VOL. 46
le Huntingdon Journal,
J. A. NASH;
D FRBORR OW,
I.I7III.ISiIEDS AND I.IIOI.DIETORS.
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Travellers' Guide,
CIiSYLVANIA RAIL ROAD.
TIME OF LUNING OF notECO.
Winter
EASTWARD.
WESTWAED
7
STATIONS.
e; It
; r Fp
P. IL P.111.,.31.
15 13!9 Si
1 5 059 24
4 f 91 1 41
93
Il 12 1 4 33:S 25
11 13
12 52 7 54 Mt. Uniun.. ---
12 01
12 10:S 03 Mill Creek
3 2 , $ 12 25 S 15 llcNrrtanox
1 . 2 2 I , L , • Petersburg
Iree
Crook
1 32'9 06 Tyrone
*****
1 411 Tipton
1 531 Fu+toria
1.-- 15S1 :Bell'. Mill
,O 30 2 00.9 40 Alt
1.
Y.
oona .......
I
4 00;8 31
AO 46;4 00i8 24
13 46 1 8 13
10'5031 39;8 06
13 Z 1 ,7 07
1 13 Zl7 51
1.---1 3 1517 47
110 00 3 00 7 30
i t. Y. 1P.51.15.m.
to Fula Line Eastward, loaves A ltoona at 12 43 A. AL,
arrive 3 at Huntingdonat 1 17 A. x.
to Cincinnati Express Eastward, 'leaves Altoona ltt
P. 11., and arrives at Huntingdon at 7 05 P. M.
eine Express Eastward, leaues Altoona at 6 25 A. a.,
passes Huntingdon at 7 25 A. x.
neinnati Emprein Westward, leaves Huntingdon at
A. 31., and arrives at Altoona at 4 50 A. N.
.e Fast Line Westward, souses Huntingdon at 735
, and arrives at Altoona at 845 r. x.
, ;TINGDON AND BROAD TOP RAILROAD.
Winter Arrangement.
and after Wednesday, Nov. 211, 1670, Passenger
ns will arrive and depart as follows :
.1111:4 - .
''''
I MAIL
STATIONS. Acorn.
M.. I A. M. A. M.
520 is 9 Ofhlltintingdon
5 231 9 08:Long Siding I 8 29:
542 9 21fMcConbollstown 8 13:
5.49' 9 30Pleasunt Grove S 05:
5 031 945 Marklesbarg 7 50r
CI IS 10 00 Coffee Ilan 735
6 25, 10 081Rongh and Ready 727
6 40' 10 M•Cove I 712
0 44 10 27 Fishers Summit.
105 10 43 S axton I 650
1 10 10 50
11 08 Itlddlesbnrg.-......-
11 161IoneweIl
11 36,Pipeni Ron
11 561Tatesville.
12 OS Bloody Ron
.12 12 Mount Bailie;
SHOUP'S SUN DRAWS!,
11. 10 ruliS.cton.
41;A8 2 00
.1 6 251
7 2i , 11 10 Coalutout
7 30 11 15 Crawford.
1 40 .11 25 Dudley
Broad Top..
JOHN Di'
iv. 22, 1270.
6 20 2 00
L 6 6 10 LE 1 00
- -
,ILLIES,'Scpr.
Professional Cards,
TILES ZENTMYEIt, Attorney-at-
A- Law, HuntiugdoW, Pa., will attend promptly
11 legal business. Office in Cunningham's new
lug. Dan. 4,71:
ALLEN LOVELL, Attorney-at-
L• Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Spoclal attention
•n to Coctecrioxs of all kinds; to the settle
t ofEsiates, &c.; and all other Legal Business
ccuted with fidelity and dispatch.
:Ir. Office in room lately occupied by IL Milton
cr. Esq. Ljan.4,'7l.
W. MYTON, Attorney-at-Law, Hun
• tinglon, l'a. Office with J. Sewell Stewart,
Dan. 4,11.
HALL 3fUSS'EIt, Attorney-at-Law,
• Huntingdon, Pa. Office, recOnd floor of
.ter's new building, Hill street. Dan. 4,71.
P. W. JOHNSTON, Surveyor
L. and Scrivener, Huntingdon, Pa. All kinds
•ritipg, drafting, rte., done at short notice.
face on Smith street, over Woods & Williamson's
r Offiee. Nayl2,:69.
► M. & M. S. LYTLE, Attorneys
• at-Law. Huntingdon, Pay' will *tend to
rinds of legal business entrusted to their care.
We on the south site of Hill street, fourth door
tof Smith. - Ljan.4,ll.
SYLVANUS BLAIR, Attorney-at
• Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Office, Hill street,
•c doors west of Emit i. [jan.4'7l.
A. POLLOCK, Surveyoi and Real
• Estate Age . nt, lluntingdon, Pa.. will attend
;urraying in all. ts ;branches. Will also buy,
•or rent Farms. Houses, and Real Estate of ev -
kind, in any part of the United States. Send
a circular. • Dan.4ll.
IR. J. A. DEAVER, having located
4 ' at Franklinrille, offers hie professional ser-
T -to the community. [jan.4,'7l.
W. 3IATTERN, Attorney-at-Law
and General Claim Agent, Huntingdon, Pa.,
liers' ciaime.ssgainst the Government for back
,bounty, widows' and invalid pensions attend
o with great care and promptness. • •
Ilea on 11111 street. Dati.4,7l.
N SCOTT. S. T. BllO*N. J. M. BAILEY.
COTT, BROWN & BAILEY, At
torneys-at-Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Pensions,
all claims of soldiers and soldiers' heirs against
Government will he promptly prosecuted.
.ffice on Hill street. Ljan..l,ll.
IR. D. P. MILLER , Office on Hill
street, in the room formerly occupied by
John 3PCulloch, Huntingdon, Pa., would res
tfully offer his professional services to the chi
a of Huntingdon and vicinity. Dan. 4,11.
R. PATTON Dru g gist and Apoth
• (vary, opposite the Hxchange Hotel, Hun
;Ann Pa. Prescriptions accurately compounded.
.e Liquors far Medicinal purposes. [n0v.23,'70.
IR. A. B. BRUMBALT,(III, offers his
prefetsional services to the community.
ifEice on WashingtoO street, one door cast of the
holie Parsonage. [jan.4,7l.
Office re
kg, Hill stree t
pan. 4,71.
N J. GREENE, Dentist.
4• moved to Leister's new buildil
ntingdon.
ALLISON MILLER, L'entist, has
11), • removed to the Brick Row, oppokite the
trt House. ' fjan.4,'7l.
'XCHANGE HOTEL, Huntingdon,
Pa. JOHN S. MILLER, Proprietor.
afluary 4,1811.
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The Days of Long Ago.
Q Time, upon whose viewless wing
The fleeting seasons come and go,
Instruct my truant Muse to sing
The better days of long ago.
The present may, perchance, beguile
My passions while its moments last;
But fortune's best and dearest smile
Is buried in the silent past.
And I would gladly now resign
All that the future has for me,
To spend one hour of sweet lang sync,
Dear Mary, with the past and thee.
But that, alas I can never be
The fate of Fancy's helpless son ;
And unrelenting Destiny,
With cruel finger, beckons on.
I see the future, dark and dim,
Before my mortal vision rise ;
The years, like banished seraphim,
Are marching by me in disguise.
All, all is dark and cheerless now,
Since time cannot reverse its flight;
Oblivion's hand is on my brow,
And beckons down the fall of night.
Yet sometimes in these darker hours
I dream of better days in trust ;
But when I reach to pluck the flowers
Of youth, they turn to senseless dust !
New England ! on thy glorious hills
I stand in thought, a moment free ;
I hear the music of thy rills—
Nature's low notes of liberty!
Ard when my long lost love reclines,
In welcome shade I kneel to woo,
And Nature's lyre of mountain pines
Breathes soft as it was wont to do.
But ah ! the witching vision flies,
And facts are sterner things,tln dreams
Sweet Mary's dark and solemn eyes
No longer watch thy purling streams ;
But in that fairer clime above—
The climax of the dreams of this—
They wear the same old look of love,
And gaze upon the streams of bliss,
c 4torg-Ztlier.
THE WEST FARM MYSTERY.
"There's no use trying any longer to
suit Isaac ?arson's," muttered the fore
named individual's better-half, as slte sat
in her corner of the farm kitchen, rapidly
divesting a chicken* of its feathers; "I've
worked and slaved myself to death for his
and his'n, and all the thanks I've had for
the last fifteen years has been short words
and general growlin' and fault finding,
until now I'm just duts.t.r 'lined to stand out
and have my own way, and he'll find after
all, Melissa Talcott has got some spirit in
her, that can't be crushed out by all his
abnsin' and aggravation."
"To think he should have the heart to
refuse a new carpet after he has had such
good luck with his wheat crop, and I just
slaved myself through harvesting and got
along with one girl."
"Tye more that man gets, the stingier
he grows, an i there isn't a woman among
all my acquaintances that would stand
such treatment, and I won't. I'll put my
foot down from this moment," setting
down most emphatically that solid mem
ber of her comely person on the kitchen
floor: "if Isaac Parson won't come to
terms, I'll quit him, that's all I" •
It was a still, serene morning in the
early autumn. The kitchen windows were
open, and through them came, like gold
en wings, the sunshine, to linger and laugh
on the white kitchen floor, and flash along
theceiling, and brighten everything into
picturesque beauty in that old farm house
kitchen. The song of the birds in their
nests among the old bell pear trees, came
along through the windows in sweet ed
dies and jets of music, and so did 211 those
ripe, fragrant, spicy scents which belong
to autumn, and which have also always a
whisper of the tropics, with their still,
stately splendor, theirzroves of balm, and
forests odorous with gems, and beautiful
with all strange and gorgeous blooms.
But better than all this, that autumn
morning was one to brim the heart with
gratitude to God, the giver of perfect beau
ty, to calm the soul into peace, and trust
in the wisdom and love which had ordain
ed that day a high priest to man, and its
robe was like the robe of Aaron's ephod,
all of blue, and its bells were the merry
winds ringing to and fro in the still air,
and on the forehead of the morning was
written, so that all eyes might read—" All
his works do praise him."
But Mrs. Melissa Parson heard and saw
none of these things. Down among the
fogs and darkness of her own narrow fret
ful cares and anxieties, she walked with
warded vision and angry thoughts, which
seethed and flashed into rebellion and ha
tred. For her there was no beauty in
that autumn day, no token of God's love
and care for man in its sweet face—no
voice calling her to prayer and to praise,
iri the whisper of the winds or songs of
the birds.
Mrs. Melissa Parson had been a re
markable pretty girl in her youth—and
thirty-seven years had made her a fair and
comely woman.
Her husband was a somewhat phlegmat
ic man, stubborn and opinionated, and as
his early life and social atmosphere had
not enlarged nor softened his character,
the hardest and most disagreeable part of
it expanded with his years. He loved
money, and as the aesthetic part of his
nature had never been cultivated, he re
garded it as wastcfullness and extrava
gance to indulge in much grace or beauty
of surroundings.
LEGAL BLANKS,
PAMPHLETS - ,
Still, there was another side to the man;
his affections were deep and .tender, and a
judicious and loving woman could have
reached and influenced him to almost any
degree through these. But Mrs. Melissa
Parson never understood her husband;
she was an impulsive, high spirited, and
real warm hearted woman, with a great
deal of petty, social ambition, and she
and her husband were constantly jarring
each other.
His obstinacy always inflamed her an
ger, while her imperious temper only
hardened him into fresh stubbornness, anil
so the current of their lives ran most in-
HUNTINGDON, PA., JANUARY 25, 1871
harmoniously, and was constantly inter
rupted by jars and bickerings, and alterca
tions. That one fair filly of tenderness,
whose grace and beauty filled her youth
with fragrance, east its leaves, and at last
only the root was left ; and what dews or
sunshine would nourish it in souls that
were overgrown with thistles, and rank
and poison weeds
Yet all these years the barns and store
house, the land and gold of Isaac Parson
increased, and God sent children—two
boys and a girl—to soften the hearts of
the father and mother, and to be to them
angels of a new covenant of household
peace and tenderness. But, alas ! the
sweet faces, and all the beautiful minis
trations of childhood never accomplished
their mission, and with hearts and tem
pers fretted and soured, and worn, Mr.
and Mrs Parson counted the years going
over them, and both felt that their mar
riage had been a mistake and a misery,
and with blue eyes that would not under
stand, each blamed the other, and mutual
recrimination only produced fresh bitter-
At last a crisis came. Mrs. Parson bad
set her heart on a new parlor carpet,
which was in no wise unreasonable, and
in which her husband ought to have
indulged her, but the manner of her re
quest which was in reality a command, at
once aroused the inherent stubbornness of
the man, and he as flatly refused her.
Then followed passionate words and angry
retorts till the husband and wife separated
with mutual bitterness and rage.
But as Mrs. Parson took up her denu
ded chicken and plunged it into a pan of hot
water, her eyes glanced on a weekly paper
which lay on the table, and they settled
upon this passage, which completed a short
sketch—'•Who when he was reviled, re
viled not again, but committed his cause
to Him that judgeth righteous:y."
Again these words stole, in a still, se
rene, rebuking voice, through the soul of
Mrs. Parson. She had read them innu
merable times before, and they bad for
her no special message nor meaning, but
now God had sent his angel to drop them
in hcr'leart, and in a moment something
of the real sin and the wrong of her life
rose up . and confronted her.
She sat down in a low chair by her
kitchen table, and rested her forehead on
her hand. The harsh, fretful, angry look
went out from her face, and was succeed
ed by a soft thoughtful expression, and the
sunshine hovered in yearning, golden,
shifty beauty about her.
And the years 'of Mrs. Parson's life rose
up like pale, sorrowful faces of the dead,
and looked reproachfully upon her, and
suddenly in sharp, clear, strong features,
stood revealed to her roused conscience,
the heavy part she had borne , in all the
sin and misery that had blasted her mar
ried life.
And then the woman's memory went
back to her first acquaintance with Isaac
Parson—he had chosen, her from a score
of others who envied her that good for
tune, and how those early days of their
courtship came over the softened heart of
the woman, as the first winds of sEing
came up from the south, and go v. ftly
over the bare, despairing earth. Then
she saw herself once more, a shy, tremu
lous, joyous bride at the altar, leaning on
the strong arm and tender heart, to whom
she. gave herself gladly and trustingly as a
woman should.
And she remembered that morning, a
little later, when her proud and happy
young husband brought her to the house
which had been her father's, and how for
a little while the thought of her being
mistress of the farm house fairly frighten
ed the wits out of bor.
She went to make a sweet and happy
home for Isaac Parsons. She remember
ed as though it all happened yesterday,
the little plans and contrivances she bad
made for his surprise, and their mutual
comfort. But the quarrel came. How
well she remembered it, and how clearly
she saw how the foolish and sinful part
she had borne in that If she had of
controlled her temper then—if she had
only been gentle and patient, forbearing
and forgiving, instead of being proud and
passionate, fretful and stubborn ! If she
had only borne her woman's duties ! Here
the wife and mother broke down, she bur
ied her face in her apron and wept like a
child.
Mrs. Parson was an energetic deter
mined woman, and when she had once
made up her mind on any course of action,
she would not shrink from it. What went
on in the Softened woman's heart on that
morning, as she sat with her apron :A her
eyes, and the sobs in her rocking chair,
and the sweet restless sunshine all about
her—what went on in the softened wo
man's heart, only God and the angels
knew.
"Are you tired Isaac?"
The farmer was wiping his face and
hands on the brown crash towel, which
hung near the window. He was a tall,
stalwart man, sun-browned and weather
beaten, yet ho had keen, kindly eyes, and
the hard features had an honest, intelli
gent expression. Mrs. Parson was cut
ting a loaf of rye bread at the kitchen ta
ble. Her husband turned and looked at
her a moment, as though he was half
doubtful whether he had heard her right.
His wife's face was bent over the board,
and he could not see it ; but the words
came a second time :
"Are you tired Isaac ?"
It was a long time since Mr. Parson
had beard that soft, quiet voice. It stole
over his heart like a wind from the laud
of his youth.
"Well, yes, I do feel kind of tuckered
out. It's hard work to get in all that with
only one hand besides Rogers."
"I recokoned so; and I thought I'd
broil the chicken for tea, and bake the
sweet potatoes, as you relish them best
Mr. Parson did not say a word; he sat
down and took ti.e weekly paper out of
his pocket, but his thoughts were too busy
to let him read one word. He knew very
well his wife's aversion to broiled chicken,
and as the kitchen was her . undisputed
territory, he was obliged to submit and
his chicken stewed ant his potatoes served
up in sauce, notwithstanding she was per-'
Meetly aware that he preferred the forwer
broiled and the latter baked; and thi, un
usual deference to taste fairly struck the
farmer dumb with astonishment, and he
oat still and watched his wife as she hur
ried from the pantry to the table, in her
preparations for tea; and then came across
him the memory of some of the harsh, an
gry words he had spoken that morning,
the words smote the man's heart.
And whilst Mrs. Parson was in the
midst of taking up the broiled chicken,
two boys and a girl burst into thekitchen."
"Hush, hush, children," wound in
among the obstreperous mirth like a silver
clime, the soft voice of the mother, "fath
er's busy reading the paper and you'll dis
b him."
The chicken were silenced at once, not
in fear of reproof, but in wonder at it, for
the wife as seldom consulted her hus
band's taste and convenience in the small
every-day matters which make the happi
ness or irritation of our
In a few minutes the hairy family
gathered around the table. There was
little spoken at the meal, but a softer,
kindlier atmosphere seemed to pervade the
room. The children felt, though they did
not speak of ic.
"Are you going out this evening, Isaac?"
'•Well, yes, I thought I'd step 'round
to the town meeting. Want anything at
the store?" continued Mr. Parson, as he
tried to button his collar before the old
fashioned looking-glass, whose mahogany
frame was mounted with boughs of ever
greens, around which scarlet berries hung
their charms of rubies.
But the man's - large fingers were clum
sy, anti after several ineffectual attempts
to accomplish his purpose Mr. Parson
dropped his hand with an ugly grunt "that
the thing would not work."
"Let ine try, father."
Mrs. Parson stepped quickly to her hus
band's side, and in a moment had manag
ed the refractory button.
Then she smoothed down a lock 'or two
of black hair, which had strayed over the
sunburt forehead, and the touch of those
soft fingers felt very pleasant about the
farmer's brow, and woke up in his heart,
old sweet memories of times when he used
to feel them fluttering like a dream through
his hair.
He looked on his wife with a softness in
his face, and a softness in hi-- keen eye,
which he little suspected. And the soft
ness and the smile stirred a fountain warm
and tend r in Mrs. Parson's heart, which
not for years yielded one drop of its sweet
waters. She reached up her lips impul
sively, and kissed his cheek. Any one
who had witnessed that little domestic
scene would scarcely have suspected that
the married life of Isaac Parson and his
wife counted three-quarters of score of
years. _ _
The woman's comely face was m full of
shy blushes as a girl of sixteen, and Isaac
Parson seized his hat and plunged out of
the house without speaking a word, but
with a mixture of amazement and some
thing deeper in his face not easily descri
bed.
But at last he cleared his throat, and
muttered to himself, "Melissy shan't re
pent that act—l say tleglutfit!" and when
Isaac Parson said a thing, everybody knew
he meant it.
T
The sunset of another autumn day was
rolling its -matures of purple and gold
about the mountains, when the wagon of
Isaac Parson rolled into the farm yard ;
he had been absent all day in the city, and
supper had been awaiting hint nearly an
hour, and the children had grown hungry
and impatient.
"Oh, father, what have you got there ?"'
they all clamored, as he came into the
house, tugging along an immense bundle
tied with cords.
"it is something for mother, children,"
was the rathei . uusatisfactory_auswer.
At this moment Mr. Parson entered
the kitchen. Her husband snapped the
cords and a breadth of ingrain rolled upon
the floor, through whose dark green
groundwork trailed a russet and golden
leaves— -a most tasteful pattern.
Isaac Parson turned to his amazed
wife—" There, Melissa, there's the parlor
carpet you asked me for yesterday morn
ing. I reckon there ain't many that will
beat it in West Farms."
A quick change went over Mrs. Parson's
face, half of joy, half of something deeper.
"Oh, Isaac !" She put her arms around
the strong man's neck and burst into
tears.
The trio of children stood still, and
looked on in stolid amazement. I think
the sight of their faces was the thing that
recalled Tsai c Parson to himself.
Come; come, mother," he said, but his
voice was not just study, "don't give away
like this. I'm as hungry as a panther,
and want my supper before I do anything
but put up my horse,"—and he strode off
that impatient quadruped to the back
yard.
So the new carpet proved an olive branch
of peace to the household of Isaac Par
son. While others admired its pattern
or praised its quality, it spoke to Mrs.
Parson's heart a story of all that which
love and patience may accomplish.
After many struggles and much prayer,
the triumph over pride and passion, and
evil habits, was at last achieved, and this
was not accomplished in a day, but the
"small leaven that leaventh the whole
lump," worked silenty, and surely, com
pleted at last its pure and perfect work,
and iu the farm-house of Isaac Parson
reigned the spirit of forbearance and re
linquishment, of gentleness and love,
which was given unto those who fear God
and keep His holy commandments.
tTe
Human Force.
Regarded simply as a piece of machi
nery, the human body is the most interest
ing study that can attract the attention of
a human being. According to the latest I
developments of scientific analysis, the
average healthy man generates force suffi
cient every twenty-four hours to lift 4000
tons of matter through a distance of one
foot, providing the work is done with no
waste of strength; or to vary the state
ment, to lift one ton 4000 feet. On in
quiring of the physiologist what becomes
of all this power, he figures out for us the
following rude statement:
Spent in generating heat with which
to keep the body warm, power sufficient to
raise 3475 tons of matter one foot high.
Spent in digesting our food, circulating
the blood through the body from the
heart, in its course back to the heart again,
and in the movements of the lungs in rest
piration, power to raise 350 tons one foot
high.
Left for profitable employment in the
form of brain and body labor, power suffi
cient to raise only 175 tons one foot high.
Total-1000 tons one foot high.
From the foregoing statement, which of
course is only an approximation to the
truth, and would vary materially in differ
ent persons, the available working power
of an adult healthy man is only one Menty
fourth part of the force generated by the
food he eats, or, as before stated, sufficient
to raise 175 tones of dead matter one foot
in height.
But we prefer not to spend our strength
in that way, and so a Certain per cent. of
it goes in muscular labor, some in busi
ness,a portion in thinking, loying, hating,
in invention, philanthropic action, &c.;
and, no doubt in a majority of human be
ings, a large portion of their available
power is wasted in dissipation, riotous liv
ing, gambling; or perhaps in uneasy, fret
ful fault-fording, because their lot is not
one that pleases them, of because they are
obliged to labor for the bread they eat
and the clothes they wear.
A very curious and interesting table
might be made by a thoughtful physiolo
gist and hygienist, showing each person
where his strength goes, and I am not sure
that a young man could do a better service
for himself than to seek counsel of some
wisa physiologist, tell him frankly all his
habits, and have such a table prepared, not
only to guard against excess, but to show
him his weak places, and point out where
he will be most likely to fail. Some of
these tables would, no doubt, read very
much as follows :
Spent in digesting a big dinner, which
the body did not need, sufficient force to
raise thirty tons of matter one foot high.
Spent in getting rid of several drinks of
wine and brandy, force sufficient to raise
twenty tons one foot high.
Spent in breathing bad air, force suffi
cient to raise fifteen tons one foot high.
Spent in reading worthless books and
newspapers, force sufficient to raise five
tons one foot high.
Spent in cheating a neighbor out of 830
in a hilliness transaction, force sufficient
to raise fifteen tons one foot high.
Spent in smoking six cigars, force suffi
cient to raise ten tons one foot high.
Spent, in keeping awake all night at a
spree, force sufficient to raise twenty tons
one foot high.
Spent in hesitation, doubt and uncer
tainty, force sufficient to raise five tons
one foot high.
Total-120 tons one foot high.
Left for practical and useful labor, only
enough to raise fifty-five tons one foot high,
or to do less than one-third of a day s
work.
Sometimes there would be a draft on
the original capital of considerable force;
so there would not be enough to keep the
body warm or the food well digested, or
the muscles plump and full, or the hearing
acute, or the eyes keen and bright, or the
brain thoughtful and active.
Very often a single debauch would use
up the entire. available power of the whole
system for a whole week or month.
_ _
There is no end to the multitudinous
ways in which we not only spend our
working capital, but draw on the original
stock, that ought never to be touched, and
the result iiimperfect lives,ricketybodies,
no ability to transmit to our children good
health and long life, much physical suffer
ing and 'premature decay, with all the
ends of life unaccomplished.—lndustrial
a;:d Commercial Gazette.
Sleep,
Every man must sleep according to his
temperment. Eight hours is the average.
If he requirs a little more or a little less,
he will find it out for himself. Whoever by
work, pleasure, sorrow, or by any other
cause, is regularly diminishing his sleep, is
destroying his life. A man may hold out
for a time, but Nature keeps close accounts,
and no man can deceive her. As there is
more brain-work than ever, so more sleep
is required now, than in the time of our
forefathers. The want of sleep is frequent
ly the cause of insanity.
Do good to others.
Eta fano' §udgrt.
"Fetch on the Rats."
A good story is told of our German friend
Adam Bepler, who keeps a tavern in Al
legheny. One rather gloomy evening re
cently, when Adam was in rather a gloomy
humor (as he seldom is), a stranger pre
sented himself about bedtime, and asked to
stay all night.
"Certainly," said Adam, eyeing the rath
er seedy-looking stranger. "If you take
breakfast, it will be youst one dollar."
"But I have no money," said the man.
"I am dead broke, but if you will trust
me—"
"Ah," said Mr. Bepler, "I don't like
that kind of customer. I could fill mine
house every night mit dat kind, but dat
won't help me run dis house."
"Well," said the stranger, after a pause,
"have you got any rats here ?".
"Yes," replied Adam, "you'd better be
lieve we have. Why, the place is lousy
mit dem."
"Well," rejoined the man, "I'll tell you
what I'll do. If you let me have lodging
and breakfast, I'll kill all the rats to-mor
row."
"Done," said Bepler, who had long been
desperately annoyed by the number of old
Norways that infested his premises.
So the stranger, a gaunt, sallow, melan
choly-looking man, was shown to bed, and
no doubt had a good sleep. After break
fast next morning, Mr. Bepler took occa
sion in a very gentle manner to remind his
guest of the contract of the previous night.
"What I Kill your rats ! Certainly,"
said the melancholy stranger. 'Where
are they the thickest 2"
"Dey are putty dick in de barnyard,"
answered Adaui.
"Well, let's go oat these," said the
stranger. "But stop ! Have you got a
piece of hoop ? Have you got a piece of
hoop-iron ?"
A piece about fifteen feet long was
brought to the stranger, who examined it
carefully from one end to the other. Ex
pressing himself entirely satisfied, at length,
with its length and strength, he proceeded
to the barn, ,accoinpanied by Mr. Bepler
and quite an army of idlers, who were anx
ious to see in what manner the great rat
killer was going to work. Arriving there,
the stranger looked around a little, then
placed his back firmly against the barn-door,
and raised his weapon.
"Now," said he to Adam, "I am ready.
Fetch on your rats !"
How this scene terminated we are not
precisely informed. It is said that, altho'
no rats answered the appeal of the stranger,
Mr. Beplet began to smell one pretty strong
ly at this juncture, and became very angry.
One thing is certain, and that is the new
boarder was not at Adam's table for dinner
nor for any subsequent meal. He had
suddenly resolved to depart, probably to
pursue his avocation of rat-killing in other
quarters.
Is He Fat ?
One of the most remarkable cases of
sudden cure of disease was that of a rheu
matic individual, with which is an amus
ing ghost story.
There were a couple of men, in some
old settled part of the country, who were
in the habit of stealing sheep and robbing
church yards of the burial clothes of
the dead. There was a public road
leading by a meeting house, where there
was a grave yard, and not far off a tavern.
Early one moonlight nightwhile one of the
miscreants was robbing a grave, the other
went off to steal a sheep. The first one
having accomplished his business. wrapped
a shroud around him, and took a seat in
the meeting house door to wait for his com
panion.
A man on foot, passing along the road
toward the tavern, took him to be a ghost,
and, alarmed almost to death, ran as fast as
his legs would carry him to the tavern,
which he reached out of breath. As soon
as he could speak he declared that he had
seen a ghost robed in white, sitting in the
church door. Nobody would believe his
strop, but incredulous as they were, no one
could be found that had courage enough to
At length a man, who was so afflicted
with the rheumatism that he could scarcely
walk, declared lie would go if the man
would carry him there. He at once
agreed, took him on his back, and off they
went. When they got in sight, sure
enough it was as he said 1 Wishing to
satisfy themselves well, and get as near a
view as possible of his ghostship in the
dim light, they kept venturing nearer and
near.
The man with the shroud around him,
took them to be his companion with a
sheep on his back, and asked in a low tone
of vOice:
"Is he fat."
Meeting with no reply, he repeated the
question, raising•his voice higher.
"Is he fat?"
Still no reply.
Then in a vehement tono ho called :
"Is he fat ?"
This was enough. The man with the
other on his back replied :
"Fat or lean, you may have him."
And dropping the invalid he traveled
back to the tavern as fast as his feet would
carry him. But he had scarcely arrived
there when along came the invalid on foot,
too !
The sudden fright had cured him of
rheumatism; and from that time he was a
well man.
A CELEBRATED Wit WAS asked if he knew
Theodore Hook. "Yes," replied he, "Hook
and eye are old associates."
Inn-genius—A hotel clerk.
NO. 4.
Zhe putt wt.
Thank God for Sunday.
Now God be thanked! That Imbed given—
Best boon to saint and sinner—
A day of rest—one day in seven,
Where toil is not the winner;
Rest for the tired and jaded brain,
The wearied hand on Sunday,
That they might gather strength again
For toil renewed on Monday.
The merchant, in his counting room,
The clerk, o'er desk and ledger,
The artisan at forge and loom,
The ditcher and the hedger—
The laborer who must toil and slave,
From early dawn of Monday,
Until the week sinks in its grave,
AU cry : “Thank God for Sunday I"
The day that lifts the weighty chain
Which all the week hash bound us;
That respite gives to heart and brain,
From thousand cries around us
That in the toilsome march of life
Thus bids us take, for one day,
Ol God be thanked for Sunday ;
If thus by all one day of rest
Be hailed, as respite solely,
How to the Christian doubly blessed
Must be the Sabbath holy;
As, in faith's light he lifts his eyes
To that bright world, where, one day,
He longs to spend beyond the skies,
One blest eternal Sunday!
Making . Pun 'of ShL
Sin is a very serious matter. It is the
last thing in the world to laugh at. There
are certain weaknesses and foibles of man
kind wkich may properly enough be made
the subject of pleasantry, of railery, and
even of ridicule. Addison, in his 4pdeki,
tor, undertook to deal with the fashionable
follies of his time with these weapons, and
the severest critic has never questioned the
propriety of his course. The realm of mi
nor morals lies fairly open to this lighter
sov,t, of artillery, whose bloodless assaults
may rid society of many a custom at vari
ance with the laws of good taste and pro-
Kiety. Such good humored satirists as
Sydnew Smith and Thackeray, and Dickens,
and even Artemus Ward awl Rev. Mr.
Nasby, have done good service in the world
by their laughable exposures of the weak
points of particular types of character.—
Men laugh and become wise. The mirror
is so deftly held up before us, that we can
not fail to seer ourselves in a new light, and
we inwardly resolve to be rid of the absur
dities which stare us in the face.
But when we come to down right sin,
involving crime and misery, it seems the
wickedest as well as the (Nudist thing to
ridicule it. It has got past that degree
when it might be laughed at. Reprobate
it, punish it, pity it; but in the name of
all that is fearful in transgression, or sacred
on the authority of God, don't make fun
of it. "Sin is the transgression of the law."
Sin is the most terrible thing in the uni
verse. Sin lies under the curse of God.—
Sin exposes a man to unutterable woes.—
One long wail has sounded along the ages
because of sin. And among its different
forms what is more dreadful than that of
intemperance. That which produces it is
fitly termed "liquid poison and wed
damnation." If such is the cause what
must be the effect ? This sin involves the
loss of reputation, self-respect, character—
personal and social degradation. It defiles
and obliterates the image of God, and con
verts a man into a demon or an idiot. It
converts homes into hells. It beggars wife
and children. It makes hearts to break
and bleed. It sends its disastrous influen
ces down through successive generations.
It entails a curse upon the victim and upon
society. It damns the soul. It peoples
hell with countless myriads. Is this a
thing to make merry over? And is it
done ? Yes, every day, in some of our
city journals; and that, too, where thepar
tieular purpose of the journal is the sup
pression of intemperance, with high pro
fessions of regard to morality and religion.
It is sometimes done by temperanee lectu
rers, whose main forte seems to make sport
for their auditors:" We call no names. It
is sufficient to solicit attention to the het,
in the hope that the evil may be corrected.
Can it be decent and Christian to show up
the poor victims of intemperance or the
"social evil," or any other form of vice be
fore the public for their amusement ? Is
this the kind of daily news with which to
gratify the public ? When the good aro
combining to lift up the fallen, and restore
them to virtue and happiness, to inspire
them with self-respect and the desire for a
higher life, shall the moral sensibilities of
the readers of our journals be blunted by
funny descriptions of those wretched un
fortunates, in whose places those who would
make us laugh might themselves have been
but for a gracious providence ? Is thin
the way to educate our children to look
upon vice ? And what better is a comma•
nity that tolerates or welcomes such repro ,
sentations than that Roman populace which
looked down from their seats in the am
phitheatre upon the wretches who fought
together or with wild beasts, and made
merry over their miseries ? The only dif
ference is, in one case the lookers on were
Christians, and in the other, heathens. But
what Christians ! Watchman and Refire.
tor.
Industry at Home.
Nature is industrious in adorning her
dominions ; and man, ib whom this beauty
is addressed, should feel and obey the lea=
son. Let him, too, be industrious adorn.
ing his domain in making his 1..0me nob
only convenient and comfortable, but plead.
ant. Let him be industrious in surround•
ing it with pleasant objects—in decorating
it within and without, with things that
tend to make it agreeable and attractive.
Let industry make home the abode of neat.
ness and order. Ye parents who would
have your children happy, be industrious
to bring them up in the midst of a pleas.
ant, cheerful and happy home,
THAT which is worth doing at Is worth
doing well.