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Come, come, mother, I wouldn't fret," said easy Mr. Jewett, "the children must put their feet somewhere, and I suppose kittens will be kittens and fly about where they can find the most fun." "Oh, yes," rejoined Mrs. Jewett, "it's very easy for you, father, to think children and cats can go where they like and do what they please. I'm not fretting; but it's hard work to sweep and polish and do clear starching, and men never did know and never will know anything about the work of a housekeeper and a mother."

So saying, Mrs. Jewett, with her fair, pretty face all in a wrinkle, went out of the room with a worried "Oh, dear," and her husband looked after her with a compassionate, "Poor mother."

Naturally, Mrs. Jewett was of a happy disposition, but, like many another fond, faithful mother, she was unconsciously falling into the habit of worrying over the inevitable faults and thoughtlessness of her children.

She was a scrupulously neat housekeeper, and as her things had not come as easily as they do to many others, they acquired all the more value and importance in her eyes, once they came into her possession.

But the usual restlessness and activity of boys and girls, and even poor capering Kitty herself, was fast developing in Mrs. Jewett that irritating fretfulness and impatience which kills true happiness and comfort in many a home, where the mother's real object is to make all as comfortable and happy as possible.

In vain Mr. Jewett hinted that things were always going wrong somehow, and that there was no end of peevishness and fault-finding taking root in the family. At such times Mrs. Jewett would shed tears and declare no one could do more than to spend all their time and energies for the welfare of their family, as did she.

One morning the curtains were discovered to have been rolled up all to one side, while the summer sunshine was flooding with its wholesome light the bright pattern of the new Brussels carpet. Jennie and Carrie had left their school books scattered around on the chairs, and Jack's muddy boots. stood in the middle of the floor.

Mrs. Jewett burst into a tirade of displeasure,

judiciously and patiently calling them in and obliging them to put things in their places, she began putting things to rights herself, allowing Mr. Jewett, as frequently happened, to bear the brunt of her displeasure, and for once his good-nature gave way as he said pettishly:

"I declare, wife, it's a thousand pities there are any children here to bother you so!"

Mrs. Jewett made no reply, but, going to her room, she sat down for a moment to consider whether or not her husband meant what he had just said. But by degrees the room faded from her vision, the house became quiet, terribly quiet, the sunlight died out, and the shade and stillness reigned supreme.

There were footsteps heard, but hushed, creeping, awed.

All of active life had ceased; even kitty had taken herself off, and was nowhere to be seen.

Mrs. Jewett roused herself, and went from kitchen to dining-room, from dining-room to parlor. The invariable order was oppressive.

The curtains were rolled with exact evenness; not the finest line of sunlight could pierce through crack or crevice of the nicely-adjusted shutters.

Every book was in its place; the chairs as guiltless of dust as if just cleaned, and the unblurred polish of the piano reflected each undisturbed ornament and object in its vicinity.

But the children! Oh, the children! A great appalling throb of apprehension and withering pain shot unrepressed through the mother's heart at mention of their name.

Where was winsome, no longer mischievous, but winsome, Willie?

Where, pray, was sportive Carrie and lively Jennie? Where, too, bounding, loving, little Jack! "Yes," she said, vaguely peering about in the sunless gloom, "where are my precious children?"

She left dining-room and parlor, and went from one child's chamber to another; everything in that same depressing order, even their little beds were unruffled, each smooth pillow looking as if unpressed by a sunny head for, oh, so long!

And, ah, misery! what was that in Willie's room in the porcelain vase?

Some white flowers tied with white satin ribbon. And this heart-breaking emblem in Jennie's room? Her picture, sweet child! with a crown of fading flowers encircling it; and here in Carrie's room her picture, the darling, also crowned with immortelles. And Jack's room, forlorn in its tidiness; yes, yes, a funeral wreath in his room, dear loving little Jack!

Mrs. Jewett's first wild impulse was to disarrange

everything; the quiet and palling neatness were goading her to madness; even kitty had deserted the sunless, childless house; but the children-oh, the children! The mother felt as if her brain were afire, and her heart was bursting with its pent grief; she could not endure it another moment, and she awoke.

Thank God! she was sitting directly in the rare, sweet sunlight which God made to come in, not to be shut out of our homes. In the garden she heard the sweet, delightsome voices of her children, the blessed children.

Kitty, with fluttering little paws, was clutching with unchecked glee at the tassels of the muslin curtain; and she noticed, with a sigh of relief, that the mahogany bureau, with its burnished surface, had been pawed with fresh finger marks.

Mrs. Jewett arose slowly, locked the door, then knelt down; after a while she went forth, a new quiet in her heart, a new smile on her face.

In the dining-room she raised the curtains, so that the sunlight danced gayly through the room. Jennie came in with a toru apron, and was greeted with a smile of welcome.

Willie had been using paste in the dining-room, and had daubed the cloth, door-knob and his blouse; but mamma patiently showed him how to clean the spots away, and Willie promised with great sincerity to be more careful another time.

The children had a gloriously happy day. At night, when they were all asleep, their mother went from room to room, gazing with pure thankfulness at each darling little sleeper, so dear, ah, so dear! She sighed, then smiled at the little porcelain vase in Willie's room, filled with sweet wild flowers of his own plucking.

Then she went to her own room and tearfully told "father" her terrible dream.

He kissed his wife's fair brow fondly, and said soothingly, "Never mind, dear, we're all right now."

And they were. The timely warning was not lost on the mother's heart, for she never forgot how terrible it was when but in dreams she roamed from one empty, orderly room to another in quest of her children, and could not find them. And she resolved that she would not wait to place white flowers in their hands when their perfume could not reach the dulled senses, and their fading beauty would only break her heart; the children should have the flowers now, while their dear eyes were open to behold them, and their hearts still alive to all of earth's comforts and delights.

And we would that many another wife and mother, who is drifting into habits of fretfulness and nervousness through undue care for the children's bodies rather than their souls, "might dream this lady's dream."

EN, says William Matthews, are ready to give religion a day wholly to itself, but make it too often a stranger to the other six. As Emerson somewhere says, religion is not invited to eat, drink or sleep with us, or to make or divide an estate, but is a holiday guest; we confine it to churches and the closet, and do not think of taking it with us to the shop, the bank, or the social circle. Piety does not permeate, inform and color all the acts of a man's life; it is put on and off with the Sunday clothes. Business is not regarded as religion; religion does not furnish the motive to business. God's law is not allowed to enter the broker's or banker's shop, or the office of the lawyer or the politician; it belongs to the church and Sunday. If the merchant spies it in his store, he throws it over the counter; if the notediscounter or the pawnbroker sees it in his place of business, he pitches it into the street.

The world has had enough of such piety. It demands a religion that will not sell thirty-five inches of cloth or ribbon for a yard; that will not

put the best wheat in the top of the sack, the best shingles on the outside of the bunch, and all the big sound strawberries in the top of the basket; that will not put chicory into coffee, alum into bread, or water into milk-cans; that will not put Dent's or Jouvin's stamp on Jones's kid gloves, nor make Paris bonnets in the loft of a Boston or New York shop. True religion lays stress not only on the exceeding sinfulness of sin in general, but on the wickedness of particular sins. It is a religion that will banish scant weights from the counter and short measures from the bin; that will not prey upon men after praying for them; that will discourage litigation; that will refuse two per cent. a month on a loan to a poor man; that will be deaf to backbiting and scandal; that will feel for the poor and suffering in the pocket as well as in the heart, and give them loaves as well as tracts; that will have a conscience at Washington in a committeeroom or in a caucus, as well as at home; that will be far less anxious to seem godly than to be so, and will seek to do ordinary things in a religious spirit.

DUCATION is a question of the most vital importance at every epoch of humanity, but especially now and in this country. We cannot look at children without strong feelings of interest. Their education calls for our most scrious consideration-on them depends the serving or displeasing of God, the salvation or ruin of themselves. We tremble at the thought of havoc; much of weal or woe in this work depends upon our children.

At present do we not alarmingly remark the great interests that agitate bodies; religious, politic and social? Do we not, each of us, offer systems of But we will soon pass away, leaving these and other questions to a growing generation, which will take its place on the ever-shifting scene of life, assuming all the relations and responsibilities of an active life and acting according to those principles instilled by us. Those little beings you press so fondly to your throbbing hearts are now but weak and innocent creatures; but hold! that delicate hand which can scarcely bear the weight of a toy will soon be at the service of a strong arm, to wield, perhaps, a mighty pen or sword; under that unfurrowed brow, on which your lips place kisses of parental tenderness, a vigorous mind will, perhaps, be feverishly working for good or evil; that breast so calm will soon be agitated by strong passions. Yesterday these children were nothing; to-day they are but very little; to-morrow they will be everything. They are the future.

In beholding the conflicting of ideas, anarchy, drunkenness, crimes of every description, injustices, do we not, with an alarming and ever-increasing anxiety, ask ourselves what is going to become of society? To know that, we must first learn what these children will be who are growing up in our midst, for on them rests the future. All will be restored and the world advance if they reach the age of maturity with virtuous hearts and minds imbued with good principles. Consequently, by giving our children a good moral and intellectual training, we will further the interests of society.

One of the great mistakes some make is in looking for an amelioration of our situation, not in the bettering of the individual, but exclusively in certain systems of social organization. Does not the whole derive its value from the parts that compose it? If in an army each soldier is pusillanimous and lacking energy, certainly it does not merit the name of being brave. So it is with an association, its merit is measured by the standard of each associate. To better the individual is to better society, but in order to do this the work must be begun with the child. Toward him you should show the greatest devotion, for him you should have the greatest care, and I might add, though to the surprise of some, respect. Respect, it is true, is due the aged for the good use they have made of their lives. Their work is at an end, soon they will pass through the portals of eternity to receive their reward. Let us now bow down and reverence that crown of snowwhite hair. Respect is equally due the mature man who with one hand supports the child learning to walk, while with the other he sustains the old man who is going down into his tomb-his future is no more shrouded in mystery, he has climbed the mountain and reached its summit. Oh, but the youth! he appears with illusions of the future. his entrance into life everything opens up before him brilliant and full of promise; he feels he possesses all that is necessary to arrive at an ideal Utopia. As I have said before, take him now while he is young, he is pliant and susceptible to good influence, everything is sunshine and teeming with life. You know that his ideas, habits and conduct in future years depend upon the direction given to his life by those whom Providence has placed over him. Those intelligent, gracious little beings that now surround you, if they do not come under a good influence from, I might say, the very hour of their existence, will wither away like flowers under a scorching sun; they will be torn and beaten by the storms of a misspent life, until they become forlorn, vulgar beings, slouching about the streets, leading, like so many others, an existence without aim or honor.

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But, on the contrary, if you train your children with care, you will go to sleep in peace, the sleep of the grave, bearing with you the assurance that they will be a credit to you and religion, and that

they will be the glorious future of our country. "A house divided against itself shall not stand," is a truth that parents should ponder over with reference to the management of their children. You have no more acute or severe critic than your own children. If husband and wife do not agree, the very babe in its mother's arms will quickly discover the fact. A group of children were playing on a nearby sidewalk, not long since, when one of them suddenly seized the hand of her companion, and hastily made her way around the nearest corner. "What do you do that for?" asked her companion. “Oh, I saw papa coming, and he has forbidden me to play with Susie Jones," innocently replied the child. But your mamma knew you were playing with her, she is sewing at the window, and could see you. "O, mamma lets me do as I please."

How can a child with such home training respect either parent? She will fear the father, but she will not respect him, because she sees that her mother does not feel enough respect for him to enforce his commands in his absence. She will not respect her mother, because she feels in her childish heart that her mother is wrong, and knows that her

father has a good reason for not wishing her to play with Susie Jones.

How often we hear a child exclaim when forbidden by her mother to do something, "I'll ask papa when he comes home," showing plainly that one parent does not uphold the authority of the other. At times a father will correct a child with more severity of expression than the fault warranted, and, painful as is such a spectacle, it is even more painful and more harmful to the child for the mother to interfere. Again, it often happens that a wife and mother cannot approve of her husband's course, that she must teach her children a different code of morals. Of course this of necessity must imply a criticism of the father, yet it can be done so gently and so wisely that it will leave no feeling of disregard in the child's heart, but rather fill it with a sort of pitying tenderness toward that erring father. Talk with each other privately, if need be, in regard to your modes of correction, but let no word of your difference reach the child's ears, for just so much as you find fault with each other in the presence of your little ones, then just so you weaken each other's authority.

COME forty years ago there lived in Wisconsin a farmer named Throop, who was a widower, with a daughter fifteen years old. The man had a good reputation, and his daughter was a favorite in the neighborhood. For some time previous to the occurrence which caused his arrest, Throop had not been on good terms with a farmer named McWilliams, living about a mile away, on account of damage committed by cattle belonging to the latter. There had been a law suit, and the two men had come to blows, and Throop had said in the presence of witnesses that he would like to put a bullet into McWilliams. One day about noon the cattle broke into the field again, and the daughter notified her father. Throop was terribly enraged, and, as he started to drive them out. he took his rifle along. The back end of the field bordered on a wood, and the daughter saw her father disappear among the trees after the running cattle. Soon thereafter she heard a shot, and was alarmed for fear that her father had carried out his threat.

In about half an hour Throop came home, pale and agitated, put up his gun, and sat down to his dinner without a word. The girl was crying, but he didn't seem to notice it. After the meal was eaten he hitched up a horse to the buggy and drove away, saying that he might not be back before sundown. He returned at 7 o'clock, and the daughter noticed that he was in much better humor. Neither referred to the affair of the cattle, and the evening passed off pleasantly. Two days later, Throop meanwhile pursuing his labors around home, the sheriff appeared and arrested him. The farmer was at supper when the officer entered, and it was after

Throop was terribly agitated, but protested his innocence, saying that he had not seen the man for a week. As he was taken away he whispered to his child, who was clinging to him:

"Say nothing of my chasing the cattle out."

This was overheard by the sheriff, and at the proper time was used to the prisoner's confusion. The daughter was convinced of her father's guilt from the first. The blundering sheriff did not take away the rifle, and he had no sooner departed than the girl inspected it, to find that it had been recently discharged. In hopes to exculpate her father, she set about and cleaned and loaded the gun. In the course of a few hours she was put under restraint and interrogated. Believing that anything she could say in regard to the affair would react on her father, she determined on silence, and not one word could be got from her as to the events of the past three days. Throop vigorously denied the killing, but was obstinately silent to all other questions. The prosecution then began to work up its case of circumstantial evidence, and was fortunate from the start. A person came forward who saw Throop leave his house, gun in hand, to chase the cattle. Two persons affirmed that they heard the report of a rifle. Several people had heard Throop make threats. The cleaning of the rifle was charged to Throop, and made to look ugly against him. The

silence of himself and daughter was proof sufficient to most people that he was guilty of murder.

Court was in session, and the accused was speedily brought to trial. To his lawyer he divulged the episode of pursuing the cattle, and he admitted firing at a heifer and missing her. The shot went over her and entered a beech tree. He gave his solemn word that he did not see McWilliams that day. When he left the house after dinner it was with the intention of going to town several miles away to consult a lawyer in regard to a new suit. He did not find the lawyer in his office, and on his way home he got to thinking the matter over, and made up his mind he had been too hasty all along. He even had some thought of going to his neighbor and holding out the hand of reconciliation, but he was restrained by the lateness of the hour. This feeling accounted for his strange conduct when he came home.

The lawyer went to the woods and found the beech tree and dug out the bullet, he also found that the lawyer whom Throop went to see was out at the hour specified. It was strange, however, that while scores of men in the town knew Throop, no one could be found who remembered having seen him on that occasion.

Mrs. McWilliams affirmed that her husband had left the house with his rifle to hunt squirrels in the woods, and she had never seen him alive again. He had been shot through the head. What had become of his rifle? The prosecution intended to charge Throop with hiding it. The defense had no theory about it, though they might ask why the body had not been hidden as well. Any theory of suicide was out of the question in the face of circumstances.

The case was called with a strong prejudice

against the prisoner. The prosecution put in all its evidence, circumstantial and otherwise, and it seemed to every one a clear case. Before the defense opened an event occurred which had a most important bearing. A stranger was arrested in a town twenty miles away while trying to dispose of a rifle with McWilliams' name engraved on a silver plate on the stock. He was brought to the county seat at once, and when the right pressure was brought to bear on him he made a confession. He was a traveling clock tinker. He had been drunk two or three days before the shooting and his outfit had been lost or stolen. Early on the morning of the shooting he stole a couple of hens from Throop, and went into the woods and made a fire and roasted one for his breakfast. He was asleep when McWilliams stumbled upon him. Evidences were at hand that he was a thief, and the farmer ordered him to pick up and leave. The tinker refused, and hot words passed. McWilliams threatened him with the gun, and he closed in to wrest it away. In the struggle the weapon was discharged, and the farmer was killed. At the same instant another shot was fired, but the tinker did not see Throop. He at first threw down the rifle and ran away, but afterwards returned for the gun, thinking to sell it and procure another outfit.

There could be no doubt of the truth of the tinker's story, and Throop was discharged from custody and the other party put on trial. He pleaded guilty, but judge and jury accepted his version of the shooting, and he received a comparatively short sentence. But for his action in carrying away the gun he would probably have been set at liberty.

HEN a boy is made the happy owner of a jack-knife he is generally inclined to use it pretty freely, and a litter of shavings and lots of scolding are sure to follow. This was once the case of a certain eastern boy since widely known. But this boy had a head as well as a knife. With the strong steel blade he was ever fashioning something for a purpose. He never made the shavings fly merely to make the stick smaller or time less. While he was carving the wood he was carrying out an idea. And when you see a boy do this, look out for a big man in a few years. One day this boy presented his father with a model of a machine which had come from under his jack-knife. The father glanced at it for a moment. He was not able to take in the design, and he waited for no explanation. He saw at once the whittling had been immense, and time had been wasted by the boy. This enraged him, as he was a severe practical man and could see no use in such trifling employment. He snatched the pretty machine from the boy's

hand and threw it upon the ground, stamping it to pieces.

Soon after this the father sent his son to learn the trade of a blacksmith. His employer soon discovered more than ordinary talent in him. Again his jack-knife was at work. Again the same model was made. With pride he explained it to the blacksmith. At once it was recognized as a useful invention. It was a power loom, the first ever made. A loom was then constructed out of a substantial material. It worked with satisfaction. A loom factory was then established. A trade was then built up. The boy had half the profits. One year after the invention was tested, the blacksmith wrote to the father that he would pay him a visit, and bring him a visitor, who was the inventor of the celebrated power loom. What was the astonishment of the old gentleman when his son was introduced to him as the inventor, and when he told the father that the invention was but the model he had kicked to pieces last year! Let boys carve, so long as they carve out ideas.