Newspaper Page Text
Uosli (tain ©bites.
BY J. T. WHITMAN.
Tinies.
Published every Friday.
TERMS: Four Dollars in
Advance.
—— -* -♦*♦♦-
Advertising Rates:
Dollar and Twknty-Five Cents per
Square (of ten links on lkss,) lor the first in
sertion, and Seventy-Five Cents for each subse
quent insertion.
Those sent without a specification of the num
ber of insert’tm, will be published till forbid,
rad charged accordingly.
BdsrnesS 6* Professional Cards, of six lines or
unde/, Six DollaA’s, per annum; and where
they do notexeeed 12 lines, Ten Dollars.
A liberal contract will be made with those
who *uh to'advertisc by the year, occupying a
specified space.
car All advertisements not paid in advance,
WILL be considered DUE in THREE MONTHS
FROM DATE OF AI’I’EARAiXE.
Legal Advertisements.
Sale of Laud or Negroes, by Administrators,
Executors or Guardians, are requited by law to
be held on the First Tuesday in the month
between the hours of 10 in the forenoon and 2
in the afternoon, at the Court House in the
County in which the property is situated.
Notice of these sales must be given in a public
gazette forty days previous to the day of sale.
Notiiee for the sale of personal property must
b'ft given in like manner ten da vs previous to sale
day.
Notices to the debtors and creditors of an es
tate must also be published forty days.
Notice that application will be made to the
Court of Ordinary for leave to sell Land or Ne
groes,- must be published for two months.
Citations for letter - of Administration, Guar
•tiau-diip, Ac.- must be published thirty days—
or dismiss on ftom administration, monthly for
six moutlrf.-
Fot dfemmrSsion from Guardianship, forty
day.
Rules for enclosure of Mortgage must be
published- monthly for four months—for estab
lishing lost pap*i's.- the full space of three
months—foF titles from Executors’,
or Administered?'!',-wheie Ixmd has been given bu
the dseeasftl, the full space of three months. '
Publications will alwsvs h'r- continued accord
ing to tiiese.-.HVfc UJ-iW ,(%»pWe’fKeuts, uiHessothcr
r*ise or lered, nt t*h» . -.-
RATES'-
on leteWc? Administration &c w . .$3 00
“ Dispii.-isoi'y trinh 1 Athpr'oii, 6 00
*“ “ - Garduuishfy,.. 4 tio
Lcafe to s’dl Laml'.’Sy . 6 00
Notice to debtors* and crcdi toft', . -5 00
ISalss of ->e-s«o;;a! propr rt v , t.-u dthH ?square , !
II. < a j
Sale of land r:-d-;*‘ , /eees bv Executors AA •’
I so-. “ ' S’ GO
1 strayes, W-T Weeks,-. . . 4' Otf
For'a man advert;:.g his M (i?.‘ atr-M'nee),’! 0 u 6
Fq? »pi.f;uueing Candidates name 7 C*J
CoNi’kact Advertising. |3i<;6in.|Bt>i.|l2tn.
square without change. .. . fG .y'tt. ;
Cfttngdd" quarterly.. 7 i I'o, I'2] I’s'
Chaiiged at will, .. 8 ■ 12; 14| 18
squares without change,.... 9 j 12 l’-j 20’
Changed qam’&ily,.-. 1 lx! l'Bi 2Q 25'
Changed’will,.... | ID' 20. 25 30
squares withoiit change,... I 12j 15j 20 25
Changed quarterly .J 181 2Oj 231 3d
Changed at viH.-.! 20. 25 30 35
J column without change,... 25- 30> 40 40
Changed quarterly,.. 1 28; 32; 45 45
Changed at will;-. 35| 45! 50 55
1‘ column without change,....' t>6| 70| 80 xOff
Changed quarterly... j Gsi 7<] 90 110
Changed nt wi11,.,,..1. 7o' 85(100 125
JOB PIUNTiNG.
In this line we are prepared to do work of al
most t very description in the neatest style on
short notice, ind upon reasonable terms. Our
material fpt 1 printing Cards and Handbills, plain
fancy and ornarnent il, is very superior, alia ena
bles us to offer superior inducements to those
wishing anything in that line. 'Ranks, Circulars,
and all kinds of fancy vfdfk done tc order; also,
Pesters to anv reasonable size.
WHITMAN & CALDWELL, JVoprteforZ
—ay———MUfea. >i ■»■■■■ ja iiutSi iwri'
Land Agency at fialton, Georgia,
/•p HE salubrity of climate, the proximity to
JL valuable medicinal Springs, the picturesque
geenery and fertility of the soil of the adjacent
country, with the facility intercourse with the
low country, given by the system of Railroads
connecting at this point, and the advantages,
which the establishment of good schools will
give, offer such inducements that the under
signed believes that it will be mutually advanta
geous to those owning real estate who may wish
to sell, and to those who may wish to purchase;
and therefore proposes to open an agency in the
city of Dalton, in which, persons having land
for sale, may file description thereof, witli a
statement of the prices, go that persons wishing
to buy, may, with greater facility, obtain the
requisite information.
All communications from persons having lands
for sale, or persons wishing to purchase, will
l>e placed on file and receive prompt attention.—
Please address BEN. E. ORLEN,
Dalton, Ga.
Dalton, Sept. 12, ’6l—tf.
THE HERMIT SPRING,
One of the Prettiest Places in
Cherokee Georgia,
For Sale!
I WILL sell, for Confederate money, my farm,
one and a half miles f.-om Dalton, Ga., in sight
of the W. & A. Railroad, known as the Hermit
Spring. It is one of the finest locations in the
State.
I will also, sell with the premises, my Stock,
Horses, Mules, Cattle,-Hogs, Sheep, Goats, Wag
ons, Carriagis, Buggies and Household Furniture.
Also one FINE JACK.
April 3. A. FITZGERALD.
. Augusta Chronicle A Sentinel, Atlan-
ta intelligencer and Knoxville Register, will copy
i-u » e W ' Ce hn, ‘ not > c ® editorially and forward
bill to me at Dahm,, for payment. A. F.
Garden Seed.
S “ d '
’ Mrs. BENDER’S.
The Dying Soldier.
Day faded from the hill and wood,
Around, a rayless night was spread.
It closed upon a scene of blood,
The di ing and the dead;
And science brooded o’er the field
Where echoed late the trump and drum !
And where a thousand thunders pealed -
Their death-knell—all was dumb’.
There mid his brave but vanquished band,
Upon a midnight couch of clay,
With ghastly wound and broken brand,
A dying warrior lay.
No fond and faithful one was there
To kneel her parting love beside,
To stanch his death-wound with her hair,
And stay life’s ebbing tide 1
He lay beside a gushing spring
That from its fount in freshness burst;
But helping hand was none to bring
A drop to cool that thirst
Which ‘ scorches on the parting breath,”
Fierce as the simoon’s burning sigh;
And adds to bitterness of death
Its frenzied agony.
E’en then on memory’s wakeful eye
Wdfld f. rtns of children, wife, and friend-
Fair as a vision of the sky,
In rainbow beauty blend :
A dream of summer, love and youth,
And bowers he may ne’er see again,
Bathed in the glowing tints of truth,
Break o’er dying brain.
While Victory sends her deafening shout
Through streets that madden with the din,
And all is reckless mirth without,
A mourner droops w ithin.
She clasps her babe with sob and sigh,
Aud -sorrow’s dreary vigil keeps;
Her orphans g: ze and wonder why
Their widowed mother weeps.
A Touching Scene.
I was conversing not long sinefe
with - » re ui tied
“ I was’iti the hospital as nurse for a
long time,” said he, “ and assisted in
taking off limbs and dressing all sorts
of wounds; but the hardest thing 1 ev
er ditl was to take my thumb off a
man’s leg.”
"Ah!” said I, ‘how was that?”
, Then he told me:
I “It was a young man, who had a se
| vere wotftid’ in the thigh. The ball
I, passed* cirnpletely through, and ampu
tation was necessary. The limb was
cut off close up to the body,the arteries
takeii' dp; d L .!T be seemed to be doing
well. Subsequently one of the small
arteries sloughed off. An incision was
iri’a'db, add it was again taken up. “It
is well it was not tl'e main artery,”
said the edtgdbn as hi? jlbiToi’Clbd' the
operation; be might have bled to death
before we CouW’ IfaVe'taken it, up.”—
But Charley get on finely, and was a
favorite with us all. _ ,
I was' pudkinj* tui’oii’gh tiie ward one
night about midnight, when suddenly
us I was passing Charley’s bdd he
.spoke to me:
“ 11—my leg' is bleeding agaidi”.
I threw back the bed clothes, and
the biood spirted in the air. The main
artdry bad sloughed off
Fortunately, 1 knew just what to do,
and in an instant P h‘ad‘ pfiessdiP my
thumb on the place and stopped the
bleeding. It was so close to the body
tbat there was barely room soy my
thumb;- but I succeeded'in keeping it
there, and arousing one of the conva
lescents, I sent him for the surgeon,
who came in on the run.
“ I am so thankful II said he
as he saw irife, “that you 1 were rip, and
knew what to do, for he must have bled
to death before I could'have got here.”
But on examination into the case he
looked exceedingly serious, and sent
out lor other surgeons. All came who
were within reach, and a corisuitation
was held over the poor fellow. One
conclusion was reached by all. There
was no place to work save where my
thumb was placed; they could not work
. under m3' thumb, and if I moved it he
would bleed to death before the artery
could be taken up. There was no way
to save his life!
Poor Charley! lie was very calm
when they told biin, and requested that
his brother, who was in the hospital,
might becalledup. He came,sat down
by the bedside, and for three hours I
stood, and by the pressure of my thumb,
kept up the life of Charley, while the
brothers had their last conversation
on earth. It was a strange place for
me to be in, to feel that I had the life
of a fellow mortal in iny hands, as it
were, and straugei* yet to feel that an
act of mine must catiSe that life to de
part. Loving the poor fell as I did, it
was a hard thought;- but there was nb
alternative.
The last words were spoken. Char
ley Lad arranged all his business as-
DALTON, GEORGIA, FRIDAY, MAY 8, 1863;
lairs, and sent tender messages to ab
sent ones, who little dreamed how near
their loved one stood to' the grave;—
The tears filled my eyes more than once
as .1 listened to those parting words.—
All were said, and he turned to me.
“ Now, H , I guess you' had bet-
ter take .off your thumb.”
“ 0, Charley! how can I?” I said.
“ But it must be, you know,” replied
he cheerfully. “I thank you very
much for your kindness; and now,
gbotx bye.-” ,
He turned away his head, 1 rafsed
my thumb, once more the life current
gushed forth, and in three minutes
poor Charley was dead!
Napoleon and the British Sailor.
Manj - years ago a British sailor was
taken prisoner at Boulogne by the j
French’ arfil'y. lie was not, however, )
shut up between four walls, but he was -
alibied his liberty, and permitted to!
roam about on the shore as lie pleased.
I suppose i,t was thought that one man
could not do any harm by himself.
But tlie young sailor longed sadly to
get back again to bis country. He
used to sit and errty the birds as he
SAW them winging taeir flight to dear
old England; he wished that he
make his escape as easily as they did.
One morning lie dbserved an empty
hogshead come floating toward the
shore. Be eagerly seized it, and what
do you think he did with it ? Why he
hid it in a cave, and worked very hard,
day after day, trying to make this old’" 1
barrel into a boat! Ami a't length'after
some fashion, he succeeded. But such
a boat was perhaps never seen before.
It was not fit to venture u'p'on’ a pOlrd
in, arid to think- of crossing the deep,
wide sea in it! why the idea was
enough to make one shqdder. And yet
st)’ anxious WW the sUil’or t‘d' I’ea'dh 1 bis
home, that he was actually g'oiffg to
put to sea in it!
The French guard caught him with
it 011 the beach, and they laughed at
h:m, and ridiculed him finely about his
wretched fooki'ng boat. Tin? story of
this young sailor’s attempted' escape iii
this clumsy and dangerous manner
was so talked of. that presently it reach
ed the-fars of Napoleon
Then Xapoleoh came and spoke to
the sailor. “ Rush youth,” hfe said,
“you must have hd‘d some strong mb
tive to make you dream of cross ng the
Channel in a tiling formed of twigs and
staves. What was it? Tell me frank-
The sailor answered, “ Ihaa sucti' a
great longing to see my mother! It is
many years since we, last met, and' 1’
wanted so much to see her once more.”
“ And so you shall,” answered Napo
leon quickly, “siibh ff loving and brave
son must have hud a good mother.”—
Then giving the Bailor a piece of gold,
he commanded that He’ ehould be put
on board a vessel sailing to d!H Eng
land, and carried back to his native
land.
So the dutiful and affectionate young
sailor was restored to his aged, wid
owed rfibther. They lived happily to
gether, although they were very poor;
aiid the grateful sailor never parted
with the coin which Napoleon had giv
en him. , , . ■ . ,
Boys! do you'love and' honor your
mother? What sacrifice are you’ will
ing to make for Iter good? Do you re
member as you ought bow many she
lias made for you?
Sweeter Far id HeaVeiL
It was evening—bright, star-kissed
evening. We were seated alone at the
piano,-brealhirig a song of beauty and
joy: and as our fingers glided lightly
up the silver-keyed octaves, and music,
“the soul of beauty,”’ gushed forth re
sponsive to our touch, it seeriffed’ tHftt
nowhere in tliis glad ; earth could there
be hearts beating heavily, so light and
joyoufe 'tVere our own. The last echo
hud died away iri the distance,- aiRT
turning from the iristrufrifliit/oui’ ey«s
rested upon th£ silvered locks and bend
ing form of one, whose countenance
bespoke a pure and noble heart: We
had ne’/er met before, but life: whisper
ed softly, while a‘ stnilef df beauty
wreathed his colorless lips: 1 “Young
maiden, ’twill be «weeter far ill' heav
en!” 0! how those few simple words
changed the current of our though tsp
and wherq iri' words of winning elo
quence, he spoke of the comforts of our
holy religion, and urged us to conse
crate our life, our talents, our all, to
the service of our Maker,- we thought
no sacrifice too great, if, like him, we,
too, might know the source of joy; if,
like him, we, 100, might see unfolding,-
before our spirit’s vision, the glories of
the Celestial city.
Weeks fled, and that old man, wea
ried of earth, folded his thin aims, and
went to sleep. They laid him to rest,
away in the church-yard; but we knew
that there was but the casket—that the
spirit, no longer fettered, was basking
iti the sunlight of the Saviour’s smile;
and that his voice, no longer tremulous,
mingled in the anthems of “just made
perfect.” Yes, gifted one, the autumn
winds are sighing mournfully around
thy tomb, and faded leaves, typical of
life, are scattered o’er thy pulseless
heart; yet thy influence caunot die.—
The hearts wooed by thee from patliri of
sin, arc weaving garlands of aflection-
Ctte gratitude to twitie axound tby
metnory; and when at twilight hours
we breathe a song of the “olden time,”
beautiful, indeed, through the vista of.
the past, comes the remembrance of
those joy inspiring words; “’Twill be
sweeter far in heaven !”
Married Life.
Oh ye husbands and wives, deceive
not one another in small things nor in
great. One little single lie has, before
now, disturbed a whole married life—a
small cause l,ias often great conse
quen'ces. Fold not the-arms together
and sit idle •“ Laziness is the devil’s
cushion.” Do not run much from home.
One’s own hearth is’ of iri'ere worth'than
gold. Many a marriage begins like a
rosy morning, and then falls away like
a snow-wreath. And tfb'y? Because
tfie married pair neglect to be as well
pleasing to'each' other after marriage
as before. Endeavor always to please
one another; but at the same time keep
God in you'r thoughts Lavish not all
your love oh to-day, for remember that
marriage has its to-morrow likewise,
and its day after to morrow, too.. Spare
one may, fuel for winter. Consider,
ye daughters, what the word wile ex
presses. The married woman is the
husband’s domestic faith; in her hand
he must be able to intrust the key of
his heart, as well as the key of his
eating-room. His honor and bis home
are under her keeping—his well-being
in her hand. Think of this! And you.
ye sons, be faithful husbands, and good
fathers of families. Act so that your
wives shall esteem and love you.
»—
Beautiful Extract.
Men seldom think of the great event
of death until the shadows fall across
their path, h’ding forever from their
eyes thetraces’ of loved ones whose lov
ing smile was the sunlight of their ex
istence. Death is the great. antagon
ist of fife, nnd the thought o’the tomb
•0- iLf-jhcl’cfc/n' of all Uasts: We <l<-
not V7?r|'t to go thiongh tlie dark val
ley, although its passage may lead to
paradise; and with Charles Lamb,' we
do not want to* lie dDW'i ill'the muddy
grav’e even with kings and princes for
out bed-fellows. But the fiat of nature
is infexhorable. There’is ri'o appeal for
relief from the great law which dbonis
113 to'dust. We flourish'and we fade
as the leaves of the forest, and the flow
ers that blossom and wither in a day,'
has not a frailer hold upon life than the
mightiest monarch that ever shook the
earth with his footstepk. Generations
of rnc-n appear and vanish as the grass,
and the countless multitude that throng
the world to-day, will to morrow dis
appear as the footsteps in the caEl! on
tfie shore.
I was Once Young;
It is an,excellent thing for all who are
engaged in giving instruction to young
people, frequently to to mind what
they were themselves when young.—
This practice is one which is most like
ly to impart patience and forbearance,-
and to correct unreasonable expecta
tions. At one period of my life, when
instructing two or three young people
'to write, I found them, as I thought,-
unusually stupid. I happened about
this time to look over the contents of
an old copy book, written by me when
1 was a boy. The thick up-strokes, the
crooked down-strokes, the awkwatd
jointing of letters, and the blots in the
book, made ine completely ashamed of
myself, and I could at the moment have
hurled the ’book in the fire. The worse,
however, I thought* of rriysfelf, the bet
ter I thought of backward scholars. I
was cured of my unreasonable expec
tations, and became in future doubly
patient and forbearing. In teaching
youth, remember that you once Were
young, and in reproving their youthful
errors, endeavor to call to your mind
your own!
Young Meq,.
The most anxious moment in the his
tory of a youtig riian is that moment
when he forsakes the parental roof and
goes forth in the wide world to ask a
livelihood? The interests of" life are
crowded irito that period. The tears
of a mother, tile counsels of a father,
consecrate that eventful moment.—
Away from home, old associations, and
settled in some new home,-how apt the
fornler restraints'are tb be cast off!—-
The trial of virtue now comes. The
test of the principle is now applied. If
he holds fast in bis integrity the pray
ers of his rimther and father, rising up
when the still dews arc falling, will
bring blessings thick as manna that
fell around the camp of the Israelites,
down upon his path. But if he proves
faithless, then will his memory embit
ter his life, then will his parents wel
come the grave, that they may hide
their dishonor in the dust.
“Don’t Stay Long.”
it is rarely indeed that we have read
anything more truthfully pathetic than
the subjoined waife, which we fjml
floating among our exchanges. Would
that every husband might read and
profit by it:
“ Don’t stay long, husband,” said d
young wife tenderly one evening, as
her husband was preparing to go out.
lhe words themselves were insigni 1
Cant, but the look of melting fondness
with Which they were accompanied,
spoke volmn'es. It tohl all the whole
vast depths of a woman’s love—of her
grief, When the light of his smile, the
source o's all ter joy, beamed not bright
ly upon her.
Don’t stay long, husband,” and I
fancied I saw'the loving-, gentle wife,
sitting alone, anxiously counting the
moments of her husband’s absence, ev
ery few moments running to the door
to see if he was in sight, and finding
that be was not, I thought 1 could hear
her exclaiming in disappointed tones,
“ not yet.” ‘
“Don’t stay long, husband,” and I'.e
thought I could see the young wife
rocking nervously in the great arm
chair, and weep as though her heart
Would break,, as her thoughtless “lord
and master” prolonged his stay to a
wearisome length of time.
0, you that have wives to say —
“Don’t stay long,” when you go forth,
think of her kindly when you are
mingling in the busy hive of life, and
try, just a little, to make their homes
aud heart happy, for they a're gems too
seldom replaced. You cannot find,
amid the pleasures of the world, the
peace and joy that a quiet home, bless
ed with such a woman’s pi'esCnce, will
afford.
“Don’t stay long, husband,” and the
young wife’s look seemed to say, “ for
here in your own sweet home is a lov
ing heart, whose music is bushed when
you are absent; here is a soft breast
for yon to lay your heart upon, aud
here pure lips, unsoiled by sin, that
will pay .you Vith kisses for coming
back soon.”
The Marriage Fee.
r ll;e late Dr Boynton was once dis
I afnrninr about ‘the #acc
witl: Whiclr a minister earned money.
“ Now,” said the farmer, “when you
a?e called on to marry a couple, you
never expect a less sum than three dol
lars, and yoff sometimes get ten dollars
—this ipi-’a few mi,nates service.”
“ Pooh!” replied the doctor, “I would
agree to give half of my next marriage
fee for a bushel of potatoes.”
“ Very well,” said the farmer, “ I’ll
take your offer, and send you’ the pota
toes.”
A few days afterwards, the doctor
was called on to splice a loving Couple
at Dogtown, a place about four miles
from where he lived. When the cero
mony was over the bridegroom said to
the worthy minister.
“ Well, parson, 1 suppose I must fork
over something for your trouble. What
say you to one of ray terrier pups? The
best breed, I tell you, in the country.
Shocking nice to have in a barn.—
Worth five dollars—and I suppose a
figure 2 would do for the splice, eh?
The doctor took tlie pup with joy.—
the joke was too good; he hastened to
the farmer, saying:
“Now, friend, here is my fee—-how
shall we divide?”
The farmer relished the joke so well,
that he increased the potatoes to half
a dozen bushels.
The Progress of Life.
Men rejoice when the sun has risen
—they rejoice also wit- n the sun goes
down—while they are unconscious of
the decay of their own lives. Men re
joice on seeing the face of a new sea
son, as at the arrival of one greatly
desired. Nevertheless the revolution
of one season is the decay of man.—
Fragments' of driftwood meeting in the
wide ocean continue together a little
space; thus parents, wives, children,
friends and riches remain with us a
ghort time, then separate—the {separa
tion is inevitable. No mrirtal can es
cape the common lot; he who mourns
for departed relatives, has no power to
cause them to return: Ohe standing
on the road would readily say to a
number of persons passing I?y, “I will
follow you;” why, then, should a per
son grieve when journeying the same
road which has been assuredly travelled
by'all our fore fatliers. Life resembles
a cataract running down with irresis
tible impetuosity. Rowing that the
end of life is death, every right-minded
man ought to pursue that which is
connected with happiness and ultimate
bliss.
. . I we would turn a deaf ear to the
.tale of scandal, breathe the spirit of
charity from our lips and from our
hearts, let the rich gushings of human
kindness swell up as a lounftiin, the
' “golden age would become a fiction,
I and the island of the blessed bloom in
more than Hesperian beauty.”
VOL. 14— NO. 17.
I (Kohuinr for Siitk /olhs.
The Crown of Tears. .
The last rays of the setting sun rest
ed orown-iike on the tops of the forest
trees, leaving in the deepening shad
ows of twilight a little child, wh j sat
weeping by the wayside. Her tears
fell through her clasped hands upon a
few withered roses in her lap. Sud
denly, by i-. magnetic influence, whose
| mystery is eternal, she felt that she
| was not alone. Looking up she beheld
■ stendiag txrf her an aged .a. a Up
on itis shoulders fell his white hair,
• and his form was bent with the burden
I of years, but his eyes still retained the
! fire of youth, and the sorrowing child
| felt their glow irradiate her inmost
I soul. As she looked up the old man
I spoke;
“Child, why do you weep ?”
“ Because,” said the child, her tears
I flowing afresh, “'my little brother is
dead. ’
“ And should you weep at death ?”
asked the stranger.’ “Do you look be
i neath the brown earth only, for your
little brother ? Child, he is not there ?”
“ Yes, he is,” said the litjde girl,
mournfully. “ I saw him lying white
rind’ still in his little shroud; he would
not look at me when I called his name,
nor even when' I brought my pretty
| white rose aridplaced it in his hand.—
Then imrtna told me he was dead, and I
I should never see him again after they
I laid him in the ground; it is for that I
i weep.”
| “ Child, your brother still lives,” said
! the old man solemnly. She looked eag
i erly in his face.
“Have you seen him ? Oh! let me
j run' and tell my mother.”
“ I have not seen him,” replied the
stranger, “ but I know that’he lives.—
Not here—not in this world again,”
continued he, raising his cyetf heaven
ward, “ but there is a beautiful land
where weeping is unknown, where sor
row and death never enter—and yet,
death is the shining portal to that lands”
The little girl looked wondcringly
him , 3NW
“ And is he there I” she asked; “
die may 1 see him again ?”
5 V.;... !S t!'." IIS\S
“ AuU Uicru j ou win f uel the tecers
have wept Here, transfoi'mcd
crown of light and life. . See! even
now thy work has begun.”
She looked, as indicated'by his hand,
and lo! her roses, brightened and re
freshed by her many falling tears, smil
ed up into Iter face.
The Boy at the Dyke.
A little boy in Holland was return ing
one night from a village to which he
had been sent by his father on an er
rand, when he noticed the water trick
ling through a narrow opening in the
dyke. lie stopped and thought what
the consequences would be if the hole
was not closed, lie knew, for he bad
often heard bis father tell, the sad dis
asters which happened from such small
beginnings; bow, in a few hours, the
opening would become larger, and let
in the mighty mass of waters pressing
! on the dyke,"until, the whole defence
being washed away, the rolling, dash
ing, angry waters vvould sweep on
to the next village, destroying life
and property, and everything in its
way. Should he'iun home ani-alarm
the villagers, it would be dark before
they could arri - .e, and the hole might
then be so large as to defy all attempts
to close it. Prompted by these thoughts
he seated'himself on the banks of the
canal, stopped the opening with his
han Is, and patiently awaited the ap
proach of some villager: But no one
came. Hour after hour rolled slowly
by, yet there sat the heoric boy, in cold
and darkness, shivering, wet and tired,
but stoutly pressing his hand against
the dangerous breech. All. night he
stayed at his post. At last the morn
ing broke. A clergymen, walking up
the canal, heard a groan, and looked
around to see where it came from.—
“ Why are you there, my-child?” he
asked, seeing the boy and surprised at
his strange position. “I am keeping
back the water, sir, and saving the vil
lage from being drowned,” answered
the child, with lips so benumbed with
j cold that he could scarcely _ speak.—
! The astonished minister relieved the
I b.oy. The dyke was closed, and the
' danger which threatenjned hundreds
of lives was prevented.
Insects must lead a truly jovial
, life. Think what it must be to lodge
'in alii}’. Imagine a palt.ee ol ivoij
' and pearl, with pillars ol silvet and
i capitals of gold, all exhaling such a
; ; erfumo as never arose from a human
Fancy again the fun of tilck
i ing yourself up for the night iii the
' folds of a rose, rocked to sleep by the
■ gentle sighs of the summer air, noth-
; ing to do when you awake? but towash’
; yourself in a dew drop, aud fall to and
eat your bed-clothes!
Our own happiness is best pro
moted by seeking the welfare of others.
