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Thus did the patriarchs with Deborah. She was a life-member of their family, a permanent fixture in their home arrangement. Laban gave her to Rebekah, and she gave her to Jacob, doubtless always with the understanding that come what might, she should have a life-home with them, and finally be buried with all the honor and solemnity of a parent or child. Indeed, she reminds one of what Paul says to Philemon, of Onesimus, whom he should receive "not now as a servant, but above a servant, a brother beloved, especially to me." Thus Deborah was treated as a sister beloved rather than a servant. This divests the relation of a servant from some of its most odious features. Not as a slave or menial servant is the dear old Deborah treated, mourned and buried, but as before God a sister and an equal, because she is a child of God. No less a "faithful servant" of His than the patriarchs, themselves

"Honor and shame from no condition rise;
Act well your part-there all the honor lies."

While there is much truth in the following, which we clip from an exchange, its author is certainly in error about the cook and chambermaid. Is it not possible to elevate them too, or are all who labor in that relation to be given over to irremediable degradation? If it is to be taken for granted that none but ignorant, low people can be used therein, we do not blame poor young girls for refusing to hire out as servants.

THERE seems to be something very unnatural and unmother like in the way in which women of refinement and culture, women who really love their little children, entrust them to the care of ignorant, coarse, uneducated nurses The mind or disposition of the child, the disposition which through life shall be either gentle, tender, loving, and forgiving, or unforgiving, revengeful and selfish, is usually moulded before the child is ten years old. The mother cannot have the entire care of the child, and a nurse is employed. In nine cases out of ten, she is either a sharp-tempered, sharp-toned, ignorant woman, or she is a thoughtless young girl whose care never goes beyond the washing, dressing, and undressing of the child. The little one is with the nurse more than with any other person, and just as she speaks, be it gently or mildly, or the reverse, so will he learn to do; just as she is affectionate, forgiving, and tender in her actions toward him and others, so will he grow to be; just as her language is pure and grammatical, and right, or full of slang and idioms, so will his be, and these first impressions on the susceptible mind of the little one will follow him all through life. The language, the manners, the disposition moulded in the nursery cling to him until an old man. Knowing this, why are people not more careful whom they employ as nurses? Why do they select women and girls of little or no education or culture to be the constant companions, and, in many cases, almost take the place of the mother of the children? Why do they employ the same girl-the same so far as intellect, cultivation, and refinement are concerned-for the nurse that they do for the cook or laundress? Do they answer, it is difficult to obtain a woman of education, a lady in every sense, to act in capacity of nurse? Let me ask, why is it difficult? The purest, most noble, and holiest feeling placed by God in the heart of every true woman,

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be she ever so young, is the love of children, the yearning of her mother. nature to have little ones to love and cling to her; and hundreds of young women who to day are advertising for positions as companions to a lady," "copyist," 'any position not menial," would gladly accept a situation as child-nurse instead of those other unnatural positions, were it not for one thing. People, even Christian people, dislike the idea of in any way asso ciating with those in their employ. Madame Grundy would scorn the idea of their making a companion of their child's nurse, even if she be their superior in intellect and education, and every way companionable. She must be the associate of the cook and chambermaid; she must be dressed in a white cap and all the paraphernalia of a nurse, if with you she takes her little charge out for an airing, that in case you meet any of your friends, they may know she is "the children's nurse."

To the young woman of true innate refinement and delicacy of feelingthe woman who alone is fit to be the constaut companion of your child— whose finer feelings have been nurtured as tenderly as yours, these associations are repulsive, and for that reason, and that alone, you cannot find a suitable one who will accept the situation of nurse in your families. The fault is your own, fathers and mothers, that your children are under the constant influence of coarse, common natures.

"I TAKE THE OTHER HAND."

On a lovely day in the commencement of spring, a young lady, who had been anxiously watching for some weeks by the bedside of her mother, went out to take a little exercise and enjoy the fresh air, for her heart was full of anxiety and sorrow. After strolling some distance, she came to a rope-walk, and being familiar with the place, she entered. At the end of the building she saw a little boy turning a large wheel. Thinking this too laborious employment for such a mere child, she said to him, as she approached "Who sent you to this place?"

"Nobody, ma'am, I came myself."
"Do you get pay for your labor ?"
"Indeed I do; I get ninepence a day."
"What do you do with the money?"
"Oh, mother gets it all."

"You give nothing to father, then ?"
"I have no father, ma'am."

"Do you like this kind of work?”

"Oh, well enough, but if I did not like it, I should still do it that I might get the money for mother."

"How long do you work in the day?"

"From nine till twelve in the morning, and from two till five in the afternoon."

"How old are you?"

"Almost nine."

"Do you get tired of turning this great wheel?"

"Yes, sometimes, ma'am."

"And what do you do then?"

"Why, I take the other hand."

The lady gave him a piece of money.

"Is this for mother?" asked the well-pleased urchin.

No, no, it is for yourself, because you are a good little boy." "Thank you, kindly, ma'am," returned he, smiling, "mother will be glad."

The young lady departed and returned home, strengthened in her devotion to duty, and instructed in true practical philosophy by the words and example of a mere child. "The next time duty seems hard to me," she said to herself, "I will imitate this little boy, and take the other hand."-Kind Words.

NIGHT IN A JAPANESE HOTEL.

As I was about to pass my first night in a Japanese house, I watched anxiously the preparations for sleeping. These were simple enough; a mattress in the form of a very thick quilt, about seven feet long, by four wide, was spread on the floor; and over it was laid an ample robe, very long, and heavily padded, and provided with large sleeves. Having put on this night dress, the sleeper covers himself with another quilt, and sleeps, i. e., " if he has had some years' practice," in the use of this bed.

But the most remarkable feature about the Japanese bed is the pillow. This is a wooden box about four inches high, eight inches long, and two inches wide at the top. It has a cushion of folded

papers on the upper side to rest the neck on, for the elaborate manner of dressing the hair does not permit the Japanese, especially the women, to press the head on the pillow. Every morning the uppermost paper is taken off from the cushion, exposing a clean surface without the expense of washing a pillow-case.

I passed a greater part of the night in learning how to poise my head in this novel manner; and when I finally closed my eyes, it was to dream that I was being slowly beheaded, and to awake at the crisis to find the pillow side up, and my neck resting on the sharp lower edge of the box. During my stay in the country, I learned many of its customs, mastering the use of the chopsticks, and accustoming my palate to raw fresh fish, but the attempt to balance my head on a two-inch pillow I gave up in despair, after trying in vain to secure the box and tying it to my neck and head.-Pumpelley's Travels.

HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN,

BY THE EDITOR.

Somehow, as one advances in life's journey, he thinks with increasing tenderness of his early Masters. No matter what their infirmities and foibles may have been, seen through the soberer and riper years of life's experience, one sees only their kindlier and nobler traits. There is one, whose memory to my mind is tinged with hues of sadness. He was a true friend to me at one of the important turning-points of my life. J. G. Shuman, was a selftaught man. If I remember correctly he learned and for a while worked at the cooper trade. Meanwhile, being very fond of reading, he procured such books as his means allowed, and devoted his fragments of leisure to their study. The village people noticed the sober, steady habits of the young cooper. Saw, too, how he had made himself the most intelligent young man in the place. The old school teacher had become superannuated, and gone to the west. It seemed natural that the voice of the neighborhood should unite on this young man as the teacher of their children. Besides being well qualified to teach, he possessed excellent traits of character. He had a very amiable disposition. was very gentle and mild in his manners, indeed a fine specimen of a gentleman.

He scarcely ever used the rod. Indeed had no occasion to use it. For his method of governing the school made it unnecessary. And when he did use it, he showed not the least sign of anger or excitement. One could see that he did it from a sheer sense of duty, and not to give vent to anger at an unruly scholar. He never seemed to be in a hurry or in any way excited. Neither was he late or lazy. He gently moved about among the scholars, and attended to one class after another, more after the manner of a leisurely pastime than a routine of duty. He taught for a number of years, perhaps the most popular man in the village. At the request of his friends he at length consented to be a candidate for the Legislature at Harrisburg. He never loafed about at taverns, courted votes with whiskey, nor used the low tricks and schemes usually resorted to by politicians. Yet for this honorable conduct he was admired and supported even by the rowdy element of the community. He served for several successive terms, and

Lancaster county has had few more honest and faithful representatives than Jacob G. Shuman. He died in the prime of life, respected as a kind neighbor and a good citizen.

His early religious training was neglected. In his neighborhood there were no Sunday-schools then. Although an honest man and a high toned gentleman, he never formally connected. with the church. He was a very companionable man, and an agreeable associate, yet a singular vein of sadness seemed to run through his conduct. He would not indulge in boisterous mirth, like many others of his age, but preferred the society of his more serious and quiet friends.

This was shown, too, in his literary tastes. I remember for weeks to have often heard him, during recess, repeating to himself from memory one of Mrs. Hemans' poems. Once he repeated it to me, with the remark; "Is not that very pretty?" Sometimes in his half audible rehearsal of this poem he seemed to be soliloquizing with himself, as, with careful accent, and a sad tone of voice, I listened to him repeating verse after verse from memory. His whole soul seemed to be in sympathy with the theme and the poetry. Seldom does his name occur to me, without calling to mind these verses. The poem is entitled,

HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN.

It is recorded of Henry the First, of England, that after the death of his son, Prince William, who perished in a shipwreck off the coast of Normandy, he was never seen to smile. And this forms the subject of the following poem:

The bark that held a prince went down,

The sweeping waves rolled on;

And what was England's glorious crown
To him that wept a son?

He lived-for life may long be borne

Ere sorrow break its chain ;

Why comes not death to those who mourn?

-He never smiled again!

There stood proud forms around his throne,

The stately and the brave,

But which could fill the place of one,

That one beneath the wave?

Before him passed the young and fair,

In pleasure's reckless train,

But seas dashed o'er his son's bright hair

-He never smiled again!

He sat where festal bowls went round;

He heard the minstrel sing,

He saw the tourney's victor crowned,
Amidst the knightly ring;

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