VOL. 19.
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pakvuttal.
From the Oskaloosa Herald.
THE PRINTER'S TOIL.
Blow, ye stormy winds of winter;
Drive the chilly, drifting snow;
Closely housed the busy printer,
Heeds not how the winds may blow.
Click, click, his types go dropping,
Here and there upon the ease,
As he stands for hours, popping
Every letter in its place.
Heaven send the useful printer
Every comfort mortals need;
For our nights were dull in winter,
Had we not the news to read.
Sad would be the world's condition,
If no printer boys were found;
Ignorance and superstition,
Sin and suffering would abound.
Yes, it is the busy printer,
Rolls the car of knowledge on;
And a gloomy mental winter,
Soon would reign if he were gone.
Money's useful yet the minters
Fill not half so high a place,
As the busy, toiling printers,
Fing'ring type before the case.
Yet, while type they're busy setting,
Oft some thoughtless popinjay,
Leaves the country kindly letting
Printers "whistle for their pay."
0, ingratitude ungracious?
Are there on enlightened soil,
Men with minds so inentraeintts.
As to slight the printer's toil ?
See him how extremely busy,
Fing'ring type before the case,
Toiling till he's almost dizzy,
To exalt the human race.
Long live the art of printing,
Here on happy Freedom's soil,
And with joys that know no stinting,
Heav'n reward the Printer's toil !
THE FIRE IS OUT.
By pArL PENOIL, JR,
I hear their tread, dim, ghostly dim,
The dark night spirits roam about;
The slow clock sings its midnight hymn,
'Tis bitter cold, the fire is out.
And now the joys before me move
In Earth's wide battle put to rout.
Where fade the forms we prize and love
And one by one lifo's fires go out.
Man has but one deep love of youth,
One trembling love of hope and doubt,
No answering love rewards his truth,
The heart is chilled, the fire goes out.
At morn to battle for the right
Goes forth ripe manhad strong and stout;
Alas! that day must close in night,
Men change to clods, the fire goes out.
Fill high the glass! The hour scarce past
With loudest song and deepest bout I
Ah ! cold gray morning dawns at last,
The headache comes, the lire goes out.
Ah I up for Fame, for Honor's state!
We'll carry Glory's high redoubt,—
'Tis but the millionth man is great,
The rest, poor souls, their lire goes out.
Poor child.man, in thy constant strife,
Why ever fret and tease and pout?
Thou canst not wield the toys of life,
Go! sleep! Go—diet thy fire is out.
The last spark flies, and leaves the soul
That grave with ashes strewn about;
Cold grate, with many a dark, dead coal
Emblem of Life, thy fire is out.
ItABBVTDIIIIIADLIEtt.
"The Night Cornett, wherein no Man
can WOrk."
Oh, reader, we have taken too little thought
of this I Perhaps you have not seen friends, in
the full flush of ripened manhood, with all tho
blessings and hopes of this life clustering about
them, suddenly cut down by the relentless stroke
of the All•Couqueror. Perhaps you have never
seen one die—holding his hand in yours, while
lie "panted away his breath." When you do
experience this, this great themewill be brought
nearer to you. An you work then, you will look
at your hands and ask yourself:
"And must this body die?
This mortal frame decay?
And must these active limbs of mine
Lie mouldering in the clay?"
The great certainty will be before you; you
will feel that soon "the night cometh, wherein
no man can work." You will awake in the
night watches, perhaps, by the heavy beating
of your heart, and suddenly remember that
friend after friend has dropped from your side
—that time with them is no longer, and that
sooner or later you will be called to join them.
And then will come thoughts of earthly enmi
ties—of ungrateful friendships; but wills them
will, also, come the added reflection that this
little life, which is even as a vapor, is too short
for enmities; animosities, if you have indulged
any, will fade before the certainty that in the
grave there is no bitterness, no passion, no re
venge. Pass but a little while, and you will
be forgotten by all save those in whose memo
ries you would live, not with disregard, not
with reproach, but with unbroken friendship,
undying affection. Thus may it be when our
"night cometh."
K./11
4ourna
t.
" I SEE NO STAR, ABOVE THE HORIZON, PROMISING LIGHT TO GUIDE US, BUT THE INTELLIGENT, PATRIOTIC, UNITED WHIG PARTY o THE UNITED STATES."•
The Withered Wreath.
In wandering a short time ago among the
graves of a burial ground, we noticed upon one.
only-two feet in length, a withered wreath. It
had apparently been made for the brow of the
little sleeper, so small was it in size, and was
perchance laid off in that hour when, proffering
an eternal crown, the spirit-host led the child
angel from earth to heaven.
This wreath, as it lay withered and frosted
upon the little grave, was to us the emblem of
eternity; and we could not but think it was a
sweet and holy thought that had placed it
above the dead. There was no head-stone
there—there was none needed; for the withered
wreath was both stone and inscription, telling
of a nest that was rifled of its sweetest song
bird, and of a pearl that had slipped from the
string of affection here, had been gathered to
the treasury above.
When that pearl was lost from the jewel.
wreath of maternal love, mayhap, in some hum
ble home, where it had sparkled as jewel spark
led before, there was grief unspeakable—
" Rachel mourned for ber babe and refusing to
he comforted."
But in the same hour there was joy in the
still throng of the immortals, for a new star was
set in the crown of the Holy One, and a new
ray added to the brilliancy of Heaven.
So it is ever, when from the circles of earth
a babe is borne upward. Shadows may gather
here, and treasured wreaths—woven for the
brow of the departed—may wither and die upon
its grave; but from the Eden hills, comes float.
ing on every sunbeam
" Sing gentle winds, and clasp your hands ye
flowers,
This child once earth's is henceforth God's and
ours."
An Elegant Extract.
Tim sea is the largest of cemetries,
slumberers sleep without to monument. I
grave yards, in all other lands, show s e
symbol of istinction between the great and
the small, the rich and the poor; but in that
ocean cemetery the king and the clown, the
prince and the peasant, are all alike undistin
guished. The same wave rolls over all—the
same requiem sung by the minstrelsy of the
ocean sung to their honor. Over their remains
the same storm beats, and the same snn shines;
and there t unmarked, the weak and the power
ful, the plumed and unhonored, will sleep on,
until awakened by the same trump, when the
sea will give up its dead. I thought of sailing
over the slumbering but devoted Cookman, who,
atter a brief but brilliant career, perished in
the President—over the laugh-loving Power,
who went down in the same ill-fated vessel, we
may have passed. In that cemetery sleeps the
accomplished and pious Fisher; but where he
and thousands of others of the noble spirits of
the earth lie, no one but God knoweth. No
marble rises to point out where their ashes aro
gathered, or where the lovers of the good or
wise can go to shed the tear of sympathy.—
Who can tell where lie the tens of thousands
of Africa's sons who perished in the "middle
passage I" Yet that cemetery bath ornaments
of ,Jehovah. Never can I forget my days and
nights, as I passed over the noblest of cemete
ries without a single monument. —Giles.
urpaval .14xcialm
Don't Propose in the Dark.
The pretty farm-house standing at the cor
ner where Kibes lane crosses the brook, or the
brook crosses Kibes lane, (for the first phrase,
although giving by far the closest picture of the
place, do., it must be confessed, look rather
Irish,) and where the aforesaid brook winds
away by the side of another lane, until it
spreads into river•like dignity, as it meanders
through the sunny plain of Hartly Common,
and finallydisappears amid the green recesses of
Pergo Wood—that pretty, square farm-house,
half hidden by the tall elms in the flower court
before it, which with the spacious garden and
orchard behind, and the entensive barns. yards,
and out-buildings, so completly occupies one of
the ankles formed by the
,crossing of the lane
and the stream—that pretty farm-house con
tains one of the happiest and most prosperous
families in Aberleigh—the large and thriving
family of farmer Evans.
Whether from skill or good fortune--or, as
is most probable, from a lucky mixture of both
—everything goes right in his great farm. His
crops are the best in the parish; his hay is nev
er spoiled; his cattle never die; hie servants
never thieve; his children aro never ill. He
buys cheap, and sells dear; money gathers
about him like a snow-ball; and yet, it spite of
all this provoking and intolerable prosperity,
everybody loves farmer Evans. Ho is so hos
pitable, so good-natured, so generous, so home
ly ! There, after all, lies the charm. Riches
have not only not spoiled the man, but they
have not altered him. He is just the same in
look, in word, and way, that he was thirty years
ago, when he and his wife with two sorry hot..
sea, one cow, and three pigs, began the world
at Dean Gate, a little bargain of twenty acres,
two miles off. Ay, and his wife is the same
woman !—the same frugal, tidy, industrious,
good natured Mrs. Evans—so noted for activity
of tongue and limb, her good looks, and her
plain dressing; as frugal, as good-natured as
active, and as plain•dressing Mrs. Evans at for
ty-five, as she was at nineteen, and, iu a differ
ent way, almost as good looking.
Their children—six 'boys,' as farmer Evans
promiscuously calls them, whose ages vary
from eight and twenty, and three girls, two
grown up, and one, the youngest of the family
—are just what might be expected from par
ents so simple and so good. The young man,
intelligent and well-conducted; the boys, docile
and promising; and the little girl, as pretty a
curly-head, rosy-chocked poppet, as ever was
the pot and plaything of a large family. It is,
however, with the eldest daughters that we
have to do.
Jane and Patty Evans were as much alike as
bath often befallen any two sisters not born at
one time; for in the matter of twin children,
there has been a series of puzzles ever since
the days of the Dromios. Nearly at nu ago (I
believe that at this moment both are turned
nineteen, and neither has reached twenty.)—ex
actly of a stature, so high that Frederick the
Great would have coveted them for his tall re.
giment,—with hazle eyes, large mouths, full
lips, white teeth, brown hair, and that sort of
nose which is neither Grecian, or Boman, nor
aquiline, not le petit nez retrouasn, that some
Mons ruler to than xlh but a ucee which,
HUNTINGDON, PA., WEDNESDAY, MARCH 29, 1854.
moderately prontinent, and sufficiently well
shaped, is yet, as far as I know, anonymous,
although it be perhaps as common and as well
looking a feature as is to be seen on an Eng
lish face.
Altogether, they were a pair of tall and come
ly maidens, and being constantly attired in gar
ments of the same color and fashion, looked at
all times so much alike, that no stranger ever
dreamed of knowing them apart; and oven
their acquaintances were rather accustomed to
think and speak of them generally as 'the
Evanses; than as the separate individuals Jane
and Patty. Even those who did pretend to
distinguish the ono from the other, were not
exempt from mistakes,which the sisters—Patty
especially, who delighted in the fun so often
produced by the unusual resemblance—were
apt to favor by changing places in a walk,
or slipping from one side to the other at a
country tea-party, or playing a hundred little
innocent tricks to oceasion at once a grave
blunder and a merry laugh.
Old Dinah Goodwin for instance—who be
ing rather purblind, was jealous of being sus
pected of seeing less clearly than her neighbors,
and had defied even the Evanses to puzzle her
discernment—seeking in vain on Patty's hand
the cut finger which she had dressed on Jane's,
ascribed the incredible cure to the merits of
her own incomparable salve; and could be hard
ly undeceived, even by the pulling off of Jane's
glove and the exhibition of the lacerated digi
tal sewed round by her own bandage. Young
George Kaily, the greatest beau in the parish,
having betted nt a Christmas party that he
would dance with every pretty girl in the room,
lost his wager (which . Patty had overheard) by
that sane^ damsel's slipping into her sister's
place, and persuading her to join her own un
conscious partner; so that George danced
twice with Patty, and not at all with Jane.—
A bantering piece of malice which proved, as
the young gentleman (a rustic exquisite of the
first wator)was pleased to assert, that Miss
Patty was not displeased with her partner.—
How little does a vain man know of woman
kind ! If she had liked him, she would not
have played the trick for the mines of Gideon
da.
In short, from their school days, when Jane
was chidden for Patty's bad work, and Patty I
slapped for Jane's bad spinning, down to this,
their prime of womanhood, there had been no
end to the confusion produced by this remark.
able instance of family likeness.
And yet Nature—who sets some mark of in•
dividuality upon evert her meanest productions,
making some unnoted difference between the
lambs Zlropped from one ewe, the robins bred
in one nest, the flowers growing on one stalk,
and the leaves hanging from one tree—had
not left these young maidens without one
great and permanent distinction—a natural
and striking dissimilarity of temper. Equally
industrious, affectionate, happy and kind; each
was kind, happy, aflectionate, and industrious
in a different way. Jane was grave, Patty
was gay. If you heard a laugh or a song, be
sure it was Patty; she who jumped the stile,
when her sister opened the gate, was Patty;
she who chased the pigs from the garden as
merrily as if she was running 11, race, so that
the pigs did not mind her, was Patty.
On the other hand, she that so carefully was
malting, with its own raveled threads; an hill
silk darn in her mother's handkerchief, and
hearing her little sister read the while, she that
was so patiently feeding, one by one, two
broods of young turkeys; she that so pensively
was watering her own bed of rare flowers—the
pale hues of the Alpine pink, or the alabaster
blossoms of the white evening primrose, whose
modest flowers, dying off into a blush resem
bled her own character—was Jane.
Some of the gossips of Aberleigh used to as
sert that Jane's sighing over the flowers, as
well as the early steadiness of her character,
arose from an engagement to my lord's head
gardener, an intelligent, sedate, and sober
young Scotchman. Of this I know nothing.—
Certain it is, that the prettiest and newest
plants were to be found in Jane's little flower
borderi. and if Mr. Archibald Maclane did
sometimes came to look after them, Ido not
see that it is any business of anybody's.
In the meantime, a visitor of a different de
scription arrived at the farm. A cousin of
Mrs. Evans had been as successful in trade as
her husband had been in agriculture, and he
had now sent his only son to become acquaint
ed with his relations, and to spend some weeks
in (heir family.
Charles Foster was a fine young man, whose
father was neither snore nor less than a linen
draper in a great town; but whose manners,edu
cation, mind and character, might have done
honor to a far higher station. He was, in a
word, one of nature's gentleman, and in noth
did Ile more thoroughly show his own taste and
good breeding, than by entering entirely into
homely ways and old-fashioned habits of his
country cousins. Ho was delighted with the
simplicity, frugality and industry, which blen
ded well with the sterling goodness and genu
ine prudence of the great English farm-house.
The women especially pleased bins much.—
They formed a strong contrast with anything
he had met with before. No finery—no co
quetry—no French—no piano l It is impossi
ble to describe the sensation of relief and com
fort with which Charles Foster, sick of musical
misses,ascertained that the whole dwelling did
not contain a single instrument, except the
bassoon on which George Evans was wont,
every Sunday at church, to excruciate the ears
of the whole congregation. He liked both sis
ters. Jane's softness and considerateness en
gaged his full esteem; but Patty's innocent
playfulness suited best with his own high spir
its and animated conversation. He had known
them apart, from the first; and indeed denied
that the likeness was at all puzzling, or more
than is usual between sisters; and secretly
thought Putty much prettier than her sister,
as she was avowedly merrier. In doors and
art, be nos conAtnntly itt her side; and before
he had been a month in the house all the in
mates had given Charles Foster as a lover of
his young cousin; and she, when rallied on the
subject, cried fyl and pish I and pshaw I and
wondered how people could talk such non
sense—and like to have such nonsense talk
ed to her, better than anything in the world I
Affairs were in this state when one night
Jane appeared even graver and more thought
ful than usual, and far, far sadder. She sigh
ed deeply; and Patty—for the two sisters shar
ed the same little room—inquired tenderly,
what ailed her? The inquiry seemed to make
Jane worse. She burst into tears, while Patty
hung overler and soothed her. At length she
roused herself by a strong effort; and, turning
away from her affectionate comforter, said in a
low tone—
'I have a great vexation to-night Patty.—
Charles Foster has asked me to marry him
Tharles,Fosterl did you say Charles Foster?'
asked poor Patty, trembling, unwilling even to
trust her own senses against the evidence of
her heart; 'Charles Foster!'
'Yes, our cousin, Charles Foster!'
'And you have accepted him 2' inquired Pat
ty, in a hoarse voice.
'Oh, no—no—nol Do you think I have for
gotten poor Archibald? Besides lam not the
person whom he should have asked to marry
him; false and heartless as he is, I would not
be his wife—cruel, unfeeling, unmanly as his
conduct has been I No! not if he would make
me Queen of England!'
'You refused him, then?'
'No, my father met us suddenly, just as I
was recovering from the surprise and indigna
tion that at first struck me dumb. But I shall
refuse him most certainly—the false, deceitful,
ungrateful villianr
'Poor father. lie will be disappointed. So
will mother 1'
'They will be disappointed, and both angry
—hut not at my refusal. Oh, how they will
despise him,' added Jano.
Poor Patty, melted by her sisters sympathy,
and touched by an indignation most unusual in
that mild and gentle girl, could no longer com
mand her feelings, but flung herself on the bed,
in that agony of passion and grief which the
first great sorrow seldom fails to excite in a
young heart.
After a while alto resumed the conversation.
'We must not blame hint too severely. Per
haps my vanity made me think his attentions
meant more than they really did, and you had
all taken up the notion. But you must not
speak of him so unkindly. He has done noth
ing but what was natural. You are so much
better than I am, my own dear Jane He laugh
ed and talked with me—but he felt your good
ness; and he was right. I was never worthy
of hint, and you are; and if it were not for Ar
chibald, I should rejoice from the bottom of
my heart,' continued Patty, sobbing, 'if you
would accept—,' but unable to speak her gen
erous wish, she burst into a fresh flow of tears;
'and the sisters, mutually and strongly affected,
wept in each other's arms, and were comforted.
That night Patty cried herself to sleep; hut
such sleep is not of long duration. Before
dawn she was up, and pacing, with resistless
irritability, the dewy grass-walks of the garden
and orchard. In less than half an hour, a light
elastic step—she knew the sound well—came
rapping behind her; a hand—oh, how often had
she thrilled at the touch of that hand I—tried
to drawhers under his own,—while a well-known
voice addressed her in the softest and tenderest
accents.
'Patty—my own swoet Patty! have you
thought of what I said to you last night?'
me I' replied Patty, with bitterness.
'Ay, to be sure—to your own dear self I Do
you not remember the question I asked you,
when your good father—for the first time un
welcome—joined us so suddenly, that you had
not time to say, !Yes,' now.'
'Mr. Foster!' replied Patty, with some spirit,
'you are under a mistake here! It was to Jane
that you made the proposal, and you are taking
me for her at this very moment!'
'Mistake you for your sister! Propose to
Jane Incredible I Impossible I You are jes
ting!'
'Then he took Jane for one last night—and
he is no deceiver l' thought Patty to herself, as
with smiles beaming brightly through hertears,
she turned round at his reiterated prayers, and
yielded the band he sought to his pressure.
_ .
'He mistook her for me! lie that defied us
to perplex him
And so it was; an unconscious and unobser
ved change of place, as either sister resumed
her station beside little Betty, who had scamp
ered away after a glow worm, added to the
deepening twilight and the lover's natural em
barrassment, had produced the confusion which
gave poor Patty a night's misery, to ho com
pensated by a lifetime of happiness. Jane was
almost as glad to lose a lover as her sister was
to regain one. Charles is gone home to his
father's to make preparations for his bride; Ar
chibald has taken a great nursery garden, and
there is some talk in Aberleigh that the mar
riage of the two sisters is to be celebrated on
the same day.
A Valuable Table.
The following table will be found very valu
able to many of our readers:
A box 24 inches by 16 inches square and
28 inches deep, will contain a barrel, (5 bush
els.)
A box 24 inches by 16 inches square and 14
inches deep, will contain half a barrel.
A box 26 inches by 15.8 inches square, and
8 inches deep, will contain one bushel.
A box 12 inches by 11.2 inches square, and
8 inches deep, will contain half a bushels.
A box 8 inches by 8.4 inches square, and 8
inches deep, will contain one peck.
A box 8 inches by 8 inches square; and 4-2
inches deep, will contain one gallon.
A box 7 inches by 8 inches square, and 4.8
inches deep, will contain a half gallon.
A box 4 inches by 4 inches square, and 4.2
inches deep, will contain one quart,
niaElatiLlaan@To.
Large Storiet
We have all heard of 'fish stories,' and it is
generally understood they are pretty hard to
swallow. There are some, however, who have
acquired such a facility in manufacturing them,
that they deem it derogatory if they allow them.
selves to be surpassed in telling tl,:n.
Of this class were Jetn. B. and Joe. P., two
old cronies, who for a while flourished in a
neighboring village.
They were seated in the village store one
evening, when Jem, designing to call the at
tention of the company, commenced as follows:
'I say, boys, did I ever tell you what a time
I had shooting pigeons over at our house one •
night last winter.'
'No, no,' said a chorus of voices, 'come, tell
it.'
'You see,' said the old man, 'my old woman
and I were seated around the fireplace one
night in the kitchen, when we heard a flutter.
ing up above.'
'What's that?' asked Jermimi.
do not know• said I; 'it sounds like pig•
eons.'
'So, I got my old musket and charged it up
pretty well, and pointing it up the chimney, I
found there was a screech and a crashing noise,
and a dozen as plump pigeons as you could
wish to see fell upon the hearth. Two fell into
the pot that was boiling over the fire, and we
had them for breakfast next morning. We
didn't have to buy any butcher's meat for a
week afterwards.'
'Ahem!' commented Joe, 'that's pretty fair
luck, but it isn't a circumstance to what hap.
pencil to me once. I'll tell it, if you haiu't got
no objections.'
'Go ahead, Joe, we are all anxious to hear
you.'
`Well, I'd been out hunting one afternoon—
had dreadful luck—fired away all my shot, and
hadn't brought down anything yet. I began
to be discouraged, and was thinking of going
home, when all at once a lot of robins, (there
were fifty of'em, and all in a row,) flew by.
'Here was a capital chance to shoot; but the
worst of it was, I had no shot. So I did the
best I could. I put in the ramrod and charg.
edit up pretty well. I took aim and fired, and,
wonderful to tell, I took the first robin through
the oye, and it passed through the whole row
of'em, so they fell to the ground, all strung on
the ramrod as neat as could be. I shouldered
'em and carried 'em home.'
'How many robins did you say there were?'
asked a bystander.
'Just My.'
'And they were all strung on the ramrod?'
'Saran. Have you anything to say agin it?'
'O, no, certainly not; only it must have been a
plaguy lung ramrod, that's all.'—rankee Blade.
Official.
In the following illustration of a printing of.
flee dialogue there is decidedly more truth than
poetry:
Foreman—You fellow with the red hair, what
are you at now?
Compositor—l'm setting 'A House on Fire!'
almost done.
Foreman—What's Smith about•?
Compositor—He's engaged on a 'Horrible
Murder!'
Foreman—Finish it as quick as possible and
help Marsh through with his telegraph. Bub,
what are you tryin . F to get up?
Bob—'.l Panic in the Money Market.'
Foreman—Jim, what are von distributing?
Jim—Prizes in Perham's • Gift Enterprize.'
. . .
Foreman—Stop that, and take hold Of this
'Runaway Home. Slocum what in the thun-
der have you been about the last half hour?
Slocum—Justifying the 'Compromise Mea
sures' which my cub set. _ _
Foreman—You chap on the stool, what are
you on?
Compositor—On the 'Table' you gate me.
Foreman—Lay it on the table for the pres
ent—hare no room for it.
. .
Compositor—How about these 'Municipal
Candidates?'
Foreman—Run 'em in. What did you say
Slocum?
_ _
Slocum—Shan 'lend' these Won of Boston ?'
Foreman—No. They're 'solid' of course.
Compositor—Do you want a full•faco head
to 'Jenny Lind's Family ?'
Foreman —No; such things go in 'email caps.'
John, have you got up that 'Capital Joke?'
John—No, sir; I'm 'out of sorts.'
Foreman—Well, throw in this 'Million of
California Gold,' and when you get through
with it, I'll give you some more. Wilson, have
you finished the 'Coalition?'
Wilson—Yes, sir; the 'Coalition' is 'all up.'
Editor—What do you want now?
Devil—More copy, sir.
Editor—Have you completed that 'Eloquent
Thanksgiving Discourse?
Devil—Yes, sir; and I've got up a 'Warm
Winter l'
Scissors—Here, take this 'Official' and be off.
Exit Devil with a 'fat take.'
The Young Ladys' Shorter Catechism.
What is the whole duty of woman? To
dress—to sing—to dance—to play on the piano
forte—to gabble French or Gorman—and to
preside gracefully at the tea•table I What is
a man? A thing to waltz with—to flirt with
—to take one to the theatre—to laugh at—to
be married to—to pay one's hills—and to keep
one comfortably 1 What is life A polka—a
shottisehe—a dance that ono must whirl
through safest as possible I What is death?
It's—something that its unfashionable to talk
of—to whisper of—to think of—so the less
that's said about it the better!
tar'Boy,' said a traveller to a little fellow
clothed in pants and round-about, but minus
another very important article of wearing op
parel—'boy, whore's your shirt ?'
'Mammy's washing it?'
'Have you no other ?'
'No other!' exclaimed the urchin with indig
nant scorn; 'would you want a body to have a
thousand shirts?'
A STRIKE.-'I ain't a going to be called a
printer's devil any longer—no more I ain't,'
exclaimed our imp the other day in a terrible
pucker.
'Well, what shall we call you?'
'Call me typographical spirit of evil, if you
ple(,c—tlvit's all.
P -I WEBBTER.
Au Aristocratic) Darkey.
John B. Vashon, a colored barber of Pitts
burg, died recently at the railroad station in
that city, whilst about to start for Philadelphia
to take his seat in the convention of the sold
iers of the war of 1812. The history of Vash
on is a somewhat singular one. He was a
slight mulatto, the son of a Virginia planter of
tho same name. He died worth two hundred
thousand dollars. One of his sons is a lawyer
in that city. The people of Pittsburg are in
debted ttrhito for the first public baths estab
lished in that city. Until the Supreme Court
of Pennsylvania decided that the people of
color were not legal voters, Vashon enjoyed
the right of suffrage. In 1830, he supported a
gentleman for the Assembly, upon the ground
that he was a "fashionable man," the meaning
which was that he bought his soap at Vashon's
shop. On one occasion Vashon visited the
falls of Niagara, and there met with a Pitts
burg acquaintance who introduced him to a
friend from Rochester, N. Y. as "Cub Vashon,
of the Mexican army." Shortly afterwards
Vashon met this gentleman in Rochester, who
paid him great attention, introduced him to
the leading notablities of that city, and the
Pittsburg barber was for some days the lion of
the place. Vashon kept his own counsel, and
on his return to Pittsburg, related the story
with great glee, always winding up with the
remark, "see what a thing this prejudice of
color is I As long as they thought me a Mexi
can Colonel, I was good enough company for
anybody." Vashon considered himself as a
sort of western rival of the late Thomas S. An
ners, of Philadelphia, whom he describes as "a
very pompon man."
Young Lambs,
It is a very nice operation to raise a young
lamb, after he refuses food. has a cold mouth,
stiff neck, .k.e.
We have been successful in hydropnthy on
men and animals, contrary to the old practice.
Put the lamb into a bucket of water as warm
as you can hold your hand in without scalding,
let him remain there about four minutes, or
until all tremor subsides. Then take him out,
and wipe him over with a warm cloth or sponge,
and if not too far gone, give him actable-spoon
ful of warm drink. Strong green tea, or gin
ger tea, adding sugar and milk, or all mixed
together, are good. Hot woolen blankets should
be in readiness. and wound close around him,
covering all but his head from the air; let there
be two sets and change often. As soon as he
is so revived, as to act like eating give him a
teaspoonful or two of milk, warm from the
ewe, or "new cows milk." As soon as he is
hungry, and not before, feed him lightly. Here
the great secret lies, in feeding and rearing
young lambs. We aro apt to over feed; this
often kills them. Their stomachs are weak,
they can not digest but a little at a time. There
fore, feed but little, and often, at first.
Let us reason. Of what use is an extra quan
tity of food forced into the stomach, where there
is not sufficient gastric juice, the solvent of
food, or other chemical agents, which weak na
ture has not at command, to dissolve and di
gest the food lodged there at once?
- The stomach acts like the mill, which is so
overfed as to clog the wheels. The inoffensive
lamb has no other remedy, but premature death.
[Country Gentleman.
MoFudd's Irish Lotter.
Dere Mother,
Pm wandering what the divil kapes the vesh•
it which Peggy's cumin' over in. Ef that blag
gard Kaptin has run aft wid her, be the powers
o' Moli Kelly I'll take the kurl out uv his wig,
of fiver I lay me hands on him.
Ef Pegg was to be taken frum me I shod
die wid greofe, and be borry'd in the arms uv
widdy Casey. If the ralcrode they're taukin'
uv bildin' across the say, betwene here and
Galway war teddy, I'd sane see what's hoopla'
mo clarlin'.
But it's me own fault, of enything happens
to hur, fur insted uv lettin' hur cum in may be
sum ould tub, why dident I rind a ballune, and
bring hur over in stile. Bad cess to me fur a
numbskull, I never think uv curbing till it's 2
late.
Ye sec, mother avick, I wouldent care so
much aboUt the delay, but that I bee, jist on
Peggy's account, waned meself aff from luvin'
the widdy; and basin' nobuddy tu bestow me
affeeshun on I her to keep it bottled up in me
buzzum, till hur arrive], and I am nerely kild
wid the preshure.
Kape yer self warm, muther dere, fur I sup
pose it's gittin' as cowld wid yu as wid us. I
rind yu a cupplc uv blankits to warm yer out
side, and a keg uv potheen to hope yer inside
frum freesin'. Make a warm place under the
bed fur the pigs and chickens tu purtect them
from the cowld, the craters.
I am going to be marryd the moment Peggy
arrives; Father Fiala sez he'll marry me fur
nauthin', barrio a pece uv the cake nothin'
more nor less thin a round uv bale. Won't yer
mouth wather whin ye heer it menshuted, fur
it's a long time I suppose, sense ye tashted the
like.
In addishun to what I told yo I had bawt fur
house kapin', I hey layd in a haf duzzen uv
eryin' baby.% What Tie think Iry that? Shuro
it musht be a convenant country will furnish
ye wid a famly reddy made, and that, too be
fore yez marryd at all. Yours, 811AMCS.
Hones.—i consider the growing of horses
profitable. I think a colt can be raised, sim
ply considering the amount ho will eat after
weaned till three years old, for but little more
than a steer, and will sell for three times as
much.
166 The guilt that feels not its own shame,
is wholly incurable. It was the redeeming fee:
ture in the fault of Adam, that, with the com
mission of his crime came the sense of his na
kedness.
Tle.."Gooditesi me!" cried a nice old lady,
the other day, kif the world goes tl en end next
leer ; whet shall I do for spar'
NO. 12.
Soliloquy of a Loafer.
Leta see whore am I? This is—coal I'm
layin' on. lewd I git here? (reflects.) Yes,
I mind now. Was cumin' up street—sect a
wheel-barrow—was drunk--comic' tother way
—the wheel-barrow fell over me, or I fell over
the wheel-barrow—aud ono of us, fell into the
cellar,—don't mind which now—guess it must
a been me. I'm a nice man, yin I am—tight!
tore! shot I drunk I Well I can't help it—'taint
my fault—wonder whose fault 'tie. Is it Jones'
fault? no. Ti it my wife's fault? well it 'aint.
Is it the wheel-barrow's-fault? n-o-o. Its whir•
key's fault. Who is whiskey? Has he a largo
family? got many relations? All poor, reek
on? I think I won't owe him any more. I'll
cut his acquaintance—l've had that notion for
about ten years, and always hated to do it for
fear of hurtite his feelings—fl do it now—l
think. Liquor's injurin' me, it's a spoilin' my
temper.
Sometimes I get mad, when I'm drunk; and
abuse Bctz and the brats—it used to be Lizzie
and the children—that's some time ago; I can
just mind 14 - when I come borne in the evenin's
she used to put her arms, round my neck and
kiss me, and call me her dear William. When
I come home now she takes her pipe out of her
mouth, and puts her hair out of her eyes, and
looks at me and says somethin' like—Bill, you
drunken brute I shut the door after you, we're
cold enough, havin' no fire, 'thout lettin' the
snow blow in that way. Yes, she'a Betz and
I'm Bill now; I 'aint a good Bill nether; think
I'm counterfeit—won't pass—a tavern without
goin' in an' gittin a drink. Don't know what
Bank I'm on; last Sunday I was on the river
bank, drunk.
I stay out pretty late now, sometimes I'm
out all night; fact is, I'm out pretty much all
over—out of friends, out of pocket, out at the
elbows and knees, and always outrageously dir
ty, so Bets says—but then she's no judge, for
she's never clean herself. I wonder why sho
don't wear good clothes; maybe she hasn't got
'em; whose fault's that? 'taint mine—it must
be whiskey's.
Sometimes I'm in, however; I'm intoxicated
riow, and in somebody's coal miler. There's
one good principle I've got—l won't go in debt,
I never could do it. There, one of my coat
tails is gone—got tore off, I expect, when I fell
down here—l'll have to get a new suit soon.
A fellow told me the other day I'd make a
good sign - for a paper mill; if he wasn't so big
I'd a licked him. I've bad this shirt for nine
days, and I'm afraid it won't come off without
tearin. People ought to retpeet sec more'n
they do, for I'm in hole-y orders. I 'aint a dan
dy, though my clothes is pretty near all grease
ian style. I guess I tore this winder shutter
in my pants, the other night, when I set down
on the wax in Ben Stuggs' shop,—l'll have to
get it mended up, or I'll catch cold—l aint
very stout as it is, though I'm full in the face—
as the boys say, I'm about as fat as a match
and as healthy as the smallpox. My best hat
is - standid' guard for a winder pane that went
out the other mornin' at the invitation of a
brick-bat. It's gittin' cold down here; wonder
how I'll get out; I aint able to climb. If I had
a drink I could think better—let's see, I hain't
got no three cents—wish I was in a tavern, I
could sponge one. When any body treats and
says "come up fellers," I alters think my name
is "fellers," and I've got too good manners to
refuse. Well I must leave this or they'll arrest
me for an attempt at burglary—l aint come to
that yet. Anyhow, it was the wheel-barrow
done the harm, not me.—Alleghanian.]
Characteristics.
Somebody says there are three kinds of men
in this world—the "will's," the,"won'ts,"and the
hcan'ts."
The first effect everything, the next oppose
everything, and the last fail in everything.
"I will" builds our railroads and steamboats;
"I won't" believe in experiments and nonsense;
while "I can't" grows weeds for wheat, and
commonly ends his days in the slow digestion
of a court of bankruptcy.
stir Snooks wonders where all the pillow cif•
ses go to. He says he never asked a girl what
she was making, while engaged in white sew•
ing, without being told that it was a pillow
Case.
This is an evidence that girls know how to
answer a fool according to his folly. Snooks
is a good-for-nothing, impudent fellow, to ask
such impertinent questions, and the girls were
right in making a shift, and not answering hiss
correctly. .
Dnes3ts.—An old lady, who was apt to be
troubled in her dreams and rather snpersti•
tious withal, informed the parson of the parish
that on a certain night previous, she dreamed
she saw her grandmother, who had been dead
for ten years. The clergyman asked her what
she had been eating? "Oh! only half a
mincepie." "Well," said he, "if you had de.
voured the other half, you might probably have
seen your grandfather, too."
ger The French papers speak of their new
dish, fried rattlesnakes, as a novelty of their
own invention. It is not. In the old Florida
war, "our men" discovered that rattlesnakes
were good to eat; and used to cook them as a
pleasing change after salt horse and hard bis-
cuit. We have been assured by one who ser
ved in the war that the flesh of the rattlesnake
is delicious in the extreme—surpassing even
that of the frog, both in flavor and delicacy of
texture.
FILIAL APPICCTION.—An Irishman, swearing
the peace against his three sons, thus concha•
ded :
'The only. one of my children who shows me
any real filial affection, is my youngest son,
Larry, for he never atrikes me when Tm down!'
sir The Postmaster at West Point, Schuyl
kill county, advertises a hetet, one letter re
maining in his office, and appends to it the
very important notion, that 'Pintos aPP I 94/
for letters in the above list. will please say tkas
they' are wire real I'