"You know not what you ask, my beloved girl," answered Isabel, in a low and tremulous tone. "You know not the weakness of the staff on which you would lean, or the frailties of the heart to which you would look up, for aid. Of myself, dear Ann, I can do nothing. I can only look to G.o.d for protection from temptation, and for guidance in the right way. When He keeps me, I am safe; when He withdraws His spirit, I am weak indeed.

And can I lead you, Ann? No! you must go to a higher than earthly friend. Pray to Him in every hour of need, and He will be 'more to you than you can ask, or even think.'"

"How often I have wished that I could go to Him as mother does--just as I would go to a father!" said Ann. "But I dare not. It would be mockery in one who has never experienced religion."

"Make prayer a _means_ of this experience, my dear girl. Draw near to G.o.d by humble, constant prayer, and He will draw near to you by the influences of His spirit, which will make you just what you wish to be, a good, kind-hearted girl. You will learn to love G.o.d as a father, as the author of your happiness and every good thing. And you will be prepared to meet those trials which must be yours in life as the 'chastis.e.m.e.nts of a Father's hand, directed by a Father's love.' And when the hour of death comes, dear Ann, how sweet, how soothing will be the deep-felt conviction that you are going _home_! You will have no fears, for your trust will be in One whom you have long loved and served; and you will feel as if about to meet your best, and most familiar friend."

Ann answered only by her tears; and for some minutes they walked on in silence. They were now some distance from town. Before them lay farms, farm-houses, groves and scattering trees, from whose branches came the mingled song of a thousand birds. Isabel directed Ann's attention to the beauty of the scene. Ann loved nature; but she had such a dread of sentimentalism that she seldom expressed herself freely. Now she had no reserves, and Isabel found that she had not mistaken her capacities, in supposing her possessed of faculties, which had only to develop themselves more fully, which had only to become constant incentives to action, to make her all she could wish.

"You did not promise, Isabel," said Ann, with a happy smile, as they entered their street, "you did not promise to be my sister; but you will, will you not?"

"Yes, dear Ann; we will be sisters to each other. I think you told me that you have no sister."

"I had none until now; and I have felt as if part of my affections could not find a resting place, but were weighing down my heart with a burden that did not belong to it. I shall no longer be like a branch of our woodbine when it cannot find a clinging place, swinging about at the mercy of every breeze; but like that when some kind hand twines it about its frame, firm and trusting. See, Isabel!" exclaimed she, interrupting herself, "there sits poor Alice, just as we left her. I wish she had walked with us--she would have felt so much better. Do you think, Isabel, that religion would make her happy?"

"Most certainly. 'Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden.

Take my yoke upon you; for I am meek and lowly in heart; and ye _shall_ find rest for your souls,'--is as 'faithful a saying' and as 'worthy of all acceptation' now, as when it was uttered, and when thousands came and 'were healed of _all_ manner of diseases.' Yes, Alice may yet be happy," she added musingly, "if she can be induced to read Byron less, and her Bible more; to think less of her own gratification, and more of that of others. And we will be very gentle to her, Ann; but not the less faithful and constant in our efforts to win her to usefulness and happiness."

Ellinora met them at the door, and began to describe a frolic that had occupied her during their absence. She threw her arms around Isabel's waist, and entered the sitting-room with her. "Now, Isabel, I know you don't think it right to be so giddy," said she. "I will tell you what I have resolved to do. You shake your head, Isabel, and I do not wonder at all. But this resolution was formed this morning, on my way back from Dracut; and I feel in my 'heart of hearts' 'a sober certainty of waking'

energy to keep it unbroken. It is that I will be another sort of a girl, altogether, henceforth; steady, but not gloomy; less talkative, but not reserved; more studious, but not a bookworm; kind and gentle to others, but not a whit the less independent, 'for a' that,' in my opinions and conduct.--And, after this day, which I have dedicated to Momus, I want you to be my Mentor. Now I am for another spree of some sort. Nay, Isabel, do not remonstrate. You will make me weep with five tender words."

It needed not so much--for Isabel smiled sadly, kissed her cheek, and Ellinora's tears fell fast and thick as she ran from the room.

Ann went immediately to Alice's room on her return.--She apologized to her for reproving her so roughly, described her walk, gave a synopsis of Isabel's advice, and her consequent determinations. By these means she diverted Alice's thoughts from herself, gave her nerves a healthy spring, and when the bell summoned them to dinner, she had recovered much of her happier humor. Ellinora sat beside her at table. She laughingly proposed an exchange, offering a portion of her levity for as much of her gravity. She thought the _equilibrium_ would be more perfect. So Alice thought, and she heartily wished that the exchange might be made.

And this exchange seems actually taking place at this time. They are as intimate as sisters. Together they are resolutely struggling against the tide of habit. They meet many discouraging failures; but Isabel is ever ready to cheer them by her sympathy, and to a.s.sist them by her advice.

Ann's faults were not so deeply rooted; perhaps she brought more natural energy to their extermination. Be that as it may, she is now an excellent lady, a fit companion for the peerless Isabel.

The Clark girls do not, as yet, coalesce in their system of improvement. They still prefer making netting and dresses, to the lecture-room, the improvement circle, and even to the reading of the "Book of books." So difficult is it to turn from the worship of Plutus!

The delusion of Bertha and Charlotte is partially broken. Bertha is beginning to understand that much reading does not naturally result in intellectual or moral improvement, unless it be well regulated.

Charlotte is learning that "to enjoy is to obey;" and that to pamper her own animal appet.i.tes, while her father and mother are suffering for want of the necessaries of life, is not in obedience to Divine command.

And, dear sisters, how is it with each one of _us_? How do we spend our leisure hours? Now, "in the stilly hour of night," let us pause, and give our consciences time to render faithful answers.

D.

THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON.

"He sleeps there in the midst of the very simplicities of Nature."

There let him sleep, in Nature's arms, Her well-beloved, her chosen child-- There 'mid the living, quiet charms Of that sequestered wild.

He would have chosen such a spot, 'Twas fit that they should lay him there, Away from all the haunts of care; The world disturbs him not.-- He sleeps full sweet in his retreat-- The place is consecrated ground, It is not meet unhallowed feet Should tread that sacred mound.

He lies in pomp--not of display-- No useless trappings grace his bier, Nor idle words--they may not say What treasures cl.u.s.ter here.

The pomp of nature, wild and free, Adorns our hero's lowly bed, And gently bends above his head The weeping laurel tree.

In glory's day he shunned display, And ye may not bedeck him now, But Nature may, in her own way, Hang garlands round his brow.

He lies in pomp--not sculptured stone, Nor chiseled marble--vain pretence-- The glory of his deeds alone Is his magnificence.

His country's love the meed he won, He bore it with him down to death, Unsullied e'en by slander's breath-- His country's sire and son.

Her hopes and fears, her smiles and tears, Were each his own.--He gave his land His earliest cares, his choicest years, And led her conquering band.

He lies in pomp--not pomp of war-- He fought, but fought not for renown; He triumphed, yet the victor's star Adorned no regal crown.

His honor was his country's weal; From off her neck the yoke he tore-- It was enough, he asked no more; His generous heart could feel No low desire for king's attire;-- With brother, friend, and country blest, He could aspire to honors higher Than kingly crown or crest.

He lies in pomp--his burial place Than sculptured stone is richer far; For in the heart's deep love we trace His name, a golden star.

Wherever patriotism breathes, His memory is devoutly shrined In every pure and gifted mind: And history, with wreaths Of deathless fame, entwines that name, Which evermore, beneath all skies, Like vestal flame, shall live the same, For virtue never dies.

There let him rest--'t is a sweet spot; Simplicity becomes the great--But Vernon's son is not forgot, Though sleeping not in state.

There, wrapt in his own dignity, His presence makes it hallowed ground, And Nature throws her charms around, And o'er him smiles the sky.

There let him rest--the n.o.blest, best; The labors of his life all done-- There let him rest, the spot is blessed-- The grave of WASHINGTON.

ADELAIDE.

LIFE AMONG FARMERS.

There is much complaint among farmers' wives and daughters, of want of time for rest, recreation, and literary pursuits. "It is cook, eat, and scrub--cook, eat, and scrub, from morning till night, and from year to year," says many a farmer's wife. And so it is in many families. But how far this results from the very nature of the situation, and how far from injudicious domestic management, is a query worthy of our attention. A very large proportion of my readers, who are now factory girls, will in a few months or years be the busy wives of busy farmers; and if by a few speculations on the subject before us, and an ill.u.s.tration to the point, we can reach _one_ hint that may hereafter be useful to us, our labor and "search of thought" will not have been in vain.

Mr. Moses Eastman was what is technically called a wealthy farmer. Every one in the country knows what this means. He had a farm of some hundred or more acres, a large two-story dwelling house, a capacious yard, in which were two large barns, sheds, a sheep-cote, granary, and hen-coop.

He kept a hundred sheep, ten cows, horses and oxen in due proportion.

Mr. Eastman often declared that no music was half so sweet to him as that of the inmates of this yard. I think we shall not quarrel with his taste in this manifestation; for it is certainly delightful, on a warm day, in early spring, to listen to them, the lambs, hens--Guinea and American--turkeys, geese, and ducks and peac.o.c.ks.

Mr. Eastman was unbending in his adherence to the creed, prejudices, and customs of his fathers. It was his boast that his farm had pa.s.sed on from father to son, to the fourth generation; and everybody could see that it was none the worse for wear. He kept more oxen, sheep, and cows than his father kept. He had "pulled down his barns and built larger."

He had surrounded his fields and pastures with stone wall, in lieu of Virginian, stump, brush, and board fence. And he had taught his sons and daughters, of whom he had an abundance, to walk in his footsteps--all but Mary. He should always rue the day that he consented to let Mary go to her aunt's; but he acted upon the belief that it would lessen his expenses to be rid of her during her childhood. He had all along intended to recall her as soon as she was old enough to be serviceable to him. But he said he believed that would never be, if she lived as long as Methuselah. She could neither spin nor weave as she ought; for she put so much material in her yarn, and wove her cloth so thick, that no profit resulted from its manufacture and sale. Now Deborah, his oldest daughter, had just her mother's _knack_ of making a good deal out of a little.--And Mary had imbibed some very dangerous ideas of religion,--she did not even believe in ghosts!--dress, and reading. For his part, he would not, on any account, attend any other meeting than old Mr. Bates's. His father and grandfather always attended there, and they prospered well. But Mary wanted to go to the other meeting occasionally, all because Mr. Morey happened to be a bit of an orator.

True, Mr. Bates was none of the smartest; but there was an advantage in this. He could sleep as soundly, and rest as rapidly, when at his meeting, as in his bed; and by this means he could regain the sleep lost during the week by rising early and working late. And Mary had grown so proud that she would not wear a woolen home-manufactured dress visiting, as Deborah did. She must flaunt off to meeting every Sabbath, in white or silk, while _chintz_ was good enough for Deborah. Deborah seldom read anything but the Bible, Watts's Hymn Book, "Pilgrim's Progress," and a few tracts they had in the house. Mary had hardly laid off her finery, on her return from her aunt's, before she inquired about books and newspapers. Her aunt had heaps of books and papers. These had spoilt Mary. True, papers were sometimes useful; he would have lost five hundred dollars by the failure of the ---- Bank, but for a newspaper he borrowed of Captain Norwood. But the Captain had enough of them--was always ready to lend to him--and he saved no small sum in twenty years by borrowing papers of him.

How Captain Norwood managed to add to his property he could not conceive. So much company, fine clothing, and schooling! he wondered that it did not ruin him. And 'twas all folly--'twas a sin; for they were setting extravagant examples, and every body thought they must do as the Norwoods did. Mr. Norwood ought to remember that his father wore home-made; and what was good enough for his good old father was good enough for _him_. But alas! times were dreadfully altered.

As for Mary, she must turn over a new leaf, or go back to her aunt. He would not help one who did not help herself. Mary was willing, nay, anxious to return. To spend one moment, except on the Sabbath, in reading, was considered a crime; to gather a flower or mineral, absurd; and Mary begged that she might be permitted to return to Mrs. Barlow. As there was no prospect of reforming her, Mr. Eastman and his wife readily consented. Mr. Eastman told her, at the same time, that she must be preparing for a wet day; and repeatedly charged her to remember that those who folded their hands in the summer, must "beg in harvest, and have nothing."

Mary had often visited the Norwoods and other young friends, during the year spent at home; but she had not been permitted to give a party in return. Why, Deborah had never thought of doing such a thing! Mary begged the indulgence of her mother, with the a.s.surance that it was the last favor she would ever ask at her hand. The _mother_ in her at last yielded; and she promised to use her influence with her husband. After a deal of cavilling, he consented, on the condition that the strictest economy should attend the expenditures on the occasion, and that they should exercise more prudence in the family, until their loss was made gain. So the party was given.

"You find yourself thrown on barren ground, Miss Norwood," said Mary, as she saw Miss Norwood looking around the room; "neither papers, books, plants, plates, nor minerals."

"Where are those rocks you brought in, Molly!" said Deborah, with a loud, grating laugh.

Mary attempted to smile, but her eyes were full of tears.

"What rocks, Deborah!" asked Clarina Norwood.