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V ► ®k Jtlotttooinctg Jttonitor. D. C. SUTTON, Editor and Prop'r. ML VERNON. MONTGOMERY OO- GA.. TiII'REPAY. MAY ii. ISSti. DR TM, MAGE’S SERMON. MOTHERHOOD. R«v. Dr. Tfchnage preached in St. Issuis on nis way borne fl-cae a Western trip, the twelfth of his series of sermons on “The Mar Ti“SS Iting."’ Its subject was “M< therbocri.” Mt. TalW&ge took for his text: '‘Moreover his mother made him a little '•oat, and brought it to him from year to year, when she came up with her husband to offer the yearly sacrifice."—l Samuel ii., 19. “The stories of Deborah and Abigail are very apt to discourage a Woman's soul,” he said ‘ Hanrfth was the wife of Klkanah, who was « person very marh like herself— unrnnmntic end plain, never having fought a battle or been the subject of n marvelous es cape. Neither of them would have been r ailed a genius. Just what you ami I might be. that was Klkanah and Hannah. “The brightest time in all the history of that family was the birth of Samuel. Al though no star ran along the heavens pointing down to his birthplace, 1 think the angels of (rod stooped at the coming of so Wonderful a prophet. “As Samuel had been given in answer to prayer, Elkonah And all his family, save Hannah, started up to Shiloh to offer sacri fices of. thanksgiving. The cradle where the child slept was altar enough for Hannah's graceful heart, but when the boy was old she took him to Shiloh and took ;hrce bullocks and an ephah of flour and a bottle of wine, and made offering of sacrifice unto the Lord, and there, according to a previous vow, she left him; for there he was to stay all the days of his life and minister in the temple, “Yeai-s rolled on, and every year Hannah made with her own ban 1 a garment for Samuel and took it over to him. The lad would have got along well without that gar ment, for I suppose he was Well clad by the ministry of the temple; but Hannah could not be contented unless she was all the time doing something for her darling boy. 'More over nis mother made him a little coat and brought it, to him from year to year, when she came up with her husband to offer the yearly sacrifice.’ “Hannah stands before you, then, in the first place, as an industrial mother. There was no need for her to work. Klkanah, her husband, was far from poor. He belonged to a distinguished family; for the Bible tells us that he was the son of Jeroboam, the son of Elibu, the son of John, the son of Zuph. “Who were they?” you say. Ido not know; but they were distinguished people, no doubt, or their names would not nave been men tioned. Hannah might have seated herself with her family, and, with folded arms and dishevelled hair, read novels from year to year, if there had been any to read; but when 3 see her making that garment, and taking it over to. Samuel.! know she is industrious from principle as we!! as from pleasure. God would not have a mother become a dredge, or a slave; he would have her employ all the helps possible in this day in the rearing of her children. But Hannah ought never to be ashamed to be found making a coat for Samuel. “Most mothers need no counsel in this di rection. The wrinkles on their brow, the pallor on their cheek, the thimble-mark on their finger attest that they are faithful in their maternal duties. The bloom and the brightness and the vivacity of girlhood have fjven place for the grander dignity and use ulness and industry of motherhood. But there is a heathenish idea getting abroad in some of the families of Americans; there are mothers who banish themselves from the home circle. For three-fourths of their ma ternal duties they prove themselves ineom- Setent. They are ignorant of what their chil ren wear, and what their children eat, and what their children read. They intrust to trresposible persons these young immortals, and allow them to be under influences which may cripple their bodies, or taint their purity, or spoil their manners, or destroy their souls. “Who are the industrious men in all our occupations and professions? Who are they managing the merchandise of the world, building the walls, tinning the roofs, weaving the carpets, making the laws, governing the nations, making the earth to quake and heave and roar and rattle with the treud of gigantic enterprises? Who are they? For the most part they descended from industrious moth ers w ho, in the old homestead, used to spin their own yarn, and weave their own carpets, and plait their own door-mats, and flag their own chairs and do their own work. Hie stalwart men anil the influential women of this day, ninety-nine out of a hundred of them, came from such an illustrious ancestry of hard knuckles and homespun. “And who are these people in society, light as froth, blown every whither of temptation and fashion; the peddlers of tilthy stories, the dancing-jacks of political parties, the scum of society, the tavern-lounging, the store infesting, the men of low wink ami filthy chuckle and brass breastpins and rotten associations? For the most part they come from mothers idle and disgusting, the scandal mongers of society, going from house to house, attending to everybody’s business but their own, believing in witches and ghosts and horse-hoes to keep the devil out of the churn, and by a godless life setting thei r children on the very verge of hell. The mothers of Samuel Johnson and of Alfre 1 the Great and of Isaac Newton and of St. Augustine and of Richard Cecil and of Presi dent Edwards, for the most part, were in dustrious, hard-working mothers. “Again, Hannah stands Itefore you as an intelligent mother. From the way in which she talked in this chapter, and fr< m the way she managed this boy, you know she was in telligent. There are no persons in a commu nitv who need to be so wise and well in formed as mothers. “Oh. how much care and intelligence are necessary in the rearing of children! But in this day. when there are so many books on the subject, no parent is excusable in being ignoi ant of the lest mode of bringing up a child If parents knew more of dietetics there would not lie so many dyspeptic stom aches and weak nerves and incompetent liv ers among children. If parents knew more of physiology there would not be so many curved spines, and cramped cheats, and in flamed tnr oats and diseased lungs, as there are among children. If parent** knew more of art and were in sympathy with al that is beautiful there would not be so many children coming out in the world with boor ish proclivities If parents knew more of Chri t and practiced more of his religion therf would not be so many little feet alrea/I v start ng on the wrong road, and all around us voices of riot and blasphemy would not come up with such * cstacy of infernal tri umph l A:ain. Hannah >tands before you as a Chri t:an mother. From her prayers and from the wav she cod so rated her boy to trod I kr v.v she was good. A mother may have the finest culture, th** most brilliant siir roun lings, but “he is not fit for her duties unle *. she l>c a Christian mother. There may be veil-read libraries in the hou*e, and ex guisiie music in the parlor, and the canvas of th best artists adorning the walls, and the war. robe be crowded with tasteful apparel, arid the < bi’dreii If* wonderful for their atta’ nents and make the house ring with laugi.ter and innocent ninth but there is something w eful looking in that bouse it Ik* not also the residue a » hriM ian mother. “One hunched aid t wonty clergynie-- m : • tgettaor, ami they wore telling their e ence and their ancestry; and of the II - vgp* men. how many of them do you suppose as signed as the means of their conversion the influence of a Christian mother? One hun dred out of the 120. Philip Doddridge was brought to God by the Scripture lesson on the Dutch tiles of a chimney fireplace. The mother thinks she is only rocking a child, but at the same time she may be rocking the fate of nations, rocking the glories of heaven. The same maternal power that may lift the child up may press a child down. • A daughter came toa worldly mother and said she was anxious about her sins and she had been praying all night. The mother said: “Oh. Stop praying! I adn’t l>etieve in pray* ing. Get over nil these religious notions .-nil I’lt give you :\ dross that will cost atm you may weir it next week to that party. The daughter took the dress, and she moved in the gav circle the gavestof all the gay that night, and sure enough all religious impressions were gone, nhd she stopped praying. A few liuhtns after she came to die, and in her closiug moments said, “Mother, I wish you would bring me that dress that c il t ssoo,'* The mother thought it a Very strange request, hut. she brought it to please the dying child. ‘Now,’ said the daughter, ‘mother, hnv .' that dress on the foot of my bed,'and the dve-s was hung th'—" -'n the , foot of the bed. Then the dying girl got up ou one elbow and looked at her mother, and then pointed to the dress, an<l said: ‘Mother, that dress is the price of my soult’ Oh, whnt a momentous thing it is to be a mother! “Hannah stands before you the rewarded , mother, For all the coats she made forSam- j Ual, for all the prayers she offered for him. for the discipline exerted over him, she got al undant compensation in the piety and the Usefulness and the popularity of her son Sam uel; and that is true in all ages. Every mother gets full pay for all the prayers and tears in behalf of liar children.” Concluding, Mr. Talmage said; “Lookout | for the young man who speaks of his father as ‘ the governor,’ ‘the squire,’ ol - the ‘old ,-t—-V Look out for the voting woman who calls her mother her‘maternal ancestor.’ or the‘old woman.’ 'Theeye that moeketh at j bis father and refuseth to obey his motheij j the ravens of the valley shall pick it out, and the young eagles shall eat it.’ ” Misunderstood. Old Gent or the Beroh Persuasion. “Young man, this is preposterous! You ought to know better. Why! it’s ignominy.” Young Man—“’Tain’t neither; it’s nnthin’ but a common pup. Don’t yer tink I knows a pup when I sees it?”— Puck. ■ -w- • iris La.t i' .siUuu. A man with a red nose applied to the theatrical manager for a position. “Where were you employed last?” asked the manager. “I was in the orchestra.” “Wh it instrument did you blow—the trombone?” “Naw, I blew out the kerosene lamps after the performance was over.”— Tern* Sifting*. An Anglo-Maniae’s Origin. “What is the booking to New YorkP inquired a young man with a queer shaped hat on his head and a drawl in his voice, as he stood before the ticket window' of an Eastern railroad. “Seventeen dollars,” said the ticket agent. “You mean—aw three pound ten, eh?"’ “No, I mean seventeen dollars. I don’t know anything about your three ponn’ ten. Ticket?” “Y-a a-s, you may book me. But three poun’ ten is too deuced much, donchcr know; too awfully much. Does that include me luggage? ’ He was informed that his luggage would be carried, and started off to look after it. with his one eye-glass elevated toward the roof of the station house. “Thar chap must bean Englishman." remarked the ticket agent. “Englishman, the deuce!” replied * brakeman who chan' ed to be standing bv. “I know that votin'- codfish. Ha was born on a canal boat down here near Joliet, and his dad got rich buying hogs.”—6 'hie/igo Herald. Needles were invented by a man. It is needless to add that he died bald headed. H /i btiti VAOtO ■ POKTITER * The Christening. No, t won’t forgive our pateon—fiot down to 1 iny dytn’ (lay. He’d orter waited a minnit; that’s What l'l , oilers say, 1 But to christen my boy, my baby, with such an orful name — Why, where's the use o’ talkin’! I tell you he ; was to blame. You see it happened in this way: There was father an’ Uncle Si An’ mother, an’ each one wantin’ a finger in the pie— Each with a name for baby, as es I hadn’t, no Voice, But the more they talked atl' nrgied,the more I stock to my choice. “Semanthy”—this was father —“you’d best take pattern by mother, For she named thirteen children 'thout. any such fuss or bother, As soon as she diskivored that family naaies Was too few, Why, she just fell back on the Bible, as per fessers air bound to do. “Semanthy”—this was Reuben —-"most any one else could see That, bein’ as I’m his father, he orter lie named for me. You say my name's old-fashioned; well, 1 m old-fashioned too, Yet ’twarn’t so long ago, nuther, that both of us suited you.” Then there was Uncle Silas: “Semanthy, I tell ye what— Just name him Silas. I’ll give hint that hundrod-aere lot— I'll make out the deed to-morror —an’ then when I’ve gone to my rest, There’ll be a trifle o’ money to ’ elp him feather his nest. But the worst of all was mother. She says, so meek an’ mild: “I’d love to call him Jotham, after my oldest child; He died on his second birthday. The others are grown-up men, But Jotham is still my baby! ho has never grown since then. His hair was soft an’ curlin’, eyes blue as blue could be, An' this boy of yours, Semanthy, jest brings him hack to me.” Well, it warn’t no easy matter to keep on sayin, No, An’ dlsapp’intin’ every one. Poor Rube he fretted so. When I told him the name I’d chosen, that he fairly made me cry. For I’d planned to name the darling Augus tus Perciva! Guy. Ah! that was a name worth bearin’, so ’rixto cratic an’ grand! He might ’a held up his head then with the proudest in the land. But non Well ’tisn’t no wonder, when I look at that blessed cciild An’ think of the name he’s come to, that I ; can’t bo reconciled. At last I coaxed up Reuben, an’ a Sabbath mornin’ came When I took my boy to meetin’ to git his Christian name. Jest as proud as a peacock I stood awaitin’ there; I couldn’t hardly listen to the rendin’ nor the prayer. I For of half a dozen babies mine was the finest of all; An’ they had seeh common names, too. But pride must have a fall. “What will ye call him?” says Parson Brown, bendin’ his In-ad to hear. Then I handed a bit of paper up, with the names writ full an’ clear. | But Uncle Si, ’stead of passin’ it, jest, reads it j over slow, With sech a wond’riti,’ puzzled face, as es he didn’t know. The child was lieginnin’ to fidget, an’ Rube was gittin red, So I kinder scowled at Uncle Bi, and then I shook my head. “The names” says Parson Brown agin; “I’m ’feared I haven’t caught, it.” “Jee-hoshaphatP' says Uncle Si, out loud, before he thought it. The parson—lie’s near sighted—he couldn’t understand, Though I printed to the paper in Uucle Silas’ hand. But that word did the business; an’ before I got my breath That boy was named Jehoshai-hat. I felt a’ most like death. I couldn’t keep from cryin’ as 1 hurried down the aisle, An’ I fairly hated Widdow Green when I see her kinder smile. I’ve never, never called him by that name, an’ never will, An’ I can't forgive old Parson Brown, though I bear him no ill-will. — T. Corbett, ffo.rpe,r'». A PARLOR ROMANCE. Everybody said they were made ex pressly for each other. Even the bronze clock on the mantel said so, and this had more weight than the statement of any one else. The clock was an oracle. .Os all the ornaments in the room he was the only one who was treated with respect by the housemaid. Then, too, he was consulted by the man who owned the house, who set his watch by the gilt hands which moved with unvarying reg ularity around his circular face. Thus it was only natural that the other orna ments should regard his word as little less than law. The very day these two were brought into the room—-he, a short, corpulent terracotta figure of a foreign troubadour, and she, a slender damsel of his own nationality—the clock nodded to the Japanese vase on the centre tab' [ and observed that if he knew anything tills couple Were made expressly for each other, Tlu-tc were tt great many reasons 1 why he should have formed shell an i opinion. In the first place they ttp|>ertrcd to he Very happy in each Other's society, l He seemed to be proud of tier grace. And i she looked as vain of his manly Vigor its though he had been a real flesh and blood i man, instead of a very commonplace earthen manikin. But. love is blind, even in parlor ornaments, nnd in her fond eyes he was perfection. For a long time they lived entirely for each other. Jle heard her faintest whisper, and the glances which passed between them would have metlcd anything that hap pened to stand in their way like so much lire. As a matter of course such open devotion could not escape the notice of the other ornaments, who had nothing to occupy their minds but. such things as occurred within the range of their vis ions. The Japanese peasant shook his bronze head spitefully one day when they had been particularly affectionate and remarked significantly to his mate that some things made him ill. “Yes, indeed,” she replied, “and I don’t opprove of their actions in the least. No one ever saw ns act that way.” “I should say not. If they want to spoon they ought to go Into tho pantry with the knives and forks. This room Is no place, to pass a honeymoon.” “No, indeed,” returned the peasant girl. “It is positively disgusting. Every time f look in their direction I feel as if I ought to cough to let them know that they are not alone." But whether the comments were favor able or adverse it made little difference to the lovers. They were happy and that was enough for them. So selfish is love, and fickle too. Luckily for story writers even the warmest love cools in time and our terracotta friends were no exception to the rule. Before the first year had passed they behaved very much the same as ordinary married couples, and the inanim. ! - gossips of the mantel amused themselvc 1 y criticising his neg lect of her in very nun li the same lan guage Lis previous devotion to her bad j been expressed in. What is advised to-day is criticised to morrow by parlor ornaments the same a.s by the people who own them, so given is this world to uppishness. In the course of time another ornament made its appearance. She was a beauli fill marble statuette. Shi’ was direct from Paris and bad been in this country so short a time that her speech was more French than English. From the moment she appeared tin: terra-cotta troubadour ppid no attention to any one else. This ; was not altogether incomprehensible, how ever. He too was of French descent, and bespoke both languages as fluently as the nature of his constitution would permit. She asked him if lie would teach her English, and lie was only too delighted to be of service, so he said. At first the | little wife thought nothing of her Ims- I band’s actions. She also was French nnd sympathised with the new comer, but after a while she realized that she had ; cause to be jealous. He grew more and more neglectful of her, ami at last lie would hardly deign to notice her at all. For days together he never addressed a i word to her, so engrossed was he in liis charming pupil. Human nature is the same the world over, and those philosophers who refuse to ornament the characteristic s of their ; human owners do them a serious injustice, j The marble statuette was pleased with the attentions of the troubadour, his neglect of 1 his wife for her delighted her vanity, and j besides this he was an entertaining fellow when he wanted to be, and she was not in ; sensible to his unconcealed admiration. Her heart was touched as much as such a j heart could be touched, but her con science was as cold as the marble of which she was made. “J)o you ever play on your guitar?” she asked of him one day. “No,” he replied, “I never thought of it before.” “J should think you would be a beauti ful player.” “Doyou like guitar music?” he asked after a pause. •“I’m in love with it. 3n Paris it is all the rage, and I know you could play de lightfully.” “Why do you think so?” -‘You have such beautiful long fingers, your arm is so graceful, and from your face I can see that you are a horn musi cian. Did you ever compose anything?” “Never,” he replied, feeling somewhat ; ashamed of himself for the admission. , j “I’m surprised,” she returned with a smile of incredulity. She was a skillful ! actress, this cold marble damsel, and a , most experienced coquette, r j “No,” he replied, “I have never tried [ . to compose anything yet.” “But you certainly r.now how to play , i music?” “Well,” hesitated tin- troubadour, “it : has been a long time since 1 haft’ dont anything in that line." “You must change that at ouco. You I must practice on the guitar every day for tny sako," “I will do so, most assuredly,” he re turned, “I Will begin to-morrow.” “By the way,” continued the siren, j “you have newer sung for ttte yet.” “ N-n-o,” stammered the troubadour, who, if the truth were known, had no more voico than a China plaque and even less knowledge of music. “Well, you must sing for me, too,” “ I am somewhat out of practice.” “ Nevermind that," replied the statu ette with an entrancing smile. “ I will make all allowances for your modesty. I know you do sing charmingly. Your voice is so low and sweet.” “Do you really think so?” ho asked, half convinced against his judgment, so foolish is a lover, and oh 1 how credu lous 1 “ I know it,” she replied emphatically. “If you were only oil the operatic stage you would he one of the greatest singers in the world, and managers would pay you three thousand dollars a night every night in the week. Ladies would go wild over you and you would he deluged with bouquets and love letters. I am glad though that you arc not on the stage. You would never think of poor little me If you were so great.” The honest troubadour hastened to aa sure her that, she was mistaken—alto gether mistaken -in her opinion, and tho discussion on this point became so com prehensive that the clock struck midnight before she admitted herself satisfied and the love-sick swain was able to close his eyes in sleep for the night,. The next morning he awoke bright, and early, and looking over in the direction of his wifo he called to mind the ambition that, had been aroused in him tho evening be fore. “ She never saw anything great in me,” ho observed to himself. “ She never asked me to sing. She never thought I was a great musician. And yet I am. I have been hiding tny talent under a bushel all my life. Oh 1 if Iliad only married (his charming and discerning statuette how happy we should be, aed how great.” It was fortunate for his little wife that this cruel speech was not heard. She had trouble enough already, and as she slept tears rolled down her cheeks. Bho sorrowed even in her dreams. After the housemaid had finished the morning’s work the lovers were once more left alone. “ Now,” thought the troubadour, “ I ; shall surprise her by singing.” So with a little preliminary cough he cleared his throat and began. “Stop that noise,” sltouted the clock before he had sung half a liar, and the other ornaments rattled on their feet in strong approval of the rebuke. The troubadour turned his face to his I sweetheart, hut in tier superior wisdom she was looking in the other direction as unconcerned as though sin- had not been the cause of his discomfiture. “Well,” observed the troubadour, still unabashed, “I have _one other accom plishment, remaining. 1 shall piny on the i i guitar.” With a strong effort he raised his hand and brought the instrument in : I to the proper position, but the strain was , | too much for his brittle composition, and • ! the arm snapped in twain and dropped to | the floor. “That’s right,” said the clock; “that serves you right for being such a goose,” and the other ornaments murmured theii ■ approbation. The poor troubadour turned to his sweetheart for sympathy. l “You don’t despise me, too,” he ex ! claimed. i | “No,” she replied, with a heartless little laugh, “I always pity fools.” • “I pity you, too,” came a voice from the other side of the clock; “and I love f you, dear, just, the same as I used to.” The troubadour looked up in surprise. It was his wife who had spoken. “Yes,” continued the little woman, | her face radiant with love, “I love you arid when the housemaid comes in you 1 will be mended, and will be just as good . as new. Then we will he together again ( and I know we will be just as happy as we once were, won’t we, dear?” , The troubadour was too ashamed to re r ply, but from the look of gratitude which came into his face it is highly probable ’ that, she spoke the truth; at least let us t trust she did.— Benjamin Northrop in New York Graphic. t I A record of six hundred births shows i that a little more than half the number \ occurred between 8 a. rn. and 8 p. m. I i —the greatest number during any one hour being between 7 and 8 a. m., and r the least number, twelve, occurred be i tween 12 m. and lp.m. NO. I*. VOL. f. Rest Awhile. I will 1* hi ill t«-«lay and jest, I will t* still ami lot lit® drift) f am no fir** I t hut. it is lx*** Neiftwr my hands nos eye® to lift I am so tirt<d—it is no use, My will can not my ne**l oboy; O ( lire, 1 ask a few hours’ truce, I pray tb let mo rest Vxluy. And sn, shut up in restful gleam. 1 let my hands drop listlessly, Within my dim and silent room I would not movo, or hear, or swv Oblivion dropped on me her balm. I fell on slumber deep and sweet, And when I woke was strong and calm, And full of rwtt from head U> (eoi. Ho, toiler in lire’s weary ways, I’ity thyself, for tbou must, tire; Both lienly, mind, ami heart have days They ean net answer their desire. Birds in all seasons <lo not sing, Flowers have their time to bloom and fall; There is not any living thing Can answer to a ceaseless call. Sometimes, tireil head, se«k shimler deep; Tired hnnils, no burden try to lift; Tired heart, thy watch let others keep*. I>ity thyself and let life drift. A few hours’ rest perchance may bring Belief from wearifloss and pain; And thou from listless languor* spring, nd gladly lift thy work again HUMOROUS. Seriously, is the dog star a Skye ter rier. Parrots should speak only in polysyl lables. All that is left of A then* is a spot of Greece. Circuit Court Sneaking around the house to avoid the dog. It is ttic professional flute-player who has to whistle for his money. Woman is not mi: ’■ f < philosopher, hut she is proverbially a clot lies observer. The only leading lady liuil society rec ognizes is the one. wlio conducts a pug with a s' *ing. “ Pa, vviiy does a man break a promise so readily?" “ Because, myh*n, it is so easy to make another one.” “M< .ills me more active,'” wrote the market reporter whose wife had hastened his exit th.it morning with a flying flatr iron. Young men who think their sweet,, hearts are divine love lo make divinity students of themselves every night in the week. A philosopher says: “No null) is rich who wants any more Ilian he has got." IT this is reliable the majority of rich men must be dead. A thief entered n house, and while prowling about I**ll over a chair and broke his leg, and had to arouse the fam ily to call a doctor. Policeman- “You have been standing here for an hour. Move on!" Absent minded checker player -“Beg pardon, sir! it’s your move.” A surgical journal tells of a man who lived five years with a ball in his head. We have known girls to live twice as long witli nothing but balls in their heads. Never despise a friend because he hap pens to have grown rich. Go to him, take him aside, tell him gently of his faults and ask him to lend you five dol lars. “ Our air is much purer than yours,” said a Frenchman to an Knglishman. “Aye,” was the reply, “hut there’s some substance in ours- look at the thickness | of it!” A clergyman who was officiating at the j funeral of a young girl began his dis ! course with, “Oh may this bereaved father find consolation for the death of his only daughter” - and then happening to remember that there was another daughter, the offspring of a second mar riage, he added, hastily “by his first wile.” TilK ITII.VF.SK ANSWER. You shootee mo and bungee me, You Ixiotee me anil bang*** me, Me dis** work***, gotten fsssllo, bfveo on rateo, jsssllo; Oh, me livoo oh, so eheapee And me work** while you slccpen. A Confirmed Bog Drunkard. A German saloon-keeper on Third street has a dog that is a most dissipated canine. The dog is slowly hut surely drinking himself to death. He not only looks on the beer when it is amber, but risks a sight when*it is stale and flat. He watches the trough directly under the iei* chest where the beer kegs are planed, and when the trough becomes filled with the amber-colored liquid, the intemperate animal will lap it up. He refuses water, and drinks beer morning, noon and night. After drinkink heavily he will go to sleep, and the first thought on waking up seems to be of beer, as he goes directly to the trough and satisfies his thirst. He is becoming quite corpulent, and is a con firmed old drunkard. His only apparent amusement and enjoyment in life are to drink and to sleep.— St. Paul Pioneer | Prut.