Bjt family &mlt. THE SONG OF THE SIGNBOARD. “IK MEMORIAL.” ’Twss a boisterous night in the most stormy month Of a stormy tempestuous year; Part waking, part sleeping, part dreaming I lay, When the song of the signboard that hung o’er the way • Was borne by the wind to my ear, Like the knell of a bell, sad and slow, It sung as it swung, to and fro: “ In yon desolate marsh is a suicide’s grare; Hark how the wind whistles by 1 He was handsome and noble, light-hearted and ' brave, When I first attracted his eye; He is not the only poor mortal, I fear, Whose downfall began when he first entered here. ‘ 1 In memoriam! In memoriam ! Souls destroyed for ever; In memoriam! In memoriam 1 Hopes recovered never. “ As I swing to and fro in the breeze or the gale, Distinctly I see from this spot Two buildings we patronize, workhouse and gaol, Both filled by the drunkard and sot, Alas I must it aye and forever be so ? Must my- song be forever of sorrow and woe ? ‘‘ In memoriam 1 In memoriam 1 _ Happiness and jjeace; ~~ ,_ SEan-rhevef-cfeser v “^~'""" “Alas! 1 must sing it forever and aye, Till man gaineth wisdom from sorrow, And the world goes to sleep on the bitter to-day, To wake to a happier morrow. Till then I continue, sad, solemn, and slow, My melody mournful of sorrow and woe. “In memoriam ! In memoriam ! Shall I cease ? oh, never! In memorian 1 In memoriam! Ever—aye, forever.” THE CLOUDED INTELLECT. BY THE AUTHOR OF “ STUDIES FOB STORIES, {Continued.) Matt- got up the next morning, and felt for thq first time the difference made in the cottage by the absence of his grandfather. Every change affec ted his imperfect mind, and made him restless. He was curious to know why his grandfather had not taken his oars and his fishing tackle with him; and when his aunt told him there was no eea where he was gone, the boy was at first greatly surprised, and then Baid it must be a very good place, “bfo sea, no storms!” "Ay,” said his aunt, "no high winds such as frighten Matt in the winter.” So the boy was satisfied for the pres ent, and went out to the beach to wait for his friend, but she did not. come; and after a while her absence and that of his grandfather made Matt restless aid uneasy. Becca was sure she would come: the lady had said she would come; and, accordingly, the careful little girl 1 led Matt to the cavern; and then the sight of the grotto and the place where they had sat the day before, reminded the poor boy of the conversation held there, and for a while he was content ed; but the lady did not come that day, nor for many days; and at last, though Matt went, to the cave every day to look for her, he scarcely expec ed to find her, though always satisfied with little Becea’s assurance that she would “ be sure to come to-morrow.” At length, wondering at her pro tracted absence, Mary Goddard walked to the little watering-place where she i een spying; and then the people of the house told her that their lodger was gone.. She had been sent for sud denly the same night that the old fisherman was buried. A near relation, living; more than fifty miles away' was taken extremely ill, likely to die had sent for iier - The woman added, when she saw Mary Goddard’s look of dissapointment, “but she has left what ought to reconcile you to losing her; she is a good friend of the b °y 8 certainly. She told me to give you this the first time X saw you j and if I had not been so busy you should have had it before, for I would have walked over with it.” So saying, she put into Mary Goddard’s hand a sov ereign; and very gratefully it was received: for the expenses of the old fisherman’s illness and funeral had pressed heavily on his industrious daughter, and she now*hardly knew how she could earn enough money to maintain herself and the boy. Poor Matt! when his aunt came home she did not conceal from him the.truth that he had lost his friend, but told him abruptly that she was gone, and was not coming back any more. He did not take the news so well as she had expected ; for though he said little at the time, he evidently pined and moped after "his lady,” and it seemed as if in departing she had taken all the sunshine with her: for no sooner was she gone than the sweet warm days of October gave way to a succession of raw, boisterous weather, the foam from the rough; troubled sea was blown into the cot tage-door, and when the gusty winds shook the frail little tenement, waving its ineffectual curtains, blowing its smoke down the chimney, and ma lri-ng it difficult to keep the candle lighted on the table. Matt could only sit and shiver. His pale hands, cramped with cold, forgot the art that had beguiled so many listless hours; his feeble feet, chilblained and benumbed, could no longer support him to the' sands; his, mysterious searchings of the heavens; took place no more. He sat from day to day asking for" his lady; ” sometimes' crying with the cold, and, sometimes from a sharper evil; for the lonely child was often left with the neigh bour’s boy, Rob, whom he so much dreaded; and then when he peevishly cried he was beaten. But he seldom had sense to tell' this to his aunt when she returned, though sometimes he made her yonder’at the fervency with which he would repeat, “ Matt Bhall go to G-od some day, and Matt shall never be beaten any more.” She did not understand half the sig nificance of those words. She was obliged often to go out washing and charing : and during her absence this Rob was most frequently left with Matt; and at her return received a penny for having given him his dinner and taken care of him. Sometimes Becea had this charge instead of Rob, and then the day went cheerily. If the sun shone, Becca would lead him, sadly lame and helpless now, to the cave; and there the two children would talk together on the one subject that Matt could understand ; and every day came the never-wearying assurance, that when Matt went to God he should never be cold, and he should never be beaten any more. came a time of great trouble of the little fishing hamlet. There was very bad weather; the men could not go out with the boats, and unwhole some food, and over-hard work, : •brought the fever, and Becca’s mother j and poor Mary Goddard both sickened I at the same time. The neighbours in the two other cottages did what they could for them; and Bob’s mother, a kind-hearted bustling woman, who had so many children of her own to attend to, and a sickly bed-ridden mother to nurse, constantly came in to keep Mary’s fire, and to give her drink and make her bed for her. Many a time did this poor creature spare a crust for the poor idiot boy from her own miserable store; for she had compas sion on his helplessness, and could'not bear to see his blue lips and trembling limbs, as he sat on his little wooden stool by the small fire, within hearing of his aunt’s delirious moaning. The weather grew colder and colder, till the very sea water was half-solid with spongy ice, and broke crisply on the frozen shore; the north wind howled in the rents and crevices of the lofty cliffs; and the poverty of the hamlet was bo great that there was little fire inside to keep its force from being felt. The fisherman said the fever would surely be starved out s °on; but it seized on Bob’s father next; and the same day that he sick ened, the doctor said Mary Goddard was past hope. Mary Goddard had lived alpne with the poor boy almost ever since her father’s death; for her sister had taken a service, and gone with her master’s family to London; and the married brother and his wife did not act a friendly part by her. Mr. Green was frequently in and out of the cottages during this time of dis aster, but he could not effectually re lieve the distress; it was too deep and complete ;••• the poor people had been improvident in their times of prosper ity, and now all their misfortunes seemed to have come at once—fear fully cold Weather, illness, and a bad fishing season. He walked down to the little hamlet about an hour after the doctor had paid his visit. There was now one person, ill in each of the four cottages; but, cold as it was, smoke was only arising from the chimney of one. He opened, Mary Goddard’s door: she un- —Alliance News. conscious of the cold, lay quietly on her bed, her bright eyes open and glazed with the glitter of approaching death; little Becca stood over her fan ning her, and feebly crying from sheer hunger and fatigue. And Matt sat by the einpty grate, too much overpower ed with cold to observe his presence. “My poor child,” he asked of Becca, u is there no firewood?” Becca shook her head, and sobbed out that the doctor had said, “It was of np consequence /the cold could not hurt Mary now.” No, she will die; but don’t cry so, my dear; she was a good woman, and I believe God will take her to himself. Is there nobody to attend on her but you?” "Mother’s too weak to come out yet, said the poor little girl “ and father, he came in, and he said I was to stop, and be sure and not to leave her till he came back; but I’m so frightened, and Matt and me, we haven’t had anything to eat.” _ Well, I have brought something that you and Matt. shall have; here, open my basket, and sit down by Matt, and, eat while I fan poor Mary.” i. Little Beeca did as she was bidden • and she and Matt tasted food for the T? rS v,^ m ° meantime, Ko b s mother came in j and seeing Mary’s state, went away, and presently returned with her grown up daughter. It is not much that can be done for her now, poof soul,” she remarked to the clergyman; “but she must not be left alone, and my husband being a trifle better this morning, lean leave him for a while.” Matt and Becca were then sent out of the cottage to Becca’s house; and wvf S lgh t fire bein galigbt on the hearth _ the boy revived, and little Becca had an hour or two of quiet rest. Becca s mother was getting better: •but she was still lying in her bed up stairs, with one of her daughters at tending on her. It was now snowing THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN, THURSDAY. AUGUST 10, 1865. hard, but the wind had somewhat abated, and the sea was calmer than it had been for some days. Accordingly, the fishermen were preparing to go out in their boats, ■anc everything looked more cheerful than usual; the hope of something Ijeing earned revived the spirits of the wo men; hnd the men, once occupied, forgot their gloomy fears of the fe ver. . -■ The two children, thus left alone, sat quietly by the fire, Matt, cowering over the bright flames, recovered his spirits and began to crow the same in articulate song that he often sang when he was comfortable and had eaten a good dinner. And Becca, who hac. been roused before ..daybreak to wait on her mother, and then to go to Mary Goddard, fell quietly asleep before Ihe fire, after watching the thickly-falling flakes of snow. The little girl when questioned af terwards, said that she thought she might have slept an hour, when awa king she .found the fire slowly gone out, and Matt earnestly gazing out of the window. The snow’ was •'falling faster than ever, and the tide rapidly t coming in washed it away at the edge ‘rur’CHfrYvavesras TSst' as it.reached the. ground. Matt had . been told that ), morning that God would soon 'sene Ifor hflUaunt also; but at the time'he I took little notice, his always torpid faculties being rendered more than ever dull by the cold; but now the warmth of the cottage had done him good; and as Becca mended the fire, he inquired whether his aunt was gone. 1 . Becca did not know. The boy still gazing upwards, said he wanted to go out of doors, and ask the great God I to take him too ; Matt wanted to. go l away. Becca tried to calm him; but he was urgent in his desire to go out, and at last she was obliged to lock the door. Matt upon .this wept, and beg ged to be allowed to go out. God n ®ver .send, for poor Matt t he piteously inquired. “Would not God send for Matt, if Matt begged J him very hard? Matt did hot wish to I stay if his aunt was going away." Becca • could say nothing to all this • but in the ' midst iofifeer attempts to quiet the boy,.some one tried the door and she opened it. It was Rob’s mother; she was come to tell Becca that she must go into the town to fetch a nurse ; and when she had given the message, she turned to Matt, and gently and slowly told him that his aunt was gone. • ■ * Matt said nothing; he was looking at the flakes of snpw as they fell from the gloomy heaven so thickly, and were whirled about by the winds, and heaped against the frozen threshold, or swallowed up in the gloomy .sea. “ Matt your poor aunt is gone’ to God,” said the woman-kindly, and she brought him near to the fire and chafed his cold hands; then having left a good fire she went away with little’ Becca, charging her boy, whom she left behind, to stay with Matt, and be good to him. Poor Matt 1 some dreamy hours pass ed between .him and his rough guar dian;, but we do not know how they passed; we only know that the snow fell faster than ever, and the wind roared in the chimney, and the waves rose and thundered up on the dreary beach; and that when after several hours the brief winter day began to close, and poor little Becea came in again, tired and almost exhausted with the force of the wind, Matt had evidently been crying very bitterly, and Becca felt sure that Rob bad beaten him. [ Concluded next %oeeki\ In his precious work called "'None but Christ,” Dr. Boyd recalls the fol lowing instructive anecdote: A poor negro slave in the West In dies was led, under the preaching of the Gospel, to feel himself a lost un done sinner.. He had been a very wicked man, drinking and swearing and giving vent to his vile passions ; yet the same night in which he was convicted, of sin he believed in Jesus, and at once found peace. His master was awakened under the same sermon but as he had lived outwardly what men regard as a very .good, moral life, his proud heart rejected the finished work of Christ, and set about trying to save himself. This went on for about a month, and the poor Pharisee wad' be coming more wretched, when he re solved to have a conversation with the happy negro, and the following ac cordingly took place. “ Sam, you are happy!” Yes, Massa, 1 be,” he said with a face beaming with joy. Well, Sam,” said the master, "I have come here, this morning to find out what it is that makes you happy You know, Sam, you aud-I first began to think about God the same night, more than a month ago; and you, though you were such a had-fellow before, seemed to find peace at once, while I, who have always been what the -world calls a good man, have been going on in darkness and sorrow ever since and - it seems to me I only grow worse It is a great mystery, Sam, and I don’t understand it.” " 9» massa l" sai J the poor slave, " it ain’t no mystery at all to me, ' cause you see data the berry reason. Sam was such a bad fellow, ahd hab on such a dirty, ragged blanket, that when God called him he knew it wasn’t THROW DAT COAT AWAY. fit to go ’fore God in, so he trew it right away, and den God put on him the robe of Christ’s righteousness ; and den, of course, when Sam had dat on he oould’nt help being glad and full of peace. But massa hah on a real good coat and he did not like, to trow dat away, for he thought if it was fixed up a little it would do to go ’fore God; so when he'sees a dirty spot he says/' Oh, I’ll wash dat!’ and when he see a hole he says, •O, I’ll patch dat!’ and some goes on, trying to make his old coat ao; but it nebber will, for God won’t receive Massa in dat coat, no matter how much he fix it up. But if massa will only trow dat coat away, and let God put on the robe of Christ’s j righteousness on him, den massa can go in ’fore.God and not he ’fraid, but be happy like poor bad Sam.” The slave paused and looked at his master, as if to see the effects of his bold language. A smile broke over the master. “ You are right,” he exclaimed, as be grasped the rough black hand held out to him: “I have been trying to fix up my old coat/ but I thank God that lam done with it now. I’ll have on the robe of Christ’s righteousness as well as you, and I see that will bring me peace and joy. God bless you, Sam ; you have taught me a precious truth.” I A GOOD EXAMPLE. /. A/colporteur of the Publication So ciety, writing from Minnesota, says, "At a place where I stopped over night, in Wright County, the family consisted of father, mother, and a daughter, fourteen years old. In the morning, after breakfast, the child, the oply professor of religion in the fa mily, placed the Bible in my hands, but made no remark. It was to me a proof of moral courage/she being bo young and in the presence of her pa rents. I considered it a blessed privi lege to read a chapter and pray with them, after such an invitation.” Who does not admire the fidelity of that child ?— Nat. Baptist. for tjif little folks. FAMILIAR TALKS WITH THE CHIL DREN,- “I4L.H cosy No! XAM READY!” At a time when a great many little children were seeking the precious Saviour, the following lines were hand ed to me. lam sure they will inter-j est every little reader. I must tell you the story about this dear ‘ Child Angel.” She lived near Barnet, where I think she learned to oye the Saviour. She used to learn) little hymns about Jesus. Before she I Was five years old, she grewvery sick. But though she could hardly speak, she was often heard lisping the sweet | hymns about Jesus. Only an hour j before she died, she rose up and asked for her best clothes; for, said she, “I am going a long journey.”. She then walked up and down the floor of her room, repeating the hymn “Gentle Jesus. She soon grew very weak and had to be put into bed. After laying! there awhile, she raised herself a little and turning to the wall, lifted up her hands as if she. saw some one in the distance, and repeated again and again, “Tam coming! I am ready!” till her. sweet voice was hushed in the silence] of death, and she was led by Him who carries the lambs in His bosom, to the mansions above. lam ready! lam coming !’’ Was an infant’s earnest cry, As sne turned upon her little bed And prepared herself to die. lam ready! lam coming! _ And she stretched her little arms Xhepath to heaven was opened biie ielfc not death’s alarms* She had often heard of Jesus, . And she felt for Him such love, She was willing, she Was ready, To mount with Him above, ’Twas a very long, long journey, She said she had to go, And she asked to have her best clothes on. • And her little new shoes” too. Sweet, dying little infant 1 Thou dost not need earth’s dress to appear in Jesus’presence He hath clothed thee with His grace. In garments white and shining, He has washed thee in His blood/ And now, thou art quite ready To stand before thy G-od. st e’d heard of “ Gentle Jesus oi Hhe knew Him, “ meek and mild• She d often prayed that He would bless Herself, “His little child.” , ’ Oh, yes! she knew the Saviour; "When called by Himaway, ’Twas better far .with Him to go : She did not wish to stay. SheloyedHim; oh, so dearly! .That dq*th had no alarms: b *°s y ter Shepherd, And she sprang into His arms. She saw His face so smiling; She knew the Shepherd’s voice; His arms were waiting for her; Well might her. soul rejoice. Yes, Jesus bright in glory, Witlun that cottage stood; Beady His precious lamb to take, And bear her home to God. She did not mind the journey, However far, with Him; I’m ready! and I'm mining I” (No lamp had she to trim.) I’m ready!” and "I’m coming?” What sacred , joy it told! How the little lamb was waiting To be gathered to the fold. And oh ! may I be “ready,” When the Shepherd’s voice I hear, And stretch iny arms to meet TTim • ' Without the slightest fear i ' Now is the time to seek Him— None are too young to die; For this happy little dying girl, Was younger much than I. A lady from Brooklyn, N. Y., has just sent me a most touching story about a little cousin of hers, “only nine years old .” I could scarcely keep the tears from my eyes. This little hoy’s praying mother had been called to part with five of her children— and this, her youngest, she dearly loved—and when he showed signs of having learned to trust and love the dear Jesus, she loved him all the more. I will let you read a part of this kind lady’s letter, just as it was writ ten to me. One Sunday evening, last spring, he was left alone with his sister, whose husband had died a few weeks before. After-endeavoring to.comfort her in various ways, he suddenly said, “ Sister, have you heard me tell a lie for a long time ? I used to tell a great many, but I don’t think I have now for six months, and I don’t think God will let me tell any more; I don’t want ever to do another wrong thing.” When he went to bed that night, she heard him pray that God would soon make him fit for those mansions that eye had not seen, nor ear heard about. On Thursday of that , week he, went with two little'companions to get some fire-works, that he might “ amuse sister” on the fourth of July. The oar was going very slowly up a long hill, and for amusement the boys stepped off the back platform and on to the front one, when Charley slipped and the wheel of the ear passed directly over his hip, crushing the bone to powder. He uttered one scream and then never complained again; but when a policeman was lifting him from his dreadful position, he opened his eyes and said, “Don’t blame anybody, it was my fault, but tell my mother I am going right to my Saviour.” The rough policeman in telling of this said, “We all felt that there must be some reality in that boy’s religion.” He told his name arid residence, while they were carrying him to the hospital. . The sad newß was told to his mother by. two little street children, who ex gressed it in these terms “ Does Charley H. vehere? Well, he’s smashed.” She fol lowed the children, and literally tracked her child by his blood to the hospital. When she entered the room where he lay, he open ed his eyes and said, “Mother, I’m going to Jesus, and He’s here it this room, all around mej; oh, I love him so much; don’t let them cut off iny leg, but if they do, never mind, it won t hurt me as much as they hurt Jesus.” When his father arrived, he looked up and said, “Papa, lam going, to my Saviour, tell brother Eddy if he feels lonely now, because he has no brother, to learn to love Jesus and he will be his brother, and love him so much.” These were the last words he said, for in about two hours he hied to death, and the hospital nurse said, as he closed his eyes, He has gone to that Saviour he talked g 0 much about, and I will try to love him too." When his mother returned to her home, her only words were, ‘ ‘ The Lord has taken my Charley, though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.” Little Charlie was very fond, of the sweet hymns he had learned—for though he was but nine years old, he loved the Sabbath-school, where he heard so much about how Jesus died on the cross that our sins might all be washed away, and we takeifhome to heaven to live with Him forever. Some Bimple Little verses have, almost ot their own accord, come to me while reading over this touching letter, and I think, my little friends, you might like to read them, solshall write them down for you. “MOTHER, I’M eora« STRAIGHT TO JESUS I” ' (Dying words of Charlie 8., nine years of age, who lived in Brooklyn City.) I’m going straight to Jesus’ arms, oaid the djdng little one, I m not afraid of death’s alarms, My work on earth is done* Chorus I’m going straight to Jesus’ arms, He’s waiting now for me; I m not afraid of death’s alarms, For Jesus died for me. Dear mother, I am going home. My Jesus, He is here: He 11 take me. to His shining throne, I ve not a single fear. My sufferings are very great, But never can compare With what my Saviour bote for me, That I His love might share. Papa, when I am gone above," And brother feels alone, Te Uhim to learn the Saviour’s love,— Twill for my loss atone. Could you, too, say my little friends, called thm hour to die, — I in going straight to Jesus* arms Up to His home on high.” ‘‘MASSA COBB” AND “ UNCLE JOSH.” In the Music Hall, recently, Gen. Fiske said that he always confided in colored men, and in all his military experience, had never but, once been betrayed; and that was by a, mulatto who had “ first family” blood enough in him to make him a traitor. One of many instances of the good service rendered the General by the contra bands was the following: A strange-looking, white-headed negro, about four feet and a half high came Gen. Fiske’s headquarters and, falling on his knees, began to weep piteously. He at length became composed enough to say that his mas-, ter, Cobb, captain of a military com pany twenty miles up the Mississippi river, was about firing into transports from a masked battery. The General’s escort was sent off under " Uncle'Josh’s” pilotage, and, at four o’clock the next day, this old Liliputian, “inferior be in g’—this “what is it?” led into : head quarters “Massa Cobb,” holding him by the coat collar. His whole rebel company followed. “ Now,” said Gen. Fiske, " shall that ?! SSa Cobb , who begged Uncle Josh to intercede with the Yan kees to save his life; shall Cobb be allowed to vote and Uncle Josh be kept from the ballot-box ?” - No I” shouted more voices in num ber than those that lately made the “ e Hall rin g with Handel’s “Israel in -Egypt.” JRral fmiraitj; STRIPPING A COUNTRY OF ITS TREES. The summer heats are beginning to dry up the springs and brooks which were lately so full and noisy, and the attention of discerning people is again turned to the fact of the dimunition, year by year, of the quantity of water in our streams _at certain seasons, in consequence of stripping tho country of its trees, and-converting the forests into pastures and tilled fields. Al most everywhere our rivulets and rivers, show, by certain indications in their channels, that they once flowed towards the sea with a larger current than now. If we go on as we now do, ■we shall at length see many of our an cient water-courses as nearly oblitera ted as Addison found them in Italy, when he wrote:— t wS^ mes ’ “isgoided by the tuneful throng, i,r°? , ™ r .streams immortalized in song, That lost m silence and oblivion lie : iim are their fountains, and their channels Yet itm for ever in the Muses’ skill, And in the smooth description murmur still.” This denuding a country of its trees has made the rivers of Spain for the most part mere channels for the win ter rains. The Gruadalquiver, which some poet calls a "mighty river,” en ters the sea at Malaga without water enough to cover the loose black stones that pave its bed. The Holy Land now often misses the " latter rain,” or receives it but sparingly, and the brook Kedron is a long, dry ravine, passing off to the eastward from Jeru salem to descend between perpendicu lar walls beside the monastery of Mar Saba to the valley of the Jordan and the Dead Sea. Mr. Marsh, in his very instructive book, entitled " Man and Nature,” has collected a vast number of instances showing how, in the old world, the destruction of the forests has be.en followed by a general aridity of the country which they formerly overshadowed. Whether there are any examples of frequent rains re stored to a country by planting groves and orchards, w, cannot say—but we remember when traveling at the West thirty-three years since, to have met with a gentleman from Kentucky who Bpoke of an instance within his know | ledge in which a perennial stream had made its appearance where at the early settlement of the region there was none. Kentucky, when its first colo nies planted themselves within its limits, was a region in which extensive prairies, burnt over every year by the Indians, predominated. More than forty years since, a poet of our country, referring to the effect of stripping the soil of its trees, put thyse lines into the mouth of one of the aboriginal inhabitants:— “Before these fields were shorn and tilled, hull to the brim our rivers flowed: Ihe melody of waters filled - fresh and .boundless wood; And torrents dashed, and rivulets played, And fountains spouted in the shade. “Those gratefal sounds are heard no more; Ihe springs are silent in the sun: I'henvers, by the blackened shore, _Witb lessening current run. The realm our tribes are crushed to get May be a barren desert yet.” The causes which operate to make the rains more frequent and the springs more regularly full in a well -wooded country, are probably more than one. Under the trees of a forest a covering of fallen leaves is spread over the ground, by which the rains are absorbed and gradually given out to the springs and rivulets. The trees also take up large quantities of this moisture in the ground, and give it out- to the air in the form of vapor, which afterwards condenses info clouds and falls in showers. All the snows, likewise, that fall in forests are more slowly melted and sink more gradually and certainly into the earth than'whlft they fall in the open fields. On the other hand, the rains that fall in an unwooded region run off rapidly by the water courses, and that portion of them which should be reserved for a dry season is lost. HORSES AT PASTURE. Every horse in the country ought, if possible, to have at least,a few weeks’ run in the pasture. It will do for him what no kind of medicine or nursing can do as well. It will improve his hoofs, his hair and skin, his wind, digestion and blood, will take out stiff ness and lameness, and put on flesh, and infuse new life generally. Before turning horses out, it is well to accustom them gradually to that kind of food, by cutting- a little grass for them each day, or allowing them to bait for an hour or so daily in the back-yard. And when let out, they should not have “flush” feed at first, as_ they will be likely to over-eat, and injure themselves both in their looks and their wind. • The best grass for a norse pasture is a mixture of Timothy, blue grass, and red top. Horses relish this feed better when it is moderately short. When they are to be turned out for any length of -time, to be used much in the meanwhile, they should have on only a* light pair of shoes.. This will allow the hoofs to come in close contact with the soft earth, and will- prevent contraction. Where horses cannot enjoy pasturage, they should have fresh cut grass as often as convenient, and should have their stall floors covered with tan bark, or; better, have the planks taken up and clay floors laid. —American Agri culturist. y
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