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[FOR THE PILOT.]
A MEMORY.
BY W. I. BLAIN
Music.—" Then You'll Remember Me."
The past! alas, the bitter past,
Is living o'er again,
And memory, as a chilling blast,
Is rushing through my brain.
I sit in sadness here alone—
My heart how truly sad—
And think of happy days now gone
'Till I am e'enmost mad.
I'm with that happy throng again,
That groupe so dear to me,
And hear them prattle o'er again
In all their childish glee.
How swelled my heart with love and pride,
As with them day by day,
I romped and capered by their side,
As childish e'en as they. •
I see HER, too, that chosen one,—
A smile upon her brow—
Majest ie form—so kind her tone ;
Ah, yes, I see HER DOW
Her arms about my neck are thrown,
Love beaming in her eye;
A love so pure was never known
By any, even I.
eoob Stun.
ANDY'S FRIEND.
BY &Fri/ANUS COBB, JR
Andy Patterson was a poor boy—very poor ;
and it was generally conceded that he had no
friends. Andy'S fathbr had been dead some
years, having died poor and degraded. The
charanter of the father had left a stain upon
the name of the child, and our hero had to
suffer, Away in a miserable hut, by the edge
of the wood, where the highway wound out
from the town around the foot of a steep hill,
lived Andy Patterson, with his mother and
three little sisters. The mother was a feeble
woman, and as she shrank away from the world,.
the world knew but little about her. It knew
that she was poor; and that she wore garments
patched and faded ; and that she did not court
friendship ; --- and, furthermore, "it supposed
that she • was not worth noticing. Of the
children, Andy was sixteen. Sarah was twelve;
Harriet was ten ; and Lucy was eight. These.
three girls were not strong.. They had, been
born while their father was very intemperate,
and the sad• effects of the parent's sin lay
heavily upon them. Some people wondered
Mrs. Patterson did not send Sarah out to work
—why she did not give the child away to some
good person who would take it and bring it
up. Once the girl did go to live with a wo
man in, the village, but her strength failed her.
and her mother took her home. The widow
found some work to do, hut she was not able
to do much. The labor of supporting the
family devolved almost entirely upon Andy,
who worked willing and cheerfully when he
found work to do.
Andy Patterson was very brown from expo
sure to sunshine and storm, and his garments
were of the poorest kind. People said he was
poor and degraded, and the boys of the village
did not associate with him. Re did not attend
church, nor did he go to the Sabbath-school.
He was a religious boy, they said. But the
people of that town knew but very little of the
boy whom they thus denounced. They said he
was going, to grow up to be just what his father
had been, though he lacked his father's smart
ness.
Now the truth was, Andy Patterson did not
inherit his father's characteristics. Physically
and mentally, he took the condition of the
mother; and as she tad not been known in that
section before Mr. Patterson married her, people
never understood her.
One evening Andy came home with the
marks of tears upon his cheeks. His mother
saw that he had been weeping, and she asked
what had happened.
Ab, it was the same old story—he had been
cut by sneers and insults.
''Mark Larrabee called me names, which
made my blood run hot and cold. I gave him
no provoeation—none at all. I was in the, post
office while the mail was being distributed, and
he asked me if I expected any important let
ters from the seat of government. Of course
this caused a general laugh among the thought
less ones, and be strutted as though he had
done-somethin g smart:" When he spoke to me
again, with another taunt, asked him to mind
his own business ; and then he twitted me of
being the child of a drunkard,!,
.13, mother—
it is well that you obtained that solemn pledge
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from me. Had it not been for the promise I
had given you, I think I should have maimed
Mark Larrabee for life "
"Then," said the widow, taking the hand of
her son, and pressing it to her lips, "you have
reason to thank God that you were restrained.
It is better as it is, Andy. I know it is hard;
but—look there, my son."
She pointed to a picture which hung against
the wall. It was an engraving, in a black
frame, and its story was this : Jesus Christ,
almost naked, with cruel thorns about his brow,
bending beneath the weight of a ponderous
cross, was scourged and booted at by the un
feeling crowd that followed at his heels.
"So suffered the Son of God," pronounced
the widow. "It is hard, my son—very hard;
but do not yet despair."
"I don't despair," returned Andy ; "though
I often wish that I might die."
"Die. Andy l"
"I don't mean die and leave you, mother.—
But—it's too bad. I wish I could find some
thing better to do. Mark Larrabee is going
into a great store in the city; he is going in
with Mr. Philip Brown, who owns the large
mills on the river. Larrabee got the chance
because he had friends, and becauje his folks
have money."
Mrs. Patterson spoke such words of comfort
and cheer as she could command, and after a
while her son became calm and reconciled;
and then an hour was spent in studying. The
widow was a good scholar, and her poor child
ren had learned far more from her instruction
than many children of the same age had learn
ed at the common school.
When the spring opened Andy got a chance
to work on a neighbor's farm at twelve dollars
a month ; and there he remained till the crops
were harvested in autumn. Once or twice dur
ing the summer Mark Larrabee came home
from the city on a visit. He was dressed very
finely, and wore kid gloves, and carried a cane,
and smoked cigars, and drank brandy..and-water
at the hotel ; and when he met Andy Patterson
he turned up his nose as though he had en
countered something unclean.
When the cold winter came again Andy left
the farmer's, and, went home; but he was not
idle. sawed wood in the village, thus earn
ing enough to support the needy ones.; and
sometimes he felt able to purchase little dain
ties for his mother and sisters.
Spring came again, and Andy was seventeen
years old. He was Small of his age, and slight
of his frame ; but his health was good, and his
constitution strong. One evening, in the early
part of April, just after the sun had gone
down, and while the family in the humble cot
were eating supper, a cry for help was beard
from the road. Andy ran out, and found that
the stage had got stuck in a mudhole, and that
one of the wheels had been broken. One of
the passengers was in a great hurry to reach
the village, as he intended to take a private
team and ride over to the woolen mills that
evening. He could walk to the hotel very easi
ly, but how should he get his trunk along ?
"Here is Andy," said the driver ; "he'll
wheel your trunk up."
"Certainly," replied our hero, in a prompt,
cheerful tone; "I'd do it with pleasure."
"Do it," said the driver, "and I'll pay you."
"I guess there won't be much to pay, sir."
And thus speaking Andy ran off, and soon re
turned with his barrow, upon which the trunk
was fixed by its owner.
The gentleman who owned the trunk, and
who walked by Andy's side as he trudged on
with his load, was a kindly looking, middle
aged man, whose ruling characteristic seemed
to be—good sense. He entered into conversa•
tion with the youth, and was not long in find
ing out how matters stood with him. And then
he conversed upon general topics, such as might
come within the scope of the boy's understand-
"But," said the man, as they stopped a mo
ment to rest, "do you tell me that you have
never attended school ?"
"Not since my father died."
"But you have some one to teach you."
"Ah, eir,—l have a good, kind mother—God
bless her ! She teaches me !"
The daylight was fading; but there was a
glimmering in the Sunset horizon, and as the
face of the boy was turned that way, it was
easy to see the bright tear-drop that rolled
down his cheek. He picked up the barrow
once more, and trudged, on, and at length they
reached the tavern in the village. When the
trunk had been taken off, the gentleman took
out his pocket-bbok, and handed to Andy a
bank-note.
"Here's a dollar, my boy. That will pay
you, won't it ?"
GREENCASTLE, PA., TUESDAY, AUGUST 25, 1863.
"0, sir—it's too much."
"I guess you can find a use for it. At any
rate, I am satisfied, if you are."
Andy thanked the gentleman from the bot
tom of his soul, and his tones of tremulous
gratitude plainly showed, and then turned his
steps homeward.
"What is it, my son 7"
"A dollar, mother. See."
The widow took the bank note, and as she
examined it by the light of the candle, she ut
tered an exclamation of surprise.
"What did you say it was, Andy?"
"A dollar."
"There must be some mistake. It is a ten
dollar note."
"The gentleman told me he gave me a dol
lar."
"Ah," said the widow, "I see how he made
the mistake. Look?
. he only saw that figure."
It was simple. The upper right•hand cor
ner of the, bill, where the "10" had been was
mutilated just enough to entirely remove the
cypher, so that only the figure "1" was left
The gentleman had only noticed this figure, and
had supposed..that he was giving away a one
dollar bill.
"What will you do, my son?"
"I will carry it back at once."
"You have no desire to keep it ?"
"Mercy ! I would sooner die I"
"Bless you, my boy ! Go and do as you
have said."
Andy had some few chores to do, and when
they where done he went to the village, but
the gentleman was not at the tavern. The old
stage•driver was there, however, and to him
Andy told his story.
"Why didn't you keep it, Andy ? You are
potir, and that wan is rich."
"Keep it !" repeated the boy, straightening
himself to the proudest height. "I'd rather
burrow in the ground, with bares and foxes.
and live on roots, than do such a thing, John
Alden. 1 may be poor, but God knows I
am not a villain. You will see the man. Give
him this, and tell him if he has a mind to send
me a dollar, he way do so. If Ido not mis.
judge him, I think he would rather send me
the dollar than not."
"By "the - glory'!" cried stout John Alden,
clapping the boy upon the shoulder, "you're a
pattern. You're true blue. You're honest,
Andy. Ah, there's the supper bell. I'll do
the errand , and bring you an answer•"
As Andy Patterson left the tavern, he met
Mark Larrabee upon the sidewalk, but Mark
did not look as he bad looked a few months
before. His clothes were not so spru3e, and
his head was not carried so high.
Andy stopped in at the post-office, where he
heard two men talking.
"Mark Larrabee has lost his place, I hear,"
said one.
"Yes," replied the other. "He got into
rather rough ways. In fact, he was dishonest
I heard of his making one pull of a hundred
dollars."
"Why din't they prosecute him ?"
"His father fixed it up by paying the money."
"Well, his father may save him this time,
but I don't believe they can make an honest
man of him."
As Andy walked home, he wondered how a
boy could do such a thing as steal money He
wondered at it very much, as the healthy, normal
man wonders at the infatuation of the suicide.
On the following day, towards the middle of
the forenoon, while Andy was at work in the
shed, his mother came and informed Kim that
a gentleman wished to see him. Our hero went
into the house, where he found the man for
whom he had wheeled the'trunk on the previous
evening
"My boy," the man said, in an off-hand, easy
manner, "the stage -driver gave me the bank
note you handed him; and I have been think
log, while walking down here, that some kind
spirit must hay: torn off the corner of that bill
for our especial benefit I supposed it was
a one-dollar bill when I gave it to you; and I
certainly should never have known to the con
trary if you had not returned it. However, it
has led to a little prospect of business. Frnm
what I saw of you last evening, and from what
John Alden has told me, in connection with
`this bank-note affair, I am inclined to the opin
ion that I want you to help me. My name is
Philip Brown. I own a store in this city, and
I own the woollen mills in the adjoining town.
A year ago I took Mark Larrabee into my
employ, but he did not suit me exactly. Will
you go with me?"
Andy looked down at his poor clothes.
"Non shall have garments suitable to the
change. Will you go?"
Andy looked around upon his mother
"Yes, my son," she said. "The man who
seeks for honest merit as this man has sought
for it, recognizing the jewel even in this lowly
station, must himself be honest and upright;
and with such I joyfully trust you."
And Andy Patterson went with the merchant,
whom he served so faithfully and well that,
at the end of a year, he was placed in a posi
tion of great responsibility, and his wages were
increased to such a sum that he was able to
place his mother and sisters in a better home.
But Andy's preferment was not particularly
out of friendship to himself. He rose upon
his own sterling merits—rose to be a partner
with Philip Brown—rose to be a merchant
upon his own capital—rose to fill posts of honor
and trust for his country. Should I call him
by another name, thousands would recognize
him.
Who was Andy's Friend? The reader will
say he had several of them. Perhaps he had.
His mother was his dearest earthly -friend;
and yet, in those times when she sought to save
him from evil, she had pointed him to a Friend
who could care for both mother and child.
Aye—even at this day, in his home of wealth,
Andy preserves a time-worn, faded picture, in
a black irame—a picture of One bearing a cross,
toiling beneath the burden, scourged and spit
upon, with drops of blood starting from his
thorn-pierced hrow. And the picture bas a
lesson for him yet. Ah—a lesson for us all,
while life is ours !
Jeffries' Thousand Sayings.
451. The person we generally love the most
s the one we see in the mirror.
452. The more ignorant some of us are, the
more will we try to make the people believe
we are wise.
453. There are many professors who are not
half so sorry for the sins they have commit
ted as those they can no longer commit.
454. Every man that finds a nest of golden
eggs should be allowed to cackle over them.
455. No people are capable of self-govern
ment who will first count the cost of liberties.
456. Great .and good men art the common
property of mankind, as all nations have a share
in the wealth of their intellects.
4571 In arguing with a fool you throw away
both your learning and eloquence.
458. Every fashion that is useful improve
ment should be adopted.
459. To, kill one man because he has killed
another is the law of vengence, but the law of
God says as much to the jury as it does to the
asdassin—Thou shall not kill.
460. The man that, has become enamored of
himself has chosen a foul for a lover.
461. Good lawyers, like good ministers, are
the salt of nation; but a one-horse lawyer is a
nuisance in any community.
462. As marriage was not designed for in
fants, children should not be allowed to pop
question before they are weaned.
463. It is wrong to meet out justice' accord
ing to the wealth or poverty,of the offender.
464. A. man's worth consists in his virtue
and not in ,his dollars and cents.
465, Beauty adorned in the, flowers, of vir
tue is more lovely than that arrayed in the
jewels of Golconda.
466. The bad mechanic will always condemn
his material.
467. There are some professors so spiritual
ly-minded that they seldom ever draw a sober
breath.
468. We should pen our injuries in the snow,
but onr benefits in brass.
~469. He that pours in his rum pours out his
reason.
470. The man that provides not in summer
must want in winter.
471. We should never mourn for that we
cannot have.
472. A dollar in the hand is worth two in
the ledger.
473. None of us should be idle, the hen
with one chicken is as busy as the one with
twelve.
474. The most poisonous and deadly worm
in the community is the worm of the still.
475. To know that we are welcome is as
good as a feast.
Ix is -remarked that if women are angels,
it is a great pity that so many angels' wings
are clipped.
THEY say at death we first begin to live—
that we lie down in the grave just to take
breath.
LIVE with the• culpable; and` you will be
very likely to die with the criminal.
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NO. 24.
A civet•cat should be a good hunter; she
never loses her scent.
'What did Lot do when his wife turned to
salt ? Got a fresh one.
Neglected hours, like neglected women, are
sure to avenge themselves.
Truth's supreme revelations come in sorrow
to men, and in war to nations.
'Tis sweet for love to pay its debt, but :tweet
er for luve to give its gift.
There is room for many things in this large
world of God's, but none for vacuums.
Don't believe in any aristocracy without
pluck at its backbone.
There are terrible trials from which the fee
ble come out infamous, and the strong sublime.
There are a great many men of tried inabil
ity and cnnvicted deficiency.
God needs to be surelier God to bear with
us than even to have made us.
We may safely waive just so much care of
ourselves as we honestly bestow elsewhere.
Every man is wanted, but no man is wanted
much. We come for condiments, not for corn.
If a man has but one eye, let him get a wife,
and she will be his other I.
Silence is the best remedy for anger. If
you say nothing, you will have nothing to un
say.
The good can welcome the cold embrace of
day as smilingly as if it were the last grasp of
love.
It is said that the pig ran away from the
butcher because he bad heard that prevention
is better than cure.
Women should remember that men would
often ring their pretty fingers only to wring
their tender hearts.
Let us be patient. A - conflagration would
no doubt cause a dawn, but better wait for the
break of day.
The husband. who devoured his wife with
kisses, found afterward that she disagreed with
him.
The young fellow who makes engagements
with the ladies only to break them is a beau of
promise
The artificial register of a man's voice above
its natural compass is like a sham fight—it is a
false-set-to
Salutary laws to prolong the life time of
peace have been wrought out of wrath by the
sword.
We •sometimes make our virtues from our
worn-out sins, but they smack of what they are
made of
Many calumnies are injurious even after . they
are refuted. Like. Spanish flies, they sting
when alive and blister when dead.
Walk in what direction you please, you will
find that a firm footfall and a strong hand have
preceded yours
Some people stand stock still till the moss
grows on them, and then, self admired, cry out,
how verdant and virtuous !"
There are faults slight in the sight of love,
errors small in the estimate of wisdom; but
truth forgives no insult.
The word politic is a satire on government.
It has for ages signified cunning, intimating
that the state is a trick.
The noses of the Romans are no longer Ro
man. The nasal bridges of the people have
declined with the fall of the Emperor.
Old books, as we all know, are extravagant
ly eulogized, but they are books of the world's
youth, whilst new books are the fruit of its
age.
Better too few words from the woman we
love, than too many: while she is silent, Na
ture is working for her; while she talks, she
is workint , for herself.
If a sad widow has a fascinating admirer,
there are generally pin-bole in the night of
her despair, through which a ray of hope can
find its way to him.
Little-or-Nothings,
$70.00
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26
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