Newspaper Page Text
• r ? ' -~a '
4 ft j Î; 1 y >© to ( I TERMS : Two Dollars a Year, INDEPENDENT IN EVERYTHING; NEUTRAL IN NOTHING. CLAYTON, DEL., SATURDAY MORNING, JULY 3, 1869. >> Invariably in Advance. YOL. III. NO. 10. ilclcdcfe poetry. [Written for the Clayton Herald.J To One Who Thought of Me. BY VIOLA. vritten I thank thee, kind friend, for such words, y heart they will prove ever dear; .'or forgot, To 111 the future remembered, yen, By one who craves sympathy hero. Sorrow's my lot, ns sorre And tlio heart knows It bitter grief; Yet sympathy lightens tho load, it is said, Giving us hope the future to cheer. " The first plighted vow we ne'er will forget While memory serves as our guest ; For it taught us to read witli critical eye, The heart submitted to the test. If my hopes are nil shattered, My pathway all strewn With the wrecks of the past, smber tliy promise to me. I'll remember that "owe my image doth keep" ru • in my grief— That "/if# memory" doth wunder.to when wo first met As strangers, yet brother and sister in faith. And ■s witli My thanks, then, dear brother, receive once again, thy kind written words unto Looking hopefully forward to that blest time, Fr r and sin we'll be free.'' "When fr sorre [Written for the Clayton Herald,] Not Judging, But Judged. BY VIOLA. I «lhl not judge t lice wrongly, ( )r traitor call thee, the I took It fr thee kindly, Took it in friendship's name. bore in mind, The golden rule y tho words ; ""^MMt^Lreoelved it from a friend ATtfi-trehHured every word. Too liJh ! yet not unheeded, For It thrilled know, a perieckfct ranger *ed for aught ü£it I might do. My words were w^Lls of kindness, A sad strain in iw tone, oiHkgotteu I knew it ft* y heart T - ■' «Vtw*» Not destroyed, befrahed, forgotten, Kept 'twill be for inf ny a day, And when Appreciative thoughts will bear Blind not thyself to actions Which are pure, Discern the motive of the action, And then thy song prolong. »mory turns towards it vuy. i, und strong, ;1 t §clcdcb Steen.' Kitty Cutting's New Collar. ITT Y CUTTING was a nice, plump little maiden of eighteen summers. Her uncle was a miller, and pretty well to do in the world. As Kitty was likely to be his heiress, this consideration alone would have attracted lovers, if Kitty had been considerably loss attractive than she really was. It so chanced tluit Kitty's affections happened to centre on a young man whom her uncle, tho miller, by opprovod. young farmer in the miller's sole ground of disproyal wus, that tlio young man had not quite so large a sharo of worldly possessions as he thought his niccc had a right to ex pect in a husband. The consequence was, that he forbade young Billings the house, and required Kitty to givo him up. Her eyes snapped in a very decided inaunor, and though she said nothing it was very evident that she meant con siderable. However, sbo was obliged to dissemble, and Ilarry thought it most prudent not to approach tho house when tho miller was at homo. By way of compensation, Kitty was in the habit of letting him know when her uncle was absent, and on these occasions they would pass a sociable evening together in the great square kitchen, Kitty sitting one side intent upon her knitting, and her lover fully occupied in looking at her. lie succeeded in getting away before tho miller arrived, otherwise there would have been a rceno. * " Kitty," said her uncle one day, " I have got to bo away this evening ; and, probably shall not bo back before elev o'clock." Kitty's oyes sparkled—I dare say my readers may guess why. "I have got to go ovor to a town ten miles distant, to see Squire Hayden. He owes me some money. So yon will have to pass the evening by yourself." " I don't think I shall feel lonely, un cle," said Kitty, " I shall bo so busy." " I shall bo at home as early as possi ble," said the miller. " Don't hurry yourself on my ac count," said Kitty, innocently. Tho miller went over to his work, and Kitty hastily scratched tho following note : "Dear Ilarry-.—Uncle has got to go away this evening, and thinks he shan't be back before eleven o'clock. I thought you might like to know . Folding this up, and directing it toiler lover, slio called a little boy who was passing. " Do you want to earn a threc cent piece?" she asked. " Don t I though !" was tho reply •'young America." " Then carry this and give it to Mr. Billings, and mind y lv means This was Henry Billings, a •igliboi hood. The on Kill v.' don't let any bo dy.see it." The boy nodded, understan dingly, anci was oil'on his mission. Kitty was unusually lively and cheer ful through the day, and w as unusually active in expecting her uncle's depar ture. " I am afraid it's going to snow'," said the miller, looking up at the clouds. "O, no it won't," said Kitty, deckled iy. " You scorn quite positive," said her uncle. "At any rate, I don't think It will," said Kitty. "One might almost think you want to get me off," remarked the miller, con siderably nearer the truth than he ima gined. "So I am," said Kitty, with lucky self-possession. " You said; uncle, you expected to receive some money, and I thought if you did you might give me a little to buy a new collar." "Ha, ha!" laughed the miller, " that's it is it? I thought there was something behind. Well, Kitty, you shall have the collar if it costa a bag of meal to buv it." Kitty was seized with momentary compunction; but after all she was not going to do anything much out of way, and so slio soon got over it. Precisely ten minutes after the mil ler's cart was seen rumbling up the road, Harry Billings made his appear ance, Perhaps tho reader will not bo aston ished at his hitting the time so well, when he learns—I beg pardon, «Ae learns (I always givo precedence to my own )—that Harry had been watching round the corner for some over an hour, in great impatience, for this sign that the coast was clear. Kitty was knitting demurely by tho lire, when slio heard " Harry's step on tlio door-sill." " Good gracious, Ilarry, liow.you sur prised me," said she, looking up with a merry smile. "So unexpected, you know." "I thought IM just look in upon you," said hor lover with answering smile. "I suppose your uncle is at homo." " I am vory sorry to say that he will be off all the evening. You will have to call again." comes TjaoÇ^SclwïïŸry in an immediate proximity as he von- [ tu red upon. I am not going to detail the conversa j tion that took piaco that evening be- j tween Kitty and lier lover. Though in- j tcresling to them, I have strong doubts j whether it would bo equally so to my ! present readers. The general subject, however, was devising ways and means to propitiate the determined uncle, and remove tho obstacles to their union. 'This, however, was rather a difficult matter, and they could not decide upon anything which they thought could an swer the purpose. Meanwhile time was passing, and that rapidly. Ten o'clock eu mo. Still Harry staid. There was no im mediate haste, for as the miller express ly said he should not be home much be fore midnight. Kitty and her lover were in the midst interesting disquisition, when, to their inexpressible consternation, the familiar nimble of tho miller's cart was « T mm* I go of of heard ns it entered tlio yard. "Good gracious!" exclaimed Kitty, have'brought undo homo so " What c soon." 0 "Its only toil minutes past ten," said Ilarry, looking hurriedly at Ids watch. " Something or other has happened to hasten his return. Is it possible lie sus pc-ctod anything about your being here. O, what will lie do when ho finds you?" "lie can't any moro than order me out of tho house," said Ilarry. bo alarmed, " Don't Kitty, 1 will take tho blame." "But you can escape. You must. This seemed to be impossible, as just then the miller was heard knocking his foot against tlio seniler. " Quick, let mo hide you in tho clos et," said Kitty. She flew to the closet opened tho door, pushed in the bewildered Harry and buttoned him in. little flushed» Then, with her fope she plumped down in tho rocking-chair, and when her uncle entered. " Hey, Kitty," said her undo, " I sup pose you didn't expect to see mo quite so soon." knitting very industriously vas Why it "No, uncle," said Kitty, isn't much more than ten." " The way of it was, I happened to meet the Squire ut tho store, four miles this side of his house, and we transacted businoua thoro. So, you see, I gain ed un hour or more in that way." " I wish tho goodness tho squire had stopped at homo," thought Kitty. " Have you been lonely, Kitty ?" in quired her uncle. . "No, sir," said his neico demurely. "I was so busy, you know." " You're getting to be quite industri ous." The miller took of liis boots and sat down composedly at the fire. Kitty was in hopes that ho would go to bed, in order that she might givo her lover a chance to escape, did not appear at all inclined to do. " Isn't it most your bedtime, uncle?" But this he said Kitty. "I don't know.how it is, but I don't feel at all sleepy to-night." Kitty inwardly groaned. " But if you aro sleepy, don't wait for me." bo "O," said Kitty, looking particularly w'ide awake, " I feel as if I could sit up all night." " Where's the weekly paper, Kitty?" Kitty would liked to have said she did not know, for she knew' that if her un do got hold of that he would disregard the passage of time. Unfortunately there was the paper on the table under the kitchen-glass. It was tho first ob ject that met her gaze as she looked up. I see I am in a seigo," said Kitty to herself, " but I shall $ land it as loug as ho can. That's a comfort. Hut I'm afraid Harry will find it pretty dull work in the closet. What would uncle say if he should find out ho was there!" Half an hour passed. The miller, who was a slow reader, was intent upon a story which interested him. Kitty saw', with despairing glance, that ho was not quite half through it. She w r ns beginning to be sleepy her self or w'ould have been if she had not had so much to keep her awake. " Kitty," said her uncle, looking up suddenly, " you had better go to bed. "It's most eleven o'clock." " Arc you going to bed, uncle?" "No, not just yet. 1 want to finish this story. It's a pretty cuto one." " I will sit up to keep you company," "Rut I sliant need any company. This story will bo company enough. So don't sit up on my account." "I shouldn't go to sleep if I went to bed, uncle. Resides, I want to get so much done before I go to bed." " Well, child, just as you liko. Bless me, what's that?" Kitty turned pale. There was a sup pressed noise in tho closet. Harry had evidently got tired of his constrained po sition, and was stirring round a little. "It must be the cut," said Kitty hur riedly. "The cat! Do you allow her in tho closet ? She ought to bo driven out." Tho miller rose, but Kitty hurriedly anticipated him. She went to tho closet, opened it a tri fle, and called "Scat !" " No, tho cut is not there," she said, return*ng to her seat. Quarter of an hour passed. Again a noise of a more decided char ac tor wa s heard. , ffdmTit*feuTuh to the floor, miller rising, Ho threw open tho door and out rusli ed Harry, looking rather foolish, "Well 1 never!" ejaculated tlio mll 1er. piaie " I'll see what it is," exclaimed the Before he had time to suy anything further, Kitty said, hurriedly, "Uncle, didn't you promise me a collar?" " Y'es," returned the miller, "but— Kitty pressed to the side of her lover, passed his right arm around her neck, and then said, wliilo her eyes twinkled with mischief, "This is the collar I You promised me, you want, uuclo. know." " And I'll keep it, K.lty !" exclaimed the miller, bursting into a hearty laugh, " no matter wlnit it costs." Two months from that day Kitty Cut ting changed her name. Some years have elapsed ; but she has not yet got tired of tho "collar" which her unci? gave her. ed If it •cely An UiiconiM Lover's Quarrel. M Y harp is all out of tune ; the pi ano is discordant ; tho cannric* i shrill whistle instead of their soft a pipo notes; nnd it rains—and—" "And wliat child?" said the pleasant voico of Aunt Mary Demman, as sho examined the countenance of her niece* "And 1 wish I was dead, or had never been born—or something—I know wliat;" and Maggio Meredith's beautiful lips were pouted, and a strange cloud of sullenness and dissatisfaction hung portenteously over the fresh young face. "I dislike very much, Maggie, to hear such remarks as these you have just ut tered from any lips; much more my dear, from yours. Lifo is not all sun shine and sweetness; but it remuins with us, as God-loving, Gcd-fearing in dividuals, to live it out patiently." "Oh, yes, that i3 all very nico to talk about, but suppose putienco to start with ? Does a body possess a little root or slip of anything, why, ono can cultivate it, of course ; but patience can't be manufactured, llar vey is all tho time lecturing.me. It it be necessary to find so much fa llt now, the probubiiitios^nro we shall never bo happy ; for 1 cannot so much badgering. J told him so last night, and gave him back his engage ment ring," and Maggio hold up her forefinger dubiously ; "and told him never to come near me again. I vow I won't bo everlastingly talked to; there !" "You have trifled, Ma#?* 0 « with of the hoblest men ever made ; thrown away the costliest pearl He ever offer you. Maggie, 1 am astou asn't given any d will not endure st ■ •ill Lhed. "Oh, mercy, if this isn't tedious! You talk, Auntie, liko a crazy person, you imagine, for this everlasting hum drumming I am compelled to listen to, at homo aud abroad, from relatiees, friends, and lover ? Do you suppose that I do uot, from tlio bottom of my heart, deplore tho fate that 'sent me into this breathing world, scarce half made up, and that so Do momeut, that I court lamely ami unfashionable that dogs bark at mo as I halt by them?' Richard, I suppose, on his back ; 1 refer to my mental and moral deformity. Someway everybody seems to foel at liberty to descant on my infirmities and right before my eyes too. I di<ln'U.oll Harvey to make love to me, and run after mo two years be fore he got a chance to whisper a word of it. He hn^ impudence—there is no mistake about that." "What^stlv trouble between you and Harvey my dear?" inquired Auntie, endeavoring to culm herself, for Maggie very dear to hor. Ever since the death of her parents, some five years previous, Aunt Mary had had the care of her niece. She was keenly alivo to the faults of the girl, but believed that time, exjterience and the love of the re ally worthy man to whom Maggie was betrothed, would round oil* the rough edges of her Character, and bring out, like gold from the refiner's lire, tho traits of true nobility she kno>v she pos sessed. "Like tho majority of quarrels," re plied Maggie, "it originated from noth ing. I said that I hated beggars, that's all." "Why, MaggfST'are you deranged ?" said Auntie, who could with difficulty repress a smile. "You of all others to say such a thing !—you who keep tho kitchen filled with the objects of your charity. How could you tell such a falsehood ?" ifet been a drunkard. Harvey insisted that society was to blame for that sin; and lie as a member of it, would never turn his hack upon a r*"— —lie know , was cobl mid hon.^A^ | ^ B< ^ i \»uld not ' cnWWyto him us a Starving minister.— Good gracious, didn't his eyes snap though ! lie's as much too radical as I am too willful. Then I said I hated beggars, any way." Aunt Mary could say nothing, advise nothing. She saw that, by a little ju- 11 dictons management on the part of the lover, tho great ffualo might have been averted, but men are not natural di-1 a plomatists. And so, with ae nervation in regard to tlio w»eath*-r, she j withdrew. Several days passed, and ; nota word from llarvey. "Oh, dear, how lonely that poor little finger looks," said Maggie one day soft ly to herself. "It had been there long onough to leavo a ridge loo. I reckon the next girl that llarvoy Crittendon is engaged to will have an easier time with him than I baye. He has learned a les son from this as true as you live Mag gie." "It's always the way with woman has to be victimized in or der that another »nay be decently treat ed ! Well, I am glad for somebody ! If that fellow docs not send home my photograph by-to-morrow, I'm just go ing to send for it. And now, Maggie Meredith, if you make n fool of your self another minute longor, for any biped under the sun, you deserve the rack. You do hate beggars, stick to it and Maggie surveyed liersell in the mirror, and promised she would. "Miss Maggie," said the cook, break ing in upon her reverie, "there's an < I man down to tho door who wants thing to eat, and a job of light w Och, lie's asick looking old foliar emu - lj\ Will ye bo alter coming down, Miss?" talking about the hump "Well, tho othé" night, just as wo were getting out of the carriage at Pike's—I was in a hurry, 1 knew tho opera had commenced—a folorn old beggar, bis breath smelling Of whiskey, stopped us. It was awful cold, and Harvey kept mo standing a minute or tw the walk, while ho fumbled in his pockets for money to give the old vagabond to buy more rum with. I was vexed and cold 5 and if ho had let mo alone, and not kept asking questions, 1 should not have said the awful u nds. I declared it would have altered the ease had the man •eiess ob- 1 "Another beggar !" mused Maggie.— "Another beggar !" mused Maggie.— "I'm thankful Auntie is out, or I might receive a lecture on the beauties of con sistency. Well !" said she, open ng tho back area door, where tlio old man stood, "what can Ido for you? Cook tells mo you aro ill and hungry, and in want? ' "Yes, Mity," said the old' bundle o^ tatters, in low trembling tones. "What is tlio matter with you?" nnd Maggie's voice was full of sympathy. "Oh 1 nothing but tho rlieuniuliz. I've had it all winter. It's all I can do to tako a step. But, lor tlio love of mercy, give me a mothful to eat; I'm almost starved." "Come into tho kitchen, and we'll see what ww can do for you. Cook, get him a good warm cup of coffee, and what ever you Jnyc guomo ent. Would you like to \\ ish your face and hands?" "Oli yes, i îa'am, if you please," re plied the be :gar. "I w as trying to put in some coa for tho folks below, but I was obliged o leave it, I hadn't got the strength." Maggie w th her own hands placed a basin of wa er, soap, und towels before him ; poured out liis cofl'oe, and set the chair to the kitchen table. "Now eat just as much as you can," said she, filling his plate. "How much coal did you put in for tlio family bo low* ?" "Oh, aboitt half a ton." "Well, didn't they pay you for that?" "Ch, no, jna'am," lie replied. "How could I expect it when I didn't do as I agreed to V * "Well, that man deserves hanging.— I'd take my affidavit that it was a man who made that bargain with yon, and allowed you, hungry and sick, to leave without being paid ; over serve a human being so scurvy trick." The old man pressed his hand to his face a moment, and then replied : *VYos, my dear Miss, it was but then there are very few like you in the world." "That's so," she replied, and burst into a hearty laugh. "Very few like me, you poor, sick, old man ; very few like me, indeed! You wouldn't believe now that I hate beggars, would you ? That I have no patience with anybody who is poor, ill, or unfortunate? Oh, pshaw, what in tho world about? Why bless your soul, good man, you haven't eat enough to keep a mouse alive. Now tell me about this rheumatism. Where does it trouble you ?" "In my knees, Miss;" and tho old man again bid bis face in bis hands. "Go to my closet," suid she to the ser vant, "and bring mo that big bottle of liniment. I'll give them a real good rubbing myself, and then you can take the bottle home, and bathe them two or three times a day. Rheumatism must be terrible." Bridget returned with the desired ar ticle, and Maggie took her seat on the floor. ** "Oh, no, Miss," said tho beggar, strange tremor in his voice, "I can not permit that." "Why, you old goose," said Maggie, laughing, "I can do you more good in five minutes than you can do yourself in an hour. I am used to these things. I've a dozon on my sick list now, for whom I have to perforin just such offi ces. What are our hands made for, if they are not to do good with? Come, don't be foolish !" "Maggie, Maggie, Maggie," and in the twinkling of an eye, tho old gray wig, whiskers, and eyebrows were re moved, and llarvey Crittenden, his face irradiated with joy, love, and a pccul iar soul-satisfaction which Maggie had never seen there before, confronted her. Maggie was like one stunned fier a mo kissos showered upon her, remarked saucily: "Humph ! Don't you suppose I know it was you all the time? Just doing it to show olf, that's all." «ut a good, genuine burst of tears told 11 different story ; and Maggie, clasped fondly in her lovers arms, sobbed out her joy and repentance, a wife, but j sufficient to send her blushing from tho ; room, woman woul« a man ; I talking a Maggie is now allusion to the r lieu ma bottle of liniment, is quite 1 twin, or Teach your Children to Pray The Rev. J. Ryle, speaking on this subject, says : If you love your children, do all that j lies in your power to train them up to a I habit of prayer. Show-them how to be gin. Tell them what to say. Encour | or age them to persevere. Remind them of it if they become careless or slack about it. This, remember, is the first step in religion which a child is able to take.— Lohg leforo he can read, you can teach him to kneel by his mother's side, and repeat the simple words of prayer and praise which she puts into his mouth.— Beware less they get into a hasty, cure less and irreverent manner. Never give up the oversight of this matter to nurses, or to your children vI ii*ii left to themselves. That mother deserves no praise who W \ I looks after this most important f lier child's daily life herself.— nthors, surely If there bo any habit uich your own hand and eyes should help in lorming, it is the hubit of prayer. If you never hear your children pray yourself, you aro much to bluino. Y'ou aie little wiser than the the bird de scribed in Job, "which.leaveth her eggs in the earth, and warmeth them in the dust, and lorgetteth that the foot may crush them, or that the wild beast may break them. She is hardened against her young ones, as though they were not hers; her labor is in vain without fear." Prayer is, of all habits, tlio one which wo recollect the longest. Many a gray headed man could tell you how his mother used to make him pray in the days of childhood. Other things have passed away from his mind, perhaps.— The church where he was taken to w whom ho hoard uo mTio used to play with him—all these, it may l>e, have passed from his memory and left no mark behind. But you will often find it far different with his first pray ers. He will often be able to tell you where ho first knelt, and wliat he taught to sa}*, and liow liis mother looked all tho while. It will come up fresh before his mind's eye us if it wus but yesterday. Reader, if you love your children, I charge you, do not let the seed-time of a prayerful habit puss away unimproved. If you tiain your children to anything* train them, at least, to a habit of prayer. Frayer is the incense of the «oui, The odor of the flower, And rises, as the water's roll. To God's conti oiling power. of a |M or ship, the minister (, Liberty Makes Brother's of us all-" During a stay of a few months abroad in 18G2,1 visited Ireland and spent a day in Dublin. I felt a special interest in that city, connected as it is with the his tory of the many struggles of the liber ty-loving Irish for political freedom.— Moreover, in tlio da}» when O'Cornell and his compatriots plead for " tho Re peal of the Union," I tried my Yankee tongue in advocating the claim of Ire land. Ileucc I felt the greatest interest in anything connected with the mem ory of "the Great Agitator," and at my earliest moment paid a visit to the ground where ho lies buried. It wn9 a plain vault in a hillside in the cemetery, although I was told by the old soxton that a beautiful monument, then in course of orection in another part of the yard, was for O'Connell. As I stood in front of the iron door which hid all that was mortal of "the Great Commoner," I noticed a mound close by with a cheap, plain slab at the head of it, on which was this inscrip tion : "Sacred to the Memory of Thomas Steel ; who departed tills life-, aged - years." I well remember Tom Steel (for we nickname those whom we love—as we say Tom Moore and Robbie Burns.) and if my reading was correct, he died a martyr for liberty. I remem ber still more that he was a Protestant. So, I turned to the old man who stood by as I read aloud tho brief record on tho stone, and asked, with au assumed tone of surprise : " Was not Steele a heretic?" " Faith, he was !" responded tho man with great emphasis. " And," said I, " Is this not consecra ted ground ?" " In dude it is," lie answered. " And was not Daniel O'Connell a good and faithful son of the Holy Mother Church?' I continued. " lie was," ho responded, "didn't ho have tho blissing of the Pope himself?" " Now," said I, " I am a heretic and a heretic priest; but I judge you from y own .standpoint. Why do you let a he retic lie in sacred ground?" I never knew the quick wit proverbi al of the natio I never heard a ; wov but, \ttyIs tarii on ' *rm "ZJaiiiof O'C nell was for liberty !" "Ho was tho Groat Agitator, plied, " And you know Tom Steele was for liberty!" " lie was a martyr," said I. And then with yond my description, ho added : " You KNOW LIBERTY MAKES BROTH ERS OP US ALL !" I took the dear old patriot's Roman Catholic hand in my Protestant hand, nnd shaking hands over Steele's grave I repeated the eloquent declaration of my clear brother: "Liberty makes BROTHERS OF US ALL !" That is the grand key-noto of true po litical union—North, South, East, West. And the lien it which does not echo the I rc look and tone be. j I voice sounding from the cemetery in Dublin, whether it throbs under fustian | or satin, is the heart of « traitor and a tyrant. I thought the old sexton had sounded the watchword for nation, •a only, but all who love nnd not for liberty. — Exchange . Beautiful Simile. An Alpine hunter, ascending Mont Blanc, in passing over the Mer de Glace lost bis hold and slipped into one of those frightful crevices by which the sea is cleft to its foundation. By catch ing himself in his swift descent against the points of rocks and projecting spurs of ice, he broke his fail so that lie readi ed tho bottom alive, but only to face death in a more terrible form. On eith liand the ice rose up to the heaven, abovo which lie saw only a strip of blue sky. At his feet trickled a little stream formed from the slowly melting glacier. There was but one possiblo chance of escape—to follow this rivulet, which might lead to some unknown crevice or passage. In silence and terror ho pick ed his way, dow*n the mountain side, till his farther advance was stopped by a giant cliff that rose up before him, while the river rolled darkly below.— He heard the roaring of the waters be low, which seemed to wait for him.— What should he do? Death was beside him, and, he might fear, before him.— There was.no time for reflection or de lay. lie paused but plunged into the stream. One minute of breathless suspense—a sense of darkness and coldness, and yet of swift motion, as if ho was gliding through tho shades be low, and me faintly in tlio stant lie was among the gre.-n fields and flowers and the summer sunshine of the vule of Chamouny. So it is when believers die, They conic to the bank of the river, and it is cold and dark. Nature shrinks from the fatal plunge. Yet one chilling mo ment, and all fear is left behind, and the Christian is amid the fields of the para dise of God. or instant, and a llgfiv Wegnii to glimmer at*rs, and the next in Who arc the happy r Not they wno dressed in gaudy attire spend their life in ball-room and theatre ; it is not those who possess great wealth and ubuud auco; it is uot the pi easu re seeker, but it is those who do not posses wealth that know* true happiuess, it is the child of God. The Gong Mountain. Cuptain Palmer, who is engaged with a party of royal engineers in making a topographical survey of the peninsula of Mount Sanai, has sent home an interes ting account of the " Je bel Nagua," or "Gong Mountain," so called from the extraordinary sound, something like a gong, that isemilted Promit. The moaii tain, from this cause, fiasTong'been a curiosity with travellers, and one ofawe and superstition among tho Arabs.— Capt. Falmcr has périment, that the sound is occasioned • by the finest sand. Ho found a slope of sand, 400 feet in height, which filled a wide gully in tlio mountain. This saud is so extremely fine and dry, and lies at so high an angle to the horizon, as to be easily set in motion from any poiut on tho Mopo, or even by scraping away a portion at its base. When any couside rahlo portion is thus in movement, roll ing gradually down tho slope, then tho sound begins—at first a deep, swelling, vibratory moan, gradually rising to a dull roar, loud enough when at its full lieiglith to bo almost startling, and then gradually dying away till the sand cea es to roll. Captain Palmer describes tho sound as much liko the hoarsest notes of an JEolian harp. It is not to be wonder ed at that tho ignorant Bodouiu, wan dering in solitude among these dreary mountains should have invented u wild legend to account for this strange and melancholy sound* r proved, by ex Savine for Old Age, No one denies that it i provision for old age, but wo all agreed as to the kind of provision it is best to lay in. Certainly we shall want a little money, for a destitute old man is indeed a sorry sight, money by ail mean». But an old man needs just that particular kind of strength which young men are most apt to waste. Many a foolish young fellow will throw away on a holiday amount of nervous energy which lie will never feel tho want of till ho is soventy ; ant * then botv much he will want it ! It ./tni iQTy ^ bu t true, that a bottle of that overtasking the eye«-.jtf fourteen may necessitate the aid of spectacles at* forty instead of eighty. Wo advise our young readers to be saving of health for their old age, for the maxim holds good in regard to health as to money—"Waste not, want not." It is tho greatest mis take to suppose that violation of the laws of health can escape its penalty. Na •ror. She lets vise to mako not at Yes, save certain h ■ /acl ture forgives off tho offender for fitty years some times, but she catches liim at last, and inflicts tho punishment just when, just where, and just hew he feels it most.— Suvo up for old age, but save know ledge, save the recollection of good and noblo deeds nnd innocent pleasures ï pure thoughts, save friends, savo love.— Save rich stores of that kind of wealth sin, wliLh time cannot diminish, nor death take away. Another Heroine.— Ida Lewis, tho of the keeper of Lime Rock daught Light in Newport harbor, has suddenly achieved an enviable and far-reaching fame. A short time since the noble souled girl pulled her little boat out in to the harbor, in the midst of a heavy squall, and by her single effort saved two soldiers belonging to Fort Adams, from drowning. And this is but one of many similar deeds of courage. Spend ing her days on a bleak, wave-washed rock, this Grace Darling ol America has saved half as many lives as she is years old, heedless alike of exposure, storm and danger. It is cheering to note how her beautiful and modest heroism is at last meeting with its well-earned re cognition. Tbo press all over the land is echoing her praises with kindly and encouraging words; tho garrison at Fort Adams hundred dollars ; the soldiers she saved have presonted her with a valuable watch and chain ; the citizens of New port are building a life boat for her ; and substantial testimonials of esteem aro being sent her from all quarters. making up a purse ot three One's Mother. Around the idea of one's mother, tho mind clings with fond affection. It is the first dear thought stamped upon our infant hearts, when soft and capable of receiving most profound impressions, and all the after feeling aro more or less in comparison. Our passions *>ul wilfulness may lead us from the ttub.ioat of come wild, headstrong and anj*ry at her counsels or opinion ; but when death has stilled her monitory voice, and nothing but calm inoinory remains to recapitulate her good deeds, affection raises up her head and smiles through her tears. Around the idea, as we have said, the mind clings with fond affection; and even when the earlier period of our loss forces memory to be siient. fancy takes remembrance, and twines tlio image of our departed parent with a garland of graces, and beauties which wo doubt not she possessed. filial lovo ; we may be- * ( -A plucky girl in Jasper county In diana, who, it is said, gottiug jilted, in stead of taking arsenic, took a stout stick and licked the fellow* hands "came to" und married her. ly. 1U