ok puulicatiow.
rt ß is pul'litihed ev ery Thursday Morii
a. at $2 l" r annum, in ad
, fcr E L
pg< pvrF.XTS exci ling fifteen line# we
vp^ BU ;
cents per line lor first insertion,
t _ jii r line <t subsequent insertions
inserted before Marriages and
j i', e elwru'ed HfrEEM cent. per line for
ii solutions of Associations;
"' r ,-s ~f limited or individual interest,
' , triages and Deaths exceeding five
J lg rge<l TEN CENTS r line.
1 Year. 6 mo. 3 mo.
. „ .$75 S4O S3O
iW column. • 40 25 15
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n't ion. b ,,st : 'ttd Found, and oth
■ ' not exceeding 15lines,
• or less $1 50
■ ' !' .V. and Executor's Notices.. .2 IK)
' Nvtic-s.. 2 50
l ,V, r ,k five lines, qier year) u (X)
p. 1 ' '
... . ,tli: .s. advertising their business
; ,i rfo. They will be entitled to 4
r fined • xchtsively to their business, with
P ''v*of
. in all cases exclusive of snb
.. , B to the pap. r.
1 i'-INTIN'i oi every kind in Plain and Fan
. , neatness and dispatch. Hand
nks Calais Pamphli ts, Ac., of every va
• ' n ; t , nun dat the shortest notice. The
timer" has just been re-fitted with Power
j i v tlung in the Printing line can
. i iu the most artistic manner and at the
TKIIMS INYAIIIABLY CASH.
ovij)inal
For the Bradford Reporter,
ill) KAOIAM e of the spirit.
. -he liuliancc of the spirit
trail-!' iiit tli Nature's face,
, j.. vintrv ia.-ad and woodland
.a:- i mam lions light and gran-:
; i U v. -t- tin somber forest
With • ncLantmi nt not its own,-
. to t-vt'iy emerald moss-bank
til the -pieiidor of a throne.
thrones of rank or station V
VLat i* luxury and wealth!
what hut fleeting bursting bubbles
,■ j. givi - the joy of health'(
. rf > gold of heaven's refining—
f ail, ufl'ords to mortals here ;
an paled beside the shining
Of the penitential tear.
fi- the radiance of the spirit
I:- tin finer sense and taste.
li.it iiigilds a common living,
• That o't r-pans the chance of place :
Vtiil th halo that i ncirelcs
Pr.ai - of purity and truth
jives da in moii than lading fairness,
i- thai- ir'-h peiji'tnol youth.
DADDY DODD.
in: lit adlc was an honest man, with u
l.uiiilv and a small shop It was not
;,il, rciinistaiice in John's position
• winlc his family kept on enlarging,
'l'siiiiatt ly maintained its contrac
: 'linu-n.-iuiis ; that, while there seemed
1 oi mis to the race of Beadle, the
- which maintained them was striet
.;ii-ti John's shop was situated in
! the many by-streets, with no mam
; Ail are among them, which constitute
- Town, and it was devoted to the
;> ■ a!- and vegetables. As n house
. -I ma, though in a small way of
■ ■-- vas a person of some importance,
lie was the sole lessee of an
tenement. It was something to boast
that neighborhood, but not much ; for
! which John called his own was a
i.-lan k> il root, and covered only one
f • • -ides the basement, which lormed !
' .p.'liutii. The tenement seemed to be
j*' -Hiking into the earth. The impression
la holder was that one story had al
-link, and that the others were rap- 1
'-Lowing it ; so that it scenu d proba- i
it in a 1 w years there would be noth- ;
. v -ilile but the luoken-backed roof lying j
the spot, a monument of departed ,
ineree iu coals. Meantime, by the j
V of two upright beams and one trans- j
one, the broken backed roof was kept
■r the heads ot John and his family.
' hn's family consisted of his wife Mar
., seven children and Maltha's old father. I
these, including the old man, who was t
-t work, and utterly without means of
- wn, were dependent upon the exertions
•Mm, aided, when urgent family matters
• permit, by his wife. John's exertions
divided between chopping fire-wood,
- ' lit hundreds more frequently half
•irni- t coals on a truck,and "moving."
ivupatioii ol "moving" may be de-!
; '- going to houses about quarter- j
' r.-tlmg with chests of drawers, solas, j
: -t I i-dsteads, and other heavy arti- j
■ f furniture, and getting very little
■v, but a good deal of beer. If John i
' a pelican of the wilderness, he '
. 'km nourished his family upon beer
'■ '- v ' ■ k after moving ; but lie was only
in, and could do little more than find
1 hit of supper with the single shil-1
- which was generally all his reward in i
'I!' currency.
i ami the window of the shop l>e
: j.way- i pen, the nature and extent of
•"-tock in trade were patent to the
It consisted of about a ton of coals
'• generally ran small—heaped up in
b a little pile of firewood, a few
. .'iiioiis, a few bunches of greens,
otw: i.} peppermint-stick alluringly dis
vv"h some niarrowless nuts and wiz
'iii'-otia board outside the window,
'' d-wrench. This last instrument
' w,.Mi, rti, 1 auxiliary to John's other
While the two upright beams
single transverse beam were the
'I the emporium architecturally,
''Wrench was the prop of the einpor
iiitin rcially. It was a thing not to
u ght, lut borrowed ; and the charge
■"."loan of the bed-wrench was two-
Uhaldron .Street was given to bor
g, and it seemed to be a street which
' usy in its bed,for it was always
- us bed down and putting its bed up
ri suit being that John's bed
vvas in constant and urgent de
! 1 i .•! John's shop was occupied by
'k. tlie other half formed the ordina
■"gToonj. This latter room had a
. Mirtuounted by a mantel-shelf, on
•• M"..d several works of art in china ;
nitnrc consisted ol two or three
' 1 chairs and a small round table.---
"'bvr domesticity was ever witries
, ,i.is department except at the close
" '' 'J', when the family, coming from
• s and the potatoes and the firewood,
1 "ish at the little round table, and
j' '''■ hir herrings and thick bread and
; in V u ' a - such times old Daddy,
i-ii ' ? """I'yaunuated father, was to be
u ""g in an arm-chair by the side of
, "s Laid head encircled by a glory
: ' the coals rising on his right
1 k . I '"' t ""'""lain range, put in as a
J""* l " picture. Those family
> Wf ' r c sharp and short. All un-
Ik fnadj'ttcil lepm
K. O. GOODRICH, Publisher.
VOLUME XXVI.
necessary conveniences of luxury, such as
knives and forks, slop-basins, and the like,
were dispensed with. Each oue as he tin
ished his cup of tea turned round and threw
the dregs upon the heap of coals, and, when
he had tiished picking his herring, turned
the other way and thing the bones into the
fire. After the meal, Mr. Beadle was accus
tomed to sit opposite old Daddy,while Mar
tha drew up between them, and devoted
herself to the mending of the family linen ;
but as the number of chairs was limited,
the younger branches of the family usually
reclined in the classic fashion, among the
coals, from contact with which they deriv
ed a swarthiness of complexion which caus
ed them to be known in the neighborhood
as the "black Beadles "• John and Martha
loved their offsprings dearly and would not
have anything happen to one of them for
the world ; but they began to find that
they were increasing both in numbers and
in appetite in a ratio altogether dispropor
tionate to the development of the trade in
coals and vegetables, notwithstanding that
the rolling stock had been increastd by a
new truck and a second bed-wrench. John's
ambition had often taken a run at a horse
and cart ; but it had never been able to
vault so high, and. always fell back upon
the truck and hurt itself in the region of
its dignity. A truck is not a glorious kind
of vehicle—especially a coal truck. It ia a
vehicle that takes the pavement rather than
the middle of the road, for choice, and al
though the thunder which it makes as it
traverses the coal-traps on the pavement is
considerable, it is not a source of pride to
its owner. Besides, it does not warrant
the assumption of that sceptre of authority,
a whip ; and it is usually propelled by one
of the human species. Well, it would nev
er do if we all had the same ambition.—
While some persons aspire to rule their fel
low-men, there are others who prefer to ex
ercise authority over the brutes iu driving a
horse and cart. This was John's case. A
horse and cart with corresponding increase
of business, and a drive down the road of
the Jolly Butchers on Sunday afternoon,
with the missus in all her best by his side,
and the kids with their faces washed be
hind, like a pen of clean little p : gs—this
had been the dream of John's life ; but it i
was a dream that had not yet come true.—
Indeed, so far from this, John's prospects
were becoming darker rather than brighter
every day.
" What was to be done ?"
This question, which had long suggested
itself both to John and Martha, found audi
ble expression one night, after the black
Beadles had scampered away to their holes
for the nipht. Old Daddy Dodd was sitting
dozing in his chair by the side of the fire,
and John and Martha were sitting oppo
site.
It was John who propounded the ques
tion—
" What was to be done ?"
Martha made no audible reply ; but, af
ter a pause, raised her eyes to John's face,
and then looked across significantly at Dad
dy Dodd.
John shook his head and covered his face
with his bauds.
" 1 have no right to ask you to do it any
longer, John," Martha said. " I had no
right ever to expect you to do it."
" But it was my duty and my pleasure to
do it, Martha," John replied. "He's your
father, and I conld'nt see the poor old man
starve !"
" But he need'nt starve, you know, John,"
Martha said ; and her lips trembled as she
said the wolds.
" I know wirat you mean," John return
ed ; "but I can't bear the thoughts of it. It's
not what ought to be, when he's had a
house of his own and drove his own chay,
and paid rates and taxes, and every com
fort."
" Well it is hard when you think of it,"
Martha replied, sadly ; "and the drawing
room that we had,too,and the silver spoons,
and the real china cups and saucers !" And
at the thought of the china cups and sau- j
cers Martha dropned a tear.
" Yes, it is hard," John returned ; " and
that's why 1 have stood between him and it
as long us I could."
" But you can't stand between him and it
an} - longer, John, and I mnst'ntask you to;
it's not fair to you, John, and y<>u shan't be
burdened with him any longer."
Poor old Daddy was sitting dozing in his
chair, blissfully unconscious of tliese delib
erations, of which he was the subject. In
his time Daddy had been in a good, though
small way of business, in the carpentering
line, combined with a little undertaking
(which he undertook in his overtime, to
oblige friends), and he had brought up a
large family decently ; but his sons, who
might have been a help to him in his de
clining years, emigrated, and died in for
eign parts ; and when the infirmities of age
began to creep upon the old man, and he
was no longer able to work with his own
hands, he disposed of his business at an
alarming sacrifice, and retired to live on
his means. His means were small, but his
remaining years were few ; nrd proceeding
on his philosophical calculation, Daddy liv
ed upon the principal instead of the inter
est (which lie could not have lived upon at
all,) and lived longer than lie calculated.—
Although Daddy disposed of his business,"
and let the carpenter's shop, he still contin
ued to oocup\ the dwelling-house of which
it b lined a part, and thus led many to be
lieve that the <>ld carpenter was pretty well
off His daughter Martha shared in this
impression, and was rather disposed to
boast id the independent gentleman, her
father, and elu iish expectations of an in
heritance.
One day, about two years after Martha
had been married to John Beadle,and short
ly alter she had prodigally presented John
with the second pledge of her affection, old
Daddy arrived at the emporium suffused
with smiles. Martha thought he was go
ing to present baby with the silver spoons.
When the old man had settled himself in a
chair, and recovered his breath, he said,
with a pleasant chuckle, —
■ " 1 have got something to tell you, Mar
| that'
! ' What is it father ?"
Well, Martha, t have been looking in
the top drawer, and—and—''
rs, lather, yes,"' said Martha, eagerly,
making ipiite sure now that baby was to
. have the spoons.
I've been looking in the top drawer,"
the old man repeated, "and—and—"
" The spoons," Martha suggested, as du-
tifully helping her poor nld father in a diffi
culty.
" No, not the spoons, Martha," he said,
the money."
" What about the money, father ?"
" It's all gone, Martha ?"
" All gone ! The money you've got to
live upon, lather," cried Martha, hysterical
ly, "all gone?"
" Every fardeu," said the old man.
Martha could not believe it. She gave
baby to a neighbor to mind, and insisted
upon the old man going back with her to
his lodgings immediately, lie gave her the
key, aad she tore open the top drawer in a
frantic way. She seized the canvas bag in
which the old man kept his money (for he
had an unconquerable distrust of banks,)
and plunged her hand into it. She could feel
nothing like coin. She turned the bag iu
side out and hook it, nothing fell out of it.
She rummaged among the useless odds and
ends in the drawer,and not a farthing could
she find. Suddenly she paused and said—
" You've been robbed, father. Some
body's been at the drawer.' 1
" No, no, my dear, you. musn't say that ;
nobody has been at the drawer but me. I've
spent it all. There wasn't much of it, only
eighty pounds altogether, and it would'ut
last forever. It's me that's lived too long,
Martha and the old man sat down iu a
chair and began to whimper and weep.
Martha could only sit down and weep
too. She was overwhelmed by the thought
of her father's destitution and the prospect
which lay before hiin in his weak old age.
His money was all gone, and his few sticks
of furniture, with the silver spoons, which
remained, woul scarcely realize enough to
bury hiin.
This was sad news to tell John when he
came in (from a moving job) to his dinner.
Martha, byway of breaking it gently to
him, hysterically shrieked out the tidings at
the top of her voice as John was coming in
at the door.
" 0 John, father's money's all gone !"she
cried.
Seeing that Martha was in a dreadful
state of excitement about the matter, John,
with a proper appreciation of artistic con
trast, took the unwelcome announcement
cooly.
" Well," he said, "in that case tve must
keep him. He has nobody else to look to."
And so oue day John went over to Dad
dy's house, sent for a broker and disposed
of all the things except the old man's bed,
which he dispatched by the truck to the
emporium. That done, he locked the door,
sent the key to the landlord, and taking
the old man by the hand, led him to the
shelter of the broken-backed roof. Putting
him into the old arm-chair by the fire, and
patting him kindly on his bald head he
said—
"There, Daddy,consider yourself at home,
provided for for the rest of your life."
So it happened that John and Martha
were burdened with old Daddy Dodd, in
addition to their own numerous offspring.
And Daddy ?ras a burden, though neither
John nor Martha ever said so, even to each
other. He was an expensive eld man, for
though he did not eat much, and was well
content to share a bedroom with the boys,
he had, considering his circumstances, an
unreasonable passion for snuff ; and a glass
of "six ale," punctually every morning at
eleven o'clock, was absolutely necessary to
his existence. The glass of six ale he icould
have, and he would have it nowhere but in
the public house, standing at the pewter
bar, according to a custom which he had
most religiously observed for more than
forty years. One ol the inconveniences of
this requirement was, that the old man had
to be provided every morning with three
halfpence in current coin of the realm; and
another, which followed in the course of
time, when the old man became decrepit
and feeble, was that some one had to take
him to the particular public house on which
alone he would bestow his patronage (half
a mile distant,) and bring him back again.
Still no word of comp aint escaped eith
er John or Martha, until their family in
creased to that extent when every half-pen
ny became, as Martha said, an "object."
The crisis arrived that night, when John,
in general but significant terms, asked his
good wife what was to he done.
"It is not fair to you, John," Martha said,
"and you sha'n't he burdened with him any
longer." And while the old man sat dozing
in his chair, it was resolved between them
after a hard struggle on John's part and
many silent tears on Martha's part, that
John should next day put old Daddy into
the werehouse. The resolution was taken,
and the old man slept on. Neither John
nor Martha had the courage to wake him.
They were afraid that he might read their
terrible intentions towards him in their
guilty faces. "I cannot do it, Martha,"
John said ; anil he made an excuse to go
out of doors to smoke his pipe. Martha
could not do it either, and sat waiting for
the old man to wake ; and presently he
awoke and called for her. She had with
drawn into the shade, and he could not see
her with his dim old eyes.
"Martha," he said "where are you? Come
here and let me tell you what I have been
dreaming about. Such a pleasant dream,
my dear, about the old days when you was
all at home ! I thought 1 saw you all
round the table eating your Christinas din
ners ; and there was turkey and plum-pud
ding, and all the nice things that we used
to have, you know ; and then I dreamt that
I was taking you to the boarding-school,
where you was for twelve months, you
know ; and—and as we were driving down
the Edgeware road in the chaise, John came
up and wanted to borrow five pounds, just
; as he used to do, you know ; and—and I
1 lent it him, just as I used to do, and—and
j —but what's the matter with you Martha?
you're not crying, surely."
Poor old man, he little knew what thorns
I he was planting in his daughter's breast
; She was crying, but she hid her eyes, and
i said kindly it was time for him to go to
bed.
So, taking him by the hand, and leading
i him to his room, she put him to bed and
tucked him up like a child.
When Martha went down stairs again,
John was timidly peeping in at the door.
" Have you put him to bed, Martha ?" he
i inquired.
! " Yes, John."
" Do you think that he suspected any
; thing ?"
" 0 no, poor old dear."
! " No, of course not, Martha," John said ;
! "he would never dream that we could be
REGARDLESS Of DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER.
TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., MARCH 8, 1866.
such monsters—but did he say anything?" j
" Yes, ho said ' God bless you, Martha,
and God bless John, and all your kind
ness.' "
John, whose heart was much too big for
his other faculties, withdrew his head from
the door, and vented his smitten feelings in 1
a howl.
John and Martha crawled up to bed that j
night with the sense of a premeditated j
crime weighing upon their souls. As they i
passed the room where the old man lay, j
they turned away their faces.
Next morning Martha dressed her old ba
by in his best clothes. crying over him all
the while, and hiding her tears as best she
could. Daddy wanted to know if it was
Sunday, that they were putting on his best
things, and Martha could not answer. Ev
ery innocent word he uttered w as a reproach
to her. She could not look at him at break
fast time, neither could John.
When breakfast was over, John said to
the old man, in as cheerful a tone as he
could commaud—
" Grandfather, I'm going to take you for
a walk."
" That's kind of you, John," said the old
man—"very kind."
" Well, come along, grandfather here's
your hat and stick."
" I'm ready, John, quite ready Eh ?
bless me,what's the matter now, my dear ?"
Martha had her arms round his neck, kis
sing him.
" Good by, father," she said, through her
sobs, "good by."
She had resolved not to say it, but she
could n't help it.
" Tut, tut, my dear," said the old man, |
"we are not going far. Are we, John ?"
" No, grandfather, not very far."
" And we'll come back soon, won't we, |
John ?"
" 0 yes, grandfather," John said ; and j
the words almost choked him.
Martha whispered to the children to go
and shake hands with their grandfather ;
and wondering what this unusual ceremony
meant, they were told, quietly and silently.
The old man was as much puzzled as the
children, and wanted to know if it was a
birthday. John could not answer him; his
heart was full and his utterance choked.
Without another word he took the old man
by the hand, and led him from the house ;
and Martha stood in the doorway, surroun
ded by the children, looking after them
sadly through her tears. It was barely a
quarter of a mile to the workhouse, but it
was a long journey for Daddy, who was
getting very frail now. He dropped his
stick very often, and John had to stoop
and pick it up for him, and there were dan
gerous crossings to pass, where it was nec
essary for John to signal to drivers of ve
hicles to draw up and slacken speed until
he carried the old man safely over to the
other side of the road. Poor old Daddy,
going to the workhouse, was highly hon
ored that day. The stream of traffic stayed
its current and diverted its course to let
him pass. It could not have done more for
the Lord Mayor. At length John, leading
his unconscious charge by the hand, arri
ved in front of the workhouse gates. At
the sight of the gloomy portral and the
high black wall, which shuts in life and
shuts out hope, his resolution began to fail
him. He stopped and hesitated.
" Grandfather," he said, " it's about time
for your glass of ale, ain't it !"
" Well, yes, John, I think its getting on
that way," said the old man in a cheery
tone.
" Will you take it here ?" John asked.
" Is this the Nag's Head?" the old man
inquired.
The Nag's Head was the house which he
had "used" for forty years.
" No, grandfather," John said ; " this is
not the Nag's ; but they keep a good glass
of ale here."
" Well, just as you like," Daddy assented
So John took the old man into a public
house opposite the workhouse gates, and
gave him the usual three-half pence ; for it
was Daddy's pride always to pay for his
liquor with his own hand. While Daddy
was sipping his ale, John tossed off a coup
le of glasses of spirits ; he was trying to
screw his failing courage to the point.
When the old man had finished his glass,
John took him once more by the hand, and
hurriedly led him across the road. He was
at the gate, hesitating, with a full heart,,
looking through a mist of tears at the han
dle of the workhouse bell, inviting only the j
clutch of despair, when the old man looked j
up in his face end said :
" John !"
" Yes, grandfather."
" Ain't this the workhouse?"
Daddy's look, his intimation that he knew j
where he was, the thought that he suspec- j
ted his design, struck John to the heart |
and he hurried the old man away from the j
gate.
" The workhouse, grandfather, no, no 1' J
John said ; " what made you think of that? i
Come, come away, come away ; we're go- |
ing home, grandfather, going home as fast j
| as we can."
John was so anxious to diag Daddy
l away from the spot, that he fairly lifted
him off his legs and carried him across the
road. In his excitement and haste he quite
forgot Daddy's feebleness, and hurried him
along at such a rate that tin* old man lost
his breath, and was nearly falling. It was s
not until a street had been put between
them and the workhouse, that John relaxed
I his speed and allowed Daddy to recover
j himself. After that he led him gently back
I to the emporium, took him in, and replaced
I him in his old chair by the fireside.
" 1 couldn't do it, Martha," lie said ; "my
j hand was on the bell, when he looked up at
me and spoke to me ; and his look, and
what he said, struck me to the heart. 1
couldn't do it. I felt as if I was going to
murder the poor old man. It's worse than
murder, Martha, to put a poor fellow crea
ture in there ; it's burying him alive 1"
" But, John —"
" I say it shall never be done by me,
Martha," John interposed, sternly. "We
must do the best we can for him, and strive
to the la-t to save him and ourselves from
that disgrace."
An interchange of looks sealed the com
pact between them, —that Daddy was to
have a home with them while they had a
roof to call their own, aud a loaf of bread
to share with him.
Old Daddy had not only been a consider
able expense to John and Martha, but du
ring the winter mouths he had been much
in the way. Hs was always pottering
j about the shop, which being also the set
ting-room, did not afford much scope for
business and domesticity combined. But
now the fine days were coming, and Daddy
would be able to spend a good deal of his
| time out of doors. So, when the fine days
i came, little Benjy, John's youngest but
| two, who was not old enough to be of any
, assistance in the business, was appointed
j to the sole and undivided duty of minding
! grandfather, and taking him for walks,
| when it was convenient to get hiin out of
i the way. Little Benjy, a little, larire-head
ed, wise-looking boy of six years, was Dad
dy's especial pet and favorite ; or, perhaps,
it might have been said, so much more re
sponsible a person was Benjy, that Daddy
was hi# pet and favorite. Be that as it
would, they loved each other, and on fine
days, when the sun shone, it was their de
light to wander hand in hand among the
neighboring streets, prattling together like
two children, and gazing in, with chi dlike
wonder, at the pretty things in the shop
windows. The people round about called
them the Babes in the Wood, and old Dad
dy was certainly as much a babe as Benjy.
He took the sarue interest in the contents
of the toy-shops, and sighed as deeply as
Benjy sighed to think that his youthful
guardian could not become the possessor
of a much-coveted toy-gun (with a pink
stock), which went off with a spiral spring.
In their wanderings, day by day, the Babes
saw many strange things, and studied the
wonders of Somers Town with the deepest
interest. It was their special delight to ]
stand before an opeu door or window,
which afforded them a view of a process of
manufacture. They stood on gratings and
listened to the rattle of sausage-machines
"that went by steam." Benjy informed his
his c.iarge and pupil, who was not very
well up iu the modern arts and sciences ;
they gazed at the little men in shirt-sleeves
and Hat caps, who turned a miniature cof
fee-mill under a glass case at the grocer's,
—such industrious little men, who always
kept on grinding whether their master was
in the shop or not, aud never seemed to go
home to their meals. They superintended
the lowering of barrels into public-house
cellars, learning the mysteries of the in
clined plane, and speculating as to whether
the barrels contained the particular kind of
six ale which grandfather liked ; they
watched the making of shoes and the turn
ing of wood, and were sometimes absorbed
in the flaying of sheep, a process which
had a deep abstract interest for Benjy
while it set Daddy dabbling about the de
lights —to him now purely visionary—of a
boiled leg of mutton and caper sauce.
In these wanderings Benjy was careful
not to release his hold of Daddy's hand, for
lie was particularly enjoined never to leave
him for a moment, and whenever ho did,
not to let him tumble down. One muddy
day Benjy did let Daddy tumble, and a sad |
state of mind he was iri for fear his mother ,
should find it out. He did his best with hie j
little cotton pocket-handkerchief of efface 1
all traces of mud from Daddy's trousers ; i
but he was afraid least the old man might
"tell on him." Not that there was any
want of loyalty between them, but Daddy
was getting so garrulous, that he some
times, quite unintentionally, let out things
that got Benjy into trouble ; so, when any
thing happened, Benjy was obliged to re
mind grandfather that he was not to tell.
" You won't tell mother that I let you
fall in the mud, will you, grandfather ?' lie
would say, as they bent their steps home
ward.
" 0 no, Benjy," the old man protefded.
"I I shan't say a word about it."
At first, before complete confidence had |
been established between them, Benjy j
sought on one occasion to purchase Ins j
grandfather's silence with a penny (which ;
he did not at that moment possess, but ex
pec-ted to have some day); but he had)
come to know now that the bond of love j
between them was strong enough to sus
tain their mutual devotion, exc< pt when it \
was occasionally loosened by an inadver- j
tence, or lapse of memory, which in Dad- j
dy's case was beyond the power of either j
love or money to control, doing home in i
the.summer evenings, after their rambles, j
Daddy and Benjy had deeply interesting j
tales to tell the family of the wonders of j
the great orld of Somers Town.
Alas that those relations should so often j
have fallen upon indifferent ears! But j
John and Martha were becoming sullen and ;
moody, a prey both of them to the deepest
anxiety. The family was still increasing; j
but the business continued to resist all el-1
forts in the direction of developemeut.— ,
John was getting into debt at the coal- j
wharf, and at the potato warehouse. The !
times were hard, and were coming on har
der with the approach of winter. Coals
were at eighteen pence a hundred, pota
toes at a penny a pound. The poor peo
ple couldn't pay the price. Poor women |
came for a few pounds of coal, aud took j
them away in their aprons. There was!
scarcely any use for the truck. \\ hen •
coals were so dear, and tires so small,
Chaldron Street was a good deal given to :
warm itself in its beds, which thus became
ii permanent institution. The consequence
to John was that his bed-wrench rusted in
idleness ; and, iu view of the oxide which
accumulated upon it, it might he said to
have been engaged in the disastrous occu
pation of eating its head off. The fortunes
of the emporium were at a very low ebb ;
John and Murtha could scarcely provide
bare food for the family. The black Bea
dles, clamoring for victuals, and not find
ing satisfaction at the little iound table,
passed like a cloud of locusts over the
stock in the simp, and making short work
of the carrots, attacked even the cabbage
leaves aud the turnip-tops. John and Mar
tha were denying themselves day alter day,
that the old man might have a bit of some
thing nice and nourishing. But things
were coming to a crisis now. The coal
merchant, the potato merchant, aud the
landlord, all three threatened process, and
t John was in hourly expectation of an ex
i ocution All his striving had been of no
avail to save "him and them from that dis
grace." It must come now. Nothing could
avert it.
One afternoon John was setting on a
! stool, on the site of the mountain of coal,
which had been removed to the last shovel
iul of dust (aud, alas; the capitalists at the
wharf had not the faith to replace it,) ut
' terly dejected and dispirited. It was a
•< ruble trial for a strong man with a stout
iiu ait and a vigorous will, to be thus beaten
down and trampled under the feet of a cruel
pei* Annum, in Advance.
and relentless Fortune, whom he had wooed
with all his art, and wrestled with all his
! strength. Poor John had received so many
hard falls, that the spirit was almost
i crushed out of him When he looked up
and saw a strange man darkening his door,
I he felt that the last blow was about to be
j struck. *
" Come in," he said ; " don't stand upon
any ceremony, I beg ; I'm quite prepared
for you."
" Are you ?" said the man, curiously.
"Yes, lam," John replied. "I know
your errand as well as you do yourself."
"Do you ?" said the man, in the same
tone.
" Do you come here to mock me ?" cried
John, angrily, rising and facing the intru
der ; " to mock me as well as to ruin me." j
" Mock you ?" said the man.
" Yes, mock me," John repeated, in the!
same angry tone.
" I did not come here to mock you ; far
from it," the man returned. "In fact, my
! business is not with you at all. I come to
i see Mr. Dodd, who was an old neighbor of
| mine."
" I beg your pardon, sir," said John j
" You'll excuse me, I hope ; but we are j
in great distress, and I expected nothing :
but bad news."
" If 1 am not mistaken," said the stran
ger, " it's good news I bring you. You are j
Mr. Dodd's son-in-law, are you not ?"
" I am, sir, and I wish I were a richer !
son in-law, for his sake," John replied.
" Perhaps there will be no need of that, J ,
for his sake," the stranger returned.
" What do you mean ?" John asked
" Well, just this," said the stranger. "A [
few days ago I noticed an advertisement in
the paper, addressed to Daniel Dodd, in- 1
forming him that if he applied to Mr. John- '
son, solicitor, in Bedford Row, he would j'
hear of something to his advantage. Now, j '
thinking that the Daniel Dodd wanted !
might be my old neighbor, and knowing
Mr. Johnsou, of Bedford Row, I called upon !
that gentleman, and learued that the per- i
son wanted u Daniel Dodd, my old neigh- j j
bir, and that under the will of his brother '
George, who died some time ago in India, j
he is entitled to—"
" Hold hard, sir," said John, grasping j
the stranger by the arm, and staring at him j 1
with fixed eyes. " You're not having a '
lark, a cruel lark with us, are you ?"
" God forbid," said the stranger, gravely, i 1
" And answer me another thing, sir," I 1
John continued, in the same excited way. j 1
" You're not out of your mind are you ?" j
" Certainly not," returned the man.
"Very well," said John ; "you may go j '
on."
" I was going to say," the stranger con- i
tinued, " that under the will oi his deceas :d j
brother George, who died some time ago in j
India, Daniel Dodd is entitled to five thous-1
and pounds."
" Martha !" cried John to his wife, who j
was up stairs cleaning the rooms.
" Yes John. What is it ?"
" Father's money's come back again !
Father's money's come back again! Father's
money's come back again !" And he j
shouted it over and over again up the
stairs, and slapped the banisters every time j
to give it emphasis.
"Are you gone mad, John?" was Mar- j
tha's reply, when she was allowed to j
speak.
"You see, sir," said John to his visitor, !
" she thinks I must be mad ; no wonder if j
I thought you were mad. But here's Dad- ;
dy ; he knows you, I dare say, and you can
tell him ; he often talked about his brother j
George who went to India ; but I thought i
he had been dead long ago."
At tLat moment Daddy came in from one j
of his walks with Benjy, and was told of j
his fortune.
" Dear me," he said, sinking into his i
chair, " brother George is dead. Poor boy, j
1 poor boy 1"
The poor boy had died at the good old j
| age of threescore and ten, but Daddy still j
thought of him as the lad in the blue jack- j
let from whom he had parted at Wappiug i
when they were boys.
Not without many difficulties, long de- j
! lay, and consideiable cost, Daddy's claim j
ito the five thousand pounds was estab
| lished. John gave all his time, —utterly '
j neglected the emporium,—to the prosecu- j
\ tion of the matter, and oddly enough, in j
J wooing Fortune in this most audacious and •
| presumptuous manner, he proved success- j
ful ; though, previously, when he had hum- j
i bled himself in the dirt to implore her for a j
| single smile, she had contemptuously pass- i
jed onward, bespattering him with mud
| from her chariot wheels. And one day j
! John, knowing Daddy's weakness, brought
| home the five thousand pounds all in notes >
} in the very canvas bag which had been the i
j old man's bank in the days when he was
J well to do.
" There, father," said Martha, putting the i
| bag in his hand. " And now what will you
I do with it ?"
| " What will Ido with it ?" said the old
man. " I'll—-I'll keep my promise to Benjy,
and buy him that gun !"
" But there's more than will buy the gun,
: father."
" You don't mean thai, Martha ?" said the j
| old man.
" 0 yes, father, a heap more."
" Then," said Daddy, " I'll give the rest
' to John to buy a horse and cart."
I " But there's more even than that, father; ;
i ever so much more."
" 0, well, you just keep that for yourself,
Martha, tor taking care of your old father." j
And Daddy, with no elaborate design,
but with the simple innocence of a child,
which is sometimes wiser thau the astute ,
j provisions of law, saved the dangerous for
malities of will-making and the charges for
legacy duty, by handing to his daughter
Martha the bag containing all his money.
Before John even thought of his horse
and cart —though that was lurking in a
j corner of his mind -he regained the tenan
cy of Daddy's old house, furnished it with
as many of the old sticks as he could re-
II cover from the brokers' shops, with many
splendid new ones besides for the drawing
; room, and when all was done, led Daddy
back to lis old quarters, and joined him
t i there w th Martha and all the family.
, | But dotage had been coming upon poor
- old Daddy, and he could scarcely be made
; i to understand the change which had taken
- place in his position. He came at last to
i: fancy that it was a dream, and sitting by
t the fireside of an evening, and recognizing
I his old room peopled with the faces ot
I i John and Martha and their children, he
would tell his daughter to wake him up by
and by.
And BO ho weut on dreaming, until one
winter's night he woke up in a land where
there was no more going to sleep.
And the days of John and Martha are
likely to be long and prosperous, for they
honored their old father in his age and
need, and the bread which they cast upon
the waters hascorne back to them with a
blessing.— Every Saturday.
Fired with emulation, I carefully watch
ed a common garden spider ( Epeira diode
ma,) which I found as entertaining as won
derful. I commenced by destroying the
web of a fine, fat spider, and the owner ap
peared excessively astonished as her web
collapsed around her. At length she took
refuge in an inverted flower-pot, where 1
found her two hours after. lam inclined
to think that during this period she was
preparing materials for a new web. I found
in every case, where a web is destroyed,
that the spider goes away to some quiet
spot, and. drawing his legs closely round
him, remains quiet two or three hours. Dur
ing this period of repose the spider is stu
pid and dull—just gives an impatient shut
fle when touched, and does uot run off, as
spiders generally do when disturbed 1
watched again, then left.and when I return
ed, in half an hour, I found the spider as
active as a spider could be, in building a
new web, the old one,which, on my last vis
it, was still hanging, had now vanished.—
Had the spider eaten it? "That's the rub."
By a lucky chance another spider came
along the piece of wood, from the end of
which my spider had fastened one of her
foundation lines. "They met," and in an
instant the claws of each was shot out with
a dexterity that a pugilist might envy ; the
blows were given in the same manner
as a cat strikes her antagonist. The tres
passing spider was soon convinced that it
would be the height of folly to stop where
he was ; so, fastening a line from where he
stood, he let himself down on to a convol
vulus leaf. My friend rushed to the spot
where spider No. 2 had fastened his line,
and seizing on it (the other end of which,
be ft remembered, was in communication
with spider No. 2's body), began to wind
him off—that is to say, she drew the line in
toward herself in the same manne- that a
sailor hauls in a rope, but with a rapidity
that was truly wonderful ; the front legs
were moved so quickly that my eyes could
scarcely follow them. Spider No. 2 had a
decided objection to his vitals being wound
away in this sort of manner, put an end to
my friend's little pastime by cutting the
line. Spider No. 1 had now collected web
that amounted to the size of a large pea ;
when she found the supply cut off, she be
gan stowing it away in her own body, lorc
ing it in with her two front claws, and in a
few moments not a vestige was left.
NUMBER 41.
THE TROUT. —This is the only fish that
comes in and goes out of season with the
deer. He grows rapidly, and dies after
reaching his full growth. The female
spawns in October, at a different time from
nearly .ill other fish : after which both male
and female become lean, weak, and un
wholesome eating, and, if examined closely,
will be found covered with a species of
clove-sh aped insects, which appear to suck
their substance from them, and they con
tinue sick until warm weather, when they
rub the insects off on the gravel, and im
mediately grow strong. The female is the
best for the table. She may be known by
her small head and deep body. Fish arc
always in season when their heads are so
small as to be disportioned to the size of
their body. The trout is less oily and rich
than the* 6almon ; the female is much
brighter and more beautiful than the male ;
they swim rapidly, and often leap, like the
salmon, to a great height when ascendiug
streams In a trout pond they may be fed
with angle worms, rose bugs, crickets,
grass-hoppers, te., which they attack with
great voracity. They grow much more
rapidly in ponds than in their native
streams, from the fact that they are better
fed, and not compelled to exercise. Trout
are the only fish known that possess a voice,
which is perceived by pressing them, when
they emit a murmuring sound, and tremble
all over.
LIFE IN JAVA. — A traveller writes L'rom
Batavia, Island of Java : " The Hotel dee
lades, at which 1 am stopping—the tnaiu
building, two stories high, with an immense
piazza in front—is connected on each side
by buildings like railroad depots, 300 or
400 feet long. Each suite of rooms con
tains room enough to make two, three, and
even half a dozen ordinary rooms, such as
we get at the hotels in the United States.
In front and back are bath-houses, fount
ains, flower-gardens, and out-houses, for
cooking and for servants, marble floor,
tiled roofs, ceiling from 20 to 30 feet high,
no carpets, and but few curtains. Meals
are served up in about the same style as at
the tirst-class hotels in New York. The
habitr of living are quite different. At
daylight, coffee and tea are taken to your
room ; at eight, same, with light refresh
ments ; twelve, breakfast, and at seven,
or night, same as baths. No extra charge,
take them or not, as you may cnoose. The
hotel is situated in the new or upper town,
some half dozen miles from the water. It
is a fair specimen of five or six others,
within half a mile ot each other. My hotel
and ground cover ten acres. The whole
ground, like the rest of the city, is one im
mense forest ot trees and canals."
FUN, FACTS AND FACETIiE.
ALFONSO LOMBARDI, a celebrated sculptor
to the Emperor Charles V., was a great coxcomb.
He got punished one day by a lady of Bologna, to
whom he took it into his head to make love in a
foppish manner. She was his partner at a hall, in
the midst of which he turned to her, and heaving
a profound sigh, said, with a fantastic gesture :
"If 'tis not love I feel, what is it ?"
"Perhaps," said the young lady, "something
bites you."
" IF you go on in that way, sir," said a
said a prisoner in a dock to his counsel, who was
defending him with force and fury and abusing
judge and jury in good set terms ; "if you go on
I in that way, sir, they'll hang me, 1 know they will "
"Never mind, my boy," replied the counsel,
Irish gentleman, carried away by his own eloquence,
"never mind, my boy : let them hang you. and I'll
! make them repent it
FASHIONABLE TALK.—A lady taus addrese
! Ed her servant in the presence of a fashionable
i party :
" Mary, relieve that burning luminary of the su
perincumbent dross that bears upon it."
| " Ma'am V" said Mary, confused as to what her
I mistress could mean.
| "Take," said the lady, -from that luminous
| body its superincumbent weight of consumed ear
' bon."
" Ma'am ?" repeated Mary.
"Snuff that candle, you huzzy, yon!" exclaimed
the lady in haste.
REI> noses are light-houses to warn voy
agers on the sea of life oft' the coast of Malaga, Ja
i maica, Santa Cruz and Holland.
'
AN exquisitely dressed youug gentleman,
after buying anotht r seal to dangle übout his deli
j c-ate person, said to the jeweller that "he would-
I ah like to nave-ah someth ng engraved on it-ah, to
denote what he was." "Certainly, certainly ; I
i will put a cypher on it," said the tradesm n.
WHAT is it we all frequently say we will
do. and no one has yet ever done -Stop a minute,
DOES THE SPIDER EAT ITS WEB ?