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

Zoroaster. Persia. 600 BC. "This is the sum of all true righteousness, treat others as thou would thyself be treated." "For the penitent there is hope."

WHEN?

BY SUSAN COOLIDGE.

From The Independent.

IF I were told that I must die to-morrow, That the next sun Which sinks should bear me past all fear and sorrow For any one, All the fight fought, all the short journey through, What should I do?

I do not think that I should shrink or falter, But just go on, Doing my work, nor change nor seek to alter Aught that is gone; But rise and move and love and smile and pray For one more day.

And, lying down at night for a last sleeping, Say in that ear Which hearkens ever, "Lord, within Thy keeping How should I fear? And, when to-morrow brings Thee nearer still, Do thou Thy will!"

I might not sleep for awe; but peaceful, tender My soul would lie All the night long; and when the morning splendor I think that I could smile-could calmly say, "It is His day."

But, if a wondrous hand, from the blue younger Held out the scroll On which my life was writ, and I with wonder Beheld unroll To a long century's end its mystic clew, What should I do?

What could I do, oh! blessed Guide and Master, Other than this: Still to go on as now, not slower, faster, nor hear to miss The road, although so very long it be, While led by Thee?

Step after step, feeling Thee close beside me, Although unseen, Through thorns, through flowers, whether tho tempest hide Thee. Or heavens serene, Assured Thy faithfulness cannoy betray, Thy love decay.

I may not know, my God, no hand revealeth Thy counsels wise; Along the path a deepening shadow stealeth; No voice replies To all my questioning thought, the time to tell, And it is well.

Let me keep on abiding and undearing Thy will always, Through a long century's ripening fruition, Or a short day's Thon canst not come too soon; and I can wait If thou come late.

Sorrow.

Upon my lips she laid her touch divine, And merry speech and careless laughter died; She fixed her melancholy eyes on mine, And would not be denied.

I saw the west wind loose his cloudlets white, In flock, careering through the Ayril sky; I could not sing, though joy was at its height, For she stood silent by.

I watched the lovely evening fade awayA mist was lightly drawn across the stars; She broke my quiet dream-I heard her say, "Behold your prison-bars!

Earth's gladness shall not satisfy your soulThis beauty of the world in which you live; The crowning grace that sanctifies the whole, That I alone can give."

I heard, and shrank away from her afraid; But still she help me and would still abide. Youth's bounding pulses slackened and obeyed, With slowly ebbing tide.

"Look thou beyond the evening sky," she said, "Beyong the changing splendors of the day; Accept the pain, the weariness, the dread, Accept, and bid me stay!"

I turned and clasped her close with sudden strength And slowly, sweetly I became aware Within my arms God's angel stood, at length, White-robed and calm and fair.

And now I look beyond the evening star, Beyond the changing splendors of the day, knowing th epain He sends more precious far, More beautiful, than they.

-Atlantic for May.

Matthew Henry says that "the woman was made of a rib out of the side of Adam; not made out of his head, to top him; not out of his feet, to be trampled upon by him; but out of his side, to be equal with him; under his arm, to be protected, and near his heart, to be beloved." T.J.S.

ADDRESS TO OLNEY GRANGE By Sarah B. Stabler Sandy Spring, MD., March 15, 1875

To the Editors of the American:

The inclosed address was written by a much respected member of the Society of Friends, now in her 74th year, and was printed by Olney Grange for the use of its members. Not being a member of the grange, but recognizing the excellent sentiments therin contained, I sent it to the widely read American for publication.

ADDRESS.

"What can we reason but from what we know?" - Pope.

What can we write, who stand without the pale, At the behest of those behind the veil? How shall we venture in the dark alone, And all unguided, groupe in paths unknown? Or shall we write with "if," as saving clause, and thus address you, after thoughtful pause? If ye assemble for the good of manAll human-kind, and not alone a clan; If ye remember those who pine in want, With life's most common comforts few and scant, If ye with loving hearts, visit the lone, And in their day's declining, cheer them on, If ye forgive the enemy who smites, Do good to him who has infringed your rights, Are lenient to small errors-cover still With Charity's fair mantle ever ill; If idle gossip whisper in your ear; And you have courage to refuse to hear, Or, if ye find harsh censure on your tongue, And check it, ere to wound, it forth hath sprung; If ye essay to heal with gentle power Wounds of the heart- our human nature's dower, And if ye unto fellow-men shall do Only what you would have them do to you, Then have you joined to do a sacred task, And wherefore brothers, do we year a mask? This is a simple query of the mindWe seek no answer; it would be unkind To judge that secret counsels ne'er are wise, E'en Heaven's blessings oft' come in disguise. Ye may have found some evil in our land Which, to remove, required a "master" hand; We nothing know-but bid you all good speed If ye brothers true, in word and deed. If those whom once as strangers you passed by Received the greeting of the friendly eye; If walls of prejudice before you fall, And you can give the friendly hand to all. Again, good speed! for what should men divide Whose veins are filled with the same purple tide? May that fraternal love, you cherish here Reach its full measure, in a higher sphere.

S. B. Stabler.

The Two Glasses

There sat two glasses filled to the brim, On a rich man's table, rim to rim, One was ruddy and red as blood, And one as clear as the crystal flood. Said the glass of wine to the pale brother: "Let us tell the tales of the past to each other; I can tell of banquet and revel and mirth, And the proudest and grandest souls on earth Fell under my touch as though struck by blight, Where I was king, for I ruled in might, From the heads of kings I have torn the crown, From the heights of fame I have hurled men down; I have blasted many an honored name; I have taken virtue and given shame; I have tempted the youth with a sip, a taste That has made his future a barren waste. Far greater than king am I, Or than any army beneath the sky. I have made an arm of the driver fail, And sent the train from the iron rail; I have made good ships go down at sea And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me; For they said, 'Behold how great you be ! Fame, strength, wealth, genius before you fall, For your might and power are over all.' Ho ! ho ! pale brother," laughed the wine, "Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?" Said the water glass; "I cannot boast Of a King dethroned or a murdered host, But I can tell of a heart once sad By my crystal drops made light and glad. Of thirsts I've quenched, of brows I've laved; Of hands I've cooled and souls I've saved; I have leaped through the valley, dashed down the mountain, Flowed in the river and played in the fountain, Slept in the sunshine and dropped from the sky; And everywhere gladdened the landscape and eye. I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain, I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain. I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill, That ground out the flour and turned at my will. I can tell of manhood, debased by you, That I lifted and crowned anew. I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid; I gladden the heart of man and maid ! I set the chained wine-captive free. And all are better for knowing me." These are the tales they told each other, The glass of wine and paler brother, As they sat together filled to the brim, On the rich man's table, rim to rim.

A CLOSED BOOK

BY MARGARET VELEY.

I read it long ago, and as I read, A world of wonder rose before my eyes And widened into vastness, dimly spread 'Neath solemn skies.

Beyond the page my emulous desire Divined the marvels of unwritten scenes-- I was ambitious, by the school-room fire, Just in my teens !

Now, though the book has faded out of mind, Though all that dreamy pageant I forget, Its shadow lingers, vast and undefined, And haunts me yet.

The far-off glory dies in pallid gleams-- Cannot a yearning sigh the flame restore? Cannot I read again, and dream those dreams Once more--Once more?

Never. The child has passed away, the book Is closed, and 'mid my childish memories laid, With all its magic in it. I would look, But am afraid.

Men do not name it 'mid immortal works, And laggard fame is slow to find it out. Perhaps. And yet within my soul there larks Something of doubt.

How if the visions whose dim figures thickened Round me, and thronged my yet [nnpeopied?] air-- How if the fear, whereat my pulses quickened, Should not be there?

How if the shadow, awful in its gloom, Were dwarfted and shriveled when the daylight dawned-- How if I smiled above the empty tombHow if I yawned?

How if I marveled at myself, and him I honored once? Surely the Past might rise In human shape, and look at me with dim, Reproachful eyes.

Because for his enchantment long ago I had no thanks to give in later days-- Oh, dreams that flickered in the firelight glow, Be his your praise !

He gave my fancy wings, and in its flight, No fault, no failure, could it stoop to note; Perhaps I read the book he meant to write, Not that he wrote.

Why should the knowledge that in awe began Be ended now in laughter barbed with pain? And why take back the faith that never can Be given again?

No, he shall keep it! Do not draw the curtain, Let my dim wonder be a wonder stillI will not read it-- I am almost certain I never will !

-Spectator.

Better Things.

Better the smell the violet cool, than sip the glowing wine; Better to hark a hidden brook, than watch a diamond shine.

Better the love of gentle heart, than beauty's favors proud; Better the rose's living speed, than roses in a crowd.

Better to love in loneliness, than to bask in love all day; Better the fountain in the heart, than the fountain by the way.

Better be fed by mother's hand, than eat alone at will; Better to trust in good, than say: "My goods my storehouse fill."

Better to be a little wise, than in knowledge to abound; Better to teach a child, then toil in perfection's round.

Better to sit at a master's feet, than thrill a listening State; Better to suspect that thou art proud, than be sure that thou art great.

Better to walk the real unseen, than watch the hour's event; Better the "Well done!" at the last, than the air with shouting rent.

Better to have a quiet grief, than a hurrying delight; Better the twilight of the dawn, than the noonday burning bright.

Better a death when work is done, than earth's most favored birth; Better a child in God's greatest house, than the kind of all the earth. George McDonald.

Beautiful Fancies.

"Whence come your beautiful fancies? From the earth or the heavens above?" "From neither !" the poet replied; "they stream From the eyes of the woman I love! They are far more thoughts in her sunny glance Than stars in the midnight skies!" "You're a fool!" said his friend. "Perhaps I am; Whats the good of being wise? I would not change this folly of mine, No, not for an empire's prize." Belgravia.

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Why Should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud?

Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud? Like a swift, fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, He passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, Be scattered around and together be laid; And the young and the old, and the low and the high Shall molder to dust and together shall lie.

The infant and mother attended and loved; The mother that infant's affection who proved; The husband that mother and infant who blessed, Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne; The brow of the priest that the miter hath worn; The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave, Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap: The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep; The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread, Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

So the multitude goes, like the flower or the weed That withers away to let others succeed; So the multitude comes, even those we behold, To repeat every tale that has often been told.

For we are the same our fathers have been; We see the same sights our fathers have seen; We drink the same streams and view the same sun, And run the same course our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think; From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink; To the life we are clinging they also would cling; But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing.

They loved, but the story we cannot unfold; They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold; They grieved, but no wail from their slumber will come; They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

They died, aye! they died; we things that are now, That walk on the turf that lies over their brow, And make in their dwellings a transient abode, Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, We mingle together in sunshine and rain; And the smile and the tear, the song and the dirge, Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath, From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud, Oh why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

William Knox.

Bliss's Last Hym.

[The last verses written by the Evangelist who perished at the Ashtabula bridge.]

I know not what awaits me, God kindly veils mine eyes; And o'er each step on my onward way He makes new scenes arise; And every joy He sends me comes A sweet and glad surprise.

CHORUS. Where He may lead I'll follow, My trust in Him repose; And every hour, in perfect peace, I'll sing "He knows, He knows."

One step I see before me; 'Tis all I need to see; The light of Heaven more brightly shines When earth's illusions flee, And sweetly through the silence came The loving "Follow Me."

O, blissful lack of wisdom, 'Tis blessed not to know; He holds me with His own right hand, And will not let me go, And lulls my troubled soul to rest In Him who loves me so.

So on I go, not knowing, I would not if I might; I'd rather walk in the dark with God Than go alone in the light! I'd rather walk by faith with Him Than go alone by sight.

A Dedication.

The sea gives her shells to the shingle, The earth gives her streams to the sea; They are many, but my gift is single, My verses, the first fruits of me. Let the wind take the green and the gray leaf, Case forth without fruit upon air; Take a rose-leaf and vine-leaf and bay-leaf Blown loose from the hair.

The night shakes them round me in legions, Dawn drives them before her like dreams; Time sheds them like snows on strange regions, Swept shoreward on infinite streams; Leaves pallid and sombre and ruddy, Dead fruits of the fugitive years: Some stained as with wine and made bloody, And some as with tears.

Algernon Charles Swinburne,

[Center Column]

THE HOUSE WHERE JOSEPHINE DIED

Reminiscences of a Lovely Home—How Josephine Caught Cold and Died.

The famous property of Malmaison, purchased by General Bonaparte in 1798 for the sum of 180,000 francs, and afterward the residence of the Empress Josephine, has been sold at auction by the French Government for $120,000. Thus, one by one, are the old historical chateaux falling under the acutioneer's hammer, or crumbling away in ruins. Chenonceaux, the favorite residence of Catherine de Medicis, is now owned by a Radical Deputy; Foequet's palace at Vaux is the property of a sugar-refiner; Luciennes, built for Mme. Dubarry, is in the hands of a manufacturer; the palace of Montomerency is owned by Victorien Sardou, a play-writer; a linen draper has bought Chamarande, a gift of Napoleon III. to the Duke of Persigny; others have changed hands, while Mendon, St. Cloud, and the Tuileries are heaps of ruins.

It was at Malmaison that Josephine spent the happiest and most sorrowful portions of her life. Her Thursday receptions are famous in the history of social events, and furnish us with a choice picture of delightful repose in the midst of busy, boisterous times. It was here that a small army of the elite endeavored by elegance of language, dress, and manners to stem the torrent of coarseness and violence then set loose by the Revolution. It was at the Malmaison that the eighteenth Brumaire was prepared. It was there, too, that LaMercier read his tragedy of "Charlemagne" to the First Consul, who wanted him to change the denoument so as to show the conquered nations coming to Charlemagne to offer him in great pomp the crown and empire of the East. The Consulate raised Malmaison to its highest splendor, but no sooner had Napoleon become Emperor than Josephine's modest chateau was abandoned for the palatial magnificence of St. Cloud. Subsequently Josephine was divorced, and then she returned to Malmaison. The allied sovereigns invited themselves to dine with her, and it was while showing the Emperor of Russia the grounds that she caught the cold which carried her to the grave three days later. After Waterloo, and just before going on board the Bellerophon, Napoleon paid a nocturnal visit to the tomb of his once loved Josephine.

Soon afterward the palace was bought by the banker Haguermann, and what remained of the property in 1842 was purchased by Queen Christina for $100,000. Napoleon III. repurchased it for $300,000, from whose possession it naturally fell into the hands of the nation. During the late war it was occupied by the Prussians, who carried off a greater part of the furniture, and spoiled a considerable portion of the rest. A billiard table, for instance, which was sold the other day for one hundred francs, had had the green baize stripped from it. The French declare that King William's soliders employed the material to make themselves cravats. By good fortune they left one more interesting piece of furniture—no less than the table in the library on which Napoleon was wont to lay out his military maps, and seated at which he may have planned more than one of those campaigns which changed the history of Europe. This relic the State has determined to keep. The remainder of the broken furniture— amounting to ten cartloads—was disposed of a few days ago, the whole fetching the modest sum of 1,800 francs. As has been stated, Napoleon, after Waterloo, revisited Malmaison. Till 1870 a small pedestal supporting an eagle marked that spot of the domain where the ex-Emperor's foot had rested last. The inscription it bore contained merely these words: "Dernier pas de Napoleon partant pour Rochefort, le 29 Juin, 1815, a quatre heures apres midi." Since the war nothing has been seen of the memorial, which is supposed to be now somewhere in Germany.

Vain Waiting

One waits and watches all his days away For what may never come. So looks alone Some man upon a desert island thrown For sails that pass not, till, too faint to pray, He folds his hands and waits the eventful day When death unintercepted claims his own, Bids hope lie down by fear, stills the long moan, And bids the weary feet no more to stray. None knew of the sad life and death, till, lo! Men voyaging from afar, by fierce winds driven, Cast anchor on that isle where, tempest-riven, They see a tree-built house, by which they know That one has lived and died there, hoped and striven. They shed their unavailing tears and go.

Philip B, Marston in Harpers,

[Right-most column]

THE AUTHOR OF "JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN."

Those who admire "John Halifax" and its companion novels will be interested in knowing that their authoress has quite a romantic history of her own. She was born at Stoke-upon-Trent, Staffordshire, in the year 1826, and was engaged to be married in her youth to a gentleman whose business made it necessary for him to leave England. On his return from the voyage they were to be united. All promised well, and when news came that the ship was returning in safety, with joyful heart Miss Mulock and her mother went to the wharf to welcome, as in "My Mother and I," the successful merchant. The vessel came into sight, and on the deck stood the young man, who appeared overjoyed to see awaiting him the beloved of his heart. They exchanged greetings, and mingling with the crowd, he hurried to be first to land; but as he was on the plank his foot slipped and he fell into the water and was drowned before her very eyes. For a long time Miss Mulock could not occupy herself with anything, but at last her friends induced her to write for consolation in her great sorrow, and she sent out "John Halifax," which established her reputation and abosrbed her thoughts. Time passed on, but she never swerved in her allegiance to her drowned love; but after years had elapsed there was a terrible railroad accident in her neighborhood, and she was active in ministering to the wounded, and one young man was brought to her house, and for months she nursed him, and he recovered, but lost one of his limbs, and also his heart to his kind friend. All his entreaties made no impression, as Miss Mulock said she should never marry; but he replied that if he waited ten years she should be his wife; so after a year she, in 1865, became Mrs. George Lillie Craik, and a happy wife she is, although twenty years older than her husband. They have no children of their own, but one morning Mrs. Craik was walking out, and found a little baby lying in the eroadside forsaken by its mother. A basket of linen was beside it which indicated that it was not of poor parentage. She stopped to look at it, and then began to long to have it for her own. She ran home to her husband and told him, and made him, though reluctantly, accompany her back to where it still lay smiling and crowing—and his heart was touched by the helpless little child, and he was as eager as his wife to take it. As foundling babies are not generally the most coveted of possessions, there was no opposition to their wishes, and they carried the wee daughter home and christened her Theodora. Mrs. Craik is devoted to her, and no party of pleasure is so delightful that she does not see her treasure safe in bed after saying her prayers before she goes, and she seems to think that in the crowd that surrounded the little stranger the mother was looking to see who would take her little one.

Mrs. Craik still preserves a quaint old-fashioned dress, with its body gathered at the shoulders to a point at the waist. When asked to sing she complies readily, and gives an old-time ballad, with a simple accompaniment. In 1864 the Queen bestowed on the gifted authoress a literary pension of sixty pounds per annum.

The Baby's Drawer.

There's a little drawer in my chamber Guarded with tenderest care, Where the dainty clothes are lying, That my darling shall never wear, And there, while the hours are waning, Till the house is all at rest, I sit and fancy a baby Close to my aching breast.

My darling's pretty, white garments! I wrought them, sitting apart, While his mystic life was throbbing Under my throbbing heart, And often my happy dreaming Breaks in a little song, Like the murmur of birds at brooding, When the days are warm and long,

I finished the dainty wardrobe, And the drawer was almost full With robes of finest muslin, And robes of the finest wool, I folded them all together, With a rose for every pair, Smiling and saying, "Gem fragrant, Fir for my prince to wear."

Ah, the radiant summer morning, So full of mother's joy! "Thank God, he is fair and perfect, My beautiful new-born boy." Let him wear the pretty, white garments I wrought while sitting apart; Lay him, so sweet and so helpless, Here, close to my throbbing heart.

Many and many an evening I sit, since my baby came, Saying, "What do the angels call him?" For he died without a name; Sit while the hours are waning, And the house is all at rest, And fancy a baby nestling Close to my aching breast.

Mrs. I. T. Bulls.

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ALICE CARY.

A LIFE PERFECTED.

BY HORACE GREELEY. {1820-1871}

Alice Cary is dead. To the great majority of readers, these words will not seem significant or impressive. For she whose slender bark has

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The Power of a Word.

Reader, did you ever think how much power is vested in a word? It may have caused but little exertion on your part to utter it. Only a single breath may have been required to waft it from your lips to the ears of your listener, but when once spoken it was past recall. It revealed the secret motives and brought to light the hidden thoughts of your heart. Ah! the word may have been a thoughtless one, spoken in an unguarded moment; but it left its impress, and may be remembered long after your voice is hushed, and you are sleeping the sleep that knows no waking.

Perhaps the word was an unkind one, harshly spoken, and accompanied by a cold, chilling look which cast a gloomy shadow o'er some loving, sensitive heart. Perhaps it was one of malice, envy, or deceit, and enkindled a bitter feeling of resentment which will live on and on while memory lasts; or it may have been a cheerful, pleasant, loving word, proceeding from a heart brimful of the purest kindness, which fell like the sweetest music on the listening ear, touching a hidden chord in the soul, which will ever respond in strains of love and harmony. Perchance it may have been a word of sympathy or encouragement, spoken in the tenderest accents, so that every word may have scattered the clouds, dispelled the gloom, and diffused sunshine into the heart well nigh crushed beneath its burden of woe.

Words may seem but little things to us, but they possess a power beyond calculation. They swiftly fly from us to others, and, though we scarcely give them a passing thought, their spirit lives. Though they are fleeting as the breath that bore them, their influence is as enduring as the heart they reach. Ah! well may we guard our lips so that none grieve in silence o'er words that we have carelessly dropped. Well may we strive to scatter loving, cheering, encouraging words to soothe the weary, and encourage the nobler, finer feeling of those with whom we daily come in contact. Well may we endeavor to use right words, for they are indeed precious. How they endear each to the other. Though they cost the speaker nothing, they are more valuable than diamonds, and shed a brighter luster on all around.

Three Kisses.

His first kiss fell upon my hair, and resting for a moment there, it glided down unto my brow, and lay there like a flake of snow; "I reverence thee," it seemed to say -- "I honor thee, and shall always." The next time that we chanced to meet, his lips so pure and wondrous cheek -- and to my soul it seemed to speak, in music tones: "let come what may, this friendship ne'er shall pass away." The third upon my lips was pressed, and oh! what comfort, peace and rest, it brought unto my wearied heart, could contain a better part -- for me, than what was breathed in this -- last clinging, sweet and rapturous kiss? A year rolled onward, and again -- I met this noblest, best of men -- and as his lips touched brow and cheek -- and quivering mouth, they seemed to speak--these words: "For all eternity--I'll honor love and cherish thee--my darling wife, that is to be."

Happiness between man and wife can only be secured by that constant tenderness and care of the parties for each other which are based upon warm and demonstrative love.

THOSE CARPETS.

A Horror of the Springtide.

The Utica Herald remarks that the annual ceremony of taking up, and whipping, and putting down carpets is almost upon us. It is one of the ills which flesh is heir to, and can not be avoided. You go home some pleasant spring day at peace with the world, and find the baby with a clean face and your favorite pudding for dinner. Then your wife tells you how much younger you are looking, and says she really hopes she can turn that walking-dress she wore last fall, and save the expense of a new suit, and then she asks you if you cant just help her about taking up the carpet. If you are a fool, and you generally are by that time, you tell her of course you can, just as well as not. Then she gets a saucer for the tacks and stands and holds it, and you get the claw, and get down on your knees and begin to help her. You feel quite economical about the first three tacks, and take them out carefully and put them in the saucer. Your wife is good about holding the saucer, and beguiles you with an interesting story about how your neighbor's little boy is not expected to live till morning.

Then you come to the tack with a crooked head, and you get the claw under it and the head comes off, and the leather comes off, and the carpet comes off, and as it won't do to leave the tack in the floor, because. it will tear the carpet when it is put down again, you go to work and skin your knuckle, and get a sliver under your thumbnail, and tell your wife to shut up about that everlasting boy, and make up your mind that it does not make any difference about that tack, and so you begin on the corner where the carpet is doubled two or three times, and has been nailed down with a shingle nail. You don't care a continental about saving the nail, because you find that it is not a good time for the practice of economy; but you do feel a little hurt when both clauses break off from the claw, and the nail does not budge a peg. Then your manhood asserts itself, and you rise in your might and throw the carpet claw at the dog, and get hold of the carpet with both hands, and the air is full of dust and flying tacks, and there is a fringe of carpet yarn all along by the mopboard, and the baby cries, and the cat goes anywhere, anywhere out of the world, and your wife says you ought to be ashamed of yourself to talk so--. but that carpet comes up.

Then you lift one side of the stove, and your wife tries to get the carpet from under it, but can't, because you are standing on it. So you try a new hold, and just after your back breaks the carpet is clear. You are not through yet. Your wife don't tell you any more little stories but she gets you old coat and hangs it on you, and smothers you with the carpet, and opens the back door and shoves you out and intimates that the carpets need whipping. When you hang the tormenting things across the clothes-line the wrong way, and get it righted, and have it slide off into the mud, and hang it up again, and get half a pint of dust and three broken tacks snapped out of the northwest corner into your mouth by the wind, you make some observation which you neglected to mention while in the house. Then you hunt up a stick and go for that carpet. The first blow hides the sun and all the fair face of Nature behind a cloud of dust, and right in the center of that cloud, with the wind square in your face, no matter how you stand, you wield that cudgel until both hands are blistered and the milk of human kindness curdles in your bosom.

You can whip the carpet a longer or shorter period, according to the size of your mad; it don't make any difference to the carpet, it is just as dusty and fuzzy, and generally disagreeable after you have whipped it two hours, as it was when you commenced. Then you bundle it up, with one corner dragging, and stumble into the house, and have more trouble with the stove, and fail to find any way of using the carpet-stretcher while you stand on the carpet, and fail to find any place to stand off from the carpet, and you get on your knees again, while your wife holds the saucer, and with blind confidence hands you broken tacks, crooked tacks, tacks with no points, tacks with no heads, tacks with no leathers, tacks with the biggest end at the point.

Finally the carpet is down, and the baby comes back, and the cat comes back, and the dog comes back, and your wife smiles sweetly, and says she is glad the job is off her mind. As it is too late to do anything else, you sit by the fire and smoke, with the inner consciousness that you are the meanest man in America. The next day you hear her wife tell a friend that she is so tired; she took up and put down that great heavy carpet yesterday.

GRAPES OF THORNS.

We must not hope to be mowers, And to gather the ripe gold ears, Until we have first been sowers, And watered the furrows with tears, It is not just as we take it This mystical world of ours: Life's field will yield, as we make it, A harvest of thorns or flowers!

ALICE CARY.

Study of Nature.

When Smeaton was in search of that form best fitted to resist the combined action of wind and waves, he found it in the trunk of the oak. When Watt was employed to conduct the supply of water across the Clyde to the city of Glasgow, he borrowed his admirable contrivance of a flexible water-main, from considering the flexibility of a lobster's tail; and so, when Mr. Brunell was engaged in superintending the construction of a tunnel under the Thames, it was from observing the head of an apparently insignificant insect that he derived his first conception of the ingenious shield, which he introduced in advance of the workmen, to protect them from being crushed by the falling in of the earth. It becomes us, then, while we trace the operations of human ingenuity in adapting means to its proposed ends, to raise our thoughts to that Divine Architect, who has imprinted traces of his widow and power on all his works, causing the heavens to declare his glory, and the earth, throughout all its domains of land, sea and air, to show forth his handiwork.

Inspirations.

By inspirations are meant all those interior attractions, motions, reproaches and remorse, lights, and conceptions, which God excites in us, pervading our hearts with His blessings, through His fatherly care and love, in order to awaken, stimulate, urge and attract us to the practice of every virtue, to heavenly love, to good resolutions; in a word, to everything that may help us on our way to eternal happiness. Now, though the inspiration should continue during our whole life, yet we could not render ourselves pleasing to God if we took no pleasure in it, and gave not consent to it. Resolve, then, to accept with cordiality all the inspirations it should please God to send you, and, when they come, receive them as ambassadors sent by the King of Heaven.

Old Letters.

Never burn kindly letters; it is pleasant to read them when the ink is brown, the paper yellow with age, and the hand that traced the friendly words is folded over the heart that prompted them under the green sod. Above all never burn love letters. To read them in after years is like a resurrection to one's youth. The elderly spinster finds, in the impassioned offer she foolishly rejected twenty years ago, a fountain of rejuvenescence. Glancing over it, she realizes that she was a belle and a beauty, and beholds her former self in a mirror much more congenial to her tastes than the one that confronts her in the dressing-room. The "widow indeed" derives a sweet and solemn consolation from the letters of the beloved one who has journeyed before her to the far-off land from which there comes no message, and where she hopes one day to join him. No photographs can so vividly recall to the memory of the mother the tenderness and devotion of the children who have left at the call of heaven, as the epistolary outpourings of their love. The letter of a true son or daughter to a t true mother is something better than an image of the features--it is a reflex of the writer's soul.

A RHYME OF LIFE.

Our life is but a winter's day; Some only breakfast and away; Others to dinner stay, and are full fed; The oldest man but sups and goes to bed! Large is his debt who lingers all the day, Who goes the soonest has the least to pay.