61 JE gamttg
THE PITMAN TO HIS WIFE.
Sit ye down on the settle here by me, I've got
something to say to thee, wife ;
I want to be a new sort of man and to lead a new
sort of life
There's but little pleasure and little gain in
spending the days I spend,
Just to work like a horse all the days of my life,
and to die like a dog at the end.
For where's the profit and where's the good, if
one once begins to think,
In making away with what little sense one had
at the first, through drink?
Or in spending one's time and one's money,
too, with a lot of chaps that would go
To see one hang'd and like it as well as any
other show?
And as to the pleasure that some folks find in
cards or in pitch and toss,
It's little they've ever brought to me but only a
vast of loss ;
We'd be sure to light on some great dispute,
and then, to set all right,
The shortest way was to argue it out in a regu
lar stand-up fight.
I'ye got a will, dear wife, I say, I've got a will
to be
A kinder father to my poor bairns, and a better
man to thee,
And to leave off drinking and swearing, and all,
no matter what folks may say;
For I sed what's the end of such things as these,
and I know this is not the way.
You'll wonder to hear me talk like this, as I've
never talk' d before
But I've got a word in my heart, thathas made
it glad, yet has made it sore.
I've got a word like a fire in my heart that will
not let me be,—
" Jesus, the Son of God, who loved, and who
gave Himself for me." •
I've got a word like a sword in my heart, that has
pierced it through and through.
When a message comes to a man from Heaven
he needn't ask if it's true;
There's none on earth could,frame such a tale,
for as strange as the tale may be,—
Jesus, my Saviour, that thou shouldst die for
love of a man like me!
Why, only think now ! if it had been Peter, or
blessed Paul,
Or John, who used to lean on his breast, one
couldn't have wondered atall,
If He'd loved and He'd died for men like these,
who loved him so well,—but you see
It.was me that Jesus loved, wife ! He gave Him
self for me.
It was for me that Jesus died I for me, and a
world of men,
Just as sinful 'and just as slow to give back his
love again ;
He didn't wait till I came to Him, but He loved
• me at my worst ;
He needn't ever have died for me if I could
have loved Him first.
And conldst thou love such a man as me, my
Saviour I then I'll take
More heed to this warning soul of mine, if it's
only for thy sake.
For.it wasn't that I might spend my days just
in work, and in drink, and in strife,
That Jesus, the Son of God has given his love
and has given his life.
It wasn't that I might spend my life just as my
life's been spent,
That He's brought me so near to his mighty
cross and has told me what it meant.
He doesn't need me to die for Him, He only
asks me to live :
There's nothing of mine that He wants but my
heart, and it's all that I've got to give.
I've got a friend, dear wife, I say; I've got a
heavenly friend,
That will show me where I go astray, and will
help me how to mend,
That'll make me kinder to my poor bairns,
'that'll make me better to thee—
Jesus, the Son of God, who loved and who gave
Himself for me.
i'RITTEN FOR ORR COLVIINS.I
MAY'S FIRST LESSON IN OBEDIENCE.
Little May was three years old ; a
darling child. All over her head the
curls clustered, like wreathed gold ;
her blue eyes danced in mirth, or filled
with great tears till they looked like
violets wet with dew, and her little
feet tripped here and there about the
house, making a musical patter where
ever they went.
May's mother was very young. She
was not twenty years old, when her
little girl came flying in, saying, "To
morrow I'm three years old, and dan
ma Paul is tommin." Grandma Paul
always came on May's birthday, bring
ing with her some beautiful present
for her little pet.
May's mother loved her dearly.
Many a night had she walked up and
down the floor, holding her baby in
her arms, and changing it from one
weary arm to the other, soothing it
with the softest lullabies, and losing
her own rest joyfully, that her child
might be taken care of. Many a day
had she spent quietly and happily at
home, with her little blossom, resisting
every inducement to go to a haunt of
pleasure and neglect her babe. But
May's mother, like a good many others,
had to learn that it is the truest kind
ness to a child just coming a stranger
into an uncanny world, to teach it, first
of all, the lesson the world will bye
and-bye enforce, obedience to law.
How much better, that the first lesson
should be given in the gentle home
school, with the eye of love, and the
hand,tif love, than out in the highway
of life, where the lessons are hard, and
expo,ence is the cruel teacher.
- May," said Mrs. Gardner, " come
here, I want to dress you.
NV hat a change came over the merry
face. How the big blue eyes were
drawn; down, and the forehead was
wrinkled, and the_voice took a hateful
tone.
"-I don't want to, mamma ; I want
to play."
"Bn't I want you to be dressed now,
my darling ; come to dear mamma,
lady-bird, come and see what pretty
thinas I've got here in this box for
you:"
But May was not to be coaxed. She
knew that the box, hold what -it might,
held nothing to her as pretty as the
cunning little mud pies she was
making down in the garden, and she
did mot'wish to be put into a white
frock, and go walking with her darling
" Oh, just now," said Mrs. Gardiner
blushing. " You mean that, I ought to
have insisted on her being dressed. It
is no matter. There is plenty of time
before dinner."
It is not the time involved, my
dear, but the principle," said Mrs.
Ames. " May is no happier for hav
ing her own way, and every time you
yield to her, yon are making it harder
for her to conquer her own nature,
and to obey the rules that govern the
home. Children obey your parents,'
says God in his holy word, and as
your little daughter is a holy trust,
you should try to train her as God
has said."
"But would you have me tyrannize
over a baby," said Mrs. Gardiner.
"By no means ; I think parents
should never tyrannize, nor interfere
unduly and unjustly with their chil
dren's pleasures ; but a mother's word
should be absolute, and once given, it
should not be queitioned, nor lightly
disobeyed."
Here the - conversation was inter
rupted by the entrance of May her
self, who had quite forgotten her cross
ness, and came in singing the refrain
of one our Sabbath hymns, "Yes,
Jesus loves me," in her sweet childish
voice.
"Dress me, please mamma, dress
me now," she said, putting up her
cherry lips for a kiss.
"May cannot be dressed to-day;"
said her mother, gravely. "May ran
away when her mamma wanted to
dress her, she must wear that frock till
night."
May glanced at her dress stained
with fruit and mud; at the apron, which
had a streak of molasses down the
front; and began to cry. Her mother
took no notice, though she had to re
press a desire to yield, as the little
lady's grieved sob, fell on her ear.
After awhile the tears were dried, and
May played as usual, but at bed-tiine
she whispered to her mother, " I'll be
dood next time:"
This is a little story, but the moral
is not trivial. Oh, how many happy
homes there would be, if all children
were early taught to obey.
'Little May's mother began, from
that day, gently to enforce the lessons
of kindly discipline, and she had no
reason to regret it in the added sweet
ness of her child's disposition.
—Dor b a Greenwell
This is the name of a book written
by a lady, for the purpose of teaching
children how to do good, more than
eighty thousand copies of which, we
are glad to see, have already' been
sold. It is full of good tales about
good, children trying to do good. I
will' tell you one of them. It is about
two poor little girls, each of whom had
lost her father. One, called Ruth, went
to school, where her kind teacher, Miss
Wilson, had told her all about Jesus,
and hOW good it was for us to try to
be like him in being good and doing
good. The other was very ill and
likely to die, and so Ruth felt very
sorry for her, and wished to do her
good.
One evening, when Ruth went to
l a
see the sick girl, sh found her very
restless; so to soothe er, she sung in a
low voice one of he , school hymns,
which begins—
the singing made her more quiet, and
she asked, "Is that about Jesus you
are singing ?"
"Yes," replied Ruth, " that's Jesus
our Saviour. I can sing you some
thing else about him, if you like."
"Yes, do," said the poor child. And
Ruth sang---
"We read within the Holy Word
Of how our Saviour died,
And those great drops of falling blood
' He shed at eventide,"
When she stopped, the sick child said,
" I can't read ; I never went to school
long enough to learn."
"What, can't, you read the Bible ?"
asked Ruth.
"No, I can't read anything ; I don't
know anything about the Bible."
"I can tell you, all about it," said.
Ruth. "I know such a number of
stories out of the Bible ! Miss Wilson
tells them to us, and sometimes we tell
them to her."
" What does she tell you ?"
" She tells us about Jesus our
Saviour, who will take us up safe in
his arms, and carry us to heaven when
we die, and-then we shall be so happy
there 1"
" Will he carry me ?"
"Yes, he will, if you pray to him."
"I don't know how to pray."
"I will teach you my prayer"--*
" 0 God, my Heavenly Father, give
me thy Holy Spirit to teach me -to
know and love thee. Wash me from
all my sins in my Saviour's precious
THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN, THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 2 1865.
"Beto Margaret," as she called her
doll; sO she threw Betsy Margaret on
the flock, with a violence that would
have brilken her head, had it not, for
tunatelY been of wood; and stamped
her little foot, and then ran out of the
room Ls , fast as she could.
Mrs. Gardiner remarked to a friend
who was staying with her, " my little
girl has such a strong will. I am
afraid I'll have trouble with her, but
she's a sweet child, if you only let her
have her own way. I know that I
often interfere with her unnecessarily."
"As, for instance, just - now," said
Mrs. Aes.
MINISTERING CHILDREN,
"Jesus, lover of my soul,
Let me to thy bosom fly;"
blood. Keep me from all evil, and
make me ready to live with thee forever
in heaven. For the sake of Jesus my
Saviour. Amen.' ‘
‘That is one of 'my prayers, and I
can teach it to you\ I have taught it
to our Mary, and she can't read yet."
The sick child tried to learn it, but
she could not rememb i r the words ;
still it seemed to soothe her to hear
Ruth repeating them ; at last she said,
" Wash me from all my Sins ! What
are sins ?"
"That is when We do 'wrong; we
I
can't -go with our bad sins to heaven,
but our Saviour can wash them all
away in his blood."
As Ruth was coming home from
school on the ltst of these bright Sep
tember days, she saw; a poor woman
sitting on a door-step with.a basketful
of small penny nosegays ' P, autumn
flowers. Ruth stood still liefore the
the basket to look and a ire. She
had never known what it as to hunt
over the meadow banks i spring for
violets and primroses, or ather the
yellow daffodil and beautif 1 anemone
from the woods, or the swe and frail
wild-rose from its thorny s m. in the
hedge; she had sometimes lucked a
daisy from the grass, but his was
about the only flower thatuth had
ever gathered. And now s stood to
1
look upon the woman's• b etfull of
nosegays of -garden Howe . While
she stood looking, a motile with her
i f
little girl passed by.
"0, mother," said the
"look at these flowers !"
" A penny a nosegay, AL
a penny a nosegay;" said tlh
man, holding out some of hl
"Do you wish for a nosegE
asked the mother of her littl
"Yes, if you please, moth'
Ruth thought how happy
girl was to have a nosegay o
she watched her take it ; and
mother with her little girl
and Ruth slowly turned aw'
home. But as soon as the
had left the basket of flowers'
" Mother, did you see that
who looked so at the flowers?"
" Yes, Jane ; do you 'ink she
wanted a nosegay ?"
" 0, mother ! will you bu her one!"
"I have not another penn with me,
or I would."
"Do you think she wo,
to give her mine, then, mo
"Yes, suppose you do ;
she very seldom has a flow
" Then I will, mother ; s
after her ?" The little g
back, and saw Ruth walk
" 0 mother, she will be gui e l'"
1
Little Jane did not like to av i e her
mother's side, so they ,walked q4.ickly
l Ei
back' together, till they overt° kltuth,
and then Jane gave her the,, (wirers;
the bright color came into the :klieeks
of little Ruth as she curtsied aind took
the flowers, and then she set o' to run
with them home. And so that minis-' fi
tering child parted with her nosegay
for the little girl, who, perhaps, had
never gathered any flower but a daisy.
Ruth soon reached home with her
flowers. First she went to the poor
sick child, and said, "See what beauti
ful flowers I have got ! A lady bought
them in the street, and her little girl
gave them all to me ! I will,aive you
that beauty !" And Ruth pulled out
the only rose from the nosegay, and
put it into the little thin hand of the
dying child. " 0 how sweet it smells!"
said the sick child, as she lay on her
pillow with the rose in her hand—the
only gift she had received to gladden
her, except focid, since she had been ill
in her bed.
M. E. M
"Jesus, our Saviour, made the
flowers," said Ruth. " Miss Wilson
says that it was Jesus made every
flower to grow out of the ground."
"How kind he must be I" said the
dying child.
Then Ruth took the rest of the
flowers up to her mother, and they
were put in water to live many days.
Ruth used to go in. often to see the
poor sick child, and tell her stories
from the Bible, and sing her hymns
when she had the baby with her. But
one cold day, when she came into the€
house from school, the poor child's
mother same crying- from the room,
and said to her, "Oh, I am so glad
you are come! I thought I must have
come after you ; my poor child is ,
dying, and she keeps asking for you !"
Ruth went in and stood by the bed,
and then dying child said, "0, Ruth, I
am quite happy ! I love you very .
much ; and I want you to sing that
about—'Those great drops of blood
Jesus shed at eventide." Ruth sang
it as well as she could, but she -was
ready to cry.
"I want you to sing it over and
over, as you do to the baby," said the
dying child.
Ruth sang it two or three times, arid
then she stopped ; the poor child hfid
shut her eyes and seemed asleep, lint
she soon opened them again, and said,
" Oh do sing about—' Jesus, let memo
; I.
thy bosom fly 1' " and while It th
sang, and the mother stood weepi g
by, the little child fell asleep- 7 . e
died. Ruth cried for her little fri
and missed her very much. Di - Cita
the poor mother said she wanted Rut
to comfort her, as she had done he
dying child ; and she begged Ruth to
read to her, and tell her those beautit
ful stories out of the Bible,. for sho
could not read herself. And so Ruth
became a ministering child to the poi
childless widow too. .
[WRITTEN FOR OUR COLUMNS.]
THERE IS HOPE.
There is hope for the flower that hath faded,
Though it droop its fair head in the dust;
Though the bloom of its beauty is shaded,
And its splendors are darkened and lost.
The sweet rain of heaven shall woo it, .
With fingers all drooping with balm ;
The sunshine shall softly pursue it,
And kiss it, so fragrant and calm,
Till the flower is saved !
There is hope for the gem that is vanished,
From the ring that it circled with light;
It is only mislaid—'tis not banished,
Oh I seek it by day and by night.
In some dim little nook it is lying,
And sparkling its brightest and best,
Though coy, thou shalt find it for trying,
And clasp it with joy to thy breast:
The gem that was lost!
Oh flower and gem! ye are fleeting,
And well might ye vanish away ;
But the soul that is lost, is retreating,
To blackness of darkness for aye!
No hope, for this priceless of jewels,
When once it hath broken its clasp;
No hope for this blossom immortal,
When once it hath slid from our grasp—
,No hope for the soul !
Oh ! soul, take thine ease, and be merry,
And trifle thy day to its end:
But stay !It were best to be chary, '
Of hours 'tis madness to spend!
For the Saviour is stooping to lift you,
From darkness and sin to the sky ;
The world and its trials may sift you,
But yield to the dear One on high !
Oh ! soul, and be saved !
I did not feel as I feel now when
first I came to this parish. For, as I
have said, I am now getting old very
fast. True, I was thirty when I was
made a vicar, an age at which a man
might be expected to be beginning to
grow wise ;.but even'then I had much
yetto learn.
I well remember the first evening
on which I wandered out from the vi
carage to take a look about me—to find
out; in short, where I was, and what
aspect the sky and earth here present
ed. •I had arrived at the vicarage the
night before, and it had rained all day,
and was still raining, though not so
much. I took my umbrella and went
out. For as I wanted to do my work well
(atrything taking far more the shape
of work to me, then, and duty, than it
does now—though, 'even now, I must
confess things have occasionally to be
done by the clergyman because there
is no one else to do them, and hardly
from other motive than a sense of
duty,—a man not being able to shirk
work because it may happen to be
dirty)—l say, as I wanted to do my
work well, or rather, perhaps, be
cause I dreaded drudgery as much as
any poor fellow who comes to the
treadmill in consequence—l wanted
to interest myself in it; and therefore
I would go and fall in love, first of
all, if I could, -with the co a.ntry round
about. And my first step beyond my
'own gate was up 'to the aneles in
mud.
MEE
am ; only
poor wo-
Ir flowers.
I ; Jane ?"
girl.
r."
hat little
her o*n
then the
went on,
y 'to her
1 ttle girl
she said,
or child
d like me
er 7"
dare say
77
:11 we go
1 looked
g slowly
I had not gone far froin my' own
gate before the rain ceased, though it
was still gloomy enough for any
amount to follow. I drew down my
umbrella, and began to look about
me. I saw a man in a white smock
frock coming along the road beyond,
but I - turned my back to the road,
leaned my arms on the parapet of. the
bridge, and stood gazing where I saw
no visions, namely, at those very pop
lars. I heard the man's footsteps
coming up the crown of the arch, but
I would not turn to greet him. I was
in a selfish humor, if ever I was; for
surely, if ever one man ought to greet
another, it was upon such a comfort
less afternoon. The footsteps stopped
behind me, and I heard a voice :
".I be& your .pardon, sir; but be
you the new vicar?"
I turned instantly and answered,
"I am. Do you want me?"
"I wanted to see yer face, sir, that
was all, if ye'll not take it amiss."
Before . :me stood a tall old man,
with his hat in his hand, clOthed as I
have said, in a white smock-frock.
He smoothed his short grey hair with
his curved palm down over his fore
head as he stood. His face was of a
red brown, from much exposure to
the weather. There was a certain
lookof roughness, without hardness,
in it, which spoke of endurance rather
than resistance, although he could evi
dently set his ace as a flint. "His fea
tures were large and a little coarse,
but the smile that parted his lips
when he spoke, shone in his grey eyes
as well, and lighted up a countenance
in which a man might trust.
"I wanted to see yer face, sir, if
you'll not take it amiss." ,
"Certainly not," I answered, pleased
with the man's address, as he stood
square before me, looking as modest
as fearless. "The sight of a man's
face is what every body has• a right
to; but for all that, I should like to
know why you want to see my face."
" Why, sir, you be 'the new vicar.
You kindly told me so when I axed
you."
" Well, then, you'll see my face on
Sunday in church—that is, if you
happen to be there."
"Yes, sir; but you see, sir, on the
bridge here, the parson is the parson
like, and I'm old Rogers; and I looks
in his face and he looks in mine, and
I says to myself, 'This is my parson.'
But o' Sundays he's nobody's parson;
he's got his Work to do, and it mun be
done, and there's an end on't.'l
That there was a real idea' in the
old man's mind was considerably
clearer than the logic by 'hich .he
tried to bring it out.
"'Did you know parson at's gone,
sir?" he went on.
M. E. M.
THE NEW VICAR.
"No," I answered.
" Oh, sir ! he wur a good parson.
Many's the time he come and sit at
my son's bedside—him that's dead
and gone, sir—for a long hour, on a
Saturday night, too. And then when
I see him up in the desk the next
mornin', I'd say to myself, 'Old Ro
gers, tat's the man as sat by your
son's bedside last night. Think o'
that Rogers !' But, somehow, I never
did feel right sure o' that same. He
didn't seem to have the same cut,
somehow • and he didn't talk a bit the
same. i.nd when he spoke to me
after sermon, in the churchyard, I
was always of a mind to go into the
church again and look up to the pul
pit to see if he were really out ov it; for
this warn't the same man, you see.
But you'll know all about it better
than I can tell you, sir. Only I al
ways liked parson better out o' the
pulpit, and that's how I come to want
to make you look at me, sir, instead
o' the water down there, afore I see
you in church to-morrow mornin'."
The old man laughed a kindly
laugh ; but he had set me thinking,
and I did not know what to say to
him all at once. So, after- a short
pause, he resumed:
"You'll be thinking me a queer
kind of a man, sir, to speak to my
betters before my ketters speaks to me.
But mayhap you don't know what a
parson is to us poor folk that has
ne'er a friend more lamed than them
selves but the parson. And, besides,
sir, I'm an old salt,—an old man-o%
war's iman,—and I've been all round
the world, sir; and I ha' been in all
sorts o' company, pirates and all, sir ;
and I aint a bit frightened of a parson.
No ; I love a parson, sir. And I'll
tell for why, sir. He's got a good
telescope, and he gits to the masthead,
and he looks out, And he sings out,
'Land ahead!' or 'Breakers ahead I'
and gives directions accordin'. Only
I can't always make out what he says.
But when he shuts up his spyglass,
and comes down the riggin' and talks
to us like one man
,to another, then I
don't know what I should do without
the parson. Good evenin' to you, sir,
and welcome to the Marshmallows."—
Guth,rie's Sunday Magazine.
WHY SO MUCH BEAUTY IN POLAND.
"Because," says Bayard Taylor,
"there, girls do not jump from infancy
to young ladyhood. They are not
sent from the cradle to the parlor, to
dress, to sit still and look pretty. No,
they, are treated as children should be.
During ckildhood, which, extends
through a period of several years, they
are plainly dressed, and allowed to
run, romp and play in the open air.
They are not loaded down, girded
about, and oppressed everyway with
countless frills and superabundant
flounces, so as to be admired for
their clothing, nor are rendered dele
cate or dyspeptic by continual stiffing
with candiest'and sweet-cakes, as are
the majority of American children.
Plain, simple food, free and various
exercises and an abundance of sun
shine during the whole period of child
hood, are the secrets of beauty in after
life."
A HARTFORD plumber has accident
ally discovered that the smoke from a
little charcoal fire under a tree will
suffocate hundreds of worms upon it.
A little sulphur placed on hot embers
answers the same purpose.
lutat Nuraging.
TO MAKE IN UNHEALTHY BED-ROOM.
If you want to have .a thoroughly un
healthy bed-room, these are the precautions
you shoujd take. Fasten a chimney board
against the fire place, so as to prefrent foul
air, from escaping in the night; and, of
course, in the night season, never have a
door or a window open. se no perfora
ted zinc in•pannelling ; especially avoid it
in small bed-rooms. So you will get a room
full of bad air. But in the same room
there is bad, worse, and worst; your object
is to have the worst air possible. Suffoca
ting machines are made by every upholster
er; attach one f to - your bed;;it is an appar
atus of poleS, rings, and curtains. By
drawing your curtains around you before
you sleep, inimre to yourself a conden
sed body of foul air; over your person. This
poison vapor bath you will find to be most
efficient when it is made of any thick mate
rial.
There being transpiration through the
skin, it would not be a bad idea: to see
whether this cannot be in some way hinder
ed. The popular method will do very well;
smother the flesh as much as poisible in
feathers. A wandering princess, in some
fairy tale, came to a king's house. The
king's wife, with the curiosity and acute
ness proper to'her sex, wished to ascertain
whether their guest was truly born a prin
cess, and at the same ; time, found out ,how
to solve the question. She, put three peas
on the young lady's pelisse, and over them
a large feather bed, and then another, then
another ; in fact, fifteen feather beds. Next
morning the princess looked pale, and in
answer to inquiries how she had passed the
night, said that she had been unable to
sleep at all, because the bed had lumps in
it. The king's - wife knew then that their
guest showed her grood breeding. Take
this highborn lady for a model. The
feathers retain all the heat about your body,
and stifle the . , skin so far effectually that
you awake in the morning pervaded by a
sense of languor, which must be very
agreeable to a person who has it in his
mind to be unhealthy. .
In order to keep a check upon.eihalation
about your bead (which otherwise might
have too much the appearance of ;nature))
put on a stout, closely woven nightcap.alak
alp
People who are at the height of cleverness
in this respect, sleep with their heads under
the bed clothes. Take no rest on a hair
mattress; it is elastic and pleasant, cer
tainly, but does not encase the body; and,
therefore, you run a risk of not awaking
languid.
Never wash when you go to bed ; you
are not going to , see anybody, and, there
fore, there is no use in washing. In the
morning wet no more skin than you abso
lutely must—that is to say, no more than
your neighbors will see during the day—
the face and hands. So much you may do
with a tolerably good will, since it is the
other parts of the surface of the body more
covered and more impeded in the full dis
charge of its functions, which has rather
the more need of Ablution. It, is, there
fore, fortunate that you can leave that other
part
rubbing over
Five minutes of sponging
and
over the whole body in the
morning, would tend to invigorate the sys
tem, and would send you with a cheerful
glow to the day's businessUr pleasure.
Avoid it by all means, if you desire to be
unhealthy.
Do not forget that. although you must un
fortunately apply water to your face, you
can find warrant in eastern to excuse you
from annoying it with soap; and for the
water again you are at liberty - to take ven
geance, by 'obtaining compensation, dama
ges out of that part of the head which the
hair covers. Never wash it ; soil it ; clog
it with oil or lard, eiiher of which will
answer your purpose, as either will keep out
air as well as water, and promote the growth
of a thick morion of scurf. Lard in the
bed-room is called bear's grease. In con
nection with its virtues in promoting growth
of hair, there is a tale, which I believe to
be no fiction; not the old and profane jest
of the man who rubbed a deal-box with it
over night and found it a hair trunk in the
morning. It is said that the first adven
turer who advertised bear's grease for sale
appended to the laudation of its efficacy a
note bFne, that gentlemen, after applying it,
should wash the palms of their bands,
otherwise the hair would sprout thence
also. I admire that speculator, grimly
satiric at the expense both of himself and
of his customers. He jested at his own
pretensions, and declared, by an oblique
hint, that he did not look for friends among
the scrupulously clean !
Of coarse, as you do not show - favor to
your body, so you will not show favor to
your feet. Keep up a due distinction be
tween the upper and lower members. When
a German prince was told confidentially that
he had dirty hands, he replied, with the
liveliness of conscious triumph, " Ah, do
you call dat dirty ? You should see my
toes !" Some people wash them once in
every month—that will do very well; or
once a year, it matters little which. In
what washing you find yourself unable to
omit, nse only the finest towels, those which
inflict the least friction on the skin.
Having made these arrangements for
yourself, take care that they are adhered to,
so far as may be convenient throughout
your household. Here and there put
numerous sleepers into a single room ; this
is a good thing tor children, when you re
quire to blanch them, and render them
delicate; but you must take care not to
carry this too far, otherwise you will render
them pasty, pot-bellied, and deformed. It
Was this practice which was so successful
at Tooting in thinning the population. By
all means, let a baby have foul air, not only
by the use of suffocating apparatus, but by
causing it to sleep where there are four or
five others in a well-closed room. So much
is due to the maintenance of our orthodox
rate of infant mortality.—Foreign Paper
ERADICATION OF STUMPS,
When it is necessary to remove large
stumps under circumstances which render
it impracticable to avail one's self of the
assistance of ,a " stump machine," the work
may be successfully accomplished by burn
ing. This is done by digging under them,
filling the cavity with combustible materials,
and covering the stump, after firing the
materials, with turf, in the same manner
that coal-kilns are covered. The fire will
in a short time effect the entire destruction
of the stumps—even the long lateral roots,
unless the soil is very humid, in which case
the burning- should be undertaken during
the dry weather of summer. If the dirt is
excavated a few weeks before the burning
is undertaken, the operation. will be' more
speedily effected. The ashes produced by
the combustion will afford an excellent
stimulus for the soil, and should be care
fully applied as soon as the operation is
completed. But in all cases where eradica
tion by pulling is practicable, the stump
machine should be used. Germantown
Telegraph,.
CORN MOLASSES.
Mr. Thomas Randolph, a farmer of this
county, residing between Worthington and
Cascade, informs us that be has tried the
experiment of making molasses from the
stalks of sweet corn. He says that it is
superior to that made from sorghurn or
imphee. The corn-stalks yield as much
molasses as the sorghum. He' promises to
send us a sample, when we shall have the
quality tested by judges and report their
decision. If it sustains Mr. Randolph's
opinion it will be of no, small :consideration
to our farmers, as the sweet corn-stalk will
nature in thisTegion when the sorghum -
and imphee will not. Mr. Randolph used
his corn-stalkstimmediately after be had re
moved the crop of. ears for table use.—
Dubuque. Times.
THE BATTLE PLAGUE.
The London Times of September 20th
says the cattle plague has suddenly ex
hibited an entirely new and unexpected
development. The disease has broken out
among the sheep, accompanied by its most
fatal characteristics; and there -is every
appearance of the infection having been
communicated both from sheep to cows, and
from cows to sheep. If this were in Dassa
ohusetts, the " Commissioners" would take
to killing all the cows and sheep, instead of
trying to cure them. The Englishmen
will probablyiseparate the diseased; from
the healthy animals, and see , what medical
treatment can do for-them.