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a twig not more than a yard from your body, waiting the result of your unwelcome visit in a state of the utmost despair ; you could not fail to be impressed with the deepest pangs which parental affection feels on the unexpected

death of a cherished child. Then how pleasing is it, on 4 your leaving the spot, to see the returning hope of the pa.

rents, when, after examining the nest, they find their nurs

lings untouched! You might then judge how pleasing it 5 is to a mother of another kind, to hear the physician who

has attended her sick child assure her that the crisis is over,

and that her babe is saved. These are the scenes best fit6 ted to enable us to partake of sorrow and joy, and to determine every one who views them to make it his study to contribute to the happiness of others, and to refrain from wantonly or maliciously giving them pain. Audubon.



New York, April 19, 1757. DEAR SISTER, 1 I wrote a few lines to you yesterday, but omitted to an

swer yours, relating to sister Dowse. As having their own 2

way, is one of the greatest comforts of life, to old people, I think their friends should endeavor to accommodate them

in that, as well as in any thing else. When they have 3 long lived in a house, it becomes natural to them : they

are almost as closely connected with it, as the tortoise with his shell: they die, if you tear them out of it. Old 4 folks and old trees, if you remove them, 't is ten to one that

you kill them; so let your good old sister be no more importuned on that head: we are growing old fast ourselves and shall expect the same kind of indulgence: if we give

them, we shall have a right to receive them in our turn. 5 And as to her few fine things, I think she is in the right

not to sell them; and for the reason she gives: that they will fetch but little : when that little is spent, they would be of no farther use to her; but perhaps the expectation of possessing them at her death, may make that person ten

der and careful of her, and helpful to her, to the amount of 6 ten times their value. If so, they are put to the best uso they possibly can be.

I hope you visit sister as often as your affairs will permit, 7 and afford her what assistance and comfort you can in her 8 present situation.

Old age, infirmities, and poverty, joined, are afflictions enough. The neglect and slights of friends 9 and near relations should never be added : people in her

circumstances are apt to suspect this sometimes without cause : appearances should therefore be attended to in our

conduct towards them as well as relatives. I write by 10 this post to cousin William, to contin le his care ; which I doubt not he will do.

We expect to sail in about a 'week; so that I can hardly 11 hear from you again on this side the water; but let me

have a line from you now and then, while I am in London:

I expect to stay there at least a twelvemonth. Direct 12 your letters to be left for me, at the Pennsylvania Coffee

house, in Birchin lane, London. 13 My love to all : from, dear sister,

Your affectionate brother,





Whereas the town of Boston has unfortunately become the most striking monument of Ministerial tyranny and barbarity, as particularly exhibited in the sudden shutting up this port, thereby cruelly depriving the inhabitants of this metropolis of the means they have hitherto used to support their families; and whereas our brethren in the other colonies, well knowing that we are suffering in the common cause of America, and of mankind, have, from a general, generous and brotherly disposition, contributed largely towards our support in this time of our distress, without which many worthy and virtuous citizens must have been in imminent danger of perishing with cold and hunger; and whereas the honorable members of the Continental Congress have kindly recommended us to our sister colonies as worthy of further support from them, while the iron hand of unremitted oppression lies heavy upon us; therefore, voted, that this town, truly sensible of the generous assistance they have received from their sympathizing brethren, return them their warmest and most sincere thanks for the same, and pray that God, whose beneficence they so gloriously imitate, may bestow on them the blessing he has promised to all those who feed the hungry and clothe the naked; and the thanks of this town are accordingly hereby given to our benefactors afore-mentioned, and to the honorable the members of the Congress for their benevolence towards us, expressed as aforesaid ; which support, if continued, cannot fail of animating us to remain steadfast in the defence of the rights of America.

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1 How beautiful the rain !

After the dust and heat,
2 In the broad and fiery stroot,

In the narrow lane,
How beautiful is the rain!

How it clatters upon the roofs,
3 Like the tramps of hoofs !

How it gushes and struggles out
From the throat of the overflowing spout!
Across the window-pano,

It pours and pours;
4 And swift and wide,

With a muddy tide,
Like a river, down the gutter roars
The rain : the welcome rain !
The sick man, from his chambor, looks
At the twisted brooks ;

He can feel the cool
5 Breath of each little pool ;

His fevered brain
Grows calm again ;
And he breathes a blessing on the rain.
From the neighboring school,
Come the boys,
With more than their wonted noise

And commotion ;
6 And down the wet streets

Sail their mimic fleets,
Till the treacherous pool
Ingulfs them in its whirling
And turbulent ocean.
In the country on every side,

Where, far and wide,
7 Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide,

Stretches the plain,
To the dry grass and the drier grain,
How welcome is the rain !

In the furrowed land
The toilsome and patient oxen stand :

Lifting the yoke-encumbered head, 8 With their dilated nostrils spread,

They silently inhale
The clover-scented gale,
And the vapors that arise
From the well watered and smoking soil.

For this rest in the furrow after toil, 9 Their large and lustrous eyes

Seem to thank the Lord,
More than man's spoken word.
Near at hand,
From under the sheltering trees,

The farmer sees
10 His pastures and his fields of grain,

As they bend their tops
To the numberless beating drops
Of the incessant rain.

He counts it as no sin, 11 That he sees therein

Only his own thrift and gain.
These, and far more than these,
The Poet sees !

He can behold 12 Aquarius old

Walking the fenceless fields of air,
And from each ample fold
Of the clouds about him rolled,
Scattering every where
The showery rain,
As the farmer scatters his grain.
He can behold
Things manifold
That have not yet been wholly told :
Have not been wholly sung nor said ;

For his thought, which never stops, 13 Follows the water drops

Down to the graves of the dead,

Down through chasms and gulfs profound, quero theheartediysforitainhead

of lakes and riverstrider gioühlp, 1912
Arfüistes Ném, when the rainbis done
On the bridgeUFT colors seven, w wolf

Climbing up once more to heaven,
Opposite the setting sun.
Thus the seer
With vision clear,
Sees forms appear and disappear
In the perpetual round of strange

Mysterious change
14 From birth to death, from death to birth ;

From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth;
Till glimpses more sublime
Of things unseen before
Unto his wondering eyes reveal
The universe, as an immeasurable wheel
Turning for evermore
In the rapid and rushing river of Time.


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But ye, beloved, building up yourselves on your most 1 holy faith, praying in the Holy Ghost,

Keep yourselves in the love of God: looking for the mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ unto eternal life.

And of some have compassion : making a difference ; 2 And others save with fear: pulling them out of the fire : hating even the garment spotted by the flesh.

Now unto him that is able to keep you from falling, and 3 to present you faultless before the presence of his glory with exceeding joy,

To the only wise God our Saviour, be glory and majesty, 4 dominion and power, both now and ever. Amon.


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