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VOLUME VI.
THE GATHERED ROSE.
Only a rose-bud sweet and fair,
Down by the roadside crowing,
Of other flowers, rich and rare
And cultured, little knowing;
Content its blushing tace to hide
’Moug its own leaves, when straying
bees came wandering side by side
With zephyrs idly playing.
The rose-bud blossomed out at last
Into the perfect flower,
And, plucked by one who sauntered past
Ere it had bloomed an hour,
Was tossed ere long aside, poor thing,
Which sweeter grew when dying,
And left, all crushed aud withering,
Upon the roadside lying.
You understand, you say, With scorn,
While listening to my story?
You know which rose, one summer morn,
You robbed of all its glory?
Ah, man, the heart you cast awav
When sft) it served your pleasure.
My own Cut many and many a day
Had \votshij4>ed without measure;
She knew it not. I was nc*t r W<Jrlh
The love you held so lightly;
!M I could lilt her from the earth.
The flowonce blooming brightly—
The rose you threw away—ah yes!—
Again to toy with—never!
Rut mine to worship and to bless,
To keep aud hold forever.
Harper's Weekly-.
MISCELLANY .
I ITTLE NEL, I^,
THE
M A MAC’S DAUGHTER.
* BY W. A. POE.
1 was returning home after visiting
a patient beyond the suburbs of the
city ol M . The rain descended
in floods, and I urged my horse to a
gallop. Just as I arrived at the stone
huta post, I was startled by a cry for
kip, proceeding froYft a house near by*
In an instant, l alighted from my horse
and rushed to the door-, and endeavor
ed to gain admission. I could hear
excited voices* tas if their possessors
were engaged in a tierce struggle.-=-
F r a moment I stood irresolute ; rais
ing my voice, I shouted for admission;
my only reply was a wild laugh from
within. Fearing that a bloody deed
was being perpetrated, I foroejl adi 'Or
mid. in a moment the little glimmering
light 1 had observed was extinguished
ami I was surrounded by darkness.—
The sounds of conflict were
and deep silence reigned. Hastily
lighting a match by its flare I observe
e l crouched in a far corner of the room
an emaciated, ghastly man, and Hear
him sat a young git 1, her tace hidden
•by an apron. Upon a small taole rest
ed a Japan lamp, still smoking, as if
recently extinguished This I soon li-au
lighted.
‘‘Who see you ?" said the man, is
suing from the corner and advancing
upon me in a menacing attitude.—
'Who nare you?' I*; repeated, ‘who
dares enter my house unbidden V
ha F he laughed, ‘your life must pay
the penalty* lam the avenging des>
liny—the slayer of hecatombs of fool
ish adventurous youths. Bring forth
theclo.ikof Lucretia. Place
upon bis head the cap of martyrdom.
hy do you stand so inactive ? Do
you hesitate to perform your duty as
the high priest's disciple ? Sound the
drum, bum incense upon the alter*—
Prepare, prepare F cried he, assuming
an attitude of command.
‘Kun for your life ! stay not a mo
ment F exclaimed the frenzied girl,
grasping m y arm.
hut do you mean by this mum
mery?’ said I, sternly. ‘Doyou think
nm to be deceived or frightened by
i;?'
For the love of God—for pity’s
sir, do not rouse my poor father's
benzy. Leave us, sir, oh, leave us.—
He will listen to me, he will obey me,
tr 'ed the girl, her beautiful face rais and
toiuine in an agony of appeal.
I was in the act ot leaving, when in
a " instant the madman was upon
n,e j shouting, ‘Bring the sacrificial
knife j‘
Hi my college days I had given no
flt-e attention to the art of wrestling,
a, id in a moment I threw him to the
or. Holding him there, I forcibly
a <lm mistered chloroform from a bottle
had in my pocket, and lifting bis
emaciated form in my arms, conveyed
1 in to a bed in a room shown tne by
!ii / s daughter. Leaving her alone with
bim I waited to see the result. After
SJe Sashmin
a few moments had passed, she came
out, closing the door behind her.
‘He has awakened from the chloro
form stupor, but he seems inclined to
sleep. He is lyiDg perfectly quiet/
she said.
‘I am a physician. I would willing
ly try all in my power to relieve your
father. May I ask if this insanity is
hereditary t*
‘The story of my father's trials is
Very sad,‘ she answered; ‘I have
thought that I could never divulge
this secret to a stranger, but I long
for sympathy. I so badly need a friend.
When alone, surrounded by the ghosts
of our former happiness my heart
sinks within me, aud I long for the
companionship of someone who will
give me advice or consolation. We
have lived perfectly secluded because
of my father’s misfortune. He is all
l have on earth. He loves me fondly,
attd it would kill him to separate from
me. I wanted no one to know of his
condition, both because he shrinks
from the shame of it* and because I
am afraid he would be taken to the
mad house. I could not bear that. I
had far rather attend him myself. I
Am onW seventeen, but grief and care
have made me feel so o’d. My father
—but, sir, I cannot tell you our sad
story to-night. I am too much ag
itated.'
I hastened to assure her I would call
again, and if she should feel disposed
to confide in me her history, I would
be glad to aid her in any manner pos
sible.
Next morning after seeing my pa
tient and finding her greatly improved
I stopped at the little house, surround
tt*d by lofty trees. The yard was taste
fully adorned with flowers, indicating
r finement and love for the beaut ful,
yet the close blinds and sombre ap
pearance of the cottage betrayed that
its inmates were in some way peculiar
or eccentric.
Upon rapping at the door I was ad
mittedly the young lady I had seen
the prevfons evening. I inquired
after the mental condition of her
fattier.
‘He is himself this morning/ she]
replied. 'Oh, if 1 could hope he would
remain as he now is !’
‘I see no reason why this hepe may
no. be realized. You have not acted
wisely in yonr endeavor to seclude
your father and keep the secret of his
condition. This isolation will injure
rather than benefit him.'
‘Be seated, sir/ she said, as We eir
ten and the near sitting room. ‘The
history of our lives will explain why
we have determined to forego all hu
man society as far as possible. My
father’s name is Alfred Levert, and ray
own, Helen, yet in the happy days of
my childhood 1 wan called Little Nell.
As our name indicates we are French.
I remember those happy, happy days
in beautiful Uranfce. 1 was then but
a little girl seven years of age; but
when I icview in memory-, as I often
do, the scenes that surrounded me
then, I recall a grand old castle, situ
ated on a sloping hill above the waters
of the Seine. 1 War the merry songs
of the peasants* returning from their
wuik in the vineyard, I see myself
playing under tl.o green elms, and rid
ing along ihe rivet's side on my white
pony. I remember more vividly still
our flight from this beautiful home
It was a Stormy night. I was sleep
ing in die old nursery, by my side lay
my dear old nurse, governess aud
friend. She was my only companion,
and in her compauy my heart never
experienced the desolation children
feel who are deprived of a mother's
love. My mama died when I was but
three months old. To the care of
Mrs. Dupont—mama Dupont—as I
used to call this second mother, I was
consgned to my father. Y'es, the night
was dark, and it v\as the beginning of
the darkness which has so long sur
rounded me. I was awakened from
my slumbers and hastily prepared tor
our journey. How well I remember
those weary days that followed—the
long days spent on the ship in our pas
sage across the sea ; I remember our
landing in a large city—mama Du
pont and uncle Ralph aud myself. The
i confusion, tie stra iga language I
heard, caused me to grasp mama Du
pont’s hard in fear. Not a m ment
did my uncle Ralp leave my father's
side. His manner was strange ; and
when we arrived at the little house on
some back street, I rushed to my fa
ther to receive the caresses that
won't to be bestowed upon me. Oh,
sir, could words describe the surprise
and grief I then felt. He did not know
me—his own child —but madly pushed
me from him, mattering some iueohe
rent words I did not understand. I
was taken from the room by mama
Dupont, at the bidding of my uncle.—
It was five long years before I saw my
father again. I was told to quiet my
fears—that he was in the country for
his health. I entreated to be allowed
to visit him. This entreaty was de
nied me. I have since learned that my
father was the inmate of a private asy
lum tor the insane, not many miles
from the city of New York. I had
passed my twelfth birthday when my
father returned to us. In his caress
es a new' life—a happy life—was en
joyed by me. He was bis former self
and I the child of bis love. For three
short years I enjoyed his happy exis
tence-, at the expiration of which time
a deep gloom rested on our hearts.—
My uncle, who was never robust, fad
ed day by day, until at last we buried
him among strangers* far from hisjbe
loved France.
A few mouths after my uncle’s death
my kind* true friend, mama Dupont
returned to France.
As I watched the departure of the
vessel which rapidly separated us,
need I tell you, sir, it made my heart
sad. Imagine my fate, a young girl of
sixteen, unacquainted with the great
strange world, alone, save the compan
ionship of a father, pursued by a mel
ancholly he could not resist. I did not
complain that my friend left me, other
duties, other cares called her away.—
Taking my father’s hand we returned
to our desolate longings.
Six months after mama Dupont’s de
parture, again the mania came upon
my father. I knew not how tract,
but determined to conceal his misfor
tune from tho world. As soon, there
fore, as this period of insanity passed,
I iusisted on removing my father.—
My persuasion after a time gained his
consent, aud we came here. I have
been his only companion for a year.
I could welcome death as a deliverance
but who could supply my place ? I
must live, I must bear my sorrow un
aided and alone/
Her voice faltered, tears flowed;
down her pale checks. My heart was
touched.
‘Will you allow 7 me, my dear young
friend to assist you in this sacred
J . . i
duty ? Your case is indeed a sad one.
If ever a heart needed that comfi rt
w'hich friendship alone can offer, yours
does. Human strength canuotendure
such a strain upon it unless supported
by sympathy. Do you want means ?
Do you wish counsel ? If so, I beg
you will not hesitate to call upon me.
It will be more than pleasure to me to
aid you.'
She looked at me a moment, her
eyes speaking her thanks more forcibly
than words.
‘May God bless you for your kind
ness, sir—the God of the orphan and
the distressed. lam not in want of
any comfort money can give. The in
come of my father’s estate more than
supplies our wants. At regular inter
vals these amounts are sent to my
agent; I say my agent, for lam com
pelled to act as head of {our bumble
establishment. I neei, sir, nothing but
friendship ’
‘Why do you not return to your na
tive country ? Perhaps the old fa
miliar scenes of home may awaken,
invigorate and restore your father's
diseased mind.'
‘We are outlawed from home, driv
en from country aud friends by my
father’s crime. Pity, pity me sir, my
father is a Murderer, an escaped crimi
nal. ‘
‘You mistake, my friend/ I in
terrupted, ‘insanity is an excuse fur
crime.'
‘I know, sir, that the penalty of
death would not be visited upon my
poor father, so long as his mind is af
fected by insanity. But during the
lucid intervals of this derangement,
the law* would seek to punish him as
his crime deserves. And then the
shame that would be his ! And my
1 father—my dearly loved father’s shame
| is mine ; my love and devotion belong
|to him. The victim ot my father's
murderous vengeance was my mother's
brother. A feud of many years’ c -n
--1 tiuuance existed between them, this
coldness in time became hate, until it
terminated in blows and death. Acci
dentally they met on the highway,
bitter words were spoken, my uncle
struck my father w ith his riding whip;
then pursued his way. That night my
father went to his house, ea'led him to
the door, shot and killed him. Trie
murderous deed was done, the murder
ous aim was true. We became wan
derers from home, exiled from our
country forever. Sir, I have confided
EASTMAN, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, JUNE 13, 187S.
ttiis to you because my heart is so full;
I can no longer keep my own counse’.
I am afraid I have done wrong; but
your kindness seemed so earnest. Oh,
surely you will not betray us. You
will not injure my poor, suffering,worn
out father. Sweat to keep my secret,
never breath to living soul this bloody
deed.’
‘I sw'ear it to you, young I
will keep your secret as if it were my
own/ I replied.
‘Thank you and bless you, dear sir/
said she solemnly. 'I will leave you
now. I hear my father calliug me.’
Sevetal days afteiward I again vis
ited Miss Levert. As I entered the
gate this afternoon, I was surprised to
observe her seated by the side of her
father. Eagerly she came forward to
w’elcome me 4
‘This, father/ said she, ‘is the kind i
Doctor I spoke to you of.’
‘I welcome you sir/ said he urbane- !
ly , ‘to our little home. A great many
of the comforts of life are wanting j
here, but as oue of your Euglish po
ets said, “What I have I give it with
good will.”'
‘You foiget father/ she said, ‘that
we are in America, not England.—
Though I see no reason why Ameri
cans should not be proud of the great
ness of England's son.'
T spoke of the poet not as an Eng
lishman but as on English writer.—
What news have you sir ? Isolated
as we are from the great world, I fear
we will forget the simplest usages of
soci ty.'
The snrprise-I felt at hearing this
gentleman converse so rationally
caused me to hesitate some moments
before replying.
‘Though in the society of my fellows
constantly/ I replied, ‘I fear the little
news I have to communicate w’ould
fail to interest you. The life of a phy
sician, as you know*, acquaints him
with suffering and death.’
‘Speak not of death, sir/ he replied
wildly. ‘Nothing of death , sir, he
is my master. I am his high priest.
11a, ha, I have many dealings with
ray exacting master. Do you know, j
sir, that I furnish the King of Terror 1
more victims than even disease can
give.’
‘Cone, father,’ interrupted his daugh
ter, growing pale, ‘we will show the
good doctor our little garden. You
must excuse, sir, its lack of ornate
beauty 7 , I alone attend to these few
flower* Though my father is fond of
looking at my pretty pets.’
‘I w’ould speak, Nell, to the stran
ger of my priestly office.'
‘ Another time, father ; please come
with me, you can so much better ex
plain to the doctor your plan of en
larging our little garden/ said she,
taking his hand and looking persua
sively in his face,
‘Well, W’ell, Nell; you always have
your way/ said, affectionately strok
ing her hair. ‘Tne w'orld, sir/ he con
tinued, ‘attributes to woman a great
amount of vanity. My daughter I pro
nounce au exception. Would y*ou be
lieve, sir, she will not speak of the
position she occupies as my assistant j
and disciple, though I am indebted to :
her for a large amount of the dignity
that has been conferred upon me by I
my master, the King ofTerrors.'
‘Father, what is the name of this
flower ?' she interrupted, ‘I am ashatn
si r, to admit that lam compelled to
refer to my father for the names of my
little pets.’
I am surprised, Nell, you do not
know this flower, seen iu every f rra
garden. I doubt not tkat the stranger
thinks you somewhat of a diplomist.
As this questiou was surely* prop fund
ed to divert my* mind from the all ab
sorbing theme my master and my
priestly office.'
‘You mistake my intention, father.
I asked for information.'
‘The flower, my child is named the
sychnis divica , usually called the bach
elor's button.
‘Will you wear this one, sir/ said
she, plucking and presenting me with
a flower.
‘I trust you do not p’ace mo al >ng
with those old fellows, the name-sakes
of this flower V I replied, humoring the
jest, and encouraging to
change the thoughts of her father.
‘Not a moment would I put you in
that erubbed category/ she answered
gaily. ‘Nothing in your face indicates
that you belong to it.
‘Alter this compliment I certainly
will not make any acknowledgements,
I replied.
‘Fray excuse the liberty I took just
now/ she sadly remarked later in the
S afternoon. My wish to change the
cbaunel of my poor father’s thoughts,
i trust vou will deem a sufficient ex
*
cuse.‘
‘Most assuredly 7 , Miss Levert, I am
glad my 7 presence enabled you to ac
; complish your purpose.
‘Call me little Nell. I would have
! those who are my* friends thus to speak
to me. If you will accept this boquet
I will gladly give it/ she continued.
I stammered my thanks. The grace
aud pleasant manner of the young girl
cause’d an awkward blush to suffuse
my face.
‘I shall be pleased soon to meet you,
said her father advancing to where his
daughter and myself were standing.
‘Then perhaps I may* explain to you
the mission that has been assigned me
by my master/
‘Gladly I will avail myself of this
kind invitation, I replied.
‘I bid y 7 ou good evening/ said he
extending his hand I have this mo
ment received a summons to prepare
the sacrificial altar ; I trust you will
excuse my abrupt departure ; my com
mands are positive.’
lie entered the house leaving the
daughter and myself upon the pleas
ant piazza.
‘I think/ said I, ‘when I call again
I will see your father alone. I would
understand the nature of this delusion.
By argument perhaps I may convince
him of its fully.
‘I tbauk you sir,’ said sue, ‘our phy
sician in New York made this effort
without success. However the trial can
be made/
‘May I ask you to mail this letter V
said she as I bade her good evening.
4 J he old woman who usually attends
to the out door duties of our house
hold has not made her appearance this
afternoon.
‘Do not apologise, I will gladly per
form this mission for you, or any* oth
er that you may entrust with me/ I
answered eagerly.
W ith curiosity, which my interest iu
the gentle, brave young girl warrant
ed, I glanced at the address of this let
ter, ‘Air. Adrien Casagnac, Rue Tem
pi*', Paris.' Who is this person ? I
asked myself. Is lie the agent of Miss
Le \ ert ( Acting on a suddeu impulse
I wrote a confidential letter to this
Monsieur Casagnac, and mailed it with
the letter given me by little Nell
Returning to my solitary bachelor
apartments, I found myself oppressed
with an unwanted feeling of loneliness.
The boquet given me by the young
girl, carefully refreshed with water,
sat ou mv table beside me. scenting
my room with fragrance and remind
ing me by grace and beauty of their
lovely donor. I bent down and kiss
ed the roses, and the next moment I
blushed at having been betrayed into
so sentimental an act—l a grave phy
sician whose youth was already past,
and whose busy life had given him
small leisure for sentiment. Only after
years of wearing exertion I had suc
ceeded in gaining a share of profes
sional patronage, Dot however suffi
cient or certain enough to permit the
enjoyment of connubial happiness. 1
was a bachelor from the necessity* that
“knows no law," and forced to ffoht
the battle of life alone. To-night this
loneliness affected me more than usual.
As I looked upon the surrounding room
my* heart longed for comp mionship,
for the society of one whose presence
would bestow happiness, whose love
would fill the void within. I wonder
ed at myself. Can it be, I asked, that
the kindness of this young girl has
awakened such melancholy longings.
Though latigued by the exertions of
the day, it was long before I was suffi
ciently tranquil to sleep.
[concluded next week.]
A Good Recommendation.
‘Sir/ sai 1 a lad coming down to one
of the wharves in Boston, and address
ing a wed known merchant, ‘have y*ou
any berth for me on your ship ? I want
to earn something.'
‘What can you do? asked the gen
tleman.
‘I can try my best to do whatever I
am put to do/ answered the boy.
‘What have yon done V
‘I have sawed and spilt all my* moth
er's wood fur two years/
‘What have you not done? 4 asked
the gentleman, who was a queer sort
of a questioner.
‘Well sir/ answered the boy, after
a moment's pause, ‘I have not whis
pered once iu school for a whole year.’
‘That’s enough/ said the gentleman,
‘you may ship aboard this aud
1 hope to see you master of her some
day. A buy* who can master a wood
pile, and bridle his tongue, must be
male of good stuff/
Girls l)o Snore.
Theories almost without number,
says the New York Times, have been
invented to explain why young ladies
do not snore. Mr. Darwin thinks no
one snores unless lying on his own
personal back, and that inasmuch as
girls always sleep coiled up after the
fashion of cats, they could not snore
even if they were willing to descend
to such a depth of baseness. This ex
planation is perfectly worthless. Mr.
Darwin's assertion as to the position
in which girls sleep is mere assump
tion. lie has no evidence to support
this assumption, aud in the nature ot
things it is impossible that he should
have any, and he ought to be ashamed
of himself. Mr. Iluxley pretends that
the proximate cause of scoring is a re
laxation of the muscles of the face.—
‘■The tightness with which the female
back hair is twisted prior to sleeping,”
remarks this bold but too speculative
naturalist, “prevents the relaxation of
the muscles of the scalp and face, and
hence renders snoring impracticable.
This is a beautiful provision of nature,
and shows us that the back hair is not
merely an ornament, but like every
other work of nature, serves a high
and holy purpose.*’ If Rev. Joseph
Cook had read these remarks, with
what joy would he have proceeded to
tear Pruf. Huxley’s argument to tat
ters. To say that girls do not sziore
because their back hair is tightly
twisted, is to ignore the fact that the
back hair is always detached aud hung
on the back cf a chair whenever its
owner prepares for sleep. llow then
can it exercise any poss.ble influence
upon snoring? Like Mr. Darwin, Prof.
Iluxley is a very able man so long as
he confines himself to extinct animals,
but when he under akes to discuss
girls he fulls into abysses of error.—
Apparently, he is perfectly unaware
that back hair is detached. **Gettlieo
to a nunnery/' Prof Huxley ! and
learn the true nature of back hair be
fore building theories upon no better
oa-is than your own ignorance.
While learned men have vainly
sought to find out w*hy* girls do not
snore, it does not seem to have occur
red to them that perhaps girls do snore
after ad On what is the universal
belief that snoring is exclusively* a
masculine vice, based ? Obvioqsly
upon purely girlish testimony. Every
girl claims that she does not snore. It
is plainly her interest to make this
claim, and she well knows that no odc
can produce evidence to contradict
her. The truth is, this fancied free
dom of the fair sex from the loathsome
aud unpardonable practice of snoring
has no [substantial foundation, and a
recent event has conclusively shown
that girls both can and do snore.
Curious Reservoirs.
One of the warmest regions of the
earth is along the Persian Gulf, where
little or no rain falls. At Bahren, the
arid shore has no fresh water, yet a
comparatively numerous population
contrive to pve there, thanks to the
copious springs which burst from the
bottom of the sea. The fresh water is
obtained by diving. The diver sitting
in his boat, winds a great goat-skin
bag around his left arm, the band
grasping its mouth ; then be takes in
liis right hand a heavy stone, to which
is attached a strung line, aud thus
equipped, he plunges in and quickly
reaches the bottom. Instantly opening
the bag over the strong jet of fresh
water, he springs up the ascending
current, at the same time closing the
bag, and is hauled aboard. The stone
is then hauled up, aud the diver, after
taking breath, plunges in fagain. The
course of these copious submarine
springs is thought to be in the green
hills of Osman, some five or six hun
dred miltß distant.
A Buffalo clergyman, the Rev. D. R.
Frazor, oftht Fii stPresby terian Church,
being disturbed by the exit of three
young men who marched out with
squeaking boots just alter he had an
nounced his text, said: 'That strikes
me as the coolest piece of impertinence
I have cxperinced in some time.'
♦♦♦
There is a family in Madison county
Florida, of remarkable statue. The
recorder repot ts their heights as fol
lows : The father is seven teet four
incites; the mother is seven feet eight;
two 6\Xj*beven feet one
| daughter is seveu nine.
; Pride is increased by ignorance ,
those assume the m ist who know the
i least.
A boy is willing to do any amount
of work if it is called play.
A boy furnishes half the
mcnt, and two-thirds of the scolding
of the family circle.
•
Wheuever a man is so absorbed that
he does not care to reply to what you
say, it is time to stop talkiug.
♦ ■'
The boy who grows up viith an
overwhelming fear of dogs will not
develop iuto a book agent in after lif\
Dor/t spank your childreu with the
boot-jack. It is too bard to hold, and
is apt to make bunions on your thum; s.
People who attempt to cut board
ing-house pie-crust with a fork should
remember that time thrown away can
never be recalled.
Girls, never marry a man who drinks
It annoys him terribly to have a
male smelling his breath every time
he enters the house.
There is something sad about a harp,
but whether it's the toue or the collec
tion taken np by the player is what
puzzles tue philosophical mind.
Thinkers are scarce, * while talkers
are abundant. We rarely pick up a
book or hear a lecture, in which we
are able to find a single original
thought.
-
An old Irishman watching a game
of base ball, was sent to grass by a
foul which struck him uuder the fifth
rib. ‘A fowl, wuz it? Begorra, I
thought it wuz a mule/
‘What river is Venice on?* Janet.
Venison is not a river,miss; it's a con
fection and one which,- being once
sampled, will haunch you with a per
petual desite for more.
Swell—l want you- to make me a
short coat, without tails or seams in
the back. Do you kuow what I meai/r
Geiman Tailor Yaas, yuas. 1
know vat you vant. Yua vant a
straight-jacket.
Things have got to such a pass
New York that a drum-major can't
appear iu the street 'without being
mistaken for a Russian officer, a
asked by some reporter if it is tru:
that lie has bought the Inman fleet ot
steamers.
—
The latest yarn about fast time is
the effect that on a certain road a
young put put his head out of the car
window to kiss his girl good-by, when
the train pulled out so rapidly that he
kissed an old African female at tin
next station.
At twenty you know everythin
at thirty you have your doubts; .t
forty there are some things you do,
know; at fifty you are sure-of y 1:1
ignorauce; and after, that you i
Mr. Beecher's sermon 'on everlasting
puuishnieut aud hope he is riuht.
A lesson in subtraction. Aontßt
—Now look here, Tommy; *■
there were three apples on tlie tablc
could I take away one and leave t
Tommy—Oh, no, auntie; ceataiuly not.
Auut Bella—And why, Tommy? i •
my—Because it wouldn't be polite
When you find a man who
over all the papers on the desk, 1
through the drawers, searches v -
pocket in his clothes, and exp!
regions above his cars in search I 1
lead pencil, and finally finds it bet
his teeth, don’t lead him tnool v
übsent-mioded.
The other day the Berkshire Cor -
with well leigued innocence, inquh. .:
flow cum five persons divide five ego
| so that each man shall receive on
■ still one remain in the dish?
! several hundred people went two-thi
I dist racied in the maxes of this prop >
turn, the Courier meanly > tys: C j
i takes the dish vvi h the egg.
NO. 24.