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F. li FILDES. Editor. VOL. 111. £hc (Quitman gtouutt. Vi HLtHltEl) KVEUV FRIDAY. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. in advaxck. For one year ’ !l For si\* months - 1,11 For three months I For single copy TEEMS FOR ADVERTISING. IN VAHI A HI. V IN ADV \M'K. Ono square, (10 linos, or loss,) first insertion $2.00 ; each following insertion, $ LOC. When advertisements are continued for one month or longer, the charge will In’ as follows : : 12 Months. | 0 Months. j 3 Months. | 1 Month. Number of Squares. ’7.1 & e oo | $lO oo $ i:» oo i$ 20 00 2". 800 l‘> <KI 2f> »« ii.'i »« :s I 12 on j is im :v» mi ■):> on .( j IC, Oft | 24 ft(> I 4(1 00 00 »n on j :ti oil I 4", no 00 o« it’ol mnl s:> Oft I f.:> (Kl I Ml 110 12« 00 1 •* I lift (»() I 80 (1(1 I ISO 00 200 oo (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 .