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Ocuotci* to Citcmture, briciue, aub 3.rt, tl)c Sons of (temperance, (Dbb ibdloiuslpp, iltasonrn, anb (Scncral jfntelligcnrf. VOLUME I. ssasesiß SONG OF THE TE-TOTALLER. BT OCOROI W. BKTHUN*. Lf.t others praise the ruby bright In the red wine’s sparkling glow, Dearer to me is the and amond light Ot'the fountain’s clearer How ; The feet of earthly men have trod The juice from the bleeding vine, But the stream comes pure from the hand of God To fill this cup of mine. Then give mo the cup of cold water! The clear, sweet cup of cold water ; For his arm is strong, though his toil be long, Who drinks but the clear cold water. The dew-drop lies in the floweret’s cup, How rich is its perfume now! And the fainting earth With joy looks up, When heaven sheds rain on her brow ! The brook goes forth with a pleasant voice To gladden the vale along, And the bending trees on her banks rejoice, To hear her quiet song: Then give me the cup of cold water ! Tiie clear, sweet cup of cold water; For bright is his eye, and iiis spirit high, Who drinks but the clear cold water! The lark 9oars up with a lighter strain When the wave has washed her wing, And the steed flings back h s ‘thundering mane’ In might of the crystal spring: This was the drink of Parad se, Ere blight on her beauty fell, And the buried streams of her gladness rise In every moss-grown well: Then here’s to the cup of cold water! The pure, sweet cup of cold water; For Nature gives to all that 1 ves But a drink of the clear cold water. KISfiSiiIAIT. HAVE PATIENCE. BY MRS. HODGSON It was Saturday evening, about eight o’clock. Mary Gray had finished m ingling, and hid sent home the last basket of clothes. She had swept up her little room, stirred the fire, an J placed up on it a saucepan of water. She hud brought out the bag of oatmeal, a basin, and a spoon, and laid them upon the round deal table. The pi ice, though very scantilv furnished, looked alt igether neat and comfortable. Marv now sat idle by the fire. She was not often idle. She was a pale, delicate looking woman of abo it five and thirty, fehe looked like one who had a very anxious, care worn expression. Her dress showed signs of poverty, but it was scrupulously clean and neat. As it grew later she, seemed to be listening at tentively for the approach of someone ; she was ready to start up every time a step came near her door. At lengih a light step appro tched, and did not go by ; it stopped and there was a gentle rap at the door. Mary’s pallid face brightened, and in a moment she had let in a fine intelligent look ing lad, about thirteen years of age, whom she welcomed with evident delight. “Aou are later than usual to-night, Stephen,” she said. Stephen did not reply ; hut he threw off his cap, and placed himself in the seat Mary had j quitted. “You do not look well to-night dear,” said Mary anxiously ; “i s anything the matter / ” “lam quite well, mother,” replied the boy, bet me have my supper. lam quite ready for it.” As he spoke, he turned away his eyes from arv s inquiring look. Mary, without another ‘ v °rd, set herself about prepat ing the supper of oatmeal porridge. She saw that something was wrong wiih Stephen, and that he did not wish to be questioned, so she remained silent. In th meantime Stephen hud placed his feet on the ,e i der, rested his elbows on his knees, and his head on his hands. His hands covered his face; and, bye and bye, a few large tears began to trickle down his fingers. Then suddenly dashing off* his tears as though he were ashamed of them, he showed his pale, agitated face, and said in a tone of indignation and resolve, “Mother, I am determined I will bear it no longer.” Mary was not surprised. She finished pouring out the porridge; then, taking a stool, she seated herself beside him “ Why Stephen,” she said trying to speak cheerfully, “how many hundred times before have you made that resolution? But what’s the matter now ? Have you any new trouble to tell me of? ” Stephen answered by silently removing with bis hand some of his thick curly hair, and show ing beneath it an ear bearing the too evident marks of cruel usage. “My poor boy!” exclaimed Mary, her tears starting forth. “ Could he be so cruel!” “It is nothing mother,” replied the boy, sorry to have called forth his mother’s tears. “ I don’t care for it. it was done in a passion, and he was sorrv for it after.” “ But what could you have done Stephen, to have made him soangrv with you ? ” * “I was selling half a quire of writing paper to a lady ; he counted the sheets after me auJfouu l thirteen instead of only twelve—they had stuck together so that I took two for one. I tried to ex plain, but he was iu a passion and gave me a blow The lady said something to him about his i nproper conduct, and he said that 1 was such a cortices lit tle rascal that he lost all patience with me. ‘That hurt me more than the blow. It was a falsehood, and he knew it—but he wanted to excuse himself I felt that I was going into a passion too, but 1 thought of what you are always telling me about, patience and forbearance, and I kept down my passion —l know he was sorrv for it after, from the way he spoke to me, though he didn’t say so.” “ l have no doubt he suffered more than you, Stephen,” said Mary, “he would be vexed that he had shown his temper before the lady, vexed that he had told a lie, vexed that he had hurt you when you bore it so patiently.” “ Yes, mother, but that doesn’t make it easier for me to bear his ill temper ; I’ve borne it now for more than a year for your sake, ami 1 can bear it no longer. Surely [can get something to da I’m sturdy and healthy, and willing to do any kind of work.” Mary shook her head, and rem lined for a long time silent and thoughtful. At length she said with a solemn earnestness of manner that almas, made poor Stephen cry — “ You say that for my sake you have borne your masters unkind treatment for more than a year; for my sake bear it longer, Stephen. Your pa tience must and will he rewarded i.i the end. — You know how I have worked, day and night ever since vour poor father died, when you were only a little infant in the cradle, to teed and clothe you and to pay for your schooling, for 1 was determined that you should have schooling ; you know how 1 have been cheered in all my toil by the hope of seeing you one day geitingon in the wo rid. And 1 know, Stephen that you will get on. bm area good honest lad, and kind to your poor mother, and God will reward you. Bui not if you are —not if you are impatient ; you know how hard it was for me to get you this situation you mitrht not get another —you must not leave —you must not break your indentures —you m ist be pa tient and industrious still —you have a hard mas ter, and, God knows it costs me many a heart-ache to think of what you have to suffer ; hut bear wit 1 him, for my sake a few years longer. * Stephen was now fairly crying, and his mother SAVANNAH, GA.. THURSDAY, MARCH 29, 1849. kissed off his tears, w hile her own flowed freely. Her appeal to his affection was not in vain. He soon nniled through his tears as he said— “ Well mother, you always know how to talk me over. When 1 came in to-night I did think that I would never go to the shop again. But I will promise you to be patient and industrious still.— Considering all that you have done for me, this is little enough for me to do forvo i. When I have a shop of my own you shall live like aladv. I’ll trust to your word that I shall be sure to get on, if I am patient and industrious, though I don’t see how it’s to be. it’s not so very bad to bear after ill; and, bad as mv master is, there’s one comfort he lets me have my Saturday nights and blessed Sumlnvs with you. Well, I feel happier now, and I think lean eat my supper. We forgot that mv porridge was getting cold all this time.” Stephen kept his word—day after day, and month after month, his patience and industry never flagged. And plenty of trials, poor fel low, he had for his fortitude. His master, a small stationer in a small country town, to whom Ste phen was hound apprentice for five years, with a salarv barely sufficient to keep him in clothes, was a little spire, sh irp-faced man, who seemed *r> have worn himself away with continual fretfulness and vexation. He was perpetually fretting, perpetually finding fault with something oroher, perpetually thinking that everything was going wrong. Though lie did cease go to into a passion with, and to strike Stephen, the poor lad ■was an object always at hand, on which to vent his ill humor. M mv, m my was Stephen on the point of lo ing heart and temper; but he was always able o control himself by thinking of his mother.— And, its he said, there was always comfort in those Saturday nights and blessed Sundays. A long walk in the country on those blessed Sun days, and the Testament readings to his mother, would always >trengthen his often wavering faith in her prophecies of good in the end, would cheer his spirits, and nerve him wilh fresh resolution for he criming week. And what was it that the widow hoped would result from this painful bon lige? She did not know—she only had faith in her doctrine—that patience and industry would some time he rewarded. llnv the reward was to com. 1 in her son’s case, she could not see. Ii seemed likely, indeed, from all appearances, that the and >e f riue in this case, would prove false. But uill she h id faith. It wa> now nearly four years since the conver sion between mother and son. They were to gether again on the Saturday evening. Stephen h id grown into a tall, m inly youth, with a gentle, kind, find thoughtful expression >f countenance. Miry looked much older, thinner, paler, and more anxious. Both were at this moment looking verv downcast. “ J do not see that anything can be hoped from him,” said Stephen with a sigh. “I have now served him faithfully for five years —I have borne patiently .ill his ill-humour, I have never been ab sent a u oment from my post, and during all that rime, notwithstanding fill this, he has never thank ed me, he h is never so much as given me a single kind word, nor even a kind look. He must know th it my apprenticeship will be out on Tuesday, vet he never says a word to me about it, and 1 suppose I must just go without a word.” “ You must, speak to him,” said Mary, “you cannot go without saying something —and tell him’exactlv how you are situated; he cannot re fuse to do something to help you.” “ It is easy to talk of speaking to him, mother, hut not so easy to do it. I have often before thought of speaking to him —of telling him how very, very poor we are, and begging a little more salary. Bat l n?ver coal ld> it when [ came be fore him. I seemed to feel that he would refuse me, and L felt somehow too proud to ask a favor that would ‘most likely be refused. But it shall be done now, mother ; I will not be a burthen upon you, if I can help it. I’d sooner do any jibing than that. He might to do something fir line, and there’s no one else thnt I know of that can. I will speak to him on Monday” Monday evening was come—all dav Stephen had been screwing up his courage for the task he had to do; of course, it could not be done when his master and he were in the shop together, for there they were liable at any moment to be inter rupted. At dinner time they separated ; for they took the meal alternately, that the post in the shop might never be deserted. But now the day’s work was over; everything was put away, and master and apprentice had retired into the little back parlor to take their tea. As usual, thev were alone, for the stationer was a single man, (which might account for the sourness of his temper,) and the meal was usually taken in silence. Mephen’s master had poured out for him his first cup of lea, handed it to him without looking ai him, and began to swallow his own potion. Stephen al lowed his cup to remain before him untouched ; he glanced timidly towards his master, drew a deep breath, colored slightly, and then began. “ If vou please, sir, I wish to speak to you. M His master looked up with a sudden jerk of the head, and fixed his keen grey eyes on poor Stephen’s face. He did not seem at all surprised hut said sharply, (and he had a very sharp voice,) “ Well, sir, speak on.” Stephen was determined not to be discouraged, so he began to tell his little tale. His voice fai tered at first, but as he went on he became quite eloquent. He spoke with a boldness which as tonished himself. He forgot his master, and thought only of his mother. He told all about her poverty, and struggles to get a living. He dwelt strongly but modestly on his own conduct during his apprenticeship, and finished by en treating his master now to help him to do some thing. tor he had nothing in the world to turn to, no friends, no money, no influence. His master heard him to the end. He had soon withdrawn his eyes from Stephen’s agitated face, then partially averted his own face, then left his seat, and advanced to a side table, where he be gan to rutnage among some papers, with his back to Stephen. Stephen had ceased speaking some time, before he made any reply. Then, still wiihout turning round, lie spoke, beginning with a sort of grunt ing ejaculation —“Humph ! so your mother gets her living by mangling, does she 1 and she thought that if she got you some schooling, and taught you to behave yourself, your fortune would be made. Well, you will be free to-morrow; you may go to her and tell her she i> a fool for her pains. Here are your indentures, and here’s the salary that’s due to vou. Now vou may go to bed.” As lie spoke the last words, he had taken the indentures from a desk, and the money from his purse. Stephen felt a choking sensation in his throat as he took from his h tnds the paper and the money; he would even have uttered the in dignation he felt, but, before he could speak, his master had left the room. Disappointed and heart-sick, and feeling humiliated that, he should have asked a favor of such a man, the poor lad retired to his garret, and it was almost time to get up in the morning before he could fall asleep. On ihe Tuesday, when the day’s woik was over, Ste phen packed up his bundle of clothes ; should he say good bye to his master 1 Yes ;he would not be ungracious at the last. He opened the door of the back parlour, and stood just within the door wav, his bundle in his hand. His mas er was sitting, solitary, at the tea-table. “ 1 am going, sir, good bye,” said Stephen. “Good bye, sir,” returned his master, without looking at him. And so they parted. The result of the application told, the mother and son sat together that night in silence; their hearts were too full for word Mary sorrowed most, because she had hoped most. Bitter tears rolled down her cheeks, and she sat brooding NUMBER 4.