clapping his hands
,'L'fther exclaims, "This is the house that
I ! "'d adds, patting Harry on tiie
j !!1 . \\ here is my little boy ? this is not he
'a, s a is little carpenter; you must make your
■ stronger, little carpenter!" hut Harrv
ln U that he is the veritable little Harry,
t " 0 ( ' Hr feiiter, and hides his tearful eves in
' e '[• of my mother, who assures him that he
M'own httle boy, und soothes his childish
by buttoning on hi* neck the ruffle she
has just completed; and off lie scampers again
building a new house the roof of which he
makes very 9teep, and calls it grandfather's
house, at which all laugh heartily.
While listening to the story of the wild
man I am half afraid, but now, as the joyous
lamrhter rings out I am ashamed of iny tears,
and skipping forth,l sit down on a green ridge
which cuts the door yard diagonally,and where
lam told, there was once ft fence. Did the
rose-bushes and lilacs and flags that are in the
garden, ever grow here ? 1 think—no, it must
have been a long while ago,if indeed the fence
were ever here, for I can't conceive the possi
bility of such change, and then I fall to ar
ranging my string of brier-buds into letters
that will spell some name, now rnv own, and
now that of some one I love. A dull strip
of cloud, from which the hues of pink and red
and gold have lately faded out, haugs low in
the west ; below is a long reach of withering
woods—the gray sprays of" the beech clinging
thickly still, mid the gorgeous maples shooting
up here and there like sparks of fire among the
darkly magnificent oak* and s.lvery columned
sycamores—the gray and murmurous twilight
gives way to darker shadows and a deeper
hush.
I hear, far away, the beating of quick hoof
strokes on the pavement ; the horseman, I
think to myself, is just coining down the hill
through the thick woods beyond the bridge.
I listen close, and presently a hollow rumb
ling sound indicates that I was right ; aud
now I hear the strokes more faintly—lie is
climbing the hill that slopes directly away
from roe ; but now again I hear distinctly—he
has almost reached the hollow below me—the
hollow that in tfie summer is stany with dan
delions and how is full of brown nettles and
withered weeds—he will presently have passed
can he he going, and what is his er
rand ? 1 will np nnd watch. The cloud
passes fsom the face of the moon,and the light
streams full and broad on the horseman—he
tightens his rein.aod looks eagerly toward the
house—surely i know him, the long red curls,
streaming down Ids neck, and the straw hat,
are not be mistaken—it is Oliver Ilillliouse,
the miller, whom my grandfather, who lives in
the steep roof house, lias employed three years
longer than lean remember ? He calls to
me, and I laughingly hound forward, with an
exclamation of delight,and put iny arms about
the slender neck of Ins horse, that is champing
the fiit and pawing the pavement, and 1 say,
" Why do you not come in?"
He'smilfe, bit tiiere is something ominous
in his smiles, as he hands me a folded paper,
saving. "Give tirs to your mother;" and.
gathering up his reins, lie rides hurriedly for
ward. In a moment I aiu in the house, for
my errand, "Here mother is a paper which
Ofivr Hillhouse give me for vou." He rhand
trembles as she receives if, and waiting timidly
near, I watching her as she re.id>; the tears
come, arid without speaking a word siie hands
it to my father
That night there came upon my soul the
shadow of an awful f. ar; sorrowful moans ami
plaints disturbed my dreams that have never
since been wholly forgot. How cold and
spectral-like the moonlight streamed across iny
pillow; fx>v flismal tip; chirping of tlx- cricket
in the hearth; and how more than dismal the
winds among tfie naked boughs that creaked
against my windows For tfie first time in my
fife I cou'd not sleep, and I longed for De
light of tiie morning. At Inst it came, whiten
ing op the Ea-t, and the stars faded away,and
there came a flush of csiiuson aud pur; 1: fire,
which was presently pushed aside by tiie gold
en disk of the sun. Daylight without, but
within there was thick darkness still.
I kept close about my mother, for in her
presence 1 felt a shelter ami protection that
I found no where else.
"Be a good girl till I come hack, she said,
stooping and kissing my forehead: "mother
is going away today, your poor grandfather
is very sick."
" L t me go too," I saiJ, clinging close to
her hand. We were soon ready; little llarry
pouted his lips and reached out his hands, and
my father-gave him his pocket-knife to play
with; and the wind blowing the yellow curls
over his eyes and forehead, ho e'ood on the
porch looking eagerly while my mother turned
to see hi.ii again and again. \Y e had before
us a walk of perhaps two miles—northwardly
along the turnpike nearly annie, next, strik
ing into a grass-grown road that crossed it, in
an castemiy direction nearly another mile, and
then turning. northwardly again, a narrow
laue, bordered on each saie by old and decay
ing cherry trees, led us to the house, ancient
fashioned, with high steep gables, narrow win
dows, and low, heavy chimneys of stone. In
the rear was an old mill, with a plank sloping
trom the door-sill to the ground, byway of
step, and a square open window in the gable,
through which, with ropes an l pulleys, tiie
grain was drawn up.
This mill was an especial object of terror to
me. and it was only when my aunt Carry led
ine by the hand, and the chrerfnl smile of
Oliver lliliiiouse lighted up the dusky interior
that I could he persuaded to enter it. In
trutli it was a lonesome sort of place, with
dark lott-s and curious binus, and ladders lead
ing from place to place; and there were cats
creeping stealthily along the beams in wait for
mice or swailows, if, as sometimes happened,
the clav nest should be loosened from the rafter
and the whole tumble ruinously down. I used
to wonder tl at aunt Carry was not afraid in
the old place, with its enternal rumble, and its
great dusty wheel moving slowly round and
round, beneath the steady tread of the two
sober horses that never gained a hair's breadth
for their pains; but 011 the contrary, she seeme
ed to like the mill, and never failed to show
me through ah > ts intricacies, 011 iny visits. I
have unraveled the mystery now, or rather,
from the recollections I still retainhave appre
hended what must have been clear to older
eyes at the time.
" A forest of oak and walnnt stretched a.ong
this extremity of the farm, and on either side
of the improvements (ns the house and barn
and mill were called) shot out two dart forks,
completely cutting off the view, save toward
PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY AT TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., BY R. W. STURROCK.
the unfrequented road to the south,which was J
traversed mostly by persons coming to the
mill, for my grandfather made the flour for ail
the neighbourhood round about besides mak
ing corn-meal or Johny-cakes, and "chops'' for
the cows.
He was an old man now, with a tall, athletic
frame, slightly bent, thin locks white as the
snow, and deep blue eyes full of fire and intelli
gence, and after long years of uninterrupted
health and useful labor, he was suddenly strick
en down, with no prospect of recovery.
"I hope lie is better," said my mother, hear
ing the rumbling of the mill-wheel. She might
have known my grandfather would permit no
interruption of the usual business on account
of his illness—the neighbors, he said,could not
do without bread because he was sick, nor need
they all be idle, waiting for him to die. When
the time drew near, he would call them to
take his farewell and- his blessing,but till then
let them sew and spin, and prepare dinner just
as usual, so they would please him best. He
was a stern man—even his kindness was un
compromising and unbenaing, and I remember
of his making toward me no mainifestation of
fondness, such as grandchildren usually receive
sr.vr once, when he gave me a bright red ap
ple, without speaking a word till my timid
thanks brought out his "Save your thanks for
something belter !" The apple gave me no
pleasure, and I even slipt into the mill to escape
from his cold, forbidding presence.
Nevertliless, he was a good man, strictly
honest, and upright in all his dealings, and re
spected, almost reverenced, by everybody. 1
remember once, when young Winters, the ten
ant of Deacon Granger's farm, who paid a
irreat deal too much for his ground, as I have
head my father say, came to mill with some
withered wheat, ray grandfather filled np the
sacks out of his own (lour, while Tomtny was
in the house at dinner. That was a good
deed, hut Tommy Winters never.suspected how
his wheat happened to turn out so well.
As we diew near the house, it seemed tome
more lonesome and.desolate than it ever look
ed before. I wished I had staid at home
with little Harry. So eagerly I noted every
thing, that I remember to this day, that near
a tough of water, in the lane, stood a little
surly lookiug cow, of a red color, and with a
while line running along her back. 1 had
gone with aunt Carry often when she went to
miik her. but-day she seemed not to have been
milked. Near her was a black and white
heifer, with sharp short horns, and a square
board tied over her eyes; two horses, one of
lhem gray, and the other sorrel, with a short
tail, were reaching their long necks into tfie
garden, and browsing from the current bushes
As we approached they trotted forward a lit
!ite, and one cf them, half playfully, half
angrily, bit the other on the shoulder, after
which they returned quietly td their cropping
of tiie bushes, heedless of the voice that irota
acros> the field was calling to them.
A flock of turkeys were sunning themselves
about the door, for no one came to scare thein
awav; some were black, and some speckled,
some with litnds erect and tails spread, and
some nibbling the grass; and with a gabbling
noise, and a staid and dignified march, they
made way for us. The smoke arose from the
chimney in bine, graceful curls, and drifted
away to the woods; the dead morning glory
vines had partly fallen from tiie windows, but
the hands that tended them were grown care
less, and they were suffered to remain black
ened and void of beauty as they were. Un
der these, the white curtain was partly put
aside, and my grandmother, with the speckled
handkerchief pinned across her bosom, and
her pale face a shade paler than usual was
looking out, and seeing us she came forth,and
in answer to my mother's look of inquiry, shook
her head, and silently led the way in. The
room we entered had some home made carpet,
about the siz- of a large table-cloth, spread in
the middle of tiie floor, the rema'ndcr of which
was scoured very white; the ceiling was of
walnut wocd, and the side walls were white
washed—a table, an old-fashioned desk, and
some wooden chairs, comprised the furniture.
On one of the chairs was a leather cushion ;
this was "set to one side, my grandmother
neither offering it to my mother, nor sitting in
it herself, while, byway of composing herself,
I suppose, six* took off the black ribbon, with
which Iter cap was trimmed. This was a more
simple process than tiie reader may fancy, the
trimming, consisting merelyof a ribbon,always
black, which she tied around her head after
the cap was bn, forming a bow and two ends
just above the forehead. Aunt Carry, who
was of what is termed an even disposition,
received us with her usual cheerful demeanor
aud then, re sealing herself comfortably urar
the fire, resumed her work, the netting of some
white fringe.
1 liked aunt Carry, for that she always took
especial pains to entertain me, showing me
her patch work, taking me with her to the
cowyard and dairy, as also to the mill, though
in this last I fear she was a little selfish; how
ever, that made no difference to nte at the
time' and I have always been sincerely grate
ful to her; children know more, and want
more, and feel more, than people are apt to
imagine.
On this occasion she called tnc to her, and
tried to tench me the :nysteii*s of her netting,
telling me I must get my father to buy me a
little bureau, and then I could net fringe and
make a nice cover for it. For a little time 1
thought I could, and arranged in my mind
where it should be placed, and what should be
put into it, and even went so far as to inquire
how much fringe she thought would be ueces
s iry. I never attained fo much proficiency in
the netting of fringe, nor did I ever get the lit
tle bureau, and now it is quite reasonable to
suppose I never shall.
Presently my father and mother were shown
into an adjoining room, the interior of which
I felt an irrepressible desire to see, aud by
stealth I obtained a glimpse of it before the
door closed behind them. There was a dull
brown and yellow carpet on the floor, and near
the lied, on which was a blue and white cover
lid, stood a high backed wooden chair, over
which hung a towel, and OD the bottom of
" RECARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER."
which stood a pitcher, of an unique pattern. —
I know'not how I saw this, .but I did, and per
fectly remember it, notwithstanding my ut
tention was in a moment completly absorbed
by the sick man's face, which was turned
towards the opening door, pale, livid, and
ghastly. I trembled, and was transfined; the
rings beneath the eyes, which had always been
deeply marked, were now almost black, and the
ble eyes within looked glassy and cold and ter
rible. The expression of agony on the lips
(for his disease was one of a most painful na
ture) gave place to a Rort of smile* aud the
hand, twisted among the gray locks, was with
drawn and extended to welcome my parents,
as the door closed. That was a fearful moment;
I was near the dark steep edges of the grave;
I felt, for the first time, that I was mortal too
and I was afraid.
Aunt Carry put away her work, and daking
from a nail in the window-frame a brown mus
lin sun bonnet, which seemed to me of half a
yard in depth, she tied it on my head, and
then clapt her hands as she looked into my
face, saying "bopeep!" at which I half laugh
ed and half cried, and making provision for
herself in grandmother's bonnet, which hnngo'i
the oppsite side of tfie window, and was similar
to mine, except that it was perhaps a little
larger, she took my hand and proceeded to the
mill. Oliver, who was very busy on our en
trance. came forwaed as aunt Carry said, by
way of introduction, "A little visiter I've
brought you," and arranged a seat oa a bag
of meal for us and taking off his straw hat
pushed the red curls from his low white fore
head, aud looked bewildered and anxious.
"It's quite warm for the season,' said aunt
Curry, byway of breaking silence, I suppose.
The young man said "yes," abstractedly, and
then asked if the rumble of the mill were not
a disturbance to the *ick room, to which aunt
Curry answered, "No, uiy father says it i 3 his
music."
"A good old man," said Oliver, "he wiilnot
hear it much longer," and then, even more
safj'y, "every thing will be changed." Aunt
Carry was silent, and he added, "I have been
here a longtime, and it will make nte very
sorry to go away, especially when such trouble
is about you all."
"Oh, Oliver," said aunt Carra, "you don't
mean to go away?" "I see no alternative."
he replied; "I shall have nothing to do; if 1
had gone a year ago it would have been bet
ter." "Why?" asked aunt Carry; but I think
she understood why and Oliver did not answer
directly, but said, 'Almost the last thing vonr
father said to me was, that you should never
marry any who had not a house and twenty
acres of laud; if he has not, he will exact that
promise of you, and 1 cannot ak yon not to
make it, nor would you refuse hitn if I did ; I
might have owned that long ago, but for my
sister (she had lost her reason) and my lame
brother, whom I mast educate to be a school
master, because he never can work, and my
blind mother; but God forgive me! I must not
and do not complain; you will forget me be
fore long, Ctrtv, and oine body who is richer
and better, will be to you all I once hoped to
be, and perhaps more."
I did not understand the meaning of the
conversation at that time, but I felt out of
place some wav, and so, going to another part
of the mill, I watched the sifting of the flour
through the snowy bolter, listening to the rumb
ling of the wheel. When I looked around I
perceived that Oliver had taken my place on
the meal bag, and that he had put his arm
around the waist of aunt Carry in away I did
not much like.
| Great sorrow, like a storm, sweeps us aside
from ordinary feelings, and we givu our hearts
I into kindly hands—so cold nnd hollow and
! meaningless seem the formulae of the world—
j They had probably never spoken of love be
: fore, arid now talked of it us calmly as they
1 would have talked of ar.y thing else; bat they
felt that hope was hopeless; at best, any union
| was deferred, perhaps, fo." long years; tlio fu
! tare was full uncertainties. At least their tones
became very low, so low I could not hear what
they said; but I saw that they looked very
j sorrowful, and that aunt Carry's band lay in
' that of Oliver as though he were her brother.
" Why don't the flour come through?" I
said, for the sifting hail become thinner and
lighter at length quite ceased. Oliver smiled,
faintiy, as be arose, and saying "This will
never by the child a frock," poured a sack of
i wheat into the hopper, so that it nearly run
j over. Seeing no child but myself, I supposed
j lie meant to buy me a new frock, and at ouce
resolved to put it in mv little bureau, if he
' did.
"We have bothered Mr. Hillhouse long
enough," saitl aunt Curry, taking my hand
"and will go the house, shall we not?"
I wondered why she said "Mr. Hilihouse,"
for 1 had never her say so before; and Oliver
seemed to wonder too, for he said reproachful
ly, laying particular stress on his own name,
"You don't brother Mr. Hillhouse, I am sure,
bnt I mut not insist on your remaining if you
wish to go."
" I don't want to insist on my staying,"
said aunt Carry, "if you don't want to, and I
see you don't," and lifting me out to the
sloping plauk, that bent beneath us, we de
scended.
" Carry," called a voice behind us; but she
neither answered nor looked back, but seem
to feel a sudden and expressive fondness for
me, took me up in her arms, though I almost
too heavy for her to lilt, and kissing ran over
and over, said I was light as a feather, at
which she laughed as though neither sorrow
ful nor lacking for employment.
This little passage I could never precisely
explain, aside from the ground that "the course
of true love never did run smooth." Half an
hour after we returned to the house, Olivt r
presented himself at the door saying "Miss
Caroline, shall I troubb you for a cup to get
a drink of water ?" Curry accompanied him to
the well, where they lingered some time, and
when she returned her face was supshiuy aud
aud cheerful as usual.
The day went slowly by, dinner was pre
pared, And removed, scarcely tasted; aunt
Carry wrought at ber fringe, and graodmoth-
er moved softly about preparing teas aud cor
dials.
Towards sunset the sick man became easy,
and expressed a wish that the door of his cham
ber might be opened, that he might watch
our occupations and hear our taik. It was done
accordingly, and he was left alone. My moth
er smiled, saying she hoped he might yet get
well, but my father shook his head mournfully
and answered, " lie wishes to go without our
knowledge." He made amplest provision for
his family always, ar.d I believe had a kind
nature, but he manifested no little fondness,
nor did be wish caresses for himself. Contrary
to the general tenor of his character, was a
love of quiet jests, that remaned to the last.—
Once, as Carry gave him some drink, he said,
"Yon know my wishes about your future, I
expect you to be mindful."
I stole to the door of his room in the hope
that he would say something to me, but he did
not, nnd I went nearer, close to the bed, and
timidly took his hand in mine; how damp and
cold it felt! yet he spoke not, and climbing
upou the chair, I put back his thin locks, and
kissed his forehead. "Child you trouble me,"
he'said, and these were the last words he ever
spoke to me.
The sun sunk lower and lower, throwing a
beam of iight through the little window, quite
across the carpet, and now it reached the sick
man's room, climbed over the bed and up the
wall; he turned his face away, and seemed to
watch its glimmer upon the ceiling. The
atmosphere grew dense and dusky, but with
out clouds, and the orange light changed to a
dull and lnrld red,and the dying and dead leaves
fell silently to the ground, for tiiere was no wind
ami the fowls flew into tiie trees, and the grey
moths came from beneath the bushes and flut
tered in the waning light. From the hollow
tree by tiie mill came the bat, wheeling and
flitting blindly about, and once or twice its
wings struck the window of the sick man's
chamber. The last sunlight faded off at length,
and the rumbling of the mill-wheel was still; he
has fallen asleep in listening to its music.
The next day came the funeral. What a
desolate time it was! All down the lane were
wagons and carriages and horses, for every
body that knew rnv grandfather had cOrne to
pay him the last honors. "We can do him no
further good," they said, "but it seemed right
that we should come." Close by the gate wait
ed the little brown wagon to bear the coffin
to the grave, the wagon which he was used to
ride in while living. The heads of the horses
were drooping, and I thought they looked con
sciously sad.
The dav was 'mild "and the doors and
windows of tiie oid house stood all open, so
that the people without could hear the words of
the preacher. I remember nothing he said;
I remember of hearing my mother sob, aud of
seeing iny grandmother with her face buried in
her hand, and of seeing aunt Carry sitting
erect, her face pale but tearless, and Oliver
near her, with his hands folded across his
breast save once or twice, when he lifted them
to brush away tears.
I did not cry, save from a frightened and
strange feeling, but kept wishing that we
were not so near the dead, and that it were
another day. I tried to push the reality away
with thoughts of pleasant things—in vain. I
remember the hymn, and„tkg very air in which
it was sung.
"Ye fearful souls fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread,
Are l>ig with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.
Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan his works in vain;
God is his own interpreter.
And he will make it plain."
Near the door blue flagstones were laid,
bordered with a row of shrubberies and trees,
with lilacs, and roses, and pears, and peach
trees, which my grandfather had planted long
ago, and here, in the open air, the coffin was
placed, and the white cloth removed, and fold
ed over the lid. I remember how it shook nnd
trembled as the gust caine moaning front the
woods, and died off over the next hiil, and
that tw oor three withered leaves fell on the
face of the dead, which Oliver gently removed
and brushed aside a yelbw winged butterfly
that hovered near.
The friends hung over the unsmiling corpse
till they were led weeping and one by one
away; the hand of some one rested for a mo
ment on the forehead, and then the white cloth
was replaced, and the lid screwed down. The
coffin was placed In the brown wagon, with a
sheet folded about it, and the long train mov
ed slowly to the burial-ground woods, where
the woods "dust to dust" were followed by the
rattliug of the earth, and the sunset light fell
there a moment, and the dead leaves blew
across the smoothly shapen mound.
When the will was read, Oliver found him
self heir to a fortune—the mill and the home
stead and half the farm—provided he married
Carry, which I suppnse he did, for thongh I
do not remember the wedding, I have had an
aunt Caroline Hillhouse almost as long as I
can remember. The lnnatic sister was seut to
an nsyium, where she sung songs about a faith
less lover till death took her up and opened
her eyes in heaven. The mother was brought
home, and she and my grandmother lived at
their case, and sat in the corner, and told
stories of ghosts, and witches, nnd marriages,
and deaths, for long years. Peace to their
memories ! for they have both gone homeland
the lame brother is teaching school, in his
leisure playing the flute, nnd reading Shaks
penre —all the book he reads.
Years have come and swept me away from
my childhood, from its innocence nnd blessed
unconsciousness of the dark, but often comes
back the memory of its first sorrow !
Death is less terrible to me now.
BF.FORE the days of the teetotalers, a neigh
bor of Mr. BLsbee saw him at an early hour of
the day crawling slowly homewnrcon his hand
and knees, over the frozen ground. "Why
don't yon get up and walk?" said the neighbor.
"I-w-w-wouid b b-but it's so mighty thin here
that I'm afraid T shall b-b-break through "
VOL. XXI. —NO. 31
Mutational gtparimtnt.
WORK AND THINK.
Ilammer, tongs and anvils ringing,
Waking echoes all day long,
In a deep toned voice are singing
Thrifty Labor's iron song.
From a thong in 1 fly wheels bounding,
From a thousand humming looms,
Night and day the notes are sounding
Through the misty fact'ry rooms.
Listen ! workmen, to their playing—
There's advice in every clink ;
Still they're singing—still they're saying
" While you labor, learn to think."
Think what power lies within you.
For what triumphs ye are formed.
If, in aid of home and sinew.
Hearts by emulation warmed,
Mighty thoughts ye woo and cherish, •
What shall hold your spirits down T
What shall make your high hopes perish T
Why shall ye mind Fortune's frowa ?
Do ye wish for profit, pleasure ?
Thirst at Learning's fount to drink?
Crave ye honor, fame or treasure ?
" Yc the germs have—work and think!
Think ! but not alone of living.
Like the horse from day to day i
Think ! but uotjalone of giving
Health for pelf, or soul for pay!
Think ! Oh, be machines no longer—
Engines made of flesh and blood!
Think ! 'twill make you fresher, stronger j
Link you to the great and good !
Thought exalts and lightens labor,
Thought forbids the soul to sink !
Self respect and love for neighbor
Mark the men who work—and think!
Think !—and let the thoughts now nerve 700,
Think of men who've gone before ;
Leaving 'lustrious names to serve you;
Yours the path they've plodded o'er 1
Freedom fights.and wins her charter
With the sword of thought—the penl
Tyranny ~eaa find no quarter
In the ianks of thinking men,
Think ! for thought's a wand of power-
Power to make oppression shrink ;
Grasp ye, then, the precious dower !
Foi-e it—wield it—work and think!
Hold your heads up, toiling brother! ;
'Mongst us be it never forgot,
Labor, for ourselves and otbera
Is for man a noble lot:
Nobler far, and holier, higher.
Than vain luxury can claim,
If but zeal and worth inspire.
And true greatness be our aim,
Power that forms the strongest link
'Twixt r.n upright soul and neaven,
Ilis noblest power—the power to think
School Visitations.
In come of the School Districts of Lancaster
country the Directors aliow the teachers in
tiieir employ one day in encli month for the
purpose of visiting each other's schools. Now
whether the Directors should allow their teach
ers this time or not, has nothing materially to
do with what we have to say on the subject ;
wo believe it advisable for teachers to set
part a small portion of their time for this pur
pose.
Whole schools frequently accompany their
teachers in these excursions, which has the
effect not only of relieving them for a short
time of the dull monotony of the school room,
but of stimulating them to make renewed ex
ertions to excel in every good and laudable en
terprise. Should they visit a school better
than thir own, neater, perhaps, or more order
ly and studious, they will at once be seized
with a laudable ambition to worke to become
t least as good as the school visited. If, on
the contrary, the school is in a worse condi
tion than their own, it will leave an impress
ion on their minds, and they will at once per
ceive the necessity of endeavoring to maintain
their superiority.
Cut not only will the scholars be benefited,
but the teacher himseif may gather a great
deal of information, even if the school is ales 3
pretending one than his own. It is an old, yet
not the lesa true, saving, that "Lookers-on see
most of the game;" ami we do not thiuk the
teacher forms an exception to this rule. He
plays au important game, and as he is con
stantly engaged in the play he naturally does
not see many of its niceties.—But when he
visits the school of a brother teacher he has
a bettor opportunity of making observations,
which may be of much use to him in managing
his own school. lie can note to better advan
tage the effect which different methoJs pro
duce; ftr.d if in certain points lie could not suc
ceed in his own school, he can perhaps discern
the cause of his failure ; or, on the contrary,
if he succeeds well in his school, he can by
visiting others, be better euabled to see where
his methods excel!.
' Teachers of the same district at least shonld
be thoroughly acquainted with each other,and
their methods of imparting knowledge; and
how can this be better accomplished, bow can
the bonds of friendship and brotherly love bo
better fostered, than by visiting each other in
their daily occupations, atul mutually enconrag
ing each other in their arduous labors?
We never failed to be profited by visiting
another school ; and we think a day spent in
this agreeable manner is no time lost. We
would recommend to teachers to make it a
rule to spend at least half ft day in every
school in their district—llo matter whether the
directors allow them the time or not—and we
feel confident they will he amply repaid for it.
FATE OF BOOKS— Oat of 1000 published
books, 600 ncTcr pay the cost of printing,
200 just pay expenses, 100 rctnrn a slight profit,
and only 100 show a substantial gain. Of
these books, 650 arc forgotten by the end of
one year, and 150 more at the end of three
year's ; only 50 survive seven years publicity.
Of the 50,000 publications put forth in the
seventeenth century, hardly more than 50 have
a great reputation and are reprinted. Men
have been writing books these 3,000 years,
and there are hardly more than 500 writers
who have survived the outrages of time and
tb forgetfularts of maa.