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(Ibltilarv notices. Tributes of Respect, tmd (ill
article, o n personal character, chargtsi tor as
advertisement*.
anmxincing cumlidatcs for office, SIO.OO
foetal
From the Doblin University Megimn*.
The Burial of .Hoses,
liv Kebo's ltHioiy mountain.
(In (bis side of .lordan's wave.
In . vale in the land of Moali,
There lies a lonely grave;
And no man dug (lie sepulchre,
And no man saw It e’er.
For (be Angel of (iod upturned the nod
And laid the dead man there.
That was the grandest funeral
That ever passed on earth;
Dot no man heard the tramping
Or saw the traiu go forth
Noiselessly as the daylight
Contes when the night is done.
And the crimson streak on oeeaus eheeli
Urmrs into the great sun;
Noiselessly as the spring-time
Hor’eriiwn of verdure weaves,
And alt the trees on all (lie hills
Open their thousand leaves;
.So without sound of music,
Or voice ol them that wept.
SitatMy down from the mountain's crown
The groat procession swept.
Perchance the bald old eagle
On gray Heth-peor's height,
Out from this rocky eyrie
booked on the wondrous sight;
Pet chance the lion, stalking,
.still shuns that hallowed spot:
For beast and bird have seen and heard
That which mail knowclh not.
Bnt when the warrior diclh,
His comrades in the war.
With arms reversed and mn!tied drum,
Follow the funeral car;
They show the banners taken,
They tell his battics wen,
And after him lead liis master!,. .’’-cl,
While peals the minute gnu.
Amid the noblest of the land
Men lay the sage to rest,
And give the bard an honored place.
With costly marble diest.
In the great millstei-trtuisept,
Where lights like glory fall,
And the choir sings and the organ rings
Along the emblazoned wall.
This was the. bravest warrior
That ever buckled sword;
This the most gifted poet
That ever breathed a word;
■And never earth's philosopher
Traced with its golden pen,
flu the deathless page, truth half so -ago
As he wrote down for men.
And hath he not high honor ?
The hillside for his pall.
To lie in stale while an eel- wait,
With stars lor tapers tall.
And the dark rock-plus*, like tossing plumes,
Over his bier towaVe,
And Hod’s own hand in that lonely land,
To lay him in the grave I
In that deep grave without a name,
tVlien his nneoßinedclay
.Shall break again (most wondrous thought!)
It.fore the judgment day
And stand with glory wrapped around
On the hills he never trod.
And speak of the strife that won your life
With the incarnate sons of God !
r O, lonely tomb in Moab's land !
O, dark Keih-peor hill 1
Speak of these curb,us hearts of ours,
And teach them to be still.
God hath his mysteries of grace—
Ways that we cannot tell—
lie hides them deep, like the secret sleep
Os him he loved so wen.
A thin, cadaverous-looking German,
about fifty years of age, entered the of
fice of a health insurance company nud
inquired:
“Ish te man in vat unsures to people’s
helths?”
The agent answered “I attend to that
business.”
“Veil, I vants mine heltb insured. Vot
you charge?”
“Different prices,” answered the agent
from three to ten dollars a yeai, and you
get ten dollars a week in case of sick
ness.”
“ Yell,” said Mynheer, “I vants ten
dollars vert.”
The agent inquired the state of his
health.
“Yell, I ish sick all the time. I’s
shust out of bed two or three hours a
tav, and the doctor say he can’t do noth
ing more good for me.”
“If that is the state of your health,”
returned the agent, “we cau't insure it.-
\Ye only insure persons who are in good
health.”
At this Mynheer bristled tip in great
anger.
“Yon must tink I’g a fool.- Vot you
tink I come to pay you the dollar for in
sure my belt venl vas well”?
MUscrUawousu
“ o
THE BIMIimOMOI
In no-, in the village of A • ,
lived Adelia Beaumont, “the Maiden of
’ the Green Mantle,” as she was frfequent
; ly called ; the cn-vy' of her own sex and
the admiration of ours. [Bite well deserv
ed the high encomiums which her luvli—
ness received. Possessing a sprightly
yet not superhuman form ; a blight
laughing-, oval face, shaded with locks of
1 1 to deepest dye ; a mild, beautiful
ly bewitching black eye, in whose
smile cupid played ; it was not singular
that at one time or other she held alt|tl.e
j yotmg men in the place subject to her;
i power. But cue by one of her admirers
dropped of hopeless ol aspiring her with !
a passion equalling theirs. Mine seemed
; to lie the palm in this as in every other
contest in which I had striven to excel
jmy companions. It was a general re
mark among them that there was no use
hi striving with Albert Mordamit to win
the directions of “the Maiden of the
Green Mantle,” possessing as 1 did
wealth, talents and some personal beau* |
ty.
It was title I was more intimate ami
familiar with Adelia than any of my fel- j
lows had t-ver been able to become with (
all tlieii efforts. Whenever an atten
dant was required, I was sure to be se ,
looted, and that was not so frequent as
might he supposed. She was wild as
tlie young fawn and fearless as the young j
eagle. She might be seen on a spring I
day among the mountains leaping from j
rock to rock with ail the lilt- ei the antd
lupe. Still there were very few that j
would have (larot. been rude with her,
•thoughtless as she seemed -as well
might they have provoked (lie lioness as
tempt her anger—and there were many j
who would have rejoiced in resenting
her wrongs. Indeed she was one whom
ali loved, and considered as a peculiar j
being—privileged bevond her sex—no ■
one supposed that her actions could be
wrong, so much was she respected.— ;
There was not a sick or a poor woman
among the hills whom she had not assis l
led—all knew her and knew her hut lo
bless her.
Had you setm her on an evening when
(lit- bright muon walked among the stars
ainljshed its soft light over hill and dale,
you’d not have thought her stir,h a being j
as 1 havo described—then, site seemed
calmed by tin; poetry that was abroad,
and her heart beat with all its tenderness !
ami beauty. Had you beheld her as her j
eve wandered over nature or seen kind
ling in the light of heaven and burning |
with inspiration — how hard soever your j
heart had been—whoever had held you
in their toils—you must have admired—-j
have worshipped this lovely—this inex
plicable girl. |
It was a summers eve —I sat beside]
Adelia on the margin of a gentle hill ; be j
bind us was the setting Still shedding a
rich radiance o’er the sky as it tipped
the mellow clouds with splendor. A ;
slight breeze from the distant ocean fani- 1
ned the face of nature —all looked cheer-]
ful as an inf.lilt's smile ! I-nr oil before
ns lay the tranquil sea, its urtruffied
depths filing hack the beauty of that
heaven which seemed to charm it into
stillness.
Oil, it was an hour, a scene, a place |
for love! and she who sat beside me gaz
ing in rapture on the cairn beauty of that
view, yt ung in hope, unsullied fry the
vanities of life pure as an angel dtitam,
innocent, as the brightest seraph that
waits upon the throne above was she
not a being fit at sucli a time to fid the
heart witli love—with tender and ardent j
affection ! I
Oh! that eve with its joys—its tender
ness—its (leadening disappointments are
register and with a pen of steel upon my
heart ! That was the birthday of rriy .
infamy 1 The desolation ol my dreams,
of happiness! my hopes --my parents ex
pcctations —my thoughts of heaven!
. But, I will relate how my all was blas
ted, wliithered in the bud, on that never
to be forgotten day ! It seems as it
j were but yesterday, so vivid does the
memory of the hour live in my bosom !
‘llow sweetly,’ exclaimed Adelia, ‘the
] sinking snn flings his rays _ across the
heavens! Sec, Albert, that little bark—
bow gracefully it qleaves the glassy sea!
—as if loth to break the stillness it seems
to kiss the waters as it moves—and its
white sails—how beautifully they spread
to catch the gentle breeze 1 Like a bird
of ocean it passes o’er the sea.’
‘So bright and beautiful be thy course
Adelia. ’
‘A'cry fine indeed ! You’d compare me
with yonder boat ? I assure you, 1 have
: rto desire to resemble it. It adds beanty
to our view but who knows where the
i morrow’s sun may find it—l’d like my
way to be more sure, and not rest on
such fickle things as wind and wave.’
\ ‘Yon forbid ail sympathy with your
fe< lings then, beautiful Adelia ?'
‘Beautiful Adelia!-thank you for your
compliments—l have a mirror at home
which never flatters me that always
! speaks the truth; and if you do not keep
Ia strict guard upon your tongue, I shall
leave you to compare me with boats sea
gulls and as many other pretty tilings
as suit your faney-so, unless you'd
drive me away no flattery ; yon know I
hate it and can but despise the flatterer
! I have too good an opinion of my dear
self to need any one for aa informer—as
you love, me no more—’
H3RE SHALL THE PRESS THE PEOPLE'S RIGHTS MAINTAIN, UNAWED BY TEAR AND UN BRIBED BY GAIN.
QUITMAN, GEO., MAY 15, 1868.
‘Love tino !’ I replied—‘open my bo
] worn and you will find your image traced
i upon my heart—l would not for the
| world displease you’—l knelt before her
and poured forth the ardor of my love—
-1 laid my heart open to her gaze —I told
her my destiny was within her guidance
■ to be thrown off by her was to be de
prived of hope, and what my end would
im I knew not. But with her 1 felt that
my course must be glorious and worthy
of her affection. Alas ! rriy words have
proved too true—and she has known the
terrors of their fulfillment! Her head
rested on my arm—and, oh God 1 1
thought that 1 was blessed, ller dark eye
moistened and the pure tear-drop fell on
m.\ burning throbbing brow. In a tono
pittcously melancholy, yet chillingly
(inn she (old me that she loved me as a
brother that she was another's—and he
to whom law plighted faith slic’d given,
was Philip Sydney. The only person
whom 1 had ever hated—sincerely hated
was my .rival!
Sydney and myself iiad grown up from
infancy in the same neighborhood, were
of thosaine age and had been rivals since
we knew the sweets of success. Until
this strife I had always triumphed over
him. In school, in all bur boyish sports
he though nearly mj equal, could never
match me. By the time we had gained
the stature of manhood oor enmity had
gfown into the most consumate hatred.
He wan ambitious and my great
est pleasure was to c ogs him in his plans
and outstrip him iu his course.
‘ lint, there where I hail garnered up my heart;
Where either I must live or bear no lile.
The fountain from which my current runs ;
Or else dries tip; to be discarded thence 1”
and thrown aside for him 1 it, was not in ]
my soul to bear it camly. I left Adelia
rudely, rustled from her presence and
saw her again but once before her bridal
hour ! then I stood beside her—then 1
triumphed !
Yet I will not anticipate the story of
my sufferings and my guilt. I left her
and sought among the mountains conso
lation for my woo. The scene was chan
ged a dark cloud which had suddenly
gathered in the South, mantled the sky
in gloom. The torrent of the storm came
on 1 The thunders shook the deep foun
dations of the cliff on which l stood and
in their strength were like the peals of
the last judgment ! The clouds, shot
forth their lightnings like fiery serpents
twining in the air ! I called on the fury
of the storm the fierce lightnings and the
frightful thunders to strike me to the
earth and uttered blasphemies deep and
piercing 1 The storm had spent its
strength ; the fiery flames ceased to
glow ; and the deep mouthed bellowiugs
passed by !
* * * *
Amid the mad ravings which followed
that night’s disappointment-—the desola
tion nt my hope-—a mother’s care watch
ed over me ministered to each want and
smoothed the harsh pillow of the mani -
acs conch—oh, there is no love on earth
can match the deep solicitude which a
mother feels as she hangs over the fever
ed frame of her offspring ! So pure so
unalloyed with sell !
How long I lay upon that bed of sick
ness I knew not. But as my reason
gradually returned a confused idea of
something terrible,—some unknown evil
seemed to have befallen me. Suddenly
like the searing lightning the full memo
ry of that eve returned! Years have fled
and though many add great have been
my crimes, they are all merged in the
recollection of this one.
\Vbut a noiseless slop hath time? But
yesterday I stood forth in the pride and
strength of manhood! now I am whitened
by the blossoms of the grave! The bright
visions which youth pictured with an ar
tists skill have passed away 1 the fond
hope 1 nourished with a mother’s anxious
care have fled forever ! The grim shad
ows of a coming world flit round my
brain, and with fiendish malice whisper
itt my ear the doom reserved for me, the
unavoidable consequences of inyguiltl—
••Pale, gilding glumt. with Angers dropping gore.
And blue flames dance around my dungeon floor. ’
And then, when the storm is abroad,
she too comes and points with Iter bony
fingers at me—and laughs in triumph at
my writhing agony.
Some weeks had passed* since I had
retWYered from the delirium under which j
I bad suffered, when I met Adelia. She i
appeared also to be anxious for my wel-1
fare. She vet loved me as a brother!
And could I blame her ! —’Tis sufficient]
that, I did—l felt anew spirit rise within j
me, as she stood 1 efore me my eyes dila j
ted and the fury of my passion burst on j
that guiltless one—nay start not! I did j
not slay her there! She begged to know
why rny frame trembled so ? Why I
gazed so fiercely on her ? She thought
the fever of my sickness had not left me ]
—and she pitied me. I swore and heay
en knows that oath has been too faith- 1
fully adjiered to, that she would never
be the bride of Philip Sydney. She
laughed at my (threatening; but as she
looked again with pride and anger in her
eye, she quailed before me. “Beware,
beware,’ said I ‘your bridal hour! though
my body, is in the tomb my spirit shall
haunt you there!’
I left the place of my birth—l sought
the nearest port and found a vessel was
about sailing for . I engaged my
passage in her and wrote to my parents
' to inform them of my intentions and bid
] them an eternal farewell. By some ac
cident I was left behind News came
that the ship in which I had intended sail
! ing was wrecked on th# Bahamas and
j that all lives were lost. The failure of my
intentions were of course unknown to
J my friends; tl ey supposed me dead and
,mourned me as such. They would have J
wished me in the grave had they known
their sun and friend was the mad Bandit
of the mountains—the terror of the peace
ful villagers!
* * * *
Near the end of the second year, after
the events 1 have previously related as I
wandered inthe disguise 1 frequently took
when in towns and villages, I learn
] ed from an old peasant that the nuptials
] of Adelia were to take place on the suc
ceeding day. .My course was fixed—l
was to bo an unwelcome guests at. that j
festival.
On a bright Juno morning, the bell of
our village church rung forth in its mer
riest peals to call the villagers to wit- j
ness the bridal of Adelia Beaumont, ‘The j
Maid oFtlie Green Mantle’ and Philip!
i Sydney. The peasantry from the mouti-
I tains came in crowds to behold their bene
(actress wedded to the mart she loved.
■ There were merry makings that day and
many a heart beat with joy as they saw
I the old carriage of Major Beaumont
wheel up the street as il wouud its way
to thejautique chapel wliichjmy ancestors
iu days gone by had founded. Then }
came a long processien of friends and |
relatives. Adelia shilling in ali her beau
ty descended from the carriage and with !
seer maids entered (lie church. She was I
more beautiful than when 1 last saw her]
—I left her a bud just blossoming and I
now beheld her full blown; like a sum- j
i tiler flower rich and fragrant.
With the crowd ol peasantry and ser* j
vants that had assembled to witness the j
bridals of their adored mistress and j
i friend, I radily gained admittance. As I
■ Adeßa walked tip the long isle of that
j chapel, 1 thought 1 saw a melancholly
; shadow pass over her face; that her eyes
wandered as it in search for someone
whom she dreaded to find, and that her
color came and went.
Not discovering the person, whom,
though she deemed him dead she yet fear
ed she would behold the calmness ol her
countenance' was restored and a sweet
unearthly beauty settled on her features
Then, yes, even then, 1 adored her, 1 lov
ed her so deeply and so ardently, 1 would
not for an eternity of bliss, tlipt she had
been another’s bride.
The bridegroom with his friends soon
came. The bridal pnir stood ly the alter j
]of their religion. The aged father was]
] beside Iris young and angelic daughter; j
] lie seemed like an ngecl oak, she, his i
j ptidc and hope, the young sapling notir- ]
islicd at his leet o’er whom his branches
hung and protected from the wild win
ter’s blast.
The Holy man lifted the book—Adelia
raised her eyes
“and a moment o’er her face,
A tablet of unutterubie thoughts
Was traced, arid then it faded as'il came
arid her soft eyes beaming with love and
tenderness, rested on hint in whom she
gloried.
“Adelia, thy bridal hour has come!” I
whispered iu her ear.
A piercing shriek—a fiendish laugh—
ecliod among the deep arches ol that
venerable pile.
“Oil, Albert !-not now I”—-a dagger
glistened in the air—“help, my husband
—father—l. am murdered,” the victim of
my love and vetJgeitee sank, her lile
blood flowing at that altar’s foot. “Oh,
cruel obdurate Mordaunt ! But I for
give thee my death as I pray heaven
may ”
“Sidney thy bride is dead ! Remem
ber Albert Mordaunt to tby grave."
The menials that should have stopped
me stood back aghast as they beheld the
bloody weapon and my countenance
gleamed with hellish malice. Some few
attempted to stay my flight—as well
might they have stemmed the mountain
torrent in its wrath-I hurled them from
my grasp and easting them on that floor
now Consecrated by a pure and noble
victim ; another cold laugh of triumph
burst from me, which made each listen
er pale with fright, as I turned upon
j them from the portals.
| The courage which all in that assem
i bly for a moment lost I know would soon
] retnrn aid seek the murderer of their
joy, the desolator of the old man’s hearth
] —the rival of that bridegroom.
] I joined my brave band on the hills
; and found them ready for their labor, j
And a lit welcome did they give the mis
j tress of justice! My pursuers came and j
j at their head was Fydney 1 raging like a j
] wild boar and swearing vengeance on
Imy head. _ !
| The bands of peasantry that hurried j
i to those mountains in their zeal to aven-]
go the death of their mistress were hut ]
j iil prepared for their task they’d under
] taken- my brave fellows scattered them j
] with a breath 1 1 leaped upon a rock to
] watch their flying bands ; beneath me I:
, heard the clash of arms and beheld my.
.! deadliest foe fighting like a fury with two j
• j of my freebooters. An instant and I was
at his side.
] ] “Leave him to me, my brave boys !
I I this is my task; he fights for a lost mate
■j and must have the boar that wrenched
; \ it from him.” “Come Sydney thou shalt
] be wedded to thy bride to day and I will
• ] be thy Priest 1°
. j “Thou fiend in human shape 1” he ex
[ claimed and rushed like a madman on
.j my weapon’s point. The strife was nei—
.l ther long nor difficult—oty arm bad
' 1 strengthened la the.wild life I’d lately
led and my passion lay cool and power
less nndet rny will, llis frame, though
invigorated by the dcadliucss of his re
venge, quailed before the stout munn
| tainccr and the deep bitterness of ray
I hatred. His blood and hers were wedded
on that blade. The bride and bride
groom fell by the same hand, on the
same day, and the same weapon drank
their blood!
* * * *
How I found 'his dungeon thou lcnow
est and the fate which awaits me. When
my life shall have sped, which now lin
gers on my lips,'and perchance will not
wait the executionuer—convey my body j
to that place and let me rest in the same
graveyard with my victims. Thon wast
once my friend, and this is rny last re-j
quest.
The dying prisoner ended his days i
within liis dungeon walls—his bones
Sleep in the churchyard of A ,
near the tombs of the victims of his hat
red and of liis love. 11.
THE GLASS RAILROAD.
•There was a moral in that tlronm.’
The “Milford Bard," during one of his
fits of mania pottr, said.
It seemed to me as though I had been
suddenly aroused front rny slumbers. 1 j
looked around and found myself in the j
centre of a gay crowd. The first sensa-j
tion I experienced was that of being
borne along with a peculiar, gentle mo
tion. I looked around and found that I
was in a long train of cars, which were
gliding over a railway many miles in
length. It was composed of many cars. J
Every car opened at the top, and was j
tilled with men and women, all gaily |
dressed all happy, all laughing, talking J
and singing. The peculiar, gentlcqmo
tion of the ears interested me. I looked ]
over the side, and to my astonishment
found the railroad and bars made of
glass. The glass wheels moved over
glass rails without the least noise or
osciliation. The soft gliding motion pro
dticed a feeling of exquisite happiness.—
I was happy. It seemed as. if every
thing was at rest within—l was full of
peace.
While I was wondering over this cir
cumstance, anew sight attracted rny
gaze. All along the road on either side
a fe w feet from the track were laid long
lines of coffins and every one contained a
corpse dressed for burial, with a scalp,
while faces turned towards me. [The
sight filled me with horror. I yelled in
agony, but could not make no sound.—
The gay throng who wore around me on
ly redoubled their songs and laughter, at
the sight of my agony; and we swept on,
gliding with glass wheels on the glass
railroad, every moment nearer to the
bend of (lie road, far in the distance.
•‘Who are these ?” I cried out at last,
pointing' to tha dead in their coffins.
“These arc the porsons who made the
trip bes ire ns, was the reply of the gay
est persons near mo.
“What trip? I asked. t
“Why, the trip we are now taking.—
the trip on the glass railway,” was the
answer.
“Why do they lie along the road, each
one in his coffin?”
“They were dashed to death at the end
of the road,” said the person whom I ad
dressed. “You know the road termin
ates at an abyss,, which is without hot.
tom or measure. It is lined with point
ed rocks. Ab each car arrives at the end
it precipitates its passengers into the
abyss. They are dashed to pieces a
gainst the rocks and tlieii' bodies are.!
then placed in tlieii coffins and brought !
hero as a warning to passengers, bnt no j
one. minds it we are so happy on the ]
glass railroad.
I can never describe the horror with
which the words inspired me.
“What is the name of the glass rail
road,” I asked.
The person whom I address replied in
the same strain:
“It is very easy to get into tlie cars,
very hard to get out; for once in j
these carsj every one is th-liglitcd with
the soft gliding motion. The cars move
so gentle! Yes this is a railroad of habit,
and with glass wheels wo are whirled
over a glass railroad to a fathomless
abyis. In a few moments we’ll he there,
and they will bring out bodies ; but
nobody will mind it, will they?”
I -was shocked wilh horror. I strug
gled to breathe, and made frantic efforts
to leap from the cars, and in the strug
gle awoke. 1 knew it was only a dream
and yet whenever I think of it, I can see
that long train of cars movuslowly over
the glass railroad. I can see cars far
ahead as they arc turning the bond ot
the road. I can see the dead in their
coffins, clear and distinct, on either side
of the road. While the laughing and
singing of the gay and eappy passengers
resound in my ears, I only sen those cold
faces of the dead with their glassy eyes
uplifted, and their frozen l ands upon
: their white shrouds.
“It was a horribie dream.”
Ana the Bard’s changing features and
bright ej’e attested the emotion which
! had been aroused by the very memory of
■ that dream.
It was indeed a liorriblejdream. A
! long train of glass cars, gliding over a
glass railroad, freighted with youth,
j beauty and music, while on either hand
i are stretched the victims of yesterday—
iglsdiug over the fathomless abyss.
There was a moral In that dream.
! Reader, are you addicted to any sinful
! habit? Break It off ere you dash against
reeks-
[53.00 per Annum
NO. 15
TO PREVENT WEEVIL IN WHEAT.
The followii g finely article is extracted
from one of our exchanges:
Messrs, Editors —Tn looking over the
Southern Cultivator of last October) I lJnd
an extract from the Dollar Newspaper, ia
wliilih two plans are given to keep wee
vil out ol wheat. I am thus reminded
that during the last harvest I wrote an
article on the subject for the Cultivator,
but neglected to forward it.
To come short to rny point, let the
wheat be salted, aud weevil will never
infest it.
I hare followed this plan from 1834 or
'35 till now, and have never lost any
wheat by weevil after salting it. So
certain is this plan to save wheat, that I
] never sun mine at all. I let it stand in
] the field in dozens for ten or twelve days
then chrash fan and salt it away at once.
It it be dry enough to thresh well, it is
dry enough to salt away.
1 use halt a pound of salt to the bushel
of wheat. As it is measured into gar
ners or hogsheads I sprinkle the salt, and
stir after each measure If the house ber
dry, wheat is certain to keep well on
this plan.
I got this phut from a Tennessee far
mer in 1834. A farmer of East Tennes
see communicated this as his plnn, based
hpon fifteen years’ experience. I havo
forgotten liis name but well remember his
Rtatemants. He said that salted wbest
remained new as long as you desire to
keep it. That is, it does not shrink by
time, and it continues to yield as good
and as much flour as when first harvest
ed. All these statements I have found
to be true, by the experience of eighteen
years.
Now, all farmers know that wheat put
up in the usual way diminishes in bulb
as it gets older (i. e. the grains get
less) and that it will not yield as much
and as good flour, as ween it was fresh
from the field.
This change is prevented by salting.
I prefer the Kanawha salt, because it all
dissolves and is soon absorbed by wheat
If you examine it eight or ten dayß after
suiting it will be found damp; witd dis
solved salt on the surface of thej grains;
but some weeks afterwards it will be
found dry having kept cool all the time.
The salt outers into the grain and makes
the flour saltish, but not enough so as to
interfere with any of its cnlinary use.
Let r,s now sum up the advantages of
this mode of saving wheat.
1. It preserves the wheat with more
certainty than sunning.
2. The wheat does not lose in volume
or weight by long keeping.
3. It makes more and better flour.
4. It costs much less labor.
5. The wheat is better for seed because
it is preserved in its perfect state. There
is not salt enough in it to prevent it
from germinating but there is enough to
stimulate it to sprout vigorously. I sup
pose that after all the cost of labor in
sunning neurone fourth of alt the wheat
produced in the valley of the Mississippi
is either lost by weevil or badly damaged
This is no small item of loss when the
aggregate crop is considered. Were all
farmers to salt their whoat this enormous
annual loss would be prevented ; and
then no one would ever make bread of
wheat not quite spoiled enough to give
the pigs and yet too had for any person
to eat. I have seen wheat saved by
salting after the weevij were in it.
In 183(5, for want of houseroom my
wheat was put in hand stacks ns it was
hauled up from threshing. When about
hall done hauling it occurred to mo that
weevil might get into it before we should
get ready to thresh it; I therefore salted
the remaining wheat as it was put in
stacks, and it was fortunate that it was
done, because the weevil rained all which
was not salted-while those stacks which
were salted remained uninjured. In 18-
52 there wore four seperate parcels of
wheat put in iny barn • three of them
were sailed and the fourth was not.
All three of the parcels salted kept per
fectly si un i and free from weevil—-bnt
the one not salted was ruined by the
weevil. I think indian corn might bo
saved by salting.
In a certain family, not long since, a
pair of twins made their appearance and
as a matter of course, were shown to
their little sister of (our years. Now it so
happened that whenever a rather prolific
cat of tho household had kitteDS, odb of
them, of course the prettiest, was saved,
and the rest drowned. When the twins
were shown the child by their happy fa
ther, little M looked at them long
and earnestly, and at length putting her
little finger-tip on the check ot ose of
them, looked up, and said, with all the
seriousness possible—"Pa, I think vx’U
save this one.”
A young manonoo fell in love with an
heiress, and the passion being returned,
it only wanted the parents, consent Uk
make them happy At length, meetiirg
the father, he asked for the daughters
hand. “How much money can you com
mand?” asked the millionaire,
“I cannot command much," was the re
ply. “What are your expectation?”,
“Well, to tell t 1 e truth, I expect to-runni
way with your daughter, and marry her i
if you don’t give your-coDsent. •.
Why is the Caspian Se* like a prison
to a prisner? Because it has no outlet.
Why is the freight o£ *.ship lik«*
locomotive? Because it a»fce« tbacnx .