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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 Professional or Business Cards, not exceeding six lines, per year,. 5 00 Announcing Candidates for Office, 3 00 ST AN DING AD V ERTIS KM K NTS. I square, three months, 5 00 -• i square, six months, f 00 1 square, twelvemonths, L 2 00 2 squares, “ “ - 18 00 8 squares, “ “ 21 00 4 squares, “ “ 25 00 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 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 arc paid. 3. If subscribers neglect or refuse to take their newspapers from the offices to which they are di rected, they are held responsible until they have set tled the bills 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 far, is prima facie evidence of inten tional fraud. 6. The United States Courts have also repeatedly decided, that a Postmaster who neglects to perform 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 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