Newspaper Page Text
IHs D3LUR PER ANNUM, INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE.
tflinrsYw fttornmn. /cbritarp 2(i. 18ii7.
StltttA y octrn.
FALL OF THE LEAF.
Withcrvil leaves arc ronnd u* falling,
To the wintsry blast they Iwnd.
XVlii-pwinjt in accents mournful.
" All things baautifu! must end.
Nature, robbed of all her
Held- unwillingly her head.
Like a broken-hearted mother
Wecpiug "'er her cherished dead !
Ah those leaves oner irrern and lovely,
<l I hailed them as my friends ;
Now it" pleasing thoughts they bring me.
To my heart no beauty lends.
Yes ! tliev bring a sweet remembrance
i if the happy, happy pa-t;
Tb v are types to me. and shadows
Oi eternal life at U-t
Withered leaves are round us falling.
T > faintest breeze they bend ;
Yet their falling i- a b>ken
That that thi- life i- not our end.
Y -! ou every leaf is written,
in my mind a holy thought:
YES : the 1IO;K- of life unspringing
From the grave by them is brought.
Th agii they're withered now and falling
p.ovn to eaith. their native tomb.
Yet the parent -talk will flourish.
And with fre.-h leaves bud and bloom.
- on mortal frames will perish,
lake the tailing leaves and -ere ;
bt again will bloom and flourish,
1 i a bright eternal -where.
|tt ist cllit nc o us.
r T r rr? r '7N PTI 'Til "Tj *1
P.Y GRACE GREENWOOD.
M I*> .turn : I have sat some minutes w itlt
. pat suspended iu the air aimve my paper.
,\c been debating a delicate point— I am
'•i-ition. You will perhaps p-coi'e-t that
of Faulty Fun ster's exquisite -ketches was
• i'-l " Lucy Dutton."
Yav it happens that the real name of the
roine of the " otver true tale" which I am
. cut to do myself the honor of relating to
i. was no other than Lncy Dutton. Shall
!: >lt her of her birth right—compel her to
rear a nomme deguerre because my sister au
. re-s gave the name to one of her ideal
.pot!- .' Shall 1 sacrifice truth to delica-
T ait's the question. "No !" You said
did you not ' Then Lucy, Lncy Dutton,
: it be.
> :ne forty years since, in the interior of tuy
r.iful native State, New-York, lived the
r of our heroine, an houest aud res pec tu
.e firmer. He had but twochildreu—Lucy,
. ' !•■ girl of nineteen, aud Ellen a year or
younger. The first named was winningly,
• r than strikingly beautiful, Utideramun
• 1 scrvalde for its seriousness, and ntin
- > aity, were concealed an impassioned
- . and a heart of the deepest capacity for
S e was remarkable from her earliest
1 for a voice of thrilling and haunting
P .'Pm was the brilliant antijHxlc of
"s-P-r ; a " born beauty" wJiose jwrogative
tun— was to hare her irre-|toii*ibleow u
W, itt aii things and at nil times. An i: ul til
'.l' r u weak motin-r, and an idol.zing
w i hud unco - I'lit-iy contributed to
' in r n.ture not at first remarkable
::.'t:i or g uero-iiy.
r i ail Go-l's creat;irs, is hearties*-
so seemingly unn.it.ir.'—i< selfishness so
•'.i . u- in a beautiful woman ?
; • —ltd a fine intellect, and as her
' vert wed read New Knglanders, she
: - -t- r were far litter educated than
" - r - of h>r -tation in that theu half set
;o:i of the couotrv I'i tlio*e davs
■ t gaged in school-teachiug from thehon
; a-ure which it afforded, rather than
->;ty. Thus, a few months previous
omui ncemcnt of our -ketch. Lucy Dut
' f.-r the first time her fire -id ■ circle, to
urge of a school some tweuty miles frotu
" Mttive town.
t - • while licr letters home were ex
te oilv of the happy contentment which
"'rout the consciousness of active useftil
t receiving while imparting go al. But
..-.re came a change: then were those
'N for home characterized by fitful gaity
- ii'v sadness ; indefinable hojtes and fears
' . striving for supremacy in the writer's
•d little heart. Lucy loved, lut scarce
■ wledaetl it to herself, while she knew
' it site was loved ;so for a time, that
seeond birth of woman's nature was
• -unrise struggling with the cold
: ~ f the mortting.
I -to (J ; .y brought a letter which could
"• forgotten in the bouse of tlie al>-
1 a letter traced by a hand that tretn
• >} ~ uhy with a heart tumultuous with
". ■ --v Lucy had leeu wooed and won,
• w Iw.t waitel for her jtarents' approval
1 " "'C. to become the betrothed of young
r • a man of excellent family and
> • " in the town where she had beeu
I - The father and mother accorded
' ' m with many blessings, and Lucy's
A: pr 'liiiscd a speedy visit from the
I ' '.atur - as Lucy's, what an absortw
: y< t wiiat a revealing of self is a first
II *! t a prodigality of giving, what
i _ —cu i !e wealth of receiving—what a
- *up i- there of the deep waters of the
K .uaven desc ends in a sudden star
' r l '- fe. If there is a season w hen aa
& -T with iutense and fearful iater-
W mortal sister, tis wbeu she be-
B U_ from its bad like iuuoccoce
Till: BRADFORD REPORTER.
aud freshuess of girlhood and taking to its very
core the fervid light of love, grow and crimson
into perfect womanhood.
At last the plighted lovers cnme, and wel
comes and festivities awaited them. Mr. W.
gave entire sat sfaction to the father, mother,
a..u even to the exacting " beauty." He was
a handsome uiau, with some pretensions to
fashion ; but in manner, and apparently iu
character, the opposite of his betrothed.
It was decided that Lucy should not again
leave home until after her marriage, which at
the request of the ardent lover, was to be cele
brated within two mouths, and on the coming
birth-dav of the bride. It was therefore ar
j ranged that Ellen should return with Mr. W.
i ,0 M —— to t 'ke ch irge of her sister's school
for the remainder of the term.
The bridal birth day had come. It had been
ushered in by a May morning of surpassing
loveliness—the busy hours had worn awavaud
now it was nigh sunset, and neither the bride
groom, nor Ellen, the first bride's maid, had
appeared. Yet in her neat little chamber sat
Lucy, nothing doubting, nothing fearing. She
was already iu a simple white muslin, and her
few bridal adornments lay ou the table by her
side. Maria Allen, her second bridesmaid, a
bright-eyed, affectionate-hearted girl, her cho
sen friend from childhood was arranging to a
mure graceful fall, the wealth of light ringlets
which swept her snowy neck. To the anxious
inquiries of her companion respecting the ab
sent ones, Lucy smiled quietly and replied,
Oh, something has hap|teiied to detain them
a while ; we heard from them the other day,
and all was well. They will be here by and
by, never fear."
Evening came, the guests were all assembled
and yet the bridegroom tarried. There were
whisperings, surmises and wonderings and a
shadow of anxiety passed over the face of the
bride elect. At last a carriage drove rather
slowly to the door.
They have come !" cried many voices, and
Ellen entered. In reply to the hurried and
confused inquiries of all around him. Mr. W. ■
muttered something about " unavoidable de
lay, and stepping to the side-board, tossed off
a glass of wine, another, aud another. The
company stood silent with amazemeut. Fiuallv
a rough oid farmer exclaimed—
Letter late than never, young man—so lead
out th|j bride."
W strode hastily across the room, plac
ed himself by Ellen and her hand in his. Then,
without daring to meet the eye of anv one
about him, he said :
" I wish to make an explanation—l am un
der the painful necessity—that is, I have the
pleasure to announce that am already mar
ried. The lady whom I hold by the hand is
my wife !"
Then, turning in an apologetical manner to
Mr. and Mrs. Dutton, he added :
" I found that I hud never loved until I
knew your second daughter !"
And Lucy 1 She heard all with a strange
calmness, then walk.ug steadily forward, con
fronted her betrayers Terrible as pale Nemesis
herself, she stood before them, and Iter looks
pierced, like a keen, cold blade, into their false
hearts. As though to assure herself of the
dread reality of the vision, she laid her hand
ou Ellen's shoulder, and let it glide down her
arm—but she touched not Edwin. As those
cold fingers met hers, the unhappy wife first
gazed full into her sister's face ; and as .-he
marked the ghastly pallor of her cheek—the
dilated nostril—the quivering lip and intensely
mournful eyes, -he covered Iter own face with
her hands ami burst into tears, while the voung
husband, awed 1y the terrible silence of her
he had wronged, gasjad for breath and stag
gered back against the wall. Then Lucy
clasped her hands on her forehead and" fir-t
gave v.vee to hr uiguish and despair in one
t arful cry, wh 1 dd ring forever through
the - ul . f t.jat -a. ty pair, and fell iu a death
like swoon at their feet.
After me insensible girl had been removed
to her chamber, a stormy scene ensued in the
r<.o::i beneath. The purmits and gm -ts were
a Ike enraged agii ust \\" . but the tears
and prayers of Lis young wife, the petted leau
ty and Spoiled ehdd, at last softened MM
w cat the anger of the parents, and an opjar
tumty for au explanation was accorded to the
A sorry explanation it proved. The gentle
man affirmed that the first sight of Ellen's
lovely face had weakened the empire for her
plainer si-tor over his affections. Frequent
interviews had completed the conquest of his
loyalty ; but he had been held iu cheek by
houor, aud never told his love, until, when on
his way to C-JKHISC another, in an unguarded
moment, he revealed it, and the avowal had
called forth an answering acknowledgment from
They had thought it best, in order 'to save
pain to Lucy,' and prevent opposition from her,
aud to secure their own happiness, to be mar
ried before their arrival at C—.
Lucy remained inseusibie for some honrs
Whcu she had revived aud apparently regain
ed her consciousness, she still maintained her ,
strange silence. This continued for many
week<. when it partially passed away, her
friends saw with inexpressible grief, that her ;
reason had fled— that .</. mis helplessly insane f
llut her madness was of a mild and harmless
nature :>lie was gentle and jeaeable as ever,
but frequently sighed ami seemed burdened
with some great sorrow which she could not
herself comprehend. She had one peculiarity, ;
which all who kuew her in after years must i
recollect ; this was a wild fear aud careful :
avoidance of HEX. Site also seemed JKE-sessetl j
of the spirit of unrest. tShe could not. she ;
would no*. le confined, but was constantly es- I
coping from her friends, aud going they knew
While her parents lived, they, by their watch
ful care and unwearv efforts, in some measure
controlled this sad propensity ; but when they
died, their strickeu child became a wanderer,
Homeless, friendless and forlorn.
Through iaugiiiug spring, ami rosy summers,
goldeu autumns and tempestuous winters, it
was tramp, tramp, tramp — no rest for her of
the crushed heart aud crated bruir.
PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY AT TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., BY E. O'MEARA GOODRICH.
I remember her, as she was in niv early
childhood, toward the last of her weary pil
grimage. As my father and elder brothers
were frequently absent, and as my mother ne-
closed her heart or door on the uufortu
nate, Crazy Lncv ' often spent an hour or
two by our fireside. Her appearance was very
singular. Her gown was always patched with
many colors, and her ° l iawl or mantle worn and
torn, until it was all opeu work and fringe.—
Hie remainder of her miseruble wardrobe she
carried in a bundle on her arm, and sometimes
she had a number of parcels of old rags, dried
Iu the season of flowers, her tattered bonnet
was profusely decorated with those which she
! gathered in the woods or by the wayside. Iler
love for these and her sweet voice were all that
were left her of the bloom and music of exis
tence. \etno ; her meek and childlike piety
still lingered. Her God had not forsaken her;
down in the dim chaos of her spirit, the smile
of His love still gleamed faintly—iu the waste
garden of her heart she still heard his voice at
eventide, and she was not afraid. Her Bible
went with her everywhere—a torn and soiled i
volume, but as holy still ; and may be as dear- j
Iv cherished, my reader, as the gorgeous copy i
now lying on your table, bound iu " purple and j
gold." and with the gilding untarnished ou its |
1 remember to have heard my mother relate |
a touching little incident couuected with one j
of Lucy's brief visits to us.
The poor creature once laid her hand on the
curly head of one of my brothers, and asked
him his name.
" William Edwin," he replied, with a timid
upward glance. She caught away her hand, j
and sighing heavily, said :
" I knew an Edwin once, and he made me >
This was the only instance in which she was
ever known to revert to the sad eveut which
had desolated her life.
* * * *
Thirty years from the time of the commence
ment of this mournful history, on a bleak au
tumnal evening, a rough, country wagon drove
into the village of C . It stopped at the
alms-house, an attenuated form was lifted out i
and carried in, and the wagon rumbled awuv.
Thus was Lucy Dutton brought to her native
town to die.
She had been in a decline for some months, j
and the miraculous strength which had so long
sustained her in her wean wanderings, at last ;
forsook her utterly. Her sister had died some
time before, and the widowed husband had
soon after removed with his family to the far
West ; so Lucy had no friends, no home, but
the alius house.
One day about a week from the time of he
arrival, Lucv appeared to suffer greatly, and
those about her looked for her release almost
impatiently ; but at night she was evidently
better, and for the first time she slept trau
qu Ily until morning. The matron who was
by her bed-side when she awoke, was startled
by the clear, earnest gaze which met her own,
but she smiled and bid the invalid " Good
Morning." Lucy looked bewildered, but the
voice seemed to re-assure hef, and she ex- |
" Where ain I ?—and who are yon ?—I do i
not kuow you."
A wild surmise flashed across the mind of
the matron ; the loug-lost reason of the wan
derer had returned ! But the good woman
replied calmly and soothingly,—
" Why, you are among your friends and you
will know me presently."
Then may be you know Edwin and Ellen,"
rejoined the invalid ; " have they come i Oh,
I hail such a terrible dream ! I dreamed that
they were married ! Only think, Ellen mar
ried to Edwin ! Strange 'tis that I should i
" My poor Lucy," said the matron with a !
gush of tears," "That was not a dream ; 'twas
" All true 1" cried the invalid : then Edwin
must be untrue, and that cannot be, for he
loves me ; we loved each other well, and El
len is my sister. Let me see them. I will go
She endeavored to raise herself, but fell back
fainting ou the pillow.
" Why, what does this mean ?" said she.—
" What makes me so weak 1"
Just theu her eye fell on her own hand—
that old aud withered haud ! She gazed on
it iu blank astonishment.
" Something is the matter of my sight." she
sa d smiling faintly, " for my haud looks like
an old woman's."
'• And so it is," said the matron geutly, 'and
so is miue ; yet we had fair, piump hands when
we were young. Dear Lucy, do you know
me ? lam Maria Alleu—l was to have been
your bridesmaid !"
I cannot say more—l will uot make the vaiu
attempt to give in detail all that mournful re
vealing—to reduce to inexpressive words the
dread sublimity of that hopeless sorrow.
To the wretched Lucy the last thirty years
were as though they had never beeu. Of uot
a scene, uot an incident, had she the slightest
remembrance, siuce the recreant lover and
traitorous sister stood h-efore her, and made
their terrible announcement.
The kind matron paused frequently in the
sad narrative of her poor friend's madness and
wanderings ; but the invalid would say with
fearful calmness, "Go on, go on, though the
drops of agony stood thick upon her forehead.
When she asked for her sister, the matron
" She has goue before vo i, and vour father
" And my mother !" said Lncy, her face lit
up with a sickly ray of hoj>e.
" Your mother has beeu dead for twenty
" Dead ! AH gone ! Alone, old, dying !
Oh God, mv cup of bitterness is full t" and
she wept aloud.
Her friend bending over her, and mingling
tears with her, said affectionately
" But you know who drank that cup before
" REGARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER."
Lucy looked up with a bewildered expres-1
sion, aud the matron added :
" The Lord Jesus, yon remember him."
A look like san-light breaking through a j
cloud, a look which only saints may wear, ir
radiated the tearful face of the dying woman,
she replied :
" Oh, yes, I knew him and loved Him be
fore I fell asleep."
"The man of God was called. A few who
had known Lucy in her early days, came also.
There was much reverential feeling, and some
weeping around her death-bed. Then rose the
j voice of prayer. At first her lips moved as j
her weak spirit joined in that fervent appeal.
Then they grew still and poor Lucy was dead
—dead in her gray-haired youth.
But those who gazed upon her placid face,
and remembered her harmless life and patient
suffering, doubted not that the morn of an
eternal day had broken on her NIGHT OF
GAS LIGHTS. —The first gas lights may be
j said to have diecovered themselves. The most
| remarkable natural jets were found at a collie
ry at Whitehaven and Cumberland. The uii
ners were at work one day, when a gust of air
| of powerful odor passed by them, and catching
fire at their lamps plazed up with such brillian
cy that the colliers took to their heels in fright.
It was soon found, however, that the flame,
large as it v >.-•, burnt quietly and without dan
ger, aud the men returned to their work. A
curious result then appeared. Tlie flame was
entirely nut out, lint immediately rekindled on
the approach of fire, so the only way to get
rid of the gas was to conduct it to the top of
the mine. A tube was fixed for this purpose,
and the gas being lighter than the air, ascend
ed to the surfaee. As soon as it apj>eared
there, it burst out once more into a brilliant
flame, and crowds of people came to look at
the extraordinary spectacle. The application
of gas to general purposes of illumination was
first tried bv Mr. Murdoch, iu Cornwall, in
17D2. The fir.it display of gas works, was
made at Boulton & Watt's foundry, in Birm
ington on tlie occasion of the rejoicings for
peace in ISO 2. Gas lights were first introduc
ed into London at Golden Lane, 1807. They
were used for lighting I'all Mall in I*oo, anil
were generally used throughout London in
1814. They were first used iu Dublin iu 1810,
and the streets were generally lighted iu Oc
tober, 123. The gas pipes iu und about Lou
don extend about 1200.
nOW SCHOLARS ARE MADE. —Costly appara
tus and splendid cabinets have no magical po
wer to make scholurs. In all circumstances a
man is, uudcr God, the ma.-ter of his own for
tune, so is he the master of his mind. The
Creator has so constituted the human intellect
that it can grow only by its own action, and
by its own actiou ;t must certainly and neces
sarily grow. Every man must, therefore, in
an important sen>e, educate himself. His
books and teacher are but helps ; the t cork is
his. A man is not educated uu'.il he has the
ability to snmmon iu an act of emergency, all
his mental jtowers in vigorous exercise to effect
his proposed object. It is uot the man who
has seen most, or who has read most, can do
this ; snch an one is in danger of being borne
down, like a beast of burden, by an overloaded
mass of other men's thoughts. Nor is it the
man who can boast merely of native vigor and
capacity ; the greatest of all the warriors that
went to the seige of Troy had given him strength
and carried the largest bow ; but self disnp.
line had taught liiiu how to betid it.— l), ll'eb
PRINTING OFFICE LOAFERS. —The following,
from an Eastern paper, is sensible to the last,
aud deserves a wide circulation :
" A printing-office is like a school—it can
have no interlopers, hangers-on, or twaddlers,
without a serious inconveuieuce, to say nothing
of lo>t time, which N just as much gold to the
printer, as if metallically glittering in his hand.
What would l>e thought of a man who would
enter a school, aud twaddle fir?t with the
teacher, and then with the scholars ; interrupt
ing the studies of one, and breaking the disci
pline of the other ? And yet, this is the effect
of the loafer in the printing-office. He serious
ly interferes with the eourse of business, dis
tracts the fixed attention which is necessary to
the good printer, and the interest of every es
tablishment. No real man ever sacrifices the
interest, or interferes with the duties of others.
The loafer does both. Let him think, if thought
he ever has, that the last place he should ever
insinuate his worthless and uuwelcotne presence
iute, is the printing-office."
II"W COFFEE CAME TO BE USED. —It is some
what siugular to trace the manner in which
arose the use of the common beverage of cof
fee, without which few, if any, half or civilized
country in the world, now make a breakfast
At the time Columbus discovered America, it
had never beeu known or used. It only grew
in Arabia aud Upper Ethiopia. The discove
ry of its use as a beverage is ascribed to the
superior of a monastery iu Arabia, who desi
rous of preventing the monks from sleeping at
their nocturnal services, made them drink the
effusion of coffee, upon the report of shepherd*,
who observed that their flocks were more lively
after brow.-ing on the fruit of that plant. Its
repotatiou spread through the adjacent coun
tries aud in about two hundred years it had
reached Pari*. A single plant brought there
iu 1744. became the parent stock of all the
French coffee plantations in the West Indies.
The Dutch introduced it into Ja\a and the
Ea.t ludies. and the French aud Spanish all
over South America and the West Indies.—
The extent of the consumption can now hard
ly be realized. The United States alone au
uually conuine it at the cost ou its landing of
from fifteen tosixteeu millions of dollars. That
of tea is over eight milliou of dollars. You
may know the Arabian or Mocha, the best
coffee, by its small beau of a dark yellow color.
The Java aud East Indian, next in quality,
are larger and of paler yellow. The West lo
nian and Kio have a blush or greenish grey
CHARACTER BETTER THAN CREDIT. —We of
ten hear young men, who have small means,
dolefully contrasting their lot with that of rich
men's sons. Yet the longer we live the more
we are convinced that the old merchant was
right, who said to us when we began life—
" Industry, my lad, is better than ingots of
gold, aud character more valuable than credit."
We could furnish, if need were, from our owu
experience, a score of illustrations to prove the
truth of his remarks.—ln branches of busi
ness, in all avocations, character, in the long
run, is the best capital—Says Poor Richard :
i —" The sound of your hammer at five in the
morning, or nine at night, heard by a creditor,
makes him easy six months longer"; but if he
sees you at a billiard table, or hears your voice
at a tavern, when you should be at wotk, he
sends for his money the next day."—What is
true of the young mechanic, is true also of the
young merchant, or of the young lawyer. Old j
j and sagacious firms will not long continue to !
j give credit for thousands of dollars, when they I
see the purchaser, if a young man, driving fast
horses or hanging about drinking saloons.—
Clients w ill not entrust their cases to advo-1
eates, however brilliant, who frequent tlieea d
table, the wine party or the race course. It
is better, iu beginning life, to secure a reputa
tion for industry and probity, than to own hou
ses or lands, if, with them, you have no char- j
A facility of obtaining credit at the outset
is often an injury instead of a benefit. It
makes the young beginner too venturesome,
fills him with dreams of too early fortune, tempts
him too much to neglect hard work, forethought '
caution and economy. Excessive caj it t! is as
frequently a snare to a young man. It has al
most passed into a proverb, in consequence,
that the sons of rich men never make good
business men. To succeed in life wemustlearu
the value of money. Bnt a superfluity of means
at the outset is nearly a certain met bod of ren
dering us insensible to its value. No man ever
grew rich who had not learned and practiced
the adage, " If you take care of the pennies
the dollars will take care of themselves."— '
Knowledge of men, self-discipline, a thorough
mastery of our pursuit, and other qualifications,
which all persons of experience "look for, are
necessary to give the world security that a
young man is of the right metal. Capital may
be lost, but character never. Credit once gone,
the man without character fails. But he who
j has earned a reputation for capacity, integrity
and economy, even if he loses his capital, re
tains his credit, and rises triumphant over
bankruptcy itself. A man with character can
never be ruined It is the first thing a young
man should seek to secure, and it may be had
by every one who desires it in earnest. A poor
j boy with character is more fortunate by far
than a rich mau's son without it.— Bait'Sun.
TREES—CLIMATE. —It is a common observa
| tion, that our summers are becoming dryer,
and our streams smaller. Take the CuyahOira
ias an illustration. Fifty years ago, large bar- !
ges, loaded with goods, went up and down that
river ; aud one of the vessels engaged in " the !
battle of Lake Erie," when Perry " met the
enemy, and they were ours," was built at Oid
Portage, six miles north of Albion, and float
ed down the lake. Now, iu an ordinary stage
of water, a cauoe or skiff can hardly pass down
that stream. Many a boat, of fifty tons bur
deu, has lieen bu;lt aud loaded on the Tusca
rawas, at New Portage, and sailed to New
; Orleans, without breaking buik. Now, that
j river hardly affords a supply of water, at New
Portage, for the canal. Tlie same may be <aid i
of our other streams. They are grow ing srnai-.
ler and beautifully less. Our summers are
grow ing dryer, and our winters colder.
The cause of all this is in the destruction of I
our forests. Iu the woods, we find springs and j
streams of water, that indicate a permanent j
supply—clear off the woods and they dry up.
To show how this operates, let us suppose,
an electric cloud passing over a dry, level des
ert. So long as it meets no obstructing object
it remains suspended. If, however, it meets
i a cloud iu an opjiosite state of electricity, rain,
| hail, and a tornado is the consequence. This j
illustrates the principle. Instead of meeting
a cloud in an opposite state of electricity, suje j
pose it meet a forest of trees sufficiently ele- j
vated to reach the cloud, the trees, l<eing good '
conductors, act, iu a less degree, to be sure,
t but in the same manner as an opposing uon- j
j electric cloud iu drawing the electricity from
the cloud to the earth, disturbing the vaporous
particles of the cloud which are mingled togeth- j
er and become drops of rain, which fall to
earth iu showers.
This is the cause of the |>erpetual want of
rain iu portious of Egypt and South America.
They are always iu the vicinity of high moan- ,
j tains, covered with forests, which take the rain
I from the clouds, forming those mighty rivers '
( that flow from the mountains of Upper Egypt
' and South America.
If the destruction of our forests goes on, and
none are set out to supply their place, we shall
feel more and more the effects iu the drought
of our summers, the diminution of onr streams,
aud the coldness of our w inters.— Ohw Farmer.
TlME. —Time travels in divers paces with di
vers |er-ons : I'll tell you who Time nutiles
withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gal
lops withal, ano who he stands still withal. He
trots hard with a young maid, between the
contract of her marriage and the day it is to
be solemnized : if the interim be but a se'onight.
Time's pace is so hard, that it seems the length
of seven years. He ambles with a priest that
, lacks Latin, aud a rich man that hath not the
gout ; for the one sleeps ea.-ily, because be
cauuut study ; and the other lives merrily, be
cause he feels no paiu ; the one lacking the
. burden of lean ami wasteful learning ; the oili
er knowing no burden of tedious penury ; these
time ambles withal. He gaDops with a thief
to the gallows ; for though he go as softly as
I foot can fall, he thinks himself too soou there.
He stays still with lawyers in the vacation :
( for they sleep between term and term, ard tbeu
tbev perceive uot bow Time morei VA
I _ ;
VOL. XVII. NO. y*.
APRLFS AS FOOD. —Ltebig says : "The im
portance of apples us food lias net hitherto
been sufficiently estimated or understood. Bc
sidrs contributing a large jortion of sugar,
mucilage and other nutritive matter in the form
of food, they contain such a fine combination
of vegetable acids, extractive substances and
aromatic principles, with the nutritive matter,
as to act powerfully in the capacity of refrige
rants, tonics and antiseptics ; and when free
ly used at the period of ripeness, by rural la
borers and others, correct the putrebiliiv,
strengthen digestion, correct the putrefactive
tendencies of nitrogenous food, avert scurvv,
and probably maintain and strengthen the JMJW
ers of productive labor. The operators of
Cornwall consider ripe apples nearly as nour
ishing as bread, and more so than jotutoes.
In the year 1801, a year of scarcity, apples,
instead of being converted into eider, were
sold to the poor, and the laborers asserted that
they could stand their work on baked apples
without meat : whereas a potato diet required
either meat or fish. The French and Ger
mans use apples extensively ; indeed, it is rare
that they sit down in rural districts without
them, in some shape ur other, even at the best
tables. The laborers and mechanics depend
on them, to a very great extent, as an article
of food, and frequently dine on sliced apples
and bread. Stewed with rice, red cabbage,
carrots, or themselves, with u little sugar and
inilk, they make both a pleasant and uutricious
dish.— .Moore's Rural .Yeur Yorker.
SORES ON* HORSES AND CATTLE.—A corres
rosjiondcnt of the Farmer , in reply to
an inquiry by another correspondent, for a cure
of a bad sore on a horse's shoulder, gives the
following prescription ;
Lime and lard are the liest application to
old, bad sores, of any kind, that I know, es
pecially if the bone is ariv affected.
1 uke good stone lime, slake drv, and sift
through a fine seive. l'ut the flour in a bot
tle, cork tight, and keep it in a dark place
from light and air, and it will keep good for
years. Take 1 part of lime to 3 parts of lard,
in bulk, and mix them well, cold, and apply a
proper quantity to the sore, twice a day, and
cleanse well each time, with soapsuds. If the
sore descends below the outward opening, it
must be opened to the bottom, or it will not
heal sound. If the bone lie affected, the sore
probably, will not heal, and ought not to, till
the bone shall be healed." Sores healed under
this treatment always heal .sound. If fungus
be in the sore, this ointment will clear it all
out. and keep it out.
The above projiortions are abont right, bat
the applicant will soon learn to vary them, if
necessary. Some allowance will be necessarv,
for the different strength of the lime.
WHY DEW HERTS SHEEP. — From time im
memorial, it has been a precept with cartful
shepherds, not to let the sheep turn out ujiou
the dewv grass, or graze in the damp or mar
Why was the dew of the morning, so dear
to poets, considered dangerous to sheep 1 No
one could tell. least of ail, the bucolic guar
dian : but if he could not tell why it was so,
he still averred that it was so. And now. sci
ence comes with a very simple explanation, to
justify the em i ieai preempt. Sieboldj the
great comparative anatomist, has given the ra
tionale iu his curious treatise on entozoa.
Many of the creatures pass the early portion
of their predatory existence in the bodies of
one species of animal, and their maturity in
another. The egg are deposited in these lat
ter but not developed there ; they
have to be expelled, and the dear little inno
cents, either as eggs or embryos, are east upon
the wide world, to shift for themselves. But
There they, lie, on the smoking dung heap,
and far away roam the sheep in whose lungs
they live, and they alone can develop them, ana
find food. What chance have they ? This
chance. The rain washes them into the earth,
or the farmer flings them iu manure upon the
soil. The humidity serves to develop theiu ;
they fix themselves against the uioist srass. the
sheep nibble the grass, and with it carry these
tiny entozoes into their stomach : once there,
the business is soon accomplished ! Thus it is,
that the dewy grass is dangerous. Thus it is,
that damp seasons are prejudicial to sheep mul
tiplying the diseases of lungs and liver, to which
these animals are subject.— llcic ird's R''sitter.
A HARD CASE OF LVW. —Mr. G —, a veter
an lawyer of Syracuse, nsed to tell a story of
a client, an impetuous old farmer by the name
of Merrick, who in olden times had a difficulty
with a cabinet maker. As was usual in such
cases, the matter excited a good deal of inter
est among the ueighliors, who a Hied themselves
with one or the other of the contending par
ties. At length, however, to the mutual dis
appointiueut of the allies, the principals affect
ed a compromise, bv wh : eh Merrick was to
take, in full of all demands, the cabinet ma
ker's note for forty dollars, at six mouths,
''pai/able iu cabth't ware."
Lawyer G— saw no more of the parties nn
til about -i.x mouths after, when one morning,
just as he was o|ietiiog his office, old Mr. Mer
rick came riding furiously up, dismounted, and
rushed in, defiantly exclaiming : " I say, squire,
am I bound to t kc ?"
It seems, on the note falling due, the obsti
uate cabinet maker had refused to pay him iu
any other way !
THE: FlTVKE. —Charles Lamb quaintly re
marked that he wa naturally shy of novelties
—new books—uew faces—new years, lie as
cribed thi feeling to a mental twist, which
made it difficult iu him to face the prospec
There is no learned man but will con
fers he hath much profited by reading contro
versies, his senses awakened and his judgment
sharpened. If. then, it l>e protit-blc for him
to reed, why should it cot. at least be tokr--
| lie b . '.'-'ci -u v wr-te.—A/ >*< r.