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I M L scarcrsesiamsr Will be published every SjtTURDJt Y Morning j In the Brick Building, at the Corner of Cotton Avenue and First Street, IN THE CITY OF MACON, «A. UY wh- b. harkisoy. termsT For th« Paper. in advance, per annum, $2. * If not paid in advance, $8 50, per annum. If not paid until the end of the Year $3 00. Ip* Advertisements will be inserted atthe usual rates a nd when the number of inaertions de sired is not specified, th»v will be continued un til forbid and charged accordingly. QJ* Advertisers by the Year will be contracted with upon the most favorable term*. gjTSalesof Land by Administrators, Executors or Guardians, are required by Law, to be held on the first Tuesday in the month, between the hours of ten o’clock in the Forenoon and three in the Af ternoon, at the Court House of the county in which the Property is situate. Noticeofthese Salesmust he ?ive.n in a public gazette sixty days previous to the day of sale O'Sales of Negroes by Administators. Execu tors or Guardians, must be at Public Auction on, the first Tuesdav in the month, between thelegal hours of sale, before the Court House of the county where the Letters Testamentary, or Administration or Guardianship may have been granted, first giv ing notice thereof for sixty days, in one ofthe pub. lie gazettes of this State, and at the door of the Court House where such sales are to be held. qr Notice for the sale of Personal Property must •ie given in like manner forty days previous to the day of sale. 7*Notice to the Debtors and Creditorsolan Es tate mist be published for forty days. Notice that application will be made to the Court of Ordinary for leave to sell Land or Ne groes must be published in a public gazette in this S.ate for four wontiis, before any order absolute can be given by the Court. 7*Oitatioss for Letters of Administration on an Estate, granted by the Court of Ordinary, must; be published thirty days - for Lcttersof Dismis sion from the administration ofan Estate, monthly for six months —for Dismission from Guardian ship forty days for the foreclosure of a Mortgage, 1 must be punlished monthly for four months — for establishing lost Papers, for the full space of three months —for compelling Titles from Ex ecutors, Administrators or others, where a Bond hasbeen given by the deceased, the full space of THREE MONTHS. N B \II Business of this kind shall receiv prompt attention at the SOUTHERN MUSEUM Office, and strict care will be taken that all legal A Ivertisements are published according to Law. itj*All Letters directed to this Office or the Editor on business, must be tost-paid, to in sure at'ention. < "J D o r t r n. From Sartain's Magazine for April. Sunil of tbe Desert tn an Hour Glass. BY HF.NRR W. LONG F KLLO W. A handful of red sand, from the hot clime Os Arab deserts brought, Within this glass becomes the spy of Time, The minister of Thought. How many weary centuries has it been About those deserts blown ? Glow many strange vicissitudes has seen, I How many histories known ? perhaps the camels of the Islnnuelite & Trampled and passed it o'er, j'When into Egypt, from the patriarch’s sight m His favorite son they bore. wVrliaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare, ■ Crushed it beneath their tread ; tur Pharoah's flashing wheels into the air I Scattered it as they sped. br Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth ■ Held dose in her caress, MVliote pilgrimage of hope and love and faith K Illumed the wilderness. lit anchorites beneath Kngaddi’s palms II Pacing the Red Sea beach, »nd singing slow their old Armenian psalms i In half-articulate speech. |jbr caravans, that from Bassora's gate With westward steps depart; Or pilgrims, confident of Fate, And resolute in heart ! There have passed over it, or may have passed ! Now in this crystal tower mprisoned by some curious hand at last, It counts the passing hour. And as I gaze, these narrow walls uxpand ; Before my dreamy eye stretches the desert with its shifting sand, Its unimpeded sky. And borne aloft by the sustaining blast, [This little golden thread, wilates into a column high and vast, ■ A form of fear and dread. jW"* on ward, and across the setting sun, |M“ cr " ss the boundless plain, jHB" column and its broader shadow run, jjjjf ll ' l ' lou ght pursues in vain. p«'vision vanishes ! These walls again Bltut out the lu r i d sun, t , l ‘ C hot ’ •■"measurable plain ; Jpe half-hour's gl asg is run! AMBITION. J 1 ,l ,s no ‘ hard to rise To brilliant destinies " "ill bang upon the breath of power, 9H " C!, tch from it a tone, And leaning not their own, jP rea tures of another’s prosperous hour. w * n ambition’s goal, *k . , P"Fe, unbartered soul, Sj * J,° e stren gth which loftiest hearts desire "thinks’ were easier far H • T ° °’ er,!,kc ‘he falling star, S 3 from wak <Tul heaven Promethean fire. THE SOUTHERN MUSEUM. BY WM. B. HARRISON. From Godey’s Ijidy's Book for April. FALLING IN LOVE. A Handle of otber People's Experiences. BY GRACE GRF.ESWOOD. Edward Morton, an eminent young law yer of Boston, was one day riding in great haste out of the city to execute some im portant papers fra country client, when he met a cart heavy loaded with furniture of a rich description. As this passed him, his eye fell on a picture in an elegant frame, from which the cauvass covering had fallen. It was placed high in the fat ther end of the cart, and ihus perfectly ex posed to his gaze- his admiring gaze, for it was the potrait of a surpassingly beau tiful woman. Morton had never seen such eyes, such lips, such ha r, such a neck, such arms—in short, such a face and fig ure— and his susceptible heart glowed and palpitated witli an admiration which was already half love. He checked his horse, and looking backwa and, gazed and gazei till he could no longer distinguish a feature of the potrait, and then wheeled and gal loped after it. Through street afterstreet, he followed that sluggish vehicle, vainly hoping to see it pause at its final destina tion, till suddenly the throught of his im portant engagement brought him to a dead ha t. VY ith one last lingering look at “ that adorable face,” as he mental y called it, he turned his horse’s head and rode tapidly away. As lie galloped along, he began to think on the name which he had observed written on some of the boxes contained in the cart, which was simply T. Williams.'' He soon remembeied that he once became quite intimately ac quainted with one Tom Williams, an open hearted, joyous, regular “ fine fellow,” while on a voyage to Cuba some years be fore, for the benefit of his health, when Tom had gone out on business for a house in New Bedford. There was a hare pos sibility that this was the identical Tom— he would see. A few days subsequently, Morton ad dressed a note his friend, saying that he had heard ( ! ) that he was in the city, asking where he might be found, and stating his affectionate wish to renew, if perfectly agreeable to him, the pleasant old ship-board friendship. The next day, sure enough, brought a rep y from the Tom—a long, hearty, gossiping letter, in which he informed Morton that he had married “ a glorious little woman,’ and having come into possession of a large property, had concluded to bring his “ Pe nates, his wife and wife’s sister, to Bos ton, take up his abode in street, and enjoy life.” fie closed with a very warm invitation to his friend to come and see them all, as soon as he felt a real impulse to do a fellow creature a kindness. The morning that Morton called on his friend, he spent an unconscionably long time at his toi’et. This was quite inex cusable in him,though he was wild enough to hope to behold the original of the por trait, and to hope that it was not Mrs. Wil liams, for he was really so handsome a man as to requite mu h less than others I have known die foreign aid of dress. But some men are not content to be killing— they would discharge a revolver at he heart-feminine and fairly riddle their mark. Morton was received in a handsome parlor by his friend Tom, who met him with the liveliest expressions of pleasure. He regretted, he said, that Mrs. Williams was absent “ on the grand tour of the shops ; but,” he continued, “ her sister, Miss Ford, is at h >me, and you shall see her; she’s a splendid girl,” and saying this he darted off to summon her. As ho left the room, Morton looked around him with a searching glance ; pic tures enough met his eager gaze, but not that one. He rose and passed through the folding-doors into the oposite parlor, and there, just over the piano, it hung ! With a low exclamation of delight, Mor ton paused before it and stood with folded arms, gazing upon its marvelous beauiy with ail his soul in his eyes. “ Who is she I—the wife ? Heaven forbid! The sister ? No, no; Tom’s a lucky dog, and it must be the wife. Per haps a mere fancy picture. Pshaw !” Absorbed in these conflicting conjec tures. our hero did not hear steps ap proaching over the thick, Wilton cat pet, and started and whirled suddenly as Wil- Hams, calling his name, begged to present him to Miss Ford. The original of the portrait stood be fore him 1 She stood before him lovelier, if possi ble, than her pictured semblance. ******* Three months had passed away, and it was a tranquil midsummer night, when moonlight and stailight lit up the ocean and slept on the shore. A brave cavalier and a fair maiden—to be_ more plain, Mr. Edward Morton and Miss Ellen Ford were riding together on the “ long beach” at Nahant. He was then telling her, for the first time, the rather ludicrous story of his first meeting with her portrait, and she was laughing merrily at the recital. Yet there yvere tears on her cheek—you might see them glistening in the moonlight! Whence these sprang I cannot divine, though surely he had been telling her another story before this: but he had told that very indifferently, with none of his usual ease of manner and elegance of dic tion. He had colored and stammered as his heart came blundering out, without the slightest assistance from his head ; and she had evidently pitied bis strange cm barrassment for once she impulsively s'retched out Vter hand and placed it his, which was very kind and encouraging.cer tainly. ******* I received the above little history from my friend Morton’s own lips, during a re cent visit to his cha ming home. Wha* led to the subject was this : Ellen, now a matron of thirty five, with her beauty and youthful spirit in fine preservation, had just beeu re-furnishing her parlors very elegantly and fashionably, and was endeav oring to gain her husband’s consent to the banishment of her now antiquated por trait from its conspicuous place over the piano. We were all seated on the rose-shaded portico one summer evening, when she began— “ Now, Edward, do he reasonable, and let me have that picture moved up stairs. H. w horribly ugly and old-fashioned ihe dress is—that short waist and those enoi - mous sleeves !” “la ways liked that style of sleeves,” rejoined Morton ; “it has a rich appear ance.” “ Pshaw ! where is your artistic taste ? How would it look in sculpture, now ?” “ But, Ellen dear,” replied Edward, making a wry face in spite of himself at the thought of “ balloon sleeves” in mar ble, “ had it not been for that pic ure 1 should never have seen you.'' “Ah, I know that all too well,” she re joined, with a saucy toss of the head. “ I declare, Nell,” replied Edward, laughingly, “ I believe you are jealous of that picture, for you know that it is a devil ish sight handsomer than ” A spring forward from Ellen—a cry of “ You impudent old fellow !” and a clutch at the still luxuriant curls of Ed ward ; a quick dodging on bis part, and a rushing down the steps; then a racing and chasing of both through the garden, fol lowed by the little ones ; much laughter aim loss in oreatii on ai! sides—and “ now my story’s done.” Albert Morris was a young Philadel phian of family, wealth, fine talent, con siderable beauty, and, mirablc dictu ! with all these, an honest, feeling heart, acute sensibility, and pure, correct moral prin ciples. It chanced that one sunny afternoon in October, this unexceptionable young hero of ours was sauntering down Chesnut Street, in a listless, or rather unhappy mood, his brows .lowering and his eyes glancing about with a look of restless dis content. He had hut lately returned from a long summer tour, somewhat overwea ried with pleasure and excitement, and with the querulous qui bono of satiety upon his lips ; hut he had come home to a plea sent family circle wherein he had once found his greatest happiness. Ah, l may as well tell the secret of his heart, though he at that time had never to and it—there was one who had not returned from her summer-journeying to he city home, one whose society he missed there', though the loss had net pressed heavily upon his spir itt elsewhere. Now to walk alone where he had often walked with her, or to visit those places of amusement whither he had been wont to accompany her. filled him with feelings of unrest and loneliness abso lutely oppressive. Hr began t** perceive that if not actually in love, he was on the dreamy confin sos that enchanted realm, taking in the first intoxicating breathings of its delicious at mosphere. He felt that there was a young plant hid far down in bis heart, nourished long by the rich poetry and the pure dew of romance, winch needed but to have the clear sunlight of sympathy let in upon it to take a deep, warm color, and expand into a gracious flower. Morris had first met Miss Atwood at a brilliant party given in her honor on her return from Europe, where she had spent nearly two years; and he was first delight ed to find tli3t, unlike most young tourists, she could converse without letting her sentences of good, hearty English, become disjointed by German, go off in nervous spasms of French or faint away into Italian. She did not talk like a guidebook of The Venus, Vatican, old Virgil's tomb; The Corso, Carnival, St. Peter’s dome ; The Pantheon and the Coliseum, Grim with wray ruin’s vestigeum ; Ve nice, Vesuvius, Valatnbrosa, Mont Blanc, Mont Etna, and Mont Rosa, And the JEgwum Marc ; The “lordly Rhino’’ and “ rrowy Rhone,” Brussels, Bordeaux, Bavonne, Boulogne ; A trip from Frankfort to Cologne, And “ dear, delightful Paris !” ' Miss Atwood was an undeniable beauty, and a belle of much celebrity. Her taste in dress was exquisite, though rather on the magnificent order. She had many accomplishments, a keen wit, and some genius ; so it is little wonder that, as far as she had revealed herself, she had been enchanting to the poetical and somewhat impressible Albert Morris. It was Spring when they first met, and before their both leaving the city for the Summer, dreams, wondrous pleasant, in which the peerless belle always appeared, became perilously frequent with him ; and in the day-time I am not sure hut that he thought of her even oftener than on his beloved sister, once his daily companion, but now mar ried to an army officer, and immured in a fort on the frontier, where alone grand MACON, APBIL 21, 1949. scenery, a select library, a fine hand, a charming husband and a cherub child pres erved her from dying of ennui. And Miss Atwood I Why, she smiled sweetly ou all be said or did, and bent herself toward him slightly, very slightly from the pedestal of her pride. YViih a most comfortable faith in her own irresisti bleness, she evidently considered the heart of every man she rriotas a kind of fruit, very ipe and very soft, and only waiting the least possible shake on her part to fall into her hand or at her feet. But let us re urn to that walk of our hero’s down Chesnut Street. Suddenly he gave an eager look forwatd, his eye brightened, his cheek flushed, and his step quickened ! Surely he could not mistake that f rra, that gait, that air—no, it was Clara Atwood ! She did not see him, or seemed not to mark him till they were almost face to face. Then she smiled, blushed, and paused a moment, as Morris, lifting his hat, inquired, with a joyful air when she arrived in town. “ Only last night,” she replied ; and af ter a few words more passed on. Morris, his heart filled with indescriba ble emotion, involuntarily turned his head to look after her. As he did so, lie re marked that as she swept along with her half nonchalant, lialf-hauglvy gait, the fringe of her rich mantilla caught on the edge of a basket, borne by a poor old wo man, who was hobbling along with a crutch. The basket was filled and piled up with fine large oranges, and as Miss Atwood gave an impatient pull to extricate the fringe, she half upset this baskel—pur posely, it was evident—and out rolled a golden shower of oranges. With no ex pression of regret, hut with a frown like midnight, an Ia cool “ You should keep out ofthe way !” she passed majestically on and entered Levy’s inviting doors. Theold woman stood the image ofdispair; a poor, feeble cripple, jostled by the fash ionable throng, she could not help herself iii tliis sau extremity. Sul prised, indig nant, and shocked beyond expression, Mor ris, with one of his quick, humane impul ses, turned back to assist her ; but he was too late, for a slight graceful figuresprautr forward, and two dear little wlrte-gloved hands began picking up the oranges and replacing them in the basket ofthe gra’e ful old datne, and a sweet, kind voice said, “ Oh, do not thank me; it is nothing?” and then Morris caught a glimps of a fair young face—not a beautiful face, but one fresh and sunny, and wearing an expres sion pure and noble,and good withal. He saw large brown eyes, filled with soul, and warm red lips, iremulous with feeling, and a dear, broad brow, stamped with intellect over which waved hair of a dark richshade. All these he saw underneath a little cot tage bonnet, of white silk, unadorned by ribbon, lace, or flowers, for the young being before him was that sweetest of im aginable creatures, a pretty Philadelphia Quakeress. At that moment the soulless statue Al bert had half-deified by his admiring hom age, fell from its pedestal, and a fair idea f womanly loveliness, sanctified by good ness, mounted triumphantly to its place. Do not condemn ray hero when I say he followed at a respectful distance be hind the young Quakeress as she walked up Chesnut street, then turned and passed up Seventh to Arch, and up Arch almost to Broad Finally she ran lightly up some dazzling white marble steps, and entered a plain hut elegant-looking mansion. As Morris passed lie glanced atthe door-plate, it bore his own name, and wi h a feeling half pleasure, half pain, he recollected that here resided a distant relative of his father’s. There had once been some dif ferences between the families, and all in tercourse had been long since suspended. As might have been anticipated, Mr. Albert Morris suddenly bocame an active peace maker. Such cold feelings of es trangement between those connected by ihe ties of kindred, was unnatural, un christian, and ought no longer to exist! Thus he argued until his mother ( now a widow ) and his nice obliging sisters set forth on a visit of conciliation, or rather reconciliation. This was perfectly success ful, and soon the long frozen tide of social intercourse flowed again sunny and swift. Oh, such times as the two families had together ! Such morning walks and rides, and then such sociable evening gatherings for all sorts of innocent and sensible en joyment —indeed, it was all pleasanter and better, and more deligthed every way than l can tell. I surely need not say how glad xvas Albert in his heart when he listened daily to the praises of “ dear, gifted Cousin Annie,” f.om his affectionate sisters and enthusiastic young brothers, and even from his thoughtful, intelligent mother. Ah, the little heathen divinity’s “fairy barque” someiimes lias smooth sailing, say what they will. It happened that Annie xvas deep in the study of the German at that time, and Albert presently discovered that he really must rub up his knoxvledge of that grand language. After this, what enchanted “ long morning,” what charming jaw dislocating hours they spent over Goethe and Grabbe, and Gressner and Gleim. and Pfeffel aud Pfizer, and Fichte and Frie ligrath. and Ricliter and Raprechtsxvoil, and Kuebel and Klcist and Korner, and Knaust and Schulze, aud Schlegel and Schelling, and Schleiermachbrty and Zed litz, and Zschokke!! ! VOLUME 1-NUMBER 21. But the time came when it was away with these old fellows! aud let the bean speak through lips and eyes, and “ little unobserved acts, ’ a poetry more delicious, an eloquence mote subduing. * * * * • * * “ My doar Albert," said Annie Morris, now two mouths a wife, “ what possessed thee to send home that enormous orange tree 1 I could scarcely fiud room for it in our conservatory.” “ Ah, Annie.” he replied, I love the orange ; it is a sacred fruit to me.” “ N .w, what caust thou mean ?” said the little wife, with some surprise. “ Listen to me. then, my love,” he re joined. “As by the apple Adam lost his paradise, so by*the orange have I found mine. —What, still mystified ? Ah, bless you, and bless all crippled old orange wo men, say I.” “Oh, Albert,” cried Annie, blushing deeply and smiling through tears, ns she wound her arms round the neck of her young husband, “ didst thou see that 1 1 was a little ashamed at the time, there" were so many looking at me—hut I could not help it.” “ To he sure you could notlielp it; your hands go about such work on their own account. Help it, indeed !” ******* On the morning after the little street in cident which was the stepping stone to the happy fortune of Albert Morris, Miss Clara Atwood was seated in her most graceful attitude ori a purple velvet sofa in an elegant parlor, awaiting a call from that self-same young gentleman. There came a ring at the door, and presently a servant entered hearing a basket, a pretty little French affair, filled with oranges, and a card, on which was written—“ With the compliments of A. iii.” The cheek, neck and brow of the haugh ty beauty became crimson as she dashed the significant offering to the floor. Last winter she was married—well, all „„;,t fin., n„,i „ i Walnut street, a fine country-seat, a mag nificent carriage, and her servants to sport a dashing livery—in short, luxury and dis play surrounded her. She is still beauti ful brilliant, witty, gay, and it may be, happy —but Ido not think that she ever cultivated orange trees in her conservato ries. Useful Hints to Public Speakers.— It is a curious fact in the hisiory of sound, that the loudest noises always perish on the spot where ihey are produced ; whereas musical notes xvill he heard at a greater distance. Thus, if we approach within a mile or two of a village in which a fair is held, we may hear very faintly the clamor of the multitude, hut more distinctly the organs and other musical instruments which are played for their amusement If a Cre mona violin, a real Araati, bo played by the side of a modern fiddle, the latter will sound much louder ofthe two; but the sweet, brilliant tone of the Amati will he heard at a distance the other cannot reach. Dr. Young, on the authority of Derham, states that at Gibralter, the human voice may he heard at a greater distance than that of any other animal. Tlius, when the cottager in the woods, or in the open plain wishes to call her husband, who is working a a distati e, she does not shout, hut pitch es her voice to a musical key, which she knows from habit, and by that means rea dies his ear. The loudest roar of the larg est lion could not penetrate so far. “ This p operty of music in the human voice,” says Coxvper, “is strikingly shown in the Cathedrals abroad. Here the mass is en tirely performed in musical sounds, and becomes audible to every devotee, how ever placed in the remotest part of the church : whereas, if the same mass bod been read, the sounds would not have trav elled beyond the precincts of the choir.” Those orators xvho are heard in large as semblies most distinctly, and atthe great est distance, are those who, by modulating the voice, render it more musical. Loud speakers are seldom heard to advantage. Burk’s voice is said to have been a sort of lofty cry, which tended, as much as the formality of his discourse, in the House of Commons, to send the members to their dinner. Chatham’s lowest xvhisper xvas dis tinctly heard; “his middle tones were sweet, rich, and beautifully varied,” says a writer, describing the orator ; “ xvhen he raised his voice to its hightest pitch, the House xvas completely filled xvith the vol ume of sound, an'd the effect was awful, except when he xvished to cheer or ani mate—and then lie had spirit-stirring notes which were perfectly irresistible. The terrible, hoxvever, xvas his peculiar poxver. Then the house sunk before him ; still be xvas dignified, and xvonderful as was his eloquence, it was attended xvith the impor tant effect, that it possessed every one xvith a conviction that there was something in him finer even than his xvords ; that the man was greater, infinitely greater, than the orator. Do as you Promise —There is no neces sity of breaking your word. In the first place, never promise any thing unless you knoxv it to be in your power to fulfil ; and, in the second place, make up your mind, before you promise, that whatever you will fulfil. By so doing, you xvill gain and enjoy the confidence of those around you. When such a character is establish ed will be of more value than ermine, gol<J or princely diadems. BO OK AND JOB PRINTING, Will be exceed in the most approved style and on the best terms, at the Office of the SSTJTEEPsIT M W JSE 7 JK, -BY WM. B. HARRISON. ii —i vnimmin wp imm—m From Downing's Horticultural ist Rural LtFE.—This primeval employ ment of man is the mos’ healthful of all occupations; healthful for the body, the mind, and the soul. What other pursuit by which men obtain hottest bread affords such vigorous training for tho physical pow ers, such various and extensive ranges of mental exercises 1 And where may the moral nature of man he preserved unsullied from vice, and grow and expand more than amid rural scenes and beneath the purest air oflieavenl The farmer's life it no scratch, with the pen—rap, rap, with the hammer—nor an everlasting unpacking and lepacking of the product of anothei’s labor. He walks forth under the open sky, his broad acres spread out beneath his feet; the blue con cave, sunlit or starlit, or shrouded iti clouds is still above him. Health claims him as her favorite child, and the glorious sun loves to kiss a cheek that is not ashamed to wear the ruddy imprint of such affec tion. Nature’s own inimitable music of babbling brooks, birds, breeze, or rustling foliage, enters his ear on its glad mission to his heart. He listens to instructive voices, continually speaking from the unij verse around him. Ilis eyo gathers truth from unwritten pages of wisdom, every where open befote him. Each day, each month, season after season, year after year, these teachings are given to him, infinite in variety, and endless in extent. When toward the close of a sultry day the summer’s blessing comes pouring down and as in the beautiful poetry of the sacred volume, “ the trees of the field clap their hands, and the valleys, covered with corn, shout for joy,” the farmer, retiring from his labors to the friendly shelter of his cot tage roof, improves his leisuie hours with the treasures of written wisdom. So, too, while his fields are sleeping beneath [frost and snow, what profession affotds more available opportunities for self-culture?- Where xvas the lyric poetiy composed that maL'ca ixmiwlor Uurno iltan i w*. ..c. of all her ancient race of warlike kings ? Was it not between the handles of tho Mossgeil plough ! Os all the employments that busy men here in this present state of existence, the cultivation of the earth is distinguished as affording the best opportunities for an ex tended range of mental discipline, for ad vancing in true refinement,for social, rural and religious improvement! And now, last of all, agriculture shall put fortli her highest claim. Os all men, the farmer alone walks in the path where God himself first took tho orcotcA image by the hand and led the way “ to dress and to keep” his garden—the earth! Confiding in God, the husbandman plows his fruitful fields, while the birds of spring are sing ing praises around him. Buoyant with hope, he scatters the seed over the ground, and gratefully recieves the early and the latter rain, coming down from” Heaven to give the increase. And never did rational man yet apply the sickle to the golden grain without some vague idea of gratitude to God, the giver of harvests! Indeed, the husbandman’s whole life, rightly viewed, is “a walking with God ” And though thousands may not often think of this, and hut a few, even in any small degree, appreciate it as they ought, never theless the assertion claims to be true. A Child’s Faith, —A helox-ed minis ter of the gospel xvas one day speaking of that active, living faith, which should at all times cheer tho lieait ofthe sincere fol lowers of Jesus, and related a beautiful il lustration that had just occurred in his oxvn family. He had gone in a cellar which in winter was quite dark, and entered by a trap door. A little daughter, only three years old, xvas trying to find him, and came to the trap door, hut on looking down all xvas dark and she £a!led ; “ Are you doxvn cellar, papa ?” “ Yes ; xvould you like to come, Mary ?” “ It is dark, I can’t come down, papa." “ Well, my daughter, I am right below you, and I can see you, though you cannot st*e me, and if you will drop yourself I will catch you.” “Oli, I shall fall; I can’t see you, pop!” “ I knoxv it,” lie ansxvered, “but 1 am really here, and you shall not fall or hint yourself. If you xvill jump, I will catch you safely.” Little Mary strained her eyes to the ut most, but could catch no glimpse of her fa ther. She hesitated, then advanced a little further, then summoning all her resolu tion, she threw herself forward, and xvas received safely iii her father’s arms. A few days after, she again discovered the cellar door open, and supposing her father to be there, she called : “ Shall I come again, papa ?” “ Yes, my dear, in a minute,” he replied and had just lime to reach his arms to wards her, when, in her childish glee, she fell shouting into his arms, and clasping his neck, said : “ I knew, my dear papa, I should not fall.” quarrel with a lady ; if you aro troubled with her, retreat; if she abuse you, be silent; if she tears your cloak, give her your coat; if she box your ear, boxv to her in return ; if she tears your eyes out, feel your xvav to the door and—fly !