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..
BY BA3II7EL LOVEIt
How sweet 'tin to return
Where once we've happy been,
Though paler now life's lamp may burn,
And years have rolled between.
And if those eyes beam welcome yet
That wept our parting then,
0, in the smiles of friends thus met
'We live whole years again 1
They tell us of a fount that flow'd
In happier days of yore,
Whose waters bright fresh youth bestowed,
Alas the fount's no more!
But smiling metn'ry still appears,
Presents her cup and - when
We sip the sweets of vanish'd years
We live those years again.
'4utertsting
MR. BROWN'S MISHAPS
Mr. Eliphalet Brown was a bachelor of
thirty-five or there-abouts ; one of those men
who seem born to pass through the world all
alone. Save this peculiarity there was noth
ing to distinguish Mr. Brown from the multi
tude of other Browns who are born, grow- up
and die in this world of ours. It chanced
that Mr. Brown had occasion to visit a town
some fifty miles distant on matters of busi
ness. It was his first visit to the place, and
he proposed stopping a day to give him an
opportunity to look about. Walking leisurely
along the street, he`was all at once accosted
by a child, who ran up to him exclaiming:
" Father, I want you to buy me some can
dy."
Father I was it possible that he, a bachelor,
was addressed by that title I—lle could nut
believe it.
" Who wore you speaking to, my dear ?"
lie inquired of the little girl.
"I spoke to you, father," said the little
one, surprised.
"Really, thought Brown,' " this is very em
barrassing. lam not your father," said he,
What is your name ?"
The child laughed heartily, evidently think
ing it a good joke. "What a funny father
you are," she said, " but dint you going to
buy me some candy ?"
."Yes, yes, I'll buy you a pound if' you will
not call me father any more," said he, ner
vously%
The little girl clapped her hands -with de
light. The promise was all she remembered.
Mr. Brown proceeded to a confectionary
store, where he actually bought a pound. of
candy, which he placed in the hands of the
little girl. In coming out of the store they
encountered the child's mother.
"0, mother," said the little girl, "just see
how much candy father has bought me."
"You shouldn't have bought her o much
at a time, Mr. Jones," said the lady ; "I am
afraid she will make herself sick. But how
did you happen to get home so quick? I did
not expect you until night."
" Jones—l, madam," said the embarrassed
Mr. Brown, " it's not my name. I am Eli
phalet Brown, of W., and this is the first
time I have ever been in this city."
"Good heavens, Mr. Jones, what has put
this silly talc into your head? You hare
concluded to change your name have you ?
Perhaps it is your intention to change your
wife."
Mrs. Jones' tone was defiant, and this only
served to increase Mr. Brown's embarrass
ment.
" I havn't any wife, madam—l never bad
, one. On my word as a gentleman, I never
was married !"
" And do you intend to palm off this tale
on me?" said Mrs. Jones with excitement—
." If you are not married, I would like to
know who I am ?"
" I have no doubt YOU are a most respect
able lady," said Mr. Brown, " and I conjec
ture from what you have said, that your name
is Jones, but mine is Brown, madam, and al
ways was."
"Melinda," said her mother, suddenly ta
king the child by the arm and leading her up
to Mr. Brown, " Melinda, who is this gentle
man ?"
"Why, that is father," was the child's im
mediate reply, as she confidently placed her
hands in his.
" You hear that, Mr. Jones, do you ? You
hear what that innocent child says, and yet
you have the unblushing impudence to deny
that you are my husband. The voice of na
ture in the child, should overwhelm you. I'd
like to know, if you are not her father, why
you are buying her candy ? I would like
you to answer that. But I presume you ne
ver saw her in your life ?"
" I never did ; on my honor I never did. I
told her I would give her some candy if she
wouldn't call me father any more."
" You did, did you ? Bribed your own
child not to call you father I Oh, Mr. Jones,
this is infamous 1 Do you intend to desert
me, sir, and leave me to the cold charities of
the world ?"
Mrs. Jones was so overcome that, without
any warning , she fell back on the sidewalk in
a fainting fit. Instantly a number of persons
ran to her assistance.
" Mr. Jones, is your wife subject to faint
ing in this way ?" asked the first corner of
31r. Brown.
"I don't know. She isn't my wife. I
don't know anything about her !" stammer
ed Mr. Brown.
"Why, it's Mrs. Jones—aint it?" he re-
joined.
" Perhaps it is ; but I'm not Mr. Jones."
" Sir," said the first speaker, sternly, "this
is no time to jest. I trust you are not the
cause of this excitement which must have
occasioned your wife's fainting fit. You bad
better call a coach and carry her home direct-
Poor Brown was dumb-founded.
" I wonder," thought he, " whether it is
possible that I am really Jones, and I have
gene crazy, in consequence of whichtl fancy
Cl 50
. 75
. 50
WILLIAM LEWIS,
VOL. XIII
my name is Brown. And yet I don't think
lam Jones. In spite of all I will insist that
my name is Brown."
"Well, sir, what are you waiting for? It
is necessary that your wife be removed im
mediately. Will you order a carriage?"
Brown saw that it was of no use to protract
the discussion by a denial. ITe, therefore,
without contesting the point, ordered a hack
ney coach to the spot.
Mr. Brown accordingly lent an arm to
Mrs. Jones, who was somewhat recovered,
and was about to close the door upon her.
" What, are you not going with her your
self ?"
" Why, no ; why should I?"
" Your wife should not go alone ; she has
hardly recovered."
Brown gave a despairing glance at the mob
around him, and deeming it useless to make
opposition when so many seemed so fully
convinced that he was Mr. Jones, followed
the lady in.
" Where shall I drive ?" asked the driver.
" I—l don't know," said Mr. Brown.
"Where do you wish to be carried to, Mrs.
Jones?"
" Home, of course," murmured Mrs. Jones
Where is that ?" asked the driver.
"I don't know," said Mr. Brown
" No. 19 II street," said the gentle
man already introduced, glancing scornfully
at Mr. Brown.
" Will you help me out, Mr. Jones," said
the lady ; " I am not fully recovered from the
fainting fit into which you drove me."
" Are you quite sure that I am Mr. Jones,"
asked Mr. Brown with anxiety.
"Of course," said Mrs. Jones.
"Then," said be, resignedly, "I suppose I
_. But if you will believe me, I was firmly
convinced this morning that my name was
Brown, and to tell the truth, I have not any
recollection of this house."
EIID
Brown helped Mrs. Jones into the parlor,
but, good Heavens ! conceive the astonish
ment of all when a man was discovered seat
ed in an arm chair, who waL the very lite
simile of Mr. Brown, in form, features, and
every other respect.
"Gracious!" ejaculated the lady, " which
—which is my husband ?"
An explanation was given, mystery was
cleared up, and Mr. Brown's pardon was
sought fur the embarrassing mistake. It
was freely accorded by Mr. Brown, who was
delighted to think that after all he was not
Mr. Jones, with a wife and child to boot.—
Mr. Brown has not since visited the place
where this mishap occurred.
A Scene of Retribution.
A picture representing the sale of a quan
tity of old furniture, seized for rent, was ex
hibited, some years back, in the window of a
dealer in the Place de la Madeleine, Paris,
and attracted considerable attention. In the
ti reground was placed a poor woman, hold
ing in her arms a child, and watching with a
sorrowful eye the progress of the sale. The
sweet face of the child stood in strong con
trast to the distressed countenance of the
poor mother. Further back were the person
ages connected with the sale, represented
w:th great vigor. The fdlowing is stated by
the Lyons Journal to be the history of the
scene depicted :
A few years since the painter of the pic
ture in question, an eminent artist at Lyons,
while passing through the flue des Terreaux
approached a number of persons who were
gathered together witnessing the sale of the
furniture of the poor workman. A woman
was seated on the pavement with a child in
her arms. The painter spoke to her, and
was told that the furniture which was being
sold belonged to her ; that her husband had
lately died, and leaving hoc with the child
she had in her arms : that she struggled hard
to maintain herself by working day and
night, and submitting to every privation, and
that her landlord had at length seized her
furniture for some month's rent which was
due him. The artist was much affected by
this simple recital, and enquired who was
her landlord. There he is, replied the poor
woman, pointing to a man who was watching
the progress of the sale, and he was recogni
zed by the painter as a person who was sus
pected of havinc , t , amassed a considerable for
tune by usury so that to make an appeal to
his feelings on behalf of the poor widow
would be useless. The artist was consider
ing within himself what other plan he could
adopt to benefit her, when the crier announ
ced a picture for sale. It was a miserable
daub, which in the summer the poor woman
had used to hide the hole in the wall through
which the stove pipe passed during the win
ter. It was put up at one franc. The artist
at once conceived a plan for taking revenge
on the landlord. He went over, examined
the pietUre with great attention, and then
called out with a loud voice, One hundred
francs! The landlord was astonished at the
bid, but conceiving that a picture for which
so eminent an artist could offer, was worth
more than double, boldly offered 200 f. Five
hundred ! said the painter, and the contest
between the two bidders became so animated
that the prize was at length knocked down
to the landlord at 2,200 f! The purchaser
then addressed the painter : In seeing an
artist of your merit bid so eagerly for the pic
ture, I supposed that it must be valuable.—
Now tell me, sir, at what do you estimate its
value ? About three francs and a half, re
plied the painter, but I would not give that
for it. You arc surely jesting, said the land
lord, for you bid as high as 2,100 francs for
it. That is true, replied the artist, and I will
tell you why I did so. You are in possession
of the handsome income of 25,000 f. a year,
and have seized on the furniture of a poor
woman for a debt of 200 f. I wished to give
you a lesson and you fell into my trap. In
stead of the poor woman being your debtor,
she is now your creditor, and I flatter myself
you will not compel her to seize on your fur
niture for the debt. The artist then politely
saluted the astonished landlord, and having
announced her good fortune to the poor wo
man walked away.
Mr' Too much of agood thing," as the
boy said when he fell in the molasses barrel.
The following truthful and well-timed re
marks we take from the New York Daily
Times- :
A recent English publication on the sci
ence of bread baking, states that in the
county of Suffolk, - England, every woman
knows to make bread, and in the town of
Bary, which has 60,000 inhabitants, there
aro but two public bakeries. These facts
will surprise our own countrywomen, very
few of whom, we fear, know anything more
of the art of making bread than they do
about making watches. We do not know
how many noble ladies there may be in the
county of Suffolk; but there are, probably,
a good many who wear titles, and who be
long to the upper crust of society.
It is certainly greatly to the credit of the
women of England that there are so many
of them who could, if it were necessary,
make the family bread, and prepare the hot
rolls for their husband's breakfast. Bread
making is not one of the accomplishments
which _American women think it necessary
for them to be acquainted with; every par
lor has a piano, but very few kitchens have
an oven ; and it would be as difficult to find
an American woman who did not understand
the use of one, as to find one who knew how
to use the other. But it is not altogether the
fault of our ladies that they cannot, and do
not, understand the art of making bread.—
In the country every family must make its
own bread, but it is questionable economy to
keep a private bakery in the city.
It is not the economy of bread-making
which makes it so desirable that every wo
man should understand the art, but because
it shows a familiarty with domestic affairs
which is necessary to the economy and com
fort of every household. The daughter of a
merchant residing in a city, the name of
which it is not at all necessary we should
mention, lately remarked in confidence to
her friend, that she did not see any advan
tage in having a millionaire for a father,
since she had to work four hours every day
at her piano.
The hard case of this unhappy young lady
is by no means a solitary one; and there is
no doubt that there are a great many daught
ers of millionaires who would be very glad
to change the slavery of the piano for an hour
or two of recreation in the kitchen, and to
whom bread-making would be a delight com
pared with the labor of learning music. We
would not be understood as objecting to the
piano, but a change from that instrument to
the kneading trough would not be at all inju
,3
In Mrs. Gaskell's biography of Charlotte
Bronte, there is a very pretty picture, drawn
from real life, representing that heroic and
accomplished girl, the author of Wuthering
Heights, engaged in kneading bread while
she studied the German grammar open before
her_ Domestic misery, from the misery of
domestics, is now the rule in the majority of
American families; but this would not be the
case if there were more of our countrywomen
who understood the art of bread making, like
the ladies of Suffolk ; or who studied:their
grammars with their delicate hands in the
kneading trough, like the gentle Charlotte
Bronte.
MEDICAL USE or SALT.—In many cases of
disordered stomach, a teaspoonful ✓ of salt is
a certain cure. In the violent internal
aching, termed cholie, add a teaspoonful of
salt to a pint of cold water—drink it and go
to bed ; it is one of the speediest remedies
known. The same will revive a person who
seems almost dead from receiving a very
heavy fall, &e.
in an apoplectic fit, no time should be lost
in pouring down salt and water, if sufficient
sensibility remain to allow of swallowing;
if not, the head must be sponged with cold
water, until the sense return, when salt will
completely restore the patient from the leth
argy.
In a fit, the feet should be placed in warm
water, with mustard added ; and the legs
briskly rubbed, all bandages removed from
the neck, and a cool apartment procured if
possible. In many cases of severe bleeding
at the lungs, and when other remedies fail,
Dr. Rush found two teaspoonfuls of salt
completely stayed the blood.
In eases of bite from a mad dog, wash the
part with strong brine for an hour, then
bind on some salt with a rag.
In toothache, warm salt and water held to
the part, and renewed two or three times,
will relieve in most cases. If the gums be
affected, wash the mouth with brine ; if the
teeth be covered w ith tartar, wash them
twice a day with salt and water.
In swelled neck, wash the part with brine
and drink it also twice a day until cured.
Salt will expel worms, if used in the food
in a moderate degree, and aids digestion ;
but salt meat is injurious if used much.—
Scientific American.
Frames CIIIcKEN.—Cut up four pounds of
knuckle of veal; season it with white pep
per and salt: put it into a soup-pan and let
it boil slowly till the meat drops from the
bone. Then strain it off. Have ready a
pair of young fowls skinned, and cut up as
you carve them at table. Season them with
white pepper, salt, and mace. Put them
into the soup, add a handful of chopped
parsley, and let them boil. When the pieces
of chicken are all quite tender, have ready
four or five eggs well beaten_ Stir the eggs
into the soup, and take it immediately off
the fire lest it curdle. Serve up the chicken
in the soup. Rabbits may be substituted
for fowls.
To CURE A RING Won.3r.—The following
receipt for the cure of ring worms is fur
nished by JOHN S. SKINNER, Esq., the vet
eran conductor of the Plow, Loom, and Anvil.
He says it is infallible:
Heat a shovel to a bright red—cover it
with grains of Indian corn—press them with
a cold flat iron. They will burn to a coal
and exude an oil on the surface of the flat
iron, with which rub the ring worm, and
after one or two applications it will be kilt
as dead as Julius Comex.
HUNTINGDON, PA., SEPTEMBER 2, 1857.
Womanly Accomplishments.
-PERSEVERE.-
Womens's Help for Farmers' Families
A large part of our farmer's wives are
over-worked. What with the boarding of
the farm hands, the dairy, and all the other
unavoidable parts of the routine of daily
work, there needs to be extra hands to do it,
and when those cannot be, or are not fur
nished, health suffers, the temper is often
. soured, the beauty of mind and soul is
marred, and too often the worn-out mother
fails to live out half her days.
We believe most families would gladly hire
more assistance, if possible, but there are
constant complaints from all parts of the
country, of a lack of girls who will consent
to hire into farmer's families. It is evident
that we cannot expect much of this kind of
help from American girls. Either they have
insufficient health, or their fathers are able
to support them without, or they are too
proud to "work out," as it is called. And
girls of foreign birth if they have been even
for a short time in the city, can seldom be
Persuaded thereafter to go into the country.
On the other hand, while luxury is every
where gaining ground, there. is small chance
that our wants will be simplified, and thus
be more readily met. On the contrary, they
are vastly more likely to be multiplied.—
The demand is likely to increase, while the
supply diminishes.
The same want is felt to a considerable ex
tent by the farmers in their out-door work,
though machines are fast lessening the evil
here. Not so in -doors, and the question has
become an important one, how is this grow
ing evil to be met?
The most feasible plan that we can suggest
is this :—Build a cheap, though comfortable
house on one corner of your farm, fence off
a few acres of ground to go with it, and rent
this to some tenant who will be likely to
supply your wants. There are enough fami
lies in our cities, who, if comfortable provi
sion were made for them, would be glad to
go into the country. The Germans are
almost always good tenants—neat, industri
ous and saving, and fond of working the
ground. Welsh and sometimes English and
Scotch families can also be found who will
do well.
The advantages resulting from such an
arrangement are numerous. You can easily
spare the land, the fire wood, &c., indeed
you would scarcely miss it, and would be
sure to want more than the worth of it in
work, and the convenience of having help at
hand when wanted, must be great. You are
not obliged to hire either men or women
when not needed, as they can support them-
from the w own share of the oTound;
neitrer are yen obliged 'to - retain itrem tl.l
tenants if they prove lawless.
One cause of the scarcity of farm laborers
is this: You generally insist upon hiring
single men. A man with a family could be
more easily obtained, and by boarding him
self, too, would relieve the women of pact of
their burthen. Moreover, the tenant family
could probably board any other bands that
might be required, and thus materially lessen
the crushing labors of the house-wife.
The women of such families, too, are un
usually hardy as well as industrious, and
would commonly be glad to get the job of
washing and ironing for the family, or they
would come in by the day and clean house,
&c., and if there be girls in the family, you
can probably hire them steadily by the week
or month. By hiring then] thus occasion
ally, from childhood, they would learn your
ways, and be much more likely to meet your
wants than any fresh importations.
The advantage of such an arrangement
must, we think, be great to you; and in re
turn you should make it advantageous to
them. Let them have the place on such
terms as will make it an object for them to
leave the city and hire with you. Make
their home a comfortable one, pay- fair wages,
take no advantage over ignorance or hum
ble position; in short—do as you would be
done by. Let there be freedom on both sides
to go or stay, or hire as they please, and we
are sure the advantage will be mutual.—
Ohio Cultivator.
It is rarely, indeed, that we have read any
thing more truthfully pathetic than the sub
joined waif, which we find floating among
our exchanges.
"Don't stay long, husband," said a young
wife tenderly in my presence one evening, as
her husband was preparing to go out. The
words themselves were insignificant; but the
look of molting fondness with which they
were accompanied spoke volumes. It told all
the whole vast depths of a woman's love—of
her grief when the light of his smile, the
source of all her joy, beamed not brightly
upon her. ,
"Don't stay long, husband," and I fancied
saw the loving, gentle wife sitting alone,
anxiously counting the moments of her hus
band's absence—every few moments running
to the door to see if he was in- sight; and
finding that he was not, I thought that I
could hear her exclaiming, in disappointed
tones, "not yet."
"Don't stay long, husband," and- I again
thought I could see the young wife rocking
nervously in the great arm chair, and weep
ing as though her heart would break as her
thoughtless "lord and master" prolonged his
stay to a wearisome length of time.
0, you that have wives to say "Don't stay
long," when you go forth, think- of them
kindly when you are mingling in the busy
hive of life, and try, just a little, to make the
homes and hearts happy, for they are gems
seldom to be replaced. You- cannot find,
amid the pleasures of the world, the peace
and joy that a quiet home, blessed with such
a woman's presence will afford.
"Don't stay long, husband!" and the
young wife's look seemed to say ; for here, in
our own sweet home, is a loving heart, whose
music is hushed when you are absent; here
is a soft breast for you to lay your head upon
and here are pure lips unsoiled. by sin,
that will pay you with kisses for coming back
soon.
TRUE.—The only back-biters that ever did
good in this world—leeches.
"Don't Stay Long."
f:4!
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What a spectacle is this? What a lesson
does it teach? The destruction of man's cor
poreal frama, is not pleasant under any cir
cumstances. The taking down his frail
"clay tabernacle," even when he hopes to en
ter a building not made with hands, in the
upper skies, has something melancholy in it.
But when we see a moral streched upon his
dying couch, whose life has been spent in de
bauchery and reveling, what is there connec
ted with him or his either past, present or fu
ture; that does not present the most horrible
and forbidding aspect? Life is gone—prop
erty wasted—character blasted—wife and
children beggared—there he lies upon his
bed of straw, with parched lips, bloated coun
tenance and blood shot eyes, the very per
sonification of ruin. Tossing upon his hard
and comfortless couch, panting for breath and
calling for help, but all in vain. Death
marks him for his victim : and now if for a
while he is relieved from 'frightful ghosts and
demons which have hitherto haunted his dis
ordered imagination, conscience, the sleepless
monitor, with redoubled vigor assails his still
conscious soul, and brings up before him ev
ery act of his worthless life, to blast all hope
—to plunge him in deeper agony, and to hur
ry his atfrightened spirit into the presence
of his God. How loudly and bitterly does
he complain of himself—of life—of friends—
of God. He prays, but it is the angry im
precation of a doomed spirit, demanding of
his Maker a speedier discharge. The wild
glare of his scorched eyes—his restless toss
ing—his reching hiccough, and his deep hol
low groans, tell us how hard it is for a drunk
ard to die. The very presence of once loved
wife and children, kindle in his bosom, in
advance, the fires of hell. The soothing
voice of mercy and the plaintive prayer of
the man of God, kneeling by his bedside, but
add fuel to the already raging dame. He
calls for water! water! now, ere he takes up
his habitation where "one drop" will not be I
allowed him; but ah I the cool draught only
adds force to the devouring fire.
Friends gather around to take a last fare
well, and as his tremulous hand is extended
to bid them adieu, thoughts of the past and
of the future send withering arrows barbed
with the poison of death to his bursting heart
1 and with one strong agonizing, convulsive
struggle, his ruined soul staggers into the
spirit land, to receive its sentence. Pity,
compassion, humanity, would let the vail
drop here, and cover up till the great assize,
the doom of the deluded, misguided wretch:
but Divine truth has said "ail drunkards
shall have their portion in the lake that burn
eta w - itti fire and Brimstone."
LIME BARRELS FOR PRESERVING APPLES.-
A correspondent of the New Jersey FARMER
says:
"I had occasion to overhaul some apples
the other day. They were picked in the orch
ard, and on the same day, and were put away
the same day; and some in flour barrels and
some in lime barrels. Those in the flour bar
rels were much decayed, while those in the
lime barrels were sound, and but very few
showed any signs of decay. The apples were
of the same variety.
Under certain circumstances, it is well
known that lime acts as an antiseptic, though
under other circumstances it accelerates de
composition. For instance, it will preserve
dry straw. In the above instance, the lime
on the barrels probably excluded the air and
absolved the moisture given off by the apples,
and. thus counteracted. two of the principal
causes of decay.
e also see it stated that apples have been
preserved perfectly in salt barrels. A cor
respondent of the Scientific _American says he
purchased five barrels of choice apples last
fall from one pile and put them in his cellar.
On the first of April he found that those in
four of the barrels were mostly decayed,
while those in the other were perfectly good
and sound ! Upon examination he found
that the one barrel had contained salt, and
to this fact he attributed the preservation
of the fruit. Wo ate perfectly sound apples
on the 20th of this month(July)whichhad oeen
kept without any unusual care. Perhaps
the most important part of preserving apples
and other fruit, is to pick them carefully by
hand from the trees and to avoid bruising
them.
WHO WOULD NOT DE A FARMER ?—The
Louisville Courier pays the following tribute
to the occupation of the farmer :
"If a young man wants to engage in a
business that will insure him in middle life
the greatest amount of leisure time, there is
nothing more so than farming. If he has an
independent turn of mind let him be a far
mer. If he wants to engage in a healthy oc-'
cupation, let him till the soil. In short, if
he would be independent let him got a spot
of earth, keep within his means, shun the
lawyer, be temperate to avoid the doctor, be
honest that he may have a clear conscience,
improve the soil so as to leave the world bet
ter than he found it, and then if he cannot
live happy and die contented there is-no hope
for him."
tisrLEAsA.Nr.—Scene—A private parlor—
Mr. Thompson, a rich merchant, spending
the evening with his brother and wife. En
trance of Julia their daughter, a girl of six
years.
Mr. Thompson—My dear don't you love
me?
Julia—No, I don't love' you at all!
Pa, (who has an eye on his brother's last
will and testament)—O, yes, Julia, you love
your uncle don't you?
Julia—No I don't love him.
Uncle—Why don't you love me?•
Julia—Pa don't want me to tell.
Unsuspicious Pa—Oh yes, my dear tell un
cle.
Julia, (after thinking a moment)—Well,
its because you don't die and leave me your
money. Pa said you would, but you don't.
Grand Tableau—wife screams—husband
swears, and uncle makes a hasty exit.
LABon and prudence relieve us from three
great evils—vice, want and indolence.
Editor and Pronrietor.
a
The Drunkard's Death
The advantages of fall plowing may be
enumerated as follows :
1. In the autumn, the team having become
inured to work through the summer, is more
vigorous and better prepared for labor than
in the spring, and other farm work is less
pressing in its demands upon the time and
attention than in that bustling period. Let
all the plowing be done which is possible in
the fall, and still the spring work woiild give
abundant employment to the farmer and his
teams, in drawing manure, cross plowing,
cultivating, harrowing, &e.
2. In the fall, low, moist lands are gener
ally in better condition for plowing than in
spring time. We say generally, for this sea
son low, moist lands are decidedly moist at
present. Still, we cannot hope for any bet
ter state very early next year, and if plowed
as they should be, wet lands will suffer very
little from water through the winter.
3. Stiff, heavy soils, plowed in autumn;
undergo, by the action of water and frost, a
more thorough disintegration—clays are pul
verized and crumbled, and heavy loams and
hard pan lands are acted upon, iii like man
ner and with like benefit.
NO. 11,
4. Heavy, coarse swards, full of rank weeds
and grasses, can be better subdued by plow
ing in the fall their roots are more apt to die
out, and far less liable to sprout again than
when plowed in the spring. The turf is bet
ter prepared, by its more advanced state of
decay, for the use of crops which may be sown
or planted upon it.
5. Fall plowing disturbs the "winter ar
rangements" of numerous worms and insect 4
and must destroy a large number of these
pests, and also their eggs and larvae. This
is a minor advantage, but one worthy of con
sideration, especially on lands infested with
the wire worm.
The principle objections to fall plowing are
these:
1. The loss of that fresh friable condition
readily permeable to air and moisture, and
the consolidation of the soil by long expo
sure to changing and stormy weather. This,
on soils of a light character, is a very seri
ous objection to plowing in autumn.
2. The loss of vegetable matter and the
gasses of the same, while in a state of de
cay, is another disadvantage. The latter is
but a small loss if the work is done late in
the fall, but often nil hill-sides, a large part
of the soluble and floating organic matter is
washed away by the heavy rains of winter
and early spring time. The soil is also con
solidated by the same influences. Heavy
swards thus situated would sustain less in ,
jury than light swards or stubble lands.
The advantages and disadvantages of this
practice may be appropriately followed by
brief directions for performing the work.
1. Do it in the best manner.
2. Throw up low lands in Darrow bedii
and cut cross furrows and. drains sufficient
to carry off at once all surface water. This
will obviate one great objection to fall plow-
BE
3. Plow deep and narrow furrows—such
will best secure the action of the ameliora
ting influences of frost upon the soil. A
rough-broken surface is better than a smooth
one for this purpose.—Rural New Yorker.
The Philosophy and Beauty of Mannei's
Manners are the garments of the spirit—the
eternal clothing of the being, in which char
acter ultimates itself. If the character be
simple and sincere, the manners will bo nt
one with it—will be the natural outbirth of
its traita.and peculiarities. If it be complex
and-self-seeking, the manner wilt 'birartiti- -
cial, affected, or insincere. Some persons
make up, put on, take off, alter, or patch
their manners to suit times and seasons;
with as much facility, and as little apparent
consciousness of duplicity, as if they were
treating their clothes in like fashion. Tho
fine lady of this class may be polished to the
last degree, when, arrayed in silks and laces;
she glides over the rich carpet of the draw
ing-room—and 3 - et, with her servant at home,
she is possibly less the lady than they or,
worse still, the fine lady, married, perhaps,
to a fine gentleman of character similar to
her own, in the privacy of domestic life car
ries on a civil war with him, in which all
restraint of courtesy is set aside. The best
manners possible arc the simple bringing
down of the perfect law of charity into the
must external ultimates of social fire. Until
character tends at all times and in all places,
and towards all persons, to ultimate itself in
manners cf thorough courtesy, it is not build
ing itself upon a sure foundation. This is
the golden rule of true manners.
When the cholera was at its worst in 1849
in New Orleans, an old negro who had weath
ered the yellow fever many times, at length
got frightened at the havoc which the new
disease was making among all classes. His
master one night heard him praying to " the
angel of the lord," by the light of a tallow
candle, "to spare him dis time—to let him
live a little longer and den take him to glo
ry." But he concluded his prayer by profes
sing perfect submission to the will of "the
angel of the lord," even should he be called
for to go immediately on his long journey.—
Sambo's master determined to test the sincer
ity of this last profession. lie knocked loud
and distinct at his door.
"Who dar?" asked Sambo.
"The angel of the Lord," was answered.
"What you want?"
"I have called for Sambo."
The master heard the candle suddenly or
tinguished with a whoof, and Sambo energet
ically answered.
"lie not here! dat nigger is been dead die
three weeks."
THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD."—It i 3 an OX
quisite and beautiful thing in our nature,,
that when the heart is touched and softened
by some tranquil happiness or affectionate,
feeling, the memory of the dead comes over
it most powerfully and irresistibly. It would'
almost seem as though our better thought'a
and sympathies were charms in virtues of
which the soul is enabled to hold some vague
and mysterious intercourse with the spirits
of those whom we dearly loved in life. Alas,'
how often and how long -may those patient
angels hover above us, watching for the spell
which is so seldom uttered and , so soon for
gotton I—Dickens.
Aes". An intelligent lady, whose little boy
was beginning to swear, anxious to express
to the child her horror of profanity, hit upon
the novel process of washing out his mouth
with soap suds whenever he swore. It was
an effectual cure.— The' boy understood•
his mother's sense of corruption of an oath,
which, with- the- taste of the suds, produced
the desired result. The practice if universal
ly adopted, would raise the price of soap.
Dar "Boys," said a colored individual,
disclosing a small coffin which , he carried
along Broadway under hip cloak—" Boys,
don't laugh—l's a funeral."
Fall Plowing.
A Dead Nigger