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“ JOHN HENRY SEALS, ?
and > Editors.
JL. LINCOLN VEAZEY, )
NEW SERIES. VOL. I.
TEMPERANCE CRUSADER.
published
VBRY SATURDAY, EXCEPT TWO, IIV THE YEAR,
BY JOHN H. SEALS.
TERMS I
SI,OO, in advance; or $2,00 at.the end of the year.
RATES OF ADVERTISING.
I square (twelve lines or le-s) first insertion,. -$1 00
Each continuance, -- - 50
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six lines, per year,. 5 00
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ST AN DING AD V ERTIS KM K NTS.
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8 squares, “ “ 21 00
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not marked with the number
of insertions, will be continued until forbid, and
charged accordingly.
Druggists, and others, may con
tract for advertising by the year, on reasonable terms.
LEGAL 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 iaw 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 days.
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, six months —for Dismission from
Guardianship, forty days.
Rules for Foreclosure of Mortgage must be pub
lished 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
months.
will always be continued accord
ing to these, the legal requirements, unless otherwise
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The Law of Newspapers.
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rected, they are held responsible until they have set
tled the bills and ordered them discontinued.
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tional fraud.
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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
01’ THE
TEMPERANCE CRUSADER.
[quondam]
TEMPERANCE BANNER.
ACTUATED by a conscientious desire to further
the cause of Temperance, and experiencing
great disadvantage in being too narrowly limited in
space, by the smallness of our paper, for the publica
tion of Reform Arguments and Passionate Appeals,
vve have determined to enlarge it to a more conve
nient and acceptable size. And being conscious of
ti.'c fact that there are existing in the minds of a
lanre portion of the present readers of the Danner
and its former patrons, prejudices and difficulties
v. hich can never be removed so long as it retains the
name we venture also to make a change in that par
tieular. It will henceforth be called, “THE TEM
PERANCE CRUSADER.”
This old pioneer of the Temperance cause is des
tined yet to chronicle the triumph of its principles.
[ Aws stood the test—passed through the “fiery fur
nace ” and like the “Hebrew children,” re-appeared
unscorched. It has 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
even heralded the “death struggles of many, contem
poraries, laboring for the same great end with itself.
uiuiH |j veß ” and “waxing bolder as it grows older,
, „„5 Wng an eternal S Omd.” against the “In
traffic,” standing like the -High Priest”
of the Israelites, who stood between the people and
to ffive us their influence in extending the usefulness
of the paper. We intend presenting to the public a
sheet worthy of all attention and a liberal patronage;
for while it is strictly a Temperance Journal, we shal
effevor to keep its readers posted on all the current
events throughout the country.
as heretofore, sl, strictly m advance.
’ JOHN H, SEALS,
Editor and Proprietor.
Penfteld, Ga., Dec. 8, 1866.
’ ] *■_ *
§)ttartefc to fenijimme, JEoralito, fiftraturc, (feral ftdtllipte, Jta, Ac.
[I’t;M.XSHEL> J{V REQUEST*]
A HIDE oN~ii BULL;
Or, Mike Fink in a tjte flack.
Mike Fink, ;i notorious Buckeye hunter,
was cotemporary-with the celebrated Davy
Crockett, and his equal in all things apper
taining to human prowess. It. was even
said’that the animals in his neighborhood
knew the crack of his rifle, and would take
to their hiding places on the first intima
tion that Mike ‘was about. Yet strange-,
though true, he was but little known be
yond his immediate, settlement.
When we knew h-im, he was an old man;
the Idas! of seventy winters had silvered
o'er his head, anu taken t he elasticity from
his limbs; yet in the whole of* his life, was
Mike never worsted, except upon one oc
casion.
To use his own ■language, “he never gin
in, (used up,) to any thing that traveled on
two legs or four,” but once.
“That once, we want,” said Bill Slash
er, as some half dozen of us sat in the bar
room of the only tavern in the settlement.
“(five it to us now, Mike, you’ve promised
long enough, and you’re old now, and
needn’t care,” continued Bill.
“Right, right, Bill,” said Mike, “but
we’ll open with a licker all round first, it’ll
kind ’o save iny feelins, I reckon*. Thar,
that’s good. Better than tot her barrel], it
anything.”
“Well boys,” commenced Mike, “yon
talk of your scritnages, tight places, and
sich like and subtract ’em altogether in one
almighty big tin. and they hain't no more
to be compared with the due that t war in,
than a dead kitten to an old she Bar! I’ve
font out all kinds of varmints from a Ingin
down to rattlesnake; and never was will in
to quit fust but this once, and ’twas with a
Bulk
You see boys, it was an orful hot day in
August, and t war nigh runnin of to pure
lie, wh©n I warthinkin that a dip in the
creek inont save me. Wall, thar war a
mity nice place in old Deacon Smith’s
medder for that parcicler bizziness. So I
went down amongst the bushes to unbar
ness.
I jist hauled the old red shirt over my
head and war thinkin how scrumptuous a
fellow of my size would feel a wallerin a
round in that or water, and was jist ’bout,
goin in when I seed the bid Deacon’s Bull
a rackin'a bee line to whar l stood.
1 know’d the old cuff, for he’d skar’d
more people than all the Parsons of the
settlement,and cum mity nearkillin a few.
Thinks I, Mike you’re in rather a tight
place, git your fixins on tor he’ll be a dri
vin them big horns of his into your bow
els afore that time. Well you’ll have to
try the old varmint naked, I reckon.
The Bull war on one side of the creek,
and I on tother, and the way he made too
sile fly fora while as if he war a diggin my
grave, war distressin. Come on ye bel
iarin old heathin, said I, and don’t be stari
■ din thar; for as the old Deacon says of the
devil, yer not comely to look on.
This kind o’ reached his understand in,
and made him more wish*.us; for he hoofed
a little like and made a dive And as I
don’t like to stand in any body’s way, I gin
him a plenty sea room. So he kind o’pass
ed by me and cum out on tother side; and
as the Captain o’ the Mud Swamp Rangers
would say, ‘bout face for another charge.’
Though I war reddy for him this time,
he come mighty near runnin foul o’ me ! so
I made up my mind next time he went
out he wouldn’t be a lone. So when he {Kiss
ed I grappled his tail, and he pulled me on
the rile, and as soon as we war both a top
• ’ the hank, old Briridlo stuped and war
bout cumin round agin, when I began pul
lin t’other way. W ell, 1 reck in this kind
o’ siled him, for he just stood stock still,
and looked at me for a spell, and then com
menced pa win and Ixdierin, and the wav
he made his hind gerrin pkiv in the ar
was beautiful.
But it was no use, he couldn’t tech me,
so he kind o’ stoped to get wind for some
thin devlish, as 1 jidged by the way he
stared! By this time I had made up my
mind to stick to his tail as lung as it stuck
to his backbone! I didn’t like to holler for
help as it was agin my principles, and
then the Deacon had preaching at his
Imusc, and it warn’t far oil'outlier.
I ktiowVi if lie beam the noise, the hull
congregation would cum down; and as I
warn’r a marriedman; laid a kind o’ hank
erin after a gal that war thar, 1 didn’t feel
as if I would like to be seen in that pre
dicament. So, says 1, you old sarpent, do
your cussedestr! and so he did; for he drug
me over every briar and stump in the field,
until I war swetin arid bleed in like a fat
Bear with a pack o’ hounds at his heele;
and my name aint Mike Fink, if the old
critters tail and IMidn’t blow out some
times at a dead levii with the varmints
back!
So you may kalkerlate we made good
time. Bimeby he slackened a little, and
then 1 bad him sis ndspoll; tor I jist drap
pod behind astump and thar snubbed the
critter! Now, save I, Sou’ll pull up this ere
white oak, break your tail, or jest boh] on
a hit til! I blow.
Well, while I war settih thar, an idea
struck me that I had better be gettih out
o’ this some way. But how adzaeldy was
PENFIELD, GA, SATURDAY, JUNE 7, 18515.
the pint! If I let go and run he’d be a
foul o’ me sure.
Bo look in at the matter in all its beer
ins, I cum to the conclusion that I’d better
let somebody know whar I war. So I gin
a yell, louder than a locomotive whistle,
and it wan Ft long afore Iseed the Deacon’s
two clogs a com in down as if they war see
in which could get thar fust. 1 knbwed who
they war arter—they’d jine the Bull agin
me I war sartia, for they war oifnl tveni
mousa.nd had a suite agin me.
So, says I, old Brindle,- as ridin is as
cheap as walkin on this rout, if you’ve no
objections, i’ll jist take deck passage on
that ar back o’ yourn. So I was’nt long
gittin astride of him; and then if you’d bin
thar you’d ave sworn thar was’nt nothin
human in that ar mix! the sile- flew so or
fully as the critter and I rolled round the
field ; one dog on one side and one on toth
er, try in to clench my feet.
I prayed and enssed, and cussed and
prayed, until I could’nt tell which I did
last, and nuther warn” of any use they
war so orfully mixed up.
Well I reckon t rid about an hour ibis
way, when old -'Brindle though it wartime
to stop and take in a supply of wood and
cool off a little, so when we got round to a
tree that stood thar, he nat’raly halted.
Now, says I, old boy, you'll loose one
passenger ear tin! So I jist. clurn up a branch
kalkerlatin to roost thar, till I starved afore
I’d be rid round in thatar way any longer
I war makin tracks for the top of the tree,
when I heard sumthin makin an orful fns
sin over head. I kinder looked up and if
thar war’nt—well tliar’s no use a swearin
about it now—the biggest hornet’s nest
ever built.
You’ii gin in now, I-reckon Mike, case
thar’s no help for you! But an idea struck
me then, that I’d stand a heap bet
ter chance a ridin the old Bali, than whar
I war. Sys I old fellow, if you’ll hold on,
I’ll ride to the next station, any how, let
that be whar it will!
So I jist and rapped aboard o’ him agin and
looked aloft to see what I’d gained in
chaugin quarters. And, gentlemen I’m a
liar if thar war’nt nigh o’ halt a bushel of
thestingin varmints ready f•• pitch into
me when the word ‘go,’ was given.
Well I reckon they got it, for all hands
started for our company ! Some on’em hit
the dogs, about a quart struck rne, and the
rest charged on old Brindle.
This time, the dogs let off, fust dead
bent for the old Deacon’s, and as soon as
old Brindle and I could get under way, we
followed. And as I war only a deck pas
seuger, liiad nothin to do With steerin the
craft. I sworn if I had, we should’nt have
seen that channel any how!
But, as I said before, the dogs took the
lead. Brindle and I next, and- the hornets
dri’kly arter. The dogs yellin—Brindle
bellerin, and the hornets buzzin and sting
in! I didn’t say noth in. for itwarn’tno use.
Well, we had got in about two hundred
yards of the lu-u-e, the old Deacon heard us
and cntri -.-ut. 1 seed him hold up his hand
and turn white! I reckon he was p rayon
then, for he didn’t expect to be called for
so soon, and it warn’t long nuther, afore the
hull congregation, men, women, an ; chil
dren, cum out, and then all hands w%it to
XUiin. W _ .
None ot them bad the first notion that
Brindle and l belonged to this world. I
jist turned my head, and passed the hull
congregation! I seed the run would be up
soon, for Brindle coulyri’t turn an inch from
a fence that stood dead ahead !
Well we reached that fence and I went
ashore, over the oh! critters head, landin
on ’tother side, and lay thar stunned. It
vvafn’t long afore some of’em, as war not
so scared, cum round to see what I war,
for all hands kalkelated that the Bull and
I belonged together ! But when Brindle
walked off by himself, they seed how it
war, and one ot ’em s.e;i, “Mike Lux has
got the worst of the scrummage once in his
life”.. ‘
Gentlemen, from thar. day I drapped the
court in bizziness, aml-never spoke to a ga!
since! And when my hunt is up on this
earth, thar won’t, be any more Finks! and
its all owin to Deacon Smith’s Brindle
Bull.”
DRINKING HEALTHS.
The fashion of drinking healths is ex
ceeding] v absurd. ami it is only because
we have been taught this fashion from our
infancy that we are blip ato the truth. It
w. were now abolished, end any one were to
make use of the ordinary arguments for
its re-introduction, you might answer him
somewhat after this manner :
’“How, sir, in tiie name of sense and
reason, do I show an affection and regard
to my friend, by pouring into my own
stomach that which oppresses and distres
ses nature, and which nature dries not
want? or what sense - Is, there in (Linking
his health! why ’the very, words are silty,
upon the face of them, it a man will but
stop to consider their meaning, llow can ]
possibly dtirik another mans health \ .1
may wish his health, or i may pray for his
health, but that has no rational connection
with my drinking. I might as wf \ clanoe
his health, or whistle his lyeaitn, for any
real connection-there is between the means
and the end. But no; this is not my ob
ject at all; my object is to stimulate the
stomach, at fd to pCrstiade him to’ (hr the
same, in order that, by artificial and facti-
tions spirits thus excited, I may add am 41:-,
er enjoyment, to that which 1 already de
live from his company. And 1 mav trv
•‘ a disguise it from myself; but my real ob
, mt is present gratification and. self-indul
gence, it is done at the expense of the fu
iure, and forestalling that happiness, and
that joyous flow of spirits, which nature
had in reserve to gild my future hour. And
lam borrowing at a heavy rate of interest;
for the whole quantity of happiness and
joyfulness of heart, which we both shall
experience, will he fay greater in the long
run, if we will buffer nature to take her
own course, and let these foolish drinking
customs alone. These customs are so ex
quisitely silly , that they would he mere
matter of laughter at the folly of them,” if ir
were not for the serious end that they often
come to.
“Sir, this is one of those silly devices of
the fool that is perpetually beginning in a
farce and ending in a tragedy. Many a
iu.au, from these foolish beginnings, lias
gone on from bad to worse, till bis pros
pects have been ruined, the hopes and hap
piness of his family blasted, and he himself
murdered, both in body and iti souk It is
tearful to reflect what a dreadful train of
evils have followed from these silly be
ginnings.”
A DIME A DAY-HOW A FAMIi 1 LIVED
OK IT.
The city editor of the New York Tribune
tells the following story of a poor widow of
that city:
“I had,” she said, one day last week, “on
ly one clime in the world, and that was to
feed me and my children all day; for I would
not ask for credit, and I could not borrow,
and 1 never did beg. I did live through the
day, and did not go hungry. I fed myself
and family with one dime.”
“How f”
“Oh, that was not all. 1 bought fuel, too.”
“What, with one dime ?”
“Yes. with one dime. I bought two cents’
worth of coke, because that, is cheaper than
coal, and besides, I could kindle it with a
piece of paper and my little bits of charcoal
that some careless boy had dropped in the
street just in my path. With three cents I
bought a shaggy piece ol salt pork—half fat
and half lean. I’here might, have been half
a pound of it—the man did not weigh it.—
Now half my money was gone, and the show
for breakfast, dinner and supper was cer
tainly a very poor one. With the rest of
my dime I bought four cents’ worth of white
beans. By-the-bve, I got these at night,
and soaked them in tepid water on a neigh
bor’s stove until morning. I had one cent
left. I bought one cent’s worth of corn
meal, and the grocery man gave me <a red
pepper pod.”
.“What was that for?”
“Wait a little —you shall know. Os all
things, peppers and onions are appreciated
by the poor in winter, because they help to
keep them warm. With my meal I made
three dumplings, and these with the pork
and pepper pod I put into the pot with the
beans and plenty of water, for the pork was
salt, and boiled the whole two hours, and
•then we had breakfast, for it was time for
the children to go to school. We ate one
of the dumplings, and each had a plate of the
soup for breakfast, and a very good break
fast. it was.
“I kept my pot boiling as long ;is my coke
lasted, and at dinner we ate half the meat,
halt the soup and one of the dumplings.—
We had the same allowance for supper; and
the children were better satisfied than J have
sometimes seen them when our food had
cost five times as much. The next day we
had another dime—it was all I could earn,
for all I could get to do—two pairs ofmen’s
drawers each day at five cents a pair—and
on that we lived well. We had a change,
too, for instead of corn meal and beans, J
got four cents’ worth of potatoes —small po
tatoes, because I could get more of them.—
I washed them clean so as not to waste any
thing by paring, and cut them up and boil
ed them all to pieces with the meat and
meal.”
“Which went furthest?”
“1 can’t say. We ate it all each day, and
didn’t feel the want of more, though the
children said, ‘Ma, don’t you wish you had
a piece of bread and butter to finish oil
with?” It would have been good, to he sure;
but bless me, what would a dime s worth of
bread and butter be for a family ?”
“And I had another change the next day. ’
“What, for another dime?”
“Yes, that was all we had, day after day.
We had to live on it. It was very haixh to
be sure, but it has taught me something.”
“What is that ?”
“That poor people could live a great deal
cheaper and better than they do. if they
knew how to economize their food.
“What was your next change?
“Oh, yes, 1 was about to. tell you that.
Well, l went to the butcher’s the night be
fore, and bought five cents’ worth of little
scrap pieces of lean beet, and I declare 1
got, I think, as much as a pound; and this 1
cut into bits, and soaked over night, an ajl
important process for a soup or a stew, cook
ing it in the same water. Then I. bought
two cents’ worth of meal —that made the
eight* cents—two had logo for fuel every
day, and the paper I got my purchases in,
served for kindling. The meal 1 wet up in
to stiffdough, and worked it into little round
balls as big as grapes, and the potatoes I cut
*hp, and all together made a stew or chow
der, seasoned with small onions and part of
a pepper pod that i got with the potatoes.
It was very good, but it did riot go quite so
far as the soup, either day, or else the fresh
meat tasted so good that we wanted to eat
more. But 1 can tell you, small as it may
seem to you, there is a great deal of good
eating in one dime.”
So there is—what a pity everybody don’t
kno\v it. What, a world of good might be
done with a dime.
LET'S TAKE A DRINK,
“Let’s go and take a drink, boys,” said a
well-dressed young man as the cars stopped
at. the Waukegan station. And so the boys
did. re-entering the cars with their language
and persons marked by the bar room color.
lake a drink! The young men were
well-dressed fools. They have taken a step
w bicli will bringa fearful retribution. Years
lienee a thousand woes will blossom in the
footprints now made in young life. A false
light gilds the deadly miasma which dogs
their footsteps. They see not the smoking
altar towards which they are tending. A
host ot shadowy phantoms of vice and crime
are flitting on before. Red-handed murder
laughs at their folly, and death is in waiting
at the iiesh-oponed grave. There are tears
to shed by those who at this hour dream
not oi the sorrow which these false steps
shall bring upon them.
Take n drink ! All the uncounted host of
drunkards whose graves in every land mark
the pathway of intemperance, took a drink.
They took drinks and died. The drunkards
ot to-day are taking drinks. Three out of
four ot the murderers of 1855 took a drink.
Their steps were toward the dram-shop,
and then from the scaffold out upon the fear
less waste that lies beyond. The palsied
wretches which totter in our streets, all took
drinks. Families are beggared bv single
drinks. Hell is peopled by them.
We involuntarily shudder when we see
young men crowding the deeply-beaten path
to the dram shop. They are till confident
of their own strength. With the glass in
hand where coils the deadly adder, they ha,
ha, about the tools that drink themselves to
death! They boldly leap into the tide
where stronger arms have failed to beat
back the sullen flow. They dance and shout
in the midst ol the grinning and ghastly
dead, and riot upon the reeking fumes of the
grave’s foul breath. They boast their
strength ! And yet they are but the reed in
the storm. They wither like the grass un
der the sirocco breath of the plague they
nourish. A brief time and they are friend
less, homeless, and degraded. Another day,
and the storm of their life is told by a rude,
stoneless grave in Potter’s Field.
Don't take a drink ! Shun the Dead Sea
fruits, which bloom on the shore where mil
lions have died. The hubbies which float
upon the breaker’s brim, hide the adder’s
fang. The history of ages points sadly to
the maddened hosts who have offered them
selves, soul and body, to the demon of the
cup. The bondage of iron galls but the
limbs. That of the dram fetters the soul.
—Cayuga Chief.
TO MORROW.
“Will you please to give me some of those
pears, madam ?”
The speaker was a little child, and her
life could not have covered more than five
or six years.
She wore a faded brown calico dress, and
her hair fell in bright, tangled skeins out of
her torn sun-bonnet.
We re nember just how the great trees
leaned their green arms over the high walls:
(for it is of our own home that we are now
writing, reader,) and how the fruit, small
and half developed, vet, for it was June
time, lay thick among the leaves, a rich
prophecy for the harvest.
“They are not grown yet,” said our little
sister, leaning her blue eyes over the wall,
“and will only make you sick now ; but
come again when they are ripe, and 1 will
give you some, little girl.”
“And will they he ripe to-morrow ?” She
asked the question very eagerly, with her
earnest child-face looking out from that old
sun-bonnet.
“Oh, no, little girl, it will take a great
many to-morrows to ripen the pears so you
can eat them.”
And we knew by the slow steps with
which she moved down the street, that there
was a shadow on the child’s heart, which
the > 4 many to-morrows” had made there.
Well, in the next October, the pears hung
rich and golden on the branches, but the lit
tle girl’s face never looked over the garden
wail again. But her simple question has
furnished us with a text for many a mental
sermon.
“To-morrow !” Is not this the great ig
nis fatuus on life’s solemn ocean, forever
eluding us, as we steer our barks toward it.
“To-morrow !” It is the beautiful heart
country, where the buds and blossoms of
the present shall ripen into rich fruits on
the tree of our life.
“To-morrow!” It is the golden city
through whose shining streets we shall yet
walk crowned with bays, our life purposes
realized, our work achieved.
“To-morrow !” Alas ! It is the country
on whose bright borders our spirits forever
stand—over which they never pass.
And so, the present only belongs to us.
For the “yesterday” bound up and laid
away in the past, there is no return, and the
future is with God.
C TERMS: fl.oqiN ADVANCE.
) JAMES T. BLAIN,
( PHIN'fEK.
VOL. XXII.-KUMBER 22.
But. the “now” is our own. The broad,
green vineyard, whose purple grapes we
may gather for the harvest of life.
“Oh ! itnis best not to trust to the “to
morrow,” but, seizing hold of the “to-day,”
affix to it our seal and superscription, “for
there is neither work or device, knowledge
or wisdom in the grave, whither we go.—
Arthur's Magazine.
I GOT A GOING AND COULDN’T STOP,
A little boy named Frank was standing
in the yard, when his father called him:
“Frank !”
“Sir !” said Frank, and started full speed
and ran into the street.
His father called him back, and risked
him -if he did not hear his first call.
“Yes. sir,” said Frank.
“Well then,” said his father, “what made
you run into the street?”
“O,” said Frank, “I got .T going and
couldn't stop.”
This is the way that a great many boys
get into difficulty ; they get a going and
can’t stop. The bov that tells lies, began
first to stretch the truth a little—to tell a
larger story, or relate an anecdote with a
very little variation, till he got a going and
couldn’t stop, till he came out a full grown
liar.
The boy that was brought before the po
lice, and sent to the House of Correction
for stealing, began by taking little things*
from his mother—by stealing sweetmeats,
and other nice things that were put away.
Next, he began to take things from his com
panions at school. He got a going, and
could not stop till he got in jail.
Those two boys that, you see a fighting
out on the green, began byJbantering each
other in fun. At length they began to “get
angry and dispute and call each other mines,
till they got a going and couldn’t stop. They
will separate with black eyes and bloodv
noses.
There is a young man sitting with his
companions at the gaming table. He has
flushed cheeks an anxious look, a despairing
countenance. He began by playing mar
bles in the street, but got a going and
couldn’t stop.
See that young man, with a dark lantern,
stealing from his master’s drawer. He is a
merchant’s clerk. He came from the coun
try a promising boy. But the Test of the
clerks went to the theatre, and he thoght he
must go, too. He began, thinking he would
only go once, just to say that he had been
to the theatre. But he got a going and
couldn’t stop. He has used up his usages,
and wants more money. He cannot resist
the temptation when he knows there is
money in the drawer. He has got agoing;
he will stop in the State Prison.
Hark ! do you hear that horrid oath ? It
comes from the foul mouth of a little boy in
the street; he began by saying by-words,
but he has got a going and can’t stop.
Fifty young men were some years ago in
the habit of meeting together in a room at a
public house, to enjoy themselves in social
hilarity, where the wine cup passed freely
around. One of them, as he was going
there one evening, began to think there
might be danger in the way ; lie stopped
and considered a moment, and then said to
himself, “Right about face!” he turned on
his heel and went back to his room, and was
never seen at the public house again.’ He
has become rich, and the first block of build
ings which he erected was built directly in
front of the place where he stood when he
made that exclamation. Six of the young
men followed his example. The remaining
forty-three got a going and couldn’t stop till
they landed in the ditch, and most of them
in the drunkard’s grave.
Beware, then, boys, how you get a going.
Be sure before you start that you are in the
right way, for when you are sliding down
hill it is hard to stop.
——- <o
THE DOGS OF ST. BERNARD.
One of the most remarkable places in the
mountains which separate Switzerland and
I .aly, is that called the passage of the moun
tain Great St. Bernard. Many thousands
of persons traverse this road every year,
and were it not for the monastery of St.
Bernard at the top, it would be impassable
in the winter. From November to May, a
trusty servant, accompanied by a monk,
goes halfway down the mountain every
day, in search of travellers. They have
with them one or two large dogs, trained
for the purpose, who will scent a man a
great distance, and find out the road in the
thickest fogs and heaviest falls of snow.
Suspended from the necks of these noble
dogs are little with meat and drink
to refresh the weary traveller.
One of the most remarkable of these faith
ful dogs was called Barry. This faithful
animal is known to have saved the lives c*
forty unfortunate travellers, who, but fifl*
his assistance, must have perished in /e
snow. It the dog Barry was in time vhh
his succors, the unfortunate were relived,
not only from his bottle, but also by
of the warm garment which his mas* 1 ’ 8 ti
ed round his body for this purpose D h e
could not by his warm tongue and^ rea th
restore sufficient animation, he re^ ne and to
the convent, and brought, with (|v utmost
expedition, the assistance of one/ 1 t^ e * n ’
mates. /
One day, in his vigilant excur° ns Dairy
found a poor boy asleep and -post h pzea
to death in the celebrated G Cl ® r °J pah vk
sore. Barry warmed the heked hiv