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JOHN HENRY SEALS, )
and > Editors.
L. LINCOLN VEAZEY, >
NEW SERIES, VOL. I.
TIMPIRAW - CRUSADER.
PUBLISHED
EVERY SATURDAY, EXCEPT TWO, IN THE YEAR,
BY JOHN H. SEALS.
TERMS :
SI,OO, in advance; or $2,00 at the end of the year.
RATIOS OF ADVERTISING.
1 square (twelve lines or le.-s) first insertion,..sl 00
F/aeh continuance, 50
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six lines, per year, 5 00
Announcing Candidates for Office, 3 00
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1 square, six months, 7 00
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2 squares, “ “ . .18 00
3 squares, “ “ 21 00
4 squares, “ “ 25 00
Advertisements not marked with the number
of insertions, will bo continued until forbid, and
charged accordingly.
|sjT“Merchants, Druggists, and others, may con
tract for advertising by the year, on reasonable terms.
L EGAD ADVERTISEMENTS.
Sale of Land or Negroes, by Administrators,
Executors, and Guardians, per square,— 5 00
Sale of-Personal Property, by Administrators,
Executors, and Guardians, per square, 3 25
Notice to Debtors and Creditors, 3 25
.Notice for Leave to Sell, 4 00
Citation for Letters of Administration, 2 75
Citation for Letters of Dismission from Adm’n. 5 00
Citation for Letters of Dismission from Guardi
anship, * 3 25
LEGAL REQUIREMENTS.
Sales of Land and Negroes, by Administrators,
Executors, or Guardians, are required by law to be
held on the first Tuesday in the month, between the
hours of ten in the forenoon and three in the after
noon, at the Court House in the County in which the
property is situate. Notices of these sales must be
given in a public gazette forty days previous to the
day of sale.
Notices for the sale of Personal Property must be
given at least ten days previous to the day of sale.
Notice to Debtors and Creditors of an Estate must
.be published forty day?.
Notice that application will be made to the Court
of Ordinary for leave to sell Land or Negroes, must
be published weekly for two months.
Citations for Letters of Administration must be
published thirty days —for Dismission from Admin
istration, monthly. , sic mouths —for Dismission from
Guardianship, forty days.
Rules for Foreclosure of Mortgage must be pub
li lied monthly for four months —for compelling titles
from Executors or Administrators, where a bond has
been given by the deceased, the full space of three
> .t oaths.
will always be continued accord
ing to these, the legal requirements, unless otherwise
-ordered.
The Law of Newspapers,
1. Subscribers who do not give express notice to
the contrary, are considered as wishing to continue,
their subscription.
2. If subscribers order the discontinuance of their
newspapers, the publisher may continue to send them
until all arrearages are paid.
8. If subscribers neglect or refuse to take their
newspapers from the ofiices to which they are di
rected, they are held responsible until they have set
tled the bilis and ordered them discontinued.
4. If subscribers remove to other places without
informing the publishers, and the newspapers are
sent to the former direction, they are held responsi
ble.
5. The Courts have decided that refusing to take
newspapers from the office, or removing and leaving
them uncalled for, is prima facie evidence of inten
tional fraud.
so The Unites! States Courts have also repeatedly
decided, that a Postmaster vv ho neglects to perforin
his duty of giving reasonable notice, as required by
the Post Office Department, of the neglect of a per
son to take from the office newspapers addressed to
him, renders the Postmaster liable to the publisher
for the subscription price.
JOB PRINTING,
of every description, done with neatness and dispatch,
at this office, and at reasonable prices for cash. All
orders, in this department, must be addressed to
J. T. BLAIN.
PROSPECTUS
OF TIIE
TIIPIMI CRUSADER,
[quondam]
TEMPERANCE BANNER.
ACTUATED by a conscientious desire to further
C£l. the cause of Temperance, and experiencing
.-roat disadvantage in being too narrowly limited in
ppaee, by the smallness of our paper, for the publica
tion of Reform Arguments and Passionate Appeals,
we hate determined to enlarge it to a more conve
nient and acceptable size. And being conscious of
the fact that there are existing in the minds of a
large portion of the present readers of the Banner
and its former patrons, prejudices and difficulties
which can never be removed so long as it retains the
name we venture also to make a change in that par
ticular. It witi henceforth be called, ‘‘THE TEM
PERA N0 E GiIUSADER.”
This old pioneer of the Temperance cause is des
tined yet to chronicle the triumph, of its principles.
It has stood the test —passed through the “fiery fur
nace. ’ and, like the “Hebrew children,” re-appeared
unscorched. It ha3 survived the newspaper famine
which has caused, and is still causing many excel
lent journals and periodicals to sink, like “bright ex
halations in the evening,” to rise no more, and it has
eve q heralded the “death struggles of many contem
poraries, laboring for the same great end with itself.
U “still fives,” and “waxing bolder as it grows older,”
is how waging an eternal “Crusade” against the “In
fernal Liquor Traffic,” standing like the “High Priest”
of the Israelites, who stood between the people and
p, e phn-nc that threatened destruction.
“We entreat the friends of the Temperance Cause
to give us their influence in extending the usefulness
of the paper. We intend presenting to the public a
she-d worthy ‘of ail attention and a liberal patronage;
for while it is strictly, a Temperance Journal , we shall
endeavor to keep its readers posted on all the current
events throughout the country.
K®=Pree, as heretofore, sl, strictly in advance.
** ’ JOHN H. SEALS,
Editor and Proprietor.
Pen Hold, Ga., Dec. 8, 1855.
Sttetdr to ‘fmptfaatf, Puralilj, fifcratow, inttral JntoUipce, fa.
THE NEW MOTHER.
BY VIRGINIA F. TOWNSEND.
“Well, now, dear, which will you have,
the white, or the pink cainelias? You
know you can take your choice, Alice ?”
and Aunt Maggie lifted the large blossoms
and laid them against the little girl’s rich
yellow curls, as she spoke.
The blue eyes of Alice Field wandered
doubtfully from one to the other. It was
very hard to decide, for the flowers seem
ed equally beautiful, as they lay among
tiie long green leaves, one white as the
snow on the mountain tops, the f>ther
wearing that deep, rich flush which the
little country children see in the June sun
rises.
At last anew thought brightened into
Alice’s face. “I’ll take one of each kind;
you know, Aunt Maggie, I am to wear
them on either side of my hair, and it will
be just the thing.”
. “So it will, dear child. Just pull the
bell wire, while I pay the man;” and Aunt
Maggie drew her pearl porte-monaie from
her pocket.
While Mrs. Field was counting the sil
ver another little girl put her head in at
the door, whom the lady ordered to bring
a glass vase, half filled with water, for the
cainelias.
As the flower man departed, the little
girl returned; she was about Alice’s age,
and yet, what a contrast was there in the
two!
Lucy Hunt had lived with Mrs. Field
but a short time. She was an orphan,
without any friends in the world. This
was the most the family knew of her.
She had a pale, wistful face, with large,
sad eyes, and her thick, brown hair was
cropped short in her neck, around which
loving fingers had once twined curls bright
as Alice Field’s. *
“There, Lucy! just see what you’ve
done, now ! What a careless child you
are! you’ve nearly spoiled Alice’s new
skirt!” said Mrs. Field, as she almost rude
ly brushed Lucy away, for tlve child had
stumbled as she presented the vase of wa
ter, and several drops had spilled over, and
fallen on the skirt the lady was trimming.
“I didn’t mean to, ma’ma,” stammered
the little girl; “but somehow my head felt
dizzy.”
“Well, do look out, and be more careful
next time;” rejoined. Mrs. Field, who
thought frequently hasty, was not a hard
hearted woman.
Alice looked np as the child left the
room. She saw the tears washing stilly
out of Lucy’s eyes, and creeping down her
cheeks. Her heart was touched with pity,
and though Aunt Maggie continued to
talk about the new dress, and the birth
night party, the child answered in dreamy
monosyllables, for she hardly heard her,
because of the little pale, wistful face, witU
the tears flowing down it, which seemed
standing right before her.
Atlast she noislessly slid out of the room,
and went down to the kitchen door, and
peeped softly in, but Lucy was not there.
“I guess she’s upstairs in her own room..
Maybe she’s gone there to cry, poor little
girl ! I’ll try and find her. anyhow.” And
she went up four pair of stairs, and through
the narrow, dark passage that led to Lu.
c.y’s room, at the back of the bouse.
‘flie door stood a little ajar, and Alice
distinctly heard a sob creeping out of it.
She went in bravely, then. “Lucy.”
siie said, in her sweet, low tones, “I came
to find you, and to tell you not to cry be
cause yon spilled the water on my dress,
i don’t care anything at all about it, you
see.”
Lucy sat on the low bedstead, and the
setting sunlight, as it pushed through the
half open blinds, struck rich and golden
into the child’s brown hair.
Alice went softly, and put her arms
round her. Lucy iooked np, and tried to
smile, but the tears came instead, and
great sobs shook her frame t hough she clung
to Alliee all the time—Alice, whose bright
eyes were brimmed witli sympathy.
“Oh!, it seems so good to have you here,
I do cry*,” at last whispered Lucy.
“Does it? I’m really glad! But you
musn’t teel bad any more. You’re lone
some, I guess, because yon don’t have any
body to play with yon.”
’"iNo, it isn’t that,” shaking her head
mournfully. It’s because mamma’s dead,
and I haven’t anybody to love me.
“Poor Lucy! is your mamma dead, too?”
her voice and her face were very full of
touching pathos us she drew still nearer to
the child, for Allice could just remember
her own beautiful mother, as she lay in the
coffin with the white roses strewn about
her cold cheeks.
God had never given any children to
Mr. and Mrs. Field, so Alice had lived with
them ever since; and they loved her quite
as tenderly as if she were their own
daughter.
“Yes,” Lucy answered, in a broken
voice. “Oh, she was such a sweet, gentle,
loving mother! We lived out in the coun
try too, where tiie sunshine used to lie
bright on the meadow grass, and the gold
en dandelions grew like stars along the
road-side. But mamma grew sick, and”—
Lucy’s voice failed her here, and when she
dared trust it again she only added i “The
next w r eek they buried her by the old,
PENFIELD, SA, SATURDAY, MAY 17, 1856.
mossy wall, where they laid papa when 1
was a baby.” ,
“lam very, very sorry for you, Lucy,”
whispered the tremulous voice of Alice.
“Don’t call me Lucy, please, but Lilly.
It was what my mamma called me. *Mj
darling Lilly!” she used to say it so sweet
ly.”
“Well, Lilly, wasn’t there anybody to
take care of ydn after your mamma died?”
“No, nobody. They brought me to the
city, and placed me in that washerwo
man’s family, where your aunt found me:
Maintna told me she was going home to the
angels, and that sometime she would come
for me. Every week I call to her come
come, come, for her neck again. Oh ! I wish
she would make haste !”
“Well, Lilly, don’t say again nobody
loves you, because I do dearly,” said Alice,
stroking the short brown hair.
“Do 3 on? Do you really?” What a tide
of light flowed over Lucy’s face as she
clasped her arms around Alice. And far
above them, where the winds murmured
softly through a sea of white blossoms, the
angels laid by for a moment the crown they
were wearing, looked down on the two
children asffhey sat there in the little room
on the low bed, and smiled.
Two days had passed. Alice had atten
ded the birth-night party of her friend, ta
ken a severe cold, which had settled into
a fever, and now the family stood in the
darkened chamber, by the Tittle couch with
its pink loopings and lace hanging, on
which the child lay dying.
Heavy sobs broke the silence. The death
coldness was on Alices’s soft cheeks, the
death dimness in her blue eyes.
Suddenly they opened, and the last life
light gathered into them.
“Oh, Alice, my darling, how can I let.
you,go!” wept out the child’s aunt, as she
clasped the little, cold hands. Alice’s eyes
wandered to the foot of the bed, where
Lilly stood, almost convulsed with grief.
She beckoned her faintly to her side, and
Lilly came, and Alice feebly placed the
child’s hand in that of her aunt.
“I give her to you,” she said. “It is
my dying gift, Aunt Mattie. Promise me
you will take her to your heart, and she
shall be all to yon and Uncle Charlie that
I have been, when I am up there /”
Mrs. Field looked at Lilly a moment, and
then drew her to her heart.
“I promise you, Alice. She shall be to
me another daughter.”
“There, Lilly, you have mother now,”
cried Alice, with joyful triumph. And
then, the light went out from her-face, and
the lids dropped gently over her eyes.
She had gone home , little children to
wear the crown which the angels had fin ,
ishedfor her.
—<4* * -*ty~ e
NEGRO STEALING.
On Mon da}” morning last through the
attention of a friend in Sumterviile, whose
communication appeared in our columns,
we gave information that a merchant resi
ding in Sumterviile had been arrested on
the charge of negro-stealing.
The annexed details of the theft and the
tragedy of the miserable criminal, Win.F.
Byrd, we copy from the Sumter Watch
man. Byrd has only anticipated the sen
tence of the court which would be pissed
upon him after his trial.
Crime and Suicide. —Since our last is
sue, a case involving circumstances of deep
and exciting interest has been developed
in our very midst—exciting in every de
tail from the beginning, but doubly more
so in the tragical issue.
Our readers will remember to have seen,
some time since, an advertisement in the
Watchman, by our townsman Col. F- J.
Moses, of two slaves who were missing
from his premises. Their long absence,
which could not be accounted for on the
score of any provocation or indignity of
fered them, or of expressed dissatisfaction
on their part, taken in connection with the
mysterious disappearance, some time be
fore, of a negro boy of another one of our
citizens, soon induced the belief in the
minds of most persons that they were sto
len. Various circumstances fixed the sus
picions of the community upon a particu
lar individual. The matter was kept still,
however, for some time, until at last, after
finessing, a sufficient clue was obtained to
the whereabouts of the negroes, to warrant
a gentleman of our town in taking a trip to
the town of Amerieus in the lower part of
Georgia. Arrived there, he was not long
in discovering the person to whom they
had been sold, and in ideutityifig the ne
groes. The purchaser, Mr. Hooks, upon
being convinced that he had been victim
ized, readily yielded them up, and upon
the suggestion of the gentleman who had
gone in quest of them, consented to return
with him to this place. They arrived
here on Tuesday evening, the Bth lust.
After some delay in making out the ne
cessary papers, Mr. Hooks, accompanied
by our efficient sheriff and others, strolled
by the new store of Byrd and Louis. It
was brilliantly lighted up, and was filled
with a jolly company. Immediately, and
without hesitation, Mr. Hooks declared,,
that, in the person Wm. Friendly Byrd, he
recognized the individual from whom he had
purchased the slaves. The sheriff then en
tered she More* accompanied by a friend of
Mr. Hooks. Tell ing him, that there was
some dissatisfaction about the titles to cer-
-fain property that, he’had sold, he was
easii} persuaded to make a confession of
judgment. It is said that he understood
tne allusion to be to another transaction ;
but of that we cannot speak. This accom
plished, the sheriff produced a warrant,
yiTosted him on the charge of negro-steal
mg, and lodged him in jail. The Grand
Jury returned a verdict of “true bill” on
the indictment on the next day, and the
••prisoner was at once arraigned. But at the
ivquevr. of his attorneys, the trial was post
poned Until Monday.
meantime, Capt. Frierson, tire
sheriff, observed every precaution for the
safe-keeping of the prisoner. He was con
fined in a dungeon and chained to the
floor. There are no iron cuffs for the ank
les in the jail, and accordingly it was ne
cessary to bind a common chain about Iris
ankles,and secure it with a padlock. It
will be seen at a glance, that it is impossi
ble to adjust the unpliant links very close
ly to the limb without injury to it—still,
he was thought to bo securely bound. This
was deemed necessary at first, from sever
al considerations, but especially so after
wards, when there were good reasons to
believe that he meditated mischief upon
himself. A note to his wife, written in
pencil on the margin of a newspaper, was
intercepted. In it, he implored her to send
him strychnine or laudanum, saying that
he wished to die; that the whole world was
against him; the sheriff had confined him
so closely that he eould seb no one out of
his presence. He was found hanging by
a sheet, which he had twisted for the pur
pose, to the grating of the window—dead.
His feet were bruised by the force necessa
ry to get them from the chain.— Sumter
Watchman.
From the Nashville Journal of Medicine.
A DOCTOR’S LIFE,
The following are some of the sweets of
a Doctor’s life. If he visits a few of his
customers when they are well, it is to
get his dinner; if he don’t do so it is be
cause he cares more about the fleece than
the flock. If he goes to church regularly,
it is because be bas nothing else to do ; if
he don’t go, it is because he has no respect
for the Sabbath or religion. If lie speaks
to a poor person, he keeps bad company ;
if lie passes them by he is better than oth
er folks. If he has a good carriage, he is
extravagant; if he uses a poor one on the
score of economy, he is deficient in neces
sary pride. If lie makes parties, it is to
soft-soap the people to get their money ; if
ho don’t make them, he is afraid of a cent!
If his horse is fat, it is because helms
nothing to do, if lie is lean, it is because he
isn’t taken care of. If he drives fast, it is
to make people think somebody is very
sick; if he drives sloWj he has no interest
in the welfare of his patients. If he dres
ses neat, he is proud; if he does not he is
wanting in self-respect. If he works on the
land, he is fit for nothing but a farmer; if
he don’t work, it is because he is too lazy
to be anything. If he talks much, “we
don’t wan’t a doctor to tell everything he
knows,” if he don’t talk, we like to see a
doctor social.” If he says anything about
politics, lie lmd better let it alone; if he
don’t say anything about it, “we like to
see a man show his colors. If he visits his
patients every day, it is to run up a bill;
if he don’t, it is unjustifiable negligence.
If lie says anything about religion, he is
a hypocrite; if he don’t, he is an infidel.
If he uses any of the popular remedies of
the day, it is to cater to the whims and
prejudices of the people to fill his pockets;
if he don’t use them it is from profession
selfishness. If he is in the habit of having
counsel often, it is because be knows noth
ing; if he objects to hav’ug it on the ground
that he understands his own business, lie
is afraidof exposing his ignorance to his
superiors. If* _ he gets pay for one half his,
service, he has the reputation of being a
great manager. Who would’nt be an
M. D. ?
ONE OF ROGERS’ REMINISCENCES,
The Rev. John Mitford says that in the
last drive he ever took with Samuel Rog
ers, when returning by the City road, the
poet pulled the check string opposite to
the Bunliill fields burial ground, and then
told his friend to go out. ‘You see that little
chapel opposite; go and look carefully at
the house which stands there to the left of
it, and then come back and get in.” This
duty performed, Rogers said, “When I was
young man in tiie banking house, and my
father lived at Newington, I used every
day, in going to the city, to pass by this
place. One day, in returning, I saw a
number of respectable persons of both sex
es assembled here, all well dressed, in
mourning, and with very serious look and
behaviour. The door of the house was
opened, and they entered in pairs. I
thought that without impropriety I might
join them, so we all walked up stairs, and
came to a drawing room, in the midst of
which was a table; on the table lay the
body of a person dressed in {a clergyman’s
robes, with bands, and his grey hair sha
ding his face on either side. He was of
small stature, and his countenance looked
like wax. We all moved around the table,
some of the party much affected, with our
eyes fixed upon the venerable figure that
lay before us; and, as we moved on, others
came up and sficceeded us in like maimer.
After wo had gone the round of the table
in our lingering procession, we descended
as we came. The person that lav before
us was the celebrated John Wesley, and
at the earnest request of his congregation,
they were permitted to take this pathetic
und affectionate farewell of their beloved
pastor.”
SHOOTING STARS.
There was a man in this city, who of clear
nights, used to rig up a telescope where
with to study astronomy at a sixpence a
squint.
One night as he was getting under way
I saw two Irish gentlemen taking an obser
vation ot his movements. Both were po
lice— men.
Jamey, said one, what in the worried is
yon fellow after with his machine] y!
Whist, ye spalpeen, whispered the other
sure and can’t you see that it’s air gun can
non that he’s got. lie's afther sho..tin
stars, he is.
Hadn’t, we better be getting out of the
way, thifi? inquired his friend.
Sure, and it’s not us, was the answer
Didn’t ye ever hear of shooting stars ?
By this time the telescope man iiafi ar
ranged his instrument and squinted thro’
it up at the stars. The policeman gazed
up likewise in wonder. Just then by an
odd chance a large meteor shot down the
sky.
Bedad, he hit—he’s fetched it down!
cried both of the paddies, iu a breath. Sure
and that’s the greatest shooting I iversaw
iii all my life ? But a sense of duty prevail
ed, and one of them at once rudely accost
ed the man of science.
Ye’ll jist stop that now, mister, av ye
plase. The night is dark enough now and
if you go on snooting stars at that rate,
sorra the man’ll find his way about the
strata. And the telescope man had to
pick up and be off.
THE BETTER DEED.
s—o
BY S. A. WENTZ,
— o —
young wives sat laughing and chat
ting in a large front porch, shaded in by
fresh green vines and delicate honeysuckle
.blossoms. The lawn swept down” to the
white gate, and beyond the road lay the sea,
dimpling in the sunshine, as it it were a re
flection of the young wives’ faces.
“Ah 1” said little May, shaking her head,
“I laugh to myself to see how Charlie gives
in to me—you know he is very firm i oh.
dreadfully firm ! Whenever I want to do
anything he don’t want me to do very much,
I look so meek and submissive, and say with
a sigh, ‘Wed, Charlie, I’ll do as you think
best.’ You see, l know he’ll think it best
for me to have my own way in the end. lie
looks at me two or three times out of the
corner of his eye, and in a few moments he
says, ‘May, the more I think of it, the more
I think you had better do as you propose.’
And then,” continued little may, with a
flourish of her snowy hand, “I fall in his
arms, etc., etc.”
“Yes, that is the way !” responded the
two wives, laughing untii the tears came.
“I do so!”
“But still,” said May, as her childlike ex
pression gave place to a look all womanly
and full ot soul, “I try so hard to act rightly;
I pray every night and morning that I may
learn to link Charlie’s heart to heaven. And
it does seem to me that he grows sweeter
and kinder every day, as if heavenly blos
soms came to lodge in his heart; making it
springtime in his soul all the time. But who
is that?” and May turned an eager look to
wards an old womqn who entered the gate.
The woman went to the kitchen, while one
of the wives related her present history to
May. She had a deerepid, helpless hus
band, and a daughter lying at the point of
death—she was steeped to the lips in pov
erty, and had suffered greatly before her
situation was found out.
“Oh, it’ 1 had known it in time!” said May,
as the tears rose in her eyes. When the
woman came from the kitchen, May glided
from the porch, and handed her a half-dol
lar, all she had with her, saying, “Won’t
you take that ?”
As May ran back to the porch, she heard
one ol her friends say, “Isn’t she the sweet
est, the most generous creature that ever
was?” And May thought suddenly within
herself, “I suppose I am 1”
##*####
May had gone back to her own lovely cot
tage at nightfall. Her husband was not at
home; a friend had come from a distance to
see her—an old lady. May tossed aside
her straw bonnet, and sat down beside the
matron, striving to devote herself to her en
tertainment. It occurred to her suddenly
to ask if her guest had been to tea No, she
had not.; so the young wife stepped to the
kitchen, and said, “Ann, make a fire and set
the table for two, will you ?” May thought
that Ann looked ill; she felt sorry for her,
but murmured to herself, “It seems to be a
necessity that she should work just now, al
though she does not look able to. I must en
tertain Mrs. Potter, and then I have my
white dress on. It is insufferably warm.”
She went back to the parlor, but even
while she talked, it kept passing through her
mind. “Is it generous or kind for me to al
low poor Ann to work now ? She looked
as if she would drop down, dear, faithful
girl. Which is the greater charity, to give
a little money to a poor woman, or to relieve
my girl when she is sick ? As far as lam
TERMS: #I.OO IN ADVANCE.
JAMES T. BLAIS.
‘eis.mTKjs.
YOL. XXII,-NUMBER 19.
concerned, that which costs me the greatest
effort is the best deed. But. oh, dear. lam
so selfish, J hate to go in the kitchen just
now.” Still she talked to Mrs. Potter, in
wardly musing the while. At length she
said within herself. “ This hestanev about
performing a plain duty will never win hea
ven.”
She rose abruptly, saying. “Excuse me a
lew moments, Mrs. Potter
Upon entering the kitchen the second
time, she saw poor Ann slowly kindling a
fire as she sat on the floor, with one hand
pressed on her forehead.
“Does your head ache so!” she asked, in
sweetest tones, laying her soft hand upon
the flushed brow of the girl. “You had bet
ter go to bed, Ann, I’ll get tea, and if you
are not better in the morning. I’ll get break
fast lam sorry you feel so badly. Let
me put a wet cloth on your head.”
The girl took a chair, and submitted her
self to the tender cares ot her young mi -
tress. Tears gushed to her eyes, and ran in
torrents down her cheeks. .
“Oh. but I think of my mother when lam
sick ! she was so good !” broke*from the lips
of the poor Irish girl.
“Oh. yes, Ann. our hearts will yearn ib>’
our mothers in sickness. I know what it is!
1 was sick once away from home.” And
May gently the girl’s hair, then
laid her hand on her shoulder, saying, “Go
lie down, and don’t trouble yourself about
the work. You are so faithful, Ann, I know
you will he anxious to do all you are able
to.”
An sought her room, soothed to the very
centre of her heart; May’s kind manner had
prevented an hour of passionate weeping ;
she fell asleep quietly.
Little May put on an immense check a
pron, and flitted about the kitchen with the
blithest heart in the world ; she felt so joy
ously grateful t hat her attendant angels had
pressed her to be merciful to her servant.
Ever and anon, as she was setting the,table
in the dining room, she would put her bright
face into the parlor door, with a cordial,
laughing word to Mrs. Potter. Jf the truth
must be told, May was not glad right down
in her heart when she found that Mrs. Pot
ter was her guest, but now there arose a
new, dear leeling of warmth towards the
.good oid lady. When they sat down to
ttjeir cosy littie meal, and talked and drank
their fragrant tea, May thought she had
looked for the first time beyond the aged ex
terior of Airs. Potter, and had caught
glimpses of spiritual youth and beauty. A
blessing fell on May that day.
VALUE OF THE OEXW.A TREE BSRKY.
They makegood manure, when put in the
hill with corn. They are a preventative to
ants injuring cabbage or other young plants
when sown in the drill with the seed. They
also make a dark colored soap which an
swers the purpose for washing coarse cloth
ing. One fact in relation to the China tree
is worthy the attention of every housekeep
er. A gentleman living in the pinewoods
near Augusta, on the Carolina side of the Sa
vannah river, was for several years very
much annoyed by ants. They were so nu
merous as to get in every portion of his
house, among his provisions, in his beds. &c.
Every method suggested was tried to get
riil of them, but to no purpose, until he was
told to plant China trees in his yard, and
around his dwelling. This was done, and
in three years from the time he had drilled
the berries, they had disappeared and never
after troubled his household. We may add
that the cold winter of’3s killed the China
trees in our yard where we had resided a
number of years. The year following, and
never until then, were we troubled with the
ant.
Another fact in relation to this tree. A
gentleman owned a valuable plantation on
Beach Island, near Augusta, which had
growing upon it a kind of grass that pre
vented his working it in a proper manner,
and doing great injury to his cotton crop.—
Determined to get rid of it, .in some way, he
drilled China berries, which were suffered
to grow three years, completely destroying
the grass. They being of quick growth
were cut down and hauled to Augusta for
firewood. We would suggest to the own
ers of old fields around Memphis, to drill the
berries in rows ten feet apart and they will
reclaim from the foliage of the tree it plow
ed in every season.— Ex .
SHE NEVER LEAVES HIM.
Look at the career of man as he passes
through the world ; of man. visited by mis
fortune ! How often is he left bv his,fellow
men to sink under the weight of bis afflic
tions, unheeded and alone ! One friend of
his own sex forgets him, another abandons
him, a third, perhaps, betrays him ; but wo
man, faithful woman, follows him in his af
fliction with unshaken affection; braves the
changes of his feelings, of his temper embit
tered by the disappointments of the world,
with the highest of all virtue; in resigned pa
tience ministers to his wants, even when her
own are hal'd and pressing; she weeps with
him, tear for tear, in his distress, and is the
first to catch and reflect a ray of joy, should
but one light up his countenance in the
midst of his sufferings ; and she never leaves
him in his misery while there remains one
act of love, duty, or compassion to be per
formed. And at last, when life and sorrow
comes together, she follows him to the tomb,
with the ardor of affection which death it
self cannot destroy.