Terms of Publication. COUNTY AGITATOR is published 0 TIOGA Moro ‘ ing) and mailed to subscribers *' (Z dollar PER annum, -®z? r~ ‘ , r „ M . Jt is Intendoa to notiiy every ”‘ ad lhe term for whicfi'bo hat paid shall wrdf the stamp —“Time Out,” on the mar ve Mter The paper will then be stopped !, of Ik® , V remittance be received. By this ar -01 i '“ rlier can be brought in debt to the inter- is t i, e official Paper of the County, t ; -i AGdit , s teadily increasing circulation reach ilh a largo » _ t j jjborhood in the County. It is sent g ijiof>“f |0 j D y Post Office within the county ~ most convenient post office may be wia ['“ij'jjj’coaDty. «” , ' l "' r j, not exceeding 5 lines, paper inoln j H r"" - ■■■■ ■ RUTH. T . no land of Bethlehem Judah, J V ft u< linger, let a e wander! Tnbralh's rorroir, Rachel's pillar, . _ in the vallerjonder ; ' ‘ And the yellow barley harvest Floods it with a golden glory. t cU s back into the old time, Dreaming of her tender story, J hcr true heart’s strong devotion, From beyond the Dead Sea water, From the heathen land of ifahlon's wife and Mara's daughter. On the terebinth and fig-tree Suns of olden time are shinning, Arid the dark leaf of the Oliro Scarcely shows its silver lining; For *till noon is on the thicket, Vhere the blue-ncck'd pigeons listen Xo their own reproachful music; A D d the red pomegranates glisten. As a queen a golden circlet, * As a maid might wear a blossom, «o*tbe valley wears the cornfields W Heaving on her fertile bosom; jad the wild gray hills stand o'er them, All their terraced vineyards swelling LiW the green waves of a forest. Up to David's mountain-dwelling. 111. Lo! the princely-hearted Boa* Moves among his reapers slowly; And the widow’d child of Moab * Bends behind the gleaners lowly. Gathering, gleaning, as she goeth Down the slopes and np the hollows, labile the love of old Naomi Like a guardian angel follows ; And he speaketh words of kindness. Words of kindness calm and stately, Xdl he breaks the springs of gladness That lay cold and frozen lately; And the love-flowers that bad laded Deep within her bosom lonely, Sluwly open as he questions, Soon for him to blossom only— When that spring shall fill with music, Like an overflowing river; All bis homestead; and those flowers Bloom beside his hearth forever— -3lyther of a line of princes, ' Wrought into that race’s story. Whom the Godhead breaking earthward, Mark’d with an unearthly glory ! IV. Still be walks among the reapers. And the day is nearly over, And the lonely mountain partridge Seeks afar his scanty cover: And the flocks of wild blue pigeons. That had gleaned behind the gleaner, Find their shelter in the thicket; - And the cloudless sky grows sheener With a sudden flush of crimson, Steeping in a fiery lustre Every sheaf top in the valley, On the hill-side every cluster, V." Slowly, slowly fade, fair picture, Yellow lights and purple shadows, On the valley, on the mountains, And sweet Ruth among the meadows! Stay awhile, true heart, and teach us, Pausing in thy matron beauty, iCare of eiders, love of kindred, All unselfish thought and duty. Linger, Roar, noble minded ! Teach us—haughty and unsparing— Tender care for lowlier station, Kindly speech, and courteous hearing* Still each softest, loveliest color Shrine the form beloved and loving. Heroine of our heart's first poem. Through our childhood's dreamland moving, When the great old Bible open'd 11 And a pleasant pastoral measure, As our mothers read the story, Fill’d our infant hearts with pleasure. [Dublin University Magazine, & CLEVER STORY. ANN POTTER’S LESSON. My sister Mary Jane is older than I—as much as four years. Father died when we we botli small, and didn't leave us much meins beside the farm. Mother was rather a tally woman ; she didn’t feel as though she null farm it for a living. It’s hard.'work emgh for a man to get clothes and victuals off a farm in IVest Connecticut; it’s up-hill work always ; and then a man can turn to, himself, to ploughin’ and mowin’; —hut a woman a’n’t «f M use, except to tell folks what to do ; and everybody knows it’s no way to have a thing d ; ne, to send. Mother talked it all over with Deacon Peters, nd he counselled her to sell off all the farm In the home-lot, which was sot out for an orchard with young apple trees, and had a prden-spot at one end of it, close by the house. Mother calculated to raise potatoes and beans •nd onions enough to last on the year round, ihi to take in sewin’ so’s to get what few gro ceries wewas goin’ to want, We kept Old Red, | ho b es l cow; there was pasture enough for her : ' :e orchard, for the trees wa’n’t gfowed to « he bearin’ as yet, and we ’lotted a good deal oc milk to our house; besides, it saved butcher’s meat • Mother was a real pious woman, and she was 'gh-couraged woman, too. Old Miss Perrit, “ old widder-woman that lived down by the , “(ft come np to see her the week after father i 1 remember all about it, though I wa’n’t ta < ten years old; for when I see Miss Perrit | the road, with her slimpsy old veil ““gmg off f r om her bombazine bonnet, and f doleful look, (what Nancy Perrit used " ca H “mother’s company-face,”) I kinder ought she was cornin’ to our house; and she ™ ers musical to me, I went in to the back took up a towel' I was hemmin’, and I,' ,™ n in the corner, all ready to let her in. hes V SCenl n 3 f |Could ’a’ been real dis lot f at * ler ’ B dyin’ when X could do so; ™Wrea is just like spring weather, rainin’ I ~; Ur and shinin’ the next, and it’s the kr '' Pent mercy they bo; if they begun to ** ea riy, there wouldn’t bo nothin’ u I 1 Stow up. go pretty quick Miss Perrit e< *’ am -l I let her id. We hadn’t got h? lt6 . ruom ’ n that house; there was the in front, and mother’s bed-room, and tat , tter -; a nd the little backspace opened' ont behind. Mother was in the bed-room; the!- * “I' 61 ! her. Miss Perrit sot down in SBdw * nt tockin’-chair that creaked awfully, fill e .? 4 to r °ckin’ back and forth, and sighin’, ®°‘her come in. 1 linT SS Langdon!” says she, With sn n ffle . “how dew you dew? I tiler a- , come an<l see how you kep’ up how j r , 18 ® ere nffliction, J reo’ieet very well thin, . '! 1 husband died. It’s a dreadful rouj., .f left a widder in a hard world; don’t •“Nd out by this?” , mo ) bc t felt quite as bad as ever Miss , for everybody knew old Perrit — THE AGITATOR Behoteft to the iSjrtrirsion of tfje area of JFvcchom atiJr the Sflvtah of healths Reform. WmLE -THERE SHALL BE A WRONG IJNRIGHTED, AND UNTIL “MAN’S INHUMANITY TO MAN”. SHALL CEASE, AGITATION MUST CONTINUE. VOL. V. treated hie wife like a dumb brute while he was alive, and died drunk; but she didn't gay nothin’, I see her give a kind of a smaller, and then she,spoke up bright and strong. “I don’t think it is a hard world, Miss Per rit. I find folks kind and hopeful, beyond what I'd any right to look for. I try not to think about my husband any more than I can help, because I couldn’t work, if I did, and I’ve got to work. It’s most helpful to think the Lord made special promises to widows, and when I remember Him I ain’t afeard.” Miss Perth stopped rockin' a minute, and then she begun to creak the chair and blow her nose again, and she said; — - “Well, I’m sura -it’s a great mercy to -see anybody rise above their trouble the way you do; but, law me 1 Miss Langdon, you a’n’t got through the fust pair o’ bars on't yet. Folks is alters kinder neighborly at the fust; they feel to help you right off, every way they can, —but it don’t stay put, they get tired on’t; they blaze rite up like a white-bireh-stiefc, an’ then they go out all of a heap ; there’s other folks die, and they don’t remember you, and you’re just as bad off as though you wan’n’t a widder.” Mother kind of smiled, —she couldn’t help it; but she spoke up again just as steady. “I don’t expect to depend on people, Miss Perrit, so long as I have my health. I a’n't above takin’ friendly help when I need to, but I mean mostly to help myself. I can get work to take in, and when the girls have got their schoolin’ they will be big enough to help me. I am not afraid but what I shall live and pros per, if I only keep my health.” “Hem, well!” whined out Miss Perrit. “I alters thought you was a pretty mighty woman, Miss Langdon, and I’m glad to see you’re so high-minded; but yoa ain’t sure of your health, never. I used to be real smart to what lam now, when Perrit was alive; but I took on so, when he was brought home friz to death; that it sp’iled my nerves; and then I had to do so many chores out in the shed, I got cold and had the dreadfullest rheumatiz! and when I’d got past the worst spell of that and was quite folksy again, I slipped down on our door-step and kinder wrenched my ankle, and ef’t hadn't V been for the neighbors, I don’t know hut what Nancy and I should ’a’ starved.” Mother did laugh this time. Miss Perrit had overshot the mark. “So the neighbors were, helpful, after all!” said she. “And if ever I get sick, I shall be willin’ to have help, Miss Perrit. I'm sure I would take what I would give; I think glvin’ works two ways. I don’t feel afraid yet.” Miss Perrit groaned a little, and wiped her eyes, and got up to to go away. She hadn’t never offered to help mother, and she went off to the sewing circle and told that Mies Lang don hadn’t got.no feelings at all, and she b’liev ed she’d just as soon beg for a livin’ as not. Poll Mariner, tire tailoress, came and told mother all she said next day, but mother only smiled and set Polly to talkin’ about the best way to make over her old cloak. When she was gone, I begun to talk about Miss Perrit, and I was real mad; hut mother hushed me right up. “It a'n’t any matter, Ann,” said she. “ller sayin’ so don’t make it so. Miss Per rit’s got a miserable disposition, and I’m sor ry for her; a mint of money wouldn’t make her happy ; she's a doleful Christian, she don’t take any comfort in anything, and I really do pity her.” And that was just the way the mother took everything. At first we couldn’t sell the farm. It was down at the foot of Torringford Hill, two good miles from meetin’, and a mile from the school house ; most of it was woody, and there wa’n’t no great market for wood about there. So for the first year Squire Potter took it on shares; and, as he principally seeded it down to rye, -why, we sold the rye and got a little money, but ’twa’n’t a great deal—no more than we wanted for clothes the next winter. Aunt Langdon sent us down a lot of maple sugar from Lee, and when we wanted molasses we made it ont of that. We didn’t have to buy no great of groceries, for we could spin and knit by fire-light, and, part of the land bein’ piny woods, we had a good lot of knots that were as bright as lamps for all we wanted. Then we had a dozen chickens, and by pains and care they laid pretty well, and the eggs were as good as gold. So we lived through the first year after father died, pretty well. Anybody that couldn’t get along with mother and Major (I always called Mary Jane “Major” when 1 was real little, and the name kind of stayed by her) couldn’t get along with anybody. I was as happy as a cricket whilst they wortf by, though, to speak truth, I wasn’t naturally so chirpy as they were; I took after father more, who was a kind of despondin’ man, down hearted, never thinkin’ things could turn out right, or that he was gain’ to have any luck. That was my naturi, and mother see it, and fought ag’inst it like a real Bunker-Hiller; but natur’ is hard to root up, and there was always times when I wanted to skulk away into a corner and think nobody wanted me and that I was poor and humbly, and had to work for my living. I remember one time I’d gone up into my room before tea to have one of them dismal fits. Miss Perrit had been in to see mother, and she’d been lollin’ over what luck Naucy’d had down to Hartford: how’t she bad gone into a shop, and a young man bad been struck with her good looks, an’ he’d turned out to bo a master-shoemaker, and Nancy was a-goin’ to be married, and so on, a rigmarole as long as the moral law,—windin’ up with askin’ mother why she didn’t send us girls off to try our luck, for Major was as old as Nance Perrit. I’d waited to hear mother say, in her old bright way, thatsbe couldn’t afford it, and she couldn’t spare us, if she had the means, and then I flung up into our room, that was a lean-to in the garret, with a winder in the gable end, and there I set down by the winder with my chin on the sill, and begun to wonder why we couldn’t have as good luck ns the Perrits. After I’d got real miserable, 1 beard a soft step coinin’ np stairs, and Major come in and looked at me and then’out of the winder. WELLSBORO, TIOGA COUNTY, PA., THURSDAY MORNING. FEBRUARY Uy. 1859. “What’s the matter of you, Anny ?” said she. ' . i “Nothing,” says I, as sulky as yon please. “Nothing always means something,” says Major, as pleasant as pee; and then she scooched down on the floor and pulled my two bands away, and.lo.oked me in the face os bright and honest as ever you see a dandelion look out of the grass. “What is it Anny Spit it out, as John Potter says; you’ll feel better to free your mind. “Well,” says I, “Major I’m tired of bad luck.” “Why, Anny 1 I didn’t know as we ? dJiad any. I'm sure, it's three years since fatbeir died, and we have had enough to live on all that time, and I’ve got my schooling, and we are all well; and just look at the apple-trees, —all as pink as your frock with blossoms; that’s good for new cloaks next winter Anny.” “ ’Ta’n’t that. Major. I was tbinkin’ about Nancy Perrit. If we’d had the luck to go to Hartford, may-be you’d have been as well off as she; and then I’d have got work, too. And I wish I was as pretty as she is, Major, it does seem too hard to be poor and humbly too.” I wonder she didn’t laugh at me, but she was very feelin’ for folks, always. She put her head on the window-sill along of mine, and kinder nestled up to me in her lovin’ way, and said, softly,— “I wouldn't quarrel with the Lord, Anny.” “Why, Major! you scare me! I haven’t said nothing against the Lord. What do you mean ?” said I, —for I was touchy, real touchy. “Well dear, you see we’ve done all we can to help ourselves ; and what’s over and above, that we can’t help,.—that is what the Lord or ders, ain’t it; and He made you, didn’t He ? You can’t change your face; and I’m glad of it, for it is Anny’s face; and I wouldn’t have it changed a mite: there’ll always be two people to think it’s sightly enough, and may-be more by-and-by; so I wouldn’t quarrel with it, if I was you.” Major's happy eyes always helped me. I looked at her and felt better. She wasn’t any better-lookin’ .than I; but she always was so chirk, and smart, and neat, and pretty-behaved, that folks thought she was handsome after they knowed her. Well, after a spell, there was a railroad laid out up the valley, and all the land thereabouts riz in price right away; and Squire Potter he bought our farm on speculation, and give a good price for it; so’t we had two thousand dollars in the bank, and the house and lot, and the barn, and the cow. By this time Major was twenty-two and I was eighteen; and Squire Potter he’d left his house up on the hill and he’d bought'out Miss Perrit’s house, and added on to’t, and moved down not far from ns, so’s to be near the railroad-depot, for the sake of bein’ handy to the woods, for cutfin' and haulin’ of them down to the track. ’Twasn’t very pleasant at first to see pur dear old woods goin’ off to be burned that way; but Squire Potter’s folks were such good neighbors, we gained as much ns we lost, and a sight more, for folks ore greatly better’n trees, —at least, clever folks. There was a whole raft of the Potters, eight children of ’em all, some too young to be mates for Major and me: hut Mary Potter, and Reu ben, and Enssq]), they were all along as old as we were: Russell come between Major and me ; the other two was older. We kinder kept to home! always. Major and me, because we hadn’t any brothers to go out with us; sb we were pretty shy of new friends at first. Bat you coalda’t help bein’ friendly with the Potters, they was such outspoken, kindly creturs, from the Squire down to little Hen. And it was very handy for us, because now we could go to singin’-schools and quiltin’s, and such like places, of an evenin'; and we had rather moped at home for want of such thing—at least I had, and ! should have been more moped only for Major’s sweet ways. She was always as contented as a honey bee on a cloverhead, for the same reason, X guess. Well there was a good many good things come to us from the Potter’s movin’ down; bnt by-and-by it seemed as though I was goin’ to get the bitter of it. I’d kept company pretty steady with Bussell. I hadn’t given much thought to it, neither; I liked his ways, and he seemed to give into mine very natural, so’t we got along together first-rate. It didn’t seem as though We’d ever been strangers, and I wasn’t one to make believe at stiffness when I didn’t feel it. I told Bussell pretty much all I had to tell, and he was doin’ for me and runnin’ after me jest as though he’d been my brother. I didn't know how much I did think of him, till, after a while, he seemed to take a sight of .notice of Major. I can’t say he ever stopped bein' clever to me, for he didn’t; bathe seemed to have a kind of a hankerin’ after Major all the time. He’d take her off to walk with him ; he’d dig up roots in the woods for her posy bed ; he’d hold her skeins of yarn as patient as a little dog; he’d get her books to read. Well, he’d, done all this for me; but when I see him doin’ it for her, it was quite different; and all at once I know’d what was the matter. I’d thought too much of Bussell Potter, Oh, dear! those was dork times! I couldn't blame him; 1 knew well enough Major was miles and miles better and sweeter and cleverer than d was; I didn’t wonder he liked her; but I couldn’t feel as if he’d done right by me. So I schooled myself considerable, talking to my self, for being jealous of Major. Bdt’twasn’t all that; —the hardest of it all was that I bad to mistrust Russell. To be sure, he hadn’t said nothin’ to mo in round words; I couldn’t ha’ sued him; but he’d looked and acted enough; and now,-—dear me 1 1 felt all wrung out and flung away! Bj-and-by Major begun to see somethin’ was goin’ wrong, and so did Russell. She was as good os she could be to me, and bad patience with all my little, pettish ways, and tried to make me friendly with Bussell; but I wouldn’t. I took to hard work, and, what with cryin’ nights, and hard work all day, I got pretty well overdone. But it all went on for about three months, till ope day, Bussell came up behind me, as I was layin’ out some yam to bleach down at the. end of the orchard, and asked me if I’d go down to Meriden with him next day, to a pic-nio frolic, in the woods. •No!’ says I, jis short as I,could. Bussell looked as' though I had slappeii him. •Anny,’ says he, *wl!at have I done ?’ ! I. turned round'to go away, and Thatched my foot in a hank of yarn, and down I come flat on the ground, havin’ sprained my ankle so bad that Bussell had to pick mo up and carry me into the house like a baby. There was an end of Meriden for me ; and he wouldn’t go, either, but eomc over and sat by me, and read to me, and somehow or other, I don’t remember just the words, he gave me to understand that—well—that he wished I’d marry him. It’s abaut as tirin’ to be real pleased. with anything as it is to be troubled, at first. I couldn’t say anything to Bussell; I just cried. Major wasn’t there; mother was drying apples out in the shed; so Bussell be didn’t know what to do; he kind of boshed me np, and begged of me not to cry, and said he’d come for his answer next day. So he come, and I didn’t say, ‘No,’ again. I don’t believe X stopped to think whether Major liked him. She would have thought of me, first thing;—l believe she wouldn’t have had him, if she’d thought I wanted him. But I a’n’t like Major; it come more natural to me to think about my self; and besides, she was pious, and I wasn’t. Bussell was. However, it turned out all right, for Major was almost as pleased as I whs ; and she told me, finally that she’d known a long spell that Russell liked me, and the reason he’d been hangin’ round her so long was, he’d been telling her his plans, and they’d worked ont considera ble in their heads before she couid feel as though he had a good enough lookout to ask me to marry him. That wasn’t so pleasant to me, when I come to think of it; I thought I’d ought to have been counselled with. But it was just like Major; everybody come to her for a word of help or comfort, whether they took her idee dr not, —she had such feelin’ for other folk’s trouble. I got over that little nub-after a while; and then I was so pleased, everything went smooth ag’in. I was goin’ to be married in the spring; and we were goin’ straight out to Indiana, onto some wild land Squire Potter owned out there, to clear it and settle it, and what Bussell cleared he was to have. So mother took some money out of the bank to fit me ont, and Major and j went down to Hartford to buy my things. I said before, we wasn’t either of us any great things to look at; but it come about that one day I heerd somebody tell how we did look, and I thought considerable about it then and afterwards. We was buyin’ some cotton to a store in the city, and I was lookin’ about at all the pretty things, and wonderin, why I was .picked out to be poor when so many folks was rich and had all they wanted, when presently I heerd a lady in a silk gown say to another one, so low she thought I didn’t hear her, —’‘There are two nice-looking girls, Mrs. Carr,” “Hem, —yes,’’ said the other one ; “they look healthy and strong: the oldest one has a lovely expression, both steady and sweet; the other don’t look happy.” 1 declare, that was a fact. I was sorry, too, for I’d got everything in creation to make any body happy, and now I was frettin' to be rich. I thought I’d try to be like Major; but I ex pect it was mostly because of the looks of it, for I forgot to try before long. -Well, in the spring we was married; and when I come to go away, Major put a little red ' Bible into my trunk for a weddin’ present; but I was eryin’ too hard to thank her. She swal lowed down whatever choked her, and begged of me not to cry so, lest Russell should take it hard that I mourned to go with him. But just then I was thinkin’ mote of Major and mother than I was of Bussell; they’d kept me bright and cheery always, and kept up my heart with their own good ways when I hadn’t no strength to do it for myself; and now I was goin’ off alone with Bussell, and he wasn’t very cheer ful-dispositioned, and somehow my courage give way all to once. But I had to go ; railroads yion’t wait for nobody; and what with the long journey, and the new ways and things and people, I hadn’t no time to get real down once before we got to Indiana. After we left the boat there was a spell of railroad, and then a long stage-ride to Cumberton; and then we had to hire a big wagon and team, so’s to get us out to our claim, thirty miles west’ard of Cumberton. I hadn’t no time to feel real lonesome now, for all our things bed got to be onpacked, and packed over ag’in in the wagon; some on’cm had to be stored up, so’s to come another time. We was two days gettin’ to the claim, the roads was so had, mostly what they call corduroy, but a good stretch clear mud-holes. By the time we got to the end on’t, I was tired out, just fit to cry ; and such a house as was waitin’ for us! —a real log shanty I I see Russell looked real beat when he see my face; and I tried to brighten up; but I wished to my heart that I was back with mother forty times that night, if I did once. Then come the worst of all, clutterin’ everything right into that shanty; for out frame-house wouldn’t be done for two months, and there wa’n’t scarce room for what we’d brought, so’t we couldn’t think of sendin, for what was stored to Cumberton. I didn’t sleep none for two nights, because of the whip poor-wills that set on a tree close by, and called till mornin’ light; bat after that 1 was too tired to lie awake. Well it was real lonesome, but it was all new at first, and Bossel was to work near by, so’t I could see him, and oftentimes hear him whistle; and 1 bad the garden to make, round to the new house, for I knew more about the plantin’ of it than he did, especially, my posey-bed, and I bad a good time gettin’ new flowers out of the woods. And the woods was real splendid— great tall tulip-trees, as high as a steeple and round as a quill, without any sort of branches ever so fur up, and the whole top full of the yeller tulips and the queer snipped-lookin’ shiny leaves, till they looked like great bowpots on sticks: then there’s lots of other great trees, jmly they’re all mostly spindled up in them woods. . But the flowers that grow round on the ma’shes and in the clearin’s do heat all. So time passed along pretty glib till the frame house was done, and then wo had to move in. and to get the tidings from Cumberton, and be gin to feel as though we were settled for Igood and all; and after the newness had gone off, and the clearin’ had got so fur that I couldn't see Bussell no more, and nobody to look at, if I was never so lonesome, then come a pretty 1 , hard spell. ■ Everything about the house Was real handy, so’t I’d get my work cleared awayj _and set down to sew early; and them long < sum mer days that was still and hot, I’d set, atid set, never bearin’ nothin’ but the clock go ‘f tick, tick, tick,” —never “tack,” for a changef-and every bow’d then a great crash and roar in the woods where he was choppin,’ that I knew was a tree and 1 worked myself up dreadfully when there was a longer spell 'n common be twixt the crashes, less that Bussell might ’a’ been ketcbed under the one that fell. And set tin’ so, and worryin’ a good deni day in and day ont, kinder broodin’ over my and never thinkin' about anybody but myself} I got to bo of the idee that I was the worsboff crea ture goin’. if I’d have stopped to think about Bussell, may-be I should have some sort.bf pity for him, for he wasjust as lonesome ns l| and I wasn’t no kind of comfort to come home to— ’most always cryin’, or jest a-goin’ to. j So the summer went along till ’twas nigh in to winter, and I wa’n’t in no better spetjrets.— I And now I wa’n’t real well, and I pined furj mother, and I pined for Major, and I’d, have; given all the honey and buckwheat in Indiana for a loaf of mother’s dry rye-bread and a drink 1 of spring water. And finally I got so misera ble, I wished I wa’n’t never married—and I’d; have wished I was dead, if ’twan’t for bein’: doubtful where I’d go to, if I was. And worst of all, one day I got so worked up I tcfld Bus sell all that. I declare, he turned as White asi a turnip. I see I’d hurt him, and I’d rfave got over it in a minute, and told him so—only' he up with his axe and walked out of thjs_ door, and never come home till night, and then I was too stubborn to speak to him. I Well, things got worse, ’n’ one day I was sewin’ some things and cryin’ over ’em; when I heard a team come along by, and before I could get to the door, Bussell come in, all red for joy, and says:— j “Who do yon want to see the most, Ann ?” ] Somehow the question kind of npsqt me—l got choked, and then X bn’st out a-crjlfi’. j “Oh, mother and-Major I" says I; and I had n’t more’n spoke the word before mother hall both her good strong arms round me, land Ma jor’s real cheery face was a-lookin’ up at me from the little pine cricket, where she’d sot down as nateral as life. Well, I was p tad, and so was Bussell, and the bouse seemed as shiny as a hang-bird’s nest, and hy-and-by ;be baby came—but I bad mother. i ’Twas long about in March when I -was sick and by . the end of April X was well, land, bo’s to be stirrin’ round again. And mother and Major begun to talk about gain’ homo; and|l declare, my heart was up in my mouth every time they spoke on’t, and I begun to ;be miser able ag’in. One day I was settin’ beside of mother; Major was out in the garden] firin’up things, and settin’ out a lot of blowsjshe’d got in the woods, and singin' away, and says I to mother, — • ■ [ “What be I goin’ to do, mother, without yon and Major ? I ’most died of clear jonesomo ness before you come !” j Mother laid down her knittin’, and looked straight asme. I “ I wish you’d got a little of Major’s good cheer, Army.” says she.- "You haven’t any call to be lonely here; it’s a real good country, and you’ve got a nice house, and the best of husbands, and a dear little baby, ami you’d oughter try to give up frettin’. I wish you Was pious, Anny; you wouldn’t fault the Lord’s goodness the way you do.” ] j “Well, Major don’t have nothin’jto trouble her, mother,” says I. “She’s alii safe and pleasant at home ; she ain’t homesick.” j , Mother spoke up pretty resolute | “There a’n’t nobody in the world,;Anny, but what has troubles. I didn’t calculate to fell you about Major's; but sence you lay her lively ways to luck, may-be you’d better 'know ’em. She’s been engaged this six months [to Reuben Potter, and he’s goin’ off in a slow consump tion; he won’t never live to marry her, and she knows it.” > “And she come away to see me, mother?” “Yes, she did. I can’t say I-. thought she need to, hut Bussell wrote you was pinin’ for both of us, and didn’t think you! could get along with Keuben, and I’d come jon alone.— And says she, ‘ No, mother,"you a’n’t yoiirig and spry enough to go alone so fur, andjthe Lord made you my mother, and Anny, my sis ter, before I picked out Reuben for myself! j can’t never have’any kin but you, jmd I might have had somebody beside Reubexi, though it don’t seem likely now; but he’s god four sisters to take care of him, and he tbinks-and I tljink it’s what I ought to do; so I'm goin’ with ypu.’ So she come, Anny; and you sep how lively she keeps, just because she' don’t jwant to !dis hearten you none. I don’t knovj as you jean blame her for kinder hankerin’ to get home.” I hadn’t nothin’ to say; I was beat. So too ther she went on:— . i “Fact is, Anny, Major’s always a thinkin’ about.other folk; it comes kind of nateral to her, and then bein’ pious helps it. I guess, dear, when you get to thinkin’ more about Rus sell an’ the baby, you’ll forget s ome of your troubles. I hope the Lord won’t have to give you no harder lesson than lovin’, toteaohjyou Major’s ways.” ! So after that, I couldn’t say no more to mother about stayin’; hut when they went away, I like to have cried myself sick—only baby had to be looked after, add I couldn’t dodge her. j I Bym-by we had letters from hoihe; they got there all safe, and Reuben wa’n’t no worse.l Mar jor said—eft bad been me wrote! the letter, I should have said he wan’t no better!—‘And I fell back into the old lonesome days, for baby slept mostly, and in July, Russell, bein’ fiirccd to go to Cumberton on some land business! left me to home with baby and the hired man, cal culatin’ to be gone three days amf two nights. The first day he was away was j dreadful sul try; the sun went down away over the woods in a kind of red-hot fpg, and it seemed as tho’ the stars were dull and coppery s|t night ;|even 1 ! i Advertisements will be charged $1 per square of 14 lines, one or three insertions, and 2d cents for every subsequent insertion. Advertisement* of less limit 14 lines considered as a sqnsre. Thesnbjoined rates will he charged for Quarterly. Half-Yearly and Yearly ad vertisements : 3 Stearns. 6 sosins. 12 storms. , Square, . - $2,34 $6,00 2 do; - 4,40 S,#o 8,00 i column, - - e,OO 8,00 ’ 10,08 i del - 10,00 15,00 20,00 Column, - - 18,00 30,00 40,00 Advertisements not having thenumbcrof insertions desired marked upon them, will he published until or dered out and charged accordingly. : Posters, Handbills, Bill-Beads, Letter-Heads and a)) kinds of Jobbing done in country establishments, ei eonted neatly and promptly. Justices’, Constable*’, and township BLANKS : Notes, Bonds, Deeds, Mort gages, Declarations and other Blanks, constantly on hand,"of printed to order. NO. 30. the whippoor-wills was too .hot to sing; nothin' but a 'doleful screech-owl quavered away, a half a mile off, a good hour, steady. When it got to be mornih’, it didn’tseem no cooler; thap won’t & breath of wind, and the locusts in the woods chitted as though they was fry in.” Our hired man was an old Scotchman, by name Si mon Grant; and when he got his breakfast, be said he’d go down the clearin’ and bring up a load of brusb for me to born. So be drove off with the team, and bavin’ cleared np the dishes !l put baby to sleep, and took roy pail to the jharn ip milk the cow—for we kept her in a barn , of a Uome-lot like, a part that bad been cleared afore .we come, lest she should stray array in the woods, if we turned her loose; she was put in the barn, too, nights, for fear some stray wild-cat or bear might come along and do her • j harm. So I let her into the yard, and was jest ; a-goini’ to milk her when she began to snort and shake, and finally giv’ the pail a kick, and set off full swing, for the fence to the lot. I looked 'round to see what was a-comin’, and there! about a quarter of a mile off, I see the most ,’curus thing I ever see before or since—a cloud as black as ink in the sky, and bangin’ dowel from it a long spout like, something like an elephant’s trunk, and the whole world under It looked to be all beat to dust. Before I could get my eyes off on’t, or stir to run, I see it was cornin’ as fast as a locomotive; I heerd a great roar ( and rash—first a hot wind, and then a (jold one, and then a crash—an’ ’twas all as dark as death all round, and the roar appeared to be a passin’ off. I didn’t know for quite a spell whore I was. I was flat on my face, and when I come to a lit tle, I felt the grass against my cheek, and X smelt the earth *, b\St L couldn't move, no way ; I couldn't turn over, nor raise ray head more'n two [inches, nor draw myself op one. I was comfortable as long as I laid still; but if I went to move, I couldn't. It wasn't no use to wrig- and when I settled that, I jest went to worlc to Agger out whore I was and how I got there, and the best 1 could make out was that the harn-roof had blowed off and lighted right over me, jest so not to hurt me, but so't I could nofcjmove. W ell, there I knew baby was asleep in the trundle-bed, and there won't no fire in thejhouse; but how did I know the house won't blowed down ? _ I thought that as quick as a flash of lightnin'; it kinder struck me; I could notfeven see, so as to be certain I I wasn't naturally fond of children, but somehow one's own is different, and baby was just getting big enough to be pretty; and there I lay, feelin' about as bad as I could, but bangin' on to one hope—that old Simon, seein' the tornado, would come pretty soon to see where he was. \ lay still quite a spell, listeuin’. Presently I board a low, whimperin, pantin’ noise, cora in’ncarcr and near, and I knew it was old Lu, a feller hound of Simon’s, that he’d set great store by, because he brought him from the Old* Country, I heerd the dog come pretty near to whore I was, and then stop, and give a long hopd. I tried to call him, but I was all choked up' with dust, and for a while I couldn’t make no {sound. Finally I called, “Lu! Lu! here. Sir!” and if ever you heard a dumb creature laifgh, he barked a real laugh, and come spring -101 along over towards me. I called ag'in, and he I begun to scratch and tear and pull,—at boards,. I guessed, for it sounded like that; but it iva’n't no use, he couldn't get at me, and ho give up at length and set down right over my head and give another howl, so long and so dismal I thought I’d as lieves hear the hell a tofltn’ my age. .Pretty soon, I heerd another sound—the baby eryin’: and with that Lu jumped off whatever 'twas that buried me up, and run. “At any rate,” thinks I “ baby’s alive.” And then be thought myself if ’twan’t a painter, after all; they scream jest like a baby, and there’s a lot of them, or was then, right round in our woods —tand Lu was dreadful fond to hunt ’em ; and, be never took no notice of baby—and I could not stir to see ! fOh. dear! the sweat stood all over me! And there I lay, and Simon didn’t come, nor I didn’t hear a mouse stir; the air was as still as death, and I got nigh distracted. Seemed as if all my life riz right up there in the dark and looked at nic. Here I was, all helpless,- may-be never to get out alive: for Simon didn’t come, and Rus sel was gone away. I’d bad a good home, and a|kind husband, and ali i could ask; but I bad nft had a contented mind ; I’d quarrelled with Brovidence,'cause I hadn’t got everything—and now I hadn’t got nothing. I see just as clear as daylight how I’d nnssed up every little trouble till it growed to be a big one—how I’d sp’ilt Russel’s life, and made him wretched, — bow I'd been cross to him a great many times when I had ought to have been a comJprt; and now it was like enough I shouldn’t never see him again—nor baby, nor mother, nor Major. And how could I look the Lord in the face, if I did die ? That took ail my strength out. I lay shakin’ and chokin’ with the idee, I don’t know how long; it kind of got hold of m 6 and ground me down ; it was worse than all. I wished to gracious, I didn’t believe in hell; but then it come to mind, what should I do in heaven, if I was there ? I didn’t love nothin’ that folks in heaven love, except the baby ; I hadn’t been suited with the Lord's will on earth, and ’twan’t likely I was goin’ to like it any better in heaven; and I should be ashamed io show my face where I didn’t belong, neither by right nor by want. So I lay." Presently I heerd in my mind this verse, that I’d learned years back in Sabbath School— }* Wherefore He is able to sare to tfao uttermost"— 4here it stopped, but it was a plenty for me. I see at once there wasn’t no help anywhere else, ’ and for once in my life I did pray, real earnest, and—queer enough—not to get out hot to bo made good. I kind of forgot where I was, I see so complete what I was; but after a while I did pray to live in the flesh j I wanted to make isome amends to Russell for pesterin’ on him 'bo. i It seemed to me as though I’d laid there two •days, A rain finally canje on, with a good |even-down pour, that washed in a little, and jcooled my hot bead; and after it passed Ly f iheerd one whip-poor-will singing', so’-* 1 knew lit was night. And pretty goon I heepd the j tramp e£ horse s feci'—.t came up —It stopped *, Rates of Advertising.
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