Hlf ft fT (It
THE BLESSINGS OF GOVERNMENT, LIKE THE DEWS OP HEAVEN, SHOULD BB DISTRIBUTES ALIKE UPON THE HIGH AND THE LOW, THE BICH AND THE POOB.
JEW SERIES.
EBEXSBURC. Pi. WEDNESDAY, AUG. 7 1861.
VOL. 8 AO. 35
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THE SO.G OF THE CAMP.
BY BAYARD TAYLOR.
" Give us a song!" the soldier cried,
The outer trenches guarding,
"When the heated guns of the camp allied,
Grew weary of bombarding.
The Dark Redan in silent scoff,
Lay grim and threatening under ;
And the tawny mound of the Malakoff,
No longer held its thunder.
There was a pause. The guard man said,
We storm the forts to-morrow ;
Sing while we may, another day
Will bring enough of sorrow."
Then lay along the battery's side.
Below the imoking cannon
Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde,
And from the banks of Shannon.
They sang of love, and not of fame,
Forgot was Britain's glory ;
Each heart recalled a different name,
But all saug "Annie Laurie."
Voice after voice caught up the song,
Until its tender passion
Rote like an anthem, rich and strong.
Their battle eve's confession.
Dear girl her name he dared not speak ;
Yet as the song grew louder,
Something upon the soldier's cheek
Wasned off the stains of powder.
Beyond the darkening ocean, burned
The bloody sunset's embers,
While the Crimean valleys learned
How English love remembers.
And once again a fare of hell
Baincd on the Russian quarters,
With screim of shot and burst of shell.
And bellowing ot the tnortars-
An Irish Nora's eyes are dim,
For a singer dumb and gory ;
An English Mary mourns for him
Who sang of "Annie Laurie."
Ah. soldier! to your honored rest,
Your truth and valor bearing.
The bravest are the tenderest
The loving are the daring.
THE BLIND MAN'S WREATH.
A STORY OF DOMESTIC LIFE.
CONCLUDED. J
"Not yet? The day would still come, dear
est, delay it as I might, and is it manful thus to
ihrink from what must and cught to be ? 1 have
to begin life in earnest, and if I falter at the on
set, what will be the result ? I have arranged
everything. .Mr. Glen, our clergyman, has a
cousin, an usher in a school, who wishes for re
tirement and country air. I have engaged him to
live with me as companion and reader. Next week
he comes ; and then, Mary, farewell to Wood
land!" "No, not farewell, for you must come here
very often ; and I must read to you still, and you
must teach me still, and tell me in your own
noble thoughts and beautiful language of better
and higher things than I once used to care for.
And then our walks oh, Edward, we must con
tinue to see the sunset from the cliffs, sometimes,
together. You first taught me how beautiful it
was. I told you of the tints upon the sky and
upon the sea, and upon the boats with their glis
tening sails, and you set the view before me in
All its harmony and loveliness, brought it home
to my heart, and made me feel how cold and in
sensible I had been before."
"Ah, Mary," said Edward, mournfully, "near
you I am no longer blind !"
The book she had been reading fell unheeded
on the ground, she trembled, her color went and
came, as she laid her hand timidly on his arm.
Indescribable tenderness, reverence and compas
sion were busy within her soul.
"Edward, you will not change in anything to
wards us ; this new companion need not estrange
you from your oldest and dearest friends your
mother's friends ! Let me always be your pupil,
jour friend, your sister!"
"Suttainer, consoler, guide! Sister above all
ch yes, my sister ! Best and sweetest title
siy it again, Mary, say it again!" and sizing
ter hand he kissed it passionately, and held it for
a moment within his own. Then, as suddenly
relinquishing it. he continued, in an altered tone,
' My sister and my friei d, until another comes
to claim a higher privilege, and Mary shall be
forever lost to me."
She drew back, and a few inaudible words died
away upon her lips ; he could not see her ap
pealing, tearful eyes. Mistaking the cause of
her reserve, he made a strong effort to regain
composure.
"Do you remember when you were a child,
Miry, how ambitiously romantic you used to be,
and how you were determined to become a duch
ess at least V
"And how you used to tease me, by saying
you would only come to my castle disguised as a
wandering minstrel, and would never sit at the
table between me and the duke, Edward ? Yes,
I remember it all very well, foolish children that
we were ! But I, at least, know better now. I
am not ambitious in that way any longer."
"In that way? In what way then do your
aspirations tend ?"
"To be loved!" said Mary, fervently ; "to be
loved, Edward, with all the trust and devoted
ness of which a noble nature in susceptible to
know that the heart on which I lean has no
thought save of me to be certain that, with all
my faults and waywardness, I am loved for
myself alone, net for for any little charm of
face which people may attribute to me."
Edward rose abruptly, and walked up and
down the room, which, from his long stay in
the house, had become familiar to him.
"Mary," he resumed, stopping as he drew near
her, you do yourself injustice. The face yen
set so little by must be beautiful as the index of
your soul. I nave pictured you so often to my
self; I have coveted the blessing of sight, were
it only for an instant, that I might look upon
you ! The dim form of my mother, as I last
beheld her in my infancy, floats before me when
I think of you, encircled with a halo of heavenly
light, which I fancy to be your attribute, and a
radiance hovers round your golden tresses such
as gladdens our hearts in sunshine."
"Ah, Edward, it is better you cannot see me
as I am. You we uld not love I mean you would
not think of me so much."
"If I could but see you for a moment as you
will look at the ball to-night, 1 tancy I should
never repine again."
"The ball to-night ! I had quite forgotten it.
I wish mamma would not iusist on my going.
I do not care for these things any longer ; -you
will be left alone, Edward, and that seems so
heartless and unkind."
"Mary," said one of her sisters, opening the
library door, "look at these beautiful hot house
flowers which have arrived here for us. Come,
Edward, come and see them too."
They were so accustomed to treat him as one
of themselves, and were so used to his aptitude
in many ways, that they often did not appear to
remember he was blind.
The flowers were rare and beautiful, and yet no
donors name accompanied the gift. Suddenly
one of the girls cried' out, laughingly "I have
guessed, I have guesse 1. It is Edward. lie has
heard us talking about this ball, and must have
ordered them on purpose for us. Kind, good
Edward!" and they were loud in their expres
sions of delight all except Mary, who kept
silently aloof.
"Mary does not like her flowers?" said Ed
ward, inquiringly, turning in the direction where
she stood.
"No," she replied, sorrowfully, "it is the ball
that I do not like, nor your thinking about deck
ing us out for it. As if I cared to go."
"Look at these lovely roses," said the elder
sister, as they were selecting what each should
wear ; "would not Mary look well with a wrea h
of these roses in her hair ?"
"Yes, yes!" exclaimed Edward, eagerly, "and
let me weave it for her. You know, Mary, it is
one of my accomplishments ; you were proud of
mv earlands when you were a little girl. Will
you trust my fingers for the task ?"
'If you really wish it, if it does not seem too
trifling, yes," said Mary, gently, with a troubled
expression upon her brow, usually so serene, as
she moved so reluctantly away. "But it must
seem such a mockery to you, poor Edward !
and then, without waiting for a reply, she hur
ried to her room and did not show herself again
until the family assembled for dinner ; while Ed
ward, seated between the sisters, who were in
great delight in their anticipations of the even
ing's amusements, silently betook himself to his
task.
Early after dinner, the large, old-fashioned
drawing room at Woodlands was deserted. The
momentous business of the toilet had to be gone
through, and then a drive of five miles accom
plished, before Mrs. Parker and her three lovely
daughters could find themselves at the ball. Ed
ward was the only occupant of the room. Seated
at the piano, on which the fingers idly strayed,
he now and then struck chords of deep mel
ancholy, or broke into passages of plaintive
sadness.
"Alone , alone ! How the silence of this room
strikes upon my heart how, long this evening
will be. without her voice, without her footstep !
And yet this is what awaits me what is inevi
tably drawing near. Next week I leave the roof
under which she dwells ; I shall hot hear her
singing as she runs down stairs in the morning;
I shall not have her constantly at my side, ask
ing me, in her sweet, childlike eartnestness to
teach her to repeat poetry, or give expression to
her music. The welcome rustle cf her dress,
the melody of her laugh, will soon become rare
sounds to me. Within, around, beyond, all is
dark, hopeless, solitary. Life stretches itself
wearily before me, rlind and desolate as I am !
' Mother, mother, well might your sweet spirit
shrink when you contemplated this for your
miserable son ! How strange those last words !
I thought of them to day, while I made her a
wreath of roses, and when her sisters told me of
thj numbers who flock around her. Every flower
brought its warning and its sting."
"Edward, have 1 not made haste? I wished
to keep j'ou company for a little while before we
set out. You must be so sad ! Your playing
told me you were sad, Edward."
She was standing by him in all the pride cf
her jouth and loveliness her white dress falling
all around her peaceful form, her sunny hair
sweeping her shoulders, and the wreath sur
mounting a brow on which innocence and truth
were impressed by nature's hand.
The sense of her beauty, of an exquisite har
mony abont her, was clearly perceptible to the
blind man; lie reverently touched the flowing
robe, and placed his hand upon the flowery
v reath.
"Will you think of me, dearest, to-night?
You will carry with you something to remind
you of me. When you are courted, worshipped,
envied, and hear on every side praises of j our
beauty, give a passing thought to Edward, who
lent his little help to its adornment."
. "Edward, how can you speak so mockingly ?
You know that in saying this you render me
most misc-able."
"Miserable! With roses blooming on your
brow and hope exulting in your heart; when
life smiles so brightly on you, and guardian an
gels seems to hover round your path ! "
He spoke in a manner that was unusual to
him. She leaned thoughtfully against the pi
ano, and, as if unconscious of what she was
doing, disengaged the garland from her hair.
"These poor flowers have no b'oom, and this
bright life of mine, as you think it, has no enjoy
ment when I think of you, sad, alone, unhappy,
returning to your desolate home, Edward."
"Dearest," he returned, inexpressibly moved,
io not grieve for me. Remember, my mother
left her blessing there."
"Was it only for you, Edward ?'
There is a moment's 6ilence ; he covers his
face with his hands ; his lofty, st-lf-denying spirit
wrestles with himself; when, gently the wreath
is laid upon his knee, her arm is passed round
his neck, her head, with its glory of golden locks,
is bowed upon his breast.
Oh, Edward, take the wreath, and with it take
myself if I deserve it. Tell me that you are not
angry, that ycu do not despiro tre for thif. I
have been so unhappy; I have so long wished to
speak to you "
"Mary, Marv, forbear ! You try me bevond
my strength. Beloved of my soul, light of my
sightless eyes, dearer to me than language can
express, you must not thus throw yourself
away."
He wmld disengage the arm that is clinging
to his neck, but she nestles closer still.
"Mary," he cries widly, "rcmcn.lcr ! Blind,
blind!"
"Not blind near me ; not blind for me. Here,
Edward, here my resting place is fcuud ; nothing
but death shall separate me from you. I am
yours, your friend, your con&oler, your wife. Oh,
tell me you are glad."
Glad! His previous resolutions, his determi
nation to owe nothing to her pitying love, all
faded in the unequalled happiness of that hour,
nor never returned to cloud the life which Mary's
devotion rendered henceforth blessed.
This is no fiction, reader no exaggerated pic
ture. Some, who peruse this, will testify out of
the depths of their hearts how, in respect and
admiration, they have watched Mary fulfilling
the promise of her beautiful sympathy and love.
She has never wavered in the path she chose to
tread ; she has never cast one lingering look at
all tAio resigned in giving herself to him. Joyous,
tender, happy, devoted, she has seemed always
to regard her husband as the source of all her
happines ; and when the music cf her children's
voices has been heard within their dwelling, not
even her motherly love for those .ear faces wnose
sparkling eyes could meet and return her gaze,
has ever been known to defraud their father of a
thought, or a smile, or the lightest portion of her
accustomed care.
No, dear Mary ! Years have passed since she
laid her wreath on his knee ; the roses, so care
fully preserved, have long since withered ; but
the truth and love which accompanied the gift
are tresh and bright as then rendering her, as
her proud husband says, almost equal, even on
earth, to those angels among whom, in heaven,
he shall see her see her, at last, no longer
blind.
In Bangor, Me., there resides a certain William
S , a teamster, w ho is noted for his jollity,
and also for keeping late hours, as he usually
goes home at 2 o'clock in the morning. Well
one stormy night about a year ago, William con
cluded to go home early, and, accordingly, he
arrived at his house at just midnight. In answer
to his knock, his mother opened a window and
inquire!
"Who is there V
"William," was the reply.
"No," said she, "you can't come that over me;
my William won't be home for two hours yet."
Toor Bill had to wait till his usual time.
A young lady said, the other day, that she
was sorry she could not fight in defence of her
country's liberty, but she was willing to allow
the young men to go, and die an old niaiJ, which
she thought was as great a sacrifice at anybody
could be called upon to make.
Miss Que asked "the pleasure of Capt. .Tones'
company to tea." At the time appointed, the
Captain, Lfcing in command of the Iufle
Company, made Lis apmarance with tLe whole
of Lis company in parade dress.
WANTED, A HOME.
BY PAULINE.
Among the advertisements in one of our yes
terday's papers, you might have noticed the fol
lowing :
" Wanted, a Lome for a very nice little "girl,
with a lady, where she would be instructed in
her book and sewing. She will be found perfect
ly useful, and she is an excellent little girl, and
of decent parents. Please call at 375 street,
fourth floor."-
Thos! who have no occasion for the services c
such little girl need not accompany me to the
place in person. They Lave but to travel in
mind to 375 street, and ascending the four
weary flight of stairs, they will find tLemselves
in a room forlorn enough, but scrupulously neat.
Bare of furniture, to be sure, and of everything
in fact that goes to make a comfortable home, but
even in its desolate condition are the evident
marks of a gentle and refined mind.
And by the one dormer window sits the moth
er, the presiding genius of this meagre abode.
Pale and wasted to a shadow is she, and clad in
the scanty, faded garb of poverty ; but about her,
as about her room, reigns that unraistakeable air
of which speaks the lady not the conventional
creature of fashionable life, all flounces, feathers,
and folly, with a heart as hollow as Ler own
empty cologne bottle, but the lady born, one of
nature's gentlewomen.
Patiently has she struggled with the little ones
left her, the offspring of the stout young laborer,
who won ter true affections, who, after scraping
together a comfortable little Jiome, was suddenly
struck down by a fatal fever, leaving her to the
mercies of a bard world with four helpless young
things to provide for. Through all has she work
ed, and clothed and fed them as best she
might, until the "hard times" of last winter and
the gradually increasing hard times of the pres
ent summer have driven her up into the desolate
garret.
One by one of her pieces of furniture, relics of
her happy home, when the mechanic father of
her babies was alive, were obliged to go, and still
she could not make any headway against the cruel
pressure of no money and no work which bore so
badly against her. Two of the little ones, Katie
and Jimmie, the next to the eldest and the next
to the youngest, have fallen the victims to disease
consequent upon insufficient diet and impure air.
A richly dressed lady, all satin and jewelry,
has mounted the long stairway, and puffing and
pruning, sits down in the only chair in the room
to ask the anxious mother a few questions con
cerning the "nice little girl." The questions are
hard and abrupt. The lady objects to her name,
Isabel is not a proper name for a servant girl.
" She was named when we had plenty around
us. and when we did not dream of her having
ever to go out to service," replies the sighing
mother.
The lady objects to the paleness and thinness
of the little girl.
" She will pick up and grow stout as soon as
she has proper food and enough of it, patiently
responded the mother.
The lad; objects to the age of the little girl.
The mother sighs for an answer.
But at length, the lady concludes upon taking
her, is unwilling, however, to pay anything for
the services of so small a girl, although she is
willing to hear her read and spell " once in a
while," and at the same time assuiing her that
" she shall be kept steadily enough at her nee
dle." It will not do. The mother pleads for ever so
little a week, and finally concludes that she can
not part with her lay unless she can get a few
shil'iugs a week for her services.
The stout lady goes off in a pet, muttering about
the insolence of " them that hasn't a rag to their
Lacks."
The bundle of satin, selfishness and lace has no
sooner gone than her presence is supplied ly a
plainly dressed Quaker lady, whose mild, serene
countenance expresses nothing but love and hu
man charity.
This visit proves a true God-send to the needy
widow. The 'wanted home' is found. The lit
tle Isabel's pale cheeks will soou bloom out with
the roses cf health. The weary mother will find
work enough to do at a fair price to keep herself
and " baby." The " book" will be taught to the
young Isabel, and wholesome precept and exampe
taught with it. Let us bit ss God there is still
soma good left in the worla, and let us pray that
many more like the benevolent Quaker lady may
be raised up to Comfort the down-troddcu and
needy.
The death of a printer is thus described in
an English paper : 'George Woods to of
his profession, the type cf honesty, the ! of all;
and although the 7 of death has put a . to Lis
existence, every of his life was without a '.'
How many pleasant reminiscences revive in
our memories whilst thinking of a departed
friend, like secret writing brought out by the
kindly warmth of the fire.
Make use of others, if you can do so legitimate
ly ; a dwarf standing on the shoulders of a giant
cau see further than the giant himself.
Did you ever know a lady who was too weak
to stand up during psalm time in church who
could not dance all night without being tired ?
A chap, being asked what Le would do if he
were banished to the w.iods, he s.iid he thought
Le should split.
In the new Territory of Nevada a snow storm
in May, killed all the grasshoppers just as they
were beginning to get troubesome.
What the Southern Confederacy asked three
months ago "Let us alone." What the South
ren Confederacy ask now Give us a loan.
In order to deserve a true friend you must first
learn to be one.
The injustice from which a man Las most to
fear Ls hi own.
I From the Home Journal.
MATRIMONIAL INFELICITIES.
BY IRRITABLE MAX.
Seeing the Seventh Home.
There it is again ! ' exclaimed my wife, in
her most provoking tone, as I entered the Louse
at a rather late hour on Saturday evening.
There what is again ?' I asked.
'Why, your staying out till midnight, and
eating oysters,' she replied.
Not an oyster," I said; -you are much mis
taken if 3 ou think I Lave tasted of any. Ail I
Lave partaken of Eince breakfast tbis morning
Las been a bite of the rations of our artist-soldier
friend of the Seventh, and a sip of elderberry
wine.
'Has the Seventh regiment returned Lome?'
asked my wife.
It Las,' I answered, 'and a noble aud Learty
reception it received.'
WLat tijae did it arrive ?' my wife inquired.
Oh, about four o'clock,' I said; 'but the sol
diers did'nt reach the armory till late in the
evenin". So I concluded to stay down town
and welcome our friend.'
Yes that is always the way,' she remarked ;
you think nothing of staj-ing away from your
family, witnessing all the military displays,
while I am obliged to remain at home, and watch
the children. And this evening while you've
been enjoying yourself listening to pleasant con
versation, I have been setting up for you till my
head aches, and I am read to fall asleep.'
Then why,' I said, 'did you not go to bed ?
Now, if there be one thing I dislike more than
another, it is to have my wife sit up for me when
I am out. I wish to gracious women would
know enough to go to bed when they are slee
py.' I shall, probably,' replied my wife, 'follow
such a course in futuie, for there is no telling
what will suit you, I sometimes think I will,
endeavor to please you, but will do everyting
for my own gratification.'
Very well, I replied, 'you suit yourself and,
of course, I will be satisfied.'
To-day, for instance,' my wife continued
you said you would be home early, and wished
me to have dinner for you at five o'clock. I dil
Lave it ready for you, and what is more I had
one which I knew you would like. Some of the
dishes I prepared; but five o'clock came and 'my
lord did not make Lis appearance. He was look
ing at the Seventh Regiment marching up
Broadway, and never gave a thougnt to his poor
wife at he me, who was waiting dinner for Lim
and worrying Ler life almost out because fjrsootb
it was spoiling.'
What! the dinner or the life?' I asked , cru
elly. Both, my lord,' she answered.
Proceed my lady, your lord is all attention,'
I said.
I Lave nothing more to say,' she added, 'and
now I think I will retire. Good night,'
But,' I exclaimed, I have not been to dinner
yet, and I don't think it would-be justifiable for
you to go to bed and leave me here to starve; for
if there be one thin? I dislike more than another
it is to be starved to death.
I think' she answered, 'that tlicrc is very
little fear of your ever coming to that pass. You
know where the refrigerator is, and you can Lelp
yourself to anything you find in it. I am not
going to set the table and get dinner for you aft
er midnight. Besides, you told me. I think, that
you had been dining with the artist soldier of the
Seventh off ot his rations. If that is the case,
I don't see why you should want another din
ner.' Good gracious!' I exclaimed, 'I only sid I
had 'a bite,' You don't thiik I coul J make a
meal off of salt corned beef and stale bread, do
you?'
Why not if your friend, who is quite as par
tial, and accustomed to more delicate fare than
you are, could ?'
Oh, that is very well. I replied, 'for you to
say; but remember, he is used to it by this time
while I am not. By the way, I brought home
for your especial delectation, a bit of the ration're
ferred to there it is; Lelp yourself.'
Well, e - claimed my wife regarding the meat
with evuleut surprise and lepugnance, 'they
have cut it the wrong way.'
Oh,' I replied, I imagine it matters very lit
tle to the soldiers in which maunner it is cut. if
they get enough of it.'
You don't mean to say, my wife added, 'that
our friend who paints such elegant landscapes.
LasliVed on such food ever since Le Las been a
way ?
I mean to say, I replied, 'that that bit of
corned beef is an excellent sample of what the
government provides for the soldiers. The quali
ty of it, I am assured, is better than what is usu
ally given out. If any private soldier has Lad
better food than that, he has been obliged to pay
for it out of Lis own pocket. I am inclined to
think that some cf tur poor fellows don't get
even enough of inferior rations.'
Then the' must have a hard time, said my
wife, 'and the government is o blame. I have
a great mind to offer my services as cook to one
of the regiments.'
'That would be extremely patriotic,' I said;
but it seems to me that patriotism, like charity.
shculd begiu at Lome. And as I Lappsr- to l
greatly in want of something to eat at this mo
ment, I wish you would get it for me.'
Can't you get it yourself,' she repled. 'just as
well as for me to go down stairs to the refrigera
tor at this late hour. I am tired, and half sick,
and don't feel as if I could take a kingle step
morn than U absolutely necessary.
Very well," I aruwered, l will get it mvstlf ;
but I do not sec theuieof your sitting up for tne,
if you won't get me anything to eat when I come
Lome. TLe fact is you Lave Lad your dinner,
and now you don't care whether I Lave mine or
not-
If you Lad been Lome at the Lour you prom
ised to be, said my wife, 'you would Lave Lad
a nice dinner; but now, 1 really do not much care
wLethcr you have any at all. Besides, I think
it very injurious to eat just as one isg icg to
bed. You would rest much better if you would
go without eating, and your appetite f jr Lreak
f.ist would Le good.'
That is certainly the coolest proposition I
have had made to me- to-day, I said. Go t
bed without my dinner ! Ycu mig) t as well ask
nie to go without my breakfast after I get up
in the morning. No, the fact is I am hungry,
and I want my dinner. I didn't get any down
t wn, for I knew you would find fault with me
if I did, and compute the number of loaves of
bread, quarts of milk, pairs cf shoes, stockings,
and gloves for the children, and bonnets and silk
dretscs for yourself, that the money for my din
ner would have purchased. No matter if my
dinner had only cost fifty cents, you would Lave
made s wonderful ado about it, and I should
Lave Lad Le dyspepsia on account of it. I Lave
grown wiser than when I was first married, and
have learned, if I would enjoy peace in my Lome,
not to ent dinners away from my own mahog
any.' I am certainly pleased,' my wife said 'to
hear yc u tpeak thus; but I should like to Lave
you act up to wLat you say. I Lave not seen
a week since we were married, butthat you Lave
dined out once, if not oftener, in it. Yon Lave
taken dinner dwn town twice, to my knowledge
this very week, and I am not certain that you
have gone without your dinner to-day. At all
events it seems hardly probable. As for me Low
many times let me ak. Lave I dined away from
Lome in the nine long years we have been mar
ried ? I don't think it Las been a half a dozen
times, and yet you find fault with me for rot get
ting dinner at midnight.
Really, I said, 'I do dot see the relation be
tween the first part of your sentence and its con
clusion. I can't understand what your dining
out Las to do wilh getting dinner for me at this
hour.
That is always the way you seek to avoid aa
explanation with me. If the gramatical con
struction of any rernaik Oosu't please you, uty
I can't help it. You can-arrange it to suit your
self, while yon are getting your dinner; but for
my part, I will Lid ycu good night, for I an go
ing to bed.'
And she went.
A Western Wedding Tee,
A minister settled in one c f our frontier west
ern villges, in which the primitive manners of
a pioneer lifi Lad been smoothed and polished
by refinement and eultivatien, was seated in Lis
study one day, endeavorir.g to arr. nge the Leads
of Lis to-morrow's discourse, when Lis attention
was called by a loud knock at the door.
"Won't you walk in?" asked the minister
politely.
Very much oblergei!, squire. I don't know
but we wi3. I say, you are a mini ter, aia't
you ?"
"Yes."
"I reckoned so. Well you see, Betsy and me
that's Betsy, a fust rate sort of a gal, any
how "
"Oh, JotLam," simpered the basLf'd Betsy.
"You are now. and 3-011 needn't deny it. Well,
Betsy and I Lave concluded to LiUh teams, and
we want you to do it,"
"You wis.h to be married."
"Yes, I believe that's vhat they call it. I say,
though, before ycu begin, let us know what is
going to I tLe damage. I reckon tisii't best to
go it tlind."
"Oh, I never set any price. I take whatever
the- give me."
"Well that is all right ; go ahead, minister, if
you please, we are in a Lurry, as Joe's got to fin
ish plantin the potater patch afore night, and
Betsy she's got to fetch the butter."
Thus abjured, the minister at once commenced
the ceremony, which occur ied but a few mo
ments. Kiss me, Betsy," said the delighted bride
groom, "lou are my 01a woman, cow. Am t
it nice ?''
"Fust rate," was the satisfactory reply.
"Hold on a jerk," said Jotham, as Le left Lis
bride abruptl3, and darted out to tLe gate wLere
the wagon had been left,
What's your Lusband gone out for ?" atkeJ
tLe minister, scmewLat surprised.
"I expect it's the sassiges," was the confused
reply.
Just then Jotham made Lis appearance, dang
ling iu Lis Laud a pailful of tLe 'sassiges.' wLicli
Le Landed to the miuister, with tLe grin of one
conferring a favor.
'We aint got much money," said Le, "and so
we thoi:ght we'd paj- you in sassiges. Mother
made Vni, anJ I reckon they are good. If they
ain't just -ou seil them back, and we'll send you
some more."
The minister expressed a gratitude which Le
was far frrt. feeling 'sassiges' King anything
but a favorite dish with Lim, and the happy cou
ple withdrew, supposing that they Lad done ev-
erytlung in order.
TLe miuister Las since made a rule to exclude
sasigc' from U e 'list of articles Le is w i'ling
to receive as wed-ling fees.
At a party recently given in Bucks County,
five 3-oung ladies Lere weigLed, and the aggre
gate weight was seven hundred aud ?venty-to
lOunda average. tne hundred and fifty two
poundbreach. They raise heavy crops in e ' 1
Bucks.
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