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BY JAS. CLARK.
The following lines, descriptive of a scene in
w private mad house, ate from the pen of M. G.
Ltwit, Esq. They Were published in the Na
tional bitel/igwics, about eighteen years since,
the editor& of which paper introduced them
with these remarks If any one can reed the
following lines without shuddering in sympathy
with the supposed captive, he must have a heart
dead to every human feeling."
Stay, jailor, stay, and heat my wo !
She is not mad who kneels to thee,
For what I'm now, too well I know,
And what I was, and what should be.
I'll rave no more in proud despair,
My language shall be mild, though sad;
Sat yet I'll firmly, truly swear,
am not mad I I am not mad !
My_tryant husband forged the tale,
Which chains me in this dismal cell,
My fate unknown my friends bewail—
Oh I jailor haste that tale to tell !
Ohl haste my father's heart to cheer ;
His heart at once 'twill gri-ve and glad
To know, though kept a captive here,
I am not mad ! I am not mad !
He smiles in scorn, and turns the key !
, lie quits the gate ! I knelt in vain !
Hia,glimm'ring lamp, still, still I sec !
''tis gone—and all is gloom again.
Cold, hater cold—no warmth, no light !
Life I all thy comforts once I had
Yet here I'm chained this freezing night,
Although not mad ! no, no, not mad!
'Tim sure some dream! come vision vain!
What ! I the child of rank and wealth ;
And I the wretch who clanks this chain,
Bereft of freedom; friends and health!
Ah! while I dwell do blessings fled,
Which never mote my heart must glad,
Now aches my heart; how burns my head,
But 'tis not mad! ho, 'tis not mad!
bast thou my chihli forgot ere this,
A mother's face; a mother's tongue
She'll ne'er forget ybur parting kiss,
Nor round her neck how fast you clung;
Nor how with me you used to stay ;
Nor how that spit your sire forbade ;
Nor how—l'll drive such thoughts away—
They'll make me mad, they'll make tue mad !
Ilia rosy lips how sweet they Pm ilea-
His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone—
Noise ever bore a pvelier child—
'And art thou now forever gone
And must I never gee thee mote,
My pretty, pretty little lad
I will he free—unbar the door--
I am not mad—l am not mad !
Oh, hark ! what means these dreadful cries I
llis chain some furious madman breaks—
lie comes-,I see his glaring eyes—
Now, now, my dungeon grate he shakes—
Help—help—he's gone—oh—fearful woe,
Such screams to hear, such sights to see—
My brain, my brain—l know, I know
I am not mad--but soon shall be.
Yes, soon—fOr lb; you—while I speak—
Mark how ybri demon's eye balls glare—
He sees me---noW with dreadful shriek,
He whirls a setpent high in air.
Horror—the rePtile strikes his tooth
Deep in my heart ! so crushed and sad;
Aye, laugh, ye fiends, I feel the truth—
lour task is diite—l'm Mad !—l'm Mad !
THE PILIRIOAT OF VIRTEE:
The inculcatidh and pursuit of virtue
brings its own reward. Man is a crea
ture who cannot act without a motive;
motives like the Weights of a clock con
trol his motion, but he is given by the
wise Creator, a plliver of discrimination,
of judgment uplift the motives that actu
ate him, and can avoid those which lend
Lim to evil, end tiring down upon him
pain, sorrow aad unrest. The man of
wisdom and tintltlrstanding seeks and
does the good fresh' an absolute necessi
ty of his sympathies and wants. To
him, the pursuit df evil or wrong is re ,
. pulsive. His soul; like a finely attuned
instrument, shudders at every finger of
discord touching its keys. Joy and fe
licity follow him only in the path of Vir
tue. The higher din humanity is de
veloped, the more instinctively we cling
to the beautiful and true, the inure ab
!torrent is everything false and defortn
ed. Selfishness—a desire to satisfy
walf-leggings, which ate the soul's inau
dible articulations, nity lie at the bane
of these instincts and actions of the
good man, but this weighs nothing
against their virtue. Selfishness lies at
the bottom of all life, In all its real at
imaginable manifestations. Intelligence
pyrites and ennobles it, makes it equal
to the loftiest actions and aspirations of
humanity. The true man is good, be
'candle to be evil would give over the in
stincts of his soul to torment. Would
that,., in the language of one of the no
blest of poets, all might feel that the
sq. great ic his humility, a. king.
Ate little in their grandetit."
Every heart contains perfections germ,
And wisest of the sages of the earth,
That-ever from the stores of reason drew
Science and•truth, and virtue's dreadless tone,
Were iota weak and inexperiencep boy,
Tro4d., sensual, unimpassioned, unimbued,
With pure desire and universal love,
Compized to that high being of dandles. brain,
'Which death, pausing in awe before
Ilia changeless eyebeam, might alone subdue."
MI think of Thee.
VU think of thee when I am fat
Away from thee and thine ;
Thy memory like a distant star
Around toy path will shine.
Lip jumps the D#vii atel Waits very solemn,
Add sets two lines to fill this column,
[Flom the ?few York Commetcial Advertiser.]
THE. FALL OF THE LEAF.
Yes, the season is changed ; the sum
mer is passed ; Autumn's reign is al
ready far advanced, and soon the deso
lation and dreariness of Winter, will be
upon us. Painfully we were conscious
this morning of the rapid passing away
of external nature's pleasant days; and
sadly did the atmospheric gloom exert a
mysterious influence on our cerebral
nerves. Of the bright vernal mornings
which we " once enjoyed," we can only
say, " how sweet their inomory still ;"
for months to come, the habit of early
rising will be inconvenient, rather than
agreeable ; and gloomily, amid wind and
rain—ankle deep in polluted snow, or
exposed to the pitiless pelting of the
storm— the luckless wights who provide
mental aliment for their fellows must
plod their weary way. " Slce, slab,
slud," as Cowper bath it, will be the
melancholy refrain of each splash in the
mud, and the howling blast and the rat
, tling hail will add their melancholy cho
rus. Truly, a wintry prospect is before
us, as a wintry humor now possesses us;
a and and melancholy temper, which
magnifies its secret sorrows and some
, hot , / looks upon the heavy sky, and
breathes the damp air, with the forebo
ding that they are permanently to remain
rather than pass away with the chang
Resolve and struggle as one will—
look up ever so imploringly or confiding
ly into philosophy's sweet face—still
sad thoughts will have their sway on
such a morning as this. And no marvel.
They are in keeping with nature's tem
per and nature's condition. She is be
ing disrobed of her glories; she is en
tering for a thousandth time upon the
sere and yellow leaf, and for her sorrow
the heavens feel sympathy and are ro
bed in sombre grey. Poor nature—
weeping, grieving, sorrowing Nature
—is shorn of her glory. Her beaute
ous green, once bright and beautiful
and glorious as wings of Peri, or sheen
of sparkling emerald, are forcibly taken
from her, and a dingy garb of russet
grey, or of more sombre hue,
circles her shrunken form. Did we say
forcibly taken from her l Yet the pow
er is invisible! The potent hand that,
far as the eye can reach, shades alike
and simultaneously, the young ailanthus,
the spreading sycamore and the tough
sinewed hickory, is riot seen ; the touch
is only known by its effects, as the
showers of leaves drc4 from their stems
and are scattered from the boughs.
A strange sight are these falling
leaves, in Buell a morning as this, when
the atmosphere is damp and heavy, and
the earth is tbbist and soft, and the sick
ly wind travels past in warm and silent
gusts: Verily we grew mournful, al
most t 6 weeping; es in the sister city,
where they are more plentiful, we pass
ed through avenues of trees whose leaves
but a few short weeks ago defied the ut
most power atireas tU wrest them
from the parent stem, \Ve can Zook un
moved upon the falling leai•es when the
ecittifttleiial gale whirls round the devo
ted tree, and in the wantonness of
strength tears off its Modest garme'rits;
and after shekirtg them wildly in the
air, dashes them contemptuo.isly upon
the hard, dry earth: it teems natural
that iti such a conflict the stormy winds
should triumph: Even the rustle of the
castaway leaves has a Wild Music in it
that is in unison with the harsh scenes
around. The surging of the angry
boughs has in it something of the "dust
to dust and ashes to ashes" sound; while
the Tttful squealing of the excited blast
make a fitting dirge for the departed
But now such excitements are lack
ing. The scene is simply saddening—
Melancholy, without any relieiring gran
deur or solemnity. Involuntarily one
, stops in his career, for it seems as
though a universal dissolution teas oeer
taking earth and she dwellers thereon.
' How si , ently those leaves fell, yet to a
sonsittve mind how loud they speak.—
' Nay, they are instinct with life. How
' they run upon the ground noiselessly
but with most expressive aspect. Their
hoof maketh no sounds yet you hear
their velvet tread and feel that they have
a message to utter which you must hear.
They approach with selfish dance acid
you shrink from them. They rub against
your feet and you turn aside least you
should tread upon them; they lie still a
moment, look you calmly and silently
in the fate, then lifting up their faded,
attenuated forms, they run on before
you in cruel mockery, and in every leap
they seem to say-0 Ye do all fade as a
leaf. 'Till even so—
" The lowly shrub and lofty tree,
Drop' their brown leaves all witheringly,
As children of mortality;"
and man, masing upon the general decay ,
remembers that life bath its seasons too
—.‘ may groweth up and is cut down as
HUNTINGDON, PA,, ,TUESDAY, DECEMBER 12, 1848
the grass." The fall of the leaf then
path its lesson; and if It be sad it is not
I passed up the natural avenue and
came upon the green. My feelings were
very poetical as I walked towards the
village church. I entered. A popular
preacher was holding forth, and the little
meeting house was much crowded. Sev
eral persons were standing up, and 1
soon discovered that I must maintain my
perpendicular position, as every seat
was crowded, 1, however, passcd up the
aisle until I gained a position where I
could have a fair view of nearly all pre
sent. Many of the congregation looked
curiously at me, for 1 was a stranger to
them all, In a few moments, however,
the attention of every one seemed to be
absorbed in the ambassador of grace, and
I also began to take an interest in the
discourse: The speaker was fluent, and
many of his flights were even sublime.
The Music of the woods and the fra
grance of the heath; seemed to respond
to his eloquence.
Then it was no great stretch of the ins.
agination to fancy that the white banded
creatures around ate; With their pouting
lips and artless innocence; were beings
of a higher sphere. As my feelings were
thus divided between the beauties taut
blessings of the two worlds, and wrap ,
ped in a sort of poetical devotion, I de ,
tested seine glances at me of an anima
1 need not describe the sensations ex
perienced by a youth when the eyes of a
beautiful woman rest for a length of time
on his countenance, and when he im-
I himself to be an object of inter
est to her. I returned her glances with
interest, and threw all the tenderness
into my eyes which the scene, my med
itations, and the preacher's discouse had
inspired in my heart—doubting not that
the fair damsel possessed kindred feel
ings at the fountain of inspiration. How
could it be otherwisel
She had been born and nurtured
amidst these wild romantic scenes, and
was made up of romance, of poetry and
tenderness; and then I thought of the pu
rity of woman's love—her devotion—her
truth. I only prayed that I might meet
with her where we might enjoy a sweet
interchange of sentiment. Her glances
continued. Several times our eyes net.
My heart beat with rapture. At length
the benediction was pronounced. I lin
gered about the premises until I saw the
dark-eyed damsel set out for home alone
and on foot. Oh ! that the customs of
society would permit—for we are surely
one in soul. Cruel formality! that throws
up a barrier between each other. Yet I
followed her. She looked behind her,
and 1 thought evinced some emotion at
recognizing me as the stranger of the
day. I then quickened my pace and
she actually slackened hers, as if to let
me come up with her.
P.4eible young creature!" thought I,
"her artless and warm heart is superior
to the bonds of custom."
" I reached within a stone's throw of
her. She suddenly halted and turned
her face towards me. y heart swell
ed to bursting. I reached the split
where she stood. She began to speak,
and I took off my hat as if doing rever
ence to an angel.
"Are you a pedlar 'I"
'8 &o, my dear Orli that lg Not My 6c
" Well, I don't know," continued she,
not very bashfully, and eyeing we very
sternly—"l thought when I saw you in
the meeting house, that you looked like
the pedlar who passed ciffa pewter half
dollar on the three weeks igo; and so 1
was determined to keep an eye on you.
Brother John has got home now, and he
says if hE catches the feller he'll wring
his neck for him; and I ain't sure but
you're the good-for-nothing rascal after
Reader, did you ever take a sticiii•er
CLERGYMAN. --T he Salem Reg
ister givca an account of a Van Buren
Convention at Danvers, at which Rev.
Caleb Stetson was nominated for Con
gress. Among the speakers on the oc
casion was Rev. J. Prince, formerly of
Salem, who closed his address by sing
ing the negro burletta of " Dandy Jim
A TROUBLESOME CONGA EGAVON.—The
London Standard says, oh Sunday, when
the minister of Udney entered the kirk,
he was no leas surprised than indignant
to find thtit "daft Jamie Fleming" had
taken possession of the pulpit:
"Come doon, Jamie," said he.
"Come ye up, sir," answered Jamie,
"they're a stifrneckt end rebellious gen
eration, sir, and it will tack us beith to
CP" It often falls out that he wl.o thinks
himself the master wit is the 'nosier fool.
More Love and Romance.
A ybung girl Was found ih sailor's
clothes, on board a vessel lately arrived
at Charleston, S. C. She is about 17 or
18 years old, very pretty, though look
ing a little masculine, from having her
ringlets cut off. It appears that she did
not ship as a Sailor, but stowed herself
away on board, and was not discovered
until after the vessel had got to sea—
when the Captain learned that he had
an extra hand ; and upon questioning
him (her) he said he had a brother in
Charleston whom he wished to see—that
his father would not consent, so he had
run away. The Captain not suspect
ing any thing, made him "turn to,"
scrub down decks, and go aloft—which
she did with consurnate bravery, even
in galesof wind, singing out, " strait
en up," to the old tars when reefing top
, sails. It was not until near port that
her sex was discovered. It turns out
that she was anxious to accompany a
passenger on board, who, after, the dis
covery of the trick, would not acknowl
edge the corn," but put out in the cars
for Georgia, the morning after their ar-
I rival, leaving his friend to take care of
herself. She is now under the care of
the Captain, and will be taken back to
The Last of the Tea Part) • .
Frequent mention has been made of David
Kennison, the last of the band that threw the
tea overboard in Boston Harbor, who is now re
siding in Chicago. He has recently published
a fel tot ill tine of the Western papers from which
we make the foll6wing extract,:
"If I live until the 27th this , of No
vember next; 1 shall be one hundred and
twelve years old. 1 was born in Kings
ton, N. H., and my father moved to Leb
anon, Maine, when I was an infant. I
was a citizen of that place, when ; at the
age of about 33, 1 assisted in throwing
the tea overboard in Boston harbor: 1
was at the battle of Bunker Hill, and
stood near Gen. Warren when lie fell.
I also helped to roll the barrels filled
with sand and stone down the hill when
the British came up. I was at the bat
tles of White Plains, West Point and
Long Island. 1 helped to stretch the
chain across the Hudson River, to stop
British vessels from coming up. I a lso
was in the battles at Fort Montg omery,
Staten Island, Delaware, Hudson and
Philadlphia. I witnessed the surrender
of Lord Cornwallis, and was near Wee:
Point when Arnold betrayed his coun
try, and Andre was hung.
4 , I have been under Washington, (for
whom I frequently carried the mails and
despatches,) Prescot, Putman, Mont
gomery and Lafayette. I now draw a
pension oh $8 per month for services
in the Revolutionary War.
4, When the last war broke out, I was
liting at Portland ; Maine / where I en ,
listed and Marched t 6 Sachet Harbor,
end was ill ttit battle of that place, and
also at other places; and new have the
marks of a wound received in my hand
during that war."
A Kentucky friend soma' Oat:8 ago
related to us the folloWing anecdote, as
habit g defudity oEaurred in that State :
There was a roystering sort of fellow
named Peter Russell, but usually called
Pete Russell, who owned a good deal of
prdperty; and, therefore; had a pecuni
ary responsibility, though he Was always
in want of money, and frequently in the
hands of sharers:
On one occasion he Went to a certain
accommodating friend to borrow two
thousand dollars. "Yes," said his friend,
" Pete, 1 will lend you two thousand
dollars; and without interest, tod, if yon
will give me your bill for the amount on
"Oh, no," replied Pete, "I can't stand
that. If f give you a bill on London,
the cursed thing will be back on me here
under protest four months at farthest,
and then I must pay you the amount,
and 20 per cent damages. That's too
deep a . . . .
" said Shylock, "that is cut
ting it rather fat, I acknowledge ; but I
will tell you, Pete, what I will do; I will
take your bill on London for two thou
sand dollars, and pay you for it, two
thousand two hundred ; and when it
comes back protested, you will have to
refund two thousand dollars and 20 per
cent damages, making together, two
thousand four hundred, which will leave
me only two hundred dollars."
"Agreed," said Pete, "I am willing
to stand that. So down they sat to pre
pare the documents.
" Who the deuce shall I draw upon
in London V' said Pete; "I do not know
using soul there."
..lt is perfectly immaterial who you
dtaW upon," said his friend. "So far as
I am concerned, I am willing you should
draw on the town pump."
"By Jove !" said Pete, " I have it :
Z e hournar ,
I'll draw upoh• my cousin, the Duke of
It will be recollected that the family
name of his Grace is Russell ; and Pete
was in the habit of boasting that he had
descended from the same stock. So
Pete " let fly his kite" for two thousand
on his Grace of Bedford, and received
the stipulated amount of two thousand
two hundred dollars. The bill, of course,
had to be sent out to London to be pre
sented to his Grace, and regularly pro
tested, in order to establish a legal claim
upon the drawer. One morning it was
accordingly found,with other documents,
on the table in the Duke's study, having
been left for acceptance or payment.
"And who." said his Grace of Bed
ford, taking up the bill, and addressing
his man of business, "is this Peter
Russell, that is drawing on me for two
thousand dollars 1 I never heard of him
before, and do not know by what author
' ity he does so."
" I am equally ignorant, your Grace,"
said the homme d' spires. "1 know no
thing of him,"
" Well," said his Grace, after musing
a moment "it is very probable, now,
that he is some poor and distant branch
of my family, who has wandered away
off to the wilds of Kentucky, and is in
distress, 'I he amount is but a trifle ; let
the bill be paid ;" and paid it was.
In due course of time Pete's friend
got back two thousand dollars, less
banker's commissions, and without in
terest, for two thousand two hundred he
I had paid Pete some months fireviously.
It was a regular shave ; only the sha
ver became the shavee.
Our friend, from whom we had the
story, said he never heard whether Pete
ever renevied the Operiftie:
We can only add that we have often
wished we tied such a cousin in Lon
dam—A': 0. Bulletin.
Hint for Farmers:
The Celebrated Fitibtri Bak' 6Well;
of Dishly, Leicestershire, and the foun
der of the new Leicestershire sheep,
used to tell an anecdote with exceeding
high glee of a farmer not only of the
old school, but of the olden times. This
farmer, who owned and occupied one
thousand acres of land, had three daught
ers. When his eldest daughter married,
he gave her one quarter of his land for
her portion, but no money ;and he foVricl
by a little more speed and a little better
management, the produce of his farm
did tot decrease. When his sebond
daughter married, he gave her one third
of the remaining land for le • portion, but
no money. He then set to work, and
began to grub up his furz snd fern, arid,
ploughed up what he Cal/ y yB his peloto
dry furz covered in 3Offie places nearly
half the land.—After giving half of his
land away to two of his daughters, to,
his great surprise he found that the pro-
duce increased—he made more money,
because his new broken up furt land
brought efteSaiVe drelis; and at the snide
time he farmed the Whole of his land
better; for lie employed three rinses I I
Mord laborers upon it ; he rose two
hours soon'er In the ; he. had do
more dead fellows once in three years;
instead of which he got two green crops
in one year; and ate them upon the land:
A garden never requires a dead fallout.
But the great adfantage was, that he
had got the seine money to manage five
hitt/cited acres att he had got to menage
clue thntitand 021. es—therefore he laid
Out double the money upon the land.
When his third and last daughter mar
ried he gave her two hundred and fifty
acres or half of which remained, for her
portion and no mo ley. He then found
that he had the same money to farm the
one quarter of the land as he had at
first to farm the whole. He began to
ask himslf a few questions, and set his
wits to work how he was' to make as
much of two hundred and fifty acres as
he had done of one thousand acres. He
then paid ofl his bailiff, who weighed
twenty stone ! rose with the larks in the
long days, and went to bed with the
lamb--lie got as much more work done
for his money--lie made his servants,
laborers, and horses move faster--broke
them from their snails pace—and found
that the eye of the master quickened
the pace of the servant. He saw the
beginning and ending of every thing;
and to his servents and laborers, instead
of saying "Go and do it," he says to
them, " Let us go and do it boys." Be
tween " come" and " go" he soon found
out a great difference.
Q 3 Jim," inquired a school boy of one
of his mates "what is the meaning of rel
ics !" " Dont you know ! Well, I can
tell you: you know the master licked
mo in school yesterday ?" "Yes."
" Well he was'nt satisfied with that,
b t me in after school and licked
me again. This is what I call a re-lick."
ED- 'Come rest in this bosom." Paid
the turkey to the bluffing.
VOL. XIII, NO, 49.
The Mothers Lesson.
A mother sitting,in her parlor, over•
heard het child, whom her sister was
dressing, say repeatedly: "No, I don't
want to say my prayers; I don't want ter
say my prayers."
IViotlier," said the chil d appearing
at the parlor door.
" Good morning, my chijd."
" I am going tb get my breakfast."
"stop a minute, I want you to come
and sat+ the first."
`l'he mother laid
down tier Work on die
next chair, as the boy ran to' her. She
took him up. He kneeled in her lip and
laid his face down upon her shoulder;
his cheek, against. her ear. the moth
er rocked lior.Clutir sloWly backward and
forward. ." Are you pretty well this
morning said she, in a kind and gen
tle tone. ,
" Yes, Mother I am' eery, Well."
"I am glad yBu are well. lam well,
too; and When I *eked up' this morning
and found that f Was well, I thanked God
for taking cara.pf me."
" Did you 1" said th'e to'y In a low
tone—half a whisper: lie paused after
it—conscience was at its work.
"Did you ever feel my pulse r asked
his mother, after a minute of silence, at
the same time taking the boy down, and
sitting him on her lap, and placing his
fingers on her wrist.
"NO, but / .hate felt faine.."
"Well, don't yon feel thine; node—how
it goes beating'!"
" Yes," said the child.
"if it should stop' //tiding 1 should
"Should you 1"
Y.elf; Can't keep it t'eating."
" Who can 1"
" God." A silence. "You have a
pulse, too, which boats here in your bo
som, in your arm, and all over you, and
I cannot keep it beating: nor ran you--
nobody Can Mit God. If he should not
itilcec.,reof you who could?"
"I don't k - now;" said the Child, with
a look of anxiety, and another pause en
SO when xtaked this morning I
thought I'd ask God to take crtre of me
and all of us."
"Did you ask him to take care of
" - 01 k ntit f;'
"BccaUtie. i though l ydu ri•oufd asic
A long paused ensued—the deep
acid thoughtful expression of his coin,
fentinai sito*Ud that his heart was
,thittk vdu held better ask
him yourself T"
Yes," said the boy readily.
He kneeled down again it/ hie mothers
lap, and uttered, in his simple and bra
ken language, a preye•r lot the protec
tion of Heaven. •
We do not always have an " Indian
Summer," properly speaking ; and the
question whether " this is the Indian
Summer," is often a very puzzling sub
ject far tea table talk. It is unknown
id the parts of the Old World, whence
we chiefly defite otir literature.—lt is
like the fare Well lingering, of a depart
ing friend: We Cannot persuade our;
selves that Winter is so pleasant as Sum
mer.--Winter like old age, may be kind
ly and have its own charms ; but youth
and maturity, Spring and Summer are
the mast joyous seasons:
The term Indian Summer is probably
unknown to many of our readers. With
the white man engaged in agricultural
pursuits, which during the early settle
ment of the country ; where his chief
occupation, the Summer and early part
of the Fall are the chief seasons
then gathering in craps, and these he then
made the occasion for peculiar enjoy
ments and festivity. The fa' orite pe
riod of the Indian was that time when
the leaves fall rustling from the trees,
the sun shines dirtily throtigh a hazy
atmosphere ; when the nights are free
from frost, and difyg Moderately ,'term.
This period, whenever it occurred in'
Autum, either in Uttober or NoveMber,
or indeed in WinirSi Vetember, *as
hailed with every feeling of delight by
the Indians ; fire was set ta, the dry
leaves of the forest, which rapidly spread
and drove the deer to the laurel grove
for protection, where the Indians were
concealed prepared for destruction.
Hence the Indian Hunter would say to
the European, "The white man's Sum
mer is past and gone, but the Indian's .
Summer is come."—Buf. Corn.
A SECRET WORTH KNOWING.—There it
a man up theOuntry who always riv e
for Ms page? in Wynne& He has never
had a sick day in him life, never had any
corns or toothache, his potatoes never
rot, the weezil never eats his wheat, the
frost never kills his corn and beans, his
babies never cry in the nitr,lit, and his
wife never scolds.