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R. S. P.IXTOX A•
VOL. X.--NO. 32.]
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THE GARLAND
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qweetett flower.enricliY,
From variant' mordents cull'd with care."
77 117.1.115.
BY JAMES ktortraomEnv
Atal b. said, "Let me go, for the day breaketh.'
t (Genesis, xxit, 26.
Lei trto go, the day is breaking—
Dem: companinne, let mo go ;
We hrtvo - apent a, night of waking
In the wilderness' below ;
Upward now T bond ny.way ;
Part wo hero at break of day.
Let mo 'gn ; I may not tarry,
Wrestling thus with doubts ana fears ;
Angels wait my soul to carry,
Whore my riven lord appears ;
Friends and kindred weep not so—
If ye love mo, let me go,
We have travel'd long together,
Hand in hand, and heart in heart,
Both through fair and stormy weather,
And 'tis hard, lie hnnt to part
While I Biog. "Farewell !" to you,
Answer, one and all, "Adieu_!"
'Tis not darkness gathering rmand me,
That withdraws me front your sight
wok or nosh m. more can bound nut.
But translated into light,
Like the lark on mountain wing,
Though unseen, you hear me sing.
Heaven's bread day bath o'er me broken,
• Far beyond earth's span of sky,
Am I dead 1 Nay, by this talon,
Know that I have ceased to die ;
Would you solve the mystery,
Como up hither—Come and ale.
A SONO.
"LONG TIME AGO. 9
DT GENERAL MORRIE.
Near the lake, where dronp'd the willow,
Lang time ago!
Where the rock throw hack the billow,
Brighter than snow ;
Dwelt a maid, helov'd and cherish'd,
By high and low ;
But, with autumn's leaf, she perlah'd,
Long time ago !
Rock, and tree, and flowing water,
Long time ago !
Bird, and bee, and blossom, taught her
Love's spell to know !
While to my fond words she listened,
Murmuring low—
Tenderly her dove eyes glisten'd,
Long time ngo !
/tingled were our hearts forever,
tong time ago !
Can I now forget her I never
No, bet one, no !
To her grave these tenre are given,
Ever to flow!
Sher tho star I mimed in heaven,
Long time ago !
COMPARISONS.
I,lsls is the rugged, lofty pine,
That frowns on many a wave-boat shore ;
Wows m's the tender graceful vint,
Whose curling tendrils round it twine;
And deck its rough bark sweetly o'er.
titan is tho rock, whose towering crest
Dimls o'er the mountain's barren side ;
Woman's the soft and mossy vest,
That loxes to clasp its sterile breast,
And wreath its brow in veraant pride.
Man is the cloud of coming storm,
Dark as the raven's murky plume ;
Savo cyhere the sunbeam, light and warm,
Of Woman's soul, and Woman's form,
Gleams brightly o'er the gathering gloom,
Yee, lovely sex, to you 'tis given,
To rule our hearts with angel sway ;
Blend with each woe a blissful even,.
Change earth into an embryo heaven,
And sweetly smile our cares away.
DEFINITION OF BLISS.
Hermit, hoar, in solemn cell,
Wearing opt lire's evening gray,
Strike thy Loom, sage, and tell
What is bliss, atol which the way I
Thum I Ppoke, and 'peaking sighed,
Scarce repressed the tip"rting tear,
Nl'hen the hoary "Igo reOird,
parer, my hid, sod drink 119111 e beer
dT.II .OC9MIhIdIDMTLzio
prom the New York Whig.
THE TWO COUSINS.
My cousin Charles had been so long from the
part of the country in which my family resided.
that I had almost fi.rgetten him; and yet on the
morning of his calling to see me, soon after his
return, his voice awakened a thousand tender re•
collections of .y-gone days." When we were
children together. a very happy intimacy existed
between us, and very often we shared each other's
pleasures with something more than a brother's
or sister's nffertion. Now ho and I had come to
years of maturity—still I was single, and he. I
hardly know how to say to it, was as handsome
as ever, though rather sedate, and there were a
few care-marks on hts forehead.
Charles had not sat with mo long, before ho
said many kind words, calculated to uwaken as
many feelings in my willing heart. He talked of
old times—old arquantances—told old stories—
went over the old grounds of our country place
—the school,honee—the nutting ground—the Ist
tle bridge over the brook, and oh! a thousand things
too tunnerous to mention here; so that when he
rose to go away, I found myself asking him two
or three times, why he went so soon. I believe
ho saw my state of feelings, and, half rejoiced in
it—though he looked very serious as he Lade me
"good bye."
Ho called again, ho was more lively than be
fore, and talked and laughed—with my fattier and
mother—till the evening wan almost gone, and
then proposed a short walk with me. I know not
why„,but ['trembled when I put my arm in his.
He seemed to notice it, and spoke more kindly
than ever.
On- walk was a very long one, and yet the time
passed so rapidly, that when we returned to the
door, .1 bdieve I sighed, and said something ab.'ut
the overritge being short. What he said in reply,
I do not exactly remember, for I was really quite
agitated, as I found him upon the point of bidding
mo adieu.
Sontchowl remember my hand was-still in his,
as we entered the sitting room, from which the
light had been removed—and in which the ob
jects were somewhat indistinct.
..Mary," said he, ..perhaps I shall not see you
again in a long time, and I wish to ask you a very
serious question, perhaps you will not like to an
ewer me immediately."
• He spoke in a soft, gentle tone, and I remember
now very distinctly how I trembled from head to
loot.
"Mary, dear Mary, I wish ydiCyriellmeo---how
many blue.burns make Abe?"..
I never answered awr r t ' .
, VOlllll2l MAE!.
After The laugh at Mary's story had satacn!rh . at
isubsided. I saw that all eyes_were turned to me,
•s if expeeting some further explanation. I found
it • goodopplinttnity to WI a glary, and aa .pro-
That evening to which allusion has already
been made, was one of the moat delicious, of the
very many such, I have had the pleasure cf pas
sing through. Several limes during my long walk
with Mary, I was tempted to declare my passion.
It is a fact, that though I had not seen her for
years, her image had been with me very often.—
The impressions of childhood are strong and last.
ing. Our morning rambles through the fields—
our little misunderstandines, like April showers,
driven 'away by the sunshine of better li-cling—the
stolen kiss of reconciliation—the gift flowers and
fruit, the beat always saved for me—all these,
though longer passed, were revived during that
delightful walk, and I felt my hood cling closer
and doses to Mary'st.
And there was one thing I discovered, during
the evening. Mary loved me; she did not know
that I knew it. Bow should she! I had never
asked her, and yet it needed not an eye ono jot
sharper than my own, to discover it. The man
need never be mistaken on ibis point. Those
who go begging and begging, after this one and
that, know before thew begin, to beg the fair ones
that they do not love them. But the moment
one loves you, you can tell it. Many a time, as
spoke to her, her arm as it lay on mine trembled,
and as I would try to catch a moonlight view of
her face, it was hid immediately under her pretty
straw bonnet. Sometimes when I asked a ques
tion, she hardly knew whether to nay yes or no.—
She was a high-minded, noble hearted girl; yet
these traits were given her for other experiences.
In the aflsir now under consideration, she proved
only tender hearted. Mary loved me.
When we wore about entering the house on our
return, I saw that the old people had retired to
their own room. The hall lamp only was lighted,
and as we entered the sitting room, the words
were on my lips to ask her to be mine, and I pro
ceeded, Out as the first words fell from my lips,
my heart failed me, and instead of ' , popping the
question" I hod intended, some evil spirit compel
led me to the 'utterance of I scarcely know what.
[Laughter. Go on, go on.]
Next evening, I room) Mary and her father and
mother together, she scarcely spoke to me; they
were more than ever pleasant and talkative. For
full half an hour Mary said little or nothing—l
saw that she was hurt—l knew that she had a
right to be—l had trifled with her feelings, acted
foolishly and ba-ely. Bow could I make amends!
It WAS getting late, when thy old people rose to
retire, and I was heartily glad when they turned
their backs on us. Mary and I were once more
alone. Neither of us spoke for over so many long
minutes. She spoke first. Her voice sounded
rather soft and melancholy. She called me
Oberles, but with the prefix Cousin; that word
always sounded pleasant. Now it sounded harsh
ly to my ear, and rather goaded my heart. I could
submit no longer, and roso to depart. Mary's
hand was once more in mine, as I was about to
say good night. All of once my courage revived,
"Mary, how many days, and you will be my own
dear wife!"
4.1 a as many day; a it takes blue beans to
makejlve," was the prompt reply.
A greenhorn, after being joined in the chains
of wedlock, was asked by one of the guests, •
friend, if he had paid the parson ; to which he re.
plied, 4.0 h, no ! but he's owing father fora peck
of beans, and we'll make a turn of it."
owirwlrazityvat. tnerßazDciatr aPwavraataam e• vane.
WHERE! IS Mr olut.vri ?
Where is my grave ? Mid thesdlent dead
Of the church yard throng shall I lay my bead ?
Shall I sleep in peace, staid those who cut,
In happier years, my childhood nurst—
With them beneath the same green sod,
My soul with their's, to meet its God ?
Where is my grave ? In the vasty deep,
'Mid the treasure's of ocean's caves shall I sleep ?
With those that slept there ages before,
Far from their lov:d and their native shore.
The sand my bed, and the rocks my pillow.
And cradled to rest by the tossing . billow ?
Where is my grave ? Arc its dark folds spread
On the field of the bloody, the thing, and death
Where fiercely the rush of tho war steed paso'd,
Where freedom bath fought and bath breath'd her
last,
And the foe and the friend one common bed share—
Shall My place of repose be there, be there
Where is my grave ? 'Neath some foreign sky
Shall l lay down my wearied limbs and die ?
Far over mountain, and far over wave,
Shall the wild flowers bloom on my lonely grave,
In the land of the strnltmr, where none are neer
To breathe the solt sigh, and to shed (hosed tear ?
Where is my _racy In the burning nand
Of Afric's bright amt sultry land
Shall 1 sleep, when my toil and my labor are o'er,
A weary shepherd on that far off shore,
With no record to tell, save the crogs by my skit',
Of what faith 1 had preacled, it, what hope I bad die'?
Where is my grave ? It matters not where !
Hut my home beyond—it is there, it is there!
Where cherubim spread their golden wings,
And where seraph to seraplAriumphautiiings.
In the sun-bright regions cf the
There. there helm) , home, my eternal rest!
T II E VISIT.
In one of the freezing days of our climate, a
young phy.ician but recently married, invited his
wife to accompany him on a visit to oi.o of Ilia
patients
"You ara-romancing, Jam:li; what visit a Enn-i
ily witlio,:t an introli.ction or an invitation, et
exchanging cards?"
"In this family, my dear Amanda, there is no
ceremony of cards," said James, "but they will
not be the less pleased to see you."
"I never used to go to Seo our people." sai4
Amanda, thoughtfully; •. but," continued she, af , •
ter a short deliberation, ,"I'll go %vial you, James,
any where."
They passed from the handsome strut their.
residence to a public square, and messing over;
entered a small alley, in tvhieh A imindd saw a row
of 'houses in n manner that showed they were for
the laboring class. Crossing the whole tnnge they
entered the last house, and at the first door Dr:
I..ellson gave a gentle rap. " A woman opened, - and .
welcorned him.
Two chairs were immedLitely art,onaxeti ,
t, 7 ,teen-otr, - the tither rickety and unstable.
. Before the tire were two children Beni - ell' on the
hearth, making a nuise which the attendant female
vainly Attempted to quell. A girl about ten years
of age came out of a small panta bedroom and
smiled as she sprke.
In a largo rude chair sat a thin female. bho
rocked herself incessantly. She locked up when
Dr. • Ledmin addressed her, but neither smiled
nor spoke. Her complexion was r:!low by ill
ness, her lower jaw had fallen from its secket, and
her teeth chattered with the vain endeavor to close
the mouth.
After receiving some nourishment at the hand
of her companion, she seemed revived.
' "I am glad to see you doctor, though I had ho-
ped to have been released from my wretchedness
before now. I do not complain, hut my hones
have started through the skin, and I sutler,"—she
shivered and stopped art instant. "I thought it
very hard when I lost my baby last summer; but
I see it was kind, what would have become of it
now 1 I must leave these, as young as they are,
to take care of themselves, and my husband Is
none of the studiest."
She did not weep, she was past the human feel
ing. Amanda looked on in talcum She had
learned more of life's state from this scone than
she could have acquired from volumes. She felt
now a wiser woman at eighteen than she would
otherwise have been at twenty-five.
It brings down all our vanity and little repi
binge, a spectacle of such woo. Even the almost
total insensibility of the sick was more touching
than ordinary sorrow. It gave • feeling of so
much that must have been endured before.
"Is this your sister?" said the woman.
"No," said James, and Amanda smiled as he
replied, nit is my wife."
••Ia it your wifel" said she, showing some viva
city. "How sweet she looks, Can she sing. Oh,
can she sing "I would not live always?"
How often had Amendr. rune that carelessly
before. She felt awed and humbled now by every
syllable that floated on her soft rich tones around
the natrow apartment.
The dying looked up so thankfully. that she
even looked pretty. A hectic relieved her vivid
countenance. She said audibly, id hear the angels
singing now around me," and then relapsed into
a monotonous groan of weariness.
The little girl shook hands beseechingly as the
young couple left, and in a subdued voice Amanda
whispered, we will take care of you."
Who like the physician, save indeed the minis
ister, is called upon to see human nature in every
shadow of a tint? The rich and the poor, the del
icate and the coarse, the learned and the ignorant,
come before him without dfsguise.
Amanda thought before that she had loved her
husband; but luxury is a dead sea atmosphere, in
which the noble passions sicken and lie motionless.
She clung to Jatnes's arm as she returned home
with a feeling of devotion to him, that she had
never imagined before; and in the pleasure she I
experienced in softening the horrors of her fellow
creatures' poverty, she found every day new cause
to rejoice in having shared—pith one, who if be
brought to her no addition of the earth's wealth,
had taught her that there is 'a way of employing
it that will awaken delight.
Tax HEST ax a♦►n 1 31113% , --(0. 4 1), collected,"
as the printer said to a huge batch of uttl accounts
vat vu'ut paid, lying scattered over the bottom of
iaa
"FEARLESS AND FREE.."
' A sailor, who bad been long absent on a voy.
age, eame into port the other day, and immediate
ly left Boston on a visit to his friends in Yemeni,
whom he had left in health a number of years be.
fore. Upon his arrival at the spot, the light
hearted tar found that they had all died in his long
absinee. Even the bright-eyed girl whom he had
left in all her virgin blo, m, and to whom he woe
betrothed—she, who, year after year, had anx.
imply watched for his return slept beneath the
cold sod of the valley I He retraced his Ptrim,
and when we met him on his return, he was seat
ed by the road side weeping like a child. A feel
ing of loneliness had come over the noble hearted
fellow that touched a chord in his bosom, which
all the loneliness of the ocean could not reach,—
His home desolate—the cherished of lila heart,
and the loved of his youth, his affianced bride—
the sturdy oak, and the lily that bloomed in its
shade, gone, all gone forever I The sailor arcs
shipeareeked on land, and the bold heart which
had withstood the being of the aurgeland the
mountain waves—which had brave the perils of
the deep in the midnight storm without the
trembling of a nerve or the blink of an eye—had
now lost sight of his pular ',tar, and bitterly wept
at the desolation which had come upon him.—
tich I man has treasures within his bosom above
all price—treasures, which are the fruit of a noble
nature alone, arid can be found embedded in none
other then WI honest man.—Ciarcousurit Back.
THE DEATH Or A HOTHEH.
I remember vividly the circumstances of her de
parture. Consumption had already done its pow
erful Work. Unlike many who are smitten with
this disease she preferred to die m the bosom of
her family. Why should thn stag, pierced to the
heart in its own thicket's, seek refuge in the deep
,er glades, to bleed to deathl It is a wrong idea,
this. of searching in a land of strangers for health
which is oclenn gone forever." llow many are
theta yearly cut down in the midst of their wan
derings! In some desolate eltimber they lie in the
'winks of death. No soft hand presses their
br.vir; no familiar voice whispers in the ear; no
cherished friend performs their funeral obsequies.
lT , th is indeed bitter under such circumstances,
brit without its usual tgleviations. It is a sweet
ennselstinn to the at home: 1
"On some fund breast the parting soul relies,
•
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
j.,Pen from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
Even in our ashes live their wonted fires "
There is suthething dreadful, yet beautiful, in
tionsumption. It comet Waling on so softly and
sa.silently. It comes, too, in tne garb of mockery
iit,4 leeption, and clothes its victims in bcauti-
Ai garments for the grave. The hectic flush, the
tktitii, the brilliant eye; who could believe that
tßsie; Were death's precursors, The. signet of the
~
co i. mmeror! ' It invests the patient, with a preter-
A.ural patience and sweetness under suffering,
Oepinit alive, at the same time, in her breast, the
eta-ion of hope. Even in her moments of keen
, et suffering, she looks forward to days of return-
Pkg hi4Otiess, and while the worms is forever
i'ieying at tire core, and her slender feral becomes
•° eh day more feeble and attenuate, she hails be
for her a gilded prospect, and the mind-rind spit--
ii 4 are buoyant with tine thought. But when toe
i:;.
..ard strugrie has at ta-t commenced, how sublime
ifs' tin, spectacle! l'il behold the immortal mind
ta4 calm, so tranquil, nod so triumphant; waning
in T ighter and brighter, while the tenement which
contains it 13 but a poor fit:Shit HS Slit:lett/11; to be- ,
hold the eye beaming with eat iiiiiiiish, d lustre
towards the ob;;: , ..ta of its Mb cii,m, until the soul
at I.i!!‘ bursting the charnel vault w Inch has too
long confined it. tit's one triumphant hound.—
Thvn is the body still and silent. The feather Is
noruflled by the breath, and the glass retains nit
Polish; fur dust has returned to dust again, and
the apirit unto the God who gage it.
It was a tempestuous night. The rain pour
ed down in torrents. The lightning gleamed
luritily. At midnight, I entered the apartment.—
Jt solitary taper gleamed dismally on the hearth.
The Thiros of those in the room appeared like gloo
my riliadowa.ining to end fro. A stifled sob, and
the ticking of a watch on the table, were the only
i sounds; and they struck like a barbed arrow to
my heart. I observed her baud beckoning. Her
head wiariaised with pillows. A smile shot from
her glJzing eves. !She essayed to speak. I bent
down toy head with eagerness, to catch the last
J .5.1.,6;A : rj 0 ,,,,, ......c L.,....—,.....-- oetetr.7. 'war - a - pm curse.
§lre maths a Biota! to -these about It. r to suppress
4kcir-1-....t..tionsiis they valued her last.legacy. The
cubs ceased, the groans were scarcely audible, and
the tear stood still upon the cheeck of the, incurs=
or. ...Ali! that is kintl,".slie began in a voice as
sweet as 11111.1 Sit!. future must have her Pourse:
The fountains of grief Wilre too full. They burst
the harriers which prudence would have fain erec
ted, and poured forth in a torrent, sweeping all
before them. A cry, long, loud, and piercing fil
led tire apartment. r_the cast back a look of Bellow
ful reproach.
She arose in the couch. A paroxysm of
coughing seized tier. She writhed for a moment
in convulsive agonies, arid then fell back upon
the pillow, A gleam of lightning, bright, diazal
ing, appalling, shot through the ensemint. She
was or tut ""Let us pray!" exclaimed the rever
end pastor; and with one accord the assembly
knelt, white, a: the noon of night, he offered up a
fervent prayer. It was short, but clothed in the
poetic language of the scriptures. It spoke of the
silver cord being loosed. and the golden bowl be
ing broken, It . was finished. 'We arose from our
knees, cast one look at the emaciated form of the
departed and left the apartment—Knickerbocker
The Sailor Shipwrecked Land.—lf an ho
ned heart bests in one bosom more warmly than
in another, it is in that of the American tar.—
Whether it be the many dangers that beset him
on a perilous voyage, or a sense of loneliness while
rocked upon the mountain wave, that leads him
to cherish and lock up with sacred care his alfec.
Lions and the better feelings of his nature, and
keeps them untouched by the scenes of vice and
temptation, of which he must often he a witnces,
certain it is, that the American sailor is more sen
sitive to wrong, and more keenly touched by ibis.
fortunethan any other individual in the world._
ft m a y he that his adventurous life, teaching
him, as it must, to cling to his shipmates as to his
little world—his all—strengthens his nobler and
kinder feelings, and warms them Into a livelier rte.
lion than the more monotonous and peaceful life
of the landsman.
From Me Southern Literary Messenger
THE LAND PAH AWAY.
BY FLORA.
There are bright homes 'raid bowers of deathless
There are blue shies o•erbending them in love ;
Sweet winds that never sigh'd round ruins hoary',
Or sang the Antuirin requiem of the grove.
There arc fair flowers by ersytal waters springing.
That nevor bora the semblance of decay,
Ou the soft atr their perfumed incense flinging.
In a laud far away !
There on the mountain tops, the day declining,
Huth never caused a twilight shade to rest t
Each height, an altar to Jehovah, shining
With sunlike brightness o'er the willies blest.
And there arc dwellers in thove s•enes of gladness
O'er whose pure being death can nava no away.
Whose voices otter not a note of sadness.
In a land far away f
Cherub and seraphim of glory, bending
With holy raptures at a throne of light ;
Angels and saints their sow of triumph blending;
Theie arc The dwellers in that region bright.
And some have walked.tvith us the path of sorrow
And felt the storms of many a wintry day ;
But, oh ! they wakened on a blissful morrow,
lu a land far away I
And shall we weep for those to joy departed"?
Or shall :re mourn that they shall grieve no arse
Sick as we are, and sad anti weary hearted,
Shull we recall them lion, that blessed shore ?
See where they dwell, the forms we lov'd and cher
fished ;
Prom ago, dirn•eyed, with hair deliver 'gray.
To• the fair babe that like a blossom perished—
. In a land far away
Thou test ana dearest—ever-gentle mother.
Who tootled me in thy cite ing arms to rest,
Stilling the cries which would have vexed another,
By folding me with love upon thy breast—
Green o'er thy grave for years the lung grass sighing
Balk seemed to mourn above the muulderingclay
But well I know thy spirit dwelt+ undying,
In a laud far away !
And 1 . 1,, whose brightness •nn and stars are veiling,
Whose form once 'semi would bliul our mortal eyes
—With hint wk. , bore unmoved the scoffers' railing,
And died to give ua entrance to the sk les—
Father, and Son, and Sitter-blessed Spirit,
There with the presence make eternal day!
Oh ! glorious are the homes the good inherit
Ina land far away
Re-union in Hearcti.—How short is the earth
ly history of a family ! A few brief and fleeting
years, and those who are now embraced in n tam
ily .circle will be scattered. The children, now
the objects of tender solicitude, will have grown
up and gene forth to their respective stations in
the world. A few years more, and the children
and VITIMIS will ho no longer hoard in their pros.
,-,-.7lrweintig. Their domestic loves and anxic
tics, happinesa and sorrows, will soon he a lost
and forgotten fluttery. Every , heart in Which it
o as written, will be mouldering in the dust: And
is this an 1 -I_,, this tiro whole satisfaction which
is provided for some of the strongest feeling- of
our affections on objects PO *wing 1,..119ty c u m'
such transitory beings, with whom our connection
Is so brief, engage all the love we ere c ap a ble of
feeling 1 Why should not our feelings towards
them be as feeble and as unsatisfying as they 7
But, blessed be God, this is nut all. Of this he
has given us perfect assurance in the gospel of
hie Son. Though, to the cyo of unenlightened
nature, the ties of domestic love seem scattered
into dust, the spiritual eye of faith may perceive
that they have been loosened on earth, only to be
resumed, under far happier circumstances, in the
regions of everlasting love and bliss. Though the
history of a family may seem to be forgotten when
the last member of it is laid in the grave, the me
mory of it still lives in immortal souls, anti when
the circle is wholly dissolved on earth ) it may be
completed in heaven:
Mont TIIAN A MATCII ROBViktt..-4n a
Persian apologue, the lesson and benefit of sin
cerity are beautifully taught. A mother, in
giving her eon forty pieces of money as his por.
tion, made him swear never to tell a lie, and
said. ••Go my eon, I consign thee to God, and we
shall not meet again till the day of judgment."—
The youth went away, and the party he travelled
with was assaulted by robbers. One fellow ask
ed what he had got, and he said, eForty diners
are sewed in my garment." • Ho laughed, think..
ing he jested. Another asked the same question,
and got the came answer. At last the chief cal..
led, and asked him, and ho said. of have told two
of your people already that I have forty dinars
sewed up in my clothes." He ordered the
clothes to be ript open, and found the money.—
••And how came you to tell thial" 4.l3ecause," the
child replica, ••I would not be false to my mother,
to whom I have promised never to tell a lie."—
"Child," said the robber, ••thou art so mindful of
thy duty to thy mother, at thy year'', and am I
insensible, at my age, of the duty I owe to my
God 1 Give me thy hand, that I may swear re
pentance on it." He did so ; his followers were
all struck with the scene. '••You have been our
leader in guilt," said they to the chief, "he th e
same in the path of virtue ;" and they instal's%
made restitution of spoils, and avowed repentance
on the hand.
TranslaCans from the Spanish.
What is wedded happiness made of 1 Mutual
forbearance, tenderness and respect.
Is it dear I It cannot be dear at any price.
Will it break I When it is broken by death,.
it is rejoined in heaven.
What is beauty I A key to the heart of the
beholder, en apology for many follies, mid the in.
dormant for many more.
Can I buy it I Not tho thing itself, but you
may buy the person who has it.
Yiidu is observed to defeat its own end, by
bringing (ho man who seeks esteem and rover
coca into contempt.
Tile Poetry of lfe.—The poetry of our-lives
like our teligion, kept opart from our every
thy thoughts: nei!her influence us as they ought.
We should be wiser alai Nippier if, instead of sr..
eluding then) in some hem: shrine in our Lints,
we suffered their humanising quitiitics to temper
our habitual words and serious.
G. ell: IsITILLIPS, 'Editors
[WHOM: NO. 500:
E3"DT.,M..91: 0 0 rifaut4s'Fsllaa.2 0
From the Gene nee Pro mer.
WINTrat.TVIG SIIEIM?.
Ma. Tun:mt.—l have been a long time impres
sed with the idea, that sheep can wintered
cheaper, and equally as 1 , ell, on threshed oats
and the straw, as they can on hay. This may
seem strange, and startle not a few, but nevorthe.
less, it may be true.
I usually winter, on an average, about 400
sheep ; and from an experience of many years in
sheep husbandry, I em satisfied that a flock of 100
cannot be wintered on lees than 1 t tuns of good
hay, if fed that exclusively. If they were young,
it would not perhaps require so much. as if of full
size. I allow In ordinary winters, 15 tons to the
hundred. On the other hand. I would admit that
there are those who could be found, who could
keep them on 11 or 12 tons, and others on even
a less quantity, I presume, also, that they would
not deny, that they occasionally lost a feW, and
that many were poor, sometimes they complain.
of fight fleeces.
I have carefully drawn up the following esti.
mate of the expense of wintering 100 she, p,
which, however, eircquodaneetrmay vary a little
e ther way.
I think that 8 acres is necessary to yield hay
sufruient to keep them, for if it produce more
than one and three-fourth tons to the acre, I do
not consider it exactly the right kind of hay firr
sheep. Fine hay they always prefer, end if you
wi4h to keep them in good condition the year
round. (consequently improve the quality and
quantity of your fleeces ) and your sheep in a
healthy end thriving condition, they should never
lie forced to eat what they do not relish.
Say 14 tons, at $6 00, is $54 00
Cast of cutting the same, at 75 ate. per a-
Becuring, including stirring, raking, draw•
ing, ,St.c. at least $1 par acre,
'he cost of plougling 8 acres, for oats,
$lO 00
Seed for the same, 15 bu. 37A cts,per bu. 000
Sowing and dranging, 2 50
Cutting and shocking, 84 ctn. per acre, •7 00
Estimating it to yield 40 bushels I.er acre,
is 320 bushels, at 37A ets. per bushel, 120 00
Cost of threshing with machine, say • 12 00
They would require 1 bushel per day, for 5
months, which is 150 bushcls, which then would
leave a surplus of 170 bushels, at 37i cts. is $O3
21 We are tte expense of wintering them on
oats mil straw amounts to $96 75. The differ.
cum is certainly very trifling in comparison.—
The straw produced from 8 acres I should deem
in..uhleient for food through the wi.eter, but how
man:v .. 4re they. who can keep that number of sheep'
that could easily make up the deficiency in wheat
straw, which could not be converted into manure
in a cheTper_tul_better_
thap.•
The difference, yen will perceive; is so trifling
in the admit expense, that it would hardly be
worth the triul, till farmers at leapt. am ready to
put a proper estimate en-the value of manure, the
quantity of which would ho greatly increased,
finding them wholly on straw, over hay.
Srptember 14, 1839
PRUNING DEAD BRANCHES.
Mn. Tocxxn:—ln the June No. of the Farm
er, I noticed your excellent article, on the propri
ety, as well as importance, of removing all super
fluous end dead branches' on trees. From facts
in my experience on the ou'oject, I am fully con
vinced of the truth of your remarks, and I am con
fident, that they cannot be suffered to remain on
fruit trees, without toperating perniciously on the
vitality of the trees.
In the fall of 1837. I had a present of five fine
pear trees, which were transported in October,
they seemed to do well, till August of lust year,
when probably, owing to the excessive warm and
dry weather they exhibited every appearance of
decay, notwithstanding, much pains were taken
to preserve, by watering— on the approach of cold
weather, they seemed to revive, and on the open
ing of spring (this spring) I found them all alive,
but after they bad leaved out some weeks, three of
the live showed some symptoms of decline, which
continued to increase, until I removed all the dead
branches, some of which were 3 or 4 feet in length.
when the leaves began again to expand,_ and new
scions put forth, and at this time, they aro in a
thriving condition.
I had also a number of poach trees, of long
standing and which were fine bearers, from which
I was also cpteful to remove the dead branches,
which I considered only an encumbrance. The
advent:gee of ad doing, Is too evident, from the
fact, that the trees for- the last 4 or 5 years have
been barren; this season, and scarcely without en
excephon,they are full of fine healthy looking fruit..
have, nay dear sir, mado inquiries, far and near,
and learn, that there is but little fruit of this kind
in' the country, and I am inclined to !Jehovah was
the excision of the dead branches, that caused my
trees Again to bear so plentifully. I canrot co
count for the fuct in any other way. Am Fright
or wrong, in my supposition)
Had I leisure, I would like to :.ay something of
the advantages to forme';, more pattienlarly of
subscribing and read!,o g agricultural publications;
perhaps I may a. It another lima, when I will tell
you how nr.,cli profit I derived from rending, and
taking tlie advice contained in your brief article
on exciudiug 'lead branches from fruit trees.'
Genesee Farmer.
Care for the Whooping Cough.—A traspoom
ull of castor oil to a teaspoon full of molayses ; •
caspoon full of tho mixture to be given whenever
the cough is tiouhresonre. It will afTord radar
once.. and in o. few Joys it effects a cure, The
same remedy relieves the croup, however violent,
the attack.—/Virt. Int.
• Loco.—Lovo cannot exit& in tbo !mitt of
t wo.
man, unless modo.ty it Ito companion, nor in tat
of naati uni4ot !want is ita 3363063:0. •
$9B 00
$l6O 50
MOVNT PLCASANT.,