ffijp family ©fork
THE BATTLE-FIELD.
The following memorable lines, from the
matchless muse of Wm. Cullen Bryant, pos
sess a touching and thrilling significance
now. Any one who, for instance, visits the
environs of Washington city, or traverses the
District of Columbia, and the adjacent coun
ties of Virginia and Maryland, will be sadly
yet powerfully impressed by the presence of
peace, and the rapid disappearance of the rav
ages of war under the luxuriance of the gar-.
niture of midsummer. The robe 'of grass
and flowers is strewn over thousands of graves,
and absence of troops, the silence of unguard
ed forts, the music of the birds, the lowing
of the cattle, and the healthy handiwork of
the farmer, who resumes his happy toil in
the very waste of the strife, make up a most
suggestive picture. And then, to crown all,
the victory was not for nothing. It was won
for Truth, and its fruits will he gathered in
the endless harvests of immortal years.— Press.
THE BATTLE-FIELD.
Once this Boft turf, this rivulet’s sands,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery heart and armed hands
Encounter’d in the battle-cloud.
Ah! never shall the land forget
How gushed the life blood of her brave —
Gush’d, warm with hope and courage yet,
Upon the soil they fought to save.
Now, all is calm, and fresh, and still;
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
And talk of children on the hill,
And bell of wandering kine are heard.
No solemn host goes trailing by
The black-mouthed gun and staggering
wain;
Men start not at the battle cry:
01 be it never heard again.
Soon rested those who fought; but thou
Who minglest in the harder strife
For truths which men receive not now,
Thy warfare only ends with life.
A friendless warfare! lingering long
Through weary day'and weary year,
A wild and many-weapon’d throng
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.
Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,
And blench not at thy chosen lot,
The timid good may stand aloof,
The sage may frown —yet faint they not.
Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,
The hissing, surging bolt of scorn;
For with thy side shall dwell, at last,
The victory of endurance horn.
Truth, crushed to earth shall rise again:
The eternal years of God are hers ;
But Error, wounded, writhes with pain,
And dies among his worshippers.
Yea, though thou lie upon the dust.
When they who help’d thee flee in fear,
Die full, of hope and manly trust,
Like those who fell in battle here.
Another hand thy sword shall wield,
Another hand the standard wave,
Till from the trumpet's mouth is peal’d
The blast of triumph o’er thy grave.
.HE CLOUDED INTELLECT,
BT THE AUTHOR OF “ STUDIES FOR STORIES. ”
( Concluded ,)
Rob, as soon as Becca came in, got
up, and said be supposed he need not
stop there any more. If it had not
been for his mother’s telling him to
stop with Matt, he might have gone
out with his father in the boat, be said;
and he now left the cottage in a very
surly humor.
Becca crept upstairs to hear how
her mother was, and saw her lying
still, and evidently better; her sister,
who was exhausted with many nights
of watching, was sound asleep at the
foot of the bed, and she and her patient
had both slept through all the noise of
the storm and. of Matt’s crying. Becca’s
mother woke as the child entered, and
asked for a drink of cold tea, telling
her to step quietly, that she might not
wake her sister. . The little girl held
the. cup to her mother’s lips; the fever
had subsided, but the poor woman
was very weak; and when a rush-can
dle had been lighted, and her medicine
given to her, she said she wished to be
alone again, that she might sleep.
So Becca went down and gave Matt
his supper, and ate her own. It was
now quite dark, and Becca strained
her eyes in looking out to sea, to try
and discover whether the boats were
coming home. The children had no
candle, and the fire gave but little
light; so Becca sat down, and Matt be
side her; and the little girl was so
weary that at length she sunk on the
floor, gathered the thin cloak about
her that she had worn on her walk to
the town, and fell into a weary sleep.
A glowing log, in its fall upon the
hearth, suddenly roused her, after a
short slumber, and she started upright.
Matt was stili sitting beside her, but
frightened and trembling, for the noise
of the wind and waves was fearful.
She tried to cheer the poor boy, hut
he would not be comforted; and every
time a louder gust than usual shook
the cottage, he would start up and
hurry to the door, trying the lock, and
begging that he might go out “and
talk to God.” Becca gave him another
piece of- bread, and brought him hack
to the fire; but at length, finding that he
could not rest, and feeling sure that
the door was securely bolted, she lay
down again, and sank into a deep sleep,
forgetting her troubles and fatigue,
and dreaming that the wind went down,
and that she saw her father stepping
ashore from the boat, and telling her
that he had brought in a fine haul of
mackerel
From hour to hour the child slept
on, and the roaring winds moaned
without, and the clouds raced across
the dreary heavens, and the desolate
sea was rough with foam, and the snow
fell and fell, and the wind blew it away
from the cliffs and swept it into the
tumbling waves. "But poor little Becca
did not dream of these things; she
slept sweetly in the warmth and glow
of the driftwood fire, with her. little
weary head upon a furled-up sail,
which she was reclining on by way of a
pillow; and she dreamed that she and
Matt were walking in a field, a large
field full of _yellow buttercups, that
the sun was shining pleasantly, and
she was gathering handfuls of the
buttercups for Matt to play with.
It was a very pretty field, she
thought; and even in her dream she
knew that she had been sadly tired,
and that sitting in this quiet field was
a very welcome rest.
What a long, sweet dream that was
—the.sweetest, perhaps, that little Bec
ca had ever known, because it was after
such great sorrow and such long
wakefulness. At last, in the very
dead of the night, she awoke, and .the
embers were just dying out on the
heaTth, and the room above was very
still, and through the uncurtained case
ment the large white moon was shin
ing above the edge of a black cloud;
it shone upon the brick floor and upon
the little stool upon which Matt had
been sitting, but Matt was not there;
Becca was alone.
The little girl started up in a fright;
who could have taken Matt away?
No one; for she remembered that she
had bolted the door. She slipped off
her shoes and stole softly up the stairs,
to see if he might have found his way
into her mother’s chamber. No—he
was not to be seeD ; her mother and
sister were soundly sleeping, and the
dim rush-candle was giving light
enough to show that no Matt was
there. She went down again and
tried the door, full of a vague terror.
0, if Matt by long trvipg had found
out how to open it, and haa wandered
out in the snow tp look up on that
bitter night between the clouds, what
would become of him! She laid her
hand upon the bolt —it was drawn
back; then Matt had opened the door
and pulled it after him.
Becca was but a little girl; and
when she found Matt was gone, and
that the men had none of them re
turned from fishing, and that her
mother and sister were asleep, she sat
down and cried for a long time before
she could make up her mind what was
to be done; and then she put on her
shoes tied on her shawl and
bonnet, and opened the door softly;
resolving to follow him.
It was very dark, but it had' ceased
to snow. Becca waited a few minutes,
hoping the moon would soon come
out; and when it did so, she saw
distinctly the print of footsteps; they
led away from the other cottages, and
seemed to wander towards the direc
tion of the cave.
But still Becca could not rest till
she had run on to the cottage where
Matt had lived. She tried the door,
it was locked; and peeping in she was
sure that no one was inside; so she
turned away, and, as well as she
could in the sweeping storm and ra
ging wind, she made her way towards
the ca-ve, which she knew was the
likeliest place for Matt to go to.
Sometimes running, sometimes grop
ing in the darkness, sometimes wading
through deep snowdrifts, and again
cowering under a rock till the force of
a stronger gust than usual had spent
itself, the child went on, now full of
hope that she should find Matt safe in
the' shelter of the cavern, now sick at
heart for fear of what might have hap
pened.
She felt the rocks with her hands,
and went slowly on; she surely must
be near the place; impatience to reach
it made her too hasty, and she struck
her face against a projecting ledge, and
was compelled to wait for the coming
out of the moon. A heavy wall of
cloud was moving on—all the heavens
behind it were quite bare. Becca
watched them; the moon drew near its
edges, and turned them of a silvery
whiteness, then shone out cold and
clear, and Becca found she was not far
from the cavern; she ran and stumbled
on; she was very near; the voice she
was longing for arrested her on her
way: “ God! God!” it said, "0, send
for poor Matt; let Matf go away.”
In the entrance of the caverm, with
the moon shining on his white face,
and the bitter wind blowing about his
thin clothing and uncovered hair, and
driving the frozen snow over his feet,
stood the boy. Great must have been
the efforts that he used to get there,
and now he did not see Becca nor
answer her; his woe-begone voice and
awe-struck face were directed to the
now cloudless sky, and all his thoughts
were given to that gTeat Being whom
in the midst of darkness he was seek
ing after.
The little girl touched him; he was
cold as a stone; she shook his sleeves,
but could not rouse him from his deep
abstraction. ! 'God! God!” he uttered
more perfectly still, “and Man that
paid, 0, take poor Matt!”
The little girl, trembling and shiver
ing with the cold, and faint with run
ning against the wind, sank down
upon the snow; and still Matt stood
upright, and held up his beseeching
hands, till exerting all her strength,
she pulled him away, and got him to
lie down father in where the snow had
not yet penetrated, and where the cav
ern floor was dry. Then she took off
the shawl that formed her own scanty
covering; and as she lapped-it over
him, he said faintly, “Matt shall see
God some day, and Matt shall never
be cold any more.”
She heaped some driftwood between
him and the entrance of the cave to
THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN. THURSDAY. AUGUST-17, 1865.
keep the wind away, and then set off to
run home for help; but before her ex
hausted feet, in the gray of the winter
morning, had reached the cottage
threshold, the fishermen, after their
perilous voyage, landed a mile or two
higher up, and going into the cavern
for rest and shelter, found Matt on his
bed. They took him up and chafed
his stiffened limbs with their rough
hands; they said he was frozen to
death, and they laid him down again
on his desolate bed, and mourned and
lamented over him. Happy Matt! the
summons had been sent for him to go,
and join that God whom he had
sought so long. The days of his
darkness and feebleness are over, —he
will never be cold any more.
Matt was buried in the village
churchyard, and on his gravestone was
written —“They that seek me early
shall find me.”
If any of us, knowing God better,
have loved him less, and needing God’s
grace as much, have turned from His
face, instead of seeking it, let us think
of this simple poor child—“ Let us
seek the Lord while He may be found,
let us call upon Him while He is
near.”
JENNIE HIGH.
BY CHISLON.
Loving hearts could not detain her;
Jesus whispered —and the brow '
Paler grew, the hands were folded, —
She is crowned with glory now.
Broken hopes, and fond ties riven!
Yet how gently comforts fall;
Weary hearts on Jesus leaning,
Find Him truly “ all in all.”
Sweet it is to fade so early,
And escape earth’s constant care ;
Sweet to leave the fragrant memory
Of a life, though brief, so fair.
Flowers will bloom where thou art sleeping;
Tears will fall above thy rest;
But this thought shall cheer the mourner,
“ With the ransomed thou art blest.”
PONTO AND FLIRT.
BY REV. JOHN TODD, D. D.
Ponto was an old dog, and lay on
the sunny Frank just in front of the
laurel bushes, so that he might have,
all of the sunshine . and none of the
cold winds. He was very mild and
grave in countenance, and' when you
went up to him he would get up, wink
hard at you, and seem to say, “ Yes,
sir, we have met before!” He seemed
to live in the past, bo far as he took
interest in any thing; but he was
gentle and kind, and everybody seem
ed to be Ponto’s .friend.
Little Flirt was a dog of different
stamp. He was all run and jump, and
bark and play. He would often visit
old Ponto, and then how he would
scamper round him, look knowingly
in his eyes, squat and look, and then
jump and bound and bark, as if he
would say, “ Well, Mr. Ponto, did you
ever see anything like that?’? _Qld
Ponto would look at! him with aiyful
gravity—as much as to say, “ That’s
all well enough in a dog who has not
yet come to the years of discretion.”
But one day Flirt came but to see
-Ponto on a sober walk, j His tail
dropped, and his face was grave, and he
walked like one going to a funeral.
" Ponto,” says he, “I’m going away
to live.”
“ Indeed!”
“Yes. I am determined to stay
here no longer. lam resolved to run
away.”
“ Pray where will you run.”
“ Oh, I don’t know. I’ll find some
where !” .
“Well, what’s the matter?”
“ Matter enough! I’m tired of my
master. You have always said he was.
oue of the kindest of masters! But I
know better. You know old Cub, the
brown horse, don’t you ?”
“I should think I did. I have run
beside him times enough, and miles
enough to know him.”
“ Has he not always been a good
faithful old horse?”
"Not always old, but always good
and faithful.”
" W ell, he has been sick lately. He
has grown very poor. He would
stand all day and bite his crib and
gnaw the planks, and groan In pain.
He has lost his appetite, and I/thought
he must die. But yesterday, when
our master led him out, I thonght,
‘ Well, now he wili kfll poor Cub,, and
put him out of pain, or else give'him
some comforting thing he can eat!”
But instead of that, —0 dear—how
dreadful! he took him down to the
blacksmith’s shop, put the poor fellow,
in a frame in which they put oxen
when they shoe them, and then turned
the leather undeT him so that he pould
not stand on his feet, and then put a
great stick in his month and fastened
it open, and then he took a huge piece
of flat iron (I believe they caH\ it a
file ) and with that he sawed in between
every tooth in the poor fellow’s month.
Poor Gub groaned, and the blood ran,
but no matter—rasp, rasp went the
file, tiU there was a parting between
every tooth! If that ain’t cruelty, I
would like to know what is! I am
going to run away! The man will be
sawing my teeth next! Who knows ?”
“Suppose Flirt you just run into
the stable and see what old Cub is now
doing.”
Away bounded Flirt, and soon came
back with a look of amazement.
“Why, Ponto, as true as you live,
old Cub is eating hay as he never ate
.before!”
"Don’t swear, Flirt, and say ‘as
true as you live;’ but now sit down
and learn a thing or two; it may do
you good as long as you live. You
must know, then, 0 wise Flirt, that
horses are made to eat grass and to
bite it, and draw it into their mouth.
This naturally draws their teeth out
and spreads them. Old Cub has been
shut up in the staH and fed on cut feed
for years. The consequence is, his
teeth came tight ■ together, and they
arched, and this made him have what
they caU “crib-biting,” or “cribber
ing.” Now, masted, by filing them
apart has relieved the pain, and the
old horse can eat as well as ever. He
put him in the ox-frame and fastened
his mouth, open only as the easiest
way for the horse. So- you, young
dog, see that it was not cruelty,,but
kindness in our master to file old Cub’s
teeth.”
" Oh, I see it, I see it all. What a
fool I was! I will never doubt my
master again.”
0 child! you will often meet things
in Divine Providence that seem strange
to you, and which look as if God was
not wise or good. But when these things
come to be explained hereafter, we
shall see that in everything God is
wise, and good, and merciful. We
can not always understand what he
does, but “just and true are all his
ways.” Remember Flirt when you
are tempted to doubt his wisdom or
his goodness!— S. A Times.
A SINGLE WORM KILLED THAT TREE.
During my sojourn at a place of
resort for invalids, I was one day
walking through the romantic ground,
and park with some friends, when the
proprietor of the establishment drew
our attention to a large sycamore tree,
decayed to the core.
“ That fine tree,” said he, “ was kiU
ed by a single worm.”
In answer to our inquiries, we found
that about two years previously the
tree was as healthy'as any in the park,
when a woodworm, about three inches
long, was observed to be forcing its
way under the bark of the trunk. It
caught the eye of a naturalist who was
staying at the establishment, and he
remarked, “Let that worm alone, doc
tor, and i twill kill the tree.’ ’ This seemed
very improbable, hut it was agreed
that the black-headed worm should
not he disturbed.
After a time it was found that the
worm had tunnelled its way a consid
erable distance under the hark. The
next summer the leaves of the tree
dropped very early, and in the suc
ceeding year it was a dead, rotten
thing, and the hole made by the
worm might be seen in the very heart
of the once noble trunk.
“Ah,” said one who was present,
“ let us learn a lesson from that dead
tree. How many who, once promised
fair for usefulness in the world and the
ohuTcETnave been ruined by a single
sin."
NEXT TO MOTHER.
A little girl six years old sat by a
cradle where lay a fretful baby; she
rocked it softly, and sang a soothing
lullaby, hut the great tears rolled
down her cheeks, and she looked piti
fully out of the open window. It was
a lovely day in summer time, and the
sun shone bright and warm upon the
soft, waving grass, and upon rich
masses ol beautiful flowers. The birds
sang sweetly, and seemed to say to
her, “Come out, little one, come out,
and be happy with us! Leave the
close, dark room, and come into the
sunshine.” In the shrubbery two chil
dren were playing; she could see
them from the window, flitting in and
out among the lflac bushes, laughing
and shouting in their careless happi
ness. Sometimes they would leave off
a moment, and come running to the
window, to entreat her to come out
and play with them. But she only
shook her head sorrowfully, while she
s%id, "I. can’t leave little brother;”
and then she rooked, and sang, and
wept as before. By-and-by her mother
came in. Her sleeves were rolled up,
and her hands and arms were white
with flour; it was plain to see that she
was very busy.
“ What is the matter, Mary ?” she
asked, wonderingly, seeing the pitiful
picture of distress her little girl pre
sented. "Why do yon cry, my dear ?”
“0, I want to go and play with
cousin Olive and sister Kate,” she
sobbed out; “ and I can’t go, I can’t
go.”
" Why, yes you can, dear. Leave
Willie; it will not hurt him to cry a
little, and I will take him by-and-by.”
Mary only'shook her head, and
went on with her rooking. " I can’t
go, mother, unless you come and take>
him,” she persisted In saying. And
her mother, knowing how,useless it
was to attempt to turn her aside from
doing what she thought was her duty,
was compelled to leave her alone
again. _
It might have been an hour after
ward that, having finished her work,
she came in and relieved the faithful
little nurse. But the sun was shining
broad and hot in the garden, and her
cousin Olive and sister Kate were
tired of staying out of doors; they
wanted to come in and play with their
dolls. And thus the nice play in the
garden, which she enjoyed so much,
was over for that day. But fretful
Willie was asleep, and there was a
smile upon her mother’s face as she
kissed her and called her "a good
little nurse.” So Mary went her way,
happy and contented, and wondered
why the birds seemed to sing sweeter
and the sun to shine brighter for her
than it did for other little girls.
Years passed on, and more brothers
and sisters came with the years.
There always seemed a cradle to be
rocked, always some little one who
wanted care and attention which only
Mary could give; and she gave it
freely now—no longer with tears—
and the little ones gave her all they
had to give—their reverence and love
“We love her next to mother,”
they all said. “Kate is good for a
romp, and Jenny tells us funny stories;
but when we are sick, or in trouble, if
we cannot have mother, let us have
sister Mary.”
My little readers, this is a true story
I am telling you. Sister Mary still
lives in a beautiful home, not many
hundred miles away. Her brothers
and sisters have grown to manhood
and womanhood now, and have gone,
one by one, from the old homestead.
Another generation is growing up
around her, and calling upon her, as
their mothers of old, for her help and
tender care. They all love Aunt
Mary; she is “next to mother” still.
A BOY’S INFLUENCE.
N was not a good town. Al
though there were a hard-working
minister and people; although they
met together weekly and prayed, yet
wickedness grew none the less.
The young men loafed around the
hotels; the little boys, following their
example, swore and smoked, and said
bad words.
Listen, my little ones, while I tell
you how all this was changed.
A little boy lived there then named
Freddy . His parents were not re
ligious, yet they felt how necessary it
was that he should grow up a pure
and honest boy.
One day they heard some boys with
whom he was playing swear; his
mother called him to the house, and
told him if those boys should swear
any more he could not play with
them. He went out and tola them
what his mother said. They did not
wish to lose Freddy, so they came into
the house and told his mother they
were going to swear no more. By
and-by other boys came in;but Fred
dy would not allow them to play
unless they promised not to use bad
words.
The Fourth of July was coming,
and Freddy got his little boys together,
and formed a military company. His
mother made him hats, and his father
gave him a flag with these words
written thereon, “Little boys who do
not swear.”
The people were surprised to see
this little company, and some praised
and others jeered at them. On the
stoop of one of the hotels sat a young
man who had great influence among
his fellowp. He read the inscription
with thoughtfulness, and resolved not
to swear any more, and to see how
many of his fellows he could get to „do
the same. He worked for a whole
year, and the next Fourth had nearly
every young man in the village en
rolled in it. How happy all were
then!
With joy the parents beheld their
sons at home at nights; at church on
the Sabbath; and saw many of them
partake of God’s holy communion.
Try, each little one, if you cannot
accomplish as great results.—Presbyte
rian.
THE TAME BUZZARD.
I do not know how any one could
think of petting a buzzard; but a gen
tleman did, and a very amusing bird
it was. No cat ever took more delight
in catching mice about tbe barn than
he did. He missed his strokes about
as often as he hit; but he would re
turn to the charge again in nowise dis
concerted. He took a deep interest in
rats also, but was not as much inclined
to pursue that sort of game; he was
too lazy to take the trouble.
With all his tricks he could never
be taught politeness or hospitality to
strangers. If a strange gentleman
came about the grounds to. converse
with the master, what should %is
saucy bird do but fly at his head, and
knock his hat over his eyes! The
greatest sport he had was to fly down
at his master’s feet and untie his shoes,
never stopping to inquire whether it
was agreeable to him or not.
When, his lazy fits came on, you
would not catch him hunting for mice
and rats, and taking all that trouble.
He would follow the gardener or
potato-diggers out in the fields, and
leisurely pick up the worms and bugs
which they turned up with the soil.
I cannot speak much for this bird’s
magnanimity; that he was simply
amusing, was the best that could be
said of him. A poor wounded jack
daw fell into the water, and what
should this. tame buzzard do but
pounce into the water, Mid hold the
daw s head under uiuil he was
drowned. Now, if he had helped him
out, it would have been, worthy of a
silver collar at least. But the poor
bird knew no better, so we will not
blame him. We should never think
unkindly of any irrational animal, for
it has no soul, and cannot sin. It only
follows out the instincts God has given
it for wise reasons.— Presbyterian.
Ural grmurmtf.
SPEND LESS THAN YOU EARN.
To attain independence, so appor
tion your expenditure as to spend less
than you have or you earn. Make
this rule imperative. I know of none
better. Lay by something every year,
if it be but a dollar. -If you cannot
increase your means, then you must
diminish your wants. Every skilled
laborer of fair repute can earn enough
not to starve, and a surplus beyond
that bare sufficiency. Yet many a
skilled laborer suffers more from posi
tive privation than the unskilled rural
peasant. Why? Because he encour
ages wants in excess of his means.
Spend less than you eabn. —
Whatever your means may be, so ap
portion your wants that your means
may exceed them. Every man who
earns $lO a week can do this, if he
pleases, whatever he may say to the
contrary; for if he can live upon $lO
a week, he can live upon $9 90.
Mark the distinction between pov
erty and neediness. Poverty is rela
tive, and therefore not ignoble; needi
ness is a positive degradation.
If I. have $5OO or $6OO a year, I
am rich as compared with the majority
of my countrymen. If I have $BOOO
a year, I may be poor compared with
the majority of my associates; and
very poor compared to my next door
neighbor. With either of these in
comes, I may be positively free from
neediness. With the $6OO a year, I
may need no man’s help. But with
$3OOO a year, I may dread a ring at
my bell; I may have my tyrannical
masters in servants whose wages I
cannot pay; my exile may be at the
fiat of the long-suffering man who
enters a judgment against me. if or is
this an exaggeration. Some of the
neediest men are those who have large
incomes. Every man is needy who
spends more than he has; no man is
needy who spends less. I may so ill
manage my money, that with $3OOO
or $5OOO a- year I purchase the worst
evils of poverty —terror and shame.
I may so well manage my money that
with $5OO a year, or less, I purchase
the blessings of wealth—safety, re
spect, freedom from debt, and the
ability to aid my neighbor and the
1 cause of Christ. Spend, then, less
than your income. Let no pride lead
yon to entertain company in a manner
inconsistent with your means. Let
not your house be furnished with
what, for you, is extravagance. Do
not dress your children beyond your
means.
Extravagance is a prominent na
tional vice. Let us correct it.
THE CALIFORNIA HARVEST. 1865.
We take the following gratifying
account from The Pacific of June 29.
The crops this year upon the whole,
are somewhat- above the average of
past several years in amount, and the
quality is excellent. Some late sown
grain will be vpry light, the dry season
setting in too early. As a .general
thing, it is not safe to count upon late
rains to help out the crops in this State.
Hence hill land often produces better
than bottom or valley land, because
the former can be seeded with the
first rains.
We can judge from the various es
timates which we have seen, that the
total of the grain crop this year in
California, will exceed an average year
by twenty-five to thirty-five per cent.
This results in part from the greater
breadth of land sown. It will be out
of the power of speculators to man
age this huge bulk of grain and flour.
We may expect, therefore, that moder
ate prices will prevail during the
whole year. These -will be better both
for producer and consumer.
Nevada and Idaho will furnish an out
let for large amounts of breadstuffs. But
Oregon also will be on hand with its
full granaries. We shall have, there
fore, an increased market with sup
plies correspondingly large. It is
good to know that there will be no
lack of bread in the land.
HOW TO PRESERVE A BOUQUET.
A florist of many years’ experience
sends us the following recipe for pre
serving bouquets for an indefinite
period :
“When you receive a bouquet,
sprinkle it lightly with fresh water;
then put it into a vessel containing
some soap-suds, which nourish the roots
and keep the flowers as bright as new.
Take the bouquet out of the suds
every morning and lay it sidewise in
fresh water, the stock entering first
into the water—keep it there a min
ute or two, then take it out, and
sprinkle 'the flowers lightly by the
hand with pure water. Replace the
bouquet in the soap-suds, and the
flowers will bloom as fresh as when
first gathered. The soap-suds need to
be changed every third day. By ob
serving these rules, a bouquet can be
kept bright and beautiful for at least
one month, and will last still longer
in a very passable state; but the at
tention to the fair but frail creatures,
as directed above, must be strictly ob
served, or ‘ the last rose of summer’
will riot be left ‘ left blooming alone’
but will speedily perish.’’— Am. Arti
san.