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Going After the Cows. “ Jennie! Jennie! Jennie! Where in the world can Jennie bet She crossed the meadow an hour ago— What ails the Kiri that she lingers so* ” The sun goes down in the crimson west, The tired day prepares for rest, And the laggard moments slowly pass. But bring no news of the truant lass. “ What ails the girl 1 ” The sober cowe, Slopping along the lane to browse. May look in vain from side to side, And wait for the voice of theiT pretty guide, For far behind, by the pasture gate. Jennie and Jamie forget ’tie late— Forget the cows, and the milking hour, And everything else save Love’s sweet power. The lengthening shadows, unheeded fall, The whip-poor-will with his plaintive call. The gathering dews,and the darkening sky. All warn in vain as the minutes fly. Twice and thrice does mother go To the farm-house door ere she hears the low Of the cows as they trample up the lane. And the ring of the cow-bells clear and plain. But presently come the laggard feet Of Jennie and Jamie. Oh shyly sweet Are the girl’s blue eyes as she stands before The mother who meets her at the door! '■ Where did you go, my child?” “ 1 ?—oh Only after the cows, you know. ” Then whispered Jamie: “ Whatever yon <lo, Don’t tell her that—l went after you! ” KOI? HIS SAKE. When the Flying Scud discharged her cargo and passengers at the Lou don Dock, there landed among them a gentleman who had been absent from England nine years. All that while he had passed under the burn ing suns of India. lie had suffered as soldiers do. lie had fought as soldiers light. He had met the sol dier's fate of scars ami wounds, and one of them had invalided him home to England. It was the first time he trod her shores for nine years, as we have said, and for the first time in any year he was going to see his son, the little boy born after lie left home, and whose birth had been his mother’s death. Captain Penryn had ODly been married a year when he was ordered abroad with his regiment. Six months from that day a letter had advance on the Tegular inmlmCm .It Wjjv ..'U■ <*•! old nurse, the only friend who had been withjher. It ended thus: “The baby, as fine a child as I ever saw, is thriving. I’ve done my best for it Its mother’s last wish was I should keep it, and perhaps, sir, as someone must, you’d as leave las any other. I shan’t he unreason able in my charges, and I’m very fond of him already. With my duty to you in this dreadful trouble, your servant, Ann Golden.” The poor broken hearted man almost sank under the awful news. He had loved his wife passionately, and when the baby was old enough to travel she would have come to him in India, braving its terrible climate and the life of a soldier’s wife abroad, because they could not live apart. Now he did not want a little baby on his hands, and he wrote to Ann as soon as he could command himself to do so, appointing her his nurse. Every quarter since that time he had sent money to her for the child’s board and clothes. A receipt was always returned with “ her duty, and the young gentleman was doing welland this was all he knew of his Ellen’s boy—the child of a love that had been as strong as it was ten der. Now that his loot was upon Eng land's shores again and the meeting was very near Captain Penryn felt new thrills of a father-love through his soldier’s heart and longed for his boy’s presence. “lie would take him to lumself,” he said. “ They would live together, sharing each others joys and sor rows. He would make a man of the hoy—not a soldier, for he knew the trials of a soldier’s life 100 well; but something very honorable and creditable. He should he proud ol him, and lie hoped—ah, how he hoped!—that Ellen’s child would have Ellen’s face.” “My beautiful girl,”' he said to himself, with the tears standing in his eyes, “ how little I thought of this hour when I kissed her'‘mod bye ! ” And then Ixis heart grew even warmer to the pledge of their mu tual love. He had the address that Mrs. Gol den had given him in his pocket. lie glauced at it now to refresh his mem ory the number. A plain, respectable street in one of London’s suburbs; he remembered it well. “ But my boy shall see better things, now that I am here,” he said to himself. "I am not rich, but I can deny myself many things to make him happy. Will he love me, I wonder ? ” Then he thought how his own heart had been won by toys and sweatmeats, and coming to a stop where the former sold, paused before the gay window, and began to make a mental choice between a red and gilt stage coach and horses and a train of bright blue carriages. He had discarded both for a box of scar let coated soldiers, when suddenly he felt a tug at his coat tail, and turning round, he found a grimy little hand half in and half out of his pocket. He caught it at once, with his hand kerchief in it, and gripped it tight. He was a soldier, and to a soldier the keeping of law and rule is a great thing. To give the little theif to a policeman and appear against him the next day, was his first thought; but as the creature stood there, shaking and whining, the fact of his diminutive size struck the captain forcibly. He perceived his youth, which was extreme, and he saw that, besides being young and small, and wan, and dirty, and rag ged, he was deformed. His queer little shoulders were heaped up to his cars, and his hands were like talons, so long and bony were they. The captain held the wrist of this mannikin firmly still, but not angrily. “ What did you mean by that, sir ? ” lie growled slowly, stooping down to look into the boy’s eyes. “ I’m to hook it,” said the boy with perfect candor. “ Oh, please let me be! Oh, please let me go ! Oh, please, sir, I won’t do it no more— never, oh, please!” “ I’ve a mind to have you sent to jail ” said the captain. “ No, please, sir ! ” said the waif. “Please, sir! ” “ Who taught you to steal ? ” asked the captain. The, boy made no answer. Grimy tearsivere pouring from his eyes. r 1 victuals,” said the boy, and my stomach is as holler—feel it, mister —its aB holler as a drum! She’s been beggin’ to-day, and we’ll have stew. I won’t have nope if I don’t fetch nothin’. Oh—” “ Who is she ?” asked the captain. “ My mother,” said the boy. “I’ve been hungry myself,” said the captain, thinking of a certain Indian prison experience. “It is’nt pleasant.” Then he thought of his own boy. “ God knows I ought to be tender to the little one, for the sake of Nellie’s child,” he said 6oftly; then aloud—“ Laddie, I’ll not send you to prison.” “ Thankee, sir,” said the urchin. “ And I’ll give you a breakfast,” Baid the captain. The dirty elf executed a sort of joyous war-dance. “ Do you know why I forgive you?” said the captain. The child shook his head. “ I have a little boy,” said the captain. “ He’s very different from you, poor child! He would not steal anything. He washes himself. My lad, you must wash yourself as soon as you find water. But I couldn’t think of his being hungry, and for his sake I can’t bear to see other little fellows hungry. It’s for his sake that I don’t call a constable and tell him all about it. Remember that, and try to be like—like my lit tle fellow, poor laddie, clean and good. Don’t, steal; try to get work. Will you promise?” The waif said “ yes sir,” of course. Then the captain led him into a cheap eating house, and watched him eat until his little stomach was no longer “ holler.” “You little wretch!” he thought, as he looked at him. “If I could see iny boy and him together now, what a contrast.” And he fancied his boy round and white and pink, and fair of hair, like his poor lost Ellen, and I know he said he would pity this poor fellow and be kind to him. The meal was over. The captain paid for it, and then drew the boy be tween his knees and lectured him. To be good was to be happy. Hon esty was the best policy. Cleanliness came next to godliness. These were the heads of his discourse. Then lie gave him half a crown, THE FLORIDA AGRICULTURIST. and bade him go and be good and c1ean.,.,,. And the boy was off like a flash. “ Thousands just such as he in this great city,” sighed the good captain, and he walked along. “ Ah, me! ” Then he went in seafeh of Mrs. Ann Golden and his own fair darling. But Mrs. Golden was not so easily found as he had hoped. There was a little shop in the house he had been directed to, and the keeper thereof said that she had bought it of Ann Golden; “ but I haven't seen her since,” she said; “ only there’s a bit of card with her number on it—that is, if I can find it.” After a search she did find it, and the captain, thanking her, hurried away ; but another disappointment awaited him. Mrs. Golden had not lived in this second place for years. She had moved into Clumber row, but what number no one could remember. At Clumber row. whither the cap tain drove in a cab, a woman owned to having had her for,* lodger. “ She had a child staying with her. too,’ she said. “Little Ned she called him ; but, to tell the truth, she drank so that I turned her out. I couldn’t abide such doings. She went to Fossil Lane, No. 9.” To Fossil Lane tfif captain went. It was a filthy place, and there was a drunken woman at No. 9 who was not Ann Golden, aifl who threw a piece of w r ood at him for asking for that lady. And now every clue was lost, and the captain nearly beside himself with anxienj. applied to the authorities for heljEaml after many days of great ufflkmhiness he heard of Ann Golden wHo*Jved in a quarter of London so low slid dangerous that all decent people shunned it. “ No wonder,” the captain thought, “if she lived therp, that she should have had his remittances sent to the post-office, and left him to believe that his child wjprjfetill in the decent home to which Be nad at first taken him.” Almost ill ulith excitement, the poor captain drove, with a policeman as protector, iW the maze of hide- Golctefftfd\ridling, an^^if^&g^lS- — - Qi —i g conductor, dropped into a filthy cel lar, where, amid the horrible leakage of drain pipeß and almost in utter darkness, sat an old woman with a bottle beside her, wbo started up when the captain and his guard en tered, and cried: “ What now ? What’s the perlice here for ? Is the boy wanted again ? ” And, altered as she was with years and drink, the captain knew his wife’s old nurse, Ann Golden. He gave a cry of rage, and darted towards her. “ My boy ? ” he cried. And she screamed, “ It’s the cap tain ! ” “ Is my boy living ? ” he asked. “ Yes,” said the woman shaking all over; “ he’s alive and well.” “ How dare you keep him here ? ” cried the captain. “ How can I help being poor ? ” whined the woman. “ I couldn’t give up the bit you pay for him. I’m very old; I’m very ill. Don’t be hard on me. ” “ Good heavens!” cried the captain. ‘My Ellen’s baby in a place like this! ” He dropped his head on his hands; then he lifted it and clasped them. “ I’ll have him away from here now!” he gasped. “ It’s over, and lie’s young and will forget it. Where is he ? Have you lied V Is he dead ? ” “No, no,” said the old woman. “ lie’ll be here soon. I hear him now. That s him. lie’ll be here in a min ute. Don't kill a poor pody, captain don’t.” “ I could do it,” cried the captain. “ Listen ! There is someone coining. My child ! My child !” The door opened softly, a head peeped in low down, then drew back. “ Gome in,” piped the old woman. “ The perlice ain’t arter you—least ways for barm. Captain that’s him —your boy N ed.” And as the captain stood with out stretched arms there crept in at the door—who V what ? The wan, de formed and dirty creature who had picked his pockets—whom he had fed lor the sake of his beautiful dream child—the wretched waif forgotten utterly in the last few days of anxiety. “That’s him,” croaked the old crone again. “ That’s your boy—that’s Ned,” The captain gave a cry; he sank down on an old box close at hand and hid his face and wept. The sobs shook him' terribly; they almost shook the crazy building. They frightened the old woman, and set the policeman to rubbing his eyes with his cuffs. The boy Btood and stared for a moment, and then van ished. And what was the wretched father thinking? So many thoughts that there are no words for them; but first of all this horrible one—that vile little object, that wretched child of the streets, was the darling for whom he had searched so long. “ Better I had never found him," moaned the captain, “or found him dead!” And just then a little hand crept over his knee. The thrill of hair was against his hand, and a piping voice said meekly, “ Please, I’m clean now. I’ve washed myself."’ The captain’s swollen eyes unclosed. Then turned upon the child. Some queer knowledge of his father’s feeling had crept into his mind, and he had tried to clean his face. A round white spot appeared amidst the grime, and out of it shone two beautiful blue eyes that looked wistfully up into the captain’s. All of a sudden, a flood of such pit iful tenderness as he had never felt before swept over Captain Penryn. All the grief and shame and wounded pride left it, to come back no more. “ Ellen’s eyes,” he sobbed; ‘ Ellen's boy ! ” and took his son to bis heart. “ For his sake,” he said, softly, as though he stood by the grave of the beautiful dream child he had just buried—“ for his sake and Ellen’s ! ” And then he led the child away with him. JOSH BILLINGS ON BIRDS. THE QUAIL. The quail is a game bird, about one size bigger than the robbin, and so sudden that they hum when they fly. They have no song, but whistle for music; the tone iz solitary and sad. They are Bhot on the wing, and a man may be good in arithmetic, fus trate jrt parsing, and even be able acoepuUtj; but if he ■ studied quail on the wing, he might as well shoot at a streak of lightning in the sky as at a quail on the go. Briled quail, properly supported with jellies and a Champagne Charley, is just the most difficult thing, in my humble opinion, tew beat in the whole history ov vittles and some thing to drink. I am n6 gourman, for I can eat bread and milk for five days out ov seven, and smack my lips after I get thru; but if lam asked to eat briled quail by a friend, with judishus ac companyment, I blush at fust, then bow my head, and then smile sweet acquiescence—in other words, I al ways quail before such a request. THE PARTRIDGE. The partridge iz also a game bird. Their game iz lew drum on a log in the spring of the year and keep both eyes open, watching the sportsmen. Partridges are shot on the wing, and are az easy to miss az a ghost iz. It iz phun enuff to see the old bird hide her young brood when danger iz near. This must be seen; it can’t be dis cribed, and make anny body believe it. The partridge, grouse, and pheas ant are cousins, and either of them straddle a gridiron naturally enough to have been born there. Take a couple of young partridges and pot them down, and serve up with a kind of a chorus, and they beat the ham sandwitches you buy on the Camden & Amboy 87-J per cent. I have eat them lamentable New Jersey ham sand-wiebes, and must say that I pre fer a couple of basswood chips, soaked in mustard water, and stuck together with Spaulding’s glue. THE WOODKOK. The fust thing ver generally see uv a woodkok is a whizz, and the last thing a whirr. How so many of them are shot on the wing iz a mys tery to me, for it iz a quicker job than snatching pennys oph a red hot stove. I have shot at them often, but never remember ov killing one ov them yit. They are one ov the game birds, and menny good judges think they are the most elegant vittles that ware fethers. THE GOSLIN. 'I he goslin is the old goose’s young child. They are ycller all over, and az soft az a ball of worsted. Their feet is wove hole, and they can swim az easy az a drop ov kastor oil on the water. They are bom annually about the 15th of May, and never waz known to die, if a man should tell me he saw a goose die a natral death, I would’nt believe him under oath after that, not even if he swore he bad lied about seeing a goose die. The goose are different in one re spect from the human family, who are sed tew grow weaker and wiser, whereas a goslin alwus grows tuffer and more phoolish. I have'seen a goose that they said was 93 years old iast June, and didn t look an hour older than one that was only 17, The goslin waddles when he walks, and paddles when he swims, but never dives like a duck out ot sight in the water, but only changes ends. The food ot the goslin iz rye, corn, oats and barley, sweet apples, hasty pudding, succotash, and idled cab bage, cooked potatoze, raw meat, wine, jelly and turnips, stale bred, kold hash, and buckwheat cakes that are left over. They ain’t so particular az sum pholks what they eat, won’t git mad and quit if they kan't have wet toast and lam chops every morning for breakfast. RECIPES. Meat Loaf— Chof> fine whatever meat you may have, fat and lean to gether, add pepper, salt and finely chopped onion, two slices of bread which have been soaked in milk and one egg; mix well together and bake in form. This makes an admirable tea and breakfast disli. Saratoga Potatoes. —Slice exceed ingly thin about one potato to each person, with a knife or a plane of wood with a knife inserted horizon tally for the purpose; well wash them in two or three waters, lay them ov er night in plenty of ice cold water, in the morning drain them carefully free of all water and fry them in plen ty of fat, heated smoking hot, a beau* tifnl buff color. To Cook Beans. —When beans are kept over a year or more they are rather difficult to cook tender. One way to accomplish it is to soak them over night in Boft water and in the morning put them to boil, putting a quarter tea-spoonful of soda into the water. The water must be turned off as soon as it boils and be chang ed two or three times. Have a tea kettle of boiling water to cover them when the other is turned off, as cold water hardens them again. After they begin to crack open they should be put in the oven with a piece of pork previously freshened, and wat ter enough to keep them from burn ing, and bake a couple of hours. Beans are a healthful 3nd convenient dish and should often appear upon a farmer’s table, being as good or bet ter when cold than they are when fresh cooked. Cookies. —One cup sugar, half cup butter, half tea-spoon soda, dis solved in half a cup of warm water; flour enough to roll; roll very thin; cut in any desired shape and bake in a quick oven. Meat aud Busk Puddings. —Chop any kind of cold meat with salt pork or ham, season it well with butter, pepper and salt, and add two or three beaten eggs. Then make al ternate layers of wet rusk crumbs with milk, or cold boiled honnny or rice, and bake half or three quarters of an hour. Let the upper layer be crumbs, and cover with a plate while baking, and when nearly done take it off to brown the top . Boston Brown Bread. —Seven cof fee cups of rye meal, and one coffee cup molasses. Take a part of the rye meal the night before and make a sponge. This quantity will make three baker’s loaves. Should be bak ed in covered tins. Sweet Potato Pone. —One and three fourths of a pound of sweet po tatoes boiled and mashed, stir in while warm two tablespoons of but ter ; beat these well, add a little salt, three tablespoons of good brown su gar, one of ground ginger; beat' in three gills of milk; when quite light from beating pour into a buttered pan, and bake three fourths of an hour. Serve hot.