1 -,
t -.
li
r
COME AN1 TAKE ME. Duvivieb.
VOL. 1.
CLEARFIELD, WEDNESDAY, NOYEMBER: 8, 1854.
NO; 19.
RAFTSMAN'S JOURNAL.
Be. Jones, Publisher.
Per. annum, (parable in advance,) ?l 00
If poid within the year, 1 60
After the expiration of the year. 2 00
No paper discontinued until all arrearages are
paid.
A failure to notify a discontinuance at the expi
ration of the Utiu subscribed for, will be consider
ed a now engagement. ' .
From the Cincinnati Commercial.
GENTLE BLUE-EYED TIAIDEE.
I:V J. L. CIST.
"Way down in Sangaiuonna county.
Where Sangamouna river flows
When summer comes iu all her bouuty.
Hij.e with each fruit and flower that blows
All up and down the wild, wild prairie,
Ten thousand blossoms scent tho air. ;
'Twas there I loved a charming fairy,
Herself the sweetc3t flower there
Gentle blue-cyed Haidee.
Loved Nature's child
No flower so sweet and fair. you'll meet
In afl tho prairiir'wild
-Straight as an arrv. tall an blender,
All lithe and graceful wad her form
Meek as a child's her spirit tender,
Her soul with rich reflections warm
Urighi as an angel's wing her beaut',
'Fair ai the round full moon her fucc ;
To her a pleasure Fccmed each duty,
And every motion was agrafe.
Gentle, graceful Ifaidoo,
Fair Nature's child ;
No flower you'll meet that's half so nweet
In all the prairie wild.
Thu.. throo;;c the summer brightly blooming.
Glad'ning the sunshine and the air,
How could I dream of frosts entombing
Her, sweet wild wool blossom fair?
I'ut when the flowers she'd loved and cherished.
Touched by ehill autumn, drooped and died,
With their last fading bloom ahu perished ;
And there I laid her by their side !
I-ovod and parted Haidee!
Dear Natnre's child ;
You'll never meet with a flower more ewect
In all the prairie wild.
(Original Moral air.
WIUTTKV FOrt HIE JOt-RXiL.
the
:o:
C OFTRIOIIT SECCEEn.
CHAPTER VI.
Among the remains with which the site
,.r
i i . it . i-
.woe iue pn.-sem uav, not
vw"-" -""U5 lMr.v,"S
llLlOCS fti lllT (Ii'.'I.I. '!fil!irt tJ-.r-ri or.. f.n- i .
- ......... - i
strangers -v. do not find it convenient to
hjM-nd at least a day among her tombs.
These are mostly found outside the walls, as
fVw ".vcre allowed the honor of being buried
within the city. Their tombs line the sides of
the great roads beyond, thusgrectingthe stran
ger as he enters, or leaves this vast museum of
departed magnificence and glory; and impress
ids mind, at once, with the mortality of man,
and the vanity of earth.
The most celebrated of these are found
along the Appiau way lining it, on either
side, for a great distance. Here, the stranger
ds seen wandering along in thoughtful silence;
or gazing, with a strange and melancholy in
terest, upon the decayed receptacles of the ash
es of a once'great and magnanimous people.
As he passes along, Ins curiosity, perhaps,
loads him to enter a labyrinth of winding pas
sages cut out of the euft fifth rock. ' Follow
ing closely his guide, with a dim taper in his
hand, lie observes here and there a number of
recesses, in which reposed the bodies of the
dead. , This is the tomb of the Scipios'. It is
now, however, tenantless the bones and ashes
of its illustrious sleepers having long since
been dug up and removed. ,
Emerging from this, the stranger passes
family-vaults, mausoleums, strange looking cir
cular towers, and 'decayed masses of brick
work, till, at length, he arrives at the Church
of St. Sc-bastiau.
Here, perhaps, guided by an old monk, car
Tying a tall M"ax candle .in his hand, he de
scends a long flight of steps, leading abruptly
into the bowels of the earth. His heart beats
and his limbs tremble as he slowly and cauti
ously finds Ins way, from step to step. At
length he finds himself at (he foot of the rude
earthen strair-way, many feet under ground.
. Here pausing, and casting his eys around
him, he sees a series of dark, winding passag
es cut horrizontaly in the rock, branehing,and
running off in all directions, and just high and
wide trough t-- admit the passage of the body.
These are the Catacombs. When, or for
what purpose, these immense subterranean ex
cavations were made is uncertain. It is well
known, however, that they were used by the
early christiaus,iu times of pcrsecution,for the
purine of solemnizing the rites of their reli
gion, and also as a place for depositing the
dead bodjes or ashes of their martyred brethren.
It is credibly stated that their altars remain
to this day, and that the rough, rocky walls
around and above arc still black with the
smoke of their lamps, while in the recesses of
the walls have been found the remains of one
hundred and eighty thousand martyrs.
Their extent, says a recent tourist, almost
crceeds belief. One is said to extend as far ,
sw Ostia, a distance of sixteen miles; and the
eir-Miit of the vvhoU to exceed sixfv miles.
Many an adventurous stranger,moreover,has
entered them, but never found his way out
again ; and hence, to prevent the recurrence
of such calamities, most of the passages have
been blocked up, a few only of the more di
rect and accessible being left open.
This brief sketch of these gloomy subterra
nean caverns was necessary to our narrative ;
and the reader must now go back, iii imagina
tion, to the period when they were used by
the christians for the purposes stated. .
Half a mile from the city on the Appiau
way, stood an old temple, which, for several
centuries, had been dedicated to the manes of
tlie dead. At the time, however, to which we
refer, its roof had fallen in, and nothing re
mained but its decayed and gloomy walls. All
around and over these grew thick clusters of
wild ivy and vines; and a few old Cyprus trees
stood close by, concealing' it almost from
view, 'and casting over the ruins ' a pecu
liarly dreary and sombre shade.
It was iu fact one of those places which few
felt inclined to visit, and which the benighted
traveler hurried by with a quick and trembling
step. Indeed, the superstitions and timid
minds of the old Komau matron:! had connect
ed with it many a frightful ghost-story, which,
to say the least, had long served to protect it 1
from the intrusion of even the most resolute
pnd daring. Besides, in one corner of the in-
terior there was ssid to be a small hole or en-
trance, which led down to the regions of 'the
dead, and that their thin, misty forms could
be seen passing in and out, at all hours a
.sight, however, which, few it seems, had tiie
hardihood even to covet, much less witness.
It is now dark. The citizens have gathered
themsidves within the walls. Thousands are
seated in groups along the banks of the Tiber,
looking madly at the yellow waters reflecting
the dim star-light; while others, with looks
little less angry and despairing, have entered
their flimsy tents which had begun to spring up
here ami there thro' the burnt, black districts.
Now and then, however, a solitary individu
al or two, passing through the gate, might
have been observed hurrying along tho Appiau
way in the darkness. Their dress i3 .slightly
disguised; and their short, quick step, and
their eyes glancing to the right and left, indi
cate that their minds are not entirely clear
from anxiety and fear.
Arriving opposite the old delapidated tem
ple, they suddenly direct their course towards
! it; and pushing the entangled vines aside, and
. .
olh(.r th,,v ()Tli,jkIv disappeared.
These are the poor. persecuted Christiansen
r.Tiii
l.n i v, ... I... ... .1... : i . . . i
, - - - - -
their rtdigioii, at the peril of tK'ir livf .s
At the bottom of the long,' rocky stair-way,
n guide or sentinel is stationed. He holds iu
his hand a lantern, and as his brethren de
scend, and the sound of their feet is heard, feel
ing their way, cautiously from step to step,' he
greets them as s mi as possible with its pale
light.
"This way,"' says the guide, in a low, hur
ried voice; and entering one of the dark tortu
rous passages, he conducts them to the place
selected for solemnizing the rites of their faith.
This is a recess or widening in the passage,
some ten or twelve feet in diameter, and capa
ble of containing a number of persons in eith
er a sitting or standing posture. For what
purpose it was originally designed no one
knows, and to divine an end would only be to
throw around the whole subject of these won
derful excavtions a greater mystery.
In one corner of the cavern in question lay
a mass of rock, tolerably square, and about
four feet in height. It was easy, to see that it
had fallen from the rough, craggj ceiling
possibly dislocated by some great convulsion
of nature.
This answered very well for an altar. And
indeed who will say that a forecast of provi
dence had not provided it for this very end.
That mysterious and incomprehensible Being,
before whose fixed gaze all time, past, present
and to come, is concentrated in one single,
glowing point, here had in readiness & place,
with its alter dedicated by his own , all-pervading
breath; and where his wronged and afflict
ed children might, in after ages, enjoy their
simple and unostentatious rites, unseen by the
eye of mortal, and free from the molestations
of their enemies. At least, for this end it
wus used, , and the emblems of a mighty faith
were dispensed from its unchiseled surface. t
In a niche directly behind it, stood an old
lamp, casting a dim light over it, and upon the
surrounding walls imparting, however, to the
cavern a strange, spectral gloonliBess.
Upon it stood a small earthen goblet of wine,
and by it lay a few pieces of unleavened
bread, wraped in a clean, white linen napkin.
Along side of these' lay a soiled parchment,
containing a portion of the records of a faith,
destined, in the providence of God, to go
forth from these dark, gloomy caverns, and
encompass the length and breadth of the
whole earth, ' ,: , J .; --'V '
At the side of the altar stood an old man, at
present, who had passed hid three-score and
ten. His venerable form, inclining forward,
was stooping over it, and his down-cast eyes,
were gazing thoughtfully, while he has just
stretched forth his long, bony, trembling hand,
and is unrolling the linen napkin. ; n ,; f i
Around Lim are some two or three dozen of
ehritis,of both sexes. Sonic are standing,
while others are seated on the hard, earthen
floor, or on some projecting crag of rock.
Their countenances are glistening with a
strange, unearthly whiteness, whiloj their fea
tures are marked by the lines of a deep, anx
ious sorrow. . And yet there is not wanting in
their looks the evidences of an inner joyous
ness, and the workings of a resolute and un
compromising faith. , . . .
Xor isr it at all to be wondered at, that amid
these blending emotions, there, should be, so
strangely visibly, the lines of a deep, natural
sorrow. In the mysteries of providence, the'
had been, in common with others, brought to
mourn over a great national calamity ; and in
their own case, as a helpless and inoffensive re
ligidiLS sect, to lament au act of the most per
fidious injustice, and the most barbarous cruel
And though their faith had taught them
to expect and endure the vilest wrongs, yet, as
citizens of Koine, they could not but greatly
bewail the degeneracy of tho times, and the
loss of that ancient virtue which had imparted
such a lustre to the Koman name.
Then, too, the hundreds of their brethren
M ho had already fallen victims, and whose ash
es lay in piles in front of the Forum, had rush
ed with a loud, horrible appeal to their hearts,
be ye also ready." ' The'great cry had not
been unheeded. The hist few days and nights
had been spent in constant praver and watch-
j.,.r And thev had been weighing themselves
in the scales of eternal justice; and they had
talked together of the glory to come of the
bright crow ns, and the white robes, and
the golden harps, and the' new 'song till,
even iii this gloomy cavern in many of their
looks, and in the bright, lustrous, swimming
of their eyes, there was that mysteriousness
which marks a soul about to throw aside its
earthlv fetters, and bound away into the un
fathomable depths of the skies. '
And to-night, at th-j imminent peril of their
lives, they had come hither, to commemorate
the death of their Master, in the emblems of
his broken body and shed blood, to add vigor
to their faith, quickening to their souls,
strength to overcome the world, and a readi
ness to enter the gates of glory through the
lighted tires of martyrdom.
It was a sublime sight, worthy indeed the
noblest efforts of the painter or sculptor were
it possible to portray on canvass, or chisel In
marble, this subterranean group, as, standing
around tu gloomy walls of the cavern, thoy
received from the hand of tho old man the
emblems of their faith. , .
Reader, this old man was I'rylheus: and the
old lamp in the niche is the same that burned
dimly, many along night in the little chamber
within the walls of the city. Hitherithas been
transferred, with its sainted owner, to perform j
its mission in this gloomy and lonely cavern.
As slated, Frytheus is unrolling the linen
napkin; and now he has 'just taken up a piece
of the unleavened bread in his hand.
"Keeeive tv.is emblem of your Master's bo
dy," said he, raising his eyes, aud casting an
earnest, benevolent look on those around him.
One after another, they came devoutly to the
altar and received the bread from his hand.
"Receive this emblem of your Master's
blood," he again said, after a few minutes si
lence; when, coming forward in like-manner,
they each took a sup of the wino from,
the earthen goblet.
Having resumed their former places, there
was a long, profound silence. Fry theus, kneel
ing at the side of the stone altar, has hishands
clasped and resting upon It, while his eyes are
raised to heaven, and his soul is going forth in
the silent, earnest breathings of prayer. The
rest, some seated and others reclining against
the walls, are similarly engaged. The thoughts
of all are upon the great attuning sacrifice of
the cross, and its blood-bought blessings; and
as the cross with its priceless victim rises to
their view, and as the agony, and groans, aud
bloody sweat is recalled to their minds, each
one feels an unearthly life thrill through his
soul, and a readiness to suffer the loss of all
things, that they may share in their
Master's glory. . '..,
At length one of their number,a female,rosc
to her feet, and in a calm, resigned voice, said:
'"I rejoice that I am counted worthy to suf
fer for the sake of him who suffered ; and died
for me, though my sorrows, are almost beyond
the endurance of a mother's heart," saying
which she leaned her head against the rude
wall, and bnrst into tears. r
"Thou doest not well to conceal the sorrows
of thy soul," said Frytheus, having rose up
quickly from his knees. ' ' ' - .
. "Ah !" said she, "the hearts of many moth
ers in Rome, weep, and bleed as mine own
weep, and yet rejoice."
"Conceal not thy sorrow, woman," said Pry-
thens; let us.enjoy at least the pleasure of
sympathizing with .a christian mother, as
I know thou art." . , , .
"Ah ! yes,", said she, "I was a mother once,
and my children rejoiced, and were happy
around me. ; I was the .happy wife, too, of a
fond, loving, devoted husband. Six years we
lived - together, in our own sweet, cheerful
home, in the greatest, earthly bliss, loving and
being loved, and cheered by the smiles and
pratlings of our four little ones. The last two
years especially, were of the sweetest earthly
enjoyment ; for both myself and husband were j
christians, and our joys were mutual, aud our J
hopes of the coming glory the 'same. But
now I am left all alone in the world, to weep,
lamentfand die ' ' " ' ' ' ' '
Hero her uterance became choaked, and she
was unable for a few moments, to proceed.
In the meantime, the eyes of all present had
become fixed upon her, with an intense, anx
ious interest, while their sympathy had already
begun to manifest itself in a profusion of tears.
At Ienghth, suppressing her emotions ns
well as she could, she continued : "when the
flames reached our dwelling, we were all in a
sound sleep, my husband in bed by my side,
and my babe nestling ou my bosom. Out oth
er -children were asleep in a small, adjoining
room, i Their screams awakened its. My pqor,
dear husband rushed to their assistance, and I
saw him no more. 1 fled into the street, with
j mybabe iu my arms, but the thought of my
j husband and chilcren caused me to enter again
in search of them, with my child still iu my
arms. I knew not what I did, or how I escap
ed from the flames, but I found myself a few
hours after jn the house of a christian friend
my all. gone! yes, myall my husband, my
children even my sweet, dear little babe !"
Again her voice was hushed in the intensity
of her grief. Indeed scarcely could it havo
been heard .because of the weepings of those
around her. Even Prythcus found it impossi
ble to restrain his feelings, and he wept sore
for several minutes. i
"Woman, thou hast indeed suffered the loss
of nil things: but- thou shall have a hundred
fold in the lifrto come," said Frytheusl
"Oh! is our separation 'Totvot; or sli.il I I see
those ds-'ar, loved faces agiin ?" eagerly in
quired the mother.
"Thou shalt see them again, woman, in un
fading youth and beauty; even thy little babe
thou shalt nestle .'gain on thy bosom,", said
Frytheus. . .
"O ! may it be soon very soon," said she,
wiping the tears from her eyes.
Just at this moment a faint echo was hoard
proceeding from the mouth of the dark, tortu
ous passage which led to tho cavern.
Instantly, they were on their feet, pale, and
trembling with fear, supposing, that the place
of their retreat had been discovered, and that
their enemies were upon them. .
Again, the same echo came from the mouth
of the passage, strange, and faint as before.
'"May be they're brethren," said Frytheus.
The guide, at this suggestion, snatching up
his lantern, entered the dark passage with a
firm, unhesitating step, and in a few moments
was out of sight.
Xot a word was spoken. AM was still and
silent as the grave. It was a fearful moment
a moment of awful suspense.
At length, however, low, surpressed voices
were heard issuing from the passage, 'gradual
ly becoming more and more audible, till, in a
few moments, the light of the lantern in the
hands of the guide, was seen reflected on the
rocky sides, a few yards only from its entrance.
Presently, he enters the cavcrnj followed by
two men, who were instantly tecognized by
Prythcus and all present, as bold and fearless
followers of Christ.
They were carrying between them a large,
earthen Urn, which they sat down at the side
of the altar.
"For what purpose is this!" inquired Fry
theus, laying his trcmblicg hand upon it.
"This Urn contains the ashes of our martyr
ed brethren," said the man.
"Thou hast well done," said Prytheus,.
"even tlie ashes of the Saints are, precious in
the Master's eyes, and should be preserved
with pious care." , :
They shall not be lost," said a man of no
ble bearing, on whose armr leaned a" female,
both in disguise, yet known to the holy man. '
' "Xo! not a particle! not even the' smallest
atom !" said Prythcus, raising bis eyes, and
casting an earnest thoughtful look around him.
"Forth from this trail. ;irthii TTrn. in the
last, great day, at the voice of the Arch angel
and the sound of the last trump, these bodies,
now reduced to a black ; unseemly lump of
ashes, will spring again into activity and life,
renewed, spiritnalized, , incorruptible and im
mortal; and re-possessed again hy the Sainted
spirit, pass away into the heavens, there, shar
ing in the joys and participation in the last
long, glorious triumphs of our faith." '
I "What a mystery ! what a mystery !" said a
dozen or more voices at once. '
i "Yes ! profound mvsfcerv to reason and sci
cncc,but clearly, : glowingly revealed in the
records of onr iaith," said Prythcus,' at the
same time taking up the soiled parchment in
his hand, and reading as follows : ' .
"Behold I she?. you a mystery ; we shall
not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a
moment, in the twinJiling of an! eye, at the
last trump; for tho trumpet shall sound, and
the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we
shall be changed. Fw - this corruptible must
put on incorruption, and this mortal must put
on immortality' and rolling np the parch;
ment again, he laid it on the altar.
"Peace; peace!" was the only response
from those around him. - , '.' . ; - ; :
. . "Yes; peace bo to (thcir;,aslies,' said he,
when, assisted by. one of the men, he deposit
ed the Urn, with its precious contents, in a
small recess, iu the. rocky, walls of tlie cavern j
and tnraiag round, ho gave them all" his part-
ing, closing" blessing.
7b be Continued.
' ' Tha "Winter of the Heart.
Let it never come upon vou. Live so that
good angels may protect you from this terrible
evil the winter of the heart.: .
; Let no chilling influence freeze up the foun
dations of sympathy and happiness in its depths;
no cold burthen settle over its withered hopes.
like snow on tho faded ilowers; no rude bbists
of discontent moan and shriek through its des
olate chambers. 1 - ' .
Your life-path may lead you amid trials,
which for a time seem utterly to impede your
progress, and shutout the very light of heaven
from your anxious gaze. :
Penury may take the place of ease and plen
t3"; your luxurious home may be exV.hangddfor
a single, lowly : room the soft ; couch for the
ft raw pallet the rich viands for the coarse
food ot the poor. . Summer friends may lor
sake you, and the unpitying world pass you
With scarce!- a look or word of compassion.
You may be forced to toil wearily, steadily
on, to earn a livelihood: vou may encounter
fraud and the base avarice which would extort
the last farthing, till you well-nigh turn in dis
gust from your fellow-beings. ' t ,
Death may sever the dear tics that" bind you
to earth, and leave you in fearful -darkness.-
That noble, 'manly boy, the sole hope of your
declining years, may be taken from von, while
your spirit clings to him with a wild tenacity,
which even the shadow of the tomb cannot
wholly subdue. '
rut amid all these sorrows, do not come to
the conclusion that nobody was ever so deep
ly afflicted as ' you are, and 'abandon every
sweet anticipation of "better days" in the un
known future. . j - - '' ;" ' ;
Do not lose your faith in human excellence,
because your confidence has sometimes been
betrayed, nor believe that friendship is only a
delusion, and love a bright phantom which
glides away from your grasp.'
Do not think that you are fated to be miser
able because you are disappointed in your ex
pectations, and baffled in your pursuits. Do
not declare that Hod has forsaken you, when
your way is hedged alout with thorns, or rc
pine sinfully, when he calls your dear ones to
the land beyond the grave. -
Keep a lioly trust in heaven through every
trial; bear adversity with fortitude, nd look
upward in hours of temptation and suffering
When your locks are white, -onr eyes dim, and
your limbs weary; when your steps falter on
the verge of Death's gloomy vale, still retain
the freshness and buoyancy of spirit, which
will shield you from the winter of the heart.
Poor Richard.,
If you would know the. value of-money, go
and try to borrow some; for he. that goes a
borrowiug goes a sorrowing, as Poor Richard
says: and, indeed, so does he that lends to such
people, when he goes to get . it again. Toor
Dick farther advises, and says : ..
, -Fond pride of dress is suro a very curse;
Ere fabric you eonsuit. consult your Pura."
And again, "Pride is as loud 'a legger as
want, and a great deal more saucy." When
you have bought one fine thing, you must buy
ten more, that your appearance. may be all of a
piece: Tut Poor Dick says, "It is easier to
suppress the first desire, than to satisfy- all
that follow' it." And it is as' truly folly for the
poor to ape the rich, as for. the frog to swell
in order, to equal the ox. : KVt i :
: ; '-Yefsels large may venture more,
, - Put little boats should keep near shore.'." .
It is, however, a folly soon punished: for, as
Poor .Richard says, "Pride that dines on van
ity, sups on contempt; Pride breakfasted with
Plenty, dined with poverty, and supped with
infamy, V And after all, of what use is this
pride of appearance,: for which so much is
risked, so much is suffered:' It cannot pro
mote health, or ease pain: it makes no increase
of merit in the person, it creates -envy, it . has
tens misfortune. : . 4 .: . T
But what madness it must lie to run in debt
for these superfluities ! - We are offered by the
terms of this sale, six. months credit; and that,
perhaps, has induced ;somo .of us to attend it,
because, we cannot spare the ready money, and
hope to be fine without it. But ah! think what
you do when you run in debt; you give to
another power over liberty. . If you . cannot
pay at the time, you , will be ashamed to bee
your creditor; you will be in fear when you
speak to him,, you will make poor, pitiful,
sneaking excuse, and, by degrees, come to lose
your veracity, and sink into base, downright
lying; for, "the second vice is lying, the first is
running in debt,'.' as Poor Richard says; and
again, to the same purpose, "lying rides upon
debt's back; whereas a freeborn Englishman
ought not to be ashamed or afraid to see or
speak to any man living. . But poverty often
deprives a man of all spirit and virtue. "It
is hard for an empty bag to stand upright."
Dr. Franklin, . . . , .;....
Strawberries ak Girls. At a debating
society in Schenectady the other day, the
subject was, which is the' most beautiful pro
duction, a girl or a strawberry ? After con
tinuing the argument for two nights, the mee
ting finally journed : without coming to a
conclusion the old members going for the
strawberries,'and the young ones for the girls.
. ' - r
. .; DC7; What kin js. ihat which all Yankees ,love
to recognize, and. which has always sweet as
sociations conn icted wjth.it 7 Wby a pmjip.
mn, to be sure. v
Not GcrLTv. A correspondent of the Dem
ocratic Courier, from Cincinnati, tells a sto
ry of a fellow who was found in. ther gutter
drunk, and taken Inrfore the Mayor, when the
following dialogue took place:
'David," said his honor, as soon as he laid
his eyes on Mr. Jones, "are yon here again?
Did you not promise me last week that you
would not get drunk again if I would let you
on""
, "Keep cool, your honor," replied Dave
with brazen impudence, "keep, cool and
that's what 1 have been trying to do."
"Hut you are charged with being beastly
drunk, and lying in the gutter."
; - "Drunk sot guilty.. Lying in the' gutter
guilty!" "' :
. "What were you lying in the gutter for if
you were not drunk?"
" You see, your honor," replied Dave, with
the air of a lawyer, "was monstrous hot last
night hot as h -1; couldn't sleep drinked
three glasses of lemonade and a gallon and a
half of pump water hot yet jumped into the
river felt nice but could'ut sleep then
your honor, I came out again drank another
gallon of pump water; pumped a gutter full
laid down in it felt comfortall Avent to
sleep dreamed I was rich, riding in a coach
an four 'round the north pole woke up, found
in the watch house trying to keep cool,
that's all." . . '
. His honor was somewhat amused at Davy's
coolness in making up such a cool lie aud let
him slide. -. ."
C"A lawyer of Poughkeepsie was applied
to during his lifetime, by im indigent neigh
bor, for his opinion on a question of law in
which the interest "of the latter were material
ly involved. Tho lawyer gave his advice and
charged the poor fellow three dollars for it.
"There is the money," said the client, "it
is all I have in the world, and my family has
been a long time without pork."
"Thank God!" replied the lawyer, "my
wife never knew the want of pork since we
were married."'
"Xor never will," the countryman rejoined,
so long as she has sucn a great hog as you."
The lawyer was so pleased with the smart
ness of his repartee that he forgave the poor,
fellow and returned the money. '
We believe all but the last part.
TlIAVIXr, TIIICKTHfENTII. Did VOU gO to
Dr to have him cure you of lisping?"
.said a gentleman in Louisville to a little boy
who had been tongne-fied. r
"Yeth thir," answered the lad.
''What did he do to you."
"IIo cut a little thring there wath under my
tongue." ' -' '
"Did he cure you?"
"Yeth, thir." " -
,'Why, you are lisping" ;itr."
"Am I, thir? Well, I don't nerthieve that
I litph, cccluj'l vhen I ih'etu thickpenth! Then I
alwavth notithe it."
Happy Ltd? "Where Ignorance is bliss1, 'tis
follv to be wise." -
OrrosiTEs. A good wife should be liko
three things, which three things she should not
be like : ,, ' , .
First She should be like a snail, to' keep
within her own house; but she should not be
like a snail to carry all she has on her back.
Secondly. She should belike an echo, to
speak when spoken to;, but she should not be
like an echo, always to have the last word.
Thirdly She should be like a town clock,
always to keep time . and regularity; but she
should not be like a town clock, to speak so
loud that all the town- may hear her. . .
CC-Zeb,"' said a chap to his chum the
other day, "it seems- to me you didn't etay
long at Squire Togger's last night."
"Xo," was the reply; "I was sayin' a few
pleasant things to the daughter, and the old
man came in ami gave me a hint to go."
"AJiint, Zeb; what sort of a hint?''
"Why, he gave me my hat, opened the doer,
and just as he began to raise his cowhide boot.
I thought . that 1 wasn't, wanted, and so I i"
took my leave." ' ."
Qv ite Uxaximocs A good deacon making
an official visit to a dying neighbor, who was
a very unpopular man, put the usual ques
tion : " .' '
"Are you willing to go my friend 1iy -'
? "Oh yes," said the Bick man.
"I am glad of that," said the deacon, "for
all the neighbors are willing." "
Result, or Fashion.--We noticed a beauti
ful poodle dog trotting along ouf streets' yes
terday, wno had been completly shaven, ex
cept two graceful tufts decending from either
side of the upper jaw, fprming as complete a
moustache as the most exquisit could sigh, for.
ice little creature 6eemed to realize his im
portance. .....
f-'j ' ' '
"Do you retail things here," asked a green
looking .specixnan of humanity as' he poked
his head into a store on Main street, the other
day. , , . : ., ,. ..... ;. ... .. ( ...
:t"Yes," was ftoe laconic reply.. ' ,
' "Well, I wish you would re-tail my dog
he had it bit off about a week ago.' -'-'-
KTTd remove Ink form Linen, Jerk a
' printer out of bis shirt. - .:- - -
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