Huntingdon journal. (Huntingdon, Pa.) 1843-1859, June 14, 1854, Image 1

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~ 2 1:6F1'121 IP@MTIO.
For the Juuruel.
BY M. E. 11.
Oh, give me back my childhood's dreams,
Oh give them back to tne,
And let me view the future now
As then it seemed to be;
I'd see again the flowers as fair,
And hear the birds sweet song
As clear as in those early days
They sung the woods among.
Oh, give me beck my childhood's dreams,
Oh, give them hack to me,
That for a space I may forget
The world's reality;
And be again a blithesome thing,
Without a cloud of care
To float across the holy calm,
The sunshine ever there.
Oh, give me hack my childhood's dreams,
Oh, give them back to me;
Ambitious passion glow'u not there,
Nor love and jealousy;
And but a few short years have passed,
Yet now I look in vain
For those sweet dreams my childhood had.
They do not come again.
Sunny Side, June, 1854.
From Chambers' Jourual.
On a Delicate Subject.
__ _
A great deal has been sung nod said by va.
Timis writers upon the marriage ceremonies of
different nations; and very interesting and emu
sing too, are some of the minor details which
took place among semi•civilized people upon
the important occasion of the solemnization of
the bond of union between the sexes which
lays the foundation of a new household. But
we are not aware that any very practical, and
therefore reliable writer has ever favored the
world with the means of arriving at a distinct
idea of the process by which that perfect agree.
meet is established between the parties most
interested, which, in a country like our own,
at least must he established by some means or
other before the marriage takes place. We
never hear the banns "put up;" as it is called,
in the parish church, or listen to the merry
peal Of the marriage•morning bells, without
wondering in our secret heart, how the delicate
but tremendously decisive contract between
bachelor and spinster was definitely settled be
fore such demonstrations were thought of. We
know, of course, that the writers of romances
and love stories of all descriptions settle the
business early enough, but theirs is nothing
better than guesswork, when it is not some
thing worse—a mere stereotyped formula es
tablished for the general convenience of scrib-
Everybody knows how Coleridge's minstrel
won his Genevieve, and how Longfellow's hero
in Hyperion endeavored to achieve similar suc
cess by similar means, and yet made a lament
able failure of it. But the world is not peopled
exclusively by poets and poetesses, and, there
fore, the method of "popping the question,"
covertly recommended by the authors above
named, however excellent in its proper place.
can have accomplished but little towards filling
the parish register. Honest John Dumple and
Roily Gubbs, who signed the conjugal record
with his and her X, we may be sure, did not
go such a roundabout way in order to bring
the affair to a crisis; and we question whether
among what are called the respectable classes,
that species of poetical circumlocution is much
more in vogue. . .
The whole business, however, lies involved
in mystery, which we, being only a bachelor—
and that neither of arts nor of hearts—must
confess our inability to fathom; still we can do
something towards the general enlightenment
by the report of one or two individuals cases
not to be found in the books; but which have
come within our knowledge, and which may
stem to show how the affair is really managed
among certain plain folks, with plain under
standings, who, having a difficulty to surtnount,
bring to the task such courage as they may
chance to possess.
Gideon Robin was a farm laborer in a west
country town of small note, where the labors
of the inhabitants were divided between the
cultivation of the land and the weaving of a
particular kind of cloth for the London market.
Gideon ceold either plough a field. reap n crop
corn, shear a sheep, or weave cloth at the
loom, and besides this, bore an excellent char.
Refer for indostry and sobriety. He was a man
of fewest words in the whole parish; and, in•
deed, he opened his mouth so seldom, that hod
all his utternnees been reported verbatim by a
penny-»•liner, and paid for at the established
rote, it in very certain they would not have pro
vided that worthy with shoe leather. The man
was not merely modest, but bashful beyond all
recorded precedent—shrinking from the wound
of his own voice ns though it were something
oppressively terrible.
Dumb Gideon, however, as he was called.
was not proof against the shafts of Cupid. and,
cc fate would have it. fell in love with the only
daughter of Tom Spinner. The girl was a
plump, well favored lass, who wrought in her
father's fields and dairy by day. and wove nt
the loom in the evenings, and, like Gideon
himself, had a talent, though by no means so
striking a one, for taciturnity. Gideon betray
ed his first rising regard for the damsel by si•
lently but suddenly seizing her pail of milk as
it stood frothing with Brindle's creamy treas
ure, and lugging it off, together with the milk
ing stool, to her father's cottage. As this free
dom was not resented, he redoubled his atten
tions, and was ever at hand when his strong
arm could he of service to the maiden.
$1 25
1 50
Dame Spinner having a respect fier the young
man's character, invited him nn one OCPII9IOI
into the house, and from that time forth Gideon
spent his evenings in the cottage, and took his
scat in the ingle-nook, where he remained for
hours, as dumb and almost motionless as the
flitch of bacon which dangled above his bead,
rarely finding courage to speak ten words, and
sometimes not speaking nt all daring the whole
even'ng. He sat feasting his eyes upon Polly
as she plied the shuttle. and his part was to at-
tend to the wants of the fire as it crackled on
the hearth in front of him. On Sunday and
holidays he was seen at the side of his beloved,
exhibiting at all times evidences of the truest
devotion. Still, he never spoke a word, either
to her or her parents, on the subject nearest to
his heart. This silent homage went on for two
years. In the estimation of all the neighbor•
hood, the pair were booked man and wife; and
as there was no impediment to their union,
wondered why it had not come off long ago.
Whether any kind and considerate soul gave
Gideon a hint to take courage and speak up,
we cannot pretend to say, but it is certain that
at length he found resolution to pop the ques
tion. The grand event took place in the foi.
lowing way, and as we were indebted for the
account of it from the mother of the bride. we
cannot be mistaken on the subject: Gideon
came into the cottage on Christmas Eve, a lit
tle flustered, from his master's house, by a mer•
ry Christmas from the whole fatnily. Dame
Spinner saw an unusually manful expression
on his countenance, and half expected what
was going to happen. Father, mother, and
daughter were assembled around the fire, hav
ing laid aside their work to enjoy a few hours
holiday over a cup of elder wine. Gideon took
his seat in the chimney-corner, and sat quietly
for a few minutes with a significant smile upon
his countenance; then he rose suddenly to his
full height, and with his head half way up the
chimney, little more than his corduroy cantina
rations being visibly to the company, delivered
himself deliberately of the following mysterious
"If somebody loved somebody as well as
somebody loves somebody, somebody would
have somebody." It is most probable that a
declaration of love was never made in tech a
form before. Gideon remained as mute as a
statue, his head concealed in the chimney, for
some minutes after the prodigious effort he
made. When, at length, in compliance with
the request of the damsel's mother, he brought
his broad thee into the light. it was the color
of a livid coal, and was turned in any direction
but towards her who was the cause of his con.
fusion. But the it, wet broken; the necessary
preliminaries were soon after settled; and on
the ensuing Easter Sunday the marriage•kttot
was tied which made Gideon Rohin and Polly
Spinner one flesh. Neither of them, so far as
we have heard, ever regretted the step; and it
is our firm conviction that, if Gideon could be
prevailed upon to utter so many words, which
is not likely, he would declare it was the best
job he ever did in his life.
We were once intimate with a gentleman,
who, after fifteen years of active and ceaseless
exertions in business, having realized a cony
petent fortune, built himself a house on a de.
lightful site overlooking an arm of the sea, and
sat down to enjoy the fruits of his labor.—
Though surrounded with books and works of
art, and the finest scenery he yet fhund some
thing wanting. A friend suggested that bis
mansion could not be complete without a mis
'Yon mean a wife ?' said he; 'I never thought
of that. I'll see about it.' The next day he
set off for Manchester, and upon his arrival
knocked at the door of a merchant with whom
he had often done business. He was shown
into the library.
"Master is not at home," said the footman;
"but he will return to dinner."
"I do not want your master." said the friend,
"be so kind as to send the housekeeper to me."
The young woman obeyed the summons in a
few moments.
"Mary," said he. "they tell me I want a wife,
and I think I do. You are the only woman I
know of that I should like to have. I've known
you a good many years, and you know me
well enough; and if you have no objections, we
will be married tomorrow. What do you say?"
Mary might have suspt .oed another man act•
. ing thus to ho out of his mind, but knowing
the habits of the speaker, she merely replied
that she would prefer having some time to
think the matter over.
"111 give you a week," said he; ''by that time
you must make up your mind, so I want the
affair settled, now I have taken it in hand. Be
a gond girl and f.onsmt. and l'il you a
good husband." On that day week be took
her with him back to his new house as his wife,
and never from that day to this has he found
cause to repent his choice, which perhaps was
not so unpremeditated ns from the suddenness
of the event, we might suppose.
Among civilized nations, it is almwt the
universal rule, that all advances towards mat•
rimony are to he made solely by the male. It
would be thought a violation of modesty for the
lady in any case—unless, perhaps, she were a
royal personage—to manifest any evidence of
partiality toward a gentleman who had not
first given decided tokens of his admiration.—
There is no very philosophical ground for this
rigid rule that we are aware of, either in na•
tore or reason; and we are not justified in con•
donning thore who choose to break through it
—it being a custom perfectly conventional,
and really of no moral importance whatever.—
Among the natives of Paraguay, such a one
sided reciprocite is utterly unknown. When a
lass of Paraguay is smitten with the charms of
a young Indian warrior, she applies to an el.
der of her tribe, or to the missionary of the
station. to procure on her behalf his consent
to the match. If the proposition is accepted,
all is well, and the pair are married. If, on
the other hand, it is declined, it becomes the
office of her unsuccessful meditator to
tile her to her disappointment, which is ae•
complished generally with no pining in secret,
no wire drawing dallying circumlocutions, no
painful suspense iu the transaction of the busi•
A young artist who painted tolerable land.
selves, at which he wrought dismally hard for
the benefit of the dealers, lodged on the second
floor of a tradesman's house, in the neighbor.
hood of Oxllird street. lie had a hard strug
gle to maintain a respectable appearance. and
to save enough to enable hint fo make the an
nual summed sketching trip, which was indis
pensible to furnish him subjects for his easel.
His landlord, who had a thriving business,
drank himself into delirium tremens, and died
at the age of thirty-five, leaving a young widow
without incumbrances in possession of the con
cern. From causes we need not specify. the
artist, a year after, fell into difficulties and
debt, nod of course into arrears with his rent.
Hopeless at length of extricating himself; and
resolving to retrench, he sent for his landlady,
and laid frankly before her the sad case of his
exchecpier, offering either to quit or to move
to leas expensive quarters in the attic above,
and concluded by asking her advice. The ad.
vice she gave him there and then was that be l i
should take her to church and wipe out the'
debt at the altar. We know nothing of the
precise terms in which the advice was convey
ed, but that was the sense of it, and in another
moment the astonished artist was of her mind.
The result has been already suggested. The
wedding came off in a month. The business
was advantageously sold, and with the means
at command of procuring valuable instruction
and to complete his studies by travel, the ar
tist in a few years took high rank in his profes
sion, and has since realized both independence
and reputation.
Although the above is the only instance of a
match of the kind we can personally vouch for,
we can yet record another upon the respond
bility of a friend, who guarantees its truth. A
young Norfolk farmer on beginning life with a
limited capital, Wand that two things were
wanted to do justice to the large farm which
he rented on a long lease—namely. a wile to
rule the house at home, and an additional thou.
sand pounds to invest upon the land. Like a
sagacious man, he conceived that the two
might be found combined, and he began to
look about for a cheerful lass with a dowry to
the desired amount. Accident threw him one
day in UM puny with the parson of a neighbor.
leg parish, with whom, as he rode home, while
returning from market, he fell into converse•
tion. Encouraged by the divine, the youth un•
burdened himself of his cures and his plane,
and mentioned the design he had fumed of
marrying as soon as he could find an agreea•
ble lass with a moderate dowry.
tell you what," said the parson, "I've
got three daughters, and very nice girls they
are, I assure you. Suppose you come and dine
with me next market day; you will meet them
at the table, and if any of them should prove
the "inevitable she," you are in search of, I
shall not be backward to du my part as fast as
"Agreed," said the youth. "I'll come, as
sure as you're alive, if you'll sny nothing about
it to the young ladies."
"That shall be a bargain. On Satarday
next, then, we shall see you at dinner, at five."
And here, their roads diverging, the gentlemen
At the appointed hour on the following Sat.
'lnlay, the young farmer, in handsome trim,
descended from his galloway at the parson's
door. Dinner was served a few minutes after,
and the young ladiesNith their mother, gra
ced the table with their presence. All three
fully justified the encomiums of the father; but
the youngest, a rospliteed, roguish, cheerful
lass, just escaped from her teens, alone made
a vivid impression on the young firmer. The
repast progressed agreeably enough; and when
it was ended, the ladies withdrew, leaving the
gentlemen to chat over their wine.
"Well,' said the host, "what do you think of
my girls?"
I think them charming," said the youth;
' , but the youngest—you call her Selly—is re•
ally must bewitching, and clever too; and it I
am to have the honor of being allied to you,
you must give me her:'
"That is against all rule," returned the host,
"to take the youngest first; but of course I can•
not control your choice. What dowry do you
. .
"My capital," said the wooer, "is three thou
sand pounds and I want a thousand more—aud
I must have it."
"I will give you a thousand with the olds&
"No; charming Nally and the thousand, or
I'm off."
"That cannot be; five hundred and Nally, if
you like. The others are not half so hnndoome,
and moot have a good fortune, or I shall nay.
get them off."
"No, my reslution in fixed," said the youth,
"and I shall not alter it."
"Nor I mine," said the parson, "end the af
fair is at end; hut we will be good friends not
The conversation, which each person suppo
sed to he strictly private, now fell into another
channel. The ladies returned with the tea•urn.
and chatted unreservedly with the farmer.
Evening came on, and toward sunset, the girls '
having strolled into the garden, the yauth rose
to take his leave. He found his nag in the
stable, and having bade farewell to his host,
took his way through the shrubbery that led
I into the wad. He was about alighting, to open
the ante, when the rosy-faced Rielly darted for
ward to save him the trouble. As she lifted
the latch she lookrd archly up into his face
and said:—
"Can't you take my father's money?"
"Yes, by Jove, I will, if you wish it?"
"Then, come over to church tomorrow morn•
in g, and tell him so after service," and the, speaker
vanished like an elfine spirit anong the greenery.
Musing on that proverb which says “walls
have ears," the young farmer rode slowly home.
He did not fail—how could he?—of attending
attending at the church next morning, and at
to sermon declared to the parson his altered
resolution. He married the fair Nelly three
months afterwaris; and she brought him in
due course of years, n row of goodly sons, than
whom there are few at the present hour, wiser
in their generation, or more wealthy, in the
whole of broad England.
_ _
Dr. Mellen's Lecture on the Human Com.
• -- • •
Dr. G. W. F. Mellen, of Boston, delivered his
first of a course of lectures on the Colored Race,
11 Hope Chapel, loot evening, in which he pace
. .
his theory of "the cause of color as it appears
in the different races of men." The term Ad-
am, he said, meant red clay, and it was proba
ble that our first parent wan created of a redish
color; but as the race spread North and South,
the color of the skin changed by the action Of
light and heat—those entering cold latitudes
becoming white, while those who settled in
warmer climates grew of a darker hue, until
tinder the influence of a torrid moo, they be
come black and assumed the other character
istics of the negro. This change was occasion
ed by the action of light and heat upon the car
bon in the human system.
All chemical experiments prove that black
substances transmitted heat quicker than white
ones. Now, the temperature of the body was
greater than that of the atmosphere around,
and the system required constantly to throw
off this heat which was being generated, and
which if prevented escaping for one hour,
would become twice as hot as iron at a white
heat. In warm temperatures the body genera
ted hear more quickly, but by a wise provision,
the Akin became proportionably dark, and con
sequently transmitted the heat with greater
freedom. As an evidence of this we never saw
the colored man's skin blistered under the
sun's rays, he was not attacked by cove mit
, LEtt„ nor was he subjected to fevers; while the
white man, On being exposed for a single day,
became blistered or tanned under the influence
of the sun. To the objections raised by some
that the colored man did cut become white in
in the North, he replied, that the action of cold
did not effect a change so quickly as the ac
don of heat. Yet there were instances of col
ored men becoming white, mid he doubted not,
after a few generations, the change would be
complete: while white laborers, if placed at the
South would, is like manner, after a few gener
ations, become black. That difference of col
or, then, which was wisely provided for by Pro
vidence, should not be made a reason for con
' tempt and oppression.—Times.
"Dioky" and "Buoy."
Dicky was poor—Susy had a rich mother—
Dicky loved Susy, and eke versa—Dicky want
ed to marry Susy—Samy's mother was "down
on" that measure—Dicky was forbid the pre
mises—notes were exchanged through a knot.
hole in the high board fence that enclosed the
yard. One day the old lady went out "call.
ing;" and Dicky was duly informed of the fact
—called on Susy—remained a little too long—'
old lady was close at hand—no chance of es.
cape without detection—at the instance of Su•
sy, Dicky popped into a closet—old lady saw
that Susy looked confused—guessed that Dicky
had been about, but supposed, of course, ho
had rendered good his escape—thought per
haps the young couple had agreed to elope to
gether—determined to be ton smart fur them
—accordingly shut Susy up in the same closet
where Dicky wits concealed, and giving her a
pair of quilts and a pillow, locked her up for
the night—did'nt see Dicky—next morning
went to the closet to let Snsy out—
"Oh, Lord 1"—( a scream )--couldn't get
breath fur a minute. Finally—
" Ahem I Dicky, is that you?"
"Yes, main."
"Ahem 1 ahem 1 —well. Dielcy—"
"Busy, dear, go and see about the breakfast.
[Exit Susy.
"Well, Dicky."
"Well, ma'am."
"Dicky. you must stay to breakfast:"
"Couldn't we'uni."
"Oh, but you must, Dicky I"
Dicky concluded to stay.
Breakfast table—" Dicky. I've been thinking
about you a good deal lately."
"So I suppose, tua'ani—eery lately."
"You are iudustrious and honest, I believe,
Dicky I"
"1 never bray, ma'am."
"Well, now t oil the whole, Dicky. I think
you and Sasy had better get married .'
aer People eau he ai , nple and not foolish,
A Night in the Life of a Physician.
I was sitting dozing i i my chair, when a
tremendous knocking wee heard at my door.—
The servant opened it, when a man rushed in,
in the wildest disorder.
"For God's sake, doctor," said he, "come
with me! it's a ease of life and death. A young
girl has stabbed herself; she is bleeding to death.
One thousand dollars if you nave her! Come,
oh. do not delay I" and he rushed toward me,
as if to drag me along.
I hurried away with him, snatching my in.
struments from the table as I passed it.. I think
I never saw before such convulsive grief as
this man's face expressed. He was a handsome
man, with one of those fares the ladies so great
ly admire—jet black hair, clustering in waving
curls over a white forehead. The lower part
of his otherwise feminine features was relieved
by a deep jet black beard.
I asked him for the particulars of the case.
"Doctor." said he, "make haste. I shall go
mad. Why, I would give every drop of Wool
in this body to save one of hers. Oh, God I"
said he, "preserve my reasdn. She stabbed
herself before I mold prevent her. Make haste,
doctor—oh. my God 1 my God !"
We reached the house. On a satin couch,
in a splendid room—the rich Turkey carpet
covered with her blood—lay a young girl. I
think I never saw so beautiful a creature. Even
with pallid countenance and bloodless lips, she
was more of heaven than of earth. What she
was when the roses played on her downy cheeks
I could only fancy.
There was a deep wound over her heart, and
it was quite evident that the blow had been
given with right good will. On the floor, cog.
ered with blood, lay the weapon—a slight da
mascene dagger, the handle richly set with
pearls, strongly lit up with the reflection from
the blond stained ivory.
I was too late. Alas the life-blood was slow.
ly dropping away. That master-piece of crea
tion was soon to be cold and inanimte. She
slowly opened her eyes and fixed them with
dying love upon the young man who had sum
moned me to the scene of death.
"Sidney," said she, "Sidney, I am dying.—
My own Sidney, I could not live neglected. I
told yca I would love you to death. Kiss me,
Sidney. She sank back, and death closed up
on his victim.
My companion sat for some time strangely
staring at the lifeless form upon the couch. I
could perceive that reason was tottering on its
foundation. I was facinated by his strange
husk. At last I went up to him. "Sir," I said,
"she is no more. Death has released her from
her troubles."
"Dead t did you"say she is dead, doctor ?"
said he, with a strange and curious stare at me.
"Ah. you have murdered her," yelled the mad
men—for such he was now. "You have mar•
tiered her, and I—l—shall murder you. Ah I
all I it will he rare sport."
I Before I could prevent him ho had picked
up the dagger.
"Yes," said he with a yell, "I will murder
you with her dagger. Oh, it will be rare sport
to see von groan and struggle like she did. Al),
ah l" and he mnde a hound at me.
Now, this was far front pleasant. In filet, it
Ives a very nwkward fin to he in. I did not
know how to act. The madman made a grab
nt me, but fortunately I eluded his grasp, and
thinking it better to fight in the dark I seized
the lamp and east it on the floor. The room
was now dark. The madman set up a terrific
yelling, and I could hear him lock the door and
put the key in his pocket. while he kept mob
tering, "I will kill hint; I will kill him. Oh, it
will he rare sport to see him die ns she did."
I felt my courage rise with the emergency. I
half determined to try a struggle with him, but
I knew the increased strength that the insane
possess, and I thought it scarcely prudent.—
' What should I do? I must do something. I
would again be in his power. I felt for some
weapon with which to defend myself, and as
luck would have it, fitund a heavy dumb-bell in
the corner where I lay concealed. Presently,
I heard the madman slowly searching fur me.
I raised the dumb-bell; "may God forgive me,"
I said; it descended, and I was free, the mad
man lay stunned on the floor. I rushed to the
door, smashed in the lock with the heavy met
al, and rushed down stairs. Presently the
house was all in commotion. Oh what a scene'
—the girl dead in a pool of blood—the man
insensible with the dagger firmly clutched in
his hand! I bled him and he slowly recover
ed. But reason never returned. Ho is a mad
man to this day. I never heard the history of
mV patients of that night. They were stran
gers in the house. I will never forget that
night's adventure.
DICKENS tells the following story of an Amer.
lino sea captain:—On his last voyage home
the captain had on boned a young body of re•
inevitable personal attraction—a phrase I use
as being entirely new, and one yuu never meet
with in the newspapers. This young lady was
intensely beloved by five young gentlemen, pas.
sengem, and in turn she was in love with them
all very ardently, but without any particular
preference fur either. Not knowing how to
make up her determination in this dilemma,
site consulted my friend the captain. The cap
tain being of an original turn of mind, snys to
the young lady. "Jump overboard, and marry
the man that jumps after you." The young
lady, struck with the idea, and being naturally
fund of bathing, especially in warm weather,
as it then was, took the advice of the captain,
who had a boat manned iu case of accident.—
Accordingly, nevi morning, the flee lovers be
ing on deck, and looking very devotedly at the
young lady, she plunged into the sea head fore
most. Four of the lovers immediately jumped
in after her. When the young lady mid her
four lovers were got out again, she says to the
captain,—.'What am I to do with them now,
they are so wet ?" Says the captain, "Take the
dry one I" And the young lady did, and mar•
rind him.
Love is the fulfilling of the Law. God is
Love. Lore encompasses all that concerns
men or angels or glorified saints. All good
consists in love. All that is wrong arises from
impure love. Jealousy; hatred, revenge, coy
etousness. fraud, and all the impure lusts and
inordinate demonstrations of passional desire
arise from self-love, or self-preferment. All
the gentle emotions and affinities of the soul—
benevolence, gratitude, generosity, pity, kind.
ness, and all those sweet instincts, which mark
the higher and nobler man, arise from the love
of God and mankind. or the love of our neigh
bor as distinguished from ourselves.
Industry arises from love—the love of the
objects which industry produces, or the ends
that can be attained by their use.
Ambition arises from love—the love of pre
Slothfulness is love—love of ease, repose,
quiet. docility.
Hatred is lore—produced by the supreme
lore of self.
So we might go on and ultimate this article,
and make it cover all the interests of men, an.
gels, God, the universal whole.—Spirituatist.
A Good Hit for a Youth.
An old chap in Connecticut, who was one of
the most niggardly men known in that part of
the country, carried on the Wacksmithing hnsi•
ness very extensively, and, as is generally the
case in that State. boarded all his own hands.
And to show how he envied the men what they
ate, he would hove a bowl of bean snap dished
op for himself to cool, while that of the hands
was set before them boiling hot. One of the
boys was rather unlucky among the hot irons,
frequently burning his fingers. The old man
scolded him severely one day, for being so care•
"How can I tell," said the boy, "if they are
hot, unless they are red ?"
"Never touch anything again until you spit
on it, and if it don't hiss it won't burn."
In a day or two the old mnn sent the boy to
sec if his soup was cool. The boy went. in—'
spit. in the bowl; of course the soup did not hiss.
He went hark and told the boss all was right.
"Dinner!" cried he.
All hoods ran; down sat the old man at the
bend of the table, and in went a large spoonful
of the boiling hot soup to his mouth.
"Good heavens!" (vied the mon, in a rt(ge.
Whitt did you tell me that lie, (or, you young
"1 did not lie, sir," soil the boy. "You told
me I should spit on anything to try if it was
hot; I spit in your howl, and the soup did not
hiss, so I supposed it was cool."
Judge of the effect on the journeymen. That
boy was never in want of a friend among the
"I am a Universalist," said a boasting fel
low, "and you orthodox arc not. fair in saying'
that our system is inconsistent with reason !"
as he addressed one who held an opposite sys
tem. "But I will prove the irrationality of
your system" said his friend "You believe
that Christ died for all men r "Yes." "You
believe that all for whom He died will be snv
eel ?" "I'm" "You do not believe there is a
hell ?" "No." 'No punishment hereafter ?'
No; men are punished for their sins in this life."
"Now put your rational system together, if you
Can: It in just this—that Christ died to save
all men from nothing at all—not from hell, for
there is none; not front punishment in a future
state of brine, for he receives ilk whole pun
ishment in this life. Yours is a maniac effort
of seeing a man on dry land, in no danger of
being drowned, end at an immense expense,
throwing to him ropes and life preservers.—
What glaring absurdity! Your boasted reli
gion is stark infidelity! If you believed the
Bible. you would believe as I do."
ter In India, when a horse can, and will
not draw, instead of whipping, spurring or
burning him, as is practiced in most
ged countries, they quietly get a rope and at•
melting it to one of the flue feet, one or two
men take hold of it, and advancing a few pa.
ces ahead of the horse, pall thew best. No
matter how stubborn the animal may be, a few
doses of such treatment effect a perfect cure.—
tom' An interesting foreigner transmitted a
charming bouquet to a young damsel of this
city renntly, with the following t—
"Deer—l send u bi the boy a bucket of
flours. They is like my lee for u. The cite
shuid stenos kepe dark. The dog fenil meats
I am ure slave.
"Rosis red and posis pail
My luv fur u shall never fail."
air The following, verbatim et literatim.
was lately received he an undertaker, from an
afflicted widower:
"Mr. Genimery mi weif is dede, an wants to
be berried. Dig a Grain for hir an shee shal
con to be berred tomorrer at wonner eloke—
yu knoes ware to dig it bi mi too uther wiles
lit it be deap."
WARE.—Take unslaked lime. made fine by
pounding or grinding, which mix with the white
of an ego to the consistence of starch or paint;
thoroughly cleanse and dry the edges to be
united, then apply the mixture to the parts to
be cemented, place them together firmly, and
let them become perfectly dry. Articles thus
mended can be handled or washed without in•
NEARASKA.—Tho following good one is from
a Western exchange:—
When Satan couldn't climb the wall
Of Paradise, to peep in,
He got a snake with tucked tongue
Beneath the gate to creep in.
So when Nebraska's virgin soil
His scaly track he'd leave in,
"Who'll he my reptile now ?" he cries:
" Lot here am I," says Steven.
Mir Types of mankindmobilhetk
VOL. 19. NO. 24.
Curing Clover Hay.
Ma. Enrroa:—lnclosed I send you a sample
of linen yarn, spun by machinery in the North
of Ireland, 22 dozen to the pound. You will
also find a few grains of what the Irish call
"whin seed." It is evergreen, and makes a
beautiful hedge.
I will also take the liberty of asking for some
information on curing clover hay, so that it
will be free from dog when we feed It in winter.
I sowed one bushel of eloverseed and one of
timothy to every ten acres, which produced ve
ry fine crepe; and as they did not ripen at the
same time I was governed in cutting by the
appearance of the clover. I commenced cut
ting when three-quarters of the clover heads
had turned brown. I made the hay the next
day after it was cut, and put it in the barn. In
the winter it was so dusty that it could not be
fed to horses. Last summer I commenced cut
ting when the heads of the clover were about
one•third turned brown, cured the bay as be
fore stated, and put about six quarts of salt to
every ton of hay. I found but little improve
ment in the quality of the hay when I com
menced feeding it. If you will be no good as
to give your opinion or some advice as to the
time when it should be cut, and the proper
method of curing it, you will confer a favor on
IYour humble servant, H. licEbnoY.
Sidney, Shelby Co., Ohio.
Mr. McElroy has our thanks for the sped.
men of exceedingly fine nod beautiful linen
thread, and seeds of a hedge plant; and we will
do what we can to aid him in curing clover
hay. We spent much of our youth on a firm
that annually produced from fifty to one hun
dred bushels of clean clover seed, and have
since had considerable experience in the curing
of clover in all stages of its growth. The dun•
tiness complained of accrues from putting
ver hay into a stack or mow before the large
green stem is sufficiently dried, and the dif6•
culty in drying these arises mainly from the
loss of the valuable leaves of the clover, if it
be exposed to the sun long enough to cure its
large stems. To obviate the inconveniences
named, we cut clover for hay pretty early
(when the earliest heads begin to turn and go
out of blossom, wilt the leaves and small stems,
and finish the curing process in small cocks,
by turning them with a fork. In this way, ra
king, whether performed by hand or horse
power, dues not shatter and waste the leaves
nnd bends of clover, both of which break off
\easily when dry, while the thick, juicy stems of
the plant are readily cured by turning and
opening, small stacks. It from any cause we
cannot haul in hay as soon as it is ready, we
put it or 4 small stacks into one, and take pains
to put them up so as to shed rain. Clover,
however, is peculiarly bad for stacking, for wa
ter runs through it very easily unless protected
by a covering of fine hay or straw or what is
better, a painted cloth like cotton sheeting.
The science of procuring any plant for hay
is precisely like that of curing medicinal herbs
—the less sun and snore shade the better, but
both need to be well cured. About three parts
in four of clover, mien cut at tile right time for
hay, are seater, fonr•fifths of which ought to be
expelled by drying. It is a common mistake
in farmers to put buy into barns and stacks for
winter use with too much moisture in tho
plants. This moisture induces fermentation,
heating, mow-horning, and involves a serious
loss of nutritive matter. We know scores of
otherwise excellent husbandman, and large
stock growers and dairymen, who follow a bad
tradition in cluing and failing to cure their an
nual crops of corn•fodder, and grass cut for
hay. This defect gives them moldy corn-stalks,
dusty hay, and horses subject to the heaves avid
sore eyes. A wise farmer will be careful not.
to leave too muck of the natural juices of for
age plants, undried in their stems, heads or
foliage. Young corn plants, when from twen
ty to thirty inches in height, contain ninety per
cent of their weight of pure water; and up to
the time of r'pening their seeds, the amount of
water is not below seventyfnve per cent. Hence
in growing corn for soiling cows, we always
• evaporate a part of the water even in August
and September, before feeding it to stock.
Cattle like forage plants of all kinds partly
cured better than when quite green, or quite
dry; but such plants heat and sour, and some
times rot, if put up too green or too wet. We
have often thought that where labor is not ve
ry expensive, it will pay not only to cure hay
and corn-stalks well, and cut them before feed
ing, but to moisten them thoroughly again, to
facilitate the extraction of all nutritive elements
in such food, as it passes through the digestive
avid alimentary organs of domestic animals.—
Very dry forage does not yield up to the blood
all its nutritive properties; much is found in the
dung. Some have seen whole corn, oats, and
other seeds that have been voided by the bow
els; and a chemist can detect starch and the
protein elements, in the fresh droppings of cat
tle, horses and swine.
Hay making and hay feeding, and we will
add, the economical production of hay, present
many points of deep interest to the thoughtful
farmer. We have had far more difficulty in
making good crops of clover than in curing.
them so as to prevent the annoyance of dusty
hay. On SON of a medium quality, gyptiont
rarely foils to bring forward a fair yield of clo
ver, but it sometimes fails. Ashes and manure
never fail, so fear as our observations have ex
tended. Lime sometimes works wonders on
meadows and pastures, but that too disappoints
one occasionally. Warping and irrigation with
muddy water, fertilize grass lands about an
cheaply as any way known to the writer.—Gen
eve Ilmner.
WASII eon ROE HEAD.—The following wash,
applied with a small piece of flannel to the roots
of the hair, will be found excellent for remo
ving daadruff;—Three parts of oil of alraonds;
one part of lime water; to be shaken up well,
and can be procured of any chemist.
_ _
IS. A "stretch" of the imagination it dream
ing you sav being hwegyi,