The Union and journal. [volume], April 06, 1860, Image 1

About The Union and journal. [volume] (Biddeford, Me.) 1858-1882

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LOCIS 0. COWAN,]
"ETERNAL HOSTILITY TO EVERY FORM OP OPPRESSION OVER THE MIND OR BODY OF MAN."—Jeffer«on.
[EDITOR AND PROPRIETOR.
VOLUME XVI.
BIDDEFORD, ME., FRIDAY MORNING, APRIL (i. i860.
NUMBER 16. •
C|t Union & |onrnal
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fottrj.
BONO or THE ALPS.
BT BCHILLKB.
By the edge of the churn ia a slippery trick.
The torrent beneath, and mist hanging o'er
thee;
Theclifh of the mountain, rugged and black.
Are fruwuing like giants before thee;
And wouMst thou not wakea the sleeping La
wine,
Walk silent and soft through the deadly ravine.
That bridge, with it* dirtying, perilous span.
Aloft, o'er the gulf and ita flood suspended —
Think'st thou it was built by the art of man,
Uy his hand that grim old arch waa ben-led?
Far down in the jaws of the gloomy abysa
The water ia boiling and his»irg—forever will
hiss.
The pite through the rock Is darksome and
drear.
As if to the regions ot shadow* it carried;
Yet rnter! A iwwl, laugMiiK landeca|»c is here.
Where the spring with the autumu is mar
ried. ^
From the wdRlJ with its sorrows and wnrture
anl wail.
Oh, could I but hide in this bright little v»lr!
Four ritm rush down troni on high.
Their spring will be hid len foreter;
Their eourne i* to all four parts of the sky.
To each point of the sky is a river;
And fast as they start from their old mother's
feet.
They dash forth, and no more will they meet.
Two pinnacles rise to the depth of the blue;
Aloft on their white summits glancing,
lledecked in their garments of golden dew,
Tbe clouds of the sky are dancing:
There threading alone their lightaome maze.
Uplifted apart from all mortals' gase.
And high on her eT«r enduring throne,
The queen of the mountain reposes.
Her head serene, and azure, and lone,
A diamond crown incloses;
The sun with it* darU shoot round it ksen and
hot.
He gilds it always—he warms it not
Agricultural.
Roquiaites for Making Good Butter.1
What nn* tho re<|uUit»w for nuking tho
beat butter?
There aro a few butter-makers who hate
established such a reputation for making the
very finest article, that all they can spare for
market is eagerly taken at several cents a
Eound above the market price. So far a* we
now, they all adopt the following rule*; or
if they do not, they practice them :
1. A perfectly clean cellar, not only
cleun front all dirt, hut from every bod odor
—pure, tweet, and frcah.
2. Perfectly clean, well aired vessel*.—
Not an infiniUwsiuial speck of any foreign or
sour substance adheres to any of them.
3. Churning before the croam become*
old.
4. Securing auch a temperature that it
will ni|uire about half an nour for churn
ing—if performed much aooncr.a loss of but
ter must occur, and it ia not so good.
5. Work all the buttermilk out, which ia
rarely done—and work no longer, which is
still more rarely, but sometimes done.
0. I'ae the purust aalt—and add an ounce
to a pound.
7. Pack the butter in the iars or firkins
toltd—put aa much in a small apace as pos
sible.
8. Ijistly, am) first also, provide good
sweet pasture, and plenty of perfectly pure
water for the cows at all timca.
If ant h*v« pranced all thcae, and hare
not succeeded, we should like to hear from
them. It ia proper to state, however, that
there are some who asfc-rt that tlK,ir
Ac. are clean, when in (act they are far from
it.
Cowa—Points of a Ooo<l Milker.
From an interesting article on milk in the •
Ohio Farmer, we condense the following
items on the above topio :
A cow, to be • good milker must have a
good form, firm and compact bones, wide and
deep cheat, wide and broad udder, thin hide,
soft and gluasy hair, and a gentle fmuntnt
look. Large, thick bones mark the charac
ter of the animal. Tbey are generally
s|>ongY; if to, the animal Is a coarse, half,
formed concern, that has no richness of body,
mind or production. • If Urge and compact,
tbey show her to be too masculine, and that
her appropriate place ia at the plow rather
than in the milk stall. Such oowa give milk
and water, rather than good milk.
So, too, a cow with a large, clumsy head,
dull eves, and $iag Soma, ahould be killed
or add, but never kept for milk. For a food
o»w thorw should ho iia much mildne*i,:imiu
bility and beauty, in the head, oyc«, and
countenance, tut in a lowly woman. It is
not all nonncnw to say: " A good cow
should bo as pretty as a school ma'am."—
Good lungs an* another requisite of a apod
milker, and an important one. Witwiut
them the milk is unhealthy, partaking of the
constitution of the animal, lu conclusion,
the writer remarks:
•• Iu selecting u milker, look well to the
udder. Before milking, it should be wide
and broad, not hanging down like a nick;
and hard and shiny, nearly destitute of hair,
and what there is should bo short, line and
bright. After milking, the udder should be
soft, and apparently a skin-hug. If, after
milking, the udder is hard and full, it shows
that it i* flesh, and not milk, that distends it.
A thin skin, and soft, glossy hair, is nn in
dex to the texture of the whole animal. If
these are right, the whole animal may be
generally set down good."
Hints to Farmers.
The New Jcrs-iy Farmer for March sap
Our agricultural friends will, shortly alter
receiving this number, enter upon the most
arduous and laborious duties ot their culling,
and we deem it not inappropriate at this
time to remind them of the olu adage, that
"a stitch in time aires nine."
The succcas of an entire year sometimes
depends upon what is done ami what may be
left undone at this time. A good farmer
should lay out the plan of his cummer cam
paign at its commencement. Ik should hare
all his tools in order, the number of hands
he means to employ engaged, the scod ho
means to plant or sow selected. Ho sh mid
leave nothing to chance, but bo prepared for
every contingency which may arise. Kvery
thing should be so arranged as to lose not u
moment of time—for time is money, especially
to the fanner, who has a Unit hill a year to
make a wholo year's living in. 'Iherjis
plenty of time for sport und recreation after
the harvest!* am gathered ai.d carefully
stacked or housed.
lint bestd** the labors incident to the
present, we think the intelligent hirin r
shouid look somewhat to the future—und at
the sniue time that ho should taki) caio of
himself, he should not ho entirely regardless
of the general interests of hw claw. A pe
culiarity it theagricultur.il pnfcHsion in m
exemption from that miserable spirit of
rivalr* which frowns at the mioccm ofaco
Liborer, and hid'*** what it knows for fear
that another might profit by it. Its lal on
are performed iu the presence of tho Divinity,
in the midst of all his great and glorious
works, and ax an instrument of His grace ami
providence, ami lieitco all these petty and
itordid feeling* of envy and Jealousy r rely
fin 1 u j loc" in the hr-ust of an intelligent
agriculturist. But there in a negligence in
many, which In not in keeping with tho
liberal and generous » ntiments of men en
gage! in the high nrsnion «»f furnishing food
to tho world. \Vo should not ho satisfied
witli doing well ourselves, hut wo should
endeavor to induce our neighbors t.» do lilce
wiso. Kvcry farmer should lie u inis>ionarv
in tlx* caoso of g<n>d farming, and should
publish hu cxrori nee fur tin* guidanco of
other*, nut only in vague, general terms, hut
in detail. Ho should keep a jourral, in
which should be entered every dav's wj.-k,
the character of tho soil under tillage, its,
depth, the character of sub soil, the in >do of
cultivation, tho variation of weather and
climate, quality and quantity of manures
tijMHI, and the mode of culture applied to
each crop the cost.tho mult and every partic
ular connected with tho (i|*rutioni of tho
farm. Such a journal would not only bo of
incalculaMo benefit to tho farmer himself, an
a mean* of con»|»uring experiments and ascer
taining results lor his own benefit, hut it
will enable him to interchange information,
with some equally careful ami judicious
neighbor, for their mutual lioncfit.
Without being either a prophet or tho
son of a prophet, wo think wo may venture
to predict an early season, and if any of our
roadrrw have been neglectful in prvjtaring for
"Med tine," wo would advise them to bo up
and doing, for the clcrk of tho weather canw
for no man's convenience; and it is a subject
of self-reproach to spend tiiuo which ought
to lie dedicated to ploughing in (izingploughs
and harness, which ought to have boon lixed
mouths ago.
Thinking Gaanc Vimes.—A correspondent
of the Horticulturist gives these views upon
trimming, training un«l mulching grapo
vine*:
In 1850, 1 took a tour through the western
portion ot Berks county, whew then* were
in all, per hap, fifty uoree ofgruj** (Catawba
ami Isabella) in U'uring. Nearly ull were
u fleeted, more or lew, by the rot—some to
tallf ruined, others half a crop, ami some mi
hadly injured an not to l»e worth gathering.
One lot, of perhups half an at re, wus free
from disease, had a fine crop, and very nearly
ripe. • I had noticcd all the rest of tlie vine
yard* which 1 had vi»itcd were kept in neat
order—no wcedn, had hern carefully pruned
in the spring, and a* carefully pruned in the
spring, and on carefully tied to stake*. Hut
tnis one, in which no knife, cultivator or
hoe, or anything else had Urn used that year,
the grapes which I bought a week or teu
days after, at 40 per too, pruved not quite so
well ripened an they should have been, but
were infinitely superior to otheni that had
received great care and attention.
l)o we not sometime* work and trim too
much ? hint autumn, in looking at a friend'*
vin*s, hia Isabellas werv a jtcrfect failure,
except oue single vine, on the name trellis
with the otlum.had a proud load ot splendid
griimi u|k>u it.
Thin vine, naid my friend (it being it one
end of tb© trellis), I forgot to prune in tho
spring—hence tlie gnijtes. Suen nmiltn tell
a talc which ought to make a knife blush.
Ten yean ago I was in Sim-lair k Com'*
establishment, n.*ar llallim ire, und here, ter
the first time. tasted native grape wine—and
1 would wish nothing better. I asked them
how they treated their vin«*. Come und see,
was the rvply. Their vinea were trained on
trellises some eight or tea fift high, the
gTouml thickly covered with fr»«h leaves.—
In |be spring, when the frost in out of the
gn>und ami dried off pretty well.lbey rake off
J^Wm, give'a top dressing of manure, and
I think dig it in slightly, then COW on the
Wyes aguin, and what a waste there was in
h»»t y«%r s J.V.VT supplied from the forest.—
W T i pruning and picking
fruit. ImN'U.ik wrre the principal stock.
Must we trench two or three feet dear* to
obtain the finest grmpe*Aod to have the viuea
lost? If so, why do not our old rvsidenta of
the torest run tbeir roots d«*p d„vn instead
of creeping (as a sailor wouli my) 'between
wind and wat« r; or, in other w«nW, close to
the surface uider tho leaves? And why
do young vims that have heen set out in
May, in a bed only a foot wide, tTenched and
manured a fcot deep, run their little roots
two feet into the common Boil not over thre«
inches from tho surface ?
And why did not my border, fire feet wide
and three feet derp, tilled up with leather
shavings, old mortar, loaves, cow dung, Ac.,
keep their three-year old roots in itn fertile
hosoin, inntead of sneaking off ten feet and
netting themsclve* under an old hot-bed,
when they had but one inch of good soil on
a hard yellow clay, to puss through to got
over the path, and that path three foet wido
and considerably used ? Theso things nuzzle
me considerably, and suggest that a little less
trenching would answer as well; less trim
ming, ami a great deal of mulching would
pay us well.
Tn« Ccltvei or tiik Stkawbehrt.—Select
a warm, moist, but exposed situation; for
curly berries, let it slops to the east or south;
f«»r late fines to the north. Tho soil should
l>o fine, gravelly loam. Avoid high, barren
soil, make it clean, underdrain, leaving tho
dntin open at both ends to allow tho circu
lation of air. Pulveriao at least two foot in
depth, making 10 per cent of the soil as fine
as superfine Hour. For manures, apply 30
bushels of unlcachod ashes and 12 bushels of
i lime slacked with water holding 3 bushels of
suit in solution to the acre. Transplanting
should bo done with great care,and the root
lets of the plant injurtd as little as pomiblo.
Tho best time to transplant is in the Spring,
though with euro it may bo done any timo
during the summer. 'Iho lecturer said ho
should,in starting a new bod, place tho plants
threo foot apart each way. and allow them
to spread till they wcro only twelvo inches
from each other. Nearer than this they
should never grow. Tho bods should bo
mulching with tan bark, straw or some such
material to tho depth of half an inch, no
more. This keeps down weeds and keeps all
but the strongest runners from taking root.
Water may bo added with great advuntago
in larjce quantities, except during (lowering
and ripening periods, provided it does not
stand and becomo stagnant on the soil. After
this preparation little attention is needed.
The noe should nover be about the plants, as
it injures tho roots. Fiold culture differs
little from garden culture. Tho productive
u »i of the strawberry about New York dot's
n< t avenigo more than forty bushels per
iv r>. Them is no difficulty in raising 250
bus'iels under tho cultivation ho recommen
ded. In tho winter plants should bo lightly
covjnxl. Tho strawberry may lie made over
bearing by entirely preventing tho growing
of t ic runners. This mav bo done by plant
ing ii soil composed of three-quarters river
sail I and on«-quartcr woods-mould, Tlio
staninute and pistilato plants need not l>o
gro.vii within thirty or forty feet of each
oth r. Seedlings aro easily raised. The
an dysis of the plant differ* in different places
tho fwst diff<'rent varieties aro ilson's Seed
ling. Hooker's Seedlings, Long worth's Pro
lific, Hovey's Sellings and llurr's New
l'ine. There are m iny others nearly as good.
Wilson's iwdling is very prolific, 200 berries
many of ifieiu large ones, havo been grown I
on a single plant.—Ltxlureby It. G. i'ordrt.
IlIisrcHniifoits.
[From Uallou'f Dollar Monthly.)
Tho Doctor, and tho Doctor's Son.
■ •
DY ANNIE M. LOVEKING.
N w for s?hool-traohing I was no hotter
fitto I than for tho ministry—I moan tin fur
tut p itiencc was concerned—vet it camo into
my I cd'l very suddenly ono morning, as I Kit
in t'ie old kitchon of my father's house with
my little brothers and sister* about mo (in
deed, there was a goodly array of them,) that
it was about time for mo to bo doing some
thing in the world; something outside of tho
monotoncusround of bouso-hnld duties whieh
I performed day after day; something, pcr
hu|>«, to relieve my father, in a small wav of
the bnn'en that rested upon his shouhfero.
By this I do not mean that ho was in debt,
or that his goodly farm failed to give his
family a comfortable, happy support. Not
at all. But let that question go without
further discussion, and sufficc it by saving
that for very good rovonj of my own, 1 re
solved, a* the old people say, "to make a
start in the world/'
And so I started. Mow that wr.s brought
about, U would ho tedious enough to relate;
but this much I will say, that because of tho
i.l' i horn to mo so suddenly on that spring
morning, I was chosen—or tho numerous ap
J>licant»—teacher of some forty scVolars lit a
listanco of twenty miles from Cranston. I
need not add that this was a source of great
gratification to me, and that becauso of it I
entered into u vast number of vaguo, happy
speculations as to how the summer would
glido away—how tho days, tho long summer
days, would seem as short as tho shortest of
winter ones—how I would teach tho little
children to lovo me, and by that moans find
a readier way of interesting them in their
hooks. Doar mo! it would fill a good-sized
volume to writ* out all that I imagined and
dreamed of the summer which I was to spend
in the little villago of Lester.
But a "change came o'er tho spirit of my
dreams;" not before I left home, because in
such u ca<o I might never had for.nd courugo
to have left it; but just before I arrived at tho
sccnoof action.
"You are to teach in Lester villago this
summer, if I understand you rightly?" said
the most gentlemanly of gentlemen bofore I
left the curs at Letter.
Tho qmution was not an impertinent ono
after our brief, morning acquaintance, and
so I answered it in all good faith, a little
pompously, perhaps, for I wus greatly im
proved with the importance of my calling.
"Yes, sir, and I unticiputo a very pleasant
summer of it," I said.
"You do?"
He spoke in a quizzical tone, whilo tho
wisest and most inexplicable of smiles crowed
his face.
"Yes, sir, and why not?" I asked, forget
ing that my question was abrupt, and uiy
manner somewhat disturbed.
"Nothing, only to realise your pleasant
anticipations, you must meet a different fato
than your rredec«vsora for years back."
"And why, sir?" I questioned, my faco
getting redder and redder every moment.
"Because of all the children under the sun
those of Ixster village are the most unman
ageable. In the course of a summer they
usually succeed in dethroning two or three
teachers."
lie was a very handsome gentleman, as I
said before, ana as be said this in a pleasant,
laughing way, displaying a est of perfect
teeth be grew handsomer than ever. But I
did not think much of that, only of the
thread of quiet exultation that I thought I
detected running through his remark. ^ I
grew piqued in a moment, and answered him
with ti show ofapirit which must have been |
qutto amusing.
"They will not dethrone mo!"
••Ah?"
IIo was, indeed, much amused, for he
looked in ray face for a full inomant, as if to
gather from it food for his merriment. At
that I grew quoenly, or at least what I tho't
to 1» so, and drew myself upas though there
was a question of honor to settle. Just then
the can» earno to a full stop, and the con
ductor gavo his call "Lester!"—so that I did
not hare a chance to answer-^not his words,
for they were simple enough in themselves—
hut his manner.
"1 wihli you much success," ho said, as I
left the cars.
" Thank you; your wish shall provo a
prophecy."
That was tho first that I heard of my lis
ter school, and I need not add that my spirits
were somewhat dampened. But that I should
conquer tho unruly set of masters and misses
1 did not doubt for a moment.
•'They'd do well enough if it warn't for
the doctor's boy," my good-natured boarding
mistress said when I questioned hor concern
ing my pupils. "IIo is the ringleader of'cm,
and always has been."
That was enough for mo to know. I would
make friends with tho doctor's son at tho
beginning. But that was easier said than
done, I may as well confess at once. There
was mischief enough in him to hare stocked
u little million of commonly roguish hoys.
Gain an adrantago over him in one way, mid
ho was doubly sure to gain one over me in
another. If 1 attempted to reason with him,
his answers would sot the wholo school in a
hubbub, and if I threatened to punish him,
a look of sheer defiance settled upon his
bright face. Ho troubled me so deeply that
I could not rest night or day, in school or
out. That 1 grew palo and thin is not to bo
wondered at.
When my trial was at its height, I chanced
to meet iny acquaintance und prophet of the
cars. Who ho was, or what he was, 1 did
nut trouhlo myself to think. I did not even
care. 1 had hoped to meet him again, hut I
prcfcred to havo it at the timo of my victory,
not at my vanquishmcnt.
••And how nro you pleased with )'our
school?" ho asked, walking by my lido in an
easy, carriers way, as though lio was an ac
quaintance of years.
•'I am delighted," I answered. "I cannot
express to you how much so."
IIo 1 itighed heartily. Looking into his
face at that moment, I thought 1 could trace
a very strong resemblanco between him and
the doctor's son, Frank Eldridge. A most
unpleasant idea dawned upon my mind. A ;
little ungcred I determined to make tho most i
of it.
'•The scholars are very well," I mid, half
maliciously. *'1 suspect that 4ho trouble
lies with their parents. The ringleader of
nil the mischief seems to linvo grown up in a
nwst mil oilthy nttn<w|ihore. I should mv
that his father was not a very devout friend
of Sabbath schools, ami that would he a
mild saving, i mice J, and a charitable one on
my pj-rt."
M y words took imnmlliit* A liuU
flush of color appearing suddenly upon ths
gentleman's fact*, spoke plainer than words
could have done. Seeing my advantage I
continued, in a tantalising way:
"People tell me tlmt this Kldridgchoy has
not known a mother's care since his earliest
infancy. That is self-evident. I have been
more lenient, remembering this. Hut if it is
a mother's care that ho needs, 1 would adviso
bin father,most heartily, to mako an atU'mpt
to sivure to him tho care of somo good true
woman."
"You would ?"
He looked me fully in the face as ho atdced
tho question. 1 was not equal to tho nrdcal.
I grew suddenly confused, and trying to
answer him, stumbled upon three or four an
swers at the satno time.
"Your advico is most excellent, Miss Li
kin. - 1 hope tho unfortunate gentleman will
l>o able to uct upon it."
"So do I, most sincerely," I answered,
blushing l>enoath his strange, questioning
glance. "For tho boy's sake, ho would do
well to make the matter one of importance
until ho succceds," 1 added, more because I
would not allow myself to bo silenced by his
gaxo. than bocauso I cam! to speak.
"Perhaps you would bo willing to aid tho
gentleman in question, since you were the
first to suggest tho idea?' Would you ?"
"1 am no philanthropist," I answered,
curtly, Itslieving that he was making an at
tempt to quit me. "I think too much of my
life—"
I Instated. I saw that I was going too
far. The gentleman smiled. Wo were close
hv tl e school-house door, and tho conversa
tion could p> no further. With a "good
morning " he turned away, while I entered
the sehool-ruom.'
"Who was that gentleman?" I asked of a
child, standing by the door.
"Dr. Kldriilee, Frank Kldridct's father,"
was the r« ply.
I know that well enough l>oforfl, but bear
ing it verified by tbo child's lif n sent my
blood throbbing anil beating loudly at my
heart.
Tho daj that followed that morning una
not a pleasant one to mo. Not that my
scholars were unusually rude or boisterous—
to tho contrary, they were quieter than I had
over l>cforo known them; but somehow mv
conscience troubled me. Thinking of tho
motherless boy before mo, I saw that in deal
ing with him I had put away from my heart
that blessed charity which suflereth lung and
is kind. I had callcd anger justice, and by
it dealt with him. I had forgotten how
warm human words sink through tho con
gvaled surface of tho heart, touching and
stirring its purest depths.
1 had blamed the father. And there I was
wrong again. Of tho world, I a woman, had
the best right to look straight through his
indulgence, to tho fatherly U»nderne>s that
could not giro birth to a reprimand or a
rebuke ; to the lore that could not, liecause
of tho mother resting in thogravo, m««to out
the justice that tho child merited.
How tho tender hands of pity brought
these overlooked truths before mv eyes, until
blinded by tears I could not see?
The next morning I met Dr. Eldridgn
again, and again ho kept me company to tho
very door of the school-room. Ins tantalising
humor had not loft him, and with a sly look
in his clear, grey eyes, be assured me that
tho father of my unruly pupil had, indeed,
taken my sage advice to heart. Was I glad
to hear it?
"0 yes," I answered, in a sober, quiet
way.
"Let one (act console too, Mia Lakin,"
he said, earnestly, "you have succeeded ad
mirably with your school, and quite to the
satisfaction ot the villagers. There is a talk
of having the summer term continued into
the Sail, since there is a stout fund of school
money on band."
" Dear heavens," I Mid, MI shall go
craxy!"
"No, i hop© not, unlen you will consent
boforohund to engage moait medical advis
er."
I did not answor him. I wis in a poor
mood to bear his touting. Indeed, 1 could
hardly keep back the teat* at thought of the
many weeks torture that they were planning
out lor mo. For six weeks (naif of tho sum
mer term) I had been trying to keep down
tho rebellion, and I had hoped to worry
through the rest of my allotted time without
a serious outbreak. But now, I could not
hope for it. "War was inevitable, it roust
come." Before the thought, my good reso
lution* of tho day before vanished Tike empty
air. If to be mistress of the school-room I
mast use stick, whip and rule, then I would
wield them. I would conquer or be con
qucred. I did not resolve upon this fully
until I was informed that the school would
be lengthened out six weeks into autumn,
allowing a vacation of one week in tho mean
tiuio.
So tho days dragged along,not one passing
without Dr. Eldridge making his appearance
somewhere in my way. Sometimes I was
pleasod to see him, perhaps always; but he
liari a strange, mischievous way with him
that worked against my temper constantly.
I think he liked my little fits of passion, how
ever, or ho would not havo provoked them
continually.
And tho school! Dear me what a ichool
it was! The trial of it wore mo thin as u
shadow. But adairs catno to a climax one
day. This was tho way it was brought about.
Whilo hearing a recitation, ono hot, sultry
afternoon, I drew my chair into tho middle
of the floor, where there was a faint show of
a brcexo. I was directly in front of ono of
tho aisles, and so seated that I could not see
what was going on behind me. After dis
missing tho class, I made an attempt to rise,
when to my utter dismay and horror I found
myself, or my drosi made fast to tho chair.
I tried to.be cool and collected, as I released
myself, but my hand trembled violently, and
I know that ray fuco was whito with an
ger.
♦•Can any ono tell mo who pinned my dress
to tho chair?" I asked.
1'liero was a dead silenco. I repeated tho
question. Still no answer. I could inter
pret that easily enough. Not a scholar in
school dared tell a tale of Frank Eldridgo.
•'You may walk this way, Frank," I said.
As though marching to a military drum,
he canio to the floor.
•'I shall bear your impudence no longer,"
I began. "Either you or I must bo nt the
head of this school. If my arm and ruler
are as trusty us I think, I shall bo mistress
hero."
"You don't dare ferulo mo; my father—"
he lK'gun.
••Let your father coino here, and I will
ferule litm too," 1 mid. interrupting him.
"I'll tell him of that," ho cried out.
••Do so, by nil means," I answered.
And m I thrashed Frank Eldridge, sound
ly and smartly, till lie l>cgg;d for mercy like
u three year old bahy, and promised as hum
bly u« 1 couid wish to do hcttor. Thero was
a groat nproar, in conseouenco of it, both in
•fh'wl ami out. But «(wt uiaJu tlx matter
ludieoun'in tho extreme. was that tbo fact of
my threatening to whip Dr. Kldridgo (hand
some, idolised Dr. Kldridgo, tho awo of the
whole village, and the pride of tho whole
town) was noised nhout. At last it reachd
tho doctor's earn and as I had feared ho camo
just at the close of school,tho nextuftcrnoon,
to reoiind mo of my threat.
•'I havo come for my whipping," ho said
in n low tono. as I answered his loud rap at
the door. .
I do not know why, but tho toon sprang
to my eyes at this. It seemed unkind in
him, almost cruel. I was afraid that ho would
notico how I wus moved, and so I turned my
head away, us I answered :
••I am very busy now, can you como in
and wait 7"
"Until after school do you mean ?"
"Just us you plenso—I have no time to
spare now—I suppose you have como to undo
my work of yesterday.
"'Not I, believe me—"
"Walk in, ifyou please," I said interrupt
ing him. He was speakingso pleasuntly and
kindly that tho tears wore coining to ray eyes
again.
••Now my whipping, Miss Lakin," he said
after tho last class was dismissed, and we
wcro alone together in the old school-house.
"Dr. Eldridgo, how unkind of you,"]
said.
••But I insist upon it," he answered, pass
ing mo my rulo.
How excwdingly foolish I felt. How
wretchedly ho teased me. But there wus no
escaping (roin him, ao 1 said, laughing and
crying altogether, '»Givo mo your hana?"
"Tho right, I belicvo, is the one always
(1.timed by ladies. But are you serious,
shall I really give it to vou?"
♦•lea," l answer*!, coloring.
Taking tho tip* of hit fingers in my left
hand, I gave him a quick blow.
"A kiw for a blow," he said, raising my
hand to his lint. "Strike uway, dear, I shall
never weary.''
So I struck him again, once, twice, thrico.
"Seo which hand will get blistered first,
vouni or mine," bo mid, in high glee. "How
nappy jou mako me, and how good I am
gt'tting."
"And how bad I am growing every day,"
I cried, bursting into tears, and dropping my
head upon the desk.
"Ileaven forbid, Lizzie," ho said, tender
ly, tho mockery going quite away from his
voice." 1 know that I bare worried and
troubled you; but my heart has been, and is,
all right, my child. Do you romcmber what
you said to me a long time ago, about marry
ing again ? And do you know, that in spite
of reason and prudence, (for you arc young
and pure-hearted yet,) I hoped and prayed
that sometlmo you might bo the light and lore
of my bad, darkened heart, my darkened homo? '
I love you, that is all 1 can my in pleading 1
my cose. "
' And that was enough. That blessed
knowledge for a moment expiatod all my suf
ferings in tho turbulent school-room ; ay, all
that 1 bad known in life, evon.
"Then you mount it, in a small war, wben
you asked mo to give you uiy band ?" ho aaid
uicl.lv, as I held out my hands.to him.
And 1 aaid "yes" in one breath, and "no" 1
in the next, which was right?
A Now Story by Dickons.
A terrible, yet docplr human story is told
by Charles Dickens in llarpcr's Weekly (or
this week, as the first of a series of sketches
of his own experience in travelling " for the
groat house of Human Interest Brothers." i
It is of a visit, In the merry Christinas time,
to a point on the coast of Wales, wbeooe, on i
the morning of Ootober 26, 1859, ooold be <
seen a great ship, struggling with a moan- |
tainous sea where, that morning, the Royal ]
Charter, bound from Australia, and nearly |
home, ■ track and broke, and want down |
with fire hundred lives. The bodies had not ]
ceased to oome in, u Mr. Diekena stood and
looked orcr the quiet sunny sea, and the
divers were still busy seeking the golden
treasure, of which £350,000 worth had been
lost, and np to that day, £300,000 worth
had been recovered. What an overwhelm
ing conception of the majesty of nature is
given by this siimde sentence: •• So tre
mendous had the foree of the sea been when
it broko the ship, that it had beaten one gnat
ingot of gold de«p into a strong and heavy
pieco of her solid iron work, in which, also,
Mvcnd loose sovereigns, that tho ingot had
swept in before it, had boen found as firmly
imbedded as though the iron bad been liquid
when they were forced there."
As the dead forms, so lately buoyant with
tho hope of home and dear friends, drifted
ashore on that bleak coast, the clergyman of
the district (and this is the hero of thestory,)
received them, lie himself, when they had
been borne to the little ch«fcb, (forty-four
laid there at one tiiae!) patiently sought
among the Ipoor relics, not far plunder, but
for some token by which friends might be
able to identify thsm, throwing open his
house to agonised friends. . In this sanctuary
of death, " with weeping and wailing in ev
ery room of bis house,'7 says the narrator,
" my companion worked alone for hoars,
solemnly surrounded by eyes that could not
seo him, and by lips that could not speak to
him, patiently examining thotattereu cloth
ing, cutting off buttons, hair, marks from
linen—anything that might lead to subse
quent identification—studying faces, look
ing for a scar, a bent finger, a crooked toe,
comparing lotters sent to him with the ruin
about him." Havo all the exquisitely pa.
thetic pages which tho pen of the world's
novelist has inscribed, anything inoro touch
ing than this?
"Tho ladies of tho clergyman's family,
his wifo and two sisters-in-law, camo in
among the bodies oftnn. It grow to be tho
business of their lives to do so.' Any now
arrival of a bereaved woman would stiinulutn
their pity to oomparo tho description^brought
with the dread realities. Sometimes they
would go back to say, 'I havo found him/'
or,41 think she lies there.' Perhaps the'
mourner, unable to bear tho sight of all that!
lay in tho church, would he led in blindfold.
Conducted to tho spot with many compas
sionate words, and eniouraged to look, she
would say, with a piercing <ry, 'This is my
hoy !' and drop inacnsiblo on the inscnuiblt
fi8uro-.'' ....
ADIIU MC1W mosi narrowing Bcwncw— wr
sido the passionless corpses, and tboae who
were dead in heart—in a feurful chorus of
lamentations, always rifting — tho ninall
church yard so crowded "tho villager* had
begun to exprww uneasy doubts whether they
themselves could lio in their own ground,
with their forefathers and df'scendants, by
and by"—writing to all points of tho king
dom letter* of agonizing burden to relatives
and friends of tho lost—his " whito surplice
hanging up near tho door, ready to put on
lit any tinio for a funeral service,"—tnis un
known man of (Sod " used a most sweet and
raticnt diligence, for weeks and weeks."—
There is no record of heroism truer and more
ennobling than this of tlia Welah pawno.
His figure, in the soft halo which Genius has
put around it, will paw into tho sacred
chambers of the soul wnero Florenco Night
ingalo and other* aro, to remember whom is
to get new courago and new hopo. It was a
work well befitting that genial, loving na
ture, which shining from hia books, has
mado tho name of Charles Dickens bright in
every house, to pay their tribute to great
worth, of which, othcrwi*), the world, whoso
averages aro, to say the least, curiously ar
ranged might never havo heard, until all se
cruts aro revealed, and wo soe, in tho calm
light of eternal truth-and justico. great he
rocs of whom no account miis taken here.—
Tho simplo earnestness with which ho ful
fills his taak of love—I ho genuine enthusiasm
with which ho speaks of tho " kind and
wholesome face," and tho » cheerful earnest
ness of this good Christian minister," are
most beautiful, as the only denials we need
care for of the old charge against Charles
Dickcns of incapacity to portray tho loveli
ness of Christian character. " I have never
seen," he said, "anything more delightfully
genuine than the calm dismissal by nimself
and his household of all thoy had undergone
as a simple duty that was quietly done and
ended; aud then this touching panuge,
from tho hand that would not snare a Chad
band :
• In this noble modesty, in this beautiful
simplicity, in this serene avoidance of the
least attempt to 'improve* an occasion,
which might he supposed to have sunk its
own weight into my heart, I seemed to have
happily como, in a few steps, from the
church-yard with its open grave, which was
the type of Death, to the Christian dwelling
nido by side with it, which was the typo of
Resurrection. I never shall think of the
former without the latter. Tho two will al
wavs rest sido by side in my memory. If I
had lost any one dear to mo in that unfor
tunate ship—if I mode a vojnge from Aus
tralia to look at tho gravo in the church*
yard—I should go awav thankful to Uod
that that house was so close to it, and that
its shadow by day, and its domestic lights by
night, fell upon tho earth in which its
master had so tenderly laid my dear one's
head.'
The name of the clorgyman is the Rev.
Stephen Roose Hughes, Lanallgo, near Mo
ri fra, Anglesey. The sorrow of many hearts,
for those lost with tho Royal Charier, is
toothed by its sound, hut tho world would
lenow it not except through tho generous
ifficc of Dickens. Truly he suys, in a burst
if manhood, •• Convocations, conferences,
iioccsan epistles, and tho like, will do a deal
for Religion, I daro say, and Heavca send
thoy may ! but 1 doubt if they will ever do
their Master's sorvice half so well, in all the
lime they last, as the heavens havo seen it
lone in this black spot upon tho rugged
wist of Wales."
FAITH.
" One of the most touching incidents is re
atod of a little company of girls employed
n a room together, who were unhurt in the
rull, and to whom the rescuers had nearly ar»
rived, when the fire drove them away ; and
is the heroic souls beneath felt the consum
ng breath of the approaching fire, and knew
their hope of rescue was lo»t, their voices
irere heard, clear and unbroken, uniting In
the beautiful stanzas,
• WsYs going horns to glorr,'"
-—Lawrence American.
" Bell-time, girls, bell-time!" With play.
rut voice shs utters it, and leaves her weari<
ome loom.
Down the stairs, so tiresome to ascsod at
norn, so easy to deeoeod at night, shs bast
ms. She swings ba$k the heavy door, and
a the first of her companions oat. Bow
ight her heart, as home she hastsas to meet
»«r loved ones there—ber day's work done,
klthfolly done, a worthy record borne to
Mateo! " Dear mother waits," and with
the thought her heartbeats quicker, and aba
forgets her heavy, aching head, and wearied
frame.
Ae the approaches her home, she wee a
little lace pressed class to a window-pane,
and bright blue eyes watching forberrstaro.
A joyous shout greets her as she eaten, and
small white arms are foldsd around her neck.
11 Sister's come!" rings through the room,
as the little one dances about in uncontroll
ed delight.
••Mother, dear mother!" The factory
girl presses her lip* to the pale face of her
invalid mother, and smooths back the soft
hair, with a caressing tenderness, from bar
hot forehead.
" Are you better to-night, mother?"
" Quite well, now that you are at bone,"
is tbe cheerful rsply, as fondly the patient
sick mother returns her daughter's kiss.
••Homeagain, home again!" singi the
young girl, as she Hits from room to room on
errands of kindness. She brings her motbsr
the cooling water, and bathes her throbbing
head; she takes her little brother on her lap
and tells him some childish story, or sings
him some little song. Thus passes the even
ing with the faithful factory girl, the loving
daughter, tbe thoughtful sister, the gentio
disciple of Christ. »
Slowly, that night, orphan Maiy, Sue's
little workmate, wended her war to her
boarding-house. No one there cared for ber;
no one would run to welcome ber, so she
neod not hssten. She would not be mined
among the many boarders, if shs chanced to
linger on her way. Heavily beats her heart;
Esinfully throbs ner bead; wearily she drags
er steps along.
•• I wish 1 were going home!" sighs or
phan Mary. •• I wish mother were there to
meet mo! But thee cornea the cheering
thought—'• I am at home always, wherever
I am ; for the wide, wide world is my Fath
er's house, and I, a child of llis, am ever
with Him." And smiling, God's child grows
strong in faith, and walks along with gayer
step.
The gloomy brick building looms up be
fore her. She enters, and spends her even
ing in her little room in penning a letter to
her distant sister, her only relative. " We'll
meet at home,"savs Mary, in the postscript
of her letter. " We'll meet at home, sister,
when our long day's work on earth is done,
never again to port."
It ia morning. She tolas Daea inecunain
frmn her window*, and peep* forth into tha
waking day. Starlight without—bow beau*
tiful! She gam upward. To her the atari
arc seraphs' eye*, looking lovingly upon the
good, pityingly upon tho suffering, sternly
on tho vicioua. God'a angel's are they, re
cording the deeda the midnight knoweth.
■Sue drop* tho curtain, anu benda in pray
er. She aeeka a blowing on tho work ane ia
about to resume. Shoaska for strength sub
lime, a heart aubmiaaire to tiod'a will; und,
na ahe praya, ahoadda this petition : 44 Help
me to spend this day, my rather, as though
it were my last on earth." Ilanpy Su»^—
prepared lor all God'a decreet! taith divine
is her*.
1 lalf-paat six. Tho factory bell ring* clear
and loud in the frosty morning air. Tfye
stani still twinkle overhaul. The east ia juat
beginning to look golden, in the dawning of
tho day. Tho hard anow crackle* beneath
tho rapid tread of tho early laborer.
Sue and orphan Mary meet on their way
to their daily taaka.
44 IIow beautiful thia morning, Sue ! how
calm and clear the air! how bright the moon
atill ahinea! God aeema to breath around ua
Ilia holy influenoe." And Mary oeaaed to
apeak, for words wore lost in thought.
Sue catches the melody of Mary'a heart,
and murmur* thua: 4,The heaTcnadclarothe
glonr of God; the firmament ahoweth Ilia
hanuiwork. Day unto day uttereth speech."
Then her voice ia* hushed, and thoagnta too
holy for human interpretation fill their
hoarta, aa ailently they walk along. They
enter the factory. Death, invisible to then,
hover* over them—follow* them up the steep
atair*, throw* it* ahadow over their loon*.
The rumbling, deafening aound* proclaim
tho hour of labor. Each haatena to hia place.
Every band ia busy; every face wears its
work-day ezpreaaion of sober earneatne**.—
iiehind those serioua brow* thought ia boay
weaving it* web* of luture weal or woe.—
Mind, heart and hand are buay at their
loom*.
Sue, with orphan Mary, and other* or
their sge, work in the ssrae room. They
cheer each other with their srailn and glances
of sympathy. They know eaeh other's
hearts. One lsith hath] bound them to
gether closely.
The morning hours roll on. Noon comes.
There is a little space for rat. They cluster
around each other, and open their little tin
pails, in which they have so often brought
their noon repast. As they now partako of
it, a deep rflence fills the little circlo, till or
phan Mary, in her sweet voice, speaks thus:
" I had a dream last night, girls. I tho't
I loft the factory one night before bell-time,
and instead of my going to my dreary, lone
ly room, I wandered home, and found my
mother. I feel her kks on my cheek now,
Sue, and bear her whispering to me, • Rest
now at homs, my child; rest, for you art
weary'—and, Sue, 1 did spend the evening
with her."
Little Lucy, who had come from hercoun
try home to work in the city, and who was
sadly homesick, wept bitterly, as Mary re
vealed her dream.
" I wish I were at home," ahe*sobbed. "I
wish I could spend this evening there."
One o'clock. The heavy wheels an again
In motion. The girls separate, and hasten
to their po»ts of duty.
Then afternoon wean away. Death's
shadow on the wall grows larger, blacker.
He passes slowly from laborer to laborer,
ami chooses his victims from the young, the
strong, the noble, snd the dearly loved. He
sets his seal upon them. Heaven claims her
absent children. God strengthen the hearts
shorn of all that gave them joy and happi
ness below! God fill the human temples
robbed of their idols!
Fin o'clock. Silenoe in the npper world.
The arch of heaven esens to beod lower over
a scene so pitiable, as the feet of countless
angels crowd the floor above, pressing round
the gate of heaven to welcome the loved and
weary home. Confusion, missry is the low
er world—the agony of death is hen. The
air is heavy withhuman pnyen, with shriaka
and groans.
Our little Mends, with ems entwined
around eaeh other, await the decrees of
••Him who
•I Let us tny,"
TUirjoSvol^«-osoa inths simple
nstition: "Our Father, wetraetla thee.
Eethoo with as. Take as to thvaelf, if we
dis." The light of beano shines feend
about them. StariLke faces of saintsd loved
ones pssp through tks rains and the thick
smoks. They oona around then, and mails
upon then.
"I an mj nothsr," joyfUly