Lancaster Examiner and Herald

              EXJdtHiflft
FabUihtd ftTex7 WJU>*MDAT, <u the ES&X13rxkBUILl>lS9»:So. illDrtli QiuiBa
Streflt, LanoMtT, Pa.:     . 1 EBM»--^90'A/'PM^^Eg-Al>VAy JXO. A. HtESTARB.X. k:ktt]!7S,'j. t. HABTxAx
Editors and'Prpprletors,
LEASZ^HS TO WALK.
Only beginning the Journey,
Many a mile to go; Little feet, how they patter,
WandiBrtngto a-nS tto! ~'
Trying i^ain, so bravely.
Laughing in baby gleo; Hiding Its face In mother's lap,
Froud as a baby can be.
Talking the oldest language
Ever before was heard; But mother (you'd hardly think so)
Understands every word.
Tottering now and tailing,
Eyes that arc going to cry; ICiBses and plenty of love-words,
WllUng again to try.
Father ofall, O, guide thorn,
The pattering little feet. While they are treading tlie up-hill road,
Braving the dust and heat!
Aid them when tbey grow weary, Keep them In pathways blest,
And when, the journey's ended, Saviour, O, give them rest.
IK ABUT.
j^our arm-^yea liju^i^k UtUe DttJoiT your forefinger! Hine^Was a dear Adventure
theiirore; but,, tttrqttgh It;! gbtsojiiii tuigi can't seU;''iibr can ITauyvwSt which-wentfornothin^.   I'veaalitia^'
If it Ikdn't-been-fOT Ensfed and C&I71 the^^
pago: I should:baWl\rjiiiit J'bavenol^ 1 bliif^reij^ad';tita
and should riot, have what I have-^a dangling sleeve. TomaWe thispWni must go back ten years or sOj to ahow how the whole thing-happened.
,liOTnjB,-|i».1afMm-..0liiliWi ^j>i^'<
My friends call me au odd man be¬ cause I have a liking for the company and conversation of ragged and uncoutli men, the poor wretches whom I en¬ counter on the streets, and whom, by the promise of a warm meal or good liquor, 1 seduce into the comforts of a restaurant or the charities of my own room. Once comfortably ensconced with tliese [ragamufflns, I manage to draw from tliem tlie friglitftil and some¬ times wondrous stories of their lives, wliicli I write down in my boob of " Poor Men," and rrad at times wlien my soul is heavy with misery. There is a world of wisdom to bo derived from tliese narratives, and tlius far I have found in their perusal a panacea for my own woes, so mudi are tliey belittled by the comparison. I soelv out only poor men's histories; the rich can take care of themselves. I find pleasure as well as pain in thus transcribing these sorrowful stories, revealing, as thoy often do, more startling incidents jtliau is usually conceived by tlie fertile brains of imaginative novelists. Because I do tliese tilings lam called an odd man, sometimes a monomaniac—all of whicli I acknowledge. By this little explana¬ tion llie public will uiulerstaiul wliy I came to know the story of Bob Cani])- bell. How I canu' lo know it is easily written.
One night, coming out oftlie thcatcn I saw a man vigilantly watching tlie " gutter-rats," " roughs " and workmen pushing and crowding out ofthe gallery exit. He was a thin, haggard, whisker¬ ed fellow, with a wild glare in his eyes, hair uncombed, and a liberal sprinkling of shaving over his wrinkled clotlies. Leaning against a lamp-iiost, the crowd, .as it surged heavily along, jostled him from his position, and I saw, by his emjity coat-sleeve, that his left arm was gone. There was something iieculiar about the man, iierhaps the painful ea¬ gerness of look aud manner he exhibit¬ ed, that caused me to lounge against the building and wait for results. Tiie crowd dispersed, and the man and I were left together.
" Were you looking for some one?" I inquired, stepping into the light. His wild ej'cs scanned my person from hat to boots.
" Yes," he answered. "A friend?"
" An old acquinlance," and he turn¬ ed away from me.
" Stop a minute," I said, seeing his annoj'anee.    " I am called a queer fel¬ low, and you must excuse me if I ask i f you wouldlike a good warm supper ?" " I a7a hungry," he answered, ener¬ getically, and moistening his lips with his tongue.^ " And thirsty ?" " Very!"
"You shall have something to cat and drink, upon one condition ?" "Well!"
" That you tell me how you lost your arm."
"Are you a detective, mister?"   he suspiciously demanded. " No.".
" Then I'll go with you, thank you ?" and he began to brusli the .shavings from his clothes, and to clumsily smooth the unkempt hair.
.Tliere was a restaurant clo.so by, where I ordered a substantial meal for my guest. That finished, aud with a pitcher of something warm within his ' reach, be told the following story, bo- giuning in a moralizingstrain, and slop¬ ping at times to fill his glass from tlie pitcher, or to walk the little compart¬ ment with a ijer\-ous stop that seemed to ease his heart a little. I did not in¬ terrupt him to question or comment on his story, told in a deep bass voice, with a broad accent that made the interview strangely luusical. His narrative, pru¬ ned of many inaccuracies of expression, began as follows:
" If, as I have somewhere read, (and I have read a little,) man's life is made u]) of accidents, then the history of ray life would, I think, jirovo the truth of that .assertion, for I am scarcely out of oue trouble, great or small, before ano¬ ther treads on ills heels and trips mo up. T am a poor man, alw.ays have been one; if poverty has auy blessings, any salve for the raggeil wounds it gives to r.agged men and women, I know little or nothing of them.
" I have seen women string beads ; blnck and white anil red ami blue beads, held on a needle for a second, tlien push¬ ed dowuwards to mako room for more. That is tlio way tlio thread of my life has been strung with troubles, aud there's been very little of tlie pure white among tliat kind of beads. It's been Uiwny white and sooty white, and jet black, and bruised green, and blue, but little that was pure and unsoiled; no beads of amber, pearl or gold.
" I'm not complaining; for years of trouble have ruined that miserable way of relief. After thirty years of conflict witli the world, I am like a bljnd man in a fight; everybody hits me when I don't see 'em; accidents and incidents bruise body and soul, and I can't see whence tbey come or whither they go. Wliat's the use of such a fellow as I am? He's of no use to any one—not even himself.
" You wanted to know howJE lost my arm. Shouldn't you think that was a pretty bad misfortune ? I count that as one of the dingy white beads of my life; for, thougli I lost my army I saved my life, and I cling to life as if It were full of happiness. This may seem unreason¬ able, yet it's natural.
"If It hadn't been for England and Chicago, I don't think my left sleeve would be empty. There's a riddle you can't guess. No one can guess it who doesn't know my wholo life; and I'm the only one who knows its alphabet , from A to—well! almost to Z, for I don't think I've many more years to live.
"Perhaps/you'll not tWnk.muoh of my riddle when the story's told; but you mnsn't .forget that it cost'lbe my arm, and you'd place a big price npon
fi3l"eii'Sp6','wltfi'a heamness of life and living that sweetened their food with wholesome flavor, were small farmers in England. They were poor and had six children. Children are the teetli of poverty and bite hard. But my good parents kept cheerful and worked hard and the teeth stopped biting after a while. My mother used to Say that licr ehildre'n kept her aUve: because as long as they were dependent upon her she couldn't give up; and when they became independent she could not get out of the old habits. Anyhow, they had the children, of whom I was the eldest. When I was about twenty-two years old I came to the conclusion that I had milked the cows and held the plow and trampled in its furrows about long enough to prove thatI couldn't succeed in life in such a way. It's the hardest kind of an existence, tliis farm-work, and I've always wondered how young men of spirit could endure its dullness when they were working for somebody besides themselves. Shine and storm bring no relief; and finally the boy grows up to be a man, with mighty lit¬ tle spirit, and whose thoughts are all for plowing and sowing the ground and getting out of it food enough to fill the stomach of those belonging to him. I thouglit it would be with me as with mj' father and his father, and for gen¬ erations of fathers and sons.
" Even now I can not decide whether I was right or wrong in going to another countrj-. At that time we had lots of stories of how poor people thrived in America; how they had a little ease and comfort and independence in that country before they died. Here and there I had managed to save a little monej-, and I resolved to leave the home folk aud go to America, believing that I should not fail of success. The old people hud children to comfort and care for them wiiile I was gone. Ah! those were grand hopes of mine! Andyou see me, now!
"It was .ill arranged among ourselves; and father, out of his littie savings, gave me money wliich I was to return to him if I got along finely in my new lioine. JJut I did not intend to set ont on this long and lonesome journey witli¬ out taking with me, as my wife, a little faii-iiaired lass; as modest and indus¬ trious a girl as could be found in the country. This lass was Bessie Tillott. One day I spoke out my love.
" ' Bessie, dear, will you go to Ameri¬ ca with mc ? Do you love me enough for that?'
" ' Robert,' she said, ' I will go with thee anywhere, and be glad all the time.'   Then she kissed mc.
"' But Bessie, girl, I'm. poor, you know. And there's the great ocean fo bo erosised. And when that's betwixt us and the old folks, we'll be among strangers, and have much to suffer.— There's hard work to be done, and worst of all, there's tearful loneliness and home-sickness. Eh! Bess, can you bear hunger in many a way ?'
"'Try me! I'll go with 1;hee, Eob, and help thee alll can, and be a good wife.'    I knew she was as true as sfeel.
" One night, going home from a visit to Bess, I met Tom Brinton. He was waiting for me at the big elm just by the turn in the road. An idle fellow, given fo beer-drinking and low companions, bo had more money than any one in his station qf life. Where he got his money was uncertain. Learned in horses and jockeying, he had a knack of tickling the pride of owners of nice nags in the neighborhood. He was not a handsome fellow by any means; but his smart ways and speeches m.ade him a favorite with many of both sexes. The way I came to know him was because we lived within a mile of each other and meton the highway and at country fairs and frolics. I had seen him, too, a half- dozen times at Tillott's house during pre¬ vious years. .1 had never liked, only endured him, knowing him as a very muscular fellow, a good wrestler and no mean player with his fists; in fact, a bully, as j'ou call that kind of a man in in this country. He was sitting on a log by the road-side.
"'Good-evening, Bob,' he said, as I came opposite to him. ' Going away soon, I hear.'
" ' A fortnight hence,' I replied, not stopijing in ray walk. Seeing this, he jumped up from the log and came after
.'miL^QOc^^ello w s«em^ .oyetcome .'.by
eyteiililoa/wifK.'.^Bjtre and;1ie iiervousf y,ilDgiared tb'eglaEiBjtbat ¦tUlicontaihed '»-few diojia'iOt Jiiiuor. 'Then, with a determined «flR)itlilibwihg Itae^ In-'hig com^egMriijPBj'wI.tli, ^
Kfatid'a dash
jtosketieMipIoked ofl alliJUy.vmaiiCirrn-^MI*^'^^^
«d, (utd flung, the ropes over a beam; !.'"<Dayou ihian to mmtder me?' I
;(Sfled."
; "'No !.l'mi going to leave you there, JBob. .Yoiiive fallen In, you see. That'll hfe the'V0»dlot ;when they find your tipcly.' '.Tjou'li^i^ht ypurVshovel, man, to malie the thj/ig', look natural. I'll thron^U;to you in a minute.'
" Ifelt quite sure that it Was so dark Tii'ttie'bin tliat he couldn't see me very plainly, If at all; and that he would try tohitmewith ithe shovel. I crawled close to the side with one cheek against the wood; looking up I conld see him directly above me, peering down into the gloom, and with the shovel in his^ outstretched arm ready to spear at me as if I Avere a fish. There followed a 'stillness that continued for five minutes, during which he stood ou his guard. Suddenly I heard the muffied rattle of machinery and felt a strange power' pulling at my feet, while my whole body seemed to be sliding gently down a bottomless pit. In an instant I knew what waa happening.
" The grain tons running.
" I madly flung out my arms, and my fingers clutched one of the upright beams. As I drew myself up against the receding torrent I heard a laugh above me and Ihe words.
"'Kemember Bessie Tillott, Bob Campbell, and that I loved her, and the words I spoke to you by the big elm! Gtkidby!'
" When I looked up the man was gone from my sigiit. I don't know ex¬ actly how I managed to climb that huge beam. I think there were nails here and there that lielped my feet aud hands; for after I was rescued my body was found to be covered from head to foot with great gushes or scratches. Anyhow, slowly aud painfully I man¬ aged to reach the top, and threw my left arm over fhe edge of the bin, and gasped for breath. Then, when I was so near to safety, to hoi>e, to life, I felj a horrible, sickening blow upon my arm—a blow from something neither dull nor sharp. I seemed to feel the cutting of the flesh and to liear the breaking of tbe bone. The arm, batter¬ ed and broken, lost its grasp and I fell back into tbe darkness uud horror of the bin. Hardly had 1 touched the yield¬ ing wheat when iny shovel was thrown from above aud struck within a few inches of my head. Thougli my arm hurt me terribly I didn't faint. I was helpless. The dust was stifling. The grain was wliirling and tumbling and hissing as it slid toward the vortex a few feet distant. I heard the murmur of machinery in motion and the rushing sound of the wheat as it poured into the spout. Where I lay the grain had not yet begun to move into the littlo whirl¬ pool ; but I knew it would only be a minute or two before I should bo tossing and struggling iu that treacherous quicksand, and then, stifled, mutilated and dead, at the spout. Tho dust seem¬ ed to circle above me and leave mc a lit¬ tle air tb gasp.
" Lying thus, hopeless and helpless, a carelessness of death came upon me. My life came to me again in ull its de¬ tails, its joys and sorrows. I had vis¬ ions of green fields, and heard the soft gurgle of brooks and tho songs of birds and the rustling of leaves. Then Bes¬ sie's sweet face, as it was when we were married, smiling and pretty with dim¬ ples, seemed to be above and close to mine as if waiting for a kiss as iu tiio olden time beforo she was taken from me.   I forgot all else but her face.   I
"' Stop, Bob,' he commanded. ¦ Stoj) 1 I've something to say to you; aud I Want to say it to-night, now, because I'm going away in the morning.'
" ' Well, what is it?' Isaid stopping. ' I'm in a hurry.'
"' Yes, yes! And you are truly going to America ?'he asked once more in a musing sort of a way, and looking at me from toe to head. ' And—and—con¬ found you! is Bess going with you ? ' angrily. " ' Yes!'
'"Doyou know. Bob Campbell, that Iloved that girl, that Hove her now? and she said—'
" ' There, there, don't tell mo your se¬ crets !' I cried, with a wish in my heart to get peaceably away from the fellow, who, it was plain to me, had beeu drink¬ ing.
" ' But I miU tell thee. Why not lis¬ ten quietly until I've done. I loved her and told her so. And she refused me; but she did not tell me she loved you". That I found out yesterday. She threw me off for your baby-face and the few pounds you've begged or—'
" ' Stop!' I commanded, pushing him away from me. ' I'll hear no more such vile stuff,' and I walked off. But, I had not gone Hiree steps when I felt his arms clasped around vay waist, Iiolding my arms close to my side.
"' You shall hear me, curse you!' he shouted, close to my ear. ' I've waited for you, to tell you that I hate you— hate you because you're going to take away from me the only woman on earth I oan love. You needn't try toget away. Be still, or I'll kill you. So long as I live you will have an enemj'. You'd better remember that.'
" Just then I heard the rumbling ofa wagon coming toward us. He heard it too, and for Jaminute stood and listened. Then wlth.an oath, he suddenly whirled me around and struck me three heavj' blows full iii the face with hia huge fist, knocking me senseless to the ground. When I opened my eyes again a farmer, a neighbor of ours, had my head on his knee and was wiping the blood from my face; the rascal had given me one blow that had cut open my cheek, ainddeft a mark until this day. Tom Brinton had run like a deer across the fields, the &r- mer said. Anyhow, that was .the' last seen of him in the neighborhood as long as iTemained.i .fie^^4 7 <Xere.rmar- ried and':(:ame to America as happy-and loving a -couple asieVer-crbSed thie wa¬ ters.   When 1 landed lii New York my
of bis arm across his face he struggled with his feelings to continue hia atbry: " After this misfortune, I tried to ob¬ tain work. Now and then I got a job that gave me enough to buy us a little food. But what could I, a farmer and a farmer's son, do in a great city that needed artisans, not farmers ? It was a hard and bitter struggle for life. I had just got a place as porter, at good wages, when—when—my dear, darling Bessie —when she—she died."
His groans and tears and sighs mas¬ tered his firmness and he bowed his head upon tlie table. I could under¬ stand the loneliness of his life, and that tbe dead wife was a being worshipped above all else in the world. It seemed so cruel of me to obtain from my guest so sorrowful a story, to recall memories so fragrant with keen, undying grief, that I placed my hand .upon tbe head of the weeper, and tried, by wordsof sym¬ pathy and of cheer, to lead .him away from the .sad story of ills life and leave it untold. But after a little while he raised his Iicad, tlie face wliite aud the eyes tearful.
" You mustexcuse me this weakness," he said. " It is nothing new. I suflfcr every da.v, as now. I cau not forget my darling. Onl.v when I'm dead will tlie trouble end, and the heart-ache stop, and the tears be unshed. It doesn't seem rigiit, perhaps, for a poor man to nurse liis sorrow for so many years. Yet, many a man does it, and uo one knows it but himself. One can not for¬ get tlie happiness and misery of the past; the nienior,v of them grows upon him like a cloud. I asic God that it may soon cud."
For a little while he was silent, his eyes closed and his lijis moving as if in prayer.
" After Bessie's death," he continued, with a shudder, " I took to liquor just to stop thinking, to Iiave an easy spell. But, I only mado matters woise, and fi¬ nally, after a touch of the tremens, I went on board ship antl sailed to Cape Town in Africa. It was five years be¬ fore I got back to Am3rica. I was fired of .sailing and of life; but not having the cowardice to commit suicide, though I was alwaj's wiahing myself dead, I struggled along as of old, to get my daily bread. Drifting hitlier and thither, working a week in oue place, a month in another, I finally brouglit up as a laborer in an elevator in Chicago. It is not nice work, I must say; but one grows to be proud of the great tilings that dot the wharves along the nasty creek. To me an elevator always seem¬ ed a monster, restless with a hungry life; and we poor fellows did nothing but tend to its wants, running up stairs througii clouds of choking dust, and deafened with the din of rattling ma" cliinery—no light job, sir, I can assure you, seeing that an elevator is seven, eight, ten stories high, and big enough to hold the houses of a small village. Ah, they are wonderful things, those elevators! And now that I am away from them I feel the strength of their size, and what a little thing I was In such a place. Theu, the rattle of the cups going up or down with their fill of grain made music to my ears, and star¬ ted many a queer thought in my mind as I went through my hours of day or night work. It was strange to see how quick tlieir armies of banded cups would drink to emptiness a car or vessel load¬ ed with grain, and carry it up to giddy bights to be tumbled into huge bins. These bins, sir, are forty to sixty feet deep, and funnel-shaped at the bottom, where there is a sort of valve or gate, which, when opened, lets the grain Into a spout. If the gate is opened when a bin has six or seven thousand bushels in it, you can judge, sir, tliat there would be a whirlpool that would suck down the strongest man to a horrible death. Wonderful, terrible monsters are these elevators, with their humps of houses on their roofs, their awkward spouts, their di/zy Iiights, and dismal, dusty chasms of empty bins. It makes me sick to think of them now."
Tbe man really did look a little whi¬ ter in the face, and nervously fingered tbe empty sleeve of his jacket; but he was over with the feeling in a minute and went on with his story:
" I had been to work about a week in one of tho largest of these elevators, when, one afternoon, I was sent, in company with another laborer—a big, whiskered, swearing, ruffian fellow—to tend to a bin that was about to be empt¬ ied. We were sitting on tlie edge of the bin, waiting for the grain to run, when ray companion, who seemed to be under the influence of liquor, called out: '"I say, Mike!'
"As I have said, tiie fellow was a
ruffian in appearance.   He seemed  to
have quite a liking for mc, as ho tried
to be with me in my work as much as
possible; but I couldn't bear him, and
did everything to be rid of him.   He
knew my name well enough, and itan-
gered me to havo him call me in this
way ; so I snid, uharply.
" ' My name is not Mike!'
" ' How should I know ?' he asked,
looking angrily into my face, as if he
wished to make me quarrel with him.
" 'You have heard it more than once,'
I said.   ' Vou know very well what It
is, Joe, and there's no sense in giving a
man a narae as doesn't belong to him.'
"'Then don't  call  me  Joe!   That
ain't my name.   It's a counterfeit. I'm
Tom which is a better name.'
" He had a piece of chalk in his hand, and began to print with it on the big beam where we were sitting. T—o—m, T—o—ra, T—0—m, he scratched in large, scraggly letters, all the while looking at me from under his heavy eyebrows. Then he made a B, and rub¬ bed his hand across it as soon as it was made.
"' Eob, it's along way down there,' pointing into the half-filled bin. " ' Twenty feet, perhaps.' ""Twouldn'tKill a man, the fall, ch ?'—moving closer to me. "'No!'
" ' But it's as good as water to drown him if the grain be moving and the dust and chaff flying?'
" ' He wouldn'tlive long, that is sure!' " ' Then go down there!' he yelled, giving me a blow and a push that hurl¬ ed me headlong from my seat. ' Go down there! stay there! die there! rot there! Bob Campbell; and don't forget, when you're a-dyiug, that Tom Brinton sent you.'
. " The fall didn't hurt rue a bit, and I began .to crawl toward tjie rope-ladder hanging against the side of the bin, thanking God that the grain hadn'tbe- gun to move, else I'd be a dead man in no time. But as soon as the ruffian saw what I was-after, he wieht round and pulled .up the: Ipdder. :'.'' Letthat.alonel'.IshoQted, feeling how little hope of escape I had with
had only a consciousness that I was go - ing to her, that she was waiting for. my release that she might go witli mc on tbe last great journej'. It seemed as if thegreat Belief would never come aud give me to my darling.
I must have been growing uncon¬ scious, I think, for a sudden throb of pain in my arm robbed me of my wife's face and brought back the old feeling of resistance against death. I felt that I was going downward, gently, but irre¬ sistibly ; that every grain beneath me was moving and shifting and slowly de¬ scending. The circle of the whirlpool had reached me and was dragging mc down to torture and to deatli. Icouldn't, I wouldn't submit to such a death. I must live. It was horrible agony of soul and body, sir. I screamed for help; but tbe dust entering my mouth, nose and eyes, strangled and blinded me. I looked for tbe shovel. It had disap¬ peared. I was going, too. Maimed, dnd gasping for breath, I fought against the power that wos slowly, but surely, dragging me down. I plunged my arm deep into the wheat and tried to pull myself up. In the dismal, murky light of this hideous den I struggled as but few men have ever struggled. I was a giant iu my battle for life. I thought no more of my broken arm. I was burning witb heat, parched with thirst, blinded and choked with the fine dust, but I fought and shrieked for help all the time. In my fierceness I tore my clothes from my body aud flung them away, and the grains of wheat scraped my ^^ounds and pierced my naked flesh as I tried to spring forward ; but noth¬ ing hurt me, not even my arm.
" Hard as I struggled Icould not get clean away from the whirlpool. If I leaped forward, or crawled a little way over the treacherous surface, I found when I stopped that I was swiftly slid¬ ing back again to the .old place. It seemed as if I strugirled in this -arny for hours; yet, I accomplished nothing. Tired and breathless, I • looked around and felt sure that in less tiian three minutes I should be in the spout and a dead man. My eflbrts were in vain. There was a certain circle beyond which I could not go. Once the thought came iuto my mind that, to save myself from the horrors of the death before me, I had better open a vein and bleed to death, but I could not find my knife, and had I found it I might not have been able to use it. Well! I saw every thing plainly. There was hope for me me. I must die, and must look and wait for my death. When hope deserted me, a kind of resignation to my fate suc¬ ceeded, and I closed my eyes wearily, never thinking to open them again.
" Gradually my body slid downward. The noise of the grain rushing through tho valve or gate became louder and louder; the stifling dust was thicker and heavier. A thousand unseen, irre¬ sistible forces were drawing me to de¬ struction. Suddenly, my body fell sev¬ eral feet. I felt the tremendous suction ofthe whirlpool. The grain crept up my legs; it reached and pressed heavily upon my breast and back as if to squeeze the life out of me; it-ascended higher and clasped my throat. Then I closed my eyes and waited for death. I no longer feared its terrors.
" At this momenti feltthat there was a strange silence; even in my half-con¬ scious conditioiiT realized a change in my siuTounding. The dust began to settle. I realized -what had happened. " The valve was closed, " At theVeiy gate of death opened to receive me, there was an obstacle, and I fainted away with Joy; When I be¬ came consciQus again, I heard a voice oryinKOUt.
'"iBBnirbody.down there?' said this voice. That qnea'tion was twice repeated
^miuijujt-	
Mta»X!«iBld«ttnnri:-i^n4~)><<fMatly,
that^VaiPbttt a-'hnskjFiirhlspey;"
"flf^saii'a humhri,;-a false alatia, Jim|t said Mother vofoi.'We, are.iSpoi- ing away time by; trwelling up .^d down these, twenty stories. We Can't stop work for siich hohtefise.?;'       - ¦ -
" ' It's not a humbug^' 8ald flie bne who had firat .spofceii. .^ You: saw, asi well as I,~the sI^e^aa|^1iat;.a'ndBhlrt! oome throiigh the spout'. There's a man ^ to follow, this way or that. Hllld, there!'
" It seemed to me as if I had the nightmare, ao hard did I try to speak out, but I didn't make a noise. Yet, when I heard them.going away, leav¬ ing me to my horrible death, the noise in me got the better of my throat, and^ I yelledsothat Imyself waafrightened.' The men came back.
"'Iknew he was there,' said Jim. Are you liurt, man ? -Ot course he is. or he would hot be tjiere. Where the devil is the ladder? That looks strange —it's hanging over the beam. Give me' the rope and lantern!'      )
" I saw the light, a blessed star of re¬ lief, come slowly dowu against the wall, of the bin. A little later I was raised,! as tenderly as possible, to the top of the bin and thence carried to earth. A surgeon was soon obtaiped. He lookedi at my arm that wos making me cry with pain.
"' Mortification. Amputation,' was the judgment, and the arm was cut off. That is all,' said my guest, drinking his liquor and risIng-from.hiBseat.
'"And what has become of Tom Brinton ?" I asked, as he reached the door.
"' I am looking for him,' he answer¬ ed, with the old ugly look about the eyes aud mouth, and he stalked out of the door intO; the Bight—Beadle's Monthly.
ST. VAIBHTINE'S DAY.
Tlie following account of the origin and customs of St. Valentine's day in the olden time is taken from an old au- thor: *
" It was tlie practice in ancient Home, during a great iiart of tlie month of Februaiy, to celebrate the Lupercalia, which were feasts in iiorior of Pan and Juno, whence tlielatter deity was named Februata, Februalis, aud Februlla. On this occasion, amidst a variety of cer¬ emonies, the names of young women wore put into a box, from which they were drawn by the men as chance di¬ rected. Tlio pastors of the early Chris¬ tian church, who by every possible means endeavored to eradicate the ves¬ tiges of pagan supei-stitions, aud chiefly by some commutations of their forms, substituted, in the jiresent instance, the names of particular saints instead of those of the women; aud as the festival of tho Luporcaliahnd coniuienced about the middle of February, they ajipear to liave chosen St. 'Valentiue's day for celebrating the new feast, because it oc¬ curred nearly at tiie same time. It sliould seem, however, that it was ut¬ terly impossible to extirpate altogeth¬ er any ceremony to which tbe common people bad beeu much accustomed; a fact which it were easy to prove In tracing the origin of various other pop¬ ular superstitious. Ami accordingly the outline of the ancient ceremonies was preserved, but modifled by some adaption to tlie Christian system.— It is reasonable to suppose that the above practice of choosing mates would gradually Ijecame reciprocal in the. sex¬ es; and that all persons so chosen would be called Valentines, from the day on which the ceremony took place."
Misson, a learned traveller, who died in England about 1721, describes the auiusiug practices of his time: "On the eve of the 14th of February, St. Valen¬ tine's day, the young folks in England and Scotland, by a very ancient custom, celebrate a little festival. An equal number of maids and bachelors get to¬ gether ; they write their true or some feigned name upon separate billets which they roll up, and draw by way of lots, tho maids taking the men's bil¬ lets, and the men the maids'; so tiiat each of the young men lights upon a girl that he calls hia Valentine, and each of the girls upon a young man which she calls hers. Ey this means each has two Valentines; but the man sticks faster to the Valentine that has fallen to him, than to the Valentine to whom he is fallen. Fortune having thus divided the company into so many couples, the Valenthies igtve balls and treats to their mistresses, wear their biHets several days upon their bosoms or sleeves, and this littlo sport often ends In love. This ceremony is prac¬ ticed differently in different counties, and according to the freedom or severi¬ ty of Madame Valentine. There is ano¬ ther kind of Valentine, whicii is the first young man or woman tliat chance throws in your way In the street, or elsewhere on that day."
So also in the "Connoisseur" there is mention of the same usage preceded by certain mysterious ceremonies the night before; one of these being almost cer tain to insure an indigestion, is there¬ fore likely to occasion a dream favora¬ ble to the dreamer's waking wishes: "LastFriday was Valentine's day, and, the night before, I got five bay-leaves, and pinned four of them to the four corners of my pillow, and the fifth to the middle; and then, if I dreamt of m.v sweetheart, Betty said we sliould be married before the year wiLs out. — But to make it more aure, I boiled an egg hard, aud took out the yolk, and filled it witii salt; and when I wont to bed, ate it, sliell and all, without speak¬ ing or drinking after it. Wc also wrote our lovers' names upon bits of paper, and rolled tliem nil in clay, and put them into water; and the first that rose up was to be our Valentine. Would you thinic it, Mr. Blossom wus my man. I lay a-bed and shut my eyes all the morning, till he came to our house; for I would not have seen another man be¬ fore him for all the world."
A singular custom prevailed many years since iu the west of England. — "Three single young men went out to¬ gether before daylight on St. Valen¬ tine's day, with a clapnet to catch an old owl and two sparrows in a neigh¬ boring barn. If they were successful^ and could bring the birds to the inn without Injury before the females of the house had risen, they were to be re¬ warded by the hostess with three pots of purl in honor of St Valentine, and enjoyed the privilege of demanding at any other house in the neighborhood a similar boon. This was done, says onr correspondent, as an emblem that the owl being the bird of wisdom, could in¬ fluence the feathered race to Cuter the net of love as mates on that day, where¬ on both single lads and maidens should be reminded'that happiness could alone be secured by an early union."
I hear a stioat.'of'laerr^ent,. ¦ -A.la'agliilJ3KtM>y.Iue;''' '- Tvo littl* feet thecialrpet presi, Aild brlng''th'6'«li'nd to me.
Two Uttl'^'|iriaa'are^rouiid my neclc, Two feet npba my knee;    *
How tail the kijsiies.oii'iny cheek! Bfow sweet tiiey are to^me!
That merry. Bhout no more I henr; No langhlng o'dnld I see; - -No little drma are'ronnd ray neck, Or feet npon niy knee.
No klases drop upon niy cheek— Those lips. arekSeoled to me;. . nearLordjhowcaaldlgivehlm up To any but to Thee ?
A TETIE. STOEY.
A shrewd preacher, after an eloquent sermon, said to his hearers; "I am afraid from the sympathy displayed in ypur countenances, that some of you may give too much. I caution you, therefore, that you should be just before generous ;{uid wishyqiito understand thc^ I desire no one 'whacsnncit p^y hik debts to put anythingiin the ..i^ata'X The ooUbctlon was a rare oao.
Many years ago I happened to be one of the referees in a case that excited un¬ usual Interest in our courts, from tlie singular nature of tlie claim, and the strange story which it disclosed. The plaintiff, who was captain ofa ship whicii traded principally with the West Indies, had married quite early, with every prospect of liaiipiness. His wife was said to have been extremely beautiful, and no less loveable in char¬ acter.
After living with her in the most un¬ interrupted harmony for five years, du¬ ring which time. two daughters were added to 'the family, he suddenly re¬ solved to resume his occupation, which ho had Relinquished on his marriage, and when his youugest child was but three-weeks old, he sailed for the West. Indies. His wife, who was devotedly attached to him, sorrowed deeply in his absence, and found her only comfort in tho society of her children, and tbe hope of his return. But month after month passed away, and lie came not, nor did any letters, those insufficient but ever welcome substitutes, arrive to cheer her bitter solitude. Months lengthened in¬ to years, yet no tidings were received from the absent liusband, and after hoping against liope, the unhappy wife was compelled to believe that he had found a grave beneath the weltering ocean.
Her sorrow was deep and heartfelt, but the evils Of poverty were now ad¬ ded to her afflictions, and the widow found herself obliged to resort to some euniloynicut in order to supjiort her children. Her needle w.as the only re¬ source, and for tou years she labored early and lateforthemiserablepittance which is ever so grudgingly bestowed on an humble seamstress.
A merciiant, in New York, in mode¬ rate but prosperous circumstances, ac¬ cidentally became acquainted with her, and, pleased with her gentle mannei-s, no less than her beauty, he Improved their acquaintance info friendsliip.
After some months lie offered his hand and was acceiited. As the wife ofa successful merciiant slie soon found herself in the enjoyment of such com¬ forts and luxuries snch as she had never possessed. Her children became iiis children, and received from him every advantage which wealth and affection qould procure.
Fifteen years pas.sedaway; thedaugh- ters married, and by their steji-fatlier were furnished with every comfort re¬ quisite to their new avocation aa house¬ keepers. But they had hardly quitted his roof when tlie mother was taken ill. She died aftera few days, and from tliat time until ths period of whicii I speak, the widower had resided with the younger daugliter.
Now. comes the stranger pai t of the story. After an absence of thirty j'ears, during which time no tidings liad ar¬ rived from him, the first husband re¬ turned as suddenly as he had departed. He had changed his ship, adopting another name, and spent the whole of ¦that long period on the ocean, with only transient visits on ahore, while taking iu or discliarging cargoes, hav¬ ing been careful never to come nearer home than New Orleiins. Why he had acted in this unpardonable manner to¬ wards the family no one could tell, and he obstinately refused all explanation. There were strange rumors of slave trading and piracy afloat, but they were only whispered conjecture rather than truth. Wliatever might have been his motives for his conduct, he was certain¬ ly anything but Indifferent to his fam¬ ily concerns when he returned. He raved like a madman when informed of his wife's second marriage and subse¬ quent death, vowing vengeance on his successor, and terrifying his daugliters with the most awful threats iu case tliey refused to acknowledge his claim. He had returned wealthy, and one of tlfe reptiles of the law—who are always to be found crawling about the lialls of justice—advised him to bring a suit a- gainst thesecond liusband, assuring him that be could recover heavy damages. The absurdity of instituting a claim for a wife whom death had relieved from the jurisdiction ofall earthly laws, was so manifest, that at length It was agreed to by all parties to leave the matter to be adjudged by five referees.
It was ubon a bright and beautiful af¬ ternoon in the spring when we met to hear the singular cise. Tlie sunlight streamed through tho dusty windows of tlie court room, and shed a halo around the long, gray loclca and broad forehead of the defendant—while the plaintiff'a harsh features were thrown into still bolder relief by the same beam which seemed to soften tlie placid countenance of his adversarv.
The plaintiff's lawyer made a most el¬ oquent appeal for his (dient, and liad we not been informed about the matter, our hearts would have been melted by bis touching desoriptiiin ofthe return of the desolate husband and tlie great agony with which ho beheld his household gods removed to consecrate a stranger's hearth. The celebrated Aaron Burr was the counsel for the defendant, and we anticipated from iiim a splendid display of oratory.
Contrary to our expectations, howev¬ er. Burr made no attempt to confute his opponent's eloquentoratorj'. He merely opened a book of statutes, and pointing, with his thin fingers, to one of the pages, desired tlie referees to read it, while he retired a moment,for the prin¬ cipal witness.
We had scarcely finished reading tlie section which fully decided ¦ the matter in our minds, when Burr re-entered with atall and elegant female under his arm. She wasattired In a simple white dress with a wreath of ivy leaves encir¬ cling her large straw bonnet, and a lace veil completely concealing' her counte¬ nance. Burr whispered a few words, apparently e'ncouraginjg her to advance, and then gracefully raised her veil, dis¬ covering to us a face of proud, surpass¬ ing beauty. I recollect aa well as If It happened yesterday, how simultaneous the murmur of adiniration burst from the lips of all present. Turning to the plaintiff, Mr. Burr asked in a cold, quiet tone:
" Do you know this lady?"
"I do."
" WiU yon swear to. thot?" . " I will to the best of my knowledge and belief: she is mydaughter."
" Can you swear to. the Identity ?"
"I can."  .   .
"Whatls'her age?"
"ShelBthIr^:yeiurs'old on th^ 20th daypfAprih':' .;';¦;     ;.
" When did yon last see besi"
ii;At:her.own: house, about a-fortnight since,'!;,. -,¦
" When dl.d you see her previous to .that, meeting?"
ThepIaintlffhesitated-T-along pause ensited—the queatlon'.was repeated, aud the'answer at lehgth wiia— When she waa just a child. " When she was just three w.eeks'bld,'' added Burr^ »me»««meni'*Tontiuued, he, turning to us, " I have brought this lady here as an Important witness, and such I think she Is. The plaintiff's' counsel has pleaded eloquently In be¬ half of the bereaved husband, who es¬ caped the perils ofthe sea and returned only to find home desolate. But wbo will picture to,you the lonely wife, bending over the daily toil, devoting her best years to tlie drudgery of sordid poverty, supported only by the hope of herliusbaud'sreturu? Who will picture the slow i>rocess of heart sickening, the wasting anguish of hope deferred, aud finally the overwhelming agony wliich came upon her when her last hope was extinguished, ahd she was compelled to believe hei-self a widow? Who can de¬ pict all this without awakening in your hearts tlie warmest sympathy for the deserted wife, and the utterest scorn for the mean, vile wretch, who could thus trample on the heart of her whom he swore to love and cherish? We need not inquire into his motive for acting bo base a part, Whether It was love of gain, or licentiousness, or selfish indifl- erence, It matters not; he la'toovllea thing to be judged by such laws aa gov¬ ern meu. Let us ask the witness—she who stands before us with tlie frank, fearless brow of a true-hearted woman —let us ask which of the two has been to her a father?"
Turning to tho lady, in a tone whose sweetness was a strange contrast, with the scornfulaceent which characterized his words, he besought her to relate briefly the recollections of her early life. A proud Sush passed over her beautiful face as sho replied:
" My flrst recollections are of a small, ill-furnished apartment, which my sis¬ ter and myself shared with my mother. She used to carry out every Saturday the work wliich had occupied her du¬ ring tho week, and bring back employ¬ ment for the following. Saving her "wearisome visits to her employers, and her regular attendance at church, slio never left tlie house. Sho often spoke of my fatlier, and of his anticipated re¬ turn, but at lengtii she ceased to men¬ tion him, thougli I observed she used to weep more frequently than ever. I then thought she wept because we were poor, for it sometimes happened that our support was only a bit of dry bread; and she was aceustonied to see by the light of cliips which she kindled to warm her famishing children, because she could not purchase a candle with¬ out depriving us of our morning meal. Such was our poverty when my mother contracted her second marriage, and tlie change to us was like a sudden entrance to Paradise. We found a home and father."   Slie paused.
"Would you excite my own cliild against mo?" cried the plaintiff,as he impatiently waved liLs hand for her to be silent.
Tlie eyes of the witness fl.ashed fire as slie spoke:
" You are not my father," exclaimed she, vehemently. " What, call you my father—you whoso basely left your wife to toil for your cliildren to beggary! Never. Behold there my father," point¬ ing to the calm defendant, " tliere is tbe man who watched over my infancy, who was tlie sharer of my cliildish sports, and tlie guardian of my inexper¬ ienced youth. There is tlie man who claims my affection and shares my home: there is my father. For yonder sellisli wretch I know him not. The best yeara of his life have been spent in lawless freedom from social ties; let him seek elsewhere for the comiianions of his decrepitude, nor dare insult the a^iea of my aged raother by now claim¬ ing the duties of kindred from her de¬ serted children."
She drew her veil hastily around her as she spoke, and moved as if wishing to withdraw.
" Gentlemen," said Burr, " I have uo more to say. The words of tlie law are expressed in the book before you ; the words of truth you have heard from woman's pure lips; it is for you to de¬ cide according to the requistitiou of na¬ ture aud the decrees of justice."
I need not say that our decision was in favor of the defendant, and the plain- tifl" went fortli followed by the con¬ tempt of every honorable man who was present at the trial.
soiimsE OF sihq:^ vroxm.
. The'fpilo'wing contribution portrays the forbea,ranceof woman, a christian virtue rarely possessed by the opposite sex. Frequently a life of celibacy ia borne by the latter from unknown cau¬ ses:
Itis a condition to whicii a single woman must make up her mind, that the close other days will bo more or less solltari'. Yet there is a solitude which old age feels to be natural and satisfying as tliat rest whicii seems such an irksoineiiess to youth, but whicii gradually grows into the best blessings of our lives; aud there is onother soli¬ tude so full of peace and hope, that it is like Jacob's sleep in the wilderness at the foot of the ladder of angels:
" .VlUliliigsiirolf.ssdrcadkUthanthey .seem."
And it may be that ti»oextreme lone¬ liness which, viewed afar off, appears to an unmarried woman as one of the saddest of tiie inevitable results of her lots shall by that time luavc lost all pain, and be regarded but as the quite, dreamy hour " between tbe lights;" when the day's work is done we lean back, closing our eyes, to think it all over, before we finally go forest, or to look forward in faitli aud liope, unto the coming.
A finislied life—a life whichhasmade the most of all the materials granted to it, and through which, be its web dark or briglit; its pattern clear or cloudy, now can be traced' plainly the hand of 1 the great Designer; surelj- this is worth living for. Aud although at its end, it may be somewhat lonely, though a ser¬ vant's, .and not a daughter's arm, may guide the failing step, thougli most likely it will be strangers only who corae around the dying bed, close the eyes that no liusband ever kissed, and draw the shroud over tlie poor withered breast, where no child's head had over Iain; still such a life is not to be pitied, for it is a completed life. It has fulfill¬ ed its appointed course, and returns to theGiver of all breath, .ns pure as He thatgaveit.
"WHINIHG" WOMEN.
Brighara Young, of Utali, has been blowing up the women of that free-and- easy Territory in a manner at once aw¬ ful and unique. He accuses them of "whining," aud says that they must either "stoi> tliat sort of nonsense" or else start for the other side of Jordan, at once— and he tolls liis own forty wives that he means Uicm, as well as the rest of the fcniinino Utali yaus.— He says tliat the kernel of tho wliole dinicuity- the direct occasion of tliu disagreeable and mibearablo "wliin- ihgs" lies in the fact that "the women expect too much of the Saints!" He saysthat tho women—even his own for tj'—::ireso weak-minded as to suppose that the saintly eldera of the Slorraon Israel can make a heaven on earth for them—and that after a woman iias en¬ tered a Saint's family, aud finds tiiat after all he is not able to make a licav-^ en on earthforher,she begins to''whine'' and talk about "too manj- wis'es" and the evils of polygamy, and .such like "blasphemous twaddle." Brighara also says it is his opinion,that any woman who ever lived would be disappointed in the best "SaiiiL" in' Utah should she marry liim—and on tliis point we unre¬ servedly agree with Brigham. The Governor gave all the women warning that two weeks from date of his sermon agaiust "whining" he should call upon them either to promise never to 'wliiiie' more, or leave the Territory, bag and baggage, sayin that he would even seiidofriiis own wives, and go to heav¬ en alone, sooner tlian take such a 'whin¬ ing' crew along with him.
Squbuzing.—While we are growing very sensible, indeed, in tlie matter of dress, so far as boots, balmoral skirts, warm stockings, aud high necks, we are degenerating in some other matters quite as important. The corset is not a necessary part of a woman's wardrobe ; and, alas, when a woman does begin to wear corsets she will wear them too small, and will tug at the laces until her breath becomes short, and feels it necessary to refrain from anything like a comfortable meal. We say nothing a- bout a well-shaped corset, worn loosely, but there lies tbe difficulty. A loose cor¬ set injures theappearanee instead of im¬ proving it, aud people wear corsots that they may havo small waists. All we can say is, don't squeeze, whatever you uo. Vou may have small waists, but you are exposing yourselves to a dozen misfortunes which are as bad as a large waist. First, you'll surely havo dys¬ pepsia, and grow yellow and cross and unhappy ; secondly, your hands will grow red ; thirdly, your nose ; fourthly, you will be unable to walk a mile at once; fifthly, dinner will be a misery ! sixthly, your shoulder blades will in¬ crease in size and altitude; sevently, your eyes will grow weak, eiglitly, you will break down at tliirty or thereabouts and be a sickly old woman from tliat time fortli. If these truths do not fright¬ en women from tight corsets, perliaps tlie information that gentlemen gener¬ ally do not admire what dressmakers call a " pretty figure," so much as a natural one, may have some influence.
ACCIDENTS OF SPEECH.
Pat lias long labored under tlie inipu- tatioii of making more ' accidents' with the tongue than any of his fellow mor¬ tals, but it can be very readilj- shown that the ' bull' is not necessarily indig¬ enous to Irish soil.
A Frencliman named Gallon, who died in Paris not many years ago, was remarkable for a bovine tendency.— Tliere is a letter of his iu existence as follows: 'Jly dear friend, I left my knife at your lodgings yesterday. Pray send itto rae if you find it. Yours, Ca- lion. P. S.—Never mind sending the knife; I have found it.'
There is a note to liis wife, wiiicli he sent home with a basket of provisions, the postscript to which read: ' Yoii will find my letter at the bottom of ray bas¬ ket. If you should fajl to do so, let me know as soon as possible.'
It is .said of this same cliaracter tliat on one occasion lie took a liglitcd faiier to find his way down st.air3 without ac¬ cident, and after getting down, brouglit it back with thanks, leaving himself at the top of the stairs in the dark as at first.
A lady ouce asked the Abbe de Ma- tignon how old he was. ' Wliy, I am only thirty-two,' said ho, ' but I count myself tliirty-tliree, because a little boy was born a year before I wa.'», and died, evidently keeping mc back a Whole year by accident."
It was a Scotcli woman who said tiiat the butclier of her town only killed half a beast at a time.      . .
It was a Dutchman wlio .siiid .a pig li.ad no ear marks except a, short tail; and it was a British magistrate who, being told by a vagabond that he was uol married, responded, " Tliut'sagood thing for your wife.'
At a prayer meeting in New Hamp¬ shire a wortiiy layman spoke ofa poor boy whose father was a drunkard and whoso motlier was a widow.
THE MISCHIEF OF PASSIOX—"Will putting one's self in a passion mend tlie matter?"said an old man to a boy, who had picked up a stone to throw at a dog. The dbg only barked at him iu play.
"Yes, it will mend the matter," said the passionate boy; and quickly dashed the stone at the dog.
The animal, thus enraged, sprang at the boy, and bit his leg ; while the stone bounded against a .shop-window, and broke a pane of glass.
Out ran the shopkeeper, and seized the boy, and made him pay for the bro¬ ken pane. He had mended the matter finely, indeed!
It never did, and it never will, mend amattertogetintoa passion about it. If the thing bff hard to bear when you are calm, it will be harder when you arein danger.
If you have met with a loss, you will only Increase it by losing your temper. ,??rytobecalm, esppolallyin trifllog fTOubles.;. Mdi'jwiea^^ try to bear them bravely.
STOBT FOR THg.ICTTIE FOIKS-
ONLY A COBBLER. About eighty years ago, there lived a very poor man in the town of Ports¬ mouth. He was only a cobbler; but 0 cobbler who deserved to be a king. Listen to the story ot what he did, and yon will say so too :—
iHe had not always been a cobbler, he had been brought up to work at ships iu the docks ; but he met with an acci¬ dent and broke his thigh, so that he could do ho more active work. It must have beeu a great trouble to him to know, while still young, that he must be a cripple for life, and I dare say found it very hard to be resigned and content¬ ed. He did not know that God bad other work for liim to do: -wo never can know tlie%ay God is leading us. Very often things seem very mueli against us, and all the while he is preparing us for some special work whicii we never thought of. So the poor young man looked around to see what he couid do ; he tried to learn ahoemaking, but lie never got as far as that, he was only able to \iiend them; he then hired a liumble room in his native town, and there, for more than fifty years, lie lived and worked as a cobbler.
And was that all?—only a cobbler? True; tliis was iiow lie gained an houest living ; aud a cobbler's work, if done ou the great principle the Bible gives us, " Unto lite Lord," is just aa pleasing iu God's sight as othei-s, wliich we think higher. But tliis was not all; he did sometliing besides mending slioes. He had naturally a kind and benevolent mind, and I iiave no doubt the love of God was in his lieart, or he would not havo persevered as he did in his work of usefulness; he became a teacher aud a schoolmaster. He was always fond of anything alive, children as well as ani¬ mals, and, besides a number of fame birds, he took cliarge of a poor little ne¬ phew, a cripple, whose feet turned in so b.idly that he could not walk. The cobbler was ingenious as well as kind, and he contrived a way by tiie use of which gradually the child's feet grew straight, and ho became able to walk.— Meanwhile lie tauglit him to read, and witli so luueli success that he began to ' feel love forthe work of teaching. Why should he not get a few more? Tlie child would learn better witli comjian- ions, and tlie streets were overrun witli ragged, dirty little ones, who had no¬ body to teach them.
So ho hobbled across the road to a neighbor, and .-Lsked if he would like his children to bo taught to read, as he would teach them for uothin'fe. Tlie neighbor started as if he thought he was a strauge cobbler, but consented to send his children to him. By-and-by these children brought othera, fill the small room w.xs quite full und would hold no more. It is not often people can do two tilings well at tlie same time, but* file clever cobbler did the workjwith his hands, and did it well too, while ho sat in the niid.st of liis pu¬ pils hearing them read aud spell, while otiiers wrote copies and added up sums. It was rather hot and close, as you may suppose, but he did not mind that, and in line weatlicr thuy took it in turns to sit ou a bcneli outside the door. How he taught so many at once is a marvel, but it is certain the children made rapid progress under tliis rougii tuition.
How lie kept them in order ia still moro wonderful, and it was a sore puzzle fo his neighbors, for tiie pupils were rude and wild and had never known any control before. Now aud then one would be refractory and refuse to come; then he used to follow the truant, and, with a bribe of a hot potato backed by kind words, he seldom failed to win him again to school. While he tauglit them other things, you may be sure lie .did not forget the other truths of tlie Bible, which, sinking into many a young lieart, brought forth fruit in after yeara.
As tlie first set of scholars moved off, others pressed in to supply their places; but the cobbler always chose tlie poor¬ est and most neglected children, that lie might, with God'.s help, be tlie means of reclaiming liiem from tho paths of vice and idleness. You must remember hcnevertookany money fortheirschool- ing; the love he bore to his self-choseii work was its own reward. It was wiiat would now be called a Ragged School, but such things had no name thoii.— Hundreds, tlirough the Iiumble school¬ master's eflbrts, grew up steady, respects able men and women; and, .is the 3'ear- passed on, tall soldiers, or sailors, or young wonion would often come and thank him for the good tiioy liave got from him in their shildhood.
60, year after year, the Portsmouth cobbler pursued his self-denying but li.appy -ivork. Do you not think iie was Inqipy, though only a cobbler ?   I do.
At length, after more than fifty years, ono New Y'car's Day, while preparing'" for his daily work, be fell dowu sudden¬ ly and died. He went to rcccleve a re¬ ward, througii grace, from Him who has said, "Inasmuch as yc have done it unto oneof the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me." Nor did liis work end here; littlo known as he was during life, except by his neighbors, his example paved th.i way for otliera fo follow after him. Peodle saw wliat could be done for poor outcast children, and they began to fry as ho had done, to reclaim them.
Jfany a blessed Bagged School, and many a noble self-denying tcaeiier has risen up iu our large towns since then ; but John Pounds, though only a coli- bior -H-iis the man who first showed them the way.—Youths' companion.
' Go ON, Sin; ao on-.'-Arago says, in his 'Autobiography,' that his mus¬ ter in mathematics was a word or fwo of advice, which he foUnd in the bind¬ ing of one of his text-books. Puzzled and discouraged by the difliculties he met witli in iiis early studies, he was almost ready to give over the pursuit. Some words which lie found on the waste leaf used to stiftcn the cover of his paper-bound text-book caught his eye and interested him.
' Impelled,' he says, ' by an iiidcfiu:i- ble cusiosity, I damped the cover of the book, and carefully unrolled the leaf, lo see what was ou the other side. Itprov¬ cd to be a short letter from D'Alembert to a young person disiieartencd, like mj'self, by tlie difficulties of mathemat¬ ical study, aud who had written to liim for counsel.
'' Go on, sir; go on,' was tlie counsel whicii D'Aienibert gave him. ' The difficulties you meet will resolve them¬ selves as you advance. Proceed, and light will dawn and shine witii increas¬ ing clearness on your patli.'
' That maxim,' says Arago, ' was my greatest master in matliematies.' Fol¬ lowing out these simple words, ' Go on, sir; goon,' made him the first* astro¬ nomical mathematiciaii of his age. — What Christians it would make of us? What heroes of faith, whatsages in ho¬ ly wisdom, should we become just by acting out that maxim, ' Go on, sir; go on!'
Slight chang^ make great differences. Dinner fo^ 'nothing is very good fun ; but you can!t say as much of nothing for dinner.
Unsophisticated country people littlo dream ofthe depravity existing in great cities; for when they visit a city they only see fhe bright side of it. The siu and suffering in all the cities are shock¬ ing, but New York probably far sur¬ passes all otiier American cities In tiiia respect. Au idea of low life in New York maybe inferred from a fact stated iu New Y'ork papers last week. Tiie police made a descent on two low houses III Baxter street, and in one of tliem ar- ,rested sixty-tiirce boj-s from nine to thirteen years of age, who were found indulging in the life common to snch places. In the otlicr house forty-two boya were found engaged in like ennob¬ ling pursuits. Our young country folks wlio sigh for city life little know oftlie dangers they would encounter. Tlioso whose lots are cast in tiie purer moral atmosphere of the country have causa for profound gratitude.
Dr. Cliapin .says: The cause tliat never m:uie a fanatic never produced a martyr.
Air is a dish ou whicii one feeds every minute; tlierefore it ouglit always to be fresh.
"AVakeupliere,andpayyourIodging," said a deacon, as he nudged a sleepj' worshiper with tlie contribution box.
An editor announces the death ofa lady of his acquaintance, and thus touchlngly adds: "In her decease the sick lost an invaluable friend. Long will she seem to stand at their bedside, OS she was wont, with the balm of con¬ solation In one hand and'a cup ofrhu- arbin the other."