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48

GATHERED GOLD DUST.

The weary mill-girl lingers

Beside the charmed stream,
And the sky and the golden water

Shape and color her dream.

Fair wave the sunset gardens,

The rosy signals fly;
Her homestead beckons from the cloud,

And love goes sailing by!

GATHERED GOLD DUST.

comes,

(Tilton.

RITICS are sentinels in the grand army I am not one of those who do not believe in

of letters, stationed at the corners love at first sight, but I believe in tak-
of
newspapers

and reviews, to ing a second look. (Henry Vincent
challenge every new author. A man is responsible for how he uses his

(Longfellow. .

common sense as well as his moral sense. We can refute assertions, but who can

(Beecher. refute silence.

(Dickens. When a man has no design but to speak Buy what thou hast no need of, and ere plain truth, he isn't apt to be talkative. long thou shalt sell thy necessaries.

(Prentice. (Franklin. The year passes quick, though the hour tarry, The great secret of success in life is, for a and time bygone is a dream, though we man to be ready when his opportunity thought it never would go while it was (Disraeli. going.

(Neuman. The truly illustrious are they who do not Good temper, like a sunny day, sheds a

court the praise of the world, but per- brightness over everything. It is the
form the actions which deserve it.

sweetener of toil and the soother of dis-
quietude.

(Irving. Christ awakened the world's thought, and it A profound conviction raises a man above has never slept since. (Howard. the feeling of ridicule.

(Min. The Cross is the prism that reveals to us the Our moods are lenses coloring the world beauties of the Sun of Righteousness.

with as many different hues. (Emerson.

(Goulburn. Men believe that their reason governs their Men have feeling : this is perhaps the best words, but it often happens that words

way of considering them. (Richter. have power to react on reason. (Bacon. Fidelity is seventh-tenths of business suc- Minds of moderate calibre ordinarily con

(Parton. demn everything which is beyond their In the march of life don't heed the order of range.

(La Rochefoucault. "right about " when you know you are Geology gives us a key to the patience of about right.

(Holmes.
God.

(Holland. He that lacks time to mourn lacks time to Do to-day thy nearest duty. (Goethe. mend :

Many of our cares are bat a morbid way of Eternity mourns that. 'Tis an ill cure

looking at our privileges. For life's worst ills, to have no time to feel

(Walter Scott. them.

(Shakespeare. The greatness of melancholy men is seldom The worst kind of vice is advice. (Coleridge. strong and healthy.

(Bulwer. A self-suspicion of hypocrisy is a good evi- Cowardice asks, Is it safe ? Expediency asks, dence of sincerity.

(Hannah More. Is it politic? Vanity asks, Is it popuA page digested is better than a volume hur- lar? but Conscience asks, Is it right? riedly read (Macaulay.

(Punshon

cess.

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BALTUS VAN TASSEL'S FARM.

49

God made the country and man made the Stratagems in war and love are only honortown. (Cowper. able when successful.

(Bulwer. Sorrows humanize our race. Tears are the A man behind the times is apt to speak ill of

showers that fertilize the world. (Ingelow. them, on the principle that nothing It is remarkable with what Christian fortitude looks well from behind. (Holmes.

and resignation we can bear the suffer- He who isn't contented with what he has

ing of other folks. (Dean Swift. wouldn't be contented with what he One can neither protect nor arm himself would like to have.

(Auerbach. against criticism. We must meet it Architecture is a handmaid of devotion. A defiantly, and thus gradually please it. beautiful church is a sermon in stone,

(Goethe. and its spire a finger pointing to Heaven. Silence and reserve suggest latent power.

(Schaff What some men think has more effect A sorrow's crown of sorrow, than what others say. (Chesterfield. Is remembering happier things. (Dante.

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CHABOD Crane had a soft and foolish heart toward the sex; and it is

not to be wondered at, that so tempting a morsel soon found favor in his eyes; more especially after he had visited her in her paternal

mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own farm; but within those everything was snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He was satisfied with his wealth, but not proud of it; and piqued himself upon the hearty abundance, rather than the style in which he lived. His stronghold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks, in which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A great elm-tree spread its branches over it, at the foot of which bubbled up a

50

BALTUS VAN TASSEL'S FARM.

spring of the softest and sweetest water, in a little well formed of a barrel; and then stole sparkling away through the grass, to a neighboring brook, that bubbled along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farmhouse was a vast barn, that might have served for a church; every window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with the treasures of the farm; the flail was busily resounding within it from morning to night; swallows and martins skimmed twittering about the eaves; and rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned up, as if watching the weather, some with their heads under their wings, or buried in their bosoms, and others swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek, unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and abundance of their pens; whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks; regiments of turkeys were gobbling through the farmyard, and guinea fowls fretting about it, like ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish, discontented cry. Before the barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a warrior, and a fine gentleman, clapping his burnished wings, and crowing in the pride and gladness of his heartsometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and then generously calling his ever hungry family of wives and children to enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered.

The pedagogue's mouth watered, as he looked upon this sumptuous promise of winter fare. In his devouring mind's eye, he pictured to himself every roasting-pig running about with a pudding in his belly, and an apple in his mouth; the pigeons were snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with a coverlet of crust; the geese were swimming in their own gravy; and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married couples, with a decent competency of onion sauce. In the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon, and juicy relishing ham; not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its gizzard under its wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of savory sausages, and even bright chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his back, in a side-dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter which his chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living.

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow-lands, the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of

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buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the orchards burdened with ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel, who was to inherit those domains, and his imagination expanded with the idea, how they might be readily turned into cash, and the money invested in immense tracts of wild land, and shingle palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already realized his hopes, and presented to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole family of children, mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with household trumpery, with pots and kettles dangling beneath; and he beheld himself bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee, or the Lord knows where.

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How often, O how often,

In the days that had gone by,
I had stood on that bridge at midnight,

And gazed on that wave and sky!
How often, O how often,

I had wished that the ebbing tide
Would bear me away on its bosom

O'er the ocean wild and wide!
For my heart was hot and restless,
And my life was full of care,

And I think how many thousands

Of care-encumbered men,
Each having his burden of sorrow,

Have crossed the bridge since then.

I see the long procession

Still passing to and fro,
The young heart hot and restless,

And the old, subdued and slow!

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sea:

&ISSING her hair, I sat against her feet: Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me,Wove and unwove it,-wound, and Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold

found it sweet; Made fast therewith her hands, drew What pain could get between my face and down her eyes,

hers ? Deep as deep flowers, and dreamy like What new sweet thing would Love not relish dim skies;

worse? With her own tresses bound and found her Unless, perhaps, white Death had kissed me fair,

there, Kissing her hair.

Kissing her hair.

A LEGEND OF BREGENZ.

ADELAIDE ANNIE PROCTER.

IRT round with rugged mountains the Of how the town was saved one night, three fair Lake Constance lies ;

hundred years ago. In her blue heart reflected, shine back

Far from her home and kindred, a Tyrol maid the starry skies ;

had fled, And watching each white cloudlet float

To serve in the Swiss valleys, and toil for silently and slow,

daily bread;
You think a piece of heaven lies on our
earth below!

And every year that fleeted so silently and

fast,

Seemed to bear farther from her the memory Midnight is there: and silence enthroned in

of the past. heaven, looks down Upon her own calm mirror, upon a sleeping She served kind, gentle masters, nor asked town:

for rest or change ; For Bregenz, that quaint city upon the Tyrol | Her friends seemed no more new ones, their shore,

speech seemed no more strange; Has stood above Lake Constance, a thousand And when she led her cattle to pasture every years and more.

day,

She ceased to look and wonder on which Her battlements and towers, upon their rocky side Bregenz lay.

steep, Have cast their trembling shadows of ages She spoke no more of Bregenz, with longing on the deep;

and with tears; Mountain, and lake, and valley, a sacred Her Tyrol home seemed faded in a deep mist legend know,

of years ;

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