We have forgotten (or never knew) who it is that speaks of the "small sweet courtesies of life," but the term is as true as it is felicitous. There _are_ such courtesies, and the habitual employment of them is the surest evidence of a good heart as well as refined manners. "I never look," said a benevolent lady to a friend walking down Broadway one morning, "at a deformed person in the street, except directly in the face. How many a pang has been caused to the physically unfortunate by a lingering glance at a deformed limb, a "marked" face, or other physical defect, to a scrutiny of which the afflicted are so painfully sensitive!" There was a tenderness, a humanity in this remark, and therefore it was recorded at the time, as being worthy, not only of remembrance, but of heedful regard and emulation. Yes; and that woman would leave the arm of her husband in the street, and push from off the side-walk with her little foot a piece of orange-peel, a peach-skin, or other the like slippery obstruction, lest _somebody_ should step upon it, slide, fall, and break or dislocate a limb. "These are little things to speak of," the reader may say, and they are; but still, they are "close devotements, working _from the heart_" that with such an one, a too common selfishness, or indifference to the good of others, "does not _rule_." * * * * * One of our "bold peasantry, a nations pride," disdaining California and its temptations, thus signifies his contentment with his little mountain-farm in "dear old New England:" "Let others, dazzled by the shining ore, Delve in the soil to gather golden store; Let, others, patient of the menial toil, And daily suffering, seek the precious spoil; I'll work instead, exempt from fear or harm, The fruitful "placers" of my mountain farm; Where the bright plow-share opens richest veins, From whence shall issue countless golden grains, Which in the fullness of the year shall come, In bounteous sheaves to bless my harvest-home." * * * * *