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“Onward driveth Time, and in a little while our lips are dumb!' All things have their season, and ripen toward the grave : ripen, fall, and cease.
NUMBER THR E E.
A MATTER-OF-FACT GUEST: RAIN UPON THE ROOF: A MOTIIER'S GRIEF: THE
MISSION OF LITTLE CITILDREN: ACEPIIALOUS -- A NEW DEFINITION: INFLU
ENCE OF THE GREAT METROPOLIS UPON THE QUIET COUNTRYMAN: A 'DREADFUL ACCIDENT'A YANKEE'S REVENGE: SUGGESTION OF A LOCOMOTIVE ON A WINTRY NIGHT: A SCOTCH CONSOLATION FOR A SLIGHT:
THE YANKEE IN POWERS'S STUDIO: NEW READINGS IN HAMLET: AN UGLY' CUSTOMER FEARLESSNESS OF RIVALRY: DEATH OF HONORA EDGEWORTH : EXCUSES FOR DRINKING: 'OLD MURPHY' OF THE MOHAWK: THE
HERE is an amusing character in a sketch we have
just read: one of those stupid matter-of-fact persons, who can never appreciate a figure of speech, or understand the simplest jest. A benign cerulean,' enthusiastic for the rights of the sex,' remarks that woman's rights and duties are becoming every day more widely appreciated. The old-fashioned scale must be re-adjusted ; and woman, noble, elevating, surprising woman, ascend to the loftiest eminence, and sit superior on the topmost branch of the social tree.' The ear of the matter-of-fact man catches the last simile, and he ventures to say: Uncommon bad climbers, for the most part in general, is women.
Their clothes is n't adapted to it. I minds once I seen a woman climb a pole after a leg of mutting! If looks could have
A MATTER-OF-FACT GUEST.
killed the mal-apropos speaker, he would not have survived the reception which this ridiculous remark encountered from every guest at the table. He was himself struck with the mournful silence that followed his observation, and added, by way of explanation : "That was a thing as happing'd on a pole; in coors it would be werry different on a tree, because of the branches.? At length, however, the theme of woman is renewed by the former advocate : “Woman has not yet received her full development. The time will come when her influence will be universal ; when, softened, subdued, and elevated, the ani
mal now called Man will be unknown. You will be all
women : can the world look for a higher destiny?' 'In coors,' observed the actual' man, 'if we are all turned into woming, the world will come to an end. For 'spose a case ; 'spose it had been my sister as married my wife, instead of me; it's probable there would n't have been no great fambly.; wich in coors, if there was no population
What the result of this supposed case would have been, was not permitted to transpire. The feminine part of the company immediately rose and left the table, and the matter-of-fact man to the ridicule of the male guests.
We sat the other evening, listening to the warmish autumn rain that was falling without; and while we list
A MOTHER'S GRIEF.
ened, we thought of these lines, from the pen of A. Z.
We stood by a western window of the pretty Episcopal church at Binghamton, on a recent Sunday morning, and saw a funeral procession enter the gate, and defile under the spring-time trees, just putting forth their first tender verdure. The day was sunny and beautiful; a soft wind was playing amidst the leafy foliage and the grass ; and as the sympathizing concourse gathered around the freshly-opened grave, we could not help thinking how darker must be the hearts of the bereaved parents, who stood in suppressed anguish at its head, from the very
A MOTHER'S GRIEF.
beauty and brightness around them. The little coffin was lowered into the grave; the hollow sound of falling sand and gravel fell faintly upon the ear; and that only child of loveliness and promise was left in its cold and narrow bed, until earth and sea shall heave at the trump of God. As we turned away from the window, and awaited the morning service of the sanctuary, we thought of that desolate mother and that bereaved father, and how impotent would be all attemps at consolation for the loss of an only and darling child. And therewithal came to mind the reflections upon a similar scene of sadness by the eloquent author of "The Mission of Little Children :' 'No one feels the death of a child as a mother feels it. The father cannot realize it thus. True, there is a vacancy in his home and a heaviness in his heart. There is a chain of association that at set times comes round with its broken link; there are memories of endearment, a keen sense of loss, a weeping over crushed hopes, and a pain of wounded affection. But the Mother feels that one has been taken away who was still closer to her heart. Hers has been the office of constant ministration. Every gradation of feature developed before her eyes; she detected every new gleam of infant intelligence; she heard the first utterance of every stammering word; she was the refuge of its fears, the supply of its wants; and every task of affection wove a new link, and made dear to her its object. And when