Cooper's Clarksburg register. [volume], December 17, 1851, Image 1

About Cooper's Clarksburg register. [volume] (Clarksburg, Va. [W. Va.]) 1851-1861

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6.
i
WILLIAM P. COOPER,]
VOL. I.?NO 6>
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T11E llATTLESNAKE MUNTElt.
"Until my ghnstly title is told,
Tills heart within mo bums."
During & delightful excursion in the
vicinity of the Green Mountains, a few
years sinctk 1 had the good fortune to
many parfinpf Vermont as the Rattle
snake Hunter. It was a warm, clear
day of sunshine, in the middle of June,
that I saw him for the first time, while
engaged in a mineralogical ramble over
the hills, llis head was bald and his
forehead was deeply 'marked with tho
strong lines ofcare and age. His form
was wasted and meagre ; and but for the
fiery vigor of his eyti, he might have
been supposed incapacitated by age and
infirmities for even a slight excursion.?
Yet lie hurried over the huge' ledges of
rocks with a quick and almost youthful
tread; and seemed earnestly searching
among the crevices and loose crags and
stinted bushes around him. All at one#,
he started suddenly?drew himself back
with a soft of shuddering recoil?and
then smote fiercely with his staft'upon the
rock before hipi. Vnother and another
blow?and he lifted the lithe and crushed
form of a large rattlesnake upon the end
if his rod.
The old' man's eye glistened, but his
lips trembled as he looked steadfastly
upon his yet writhing victim. ' Another
of the accursed race !' he muttered be
tween his clenched teeth, apparently un
conscious of my presence.
I was satisfied that the person now bc
fore me was none other than the famous
' Rattlesnake llunter.' lie was known
throughout the neighborhood as an out
r:i?t and u wanderer, obtaining a misera
ble subci-i cnee from the casual charities
of the people around him. llis time was
mostly spi-nt among the rocks and rude
hills, where his only objept seemed to be
the hunting out and destroying of the
Crc'ti/itx ho riff-tin or rattlesnake. 1 imme
diately determined to satisfy my curiosity
which had been strongly 'excited by the
remarkable appearance of the stranger,
and tor this purpose I approached him.
' Are there many of these reptiles in
tiiia .i.9' [ inquired, pointing to the
crushed serpent.
* They arc getting to be scarce,' said
the oH man, lifting his slou.ched hat and
wiping his bald brow. ' I have known the
time when you could hardly stir ten rods
from your door, in this part of tho State,
without hearing their low, quick rattle at
your side, or seeing their many-colored
bodies, coiling up in your. path. But as
[ said before, they are getting to be scarce,
the inferaal race will be extinct in a few
years?rand thank God, I have myself been
a considerable cause pf their extermina
tion.'
' You must of course, know the nature
of these creatures perfectly well,' said 1.
' Do yon believe in their power of fascina
tion or charming V
The old man's countenance fell. There
was h visible struggle of feeling within
him, for his lips quivered, he dashed his
brown hand suddenly across his eyes as
if to couceal a tear ; tut quickly recover
ing himself, lie answered in the low, deep
voice of one who was about to reveal
some horrible secret?
?I believe in the rattlesnake's power of
fascination, as firmly as I believe in my
own existence.'
' Surely !' said I, ' you do not believe
that they have power, over human be
ings ?'
' I do, 1 know it to be so !' and the ojd
man trembled as he spoke. ' You are a
stranger to me,' he said, slowly, after
scrutinizing ray .features for a moment?
? but if you will go down with me to the foot
of this rock, in the shade there,?and he
Eointcd to a group of leaning oaks that
ung over the declivity?' I will tell you
a strange and sad story of my own expe
rience.'
It may be supposed that I readily as
sented to this proposal, and bestowing
one more blow upon the rattlesnake as if
ii> be certain of its death, the old man
idasccnvied the rocks with a rapidity that
would have endangered the neck of a less
practised hunter. After reaching the
place which he pointed out, the Rattle
snake Hunter commenced his story in a
manner whu:h confirmed what I had pre
viously heard of his education and intel
lectual strength.
' I was among the earliest settlers in this
part of the country. I had just finished
my education at Harvard, when 1 was
induced by tlje flattering representations
of some of the earliest pioneers into the wild
land beyond the Connecticut, to seek my
fortune in the hew settlements. My wife'
??the old man's eye glistened an instant,
And thou a tear crossed his brown cheek
?' my wife accompanied me, young and
delicate, and beautiful as she was, to this
wild and rude country. I Shall never for*
jgiy? myself for bringing her hither?never
. young .man,' continued he, 'you look like
pro jyho could pity. You shall see the
, image .of the girl who followed me to the
oe-w country,' and he unbound as he
spoke, a ribbon from his seek, wHh a
miniature to it.
It was that of a beautiful Carnal*'?but
there was an almost ohildish expression in
her countenance?a softness.? a delicacy,
and sweetness of smile' which I hare sel
dom seen tn the features of those who
have Mated, even slightly the bitUr Wa
ters of existence. The old ma? w.atc^ed
my countenance intently, as I surveyed
the image of his early love. ' She must
have-been very beautiful,' I said, as I re
turned the picture. ?
' Beautiful!' lie repeated, ' yob may well
say so. But this avails nothing. I hava
a fearful story tp tell: woukl Ve God I had
not attempted it; but I will go on. ? My
heart has been too often stretched upon
the rack of memory to suffer any pang.'
'We had resided in the new country
about a year. Our - settlement had ia
creftsed .rapidly ; and the comforts and de
licacies of life were beginning to be felt,
after the Weary privations and severe tri
als to which we had been subjected. The
red men were few apd feeble, and did not
molest us. The beast^of the forest* and
mountains were ferocious, but we suffer
ed little from them. ? The only immediate
danger to whioh we were exposed, resul
ted from the rattlesnakes which infested
our neighborhood. Three or four of our
settlers were bitten by them, and died in
terrible agonies. The Iiidihns often told
us frightful stories of this snakfe, arid its
powers of fnscination, and although they
were generally believed, yet for myself, I
confess, I was rather amused than con
vinced by their marvellous legends. ?'
In one of my hunting excursions abroad,
on a fine morning?it was at this time of
the year, I was accompanied by my wife.
'Twas a beautiful morning. The sun
shine was warm, but the atmosphere was
perfectly clear, and a fine breeze from the
north-west shook the bright green leaves
which clothed to profusion the wreathing
branches above us. I had left my com
panion for a short time, in pursuit of game,
and in climbing a rugged ledge of rocks,
interspersed with shrubs and dwarfish
trees, I was startled by a quick, grating
rattle.
I looked forward. On the edge of a
loosened rock laid a large rattlesnake,
coiling himself up as if for the deadly
spring. He was within a few feet of me ;
and I paused for an instant to survey him.
I know not why, 1 stood still, and looked
at the deadly serpent with a strange feel
ing of curiosity. Suddenly he unwound
his coil, and relenting from his purpose of
hostility, and raising his head, he fixed
his bright fiery eye directly upon my
own. A chilling and indescribable sen
sation?totally different from anything I
had ever before experienced, followed the
movement of the serpent; but 1 stood still
and gazed steadily and earnestly, for at
that moment there was a visible change
in the reptile.
Ilis form seemed to grow larger and
his colors brighter. Ilis body moved
with a slow, almost imperceptible motion i
towards* me, mul n lun Hwi" *-*f muelu ]
came from liim, or at least it sounded in
my ear?a strange, sweet melody, faint
as that which melts from the throat of the
humming bird. Then the tints of his
body deepened, and changed and glowed
like the cLanges of a .beautiful kaleido
scope?green; purple and gold, until I
lost sight of the serpent entirely, and saw
only wild and curiously woven circles of
strange colors, quivering around me, like
an atmosphere of rainbows. I seemed in
the centre of a great prism?a world of
mysterious colors?and tints varied and
darkened and lighted up again around
me, and the low music went on without |
ceasing until my brain reeled ; and fear,
for the first time, came like a shadow
over inc.
The new sensation gained upon me
rapidly, and I could feel the cold sweat
gushed from my brow. I had no cer
tainty of fear in my mind?no definite
idea of peril?all was vague and clouded
like the unaccountable terrors of a dream
?and yet my limbs shook, and I fancied
I could feel the blood stiffening with cold
as it passed along my veins. I would
have given worlds to have been able to
tear ravself from the spot; I attempted to
do so, but the body obeyed not the im
pulse of the mind?not a muscle stirred ;
and I stood still as if my feet had grown
to the solid rock, with the infernal music
of the tormentor in my ear, and the bane
ful colorings of his enchantments before
me.
Suddenly a new sound came to my ear
?it was if human voice?but it seemed
strange and awful. "Again?again?but
I stirred not, and then a white form plun
ged before me, and grasped my arm.?
The horrible spell was at once broken.?
The strange colors passed from before my
vision. The rattlesnake was coiling at my
very feet, with flowing eyes and uplifted
fangs, and my wife was clinging with ter
ror upon me. The next instant the ser
pent threw himself upon us. My wife
was the victim 1 The fatal fangs pierced
deeply into her hand, and her screams of
agony, as she staggered backward from
me, told me the dreadful truth.
Then it was that the feeling of madness
came over me; and when I saw the foul
serpent stealing away from liis work,
reckless of danger, I sprang forward and
crushed him under my feet, grinding him
upon the ragged rock. The groans of my
wife now recalled me to her side, and to
the horrible reality of her situation.?
There was a dark livid spot on her hand,
and it deepened into blacliness as I led her
away. \v e were at a considerable dis
tance from any dwelling, ai\d aftef; wan
dering for a short time, tho> pain of her
wound became insupportable to my wife,
and she swooned away in my arms.?
Weak and exhausted as I was.'l yet had
strength enough remaining to carry her
to the nearest rivulet, and bathe her
brow in the cool water. She partially re
covered, and eat down upon the bank,
while I supported her head upon my bo?
om. Hour a/tor hour passed away, and
none oam? near as?and there, alone, in
the groat wilderness, I watched over her
and prayed with her?and she died !'
The old man groaned audibly as he ut
tered these words, and, ax be clasped his
k?g bony hands over his eyes, 1 could set
the tears lifting thickly through hi* gannt
fingers. After a momentary straggle
with his feelings, be lifted his head once
more, and there wu a fierce light in his
eye as he spoke.
' But I have had my revenge. From
that fatal moment I have fslt myself fit
ted and set apart, by the terrible ordeaJ of
affliction, to rid the p)aee of my a'x>de of
its foulest curse. And I have well nigh
aucceded. The fascinating demons are
already few and powerless, do not im
agine,' said be, earnestly regarding the
somewhat equivocal expression of my
countenance, ' that 1 consider these crea
tures as serpents; they are serpents of the
fallen angel, the immediate ministers of
the infernal gulf.'
* * ? ? a ?
.Years have passed since my interview
with the Rattlesnake Hunter; the place of
his abode has changed?a beautiful vil
lage arises nfear the spot of our confer
ence, and the grass of the chureh-yerd is
green over the grave of the old "hunter.
But his story is fixed upon my mind, and
time, like enamel, only (burns deeper the
first impression It comes up before me
like a vividly remembered dream, whose
features are too horrible for reality.
A Good 0?e.
An exchange says it has published the
following, half a dozen times in as many
years, but it looked so fresh and funny
yesterday, as we were running over our
exchanges, that we thought we 4'ould
give it another send-off. It is almost
needless to say that the humorous yarn
was spun by Lever, the facetious author
of Charles 0"Malley. The Bloomers may
take a hint from it, and it is partly on
their account that we give th<5 extract a
place:
'I believe that a woman "would do a
grcatdealfor a dance,' said Dr. Growling,
' they are immensely fond of saltatory mo
tion. I remember once in my life I used
to flirt with one who was a great favorite
in a provincial town where I lived, and
she confided to me the secret that she had
no stockings for a ball which was about
to take place, and without them her pre
sence at the dance was out of the ques
tion:'
' That was a hint for you to buy the
stockings,' said Dick.
' No, you're out,' said Growling. ' She
knew that I was as poor as herself; but
though she could rely on my purse, she
had every confidence in my taste and
judgment, and consulted me on apian she
had formed for going to the ball in a pro
per twig. Now, what do you think it
was?'
'To ato in cotton. I suppose,' returned
Dick.
? Out Again, sir?you'd never guess it;
and only a woman would have hit upon
i the expedient. It was the fashion, in those
( days for ladies in full dress to wear pink
stockings, and she proposed painting her
legs!'
' Painting her legs !' they all exclaim
| ed.
'Fact, sir,' said the doctor, 'and she
relied upon me for telling her if the cheat
was successful.'
'And was it?' asked Durfy.
' Don't be in a hurry, Tom. I compli
ed on one condition, namely?that I should
be the painter.'
' Oh, you old rascal!' said Dick.
* A capital bargain !' said Durfy.
' Don't interrupt me, gentlemen,' said
the doctor. ' I got some rose pink, ac
cordingly, and I defy all the hosiers in
Nottingham to make a tighter fit than I
did on little Jenny ; and a prettier pair of
stockings 1 never saw.'
'And she went to the ball,' said Dick.
'She did.'
'And the trick succeeded?' inquired
Durfy.
'So completely,' said the doctor, 'that
several ladies asked her to recommend
her dyer to them. So you see what a
woman will do to go to a dance. Poor
little Jenny, she was a merry minx?by
the by, Bhe boxed my ears that night for
a joke I made about the stockings. ' Jen
ny,' said I, ' for fear your stockings should
fall down when you are dancing, hadn't
you better lei me paint a pair of garters on
them ?'
Miqhtv Cute.?Two cotton-waggons
meeting on the road to Augusta, the fol
lowing dialogue took place between the
drivers :
'What's cotton in Augusta?' asks the
one with a load.
' Cotton,' said the other.
The inquirer supposing himself not to
be understood, repeats?' What's cotton in j
Augusta ?'
'It's cotton,' says the other.
' I know that,' says the other,' but what
is it?'
'Why,' says the other, ' I tell you it is
cotton! Cotton is cotton in Augusta, and
every where else, that ever I heard of.'
' I know that as well as you,' says the
first, ' but what does cotton bring m Au
gusta ?'
?Why, it brings nothing there, every
body brings cotton.'
'Look here,' says the first wagoner,
* you had better leave the State, for I'll
be hanged if you don't know too much for
Georgia.'
t3T If people only kept their heads as
well furnished with books as they do their
centre tables, what an intelligent world
this would be. One half of the Shaks
pears purchased, fill up rooms instead of
brains.
A IIOMH PICT IKE.
BT UU
Bm JVkt had finished his Wd day*# w?rk,
And 1m ant M Us eottafa door;
His good Wife, Kate, sat by liiseids,
And the rao?a-Hfht danssd tm. tha ftact;?
And tha moso-liglrt danced om tha eeUaga ftoor;
. H?r be ana vara ctear and bright
whan hs and Kate, twahm year*
TaLk*d lovt in bar mallow liitkL
l -
Ben Fiske? had ?r? ? jtiya of clay,
Aad ?eve* a dnn dratvk ha,
So ho loTod at bom* with bis wlib to *%*J
And th?y chatted right mertjly;
Bight merrily (hatted tbagr on (to white
Har haha slept an ka? brnxrt;
WhlVt a shabby rogue, with roay gmila,.
On Us Ik (bar's Vim found Mat.
Ban told har how bat tha potaloat pnr,
And the eom in tha low field ;
And tha "wbaat os thi UU vss grown to wad,
And proiqised a glorious yield;
The (rasa was growing in thf wain tea,
And his orchard was doing fkir;
His shoep and his stock war* In their prime
His fknn all in food raps1*.
Kate said that bar garden looked beautiful,
Her fowls and ealvee were fkt;
That the butter that Tommy that monriag?htt?aad
Woald buy him a Bnndsy hat;
That Jenny for Pa a new shirt bad made,
Ahd twas dona too, by the rule;
That Neddy the garden eould nioely spade,
And Ann was ahead at school.
Ben slowly raised bis toil-worn hand
Through Us looks of grayish brown?
" I'll tell yoo, Kate, what .1 think." said he,
" We're the hsppisst folks in town."
" I know," said Kate, " that we all work hard?
Work and health go together, I've found,
For there's Mrs. Boll does not work st all,
And she's sick the whole year round.
" They're worth thgy thousands, so paople ssy,
But I ne'er saw them hsppy yet;
'Twould not be me thst would take their gold
And lire in s constant fret;
My hultble home has a light within,
Mrs. Bell's gold .could not buy,
Six healthy children, a merry hesrt,
And s husband's love-lit eye."
I funded a tear was in Bon's eye?
The nioou shone brighter and clearer,
I could not tell why the man should cry,
But he hitched up to Kutc still nearer;
lie leaned his head on her shoulder there,
And ho took her hand in his?
I guess?(though I looked at the moon just
That he left on her lips a kisv
din)
From Arthur's Homo Oazette
TUB BUSHEL OF COKN. ?
BY T. >. ABTHUB.
Farmer Gray had a neighbor who nu
not the beat tempered man in the world,
though mainly kind and obliging. He
was a shoemaker. His name was Bar
ton. One day in harvest time when eve
ry man on the farm was as busy as a
bee, this man came over to Farmer Gray's
and said in a rather petulant tone of
voice?
' Mr. Gray, I wish you would send over
and drive your geese home.
' Why so, Mr. Barton ; what have my
t>ip farmer in a
mild, quiet tone.
? They pick my pigs' ears when they
arc eating, and go into my garden, and I
will not have it !' the neighbor replied in
a still more petulant tone.
' I am really sorry for it, neighbor Bar
ton, but what can I do !'
' Why yoke them, and thus keep them
on your own premises. It's no kind of
a way to let your geese run all over
every farm and garden in the neighbor
hood.'
' But I cannot see to it now. It is
harvest time, friend Barton, and every
man, woman and child on the farm has
as much as be or she can do. Try and
bear it for a week or so, and then I will
see if I can possibly remedy the evil!'
' I can't bear it, and I won't bear it
any longer,' said the shoemaker. 'So if
you do not take care of them, friend
Gray, I shall have to take care of them
for you.'
' Well, neighbor Barton, you can do as
you please,' farmer Gray replied in his
usual quiet time. I am sorry that they
trouble you, but I cannot attend to them
now.'
' I'll attend to them for you, see if I
don't,' said the shoemaker, still more an
grily than when he first called upon far
mer Gray, and then turned upon his heel
and strode off hastily towards his own
house, which was quite near the old far
mer's.
' What upon earth can be the matter
with them geese ?' said Mrs. Gray, about
fifteen minutes afterwards.
' I really cannot tell, unless neighbor
Barton is taking care of them. He
threatened to do so if I didn't yoke them
right off.'
' Taking care of them! How taking care
of them V
' As to that, I am quite in the dark,
killing them, perhaps. He said they
picked at his pigs' ears and drove them
away when they were eating, and that he
wouldn't have it. He wanted me to yoke
them right off, but that I could not do
now, as all bands are busy. So I sup
pose be is engaged in the neighborly bu
siness of taking care of our geese.'
'John! William I run over and see
what Mr. Barton is doing with my geese,'
said Mrs. Gray in a quick and anxious
tone, to two bttle boys who were playing
near.
The urchins scampered off, well pleas
ed to perform any errand.
' Oh, if he has dared to do anything to
my geese, I will never forgive him 1' the
good wife said angrily.
' H-u-s-h, Sally, make no rash speech
es. It is more than probable that he has
killed some two or three of them. But
never mind if he has. He will get over
his pet, and be sorry for it.'
? Yes, but what good will his being sor
ry do me 1 Will it bring my geese to
life V
?Ah, well, Sally, never mind Let us
"?;?: ' , . .
wait until we learn what all this distur
bance te about*
1b about ten minutes the children came
home bearing the bodies of three geese,
each without a head.
? Ok, is not that toe muoh for human
endurance f cried Mrs. Gray. ? ' Where
did you find them ?'
' We found them lying out in the road,'
?aid. tha oldost of the two ohtldren, ? and
whftB we picked them us, Mr. Bartog said
?tell your father that J have yoked * his
geese far him, to aa-ve him the trouble,
as his baada are all too busy to do it.'
' fTd mm him for it,' said Mrs. Gray in
as indignant top*.
' And what md would the* do, Sal
!fT
'Why ft would do a great deal of
good. It would toacih him hettor man
ner*. It would punish baa, and he de
serves punishment.'
' And punish us mto the bargain. We
have lost but three geeae sew, but we
?till have their good fat bodies to eat.?
A lawsuit would eoet us aaany geese, and
not leave ua even as muah as the feath
er*, besides gtvtnjf Us a world at trouble
and vexation. No, no. Bally ; just lot
it rest,, and he will be sorry far it I
know.*
? Barry for it. Indeed I AadwWgood
will his being sorry for it do us, I should
like to know ? Next he will kill a oow,
aad then we must be satitled with his be
ing sorry far it! Now I oon tell you that
I don't believe in that dootrine. Nor do
I believe anything about his beiag sorry,
the crabbed, ill-natured wretch.'
' Don't call him hard aamaa, Sally,'
said fanner Gray, in a mild, soothing tone.
' Neighbor Barton was not himself when
he killed the geese. Like every other an -
gry person, he waa a little insane, and did
what he would not have done, had he
been perfectly in his right mind. When
you are a little excited, you know, Sallv,
that even you do and say unreasonable
things.
' Me do and say unreasonable things!'
exclaimed Mrs. uray, with a look and
tone of indignant astonishment; 'me do
and aay unreasonable things when I am
angry. 1. don't understand you, Mr.
Gray.'
' May be I can hel] you a little. Don't
Jon remember how i.ngry you were when
(r. Mellon's old brindle got into our
garden, and trampled over your lettuce
bed, and how you struck her with the
ovea pole, and knocked off one of her
horns?'
' But I didn't mean to do that though.'
' No, but then you were angry, and
struck old brindle with a right good will.
And if Mr. Mellon had felt disposed, he
might have prosecuted for damages.'
? But she had no business there.'
' Of course not. Neither bad our
geese any business in neighbor Barton's
yard. But perhaps I can help you to
another instance that will be more con
clusive in regard to your doing and say
ing unreasonable things when you are
angry. You remember the patent
oli urn ?'
. Yes, but never mind about that.'
? So you have not forgotten how un
reasonable you was about the churn. . It
wasn't good for anything?you knew it
wasn't; and you'd never put a jar of
cream into it as long as you lived?that
you wouldn't. And yet on trial, you
found that churn the best you had ever
used,- and you would'nt part with it on
any consideration. So you see, Sally that
even you can say and do unreasonable
things when you are angry just as well
as Mr. Barton can. Let us then consider
him a little, and give him time to get
over his angry fit. It will be much beter
to do so.
Mr. Gray saw that her husband was
right, but still she felt indignant at the
outrage committed on her geese. She
did not, however, say anything about su
ing the shoemaker?for old brindle's head
from which the horn had been knocked
off, was not yet entirely- well, and one
prosecution very naturally suggested the
idea of another. So she took her three
fat geese, and after stripping off their
feathers, had them prepared for the ta
ble.
On the next morning, as fanner Gray
was going along the road, he met the
shoemaker, and as they had to pass very
near to each other, the farmer smiled and
bowed, and spoke kindly. Mr. Barton
looked and felt vary uneasy, but farmer
Gray did not seem to remember the un
pleasant incident of the day before.
It was about eleven o'clock the same
day, that one of farmer Gray's little boys
came running home to him, and crying?
? Oh father 1 father! Mr. Barton's hogs
are in our corn field.'
? Then I must go and drive them out,'
said Mr. Gray in a quiet tone.
? Drive them out!' ejaculated Mrs.
Gray, 'drive them out, indeed 1 I'd shoot
them, that's what I'd do! I'd serve them
as he served my geese yesterday.'
' But that wouldn't bring the geese to
life again, Sally.'
' I don't care if it wouldn't. It would
be paying him in bis own corn, and that's
all he deserves.'
* You know what the Bible says, Sail'
with stronger force to grievous actions.?
No, no, I will return neighbor Barton
good for eviL That is the best way.?
He has done wrong, and I am sure he is
sorry for it. And I wish him still to. re
main sorry for so unkind and unneigh
borly an action, I intend making use of
the best means for keeping him sorry.'
? Then you will be revenged on him,
any how.'
? No, Sally?not revenged. I hope I
have no such feeling. For I am not an
gry with neighbor Barton, who has done
himself a much greater wrong than hehas
done me. But I wish him to see clearly
how wrong he acted, that he may do so
no more. And then we shall not have
? ? .;> i r 1*1
any cause to complain of him, nor any to
be grieved, as I am sure he is, at his own
hasty conduct. But -while I am talking
here, his hogs are destroying my corn.'
And so saying, farmer Gray hurried
off towards his corn field. When he ar
rived there, he found four large hogs
tearing down the stalks and puling off
and eating the ears of corn. They had
already destroyed a good deal. But he
drove them out v?rv calmly, and put up
the bars through which they had entered,
and then commenced gathering up the
hulf eaten ears of corn, and throwing them
out into the lane, for the hoga that had been
so suddenly disturbed in the process of
obtaining a liberal meal. Ashe was thus
engaged, Mr. Barton, who had from his
own house, seen the farmer turn the hogs
out of his cornfield, came hftrriedly up,
as4 said:
?I am very sorry, Mr. Gray, indeed I
am, that my hogs have, done this. I will
ipost cheerfully, pay you for what they
have destroved.'
? Oh never mind, friend Barton?never
mind. Such things will happen occa
sionally. My geese, you know, annoy
you very much sometimes.'
' Don't speak'of it, Mr. Gray. They
didn't annoy me half as much as I imagin
ed they did. But how much corn do you
think my hogs havo destroyed? />ne
bushel, or two bushels ? Or how much?
Let it be estimated, and I will pay for it
most cheerfully.
' Oh/ no, not for the world, friend Bar
ton. Such things will happen sometimes.
And, besides, some of my men must have
left the bars down, or your hogs could
never have got in. So don't think any
more about it. It would be dreadful
if one neighbor could not bear a little
with another.'
All this cut poor Mr. Barton to the
heart. His own ill natured language and
conduct at a much smaller trespass on his
rights, presented itself to his mind, and
deeply mortified him. After a few mo
ments silence, he said:
The fact is, Mr. Gray, I shall feel bet
ter if you will let me pay for this corn.?
My hogs should not be fattened at your
expense, and I will not consent to its be
ing done. So I shall insist on paying you
for at least one bushel of corn, for 1 am
sure they have destroyed that much, if
not more.
But Mr. Gray shook his head, and smi
led pleasantly, as he replied :
' Don't think any more about it, neigh
bor Barton. It is a matter deserving no
consideration. No doubt my cattle have
often trespassed on you, and will trespass
on you again. Let us then bear and for
bear.'
All this cut the shoemaker still deeper
and he felt still less at ease in mind alter
he parted from the farmer than he did be
fore. But one thing he resolved, and that
was to pay Mr. Gray for the corn which
i his hogs had eaten.
? You told him your mind pretty plain*
ly, I hope,' said Mrs. Gray, as her hus
band came in.
? I certainly did,' was the quiet reply.
' And I am glad you had spirit enough
to do it. I reckon he will think twice
before he kills any more of my geese.'
?1 expect you are right. Bally, 1 don't
think we shall be troubled again.'
' And what did you say to him ? And
what did he say for himself?'
? Why, he wanted very much to pay
me for the corn his pigs had eaten, but 1
wouldn't bear to it. I told him that it
made no difference in the world, that such
accidents would happen sometimes.'
? You did ?'
? Certainly I did.'
? And that's the way you spoke your
mind to him ?'
'Precisely. And it had the desired ef
fect. It made him feci ten times worse
than if I had spoken angrily to him. He
is exceedingly pained at what he has done,
and says he wiil never rest until he has
paid for that corn. But I am resolved
never to take a cent for it. It will be
the best possible guaranty I can hare for
j his kind and neighborly conduct hereaf-1
ter.
' Well, perhaps you are right/ said
Mrs. Gray after a few moment* of
thoughtful silence. 'I like Mrs. Barton
very much?and now I come to think of |
it, I should not wish to have any differ-'
ence between our families.'
' And so do I like Mr. Barton. He has j
read a good deal, and I find it very plea-1
sant to sit with him occasionally, during i
the long winter evenings. His only fault'
is his quick temper?but I am sure it isj
much better for us to bear with and;
soothe that, than to oppose and excite it,
aiyl thus keep both ins family and our
own in hot water.'
' You are certainly right,' replied Mrs.|
Gray, * and I only wish that I could al- j
ways think and feel as you do. But I
am a little quick, as they say.' .
'And so is Mr. Barton. Now just the i
same consideration that you would desire
others to have for you, should yon exer
cise towards Mr. Barton, or any one else
whose hasty temper leads him into words;
or actions that in calmer or more thought
ful moments are subject* of regret. |
On the next day while Mr. Gray stood
in his own door from which be could see
over the two or three acres of ground that;
the shoemaker cultivated, he observed
two of his cows in his neighbor's corn
field, browsing away in quite a contented
manner. As ne was going to call one of
hit farm band* to go over and drive them
out, he perceived that Mr. Barton was be
coming aware of the mischief that was
going on, and bad already started for the
field of corn.
' Now we will see the effect of jester*
day's lesson,' said the farmer to himself,
and then paused to observe the manner of
the shoemaker towards his cattle in dri
ving them out of the field. In a few
minutes Mr. Barton came up to the cows
?but instead of throwing stones at th*m,
or striking them with a stick, he merely
drove them out in a quiet way, and put
up the bars through which they bad enter
ed.
* Admirable !' ejaculated farmer Gray.
' What is admirable V asked his wile,
who came within hearing distance at the
moment. ^ -
? Why the lesson I gave our friend Bar
ton vesterda^. It worU* admirably.'
? Two of our cow* were in hi* cornfield
a few minutes ago, destroying his>ot^ ?t
a rapid rate. r ? y .
1 Well 1 what did he do" to them ?' she
asked in a quick, anxious ion*.
' He drove them out.'
' Did he stone them or beat thrtn V
* Oh no. Re ?u as gentle as a ofclVd
towards them.' '
You are certainly jesting.'
" 1 " ' Ba * ?
' Not I. Friend Barton haa not forgot*
ten that his piga were in my ooroneld
yesterday, and that i turned them out
without hurting a hair of one of thorn.?
Now suppose X had got angry and beaten
his pigs, what do you think the result .
would have been ? Why, it is much
more than probable, that one or both of
our fine milch eows would have been at
this moment in the condition of Mr. Mel
Ion's old brindle.'
? ' I wish you wouldn't say anything
more about brindle,' said Mrs. Gray, try*
ins to laugh,?while her faoe grew red In.
spue of her efforts to keep down her feol-'
inga. i
' Well, I won't, Sally, if it worrics'you.!
But it is such a good illustration, that Ij
cannot help using it ?ometimta.' 1
' I am glad be didn't hurt the cows,'
said Mrs. Gray, alter a pause.
' And so am I. Glad on more than
one account, It ahowa that he has made
an effort to keep down bis hasty Irritable
temper?and if he oan do that, it will be
a favor conferred on the neighborhood,
for almost every one complains, at tiuoa,
of this fault in his character'
' It is certainly the best policy to keep
fair weather with him,' Mrs. Gray remar
ked, for a man of bis temper could aanoy
us a good deal.'
? That word polioy, Sally ia not a good
word,' replied her husband. ? It oonvevs
a thoroughly selfish idoa. Now we ought
to look for some higher motivos of aotion
than mere polioy?motives grounded in
correct and unselfish principles,'
' But what other motive but policy
could we possibly have for putMug
Mr. Barton's outrageous conduct. T'."
' Other, and far higher motives, it soojns
to me. We should reflect that Mr. B ir
ton has naturally a hasty temper, i id
that when excited he doea things 'or
which he is sorry afterwards?ana t at
in nine cases out of ten he is a grei *r
sufferer from thole outbreaks tban i ay
one else. In our actions towards h! m,
then, it is muoh higher and botter molfvc
for us to be governed by a desire to aid
him in the eorreotion of this evil, than to
look merely to the protection of ourselves
from its effect. Do you not think so f
' Yes. It doea seem to.'
' When thus moved to action, we are,
in a degree, regarding the whole neigh
borhood, for the evil of whieb we rpeak,
affecta all. And in thus Buffering our
selves to be governed by such elevated
and unselfish motives, we gab all that we
could possibly have gained under the mere
instigation of polioy, and a groat deal
more. But to bring the matterlnto a still
narrower compass, in all our actions to
wards him and every one else, we
should be governed by the simple consid
eration?is It right Y If a spirit of retal
iation bo not rignt?then it cannot be in
dulged without a mutual injury. Of
course, tben, it should never prompt ua to
action. If cows or boga get into my field
or garden, and destroy my property?who
is to blame most? Of course, myself. 1
should bar* kept ray fences in better r?
pair, or my gate closed. The animals,
certainly are not to blame, for they fol
low only the promptings of nature?and
their owners should not be censured, for
they know nothing about U. It would
then be very wrong for me to injure both
tbe animals and their owners for my
own neglect?would it not ?'
' Yes?I suppose it would.'
'So at least it seenw to me. Then of
course I ought not to injure neighbor
Barton's eows or hogs, even if tbey do
break into my cornfield or garden, sim
ply because it would be wrong to do so.
This is the principle upon which we
should aet, and not from any selfish poli
cy.'
After this there waa no trouble about
farmer Gray's geese or caUle. Some
times the geese would get among Mr.
Barton's boga, and annoy them while
eating, but it did not worry him ae it did
formerly. If tbey became too -trouble
some he would drive them away, but not
by throwing stick* and stones at them as
be once did.
Late in the fall the shoemaker brought
in his bill for work. It wee a jretty large
bill with sundry credits.
' Pay day has come at last,' said far
raer Gray, good bumoredly, aa the
shoemaker presented hi* aecount. 'Weil,
let us seel" nod be took tbe bill to exam
ine it item after item.
he asked, reading aloud,
bushel of corn, fifty
ine it item after il
;?bati?tbia/j
' It is some corn I had from you.'
' I reckon you must be mistaken. You
sever got any corn fromne,'
' Oh. yes I did.. I remember it per
fectly. It la all right.'
'Butwhen did you get it. friend Bar
ton? 1 am sure I havn't the moat distant
recollection of it.'
'My hogs got U.' the aboemakcr i>aid.
in rather alow and hesitating tone.
'Your hogs.'
? Yea. Don't you remember
bogs broke into your field, ac''ro- e
your corn