&jrr family
THE FOOTSTEPS OF DECAY.
The following iS a ,translation from , an „ ancient
Soanish poem, whiofi, says the BdmTmrgh Bet ieu>. is
suTDassea by nothing With which we are acquainted
in &e Spanish language, except the Ode of Loois
de Leon."
0 let the sonl its slumbers break—
Arouse its senses and awake,
To see how soon ■
Life, in its glories, glides away,
And the stern footsteps of decay
Come stealing on.
And while we view the rolling tide,
Down. which'our -floating minutes glide
Away so fast,
Let us the present hour einploy.
And deem each future dream a joy
Already past.
Let no vain hope deceive the mind —;.
No happier let us hope to find
• To-morrow than to-day.
Our golden dreams of yore were bright,
Like them the present shall delight —
Like them decay.
Our lives like hastning streams must be
That into one engulphing sea
Are doomed to fall—
The sea of death, where waves roll on
O’er king and kingdom, crown andthrone,
And swallow all.
Alike the river's lordly tide,
Alike the humble rivulets glide
To that sad wave.
Death levels poverty and pride,
And rich and poor sleep side by side
Within the grave.
Our birth is but a starting-place—
Life is the funning of the race,
And death the goal;
There all our glittering toys are brought—
The path alone, of all unsought,
Is found of all.
See, then, how poor and little worth
Are all these glittering toys of earth .
That lure us here!
Dreams of a sleep that death must break,
Alas! before it bids us wake,
We disappear.
Long ere the damp of earth can blight,
The cheek’s pure glow of red and white
Has passed away.
Youth smiled, and all was heavenly fair —
Age came and laid hiß finger there,
And where are they?
Where is the strength that spurns decay,
.The step that roved so light and gay,
The heart’s blithe tone?
The strength is gone, the step is slow,.
And joy grows wearisome, and wOe
When age comes on!
THE CLOUDED INTELLECT.
BY THE AUTHOR OP STUDIES FOR STORIES. ’'
( Continued .)
Matt came back under the skelter of
the boat and lay down, and drew part
of a sail over him, and fell into a sound
sleep; perhaps be bad slept; little dur
ing the past night, and now that his
gloom and terror were melted away
in the sunshine of hope and peace, he
could no longer sit waking under the
cloudy sky.
The lady sat by him, partly shelter
ed also by the boat. She looked out
over the purple sea, still troubled,
heaving and bare, for not a boat rode
'at anchor near the dangerous rocky
beach; not a vessel ventured near
enough to be seen from its sandy
reaches.
At length the clouds broke, it began
to rain hard; and not without a great
effort did she succeed m waking the
boy. He opened his eyes, at last with
a smile. The pouring rain and the
gloomy sky were nothing to him; the
high but warm wind did not trouble
him; his thoughts, whatever they may
have been, could not be related to his
benefactress; he was comforted, but
he only showed it by his face and by
his tranquil movements.
They reached the cottage. There
was trouble and sorrow within; quite
enough of both to account for the
boy’s having been left to wander out
by himself on that stormy day. The
poor old grandfather was worse'; and
jMary Goddard, the boy’s aunt, came
to the door, her eyes red, and her face
disfigured with weeping. The lady
could not stay then; but in less than
a week she came again and inquired
after the old man.
“ Ah, dear heart! it seems hard to
lose poor father!” exclaimed Mary,
when her visitor was seated, and had
asked a sympathizing question as to
the old man’s health.
" Is- he so very ill that there is no
hope ?” asked the lady.
“The doctor does,not say,” replied
the daughter, “but when a man is
past eighty what can one expect?
Would you;like to see him, ma’am?”
The visitor assented, and was taken
up a ladder into a comfortable room
in therbof.
The aged fisherman, with his rug
ged face and hard hands, lay helplessly
on bis clean bed; but his eyes were
still bright and his voice strong.
“ Put a chair, Polly,” he said to his
daughter. " I take this kind, ma’am.
Here I am, you see, a disabled old
hulk. I’ve made a many voyages in
my time, when I was in the king’s
service.” Here a fit of coughing forced
him to stop.
When he had ceased to cough, the
visitor said, “Yes, you have passed a
busy life, my friend; and what a
mercy it is-that God gives you a few
days of quiet and leisure at the end of
it, to think of the last voyage, —the en-
we may hope, into an eternal
haven. Do you think of that last
voyage? Do you pray to God to
have mercy on you for Christ’s sake,
and grant you an entrance to that
haven of rest ?”
The, old man assented reverently
and., and then said, “ Mary,
the lady has never a chair; I told you
to set the chair for her. A good
daughter she has always been to -me,
ma’am? Her poor mother died when
THE *AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN. THURSDAY. JULY 27, 1865.
I was in the Atalante, Captain Hickey;
you’ve heard of him ma’am ? The
discipline he maintained! He was the
finest captain in the service.”
“ I never heard of him,” replied the
visitor.
"He lost his ship in a sea-fog off
Halifax harbor. He had despatches
aboard; and he made up his mind
they should be delivered. He fired a
fog-signal gun in hopes it would be
answered from the lighthouse-on Cape
Sambro, but by a sad mischance it
happened that the Barossa, that was
likewise lost-in -this-.fbg, answered it; •
and the unfortunate Atalante was
steered according-to that gun. She
struck,- and in' less than a quarter of
an hour we wore all out of her, every
officer, man, and boy, many on us not
half clothed; and there wasn’t a mast,
nor a beam, nor a bit pf broken spar,
to be Seen of her. She filled and
heeled over; and almost 'afore we
could cut the pinnace,from the boom,
she parted in two between the main
and mizen masts, and the swell sucked
her in, guns, and stores, and all,” -
“That must have been an- awful
scene,” observed the visitor. “It is a
great, mercy that you were preserved
in such a danger. Shall I read you a
chapter in the Bible, now I am here ?”
“ I should take it kind if you would,
ma’am, very kind indeed; for Mr.
Green said he should not be able to
come to-day, and my daughter has no
time. I could spell a bit over myself,
but my- eyes fail, and I feel strange
and weak. There was a. time when I
could 'hand, reef, and steer,’ with the
best of them. I was rated 'able sea
man’ in the Atalante, and for upwards
of two years I was 'captain of the
fore-top.’ ”
The visitor sat down and read seve
ral chapters. The old man listened
with pleasure; his face, seamed and
brown with long exposure to weather,
showed no pallor, but there was a look
about his eyes that told of a great
change,—they were dim, Land some
timeswandering. -
. “ I take this visit very kind of you,”
he repeated, when she had done; “ and
Hike what you read, it did me good;
and, ma’am, I’m much obliged to you,
and thank yo.u kindly for being so good
to my poor boy.” -
“How do you think he seems,
ma’am ?” asked Mary Goddard, when
they came down together,
“I think he. is very.much altered,
Mary. He does not look to me as if
he would live many days.”
f “ Ah, dear heart!” said the daugh
ter, “I was afraid you would say so;
and though he be so old, it seems hard
to lose him; for a cheerfuller and
honester man never walked this world I”
“He seems in a thankful frame of
mind now, Mary, and was very atten
tive when I was reading.”
“0 yes, he is always pleased with
whatever I do for, him, and says it is
agreat mercy he has time to think of
his end; he is vastly pleased now
when Mr. Green comes to talk to him,
though at first he did not seem to care
for it.”
The visitor went away'.
[To be Continued .]
A STORY'FOR OLD AND YOUNG.
“Mrs. Ross, may Luther go home
with me and stay to-night ?”. said little
Alice Bell to the minister’s wife, who
was visiting, with her husband and
children, among the members of his
congregation.
The family, of which Alice was the
youngest, made no profession of re
ligion. Mr. Bell was a good man in
his way; that is, he was honest and
kind, but he had never become a child
of God.
Luther, went home with Alice, and a
pleasant romp they had. At last, the
children’s bed-time came. How Luther
had been taught to kneel down by his
papa’s knee, and to repeat his prayer
before going to bed. So the artless
child, in,the absence of his parents,
walked confidently up to. Mr. Bell and
-knelt down, folded his little hands, and
in a clear voice repeated:
“Now I lay me down to.sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take,
And this I ask for Jesus’ sake. Amen.”
So quietly did the child act, that the
old man was not aware of his intention
until saying “Amen.” He arose, and
going to each, he kissed them good
night.
Little Alice stood in childish aston
ishment, wondering what the strange
proceeding meant.
When the children were asleep, the
family sat long and thoughtfully. Each
seemed to be pursuing an absorbing
train of thought. At length Mrs. Bell
broke the silence, as a tear sparkled
on her cheek, saying: “What a sweet
child!”
Mr. Bell took no part in the conver
sation thus started, but leaving the
family circle, retired to his bedroom.
He passed a restless night, and to
the oft-repeated question of his jnfe,
“if he was ill ?” he only replied “no.”
Morning came, and while breakfast
was being prepared, the cheerful “good
morning” of the children, and their
playfulness, seemed to drive away the
singular gloom of kind Mr. Bell. The
chairs were’ placed, and they sat down
to breakfast.
Luther, wondering why they did not
have worship, looked from one to the
other as they began to eat without the
“grace" they always had at home.
Thinking, no doubt, that they forgot,
he turned his eyes to Mr. Bell, and
said, almost in a whisper, “We didn’t
pray.” It was too much., The old
man left the table. Going to his room,
he fell upon his knees and wept and
prayed.
Mr. Bell and most of his family nOw
stand at the Lord’s table with their
neighbors, showing how God ''out of
the mouths of babes and sucklings
hath perfected praise.” Luther did
w-hat many sermons and exhortations
failed to do, and now he and Alice
mgy both repeat their little prayers by
:Mr,,Bell’3knee;while,-withhis-hands
upon’ their heads, he smiles and” echoes
heartily the amen; and the family altar
is erected and loved.
“Feed my lambs,” said Christ, and
it may be that the tender lamb may
lead the straying sheep into the fold.—
Lutheran Observer.
IT TAKES LITTLE STICKS TO MAKE
A FIRE.
I once went tp visit a newly married
couple in a country village. The bride
was a beautiful and intelligent girl,
fond of dre3s, music, painting, and all
other graceful things, and, what is far
more rare, she understood her own
house work* and meant'to do-it. I
knew this,*§ffd so went to rest in the
fresh new bed with a happy confi
dence in a good night’s sleep and .a
comfortable breakfast in the morning.
Sleep soon came, and daylight followed
in due time, but the breakfast was very
long in coming. At last the welcome
bell was heard; all was right in the
drawing-room but the hour hand of
the clock, which would persist in
pointing at an hour which made the
pretty hostess blush, and over the de
licious coffee she told me the cause of
the trouble. It was-no fault of hers;-
when we once looked at her, we were
sure of that. It was simply owing to
the fact that her husband had not pro
vided kindling wood, and she had
spent a full hour in the attempt-to. light
a fire.. After the meal was. over—and
a capital one it was—she took us to
the wood-house, full of large dry sticks,
hard and sound, without a chip-onßj
shaving, 'Oh h bit of charcoal
to be found. There was no axe or
hatchet on the premises, and in . order
to warm the heart of these ungainly
blocks of wood,, the, young wife. had
only her bright a, box of matches,
and the morning’, paper. Instead of
marvelling at the time it took, we were
only surprised that the fire had been
lighted at all. But when a pair of
strong hands with an axe in them came
to her relief, and one of those large
sticks was quickly changed to a score
of little ones, it was worth a second;
breakfast to see her look of content.
Now,children, youknowitislovethat
makes the fireside warm. The house
is always cold and cheerless where the
people are unkind to each other. And
in kindling this house-fire that warms
the hearts, you, children, are the little
sticks. That is what you are gbod
for. Look at the baby in the cradle 1
He cannot earn his own living;- he
does not knpw how to wait upon him
self ; and yet he is sometimes the moftf
useful member of the family. He
makes everybody love him, whether
they are willing or not, and his little
heart is brimful of love for them in
return. Most people are fond of gets,
and like to keep a bird, a dbg, a pony,
something to love and let love, if they
can afford it; but of all pets a child is
at once the dearest and cheapest. Many
families cannot afford any other, but
.in the very poorest houses, you see lit
tle white heads around the hearth.
They are the little sticks that make it
warm. — Springfield Republican .
“WHAT CUTS ME,MOST.”
A middle aged man was convicted
of sin; his soul was troubled.. His
distress was so great that he could
neither eat „nor sleep. He went and
prayed, and experienced no relief. To
those who' conversed with him, he
would answer, "Oh, I have been such
a sinner—you don’t : knpw anything
about me, God alone /knows how
awfully wicked I have been ; and I
don’t see how I can ever be forgiven.”
Two nights he had not slept, and his
Christian companion, almost despairing
of his conversion, entreated one of her
friends, a lady of strong faith, to see
him. The lady found him despond
ent. He thought there were some who
were never to be forgiven, and that
he, perhaps, was one of that unhappy
number. .
She told him that Christ called all
to come unto him; that he was calling
him at that very moment, because he
was weary and heavy laden, afid the
blessed Saviour was ready to give him
rest the moment that he would for
sake sin, and accept the terms of sal
vation.
The word rest seemed to impress
him. “Yes,” he said sadly, “I want
rest, but I am such a dreadful sinner;”
and again he seemed overwhelmed
with the consciousness of sin,. She
finally asked him if he was willing
then to bow before God, and ask for
' mercy. . After a moment’s hesitation,
he consented, and the three knelt in
solemn prayer. The lady prayed for
the poor penitent in that earnest, ten
der manner, that only those possess
who feel the worth of a soul, and un
derstand the marvelous power.that can
redeem it. The strong man wept in
numble penitence, and when her words
ceased,;he most affectionately acknow
ledged his sins, and fervently begged
forgiveness; and we trust his name
was entered on the Lamb’s book of
life. - ' -
He felt that his sihs were forgiven"
and he could now speak fluently of the
great burden he had left at the foot of
the cross; and he said, with tears, “I
have been a great sinner. I have sin
ned in many ways, but O! what cuts
me most, what cuts me to my very
soul, and will never cease to pain me
while I live, is, that I have taught my
little boy to breaJe the Sabbath. I have,
been gunning on Lord’s day, and
taken-smyilittlemnobentsonwith-me,;
and taught him; his own father has
taught him to break one of God’s com
mands. Can I, in all Ike rest of my
life, undo the great wrong I have done
my child ?” A question to be pondered.
Confregationalist.
LOVE’S MINISTRY.
" There is no speech nor language where their voice
is not heard.”-riPSALM xix.‘3,
I heard the wavelet kiss the shore,
Ere.lost within the sea,
And the ripple of the silvery tide
Seemed as a psalm to me:
Contented with God’s holy will,
Its feeble voice to raise,
To hymn his glory and be lost,
Nob thirst for hjiman praise.
Lord, make me like the ocean’s voice,
Obedient t®thy will,'
Thy purpos'd work as faithfully,
And at thy voice be still.
A breeze that filled a drooping sail,
Bore to one sorrowing breast
A promise from the Lord of life,
And sank again to rest.
.Brief was its service, few th.e words
It wafted to the shore,
• Brit they nestled in a mourner’s Ijeart,
And the west wind’s task was o’er.
I, like the sea-breeze swift and true,
Thy messenger would be,
And bear, Lord, to some hardeneiLspul,
. A word of peace from t.Vyp dJBt
I marked the soft dew Bilently
Descend o’er plain and hill;
On each parched herb and drooping flower
The heayenly cloud distill.
As noiseless as tbe sun’s first beams
It vanished with the day,
But the waving fields told where, it fell
When the dew had passed away.
Lord, make me like the gentle dew,
That other hearts may prove,
~ E’en through thy feeblest messenger,
Thy ministry of love. ; .
' : —Anna Shipton.
THE INVALID.
[prom “JOTTINGS - FROM ’ THE MART OF THE
SEN.”]
July 16.— My attention was directed
this morning to a pleasantly situated
farmhouse in one of the western coun
ties of Scotland.
Yery pleasant it looked. The house
stood at the foot of a thickly-wooded
hill: its white-washed walls contrasted
well .with: the dark foliage of the fir
trees; whilst the sloping garden in
front (at the foot of which ran a little
stream) gave a cheerful aspect to the
scene. -
In the garden stood a girl, who
might he about fifteen summers old.
In her one hand she held a nosegay of
bright-colored flowers, and in the
other a branch of the pure white Ayr
shire rose, that covered the front of the
honse. The. girl was dressed iff deep
mourning; and round a. pretty face,
with soft blue eyes, the golden hair
hung in loose wavy braids. She stood
for a few; minutes, as if drinking in
with enjoyment the fresh morning air,
then lightly tripped into the house. ,
The window of one of the rooms
stood open, and peeping in, I discov
ered, lying on a couch, a girl some
years older than the one I had seen.
She looked ill, very ill, so pale and thin;
but the expression of her face was
peaceful and sweet.
Presently my friend of the garden
entered, flower in hand, and going up
to the couch, threw her arm Ground
the invalid’s neck, saying, “Here, Mary,
are some of your favorite flowers; to
cheer you after your night of pain.
Are they not pretty? I pulled them
while they were sparkling with dew.
Look at this brahch of roses; they are
stilhbathed in it, as if they spent the
night in weeping.”
“ Thank you, Bessie dear,” said the
sick girl; “how. beautiful they are!
How good it is in God to make them!
I often think of what Miss Montgom
ery told me the good Wilberforce
said—' that flowers were God’s smiles
in a*sick-room.’ ”
“So they are,” said Bessie; “dont
you remember your favorite hymn?”
—and in a clear silvery tone she sang
some lines, ending wim the words—
“To comfort man and whisper hope,
Whene’er his faith is dim;
For God, who careth for the flowers,
Will much more care for him.”
I listened for some time to the con
versation of the sisters, and discovered
from it that they had, a short time be
fore, lost their mother; and in conse
quence of Mary, who was the eldest
daughter, suffering from spine com
plaint, the whole management of the
house had fallen on the gentle Bessie.
Presently the sick girl put a small
book into her sister’s hand, saying,
“Now, Bessie, let us have our quiet
mornipgj reading out of the Book of
Life, and I am sure both of us will get
a lesson from it: you, how to perform
the day’s-duties; I, how to bear the
trial of prolonged illness. iMeither of
us can ao these in our own strength;
but, like St Paul, we can say, ‘ We can
do all things through Christ strength
ening us.’ What a precious book the
Bible is, and what ant all-sufficient Sa
viour it reveals! Are we weighed
down with cares and perplexities ? We
may cast all our care on Him, for He
carethforus. Are we ill ? Hemaketh
all our bed in our sickness ; and even
in death we need fear no evil, if He
be our friend, but we shall be able-in
faith to say, ‘0 death, where is thy
sting ? 0 grave, where is thy victory ?
Thanks be to God which hath given
us the victory through our Lord Jesus
Christ.’ blow, dearest, begin; and may
the Holy Spirit bless to us the reading
of the word.” _ . . .. .
Bessie bent over her sister’s couch,
and read of that land where pain and
sorrow cannot enter, and. where sin
shall be unknown; of that land where
the Lamb of God shall lead His redeem
ted-,oaes -by.!,4her-river ; of, water 5 g£'
life, and from which they shall go
no more out. Then, shutting the book,
she knelt down, and together they
poured out their hearts in prayer.
I sent my beams darting into the
room to brighten all around; and as
they played on the golden hair of, the
kneeling girl, her head seemed sur
rounded by a crown of glory—such as,
I doubt not, is awaiting both of them
in the bright land of which they have
been reading.
I withdrew with regret from the
farmhouse; but I knew that the
sisters were seeking a brighter light
than mine, even the light of the
Sun of Righteousness; and casting a
glance ,on the ministering girl, I
turned to other scenes. And, as
many 4a sight of deceit and sin met
my eye that day, the. thought arose,
would these things be so were Cod’s
word daily read,, and His protection
sought, as it had been by the sisters in
the quiet farmhouse ?!—Christian Treas
ury.
A BIBLE-READING IRISHMAN.-
An Irishman had taken to reading
the Bible. The priest came and told,
him he had heard that he was read
ing the Bible. "And indeed it is
true, and a blessed book it is.” "But,
said the pliest, "you are an ignorant
man, and ought not to read the Bible.”
" Well,” said Pat, " but your riverence
must prove that, before PH give up
reading my Bible.” And fPthe priest
turned to the place where it reads,
“ As newborn babes, desire the sincere
milk of the word.” “ There,” said.the
priest, "you are a babe, and you ought
to go to somebody who can tell you
what the sincere milk of the word is.”
Pat was a milkman, and he replied,
“ Your riverence, Pwas ill, and em
ployed a man to carry my milk, and
he cheated me—he put water in it; and
how do I know (saving your riverence)
but the priest may do the same?” The
priest was discomfited, and said, "Well,
Pat, I see you are not quite so much
of a babe as I thought you were. You
may read your Bible, but don’t show
it to your neighbors.” “Indeed, your
riverence,” says Pat, "I’ve one cow
that I know gives good milk, and
while my neighbor h§£ none, sure I’ll
give him part of it, whether your riv
erence likes it or not.”
THE LITTLE BOY.
Emma Grey, on her way to school,
passed a little boy whose hand; was
through the railing of a gentleman’s
front yard, trying to pick off abeauti
ful spring flower. "O,'little boy,”
said Emma, kindly, “are.you not tak
ing that without leave?” "Nobody
sees me,” answered the little boy, look
ing up. “Somebody sees you from
the blue sky, little boy,” said Emma.
“ God says we must not take what does
not belong to us without leave, and
you -will grieve Him if you do so.”
The . little boy looked up into her
face as she spoke. “ Shall I?” said he;
"then I won’t.” He drew back his
hand, and went -away. Was it not
thoughtful and kind in Emma? I
think so.
One way of doing good is to prevent
others from doing wrong. A gentle
word of reproof of persuasion would
save many a one from sin.
THE POWER TO SAY “NO.”
The purity of moral habits is, I am
afraid) of very little use to a man, un
less it is accompanied by that degree of
firmness which enables him to
to what he may think right in spnpof
solicitations to the contrary; Yery
few young men have the power of ne
gation in any great degree at first. It
increases with the increase of confi
dence, and with the experience of those
inconveniences which result from the
absence of this virtue. Every young
man must be exposed t§ temptation;
he cannot learn the ways of men with
out being witnes to their vices. If you
attempt to preserve him from danger
by keeping him out.of the way of it,
you render him quite unfit for any
style of life in which he may be placed.
great point is, not to turn him out
too soon, but to give him a pilot at
first. —Sydney Smith.
DEVOTION OF A BIRD TO HER YOUNG.
A singular instance of bird affection
transpired in Bath, Steuben county,
N. Y., last week. A robin had built
her nest in one of the shade frees, di
rectly in front of the dwelling of ex-
Sheriff Seymour. While the house
was in flames, tlje robin was noticed
to fly from its nest, and, in the most
persuasive bird language, endeavor to
call her little brood, who were lying
unconscious of danger in the nest, and
to fly. The bird 'flew back
and forth for a few moments, then
finding her efforts unavailing, calmly
took her place -upon the, nest, where
mother and little ones perished in the
flames. •*■■ .
fhital fhrtt
PHILADELPHIA RAS]
By invitation of our
Parry, we recently to .his
fruit farm near CJKjPij
Jersey, with the especially of
seeing in their full season the celebra
ted Philadelphia raspberry, and we
must say,, the vigor of the plants and
their productiveness, exceed anything
we had before seen. The quantity of
the ground occupied/ in raspberry.
is abpjjjjjight acres, .most
of them with the Philadelphia variety.
Other, varieties; had , been, extensively
planted* foY iharket and ploughed up,
and there were some still growing and
on trial, to test which was the most
profitable for general culture. Grow
ing side by side with the Philadelphia,
and subjected to precisely the same
treatment, the contrast in favor of the
latter was most striking. W. P. in
tends also ploughing them up, and
confining himself entirely to the one
kind. He had, just previous to our
visit, engaged for next fall to two gen
tlemen $l,OOO worth of the plants ;
but it was very evident that it is much
more profit for him to plant out aH his
spare plants for fruit than to sell them,
as each hill was averaging, at the time
of our visit, three quarts each, and
selling at the wholesale price of forty
cents per quart. Six hundred quarts,
for several days last week, were sent
to Philadelphia market. On two days,
2,000 quarts were picked and sold.
Being planted three feet apart, in rows,
and the rows six feet apart, gives over
2000 hills to the acre ; and calling it
only $1 per hill, instead of $1.20 which
was then being obtained, would make
a product of over $2,000 <0 each acre.
The Philadelphia raspberry, (origi
nal plant,) was accidentally found
growing wild in a wood near Phila
delphia, about twenty-five years ago,
was cultivated for fifteen years, and so
highly prized that no plants were
spared except to particular friends.
Its productiveness attracted such
attention that a horticultural gentleman
paid $lOO for a few plants to cultivate
from. '
It appeared to us, in looking at Wil
liam Parry’s raspberry plantation,
that either for general market*culture
or for private gardens, the Philadelphia
is the raspberry. Some of the canes
were pressed down with the weight of
fruit. Pomological conventions classify
fruits under the heads of "on trial,”
"promising well,” and “recommended
for general cultivation.” The Phila
delphia clearly now comes under the
latter class for several reasons.
Ist. It is very hardy, and does not
require the slightest protection in the
coldest winter. m
2d. It is a very productive bearer,
and a good, though not a very strong
grower.
3d. It does not throw up many
suckers, which are a great nuisance
with the common Antwerp and some
Other kinds. It will be well to recol
lect also that this will be a sufficient
reason why a demand for the plants
may for some years keep ahead Qf the
supply.
4.‘ The fruit is of a good color, (pur
plish red,) rather darker than the Ant
werp, rich and juicy in quality, and is
of firm flesh, so as to carry to market
well.
5. The canes are strong and firm,
and do not require stakes. For these
reasons, and because seeing is believ
ing, we have no hesitation in recom
mending the Philadelphia as the best
raspberry now known. —Philadelphia
Rural Advertiser.
GERMAN ECONOMY.
German thrift is proverbial. The
Germans in Pennsylvania generally
manage to lay by far more than their
American neighbors, and-the following
paragraph from a European letter will
show that they inherit these frugal
traits:
Each German has his house, his
orchard, his roadside trees so laden
with fruit that did he' not carefully
prop them.up, tie them together, and
in many places hold the boughs to
gether by wooden clamps, they would
be torn asunder by their own weight.
He has his own corn plot, his plot for
mangle wurzel or hay, for hemp, etc.
He is his own master, and therefore he
and his family have the strongest mo
tives for exertion. In Germany nothing
is lost. The produce of the trees and
the cows is carried to market! Much
fruit is dried for winter use. You see
wooden trays of plums, cherries and
sliced apples in the sun to dry. You
see strings of them hanging from the
windows in the sun. The cows are
kept up the greater part of the year,
and every green thing is collected for
.them. Every little nook where the
grass grows by the roadside, river and
brpok, is parefully cut by the sickle,
and earried'home on the heads of the
women and children in baskets, or tied
in large cloths. Nothing of the kind
is lost that can possibly be made of
any use. Weeds, nettles, nay, the very
goose-grass that covers the waste
places, are cut up and taken for the
cows. Httle children standing
in the streets of the village, and in the
streams which generally run down
them, busy washing these weeds before
they are given to the cattle. They
carefully collect the/eaves of the grass,
carefully cut their potato tops for them,
and even'if other things fail, gather
green leaves from the woodlands.