happiness of France. Her reply is full of political wisdom. She said: "Instruct the mothers of the French people."

Mothers are, indeed, the affectionate and effective teachers of the human race. The mother begins her process of training with the infant in her arms. It is she who directs its first mental and spiritual pulsations. She conducts it along the impressible years of childhood and youth, and hopes to deliver it to the rough contests and tumultuous scenes of life, armed by those good principles which her child has received from maternal care and love.

If we draw within the circle of our contemplation the mothers of a civilized nation, what do we see? We behold so many artificers working, not on frail and perishable matter, but on the immortal mind, moulding and fashioning beings who are to exist forever. We applaud the artist whose skill and genius present the mimic man upon the canvas. We admire and celebrate the sculptor who works out that same image in enduring marble. But how insignificant are these achievements, in comparison with the great vocation of human mothers! They work, not upon the canvas that shall fade, or the marble that shall crumble into dust, but upon mind, upon spirit, which is to last forever, and which is to bear for good or evil, throughout its duration, the impress of a mother's plastic hand.

Knowledge does not comprise all which is contained in the larger term of education. The feelings are to be disciplined. The passions are to be restrained. True and worthy motives are to be inspired. A profound religious feeling is to be instilled, and pure morality inculcated, under all circumstances. All this is comprised in education. Mothers who are faithful to this great duty will tell their children, that neither in political nor in any other concerns of life, can man ever withdraw himself from the perpetual obligations of conscience and of duty; that in every act, whether public or private, he incurs a just responsibility; and that in no condition is he warranted in trifling with important rights and obligations.

They will impress upon their children the truth, that the exercise of the elective franchise is a social duty, of as solemn a nature as man can be called to perform; that a man may not

innocently trifle with his vote; and that every man and every measure he supports, has an important bearing on the interests of others as well as on his own. It is in the inculcation of high and pure morals, such as these, that, in a free republic, woman performs her sacred duty, and fulfills her destiny.

THE LOST LETTER.

BY MRS. MARY MAINE.

Softly I enter the wide open door,
When a letter blew out over the floor;
And dear Aunt Alice, so faded and fair,
Sat white as the dead in her easy chair.

My mother was bathing her pallid brow :

'Oh, Alice! dear Alice! what grieves you now?"

The pale lips moaned in a plaintive tone :

Had I only known! had I only known.'

She pointed with fingers white and cold
To the tossing letter so worn and old.

Fair Alice, my Alice," the letter said,
"Tell me, my darling, shall we be wed?
""Twas hard to sail with love unspoken;
You've known it, dear, by many a token.
Let silence speak if you cannot be mine,
But send a glad yes, if I am thine."

From mother's lips came a piercing wail :
"Twas Willie who went for the weekly mail,"
Willie, gay Willie, er pride and her joy,
Willie, sweet Willie, her rollicking boy.

The letter that came from Alice's lover,
Laid twenty years in an atlas cover.
No mortal may reckon the fearful cost,
To that blooming girl, of the letter lost.

No word went over to Robert Beauclare,
No answering word from Alice, the fair.
The letter for Alice so fraught with joy,
Forgotten quite by the careless boy.

For Afric's dark children a preacher plead,
School books were needed down South, he said,
The lips of gay Willie by death were pressed,
And his school books laid in an old oak chest.

Aunt Alice was poor but her heart was kind,
The dear little chest came into her mind.
With tear-stained eyes she had looked them o’er,
The books that would enter the chest no more.

The atlas must have a bright red cover,

Out came the letter from Alice's lover.

We all knew then why the bright belle of Clair
Was our old maid, Aunt Alice the fair.

FUSS AT FIRES.

ANONYMOUS.

It naving been announced to me, my young friends, that you were about forming a fire-company, I have called you together to give you such directions as long experience in a first-quality engine company qualifies me to communicate. The moment you hear an alarm of fire, scream like a pair of panthers. Run any way, except the right way,-for the furthest way round is the nearest way to the fire. If you happen to run on the top of a wood-pile, so much the better; you can then get a good view of the neighborhood. If a light breaks on your view, "break" for it immediately; but be sure you don't jump into a bow window. Keep yelling all the time; and, if you can't make night hideous enough yourself, kick all the dogs you come across, and set them yelling, too; it will help amazingly.

66

A brace of cats dragged up stairs by the tail would be a powerful auxiliary." When you reach the scene of the fire, do all you can to convert it into a scene of destruction. Tear down all the fences in the vicinity. If it be a chimney on fire, throw salt down it; or if you can't do that, perhaps the best plan would be to jerk off the pump-handle and pound it down. Don't forget to yell all the while, as it will have a prodigious effect in frightening off the fire. The louder the better, of course; and the more ladies in the vicinity, the greater necessity for "doing it brown." Should the roof begin to smoke, get to work in good earnest, and make any man smoke" that interrupts you. If it is summer, and there are fruit-trees in the lot, cut them down, to prevent the fire from roasting the apples. Don't forget to yell! Should the stable be threatened, carry out the cow-chains. Never mind the horse,-he'll be alive and kicking; and if his legs don't do their duty, let them pay for the roast. Ditto as to the hogs :-let them save their own bacon or smoke for it. When the roof begins to burn, get a crow bar and pry away the stone-steps; or, if the steps be of wood, procure an axe and chop them up. Next, cut away the wash-boards in the basement story; and if that don't stop the flames, let the chair-boards on the first floor share a similar fate. Should the "devouring element" still pursue the even tenor of its way," you had better ascend to the second story. Pitch out the pitchers, and tumble out the tumblers. Yell all the time.

If you find a baby abed, fling it into the second story window of the house across the way; but let the kitten carefully down in a work-basket. Then draw out the bureau drawers, and empty their contents out of the back window; telling somebody below to upset the slop-barrel and rain-water hogshead at the same time. Of course you will attend to the mirror. The further it can be thrown, the more pieces will be made. If anybody objects, smash it over his head. Do not, under any circumstances, drop a pair of tongs down from the second story; the fall might break its legs, and render the poor thing a cripple for life. Set it straddle of your shoulders, and carry it down carefully. Pile the bed clothes carefully on the floor,

and throw the crockery out of the window. By the time you will have attended to all these things, the fire will certainly be arrested, or the building be burnt down. In either case,

your services will be no longer needed and, of course, you require no further directions.

THE BLIND BOY.

ANONYMOUS.

The day was bright and beautiful,
The boys to play had gone,
Save one who sat beside the door,
Dejected and alone;

And as the tones of merry sport
Came faintly to his ear,

He sighed, and from his swelling lids
He brushed the falling tear.

His little heart was rent with pain-
He could not join the play;
He could not run about the fields,
Or by the brook-side stray;
The rolling hoop, the bounding ball,
The kite borne by the wind-
The acorn hunt was naught to him,
For he, alas! was blind.

He could not see the setting sun,
And watch the glowing skies-
The beauty of the moon and stars
Fell not upon his eyes.

The rainbow, when it spanned the cloud,
Was lost upon his sight;

And waving woods, and sparkling streams,

For ALL to him was NIGHT.