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S ANDERS VTLLE, GEORGIA, JUNE 27, 1873. J. M. Cr. JIEDLCCE. JETHRO ARLINE. R, L. RODGERS. By VIcilSock, Arline & Rodgers NO. 5,2. Thk Herald is published in Sandersville, Ga.. every Friday morning. Subscription price TWO DOLLARS per annum. Advertisements inserted at the usual rates, ko charge for publishing marriages or deaths. POETRY. A Won-riding; Word. A frivelous word, a’Sharp retort, A parting in angry haste, The sun rose on a bower of bliss, _ The loving look and the tender kiss, Has set on a barren waste, Where p-ilgiim.s trea I with weary feet Paths destined never more to meet. A frivolous word, a sharp retort, A moment that blots out years, Two lives are wrecked on a stormy shore, Where .billows of passion surge and roar, To break in a spray of tears— Tears shed to blind the severed pair, Drifted seaward, and drowning there. A frivolous word, a sharp retort, A flash from a passing cloud. Two hearts are scathed toflheir inmost core, Are ashes and dust for ever more. Two faces turn to the crowd, Masked by pride.with a life-long lie, To hide the scars of that agony. A frivolous word, a sharp retort, An arrow at random sped, It has cut in twain the mystic tie That had bound two souls in harmony, Sweet love lies bleeding or dead. A poisoned shaft, with scarce-an aim, Has done a mischief sad as shame. A frivolous word, a sharp retort, Alas ! for the loves and lives So little a cause has rent apart, Tearing the fondest heart from heart, As a whirlwind rends and rives, Never to reunite again, But live and die in secret pain. A frivolous word, ^ sharp retrot, Alas ! that it should be so— The petulent speech, the careless tongue, Have wrought more evil, done more wrong, Have brought to the world more woe, Than all the armies age to age Records on hist’ry’s blood-stained page. SELECT MISCELLANY. Jennie Ratlihnnrs Life-iesson. .BY EMMA GARRISON JONES. “I’ve made my choice, auntie— what do you say to it?” Mrs. Hunter looked intently at her niece, who sat before a small writing- stand, with a couple of open letters before her. “That depends upon which ot me two you have chosen,” she replied. “Why, Tom, of course!” The lady’s face grew serious. “I’m sorry, Jennie,” she .said. “You are not suited to be a poor man’s wife ; you are too proud, too fond of your own ease and comfort; vou had better have followed my ad vice and accepted Ralph Parker.. Jennie shook her head, showering the golden ringlets in bright confus ion over her white temples. “No, auntie—no. I despise Ralph Parker, and I wouldn’t marry him if he were ten times richer than he is. I shall send back his diamonds, and tell him so, too.” She closed the mother-of-pearl casket as' she spoke with a lingering, longing glance at the gleaming gems it contained, adding, in a lower tone. “But they are lovely—shouldn’t I like to wear them to-night ? Mrs. Hunter smiled, and crossing the room, smoothed the girl’s bright head as she said, “You’re a little silly, Jennie. You want Mr. Parker’s diamonds—why not accept them, and shine resplen dent to-night ?” But Jennie shook her head with redoubled decision. ‘ Because I love Tom, auntie; abd would sooner wear this poor little rose of his than to own the queen s jewels.” The lady’s cold eyes softened per ceptibly as she looked down upon the gu-l’s blushing, conscious face ; and then she turned toward the open casement with a dreamy, wistful gaze, her memory going back, perhaps, to an old rural home, far beyond the green hills that encircled the grand city wherein she dwelt—the home of her happy, simple girlhood. But Mrs. Hunter had sacriticed her love on the altar of Mammon, and she held it worse than folly to indulge in any such foolish regrets. “I have Always said, Jennie,” she continued, gravely, “that I would let you have your own choice in regard to marriage. But think well of this. Mr. Bathburn is poor. As his wife you will be subject to all manner of privation, forced to live in a vulgar, s inted. economical style, that will not suit a girl raised as you have b len. You love wealth, and ease, and luxury; you are fond of fine apparel and costly jewels; Ralph Parker can give you all of .these— Tom Bathburn cannot.” “My decision is already made,” said 0 ennie, resolutely. “I shall send back Mr. Parker’s diamonds, and wear Tom’s poor little rose to-night.” She took up the half-blown bud as she spoke, and set it in a vase, a warm, tender light glowing in her eyes. Tom s letter lay open before b. u\ A straigtforward, manly declara tion of love, and an offer of his heart and hand—a true heart, and a hanp willing to shiMl her, and work for her forever. If she favored his suit, she was to wear the white rose at her birth-night ball that night. “Yes, I’ll wear it,” she murmured to herself, as she folded the letter and put it in her pocket; “and aunt, you’ll oblige me by sending a servant to Palace-Hill with . Mr. Parker’s diamonds.” “As you will, my dear;” and with a stately rustle of her costly .silk, Mrs. Hunter swept from the room. Jennie rang for- her maid, and made ready for her birth-ball ip hot haste; and when Tom Bathburn en tered the brilliant ball that night, he Was transported to the third heaven of delight, by seeing his white rose bud amid the delicate laces on her bosom. A few months after they were married, and started westward, as happy and hopeful a young couple as ever the sun shone on. Tom was a lawyer by profession; but he was also equal to any under taking; consequently, notwithstand ing his poverty, he felt little or no concern in regard to his young wife’s future. He meant to work so hard, and achieve such wonderful things ; and as for Jennie herself; she was all enthusiasm—never was a woman such a helpmate as she would be. to Tom. For the first six months of their wedded life they got on bravely; not that Tom made any great progress in his profession, but he had some little money on hand, and they rent ed a pretty cottage, with honey-suckle round the porch, and canaries in the windows; and Jennie kept a cook and a chamber-maid, and wore the pretty clothes with which her aunt had provided her, and looked upon marrying a poor man as one -of the most delicious things imaginable. But, after a while, funds began to run low, and Tom saw that it was time to look around. They gave up the cottage and took lodgings in the city; hut still Tom could get noth ing to do—so they wandered from place to place, until the last dollar was expended, and Jennie’s wardrobe grew sorely in need of replenishing. Just then a little baby came—a wee, dimpled little girl, as fresh as a spring rose-bud. Tom was the happiest, proudest man alive. “Never fear, Jennie,” lie said, bravely; “let the law go to the dogs, I’ll take to my saw and jack-plan%; they’ll bring us bread at least.” He went to work like a man, as he was, coming home at night with a glow in his brown eyes that ought to have more than awarded his wife for every privation she had to suffer; but J ennie had been tenderly raised, and her tastes were luxurious. She wanted a fine house, and soft apparel for herself and baby; and it hurt her pride to see Tom brought down to the level of a common laborer. All these things vexed her, until she began to grow moody and discontent ed. The roses faded from her cheeks; she became careless about her house hold matters, and now slovenly and untidy in her appearance. When Tom came home, instead of the bright fireside, and happy, smilling wife, that had once gladdened his heart, he found a disorderly house, and a gloomy, badly dressed woman, who was cross to her baby, and cross to him. But never a complaint did the poor fellow utter. Jennie was sick, he argued within himself—over worked, poor thing, he must try and do better for her—and lie made his hammer ring with redoubled energy. The second autum after the baby’s birth they journeyed still farther westward, out into the very heart of the great land of prairies. They had a snug enough little home, and a good, efficient girl for help; but Jen nie’s discontent became more ap parent every day. The place was so wild and savage, and the people so rude and unrefined, she said Tom was cruel to bring her there. She wished she was back in her old home, where she used to be so happy. Tom said never a word, but the warm glow faded from his brown eyes, and they wore an expression wistful sor row, piteous to-behold; but he work ed all the harder, as if to conquer frotune by the power of his sturdy strokes. One day, in the wane of autumn, a dreary rainy day, matters came to a crisis. Margie, the good hired girl, was ill with pneumonia; and all the household work, together with care of the child, fell upon Jennie’s hands. Tom did everything he could to help her. He milked the cow and fed the poultry, and then filled all the pails with water, and heaped the little wood-shed with fuel. “Yon won’t have occassion to go outside the door, Jennie,” he said, on starting, “and I’ll be home early. You must do the best you can.” Jennie was pouring out some tea for Margie, and just at the moment baby pulled at her frock, causing her to upset the cup. The mishap in creased her impatience. “Oh, don’t matter!” she replied, crossly. “I’ve got to work myself to death, anyhow, and I may as well do it outside as in.” Tom made no answer, but-his brown eyes were full of unshed tears as he went out. Jennie felt that she had made an unwomanly answer the instant the words escaped her lips; but it merely served to increase her vexation. ^.Everything she put her hands to seemed to go wrong with her. Maggie grew worse, find baby was unusually active and trouble some ; and in addition, the wailing, easterly wind rushed down the ehirn-. ney in sudden gusts, filling the room with smoke and ashes. She threw aside her broom and duster in des pair, and sitting -down in the midst of her untidy room, with her hair un combed, and her dressun disorder, she burst into a passion of hysteri cal tears. Baby crept up to her feet, and essayed to climb into her lap; but she pushed her away crossly, “Oh! go off, you troublesome lit tle thing! I’m tired enough, without having you hanging round me!” Thus' repulsed, the little thing wandered off in search of amuse ment, and finally settled herself at an open window, where she could catch the pouring raid-drops in her tiny hands. Unmindful of her oc cupation, and of everything but her own egotistic reflections, the young wife sat rocking herself to an fro be fore the smoking stove. “What I might hav§ been,” she soliloquized, “and what I have come to—a common drudge! Yes, aunt was right; I ought not to have mar ried a poor man. I might have had a splendid home, and servants to wait on me. Oh, clear! I wish I had chosen Ralph Parker’s diamonds in stead of poor Tom’s rose!” The fire smoked and crackled in the stove, burning the broth she was making for Margie, and souring the pan of bread she had set to raise; while without, the dreary rain drip ped incessantly, and baby, wrapt in nothing but her thin gown, leaned far out at the window, catching the swift drops as they fell. Still Jennie sat there, indulging in her morbid fancies and regrets. Just as the clock was on the . stroke of ten, a rapid step aroused her—Tom’s step. He took in the untidy room, and his wife’s aspect and attitude in an in stant. Jennie saw it, and rose to her feet, flushing with shame and anger. “What’s brought you back so soon ?” she asked, sharply, giving I the smoking fire a punch, that spat- j tered the broth over the hot iron, j filling the room with a disagreeable, hissing odor. “I’m going to the city,” he replied, gravely. “I’ve heard of a good opening, and must see to it without j delay; so I ran by to get a clean shirt, i and say good-by.” “You’re all the time hearing of good openings,” Jennie replied, pained that he was going away, and vexed that he had come upon her so suddenly; “but they don’t seem to amount to much.” “So it seems; but I’ll hope for the better hick this time,” he said quietly, but with a heavy sigh. “Where’s little birdie, asleep ?” Hearing his voice the child clam bered down, and came toddling to his side, her garments dripping, and her little hands and face blue with cold. He caught her up with a cry of dismay. “Oh, Jennie! she’ll be sure to have the croup—why didn’t you look after her ?” “I can’t look after everything— she’s old enough to know better her self ; there, you bad, little thing, take that.” Jennie put out her hand to slap the cold, little cheek that lay against Tom’s breast; but he looked up with something in his face that stopped her on the instant. “Don’t do anything you’ll be sor ry for by-and-by, Jennie,” he said, tremulously ; - “you are not quite yourself this morning.” “No; and I never shall he myself again,” she burst out passionately, half beside herself with shame and anger at her own foolish temper, yet too proud to own it. “I’m harassed and run to death—and I wish I was in my grave.” • Tom put out his arm to draw her toward him, but 'She glided from him, and went into her bed-chamber. He could hear her sobbing,, and the sound seemed to pierce his heart like a knife. Once or twice, while he was 'warming and drying the child, a tear fell upon her golden head. When he had lulled her to sleep, he tucked her away in her crib, with re peated kisses and caresses; and then after making some change in his clothing, he went to the door of his wife’s room. “I must go now, Jennie,” he said, opening it softly; “the train will be due in a few minutes now. Come, and say good-by!” Poor Jennie longed to throw her self in his arms and entreat him to forgive her, but her heart was too proud. She sat quite still, her face averted, and her fingers busy with sewing that lay on her lap. “Good-fry, Tom,” she said, coldly. “You’ll bo back soon, I suppose ?” “As soon as possible—to-morrow at the longest; but, Jennie, come and kiss me, won’tj you ? I "might never come back, yep. know,”' She laug bed, anu answered lightly. “Oh! don’t be ; .polish, Tom, You’ll be back, I guess-—we’ve- been married too long to jet like loves.” Tom turned away yith a swift step; but she caught the l#ok .on his face as he went—and it kvas a look that would go with her ti> her dying day. For a moment or twlwtehe sat dumb, almost paralyzed, hoping that he would come back; thm she started, up and rushed to thj door—but it was too late. He wa* out of sight; and a few minutes Ifter she heard the shrill cry of the.steam-whistle, # and knew that he was gone. The daywent by drearily enough, and the night closed in, the chill rain still chipping .from the cottage eaves; Margie grew worse, and before bed- hour little birdie had a high fever, "With a deadly terror at her heart, Jennie ran across ,the clearing, and called, to her nearest neighbor, Miss Pamelie Stebbins. She came with out delay, for she was a woman pe culiarly kind of heart, though rough of speech. “The child’s been exposed,” she began, the moment her eyes rested upon the little sufferer, “tuk a sud den cold. She’ll have a turn o’ the croup ’fore momin’; git on a pot o’ water to heat, and warm some goose- greese. Got -npne? I thought as much—wimmen o’ your stamp nev er provide for the hour o’ trouble. Now I’m an old maid, and never eal- kerlate on havin’ children, but I al- lers keep a bottle full on the third, floor o’ my pantry-shelf. I’ll go over myself an’ git it directly. I’ve been squelching round in the wet all day, doin’ for them as don’t thank me mebbe—but it’s my way. I ain’t a woman to set down an’ mope an’ fret like yon do, Jennie Bathburn. If you’d been ’tendin’ to your busi ness, an’ not thinkin’ about yerself, this child wouldn’t a’ had this spell —I know. I’ve had my eye on you for some time, an’ intended to give you a good talkin’—and I may as well do it now. Make that water bile—wan’t to bathe this child as soon as she wakes.” - Jennie obeyed in silence, her heart was too full of bitter remorse and self-reproacn for Uur lips to attar a single word, and Miss Pamelie went on. “I seen yer husband this mornin’. I was down at the station; tuk my gold n pipins—an’ a prime price I got for ’em—they’re v scarce, you know. Well, I met your husband jest afore the train went out, an’ sich a woe-begone face I never set eyes ou. . It’s a burnin’ shame, Jennie Bathburn, for you to treat that man as you do. It’s in everybody’s mouth how he works and strives, and how onthankful an’ discontented you are. You’ll be sorry for it by’m- by, take my word for it.” “Oh, Miss Pamelia !” Jennie burst- out with streaming tears, “I’m sorry for it now. If ever I see Tom’s face again, I’ll try and make up for it.” “It’s to be hoped you will; but I don’t kno^v as you’ll evej: see his face . agin—you don’t deserve to. You’ll never know how to prize him till lie’s gone. I’ve seen wimmen like you—you worrit the poor soul’s life out now; but when he’s gone, you’ll break your heart over it.” Jennie sobbed as if her heart were already broken, and her lecturer went on, “What a home you might make him ! Why, bless my soul, if I had this house, I’d make it shine agin. It only needs the will—one pair o’ hands can work wonders ; and then, instead o’ swipin’ round in a dowdy frock, wi’ your hair on end, an’ your face all of a pucker, you oughter be as fresh as a rose-pink, a pretty young thing like you, an’ always have a smile for your husband when he comes home. It’s your duty. I’m an old maid, but I think any woman as has a good husband, an’ a baby, ain’t got no right to mope— she oughter sing psalms from sun to sun. Now I’m done, I’ll go for the goose-greese. I’ve said my say, an’ if you don’t like it, you can lump it —that’s all.” Jennie raised her head, and made an effort to speak, but her sobs choked her. Every ivord Miss Pa- melie had spoken had gone to her heart like a knife. She arose and went to the bed-side, and kneeling down, took the hot, little hands in hers. “Oh, baby! little birdie!” she moaned, “if God Will only spare you and give me back my husband, I’ll never complain again.” The night went by wearily, with wailing winds«and dripping rain, and all through its tedious hours little birdie hung between life and death. But Miss Pamelia worked bravely, and as the crimson dawn began to tinge the darkness, the agonized mother arose from her knees with an overflowing heart. The child slept and would live. Silently and swiftly she set herself to the work that awaited her. Tom would be home at ten o’clock, and he must find his home a different one from that lie had left. Somehow, as she worked, everything went well with her, and long before the hour of his arrival she had everything in trim order ;* the rooms clear of dust, the'stove burnished like silver, and a snowy table awaiting the tempting breakfast that steamed upon the stove. Dressed in a pretty morning frock, with her hair brushed out in short, seeing curls, and a sweeter, tendererlight.in her blue eyes than had ever lit them before, she stood in the cottage door-way, listening with eager impatience for the com ing steam-whistle. . She hacT refused to kiss Tom at parting, but she was ready ,to give him a thousand kisses on his return. Ten o’clock came, hut the whistle did not sound. Half-past -ten—elev en—still no Tom. Her heart lay like a dead weight in her bosom, and her face grew white with unspoken terror. Presently the old doctor came jogging round to look after Margie. “Doctor,” she cried, even before she had spoken about her baby, “has the eastern train come in ?” “The eastern train ? Why, bless me, haven’t you heard the news ? A terrible collision—the whole train smashed up, and nearly all aboard killed or wounded 1” Jennie grew as white as death, and reeled back for an instant; then she steadied lierself, and caught his arm with a grasp like iron. “Doctor,” she whispered, “have you heard anything ? Tell me, quick! My husband was on that train !” “Good God! W T hat, Tom—Tom Bathburn ?” “Yes, sir. He went to the city yesterday, and was to be back to day !” “But maybe he changed his mind; maybe he didn't start—let’s hope for the best, child.” “No, no,” she answered, wildly, “he started. He told me he’d come, and he never broke his word. Oh, my God ! Oh, Tom! Shall 1 never see him again?” “Like as not,” said Miss Pamelia, sternly. “I told you how ’twould be—you didn’t know ho.w to vally him till he’s gone.” “Woman!” gasped the old doctor, seizing her by the arm, “have you no compassion ? Don’t you see she’s almost dying?” J ennie fell upon her knees beside the bed, and buried her face in her hands. Boused by the noise, the baby awoke and opened her blue eyes. “Mamma,” she murmured, has pa pa come, and brought birdie’s red shoes?” “Oh, baby, baby !” the poor moth er sobbed, “he’ll never come back to us again.” “Yies, he will, mama,” she replied, putting out her little hand, and stro king her mother’s cheek; “he said he’d come, and bring birdie’s red shoes.” And with a sigh of content, she turned over again and closed her eyes. Papa had never broken faith with her, and her little heart trusted him entirely. Jennie rose to her feet, and, going into her bed-cham ber, put on her shawl and hood. “I’m going, doctor,” she • said, as she came out ; “there’ll be trains running down ?” “Yes. But, child, you don’t know ” “Yes, I do know—’tis a terrible sight; but Tom’sjthere, and whether he’s dead or alive, I must be with him. Don’t oppose me—I shall die if I don’t go. Stay here till I re turn, and attend to the baby and Margie.” The- sun was sloping down toward the west, flooding all the tawny au tumn woods, and the far-extending prarie-lands with golden splendor, when Jennie Bathburn came in sight of her cottage on her return. A tiresome journey, hours of sickening horror, and nothing accomplished. She had telegraphed to the city, and ascertained, to a certainty, that Tom was on the doomed train; but amid the living or dead he could not be found- There were a few bodies so terribly mutilated that they could not be identified ; and she had come to the conclusion that one of them must be her husband. It was a ter rible thought, but she had to bear it, and turn her back upon them, and go home to her child as night came on. Standing in sight cf her cot tage, she seemed, for the first time, fully to realize what she had lost.’ Home, and no husband! Never un til that moment did she know how much she had loved him. Should she never look upon his face again —never atone to him for all the sor row she had caused him ? She look ed up toward the blue, bending sky, with a yearning at her heart that must have called his soul back, if it were possible for those who have passed the bounds of time to make themselves manifest to their earthly companions. Just then the cottage door opened, and a little figure gli ded but, and came toward her with a wavering, doubtful step. “Mamma,” it called, when just within hearing, ‘^papa’s done come, and brought birdie the red shoes.” Jennie caught a glimpse of them, and dropped down where she stood without a word or a cry. “I’ve killed her,” Tom said, as he bore her into the cottage. “-What a fool I was !” “No, you ain’t” retorted Miss Pa melia. “Lay her down here, she’ll soon come to—wimmen ain’t killed easy—they’re as tough as cats.” Half an hour later, when Jennie Bathburn awoke, as from a terrible dream, she looked out upon a cozy room, and tempting supper-table; little birdie sitting before the stove, conscious of nothing but her . red shoes., and her husbandbendingdteer th# bed, his brown eyes fnll-of anx ious love. “Tom,” she said, softly, putting her arms round his neck. “Oh, Tom! can you ever forgive me, and love me again ?” And foolish Tom began to cry, like the simple boy he was, and to pet and caress her in an awkward manner, so happy that his reason seemed to have left him. “Hush, Jennie!” he whispered, not knowing what else to say, “we’re going to be so happy now. I’ve got a splendid place in town, and yon shall have every thing you want here after.” “I shall never want anything again, Tom,” she replied, still hold ing him in her close embrace, “but you and baby. I’ve bad my life- lesson—I’m fit to be a poor man’s wife now.” “An’ it’s me as deserves the cred it, if you are,” snapped Miss Pame lia, as she went out to look after Margie. “Booful.'’ A gentleman went to see a poor family pinched by poverty. He sent them wood and food, and, what was as good, he showed them his pleasant face. “This is booful! this is booful ?” cried the little boy, warming his cold hands by the stove, which for many a day had been as cold as all out doors. “Are you a man’s corned from God?” asked the child, looking up to the gentleman. •“Yes,” said he; “God sent me.” “And when you go back, tell him I’s glad—I’s so glad. Tell him, thank him ever so many times.” The child stood some time with as shining a face as you ever saw. “Now I’s warm, I think of Pete and Lizzie. Maybe I’s take them some of my wood God guv us 1 ” “Maybe not,” cried his father gruffly. “Daddy,” said the child, strug gling to tell his feelings, “Daddy, God give, I give. God good; I be like him. So!” The child had been a few times to a mission Sunday School, and there a few little seeds of divine truth dropped into his heart. Noth ing, it would seem, favored their growth; yet they sprang up, and the first chance he had showed the grateful and sympathizing spirit of God’s little ones. The gentleman hunted up Pete and Lizzie, and they, too, had a basket of wood. I wonder if we, according to our light, are up to this little child ?— Child's Paper. A Wild Flower.—A bold French man, while hunting in the Alps for the mountain goat, fell over a preci pice upon a ledge, back of which was a cave. How to get away he knew not. A day and a night pass ed, and he was stiff a prisoner, ex pecting to be starved to death. But just as his heart began to fail, he saw a tiny tuft- of the blue fringed gentian. That little flower saved his life! How ? He knew that the wind must have home the seed from a distance and God’s sun and rain must have made it grow. This thought made his heart swell, and he said: “God has cared for that little wild flower, which grows where no one can see it but himself. Shall he not care for me also ?” Filled with this thought, he grew happy, and began singing a song. His voice was heard by some shep herds on the mountain top. They shouted. He answered. Guided by his voice, they lowered ropes down to his prison house, and drew him up. And thus, you see, his life was saved by the little blue fringed gentian—one of the slender wild flowers which you may find in the wood.—Exchange. The Chicago post /prints this: The boy who forged his mother’s name to a shingle with a piece of chalk, and bought five cents worth of canday with the bogus order, now languishes and slumbers on all fours at night. His mother got possession of the shingle. Washington, June 17.—The total amount of back pay returned to the United States Treasury is $192,- 021 84, and the number of Senators and Representatives who declined to receive it is 46. Begging for Work. ' “Can ypu give me any work, sir?” said a travel worn lad one day to a Cincinnati merchant. “Got all the help I want,” was the short but kindly spoken reply of the busy, merchant. “It’s hard,” rejoined the lad, “that a fellow who is willing to work can’t get a job. I’ve heen all «over this city, and into all the .stores, and no body wants help.” “Why did you come to Cincin nati ?”quered the merchant, looking askance at the desponding lad. “Because I want to earn enough to help my widowed mother and sister, who liye in . Illinois. They depend on me mainly for their sup port.” This reply, with the peculiar man-, ner of the lad, somewhat moved the merchant s feelings, and he asked: “What are you willing to do?”' “Anything, sir. Anything in the world that I can do.” “Well, go and take hold with the men,’ replied the .merchant, point ing to the hoistway, up which bags of coffee, barrels of rice, and other heavy packages were ascending. Without hesitation, the lad pull ed off ki^ jacket and began pulling lustily at the rope. Clearfy, he meant to do the best he could. To wards nigfrfc the merchant said to the foreman: “How is that strange lad. work ing?” “Like a beaver, sir. He is killing himself,” responded the man. When work was over the mer chant offered the work worn lad a dollar. He pushed it back, saying: “No, sir. I’ve not earned a dol lar. Give me half a dollafi^. It’s all I’ve earned, and will buy me a* supper and a lodging.” • * . This was uncommon honesty. It pleased the merchant. He bade the lad come again in the morning.. He did so. During the day in the ab sence of the forema^Mie wrote down the weight of several ^Jckages^as they were weighed off. “ fife figures were so beautifully formed that the merchant noticed them, and. inquir ed who wrote them. Finding them to be the work of the stranger, he called him into his office, and bade him write a line as a specimen of his hand writing. The writing was so be^utiffll that the merchant read ily admitted him not only to his em ploy, but into his confidence and af fectionate regard. So that this poor boy became successively, his ser vant, carrier, clerk, book-keeper, partner and heir. A Pest Prescription.—The Lon don Floricultural Cabinet promul gates a remedy for the green fly,' mealy bug, thrip,. and kindred in sects, which infest house and green house plants. The editor states that from experience he knows it to bo effectual: Dissolve half an ounce of bitter aloes in a gallon of water. With this wash syringe your plants so as to wet them under as well as over the leaves. If the enemy be there, he will be destroyed; if he be not there, he will not come. Whether it be the nauseous bitter on the sur face, or the smell, or both, we know not; but so far as it has been tried,, infected plants may be put all round one so treated, and there will be no sign of thrips, bugs, or aphides, even, if the others be covered. It is the only thing that destroyed the thrip for us; and we believe that, while the bitter remains on the surface, nothing living will touch it. We feel great confidence that even snails and slugs will not meddle with it; and all we can say about its effects on caterpillars is that they have not yet attacked a plant so pre pared, and that they have commit-- ted depredations on plants very close. Reorganizing his Wife.—“I nev er attempted to reorganize my wife but once,” confessed Artemus Ward. “I shall never attempt to do it again. I’d been to a public dinner, and had. allowed myself to be betrayed into drinkin’ several people’s health; and wishing to make ’em as robust as possible, I continued drinkin’ their health until my own was affected.:— Consekence I presented myself to Betsy’s bedchamber late at night with considerable liquor concealed about my person. I had somehow got possession of a hoss-whip on my way home, and rememberjjff- some cranky observation of Mrs. Ward’s in the momin’, I snapped' the whip putty lively and in a vejj loud voice I said: “Betsy, you need reorganizin’;” I continued, crackin’ the whip over the bed, ‘I have come to reorganize you.’ I dreamed that nite somebody had laid a hoss-whip , across me several times—and when I woke up I found she had. I haint drank much of anything since, and if I ever have another reorganizing job ojj hand, I shall let it out.” When we read we fancy'we could be martyrs, when we come to act we can not bear a- provoking word —Hannah Moore.