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THE ALMSHOUSE BOY.
A sicErron, FROM REAL. LIFE,
BY SYLVANUS COBB, JR.
I " There, sir,—now you have seen him in
all his glory. There he is, as .usual. Just
look at him. Take a good look, so as not to
lose the effect. Half an hour ago I left him
in the garden, and told him I wanted the
weeds pulled out of that bed as soon as pos
sible. Only half an hour, sir ; and look at
him now I"
This was spoken by Mr. John Howe, a
stout farmer, who owned one of the most val
uable tracts of land in the neighborhood.—
He spoke to 'Squire Warren, who was a wor
thy lawyer of the place ; and he spoke of a
boy who stood in a distant garden leaning up
against a peach tree. The little fellow did
not realize that any one was gazing at him,
and he seemed to be taking it quite comfort
ably.
William Alberfon—such was the boy's
name—had been left an orphan at an early
age. His father, who had once been an in
telligent, active man, had become an inebri
ate, and died when his son was only a year
old. He left nothincr b for his widow to live
upon, and she found ahome in the almshouse,
where she lived two years, and then died.—
Thus at the age of three years, William was
left an orphan, and an inmate of the village
Almshouse, without any known relatives,
and without friends save such as common hu
manity gave him. When he was twelve
years old, Mr. Bowe agreed to take him and
bring him up. He had no sons of his own ;
and he made up his mind that if the boy pro
ved to be faithful and industrious, he would
adopt him as his own.
But the farmer had been disappointed.—
William proved to be kind and generous to a
fault ; but he was not industrious. Ile would
not work. He would never accomplish any
thing when left alone. He seemed to hate
the very sight of work, and would neglect it
upon every possible opportunity.
Gilbert Warren, Esq., was. one of the over
seers of the poor, and he had called to see
the boy, touching the complaints which had
been made.
"It's no use," said Mr. Howe. "He's
been with me two years, and I've had a
chance to read him thoroughly. There's no
work in him,. Pd as lief have: a -block of
wood for a boy, exactly."
"Then you don't wish to keep him any lon
ger ?" said the lawyer.
"I can't, 'Squire. It's no use, I tell ye.—
He ain't a bit of good to me any way. lle
don't earn his salt. But that ain't the worst.
The worst of the whole is, it keeps me in a
perfect fever all the time. Why, I've fairly
had my head ache just seeing;
how lazy he
was—just in worrying over him. Why, I
wouldn't keep him for fivehundred dollars a
year. 'Taint the loss I care so much about;
but it's as I tell ye,—it makes me suffer to
see him."
"Have you tried to correct him ?"
" Tried!" echoed Howe, with an elevation
of the brow, and an accompanying "Umph I"
"I guess you'd think so if you'd been here on
certain occasions. I used to flog him ; but I
found that did no good, and I stopped it. In
fact, I never did flog him but I suffered more'n
he did. Ile is so good natured, and so hon
est; and. then he would beg so, and promise
to reform, that it used to pain me to whip
him. Lately, I've argued. with him ; I've
pointed out to him what a wretched, good-for
nothing life he'd lead if he did not pluck up
and learn to work. As long as I had. the
least hope of there being work in him I bore
with him, and tried to overcome his fault ;
but I've found now that it ain't in him, and
I must give it up."
"Let's see; he's fourteen now, isn't he?"
"Yes, fourteen last March."
For fifteen Minutes the two men stood. and
looked at the boy, and during all that time he
didn't work two minutes. Ile was called up,
and q: came with a tremulous step and down
cast eye.
"William," spoke the lawyer, "why don't
you work better ? When you are left with
work to do why don't you do it ?"
"I don't know, sir," the boy answered
timidly.
" Don't know ? Yes, you do know. Now
tell me : Why is it?"
The lad looked up into .the interlocutor's
face. Ile had a clear, warm, gray eye, and
a face of more than ordinary beauty. His
brow was high and full, and his brain large
and active. Mr. Warren was deeply moved
by his appearance, and a new set of feelings
took possession of him.
" Can't you answer me ?" the lawyer add
ed, as the boy gazed up into his face, without
speaking.
" I—l don't want to be a farmer, sir," the
little fellow finally . answered.
" That's it I" cried Howe, indignantly. He
don't - want to do anything that's got work to
it. He'll play all day, if you'll let him ; and
mope all night over a book. I tell ye, he's
got to be made to work."
The boy trembled and shrank back.
But Mr. Warren was beginning to see a
new light breaking in upon he subject. His
long term of service in various courts had
rendered him, capable of reading character
very, readily, and he saw very plainly that
William Alborton had an immense force of
character somewhere, and he believed it.could
be brought out.
"What were you doing while leaning up
against that tree ?" ho asked of the boy.
"I wasn't doing anything, only thinking,
sir."
"And what were you thinking about ?"
don't know as I could tell, sir."
"But you can tell me some of it. Tell me
as nearly as you can."
"Well, sir, I was—l know it was very fool
ish, sir, but I could not help ita-r—making
a speech, sir."
"Makin a-speech I" repeated the farmer,
sarcastically. That's what he's alivays do
ing. Making a speech! A fine speech you'd
WILLIAM LEWIS,
VOL. XHT.
make!"
At this point the hoj - began to cry, and
Mr. Warren turned to the farmer,
and bade
him send the lad to his office the following
morning.
When William knew that Mr. Howe was
going to send him away, he felt very unhappy,
for he supposed he should be sent back to the
poor house. But he finally consoled himself
with the reflection that he could run away.
Yet, he was sorry to leave his master and. fa
mily. He had been treated very kindly con
sidering the circumstances; and he knew
that Mr. Howe would like to keep him and
make a good man of him. But when he
came to think of the work he must do, he had
not the courage to try it. He knew he could
not work. He had no will for it. It was a
double labor for him, for it was a severe task
to make up his mind to work.
Little Annie Hoive cried all night long,
and in the morning she threw her arms about
William's neck, and begged him to stay.—
She was just of his own age, and a loving,
gentle, pretty girl. But her father came, and
called her a little fool, and sent her away.
That was the hardest struggle for the boy.
He had not thought of Anna at first. H.e
had forgotten that he would be as a stranger
in the household. However it could not be
helped, and he blessed her and told her he
would come and see her when he was a man.
At the appointed time William Alberton
made his appearance at the lawyer's office,
with his bundle on his back. He sat down,
and Mr. Warren began to converse with him.
He asked him about his work at the place he
had left, and about his health. The lad said
the work was hard, but he did not know that
it was harder than it would be on any farm.
" Must I go back to the poor-house ?" he
finally asked, with a shuddering tone.
" don't know," returned the law
yer, eyeing him thoughtfully. "How would
you like to come into my office, and help me?"
The boy started up from his seat, and
clasped his hands 'quickly together. But in
a moment he sank back, murmuring as he
did so—
"Only to be a servant, you meant, sir !"
"Can you write?"
" Yes, sir."
" Let me see you write a few words."
William went to the table at which the
lawyer sat, and taking a pen and paper, he
wrote a short sentence.
Mr. Warren took the paper, and was sur
prised at the full, round, easy hand he found
there. And the words written were as wor
thy of the note as the chirography. The boy
had set down as follows: "Ilro man ever ex
celled in a pursuit for which he was not suit
ed."
" If I take you into my dace I shall intend
to let you do just that work which you can
do best," the lawyer said, after he had exam
ined the piece of paper, and what was on it.
"Of course you will have to keep the office
in order, and help me some at the house; but
you will write for me ; and if you wish to be
come a lawyer, I will offer you every facility
in my power. You shall have every help I
can give."
The boy caught Mr. Warren's hand, and
burst into tears. However, the business was
soon settled.
A few days after this Mr. Howe came down
to the village, and met Mr. Warren in the
street.
" Al, 'Squire—what's become of the buy ?"
the farmer asked.
"I've taken him into my office."
"What! taken him to keep? Taken him
in to work for you ?"
t& yes.”
" Well—l wish you much, joy of your bar
gain. I guess you'll find your work come
out scarce—that part tlatt's done."
" But my work is different from yours, Mr.
Howe."
" Ali, but work is work. When he was
with me he wouldn't stick to any kind of
work. No, no—you needn't flatter yourself
up with the idea that you are going to get
work out of that boy. Now mind, I tell you.
I know him ; and you'll know him before
long."
The lawyer smiled and passed on.
Six months after this Mr. Warren had a
fine opportunity to take an office in the adja
cent city. Ile conferred with his friends and
finally concluded to take it. He moved his
family into the city, and William was' thus
brought into new scenes and within new in
fluences.
A cork thrown into the water will rise to
the surface. You may hold it down as long
as you please, but the moment the extraneous
force is removed up it comes. And so it is
with the human mind. It must find its level.
It will find its position where circumstances
are the most. Congenial. You may bend a
great, physical .boy, with a dull, sluggish
brain, over mental philosophy till his back
grows round, but you cannot force his mind
o grasp it. And so you may take a, finely
organized brain, nervous, full and active,
and bend it over coarse, hysical labor, biat
you cannot keep it there. The brain which
God has fashioned for one thing cannot easi
ly be forced to another.
So William Alberton could not content
himself over his old master's shovel and hoe.
His mind would not stay there. .It was
away hunting after strange things in the
world of thought. But in the lawyer's office
that mind had found its level. In copying
deeds, and legal instruments of various
kinds, and in filling up blanks, and search
ing out authorities for the lawyer's use, he
found plenty of food for his active mind.--
And with this the manual labor •be had to
perform was mere pastime. He needed some
bodily exercise for his own good, and hence
he performed the work he had to do with
speed and precision.
At the end of the first year Gilbert War
ren came to the conclusion that he had found
a treasure in his amishouse boy. And on
the other hand, the boy felt that he had
found a priceless blessing in his kind, gener
ous master.
At the - end of the second year William Al
berton saw another boy enter the office,- and
he accompanied his master to court to take
notes and assist in various ways.
At the end of the third year William com
menced to study law practically and in. ear
nest.
At the end of the fourth • year the-eminent
lawyer and attorney, Gilbert Warren, Esq.;
found a valuable counsellor in his own office.
When he, came upon a subject which bother
ed him, William Alberton could help him
over it. For depth of penetration; for clear
ness of understanding; for quickness of per
ception; and. for power of reasoning, few
men excelled the youth who had been four
years engaged in striving after knowledge
within the lawyer's office. He was known
by all the best lawyers of the city, and all
respected him.
* * *
Mr. Howe was growing old, and trouble
had come upon him. He was now a widow
er, and all his daughters wore married off
save the youngest—Anna. She was now
three and twenty, and though repeated offers
had been made for her hand, yet she remain
ed a maiden. She said she would not leave
her father. He would be all alone if she
were gone, and she could not forsake him.
She was a lovely young woman, and many an
anxious waiting swain was watching for the
old man to die.
But trouble had come upon John Howe.—
A large part of his farm had been sold off
for building lots, and quite a village sprung
up around him. The land which remained
—nearly a hundred acres—was by far the
most valuable portion, and the most pleas
antly situated. All that he had received for
land already sold he had laid out in beauti
fying and arranging what was left; and by
this means the eyes of those hunting for
pleasant suburban residences were turned
towards his lots. His place could have been
sold. for a large fortune. He was offered a
hundred and ten thousand dollars for it just
as it was, after he had cleared off the rocks,
and built an acqueduct; but he conferred
with his friends, and they advised him to
keep it—to sell of good lots to those only
who would put up handsome dwellings, and
keep a home for himself.
But a thunderbolt came crashing upon the
old farmer's head. A man came and claim
ed the whole.place as his own. lie brought
forward his deed, made 'by a former owner
of the place, in favor of his (the claimant's)
father. Mr. Howe hurried away to his law
yer, who was a candid, honest old man, and
laid the case before him. Upon searching
into the matter it appeared that the place
had been actually sold, as stated, and that.
said purchaser had never given any deed to
any one else. It also appeared that the man
of whom Howe had bought, twenty five years
before, had no legal claim upon the land.—
The man who formerly owned it left it, at
his death, in care of a brother, for his son,
this brother having been appointed a guar
dian of said son. This son was at sea, and
there remained for so long a time, that he
was supposed to have died. Under these cir
cumstances the uncle and guardian sold the
estate in his own name, and pocketed the
money and left. Howe supposed the title
was good, and took no trouble about it furth
er than to have it recorded. The man of
whom he bought had lived upon the place
many years, and he supposed, of course, that
he was the proper owner.
Thus all this appeared at the present time.
The man who claimed the estate was past
the middle age—over fifty somewhat—and
his name was Benjamin Grumley. Mr.
Howe's lawyer saw him, and examined his
claim, and he could see no way of avoiding
it. After this the old attorney called upon
his client to report progress.
"It's a hard case," he said. "I don't see
how you can help losing your land."
"Losing?" repeated Howe, vacantly.
"Do you mean the whole? Must I give
up all?"
"Yes."
"All, Mr. Luton? Must all be snacthed
from me?"
"I don't see how you can help it, returned
Luton. "I have examined into the business
and it is just as Mr. Grumley has said. He
went to sea when he was twelve years old—
forty years ago—and sometimes afterwards
he received a letter stating that his father
was dead, and that his uncle had been ap
pointed guardian over him, and had charge
of his property. This place was his, and is
now. It was only placed in his uncle's
hands in trust for him. His father left it to
him by will, and his uncle could not sell
it."
Still Mr. Howo could not believe it. He
had known the man of whom he bought, and
lie could not believe him a villain.
He thought there must be some mistake or
some villainy elsewhere. At all events, he
resolved to seek other counsel. He remem
bered his old friend Warren. He was in the
city. He might know something about it.
On thevery next morning the old man
went into the city and hunted the lawyer up.
Mr. Warren was glad to see him, and asked
him to sit down. Howe did so, and then
told his story. The lawyer listened very at
tentively, and seemed to be deeply inter
ested. And when his visitor concluded he
asked,—
"When you bought the place did not
Aaron Gramley assure you that he owned it
clear of all incumbrances?"
" Yes, sir. He said it was his:"
" Did he say how he came by it ?"
" No, sir. He only said he had it from his
brother, who died some years before."
" Did he at that time make any mention
of his nephew, the son of—his dead broth
er 2"
"Yes—he said something. He said Ben.
Grumley was pNobably dead, and that his
father's old partners had quite a sum of
money for him if ho should ever return.—
But I want you to take hold of this sir, and
help me out. If I lose the case I shall have
nothing to pay you with; but if I gain it I
can reward you handsomely.
" be frank with you," replied
Warren. " I have neither the time nor the
power to go into the subject, for I see very
plainly that there has got to be a good deal
of search and study. But I know a young
lawyer who can clear your claim if any one
HUNTINGDON, PA., SEPTEMBER 23, 1857.
-PERSEVERE.-
can."
" Who is he ?"
"It is Mr. Alberton."
'" o—l've heard of him. He's the one
who gained the great corporation case?"
" Yes," said Warren. "He took up a poor
man's ease against one of the wealthiest cor
porations, and against three of our smartest
lawyers, and gained his case, too. 'He will
take hold for you, I'm sure, and if he does,
you may feel very safe."
" o—l hope you can get him. Tell him
if he can gain my case, I'll pay him any
thing."
Mr. Warren promised to send him out the
very next day, and the old man went home
relieved. If •he could
get Mr. Alberton to
take hold he would feel secure, for such a
man would not touch a case in which he did
not feel quite confident—and yet Mr. Howe
never once dreamed that the young lawyer
of whom he heard so much was once his
lazy, good-for-nothing alms-house boy. In
fact, he had never dwelt upon the name of
Alberton, much. He had always called him
"Bill," and even when thinking of him he
had never gone farther than plain 'William.'
It was 'my boy William,'—or Poor-house
Bill'---or, perhaps 'Bill Albert.' The poor
boy had never, while in his native town, to
his recollection been called by his whole
true name. So it was not very' surprising
that the old.man should have failed to think
of his quondam almshouse boy when think
inn-l' of " Squire Alberton."
At the appointed time the youn g lawyer
came out and Mr. Howe was much pleased
with his looks. They sat down together and
the old man brought out his papers—all he
could raise, which had the least bearing
upon the subject in band. Mr. Alberton ex
amined them, and in the end he told
.Howe
ho would go on with the case. The old farm
er was beside himself with joy. He had not
only obtained the services of the best lawyer
in that section—best as a hard working, in
industrious, indefatigable researcher, and as
a cool, clear-headed reasoner—but said law
yer had consented to risk his reputation
upon the case.
The trial finally came on. Benjamin Grum
ly was there, with two lawyers, arid he was
sure of success. His lawyers had assured
him there was no mistake.
The plaintiff's leading counsel stated his
case with great assurance; but when Alber
t= came to open his budget of facts and de
ductions the other side looked blank. lie
had worked hard and had been very fortu
nate. He was able to prove that Aaron
Grumly really owned the estate - when ho
sold it, though the business between him
and his brother had been done in a bun
gling, brotherly way. They had traded very
much like they would for a horse ; yet it was
made perfectly plain that Aaron had bought
and that he had paid a fair price for it, his
brother only giving him a stated amount of
the purchase money as a legacy.
The jury had the case in their bands but
a few minutes. They saw that the old farm
er really and honestly owned the farm, and
that other parties had put the plaintiff up to
claiming it, for the purpose of shielding
themselves—parties who had used money
belonging to him. These parties knew - that
the business between the two brothers had
been very loosely done, and they hoped there
might be found some flaw large enough to
draw the estate through. at the Jury
thought differently. In a very short time
they returned with a verdict for the defend
ant.
Mr. Howe sat in his parlor, and he was
very happy. lie was secure in his house,
and the fearful storm had passed harmlessly
over. Mr. Alberton was announced. The
old man grasped him by the hand, and
blessed him over and over again.
" My daughter must see the man who has
saved her - Mine," the old man said, as he
arose from his seat.
And in a,few moments he returned, lead
ing Anna by the hand. She was a beautiful
girl,—bright, rosy, healthy, buoyant, with
her native goodness shadowed in every linea
ment. She advanced, and her father intro
duced her. The young lawyer arose and
extended his hand. Anna took it, and as
she gazed him fairly in the face, she started,
and a quick pallor overspread her fair fea
tures.
"William!" sue uttered, in a low whis
per.
" Do you remember me Anna ?" he asked,
tenderly.
"Is it William?"
" Yes," he replied, drawing her nearer to
him and speaking tremulously ; "I am the
once poor boy to whom you were always so
kind. You remember me now ?"
" Yes yes," the maiden murmured, and
then sank into the seat.
Mr. Howe was astonished. lie rubbed
oeyes, and then gazed into the youth's
face ; and finally he started forward and
caught his hand.
"William!" he cried. "Hy William!—
Is it ? Are you my William?"
" Yes, my good. friend," the young man
answered, with moistened eyes. "I am the
very one—the one you took from the poor
house, and tried to bring up."
"My William ! My William, and I didn't
know it 1" the old man cried, still holding
him by the hand. But you don't feel hard
towards me ?" You don't blame me for the
things long agone?"
" Tut, tut, don't talk so. You know I
could not do that. No, no,—l only have re
membered you with gratitude. You did the
best for me you could. I was no, more suit
ed to your wants than an infant would have
been. You did not understand me. I was
never meant for a farmer. And hero let me
say one word. You may not need tho infor- -
mation, but you may find
with
to whom
you can communicate it with profit. It is
this: Never keep a boy at a business for
which he has no taste or capacity. We are
all differently constituted. There are minds
which can be no more confined to physical
labor than a horse can be taught to write or
speak. Different plants and. trees require
different climates and soils ; and so different
minds require different occupations and en-
Editor and Proprietor.
gagements. Bring up a child to habits of
industry, truth, and economy, and beyond
that be sure that he is placed in a position
which is congenial to his tastes and feel
ings."
The old man understood it, and he resolved
that he would impart the secret to the first
one he should meet who might need it.
Anna had turned very pale, and had
grown faint. But she soon recovered ; and
before night she sat by William Alberton's
side, with her head upon his bosom, and
both his arms about her. said—" Anna
—you will love me and be my wife l"
And she wept, and drew more closely to
him and said—
yes!,
for fly farmer.
The followiug seasonable article, which
we find in the Country Gentleman, contains
some excellent suggestions, which may be
valuable just now, if properly considered and.
applied. Sometimes a single hint, judicious
ly embraced, may be of more value to a far
mer than the price of a half dozen years' sub
scription to the Huntingdon Globe.
There is much difference of opinion and
practice among farmers in the management
of their corn crops. Some always practice
cutting the stalks soon-.after the kernels have
become glazed or checked, believing that
such a course hastens the ripening of the
corn; and the removal of the stalks greatly
facilitates the process of harvesting, an that
green-cut, well cured cornstalks are much
more valuable as winter forage for cattle,
than the same would be if left uncut till the
corn was fully ripened, as is the practice of
some. - We presume this . is a correct idea.—
But experiments made some years since, by
the lion. W. Clark, of Massachusetts, seem
to prove that the number of bushels of corn
per acre was very much lessened where the
stalks were cut, compared with portions of
the field where the corn was not topped, but
all left till the corn was fully ripened. By
this experiment the loss in grain must have
been much greater than the increased value
of the green-cut stalks over the perfectly
ripened fodder. ,But a difference of ten or
twelve days' time in cuting the stalks might
make a material difference in the value of
the grain. 'We think it the safest way for
those farmers that practice "topping" their
corn, .to cub.-their - quite late, rather
than a few days too soon.
Well-cured cornfodder is a valuable winter
feed for farm stock, and much care should be
exercised in saving_ it in the best possible
condition. Many farmers are quite too neg
ligent in this matter. We have seen the
stalks cut quite green and many days too
soon, bound in large bundles and put up in
large shock, where it remained during all
weathers for weeks, or till the corn was har
vested ; heavy winds blew over many of the
shocks, and drenching rains thoroughly wet
ted them, thus nearly ruining them as fodder.
We have seen others cart them directly from
the field as soon as bound in bundles, where
from want of room and care a large portion
of them became mouldy, and nearly rotten
and worthless. We know some careful far
mers that pursue a different course. They
do not top their corn until most of the tops
of the spindles are dead, and many of the
husks have lost their green color. They cut
their stalks in fair weather, bind them in small
bundles, cart them to the barns, and place
the bundles astride of poles extending from
beam to beam across the barn Boor. Here
they dry without heating or growing mouldy.
If they have not room enough over the barn
floor, they make use of hovels or sheds, in
curing them. Those that practice this meth
od think they . are fully compensated for all
extra labor, in the enhanced value of the fod
der.
Many farmers prefer letting the crop stand
till the grains are principally glazed, and
then cutting all near the surface of the ground,
and shocking in the field, letting it remain
there till dry enough for husking. Some
contend the corn ripens as well as if left upon
the separate hills. The fodder, as a whole
is thought to be worth much more cured by
this method, than by any other process.—
The crop, when thus cut up and shocked is
placed beyond injury from frost—a matter
of ranch consequence some years. There is
but little if anything gained by cutting and
shocking corn after it has been stricken by
frost. In cutting up •the corn as soon as
fairly glazed, the fields can be cleared in sea
son for sowing winter wheat or rye—some
times a matter of much consequence.
Some contend the soundest and heaviest
corn can only be grown by letting "nature
take its course," that is, let the whole plant
remain uncut till the corn is "dead ripe."—
This course probably may insure the greatest
weight of corn per acre, if the autumn is fa
vorable to its perfect maturing. We have
more than once pursued this course, but
found the labor of harvesting much greater,
and thought the fodder less valuable.
Seasons vary so much, and the circumstan
ces of farmers differ so greatly, (to say no
thing of their prejudices,) that it would be
idle for any one to attempt to point out the
one best Way—or rather, to say there was
but one best way under all circumstances.—
From vresent appearances, and the informa
tion within our reach, we think it may be
pretty safely predicted, that over a wide
range of our country, this is not destined to
be a great corn year. A large part of the
growing corn is too late to fully mature, un
less we have an unusually warm September
and October, a circumstance hardly to be
expected. Therefore it will probably be the
safer course for most farmers to cut up and
shock their corn as soon as it will any way an
swer, that is, if it can he done before receiving
much injury from frost; by so donig they
may save much in the value of fodder, and
much corn would ripen in the shock that
would be nearly ruined by frost. We have
several times seen corn put up, and tied in
moderately sized bundles and slung across
„ .
poles over the barn floor, where it has dried
-)erfecly, arid the fodder, wits mud; better than
it would have been had it .been ,shoelted in
the field. We have seen various methods of
shocking corn. in the field. Some tipto
dozen large bundles into a shoek;'such large
stacks do not dry well. Others cut • and
stand it around a hill purposely left uncut,--=
We have seen corn very safely stooked by
only using five bundles to the stookl—one in
the centre and one on each of the other sides;
a band of rye straw was tightly tied around
the whole some four feet from the grethad,
and the tops of the stocks bent over and tied
down. ” Such. stooks stand better.than larger
ones, and also dry much better.
Corn when harvested before it is perfectly
ripened i and dried in the field, as much of it
probably will be the coming . harvest is some
times injured)when stored in large quantities
in the crib, or the slatted corn house. If
dry, windy weather follows after the corn has
been cribbed or housed, it generally dries
well, but if long continued damp or rainy
weather succeeds, the corn is very liable to
heat and mould, &c., injuring its mealing
qualities. To guard against such a loss, we
have known farmers to have a tight box
stove in their corn houses, and they kept up
a brisk fire a portion of the time during the
damp weather, thereby dryin; their corn
very fast, and saving it from injury.
The labor of manuring, plowing, planting
and hoeing an acre of corn, is no trifling job
in many situations of the country, and ft
should be the aim of the farmer to make the
most of this labor, and not cheat himself out
of a portion of his work by suffering his
corn or corn-fodder to be injured or wasted
through negligence or lack of care on his
part.
NO. 148
WA—Sulphur fed to sheep is pronounced a.
certain remedy against the ticks *hich free
quently infest, very injuriously, these ani
mals.
• The greatest objection to thin seeding
of wheat, is that the pants tiller and do not
ripen so early. In districts affected by, the
wheat midge, therefore, sow plenty of seed._
alliyatid-gavnTitsings.
Is it true that there are in the world 676,-
000,000 of our fellow creatures *ho are still
bowing down to stocks and stones; ignorant
of the living and true God; and all this in a
time emphatically called " The ago of Mis
sions ?"
It is true that in our own land the Sabbath
is openly, legally desecrated by liquor and
other traffic, open railways and excursion
parties, with many other habitual customs?
It is true that there are every year at least
8,000,000 of quarters of grain used in mail
ing spirituous liquors, the bane and curse of
the people?
Is it true that the issues of the infidel and
immoral press are far above the religious;
and that while the land is flooded with
worthless and immoral publications, and re
limious papers are comparatively rarely mot
with?
And finally, is it true that by fai the
greater portion of professingchristians never
effectually aid in the work of evangelization
save by an occasional subscription or tempo
rary effort?
Reader, what are yon doing for Christ?-- ,
You have now entered upon the latter half
of tho year_ isit_not icell.to call.yourself to
account for the manner in Which you liars
spent the first? Have you lived for yourself
or your Saviour? Have you got nearer to
heaven or nearer to hell than you were at the
beginning of the year? Answer to God. and
your own conscience in view of the judg
ment seat of Christ?
A young man in the vigor of health; was
thrown from a vehicle, and conveyed to the
nearest house, in a state of alarming danger.-
A physician was called. The first question
of the wounded youth, was, " Sir, must I
die? must I die? deceive _me not in this
thing." He was told that he could not live
more than an hour. He waked up; as it
were at once, to a full sense of the dreadful
reality. " Must I then go into eternity in an
hour? must I appear before my God and.
Judge in an hour ? God knows that I have
made no preparation for this event. I knew
that impenitent youths were sometimes thus
cut off suddenly, but it never entered my
mind that I was to be one of that number.—
And now what shall Idoto be saved f He
was told that lie must repent and believe in
the Lord Jesus Christ. " But how shall J
repent and believe ?" There is no; time to
explain the manner. Death will not wait for
explanation. The work must be done; The
whole business of an immortal being in this
probationary life' is now crowded. into one
short hour—and that is an hour of mental
agony and distraction. Friends Were aroand,
and running to and fro in the frenzy of grief.
The poor sufferer with a bosom heaving with
emotion, and an eye gleaming with despera
tion, continued his cry of "'What shall I do
to be saved ?" till; in less than an hoer; his
voice was hushed' in the stillness of death:
Bo' patient with your erring brother, for
God is very patient with you, and it is your
duty to imitate your Father in Heaven as
much as possible. For one or two acts that
may be proved to be wrong, do not condemn
and cast out forever a beloved brother; You
may not understand the whole ease; and if
you were faithfully and prayerfully to visit
that brother, as Christ has labored with you,
he might be saved. We en not always see
into the heart, and our judgment would per- ,
haps be condemned as often as approved by
our Saviour. Instead of casting stones at an
individual,, we would often, if we knew and
felt as Jesus does, sympathizing, say to the
erring, "Go and sin no more?' We are call
ed upon to exercise not judgment so Hunch aio
mercy and love.—.lerenzy Taylor.
"I know" says Charming; "but one eleva
tion of a human being, and that is Elevation
of Soul. Without this, it matters nothing
where a man stands, or what he possesses;
and with it, he towers, he is one of God's no
bility, no matter what place he holds in the
social scale. There are not different kinds
of dignity for different orders of men, but
one and the same to all. The only elevation
of a human being, consists in the exercise,'
growth, energy of the higher principles and
powers of his soul. A bird may be shot up
ward by a foreign force, but it raises, in the
true sense of the word, only when it spreads
its own wings, azi,soars by its own - living
power. _So
. a man may be thrust upwards in
a conspicuous-place'-'by outward accidents,
but he rises only so far as he exerts
. himself,
and expands his best faculties, and ascends
by a free effort, to a nobler region of though 4,
and action."
Ie it True ?
Prepare for Death.
Do not Condemn Nastily.
Human