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VOL. i. OLD TREES. BY KEY. ABEAM J. RYA*. Old Treos ! old Trees ! in your mystic gloom, There is many a warrior laid; There is many a nameless and lonely tomb Sheltered beneath your shade. Old Trees! old Trees! without pomp or prayer, We buried tho Brave and the True— We fired a volley and left them there To rest, old Trees! with you. Old Trees! old Trees! keep a watch and ward Over each grass-grown bed; ’Tis a glory, old Trees, to stand as guard Over our Southern Dead. Old Trees! old Trees! we shall pass away, Like tiie leaves you yearly shed, But ye. lone sentinels, still must stay, Old Trees! to guard our Dead. THE LEGEND oSimiTt, BY AMEDIE I)K FOUTHIfcRE. Translated from the French, for the Banner of the South, bv Miss Kosine dk La Toiire, of Johnson’s T. 0., S, C. Legend or History—History or Le gend—there are truths to be culled from each, my friend, truly says that charming writer, Charles Nodier. A beautiful legend scatters everywhere its sweet and moral influences, as a fhiwer exhales its perfume. Happy arc those gifted spirits that can discern and ap propriate them. I love those quaint old narratives, into which a nation has in fused all that is most beautiful and pure in its poetry and its faith, because they are the truest expressions of a people’s thoughts. I love these simple traditions of the past, because for a long time they constituted all the literature of the social circle, and kept firmly cemented the no ble sentiments of family, of union, and of justice, which form the triple corner stone of all well regulated society. For a long while these were all-sufficing— tor a long time they were the sweetest consolation of evil days, and when the trembling voice of the old man was heard, all were silent, and wont forth after life nairative with souls deeply im pressed by the punishments which over took the wicked ; or softly moved by the justly merited reward which so often formed the graceful denouement of some touching ballad. Some of these legends, coming to us as they do, from afar, have even preserved the first freshness of the primitive ages. This is in fact their greatest charm. Yit ness this beautiful Legend of Hos pitality, which for many centuries de lighted the simple hearts of the peasants ot France. In the days of Jesus, there lived on ti.c banks of the Jordan, a fine old man, whom one might readily have taken for the patriarch of some ancient tribe, and whom death seemed to have forgotten. His name was Philomen, and in his lowly cabin lie subsisted solely upon the fruit grown in his little garden, and the milk furnished him by’ his goat. Now, one quiet evening, someone tapped gently at his door, and an old man, though younger than he, entered aud claimed his hospitality. “ Most gladly, my friend—my cottage and not large, my gulden yeilds but little truit, my goat gives not much milk— still, what 1 have I cheerfully share with all who cross my threshold in the of hospitality. Come in then good triend, and rest after the fatigues of your journey.” ‘‘ But,” said the traveller, hesitatingly, ''l am not alone. 1 have twelve com panions with me all overpowered bv weariness and parched with thirst, lor we have just crossed the desert.” “ lou are all welcome, all who come huDgiy tc my cabin shall share with me tiie little I possess. So come iu.” Ihen the stranger made a sign to his companions, who were silently standing at l he door, and Philomen found that it was Jesus, and with him his twelve! apostles, whom St. Peter led by the shores of the Jordan—this great chief ever walking in advance, who was one day to open tjie gates of Paradise. They partook of fne old man’s simple fruit, they drank the milk of his goat, thev rested upon his rough mat. When day be; to dawn, St. Peter said to him : “Before going hence, hast thou no boon to ask of us ? Hast thou no wish that we may gratify? Ask what thou wilt in return for this generous hospi tality ?■” Then Philomen made three wishes, anu said : “My sw’eet Lord, I love life so well, grant me then yet five hundred years to live. The days pass so quickly in my peaceful abode.” “ Granted,” said a sweet and touching voice, which seemed to come from the midst of the group. “ What else wilt thou have?” “My good Lord, I have a beautiful fig tree in my garden, which bears such fine fruit, they are often stolen from me. Grant me then, that whoever climbs into it, must stay there, until I give permis sion to descend. So you see, I will be able to catch the’thief.” Jesus smiled as lie hoard this strange wish, and bowing his fair head, said : “Itshall be done as thou wilt. Hast thou yet more to ask ? Speak freely, for thou seest how readily i* grant all thou askest.” “My bountiful Lord, I have an old wooden chair in which my friends sit when they come sometimes at night, to chat with me. Grant me that whoever sits on it, may not be able to rise without my consent, and will have to stay there as long as 1 please. ” And Jesus approved again, because he loved this giyleloss old man, who made such simple wishes, and seemed so clean of heart. Then St. Peter thanked him, and went forth surrounded by his twelve compan ions, in whose midst Jesus seemed to love to hide himself. Tears passed by one after the other. One century passed—then another, then finally all rolled on, until the last day of the last year arrived, and the venerable Philomen saw the grim and unwelcome traveller Death enter his cabin. She saluted him roughly: “ Come along old man. Thou hast eluded me this long whilo. Thanks to an especial favor, thou hast reached the years of Mcthusala. If every mortal lived as long as thou hast, I would have no work to do on earth. Come along'- - quick—settle thy affairs, bid farewell to thy garden, because with the setting sun, I lead thee hence.” _ "Oh my good lady, if you could but pity me, you would let me live a few days longer—life is so sweet—-just one day then, it is so good to live.” “No—not one day—not one moment more,’’ replied the sinister guest, in a harsh and discordant voice. “At least then let me once more eat of the fruit of my fig tree. I have loved these figs so well, it will be a last conso lation to me. But as I am too weak to shake the tree, and too old to reach the fruit, do you go up and gather me that one up there, so thoroughly ripened by our Eastern sun.” “Oh very willingly ! See old man, I will show thee that Death is not so ill natured as it is said she is.” Ihen leaving' her hour-glass and scythe at the foot of the tree, the unlucky dame climbed up. But she had scarcely touched the branches, when they sprung up like springs of steel beneath her tread, closed upon, and so tightly im prisoned the imprudent wight, that she could not stir. She called aloud ; cried out, supplicated—but all in vain. Phi lomen renewed his humble petition, but she still obstinately refused. “ \ ery well. I must have my fiy? centuries. Five hundred years'mere of AUCtUSTA, GA, MAY 9, 1868. life,” and defiantly shaking his head, he picked up tho hour-glass and scythe and went back to his cabin, leaving Death still a prisoner, struggling and crying aloud. Every morning he returned— proposed anew his terms, which Death, more and more irritated, more and more obstinately rejected, upon which the old man would quietly return to his hut. Now, about the third night of the siege, ho saw a dark figure, with glittering eyes, prowling around the foot of the tree. He listened and overheard the following conversation. But first, I must tell you that this was the Devil, who came to quarrel with Death. “ W hat dost thou up there, thou idler? Thou no longer givest me occupation. I shall be ruined if thou returnest not to thy work.” But his terrible accomplice could not move, because, He who binds on earth as lie binds in Heaven, had in this instance bound so well, that Death herself could not undo it. Well, next day, after a fresh dispute with Philomen, Death yielded, and con sented to grant him five centuries more of life. But as Death was known to be treacherous, he would not trust her, and bringing out his tablets, he made her sign the promise she had made. That finished, he restored her baggage, her hour-glass and scythe, and let her depart, ail threatening and raging as she was, vowing to cut off at the expiration of the very moment, the life of one who had so pitilessly mocked and jeered at her. 1 ears again rolled on. The centuries, one by one, were completed, and yet our Philomen did not grow old. Ten times had he seen pass by that weary pilgrim, that unhappy Jew, condemned to travel forever around the world. Each journey marked one century, as he crossed the Jordan, near this little cabin, on his way to Jerusalem, that, ascending Golgotha, he might plead for mercy on the very spot where the blood bad been shed of Him whom he had despised. These five centuries, then, having passed away—one evening, as Philomen sat thoughtfully near his hearth, looking up, he saw the dark, mysterious traveller once more enter his hut. Midnight was the fatal hour. She rudely accosted him again : “Come along, now, old man. Thou shouldst, long since, have been in thy grave. No mercy this time for thee— thou wouldst but mock me again, had I any longer pity for thee. All ! how wor ried-I am ! To-day I have slain nearly three thousand Christians, a whole race of Infidels, and decimated an entire kingdom with my well-tempered weapon, Pesti lence. Kick and poor, prelates and priests—l have upturned everything. But I am horribly tired, and while waiting thy hour of doom, I will just rest me here.” Saying these words, she threw herself upon the wooden stool which Jesus had gifted with supernatural power, and be gan to jeer at the old man, speaking to him of all the pleasures of life—youth, love, everything. ’A hen midnight struck, she attempted to rise, that she might seize upon Phile mon. But he had wisely placed himself beyond her reach. Nailed down, how ever, upon her wonderful chair, she could not move ! In vain she shook her glass, and made deadly thrusts at him with her scythe ! Then the good man went to his fireside, and kindled such a blaze as near ly roasted her, even at that distance. Her hour-glass was about falling to pieces,- and the handle of her scythe nearly re duced to ashes, when, alter a vigorous dispute, she again made terms with him, granting another lease of five hundred years. Now this was, as you know, the second time she had been caught by the same snare, and, more enraged than ever, she went out, vowing she would never be so entrapped again. And old Philomen lived on through the longjyears gained by these simple tricks. But everything ends at last—every thing falls—everything dies—everythin«• passes away—anil the five centuries, too, passed on their way, with all that had gone before. Death had, however, learn ed to be prudent now, and this time she did not venture near, but sent a shaft from afar, which pierced the old man’s heart, and sent him from life to death. But as he had always led a spotless life, and practiced the virtue of holy hospi tality, God had prepared for him a home in His own beautiful Paradise. Now, it happened that, before going there Philomen wished to see just a little of what was going on in hell. Since that memorable night, when he overheard the dispute with Death and Satan, he cherished a great desire to have some insight into that kingdom. He quietly entered the abode of the condemned, and when the Devil came to meet him, and would have clutched at him, Philomen cried out, “Stop there! I am not for thee! I am of the kingdom of tho elect, and came here only to see if all trial, is said of thy empire in the kingdom of the living be correct. Lead me every where." When conducted by his dark guide, he had visited the bowels of the earth, and witnessed all manner of torments, he pro posed to him to stake liis own soul against some of the most fearfully tortured amongst the damned, who were uttering most frightful shrieks. I he dice were brought, and shaken by each in turn. Philomen soon gained twelve souls Then Satan seemed alarm ed, and fearing to lose all with this most mysterious partner, refused to play on. Philomen then entered the road to Paradise, and, reaching the door, tapped quietly. Saint Peter came to open it for him. He recognized him, and said, with a smile: “Pass on, we have long been expecting thee. “Oh, yes, replied the cunning old man, but like you, formerly, I am not alone. I have with me twelve companions, who also claim your hospitality.” “It is only fair,” said St. Peter smiling once more. “Come in, all of you.” And all went in, to join tho throng of the Blessed, who will forever sing the praises of God. It is thus this good old Philomen lived for fifteen hundred years, and practiced the laws of holy hospitality. And it is thus that our pious ancestors taught their children never to refuse admittance to those who knocked at their door asking for shelter. And we also see how reli giously and beautifully hospitality was practiced, in the early ages, in the lowly dwellings of the poor, as well as in the chateaux of the rich. A REMEDY FOR MOTHS, We were examining our wardrobe after the summer, and found, to our surprise and grief, many of our choicest articles of apparel sadly damaged by the moths. In the midst of our trouble, aud the dis cussion as to the modes of protection against moths, which had been handed down by tradition, Aunt Julia came in. “ Aunt Julia, how do you keep your winter clothing from the moths ?” we*botli asked eagerly, as that good lady pro ceeded to lay aside her handsome shawl which looked as fresh as ever after seven years’ wear. “ I used to suffer as much from moths as any one,” replied Aunt Julia, taking her knitting from her little basket, and sitting down, “ but I found a recipe in an old-fashioned book, which has relieved me of much soljeitude on the subject. It was many years before I could be per suaded to try it. bn my young days money was not quite as plenty as now, but provisions were cheap, and a farmer’s daughter began her life better supplied with linen, blankets, and bed quilts, than many a jewe 1-decked city belle. Asl was an only daughter and was not mar ried too young, a noble pile of blankets, feather beds, bed quilts, <kc., became my portion. For many years after we re moved to the oily. I used to dread my summer’s work of airing beds, and pack ing very fine home-made blankets and quilts stuffed with the softest down. I tried snuff, tobacco, camphor, pepper, and cedar chips, and yet, as we changed our place of residence several times, some colony of moths, old squatters among the beams of the garret, or in some unob served scrap of woolen cloth would per forate tiny holes in my choicest posses sions.” “ Why, Aunt Julia, I thought you had a cedar closet.” “ Yes, when we moved into our new house; but by that time my closet was too small for my increased wealth, and till I used this recipe I seldom passed a year without some moth holes, but now I have not seen one in nine years.” What was it, aunt? Have you the book ? or can you repeat it from memory ? It is too late to save these tilings, but I will write it down and try it next spring.” So saying, Anna took out her little recipe book and pencil, while Aunt Julia pre pared to record the moth preventive. The book was an old one with the title obliterated, and title page torn out by some careless child, but the directions were these : “Lay not up for yourself treasures up on earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt.” “ But lay up for yourselves treasures in Heaven, where neither rust nor moth doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through and steal.” “0, Aunt Julia, is that all ? How does that help the matter?” “ Wait, Anna, and hear my story out. One day, as I was mourning ovci my choicest blankets, eaten by the moths, and airing my down bed quilts and feather beds, which have been rendered obsolete by the introduction of spring matresses, as I stood ready to cry with vexation to see my choicest articles eaten in the most conspicuous places, as you have expe rienced to-day, my eye rested on an old Bible, which lay on the top of a barrel of pamphlets in the garret. I opened it, and almost unconsciously read the recipe for avoiding moths which I have given to day. I then recollected that they seldom troubled the clothing in frequent use, and that the articles which caused me so much care were not needed twice a year. I then thought of Sophy Baker, with her large family and sick husband. “ They had been burned out the Spring before, and were just entering upon a cold, long Winter of poverty. I sat down, and writing her a note, sent her two feather beds and four blankets, aud an old fash ioned ‘coverlid’ that very day ; and two more blankets 1 dispatched to a poor old rheumatic neighbor, whose destitution had never occurred to me before. 1 then be gan to breathe freely; and before another week two more blankets were gone to comfort tired limbs, and aching hearts. The cast-off coats, cloaks and old pieces of carpeting which had long lain in my gar ret were given to the deserving poor. A bag of woolen stockings and socks, C O which had been kept for cleaning bras-, were sent to a charity institution, never again to become a temptation to the moths. I inquired particularly the next year, and found the beds and blankets wore in such excellent preservation that 1 cheerfully laid up more oi my surplus ‘ property in Heaven,’ and out of the way of moth and mould. My cedar closet and trunks hold all I wish to preserve, and when they begin to run over, I commit more articles to the keeping of my wid owed and fatherless acquaintances.” “ But, Aunt Julia, yours is a peculiar case. You hatT the home made outfit of a rich farmer’s daughter, anu could not expect to make use of it; besides the Bible don't encourage wasting our goods extravagantly.” No. 8.