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

[left column] THE OLD THIEF OF TIME.

An Enemy That Lurks in Every Household. The Wasted Yesterdays.

There are few adages more well-worn than that "Procrastination is the thief of time." We all wrote it in our copy-books at school, and if we are not familiar with it it is not the fault of our teachers. Precept is one thing, practice is another, however; it is so easy to put off our work to-day, promising ourselves to make up by added diligence to-morrow. Sometimes, perhaps, we do so; oftener to-morrow comes laden with its own duties, and the double weight is too much for it to carry. Somebody is said once to have complained in the hearing of Red Jacket that he had not time enough for something. "Well," said the Indian chief, "I suppose you have all there is." How many people race through life trying forever to catch up with the work which, while they waited with folded hands, got hopelessly ahead of them. Doubtless there are those who can never do all they long to; flesh and blood are finite; but it never was, and never will be, any one's duty to do the impossible. To work steadily and faithfully, doing one thing at a time without hurrying, yet with dispatch, is the secret of the people who accomplish so much, who leave behind them the monument of a completed work. Such people have time also for healthful play, which is by no means idleness. Stay a while, "for rest is sweet," sings the syren, and meantime our place in the harvest-field is vacant, and when night comes the full number of our sheaves shall be lacking. They only enjoy rest who have earned it. The sweetest sleep is that of those who "rest from their labors, and their work do follow them." The hare, relying on her fleetness of foot, slept at her ease; while the tortoise, slow but persevering, crept on to the goal. And so it is not the brilliant geniuses - the pride of their colleges - and valedictorians of their classes who have won the great prizes in the world's arena, so much as the patient plodders who kept to their work through thick and thin until success was won by patient, persistent endeavor. It was not so much Grant's military genius as his dogged determination to "fight it out on this line if it takes all summer," which won him his name and fame. The genius of labor is the genius of life all the world over. It is not those who start fairest, but those who can "stay" best, who win the race, and when, as some times chances, to persistence of purpose is added talent, the world rises up to do honor to success. "Putting off" is the thief which robs us of our treasure, who steals away with the good we meant to do - who gathers to himself our wasted opportunities, and walketh away with all our pretty plans for tomorrow. To-morrow never comes. It is always a will-o'-the-wisp; we turn to grasp it and it changes into to-day, while we weep over wasted yesterdays. "Take this lesson to thy heart, Take, oh, take and bind it fast; The mill will never grind With the water that is past."

LIFE'S UNCERTAINTY. - When we walk near powerful machinery we know that one misstep and those mighty engines will tear us to ribbons with their flywheels, or grind us to powder in their ponderous jaws. So when we are thundering across the land in a railroad carriage and there is nothing but an inch of iron flange to hold us on the line. So when we are in a ship and there is nothing but the thickness of a plank between us and eternity. We imagine, then, that we see how close we are to the edge of the precipice. But we do not see it. Whether on the sea or on the land, the partition that divides us from eternity is something less than the oak plank or a half-inch iron flange, the machinery of life and death is within us. The tissues that hold the heating powers in their places are often not thicker than a sheet of paper, and if that thin partition is ruptured, it would be the same as if a cannon ball had struck us. Death is inseparably bound up with life in the very structure of our bodies. Struggle as we would to widen the space, no man can at any time go further from death than the thickness of a sheet of paper.

If we waited until it was perfectly convenient, half of the good actions of life would never be accomplished.

[middle column]

BLACK YER BOOTS?

Black yer boots, sir? shine 'em up! Do it for half a dime. Jest you lean agin' that wall And I'll fix 'em, less'n no time, No, I ain't werry old - Somewhere near about ten. Where do I live. Why, enywhereSleep jest where I kin. Father livin? Guess he is, Mother! No, she's gone; Never seen her - so I s'pose She died 'fore I was born. Friends? Why, what d'ye take me for? Friends is what yer said? Only rich folks has such things; I've no friends 'cept Ted. Ted? Why, that's him over there, A leanin on his crutch; That feller with his leg took off - He isn't good for much. Afore the doctors went for him He used to black boots tooThere wasn't a feller in this yer town Could beat him, I tell you; An' him an' me was allers chums, 'Cause I was small, yer see. But Ted was big, an' used to keep The boys from lickin' me; But when he got his leg smashed up He couldn't work, in course; And so things sorter changed around An' I became the boss. So now he only sup'intends; An' kinder takes his ease; I does the work, he takes the stamps - The other foot, sir, please - Yes, sometimes biz is putty slack, An things get sorter blue; It's awful hard, when stamps is skerse, To pick up grub for two; But Te l- he never minds such things, He says we needn't care How rough it is down here below - If we only git up there! Why, stranger you oughter hear him talk 'Bout things up in the sky; Where heaven an' the angels is, An' good folks never die. I wonder if them mission chaps Is tellin him what's true; I hope they ain't a foolin, him; He'd feel most awful blue If he found it only was a jibe - About this dyin' biz An' goin' up to Kingdom-come. Where they say his mother is; I'd like to know fust what is so; 'Cause, mister, don't you see, If all these things is really true, Why what 'ud come of me, If Ted should kick the bucket fust, An' double up some day; I couldn't find him when I died, Cause how'd I know the way? An' what d'ye think I'd do up there, A goin' it alone While Ted is off with the high-toned chaps A singin' round the Throne? No, sir! - it wouldn't be no fun - And I wouldn't give a red If I couldn't go where heaven is, Along with dear old Ted. There y'are, sir, neat an' trim; Come agin' some day, How much? Oh, give the stamps to Ted; He allers take the pay.

Live is made up of little things. He who travels over a continent must go step by step. He who writes a book must do it sentence by sentence; he who learns a science must master it fact by fact and principle after principle. What is the happiness of our life made upon? Little courtesies, little kindnesses, pleasant words, genial smiles, friendly letters, good wishes and good deeds. One in a million, once in a life time, may do a heroic action. But the little thing that makes up our life come every day and every hour.

[right column] A WOMAN'S ANSWER TO A MAN'S QUESTION

Do you know you have asked for the costliest thing Ever made by the hand above? A woman's heart and a woman's life - And a woman's wonderful love?

Do you know you have asked for this priceless thing As a child might ask for a toy? Demanding what others have died to win, With a reckless dash of a boy?

You have written my lesson of duty out - Man-like have you questioned me? Now stand at the bar of my woman's soul, Until I shall question thee.

You may require your mutton shall always be hot Your socks and your shirt be whole; I require your heart to be true as God's stars, And pure as his heaven your soul.

You require a cook for your mutton and beef, I require a far greater thing; A seamstress you're wanting for socks and for shirts I look for a man and a king.

A king for the beautiful realm called home, And a man that the maker, God, Shall look upon as he did on the first And say "It is very good."

I am fair and young, but the rose will fade From my soft young cheek one day - Will you love me then 'mid the falling leaves, As you did 'mong the bloom of May?

Is your heart an ocean so strong and deep I may launch my hall on its tide? a loving woman finds heaven or hell, On the day she is made a bride.

I require all things that are grand and true, All things that a man should be; If you will give this all, I would stake my life To be all you demand of me.

If you cannot be this - a laundress and cook You can hire and have little to pay; But a woman's heart and a woman's life, Are not won that way.

A Temperance "Toast" at Sea. The following graceful tribute to "woman" was de livered impromptu by Captain R. Kelso Carter, of Baltimore, on board the steamer Indiana, from Philadelphia for Liverpool, on the 26th ult., at the close of a debate on "Woman's Emancipation:"

Much has been said upon the subject of "Woman's Emancipation," but, after all, is she not emancipated already? The hand that rocks the cradle always sways the sceptre in fact if not in name. When the Spartan mothers trained their sons to steel, encouraged them in every sort of warlike pastime, and said to them, "Come not back from the battle except you come upon your shield," the nation became a nation of warriors, and the rod of empire was held by a military power that shook the world beneath its tread. But when the Christian mother of to-day teaches her boy to be kind, to be gentle and courteous, to be considerate of the feelings of others, restrains in him the natural uprising of the lex talionis, and inculcates the grand principle of doing unto others as you would have them do unto you, then, and not till then, we find men governing with some regard as least to the tenets of humanity and justice; then, and not till then, we find liberality, toleration and liberty. I would like to propose a toast to-night, although a total abstinence man myself - a toast to woman. To be drunk, not in liquor of any kind, for we should never pledge a woman in that which bring her husband reeling home to abuse where should love and cherish, sends her sons to a drunkard's grave, and her daughters to a life of shame. Oh, no! not in that, but rather in the life-giving water, pure as her chastity, clear as her intuitions, bright as her smile, sparkling as the laugher of her eyes, cheering as her consolation, strong and sustaining as her love - in the crystal water I would drink to her that she may remain queen regnant in the empire she has already won, grounded deep as the universe in love; built up and exercised in the homes and hearts of the world; I would drink to her the full blown flower of creation's morning, of which man was but the bud and blossom, to her who in childhood clasps our little hands and teaches us to lisp the first sweet prayer to the Great All-Father, who comes to us in youth with good counsel and advice, who in manhood meets our heart yearnings with the full faithfulness of conjugal love, and whose hand when our feet go down into the shadow smooths the rough pillow of death as none other can; to her who is the flower of flowers, the pearl of pearls, God's latest, best and brightest gift to man - woman, peerless, pure, sweet, royal woman.

VIRTUE. - Beauty is admired, talent adored, but [vir...] is a crown. With it the poor are rich; without it [...] rich are poor. It walks through life upright, and [n..] hides its head for high or low.

left column] GRAND ELOQUENCE. Bob Ingersoll's Apostrophe to the Boys in Blue

BOB INGERSOLL'S peroration on the Boys in Blue is likely to become classical. No utterance since LINCOLN's unsurpassed Gettysburg oration has taken such a firm hold upon the hearts of the people and it promises to live as long as history of the war for freedom and Union shall be read and remembered. Last night the celebrated elocutionist, MURDOCH, read it to a great audience in Pike's Opera House, Cincinnati. It is as follows "The past rises before me like a dream. Again we are in the great struggle for National Life. We hear the sounds of preparation - the music of the boisterous drums - the silver voices of heroic bugles. We see thousands of assemblages and hear the appeals of orators; we see the pale cheeks of women and the flushed faces of men ; and in those assemblages we see all the dead whose dust we have covered with flowers. We lose sight of them no more. We are with them when they enlist in the great army of freedom. We see them part from those they love. Some are walking for the last time in quiet woody places with the maidens they adore. We hear the whisperings and the sweet vows of eternal love as they lingeringly part forever. Others are bending over cradles, kissing babies that are asleep. Some are receiving the blessings of old men. Some are parting who hold them and press them to their hearts again and again, and say nothing; and some are talking with wives and endeavoring with brave words spoken in the olden tones, to drive from their hearts the awful fear. We see them part. We see the wife standing in the door, with the babe in her arms - standing in the sunlight sobbing - as the turn of the road a hand waves - she answers by holding high in her loving hands the child. He is gone, and forver.

"We see them all as they march proudly away under the flaunting flags, keeping time to the wild, grand music of war - marching down the streets of the great cities - through the towns and across the prairies - down the fields of glory, to do and die for the eternal right.

"We go with them one and all, We are by their side on all gory fields - in all the hospitals of pain - on all the weary marches. We stand guard with them in the wild storm and under the quiet stars. We are with them in ravines running with blood - in the furrows of old fields. We are with them betweens contending hosts, unable to move, wild with thirst, the life ebbing slowly away among the withered leaves. We see them pierced by balls and torn with shells in the trenches by forts, and in the whirlwind of the charge, where men become iron, with nerves of steel.

"We are with them in the prisons of hatred and famine; but human speech can never tell what they endured.

"We are at home when the news comes that they are dead. We see the maiden in the shadow of her first sorrow. We see the silvered head of the old man bowed with the last grief.

"The past rises before us and we see four millions of human beings govern ed by the lash: we see them bound hand and foot; we hear the strokes of

[2nd column] cruel whips; we see the hounds tracking women through tangled swamps; we see babes sold from the breasts of mothers. Cruelty unspeakable! Outrage infinite!

"Four million bodies in chains; four million souls in fetters. All are sacred relations of wife, mother, father and child trampled beneath the brutal feet of might. And all this was done under our own beautiful banner of the free.

"The past rises before us. We hear the roar and shriek of the bursting shell. The broken fetters fall. These heros died. We look. Instead of slaves we see men and women and children. The wand of progress touches the auction block, the slave pen, the whipping post, and we see homes and firesides, and school houses and books and where all was want and crime and cruelty and fetters, we see the faces of the free.

" These heroes are dead. They died for liberty; they died for us. They are at rest. They sleep in the land they made free, under the flag they rendered stainless, under the solemn pires, the sad hemlock, the tearful willows and the embracing vines, They sleep beneath the shadows of the clouds, careless alike of sunshine or of storm, each in the windowless palace of rest. Earth may run red with wars - they are at peace. In the midst of battle, in the roar of conflict they found the serenity of death. (A voice, 'Glory') I have one sentiment for the soldiers living and dead- cheers for the living and tears for the dead."

LITTLE BROWN HANDS.

They drive home the cows from the pasture, Up through the long shadowy lane, Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat field That is yellow with ripening grain; They find, in the thick waving grasses, Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows, They gather the earliest snow-drops, And the first crimson buds of the rose.

They toss the hay-in the meadow. They gather the elder bloom white, They find where the dusky grapes purple In the soft-tinted October light. They know where the apples hang ripest. And are sweeter than Italy's wines, They know where the fruit hangs the thickest, On the long thoring blackberry vines

They gather the delicate seaweeds, And build tiny castles of sand; They pick up the beautiful seashells-- Fairy barks that have drifted to land. They wave from the tall, rocking tree-tops Where the oriole's hammock nest swings And at night-time are folded in slumber By a song that a fond mother sings.

Those who toil bravely are strongest; The humble and poor become great; And from those brown-handed children Shall grow mighty rulers of state. The pen of the author and statesman, The noble and wise of the land The sword and chisel and pallets, Shall be held in the little brown hand

- Mary H. Krout.

HOW TO GROW BEAUTIFUL, - Persons may outgrow disease and become healthy by proper attention to the laws of their physical constitution. By moderate and daily exercise men become active and strong in limb and muscle. But to grow beautiful how? Age dims the lustre of the eye, and pales the roses on beauty's cheek; while crow's-feet and furrows and wrinkles and lost teeth and gray hairs and bald head and tottering limbs and limping most sadly mar the human form diine. But, dim as the eye is, pallid and sunken as may be the face of beauty, and frail and feeble that once strong, erect and manly body, an immortal soul, just fledging its wings for its home in heaven, may look out through those faded windows as beautiful as the dewdrop of summer's morning, as melting as the tears that glisten in affection's eye, by growing kindly, by cultivating sympathy with all human-kind, by cherishing forebearance toward the follies and foibles of our race, and feeding day by day on that love to God and man which lifts us from the brute and makes us akin to angels.

SLANDERS issuing from beautiful lips are like spiders crawling from the blushing heart of a rose.

[3rd column]

The Half-Knit Sock.

A mother sat by her sleeping child, Busily, cheerily knitting - Chanting a lullaby sweet and mild, Thinking - singing and knitting. For every stitch was a loving thought, In that little sock by the mother wrought.

The baby sleeps, and the mother dreams; Happy her dreams and sweet, While her fingers weave the stitches and seams For the darling's little feet. Slumber, little one - mother, dear, Waits and watches, is ever near.

Happy that mother, working and dreaming; Dreaming as mothers will - Love in the heart through her soft eyes gleaming, Knitting and knitting still. And she little thinks, while so peacefully sitting, That o'er her child an angel is flitting.

The baby moves and wakes once more - Opens her wondering eyes, Looks at the mother, as never before, Out of her violet eyes - Watches the fingers, and needles, and yarn, Weaving the sock, ah! ne'er to be worn.

She looks and listens, as if to say - "An angel waits and lingers;" Then catches the ball, as though in play, From the mother's busy fingers, The thread so frail has snapped in twain, Never to join the sock again.

So the thread of that little life so dear In the mother's heart interwoven, Has snapped with a touch, with one end here, The other safe in Heaven. Cord and cable it now will be, Drawing her heart, dear Saviour, to Thee.

The mother no more sits knitting and dreaming, Dreaming, as oft, before - For useless now is the knitting and seaming, Seaming as of yore. The half-knit sock with its broken thread, Emblem of all that she loved - now dead.

For closed now are the violet eyes - Closed, did I say? Ah, no! They opened that day in Paradise, For Jesus tells us so. "Oh such is the Kingdom of Heaven," said He; "Suffer the children to come unto Me."

LEAVES.

If this were all - The cradle couch, the coffin-pall, And then the end - as leaves to fall, The gain were small.

But dropping leaves Reveal the bud that's newly formed, That, by the autumn sunshine warmed, New strength receives.

The covering Drops off our soul, as the leaf doth, And shows the fruit-bud in its growth, Waiting for spring.

The autumn is The sister of spring, and clasps Her hand 'cross winter's chasm; grasps The coming bliss.

And so we lie, With souls that meditate upon The year to come, the year that's gone. And wait reply

To questions broad; While shadows of eternity Wave across our souls which see But dimly God.

The untranslate Within us stirs; but, strong and wise, God's hand lies heavy on our eyes; We feel it's weight.

And, powerless, We lie throughout the winter's cold. And hide our feelings manifold In lowliness.

Yet all is right - The tree that last year blossomed well, And bore of fruitage branches full, This year bears light.

And souls, as trees, Must have their rest, their winter-time, Hidden beneath its snow and rime As snows hide these.

When warm days come The buds stir 'neath their covering; Our thoughts awake; we dream of spring, And press for room.

It is difficult to conceive anything more beautiful than the reply given by one in affliction, when he was asked how he bore it so well. "It lightens the stroke," said he, "to draw near to him who handles the rod."

EVERY year of our lives we grow more convinced that it is the wisest and best to fix our attention on the beautiful and the good, and dwell as little as possible on the evil and the false.

MARRIAGE MEN and women, and especially young people, do not know that it takes years to marry completely two hearts, even of the most loving and well assorted; but nature allows no sudden change. We ascend very grandually from the cradel to the summit of life. Marriage is gradual-a fraction of us at a time. A happy wedlock is a long falling in love. I know young persons think love belongs only to the brown hair, and plump, round, crimson cheeks. So it does for its beginning. But the golden marriage is a part of love which the bridal day knows nothing of. Youth is the tassel and silken flower of love; age is the full corn, ripe and solid in the ear. Beautiful is the morning of love, with its prophetic crimson, violet, purple, and gold, with its hopes of the days that are to come. Beautiful also is the evening of love, with its glad remembrances, and its rainbow side turned towards heavan as well as earth. Young people marry their opposites in temper and general character, and such a marriage is commonly a good match. They do it instinctively. The young man does not say, "My black eyes require to be wed with blue, and my over-vehemence requires to be a little modified with somewhat of dulness and reserve." When these opposites come together to be wed, they do not know it; each thinks the other just like itself.

Old people never marry their opposites; they marry their similars and from calculation. Each of these two arrangements is very proper. In their long journey, these two young opposites will fall out by the way a great many times, and both get out of the road; but each will charm the other back again, and by and by they will be agreed as to the place they will go to and the road they will go by, and become reconcieled. The man will be nobler and larger for being associated with so much humanity unlike himself, and she will be a nobler woman for having manhood besides her that seeks to correct her definciencies and supply her with what she lacks, if the diversity be not too great, and there be real piety and love in their hearts to begin with. The old bridegroom, having a much shorter journey to make, must associate himself with one one like himself. A perfect and complete marriage is perhaps as rare as perfect personal beauty. Men and women ae married fractionally; now a small fraction, then a large fraction. Very few are married totally, and they only, I think, after some forty or fifty years of gradual approach and expiriment. Such a large and sweet fruit is a complete marriage that it needs a very long summer to ripen in, and then a long winter to mellowand season it! But a real, happy marrigae of love and judgment between a noble man and woman is one of the things so very handsome that, if the sun were, as the Greek poets fables, a god, he might stop the world in order to feast his eyes on such a spectacle.

A BEAUTIFUL SENTIMENT. --I confess that increasing years bring increasing respect for those who do not succeed in life, as these words are commonly used. Heaven is said to be a place for those who have not succeeded upon earth, and it is surely true that celestial graces do not best thrive and bloom in the hot blaze of wordly prosperity. Ill success sometimes rises from superabundance of qualities in themsleves good--from conscience too sensitive, a taste too fastidious, a self-forgetfulness too romantic, a modesty too retiring. I will not go so far as to say, with a living poet, that the world knows nothing of its greatest men, but there are forms of greatness, or at least excellence, that die and make no sign; there are heroes without the laurel, and conquerors without the triumph.

Rock Me to Sleep, Mother. By Mrs. Elizabeth Akers Backward, turn backward, oh, time in your flight, Make me a child again, just for to-night! Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your arms, as of yore; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep, Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.

Backward, flow backward, oh, tide of the years, I am so weary of toil and tears; Toil without recompense--tears all in vain; Take them--and give me my childhood again! I have grown weary of dust and decay, Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away, Weary of sowing for others to reap, Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, Mother, oh mother, my heart calls for you; Many a Summer, the grass has grown green, Blossomed and faded; our faces between. Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain, Long I to-night for your presence again; Come from the silence, so long and so deep, Rock me to sleep, mother rock me to sleep.

Over my heart in the days that are flown, No love like mother's love ever has shown, No other worship abides and endures, Faithful, unselfish and patient like yours. None like a mother can charm away pain, From the sick soul and the world weary brain; Slumber's soft calm o'er my heavy lids creep, Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. Come, let your brown hair, just lighten with gold, Fall on your shoulders again as of old; Let it drop over my forehead to-night Shading my faint eyes away from the light; For, with its sunny-edged shadows once more, Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore-- Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep! Rock to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep,

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long, Since I first listened to your lullaby song; Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem, Womanhood's years have been only a dream-- Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, With your light lashes just sweeping my face, Never hereafter to wake or to weep, Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.

A SWEET VOICE -- We agree with that old poet who said that a low, soft voice was an excellent thing in woman. Indeed, we feel inclined to go much further than he on the subject, and call it one of her crowning charms. How often the spell of beauty is rudely broken by coarse, loud talking. How often you are irrestibly drawn to a plain, unassuming woman, whose soft, silvery tones render her positively attractive. In the social circle how pleasant it is to hear a woman talk in the low key which characterizes the true lady. In the santuary of home how such a voice soothes the fretful child and cheers the weary husband.

SUBJECTS FOR THOUGHT. Never give up old friends for new ones. Make new ones if you like, and when you have learned that you can trust them, love them if you will, but remember the old ones still. Do not forget they have been merry with you in time of pleasure, and when sorrow came to you they sorrowed also. No matter if they have gone down in the social scale, and you up; no matter if poverty and misfortune have come to them, while prosperity and plenty have falle to you -- are they any the less true for that? Are not their hearts as warm and tender if they do beat beneath home-spun instead of velvet? Yes, kind friends, they are as true, and tender, and loving, and don't forget old friends.

A woman should never to consent to be married secretly. She should distrust a man who has any reason to shroud in darkness the act which in his own estimation should be the crowning glory of his life.

When a person feels disposed to over-estimate his own importance, let him remember that mankind got along very well before his birth, and that in all probability, they will get along very well after his death.

Gratitude is like the good faith of traders--it maintains commerce; and we often pay, not because it is just to discharge our debts, but that we may more readily find people to trust us.

An elevated purpose is a good and ennobling thing, but we cannot begin at the top of it. We must work up to it by the often difficult path of daily duty--of daily duty always carefully performed.

The law of the pleasure in having done anything for another is, that the one almost immediately forgets having given, and the other remembers eternally having received.

As long as we are living, God will give us living grace, till it's time to die. What's the use of trying to feel like dying when you a'n't dying, nor anywhere near it?

If you wish to live the life of a life and not of a fungus, be social, be brotherly, be charitable, be sympathetic, and labor earnestly for the good of your kind.

The true secret of living at peace with all the world is to have an humble opinion of ourselves.

Don't go to law unless you have nothing to lose; lawyers' houses are built on fools' heads.

Bible Terms. Readers of the Bible will be interested in the following expresssions frequently met with the holy scriptures. A day journey was 33 1-5 miles, A Sabbath-day's journey was about two-thirds of an English mile. Ezekiel's reed is said to have been nearly 11 feet long. A cubit is 22 inches nearly. A finger's breath is equal to one inch. A shekel is about 50 cents. A shekel of gold was $9 07. A talent of silver was $1,650 85. A talent of gold was $26,448. A piece of silver, or a penny, was 13 cents. A farthing was 3 cents. A gerah was 2 cents. A mite was one-half cent. A homer contained 75 gallons and 5 pints. An ephah, or bath, 7 gallons and 4 A hin was 1 gallon and 2 pints. A firkin was 7 pints. An omer 6 pints. A cab was 3 pints. A long was onehalf pint.

A Parting Word. My darling, when this head likes low in younder quiet woodland dell, And gentle wild-wood flowers shall blow Above the eyes that love them well-- How soon thy sorrow would depart If words of mine could soothe thy heart,

Sometimes, somewhere we'll meet again-- Think this, and be the thought relief: In life I have not brought thee pain, In death I must not bring thee grief. Strew well the flowers of hope my pall, And gently mourn or not at all. William Winter.

AN ANCIENT CITY.

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Built a Half Century Before the Landing of the Pilgrims.

[Special Correspondence of The American.]

ST. AUGUSTINE, FLA., September 10. ---- Coming to this ancient city from Jacksonville, I was glad to find it abandoned by tourists and the fashinable throngs of birds of passage who, in brilliant plumage, make the gray old town during the brief winter season ring with merriment and festivity. The sea wall is built of coquina, capped with slabs of granite, and extends from Fort Marion nearly a mile to the government barracks. What object the government could have had in making such an outly of capital and labor to improve a seaport which never has and probably never will be of any commercial importance is past finding out. No large steamers ever cross the bar, and only an occasional coasting schooner is seen in the harbor. Yet the sea wall is a good thing in its way, and is one of the principal for two to walk abreat, it is a favorite promenade during the winter evenings fot the thousands of fashionable pleasure seekers who for a brief season carry the town by storm. Even in summer occasional loiterers may be seen any moonlight night loiterers oft with swarthy cheecks and piercing black eyes- Minorcans, whose ancestors came from beyond the seas. In 1767 fifteen hundere Greeks, Italians, and Minorcans were brought over by a wealthy Scotchman, Dr. Turnbull, and were employed on his indigo plantations, near New Smyrna. Nine years after, their number bring reduced by sickness and hardships to about six hundred, they abandoned New Smyrna in a body and came to St. Augustine, where their descendants still live and form a very interesting part of the population. Some of the girls are quite pretty, but their beauty soon fades, and they become wrinkled and ugly at an age when American women are in their prime.

The streets are all very narrow, most of them being but twelve feet in width, the overhanging balconies nearly meeting in places, which was doubtless a great convenience to the old Spanish residents, who could chat and shake hands with their neighbors across the way, or stab them with equaly facility should circumstances justify such a proceeding. A hundred years or so ago horses or vehicles were not allowed inside the city gates. The gradens are well stocked with a great variety of tropical fruits, including lemons, limes, oranges, guavue, figs, bananas, olives, citrons and pomegranates. The date palm grows thriftily, but produces no fruit. Most of the public edifices and many of the private dwellings are built of coquina a unique conglomorate of fine shells and sand, found in large quantities on Anastasia island, at the entrance of the harbor.

The ancient fortress of San Marco (known since the change of flags as Fort Marion) deserves more than a passing notice. It was constructed by slave and convict labor, and was a hundred years in building. It was completed in 1756. Its castellated battlements, its formidable bastions, with their frowning guns; its lofty and imposing sally-port, surrounded by the royal Spanish arms; its moat, its draw-bridge, its commanding lookout tower, and its massive moss-grown walls, all protray its antiquity. Within its walls are gloomy vaults and dungeons. A subterranean passage is said to connect the fort with a neighboring covent. Ancient, partially dismantled, and for all purposes of defence abandoned forever, it still furnishes food for fancy and reflection.

A hundred years in building! How many hopeless captuves from across the sea grew gray in its constuction, and with dying eyes gazed upward at the massive, uninighed walls on which succeeding generations should toll and sicken and die as they had done? A hundred hopeless years dragged their slow length over the interless earth before the great work was finished. The architects who had devised its construction were dead; those who had laid its foundations were forgotten, and even the necessity for such an undertaking had well-nigh passed away ere the last stone was laid and the labor of a century completed.

Although at present but a show town and city of boarding-houses, St. Augustine has been the theatre of many important historical events, and the scene of numerous wars, sieges and massacres. Founded by the Spaniards in 1765, it was a place of note and importance when the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth, more than half a century afterwards. Its narrow streets were filled with life and acticity, and the population within the contines of its walls lived and died, and bought and sold, for two hundred years before the Declaration of Independence. The old cathedral, with its chime of rusty bells, and the plaza in which the remains of the spanish market-house are still to be seen, form interesting features of the quaint little city, and, taken as a whole, there is nothing to compare with it in the United States.

Rambler.

Rev. Charles Brooks, father of the State normal schools in America, was asked by a teacher this question: " What shall I teach my pupils?' He answered, Teach them thoroughly these five things: To live religiously; to think comprehensively; to reckon methematically; to converse fluently; and to write grammtically. If you successfully teach them these five things, you will nobly have done your duty to your pupils, to their parents, to your country, and to yourself.

THE CHRISTMAS BABY.

BY WILL CARLETON, AUTHOR OF "FARM BALLADS."

"Tha' rt welcome. little bonny bird, But shouldn't.'ha, come just when tha' did: Teimes are bad."

- Old English Ballad.

Hoot! ye little rascal! ye come it on me this way, Crowdin' yerself amongst us this blusterin' winter's day, Knowin' that we already have three of ye, 'an seven, An' tryin' to make yerself out a Christmas present 'o Heaven?

Ten of ye have we know, Sir, for this world to abuse; An' Bobbies he have no waistcoat, an' Nellie she have no shoes, An' Sammie he have no shirt, Sir (I tell it to his shame), An' the one that was just before ye we ain't had time to name!

An' all o' the banks be smashin', an' on us poor folk fall; An' Boss he whittles the wages when work's to be had at all; An' all of us wonders at mornin' as what we shall eat at night; An' but for your father an' Sandy a-findin' somewhat to do, An' but for the preacher's woman, who often helps us through, An' but for your poor dear mother a-doin' twice her part, Ye'd a seen us all in heaven afore ye was ready to start!

An' now ye have, ye rascal! so healthy an' fat an' sound, A-weighin' I'll wager a dollar, the full of a dozen pound! With yer mother's eyes a-flashin' yer father's flesh an' build, An' a good big mouth an' stomach all ready for to be filled!

No, no! don't cry, may baby! hush up, my pretty one! Don't get my chaff in your eye, boy - I only was just in fun. Ye'll like us when he know us, although we're cur'us folks; But we don't get much victual, an' half our livin' is jokes!

Why, boy, did ye take me in earnest? come, sit upon my knee: I'll tell ye a secret, youngster- I'll name ye after me. Ye shall have all yer brothers an' sisters with ye to play, An' ye shall have yer carriage an' ride out every day?

Why' boy, do ye think ye'll suffer? I'm gettin' a trifle old, But it'll be many years yet before I lose my hold; An' if I should fall on the road, boy, still, them's yer brothers, there, An, not a rogue of them would see ye harmed a hair!

Say! when you come from heaven, my little namesake dear, Did ye see, 'mongst the little girls there, a face like this one here? That was yer little sister- she died a year ago, An' all of us cried like babies when they laid her under the snow!

Hang it! if all the rich men I ever see or knew Came here with all their traps, boy an' offered 'em for you, I'd show 'em to the door, Sir, so quick they'd think it odd, Before I'd sell my Christmas gift from God!

God often afflicts his people to bring them nearer and keep them nearer to Himself, to make earth less attractive and heaven more desirable.

The Bride's Home-Coming.

We live in dead men's houses. -Hawthorne.

"Who planned that stone seat by the old mossed door, Facing the daisy-starred meadow?" "A head that was white as the winter hoar, When it went down the Valley of Shadow."

"Who planted yon rose tree, heavy with snow Of odorous bud and blossom?" "Fair hands that were folded long years ago Over a snow-cold bosom."

"Who trod in the path past the old oak tree, Down to the sweet-voiced river?" "Feet that now rest by the jasper sea, In the peace of God's Forever."

"Who drank at the bucket that hangs from yon sweep, Rusty and musty and broken?" "Lips that the rosed and the violets keep Locked in a dream unspoken."

"Who made the sweet song you are humming so low, With your eyes strayed down in the forest?" "One that was sepulchred ages ago, Singing out his heartache when sorest."

"Who fashioned the hearthstone, where, sitting tonight, We shall taste our love's ripened completeness?" "One whose long story of bale and of blight Would posion the new home's sweetness."

"Oh. my husband! I am too young, too young To dwell where such death-damp fingers!" "Darling, all chambers of life are hung With tapestry wrought by dead fingers."

"We tread in the path of by-gone years, "Mid ghosts of the dead generations; Life is sweet with their songs and salt with their tears, And rich with their souls' libations.

"But love, sweetest wife, is evermore new! A child to the Greeks, 'mid immortals, A child is he still and forever! With you He enters to-day through these portals.

"He enters to-day, and he goes out no more Till we through the gloom and the glory Pass on to the realms of the 'gone before,' And tell them our own sweet story."

New York Sun.

WHY MEN NEED WIVES. --- It is not to sweep the house, makes the bed, darn the socks and cook the meals, that the man chiefly wants a wife. If this is all he needs servants can do it more cheaply than a wife. If this is all, when a young man calls to see a lady send him into the pantry to taste the bread and cakes she has made, send him to inspect the needle-work and bad-making, or put a broom into her hands and send him to witness its use. Such things are important, and the wise young man will look after them. But what the true man wants is a wife's companionship, sympathy, and love. A man is sometimes overtaken by misfortunes, he meets failures and defeat, trials and temptations beset him; and he needs some one to stand by him and sympathise. All through life, through storm and sunshine, through conflict and victory, through adverse and favoring winds, man needs a woman's love. His heart yearns for it. A sister or a mother's love will hardly supply the need.

We never know wot's hidden in each other's hearts; and if we had glass winders there we'd need to keep the shetters up some on us."

Martin Cbuzzlewit

Tennyson's Fair Women. The beauty of woman has ever been a favorite theme in literatue of all countries; the glowing descriptions of Indian and Persian writers, the luxurient images of Greek and Latin Poets, the passionate lays of Troubadours, Trouveres and Minnesingers, have charmed the human race in every age of the world's history. Nor has out own literature been deficient in poets who have worships at the shrine of beauty as embodied in woman. From Chaucer to Tennyson, onelong harmonious anthem hasbeen sung in honor of those who have been supreme in beauty, and who, for this cause, will be remembered as long as the sweet music of poetry is heard throughout the earth.

Chancer's "Legende of Goode Women" was written between the years 1380 and 1390, and its tender melody coming down through the ages inspired Tennyson to pay graceful homage to the sex in his "Dream of Fair Women."--The poet represents himself as having fallen asleep after reading the "Legende;" but his slumber is troubled by a vision in which the heroines of all times pass before his view. Let us observe these most beautiful apparitions as they go by, and find, if we can, their originals. The dreamer has wandered far in a noldwood, where no birds sang, no breezes stirred the leaves and where the pleasant sound of flowing waters was not heard. At length he sees a lady standing in his silent and mysterious place.

"A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, and most divinely fair. "

Surprised by her appearance and her beauty, he remains speechless, while she turning toward him, say: "I had great beauty:ask thou not my name. No one can be more wise than destiny. Many drew swords and died. Where'er I came I brought calamity." Gallantly he makes answer: "No marvel, sovereign lady: in fair field Myself for such a face has boldly died," and turning, he appeals as if for confirmation of his boast, to one who stood near. But she, with scornful look and haughty mien, replies: "My youth was blasted with a curse: This woman was the cause. "I was cut off from hope in that sad place, which yet to name my spirit loathes and fears: my father held his hand upon his face; I, blinded with my tears, "Still strove to speak: my voice was thick with sighs As in a dream. Dimly I could descry The stern, black-bearded kings with wolfish eyes, Waiting to see me die.

"The high masts flicker'd as they lay afloat; The crouds, the temples, waver'd, and the shore; The bright death quiver'd at the victim's throat; Touched: and I knew no more."

It is evident that the fates of these two women have been in some manner connected, and that dreadful calamities have befallen one of them, for which the other is responsible. But who is this fair one who is thus charged with blasting the youth of, and causing such agony to, her

neighbor in this quiet old forest? She is Helen the Beautiful, and her neighbor is Iphigeneia, the daughter of Agamemnon, King of Mycenae.

Helen the wife of Menelaus, King of Sparta, was carried off to Troy by Paris, during her husband's absence. The most eminent kings and princes of Greece banded themselves together for her rescue. Agamemnon, the brother of Menelaus, was chosen leader, and after two years of preperation the army and fleet assembled at Aulis. But when all things were ready for their departure a calm fell upon the waters. They consulted the oracle, and were informed that Agamemnon had killed one of her stags, and was only to be appeased by the sacrifice of Iphigeneia, his daughter. The father hesitated long between love for his daughter and love of his country, but urged on by his companions he gave his consent to the sacrifice. Iphigeneia was sent for on the pretext of being married to Achilles. When she arrived and learned of the deceptionthat had been practiced upon her, she saw the preparations for her death, she besaught her father to save her, but in vain. "The stern, black-bearded kings" assembled to witness the offering, and the priest, with knife in hand, was about to strike the fatal blow, when Artemis, relenting, carried her away, and a large stag was found in her place. At this moment the wind freshened and the fleet sailed for Troy. Ten long years were consumed in its overthrow, and Helen was restored to her husband. After his death she is said to have been hung by Polyxo, Queen of Rhodes, in revenge for her husband, who was killed in the war.

"Where'er I came I brought calamity"

No truer words did she ever speak; let them be her epitaph. It is no wonder that Iphigeneia, compelled by some perverse fate to meet the cause of all her woes in this place, should scorn her from her inmost soul. Helen quails before her and sadly replies,

"I would the white, cold, heavy-plunging foam, Whirl'd by the wind, had roll'd me deep below, Then when I left my home"

Our dreamer, still meditationg on this interview, is startled by some one imperiously bidding him come to her.Turning in the direction of the voice he sees "a queen whith swarthy cheeks and bold black eyes," who proves to be Cleopatra. She regrets that she has no men to govern in the wood, asks where Mark Antony is, and sighsfor her former life in Egypt. Opening her robe and pointing to the spot where the asp had stung her, she exultingly exclaims:

"I died a queen. The Roman soldier found me lying dead, my crown about my brows, A name forever! lying robed and crown'd Worthy a Roman spouse."

Fascinated by her beauty and charmed by her voice, he remains silent, but is at length aroused by

"A noise of some one coming thro' the lawn And singing clearer than the crested bird That claps his wings at dawn."

This singer is the daughter of Jephthah, the Gileadite, who, on going to fight. the Ammonites, vowed that if God would deliver them into his hands he would offer to Him as a sacrifice whatever first

came from the doors of his house to meet him on his return. God heard his vow and answered his prayer. When he was returning in triumph, and as he drew near to his house, his daughter his only child- came forth to meet him "with timbrel song." The agonized father rent his clothes and told her of his vow. Unlike Iphigeneia at Aulis, she showed no tears, she made no frantic appeals for her life, but dutifully, willingly and heroically she offered herself to satisfy the vow. The question as to whether Jephthah actully offered his daughter as a sacrifice to God, or whether he only consecrated her entire life in perpetual virginity to His service, has no place here; the words of the poem, however favor the former supposition. Sweetly singing, she passes on her way through the wood and leaves the dreamer standing pensively near the Egyptian queen.

"Alas! alas!" a low voice murmured, "Turn and look at me." It is Rosamond the Fair who speaks. She was the daughter of Walter, Lord Clifford, and became the favorite of King Henry II. of England, who kept her at Woodstock, where he frequently visited her. His queen, Eleanor, is said to have discovered this amour and compelled the unfortunate Rosamond to poison herself. Cleopatra, scornfully turning her lustrous eyes upon this unhappy one, said

"Oh, you tamely died! You should have clung to Fulvia's waist, and Thrust the dagger thro' her side."

Notice here the connection in which Fulvia is brought upon the scene. She was the wife of Mark Antony, and Cleopatra, supposing Rosamond's case to be her own, means that she would have slain Eleanor before yielding to her, just as hse would have murdered Fulvia, had she interfered between Mark Antony and herself. But darkness was fading rapidly away, and morn has broadened in the eastern sky ere the poet saw her-

"WHo clasped in her last trance Her murdered father's head."

"Or her who knew that Love can vanquish Death, Who, kneeling, with one arm about her king Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath, Sweet as new buds in spring."

These two beautiful examples of woman's love belong to English history.- The first is Mrs.Margaret Roper, the eldest daughter of SIr Thomas More, who was beheaded by order of Henry VIII. in 1535. In conformity with the sentence, his head was exposed for fourteen days on London bridge and was then about to be thrown into the Thames when Mrs. Roper purchased it and kept it in a leaden box until her death, nine years later, and was burried with it in her arms. Truely a noble example of filial affection.

The seconed, she "who knew that Love can vanquish Death," is Eleanor, Queen of Edward I., who, when her husband was wounded in Palestine by a poisoned arrow, saved his life by sucking the poison from the wound, regardless of all considerations of personal saftey. At least, such is the story told of her. Another version of it is, that Edward was wounded by a poisoned dagger in the hands of an assassin who, on the pretense of delivering imprtant letters, gained admittance to his chamber and stabbed him as he was looking over