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D o r t r n.
From Sartain's Magazine for April.
Sunil of tbe Desert tn an Hour Glass.
BY HF.NRR W. LONG F KLLO W.
A handful of red sand, from the hot clime
Os Arab deserts brought,
Within this glass becomes the spy of Time,
The minister of Thought.
How many weary centuries has it been
About those deserts blown ?
Glow many strange vicissitudes has seen,
I How many histories known ?
perhaps the camels of the Islnnuelite
& Trampled and passed it o'er,
j'When into Egypt, from the patriarch’s sight
m His favorite son they bore.
wVrliaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare,
■ Crushed it beneath their tread ;
tur Pharoah's flashing wheels into the air
I Scattered it as they sped.
br Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth
■ Held dose in her caress,
MVliote pilgrimage of hope and love and faith
K Illumed the wilderness.
lit anchorites beneath Kngaddi’s palms
II Pacing the Red Sea beach,
»nd singing slow their old Armenian psalms
i In half-articulate speech.
|jbr caravans, that from Bassora's gate
With westward steps depart;
Or pilgrims, confident of Fate,
And resolute in heart !
There have passed over it, or may have passed !
Now in this crystal tower
mprisoned by some curious hand at last,
It counts the passing hour.
And as I gaze, these narrow walls uxpand ;
Before my dreamy eye
stretches the desert with its shifting sand,
Its unimpeded sky.
And borne aloft by the sustaining blast,
[This little golden thread,
wilates into a column high and vast,
■ A form of fear and dread.
jW"* on ward, and across the setting sun,
|M“ cr " ss the boundless plain,
jHB" column and its broader shadow run,
jjjjf ll ' l ' lou ght pursues in vain.
p«'vision vanishes ! These walls again
Bltut out the lu r i d sun,
t , l ‘ C hot ’ •■"measurable plain ;
Jpe half-hour's gl asg is run!
AMBITION.
J 1 ,l ,s no ‘ hard to rise
To brilliant destinies
" "ill bang upon the breath of power,
9H " C!, tch from it a tone,
And leaning not their own,
jP rea tures of another’s prosperous hour.
w * n ambition’s goal,
*k . , P"Fe, unbartered soul,
Sj * J,° e stren gth which loftiest hearts desire
"thinks’ were easier far
H • T ° °’ er,!,kc ‘he falling star,
S 3 from wak <Tul heaven Promethean fire.
THE SOUTHERN MUSEUM.
BY WM. B. HARRISON.
From Godey’s Ijidy's Book for April.
FALLING IN LOVE.
A Handle of otber People's Experiences.
BY GRACE GRF.ESWOOD.
Edward Morton, an eminent young law
yer of Boston, was one day riding in great
haste out of the city to execute some im
portant papers fra country client, when
he met a cart heavy loaded with furniture
of a rich description. As this passed him,
his eye fell on a picture in an elegant
frame, from which the cauvass covering
had fallen. It was placed high in the fat
ther end of the cart, and ihus perfectly ex
posed to his gaze- his admiring gaze, for
it was the potrait of a surpassingly beau
tiful woman. Morton had never seen such
eyes, such lips, such ha r, such a neck,
such arms—in short, such a face and fig
ure— and his susceptible heart glowed and
palpitated witli an admiration which was
already half love. He checked his horse,
and looking backwa and, gazed and gazei
till he could no longer distinguish a feature
of the potrait, and then wheeled and gal
loped after it. Through street afterstreet,
he followed that sluggish vehicle, vainly
hoping to see it pause at its final destina
tion, till suddenly the throught of his im
portant engagement brought him to a dead
ha t. VY ith one last lingering look at
“ that adorable face,” as he mental y called
it, he turned his horse’s head and rode
tapidly away. As lie galloped along, he
began to think on the name which he had
observed written on some of the boxes
contained in the cart, which was simply
T. Williams.'' He soon remembeied
that he once became quite intimately ac
quainted with one Tom Williams, an open
hearted, joyous, regular “ fine fellow,”
while on a voyage to Cuba some years be
fore, for the benefit of his health, when
Tom had gone out on business for a house
in New Bedford. There was a hare pos
sibility that this was the identical Tom—
he would see.
A few days subsequently, Morton ad
dressed a note his friend, saying that he
had heard ( ! ) that he was in the city,
asking where he might be found, and
stating his affectionate wish to renew, if
perfectly agreeable to him, the pleasant
old ship-board friendship. The next day,
sure enough, brought a rep y from the
Tom—a long, hearty, gossiping letter, in
which he informed Morton that he had
married “ a glorious little woman,’ and
having come into possession of a large
property, had concluded to bring his “ Pe
nates, his wife and wife’s sister, to Bos
ton, take up his abode in street, and
enjoy life.” fie closed with a very warm
invitation to his friend to come and see
them all, as soon as he felt a real impulse
to do a fellow creature a kindness.
The morning that Morton called on his
friend, he spent an unconscionably long
time at his toi’et. This was quite inex
cusable in him,though he was wild enough
to hope to behold the original of the por
trait, and to hope that it was not Mrs. Wil
liams, for he was really so handsome a
man as to requite mu h less than others I
have known die foreign aid of dress. But
some men are not content to be killing—
they would discharge a revolver at he
heart-feminine and fairly riddle their mark.
Morton was received in a handsome
parlor by his friend Tom, who met him
with the liveliest expressions of pleasure.
He regretted, he said, that Mrs. Williams
was absent “ on the grand tour of the
shops ; but,” he continued, “ her sister,
Miss Ford, is at h >me, and you shall see
her; she’s a splendid girl,” and saying
this he darted off to summon her.
As ho left the room, Morton looked
around him with a searching glance ; pic
tures enough met his eager gaze, but not
that one. He rose and passed through
the folding-doors into the oposite parlor,
and there, just over the piano, it hung !
With a low exclamation of delight, Mor
ton paused before it and stood with folded
arms, gazing upon its marvelous beauiy
with ail his soul in his eyes.
“ Who is she I—the wife ? Heaven
forbid! The sister ? No, no; Tom’s a
lucky dog, and it must be the wife. Per
haps a mere fancy picture. Pshaw !”
Absorbed in these conflicting conjec
tures. our hero did not hear steps ap
proaching over the thick, Wilton cat pet,
and started and whirled suddenly as Wil-
Hams, calling his name, begged to present
him to Miss Ford.
The original of the portrait stood be
fore him 1
She stood before him lovelier, if possi
ble, than her pictured semblance.
*******
Three months had passed away, and it
was a tranquil midsummer night, when
moonlight and stailight lit up the ocean
and slept on the shore. A brave cavalier
and a fair maiden—to be_ more plain, Mr.
Edward Morton and Miss Ellen Ford
were riding together on the “ long beach”
at Nahant. He was then telling her, for
the first time, the rather ludicrous story of
his first meeting with her portrait, and she
was laughing merrily at the recital. Yet
there yvere tears on her cheek—you might
see them glistening in the moonlight!
Whence these sprang I cannot divine,
though surely he had been telling her
another story before this: but he had told
that very indifferently, with none of his
usual ease of manner and elegance of dic
tion. He had colored and stammered as
his heart came blundering out, without
the slightest assistance from his head ; and
she had evidently pitied bis strange cm
barrassment for once she impulsively
s'retched out Vter hand and placed it his,
which was very kind and encouraging.cer
tainly.
*******
I received the above little history from
my friend Morton’s own lips, during a re
cent visit to his cha ming home. Wha*
led to the subject was this : Ellen, now a
matron of thirty five, with her beauty and
youthful spirit in fine preservation, had
just beeu re-furnishing her parlors very
elegantly and fashionably, and was endeav
oring to gain her husband’s consent to the
banishment of her now antiquated por
trait from its conspicuous place over the
piano.
We were all seated on the rose-shaded
portico one summer evening, when she
began—
“ Now, Edward, do he reasonable, and
let me have that picture moved up stairs.
H. w horribly ugly and old-fashioned ihe
dress is—that short waist and those enoi -
mous sleeves !”
“la ways liked that style of sleeves,”
rejoined Morton ; “it has a rich appear
ance.”
“ Pshaw ! where is your artistic taste ?
How would it look in sculpture, now ?”
“ But, Ellen dear,” replied Edward,
making a wry face in spite of himself at
the thought of “ balloon sleeves” in mar
ble, “ had it not been for that pic ure 1
should never have seen you.''
“Ah, I know that all too well,” she re
joined, with a saucy toss of the head.
“ I declare, Nell,” replied Edward,
laughingly, “ I believe you are jealous of
that picture, for you know that it is a devil
ish sight handsomer than ”
A spring forward from Ellen—a cry of
“ You impudent old fellow !” and a
clutch at the still luxuriant curls of Ed
ward ; a quick dodging on bis part, and a
rushing down the steps; then a racing and
chasing of both through the garden, fol
lowed by the little ones ; much laughter
aim loss in oreatii on ai! sides—and “ now
my story’s done.”
Albert Morris was a young Philadel
phian of family, wealth, fine talent, con
siderable beauty, and, mirablc dictu ! with
all these, an honest, feeling heart, acute
sensibility, and pure, correct moral prin
ciples.
It chanced that one sunny afternoon in
October, this unexceptionable young hero
of ours was sauntering down Chesnut
Street, in a listless, or rather unhappy
mood, his brows .lowering and his eyes
glancing about with a look of restless dis
content. He had hut lately returned from
a long summer tour, somewhat overwea
ried with pleasure and excitement, and
with the querulous qui bono of satiety upon
his lips ; hut he had come home to a plea
sent family circle wherein he had once
found his greatest happiness. Ah, l may
as well tell the secret of his heart, though
he at that time had never to and it—there
was one who had not returned from her
summer-journeying to he city home, one
whose society he missed there', though the
loss had net pressed heavily upon his spir
itt elsewhere. Now to walk alone where
he had often walked with her, or to visit
those places of amusement whither he had
been wont to accompany her. filled him
with feelings of unrest and loneliness abso
lutely oppressive.
Hr began t** perceive that if not actually
in love, he was on the dreamy confin sos
that enchanted realm, taking in the first
intoxicating breathings of its delicious at
mosphere. He felt that there was a young
plant hid far down in bis heart, nourished
long by the rich poetry and the pure
dew of romance, winch needed but to have
the clear sunlight of sympathy let in upon
it to take a deep, warm color, and expand
into a gracious flower.
Morris had first met Miss Atwood at a
brilliant party given in her honor on her
return from Europe, where she had spent
nearly two years; and he was first delight
ed to find tli3t, unlike most young tourists,
she could converse without letting her
sentences of good, hearty English, become
disjointed by German, go off in nervous
spasms of French or faint away into Italian.
She did not talk like a guidebook of
The Venus, Vatican, old Virgil's tomb;
The Corso, Carnival, St. Peter’s dome ;
The Pantheon and the Coliseum,
Grim with wray ruin’s vestigeum ;
Ve nice, Vesuvius, Valatnbrosa,
Mont Blanc, Mont Etna, and Mont Rosa,
And the JEgwum Marc ;
The “lordly Rhino’’ and “ rrowy Rhone,”
Brussels, Bordeaux, Bavonne, Boulogne ;
A trip from Frankfort to Cologne,
And “ dear, delightful Paris !” '
Miss Atwood was an undeniable beauty,
and a belle of much celebrity. Her taste
in dress was exquisite, though rather on
the magnificent order. She had many
accomplishments, a keen wit, and some
genius ; so it is little wonder that, as far
as she had revealed herself, she had been
enchanting to the poetical and somewhat
impressible Albert Morris. It was Spring
when they first met, and before their both
leaving the city for the Summer, dreams,
wondrous pleasant, in which the peerless
belle always appeared, became perilously
frequent with him ; and in the day-time I
am not sure hut that he thought of her
even oftener than on his beloved sister,
once his daily companion, but now mar
ried to an army officer, and immured in a
fort on the frontier, where alone grand
MACON, APBIL 21, 1949.
scenery, a select library, a fine hand, a
charming husband and a cherub child pres
erved her from dying of ennui.
And Miss Atwood I Why, she smiled
sweetly ou all be said or did, and bent
herself toward him slightly, very slightly
from the pedestal of her pride. YViih a
most comfortable faith in her own irresisti
bleness, she evidently considered the heart
of every man she rriotas a kind of fruit,
very ipe and very soft, and only waiting
the least possible shake on her part to fall
into her hand or at her feet.
But let us re urn to that walk of our
hero’s down Chesnut Street.
Suddenly he gave an eager look forwatd,
his eye brightened, his cheek flushed, and
his step quickened ! Surely he could not
mistake that f rra, that gait, that air—no,
it was Clara Atwood ! She did not see
him, or seemed not to mark him till they
were almost face to face. Then she
smiled, blushed, and paused a moment,
as Morris, lifting his hat, inquired, with a
joyful air when she arrived in town.
“ Only last night,” she replied ; and af
ter a few words more passed on.
Morris, his heart filled with indescriba
ble emotion, involuntarily turned his head
to look after her. As he did so, lie re
marked that as she swept along with her
half nonchalant, lialf-hauglvy gait, the
fringe of her rich mantilla caught on the
edge of a basket, borne by a poor old wo
man, who was hobbling along with a crutch.
The basket was filled and piled up with
fine large oranges, and as Miss Atwood
gave an impatient pull to extricate the
fringe, she half upset this baskel—pur
posely, it was evident—and out rolled a
golden shower of oranges. With no ex
pression of regret, hut with a frown like
midnight, an Ia cool “ You should keep
out ofthe way !” she passed majestically
on and entered Levy’s inviting doors.
Theold woman stood the image ofdispair;
a poor, feeble cripple, jostled by the fash
ionable throng, she could not help herself
iii tliis sau extremity. Sul prised, indig
nant, and shocked beyond expression, Mor
ris, with one of his quick, humane impul
ses, turned back to assist her ; but he was
too late, for a slight graceful figuresprautr
forward, and two dear little wlrte-gloved
hands began picking up the oranges and
replacing them in the basket ofthe gra’e
ful old datne, and a sweet, kind voice said,
“ Oh, do not thank me; it is nothing?”
and then Morris caught a glimps of a fair
young face—not a beautiful face, but one
fresh and sunny, and wearing an expres
sion pure and noble,and good withal. He
saw large brown eyes, filled with soul, and
warm red lips, iremulous with feeling, and
a dear, broad brow, stamped with intellect
over which waved hair of a dark richshade.
All these he saw underneath a little cot
tage bonnet, of white silk, unadorned by
ribbon, lace, or flowers, for the young
being before him was that sweetest of im
aginable creatures, a pretty Philadelphia
Quakeress.
At that moment the soulless statue Al
bert had half-deified by his admiring hom
age, fell from its pedestal, and a fair idea
f womanly loveliness, sanctified by good
ness, mounted triumphantly to its place.
Do not condemn ray hero when I say
he followed at a respectful distance be
hind the young Quakeress as she walked
up Chesnut street, then turned and passed
up Seventh to Arch, and up Arch almost
to Broad Finally she ran lightly up some
dazzling white marble steps, and entered
a plain hut elegant-looking mansion. As
Morris passed lie glanced atthe door-plate,
it bore his own name, and wi h a feeling
half pleasure, half pain, he recollected
that here resided a distant relative of his
father’s. There had once been some dif
ferences between the families, and all in
tercourse had been long since suspended.
As might have been anticipated, Mr.
Albert Morris suddenly bocame an active
peace maker. Such cold feelings of es
trangement between those connected by
ihe ties of kindred, was unnatural, un
christian, and ought no longer to exist!
Thus he argued until his mother ( now a
widow ) and his nice obliging sisters set
forth on a visit of conciliation, or rather
reconciliation. This was perfectly success
ful, and soon the long frozen tide of social
intercourse flowed again sunny and swift.
Oh, such times as the two families had
together ! Such morning walks and rides,
and then such sociable evening gatherings
for all sorts of innocent and sensible en
joyment —indeed, it was all pleasanter and
better, and more deligthed every way than
l can tell.
I surely need not say how glad xvas
Albert in his heart when he listened daily
to the praises of “ dear, gifted Cousin
Annie,” f.om his affectionate sisters and
enthusiastic young brothers, and even from
his thoughtful, intelligent mother. Ah,
the little heathen divinity’s “fairy barque”
someiimes lias smooth sailing, say what
they will.
It happened that Annie xvas deep in the
study of the German at that time, and
Albert presently discovered that he really
must rub up his knoxvledge of that grand
language. After this, what enchanted
“ long morning,” what charming jaw
dislocating hours they spent over Goethe
and Grabbe, and Gressner and Gleim. and
Pfeffel aud Pfizer, and Fichte and Frie
ligrath. and Ricliter and Raprechtsxvoil,
and Kuebel and Klcist and Korner, and
Knaust and Schulze, aud Schlegel and
Schelling, and Schleiermachbrty and Zed
litz, and Zschokke!! !
VOLUME 1-NUMBER 21.
But the time came when it was away
with these old fellows! aud let the bean
speak through lips and eyes, and “ little
unobserved acts, ’ a poetry more delicious,
an eloquence mote subduing.
* * * * • * *
“ My doar Albert," said Annie Morris,
now two mouths a wife, “ what possessed
thee to send home that enormous orange
tree 1 I could scarcely fiud room for it in
our conservatory.”
“ Ah, Annie.” he replied, I love the
orange ; it is a sacred fruit to me.”
“ N .w, what caust thou mean ?” said
the little wife, with some surprise.
“ Listen to me. then, my love,” he re
joined. “As by the apple Adam lost his
paradise, so by*the orange have I found
mine. —What, still mystified ? Ah, bless
you, and bless all crippled old orange wo
men, say I.”
“Oh, Albert,” cried Annie, blushing
deeply and smiling through tears, ns she
wound her arms round the neck of her
young husband, “ didst thou see that 1 1
was a little ashamed at the time, there"
were so many looking at me—hut I could
not help it.”
“ To he sure you could notlielp it; your
hands go about such work on their own
account. Help it, indeed !”
*******
On the morning after the little street in
cident which was the stepping stone to the
happy fortune of Albert Morris, Miss
Clara Atwood was seated in her most
graceful attitude ori a purple velvet sofa in
an elegant parlor, awaiting a call from that
self-same young gentleman. There came
a ring at the door, and presently a servant
entered hearing a basket, a pretty little
French affair, filled with oranges, and a
card, on which was written—“ With the
compliments of A. iii.”
The cheek, neck and brow of the haugh
ty beauty became crimson as she dashed
the significant offering to the floor.
Last winter she was married—well, all
„„;,t fin., n„,i „ i
Walnut street, a fine country-seat, a mag
nificent carriage, and her servants to sport
a dashing livery—in short, luxury and dis
play surrounded her. She is still beauti
ful brilliant, witty, gay, and it may be,
happy —but Ido not think that she ever
cultivated orange trees in her conservato
ries.
Useful Hints to Public Speakers.—
It is a curious fact in the hisiory of sound,
that the loudest noises always perish on
the spot where ihey are produced ; whereas
musical notes xvill he heard at a greater
distance. Thus, if we approach within a
mile or two of a village in which a fair is
held, we may hear very faintly the clamor
of the multitude, hut more distinctly the
organs and other musical instruments which
are played for their amusement If a Cre
mona violin, a real Araati, bo played by
the side of a modern fiddle, the latter will
sound much louder ofthe two; but the
sweet, brilliant tone of the Amati will he
heard at a distance the other cannot reach.
Dr. Young, on the authority of Derham,
states that at Gibralter, the human voice
may he heard at a greater distance than
that of any other animal. Tlius, when the
cottager in the woods, or in the open plain
wishes to call her husband, who is working
a a distati e, she does not shout, hut pitch
es her voice to a musical key, which she
knows from habit, and by that means rea
dies his ear. The loudest roar of the larg
est lion could not penetrate so far. “ This
p operty of music in the human voice,”
says Coxvper, “is strikingly shown in the
Cathedrals abroad. Here the mass is en
tirely performed in musical sounds, and
becomes audible to every devotee, how
ever placed in the remotest part of the
church : whereas, if the same mass bod
been read, the sounds would not have trav
elled beyond the precincts of the choir.”
Those orators xvho are heard in large as
semblies most distinctly, and atthe great
est distance, are those who, by modulating
the voice, render it more musical. Loud
speakers are seldom heard to advantage.
Burk’s voice is said to have been a sort
of lofty cry, which tended, as much as the
formality of his discourse, in the House of
Commons, to send the members to their
dinner. Chatham’s lowest xvhisper xvas dis
tinctly heard; “his middle tones were
sweet, rich, and beautifully varied,” says
a writer, describing the orator ; “ xvhen he
raised his voice to its hightest pitch, the
House xvas completely filled xvith the vol
ume of sound, an'd the effect was awful,
except when he xvished to cheer or ani
mate—and then lie had spirit-stirring notes
which were perfectly irresistible. The
terrible, hoxvever, xvas his peculiar poxver.
Then the house sunk before him ; still be
xvas dignified, and xvonderful as was his
eloquence, it was attended xvith the impor
tant effect, that it possessed every one
xvith a conviction that there was something
in him finer even than his xvords ; that the
man was greater, infinitely greater, than
the orator.
Do as you Promise —There is no neces
sity of breaking your word. In the first
place, never promise any thing unless you
knoxv it to be in your power to fulfil ; and,
in the second place, make up your mind,
before you promise, that whatever you
will fulfil. By so doing, you xvill gain
and enjoy the confidence of those around
you. When such a character is establish
ed will be of more value than ermine, gol<J
or princely diadems.
BO OK AND JOB PRINTING,
Will be exceed in the most approved style
and on the best terms, at the Office of the
SSTJTEEPsIT M W JSE 7 JK,
-BY
WM. B. HARRISON.
ii —i vnimmin wp imm—m
From Downing's Horticultural ist
Rural LtFE.—This primeval employ
ment of man is the mos’ healthful of all
occupations; healthful for the body, the
mind, and the soul. What other pursuit
by which men obtain hottest bread affords
such vigorous training for tho physical pow
ers, such various and extensive ranges of
mental exercises 1
And where may the moral nature of
man he preserved unsullied from vice, and
grow and expand more than amid rural
scenes and beneath the purest air oflieavenl
The farmer's life it no scratch, with the
pen—rap, rap, with the hammer—nor an
everlasting unpacking and lepacking of
the product of anothei’s labor. He walks
forth under the open sky, his broad acres
spread out beneath his feet; the blue con
cave, sunlit or starlit, or shrouded iti clouds
is still above him. Health claims him as
her favorite child, and the glorious sun
loves to kiss a cheek that is not ashamed
to wear the ruddy imprint of such affec
tion. Nature’s own inimitable music of
babbling brooks, birds, breeze, or rustling
foliage, enters his ear on its glad mission
to his heart. He listens to instructive
voices, continually speaking from the unij
verse around him. Ilis eyo gathers truth
from unwritten pages of wisdom, every
where open befote him. Each day, each
month, season after season, year after year,
these teachings are given to him, infinite
in variety, and endless in extent.
When toward the close of a sultry day
the summer’s blessing comes pouring down
and as in the beautiful poetry of the sacred
volume, “ the trees of the field clap their
hands, and the valleys, covered with corn,
shout for joy,” the farmer, retiring from
his labors to the friendly shelter of his cot
tage roof, improves his leisuie hours with
the treasures of written wisdom. So, too,
while his fields are sleeping beneath [frost
and snow, what profession affotds more
available opportunities for self-culture?-
Where xvas the lyric poetiy composed that
maL'ca ixmiwlor Uurno iltan
i w*. ..c.
of all her ancient race of warlike kings ?
Was it not between the handles of tho
Mossgeil plough !
Os all the employments that busy men
here in this present state of existence, the
cultivation of the earth is distinguished as
affording the best opportunities for an ex
tended range of mental discipline, for ad
vancing in true refinement,for social, rural
and religious improvement!
And now, last of all, agriculture shall
put fortli her highest claim. Os all men,
the farmer alone walks in the path where
God himself first took tho orcotcA image
by the hand and led the way “ to dress and
to keep” his garden—the earth! Confiding
in God, the husbandman plows his fruitful
fields, while the birds of spring are sing
ing praises around him. Buoyant with
hope, he scatters the seed over the ground,
and gratefully recieves the early and the
latter rain, coming down from” Heaven to
give the increase. And never did rational
man yet apply the sickle to the golden
grain without some vague idea of gratitude
to God, the giver of harvests!
Indeed, the husbandman’s whole life,
rightly viewed, is “a walking with God ”
And though thousands may not often think
of this, and hut a few, even in any small
degree, appreciate it as they ought, never
theless the assertion claims to be true.
A Child’s Faith, —A helox-ed minis
ter of the gospel xvas one day speaking of
that active, living faith, which should at all
times cheer tho lieait ofthe sincere fol
lowers of Jesus, and related a beautiful il
lustration that had just occurred in his
oxvn family.
He had gone in a cellar which in winter
was quite dark, and entered by a trap door.
A little daughter, only three years old,
xvas trying to find him, and came to the
trap door, hut on looking down all xvas dark
and she £a!led ;
“ Are you doxvn cellar, papa ?”
“ Yes ; xvould you like to come, Mary ?”
“ It is dark, I can’t come down, papa."
“ Well, my daughter, I am right below
you, and I can see you, though you cannot
st*e me, and if you will drop yourself I
will catch you.”
“Oli, I shall fall; I can’t see you, pop!”
“ I knoxv it,” lie ansxvered, “but 1 am
really here, and you shall not fall or hint
yourself. If you xvill jump, I will catch
you safely.”
Little Mary strained her eyes to the ut
most, but could catch no glimpse of her fa
ther. She hesitated, then advanced a little
further, then summoning all her resolu
tion, she threw herself forward, and xvas
received safely iii her father’s arms. A few
days after, she again discovered the cellar
door open, and supposing her father to be
there, she called :
“ Shall I come again, papa ?”
“ Yes, my dear, in a minute,” he replied
and had just lime to reach his arms to
wards her, when, in her childish glee, she
fell shouting into his arms, and clasping
his neck, said :
“ I knew, my dear papa, I should not
fall.”
quarrel with a lady ; if you aro
troubled with her, retreat; if she abuse
you, be silent; if she tears your cloak, give
her your coat; if she box your ear, boxv to
her in return ; if she tears your eyes out,
feel your xvav to the door and—fly !