ET me say to parents: Make the home-life beautiful, without and within, and they will sow the seeds of gentleness, true kindness, honesty and fidelity, in the hearts of their children, from which the children reap a harvest of happiness and virtue. The memory of the beautiful and happy home of childhood is the richest legacy any man can leave to his children. The heart will never forget its hallowed influences. It will be an evening enjoyment, to which the lapse of years will only add new sweetness. Such a home is a constant inspiration for good, and as constant a restraint from evil. If by taste and culture we adorn our homes and grounds and add to their charms, our children will find the quiet pleasures of rural homes more attractive than the whirl of city life. Such attractions and enjoyments will invest home-life, school-life, the whole future of life with new interests and with new dignity and joyousness, for life is just what we make it. We may by our blindness live in a world of darkness and gloom, or in a world full of sunlight and beauty and joy; for the world without only reflects the world within. Also, the tasteful improvement of grounds and home exerts a good influence not only upon the inmates, but upon the community. An elegant dwelling, surrounded by sylvan attractions, is a contribution to the refinement, the good order, the taste and prosperity of every community, improving the public taste and ministering to every enjoyment. A Country Home. B. G. NORTHRUP. "Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily, While a boy listened alone; Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over, No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover: You leave the story to me. The fox-glove shoots out of the green matted heather, She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather: I wish, and I wish that the spring would go faster, And I could grow on like the fox-glove and aster, SEVEN TIMES THREE.-LOVE. LEANED out of window, I smelt the white clover, Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate; "Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover Hush, nightingale, hush! O sweet nightingale, Till I listen and hear "The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, "You night-moths that hover where honey brims over "Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover, I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover; Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight; "Let me bleed! Oh, let me alone." I shall not die, but live forlore- O to meet thee, my love, once more!- No more to hear, no more to see! O that an echo might awake I should know it how faint so c'er, O once to feel thy spirit anear, I could be content! O once between the gates of gold, While an angel entering trod; But once-thee sitting to behold On the hills of God. |