Huntingdon journal. (Huntingdon, Pa.) 1843-1859, June 05, 1849, Image 1

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Spare the Birds.
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,
" 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
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,
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
The maiden turned and averted her
eyes, and Sunny Cloud spoke in her de.
" 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
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
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
• 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
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
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
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
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 :
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.
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
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
"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
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,
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 !
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.