don't have no time to get up a intimate acquaintance with their
children. Mothers are in such a hurry -- babys are in such a
hurry -- that they can't scarcely find time to be born. And I
declare for't, it seems sometimes as if folks don't want to take
time to die.

The old folks at home wait with faithful, tired old eyes for the
letter that don't come, for the busy son or daughter hasn't time
to write it -- no, they are too busy a tearin' up the running vine
of affection and home love, and a runnin' with it.

Yes, the hull nation is in a hurry to get somewhere else, to go
on, it can't wait. It is a trampin' on over the Western slopes, a
trampin' over red men, and black men, and some white men a
hurryin' on to the West -- hurryin' on to the sea. And what then?

Is there a tide of restfulness a layin' before it? Some cool
waters of repose where it will bathe its tired forward, and its
stun-bruised feet, and set there for some time?

I don't s'pose so. I don't s'pose it is in its nater to. I
s'pose it will look off longingly onto the far off somewhere that
lays over the waters -- beyend the sunset.


JOSIAH ALLEN'S WIFE.
NEW YORK, June, 1887.