IHs D3LUR PER ANNUM, INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE. TOWAXDA : 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, 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 offenders. 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 Ellen. 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 .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 not whither. 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 herbs, Ac. 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 | delicate leaves. 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 > brokeu-henrted !" 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- | claimed : " 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 dream that." " My poor Lucy," said the matron with a ! gush of tears," "That was not a dream ; 'twas ail true." " 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 to them." 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 replied : " She has goue before vo i, and vour father also." " And my mother !" said Lncy, her face lit up with a sickly ray of hoj>e. " Your mother has beeu dead for twenty years 1" " 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 YEARS. 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 ster. 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 I tint. 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 acter. 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 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 shy regions. 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 bow ? 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 tive. 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.