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very I (Continued from 2d page,) cowards. I said nothing to them till they began toinsnlt me. Not that that mattered much; bat it wasn't likely I was going to stand by and see them annoying two girls without interfering.' ‘Well, n-o I don't see how yon coaid, v« well,' Tom admitted, ‘ for I couldn't myself, don’t like fighting, you know, but I couldn’t help catching hold of Master Bumpus’s arm when I saw him going to hit that little gipsy girL • Of course you couldn’t, old fellow,’ exclaim ed Ben. heartily. ‘ and I admire you for your pluck. Bother Master Bnmpus, and his teeth too!' ‘ I wish he hadn't swallowed them though,' remarked Tom regretfully. • I shouldn't care if they’d choked him, the fat spooney!' said Ben, forcibly; ‘ but I tell you what, Tom, I don’t see the fun of being locked up here all night.’ ‘ No more do I,’ assented Tom, ruefully. • I don't see that we’ve done anything wrong to deserve it. We only thrashed a pair of cow ards for insulting two girls. I think if the mag istrate had done what was right he’d have sent them here, not ns.' ‘I think so too,’ Tom acquiesced; 'but then one of them was his son, and I suppose magis trates never lock up their own sens.’ ‘ They ought to though, if they do wrong,’ said Ben. There was a pause of a few moments, and then Tom remarked: ‘Poor dad’ll wonder what’s become of us, and be frightened to death. You know how nervous he is if we’re out late, and now we shall be shut up in this dreary place all night.’ Tom spoke in very doleful accents, but his brother replied promptly,— ‘ I'm not quite sure of that.' There was something hopeful in the tone in which these words were spoken, and Tom in quired,— ' What do you mean, Ben ?’ •Why, I was thinking,' returned Ben, re flectively, whether it wouldn’t be possible to get out’ ‘ Get out. Ben ?’ echoed Tom, looking quite scared. ‘ You don't mean to say you’d do that ?’ • Wouldn't I ?' returned his brother, boldly. ‘I only wish I had the chance. It’s not whether I would, but whether 1 can. Wouldn’t you ?’ he asked. ‘ Well,’returned Tom, doubtfully, ‘I think, perhaps, if the door was to fly open I should feel inclined to walk out But—’ ‘ I should do more than feel inclinedL I should walk out pretty quickly, I know,'said Ben, in a tone of determination that proved he was in earnest ‘But what were you going to say ?' ‘ Why, wouldn’t it be all the worse for us if we ran away and were caught afterwards?’ asked Tom timidly. ‘ Perhaps it might,’ Ben replied. * Therefore, if we could manage to get out we should have to take care that we were not caught.’ ‘But how could we do that? Every one knows us about here. Where could we hide?’ asked Tom. whose timid nature foresaw nothing but dangers. ‘Dan Dark would hide us in his cottage,’ re turned Ben, confidently. ‘ There’s a cellar un derneath it where no one would ever think of looking for us.' Tom looked at his brother with admiration. ‘ I wish I was as brave as you are,’ he said. 6 You deserve to be called Bold Ben.' ‘And so you are the brave, old fellow, when it comes to the point,'returnedBen, affectionately; ‘though I confess you’re apt to fear a little beforehand.’ But Tom could not bring himself to acknowl edge his own courage, but shook his head de- apondingly, as be replied: 'I’m a great coward, I know, and I'm afraid I always shall be. But I suppose it’s my nature, and I can't help it.’ Ben had turned away, and was looking thoughtfully up at the window. Tom watched him for a moment, and then said: ‘I can guess what you're thinking about. Yon are wondering how you can get rid of those bars.’ ‘I am, Tom,’ Ben answered, ‘and I’m also thinking that if they were broken away, and you saw me getting out of the window, you wouldn’t be long in following my example.’ ‘I don't think I should,’ replied Tom, with a smile. ‘I'm sure I shouldn’t I should always follow you, Benny. But I don't think I should have the courage to attempt to go myself.’ •There'll be no occasion, old boy,’ said Ben. •We’ll stick together, tnat’s the way to get on.’ Tom pressed his brother’s hand lovingly, and then Ben remarked, as he returned the squeeze: •Those bars seem pretty thick. They wouldn’t break very easily.’ •I snould think not’ answered Tom; ‘and yet, don’t you remember reading about some one who broke out of Newgate, where the walls and bars are a great deal stronger and thicker than those, with only a nail?’ ‘Yes; it was Jack Sheppard,’ returned Ben, abstractedly. ' I wish I had that nail just now.’ ' But be was a thief, wasn't he ?’ asked Tom. • He was—a desperate one, too, and deserved to be imprisoned,’ replied Ben. ‘But there’s one comfort—though we are treated like thieves, we are honest, and have no right to be punish ed. That is why I’m determined to get out if I can.’ Tom was so inspired by his brother’s resolu tion that he said, pointing to the window: • Couldn’t you climb up, and Bee if the bars are very firm ?’ •So I will,’ returned Ben; ‘but I shall have to stand on your shoulder to get at them.’ • All right, I can bear you,’ said Tom as he stepped on the seat. In another moment Ben had made a ladder of his brother and mounted to the bars, through which he looked. No one was in Bight Ben felt them and tugged at them. • How are they ?’ asked Tom. ‘Very well, thank'ee,’ answered Ben, with a serio-oomic expression on his faoe; ‘ they’re as firm as rocks.’ ‘You’ll never be able to move them, will you ? asked Tom, anxiously, when his brother had once more reached the ground. ‘Well, I don’t know what I might do with Jack Sheppard’s nail, ’ returned Ben; ‘ but without any nail at all but those on my fingers, I m afraid • He shook his head expressively, and felt in his pockets. He found a key, some marbles, a pieoe of string and some half-pence. ' They're no use,’ be exclaimed ruefully. Tom produced a stick of slate pencil and a table book. ‘These are just as useless,’ he remarked; * have you got your knife ?’ • No, that's lost It must have dropped from my pocket when I took off my jacket—the only thing that might have been of use,’ said Ben, fretfally. Altogether the prospects of escape looked par ticularly gloomy. Bo also began to look the place in which they were. Twilight was drawing on. The sky looked gray and cold through their prison bars, and the wind blew in and chilled them. Much depressed, the brothers sank despair ingly upon the seat side by side, and involun tarily took each other’s hands. And there they sat, moodily watching the twilight fading away, until at last it died out [ether, and the night had oome. afraid there’ll be no getting out to night ! ’ remarked Tom, sadly, after a long pause of silence. 'I’m afraid not, old boy,’ assented his brother in much the same tone. T only wish—' He broke off suddenly as the Bound of a voice broke upon his ear, singing in a remarkably cheerful tone, an old and familiar song. ‘It's Dan’s voioe! ’ they cried together, ex- ultingly. ‘Call to him, Ben; don't let him pass f exclaim ed Tom, excitedly. ‘Here’s my shoulder, jump up!’ In less time than it takes to write it, Ben had once more clambered up, and was looking throngh the bars, in the direction from which Dan was rapidly approaohing. BRASS VS, BRAINS. The Career of J. Byron Smythe, of Goobertown. BY MARY' K. BRYAN. There was one other of the Smythe family, not as yet belonging to the literary coterie. Lizzie, the youngest daughter—just turned seventeen, the junior of the “songstress,” her sister, by eight years, and a dozen years younger than the amia ble Rosamond—had, ever einee her childhood, been an inmate of the family and farm house of her aunt, on the father’s side, and, during the time, had paid only one visit to her parents. Now, however, her aunt had unexpectedly married and Lizzie was coming home. The enterprising Byron immediately determined that she should contribute another feather to the wing of the “Household Angel.” The Angel wanted “spice,” as a string of slang phrases and Bowary vernacular is called. Lizzie wrote sprightly letters, and would, without doubt, serve as a Fanny Fern. He had even chosen her nom deplume and thought how well Nellie Nettle would look at the top of his list of “regular paid contributors.” Well, Lizzie came, and to her mother’s great dis appointment, proved to be a plump, rosy-cheeked, even dumpy girl, with bright hazle eyes, white teeth, (constantly displayed by the smiles and laughter that parted the red lips), and a simple, unaffected, joyous manner—in short, having an appearance the farthest imaginable from one pos sessing a “literary turn of mind.” She laughed at the idea of her turning authoress, protested that she never used a pen in her life, except to mark handkerchiefs and write letters, and averred that she thought there were scribblers enough in the family already, and that instead of putting more ink upon paper, it must be her mission to get some of it up from floors and tables. She very quietly took the housekeeping under her charge, and soon “Jessamine Bower” wore quite a changed aspect, and Patty Peony’s messes gave place to well cooked meals and delicious tea and coffee. However, little the Muses might like this intrusion of the commonplace into their chosen retreat, the Penan- tes were certainly well pleased. Lizzie’s presence acted like the charm of an enchantress. Dust and rubbish fled at her approach, hoary spider-webs “dissolved like the baseless fabric of a vision,” stockings were heeled at her touch, buttons grew out as though by magic upon dilapidated linen, and that ancient little implement of female indus try—the needle—now unfortunately voted a slow institution—once more dared to show itself in company with its rival—the pen—that had so long reigned sole autocrat in the temple of Apollo. And Lizzie was bright as she was busy. Her cheery voice and good-humored face carried music and sunshine wherever she wen*, and, through her influence, even the two young devotees of mint stick (“the dreamers,” as their mother called them) were induced to quit lolling about and con descend to “ Lay their lovely dreams aside.” long enough every day to solve a few problems under Davie’s rule of simple fractions. Mean while, the triad of “song birds” were greatly shocked at the “ want of soul” displayed by a member of their illustrious family. Miss Rosa mond, with a glance in the mirror at her parch ment visage, thanked goodness that she did not have a milkmaid’s complexion, and gave it as her solemn opinion that Lizzie was fit for nothing but to cook beefsteaks and darn stockings. The “young thing” in corals and corkscrew curls mur mured something about a muscovy duck in the eyrie of the eagle, and mamma sighed and said: “ Poor thing! she couldn't help her nature, it was certainly a pity that all her children did not re semble her; but poor Lizzie was always just like her father.” Meantime, this last mentioned per son, who had sat overshadowed by the laurels of his brilliant progeny so long that he had acquired the most contemptible opinion of himself, and firmly believed that he was the nonentity his amia ble spouse represented him—this much.-snubbed individual appeared to have entered upon a new state of existence. His eyes followed his daugh- ter’s neatly dressed, embonpoint figure whenever ■he moved, as though he feared, lest she should vanish away, or be metamorphosed into a slouchy, hawk-eyed, strong-minded vixen, eternally bent upon scribbling a “piece of her mind,” this being the picture he had sketched of her, from lis tening to the “ table-talk ” of the literary circle. Every morning he looked carefully at the little hand that combed his hair, to see if there was any ink mark upon the plump thumb and first finger. He made no demonstrations, however, being in great awe of his illustrious offspring, and well knowing the capabilities of Mrs. Patty’s tongue ; but his grateful eyes thanked his daughter as he put his feet into the waiting slippers, or broke the light, foamy rolls. The “ Angel of the Household ” was all this while spreading its wings and blowing its own trumpet in a very cock-a-doodle-doo manner. J. Byron was the busiest and most fidgety mortal alive. Every great paper boasted letters from abroad, and the “ Angel” must not be behind. Accordingly, for a microscopical consideration, he engaged a Foreign Correspondent in the person of a seedy and dilapidated ex-music teacher, whose residence was in a neighboring town, and whose fondness for lager and dirty linen, having exiled him from decent circles, had drifted him into the shabbiest impecuniosity, forcing him to pick up a scanty livelihood by teaching a few ambitious youths how to make day hideous by means of that much tortured instrument—the fiddle. Mr. Blumpus undertook the office of foreign correspondent, with alacrity. Raking up all the numbers of the “ Times and Herald ” that he could lay his hands upon, be sharpened his stubby pen cil, took out his dirty account book, where unpaid board and washing bills stared him in the face— and proceeded to indite reliable letters from “our own correspondent—Rath.” Letters from the seat of war, descriptions of bloody battles which he professed to have witnessed through a field- glass, revelations of the secret policies of the Great Powers, whispered in his ear by confiding diplomats; also gay glimpses into Court Life at. Vienna, Paris, Naples, bits of scandal in high life— the gallantries of starred and coronetted person-* ages and the frailties and diamonds of nieo and naughty beauties; in brief, all the glittering, gassy, snobbish, slangy, dirty details, which the Amer ican public delights in, and oalls " Spioy Corres pondence.” “Rath”—ottos old Max Blumpus dished it all up delectably for the “ Angel, ” grinning sardon ically, as seated in his dingy little don with his ma ty boots thrown np over the mantle-piece, his short-stemmed pipe in his mouth end old blank book in his lap, he dated his letters from brilliant foreign cities and dashed off into descriptions of courts, balls, pagean's, operas, costumes, eto. Being disappointed in manufacturing a Fanny Fern out of the matter-of-faot Lizzie, the enter* prising editor, (that, we believe, is the stereotyped phrase among the fraternity,) looked about for some fresh “ attractive feature.” The thrilling Romance of “ Wrong and Retribution” was draw ing to a grand finale, and there was no other to begin when the curtain dropped npon this—the fair Rosamond having, with the impetuosity and romance of youth, fallen sentimentally in love with the “ Foreign Correspondent,” exchanged photo graphs and carried on with him a correspou denoe of rather a more delicate •ture, than that which appeared in the columns ,he “ Angel.” As the said Correspondent could aot well leave his inter esting occupation the devoted Rosamond concluded to pay him a visit, that he might behold the reality of those charms, of which he had only seen the “pictured semblanee.” If the mountain could not come to Mohammed, why Mohammed would go to the mountain; and so Rosamond the romant ic packed up her pink silk, and taking with her a band-box and a bugle head dress, set forth in quest of adventures. “ Like errant Demoiselle of yore,” preferring (true to our feminine nature) rather to act a romance than to write one, and mo leaving J. Byron in a perplexity and the “ Angei ” minus of one of its attractive features. There was none in all the list of “ Regular Contributors ” who could, or would, take the relinquished pen of Miss Rosa mond, as the proprietor of the Angelic journal was up to his chin in financial and editorial duties; Minnie Myrtle’s Muse, like Mrs. Osgood’s, could do nothing but sing ; Lizzie was incorrigable and Patty Peony was giving all her energies to the in vention of a new pudding, the names of whose in gredients should fill half a column in the “Angel." Now, it chanced that in the city of Goobertown there was a young lawyer (a dozen of them at your service, all sitting in the doors of their offices, like so many gaunt spiders at the mouths of their holes, and watching out with lynx-eyes, seeking whom they might entrap.) But there was one young lawyer in particular—handsome, genial, warm hearted Harry Vale—a cousin, two degrees re moved, of the Smythe family, and considered by the big wigs of the County Court as a promising young man. The Smythes had taken him under their patronage, and Misses Rosamond and Minnie had magnanimously made up their minds to let him fall in love with them; but he had seemed rather shy of Jessamine Bower, though whether he found the atmosphere too highly charged with p*jtry and romance, or whether (as Minnie was confident) the feminine charms had proved too great for resistance, and he was compelled to flee their power, or whether he merely wished to es cape the constant importunities of the family, and of the editor in particular, that he would contribute to the “ Angel,” could not be satisfactorily de termined. Of late, however, he had seemed more disposed to appreciate the privilege of companionship with such exquisitely refined spirits as those of his distinguished cousins. His visits became quite frequent, and the fair Minnie congratulated her self upon a complete conquest. He listened, while reclining on the sofa with her portfolio in her lap, she read to him all the lackadaisical verses she had ever perpetrated, and quoted all that she had succeeded in cramming away in her memory. He was “silent, timidly silent,” when, looking unut terable things at him, she repeated— “ Thera are hearts that live and love alone.” And ho frsqusntly sighed, put on the wrong hand, forgot his own name, stafavb-red and blushed, and exhibited all the phenomena of one in that indescribable state called love. To be sure, he never exactly made lova to her, but then he probably thought there was no nse in it; the lady was making enough for both, and doing it better than he could. Upon my word, I think the ladies do most of the courting any way, though in their insinuating, sly, bewitching manner, of course. The cause is plain enough. Courting is such a del icate business, that the nice, instinctive female taste is shocked at seeing it mismanaged—and the men are such bunglers ! Now, a woman can do the matter up in the most charming style, and make love while an uninterested listener would fancy she was only talking philosophy or religion. (to be continued.) Petals Plucked from a Sunny Clime. Appearance of the SI. Johns, Mandarin, the Home of Mrs. H. B. Stowe—Its Products—Green Cove Springs —Picolata — Tocoi — Indian Massacres Near St. Augustine—Murder of Mr. B eednum— Eight Medicis Bloodhounds—New York Drama during the Indian War—Desire for Pence. Hakch —, 1878. Everything in this world has a terminus, and onr pleasant stay in Jacksonville is ended. Tne ocean steamer Dictator is waiting at the wharf, and we are among the happy number to embark on this reliable running craft. The St Johns river to-day appears overspread with a kind of semi-transparent mist, throngh which the sun shines with a nimbus of golden sheen that fills the air and sky. Imagination coaid not paint the river of Life more beauti ful. IIow smoothly we glide npon its peaceful bosom, while fleecy clonds of unrivalled purity float over us like fairy forms, which leave an undefinable idea of an invisible presence. The first noticeable landing after we leave Jacksonville is Mandarin, fifteen miles distant, the winter residence of Hariet B. Stowe, at which point many stop as though she was expected to fnrnisba gratuitous exhibition, designed as a kind of compensation, for the benefit of those who tread her dominions. Visitora- come here thinking they are at the same liberty to inspect her person as though she was connected with a menagerie, and obligated to present herself for their inspection. Very carious people open her window blinds, if they cannot see her by any other means. These impudent violations of etiqnette do not meet with her approval, and those indulging in them must abide the conse quences, remembering that although patience is a virtue, it is not always on exhibition. Mandarin is quite unpretentious in its gen eral appearance. The inhabitants are indus trious. Raising fine, sweet oranges and other produce, which they bring to market in little boats, is the most perceptible stir it makes in this portion of country. Like many other lo calities in the State, it has its histone reoords of tragic date extending to the Indian wars. Green Cove Mineral Springs, 30 miles above Jacksonville, is a resort for rbeumatios, the temperature of the water always being warm enough in winter to stimulate the system and give relief. Sufferers from diseases are also benefitted. Very happy faces Always come down here to look at ns, which is\)no donbt at tributable to the exhilerating influence of the water, and fine flare at the Clarendon House. Pioolata, 46 miles above Jacksonville, was formerly the stage terminus from St Augus tine, 18 miles distant >od of some importance in a commercial point of view, with a weekly stage line established to Tallahassee and St. lf^rhi This was known as Fort Fksolata during tfcc Spanish - occupation, where once stood' a very ancient fortress. The following is a truth ful description of its dimensions, written over a century since: 'It was constructed with a tosrqr 3(1 feet in height invested with a high wall without bastions, about breast high on the inside* with loop holes* and surrounded by a deep ditch. The upper story was open on eaoh side, with battlements supporting a cupola or roof; these parapets were formerly mounted with eight four-pounders, two on each side. The works were constructed with hewn stone, cemented with lime. The rock was cut out of quarries on St. Anastasia Island, opposite St Augustine. ’ Tocoi is reached at last, 52 miles from Jack sonville, on the east bank of St Johns, about which so much ink and paper has been wasted, because it present so unattractive an appear ance, bat has never made any pretentions only as a starting point for SL Augustine. Let those who manifest signs of impatience at the ample arrangement for transportation, peruse the following encounters with which un fortunate travlerg had to contend between Tocoi and St. Augerstine less than forty years since. ‘Another atrocious act of violence was com mitted Nov. 2oth 1839 by the Savages upon a worthy and respected citizen of ours Philip Weed- man Senior. Shortly after the departure of the mail train this morning, Mr. Weedman accom panied by his little son, 12 years of age, left in j an open wagon for the purpose of visiting his \ former residence, now occupied as a garrison ; by a part of Capt. Micklers company. On arriv- | ing at the commencement of Long Swamp, with- ; out any previous warning, he was fired upon i and killed, having received two balls in his i breast, his little son received one in his head which bared his brain, also wounds with a knife.’ Afterwards Mr. Francis Medicis was murder- ! ed, May, 22d, 1839, by the Indians, within i seven miles of St. Augustine, when twenty of the savages were seen near the spot where he fell. Mr. Medicis was found lying on his side with his (hands clasped as if in the attitude of supplication, his shirt sleeve was burned and his faoe covered with blood. It was about this time blood-hounds were in troduced into Florida under difficulties which will be seen from the following paragraph. ‘Tbe^e distinguished auxiliaries have received more attention than their services deserve. While great apprehensions fill the mind of many for fear they should perchance bite a Seminole! As a quietus to their fears, we would state that a competent tooth drawer will accompany them, entering upon his detail duties very soon.’ Daring the Florida war, New York dramatized these terrific scenes, but they were too stern stirring realities to be trifled with by the citi zens. The following account is given of a drama, taken from the capturing and killing of the mail rider, between Picolata and St. Augustine, j daring the year 1841: ‘ Having at one time wttnessed some of the ' handicrafts of our red brethren, I thought I would step in; and lo! the room was filled with some 300 persons, anxious to behold this new scene of blood. The Indians were stout, mur derous-looking rascals; the mail carrier a six foot yonth. oiled locks beautifully parted, ele gantly combed mustache, white pantaloons, straps and boots. This was the grandest speci men of a mail rider ever seen in Florida. He might have personated some of those fictitious pretenders of gentility, which sometimes visit yon, bat for a letter-carrier, heaven save the mark! The wife was a pretty, plump, well-fed girl of sixteen, dressed in all the simplicity of girlhood, before fashion had desecrated its pnre feeling, with tonrnures converting the hnman form divine into a monstrosity. Well the race was interesting, our six-footer stretched his tegs, and black cost-toils with ef fect When fairly caught by his pursurers, he was bound; his wife being likewise brought in a captive; then rose the loud yells of these fierce demi-devils. The mimic scene was one of intense interest, and the quick dispatch of life argued something in favor of the captors, nntil the process of scalping commenced—when the blood rnshed in gashes on the bosom of the girl, as her tresses were held np amidst the fiendish hnrrahs of the Indians. Here was a pause, imagination had been wound np to the highest pitch, when something of a less gloomy character was famished for the audience.’ It was then the Florida settlers prayed for the peace we now enjoy; when their streams should have the dreary solitude broken by the splash of the oar, and their moss-covered banks send back the song of contented boatmen; when their tranquil surface should be rippled by the freighted bark, and with her white canvass bending before the breeze, sail into the ocean. When the watch fires of their foes should be ex tinct, and the yell of murder give place to the melody of grateful hearts, as their songs of praise should rise from the hammocks and plains, that the land might be indeed the home of the Christian, the abiding place of joy, hap piness and contentment Silvia Sunhhinh. THE LITTLE BOY THAT DIED. Inscribed to J. T. Glenn, Esq. BY SIDNEY HEBBEET. “‘O Death! thou loveet the beautiful,’ In the woe of my spirit I cried: For sparkled the eye, and the forehead was lair, Of the littie boy that died.” Thk little boy that died. Oh ! how ten derly yon loved him. How you hoped he would live to bear yonr honored name (which he had in fall,) into higher walks of nsefnlness and distinction than yon have yet done, or may do; for he was such a bright, sweet child, and had such a clear, sparkling eye, and keen, pene trating mind. But he is dead now. And how that one harsh and dreaded word, dead, throws a dark and lengthened shadow over all yonr future pathway in life! Yon look far beyond the present sad hoar of bereavement; for yon had thought of him so mnch, after his birth-days had increased and his germs of character unfolded, as yonr companion daring his years of boy hood, yonth and early manhood; and, later in lifs, should you live long, as a sharer in your daily business cares; and, finally, when the in firmities of age should have placed you on the “retired list,” as your most appropriate succes sor in public life and business or professional circles. There is, therefore, something of worldly self-interest underlying your grief—sin cere though it may be in its intensity—which makes your burden of sorrow heavier, and your sense of bereavement more acute than otherwise would be the case. To you, under these cir cumstances, there is less of comfort than you ought to find, in the words whioh Shakespeare puts into the mouth of King John, in his honr of similar bereavement: ~ . ... “I haTe heard yon say That we shall see and know onr frienda in heaven. u this be tree, I shall see my boy again.” The little bot that died. How you miss him every day and hour, as a feeling of loneli ness creeps over your heart in the unoccupied moments of your business hoars. But you are a man—a strong, brave man. Yon feel this— and show it to everybody, and everywhere, in publio—-and it bears you up beneath the ever springing tide of grief that so often seeks to overwhelm yonr emotions. Yon do not walk the street in tears, nor sit in yonr law office surrounded by the gloomy shadow of yonr great sorrow. Yon meet yonr business associates, one after another during the day, and you speak to than as familiarly aa ever, bat in a more aabdued tone. If an intimate friend alludes to your great loss in suoh a way as to cause a tear to start to your eye, you brush it away hastily, and pass on to yonr office, or professional en gagements, or turn again to your books and documents for a momentary relief And as often as this scene recurs and causes the tear to start, it is as hastily pushed aside from ths gaze of men’s eyes. Of course you are more subdued in your manner for a time, and you almost con stantly think of your great loss. Yet how many times during each succeeding day do the cares of business intervene between suoh sad thoughts, thus giving, occasionally, full relief and relaxa tion to your sorrow-burdened heart You wii no doubt realize this more fully bye and bye^' for you will have a more undisturbed feeling of sadness, and a deeper sense of loneliness, “As yon miss him when the flowers come la the garden where he played; As yoa miss him there by the fireside. When the flowers have all decayed ; You will see his toys and his empty chair, And the horse he ased to ride; Ah! these will speak with a silent speech,iffi Of the little boy that died." The little boy that died. Yet you are not the one over whom his early death has east the heaviest and darkest clond of sorrow. That heavier and darker pall has settled over and around the tender heart of your faithful wife — his loving and devoted mother. How different from your daily experience, is that of yonr stricken companion. All day she sits or walks — sometimes quite alone—within the sombre shadow of the great sorrow that has fallen so heavily upon the light and joy of your pleasant home. There, in the very rooms which his cheerful presence once made so joyous and at tractive, and that his absence now fills with an unspeakable sense of desolation and gloom, she spends her more quiet, undisturbed hours, and engages in her simpler and less engrossing duties, with a tearful eye and an ever sorrowing heart. Everywhere she turns, and at every step she takes, there is something constantly before her eyes to remind her of the little boy that died. His toys, scattered here and there about the corners of the rooms which he nsed to make so vocal with his clear, laughing voice; the un broken stillness which pervades the house, and causes her to pause and listen for the patter of his childish feet, and the well-known greeting of filial tenderness, to break the dreadful quiet by which she finds herself surrounded; the clothes that she laid aside when she undressed him—for the tost Hme —and put him into the little bed where he—died. Oh! what a grief is hers —and how often and how painfully is it thus suddenly re-opened and made still more bur densome. “Yet, though at times impetuous with emotiou. And anguish unsuppressed, Her swelling heart heaves, moaning like the ocean, That cannot be at rest— Hhe will prow patient, and assuage the feeling She may not wholly stay ; By silence sanctifying, not concealing. The grief that must have sway." The little boy that died.—Ah ! who ean tell how much of a burden of grief yonr stricken wife daily takes np, and with a pleading, motherly prayer to God for strength to bear patiently and resignedly the heavy affliction which he in in finite wisdom has sent upon her, tries (how hard no human heart can ever know), to walk her round of domestic duty with a brave, trust ing spirit Still, at such a time, a mothers, lov ing heart is weak even in its strength, when a wave of sudden and inexpressible sorrow sweeps over it like a terrible cyclone. This is the case when she sees the little frock and hat and shoes that he laid aside forever, that he might be cloth ed anew in heavenly robes, in which to walk the golden streets of the “Shining|City of Light ’j Oh ! how many times before the long-wished for shades of evening bring you home again, do-j» this sorely bereaved mother bury her grief stricken face in the gentle, loving hands that so unweariedly and tenderly ministered to her darling boy in his dying hours, and give way to a flood of bitter tears. She has no professional engagements or business cares to intrude upon and divide up ( as you have), her sorrowful mo ments; no companions whose presence oan check her tears. She is a woman and tears— thank God—are womanly. If a friend calls, and the sad bereavement is alluded to, she does not hastily brush away the first starting tear and check those that would follow it. She allows them free course down her pallid cheeks. And when she is alone onoe more, with her sorrow again fresh upon her heart, there oomes— and with increased power-that earnest longing for the close of day, that yon may come back to her, and ( comfort her as no other hnman being can. She never felt the need of your presence and companionship so mnch before —never. For it is only when yon have re-entered yonr deso lated home, and come again within the solemn stillness that so impresses yon with a terrible sense of yonr irreparable loss, that you give way to yonr grief. It is manly for yon to weep then and there. Oh! what a blessed privilege to mingle yonr tears with hers. This is her great est source of earthly comfort Let it never foil her in her sorrowing moments; "Andover your souls, in this solitude, Sweet comfort and hope will glide; Tho’ each heart and eye be fall, as you think Of the little boy that died!” Kimball House, Feb., 10th, 1878. A Young Man anti His Society. A young man, just launching into business, should make it a point not to mix with those whom he wonld be ashamed of in years to come. There are many who started in life with good prospects, and intended to act in good faith and lead honest and npright lives, and would un doubtedly have done so had they associated with men of unsullied character, whose names were above reproach, bat no, the pleasures and friv- olties of the other picture they were unable to withstand. Society can be appropriately term ed temptation. If a person’s intentions are good and he shonld unfortunately fall into bad society, he would eventually, from being thrown continually into snoh company, acquire like habits, and finally find himself in a position from whioh it would be impossible for him to extricate himself. Such oases as these are daily occurring in our midsL How many of us know of men who have had golden opportunities,men who lost wealth, position and honor through the influence of immoral society. Look at the numbers of well educated men travelling from door to door in search ot food—men who have lost their name and standing in the world, and have fallen so low that they have lost all shame. We think we have drawn this picture well enough to satisfy the young man that now is the time—now is their harvest, and if they foil to these advantages they will rue the day when they did not take warning in time and become a credit to their families and to the community. But if immoral company is a temp tation to evil courses, the influenoe of proper associates is equally strong in the opposite di rection. Society may be a temptation for good as well as eviL To a young man, who, from any circnmstanoes, may be momentarily inclined to tarn aside from the path oi honor and recti tude, the presence of an upright person will aet as a rebuke and save him from falling, while the very atmosphere of society of this kind will keep his morals nnoorrnpted, keep his thoughts for away from improper channels, and be a moral fenee around him, effectually preventing him, an lees obstinately determined from going stray.—-fiz. Give the people cheep cremation.—Ckvsland Leader. That is to sey, you would have their urninge according to their earnings. Speak to an undertaker about it