BY D. A. & C. H. BUEHLER VOLUME XXIII. 1 Thoughts on Autumn 11 3. a. vearrrics Gone hath the Spring, with all its flowers. And gone the Summer's pomp and show, And Autumn, in his leaflesi bowers, Is waiting fur the Winter's snow. I said. to Earth, so cold and gray, "An emblem of myself thou art:" "Not so," the Earth did seem to say, "For during shall warm my frozen hurt." I soothe my wintry sleep with dreams Of warmer sun and softer rain. And wait to hear the taund of streams, And songs of merry birds again. Hit thou from whom the Spring bath gone, For whom the flowers no longer blow, Who Mandeth blighted and forlorn, Like Autumn waiting for the snow : No hops is thine of sunnier hours, Tby Winter shall no more depart ; No Spring revive thy wasted flowers, Nor summer warm thy frozen head The Angels , Bridge. Whene'er a rainbow slept 'long the sky, The thoughtful child expected angel bands Would glide upon its gorgeous path of light, With half furled wings and meekly Weil hands. For he had dreamed the rair.how was a bridge, On which came bright ones to the far•ofshore, A strange and pleasant dream—but he Mitred— And his young heart with love's sweet faith ran o'er. How full of dreamy hopefulless his face. How many tender welcomes filled his eyes, When for celestial ei■itanu lie watched, In mute and holy converse with the skies. The saintly child grew very wan and weak ; And as he lay upon the bed of pain, One day of storm, he only gently sa;d— "When will the 'angels' bridge' reach down again ?" In musing trance while gazing on the clouds, A flood of sun-light lit the humid air, And swinging forth as if from God's own arms, A lustrous rainbow shone divinely there. A tender smile played ne'r the child's pale lips— •• Down the bright arch the white-robed angel' come. 0, see their shining pinion■ !—their •aeet eres!" Ha mod—Nfld. 'mid their soft embraces, floated The Dead Babe. "Willie is dead!" whispered George Al len, mournfully, as he took the hand of his little sister, "come, Julia, mother says we may go and look at him now." silently they entered the chamber where the dead boy was. It lay in its cradle, and looked as if it was sleeping. oeorge wept bitterly, and Julia gazed wondering ly at him. "Why do you cry ?" she asked, "is any thing the matter with Willie' Ile is on ly asleep, isn't he ?" and she put her fin ger gently upon the baby's brow. Sud denly starting back in affright, she exclaim ed, "0! it is cold—cold as ice What makes Willie so cold ?" "He is dead," replied George, "and to morrow they will put him in the deep, cold grave, and we shall never see him again." "Head ?" repeated little Julia, "what is it to be dead ? George could not answer—he sobbed as if his heart would break. Julia bent over her baby-brother, and called him fondly by his name. "lie doesn't hear me," she said tear fully. "Won't he never wake again ? 0! tel! me what it is to be dead?" Just then their mother came into the room. She laid her hand upon her little daughter's head, and Julia looked up into her face. "Won't dear Willie ever wake again r she naked, "won't he ever love ua more, mamas?" "No, my child," was the nply. "not in this world. Willie has left us—he is not here. He will never come back, but if we love God we shall go and meet him in heaven. This is not Willie in the cradle, it is only his body. The spirit that used to love you so—the spirit that looked out from his eyes—the happy spirit whichd welt in this little body, is now in, Heaven. It is only the frail body, Julia, that dies—, .our Willie will live forever." Julia's face grew bright, and George dried his tem. Their mother led them to a seat, and told them of God and of Heaven. She told them of the beautiful angels who had welcomed the soul of lie toile Paradise above. Then she knelt, and they beside her, and she prayed that ' ler Heavenly Father would bless and pro serve her children, and keep them from the evil of the world, and bring them at last to meet Willie iu Heaven. Beau,Mil Thought. .".1, strong man will carry me over the aiountains." These were the words of a eweet &Ale dying boy in the city of Boa don, a few weeks ago. Atom ahe middle of the night in which he died he alter aotuethidg beautiful which he could net awry well undentaud. He was much delighted with the irieioti, and Ibis parents *swayed him that God had giv en him the glimpse of heaven. But they soon perceived that the vielor wee lone• what marred, by the appearance of mon it sinsWhielt heSawliefore him. Altnlst' in a moment, however, after they were d ficov areth he exclaimed. "4 string man ICIII I entry wormy die otetatfahm I" Gentle child l mad geode faith I eitridi up. brawl,' your whiskires, (if you hive '84.) dreaS fashicinable, and lay in 'a plentiful store of sot nonsense. and the gbh will mill you ; u eke young Nimix modems a faielpf ar wohogshoing tikokriovr,4ol oiToPiri or hie crime, From the Boston Ohm Branch. TOE STOLEN CHILD. Little Carry took her pot bird on her arm, one morning, and laughing merrily back at her mother, who stood at her wash ing -tub, ran to her favorite seat near the edge of a meadow, and under a clump of majectic elme. This pine(' was not very far from the bumble home, but owing to a roundabout circuit by a little hill, and the prominence of the hill itself, it seemed at a much greater distance. Nothing was to be seen near the ohild, except dewy mead ows spangled with flowers; tall tufts of the lady's clipper, and sweet beds of camomile, with the bright fox glove, crimson clover buds, and wild thyme grew directly about the place where she sat. A long, wide road stretched by and away in the dis tance; very little was it travelled, and on ly one cart, loaded high with fragrant hay, had passed little Carry that morning. Suddenly an elegant barouche with two milk-white horses, and driven leisurely, appeared in the distance; Carry allowed her book to drop upon her knee, and sat curiously watching it. Seldom indeed had so elegant a carriage been seen in that ob scure country place. As it came on and neared the pretty natural bower, she saw that it was occupied by one gentleman and a coachman in livery, who managed the two spirited animals with great skill. At a gesture of the gentleman, the ser vant drew up before the child ; the former seemed unaccountably affected ; he mumur ed "Emma" several times, in a low, distinct tone ; and then exclaimed "the very face and form of my dead child—God forgive me the thought, he added quickly, and pulling his hat hurriedly down, he ordered the coachman to drive on. Little Carry gazed at them with inno cent surprise; she was too young to think deeply, being nearly nine, but she felt with her child's heart, that the gentleman was in great sorrow, and unconsciously pitied Fire minutes had scarcely elapsed be fore the sound of wheels was again heard, and again the same carriage swept along, this time more swiftly and in the opposite direction. It stopped, as before, directly opposite little Carry, who now let her book fall, and stood looking up with a slight expression of alarm upon her features. "My child," said the gentleman, with a beautiful, winning smile, that put her in stantly at case, "who arc you ?" "I am little Carry Elliot, please sir," she answered, with a courtesy, as was her "And where do you live ?" "Over there," and she pointed in the direction of the cottage. "What does your father do ?" "Ile's dead, pleabe sir, and mother takes in washing." 'You are like a beautiful daughter that I laid in the cold ground, last week ;" lit tle Carry smiled and blushed; "I wonder if your mother would let you go and live with me, and be a lady ?" "No sir, no sir," replied the little girl, slowly, with a profound expression ; "a great dancing master wanted me once, and be offered mother ever so much gold for me, and sho cried dreadfully at the very thought ; then a rich lady in London, that hadn't any little children, said if mother would let ma go, she would make me her own daughter, and mother said no ; moth er loves me, and I love mother, and I wouldn't leave her if sho was willing." "Not to live in a beautiful great - house, and have servants to do everything for you, and drink from a golden cup, and eat from a silver dish, and to have the very richest of dresses, and laces, and jewels, and dia monds, and do just as you like, and have everybody love you?" The child looked bewildered, but still shook her pretty head "There," said the stranger, taking a case from his pocket, and drawing out a flash• ing chain of brilliants, "see how beautiful this will look upon your neck—these I bought for her," he murmured bitterly to himself; "and hero aro two costly brace. lets"—and he clasped the glittering gems around her snowy wrists; "see within this box the bright, shining stones; they shall all be yours, and many, many more—per feet I the resemblance is perfect." A strange yet beautiful sighs was little Carry, standing amidst the solitude of na ture, with jewels flashing upon her round . throat and arms, looking with a childish pleasure, now at one, now at the other, and then turning her innocent eyes to the stranger, asked, "did you say these were mine r "All, and much more, if you will go with me ;. you shall have a watch, with a bright geld chain, and in my Emma's dressing cake at home there ' are pearl chains, and. topaz and emerald, much more . beautiful .than these." "Must I go withontmother ?". "Yos, but you will never know the want of her oars; kjdd , ladies, these who witr• wired en,' will 6o to you ti. 4 1Y4kitti slid he kissed the miniatuto pf 4.ad GETTYSBURG, PA., FRIDAY EVENING, OCTOBER ts, 1852. child, and sitting upon the rude seat, held it so that Carry might look within. "Oh, bow pretty I" she exclaimed. It was indeed the counterpart of the washer woman's child; the hair laid so white and glossy over the pearly brown that it re sembled nothing but snow drifted upon the petal of a lilly; tho eyes, dreamy looking, large and blue, had just het long golden lashes, and the arms were scarcely whiter than hers; for sho was an idol above God, in her mother's heart, and she being proud of her exceeding loveliness, had taken great pains to preserve the delicacy of Car ry's complexion. For a while the child mused thoughtful ly, then she laid the miniature upon her lap, and smiling, half archly, she began to unclasp the bracelets, or rather endeavored to; "I'm going to take them off," she said artlessly, "I can't leave mother." The man arose from his seat—a deadly paleness settled upon his brow, his lips were ashy. "Children forget, my lord," ventured the coachman with a sly leer. At any oth er time such familiarity would have been resented, but now the heart of the bereaved parent was filled with wild and passionate feelings; the child of his love, in giving birth to whom a worshipped wife had died, laid in their ancestral tomb; but, as if to comfort him, near him sprung up, as it were, on the verge of this wild country, her counterpart; every way as beautiful, if not as stately , . As the child of the com moner, she was nothing to him. As his protege, the inheritor of his wealth, his beloved companion, how she would fill the void in his heart—and just at that oppor tune moment came the words, "children forget, my lord." That night Lord Engel stopped at an inn in a little English town, and he bore from the carriage an unconscious child, whose little breast heaved even now with the heavy sobs of a terrific sorrow ; he allow ed no one-to touch her but himself; and as he walked the apartment wherein she laid ; conscience forced him to say, "it was a cruel thing—an unmanly act." A group of peasants had 'gathered-a round what appeared to be tho4rody of a dead child. The sun beat down upon her unprotected form, and laid in the tangled masses of her hair ; her little cheeks so wan and white, her eyes half closed and sunken, her little shoulder bare from her tattered frock, and her poor, tender feet and emaciated arms, all covered with blood where briars and brambles had torn them, awakened pity and horror iu the breast of the rudest churl there. "Dead," cried one as ho touched timid ly the pale forehead. "Living," exclaimed another, a father, as he pressed his hard hand against the scarcely beating heart, and tenderly, care fully lifting the light form, ho bore her to cottage near by, saying to his wife—" Mi lly, here's a cosset hardly alive, nurse her up if you eau,"—and the woman, looking in those dim eyes as they opened a little, felt all the sympathy of the mother, and laid her carefully upon her own bed. "They're making a great fuss about ti lost child down in Riverdeen," said a far mer, casually, as he carried half a cheese into dame Barton's pantry ; "two dollars for this, mistress." "Bless my soul, its the girl I've got then," replied the good woman, letting a saucepan fall from her hands. "Why dame, have you found one F— well, bless me, you don't know how glad I bo ;" and he rubbed his hands—"her mo ther's nigh 'bout crazy ; why ! she run round the ncighboroood three days scream ing and screeching at the top of her voice, tiv'e lost my child;' and there wasn't a soul that seen her could keep a straight face ; if there wasn't a bushel of tears fell in them days, then I aint no judge of good wheat, that's all." "Yes, there's a poor sick creter on the bed up stairs, and, far as we can find, the little thing—sha aint iuoro'n that high-- walked fifty miles or more, to get away from from somebody that stole her, so she says, though the merciful Lord knows best. I can't hardly credit the child. Say, far mer Luke, when you come along tomor row, just bring the woairwith you, won't you P I'm a tnother i and know what she) feels." "Guess I will, mistress ; poor soul, she's hardly alive, for 'she keeps taking on so that we're afraid she'll go dement, now." It was not a hard task• to prepare the little girl for this visit; faint and helpless, she longed to lay her little aching head on the mato:mud bosom; but the distracted mother, on hearing that her child was per haps found, fell into a fainting fit which lasted nearly through the night, and in the morning, before amlet, livenk as she vas, inaiste4 upon going with the tanner to Elms to clasp her dirliog to her heart mid theii die; so in her strong , toguage shtt expms9d heisplc p9t. ftcult to rittr!'Y !ho tweeting lan ob i lm . .o, dig pin e. friniic niotber, mothde elic;worti.),4d "FEARLESS AND FREE." kisses and tears upon the emaciated little form. The latter was shocked at the al teration in the child ; her eyes were sou ken, but her fair curling air was the same, and as she nestled up closer and closer, Ord closer, she whispered, "I did so love you, mother, that I couldn't stay ; but oh I it was a weary while walking, end my feet ached, but I said my prayers, and I knew God Would fetch me to you. He did, didn't he, mother ?" The noble (?) lord who had been thee guilty, repented , of his crime ; his search for the child proved fruitless, and he suf. fered all the agony of remorse ; but whets it did come to his knowledge that little Carry was restored to the humble washer women, he fitted up a box of beautiful pre sents, and sonfossed his fault to her, beg ging her tii acoopt the gifts for her child, and to beder no apprehension of a simi lar outrage promising at the same time to be a guard n and protector o f so lovely a child. 1 He kept his word ; the mother is now above wants Carry, more beautiful than a poet's iddil, is growing up to woman hood ; and. she thinks so much of her guardian,' at it would not be any great wonder if e Hied under the roof of his his stately 'mansion yet, for Lord En gel has a see, who looks with peculiar fa vor upon tie sweet blossom, the gentle, beautiful Cirry Elliot. THE DEAD DOVE. "It is oilra bird, Ada," said the young lover of agentle girl, "why should you grieve °vet its death ?" "If the i sosg-sparrow had died, or the little wet?, or even the robin," replied Ada, sadly t "toy heart would not have felt the pain tlt pow oppresses it; hut to look upon a dt4td dovo touches zu feelings deeply." "But wily should you feel more pain because a five has died ? Its life is the same as thl life of a robin, a sparrow, or a "No, notthe same, Henry." "Wherein lies the difference?" "Are not the bodies different ?" "Oh, yeaP' "It is because their lives are different that their bodies vary in appearance : each is a form of affection ; the sparrow of our affection, thu dove of another. And this is the reason why, in looking upon one, we are effected differently front what we are whet we ,00k at another." "A tamp doctrine, Ada, is it not r" "Oh, to! What makes the wolf differ from tholarnb ? Is it not his affection, of which hii body is the repulsive form ? The wor is embodied cruelty, and the lamb is imbodied innocence. And how good is or all-wise and merciful Creator in thus facing before our eyes, in this world, eabodied affections, that we may the more fully understand their evil or good quaities ! When wo look upon a cruel beast we have a more perfect idea of the direkd nature of those affections In our heartsrltich originate in self-love; and when we )01; at an innocent lamb, or a gentle dot, wo perceive the beauty of good affecttns." "Your'sris a beautiful theory, Ada ; and, if true how full of life ! With what new eyes sold I look around mo on the visible forts of nature, if I could believe as you belicte." "I canna believe otherwise," said Ada, as she lag her eyes from the bird in her hand, and joked tenderly at her lover. "And tlp dove—to what affection does it corresprid, and why are you so deeply touched bete death ?" "Need pu ask, Henry? Is it not the emboiliedbrin of a pure, confiding love— such levies only a woman's heart can feel I' Ad do you wonder that I am pained toee the death of such a love ? Cue I het thinking of woman's trusting heart betged ? of affection trampled out under thfoot of neglect and wrong ?" And teareame into the eyes of the pure hearted tl. "Dean*" said the young man, ear nestly, shy will you let such painful thoughticome into your mind ? They have no tusiness there ; your heart will never kt r , betrayal; your affection will never bsrampled out under the crushing foot of ullect." "I do it think of myself," replied Ada, quickly I thought only of others." The ysng man pressed his lips to hors, and the theireyes dropped from each other's, rested upon the form of the dead doll "NaMshall her heart feel the pangs of neglel never, no, never !" said the lover; itiarnest self-communion, May 11 words prove a true ropheoy and if, ibfter life, his heart swerve, even for an iitant, from its affection, may the form ofie de id dove present itself, and warn h of the ruin hia ittdolity would occaaip Th. wapaper lea, law?haok (9e the indolTrtOtto , (Or 14 1 h9,4114/ 1 4, libtary, iho poor.. • it Inn iumulAis the moat ia mut t ai it spy imaget itto profenni qemember. I remember, - iemember When I just began to creep, How I crawled straight into mischief_ How I wouldn't go to sleep-- }row I pulled the table linen With its contents on the floor: How my mother spanked me for it, Till my tender flesh was sore. I remember, I remember When I used to co to school, How I kept a watchful eye on The master's rod and rule; Bow I cut up monkey-shinee Every time his hack was turned— How I sometimes rued to catch it, When I'd not my lesson learned. I remember, I remember When I went a hooking peaches, Flow a slog came nut and caught me By the surplus of my breeches; Now I hung on to the bushes— Row the dog hung fast to me, Till my crying. brought a man who Flogg'd ma most ..orful.a." I remember, I remember When the girls I used to kiss, How I thought it rather funny, But It live no extra bliss; Now It seizes me with rapture, Now it fills my soul with joy ; Yet with metihnod's blissful pleasure, Would that I wise still a buy. A Conitnon role°hood. There's not a meaner or more abject slave Than the poor wretch, scarce half a man, whose will And reason are at variance; who still Gives the excuso—inventicn of a knai e For doing evil : "Though I know 'tie wrong, Yet I can't help it." Out upon the lie There's not a living mar,. who, if he try To curb his evil, will not grow more strong Doily and hourly Over it. The first Firm blow, given with • will, makes him a king. He is victorious, and all ills worst And vilest of his foes come cowering Around his throne, beseeching him to give 'F heir need some service atuall, by which they still may live. "NEVER SINCE I WAS A enn.o."—These words affect me deeply. They mine hi me through the grater)! a prison door from a.young man about twenty-five years of age, of good form and intelligent counte nance, but quivering and tremhling from the effects of intemperance. "When were you brought here I" "Yesterday." On what charges !" "Druidtenness and dis• orderly conduct." W her re you from I" "Philadelphia." "What lias your Deem patios there?" "Some years age, I had a cry good place in a draper's store, but I fell into bad habits and lost my place.— Tlin I tried pedtiling books.. Yesterday I came here and became intoxicated, and was taken up and put in jail." "rere you religiously brought up ?" .-Not by parents ; but I had religious instruction in the Sunday school." "Then you have attended Sunday school 1" "Yes sir."— ••\V list were your first steps astray r "Going about in the evening and taking walks into the conntry on Sunday." "Did you drink when you went on those excur twos ?" "Sometimes we did, sometimes we didn't." "Dave you been in the habit of praying to God ?" "Never since! was a child."—N. N. Journal of Commerce. Whittier with One Moot Whittier gave early indications of poetic powers. Several of his juvenile poems, having found their way into the newspa pers and magazines of the day, attracted the attention of some literary gentlemen, who appreciated the merits of his produo tiona, resolved to make their author a visit, to offer their assistance in introduc ing the ••Quaker Poet" to • literary noto riety. Accordingly they took a conveyance hot soon set them down in the picturesque own of ‘Vearer.New Hampshire, the rex- ence of the young poet difficulty they bound the dwelling of Whit tier, and they were ushered into the best room of the house, by his mother, to whom tl.ey made known their desire to see her son. All this time young Whittier was work- ing away at the certainly very unpoinical business of cleaning out the pig sty. lie plied his shovel with right good will, total. ly unconscious of the honor that awaited him. Judge of his astonishment when Lizzy, his sister, come running from' the house, and inforute•d linn •t h at it was hill of very great people who were waiting to see him." "What shall I do ;" cried the poet in agony. "Run, Lizzy, and get my boots, while I wash me in the brook." The boots were brought, but the bare, wet feet of Whittier retused to enter. At length, after a deal of tugging, one was drawn on ; but, oh horrors! the other would nut go on, neither would the first collie oil. • "A pretty looking spectacle I shall pre sent fur their inspection," murmured Whit tier, as with one boot in his hand and the other on his foot, he entered the 'muse.— But In a short time, the haltering words of his guests made him forget the awkward ness of his attire. It is sometimes said that an editor frit ters away his best thoughts to no purpose, but here is a paragraph that treats the mat ter sensibly-v-on the principle, we suppose, that what can't be cured must be endured. A contemporary whilst contemplating the high position and great usefulness of a news paper editor thus launches forth : 'IA newspaper may be destroyed at night—it may light a cigar, it may curl a lady's hair. Alt I only think of that, girls. 4n e(litor's thought*, completely, weedy, exquisitely wreathed in your tresses, and— yes, nestling down with you in your mid. night plumbs/s o to gently guard and peace. fully keep watch over' our happy dream. Jerusalem I who would not be an editor." itTruly, who The ° proprietors of a toll bridge , across the river it Anghsta, Ms., allow -remotes on fora to pass rree. In noticing' this, the New , York :Evening Post remarks that "the Down Easters dom't•boliove in tolling the The nuaiber 01 01111111 in Kentueky.c* tits:l44k co; ussorikni, is 11419 4 7513; ecluu v , shout $3,000,000. SAN", IN INDIA STRILNT, Borrox•---Oni 1 The 'il l nimiumll m itftemb Sunday a fternoon, not tong age. two MIDI? , As Prolamine Anderson was looking ti— .dry goods clerks. finiedly tireesed, and ver the vedette American and Eitrotleen with the down of incipient manhood care-.newspapers, which are to he found in tlits fully cherished upon their upper lips, "office of the Bostort Daily served a countrymen standing onahe Ode- Times; he saw dint he win charely Sere. walk: with both hands thrust deep into his tinized by a gentleman of tall atatiore, and . pantaloons pocket. gazing intently tip to rather swarthy appearasee ;,evidendy not the Custom House dome.., a Deetenian. This individual, after a short, "Here's game." obeerved one of the timchad elapsed, at length mustered eour. clerks ;"a Jonathan come to town. Only age and thug addresennt the “Wiza'rd":4 see the patrimonial swallow-tailed coat, say. are you Prof. Anders.* aryl , and, pants in the shape of two inverted air.' 'Wall, you're a laroationemert emir ba g s, 00041 afternoon. Jonathan." he I hear. You ain't got oin,t,firs!le nflpfprit : added, having approached near enough, to with ye, are you .No salute the Yankee. You do not often from dean East having heetri" see stir!' chapels us that in the country, I Maine, and I should like le hurehitad n thIL. suppose. plicate of that ere hottlemucl ani ohnettio. The countrymen gave the interrogator ing cut stumping Far. Pierre; 'and 4044 a quirk. sharp glance, its if' to measure ill had your bottle. of its,twin itrodhlr,ll% hie calibre, and, relapsing into a posi- soonoswamp the B cotties.witheastAiilklitir lion of awkward listucssness, answer- much politics. either.'.. 41 neves ettroyirein ed— bottle with me. emit:Keel 111 "No—sir ; I-tell-you! That are heap it. 4 •Sorry I b e that alit.' sithl ,, tlielltiortar of stone must have cost lots of money.-- stomper; . I towever,!;he.rontinufril, ..(.we* They must be Seven-day Baptists that once taught* trick. when blot , litcz go to meetin' here ; "cause I notice moat • forget how Ate 'darned tbiltyrairtiii the doors have been closed all day. Here's done now. __l'litrll.vou.ato w it asasietittaf. where Mr. Philip Oreely preaches, ain't ger. as near: es4.-stani I used it ?" ' red cent and turnit boom 4na Old° piece.' saiir . .the! Penlessdt. quite simple; a.ineter teiek diAlts•oft hand.' 'Well I know it is•niilierrAliffig , eel!. but es I forget how:Witt res. 'Wow me at the same. time handbag iseeitt: to! the Wizard. • • •.• . • 'O, yes, air, if it wilt Oblige von, t with. shop you in a moment. ••Hold•outi. hand,'• said the wizard: it; youit cent, is it not V •Yes. Clitie-• year hand.' The Down Easier elated hitt/and! fast. Are you sure yon , ha ve . saittthe Wizard;' guests I hate,' said I'll bet a dollar you can't change.-it ten .dollar gold piece.' 4 13/one: said'. the. Wizard. 'Now bold last.' •Yea, I reckon I Will—but stop !:sloven with : your dollar! here is mine!' said dor Yin.. Lee. The Wizard covered hit dildlar.4l4.o 'Now, air, are you ready,?' .said the Wizen ard. ain't nothing else 1' said die Dowel Easter.* Cbange,'said the Wizard.. *Nowt; eir,.open your head. He did in,' and ta. his utter astonishment, he held. a brinaliii: tee dollar gold piece:! str," , ,sakelf. the Wizard, •you sea you have lost yrnite dollar I' .I.gtiess I have,' send he; haul ing over the two dollars.' ..Now.' sava the:, Professor, bet you another dollar i'lllllll change the ten dollar piece into your cent again. and in oh quicker." *No yertlon't,'.. said the ge Maine. placing dimwit ' dollars in Mks, and 'buttoning. up tight. •I'ut much obliged to 4t0u,.. Profeiav itor, bat leacksint ; ['Moue ilia!' 41.ii.1-4 [vow Moran& .01a - hoes %Mlle; itt ing out of tigt office, ,and. farming around the door helloed Itiedigitals in a peculiar position, w he thenah ht close approxi mation to his probtWeis, saying, -4 guess, there ain't anything green , about thischild !' and left the Professor in utter amazement at his coolness.—Rodon Times. , "We do not know the preacher'• name." •Don't know the preacher's name, and pretend to he decentlanti of onr Pil grim Fathers ! Alt, shams on ye, you de generate sons ! as Deacon Simpkinf, up in our town, used to say. Look here ; when I came over to the Finchhurg road, yesterday, I see two monuments—one of brick and nother of stone. 1-know what the atone one's for; it is on Bunker Hill; hut what's the brick t [referring to iFe glass work's chimney in East Cambridge.] It's on lower ground, hut it is the higher and nicer of the two." -That la to commemorate the battle of Waterloo." Hugh Bridgesson ''S 'tis, !didn't t liink o' that, Ile( I seen a smoke on top. I spose they use it for a a beacon to navigate Charles river, dote? , they 1" "Certainly." "Didn't the tide use to flow clean up by where we stand?" "We never heard that it did," "Wall, it did. That's what the hooka_say.:_it used to flow e'numost up to raneuil Hell. It must have i uat µerne to fill in the dirt and make all theme streets, any hoW. Say, how many inhabitants are there in this i city T" "We don't know." "How much did this chapel, as you call it, cost ?" "Can't tell." -Do'vini know what order of architecture 'its ?"- "No." "Have you ever hearn tell what year the corner stone of the State House was laid ?" "No." see 1 tnuet ‘ answer all flay own-quett lions ; so ',Vibe!, artitill'asked tegtithei% I'll answer them the same way: 130,750 inhabitants ; 111.070.000; the Doric order of architecture ; the corner-stone of the( State House was laid on the 4th of July, 1705. And now youngsters, I would ad vise you to post yourselves up a little bet ter in the affairs of vour own city. lour, ignorance, rely makes you appear redicu lous in the coinpany of educated men." The clerks withdrew under a very strong conviction that they had caught a Tartar; and the Yankee, who was realy an educat ed man, and had assumed for the moment the character for which he had been mis taken on purpose to zuiz the quizzes., withdrew to enjoy the joke. Wotocuso GlaLs.—Happy girls—who cannot love them T whith cheeks like the rose, bright eyes and elastic step, how cheerfully they go to work. Our reputa tion for it, such girls will make excellent wires. Blessed, indeed, will Such men be who secure such prizes. Contrast those who do nothing but sigh all day, and live to follow the 4slio never earn the bread that they eat, ur the shoes they wear ; who are languid and lazy Irons one weeks end to another. Who but a simple-' ton and a popinjay would prefer one of the latter, if he were looking for a, com panion T Give us the working girls._ They are worth their weight in gold.— You never see them mincing along, or jump a dozen feet to steer clear of a spider or a fly. They have no affectation, no silly airs about them. When they meet you, they speak without putting on a doz en of silly airs, or trying to show off to bettor advantage, and you feel as if you were talking to a human being, and not to a (painted or a fallen angel. If girls knew how sadly they miss it,: while they endeavor to show off their deli-1 cafe hands and unsoiled skins, and put on a thousand airs, they would give worlds for the situation of the working Irdie who are so (Cr above them in intelligvnee, in honor, in el erytlting, as the heavens are a hove the earth. With some Be wise, then. you who have made fools of yourselves through life. Turn o ver a new Ital. and begin. through site, to live and act ai human beings ; as compan ions to immortal man, and not play-things abd dolls. In no other way Call one be happy and subserve the designs of your existence. A WORD TO LITTLE GIELS.WhO is lovely 1 It is the little girl who drops sweet words, kind remarks, and pleasant smiles, ae she passes along—who has a word of kind sympathy for every boy or girl she meets in trouble, and a kind hand to help her companion out of difficulty. who never scolds, never conteods., never males her, nor seeks in any way to dimin ish, but always to increase her happiness. Would it please you to pickup a string of pearls, crops of gold, diamonds or precious stones,' ishiCh can never he , Inst:f "Take the hand of the friendless, Smile on the sad and dejected. Strive everywhere to diffuse around you sunshine and fox.— Ityou do this, yov wilt be sure to be be. loved. • Patuuoice.--New tloctriner; however true and however beautiful, never please men oT the old +school. `, l ,ohey like to-kieey that-the world has be* , loaiug . .whelursh Wattled of gaining 0.; iiret float 147,ertwe, 99U08. „ • • rbe arins.of 8, preitysiii. -worod rOind.tile 149 11 tiLIMMOIPtu I , I j44O 4IO 4 I O iO oases of 110111* 1t 1 .1• 10 PPPrat TWO DOLLARS PER 7Eleil9M.,' MEM }'NUMBER 33. QUALIFICATIONB.—So'mebmIy very truly; remarked, that ajwod wile exhibits her love for her . husband by tfyhig to promote his welfare, and by administering to his comfort. . • spoor top udeari" stul "my loves" her husband, and wouldn't, sew a hiitton, on his east io keep him (rum freezing, A sensibly Mill:looks for her etlOymen t,et home—a sill f one sibrOad. , A wise girt eriW a lever b y practi. sing those elnues erltich secure tulintratiou when pirsOnstl nharitisfiniv esiled• .„. „ A simple girl end/ 1,6'111 M . recOMMeed herself by the itihikittini, , accomFlislimenlAg# Manikisli,-seittitnent„ which are as ihalOW ss het ibitttl: A good girl Osseo respfins herself, std therefore alwitys poesesdesthe reePecuiof . others. - ' The Spirit of "Legtee. ,, .'• ' ' Uncle Tom's Cabin. eels • the Thiladek;,! phis SCUI, is considered 10 be . too higli)?' ooiored, by our southern friends ,' add WO . ' have thought that Levee Mo gheit'i,fleitil ' I to be natural. We, however: 'anmetittfes' see a symptom of his unchtiatian4pliit.' For instance, a negro named Fleming had , a quarrel with • Mr. and Mra. Poe, at Richmond. about some trillitm muney mat ters, and limning becoming excited. octed very outrageously. ~He was arrested, and the Mayor was directed that the priminer should have thirty-nine stripes well laid on. one day, and thirty-nine more the next, and the °filmed his comilliiliWlit iltr - twelve month - Pin default of 000 security to keep die peace and beef good behavior. The Richmond Republican says, -"our only regret is. that his Honor mild not have assessed the punishment at three hurt. Bred lashes, well laid on with a hot rod, to be repeated twice a week for twelve months: • Such a desperado ,should no more be• permitted to go at large than a mad dog: • • '': Mr. Partington, in Must:Atkin tv(4.10001 proverb, that a soft answer turnatti•oway,„; wrath.' says that 'it *Voter so,•Poikkitamq gorically of a pemon than fro,he all.whe tiosevi flinging epitaphs tithitrit. lot Ito igopd nesen. comes to nobody lb* speaks : 4o soot RC , • no one.' .: , . - ', . •, ,! .-, .r 4.-,,, "NTY dear Murphy," said app3 ,;, la a friend. "adiy did `yrei betray, theii cret ihut I told you ?" ' —ls it betray yiiti'eall it 1 ! er I found 1 *asn'rebte ioloker dither I do welt to UM 9t to.oae could kaap it r' •• Ruined AND Mrs. peresp' of rennayltania, hal tell her husiteattaild". strayed to perts,tottitiown." ,Wit,prisusee the pair, are righti and Wk.! We cannot say, haterever. that lira. Bowe is oright,'!.. bet there is no mistake that Mr" Boots is ' ..ieft."—fferiferd . ffol legs thou 119,006-4itrolo of bYb be OhlOped this year from a single , A is the sleuth end of Lobe Michigan, . vi. $OO.OOO - ware; the rillitetiult.intl. TeX thepC tricked. like i v erg* brp ~„ aplteotirstolistaiice betwie# *IR %.110A : ti *minified). irr
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers