pOLLAFt PER ANNUM INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE. TOWANDA: Tborsday Morning, November 27,1862. Jklectel) jpoetrn. j UNDER THE SUN. There are little birds in Hie *ycam >re trees, Toiling ml singing the whole day long I Working with gladness while daylight lasts ; Cheering their labor with merry song. There arc green fields waving in v ind and rain. Telling 't labor yet to be d me. When the grain shall be ripened and gathered in— A golden harvest—under the sun. Under its banks, to the restless sea Floweth the river all clear and bright; Kissing the flowers which grow in its path ; Dancing along through the pleasant light; Rocking the boats on its bosom broad, As iuto the harbor they gladly run ; Gleaming and sparkling as to the sea It floweth forever down, under the sun. There are great hearts sighing tor honor and fame, Chasing a phantom, which seems to staud Ever before them in mockery fair, Holding a crown in its outstretched hand. There are prisons, with windows and doors all barred Making dark shadows that all men sh in, While the prisoners, chained in their dreary cells, Drea 11 of the freedom out under t'ue sun. Under the sun there are lovers, still Dreaming the dream that cau never grow old ; Treasuring tresscsj of wavy hair, Brighter and dearer than wealth untold ; Seeing forever but one dear face — Hearing lorever no voice save one. So dream the lovers, that same old dream, Making a heaven down under the sun. Little feet wearied before the time : Little hauds folded upon the breast ; Bright eyes closed ere the sad tears came, So go the little ones unto their rest. Old men laying their strong staff down, Close their eyes on the race all ruu. Death is an angel, that leads the way Oat of the shadow under the sun. Grave-yards spread over hill and dale, Graves far down in the deep blue sea. Tell where our hopes and our joys lie hid, Safe in the depths ot eternity. Bat whether the flowers bloom over their graves, Or the waves sing over the treasures won, Their angels look out from the heavens above, And watch those who love them down uuder the sun There are pain and labor, and sin and woe, Like dark clouds hovering over the way, With hope and happinssshining through all, The sunshine making the pleasaut day. But a time will come when the cares shall cease, When we weep no more—but with work all done, Fuld gladly our hands o'er our quiet hearts. And re*i from all murmuring under the sun. IPisttllaittoHs. ONLY AN EPISODE. FROM the time that John Emerson first cam -to the Valley Home, I noticed that a gradual change came over me. I grew more thoughtful. My life seemed to be opening to a more earnest beauty. There was a regret fulntss fur that which was past, a restless..e*s in the present, and a longing for a sweeter fulfilment of tne future. Why this was so. I could not tell. Mr Emerson was nothing to me. 1 did not love biui ; 1 ilo not know that I even admired biro. Teere was little ufluity between us.— He was cairn, stern, res< rved, and at times, when he provoked me iiy In* words or actions, proud, arrogant, and prestmilive. lie was too deep for me ; too deep in leorn iasr, and too de. pin observation. In contrast with myself, these traits and qualities were I especially prominent. I was wild, giddy, thoughtb-s. ; eonpbd with these indolence, and a dt*hke to study, and the every day act utilities of nfe, and you can make a fair esti Elate of my character. 1 knew that I was beautiful ; tint f am nappy to say that, with this consciousness there was i.o vanity. My beauty was of a peeuliai style ; fresh, piquant, consisting of combination, or at lea*t a beauty not to be subjected to individiiaiistD. Mr. E tnerson, on the contrary, was not handsome. True, he was well formed, and graceful in hi movements, but his face had nothing attractive about it. 11 is lips bespoke too much determination for mr, and there si-eineii to he something so patronizing about his smile, thai I hked him less when he smiled His nose was large, yet corresponding with 811 'ton mouth like his will, while his eyes were cold and stern, rarely softening. They would look inio your faee as though it were 8 page of some antiquated volume, only deep etiiug in tneir color when a true or beautiful f.ntinieiit. was expressed I often thought that I hated Emerson. — He was a sort of shadow resting on niy buoy Eiiev. The cold, positive mesmerism of his chmacter was driving me to the wall Jt. re pelled, and it attracted me by turns, and ut i could ).ot tell whetiier 1 loved or hated jm very much. He made no advances of love mward me ; he did not even seem to wish to strengthen our friendship. There was noth '•t.g about me for him to love, except my beau ty- And what was beauty to John Emerson? A wivathe -of smoke, a mist of vapor ; he re cognized no beauty beyond the beauty oFthe soul. i was sitting listlessly on the verandah one j had never felt so dissatisfied with in my life, as I did just then • and, as * consequence, I was dissatisfied with every thing around me. I felt peevish and fretful "~" ll i a mood to quarrel with any one, but es pecially with Emerson. He was sitting a short distance from me, *'th his chair leaning back against the rail- With him this was a favorite way of * ,l !'ng. He had been reading, but as the flight deepened, he closed the book, and ,J oked over to where I sat. A minute after he drew his chair uear to me, and said 10 his quiet way : What'g the matter, Kate ? Yoa seem THE BRADFORD REPORTER. sad ; nay, what is worse, discontented. ! You ! an in no mood to appreciate yonder beauli-' ; ful sunset. Look ! Let some of its gorgeous ne.-s drop into your love and—" " I would prefer, sir, to have you drop the | conversation," I interrupted ciustily. j Emerson srnihd one of those abominable | patronizing smiles I "J do not choose to drop it, ma belle," he said quietly. " Thank Heaven, I have an alternative i j then. Good evening, sir." 1 arose, und gathered up my dress to de-! j part. " You are not going, Kate ! Don't spoil your pretty fuce with that look QI scoru. — You must s.t down and hear me out." " Must ! Did I hear right ?" '* Yes, must I said it Very plaiuly." I guzed at him with passion ; and yet his calm, brown eves seemed to draw ttie tire out of my own. Before 1 was aware of it, I was silting down again. I could hardly account j for ttie fact, and so bit my lip* in vexation. I " That's right, Kate 1 knew you would f not go Yo; anticipate a lecture, eh ?" " I do not recognize your right to lecture ! me. You are nothing to me. I am getting to ha'e you tuo-e and more every day." " Oil, no ; you don't hate me one hit, ' Kate. Besides, I wouldn't care if you did.— i (The presumptive fellow!) Your love of j your hatred is nothing to me. (Worse still !) As you anticipated a lecture, you sliull not be disappointed. I have some UDpleasaut truths j to tell you " " Unpleasant to you, or to me ?" " Unpleasant to both of us, Kate. Do you know that you are not living up to the gran dure o: tour estate ; to the fulfilment of your destiny ! Some of your most glorious powers are rusting, absolutely rusting lor the want of exercise. This inactivity is warping your soul. You are growing dissatisfied with your | own indolence. Why don't you shake this I off ? Why don't you try to be somebody to j benefit yourself and the work! around you ?! Positively, such a drone as you-are should! blush for shame." 44 You, in turn, Mr. Emerson, should blush for your impudence. Your conduct is out- | rugcous." " I am not done yet, Kate. Your indolence has become the subject of remark. You 101 l around, employing ueitheryoor head or hands j You do not even seem to be capable of any noble emotions—and above all, you nre ex treuiely selfish Why, compared with the j plow-boy now coming whistling down the ! lane, you sink iuto the most abject picture of imbecility.', 1 sprang to ray feet. I was very angry. " Mr. Emerson," I said, " you can lay no claim to the title of a gentleman. To such j nsiiits 1 will not submit. I shall never allow a repetition of them ; and I wish you hereaf- [ ter, to address no reiuuiks to uie whatever. 1 hate you." I swept past him—down the steps and on • to the verandah. Glancing furtively hack, 1 saw that he was leaning against one of the ; pillars, shading his face with hi* hands. At the garden gate I met a little boy. lie j was the only child of a widow lady who lived j a short distance up the road. " Miss Crawford," said he, " can I have some flowers for ma !'' " Certainly, child. I will help you to gath er them Is your mother sick ?" " Yes, ma'am ; she is very lonesome.— Won't you come up and see her ?'' " Yes, I will, Eddy. I shall go with you right away." The little fellow caught my hand, and a joyous light shone in his eyes. For two hours I sat. by the bedside of Mrs Ot'incs. The liitti rne.-s had all gone out of ID v heart. 1 almost ngretted having sp'ken to Mr. E mrrson as I did. During her loi.g illness 1 was a constant v sitor, and when '1 ny laid iter in the quiet grve, much of her pa tience, and her strong christian faith had pass ed over me as an inheritance for my watch ' "'h r - I took the little orphan home vvtTh me. I became deeply interested in him, und in en deavoting to beautify his life, I beautified my own. 1 surrounded myself with every day ac tualities ; I stored my mind : 1 schooled my 1 temper ; I labored with my hand* ; and the I quietness in my soul was tny bountiful reward. ■ Months passed on. Mr. Emerson noticed ' the change in me. lie did not speak to me at all ; but whenever I met him, there was a kindlier glow in his eyes. One day I came i up to bun, and laying my hand on his shouider ' said, f "John, yon may speak to me again. You ' may say anything you p.ease to me." Mr. Emerson caught my hand, and as I 1 looked up into his face, I, for the first time in my life, thought him handsome. Did I do right ? Did I sacrifice any pride ? We daily grew more and more intimate. — s He seemed to be silently moulding mvcharac - ter. He directed my studies. He opened to t my view new sources of profit and beauty. I 1 sat within his spiritual radiance, and he was e gradually becoming deurer to me than life it o self. It was something grand to lean on one i- ' so stern, so just, so positive, and yet so kind i- j withal. ? s- " Kate, will you be my wife ?" e This was said so abruptly, that I started. I felt my cheeks tingle, and I dared not look e up into his face. It had come at lust ; and h 1 just in the blunt manner in which nobody but s be could have said it. He was in every sense '• : a practical man. il | "Did you tell me, Mr. Emerson," asked I, t- i " that IDV love or my hatred was nothing to i you ?" I had not forgotten that. I wouldn't have I- ! been a woman if I had. 44 1 did, Kate. That was long ago. Your love is very much to rae uow." 44 1 am very sorry for this, John." 44 Why," he asked in astonishment. 44 Because I do not love you." 44 You do love mo, Kate, warmly, passion ately." PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY AT TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., BY E. 0. GOODRICH. There it was ! The same posiliveness, the same assurance. " You loved me long ago, Kate —and you know it." " It is as much as I can do to pardon such presumption." " It is no presumption, Kate. You do love me, and will he my wife." Titis was the first tiur; he had ever spoken to me either passionately or vehemently. " Oli, dear 1" I sighed. " Such a man as you are ! I have no will of my owu any more." I tossed with my foot among the fallen leaves for a few minutes, and then looking straight into his eye*, said. " Well, John, 1 will be your wife." And this is the episode. Bulger Mourneth the Loss of his Dog, AND PITCHETH INTO SKEESICKS AFTER THK MAN NER OF MARK ANTONY. BY POPKINS. My Shaksperean friend Bulger has had the misfortune to lose (iiy poison) a favorite cur, whose sheep stealing proclivities have long been suspected in this locality, and who met his tragic end by the means referred to, ad ministered by one " Skeesicks," a gentle shep herd " with a hook," and an eye over which the wool could not be pulled. Whether the fatal " button " was ortiiodox or not, [ can not say ; but certain it is, it did its work ef fectually. Bulger very naturally taketh the part of the deceased " dorg," and in his usua l highfalutiu style thus discourseth to the gaping crowd : "Friends, Rumuns and soldier fellers ! lend me your ears. 1 come now to plant poor Pon to, not to praise hitu. The evils that dorgs do they are inevitably punished for ; the good, alas ! is rewarded with naught but tones! So was it with my noble Ponto. The bum mer Skeesicks hath told you that Ponto did kill sheep ! if it were so, it was agcr revious lauit, uud ger-rtviously hath Ponto answered it. " Here, under leave of Skeesicks, and the the rest, (for Skeesicks is an houoruble tnan, so are they all honorable men,) come I to speak iu Ponto's favor, lie was my dorg, faithful and just to me, keeping strict watch over all my plait. But Skeesicks says that he killed sheep ; and Skeesicks is an honorable man ! " When flocks have browsed in meadows green, not lar removed from uiy domain, I tried the cur iu this respect, and sportively did urge him on to seize the throat of an er rant lamb who had perchance strayed from the fold, i nnotieed by the careless shepherd. But turning back with downcast look, and i caudle 'pendage firmly pressed betwixt his ' graceful legs, he whined, and would not do my bidding. Did this in Ponto show a love for i mutton? When but the rams have baa a-ed, Ponto hath affrighted run into his daik, se ; eluded kennel !' Sheep-killers should be made i of sterner stuff ; yet iSkeesicks vows that he | killed sheep ; and Skeesicks is an honorable 1 mart ! j " You all did see that in the market place. ! I thrice presented him a rare and tender chop, which he did thrice refuse. Was this ram'n i tion ? Yet Skeesicks also says lie was rcmbi ! tious. And, sure, he is an honorable man ! I speak not to disprove w hat Skeesicks spoke, but here I am to speak what 1 do know. Bui yesternight the melodious bark of Ponto did no doubt strike terror to the soul of many a j midnight burglar. Now lies he there, and i none so poor to do him reverence. Oh, fel lers ! if 1 were disposed to stir your be I lood ! and muscle to the striking point, I should do Skeesicks wrong and Snifter wrong, who you I all do know, are honorable men. " Bui if you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this muzzle. 1 I remember the hist time e'er Ponto had it on. ! 'Twas on a summer's evening, at his kennel | door. That day he overcome, anu in less than ; forty minutes annihilated four score of ram | pant rats. Look ! 'twixt this wire did Skee | sicks pass the subtle poison through ! See wluit u dent the envious shepherd made ! At ; that short and well cropped ear the beloved | MiiftcT kicked. And as he drew his horse hide boot away, maik how the blood of Ponto ' followed it, as rushing out ol doors to be re solved if Snifter so unkindly kicked or no : i for Snifter, us you know, was Ponto's angel, ! having many a time and oft on hitu bestowed I a fresh and " rosy tinted " pluck that surrep j titiously he d tukeu from a sleeping butcher's i shamble. " Judge, then, 0 ye gods ! how dearly Pon to loved him ! This was the most uukiudest blew of all. For as the noble Ponto saw him i kick, then burst his poisoued liver, and, in his j muzzle muffling up his nose, great Ponto fell ! . Oli, what a fall was there, old boys ! My i grief's too great for utterance ! 800-hoo-hoo ! Bear with me for a while, I prithee ! And trow, Pou*o, farewell ! a long farewell ! Yet i ere I go Pll pluck from out thine elongated ; narrative a single hair, as a melancholy souve nir of thy departed greatness ! Come, come, ray friends ! let's suddenly away from this sad scene, and in yon inviting hostelrie we'll e'en indulge in stoups of mellow wine, to deaden the sharp edge of this poignant woe." —(Lxe- i unt otunes, smiling.) BOy* There are two ways of living so as to be missed. A man may be a scatterer of fire brands, arrows and death. He will be missed | when he is taken away. On the other hand ' he may be so active in his works of benevol ! ence, he may cause the hearts of so many to j rejoice, he may be the support and stay of so ! many, that when he dies, he is missed—his ioss jis sorely felt. Would we be missed if we were suddenly removed from the earth ? What hearts would be made sad—-what good cause would suffer. ftgy* Kindness is stowed away in the heart ■ , like rolowly, " I guess—l—could but he added, in a much more rapid manner, " I could if ha was bigger than 1 am I" 4S3T* An honest Dutchman, training tip his sou in the wnv lie should go, frequently exer cised him in Bible lessons. On one occasion he nski d him : " Who vos dat vot vould not shleep mi* Botiphtr's vife ?" " l'osepb." " Duts a good hoy. Veil, vot vas de rea son he would not snleep mit her ?" " Don't kuow ; spose he vosnt very shlee py" Vf&r. An old woman next door to ns sets the whole neighborhood sneezing by shaking her handkerchief out of the window. Is she not the one alluded to by Shakspeare, when he says M Snuffs the morniog air V' An advertising chandler at Liverpool modestly says, that " without intending any disparagement to the sun, he may confidently assert that bis octagonal spermaceti are tbo best lights ever invented " BSS" An offl cted husband was returning from the funeral of his wife, when a friend asked how he was. " Well," he said, patheti ! cally, " I think I feel the better for that little ! walk." Xow, my child, I hope yon will be good ! so that I shall not have to whip you again." j " If you must whip any one, you'd better whip j one of your size." Last winter, it is said, a cow floated down the Mississippi on a piece of ice, and became so cold that she has milked nothing but ice creams ever since. " When things get to the worst tbgy generally take a turn for the better." Thlf proverb applies more particularly to % iady 1 # ' silk dress—wbeo she cannot geta gf * OJW