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THE WE8T WIND. Blow, freely 'jlow Over the snow, O wind ; Ab merrliy blow o’er the hills o1 snow As If never a man had sinned. As If never a woman had wept, Or a delicate child grown pale. Or a maiden’s warm tears crept To hallow a faithless tale. Blow, stoutly blow, Strong in thy heathen Joy; Sorrow thou surely caust not know, For thine Is the heart ol a boy— For thine Is the freedom and strength Or a rover careless and gay, Over the lair land’s length, Joylully wandering away. Blow, bravely blow Out of the fields of air, Till we see thy garments' slry flow And the gleam ol thy flying hair— Till t he light ol thy broad bright wing And thy glad eyes set us Iree, And we feel In our hearts the spring Ol a ]oi that was wont to be. An Autobiography. Tomorrow I am going to be married, I who have been 3et down an old maid for an Indt finite number of years. This expected evrnt creates quite a commotion i a our hitherto quiet house hold. My mother says : “What can I do without you?” And my dear father, whose dark hair begins to be sprinkled with silver, says mournfully, “I cannot spare my Caroline,” though I think he is secretly pleased that his pet ‘C*ro’ is to have such a noble hus band after all. My rouglsh brother Tom goes about the house sinking: There Is no goose so gra n , but soon or late. She’ll find some honest gander for a mate. And I— all this seems strange to me. I caunot realize it that the bridal dress of snowy satin, with the gossamer veil and wreath of orange blossoms, cati oe for plain Caroline Hudson. But the strangest of all is, that I am to marry John Grant—John Grant, whom I learned to love years ago, but all thoughts of whom I strove to put far from me. It is six years now since that morn ing in early Bummer, when we walked together through the green wood, the leaves stirred by a gentle wind, and the birds singing their morning songs. We were a little apart from tne rest of our party, and when we had gathered our hands full of wild flowers that were scattered in profusion at our feet, we sat down upon a felled oak to wait for them. I was happy on that June morning, as I sat on that old tree by the side of John Grant, while he wreathed the buds and blossoms and the green leaves of the trailing con volvulus in the braids of my brown hair. We did not talk much that morning, and we had sat in silence several mo ments, when John said: “Caroline I want to tell you some thing.” It was not the words that made my heart beat so and the hot blood to rush to my cheeks and forehead, for we had know£ each other a long time and he had often made a confidante of me— but it was the low tone full of new and strange tenderness that thrilled my whole being. I do not know, but per haps my voice trembled a little, as I ■aid: “Well, what is it, John ?” “Carrie dear,” but the sentence was not finished—ju9t then the rest of the party made their appearance, %nd effectually put an end to all conflden tial conversation. The next day John Grant left Tun bridge on business, whlbh required his presence for stveral weeks. I did not see him for some time after his return, and when he called at last, there was a something undeflnable in his man ner, but yet a change, a restraint, which told me that those words once on the lips would not be spoken. Months came and went, and again he left home ostensibly for business, but It was rumored that a beautiful young girl at Ferny Coombes, whose acquaintance he had made, was the real cause of his frequent visits to Devonshire. In a little while It was said, and upon good authority, that John Grant was engaged to be married to Mary Keating; and it was also said that she was very young and beautiful. Never till then, was the seoret of my own heart revealed to me; but then I knew how I had loved him—how all hope, all Joy, all earthly happiness was cen tered in him—even now I shudder when I think of that time, when life seemed such a heavy burden, and I longed for a time to lay it down in the grave, but I could not; a tLorny path opened before me, and I was to walk Into it. ******* John Grant returned to Tunbridge soon after his engagement, and in a few weeks Mary Keating came to'. Elmwood, on a visit to his sister. Boon after her arrival I was invited # to a party to be given during her stay. I dreaded to go, and yet I could not stay away; how plain I looked as I stood before my dressing glass that night, in a plain silk with a few scar let verbena* in my hail! Did I wear them because he had said once they contrasted well with my daik hail ? I was early, and of all the girls in the room Mary Keating was the mopt lovely. I do not wonder he loved you, Mary; you were beautiful, as you came floating into the room, in a dress of light muslin, your golden curls falling over your sweet childish face, and your blue eyes running over with happiness, and he—but I dared not look at him long, for I was not very strong. In the course of the evening I was in troduced to her; and strange as it was, from that moment she Seemed to cling to me. She was a child in artlessness, and soon began talking of “John,” asking if I Knew him, etc. “How strange he never mentioned you—he told me of wo many of hia friends. ‘John—John,’ ” she called, as he passed us, “why didn’tyou tell me about Miss Hudson ?—you spoke of so many others.” Our eyes met for an instant, and then I said, pitying his embarrass ment “He has so many frieuds it isn’t at all singular that he should have for gotten one.” But t knew then, as I do now, that he had not forgotten rue. Just then, looking up, I saw in a mirror opposite the reflection of our little group, and—John Grant! When I saw the contrast between Maty Keating and myself, l forgave him, if I did not before. Not that I was so very plain—I do not think I was—but she was so beautiful, so cod tiding and loving, no one could help being charmed with her; and I could not blame him, for he had always been a great admirer of the beautiful. Mary Keating came to see me fre quently while she stayed at his sis ter’s ; sometimes, not often, accompa nied by John. It was an autumn af ternoon, full of clouds and sunshine, when she came to make her farewtll call. He was with her, watching her every movement with loving pride, and yet it seemed to me that he re garded her somewhat as a beautiful plaything, winding her yellow curls around his fingers and calling her pet names. We went out into the garden to gather some flowers, and as sh j ran about, laughin r, talking and pick ing flowers and wreathing them in her hair she seemed a lovely and be witching caild, John had gradually lost his constrained and embarrassed manner when with me, and < xcepling that we never approached personali ties in our conversation, our inter course was getting to be something as it once was. Our tastes in many things were sim ilar. We had read and admired the same authors and upon most of the important subjects connected with hu man life, our thoughts were --lil^e. We w<-re speaking of some work we had lately read, and were quite inter ested in discussing its merits, when Mary suddenly checked her happy pL y, and with a grave face walked silently to John’s side. At last she said: “You never talk that way to me, John, but it’s because I don’t know enough.” “You know enough for me, dear.” he answered ; but she went on : “I shall be but a ‘child wife.’ Caio- line would suit you much better.” “Allowing you to be judge.” I said, laughingly, for I saw John could not answer readily. We said no more on the subject, but I think John asked himself more than once that day : “Is Mary right?” When Mary bade me good bye, that afternoon,, she wound her white arms around my ntek and kissed me, say ing, In her gentle voice: “Write to me ofien, Caroline, and teach me to p,e worthy of bio..” And the weut out the gate, through the hop garoeu leaning on his arm, the warm sun light falling on her golden hair, mak ing her look very beautiful. Soon after this John Grant left Elm wood, and took a farm ou his own account In the west of England, ad joining that of old Mr. Keating. I seldom beard and never mentioned bis name. Mary wrote Irequently to me during the winter; her letters were like beiself, graceful and oharmlng, full of lov« and confidence. She spoke much of John—how proud she was of him, what letters he wrote, so muoh better than hers, and wasn’t it strange that he should love such a child as she was! She went on writing In this way for several months; but at length there was a change in her man ner of speaking of John ; it seemed as though she were not quite as happy as she had been ; she said she began to be discouraged about ever knowing any more, and binttd that John was getting dissatisfied with her—gener ally ending her letters with some an ecdote about her favorite cat or canary. It was not long after this, when she began to speak of her cousin “Harry Smith,” who was so agreeable, and yet he didn’t know a bit more than she did. A month or two after this, I was not much surprised when she wrote that her engagement with John Grant was broken by mutual consent —“They were not at all suited to each other and no doubt would both be happier,” she said, “for he knew so much and she so little.” S lie concluded with a long account of her new black kitten Topsy, which seemed then to be the one object which engrossed all her attention. ******* Two years passed, and I seldom heard JohnGraub’s name mentioned, and if [ thought of him at all, I be lieved I had conquered my old attach ment—my life flowed on quietly and serenely. I tried to be useful to others and in regular employment and recre ation I was content. Was there a ca pacity for higher happiness unemploy ed ?—a craving in my woman’s nature unsupplied ? One year ago—how well I remem ber the day!—I was sitting quietly reading in the fading ligbtof an Ooto her sky, when, hearing a rustle among the leaves that lay thick upon the gravel walk, I looked up and saw John Grant approaching the house. When he was last there, she was with him, but he was alone now, and my heart’s quick throbbing told me of his errand. Was 1 weak and wanting in self-re spect, when after he had told me all- told me that although he was fascinated with a beautiiul aod loving child, deep down in his heart had always laid a love for me; though in the first glow of his passion for Mary he was hardly conscious of it. How he had thought from the calm indifference of my manner, that I had never cared for him ; how since he had been again free, he had been afraid to make known his love, feeling that he had acted dishonorably in the past. Was I weak-minded and lacking in womanly pride, when after he told me this, and asked in trembling tones: “Could I forget the past, and be his o*vn Caroline ?”—all my old love came back to me, and with more confidence than I had felt for years before, I laid my hands in his and said : “John Grant, I will be yours?” And so, as I have said before, to morrow is fixed for my wedding day. We do not give each other the wild, unthinking passion of early youth, but a deep and strong affection, puri fied and made strong by the experi ence of years—a love that we can ask the blessing of Heaven upon; and when my lips at the altar utter the solemn words, “I, Caroline Hudson, take thee, John Grant, to love, cheiish and obey,” in my inmost soul they wi.l be joylully repeated—“to love cherish and to obey.” John has sold his farm at Ferny Coombes, and our new home is near Ashford—the old house of Elmwood was taken down to make room for the railway. We neither of us ex pect to pass over our path of life with out meeting with occasional storms; but we place our trust in Oue who is both willing and able to assist those who put their hand cheerfully to the work, and with us it will be both a work of trust and love. Contradiction vs. Proof. Few parents and terchers real’ze thatoontradiction, without pro* for rear soulug, will never convinoe. As soon as a child begins to thluK, he begins,, uuconsolously, to form opinions, and to exercise the rights of private judg ment, which are entitled to respeot from all who reuie tiber the I ime when the* “spake as a child, understood as a child, thought as a child.” To con tradict is not ouly useless, but almost sure to confirm the convictions, by "rou-lng (he natural combativenesss or tenacity of opinion possessed by all In greater or less degree. The true way would be a kind leading of the thought* whereby the child himself might arrive at proper conclusions. Agricultural, Farm and Workshop Notes. A Sanford, Maine, paper says a pair of twin lambs owned by Hollis G. Ham, at the exact age of two months weighed 125 pounds. The capital intended for the pur chase of pure bred stocn for improve ment should be invested in a single first-class animal rather than in an urn ber of inferior ones. A pa l of miik standing ten minutes where it is exposed to the sceut of a strong smelling stable, or any other offensive odor, % will imbibe a taint that will never leave it. The Texas Wool Grower <x presses the opinion that a ram shearing thir ty-five poundB in Veruyont would probably shrink to twenty-five pounds in Texas In three years. Four hundred pounds of muriate of potash, say 82 per cent, in strength, and the same amount of superphos phate, will equal fifteen tons of barn yard manure for potatoes. Prime English store lambs have brought in recent sales in the United Kingdom the good round price of $11 25 per head. Sixty years ago tha ruling price was $1.75 per head. The polled Angus and Galloway cattle are not the same as the former come from the north of Scotland and the latter from the south, and there is much rivalry between the breeders of the two breeds. A farmer who writes to the National Farmer says more and better sugar can be made from watermelons thaD from beets, and he claims to have made sugar from them by boiling down the juice and treating it as if it were maple sap. Over $8,000,000 worth of cotton seed meal is imported into Great Britain annually to feed cattle, and the Lon don Agricultural Gazette styles it “the very best food imported, and by its use Eoglish grazers can compete with the American.” Large yields of potatoes depend on the methods of cultivation. The rocky soil of New Hampshire produces tour times as much per acre as that of Mis souri. The average for New Hamp shire is 150 bushels per acre, while Missouri averages only 38. Orchard grass can be sown about the first of September, and it grows well on any soil that is not wet, but damp ness is not Injurious to it. Two bushels of seed are rtquired for an acre. It springs up quickly in the sprit g, is highly relished, and Is permanent if properly treated. A correspondent of the Germantown Telegraph says that the main failure in raising strawberries is in setting poor plants. Old plants are good for nothing; new plants from an old bed are not worth setting. We should set plants that are grown from those that have never fruited. After several experiments with oats as to “thin and generous seeding,” a gentleman in New York says he finds the oats gr wn from thin seeding more liable to rust, the straw le^s valuable, and adds that the best crop he ever grew was raised from three and a half bushels of seed to the acre. Spruce butter tubs are the best; white hemlock makes a s.weet tub; acids from the oak color the butter and injure its appearance ; white ash gives the butter a strong flavor if kept long, and increases the liability to mould ; maple smells and cracks bad ly. Soak all tubs four to six days in brine before using. * *»»**VV| the proportion of nitrogen and phe phoric acid Increases in wheat fro time of blossoming to maturity; bi lime, on the contrary, decreases, at does not seem to play a very impoi ant part in the production of the gral but along with potash serves chit fly develop the straw. Aack teeth in pigs do not produ< disease, but are the symptoms ot i This is an important distinctio Dusty pens are likely to produ thumps, and vermin Induoes mang The pig wallows In the mire to cles himself, and as he is cleaner in habi than may be supposed, there is a n cesslty for providing him clean qua ters. To prevent the torment inflicted l the flies on horses, apply to the iatt b efore harnessing, of a mixture of oi part crude car hollo acid with six < more parts of olive oil. This shou be rubbed lightly all over the anim with a rag and applied more thick! to the interior of the ears and oth parts most likely to be attaoke Great care should be taken not to pi on the carbolic acid too Btrong. Feed Good Corn. On the 8uh of February last I had 26 shoats, 19 months old, weight 6, lbs. I bought two loads of corn—fl class—paying (he same prios per for each load; one load was corn than the other. I fed the grade first, 39 bushels in 10 making a gain of 300 lbs. I the the better grade, 44 bushels in 12 making a gain of 485 lbs. Whu wish to prove is that it pays to the very best grade of corn. The hogs made an average gain of but lbs. per bushel from the poorer oo and an average gain of 11 lbs. per bus el from he best oorn. Bold 1st of Mar at 7 cents. To-day the gait of the trotter is aa smooth and regular as the play of & piston-rod ; as rhythmical as the most harmonious symphonies of musinal composition. Why is it so? Because fashion dictated. Mr. Bonner bought only such, and gentlemen of wealth everywhere followed his example. As soon as it became known that pure trotting gait was the salable thing trotters began to make rapid improve ment in the quality of gait not only, but in quautity as well. The modern trotter is, therefore, a model trotter. This was manifestly true of tlhe horses that participated at Chicago this year, and are now engaged in the various circuits over the country. The change is n it due to any particular improvement in the trotting families themselves so much as to the new methods In use for their education. There are few horses on the tuif now adays that pull a tou by the bit a* was customary at one time. To trot fast the horse should not be hampered by any more harness than is necessary for bis complete safety. Indeed, we look for the horse to trot be-t with no more harness than bridle, reins, back- strap, saddle, and girth at an early day. \ Improvement in the Gait of Trotting Hones. The improvement in the quality of of gait of the trotting horse within the last few years is one of the marvels in trotting. Ouly a few years ago the jumping-jack kiud of trotter was com- mon In the very best localities. In deed, the skipjack gait was cultiva ted, and thought to be indispensable to fast speed in harness. The large majority of trainers argued that ihe horse must learn to break and oatoh before he could be relied upon in A race. For, said they, If he is not'a good catci er, a break would put him behind the flag. Therefore, the horse must be sj oiled before he is good for anything for a harness turf horse. A break rested him, they said. “Give him his head, let him jump a few rods then set him down, and he can fairly fly.” Buch were the erroneous teach ings of former years. Tonsorial Agony. You can always tell a boy whose mother outs his hair. Not because the edge of it looks as if it had been chawed off by an absent minded horse or by mice, but you tell it by the way he stops on the street and wiggles his shoulders. When a fond mother has to cut her boy’s hair, she is careful to guard against any annoyance or muss by la ying a s beet on the carpet. It has never occurred to her to sit him over a bare floor and put the sheet around his neck. Then she draws the front hair over his eyes and leaves it there while she cuts that which is at the back; the hair which lies over his eyes appears to be surcharged with electric needles, and that which is silently dropping down under his shirt band appears to be on fire. When the boy is under going this ordeal she uncomoiously continues to push his head until hia nose presses hi* breast, and he is too sound that is becoming alarming frequent. In the meantime he seized with an irresistible desire blow bis nose, but remembers that 1 handkerchief Is in the other rooi Then a fly lights on his nose, and dc so so unexpectedly that he involu tarlly dodges and catches the point the shears on bis left ear. At tl time he commences to cry and wish was a man. Bhe merely hits him < the other ear to inspire conflden ie, ai goes to work. Then she holds t jacket collar back from his neck ai with her mouth blows the short bits hair from the top of his head down 1 back, and tells him he’s all right. I ot>lls her attention to the fact, but a! looks aud asks him why he didn’t u his handkerchief. Then ne takes l awfully disfigured head to the mirr aiict looks at it, and young as he shudders as he thinks of what the bo on the street will say when they s it.