OIE 05LLAR PER ANNUM, INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE.
TOWAND A:
(Thnrebcro fllorniitn, Alflrtlj 5, 1857.
Apoftrn.
[From the Evening Post.]
THE BALLAD OF THE WHALE.
BY READ THORNTON.
The Northman lay on his iron cliff,
Outlooking the Norman sea ;
With his hold, blue eyes of wild emprise,
Abroad o'er the wave looked he.
In a restless mood of solitude,
He longs in the chase to roam .
" I've conquered the bear in the Tomean wood,
And the shark by the deep Maelstrom !
" My fitting foe lived long ago—
The mighty mastodon !"'
His blue eyes bravely glance below—
The chief from his cliff is gone !
'Tis the whale? yon whale, that tempts his sail,
Like an island lie uioveth on—
'• By the soundless sea, I'll conquer thee,
Thou ocean mastodon!"
He darted his skiff from the feet of the cliff,
All armed with his corded spear ;
Soon the barb is dved in the sea-beast's side,
And away to the west they steer.
With his hempen rein, o'er the ocean plain,
More fleet than the sledge they go ;
Willi the red setting sun a race they run,
in the road of its ruddy glow !
And the storm waves kept a glassy eahu,
That strange first bark to see ;
And the sea gods rose the eliase to charm,
And shouted—" We'll ride with thee!"
And one of their troop the Norman chose
To share in his daring deed ;
V, bite was her breast as the Finland snows,
Her hair like the brown sea-weed.
And thus they twain o'errode the main,
And the Norseman's shirt of mail,
With his sliieid he clashed, as they landward washed,
Till he stranded the maddened whale!
That night, on the strand of the new west land,
He built for his mermaid bride
A bowery hut, aud the oil he cut.
For a lamp, from the monster's side.
And from these two there sprang a crew,
The boldest to spread the sail ;
And 011 every plain of the stormy main
They chase the tumbling .vhale !
Original Slietrj}.
The Old Maid—a True Sketch.
Ola Maid at last ! yet for years the belle
ami beauty of her native place; one among
tight " olive branches'' which graced her fath
ers board. The most lovely in person, where
all were fair ; how can we describe her ? In
stature tall—in mien dignified. Her brow not
lofty, but lotc, well formed and white—hair, a
bright chestnut—eyes, hazel, and full of ex
pression. Seemingly amiable in every respect,
Sarah McGoon bore the palm from all compe
titors. The old village of Ware, boasted not
such another one. First at all frolics, she was
a!*> at the head of the village choir, and her
soprano voice, filled the little church with its
melody. The daughter of a very wealthy far
mer, she had many admirers, some, loving her
own sweet self, others desiring her father's
more solid charms. With rare discrimination,
made her selection, but ebose to remain
unmarried, until she should have reached the
age of twenty-five.
Edward CTozier was the accepted one ; a
W young man—full of life, vigor and anima.
Don. Already well to do iu the world, want
ing only a help meet, to render him the happi
of men. Sarah's decision was unalterable—
-No !" her invariable reply to his entreaties—
' 18111 my twenty-fifth birth-day I am yours,
not before. We shall then have both arrived
a discreet age " But alas !
' The liest laid dans ot mice aud men,
Gang aft a'gly."
i:i y ; the poet. So in this instance.
•V few months before entering upon her
year, Sarah, was stricken down by
•oog duration. Edward came, not to marry,
5,11 to condole with the afflicted fair one—re
wc-d his vows and protestations, bade her be
■ jrood cheer, and departed. One, two, three
"w> elapsed, Sarah was a bed ridden sufferer
-Edward, a most patient and devoted lover,
1 "it. his hearthstone was lonely, needing sad
fan occupant, besides himself and maid-of-all
* or k Hoping still, " e'en against hope," to
** his afflaticed restored to strength audac
ity, lie < amc one evening, and she pitying
' dejected nppcarauce, said, " Edward, it is
to hope longer. lam fated to remain
1 life-long sufferer—your love is to me dearer
>ka fi lib-, but you must not wear out your exis
vainly hoping for my recovery. Yon
marry. You arc still young, and may
j'. v many years of happiness, while I am
n ' now, old iu suffering, if not in years.—
° nic and see me as a dear friend, but seek
"flie other for a wife. Not a word ? It must
• bp so
Good bye then Sarah ; God bless and re.
you," and lie left her, as a lorer to return
atore. A few short months, and he was
rr H, and happily. But with him we have
s arah buried this great sorrow, deep in
IK>:, rt no trace of emotion was visible in
THE BRADFORD REPORTER.
her countenance. Now she was alone.—broth
ers, sisters—all married. Katie, Margaret,
Phoebe and Lucy—John, William and Joel,
had all formed new ties, none but her aged pa
rents remained at the homestead.
One, two years more dragged their weary
length along, and Sarah was thirty. An old
Maid ! Suddenly, she regained health and
strength ; became a robust woman. But what
a change ! her beauty was gone. Suffering
had dimued the lustre of her eye—wrinkled
her fair brow, aud soured her once amiable
disposition. The name of Edward Crozier
never passed her lips, for what indeed, was he
to her?
With the active duties of farm life she bu
sied herself ; became as shrewd and keen at a
bargain, as any other Yaukee. By her thrift
aud management, she soon accumulated a con
siderable sum of money, which she loaned her
father as he required, taking as payment farm
stock. The old gentleman was, for the times
wealthy. His will was made, giving one half
the farm, with stock, etc. to his wife. The
remainder, divided equally, gave each child
three hundred dollars. Before the death of
her father, Sarah by means of loans, became
the possessor of nearly all the cattle upon the
farm, and at her mother's decease, sole owner
of her property. What now ! a wealthy, but
most unloveable person. Years pass—infirmi
ties creep slowly it is true, but surely upon the
lone woman. She feels the need of compan
ionship. Disposing of her farm, she invests
the proceeds and resolves to visit each (living)
sister and brother in succession, spending thus
her remaining years. She does so, and is wel
comed at each home she enters. But the spirit
of unrest is upon her. Her life has been
without aim. Sixty years old ! She must be
near the end of her course. She makes her
will, giving to each friend a considerable sura
at her death which she feels will be soon. But
ah ! she is mistaken. Seventy years old !
Living yet ! ! She would welcome death as a
friend. Eighty. AVhat a tedious ten years
have been those last. Ninety years old—and
having seen brothers and sisters, all save her
youngest brother buried, she, at his residence,
in the heart of Michigan, puts oil' the burden
of mortality. Was she not truly an old maid ?
E. A. L
FAITH IIOPF. AND CHARITY. —The paths of
life are numerous—right and wrong—pleasant
and easy—intricate and bestrewn with thorns.
Who journeys on through the maze of circum
stances which infallibly present themselves to
mortal view, having faith at his right hand,
may succeed iu gaining the open road and tra
vel therein to the end. And he whose heart
pulsates with hope ; his mind fortified uuder
its influence, succumbs to no ordinary obsta
cles ; he has a friend by Lis side full of might
and courage—a cheerful companion, who en
courages assists, aud even when one huge
mountain of trouble is overturned, eagerly at
tacks another, should it be presented—brave,
enduring, constant to the end of life's journey.
But another friend would fain lighten the heart
of tnan, and cheer him on his way through
life —a sweet, cousoiing, sympathizing friend
whose simple uauie is Charity. Would that
man listened to her precepts, aud aud exercised
them more fully amongst his fellows! What
heavenly peace surrounds and accompanies
through life the mortal who acknowledges and
obeys her dictates ! What bickering, jealon
sies, hatred, anger and strife, would not the
full exercise of this heavenly virtue remove !
Charity, fair sister ! thou art the raaiu
spriug of all virtues ; there is a holy influence
in thy name ; It is a purification to nature ; it
is a balm the angels use ; an iuexliaustable
fount of peace aud love, and good-will towards
men. In all things, Charity, keep Faith at
thy right hand; let Hope be the pole-star of
thy mind. But Charity is a priceless jewel ;
bii d her to t' y I eat with the virgin gold of
love ; she asks no other sustenance than tears.
—l'a mil a Fiend.
A minister was preaching to a large
congregation in one of the Southern States, on
the certainty of a future judgment. In the
gallery, sat a colored girl with a white child in
her aims, which she was dancing up and down
with the commendable effort to make baby ob
serve the proprieties of the place. The preach
er was to much interested in his subject to no
tice the occasional noise of the infant ; and at
the right poiut iu his discourse, threw himself
into an interesting attitude, as though he had
suddenly heard the first note of the trump of
doom ; and looking toward that part of the
church where the girl with the baby in her
arms was sitting, he asked, in a low, deep
voice :
" What is that I hear ?"
Before he recovered from the oratorical
panse, so as to answer his own qnestion, the
colored girl responded, in a mortified tone of
voice, but loud enough to catch the ears of the
entire congregation :
"I don'no, sa, I spec' it dis here chile ; but.
Indeed, sa, I has been doiu' all I could to keep
him from 'stnrbin' you. 7 '
Better that we should err in action
than wholly refuse to refuse to perform. The
storm is much better than the calm, as it de
clares the presence of a living principle.—
Stagnation is something worse than death. —
It is corruption also.
98F Tbe less a man does, the more fuss he
makes. A hen with one chicken does more
scratching than if she were blessed with a
family of fifteen.
PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY AT TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., BY E. O'MEARA GOODRICH.
" RESAR.DLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER."
From Graham's Magazine.
Incident in the Life of Capt. Samuel
Brady.
BY A WESTERN MAN.
About thirty miles from the present city of
Pittsburgh, stood an ancient fort, knowu as
Fort Mcintosh. It was built by a revolution
ary geutleuian of that name, in the summer of
1778. It was one of a line of forts, which
was inteuded to guard the people who lived
South of the Ohio river, from the incursious of
the savages to the northward. This fort was
one of the favorite resorts of the great Indian
spy and hunter, Captain Samuel Brady. Al
though his usual headquarters was Pitsburgh,
theu consisting of a rude fort aud a score or
two of rough frontier tenements.
Brady had emigrated westward, or rather
had marched thither in 1778, as a Lieuteuant
in the distinguished Eighth Pennsylvania Reg
iment, under the eommaud of General Richard
Broadhead, of Easton. When, in the spring
of 1779, Mcintosh retired from command in
the West, Broadhead succeeded him, and re
mained at Pittsburgh until 1781. Shortly af
ter his advent to the West, Brady was brevet
ted Captain.
Brady had served at the siege of Boston,
fought at Long Island and White Plains, gone
through the whole of the terrible campaign of
Trenton and Princeton, suffered at Valley forge,
distinguished himself at Germautowu and
Brandywine, and narrowly escaped death at
Paoli. But his tastes led him to the erratic
mode of warfare known upon the frontier.— j
Indeed his early education upon the upper Sus
quchauuah had inculcated and developed those
tastes from the very earliest boyhood. Hating
an Jndiau with that instinctive hatred which is
begotten in the bosom of the white race, by
long years of contest and outrage, a bitter in
tensity was imparted to the feeling in this case
by the murder of his father and younger
brother by the Indians, under trying circum
stances.
Having premised this much byway of in
troduction, it brings us to that eventful morn
ing upon which Brady set out from fort Mcin
tosh, for Pittsburgh, lie had with him two of
his trusty and well-tried followers. These were
not attached to the regular army, as he was,
but were scouts and spies, who had been with
him upon many an expedition. They were
Thomas Bevington and Benjamin Biggs.—
Brady resolved to follow the northern bank of
the i Miio. Biggs objected to this, upon the
ground as Brady well knew, that the woods
were swarming with savages. Brady, how
ever, had resolved to travel by the old Indian
path, and having once made up his mind, no
consideration could deter him from carrying
out his determination. Bevington had such
implicit faith in his ability to lead, that he
never thought of questioning his will.
Quite a discussion arose between Biggs and
his captaiu at the mouth of Beaver river,
about a mile above the fort, where they mast
cross the Ohio, if tliey continued on the north
ern side. Biggs finally waived his objections,
and they crossed Beaver, and proceeded with
the habitual cautiou of woodsmen who under
stand their business. They had started early,
and by rapid travelling they had reached, ere
noou came, the last piece of bottom land on
the northside of the river, just below what is
known as the Narrows. Upon this bottom a
pioneer, more daring than most others, had
built a cabin, and opened a small spot of clear
ed land. He had planted it in corn, and it
gave promise of a most abundant harvest.
But as they approached the edge of the
clearing, just outside of the fence, Brady dis
covered "Indian signs," as he called them.—
His companions discovered them almost as
quick as he, and at once, in low tones, commu
nicated to each other the necessity for a keen
watch. They slowly trailed them along the
side of the fence toward the house, whose situ
ation they well knew, until they stood upon
the brow of the bluff bank which overlooked
it. A tight of the most terrible description
met their eyes. The cabin lay a mass of
smouldering ruin ; from whence a dull blue
smoke arose in the clear August sunshine.—
They observed closely everything about it.—
Brady knew it was customary for the Indians
when they had tired a settlers cabin, if there
was no immediate danger, to retire to the
woods close at hand, and watch for the ap
proach of any member of the family who
might happen to be absent when tliey made
the descent. Not knowing but that they were
even then lying close by, he left Bevington to
watch the ruins, lying under cover, whilst he
proceeded to the northward, and Biggs south
ward, to make discoveries. Both were to re
turn to Bevington, if they found no Indians.
If tliey came across the perpetrators and they
were too numerous to be attacked regularly,
Brady declared it to be his purpose to have
one fire at tliein, and that should be the signal
for both of his followers to make the best of
their way to the fort.
All this rapidly transpired, and with Brady
to decide was to act. As he stole cautiously
round to the northern side of the enclosure,
he heard a voice in the distance singing. He
listened keenly, and soon discovered from its
intonations, that it was a white man's. He
passed rapidly in the direction whence the
sound camc. As it approached, he concealed
himself behind the trunk of a large tree.—
Presently a white man riding a line horse,
came slowly down the path. The form was
that of Albert Gray, the stalwart, brave,
devil-may-care settler, who had built him a
home miles away from the fort, where no one
would dare to take a family but himself.
Brady wore, as he almost always did, the
ludian garb, aud had war-paint upon his face.
He knew that if he showed himself upon the
path, Gray would shoot, taking him to be an
ludian. lie therefore suffered Gray quietly
to approach his lurking place. When the
time came, he sprang forward ere the settler
could have time to prepare, drew his toma
hawk, aud seizing him dragged him from his
horse. As he did so, he whispered to him : I
am Captain Brady, for God's sake be quiet."
Gray, with the instinctive feeling of one
who knew there was danger, and with that
vivid presence of mind which characterizes
those acquainted with the frontier life, ceased
at once to struggle. The horse bad been star
ted by the sudden onslaught, and spruug to
oue*side. Ere he had time to leap forward,
Brady had caught liim by the bridle. His
loud snorting threatened to arouse any one
who was near. The Captain soothed the frigh
tened auiinal into quiet.
Gray now hurriedly asked Brady what the
danger was. The strong, vigorous spy, turned
away his face unable to answer him. The set
tler's already anxious fears were thus turned
into realities. The manly form shook like an
aspen leaf with emotion, —tears fell as large
drops of water over his bronzed face. Brady
permitted the indulgence for a moment, whilst
he led the horse into a thicket close at hand
and tied him. \Y r hen he returned, Gray had
sunk to the earth, ami a great tremulous con
vulsion writhed over him. Brady quietly touch
him and said " Come." He at once arose, and
had gone but a few yards until every trace of
emotion had apparantly vanished. He was no
longer the bereaved husband and father—he
was the sturdy, well-trained huuter, whose ear
and eye were acutely alive to every sight or
sound, the waiving of a leaf or the cracking of
the smallest twig
lie desired to proceed directly towards the
house, but Brady objected to this, and they
passed down toward the river bank. As they
proceeded they saw from the tracks of the hor
ses aud moccasin prints upon the places where
the earth was moist, that the party was quite
a numerous one. After thoroughly examining
every cover and possible place of concealment,
they passed on to the southward and came
back in that direction to the s|ot where Bev
ingtou stood sentry. When they reached him
they found that Biggs had not returned. In a
few minutes he eaiue. He rejiorted that the
trail was large and broad ; the Indians had
taken no pains to conceal their tracks—they
simply had struck back into the country, so as
to avoid coming in contact with the spies whom
they supposed to be lingering about the river.
The whole four now went down to the cabin
aud carefully examined the ruins. After a long
and minute search, Brady discovered that none
of the inmates had been consumed. This an
nouncement at once dispelled the most harrow
ing fears of Gray. As soon as all that could
be discovered had been ascertained, each one
of the party proposed some course of actiou.
one desired to go to Pittsburgh and obtain as
sistance—another thought it best to return to
Mcintosh aud get some volunteers there—
Brady listeued patiently to b< th these propo
sitions, but arose quickly, after talking a mo
ment apart with Biggs, and said, " Come."
Gray and Bevington obeyed at once, nor
did Biggs object. Brady struck the trail and
began pursuit in that trcmeuduous rapid man
ner for which he was so famous. It was evi
dent that if the savages were overtaken, it
could only be done by the utmost exertion.—
They were some hours ahead and from the
number of their horses must be nearly all
mounted. Brady felt that if tliey were not
overtaken that night, pursuit would be utterly
futile. It was evident that this band had been
south of the Ohio and plundered the homes of
the settlers. Tliey had pounced npon the fam
ily of Gray upon their return.
When the pursuit began, it must have been
two o'clock at least, two hours hail been con
sumed by the spies iu making the necessary
exploration about the house, ere they ap
proached it, and in examining the ruins. Not
a word was spoken upon the route by any one.
Their leader kept steadily in advance. Occa
sionally lie would diverge from the track but
only to take it up again a mile or so in advance.
The Captain's very intimate knowledge of
the tojtography of the country, enabled him
to anticipate what points they would make.—
Thus he gained rapidly upon them by proceed
ing more nearly in a straight line toward the
point at which they aimed to cross the Beaver
river.
At last, convinced from the general direc
tion in which the trail had led, that lie could
divine with absolute certainty the syot at which
they would ford that stream, lie abandoned it
and struck boldly across the country. The ac
curacy of his judgment was vindicated by the
fact that from the elevated crest of a long line
of hills, he saw the Indians with their victims
just disappearing up a ravine on the opposite
side of the Beaver, lie counted tliein as they
slowly filed away under the rays of the declin
ing still. There were thirteen warriors eight of
whom were mounted—another woman besides
Gray's wife was in the cavalcade, aud two
children besides his—in all five children.
The odds seemed fearful to Biggs and Bev
ington though Brady made no comments. The
moment they had passed out of sight, Brady
again pushed forward with unflagging energy,
nor did his followers hesitate. There was not
a man among them whose muscles were not as
tense and rigid as whip-cord, from exercise and
training, from hardship aud exposure. Gray's
whole form seeemed to dilate into twice its
natural size at the sight of his wife and chil
dren. Terrible was the vengeance he swore.
Just as the sun set, the spies forded the
stream and began to ascend the ravine. It
was evident that the Indiaus intended to camp
for the night some distance up a small creek
or run, which debouches into Beaver River
about three miles from the location of fort Mc
intosh. and two below the ravine. The spot
owing to the peninsular form of the tongue of
the land lyiug west of the Beaver, at which
they intended to encamp, was full ten miles
from that fort. Here there was a famous
deftly and cunningly situated in a
deep dell, and so densely enclosed with thick
mountain pines, that there was little danger
of .discovery. Even they might light a fire
and could not be seen one hundred yards.
The proceedings of their leader which would
have been totally inexplicable to all others,
were partially, if not fully understood by his
followers. At least they dil not hesitate or
question him. When dark came, Brady push
ed forward with as inn.ch apparent certainty
as he had done durip.g the day. So rapid was
his progress, thgt the Indians had just kiudlcd
their fire and cooked their meal, when their
mortal foe whose presence tlicv dreaded as
much as that of the smnll-jox, stood upon a
huge rock looking down upon tliein.
His party had been left a short distance in
the rear, at a convenient spot, while he went
forward to reconoitre. There tliey remained
impatiently for three mortal hours. They dis
cussed iu low tones the extreme disparity of
the force—the propriety of going to Mcin
tosh to get assistance. But all agreed that if
Brady ordered them to attack success was cer
tain. However impatient they were he re
turned at last.
He described to them how the women and
childreu lay within the centre of a crescent
formed by the savages as tliey slept. Their
guns were stacked upon the right, and most of
their tomahawks. They were not more than
fifteen feet from them. He had crawled with
in fifty feet of them, when the snorlings of the
horses, occasioned by the approach of wild
beasts, bad aroused a number of the savages
Iroin their light slumbers, and he had been
obliged to lie quiet for more than an hour un
til they slept.
lie then told them that he would attack
them. It was impossible to use fire-arms.—
they must depend solely upon the knife awl
tomahawk. The knife must lie placed in the
left hand and the tomahawk iu the right. To
Biggs he assigned the duty of securing their
arms. lie was to begin the work of slaughter
upon the right, Gray upon the left, and Bev
ington in the centre.
After each fairly understood the duty as
signed him, the slow, difficult, hazardous np
proach began. They continued upon their
feet until tliey had gotten within one hundred
yards of the foe, and then lay down upon their
bellies and began the work of writhing them
selves forward like a serpent approaching a
victim. They at last reached the very verge
of the line, each man was at liis post, save
Biggs, who had the fartherest to go. Just as
lie passed Brady's position, a twig cracked
roughly under the weight of his body, and a
huge savage, who lay within reach of Gray's
tomahawk, slowly sat up as if startled into this
posture by the sound. After rolling his eyes
lie again laid down and all was still.
Full fifteen minutes passed ere Biggs moved,
then he slowly went on. When he reached
his place, a very slow hissing sound indicated
that he was ready, Brady in turn reiterated
the sound as a signal to Gray and Bevington
to begin. This tliev did in the most deliber
ate manner. No nervousness was perinissahle
then. Tliey slowly felt for the heart of each
savage they were to stab, and then plunged the
knife. The tomahawk was not to be used un
less the knife proved inefficient. Not a sound
broke the stillness of the night as they cau
tiously felt and stabbed, unless it might be that
one who was feeling would hear the stroke of
the other's knife and the groan of the victim
whom the other had slain. One of them had
not been killed outright by the stab of Gray-
He sprang to his feet, but as he arose to shout
his war cry, the tomahawk finished what the
knife had begun, lie staggered and fell hea
vily forward over one that had not yet been
reached. He started up, but Brady was too
quick, Ids knife reached his heart and the tom
ahawk his brain almost at the some instant.
All were slain by tiie spies, except one.—
lie started to flee but a rifle-shot by Biggs
rang merrily out upon the night air and closed
Ins career. The women and children alarmed
by the contest, fled wildly to the woods ; but
when all had grown still and they were called,
they returned, recognizing amid their fright,
the tones of their own people. The whole
party took up their march for Mcintosh at
once. About sunrise next morning the sen
tries of the fort were surprised to see a caval
cade of horses, men, women and children, ap
proaching the fort. When they recognized
Brady, they at once admitted him and the
whole party.
In the relation of the circumstances af
terwards, Bevington claimed to ha\e hided
three aud Gray three. Thus Brady, who
claimed nothing, must have slain at least six,
whilst the other two slew as many. The thir
teenth, Biggs shot.
From that hour to this, the spring is called
the " Bloody Spring," the small run is called
" Brady's run." Few, even of the most curi
ous of the people living in the neighborhood,
know aught of the circumstances which con
ferred these names ; names which will be pre
served by tradition forever. Thrs ended one
of the very many hand-to-hand tights which
the great spy had with the savages, llis His
tory is fuller of daring incident, sanguinary,
close hard contest, perilous
adventurous escapes, than that of either of the
lletzels, or Boone, or Kenton. He saw more
service than any of them, and his name was
known as a bye-word of terror among the In
dian tribes, from the Susquehanna to Lake
Michigau.
As ANECDOTE.— AII are familiar with the
story of the man who made a thousand dol
lars before breakfast one morning by marking
up his goods. We hear a good story some
what similar, that may never have seen print.
A store was broken o|en one night, but strange
to say, nothing was carried oft'. The proprie
the next morning was making his brag of it,
at the same time expressing his surprise at
losing nothing.
"Not at all surprising,', said his neighbor ;
" the robbers lighted a lamp, didu't they ?"
" Yes," was the reply.
" Well," continued the neighbor, " they found
your goods marked up so high that they couldn't
aft'ord to take them."
Too SMAI.T,.—A Yankee, who went over to
the mother country some time ago, was asked
how he liked Great Britain. " Well," he said
" England is a very nice country, exceedingly
fertile, well cultivated, very populous, and very
wealthy ; but I never liked to take a morning
walk, after breakfast, because the country was
so small 1 was afraid of walking off .the edge."
fSf- A truly great man borrows uo lustre
from splendid ancestry.
VOL. XV I I. — NO. SiK
The Smoky Chimney.
James Gray was a liurd-working man, and
i his wife a decent woman, and each was dispos
ed to add to the comfort of the other ; but
though they did all they could, they had a sad
enemy to their pence, which often disturbed
them—this was a smoky chimney—which so
continually annoyed them, that they were fre
quently as peevish as though they had a de
light in provoking each other. When Jauics
came home at night and would have enjoyed
his meal in a clean house, ami by a bright tire,
he had to listen a full hour to the complaints
of his wife, who declared that to sit in such a
smoke as she did was unbearable. James
thought it bad enough to endure the smoky
chimney ; but to bear, at the same time a
scolding from his wife, for what he knew not
how to avoid, troubled him sadly, and many a
halt hour did he sit brooding over his troubles
and contriving how he should cure his smoky
chimney
One night when the smoke was making its
way in every direction except up the chimney,
and James was puzzling his brain, and trying
to hit upon some plan to lessen the evil, a
neighbor of his, a slater ; popped his head in
at the door.
" James,', said he, " you arc in a pretty
smother, and so you are likely to be, until you
place a slate or two at the top of your chim
ney to prevent the wind from blowing down."
\\ hen the slater was gone, James determin
ed that on the morrow be would do as he was
advised, and put some tiles at the top of his
chimney, liy the time lie had made this res..,
lution, another neighbor a glazier, made his
appearance.
" Master Gray !'' said he, " why your chim
ney gets worse ; I tell you what, you may try
a hundred schemes, but" none of them will do
till you put a whirl-a-gig in your window—that
is what you want, aud you will have no peace
till you get one "
Away went the glazier, and James began
to think about having a whirl-a-gig iu his win
dow ; but was a little puzzled whether to try
the whirl-a-gig or the tiles.
Ilolloa, James !" shouted a third neigh
bor, a brick layer who was passing by, " here's
a pretty smother ; I suppose you meau to smo
ther us all out !"
" Mo, no," said James ; "I am tormented
too much with the smoke myself, to wish to
torment anybody else with it. Nobody knows
what a trouble it is to me."
" Why, now," replied his neighbor, " if you
will only brick up your chimney a little closer,
it will be cured directly ; I was plagued just
iu the same manner, but a few bricks put all
to rights, and now I have no trouble with the
chimney at all."
This account set James Gray off a wool
gathering once more; and whether to put
slates at the top, to brick up closer the bottom
of the chimney, or to have a whirl-a-gig in the
window, he did not know, lie mused on the
matter before he went to bed, awoke two or
three times iu the night, and pondered it over,
vet when he got up iu the morning, he was as
little decided as ever. Just as he was about
to set out for his work, old Allen Ingrim came
by. Now Allen had the character of being a
shrewd sensible old man, which character he
well deserved so that he was often consulted
in difficult cases. James Gray, as soon as lie
saw him, asked him to step iu for a moment,
which he willingly did.
" I want your advice," said James, " about
my chimney ; for it is the plague of my very
life, it smokes so sadly."
" What have you done to it ?" inquired old
Allen.
" Why as to that," replied James, " 1 have
done nothing but fret about it ; for one tells
me to do one thing, another, another ; —among
three different opinions I am puzzled."
" There may be some sense in what they say."
said old Allen ; " and if I found it necessary
I would take the opiniou of all three : try
them all, aud see which is best."
No sooner was old Allen gone, than James
went in search of the slater, who, in an hour's
time had put the slates ou the chimney-top.—
When Jaines returned from his work at night,
his wife told him that the house had not smo
ked quite as bad as it did before, but that still
it was not cured. James went to the glazier ;
he put a ventilator in the window, which ma
ny people call a whirl-a-gig—this did wonders.
James then went to the brick-layer, who in the
morning bricked up the chimney a little closer,
to make the draft quicker. When James re
turned, he found a clean hearth, a bright fire,
and a good tempered wife, and a house clear of
smoke. Old Allen called again to know how
matters went on, aud was much pleased to hear
all was right now.
"Now," said old Allen, "the next time
you get into a difficulty, instead of wasting
your time fretting over it, listen to the advice
of others, and to act ou this plan will cure a
thousand troubles."
ADOU'HUS GETS INSPIRED. —" Dearest 1 will
build thee a cot all covered with ivy iu some se
cluded vale, close bv a purling brook, meander
ing ji>vr its pearly bottom, incessantly babbling
in dulcet tinkling strains, 'love, love, love,'
where the atmosphere is redolent of soothing,
spicy aromas, that makes the eye languish, aud
the heart dissolve in liquid fires of love—where
the tiny songsters that whirl in eternal space,
warble nought but love. I will plant tl.ee a
garden of gorgeous loveliuess, culled from na
tures most ardent designs, warmest tiute, and
sweet smelling incense."
" Dolphy, dear, don't forget to leave a patch
for eowciunbers and onyens, the re so nice
pickled."
ggg- Those who admonish their friends, says
Plutarch, should use this rule, not to leave
them with sharp expressions. HI language de
stroys the force of reprehension, which should
always lie given with prudence aud circum
spection.
t ~s* A want of confidence has kept, manv
n man silent. A want of sense has made ma
ny pi rsuus talkative.