sedulously to apply his hard-earned treasures of intellect to the various wants of man. The acquisition of information is in itself a pleasure,—it is feeding the better part of our nature our minds. But the good does not end here. We must look on these intellectual treasures as we should on our property, and think, How can I apply them most usefully, and make them most serviceable to myself and my fellow-creatures? — "What can I do to reform the wicked and enlighten the ignorant?" is a question every one should put to himself, and it indicates a duty none are exempt from. Till we have reached maturity we are the daily recipients of favors. And the only acceptable mode of proving our gratitude to our Heavenly Father for such. a provision of His bounty is in some humble manner to imitate Him, and do what we can to contribute to the good or the happiness of those around us. . . . We have had very warm weather, and a fine shower has made the country look beautiful. It seems as if one might enjoy every moment, the season imparts such cheerfulness to one's spirit; and every new flower that makes its appearance is only a new expression of a Heavenly Father's love and kindness, and seems to be calling on us for a new expression, or rather a renewed feeling, of love and gratitude to the Author of all our blessings, and furnishes us with continual lessons which we cannot refuse to extract good from, and

"Instructs us to be great, like Him,
Beneficent and active.

Thus the men

MISS BEECHER'S PRIZE TALE

Whom Nature's works instruct with God himself
Hold converse; grow familiar, day by day,
With His conceptions; act upon his plan,
And form to His the relish of their souls."

289

I did not mean to be poetical: but these beautiful, though simple, expressions of Akenside are forced upon my mind spontaneously by contemplating the subject of which they treat. I have but a shadow of the beauties of Nature near me, but a walk will furnish it at any time, and I am called to a good many rides.

Anne Jean sent me last week a prize tale, for which the author, Miss Harriet Beecher, obtained fifty dollars. I like it very much, and, after I have got Mr. Atwill to copy it into his paper, will send it to you, for I think your sister Eliza, and Joseph and others, will be pleased with it. It was published in the "Cincinnati Magazine," without any of the cant that characterizes Orthodox publications, notwithstanding there is sickness and death and conversion in it.

Mr. Stearns gave us excellent sermons this morning and afternoon, on the importance of watchfulness of ourselves; spoke particularly of giving importance to trifles, and undue attention to external appearance, thereby fostering personal vanity, which closes the mind to good and improving reflections. I dare say you hear a great many good preachers, besides Mr. Frothingham. Does he have a Sunday-school?

Your affectionate

MOTHER.

THE

CHAPTER XV.

HE spring of 1844 was a sad one in our fam. ily annals. My father went to Cincinnati to bring home our dear Anne; and my mother occupied herself in gathering together all the children of the neighborhood, who were deprived of a school by Mr. Huntington's departure, and teaching them herself, until some new teacher should appear. But very soon she was summoned to Enfield, on account of the illness of my sister Mary, who died only ten days after the birth of a son. It was a bitter grief to have to communicate to the absent ones; and my mother wisely kept it out of the newspapers, hoping they might reach home without hearing of it by the way. It was a long and weary journey by stages from Cincinnati to Northampton, and she had much anxiety for the delicate Anne Jean in taking it. After they had left Albany, and were in the stage for Pittsfield, a neighbor from Northampton entered, and expressed condolence with my father on the recent death of his daughter. The shock to both of them was severe, and, in the shattered condition of Anne's health, the manner of hearing it affected her sensibly, as well as the loss of the sister to whom she was so tenderly attached.

Not long after their return home came the added

sorrow of brother Dwight's death, at a moment when they were looking for his return, after a two years' absence in China. I will not dwell on this sorrowful summer. My mother's letters were full of sadness for many months, and she felt keenly the heavy trials that had fallen on my father. She mentions in one letter, that, though they deeply regretted the illness of a young friend who was staying with them, it had consoled Anne and herself to be allowed to take care of her. They passed a very quiet summer, reading the same books, weeping together over the heavier sorrows of others, and devoted to the most tender and affectionate intercourse after their long separation, the chief trial of the present, aside from the family grief, being the fact that Anne's health had sensibly declined within the year.

In August, my father's only brother, our Uncle Lyman, died, and again she writes to Abby:

To Mrs. Greene, Northampton, Aug. 22, 1834.

MY DEAR ABBY,- For the past season you have continually heard of the increased indisposition of your father. I have now to communicate that he has terminated his mortal career, and that we followed him yesterday to the silent grave, where he was laid by the side of her to whom he had given his earliest and best affections. Our clergyman, Mr. Stearns, officiated with great solemnity; and, when we got to the grave, made such remarks on the mortality of all around, and on the inevitable destiny of man, which was sooner or later to bring us to the same point, that, had there been any want

of seriousness or lack of tears, he would have caused them to overflow.

The day that Anne Jean wrote you last, my Edward, who was on a visit to us then, carried your father to take a ride of several miles, and he said. riding refreshed him, and made him feel better. Your uncle and Justin have carried him, whenever he felt able to go, all summer. But ten days before his death, when Justin went to take him to ride, it was impossible to get him into the chaise, with the assistance of another man, he was so very weak; and from that time he grew weaker daily, and your uncle found a man to go and watch by him, day and night, till he died, at twelve o'clock in the evening, on the 20th of this month.

We (your uncle and I) left him at nine in the evening, and thought he might continue till morning. He knew us; spoke quite strong; said he was in no pain, and believed he was better. Just at twelve, he asked for a cup of tea, and, while they were getting it, ceased to breathe, without a struggle. The Sunday previous, we thought he would not continue through the day, and your uncle asked him if he was willing to die, when he answered, "I am always ready. I can always say, as Watts did,

'I go and come; nor fear to die,

When God on high shall call me home.""

His mind, I think, has been much clearer for the last year or two than when you were here, and I have felt sorry that you could not witness the tranquil happiness he seemed to enjoy; being able to