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by the blandishments of a life of ease. How much better for them had they stuck, like true sons and noble yeomen, to the glorious pursuit of their honest farmer fathers ! Nay, how much better for this community, which has been cursed, and still suffers, from the financial disasters brought about through the instrumentality of these stuck-up, live-without-working, bank and stock speculators. Young Farmer! You on your "fast horse," with disrespectful words on your lips about the "old man” and the “old woman,” ashamed of their plain clothes and their plain habits, look out for breakers ahead! You are ashamed of the noblest occupation on earth-you want to get rich fast without work-bat you are in danger. Better take the advice of “the old man," and listen to the words of " the old woman,” and let speculations alone. Stick to old Mother Earth, and she will stick to you while there is a drop of rain to fall, or a ray of sunshine to warm. Above all, maintain the honor of good old Lancaster county, and vindicate the reputation of her honest farmers. Beware of the insidious spirit of Speculation."

True, every word of it, and what is thus justly expressed in regard to a single county, is more or less applicable in any part of our country. The late financial revulsion has shown how many branches of business had been inflated and overstocked—and as a result thousands of persons in almost all departments of business, bave been thrown out of employ. Rural districts and rural labor alone have mostly escaped the shock and been enabled to go steadily on amid the wreck which the “stormy wind” has left behind.

This moment almost the only, perhaps the only rank of secular business which needs filling up, is that of the farmers. There are too few farmers, and too little produce is raised in our county. Prices of the produce of the soil, grain, fruits, and vegetables, are much higher than they ought to be, or need be. Farmers are, at this moment, more steadily and speedily advancing to wealth, than any other class of citizens.

Why does all kinds of produce command so high a price? Why has it done so for years past ? Not because there is a scarcity of good soil to cultivate. Not because there has been any particular foreign demand. But simply and alone for the reason that from some cause or other, whatever it may be, too large a number of our citizens have had their attention diverted from faming to other pursuits. The number of farmers is not in due proportion to the population.

The fact is evident. What the cause of it may be, it might be more difficult to point out. There is no doubt that many young men have been carried away by the foolish notion that farming is not so high and respectable a vocation as many other pursuits. "Fast young men" desire a faster business. But how silly, to say the least, it is to depend apon our business to make us respectable. Any lawful business-and farming is such emphatically-is respectable, if respectably pursued. Indeed we know of no secular business in which an honorable man commands a more unreserved confidence, and has awarded to him, from all classes, purer honor than the honest, industrious, intelligent christian tiller of the soil.

There may be also a growing disposition to get on faster and easier than farm life can promise. Though it be true that it is a healthy business and leads to sure independence, yet men grow by it, not in haste, like

age in

the gourd, but gradually and firmly, like the oak. Nor does the earth yield its increase without “the sweat of the face." This is perhaps too much to endure for such as regard idleness as bliss, and foppish indulgences as the height of gentlemanly dignity. Thus some may be allured away from a pursuit, not the least of whose rewards it is, that it gives health and vigor, both of body and mind, for the toil which it demands; and which, in a pecuniary point of view, more than makes up in certainty what it loses in speed.

Perbaps, too, part of the fault of the unpopularity of farming may lie at the door of farmers themselves. They are sometimes blamed how truly we leave it to them to say-for being behind the many respects; for making themselves too much of slaves to their business, and thus neglecting to cultivate as they should social, intellectual and christian refinements. We see no reason for this being so. any far mer not too greedy for gain, can command leisure, and has all the resources for every kind of improvement of himself and family, and to enable him to enjoy all that is pleasant and desirable in social life. Indeed, who does not know many farmers who are in this respect beautifully at ease, giving themselves dignified leisure, and holding themselves ready at all times to join in any enterprise of a public character, and whose pride and joy it is to make their families and homes models of leisurely comfort and of social refinement.

Whatever ground there may be for the censure alluded to, sure we are that it does by no means properly apply to all, and need necessarily apply to none. As "God made the country,” He has also made all its resources of such a character as to subserve the true social, mental, moral and religious elevation of all whose taste or circumstances may incline them to dwell amid rural scenes, and to engage in rural pursuits.

As for ourselves, we often wonder what there is in dusty streets, in a dull, impure air, in hot brick walls, and in all the smothering, swilling, swindling and swearing of cities to attract toward them. Bow homesick we often are for the fresh, free, green, glad and glorious country. Do not say that it is because

“ Distance lends enchantment to the view ;" for we know better. We know all about the country. There is not a sight or sound, thought or feeling peculiar to it, but lo! we know it altogether. The virgin snow of winter, the swollen rivulets of spring, the first greening of the sod and the modest peep of the early violet, the blooming orchards of June, the red rosy clover fields and the rich golden roll of the harvest—and then the yellow autumn, with its kindly fruits, the rattling of the nuts, the friendly blush of the ripe apple and peach, and the gushing of the presses these scenes as they pass before us through the changing year, with all that is before them, with them, after them, and that belongs to them, lo! we know all well. Were we now on some of those hills from which we often made our boy. hood surveys, when we could still “ dance to see a rainbow in the sky," and when to our inexperienced spirit there had as yet "no glory passed away from earth," without the fear of any kind of dignity before our eyes, how would we swing our hat and give three cheers for the coun. try-three more for the happy people who in it do abide and a last

loudest three, for the blessed remembrances of country life which are still flush in our hearts, and which we hope to carry with us down to the grave---if not call to mind in heaven!

THE PRISON THOUGHTS. The following lines were recently found in one of the convict's cell at Sing Sing prison :

The last golden beam of the sunlight has filed,

It kissed my pale cheek in my dark, lonely cell,
And I thought of my mother, who sleeps with the dead,

And brothers and sisters and home where they dwell.
I fell on my couch and wept bitter tears,

(For a convict can weep o'er the bright scenes of youth)
And the loss of loved ones in earlier years,

Was told in the still dying wbispers of truth.
I thought of the hours when my heart was as pare

As the tear-drops that fell on the stones of my floor;
And the bride of my youth, whose love none was truer,

And her grief and her death-ahl what could be more ?
I thought of all these as the last golden beam

Left my cell and the world, on its mission forever,
And I tried to believe 'twas a horrible dream

From which I awoke-but ob ! never-10, dever!

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

BY GEORGE W. COOK.

Buried deeply in the bosom

Of the Orient Indian earth,
Gems of richest ray are shininga

Goms of beauty, gems of worth !
Neath the billows of the ocean,

Hidden treasures wait the band
That again to light shall raise them,

With the diver's magic wand !
What to me the woalth of India ?

What the gems beneath the sea ?
What the riches of the wealthy ?

What the gold of kings to me?
When beside one only treasure

These in gaudy vestment move,
Then, ah then, tho' poor, l'm wealthy-

Wealthy in a mother's love!

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TREES, trees. trees,

O how many trees,
They cover o'er the mountains, they line the vales and leas;
They make the wide, wide forests, that roll like mighty seas.

I've often sat and pondered
Beneath their shade, and wondered,
That the poets fond of singing,
Have not set the woodlands ringing,

With the song of trees.

Trees, trees, trees

O ye slighted trees,
Gladly would'I now become a poet, should you please
To send me inspiration upon the pleasant breeze,

Let the storms that thundering roll
From the forest on my soul,
And the wind that joys and grieves,
As it gently lifts the leaves,

Sing me of the trees.

Trees, trees, trees,

Every kind of trees,
Little tiny, tiny things, and huge tremendous trees;
Some bend before the zephyr, some bear the storm with ease ;

Various as are human faces,
Usefal, pretty in their places ;
Love we not the humblest, smallest,
Ever as the proudest, tallest,

Of these pleasant trees.
Trees, trees, trees

Young and growing trees.
How tender is the leaf, and how smooth the bark of these,
In long and icy winters their tops do often freeze;

The cattle break and clip them;
The worms oft bore and dip them ;
Fresh to-day and crushed to-morrow!
Often have I looked with sorrow,

On these struggling trees.

Trees, trees, trees

Ancient, mighty trees,
I feel like taking off my hat whene'er I meet with these ;
They are often hung with mosses, and are hollow for the bees.

By day the sap-bird's drumming,
And by night the hoarse winds humming,
Maketh, music low and lonely,
Which is nowhere heard save only

In the song of trees.

Trees, trees, trees

The fruit-bearing trees;
How many rich varieties are all around of these ;
They charm the eye and tempt the taste of every one who sees ;

How tbe fragrant blossoms blow,
How they fall like iakes of snow;
And the fruit so red and yellow,
Hangs luscious, ripe and mellow,

Smiling on the trees.
Trees, trees, trees,

Cool and shady trees;
Amid the quivering heat when there searcely stirs a breeze,
How grateful to the weary the shadow is of these;

Round the spring or round the pump,
They are nestled in a clump;
And the leafy, busby mass,
Throws its shadow on the grass-

Bless the shady trees.
Trees, trees, trees,

Rehearse the song of trees;
Arrange yourselves in choirs, ye forests and ye leas,
And swell the mighty chorus till it soundeth like the seas,

Joy-notes for the sighing bring,
Dirge-notes for the dying sing :
Breathe, ye zephyrs, soft cantations;
Roll, ye storm winds, jubilations

Swell the song of trees.

MY CHILD.
A light is from our household gone.

A voice we loved is stilled,
A place is vacant at our hearth

Which never can be filled :
A gentle heart, that throbbed but now

With tenderness and love,
Has hushed its weary throbbings here,

To throb in bliss above.
Yes, to the home where angels are,

Her trusting soul has fled,
And yet we bend above her tomb

With tears, and call her dead.
We call her dead, but ah! we know
She dwells where living waters flow.

Tears, idle tears I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depths of some divine despair
Rise in the heart and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn-fields
And thinking of the days that are no more.-TENNYSON.

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