crying. Then I knew what had happened. I think I turned dizzy for a minute, but it was only for that long, for the children begun to cry and pull my gown. So I said, 'Do n't cry, darlin's, if father's hurt it'll make him feel worse to see you cry. I want you all to help me. Charles, help me bring out the cot bed before the fire, and you, Emily, run for the bundle o' linen in the blue cupboard.' By that time I heard the men coming. There were three o' the neighbors bringin'O, Allie! could that bleeding, broken body be all that was left of my Harry? Don't mind my cryin', dear; the tears come fast now, though I could n't shed any then. the night afore, and early in the mornin' I heard somethin' dash against the window at the head of my bed, and then fall down fluttering. Tilda Evans was takin' care of me, and I asked her if she would n't draw the curtain and see what it was. So she did, and there was a poor little bird caught in between the glass and some slats that was nailed outside, and the more it beat its little wings about, the tighter it was hung; so I told her to open the window and take it in. The children were crazy to get it in their hands, but I would n't have it scared any worse, so I said, ‘Tilda, open the door and let it fly away.' She opened her hand, and the little thing lay quivering an "I looked for his face, and my heart dropped instant, and then shot away like a dart. I like lead. "He is n't dead,' said one of the men quickly, 'but he's hurt powerful bad. The tree fell right across him, and he's jammed awful.' "I could n't speak, but we got him onto the bed in front o' the fire. Somebody'd gone for the doctor already, but 't was a good ten mile, and I knew by the death-look on his face that he'd be past help before it come. "I put my face close down to his and called him. It seemed as if I gave him some of my own life for the minute, for his eyelids gave a quiver and opened wide. Thank God! 't was his own loving eyes that looked up at me yet. His lips sort o' moved, and I held my ear close. I thought he asked for the children, so I called them to come where father could see them. Little Nat was only two years old, and when I held him up in my arms he was afraid, and hid his face in my neck. But when I said, 'Won't Nattie kiss father?' he reached down and kissed him on his lips. I could see Harry tryin' to speak again, and I made out to understand, 'Children-your mother-take care.' He never spoke again, or seemed to know any thing, though he breathed till nigh midnight. The neighbors did all they could for me, but before daylight I was very sick, and the next day, Allie, your mother was born. She was a weakly little thing at first, and folks said what a pity she lived at all; but, O, if they could 'a' known the comfort that baby was to me, they never could 'a' spoke like that! When her little helpless head lay on my arm, and her blue eyes looked up in my face, it just seemed to me that she knew all my trouble, and was sent to me out of the heaven where her father had gone. "I had called myself a Christian a good many years, but I don't think I had half known what it was to trust God till one day, before I was well enough to be up, when my baby was about two weeks old. There'd been a hard storm turned over in bed, and shut my eyes, and the words come to me just like a tune that I'd heard a great while ago, and a'most forgotten, till all at once somebody begun to sing it: "Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and not one of them shall fall on the ground without your Father. Fear ye not, therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.” Then a great light that was n't of this world, Allie, seemed to shine out over all the way that had looked so dark before me; a light that has never left me in all the years since then. I did n't feel afraid any more, for my Father knew all my trouble, and if it was n't best for me I should n't have it; and though He might be too kind to take it away, yet he would be sorry for me through it all and give me the strength to bear. "Well, there was a long, cold Winter comin' on, and debts begun to come in here and there, even more 'n I'd known about, and there was a mortgage on the farm besides. The neighbors wanted me to put the children out-the older ones, I mean-and offered to take 'em, one here and another there, but I thought I never would do that while I could possibly put bread in their mouths; and, thank God, the time never did come when the family had to be broken up. "I'm too tired to tell you, Allie, all the trials and hard work of those next years. The boys did nobly; and though they had to work hard early and late, I'm proud to say that none of my children ever gave me a cross word or an hour's trouble. I've seen 'em all grow up good and useful men and women; there ain't one that I should dread to have their father ask me for when I meet him in heaven. What a little while it will be, Allie, before I see him there, and we sha' n't mind then that he went on before, since I had the Lord to lead me, and so did n't walk any of the way alone." WE WOMAN'S RIGHTS. BY MRS. MARY E. NEALY. E belong to that old fogy class of women who believe that we have our rights-our natural, our moral, our social, and our political rights. There may be, and we know there are, a few wrongs to complain of, but these are fast becoming righted. When all women who wish to can possess and hold their own property when woman can obtain such employment as she is capable of performing, and can receive as good payment for her labor as one of the other sex would receive-then we shall say that she has all her rights. We have our natural rights. We are placed in household bands upon earth, as mothers, sisters, wives, and daughters, and are, as such, the most loved, caressed, and cherished-the most reverenced and tenderly cared for of any other class of human beings. All that man hopes, or desires, or aspires to is, that he may be worthy of, and do honor to, and minister to the taste of the woman he loves. This is the Utopia of all his dreams. He will even sacrifice his ambition, which is said to be his strongest passion, for the sake of winning her affection. And where is the woman with a heart who would exchange such devotion for any mere name upon earth? Who would not rather look up to and lean upon his stronger nature than go out in the world and mingle with the coarse and vile in the fierce political strifes of the land? Will such a woman be looked upon tenderly, and cherished as something too sacred for vulgar eyes to gaze upon? Will a gentleman always rise and give his seat to a woman who declares in all her actions, "I paddle my own canoe, sir?" Will he not rather say, "If she wants to be a man she must expect to be treated as one. I would not want my wife to act like that?" We have our rights, morally. For a true woman can and does exert an influence that Time can never measure. It begins with her childhood and goes down through womanhood to old age-down through every member of her family, and is again handed down by them to coming generations. And outside of the family circle, wherever a good woman, or a talented woman is known, she wields an influence to be felt through time and through eternity. She has a wide field for her mind and heart to develop, and each sad experience of her life but makes the mine more rich and inexhaustible. Her words may go forth from the quiet of her own fireside like wings of fire, to shed light and warmth upon sorrowing And for the love poured out upon them, they We have our social rights. Sometimes we think our country in its far-famed chivalry overdoes the matter, and gives us more than our dues in this matter. For it is always the woman who is feted, and petted, and talked of in all social gatherings. Even our generals who have won their laurels through seas of blood, dwindle into nothingness when the time comes to open their houses to their admiring votaries. It is Mrs. G. who is discussed, and flattered, and admired, and criticised. Who ever thinks how a gentleman looked at a ball or reception? Who ever speaks of the appearance or manners of a bridegroom? It is a rare thing. The bride is every thing. If the gentleman could be suddenly extinguished after the ceremony no one but the bride would miss him. It is always the lady who is accommodated with the best seat in the crowded room, in the railway car, and in all assemblies. It is she who is assisted into the carriage and out of it—whose shawl is carefully folded upon her delicate shoulders-whose packages are carried for hereven whose fan is too often considered too much of a burden for her. It was to save her delicate feet from being soiled that the gay young courtier threw his broidered cloak in the dirt; and even the rough, laboring son of Erin will kindly stop his team to assist her across a muddy street, setting his boot deep in the dirty pool to make a stepping-stone; and in the latter case, at least, with no hope of any other reward than a smiling "thank you." Ab, it seems to me that instead of not having our "rights," we are in great danger of being utterly demoralized by kindness! We have our political rights. Certainly all that we, with our old-fashioned tastes, will ever avail ourselves of, no matter how much they may give us. O when will our ladies learn the beauty of being more retiring-more womanly? We love the old word, which means so much! When will we be done with female wire-workers and politicians? There are some charitable works which only woman can successfully carry through. It is right she should do it. It is one of her noblest prerogatives to alleviate sorrow and suffering. But "woman's rights"-" female suffrage"-we are sick of the names! Woman's pure and chastening influence would die a sure death under such a state of things. The beautiful dependence, the loving trust-the beautifying of man's sterner nature with her affection-all would be lost, and hardened and made coarse, and the glory of true womanhood would depart from our world. Her refining influence would be over, and art in its most ideal beauty could find upon earth no type for its imagination to rest, and dream, and dote upon. The "strongest minded" of all our sex can not put down this desire to depend upon man. One Mrs. Dr., whose name is well known in our land, and whose masculine dress will at any time cause the boys to "quit playing marbles on the street"-even she will devise every possible means, and use every stratagem to induce a gentleman to walk home with her in the evening. It is not because she is timid or afraid. O, no! She can go out alone at ten o'clock in the evening without hesitation. It is the attention she wants. She still has the leaven of our grandmothers in her nature, notwithstanding all her efforts to put it down. O! we are sure that many generations must pass away ere our women will all be willing to give up this most attractive attribute of their natures. It is God-given. We love as well to be taken care of and waited upon, as the stronger man loves to care for and shield us. We are formed smaller and more slender. We soften down his sterner nature, and he becomes tender and loving. Could we have this refining power if we repudiate our sex and come out, relying only upon our own strength? Our influence, instead of increasing, would vanish from the earth. Man is stronger in mind and body-woman is stronger in heart and soul-in the spiritual essence of humanity. Man loves to guard and shield her he will work night and day for the woman he loves. Woman loves to trust him and depend upon him in all things. And when sickness, and sorrow, and misfortune comes to him, then she is strong in tenderness, and love, and kindly ministry. She will brave danger, and toil, and disease for his sake. It is her special province to visit the sick and the dying-to bathe the burning brow and parched lips, and to breathe comfort to the soul in its last strife with mor tality. Wherever a true woman can soothe a human heart, there will she be found. It is not at the elections that her influence will ever shine forth. How can a woman think of such contact without shrinking? Never again could she be loved with a protecting love. Instead of the sensitive plant, she would be likened to the cactus. Never again would the artist paint her with taper fingers or drooping shoulders, tending her flowers, or gazing down with a young mother's pure devotion upon her firstblown human flower. Never could the poet liken her to the swaying willow, the sweet mignonnette, or the pure water-lily, Far better, we think, go back to the middle ages, when knights wore ladies' favors in their helmets, and strove at tilt and tournament, and in the bloody field, to be worthy of her love. O, my sisters! write not Ichabod upon the lintels of your doors in this nineteenth century. Man's nature and woman's nature, acting upon each other, is the true life. An effeminate man is not more contemptible than a masculine woman. God's laws can not be gainsayed. Congress can not change them. They will yet stand, we hope, while time shall last, for the glory of the woman and the honor of the man! НЕ THE REBUKE. E put his empty kettle on the table, and threw himself on the homely lounge. He was a laboring man, his face browned by exposure. All day long he had been out in the sun, upon the top of a house, slating the roof. Sometimes his head was giddy and his back weak, but he straightened himself with thoughts of home and the treasures there. And now, at the sound of his footstep, and the sound of his voice, dimples break over smooth red cheeks, and loving fingers play with his curls. He shuts his eyes to frame the picture in his heart-the picture of his wife getting supperthe picture of his prattling baby; he feels the cool of the evening; and all these things comfort him. Yet he is not quite grateful-not wholly, for to-day he saw another picture that made him envious; rich Sam Marlowe, riding out with his wife and child-a handsome pairSam, portly, contented, and smiling; his wife, with a dainty color in her cheek, and rich garments folded about her. "He and I were boys together," said the poor man to himself, bending to his work My Mary is a handsomer woman than his wife," he muttered, nursing his misery, "and yet she never knew rest. As for taking her out for a drive"-he ended the sentence with a bitter laugh. agony. For a time his reason was threatened. He accused God; he heaped curses on himself. "I was envious of another," he cried, "and see how God has smitten me! O, give me back my children! Only give me back my children! Only give me the blessings of my eyes, the jewels of my heart, and I'll toil like a slave-not only through the burning hours of the day, but into the blackness and chill of midnight. I will live on a crust; I ask not for comforts-but give me my children, Lord, for I am bereft!" His wife, in the midst of her own grief, tried to comfort him, but he would not listen to reason. He saw only through the crowding Moments passed, during which the cloud grew earth, black with damps and horribly alive thicker and heavier. A neighbor passing by with insect vitality, the beautiful brows of his told of a strange disease that had lately ap-five little children, hidden away forever. peared in their midst; the doctors called it diphtheria, she said, and it was a terrible and fatal sickness. Then the door shut and the voice faded away, but the something dreary did not pass from the man's heart-the phantom horse and rider, the envy and the care. Suddenly there was a sound of alarm in the bright kitchen. "Harry, come here!" While this sorrow was still fresh upon him, came a letter postmarked England. His wife opened it, and learned that an uncle of whom he had heard nothing for years, had died within a few months, and left her husband the heir. Over the five graves of his little children, a treasure of gold was ready to be poured. Harry listened with a stony glance. What was wealth to him now? "O, for just one He arose slowly, and passed through the loving smile from the blue-eyed baby! Take door of a plain little parlor. What can be the matter with him! He seemed well enough till now. But his lips are blue, and suddenly he ceased to play, and hear how he draws his breath! Harry, he is very sick; you must go for the doctor." the treasure, dear Lord; I don't want it now— Bewildered, up into the thick-bearded face of the speaker the laborer gazed. Harry started at once; little Herbert was his idol-a most beautiful and attractive child, winning and loving-a very angel in the hum- "Well, haven't you a word of welcome for ble home. It was not long before the physician your brother? What do you see with those was in their midst. His first glance was start-wild eyes of yours? Is the man crazy?" ling, his second grave. Herbert was very ill; the terrible sickness was upon him in its most fearful form. All that night they ministered to him in his agony, for they felt that in his struggles the little frail flower would soon be broken from the stalk, though shielded by the tenderest care. And, alas! when morning broke in unbroken brightness, the sweet face of the babe was set toward it, but it saw no light; the spirit had gone to its upper home, and left the house desolate. How long a time elapsed no one knew in that household, for the hours passed unheeded; but death came again and again, and Harry and his wife stood in their lone home desolate. The strong man was bowed to the earth with For Harry flung himself upon his knees, and with strong cries thanked God again. Then he sprang up and wrung the hand of his sailor brother-ran past him, caught his wife and kissed her, and gathered his babies about him, held them all to his strong, loving heart, while great tears rolled down his cheeks. Then as his wife looked on wondering, frightened, he cried, in a choking voice: "I dreamed they were dead, Mary, all dead; and I thank God that it was only a dreadful dream. Never, never, shall I be envions again.” And that was the way the repining husband and father was led to give up envy and all uncharitableness. Truly, sometimes the Spirit doth come to instruct us in our dreams. from grandfather Longface because his face wore such sad marks of age, and she wished The Children's hildren's Repository. that if he were indeed a little child in heaven, MARY MARY'S PEARLS. BY HARRIET M. BEAN. ARY had a beautiful pearl, which she carried with her every-where she went. It caused her cheeks to glow and her eyes to eparkle, and though she did not at all times realize its worth, yet its possession made her wonderfully happy. She was not always good and kind, but people would say, "Never mind, when she loses her pearl we shall expect better things of her; those who have such pearls as hers will be wayward now and then; let us be patient and loving, for our harsh words would sadly dim her pearl, and perhaps fill her eyes with tears." So Mary was seldom scolded and always kindly cared for, and yet Mary would say, now and then, "I can't bear my pearl. If I could only get rid of it, how glad I should be! It makes me go to school and keep quiet, and it makes me mind father and mother, and grandfather and grandmother, and all my uncles and aunts that come to the house. One says, 'Do n't do that,' and another says, 'You must do this,' and all because my pearl makes me so little! If it was n't for my pearl, I suppose I should have to sew and do ever so much work, and never play nor feel like playing. I do n't believe grandsire Longface ever had a pearl like mine; see him sitting all day long in his old arm-chair. He do n't know what he's talking about. He says, 'Ben, go catch the horse-that 's a good boy! Grandsire Longface is my grandfather's father, and he tells my grandfather to 'go catch the horsethat's a good boy!' Now, I do n't believe that he ever had my pearl. The idea that he was ever 'little' and went to school! What's the use of going to school, if every body must forget every thing at last and get to be gray, and crooked, and foolish? Mother says every body was young once. What a funny baby grandsire Longface must have been!" Thus run Mary's thoughts, till one day when her father said, "Grandsire has found his 'lost pearls." Mary looked up surprised, and he added, "in heaven, my little girl. Perhaps, my dear Mary, he has found even the fair pearl, 'childhood,' which you are sometimes so anxious to lose." Mary cried to think she had sometimes shrunk he might come to her in dreams and tell her of the happy change in which he rejoiced, and tell her that he had forgiven her for shrinking from him when he asked to lay his hand upon her soft curls, for-poor man!-his dim old eyes could not see the beauty of her hair, and her merry laugh was to him faint as if afar off. " The old grandsire was buried, and flowers bloomed over him, and Winter storms came year after year till Mary exchanged the pearl, childhood, for another. She was a tall girl now, with fewer sports and more vexationswith harder studies and severer trials-with more plans and more doubts. She sometimes thought her younger sister Fanny very much in the way, and called her a childish, silly little girl;" for Mary's new pearl, "youth," although very much like her old one, “childhood," had made her very proud, and she thought that she had not much to learn, and looked with contempt upon little girls, especially if they did not like to be called "little." Still she did not mean to be unkind, and was often happy to amuse the little ones who showed her such respect as she thought she deserved. What a pity that she felt that she was so old and wise! Mary at the same time possessed two other pearls of great value. One of these filled the house in which she lived with rare comforts, and made every nook and corner of her home beautiful. It caused her to be clad in beautiful garments, and it carried her here and there-away from the dusty city in Summer hundreds of miles-till she saw great lakes and lofty mountains, and such green fields as hundreds of city girls only dream of. But this pearl, "wealth," was of but little value compared with the one which gave her kind words-tenderness-and fond attentions in sickness and in health. Once, when her feet had wandered in a dangerous path, it snatched her even from death itself. Beautiful pearl! often the rich treasure of the poor and lowlycheering the faithful laborer-priceless to young and old—the pearl, “love!" But Mary's fortunes changed. She could not keep the pearl, "youth;" "wealth" went, she knew not where, and "love" was lost. At last Mary was a "stranger in a strange land "--old, poor, forlorn. But what did it matter? She had found a pearl whose brightness was not of this world, and it mirrored heaven itself! Without it her life would have been desolate indeed. She knew that if she treasured this |