Yet the great and the wise come from a far country to offer Him reverent worship, and lay their costly offerings at His feet. Holy angels shield Him against the cruel envy of Herod. A sceptre greater than that of David and Solomon is put into the tiny hands of this harmless yet dreaded Child of heaven. The great Roman Empire is shaken to its centre as the Christ-child ascends the throne of a kingdom which cannot be moved. How unpromising the beginnings of this kingdom, when its King was a child. How vast its present domains. Therefore receiving a kingdom which cannot be moved, let us have grace whereby we may serve God acceptably with reverence and godly fear."

My Sister's Dying Admonition.

The writer had the misfortune to lose a much beloved companion in January 1842. She spent her parting moments in addressing a dying admonition to each one around her bed. That addressed to a younger sister, we embodied in the following poetical effusion, written shortly after her death. A recent request for a copy of it has brought it to our attention afresh, and hence we have concluded to give it to the readers of the "Guardian," it having never before appeared in print. It will, we trust, find acceptance with some on account of its Christian sentiment, though we do not claim for it any special poetical S. R. F.

merit.

As lowly on the bed of death,
My eldest sister lay,
About to yield her fleeting breath
And soar from earth away.

A parting word she sought to give
To me, as I stood nigh,
That like a Christian I might live,
And like one also die.

"See, sister! See religion's power,
As in my death 'tis shown.

O make this yours through life's brief hour, And heaven shall be your own."

This said; with peace as tongue can't tell,
She sank into her rest;

And now with Jesus e'er shall dwell,
In regions of the blest.

O may her words upon my heart

Deeply engraven be,

That I from God shall not depart
Through all eternity.

The Fading and the Falling Leaf.

BY PROF. THOS. S. STEIN.

Winter is at our doors. Her first messenger, clad in robes of fleecy white, made his appearance a few weeks ago, and almost immediately departed. The plentiful crops have been gathered and stored into barns; the fields are bare and desolate; the cattle are disappearing from a thousand hills and plains; the mountains assume a deep blue; all vegetation has cast off her parti-colored robe; the driving rain and the howling wind render outdoor life unpleasant, and lead us to gather around the family hearth.

We all accept these changes as matters of fact. Why? Is it because we prefer them? The question answers itself. Is it because we know the unalterable course of nature, and conclude to submit to our fate? That would be a cold comfort. Is it not rather, beIcause we look (no doubt, often unconsciously) for a resurrection of nature next spring? We expect to see all vegetation again arrayed in a robe of liv

ing green.

Let us now inquire why the leaf falls, and what lesson it teaches us. For, if there are

"Tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,

Sermons in stones, and good in every thing," surely we can learn a lesson here. The immediate, scientific cause of the fall of the leaf we shall not consider here, but rather, the final cause, or purpose for which it falls, or at least, one of the final causes.

Early in the summer there is formed in the axil of the tree, i. e., in the upper angle formed by the petiole or foot-stalk of the leaf and the branch on which it is inserted, a small bud. These axillary buds, as they are called, because they are formed in the axils of the leaves, sometimes develop into small shoots, or branches, later in the season, but generally do not expand until the following spring. They are sometimes so small as to escape detection, being hidden under the bark, or, in some cases (buttonwood, sumac), under the petiole of the leaf, which is hollowed out to receive it.

Now, suppose the leaves would not

fall in autumn, suppose they could not separate from the branches to which they are attached, what would be the result? The tree would be filled with dry and faded leaves all the year round. The leaves, performing their functions in their earlier state, ministered to the life of the tree, but being no longer capable of that, the tree must gradually nd inevitably die. But you may ask, Would not next spring clothe it with a new apparel of green? I answer, No; and for this reason. The axillary buds could not expand, and there can be no leaves without these buds. They are, in fact, the embryonic leaves. They require very little space in the axils of the leaves at first, but when they begin to develop, they need more room. Thus, if the leaves would remain pern.anently attached to the branches, these axillary buds could not develop themselves and grow into leafy shoots and branches, for lack of room. They would die in the first year of their existence, and, of course, there could be no new leaves the next spring. And thus spring would be changed from the season of the renewal of life into one having the appearance of decay and death. She would exchange her robe of living green for one of a death-like gloom.

Hence the leaf must fall, as well as fade, if it wishes to have a future existence in its direct descendant, the axillary bud and the subsequent branch into which it develops.

But what is the application of all this to ourselves? What lesson does it teach us? "We all do fade as a leaf." Now, as we supposed the leaves to be permanently attached to the branches, let us, likewise, suppose ourselves attached to this earth our abode in this world to be permanent. What would be the result? How would it affect us? We, of course, could not prevent ourselves fading from the bloom and vigor of youth to decrepid and withered old age. Thus each individual in particular, and mankind in general, like the tree, with permanent leaves, would present a feeble and lifeless aspect.

But this is not all. There is in us an axillary bud of immortality, a germ of a future, spiritual life. And, as the tree with its leaves permanently attached to it could not develop its axillary buds,

so neither can this bud of a new life in us expand itself and attain to full growth here on earth. Why? For the same reason that the axillary bud could not develop, were the leaf permanent, viz., lack of room. Thus this bud of a spiritual life in us cannot mature for want of room. It is "choked with the cares of this world and the deceitfulness of riches, and becomes unfruitful." It is true, that, as the axillary bud sometimes develops into a small shoot or branch the same season, so this germ of a new life in us may attain some degree of growth in this life, yet, in order to develop itself fully, to exert to the utmost its latent powers, it is necessary that this "mortal, corruptible body" be laid aside. Just as necessary, as that, in the natural world, the leaf must fall. Hence, it is not only necessary that " we all do fade as a leaf," but also that we fall as a leaf. This fall is in fact a rising. for, if we fall not, we cannot rise. Unless the leaf fall, the axillary bud cannot develop the life imparted to it by the tree. And unless we "shuffle off this mortal coil," the germ of a future, spiritual existence cannot come to maturity. Thus death is a "blessing in disguise." Who should not be willing, when he has performed the duties of life, when he has subserved the purpose for which he was placed on earth, who, under such circumstances, should not be willing to "fade as a leaf?" As the sun often displays his brightest colors when setting, and leaves assume their most beautiful hues when fading, so a Christian's decline of life will be marked by the tints of the bow of God's promise and the effulgence of the Sun of Righteousness shed upon him. And when the time has come he will be willing to fall as a leaf, in order that he may henceforth enjoy immortal life, and develop into the full and perfect the image of his Creator.

man,

Rural Life in Russia.

BY THE EDITOR.

Russia has of late years stepped into the front ranks of the few controlling powers of the earth. In population and territory she has no equal. The Rus

sian word for a foreigner is "the dumb," "the speechless." Russian peaants (farmers on a small scale) have been heard to say, when listening to foreigners conversing: "Look at those people; they are making a noise, and yet they cannot speak." We may smile at their conclusion; but they might feel equally amused at our ignorance of their habits and national life. Hitherto people of other nations have travelled less in Russia than in any other European country. As a consequence less is known about her religious and social life.

Russia covers a territory forty times as large as that of France, and has 80,000,000 of inhabitants. The population per square mile is only oneeighth that of England. The bulk of the English people live in large towns; the bulk of the Russian people are four-fifths of them peasants and live in small towns. As in Germany, the farming population, or peasantry, are grouped together in villages. Large landholders or proprietors usually live near the village, or the Mir, as they call it. Country or farm life in Russia is found in these small towns. Each peasant, if he has the means, can own the house he lives in, but all the land belongs to the commune or village government. From one to many thousand acres are thus owned. This is divided into three fields: one for rye, another for oats and buckwheat, and a third for pasture. Sometimes a fourth is meadowland. In each field every peasant is assigned a strip of land, according to the number of male members in the family. A family with two workingmen gets half as much as one with four. A farmer must farm rye in the rye field, and oats and buckwheat in the field assigned for these, and nothing else. Often the crops do not suffice to pay the taxes. For this reason the less land the peasant farms the better, and often he begs for less. The village Assembly is responsible for the payment of all taxes to the Empire. Hence it keeps an eye on drunkards nd lazy people, lest they become a burden to the town, and compel it to pay their taxes. If a man becomes a drunkard, every citizen in the village has a right to complain, as he is in part

pecuniarily responsible for him. No one can leave the village without its consent. Indeed the farmer cannot begin to plough, sow or reap until the Village Assembly has passed an action on the subject.

The head of the place is the Village Elder, corresponding to our burgess or to the German Bürgermeister. He is elected at a Village Assembly, usually against his will. He is without authority, and receives neither pay nor much respect. He presides at the village meetings by simply standing a little back or to one side of the crowd of men and women. He speaks little, watches the loud colloquial discussions, calls a speaker "a blockhead," or orders him to hold his tongue when the latter wags foolishly. When he thinks the crowd have sufficiently discussed any given subject, and seem to be generally Well, favorable to it, he calls out: " Orthodox, have you decided so?" Perhaps the crowd will shout, "Ladno, ladno!" (Agreed, agreed.) That settles the matter. If there is a division of ɛentiment, he requests those in favor to stand on the right side, and those opposed on the left, until they have been counted. The women are allowed to be present, but rarely speak. The Russian loves his wife, but does not consider her his equal. She can and must help him to perform hard work, but mentally he ranks her below himself. His adage touching woman is: "The hair is long, but the mind is short." One of his proverbs holds that "seven women have collectively but one soul," and another that she has no soul at all. Of course such views are only held among the most ignorant and depraved. The following is a description of a village election, given in Wallace's excellent work on Russia, to which we are indebted for some of the material in this article:

:

"It is a Sunday afternoon. The peasants, male and female, have turned out in Sunday attire, and the bright costumes of the women help the sunshine to put a little rich color into the scene, which is at ordinary times monotonously gray. Slowly the crowd collects in the open space at the side of the church. All classes of the population are represented. On the extreme outskirts are a band of fair-haired, merry children,

some of them standing, or lying on the grass, and gazing attentively at the proceedings, and others running about and playing at tig. Close to these stands a group of young girls, convulsed with half-suppressed laughter. The cause of their merriment is a youth of some seventeen summers, evidently the wag of the village, who stands beside them with an accordeon in his hand, and relates to them, in a half-whisper, how he is about to be elected Elder, and what mad pranks he will play in that capacity. When one of the girls happens to laugh outright, the matrons who are standing near, turn around and scowl; and one of them, stepping forward, orders the offender, in a tone of authority, to go home at once if she cannot behave herself. Crest-fallen, the culprit retires, and the youth who is the cause of the merriment, makes the incident the subject of a new joke.

"Meanwhile the deliberations have begun. The majority of the members are chatting together, or looking at a little group composed of three peasants and a woman, who are standing a little apart from the others. There alone the matter in hand is being really discussed. A woman is explaining, with tears in her eyes, and with a vast amount of useless repetition, that her 'old man,' who is Elder for the time being, is very ill and cannot fulfill his duties. Very well; that's enough; hold your tongue,' says the gray-beard of the little group to the woman; and then, turning to the other peasants, remarks, 'There's nothing to be done. The stanvoi (officer of rural police) will be here one of these days, and will make a row again if we don't elect a new Elder. Whom shall we choose?'

"As soon as this question is asked several peasants look down to the ground, or try in some other way to avoid attracting attention, lest their names should be suggested. When the silence has continued a minute or two, the gray-beard says: "There is Alexei Ivanof; he has not served yet!'

"Yes, yes, Alexei Ivanof!' shout half a dozen voices, belonging perhaps to peasants who fear they may be elected. "Alexei protests in the strongest terms. He cannot say that he is ill, because his big ruddyface would give him

the lie direct; but he finds half a dozen other reasons why he should not be chosen, and accordingly requests to be excused. But his protestations are not listened to, and the proceedings terminate. A new Village Elder has been elected."

The standard of Sunday observance in Russia is low. Like France and Switzerland, the popular elections are held on the Lord's Day, or sometimes on a holy-day. And although these elections are usually conducted in an orderly way, their being held on this day has doubtless helped to weaken the popular force of Russian religion.

Still, at these elections, one can see much from which Americans might learn a useful lesson. The meetings are held in the open air, at a spot where there is the least mud. No village has a building large enough for such a purpose. There are no election rules read. Indeed there is no written Village Constitution. The people follow an unwritten law-the rules their forefathers observed. These have been handed down for many generations, and everybody seems to know what they are. Every household is represented by a head-the father, grandfather, elder brother, or, if without a male member, one of the older female members. These heads represent the family in the town assemblies and vote. At these meetings there are no set speeches made. Groups of men and women standing together, talk the subjects over.

Should a young member try to spread himself at speech-making, some older persons will soon stop his fine talking. In a group or among the whole, two or more peasants can speak. For a while there may be a hum and noise of promiscuous conversation, fun and laughter. They are very goodhumored people, rarely quarrelling or coming to blows. "No class of men in the world is more good-natured and pacific than the Russian peasantry." When sober they never fight, and when drunk they caress, fondle and embrace.

At one of these meetings a neighboring liquor dealer asked permision to open a gin shop in the village. The Russians are fond of strong drink, and are given to drunkenness. The better class of men and all the women of

the town opposed this gin-shop. Should it make drunkards who would neglect their farms when all the rest would be held for the payment of their unpaid taxes. Besides, many of them knew the evils of drunkenness--the women knew it would ruin the peace of their homes. Still, liquor carried the vote, and the nuisance came, with its consequent ruin.

With such regulations one would suppose that the Russian peasant could not have any strong home attachments. For where there is no ownership the heart takes no root. Still, although he is really only a renter of the land he farms, he owns his house. His parents, grandparents, and possibly a still more remote ancestry have lived in it. In it many generations of his kin have been born. It is sacredly kept in the family, even though it be occupied by strangers. Many peasants are at work or in business in Moscow, Novegerod or St. Petersburg for years, but occasionally revisit their village homes, and pay their taxes to retain their interest in the village lands. Sometimes part of the family remain in the humble old home, whilst the rest are living in style in the great city. If you ask them the reason of this divided home-life, they will tell you: Our forefathers are buried in the village grave-yard, there will we be buried. The fortunes of business are uncertain. Should we fail in our ventures or work elsewhere, the home of our native village will not fail us. Our children may come to grief and want. Our dear old home, and strip of land and right in the grave-yard will give them a dwellingplace through life, and a place of rest after death.

Thus the Russian peasant reasons, after he ceases to work his lands and becomes a rich burgher of a great city. The home ties of Russian families are not so easily severed as those in America. Sons and daughters, even after they are married, often remain under the parental roof until past middle life. And while here, all their earnings are put into a common treasury under the care of the father. Out of it he supplies their wants, but retains the surplus funds. If an investment is to be made, be consults the older sons. Thus Russian houses are often crowded with three generations. And where daughters and

daughters-in-law, sons and grandsons, cousins and nephews, are dwelling together, the affections as well as the frictions of home life come into full play, and possibly not always in the most agreeable forms. In many homes a lively time is had, where, however, the tongue is the only weapon of warfare. This deference to parental authority is pleasing to witness, from which many people, who claim to have a purer religion than the Russians, might learn important lessons.

In the distribution of the home estate very unfair distinctions are made. A married daughter gets nothing from her father's estate, because she is expected to be cared for by her husband's family. A son who separates himself from home before his father's death, gets nothing but perhaps a share in the stock of clothing left by the parents, and some articles of furniture.

A Russian peasant, in the popular sense, means a man, a woman and a horse." When a boy has grown up to be an able-bodied laborer, he is expected to provide the two remaining ingredients of true peasantry. At the age of eighteen he is informed that he ought to marry at once. If he consents to the admonition, parents and a few considerate friends will help him to search for a wife. A class of women called Svalkhi are matchmakers by profession, whose offices are often employed to negotiate between the parents of young persons. The chief requisites on both sides are, as a rule, not beauty or fine mental qualities, but bodily strength and power to work. The law forbids the marriage of cousins and those related with their sponsors. The bride brings nothing with her to her future home but her bridal dress and a pair of good strong arms. With the latter she expects to add to the common wealth of the family. It would be unnatural if many of these young hearts would not be united with ties of tenderness and love; still, we are told that among a large class, as a rule, the heart is less consulted than the purse and the power to work.

The millions of the hard-working Russian peasantry feed and furnish the life-blood of the nation. True, their farming is on a small scale, and not after the modern and more improved style.