Huntingdon journal. (Huntingdon, Pa.) 1843-1859, June 05, 1849, Image 1
6 5 k 171:1t ))I'/n BY JAS. CLARK. Spare the Birds. BY REY. G. W. BETHUNE, D. D, Spare, spare the gentle bird, Nor do the warbler wrong, In the green wood is heard Its sweet and holy song Its song so clear and glad, Each listener's heart bath stirred, And none, however sad, lint blessed that happy bird. When at the early day, The farmer trod the dew, It met him on the way, With welcome blithe and true So, when at weary evr, He homeward wends again, Full sorely would hr grieve To miss the well-loved strain, The mother, who had kept Watch o'er her wakeful child, Smiled when the baby slept, Soothed by its wood notes wild; And gladly has she flung The casement open free, As the dear warbler sung From out the household tree. The sick man on his bed, Forgets his weariness, And turns his feeble head To list its songs, that bless his spirit, like a stream Of mercy from on high, Or music in the dream ' That seals the prophet's eye. O ! laugh not at my words, To warm your childhood's hours, Cherish the gentle birds, cherish the fragile flowers : For since man was bereft Of Paradise, in tears, GOl these sweet things bath left, To cheer our eyes and ears. rrom the New' England Offering, THE WOUNDED DOVE. " Daughters of the red man, whither have ye wandered since the sun arose and smiled into the wigwaml Behold, his last red glance is upon the water, yet the brow of Sunny Cloud reflects not his ray, and thou, Talking Bird, what bath hushed thy ever joyous voicel Tell me have ye been upon the track of the wolf to•day'l" Thus spoke the Indian mother to two dark maidens, who came and stood be- fore her as she rested at sunset from labor. Talking Bird, the younger of the maidens, replied : "Nay, we were but thinking of a new found friend. We are sad, b ecause he is of a race our mother loves not. Bend ing Oak is a wise straw. Her words are mild and fearless us the South wind over the prairie. Sunny Cloud and Talking Bird will tell their tale, and then listen to the wise words of Ben ding Oak." "The sunbeams had not warmed the stream when we entered the canoe to go and seek medicine herbs in the great prairie far down the river. Everything was calm and glorious as the smile of the Great Spirit. Sunny Cloud and I were happy. We mocked the birds that sang above us, we repeated the wild legends of our tribe, and talked of all we have ever enjoyed, or hope to enjoy. So the time passed, till the noon-beams fell upon our heads, and the burning water dazzled our eyes. We rowed in to the shelter of a willow grove, and rested. As we sat in the canoe, listen ing to the low tripples of the stream, and thinking pleasant thoughts, there came a flash like lightning through the trees, then a sound quicker and sharper than thunder; and a pretty dove fell wounded into the canoe beside me, I took the poor bird and smoothed down its feathers. It panted for one moment, and then its breath was gone. Just then a hunter appeared under the shade of a papaw tree. His robes were curi ously fashioned, and he bore upon his shoulders a load of the choicest game. He wins not like our chieftains; for his face was of the hue oldie January snow, when the yellow sun shines upon it, and his eye was bright as the depths of the moonlit sky in summer." "A white hunter! Why does Talking Bird use golden words when she speaks of hunt" stud the aged squaw, peering into the maiden's face. " The brows of our young men are like the wings of night ; and methinks that the dark for est girl should admire them more than the bleached vissages of her nation's foe." The maiden turned and averted her eyes, and Sunny Cloud spoke in her de. fence. " The pale hunter was bold and kind. He laid his burden upon the grass, and• spoke to us us a brother speaks. Ho smiled upon Talking Bird, and told her it grieved him to have killed a warbler gentle as herself; whose voice was mu sical and tender, as her own." And did the silly Talking Bird re turn his smile! Those were not the words of a brother, but of a demon. The rattlesnake knows but too well how to lure the mocking bird. His charm is bewitching, but he hath a deadly sting." "Yet surely this is no traitor," per• sisted Sunny Cloud. "He spoke of his home in a far-off land, as beautiful as the hunting ground of our dead war riors. And he called us sisters, saying that we had one Father. Then he lay dazzling ornaments into our baskets, and promised, before another moon to bring richer gifts to the wigwam." " Have ye put the white foe on the Indian's train" said the squaw, angrily. "both the dove uncover its nest to the glaring eye of the hawk? Bending Oak is rightly named. She is lute yon tice , that leans from the crag across the stream. A few more storms will howl round her head, and she will fall broken and withered. But she will fall from a high place. She has looked over the tree tops, and seen the tempest sweep ing up the valley, while others stood quiet, nor dreamed of danger. , And she can tell her simple daughters, that in the track of the white man, the red race hath ever been swept away, like leaves before the wintry blast. The tongue of the pale face bath two sides ; the one is smoother than oil, the other is like coals of fire. If Talking Bird listens to him, her fate will be like that of the bird that fell by his fire arrows. It was a token from the Great Spirit to warn her." "But the Indian girls must not forget to be grateful," appealed Talking Bird, who had been standing a listener. "As I stood in the canoe, to turn its course down the stream, my blanket caught in a bough, and I fell. I could have swam to the shore, but the blanket choked me, and I hung like areed in the deep water. But for the strong hand of the white hun ter, Talking Bird's voice might never again have mingled with the songs of the youths by the wigwam fire. Sure ly, when he comes, we must give him venison and a shelter." The Indian mother's heart almast yielded, but the frown lingered on her brow, and she departed, muttering, "Where's the brave that once dwelt in the tent of Bending Oak? He fell long ago in the distant white village, and the buzzards have picked his bones. May the same fate come upon every one of the murdering race. The curse of Ben ding Oak is upon the white wolf, and on all who smile upon him." The next day the aged squaw talked with the chiefs concerning the expected intrusion into their camp ; and besought them, by removing to the borders of distant river, to evade their visitor. But the girls of the tribe bad preceded her wit glwing descriptions of the treas ureh s wh o ich the white p trader would bring to offer in exchange for their furs; that curiosity and avarice overcame all her warnings and maledictions. At the appointed time the boat of El liott, the white hunter, was seen ap proaching the Indian encampment. He brought with him a supply of arms, beads and such other articles as might please the taste of his red friends. His gifts won for him a gruff welcome from the men ; but Elliot read a warmer one in the beaming glances of Sunny Cloud and her young sister. But whenever, during his stay, lie crossed the path of Talking Bird, the keen, suspicious glance of Bending Oak was bent upon them. His business was concluded, and lie spoke of depai ting. The day was decided, and the evening previous, by some strange coincidence, Elliott and Talking Bird were standing side by side, in a deep woody glen, not far from the wigwams. The eyes of the dusky maid were hu mid and sorrowful as she said : "You leave us too soon my brother!" " But 1 vil not forget my forest sister. Her memory will be like a sweet song from afar. May her life be as peaceful and happy as yonder beautiful stream, that is quietly sparkling in the long, low sunbeams." "But will the waters be bright when the sun has ceased to shine upon theral Talking Bird's white brother has be come the light of her life. When he is gone she cannot be glad, for it will be dark." The young man started and trembled at this confession. His heart had yearn ed towards the gentle forest girl, but he had riot realized that the feeling was so deeply reciprocated. He knew the odi um that a connexion with her would at tach to him in the view of his kindred and acquaintance ; but, in the excite. ment of the moment, be felt that he could bear it all for the sake of her guileless love. He would be happy with ,her and let the world take its own course. • "Will the Talking Bird go and make the music in the lonely cabin of her white brotherl" said he, "the holy man shall make us one, and, afar from both red and white, we will live for each oth er alone. Shall it not be so'!" The maiden laid her hand in his and said, "I will go." _ _ At that moment there was a sudden rustling—something flashed swiftly through the air; Elliott fell to the ground HUNTINGDON, PA., TUESDAY, JUNE 5, 1849, with a deep groan. An arrow had piere• ed his breast. In franticiltony alking Bird tore it away, and staunched the blood with her garments. But the wound was fatal. The hunter could only whis per "farewell." Just as the word died upon his lips, Bending Oak issued from the shade, and muttered in a cold, sat isfied tone: • " The pale demon that would lure the Indian fawn front her covert, is dead— and by a woman's hand. Leave his car cass, poor fool, and learn not to throw thyself again upon the coil of the ser pent," • There was a wild stare in return, but Talking Bird heard her not. An arrow had entered her own soul. Thought forsook its throne, and she became a qui et, melancholy maniac. The Indian girls changed her name, and spoke of her now as the "Wounded Dove." Day after day she wander with her favorite, Sunny Cloud, to the glen where the fatal event occur red, and together they would chaunt many a low, mournful song. After a few brief moons had waned, they laid her to rest beneath the turf where the white hunter fell, and the secluded spot was ever after called the "Glen of the Wounded Dove." The Pennsylvania Germans. It is a common thing for New England men, and men of the South, to speak ' contemptuously of the Pennsylvania Germans. The very name of Pennsyl vania German, in some parts of the Union, is the synonym of ignorance and stupidity. You hear Yankees talk in nasal eloquence of the stupid Dutch, and too often the Southron forgets his new , ral courtesy and echoes the Yankee's ! sneer. • Good people of the North and South will you listen to a word in behalf of this German race of Pennsylvania, from a man who has its blood in his veinsi Among the Germans who came to Pennsylvania about the time of Penn, were a band of men as superior in re ligion to the bigoted Puritan, as supe rior in true Democracy to the aristocra tic Southron, as the man who shares the education and progressional spirit of the Nineteenth century, is superior to the serf of the Dark Ages. These Germans worked with their hands. They tilled fields, and built houses, and pursued all the branches of agricultural and mechanical labor. They were educated men—educated in the fullest sense of the word. They believ ed in God, and held that all men had a right to worship him according to the dictates of their conscience. They be lieved that God would destroy sin from the face of the Universe, without de stroying the sinner. They believed that Labor and Education should always go together. They believed that it it was every man's duty to work, and also believed in the elevation of Work, by the influence of true education and I:eligion. They combined, in fact, the Worker, the Scholar, and the Christian in one person ; and looked forward to a day when labor and land, redeemed from the thraldom of bad laws, should bless the hearts and contribute to the peace and sustenance of all men. Some of these Germans were Social ists. About the year 1713—if we mis take not—they founded a community on the Wissahikon, a wild stream, seven miles from Philadelphia, and here in the depth of the virgin forest, these men toiled with their hands by day, and gave the night to study and to prayer. The house which they built is still standing upon the banks of the Wissahikon, and is known as the monastery. Here these men attempted to solve the great problem which divides the world—Can education and mental pro gress be conjoined with hard handed Tod I The destructive feature of their or ganization was the injunction of celiba cy. Had it not been for this, the com munists of Wissabikon would be yet in existence. About the year 1715, this Brother hood emigrated to Ephrata, in Lancas ter County, where a similar community was in existence. Did you ever hear of Ephrata"! It is nn Eden, which rests in the lap of a val ley, near a rivulet, and among the shad ows of glorious woods. The Monastery of the community stands even now, where it stood nn hundred years ago. There you may yet behold the house of the Brothers and the house of the Sis ters. There you may meet the descen dants of these people, who after the in junction of celibacy was removed, Inter• married, and sat them down to cultivate the fields around the quaint old Monas tery. The blood which flowed in the veins of these communists, flows even now in the veins of thousands of their descendants. These descendants, having imperfect ly understood the Christ•like idea of their ancestors--so far as regards living in conatnunity—have now become a sect, and by the laws of Pennsylvania, can be put to jail every week, because they hold as their fathers held—Saturday to be the true Sabbath of the Lord. But here at Ephrata, in 1745, books were printed, with type made in the Monastery, upon paper manufactured on the banks of the neighboring stream— the Coca!ico—and embelished with en gravings, executed by the Brothers of Ephrata. These books are still in ex• istence. If you have not toe touch con tempt for the Dutch, we would advise you to go to Ephrata and see them with your own eyes.. The DecJarat ion of Independence was printed by the Monks of Ephrata, two weeks after the 4th of July, 1776. The Monks of Ephrata gave home and food to the wounded soldiers of Brandy- Wine, at the very time that the Tory Rector of Trinity Church, New York, was doing his best to confound the reb els and establish the power of Pope George. The graves of the dead of Brandywine, dot the hillsides of Ephra ta at this hour. You have heard of the Anabaptists of Munster, who are now only remember• ed for the extravagances and fanaticism of John of Leydeni These Anabaptists were Christians, John of Leyden and his extravaganc.is to the contrary notwithstanding. They were Land Reformers. When Luther was afraid to preach the whole Gospel, and declare the freedom of the body— the freedom of the land—as well as the freedom of the soul, these Anabaptists dared to preach that Gospel, and preach it in the face of sword and stake. That Gospel was brought over the Atlantic—it bloomed one hundred years ago, in the solitudes of Pennsylvania.— It grew and flourished on the banks of the Wissahikon and in the Eden of Eph rata. And now, it sometimes comes in a rough rude way, from the pen of one of the descendants of the German people —of him who now speaks to you. This is only a hint of German history —that is of the German history of Penn sylvania. Sometime we will resume the subject, and make you Southern Cava liers, and you Pilgrim Yankees, open your eyes, from Boston to Charleston, at the history—the yet unwritten history of the German people of the land of Penn. You ask us, why it is that education is neglected at the present day, in the German districts of Pennsylvanial Sir, it is because there has been a conflict of languages among these Ger mans, for 150 years. They did not like to forsake the bold and vigorous Ger man for the English tongue. They have been vacillating between these langua ges for R hundred years. This conflict, this hesitation to leave the German—the tongue of their Fathers— for the English will explain to you why it is that so many Pennsylvania Germans of the pre sent day, are neither good English nor German scholars—are educated well in neither tongue. And, good people of the Nnitli and South, if you knew all the history of our fathers ; if you knew the full story of their unyielding democracy, their Christ like faith, their hard work in shop and field, their night-long watches of study and of prayer—you would join one of their descendants, in the heart-felt ejac ulation : .‘ GOD BLESS THE MEMORY OF THE GER MAN PEOPLE OF THE LAND OF PENN!"-- The Quaker City. Curiosities of the Earih At the city of Modena, in Italy, and about four miles around it, wherever it is dug, whenever the workmen arrive at the distance of sixty-three feet, they come to n bed of chalk, which they bore with an auger five feet deep. They then withdraw from the ,it before the auger is removed, and upon its extraction, the water bursts up through the aperture with great violence, and quickly fills this new made well, which continues full, and is affected neither by rains nor droughts. But what is most remarka ble in this operation, is the layers of earth as wo descend. At the depth of fourteen feet, are found the ruins of an ancient city, paved streets, houses, floors, and different pieces of mosaic.— Under this is found a soft, oozy earth. made up of vegetables, and at 26 feet deep, large trees entire, such as walnut trees, with the walnuts still sticking on the stem, and their leaves and branches in perfect preservation. At twenty eight feet deep, a soft chalk is found, mixed with a vast quantity of shells, and this bed is eleven feet thick. Under this, vegetables are found again with leaves and branches of trees ns before. and thus alternately chalk and vegetable earth, to the depth of sixty-three feet. Why is a merchant that has failed, like a river in a freshet He has over-run the banks. ed ,4'ioeUrflAr A Clear Field and no Favor. BY THE YOUNG 'UN Within a short distance of the wild shores of Barnegat, there lies an incon siderable settlement, which can scarce ly be denominated a village; in which spite of the well-known character of the denizens of that ilk, is located a small building, which is appropriated for the purpose of a school horse; and which, occasionally, long time ago— when an itinerant chanced to appear in the vicinity—was used as a church. The inhabitants of Barnegat are no torious the world over, for their "wreck ing" propensities. The hard•fisted res idents, for many miles along the coast, are educated wreckers, they know noth ing better, and are not the most scrupu lous community in Christendom, in the conduct of their vocation. Notwithstan ding this fact, they would gather at the little school-house above mentioned, oc casionally when not busy upon a Sun day, to listen to the words of admoni tion and instruction, which availed them very little, however, during the week. It chanced some years ago, that there happened to pass along there a smooth looking individual, who halted on Satur day in this little neighborhood, and who proprosed to remain over the Sabbath and submit a sermon to the people of the modest school-house. The offer was accepted, and the reverend gentle man made his appearance in due sea son, before a very respectable sized congregation. The day being rather pleasant, a full house greeted the speak er, and the service had been carried on for half an hour, very much to the gratification of the smooth-faced parson and his rough auditory. The text had been given out, the prea cher divided his subject into the requi site number of " heads" to answer his purpose, an.d the attention of the audi ence was fixed upon the speaker, when I the propriety of the occasion was sud denly interrupted, and the multitude were unexpectedly startled from their quiet, by the entrance of an outsider, with the exclamation that a brig had just stranded upon the beach, half a mile below. In an instant the whole crowd were upon their feet, some turning towards the door,,some rushing for their head geer s some one way, and 80111 C another; tvhen the clear full voice of the "itin erant"—whom they respected for his calling, in spite of their generally rough character—was heard above the confu sion, and the throng came to a dead halt, in their tracks! "Brethren," said the sleek-haired speaker, "it is the Sabba' day ; this is n saltrid place," and the reverend gen tleman secured his hat from the peg behind him. " Let no reude nor unbecornite con duck be exhibited in this place, breth ren," continued the itinercnt, and be slowly descended the steps of the ros trum, and entered the aisle of the church. "But raither let us, brethren, show a dispersition to be calm ; and not dis grace these sakrid premisis by any act of undoo disturbance, on this day," and by this time, lie had worked himself pretty well through the crowd, who gathered around him, and amid their innocence and respect for the cioth,stood listening carefully, though impatiently, hats m hand, to his quieting remarks. " Quick, brethren, continued the par son, still moving towards the door.— " Speak low ; and remember we should respect this day, above all others ;" and ho emerged from the hall to the door, "It's a great tuisforen this *reek, at such a time, brethren," added the itin erant, as he placed his foot on the step outside, " but you see, fellers, I've been round some myself, so let's all have a fair start!" And with these words, the smooth tongued preacher—who was one of 'em —darted off nt full speed, at the head of the crowd, and was the first man aboard the wreck. All he asked for, was " clear field and no favor." But whenever a " mission ary" has ventured among those wreck ers since, the committee on plunder re• sportfully hint to him that his clerical services will be dispensed with. Oz!7-“Well, Nimrod how long were the children of Israel in the wilderness 1" "T►ll they found their way out." "Who was cast into the lions denl" "Van A mburgh." A mild rebuke in the season of calm ness is better than a rod in the heat of passion The Czar of Russia has sent a snuffbox worth I, ion guineas to Joseph White, ship builder at Portsmouth, in return for some ship drawings. The Emperor will doubtless make good use of the drawings, VOL XIV, NO, 21 A Sister's Lose Mere constant than the evening star Which mildly beams above— That diadem—oh ! dearer far A sister's gentle love ! Brighter then the dew-drop on the Tone, Than nature's smile more gay— A living fount which ever flows, Warmed by love's pure ray. Ucni of the heart ! Life's gift divine, Bequeathed as from above, Glad offering at alfbet ion's shrine— A gister's holy love ! HOW BRIEF IS LIFE, • The morninr , sun of file fiiny gild licrrioef uneldu r ded by a single care or unruffled by the prospect of reverses in our common journey ; Nature may bloom in all her heaven-born beauty, and her glittering romance and bright est realities add zest and loveliness to the new born life ; the beneficent hand of an all-wise Providence may seem to strew the pathway with life's best offer . ing to the sojourner ; but all may fade and vanish in an hour, and leave but a lingering recollection with those who survive, that life's brightest hopes are often rested with those who fall the ear liest beneath the fatal strok e of our com mon destroyer. So is life. it blooms and withers in a day—in a single hour its fondest anticipations are frustrated by the hand of Him who holds our des tinies subject to his will. How brief is life! is the involuntary lamentation of the donting parent as a lovely child, in whom is concentrated all that affection can lavish or indal• gence bestow, yields its spotless spirit to the God that gave it. The hopes and labors of that brief life-time are buried in the grave, and the clay tenement in which moved that type of Heaven, is consigned to the dust by the irrevocable mandate of its giver. So is life; a Work but half begun—a tender, fragile flower, watered by tears and nourished by in. cessant care, blooms but a day to wither in an hour. How brief is life! is the exclamation of scarcely 'natured manhood, when all ,the high hopes of future success and usefulness, or peradventure fame, arc frustrated by the hand of death. Scarce ly has childhood made way for the years of maturity; scarcely bus life began to yield what the toil and study of earlier days promised, until it is palsied by dis ease and hurried off by the last enemy of man. How hard to yield when the hopes of youth seen► ready to be lost in full, fruition ; how hard to obey the sum mons when it bids the setting of the sun of life ere it has reached its merid ian. So is life; it blooms but a day and withers in an hour. How brief is life! almost unconscious. ly falls from the lips of one in the noon day of life, us he revolts from the icy grasp of death. He has scarce began to live, yet a score and ten have fleeted past ltiui i and time has already began to nmrk the ravages of care and disap , pointments on his brow. The extrava gant hopes of earlier days have never been realized ; they had vanished be neath the realities of life as the morning dew beneath the rays of the son ; ho has long since learned that sorrows and unexpected mortifications must find a place in each one's cup ; but lie clings to the breaking thread to glance at the past. It breaks upon him like a fleet ing vision. It seems but the work of a day ; it withers in an hour. How brief is life! is heard from him who has braved his three score and ten. The sunken eye, the furrowed check, the palsied limbs, the racked rind feeble constitution, all tell that he has with , stood the storms of many winters ; that he has seen life in its saddest hours, its brightest smiles, yet he shrinks from dissolution to pause a moment and con template the dreamy fiction presented by a retrospective glance. He has done his work ; he has filled the time allotted to mortals ; yet it seems but the work of a day, and withers in an hour. How brief is life ! may be heard front the quivering lips of him who has till ed the measure of a century rind shared more than the ordinary calamities of our journey. That form once full of all the vigor and freshness of youth—once (touting in infancy, now doating in age, has stood like th 3 sturdy oak in the for est blast when destruction fell around it cm every side, yet it sinks in death with the reluctance of a vigorous mind, and sees t he past as but a dream ; a cheq uered fancy. So is life. It seems 'till but the work of a day--it withers in an boon—Kelly. "Twenty-two carats ! They make great fuss about the Californy carats ! I've gut mor'n fifty in toy garden as they've got there—and my blood beets —don't talk to me of your twenty-two line carrels.', And .111 rs. P. looked into her jar of [ickles with the utmost corn. placency.