er sends out poison labelled "POISON." He mixes it in
with great quantities of innocent and nutritive flour and sugar. He
shapes it in cunning shapes of pigs and lambs and hearts and birds and
braids. He tints it with gay hues of green and pink and rose, and puts
it in the confectioner's glass windows, where you buy--what? Poison? No,
indeed! Candy, at prices to suit the purchasers. So this good and pious
little book has such a preponderance of goodness and piety that the
poison in it will not be detected, except by chemical analysis. It
will go down sweetly, like grapes of Beulah. Nobody will suspect he
is poisoned; but just so far as it reaches and touches, the social
dyspepsia will be aggravated.

I submit a few atoms of the poison revealed by careful examination.

"The mother's is a _most honorable_ calling. 'What a pity that one so
gifted should be so tied down!' remarks a superficial observer, as she
looks upon the mother of a young and increasing family. The pale, thin
face and feeble step, bespeaking the multiplied and wearying cares of
domestic life, elicit an earnest sympathy from the many, thoughtlessly
flitting across her pathway, and the remark passes from mouth to mouth,
'How I pity her! What a shame it is! She is completely worn down with so
many children.' It may be, however, that this young mother is one who
needs and asks no pity," etc.

"But the _true mother_ yields herself uncomplainingly, yea, cheerfully,
to the wholesome privation, solitude, and self-denial allotted
her.....Was she fond of travelling, of visiting the wonderful in Nature
and in Art, of mingling in new and often-varying scenes? Now she has
found 'an abiding city,' and no allurements are strong enough to tempt
her thence. Had society charms for her, and in the social circle and the
festive throng were her chief delights? Now she stays at home, and the
gorgeous saloon and brilliant assemblage give place to the nursery and
the baby. Was she devoted to literary pursuits? Now the library is
seldom visited, the cherished studies are neglected, the rattle and the
doll are substituted for the pen. Her piano is silent, while she chants
softly and sweetly the soothing lullaby. Her dress can last another
season now, and the hat--oh, she does not care, if it is not in the
latest mode, for she has a baby to look after, and has no time for
herself. Even the ride and the walk are given up, perhaps too often,
with the excuse, 'Baby-tending is exer