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VOLUME VI. |C sMIL e whenever you can When things don't go to suit yon, And the world seems upside down, p on ’t waste your time in fretting, Put drive away that frown; Since life is oft perplexing, 'Tis much the wisest pirn, To bear all trials bravely, And smile whenever you can. Why should you dread to-morrow, And thus despoil to-day ? Tor when you trouble borrow You must expect to pay; It is a good maxim Which should be often preached— Don’t cross the bridge before you Until the bridge is reached. You might be spared much sighing If you would bear iu mind The thought that good and evil Are always here combined: 'There must he something wanting, And though you roll in wealth, You miss from out your casket That precious jewel—health. And though you’re strong and sturdy, You may have an empty purse— And earth has many trials Which I consider worse. But whether joy or sorrow, Fill up your mortal span, ’Twill make your pathway brighter To smile whenever you can. ROCK A BYE, BABY.~ Rock a bye; iu the tree top, When the wincWblows the cradle will rock; 1 When the bough breaks the cradle will fall Down tumbles baby, and cradle, and all. Rock a bye, baby; the meadows in bloom; Laugh at the sunbeams that dance in the room, Echo the birds with yonr own baby tune, Coo iu the sunshine and flowers ot June. Rock a bye, baby; as softly it swings, Over thy cradle the mother love sings; Brooding and cooing at even or dawn, What will it do when the mother is gone ? Rock a bye, baby; so cloudless the skies, Blue as the depths of your own laughing eyes; Sweet is the lullaby over your nest, That tenderly sings little baby to rest, Rock a bye, baby; the blue eyes will dream Sweetest when mamma’s eyes over them beam; Never again will the world seem so fair— Sleep, little baby—no cloud in the air. Rock a bye, baby; the blue eyes will bum And ache with ihat your manhood will learn; Swiftly the years come with sorrow and care, With burdens the wee dimpled shoulders must bear. Rock a bye, baby; there’s coming a day Whose sorrows a mother’s lips can’t kiss away; Days when it’s song will be changed to a moan; Crosses that baby must bear all alone. Rock a bye, baby; the meadow’s iu bloom, May never the frosts pall the beauty in gloom; Be thy world evtr bright as to-day it is seen, Rock a bye, baby; thy cradle is green. MISCELLANY. “ PUT YOURSELF IN MY PLACE.” ‘I cannot wait any longer. I must have my money, and if you cannot pay it I must foreclose the mortgage and sell the place,’ said Mr. Merton. ‘ln that case^’ said Mr. Bishop, ‘it will, of course, be sold at a great sac rifice, and after all the struggles I have made, my family will again be homeless. It is hard. I only wish you had to earn your money as I do mine; you might then know something of the hard life of a poor man. If you could, only in imagination, put your self in my place, I think you would have a little mercy on me.’ ‘lt is useless talking; I extended this one year, and can do so no long" er/ replied Mr. Merton, as he turned to his desk, and continued writing. 'The poor man rose from his seat and walked sadly out of Mr. Merton’s office. Ilia last hope was gone. lie had just recovered from a long illness which had swallowed up the means with which he had intended to make the last payment on his house. True Mr. Merton had waited one year when he had failed to me*t the demand, owing to illness in his family, and he had felt very much obliged to him for doing so. This year he had been laid up lor seven months, during which time he could earn nothing, and all his savings were then needed for the support ol his family. Again he failed and now he would again be homeless, and have to beg;n the world anew. Had heaven forsaken him, and given him over to the tender mercies of the wicked ? Alter he had left the office, Mr. Merton could not drive away from his thoughts the remark which the poor man in his grief gave utterance, ‘‘J wish you had to earn your money as I do mine.’ In the midst of a row of figures, 'Put yourself in my place’’ intruded. Once after it had crossed his mind he laid down his pen, saying, ‘Well, I think 1 should find it rattier hard. I have a mind to drop in there this afternoon and see how it fares with his family; that man has aroused my curiosity.' About five o’clock he put on a gray wig and some old cast-off clothes and walked to the door. Mrs. Bishop, a pale, weary-looking woman, opened it. The poor old man requested permission to enter and rest awhile, saying he was very tired with his long journey for he had walked many miles that day. Mrs. Bishop cordially invited him in, and gave him the best seat the room afforded; she then began make preparation for tea. The old gentleman watched her aU tentively. lie saw there was no elas ticity in her step, no hope in her movements, and pity for her began to steal into his heart. When her hus band entered, her features relaxed into a smile, and she forced a cheer fulness into her manner. The travel er noted it all, and he was forced to admire this woman who could assume a cheerfulness she did not feel for her husband’s sake. After the table was prepared, there was nothing on it but bread and butter and tea. They in vited the stranger to rat with them, saying, ‘We have not much to offer you, but a cup of tea will refresh you after yom long journey.’ lie accepted their hospitality, and, as they discussed the frugal meal, led them, without seeming to do so, to talk of their affairs. ‘I bought this piece of land,’ said Mr. Bishop, ‘at a very low price, and instead of waiting, as I ought to have done, until I saved the money to build, I thought 1 would borrow a few hun dred dollars. The interest oil the money would not be as much as the rent I was paying, and 1 would be saving by it. 1 did not think there would be any difficulty in paying back the money; but the first year my wife and one of my children were ill, and the expenses left me without means to pay the debt. Mr. Merton agreed to wait another year if I would pay the interest, which I did. This year I was for seven months unable to work at my trade and earn anything, and of course when pay-day comes round—and that will be very soon—l shall be unable to meet the demand.’ ‘But,’ said the stranger, ‘will not Mr. Merton wait another year, if you make all the circumstances known to him?’ ‘No, sir,’ replied Mr. Bishop; ‘I saw him this morning, and he said he must have the money and should-be obliged to forclose.’ ‘He must be very hard-hearted,’ re marked the traveler. ‘Not necessarily so,’ replied Mr. Bishop. ‘The fact is, these rich men ! know nothing of the struggles of the poor. They are men, just like the rest of mankind, and I am sure, it they had but the faintest idea of what the poor have to pass through, their hearts and purses would open. You know it has passed into a proverb— EASTMAN, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, MARCH 21, 1878. When a poor man needs assistance, he should apply to the poor. The reason is obvious. Only the poor know the curse of poverty. They know how heavily it falls, crushing the heart of man, and, to use my fa vorite expression, they at once put themselves in the unfortunate one’s place, and appreciate difficulties, and are, therefore,' always ready to render assistance, as far as they are able. If Mr. Merton had the least idea what I and my family had to pass through, I think he would be willing to wait sev eral years for his money rather than distress us.’ With what emotion the stranger listened, may bo imagined. Anew world was being opened to him. He was passing through an experience that had never been his before. Short ly after the conclusion of the meal he arose to take his leave, thanking Mr. and Mrs. Bishop for their kind hospi tality. They invited him stay all night, telling him he was welcome to what they had. lie thanked them and said, ‘I will trespass on your kindness no longer. I think I can reach the next village before dark, and bo much farther on my journey.’ Mr. Merton did not sleep much that night; he lay awako thinking. He had received anew revelation. The poor had always been associated in his mind with stupidity and ignorance, and the first poor family he had visited he had found far in advance in intelli gent sympathy and real politeness, of the exquisite and fashionable butter flies of the day. The next day a boy called at the cottage and left a package in a large blue envelope, addressed to Mr. Bish p. Mrs. Bishop was very much alarmed when she took it, for large blue envel opes were associated in her mind with law and lawyers, and she thought that it boded it no good. She put it away until her husband came home from his work, when she handed it to him. He opened it in silence, read its contents, and said fervently, ‘Thank heaven ! ’ ‘What is it, John?’ inquired his anxious wife. ‘Good new, wife,’ replied John; ‘such news as I never hoped for or dreamed of.’ ‘What is it—what is it ? ’ Tell me quick ! I want to hear if it’s aoy thing good.’ ‘Air. Merton has cancelled the mort gage—released me from the debt both interest and principal—and says any time I need further assistance, if I will let him know, I shall have it.’ ‘I am so glad ! It put new life into me,’ said the now happy wife. ‘But what could have come over Mr. Mer ton ? ’ ‘I do not know. It seems strange after the way he talked to me day morning. 1 will go light over to Mr. Merton’s and tell him how happy he lias made us.’ He found Mr. Merton in and ex pressed his gratitude in glowing terms. ‘What could have induced you,’ he asked, ‘to show us so much kindness?’ ‘I followed your suggestion,’replied Mr. Merton, ‘aud put myself in your place. I expect that it will surprise you very much to learn that the strange traveler to whom you showed so much kindness yesterday was my self.’ ‘lndeed ! ’ exclaimed Mr. Bishop, ‘can that be true ? How did you dis guise yourself so well ? ’ ‘I was not so much disguised after all; but you could not very readily associate Mr. Merton the lawyer with a poor wayfaring man—ha ! l.a 1 ha ! ’ laughed Mr. Mertou. ‘Well, it is a good joke,’ said Mr. Bishop; ‘good iu more senses than one. It has terminated very pleasant-, ly for me.’ ‘I was surprise,’ said Mr. Merton, ‘at the broad and liberal views you expressed of men and their actions generally. I supp >sed I bad greatly the advantage over you in means and education; yet how cramped and nar-> row-minded have been my views be-* side yours! That wife of yours is an estimable woman, and that boy of yours will be an honor to an}’ man. I ttll you, Bishop,’ said the lawyer, becom ing animated, ‘you are rich—rich be-* yond what money c mid make you; you have treasures that gold will not buy. I tell you, you owe me no thanks. Somehow 1 seem to have lived years since yesterday morning. What I have learned at your house is worth more than you owe me, and I am your debtor yet. Hereafter I shall take as my motto, ‘put yourself in my place,’ and try to regulate my actions by it.’ Make Your Homes Attractive. [Cor. Southern Cultivator.] In traveling over the State, and es pecially over the country districts, one is astonished to gee so little attention paid to the agricultural treatment of the farmers’ homes. Asa general thing, there is a painful monotony of style, and an utter disregard paid to natural advantages that so often make home attractive and comfortable. It is not to be wondered at that farmers’ sons are so often discontented, and leave their homes to lead a city life. Take the railroad train from any city, and ride one hundred miles, aud nine chances out of ten you will not see a single farm house that has any sort of attraction in its architecture, nor the grounds near by ornamented by the evergreens, grasses, flowers or vines so easily grown, and which impart to any place a degree of refinement and taste that is sure to arrest the eye of those who travel over our roads for pleasure, and often searching for a Southern home. I have been in many portions of the State, and I have seen farm-houses located e ther in the bottom or on the hill, and I have seen on these same places some as beautiful sites as one could ask for, surrounded with such natural advantages, that it would afford a study for an artist. Now why all this disregard for com fort, for beauty, for convenience? There is nothing better calculated to advance the interest or value of a place, than having its buildings and surroundings in a complete state of repair, and nothing so detrimental as to see the same—house, barn, fences and outbuildings all dilapidated and brokeu down, which at once speak of its owner as a thriftless and unsuccess ful farmer. It is not necessary that these attrac tions and embellishments should be made by the hand of an expert or ars tist. A log house made with neat ness, built on a proper site, with neat fences, or hedges around the yard, with vines climbing up the porches and ivies up the stone chimneys, the well covered with a rustic frame, to gether with many other similar things go to refine the place—all of which can be executed by any man having a will and a desire to promote the growth, interests and attractiveness of his home. On the contrary we too often see farmers’ homes with rail fences in front partly down, aud likely his barns close to the road also in front—his im plements for work all exposed to the weather, to wear and rust out, instead of being in a shop or tool house. No evergreen scarcely to relieve the glare of the sand or the redness of the soil, and the grasses or carpets of lawn are scarcely ever thought of. Now all these thiugs tend to lower the dig nity of the grandest calling man can engage in. Make your homes attrac tive by keeping up a neatness of style in afl the surroundings ot the home, that it may not seem repulsive, but inviting. Let the flowers and roses so easily grown, adorn the front yard. Let your barn and outbuildings be built in such a style, however plain, as will compare with the house, and constructed so that when all are built, they will show that there is method in your design. I>ou’t I Told You So? One night lust week a jolly old German farmer rode to Chestnut Hill from A\ hitemarsh after a physician for his wife, who wa-* very sick, lie dismounted from his horse in front of a saloon just as the boys inside had began to make merry over the first keg of beer. lie approached and looked cautiously around the scene. Foaming glasses were held high above the heads of the revellers, as one of the number proposed a toast appro priate to the occasion. The silent watcher licked his lips and wished his errand had been one not requiring so much dispatch. He was turning reluctantly away when the crowd saw him. ‘Hallo 1’ they shouted, ‘there’s Fritz. Bring him in.’ lie was laid hold upon and hauled up to the bar, all the time protesting ‘Poys, I was in a quick hurry. Old vooman sick like de tuyfal. I vas come mit der doctor sooner as li<rht nin’.’ ‘Well, you can take some beer while you're here, and kill two birds with one stone,’ was the reply. ‘Yaas, I kill von chicken mit a cou ple of shtones utid der old vooman die raitout der doctor; I don’t forgot myself of it. Eh?’ ‘Oh, she wont die. You don’t got beer often, and you’ve got the old wo man all the time. Fill ’em up again.’ ‘Yaas, I got her all der dime, but exposin she go dado, I don’t got her any more somedimes. It’s petter to go mit der doctor seldom light away.’ But he didn’t go. As one glass af ter another was forced upon him by the reckless crowd, the errand was floated further from his vision, until it was carried out of his mind alto gether, ami his voice, untinged with anxiety, joined in the drinking songs and arose above all other. Thus he was found by his son, late that night. The boy grasped him by the sleeves and said: ‘Fader, come home.’ Fritz turned, and at the sight of his boy a great fear arose in his mind, swept away the fumes of his beer, and brought him to a sense of the situa tion. In an awe-struck tone he said: ‘Yawcob, how you was comes here? Vas somedings der matter?’ ‘Yaw,’ replied the boy. ‘Veil, shpoke up apout it. Vas der old vooman—vas your rnudder—is she dale? I can shtand di m best. Don’t keep your fader in expenses, } y. Shpid it oud. Vas ve a couple of or phanses, Yawcob?’ ‘Neiii,’ answered the boy. ‘You vas anunder. A leetle baby vas coorn mit der house.’ Fritz was overcome for a moment, but finally stammered out: ‘Vas dot so? I expose it vas not so soon already. Veil, veil. Iu der mid dle of life, ve don’t know vat's to turn next up. Men exposes. Fill uj) der glasses!’ The bey ventured to ask the old man why he had not seen the doctor. ‘Vy did she vant a doctor ? Petter she tole me so. 1 get him pooty quick. Nefer mind, I safe more as ten dollar doctor bill on dut baby. Dot vas a good child. Fill up der glasses. 1100 ray for dat little buck baby! Ve von’t go home till yesterday.’ Fritz got home soon, and was in Chestnut Hill again in a couple of days after some medicine. The boys couldn’t get him back again, though he said to them: ‘You bate 1 tend to my peesness now.’ —lKennesaiv Gazette. Professor Goode in a paper read bdore the American Fish Ouhurists at New York, shows that the consump tiou of oysters in the United States reaches the enormous aggregate ol fifty millions of bushels annually. The total value of all other fish taken in 1877 is set down at $75,278,829. Our ancestors, the monkeys, could not have been so ignorant after all, j Mr. Darwiu. They were all educated 1 iu the higher brunches. mi Hartford talks of a bachelor show. Yes, give them a show. A man with a false set o’ teeth does not necessarily have a falsetto voice. ‘Boiling liair in a solution of tea vv ill darken it,’ says an exchange ; but some people don't like to have their tea darkened in that way. . Said a friend to a bookseller, ‘The book trade is affected, I suppose, by the gener 1 depression. What kind of books find it most ?' ‘Pocket-books, 1 was the reply. Job bore all sorts of privations, and yet was patient ; Washington under" went all the hardships of a long war, and 3 T et was always cheerful ; but it utterly crushes the heart of a pretty young lady if her “bang*' flies out of order just before she enters the parlor. ‘I want 5 cents’ worth of starch,* said a little girl to a grocer's clerk.— ‘What do yon want 5 cents worth of starch for V ‘Why, for 5 cents of course/ she answered, and the clerk concluded to attend to his own busi ness. A gentleman in England committed suicide the other day, and left a paper stating that lie did so because his wife was a great deal too good for him.—■ That’s why the jury returned a vers diet of recording their opinion that the deceased Svas of an unsound stato of mind/ - A Firm recently sent a lot of bills West for collection. The bills came back, with the result noted against each name, one being “dead.'’ Three months after the bill got into anew lot that was forwarded, and when the list came back the name was marked ‘still dead.' A yankee said that Nantucket horses were celebrated f r their gen eral worthlessness, imbecility', and mar velous slowness. lie said a citizen sold one to a cavalry officer during the civil war, and warranted him to be a good war-horse. The soldier came back afterwards in a towering pas sion, and said he had been swindled. As how ? said the Nantucketer. *\Vhy these's not a bit of go in him J and yet you warranted him as a good war-horse. Yes, I did; and he is a good war-horse; he'd sooner die than runl .> — i The following translation was made by a Frenchman who professed to teach languages, and who thought he was telling a story in really beautiful English : ‘A lady which was to dine chid to her servant that she not had used butter nough. This gild, for to excuse himselve, was bring a little cat on the hand, and old that she came to take him in the crime finishing to eat the two pounds from butter who re main. The lady took immediately the cat whom was put in the balances, it just weighed that two pound. This is all the very much well for the butter J the lady then she said, ‘but where i* the cat ?’ A timid girl came in and laid the following poem on our desk, and as she said it was the first effort of her life we give it a place : How dear to my heart is the goat of my child hood, \\ hen fond recollection presents him to me; The beautiful beast which whene’er he was riled would Make everything fly from the presence of he. My mischievous Nan was the frowiest butter That ever did butt a stone fence till it fell; He'd see it a-commg—u scream he would utter. Then brace his lour legs and go at it pell mell. O, how he would buck it ; An iron-bound bucket, Ho once tried to buck it, aud died in the welL NO. 12.