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THE JUVENILE EXCURSION.

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THE JUVENILE EXCURSION. THE question is frequently asked, whether, at any period of our existence, we have experienced unalloyed happiness? and the reply has almost universally been, never. Yet I can recollect a period of my life when, for the term of three weeks, it seemed to me that my enjoyments and my satisfactions were unbounded and complete.

after all her callings to order, was quite outdone; and finally, stamping a foot, she said, "Now, children, if you don't behave, you shan't one of you go, after all!" This denouncement was followed by a general lull at the immenseness of the threat, and that was succeeded by an obstreperous burst of laughter at the excellence of the joke, "as if we were going to believe that." A portion of furniture was carried out for our use. Although there was a tenant in the house we resorted to, I was then betwixt eight and nine years of age. It yet, in those days, plain people had nothing superwas in the month of September, that delightful rural-fluous, and very little that was supernumerary about ising season in New England, that our family had re- them. I recollect how convenient every article looked treated from the city to a farm about twenty miles in when there, though never noticed at home; and I exthe interior. And this spot 1 recollected well, with perienced that sort of sense of snugness that one feels all the fondness with which our early haunts have in contemplating Robin Crusoe's house-keeping devices. been impressed upon us. I could just remember that (Maybe some of my delight originated in the developwe had spent a season there once before, and had leftment of observation and attention, and fitness, &c., &c. the place when I was about five years of age. There Yet, however that might be, I was myself not conscious were many causes which rendered the present excur- of it at the time, nor of any abstract reasonings, as my sion particularly grateful to my feelings and disposi- reader may well suppose.) My mother had not been tion. In the first place, a visit was a great indulgence too provident, for the family at the farm had been to me. I had been kept constantly at school, and the accustomed to "make out" with just what "would long hot summer had, in a measure, taken effect upon do;" and any thing, they thought, would do at a pinch. my habitually low health. Add to this, a frightful The evening we arrived there their candle on the supepidemic had raged in town for the eight or ten weeks per table was placed in a long-necked bottle, by way preceding; and it was by way of recruiting our health of candlestick; and when their son, a lad of twelve that the present visit (including the whole of our years, first saw a snuffers belonging to my mother, he white family) had been arranged. The young who caught it off the table, and said, "Look here, dad, is a are allowed to take an excursion every few weeks will little gun." This poor boy had never visited a town not be able to appreciate the zest of my enjoyment. in his life. This region was not intersected by any The rebound of the strong bow can only illustrate the navigable water; and in those days railroads were not, bouyancy of my spirits. I can never forget my sense and few persons in that neighborhood had probably of delight in all the circumstances, though I hardly ever seen a boat of any description; and these people expect to be able to communicate it in the relation. knew still less of books than they did of things. Of My juvenile reader will wonder how the common the diversities of character they were equally ignorant; places of a rural sojourn could afford such impressions; yet they abided pertinaciously in their one view, rejectand it was only, perhaps, because to me they were not ing improvement, and narrowing all others to their common places that it was so. It is only to those who own pattern standard of self. However, it suited the retain a taste for simplicity that my assiduous jottings convenience of farmer Ballow to be tolerably obliging down of these events, keeping them sufficiently simple, at this time to my mother as their landlady, especially and just in the order in which they occurred, can be at as she was careful not to make any extra requirements, all interesting. and she also paid them well for whatever she received from them.

I remember all the preparations and circumstances of the journey. We were early astir on that eventful morning; even the mysterious getting up before day light was fully confirined, was delightful. A pure, breezy, exhilerating morn it was. The house hummed like a bee-hive; children, white and black, "chock full" of happiness sounded the note of preparation in every note of the gamut. The putting on of some coarse ginghams and stout shoes to rusticate in was the next indication; and the breakfast, served at a side table, and discussed in haste, was "so good," though of just what we usually had on any other morning. There was packing and assorting, and fetching of parcels and baskets and boxes, &c., &c., and all sorts of confusion. There was no soberness and no walking; every motion was a hop, skip, or a jump, with sometimes a trip up, the admiration of all the rest. All was hilarity, expectation and impatience; and my mother, VOL. III.-32

But of our journey. The senior members of the family rode in a coach, or as it was there called, a "coachee," or little coach. One of my brothers rode a pony, and another young brother rode an old farmhorse. He was "to ride and tye" with a black woman of the family, but stipulated with my mother to have "both ends of the road" in leaving town and in arriving at the farm, or "else," he said, "he must walk all the way;" to which our mother agreed. And what a profound secret this was amongst us all! Brother S. to "ride and tye!" Besides all these, three of the young children, including myself, with two little blacks, went in the large road wagon which conveyed our furniture. We had also a yellow girl, fifteen years of age, for our attendant. The "teamster," as the wagoner is there called, was a jocose sort of person, and humored all our little pretenses, without any very great sacrifice

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THE JUVENILE EXCURSION.

she reminded us that when last here our dear father was of the company; and she finished by saying, "But in this world we shall see him no more; yet we will none of us ever forget him." Our young hearts were sincere in the tears that we gave to this thought; but in a few moments, and with childish unconcern, we had returned to the joy of the things about us.

of truth or temper on his own part. We youngsters | ready sympathy we claimed to know the cause, and had our own ideas of dignity, and sat under closed curtains, conceiving we should be indelibly disgraced to be seen riding in "the cart;" so we had given our injunctions to Dexter not to betray us. Every now and then some one on the road, which was an unfrequented one, would cry out, "What have you there friend?" Dexter would answer in a loud, clear voice, "Only a load of goods belonging to the widow H." At which, like the "Miss Hamborough," we would almost "split our sides with laughing;" and, though this was repeated half a dozen times in course of the day, still it was a fresh joke every time, we being in excellent humor to receive it. Dexter had his part of it toohis back being toward us, he would each time give a knowing wink to the way-farer, and they would have their laugh too. This information we got from the intelligent Lima, as she afterward related the progress of the day to our mother.

This great journey of twenty miles took us from morning until late in the afternoon-so our pace may be judged of. The day was very warm for the season, and Dexter would often rest his "cattle" in a bit of woods, which we frequently arrived at on our sequestered road. His team consisted of two steers and two colts, and I believe he was breaking both pair, for he observed that "the steers would not go at all, if the colts did'nt drag them on;" but "the colts," he said, "would carry us to Gil Kicker, if the steers did'nt keep them back." And then we all laughed again.

We were now ushered into my mother's chief apartment. It was pretty large, and was to serve for eating room, bed-room, and parlor. I soon retired to rest, but could hardly get asleep for looking through the yet uncurtained window to see the distant hills, the meadows and the fields by moonlight; all remembered, with a sort of misty joy, as having been loved of yore, long, long ago. And then the anticipation for the morrow; how early we would all get up, and how we would bound over the hills! After the fatigues of the day I slept soundly, whilst asleep, but yet remember to have started several times with a sort of dreamy perception of the element of happiness by which I was surrounded. By the rising of the September sun we had all taken our breakfast, and were away to the woods; and who can tell the rapture of the stroll! The day was our own; nothing was required of us; no tasks, no schoolgoing, no home duties, no restriction of any sort. Lima was sent with us, and we were told that our dinner would be served at noon-an implied permission that we might wander until then. We We were only told to keep our bonnets on, and not to go too far. The air was fresh and bracing, the sky was clear, and as the bright sun glinted on the spider lines, still covered with dew, across our path, every step was a delight. The

We had, among other things, taken along a basket of eatables with us, and stopped only for dinner. I remember the dinner well-never was any thing so good-bacon and eggs fried, with some bread | birds were twitt'ring their morning notes, expressive and cheese, and baked apples and milk, by way of dessert. And then the circumstances so uncommon-we travelers, eating at a public house. In short, the craving appetite of change and novelty was gratified, and every thing was agreeable. The wit of Lima, if not Attic, was at least much better relished than if it had been. One instance I recollect in particular. There had been large store of provisions prepared for us and put into the wagon, but, children-like, we were not content until we had devoured the whole; and Lima, who presided over the basket, observed, as she took out the last biscuit, "Mistress told me to take good care of the basket, and I can't let any of you eat that." Was ever wit like Lima's wit, thought we-the inuendo so delicately expressed too. Just as the sun was dropping below the horizon we arrived at the farm-house. The farmer's children, tidy and clean in home-spun, and barefooted, were arrayed at the door to greet us; their hair, I recollect, was braided into two or three cues each, which ungraceful fashion was then confined to those who adopted it for convenience only. These children stared at us, and said, "How d'ye," but looked shy. But no need of that-under present excitement our politeness hardly exceeded theirs. But a sudden damp was thrown over our joy; for, on entering, we observed that our mother was in tears. With

of innocence, of liveliness, and joy; and now and then, from some distant brake, or from the top of some tall old tree, there would be sounded a solitary, long, wild utterance, which seemed to embody the ideal of wildness and seclusion, and long distance from town, which rendered it doubly delicious to me. This neighborhood was very thinly settled, which allowed of our extending our walks to long distances without being subject to observation or publicity; and before our recess was out, we had visited almost every hill, glade, nook and corner of its domain. Sometimes we would stroll amongst the rocks overgrown with vines and trees-a scene of broken and confused variety. Sometimes we descended to a little gurgling river, whose pebbly bottom was seen through the clearness of the water, and following its meanderings, we would pluck the big "Indian pink," and other wild flowers on its borders. Sometimes we would climb the "ridge hill," and seek the deep, deep vale, or bottom ground, entirely covered with the plantain; and the unshorn grove threw its shadows, either by reflection or refraction, in a sort of perpendicular way, at almost any height of sun. This seemed a mysterious haunt. I can now recall the undefined perception, as I saw the plantain leaves throwing their distinct and shuddering shadows upon the solemn spot. Of course it was the breeze

us.

HOW TO REPROVE A CHILD.

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HOW TO REPROVE A CHILD. A child quarrels with her younger brother at play. The mother interposes to quiet the contention, and then leaves them with a sorrowful countenance, which tells them that she is dipleased, but without any direct reproof. The day passes away; the child forgets the occurrence, and supposes the parent has forgotten it. When evening approaches, and the calm and still

all the excitements of the day are allayed, and the mother, alone with her child, is about to leave it for the night,-she says in a serious, but kind and gentle tone, "My child, do you remember that you were angry with your little brother to-day, and that you struck him?" The sin thus called to the recollection, will come up distinctly to view, and the fact that the mother remembered it so many hours, invests the transaction with an importance in the mind of the child, which no language could attach to it. The time and the circumstances too, in which it is recalled, open the whole heart to the impression which the parent desires to make. "God saw you do this, my child," continues the mother, in a kind but serious tone, "and he is much displeased with you. How can you go to sleep to-night, without asking him to forgive you?"

that stirred them; but Lima had not left us without | superstitious hints suited to every shadowy spot. The orchards on the place claimed our particular regards; the trees being fancifully named for any peculiarity. There was "fair-face" and "sour mouth"-there was "blush cheek" and "gnorly head," and "old Mrs. Sweeting," an especial favorite. Once we were allowed to visit the cider press, and witness the wealth of the year. Toward the latter part of our sojourn the ches-hour which precedes the time of rest has arrived, and nut season came on, and we all vied with each other to see which should secure the greatest store of them; we would watch under the trees, and scramble about whenever the wind, which was now occasionally pretty brisk, should dislodge the burrs; and these we learned to handle like youthful Spartans, unknowing of their sting. The "shell bark," a rich species of walnut, and the "hog walnut," and the black butternut, were all found out by us and hoarded. It was not so much covetousness, as it was competition and cleverness, with a mixture of childish greediness, that instigated When our mother came to observe this, she said to us one evening, "You have had enough of this, you are getting too wild; to-morrow you must not go out at all, but stay at home and I shall fit some work for you." This we felt would be right and proper, and we submitted with a pretty good grace. The next day we were surprised to see our mother take two or three of our dresses, which were very little worn, and deliberately cut them up. Now, she had always inculcated upon us never to be wasteful; and as we looked with gaping wonder upon her "remorseless coolness" she thought us worthy of an explanation, and said, "In my haste I forgot to bring work along for you, but it is much better for me to sacrifice a few gowns than for you to lose your habits of the needle." She cut them into pretty small pieces, and sewing on two or three hours every day, we made a couple of cradle covers, which, before we left, our mother permitted us to present in our own names, one to the farmer's wife, and the other to the wife of a neighbor; and the whole performance, we being the actors, was instructive to us. It helped to form our habits with the needle; a matter of no small consequence to girls who may be thrown upon their own resources in after life. And who may not? One little drawback I remember, though it had no necessary connection with the case. Whilst we sat at work one day I recollect the comments of the farmer's wife and an acquaintance of hers upon our respective merits as needle-women; and how fast our needles did ply as they talked in an under tone about us. But presently the stranger called me to her, and said, "I allow that this thimble is silver." I don't know what possessed me, but I instantly replied, taking up the drawling tone of the speaker, "I allow it is," and all the rest of the children laughed. Upon which my mother fetched me a smart box on the ear, and taking me by the hand she led me determinately into a little pantry, and shutting the door, she "pulled the bobbin." So I was a prisoner in "short order." (To be concluded.)

There are few young children who will not be affected by such an appeal as this,-who will not feel sincerely sorry for the wrong-be ready to ask God's forgiveness, and to resolve to do so no more. If it appears that these feelings exist, let the mother express them, in a short and very simple address to God. She may then close the interview by saying, "Now my child, God has heard our prayer. He knows whether you have felt what I have been saying. If you have, he has forgiven you, and he will love you, and take care of you to-night, just as if you had not done wrong." A watchful parent will soon find, after such a lesson as this, an opportunity to convince the child, that to make good resolutions is not an infallible preservative from sin. Another and another transgression will soon occur, and the pupil may be taught, by pointing to its own experience, that its own daily sins call for daily penitence and prayer.-Abbott.

BEAUTY.

LET me see a female possessing the beauty of a meek and modest deportment-of an eye that bespeaks intelligence and purity within-of the lips that speak no guile; let me see in her a kind, benevolent disposition, a heart that can sympathize with distress; and I will never ask for the beauty that dwells in ruby lips, or the flowing tresses, or snowy hands, or the forty other et ceteras upon which our poets have harped for so many ages. Those fade when touched by the hand of time, but these ever enduring qualities of the heart will outlive the reign of those, and grow brighter and brighter, and fresher and fresher, as the ages of eternity roll away.

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Mantled with clouds of all most lovely hues,
Purple, and amethyst, and wavy gold,
Reflected to his gaze the splendor caught
From many a "heavenly vision;" and he gazed
Upon its beauty, till the burning stars

Shone through its parting folds, and seemed to him
Bright heralds, winging to assign his soul
Its place among the eternal!

Solemn thoughts
Of life, and death, and immortality,
Floated, enrobed in majesty sublime,
Through the deep springs of being; not in fear
Did he await his change, but with a trust
Firm and unwavering, e'en as one of old,
Who walked with God, and was no more on earth;
For he had kept the "whiteness of his soul,"
And moved through time as stars revolve through
heaven,

And strove with noble deeds and thrilling strains
To teach and guide the living soul of man
In heaven's eternal order, truth, and love!

Yet grief and loneliness had been his lot,
Each blossomed hope was blighted in its bloom,
And he had pined beneath the load of life,
And panted for the unattained, and longed
To lay aside his frail and earthly garb,
For a bright, starry crown, and snowy robes
Of pure, unfading beauty.

'Mid the leaves,
The spirits of the evening wind awake
Their sweetly mournful strain, and thus, to him,
Each low and plaintive whisper seemed to say-

Thy life is swiftly waning,

O lonely, lonely heart! And not with mournful plaining Shouldst thou from time depart. Thy beauty gave no gladness,

In vain thy love gushed forthThy lot hath all been sadness, Alone in this cold earth.

The streamlet gladly springeth

To the bosom of the mainThe freed bird sweetly singeth At the breaking of its chain; And now thy earthly mission Is well and nobly done, While in the realms elysian

Bright dawns thy being's sun.

While dawns the heavenly splendor,
While earthly scenes grow dim,
In breathings sweet and tender
Pour forth thy dying hymn,
Till its glad echo blendeth
With the eternal song,
As thy free soul ascendeth

To join the angel throng!

The trembling of the weak and fragile form,
And the wild lightning of the azure eye,
Bore token that the mighty spell of song
Was laid upon his soul.

The myriad tones Which thrill the earth, and air, and ocean main, And e'en the spirit of the mighty, all Transfigured, rose before him, and his voice Swell'd out in mystic intonations, till

The olden mountains answered, and the air
Was laden with its melody; and this

Was that high priest of nature's dying hymn—

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TRUE PIETY.

And cheered the lone and desolate, bow'd beneath the

weight of woe,

With tidings of a happier clime, where living waters flow,

And bid them breast, with tireless wing, the storm of grief and wrong,

And in the spirit's nobleness be earnest and be strong, And whispered to the mourning ones, with hearts by anguish riven,

The loved, departed, wait for thee in their bright homes in heaven.

And now I bless thee, O my God! with my expiring breath,

That thou hast taken from my soul the bitterness of death,

And lit with thy dear smile of love the pathway of the tomb,

And drawn aside the vails which hide the upper Eden's bloom,

And sent the white-robed seraphim, to take me by the hand,

And gently lead me to my home in that most lovely land.

Lo! the eternal day-spring dawns-angelic anthems swell

Now welcome heaven-and, mournful earth, farewell—

a last farewell!

With the last dying cadence of his strain,
The poet's soul ascended to the clime
Of never-ending melody.

No more

Will sorrow's tones inspire each thrilling lay;
For now all tears are from his starry eyes
Wiped by the great Deliverer! gloom, and fear,
And sorrow, all have fled-no shroud-like cloud
Darkens the heaven of his raptured breast.
The dearly-loved, lamented ones of earth,
Attired in immortality, again

Are folded to his bosom, in the cool

And fadeless groves of living asphodel;
Where living waters glide in peaceful flow,
Their many mansions gracefully arise.
And now the glory of the Godhead bathes
His soul in light, and loveliness, and love.
And he hath joined the choir of seraphim,
And chants the lays which they alone may sing,
Who sweep their lyres before the great white throne!

THE BIBLE.

HERE is the spring where waters flow,

To quench our heat of sin;

Here is the tree where truth doth grow,
To lead our lives therein.

Here is the Judge that stints the strife,
Where men's devices fail;
Here is the bread that feeds the life,
That death cannot assail.

TRUE PIETY.

A PIOUS man, a devotee,

His evening prayers had said; His Bible lay upon his knee,

And in it he had read,

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"Christ had no place wherein to lay his head." "O, Jesus! had I lived," he cried,

"But in that barbarous age,

I would have wandered at thy side,
Thy sorrows to assuage,

And in the work of love and truth engage.

"My house, it should have been thy home; My money have been thine;

When thou abroad wast forced to roam,

I would have spent my time

In aiding thee; thy work should have been mine." A low faint rap upon the door,

Disturbed his train of thought;

There stood a man, whose garments poor

In many a patch were wrought;

And for a piece of bread he humbly sought.

"Get thee to work," the saint now cried, "And earn enough to eat."

"I'm sick and faint," the man replied,

"And bleeding are my feet;

My fire has been the sun, my bed the street." "Away, thou wretch, nor longer dare

Approach a man like me; Thy very words pollute the air,

Thy face ne'er let me see; "Thanks, Father, I am holier than he."

The devotee then closed the door-
He sought his downy bed-
A dream crept over him once more,
And Jesus came, and said,

"What gavest thou to him who asked for bread? "Empty thou turn'dst him from the spot;

Thy works do not agree,

For as to him thou didst it not,

Thou didst it not to me.

O, strive, henceforth a better man to be."

Before his Savior's piercing eye,

He gladly would have fled;

But whither from him could he fly?

He lay upon his bed

So self-condemned, he dare not raise his head. And with the morning's breaking light

He rose an humbled man,

And in the path of new-found right,
His works of love began;

To feed the poor, to tend the sick he ran.

How many are there who would give
Their life to please the Lord,
Who daily 'mid the suffering live,

Nor think they can afford

A piece of bread, a garment, a kind word!

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