Scrapbook: Anna McFarland Stabler, c. 1875- c.1812

LEAVES AND TREES

It might appear not unadvisable that every leaf should, as it grew, pay a small tax to the stalk, for its sustenance, so that there might be no fear of any number of leaves being too oppressive to their bearer; which, accordingly, is just what the leaves do. Each, from the moment of its complete majority, pays a stated tax to the stalk, that is to say, collects for it a certain amount of wood, or materials for wood, and sends this wood, or what ultimately becomes wood, down the stalk, to add to its thickness. As the leaves, if they did not thus contribute to their own support, would soon be too heavy for the spray; so if they spray, with its family of leaves, contributed nothing to the thickness of the branch, the leaf families would soon break down under their sustaining loads. Each leaf adds to the thickness of the shoot, branch and stem, with so perfect an order, and regularity of duty, that from every leaf, in all the countless crowd of the tree's summit one slender fibre, or at least fibre's thickness of wood, descends through shoot, through spray, through branch, through stem; and having thus added, in its due proportion, to form the strength of the tree, labors yet farther, and more painfully to provide for its security; and thrusting forward into the root, loses nothing of its mighty energy, until, mining through the darkness, it has taken hold, in cleft of rock, or depth of earth, as extended as the sweep of its green crest in the free air. * * * If ever in autumn, a pensiveness falls on us, as the leaves drift by in their fading, may we not wisely look up in hope to their mighty monuments? Behold how fair— how far prolonged in arch and a isle, the avenues of the valleys, the fringes of the hills! so stately, so eternal, the joy of man, the comfort of all living creatures, the glory of the earth—they are but the monuments of those poor leaves that flit faintly past us, as they do. Let them not pass, without our understanding their last counsel and example—that we also, careless of monument by the grave, may build it in the world—monument by which men may be taught to remember not where we died, but where we lived. — Ruskin.

Our Own. If I had known in the morning How wearily all the day The word unkind Would trouble my mind, I said when I went away, I had been more careful, darling, No given you heedless pain; But we vex "our own" With look and tone We may never take back again.

For though in the quiet evening I may give you the kiss of peace, Yet it might be That never for me The pain at the heart should cease! How many go forth in the morning That never come home at night! And hearts have been broken. By harsh words spoken, That sorrow ne'er can set right.

We have careful thought for the stranger And smiles for the sometime guest, But oft for "our own" The bitter tone, Though we love "our own" the best. Ah! lips, with curse impatient! Ah! brow, with that look of scorn! 'Twere a cruel fate, Were the night too late To undo the work of the morn.

(Australian Star.

"Of Such As I Have." Love me for what I am. Love not for sake Of some imagined thing which I might be, Some brightness or some goodness not in me, But seen afar by you, as eyes that wake Dream of a dawn before the dawning break. If I to please you (whom I fain would please), Reset myself like new key to old tune, Chained thought, remodeled action, pretty soon My hand would slip from yours, and by degrees The loving, faulty friend, so close to-day, Would vanish, and another take her place, A stranger with a stranger's scrutinies, A new regard, an unfamiliar face. Love me for what I am, then, if you may; But if you cannot—love me either way.

Susan Coolidge.

Somebody's Mother. The woman was old and ragged and gray, And bent with the chill of the winter's day;

The street was wet with a recent snow And the woman's feet were aged and slow.

She stood at the crossing and waited long, Alone, uncared for, amid the throng

Of human beings who passed her by, Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye.

Down the street, with laughter and shout, Glad in the freedom of school let out,

Came the boys like a flock of sheep, Hailing the snow piled white and deep.

Past the woman, so old and gray, Hastened the children on their way,

Nor offered a helping hand to her, So meek, so timid, afraid to stir,

Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet Should crowd her down in the slippery street.

At last came one of the merry troop— The gayest laddie of all the group;

He paused beside her and whispered low: "I'll help you across if you wish to go."

Her aged hand on his strong, young arm She placed, and so, without hurt or harm,

He guided the trembling feet along, Proud that his own were firm and strong.

Then back again to his friends he went, His young heart happy and well content.

"She's somebody's mother, boys, you know, For all she's old and poor and slow;

"And I hope some fellow will lend a hand To help my mother, you understand,

"If ever she's poor and old and gray, When her own dear boy is far away,"

And "somebody's mother" bowed low her head In her home that night, and the prayer she said

Was: "God be kind to the noble boy Who is somebody's son and pride and joy!"

From Harper's Weekly.

Days of My Youth. Days of my youth, ye have glided away; Hairs of my youth, you are frosted and gray; Eyes of my youth your keen sight is no more; Cheeks of my youth, you are furrowed all o'ver; Strength of my youth, all your vigor is gone; Thoughts of my youth, you gay visions have flown.

Days of my youth, I wish not your recall; Hairs of my youth, I'm content ye shall fall; Eyes of my youth, you much evil have seen; Cheeks of my youth, bath'd in tears you have been; Thoughts of my youth, you have led me astray; Strength of my youth, why lament you decay?

Days of my age, ye will shortly be past; Pains of my age, yet awhile ye can last; Joys of age, in true wisdom delight; Eyes of my age, be religion your light; Thoughts of my age, dread ye not the cold sod; Hopes of my age, be ye fixed on your GOD!

St. George Tucker, stepfather to John Randolph, of Roanoke.

Patient. I was not patient in that olden time, When my unchastened heart began to long For bliss that lay beyond its reach; my prime Was wild, impulsive, passionate and strong. I could not wait for happiness and love, Heaven-sent, to come and nestle in my breast; I could not realize how time might prove That patient waiting would avail me best. "Let me be happy now," my heart cried out, "In mine own way and with my chosen lot; The future is too dark and full of doubt, For me to tarry and I trust it not. Take all my blessings, all I am and have, But give that glimpse of heaven before the grave!"

Ah me!" God heard my wayward, selfish cry, And taking pity on my blinded heart He bade the angel of strong grief draw nigh, Who pierced my bosom to its tenderest part. I drank wrath's wine-cup to the bitter lees, With strong amazement and a broken will; Then, humbled, straightway fell upon my knees, And God doth know my heart is kneeling still.

I have grown patient; seeking not to choose Mine own blind lot, but take that God shall send, In which, if what I long for I should lose, I know the loss will work some blessed end, Some better fate for mine and me than I Could ever compass underneath the sky.

All the Year Round.

NO SECT IN HEAVEN. Talking of sects till late one eve, Of the various doctrines the saints believe, That night I stood, in a troubled dream, By the side of a darkly-flowing stream.

And a "Churchman" down to the river came, When I heard a strange voice call his name, "Good father, stop; when you cross this tide, You must leave your robes on the other side."

But the aged father did not mind; And his long gown floated out behind, As down the stream his way he took, His pale hands clasping a gilt-edged book.

"I'm bound for heaven; and, when I'm there I shall want my book of Common Prayer; And though I put on a starry crown, I should feel quite lost without my gown."

Then he fixed his eye on the shining track, But his gown was heavy, and held him back, And the poor old father tried in vain A single step in the flood to gain.

I saw him again on the other side, But his silk gown floated on the tide; And no one asked, in that blissful spot, Whether he belonged to "the Church" or not.

Then down to the river a Quaker strayed; His dress of a sober hue was made; "My coat and hat must be all of gray, I cannot go any other way."

Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his chin, And staidly, solemnly waded in, And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down tight Over his forehead so cold and white.

But a strong wind carried away his hat; A moment he silently sighed over that; And then as he gazed to the further shore, The coat slipped off, and was seen no more.

As he entered heaven, his suit of gray Went quietly sailing away, away; And none of the angels questioned him About the width of his beaver's brim.

Next came Dr. Watts, with a bundle of Psalms Tied nicely up in his aged arms, And hymns as many a very wise thing, That the people in heaven, "all round" might sing

But I thought he heaved an anxious sigh, And he saw that the river ran broad and high And looked rather surprised as, one by one, The Psalms and Hymns in the wave went down

And after him, with his MSS., Came Wesley, the pattern of godliness; But he cried, "Dear me! what shall I do? The water has soaked them through and through."

And there on the river far and wide, Away they went down the swollen tide; And the saint, astonished, passed through alone, Without his manuscripts, up to the throne.

Then, gravely walking, two saints by name Down to the stream together came; But, as they stopped at the river's brink, I saw one saint from the other shrink.

"Sprinkled or plunged, may I ask you, friend, How you attained to life's great end?" "Thus, with a few drops on my brow." "But I have been dipped, as you see me now."

"And I really think it will hardly do, As I'm 'close communion,' to cross with you; You're bound, I know, to the realms of bliss. But you must go that way, and I'll go this."

Then straightway plunging with all his might, Away to the left—his friend to the right, Apart they went from this world of sin, But at last together they entered in.

And now, when the river was rolling on, A Presbyterian church went down; Of women there seemed an innumerable throng, But the men I could count as they passed along.

And concerning the road, they could never agree The old or the new way, which it could be. Nor ever a moment paused to think That both would lead to the river's brink.

And a sound of murmuring, long and loud, Came ever up from the moving crowd; "You're in the old way, and I'm in the new, That is the false, and this the true;"— Or, "I'm in the old way, and you're in the new: That is the false and this is the true."

But the brethren only seem to speak; Modest the sisters walked, and meek, And if ever one of them chanced to say What troubles she met with on the way, How she longed to pass to the other side, Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide.

A voice arose from the brethren then; "Let no one speak but the 'holy men;' For have ye not heard the words of Paul, 'Oh, let the women keep silence all?'"

I watched them long in my curious dream, Till they stood by the borders of the stream; Then, just as I thought, the two ways met: But all the brethren were talking yet, And would talk on, till the heaving tide Carried them over side by side— Side by side, for the way was one; The toilsome journey of life was done; And all who in Christ the Saviour died Came out alike on the other side.

No forms or crosses or books had they; No gowns of silk, or suits of gray; No creeds to guide them, or MSS.; For all had put on Christ's righteousness.

6

We commend the following description to our readers as one of the finest pieces of word-painting we have ever read:

But here is the Cathedral at Milan; the Church Mariae Nascenti; an inner world history built up to sight in fretted marble. If one stopped to read it through—to read it up, from sculptured base, along slow-rising walls of rich relief, through forest pinnacles and crowding imaged niches, and from height to height of roof, and circle to circle of its statue-types, one might give up, not the rest of Italy, but the rest of life before it. As men have died, generation after generation, passing down from each to each the unfinished sentences. For it has been all read but once, and that has been the long reading of the five hundred years in which it has been builded. It has been the slow spelling of the chisel. Yes, spelling is the better word -- no doubt; for I think many of these old architects and workers were more like children spelling letters and syllables carefully along, not knowing, really, the story they were making, in its wholeness.

'Have you made up your mind what it is?" Stephen asked, when we had slowly paced, twice round the great square, gazing up at the wonderful, delicate, many-hued body of it, pile of solid stone and masonry as we knew it, —breath, almost of a dream made visible, as it seemed in its lightness to become—rising into thin fine traceries and needle spires, that stood with their hundreds of white points glittering against the pure, blue sky; when we had stopped before pillar after pillar with their great bas-reliefs—each an epoch and a history in its theme,—a thing of years in its patient carving; when we had wondered at the monstrous gargoyles,—figures of fierce evil things leaping as if driven from under every sacred eave and cornice;—when we had noted how the statues of heroes and saints, each in his niche, filled all the window arches and the pilaster angles, line after line, to height after height of the attaining; when we lost trace and order in lovely confusion among the exqusite paintings and surroundings of buttresses and pararpets and cupolas and thousand clustering slender pillars of turret and steeple; until it seemed as if the whole vision were born out of the blue deep up there in which it ended, and could only have gathered itself together, drop by drop, as jewels gather, "Have you made up your mind what it is?" "Yes." "Is it a crystallization? Frostwork? Did it grow? Is it growing? Was it enchantment? Will it melt?" "It was lived. It is being Lived." That was all one could think or say. For it began away down there in its foundations, and you could see it was just human life,—the world's life in legend, type, and story.

Tier above tier, niche above niche, as the solemn strength lifts upward, gleam forth the forms of saints and seers, heroes and servers, whose lives and deaths have been in the building of the world. They front the grand pilasters; they stand right and left in the tall window arches, where the light streams in; above their heads where the cleansing rains come down, under hallowed eave and cornice, spring out, exorcised, the fierce, horrible shapes that may not abide in the House of Ages as it rears to its final height and its roofing in with beauty. Not all

seers and saints; not all conscious and purposeful servers; yet there they are, kings and leaders and men whose lives were powers; and their glory is brought into it, whether they knew it or not.

We went up on those great, high roofs. We found ourselves beside a long parapet,—within which a kind of passage ran along the transept to the main roof. We were where the marble gave itself off, as it were, into the intangible air, with thousands of last, fine, beautiful frettings and taperings; rushed up into lofty slender piercings; crowned itself,—but that comes after and higher,—with holier presences. We were where we could look across the vast slope of the southerly roof. These were "The Gardens," our guide told us. The lovely creeping arches ran down in rows from center to eaves; the graceful buttresses sprang across the angles; and everywhere, along the parapet lines and over the trefoiled mouldings, in light, exquisite finials, flowers and fruits blossomed and rounded from the marble. In pairs,—a fruit and a flower,—like the knops and the flowers of the candlestick in the tabernacle, made after the pattern showed Moses in the mount. Thousands of them; making the Housetop a wilderness of beauty; sloping up over side roofs from the basis of the eave—pinnacles through central spires again to the upper wall of the nave with its in numerable fine pointed archings, its windows glorious with color, its grooving and flutings of close pilaster work, frosty white in the sun. Saints and preachers, and I know not who, standing on the first pyramids, look down into the busy world of every day; warriors with spears, martyrs with palms, are above and above, a multitude we could not count. We were led up into the great bell tower, and we stood among the first forest of them; we climbed again into the first balcony of the great dedicatery spire, and a higher crown of pinnacles, a higher circle of saints, prophets, evangelists were round us, face to face; we ascended again, and looked forth among winged angels; once more, away up in the narrowing circle, and golden stars shone upon the tops of the minarets, like the stars of the seven churches that John saw in the heavens; last of all we leaned against the marble rail, carved still to minutest beauty in quatrefoil and fret-work, three hundred feet above the city, and seated archangels drooped their wings above our heads from over the gallery arches. Beyond these the slender line of the last and upmost shaft runs into the air, and bearing the Cross and wearing the Crown, the golden figure of Our Lady rises in light—emblem that the world uprears as the knight binds a woman's colors to his lance, and takes "God and my lady!" for his valor cry. In this Cathedral of Milan I think I have seen, once and first, all Cathedrals. I I am that it is in the world."—

Mrs. A D. T. Whitney, in "Sights and Insights."

The Golden Side. There is many a rest on the road of life, If we only would stop to take it; And many a tone from the better land, If the querulous heart would wake it. To the sunny soul that is full of hope, And whose beautiful trust ne'er faileth, The grass is green and the flowers are bright, Though the wintry storm prevaileth.

Better to weave in the web of life A bright and golden filling, And to do God's will with a ready heart, And hands that are swift and willing, Than to snap the delicate silver threads Of our curious lives asunder; And then Heav'n blame for the tangled ends, And sit to grieve and wonder.

THE TWO MYSTERIES. In the middle of the room, in its white coffin, lay the dead child, a nephew of the post. Near it, in a great chair, sat Walt Whitman, surrounded by little ones, and holding a beautiful little girl on his lap. The child looked curiously at the spectacle of death and then inquiringly into the old man's face. You don't know what it is, do you, my dear?" said he, adding, "We don't either.", We know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still; The folded hands, the awful calm, the cheek so pale and chill; The lids that will not lift again, though we may call and call: The strange, white solitude of peace that settles over all. We know not what it means, dear, this desolate heart pain; This dread to take our daily way, and walk in it again; We know not to what other sphere the loved who leave us go. Not why we're left to wonder still; not why we do not know.

But this we know: Our loved and dead, if they should come this day— Should come and ask us, What is life?" not one of us could say. Life is a mystery as deep as ever death can be; Yet oh, how sweet it is so us, this life we live and see!

Then might they say—these vanished ones—and blessed is the thought! "So death is sweet to us, beloved! though we may tell ye naught; We may not tell it to the quick—this mystery of death— Ye may not tell us, if ye would, the mystery of breath."

The child who enters life comes not with knowledge or intent. So those who enter death must go as little children sent. Nothing is known. But I believe that God is overhead; And as life is to the living, so death is to the dead. —Scribner for October.

TIRED MOTHERS. A little elbow leans upon your knee— Your tired knee that has so much to bear; A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly From underneath a thatch of tangled hair. Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch Of warm, moist fingers holding yours so tight! You do not prize the blessing overmuch— You are almost too tired to pray to-night.

But it is blessedness? A year ago I did not see it as I do to-day— We are all so dull and thankless, and to slow To catch the sunshine till it slips away. And now it seems surpassing strange to me That while I wore the badge of motherhood I did not kiss more oft and tenderly The little child that brought me only good.

And if, some night, when you sit down to rest, You miss the elbow from your tired knee; This restless curly head from off your breast; This lisping tongue that chatters, constantly; If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped, And ne'er would nestle in your palm again, If the white feet into the grave had tripped— I could not blame you for your heart-ache then.

I wonder so that mothers ever fret At their little children clinging to their gown; Or that, the footprints, when the days are wet, Are ever black enough to make them frown. If I could find a little muddy boot, Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber floor— If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot, And hear it patter in my house once more.

If I could mend a broken cart, to-day, To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky— There is no woman in God's world could say She was more blissfully content than I! But, ah, the dainty pillow next my own Is never rumpled by a shining head; My singing birdling from its nest has flown— The little boy I used to kiss—is dead.

A Greate Syngeing by ye OLDE FOLKES

WILL COME OFF ON Ye EVENING OF THURSDAY, Ye 29 th. day of May, 1879. at ye SANDY SPRING LYCEUM,

which is set down on ye road to ye Quaker Meeting House which lyes hard by ye City of Dicksboro.

Ye syngeing will be given for ye entertainment of ye neighborhood, and ye men and ye women syngers are ye well known talent of ye countrye syde.

Ye friend Zachariah Waters, has kindly promised to come over from ye town of Brookville and lead ye great chorus in synging.

To begin at early candle light, now known as ye half past 7 of ye clock.

Ye general admission is sit down as two York shillings (25 cts). Ye little folke at one and three pence (15 cts). Payable at ye doore on ye evening of ye syngeing.

A Lyste of ye Psalms and Worldlie Songes.

1st PARTE.

1st. Auld Lang Syne, By ye whole Companie.

2. Dost Thou Love Me, By Sister Ruth & Brother Simon.

3. Hail Columbia, By ye Syngers.

4. Ye Bloom is on ye Rye By Brother Caleb.

5. Ye Dearest Spot, by Every One of ye Syngers.

6. Within a Mile of Edinboro Town, By Phoebe Mayflower.

7. Yankee Doodle, By ye Mankind Syngers.

8. Coming through the Rye, Rosa Balinda.

2nd PARTE.

1. Home Again, By All ye Syngers.

2. Ye Old Sexton, By Brother Zachariah.

3. AMERICA, Ye Whole Companie.

4. Auld Robin Gray, By Phoebe Mayflower.

5. Cousin Judediah, By All Ye Syngers.

6. Old Folks at Home, By ye Whole Companie.

7. John Anderson my Jo, By Rosa Belinda.

8. Marseilles Hymn, By every one of ye Syngers.

Sister CAROLINE POUNDKEYS, from ye village of Baltimore, will pounde on ye Spinet for ye Syngers.

Taking an Elewator.

We have had many inquiries about the description of Mrs. Tubbs's experience at A. T. Stewart's retail palace in the year 1852. It was published in the Hearth and Home, but so far as we know has not been reprinted in book form. It is often read in public by elocutionists, being a stock piece on their list, but we have no way to answer the demand for it except by reprinting it in our columns.

MRS. TUBBS HAS AN ADVENTURE.

Mr. Editor of Hearth and Home : Your perfect gentlemanly way of putting my letter in you paper last winter, writ as a warning to all bad boys on ice, inclines me to send another letter which it will be warnin' to all young women never to commit the mistake which I did most innocent on Saturday gone a week at a big draggoods store in New York. I had heerd a considerable about this 'ere store, but I warn't in no way prepared for all I see there. Sakes ! It was equal to a dozen villages like Vandusenburgh a comin' out o' meetin' all at once. Such a crowd I never seed, and the women maulin' of the goods without buyin', and the clerks lookin' on sarcastic just like you see in any ornery store. Well, I went about better'n a hour gettin' a couple o' pair of good domestic hose for my son Jabez, and seven-eighths of a yard of stuff for cheese bags ; and sudden, being uncommon tired, I felt a weak spell comin' on, and I hadn't hardly strength to ask for chintz for the setting foom sofa.

" Next story, ma'm," says the clerk, kind o' lookin' sharp at me, " wouldn't you like to take a elewator ?"

Well, I was beat ! It seemed a most uncommon proceeding, and what I never heerd no gentlemen do before, to ask me to take and elewator. I had my misgivings what it meant, for our Jabez with his jokes and what-nots, though his father and me is most strong temprince folks, persists sometimes in takin' what he calls elewators, which is glasses of speerits and water, calkerlated, as he says, to raise droopin' feelins and failin' strength.

" Sir," says I as lofty as I could, " I prefer not, and to my mind you'd do better for a repectable shop not to be offerin' elewators, leastwise not to me." So I kept walkin' round, not likin' to ask questions showin' my country ways, and still feelin' that awful feelin' of goneness which them as has weak spells is subject to, when another clerk, hearin' me ask for chintzes, said something again about my taking a elewator. By this time I felt deadful, and so, says I, makin' up my mind it was a York fashion, and it warn't best to seen too back-country, " Thanks to you, sir," says I, " I don't mind tryin' something of the kind, bein' most remarkably thirsty,"

" Certainly, ma'am," says he, a bowing towards a stand holdin' a fancy pail with a pigor to it, full of what I might have took to be ater, judgin' by the taste, but I know well enough it was some deceitful genteel kind of liquor with the taste and smell taken out, like they do to benzine and castor oil. No sooner had I swallered a goblet of it when the young man pinted to a little room which, if you'll believe me, Mr. Editor, gave the queerest kind of jerk you ever see just as I looked in, and seein' comfortable sofas all around the walls fo it, I stepped in. There was other ladies goin' in too, so we all set down, and I couldn't help wondering whether the poor things had been takin' elewators like me. " It won't do no harm," says I to myself, " to sit here a minute or two fill this weak spell passes off," when massy on me ! if I didn't feel myself AGOIN' UP ! Yes, agoin' up, and with me the room and sofas and ladies and all ! I clutched a hold of the cushion and started kind o' wild like as not, for one of the ladies bit her lip as if contemplating to laugh, and still we were all agoin' up, leastwise so it seemed. " It's all on account o' takin' that elewator," thinks I to myself, and then it come upon me how uncommon appropriate the word was, meanin' a drink. though often I had Jabez's pa scold him for using that wulgar expression. But I couldn't help feelin' scared, particular when I see, all of a suddent men and women kind o' walkin' about in the air. Once I jumped up to go out of the room, but a man workin' some clock works in the corner held out his hand. " In one moment, madam ! " said he, a pushin' me back with such an air !

" Did you take a elewator ? " I whispered to the lady sitting alongside of me. She nodded her head without saying nothing, and from her queer look I reckoned she was worse affected even than I was.

" It's the first one I ever took in my life here in York," continues I ; "our country elewators is more positive to take, but they don't have nothing like the effect, though I must say such things never oughter to be took except in sickness."

" Now, madam," says the clock man very pompous, " you wont have no difficulty now," Sure enough I didn't have no difficulty, For a minit the effect of the elewator passed off suddener than it came. I followed the ladies out lively enough, but sake alive ! what a time I had findin' the street door ! I never was so bothered in all my life, though I knowed all along what was the matter, but just kept on without asking no questions of nobody, and finally agoin' down stairs and down stairs, and expectin' nothing else but to fin myself in the kitchen, if Mr. Stewart's family lives anywhere in the buildin' which is most likely, there bein' enough room I should think. Well, to make a long story short, how I ever got out of that store I don't ever expect to know, but after I once ketched sight of them glass doors I didn't turn neck nor heel till I stood out on the side-walk explainin' private to a police that I'd been takin' a elewator, and wouldn't he put me in a down town stage. To this day I haven't said a word about the business to Jebez, nor husband, nor no one to home. Somethings had best be bygones. But I feel it a bounden duty, Mr. Editor, to warn all respectable females, great and small, not to be led into takin' elewators when they go into them York stores, least of all this new-fangled kind of which is equal fatal in consequences to pure sperits and tastes like nothing on earth but water which leads you to taking too much. Hoping you will print these hones words for the benefit of all concerned, I am most repectably, Yours to command, JANE E. TUBBS,

AT NIGHT. -Here is one of Thackeray's pleasant touches :- " It is night now, and here is home. Gathered under the quiet foor, elders and children lie alike at rest. In the midst of a great calm the stars look out from the heavens. The silence is peopled with the past-sorrowful remorse for sins and shortcomins, memories of passionate joys and griefs rise out of their graves, both now alike calm and sad. Eyes, as I shut mine, look at me, that long since ceased to shine. The town and the fair landscape sleep under the starlight, wreathed under the autumn mists. Twinkling amoung the houses, a light keeps watch here and there in what may be a sick chamber or two. The clock tolls sweetly in the silent air. Here is night and rest. An awful sense of thanks makes the hear swell and the head bow, as I pass to my room through th sleeping house, and feel as though a hushed blessing were upon it."

Friday, America's Lucky Day.

There is a popular supersition against Friday as an unlucky day, and yet it is a somewhat noteworthy fact that, for Americans at least, it has been peculiarly fortunate. Here are some facts that the Chicago Times has been compiling on the subject, and the perusal of them will sustain the assertion that the Americans should be rather inclined to honor the day than otherwise.

It was on Friday, the 3d of August, 1492, that Columbus sailed from the harbor of Palos for the New World. It was on Friday, the 12th of October, 1492, that he first saw the land, after sixty-five days of navigation.

It was on Friday, the 4th of January, 1493, that he started on his return to Spain, to announce to their Catholic Majesties the glorious result of their expecition, and on Friday, the 15th of March, 1493, that he disembarked in Andalusia. It was on Friday, the 13th of June, 1494, that he discovered the American Continent. On Friday, March 5, 1497, Henry VII., of England, gave to John Cabot his dispatch for the voyage which resulted in the discovery of the Continent of North America

On Friday, September 6, 1565, Mendez founded St. Augustine, the oldest town in the United States. On Friday, November 10, 1620, the Mayflower first disembarked a few emigrants on American soil at Provincetown, and on Friday, December 22, 1620, her passengers finally landed at Plymouth Rock. It was on Friday, February 22, 1732, that George Washington was born.

It was on Friday, June 16, 1775, that the battle of Bunker Hill was fought, and on Friday, October 7, 1775, that the surrender of Saratoga took place, which event decided France to give her aid to the Americans. The treason of Arnold was discovered on Friday. Yorktown surrendered on Friday, and on Friday, June 7, 1776, Richard Henry Lee read the Declaration of Independence to the Continental Congress. Mr. Hayes was nominated for President on Friday.

Don't Frown.

In the name of weary humanity, allow a plea for cherrfulness to be entered. Why, Christians, will you go about among your fellow men with a frown-draped countenance? Sorrows come, troubles come, disaster comes; but why be so melancholy as though your last hope were blasted? There is a duty whcih we owe to those about us -to be cheerful. The gloom upon your face throws a shadow on their hearts. It is pitiful to see the sad effects of one such face upon a family. The children feel it; the wife or husband, as the case may be, feels it. Lise is made up of little things and cheerfulnesr is one of the little things which cost nothing, and are worth a great deal. Let the law of kind charity, which underlays the life of the Savior be the guiding principle of ours. And let it not stop with faithfulness in great matters, but see to it that this grace attains so high a development, that you will make your words conformable to it; that it may beam from every feature. Your cheerfulness will rest the weary; it will cheer the downcast heart; it will strenghten the weak; it will help men to keep brave hearts in this cold hard world. -Christian Oberser.

Good, kind, tur, holy words dropped in conversation may be little though of, but they are like seeds of flowers of fruiful trees falling by the wayside, borne by some birds afar, haply thereafther to fringe with beauty some barren mountain side of to make glad some lone wilderness.