The Union and journal. [volume], May 04, 1860, Image 1

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

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[EDITOR AND PROPRIETOR.
NUMBER 19.
Cjit fflnion & Journal
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IKruiu lb* Atlantis Monthly.)
THJC FLATMATE.
BT J Oil* O. W II ITT IBS.
The pints were (lark on IUmoth hill,
Their sons iu soft and low;
The blossoms in the sweet May wind
Were falling like the snow.
The blossoms drifted at our fret.
The orchard birds sang clear;
The sweetest and the saddest day
It seemed of all the year.
For, more to me thin birds or flowers,
My playmate left her home.
And took with her the laughing Spring,
The music and the bloom.
She kissed the lips of kith and kin.
She laid her hand in mine;
What more could ask the bashful (toy
Who fed her father's kine!
She left us in th« bloom of M«y;
Tk« constant years told o'er
Their seasons with as sweet May morns,
But she came back no more.
I walk with noiseless feet, the round
Of uneventful years;
Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring
^ And reap the autumn ears.
She lite* where all the golden year
Her summer roses blow;
The dusky children of the sun
Before Iter com* and go.
There haply with her jewelled hands
She smooths her silken gown,—
No more the homespun lap wherein
I shook the walnuta down.
The wild grapes wait us by the brook.
And brown nuts on the hill.
And still the May-day flowers make sweet
The woods of Folly mill.
The lilie* blossom in tli« poml.
The bird build* in the tree,
The dark pines sing on lUmoth hill
The slow song of the sea.
I wonder if she thinks of them,
And how the old time seems,—
If ever the pines of lUmoth wood
Are sounding in her dreams.
I see her fkee, I hear her voice;
Dues she remember mine?
And what to her ia now the boy
Who fed her father's Vint *
What care* she that the oriole* build
For other* eye* than oura.
That others hands with nuts are filled.
And other lap* with flowers?
O playmate in the golden time!
Our mossy seat is given.
Its fringing violets blossom yet.
The old trees o'er it lean.
The winds so sweet with birch and fern,
A sweeter memory blow;
And there in spring the veeries sing
The song of long ago.
And still the pine* of Ramoth wood
Are moaning like the sea,—
The moaning of the sea of change
Between myself and thee!
^(jricultural.
FARM ACCOUNTS.
llow soon the mtchanie, the merchant, the
manufacturer—in short every business man,
would get entangled in interminable difficul
ti«» did they not have a svsteinof book-keep
ing by which they could at any time ascer
tain the tjpe stiit** of their basinet* opera
tion*. Now if these clamc* are uiuMe to
proceed without it, how much more n<xx«M
ry for the lamer to practice some system of
keoping accounts w»th a bu*in<-m a grmt
deal mow comt4icat*d than either ; vet how
few do it. Ask a mech«ni,. how much a
sloigh, or a plow, or cultivator ha* eo«t, and
ho can toll you to a pennv, for b« ha* kept
ao exact account of it, which he ha* t« do in
order to know how to veil it, and msl* „
living by hi* buaincM. Ask a farmer bow
much a bushel of corn ftwti him thi* year,
or bow much that yearling or cult ha* oust
to raise it, and he will say, "Oh, I ask *u
mnch for it; don't know how uuich' it eo*t
me," and so it i* with everything. Not one
farmer in ten know* the co*t of anything he
produm. To thic simple act of negligent
may be traced the cause of two-third* the
failure* in farming, for if the farmers knew
the cost of producing every article, they
would then know what crop* paid the beat
on each one's particular farm, and they could
reject all thoee that ware no profit -to them.
Some farm* are most productive for one kind
of grain and some for another, but we do
not know which these kiodi are without
■otne method of ascertaining tlie ooct of each.
n.A A I. ° .L a! ill
several year*, and huvo never taken time that
was necemtry to be devoted toother business.
F.tctt former has leisure timo enough to keep
ton books, which had bettor be applied to
that purpoee than doing a great many things
whicn they now do on rainy dajs and other
leisure houn. It is not necessary to haTe
a complete set of books like a merchant, one
being sufficient. Take a common account
book, costing about half a dollar, and tako
a certain s|ttce for each 6eld, making it
debtor on the left and creditor on the right
tide, in this manner.
Da. CORN FIELD. Ca.
DtU. | Dot*. | Cts. B Date. | Dol*. | CU.
Whenever you do anything to your crop,
put down on the I>r. side the actual worth
of it, and thus continue to do until your
crop is secured, and you know how much
you have expended on il. Then place on the
Cr. side the actual value of your entire crop,
cum fodder, pumpkins, and all that is of any
worth. Then balance the accounts souie eve
ning, and you will know just how much
your corn llus cost per husliel, and whether
you have mode or lust on it.
As a great many farmer* are wholly unac
quainted with any syrtom of book-keeping,
but would like to try it, 1 will make an ex
tract from my book for the past year, which
will show what 1 think to l«e a very good
system of keeping farm accounts, and at the
f
,1.
(KIUIV IIIUU HIV IVOUH VI »•»• I>uv«a.
in ruining c«rn.
My corn-field consisted of four acres, two
of which I plowed in the full, Tho soil, u
fluty loam, wa« very uniform, and wiih all
manure! alike, ami cultivated alike with the
exception of the plowing in tho fall, and I
will stuto here thut tho two am* plowed in
the full gave seven and a half bushels more
corn thun the other, the>>ne giving eighty
two und the other eighty-nine and one-half
bushels of shelled corn.
OOIW KIKLIX-Fom Acia, Da.
May 1—To days plowing, $7..V)
4— I day's plowing, 3.UI
5— I day's farrowing, 1.73
6— 3 men planting one (lay, 73 Cts.. !t.!U
Juno 2— I tlaj N cultivating, Ml
3— 4«M> |>oun<l.< planter an<l patting on,o)
6— cultivating and lioeiutf, 4.73
July 3— plowing and hilling, 7.IX)
Sept.'.'!— cutting upcoru, I days, 75 cU., 3.U)
•JI— hoy to ii Ind, .HI eta., v*.tM
(let I V— hu*king, todays, 73 cts., 7.50
'/"i— drawing lUlder, UD
30— sorting and corn, |JB
Dec. Ij— tlirvsliing and marketing, ln.30
40 load* manure, lialf-o-t. at.00
drawing aud spreadlug tln> name, H no
iutcreat, taxes, swwd-coru, Ac. 'JU.U0
Total expeuse, $101.76
CORN Kii;Ll>—Pom Acais, Cb.
I>cc. 15— By 171 hushs. shelled corn, at Wo., JI VI W
4 acre* of fodder, at $*•. 9DUOO
IS Und* pumpkins, at 30 eta., 1>.S0
IU bu»h«ls ears so ft corn, at lb cU., 3.U
ToUl reoalpU, $1*1.32
Deduct expenses, $101.76
Which leaves a clear profit of $M.5G
Deducting tho worth of the fodder, pum|>
kins and soft corn from tho cost of the
whole, und we have $74.34 as tho cost of
171 bushels of corn, or u little over 42 cents
iter bushel, which leaves about 47 cents j»t
f»u«hel profit. I haroano flier pieco on which
the profit comes tho other way.—Oak //»//,
(JV. )'.) Correspondence of the Country (Jen•
tleman.
Cucak Farms at Honk.—As wo wore pac
ing in the cunt tho other duy u small piece of
swump land, which wan being cleared of it*
undcriirush, small trees and stumps, ready
for ditching and tho plough, a passenger re
marked that tho farmer hud concluded to
clear his land at homo instead of going to the
went—and so might thousands do in Now
Knglund. Our fanners have tho impression
that our swamp* und low wet lands will not
j*VT for the trouble of desiring and tillage.—
vhey hoar of tlio wealth lying in the valley or
tho Genesee, and in tho prance ol tho west,
and their imagination wanders from tho low
er treasures laying at their fuel. But the
change is coming taut. Tho next twenty
live year* will show a larger Tanning jtojuiia
tion'in proportion to tho other clam* than
(•shown. The weak is getting well filled.—
Tho (test lands nro appropriated. Eastern
men must look about tliem at homo forsco|>o
to their energies, and money for their purses.
They will find that careful drainage, even to
a great expense, and careful tillage, will ro
<*al a Iwsw for large vegetable wealth. Tho
unioont of money sjient by souio in seeking
their w»*tern homes, well spent on the farms
they originally occupied, would give them a
pnnluctiveneos that would well compensate
thein for staying at homo, and running no
risks. We arc too uneasy. Wo havo more
under our noses than in any Utopia which
the world can give us. Put science and skill,
manure and will to a Now England rock,
and there will morn virtue go out of it, than
out of an acre of western prarie. Fanners
and farmers' sons, etay at home, and clear
and drain and till your swamps.—Real Es
tate Rryittrr.
Mwm*.—The making and saving of ma
nures, are of the first importance to tho far
mer. They are tho first great requisite—tho
motive (tower in all sucowsful agricultural
o|ierutions. And yet, on very man? farms,
half the manure that might and sfiould lie
made or saved, is annually lost for want of a
little attention—a little forethought, and
|>crhaps a slight outlay of cx|«cnse on the part
of the farmer.
First then, sec that nothing is lost about
tho yard or stable by improper drainage—as
bf tho washing ot spring rains into and
tknmjh your manure, carrying off all tho
more soluble and liquid portions of it.—
Never allow this wash to pam off into a
swamp hole or running stream. This is too
much liko tho economy that places tho hog
sty or privy over a stream of running water to
get rid oi the filth and nastinew.
All this drainage should be rvtiincd by tlie
application of muck, sod, soil, leaves or saw
dust to aheorb the liquid and vegetable |>or
1 tione that would otherwise bo lust. And you
I thus not only retain what is otherwise l*«t,
but convert all this foreign moss into a pow
i crful and valuable fertiliser.
Practical Hints.
Plowing wrr Lain.—Sward ground may
always be plowed wetter than anv other,
without subsequent bakinr. Other land may
be plowed when considerable wet, If loft to
drjr talure harrowing. In (act it will gener
ally dry bettor alter plowing than before, if
not plowed too tcri. Plowing tends to looa
en the earth, but harrowing to render it
more compact, unions dty enough to crum
ble. Much caution is therefore required in
harrowing wet land, el*, it will bo injured
rather than benefited by tho proevm.
In breaking colto of any age, whip but lit
tle. Patience and kindness should be the
rule, and no man who cannot control his
temper should ever touch a colt.
In breaking to harnees, if the colt appears
obstinate, attempts to kick, or do anything
wrong, don't whip him, but stop, jump out,
examine the harms* to toe if it is not ioioo
where gulling liia tender skin, seo if the bit
does not chaYe his mouth, and above ail deal
gently with him, and bo sure ho understand*
what you want of him, before you punish
him for not obeying you.
No ono can be lucoossful with poultry who
has not the requisite soil for a yard forthem.
It should be light, dry and warm, with plen
ty of sand or gravel. They will not do well
on stiff loams or clays, or on cold damp soili
or in damp houses. And tho'prcmisesshould
Ikj kept clean. Where these rules aro ob
served, hens usually do well—lay and thrive
well—otherwise they are not likely to thrive
or lav much, hut too ofton bcooinesickly and
dieoif prematurely.
The soil of a young orchard should bo till
ed till the trees aro grown and largo enough
to covcr the ground. Then it may occasion
ally 1m sown with clover.
Apple tren require no special manures to
make them grow. A soil rich enough for
corn is rich enough for apple trees. They
may lw mado to grow too fast as to expose
them to winter killing.
Never allow your cattle or horses to jump
cv«r the lower rails of your fence or l»rs or
crawl under the upi>er ones. It is just so
many lessons in ttye art of jumping or run
ning through fences, which otherwise thoy
might nover leuni.
UtisccIIancmts.
THE OLD MAID OP THIRTY-FIVE
Thirty-five to-day! My life in iust half
through,—that in If I am to livo tho three
score ami ten which tho Bible says is the
life of umn. I sometimes wish that I had
alreadyreached tho end."
Sue* was the remark that I addres^d to
myself upon tho morning of my thirty-fifth
birthday. I was not in tho bent of humors,
as may V inferred from a portion of my re
mark. Hut when I pushed aside tho curtain
and opened tho window, and revelled for n
while in tho gloriics of an October morning,
(for tho reader must know, wliut I am proud
of telling, that my birth-day coram in tho
glorious month of October, "which makes
tho woods Hu cay,") then did my sjiirit uc
quire it* usual tone of serenity,and I bccaino
half uidiained of ray fir*t exclamation. But
the day had begun badly, und I was destined
to encounter and overcome many more vexa
tions before it ended.
As 1 looked in tho glass that morning,
never, so it seemed to me, had the ruvag<ii of
time been so pcrccptiblo. My brown lacks,
which had boon tho pride and admiration of
my friends, and which only yestordny bad
sc-inod to me as glossy,abundant and beauti
ful as ever, now looked faded fend thin—and,
yes—actually, there was a grey hair ! I am
ashamed to confess that, for one instant, 1
was almost disposed to sit down und cry, but,
happily, I did not yield to tho temptation.
My eyes, too, which in younger days had
been dark and lustrous, and which, as my
cousin John had once said,' "shono like an
angel's when I was animated," now, upon
the morning of my thirty-fifth birth-Jay,
looked dull und green. There wore wrinkles,
too, upon iny face, which could only havo
ttecn placed there by tho hand of timo. In
fact, I looked like u wrinkled, fudod, grim
old maid, and with this impression strong
upon my mind, I put on tho most Quaker
like drew 1 possessed, combed raj hair hack
as plainfy as possible, and went down to
breakfast. As I opened tho door, I was un
fortunate enough to interrupt a family con
ference : for there were seated at the table.
undo and mint, J John, Hurry, Frank, and
littlo Annie, nil seemingly engaged in very
earnest conversation, Upon my sudden en
trance thero was an abrupt paus«, and somo
embarrassment expressed ny the younger
member* of the fauiily.
4 Another advantage in being an old maid,'
thought I to myself; 'she's sure Mo Btutnblo
into pluce* where she isu't wanted.'
As I seated myself in my accustomed plnco
at tho table, there was an exclamatiuu from
John :
'Good gracious, Emily, have you turned
Quaker? What in tho world is the mean
ing of that drab draw.'
'It means that I am [thirty-fivo to-day ; so
be reverent, if you please,' said I, shaking
my finger at him.
'In half-mourning for her hope*, I suppose,'
muttered Harry, with a most malicious ex
pression of face.
At this point I jotted down a memoran
dum in my mind—to give Harry a lecture
upon respect, l«efor« th" day was through.
'I do believe Cousin Emily has made a mis
take," shouted my pet Frunk, at this mo
ment, shaking his curls all over his head.—
•I know she is forty instoud of thirty-five to
day, and I'll prove it by the family Itihlo,
after breakfast. O, Cousin Emily ! to think
that you, of all others, should cheat in your
a^e! I shall never bcliovo in you alter
this.'
'Hold your tonguo, boys,' interrupted my
uncle. 'Ifyt.il don't behave yourself, you
shall take no part in you know what.' And
here my uncle nodded mysteriously.
As 1 left tho table that morning, I felt
sure that I hated tho boys most decidedly,
and I came to the conclusion that they were
the most ungrateful set that ever lived.—
Even Frunk, by whoso sick-bod I had spent
some yours of uiy life, who had often declared
that he loved me Iwtter than anything on
earth, even ho had wounded mo by a foolish
jest.
'Please, Emily, don't comedown to dinner
in drab,' said John, as hn handed mo to tho
door in an unusually gallant stylo.
'And, Cousin Emily, mother says you oro
not to enter tho kilelieii to-day,' whi*|iervd
littlo Annie, with a most bewitching
smile.
•So they want h> get rid of me,, thought
1,bitterly. 'What can havu come over thoso
boys this morning! I uever knew them to
boii*re so. I muly believe tbey wish I wcro
out of the house, and so I begin to think do
uncle and aunt, too. Last rear I was loaded
with presents, and to-day tbcro is not even
tho mention of one. Not, of course, that 1
care anything about the presents themselves,
but then it is plnisant to know that thero is
some one in the world who can* about you.
\\ ell, I se* I shall have to go away from hero
and find a home by myself, for who cares for
an old maid ?'
Thus grumbling, 1 entered my room, and
east my eyro around to see what it wns best
to employ my time about—for upon this, my
birth-day, I was extremely fastidious as re
garded my occupation. It pleased mo just
then to Temember that thero was a quantity
of old letters to bo looked over and sorted—«
task that I had put off from day to day as a
painlul one, (or it would noccaarily recall
tbo ono bitter Borrow of my life.
Twelve years before, upon that very day,
my marriage waa to hare takon place, Bui
before tbo time came, wo had quarrelled, nnd
when tho hud arose upon our wedding-day,
Philip Allen wm across tho sen, a sad and
solitary wanderer. As I re-road those letter*
—relics of my lore-dream—how vividly did
every circumstance connected with it comr
np before mo! How well I recollect out
qurrel, which my own wilfulness had caused,
and Philip's sad, reproachful faco, when 1
turned from him with tho angry exclama
tion :
'Go, if you wish it—it is best—for we shall
neTer agree; wo had better never mcel
again.'
And wo hod never mot again. My words,
bitterly repented of as soon as spoken, and
repented of every day and hour sinoe thai
time, had been literally adhered to. Philip
was in a distant land, and I was an old maid
of thirtv-fivo. My musiqgs wero here inter
rujitcd by the most outjagqous noiso dowr
stairs. I began seriuuHjTls think that my
undo was knocking away a portion of hi«
houso by tbo hammering that I hoard. The
most uproarous shouts of laughter likewise
floated up from the regions below.
•I really hclinvo everylx>dy here is crazy to
day,' thought I, as I commcnood my toilel
for dinner.
To please John, I put on the very gnyesl
dresH I pomcmcd ; for, however much I mighl
grumble about the boys, I knew, and tlioj
knew, that l woutu uo anyuung vu juwur
them.
'Very well—very well, indeed. You'll do,
Emily,' mid John' an ho took critical survey
of my drew through liin eye-glass.
At dinner-time there were the samo mysto
rious nods and glances that 1 had noticed al
breakfast, and evetybody seemed unusually
excited. In tho afternoon John prepared tt
drive ino out in his new laiggy, to boo the
country in its October drew.
'More likely to make acquaintance witl)
Mother Kurth,' retorted I; 'for really, John,
you are so excited, you well not bo ablo tc
manage that spirited bora) of yours.'
Hut John protested that lie was nevci
calmer in his life, and, as a proof of hit
placidity, performed some of the most ridicu
lous manoMivera, without, however convinc
ing me at all.
•Better go, Cousin Kinily,' said Ilarry, 4il
may be your Ust chanco. I don't expecl
you'll look at mo after to-day.'
In my heart of hearts I determined l>otli tc
look at tho m'ntleman, and to talk to him ir
away that ho should not soon forget, lluf
this matter was put o(T till another day, foi
there stood John waiting impatiently for 1110
Now, 11s I really hud 110 fear whatever ol
John's driving, 1 decided to go, little guest
ing tho vexations I should undergo before 1
reached home.
•Now,' thought I, as I seated myself in
tho buggy, •now I will find out tho meaning
of all this mystery. It will bo impossible lui
John to keen the secret fromrne.
•IIus anythiug unusual Mppcncd to-day,
John ?' I commenced*
•Anything unusual hapjtened to-day?' ro
|>outed John. 'Why, yos, 1 think there
'What?' demanded Cfmpatfently.
•Why, you aro thirty-five to day, aro you
not, Kmily?' returned John,with a'very do
mure look ; 'and quite young and handsome,
too, for •thirty-five.''
Now I was both amused and provoked at
the uhsurdity of thissjieecli. To tell the truth,
1 had become a little tircd|of hearing •thirty
five.'
•John,' I began, 'sometimes—to-day,
especially—I have thought that it would f>e
best if I should go away from hero—that I
should bo happier in another dwelling-place,
because'—
I was hero interrupted by John, who was
Attacked t>y uio most ouiiagcousm 01 cougn
ing, which lanled several minutes,and which,
by itM violence, threatened to rupture n
blood-vessel. Indeed, I was really alarmed
by tho evident distress in which ho won, and
w'hich exhibited itself by tho purple hue of
his face and by tho oddest grimaccs. No
allusion w»h made to my remark during tho
remuindor ot tho ride, and I must say I wus
not a little wounded by tho perfect indiffrr
enco manifested by John upon the suljuct of
my departuro.
•There's Amy Anthem,' shouted John, as
wo passed a cottage, at the gate of which
stood a blooming young girl And as John
stMike, ho drew up with n ruddcti jerk, threw
the reins to me, and wus soon in earnest con*
vernation with Amy. Now, Amy was a great
favoiitoof mine, and it was no sccret that
she was a great favorito of John's also ; but
I sliould have preferred that ho would take
another time to show hiapartiality, especial
ly, a«, by their motions, I know they were
talking about mo. 80 I leaned further hack
in the carriage, fooling very unoomfortablo,
and imagining their conversation.
'I suppose ho is telling her that I am thir
ty-live to day. and of course she will answer,
with her prettiest Miiilo, 'l'oor old muid :
I pity her!'
♦liood bye, Amy. Now, don't forget to lie
ready at tho exact minute,' was John's final
sjtccch as we drove away.
John had several other calls to make, tho
object of which I could not discover. .There
wcro several mysterious conferences held
with elderly spectacled ladies, and tuiddlo
aged ladies, and young ladies, all of whom
nodded kindlv to*mo, but all of whom I sus
ncctod of saving to each other, 'She's thirty
live to-day, jKKir thing !' How I wished we
wero at home, and home we reached at longth
only to bo met by Harry, who had spent the
timo profitably by coai|>osing an epitaph
upon our iToltabla fate, which, standing at
the foot or tbo stairs, bo shouted out to me
word by word.
Ilow long I sat in the solitude of my own
room, I know not. Weary of tho prefcnt I
hud g»no back into tho days of tbo ]«st—
dap that could never return. When 1 awoke
to actual life, it was dark, and tho room felt
dark and chilling. There was an unuaual
clattcr of voice* and sound of feet below,
and hurrying from one room to another. 1
passed down tho dark stuireaso and opened
tho parlor door, and then started back at th*
flood of light and tho sight that burst upon
mo. The 1 virion* were moat brilliantly light
ed, and full of company—my particular
friend*—many of whom 1 had thought far
distant; tho friends of the family wero all
there. What a compete change from the
dark chilly room above, and tbo society of
my own somewhat sombre thought*, to these
ou*j, comfortable parlors and, this ploomnt
company, every ono ot whom had something
agreeable to say to mc, as, with John beside
mo to keep mo in countenance, 1 received tho
friend* wno crowded about mo. What a
change, too bad oomo over the family. All
the restraint which had so vexed me during
the day, waa gone. My. uncle and annt were
ton time* kinder to me than usual, if such
a tning oould be possible. My cousins, too,
were transformed into polito and agrooablo
people. And as Harry presented mo with a
magnificent bouquet, no whispered :
'Lot tbatutono in part for my saucy speeches
tO * " " r'
• » IJ 1
foi,. 0Toater offenccs.
•Now,' said John, 'wo art) to havo a series
of ta bleaux, all in jour honor, Emily. You
are not sxpectcd to take part in them, other
wise than by staring at tnern mt*t intently,
for I assuro you they will-he something re
markable.
The first tableau was rather a failure. It
represented John in a very picturesque dress,
and with a drawn weapon stanaing over
Frank, wbo crouched upon tho ground in
terror. The bright woapan, so near the curly
head, must bare frightened my little favorite,
for ho made a rery pcrccptiole movement,
which greatly amused tho spectators, but
destroyed the cflbct of tho picture. Then
followed a representation of Evangeline, with
swest, sad iaoe, sitting by tho '•nameless
Gve;' ROth, among nersheaves of wheat,
ides various groups which looked remark
ably well. Lltuo Rod Riding Hood, which
character wu represented by blooming Amy
Anthem, in a charming red cloak, was
another attractive feature.
Rut the tableau which most engaged my
attention was tho last of all, where David
was represented as mourning over tho deud
Absalom. Harry, us Absalom, lay in tho
moment I could have
very sembianoo 01 uenth, every mature in
perfect irpo«o. There viu a hush among
the spectators, Tor |>erfcct stillness wan such
a novelty in connection with our wild roguish
Harry, that this seemed real, too real. Over
tho bier bowed David in all tho uiujcetr of
woo. Tho faco of the actor was hidden irom
my sight; but tho bowed form, the attitude
alono, proclaimed the depth of human suffer
ing. Never before, to my knowledge, had I
seen tho person who represented David, nor
did ho seem known to tho com puny,for when
the curtain fell every ono uskoo of his neigh
l>or tho question, 'Who acted DavidV None
knew.
A little later in tho evening I managed to
find Harry, who now 1 toked as littlo like the
dead Alwaloiu as it was ponihlo to look, aud
endeavored to cxtract from him souio inform
ation in regard to the stranger; for, strange
to say, Unit was the subject upon which my
thoughts oftenest dwelt. But Harry preten
ded T>crfect ignorance.
•How should I know who it was, when my
eyes were closed tho wholo time? I toll you
what, it isn't an en*y thing to act Alwulom.'
'Hut you certainly know who was louuing
over you, Harry.'
'1 know ! 1 think net. I had as much on
I could do to keep perfectly still.'
I saw there was nothing to l>o extracted
from Harrv, so I attacked John upon the
subject, lint my question unanswered, for
John was ugain seized with ono of thoso fear
ful fits of coughing that had enguged my
sympathy in tho morning.
•Now that I have recovered, Emily, 'said
John, when itploasod him to stop coughing,
'just come with mo into tho dining-room,
from this crowd. I've something thero to
show you.'
And something indeed there was; for there
stood my good old uncle, with a beautiful
gold watch in liU lituxl, which ho priMuntud
to mo, with a few simple but affecting words.
Then followed my aunt with a gift, ut onco
elegant and nppropriato. And then, in their
turn,each of them, before the prenmtntion of
his gift, which was an elegant rosewood
writing-desk, John attempted to mako a
littlo spocch, but broko down in tho midst of
it, to tho great amusement of all, for John
was very seldom cmlmrrnssod. Ah ! how
littlo justice I had dono them all that morn
ing. I had accused thciu of not caring for
mo, of wishing mo out of tho house; and
hero had the whole family united in honor
ing my birthday and remembering tny tastes.
IIow much had 1, old maid as i wan, anu
thirty-fivo year* old, to 1>o thankful for !—
IIow like u stab did every ono of theso kind
nesses seem, when 1 thought of my morning
soliloquy. An theso ideas panned through
my mind, I rained my oyes and encountered
thosoof Annio,'who, childlike, had been
fluttering about from ono room to another,
and wun watching mo.
•Now, Cousin Emily, if you will cotno
into the library I will show you my present.'
Tho library nad been entirely deserted by
our guests, and us Annie and 1 approached
it from tho dining-room, I naw only ono
solitary figure, that of the stranger, sitting
with bin face turned from tho lifjlit. 1 wun
about to withdruw, but Annio urged mo
gently forward, and just then the stranger
turned with an eager look, and, for tho first
timo for twelve years, I stood face to face
with Philip Allen. Thoro was no mistaking
those features, which, onco seen, could never
bo forgotten, und thero was no mistaking tho
eager. im|>ctuous hasto with which Pliilfp
runhed forward to greet me. He wan not
cliungcd, and that thought brought nuch ex
ceeding joy, that I forgot I was thirty-five,
and no longer young und handsome.
Strango to say, this idea never occured to
mo during tho remainder of tho evening,
which seemed unaccountably short, neither
tho next day, nor tho day after. But, as
llurry remarked uoxt morning at breakfast,
travellers havo such wonderful stories to
relate, that ono cannot even think of any
thing elso. Philip had been a wanderer
uiany yours, and tnoso bad been full of mar
reilous adventures, and it was so necessary
that ho should toll thorn to somoltody, that
it hapnened, I hardly know how, that I was
obliged to eivo him a great many conferen
ces in tho lihrary. And theso adventures
had from ono thing led to another, and
finally, in tho most unroinantic manner
possible,'(for what romanco could 1ms exneccd
of such elderly people?) il wan pmi oecd that
wo should givoout another invitution to our
friends, and that wo should Ixtcomo actors in
that very imposing tableau culled marriage.
Wo did an wo proposed, and so I became
Mrs. Philip Allen.
John oougratulutcd mo in a curious fash
ion :
'You aro not half good enough for Philip,
Emily. For haven't you deserted mo must
cruelly, when I took tho trouble to take you
to ride upon your thirty-fifth birthday, and
nearly killed myself to keep good news from
you. Tho whole family took the greatest
trouble to deccive you that day, for of course
wo all knew Philip had come. By tho way,
I must tell Philip how much happier you
would be if you went away from here, be
cause '
And hero John was seised with his old fit
of ooughing which was speedily cured, how
ever, by tho sight of Amy Anthem.
As fur myself I need only tn say thatl look
hack with the moat pleasant reoolloctioos to
tho day when I was thirty-five, and I assure
you that wasn't a great while ago.
M. A* D.
Twin Ron PKRroRMAXac.—The Kansas
City Metropolitan says that Senator Douglas
is engaged in a "tight rope performance on
Maaon 6 Dixon'• lino."
mutoieblaxb.
"Now, father." They were only two lit
tle word*, but they were nid in soft, plead
ing tones, which nave more weight than a
sooro of argument!.
"I know just what yoa mean, Esther,"
cxclaimod Jason Strong, aa be slipped hia
right arm into hia workman's overalls, that
spring morning, set in low, dull clouds,
"but there's no use in wasting any more
words between us. It would m folly and
madness for us to think ot adopting widow
Blako's child, when Its just as much as wo
can do, by acrewio' and turnin' to put bread
into the mouths of tl# three we're got at
home. No man haa a better will than mine;
but when I'm laid up half tho winter by
rheumatic, and can't earn but screnty-flre
cents a day on tho beat joha^ its high time to
put down notiona about taking other folks'
children, when the chances are that our
own'11 hare to saatter afore long."
Ho was a large, huwy-limbcd, stalwart
man, she was a stnaN, shrinking, gnntle
faced and Yoiced woman, and now ber tonci
carno like a minor key, after tho gruff, posi
tive voico, which half concealed aa honest
and true a heart aa ever beat in a man's bo
som.
"I know, Jaaon, its all true, that yoa'res
hard row to hoe; and it seems, aa you aay,
a mighty hard thine to make both ends meet,
and tuke caro of tlie children God hus given
ua; but I don't believe lio'll forget ua, If we
remember tho widow and the fatherless in
their iiflliction; and what if it were little aii
now?"
Ilero Mr. Strong raised tho key, aud went
energetically to wind up tho cloclc.
"You know," continued the little woman,
aetting a couple of chain opposito to each
other, and girding their backs with a skein
of blue woolen varn, "that tho doctor says
Miss Blako can t stand it moro'u this week
out, and I tell you, Juson, it fuirly broke uw
down, when I went in there last night, and
littlo Minnio's golden head won a shinin',
and sho was a bobbin' round among the
chairs, where sho was playin' singin, school,
till 1 could think of nothing but buttor-cupa
a-twinklin' every May, amongst clover, and
Miss Blake's eyes followed her, with a long
in', pityin', anxious look, and then turned
upon iuo."
"Oh, Miss Strong, what'll become o(
her?" sho said.
"God'll take care of her, Misa Blako."
"But aomotiinc* 1 forget this, and then it
sccma as if I couldn't die in pence, and leave
her hero, without a friend in tho wido world
to look out for her, w ith her father a sleep
in' away off under tho deep waters, and hoi
mother a Ivin* in a littlo comer of the villngi
churchyard"—
"Come, wifo, come," hero interrupted Ml
Stong, in a quick, sharp voice, and ho took
out his pocket hundkerchief, and blew hit
nose with a groat deal of emphasis.
His wifo did not ol»ervo it—alio wna very
intent, just at that moment, on shaping her
bull of yarn with her thumb und forefinger.
"Well, Juson, I haven't much moro to
say, for Miss Bluko broke right down hero
herself; and 1 couldn't find a word to com
fort her, for aomuthiii' away down in my
b««r Vepi wliMjwrittR, 'Suppose, now, it was
your littlo Wealthy?'"
"It would 1)0 dreadful tough, wifo, that'*
tho fact!" exclaimed tho carpenter, and he
put ono foot uneasily before tfio other.
"And then auppoao Miss Blako stood in
our ca*c."
"Oh, mother, I seo now just what you're
coming to," interrupted Mr. Strong, in a
half surly, half desjuiring tone.
"I ain't coming to anything but this, fa
ther, tliat wo've got all God's promises on
our side, and I don't believe he s going to
let us break down Itecauso wo take that poor
l!.*l 4l 1 .L!. i .... „,|%„„
who would havo to bo put into tlio poor
liouno or umong strangers that would abuse
her. I tell you," ami hero tbo teuni flashed
right out into tho little woman's eyes. and
tbo soft voico gathered now strength and fer
vor, "every mouthful that I eat would choko
me, and my pillow, when I lay down on it
at ni^ht, would lw full of thorns to me,
thinking of that poor littlo luiub among
cold-hearted strangers."
Mr. Strong muttered something that sound
ed very much liko"woman's nonsenso," but
somehow tbo words did not gut fairly out of
bis throat.
Mrs Strong went up to her husband, nnd
laid her hand on his arm, and tho palo fnco
shono with something that was finer than tho
lost beauty of itagirlhood, as vhosaid, "Now
father, there's no uso in try in', you know
you'll nerer lot that child sudor us long as
you'vo got a roof to corer you, or a crust to
eat."
"Well, wife, tako your own way. I nev
er was good at argufvin' with a woman,"
and tho man turned abruptly and went out
of tbo house, ashamed to own that bis warm
true heart endorsed cvory word that was
spoken.
In a minute, however, the kitchen-door
opened ngnin.
"Wife, I say!"
"Well, father."
"You'd lietter go right over, and tell Miss
Hlako that you'vo ooncU<!o<l to tnko tho
child. It'll set her mind at rest like, and
just now she needs it enough."
"There, didn't I *o?" murmured Mrs.
Strong to herself, after tho doorolosed. "It
is well that I know bow to got on tho right
sido of father'* heart."
"There, now, Johnnie, don't Minnie look
pretty?" and Wealthy Strong turned round
tho dainty littlo creature, whose golden bond
shu had crowned with a wreath of whito and
pink wood-blossoms.
"Yew, she does, that's a fact," answered
tho very practical boy, us bo slowly drew in
bis fishing-line.
It was a bright, still afternoon in tho ear
ly summer, and John Strong bad brought
tbo two littlo girls over to tho pond, and,
whilo lie hauled in, with shouts of triumph,
his prizes of pickerel and Iwm, Wealthy had
twined a wreath of blooiomf, which she and
Minuio bad gathered in tho woods, a little
way off, ana wound them in Uio child's
tresses.
Tho brother and sister were healthy, ro
bust-looking children, with round limn and
sun-browned faces, which toll their own
talos of country lifo; but Minnie IJlako was
one of thorn children, the my sight of which
brought a now lifo into tho eyes of those
who love beauty, She was small and deli
cate, with eyes bluo and deep as still lakes
locked beneath deep mountains, and her
hair had tb* golden ripeness of the harvest
pears that droopped every autumn on the
grass in Mr. Strong ■ garden.
The bloom of two woodland reees were
set in her cheeks, and sweet smiles were for
ever clustering over the dimples hidden
about her Upa.
She had resided with the Strongs for »ore
Jjien two years, and ail this time the little
orphan, Minnio Blake, had been like a tweet
flower, filling their borne with fragrauce.
But it had been a homo when went on
constantly a aharp, strong battle with pov
erty—a, battle that was lightened and aano
tified by faith in God, and sweet afieetioos
and tender carue. But this summer bad
red more darkly than its predecessor, for
Strong's rheumatic attacks bad been
longer and more aerioua than any of the pre
vious once. He bad lost several Important
•jobs'fur that season, In ooosequeneo of his
illness; and his oldest son, who bad just
crossed his fourteenth birth-day bad been
obliged to loan) the district school and 1st
himself out as a 'ohoro boy' to a penurious
old farmer in the vicinity of Woodford.
So troubles thickened over tbo beads of
the caroentcr's little family, and tho face of
Mrs. Strong grew paler and more patient
day by day.
"You just got away from my father'a
pond, it you know what is good for you."
.XllP l|ju4 huphwiones btvko suddenly in
upon the children's voices, and looking np
hastily in the direction of tbo voice. John
saw Squire Morton's son standing in the field
opposite the meadow, through whose dark
gram tho little pond flashed tno silvery em
broidery ot its waters.
Now, although the meadow ia reality be
longed to the Squire, it was noardsd as 'pub
lic property' by all tbe neighbors, ana tho
scnooioojs aaemDiou nere every oaiuroay
afternoon, for piscatorj achievements, amfckt
boisterous jeets and frolic.
John Strong wu a bold, out-spoken bojt
and the insolent tones of the Squire's aon at
once aroused all his belligerent qualities.
"Tho pond belongs quite as much to me
as it docs' to jou, sir, and I shall staj here
just as lung lit I like, for all jour orders."
"You will, ch? I'd liko to know what
right jou, a poor beggar of a carpenter's
son, hare to speak to mo in that waj ?" and
, Robert Morton, whoso naturally overbearing
disposition had been nurtured bj tho induU
gcnce of most injudicious parent*—for ho
wait an onlv son—advanced towards tho bojt
whoso senior ho wiis bj two or three jcars,
tauntingly cracking a small riding whip
which ho carried in his hand. Tho angrj
blood burned over the face ot Johr. Strong,
while tho girls shrieked for fear.
"Come on," ho cried, assuming a belliger
ent attitude, and doubling his fists; "I'm
not afruid of jou, Bob Morton, if jou am
the Squire's son, and I'd liko finit rate to
give jou a lickin' fur that insult."
It was not tho right action nor tho rignt
answer; but tho carpenter's son forgot, in
that hour of sore temptation, what tnanj
older and wiser heads than his havo done,
that it is neither monoj nor station which
makes tho true gentleman, onlv tho heart
that isgentlo, and noble, and well sustained;
and John Strong cortainlr defended when
ho replied to the taunts of tho Squire's son,
aggravating as they were.
Hubert Morion had a handsome face, but
it was 0110 of those, despite its dark, clcarlj
cut features, which jour heart never clung
to—ono which tho more it was studied tho
less it wus loved ; and now an exprraion of
angrj pride darkened and distorted cverj
lineament, as ho stood still a moment before
John Strung, umt then lifting his whip,
struck him a quick, sharp bluw on the fore
head. The next moment tho two bojs closed
in an angrj struggle. John was tho smaller
oi tho two, but exerciso had doveloped his
muscles, and given him a degree of phjsical
power which ono would scarcely have sus
pected from tho first glan^o. Ilo soon suc
ceeded in wresting tho whip from tho
Squire's son, and altera brief struggle threw
hiui on tho ground; and as John's temper
had complete] j overmastered him, ho gave Ilia
antagonist a severer beating than ho was
himself awuro of.
"Oh, father, my Johnny sent to jail! I
■hull never lie nhlo to lift mv head uguiu,"
and tho mother wrung her hands, and tho
team scattered themselves over her palo
checks.
It wuxndnrk day under tho roof of tho
littlo red house of tho carficiitcr Jaeun
Strong. .
Tho Squire's son had executed his threat,
and so worked ujton his father's sytnjnthici
and indignation by tho story of tfio wrongs
which ho had received, that ho had com*
monccd a suit against tho carpenter on ac
count of his son, and tho latter was sent to
jail, hocauso his father could not raise tho
hundred dollars which would havo (aid the
hoy's bond*.
Jason Strong leaned his head in his hard
hands and groaned, while Minnie and Weal
thy, who scarcely comprehended tho fearful
tidings crept clow to cach other in one cor
ner of tho kitchen, and sidled their little
brown hands into each other's, and looked
with sorrowful facte upon tho father and
mother.
•'My boy in jail," murmured tho poor
mother, as she paced, with looked hands, up
and down tho room ; "my hoy, that I loved
so, and wns so proud of, whoso littlo brown
head I havo rocked to sleep so many nights
in the cradle yonder"—
"Oh, don't, don't, wife,"groaned the car
penter, and his wholo frame shuddered liko
a sobbing child's while the two girls cried
softly in the corner.
And just at that moment tho front gate
of the red houso *ni opened, and a man
strode into tho yard and up to Uie front door
—a man small and somownat thin, but hav
ing that rambling gait and sailor's dress
which at onoe indicated his nautical occupa
tion. %
llis eyes roamed a moment over the hum
ble cottage, its mossy roof embroidered with
golden dfvicm of tho sunset; then he lifted
the heavy handlo of tho bra* knocker, and
gavo such a summons that it must hart
reached tho ears of any living soul under the
low roof.
Minnie put her small, sweet facooat of the
front door, and lookod up eagerly at tho
man.
"Can you tell me, littlo one, if» man by
tho naino o* Strong bails from thia eraft?"
Tho blue oyes dilated with awoet wonder
at tho strnngo language.
"I don't anow what yoa mean."
"Ain't used to sailor s yarns, eh, littleeea
bird? Well, then, can yoa tell mewho
lives inside?"
"His namo'a Jason Strong."
"The vcrr man that I'm after." exclaim
ed tho alitor, totting his foot over tho thresh
bold; then, aa if a sudden thought had
•truck him, be checked himself, and, looking
down ii^mtlj on »hachild, be aakad, 'won't
yon tellmo your nameif"
"I'm Minnie Wake.
lie reached out the strong arm and Ufled
the small figure, and foWed liup do*ly, aa
a mother her newly-found child, to his heart,
and the wards oamo in a eobto hia lira, "My
child, I'm your father."
O there was wonder and Joy la the car
penter's house that night, when it waa dis
covered that Minnie's father had returned to
thanr-ha whoes hair they thought had beat