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VOLUME 11.
Jbcttj).
The Retort.
BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.
Old Birch, who taupht a village school,
Wedded a maid of homespun habit;
He was as stubborn as & mule,
And She was playful as a rabbit
Poor Kate bad scare*® become a wife,
Before her husband sought to make her
The pink of couMiry-poliahed life,
And prim and formal as a quaker.
One day the tutor went abr >ad.
And simple Kitty sadly miss'd him;
When he returned, behiud her lord
She slyly stole and fondly kissed him I
The husband's anger rose! —and red
And white his face alternate grew!
•• Less freedom ma'am!” —Kate sighed and said,
“ Oh dear ! 1 dial know 'twas yous
lilktUitnmts.
A Family Picture,
BY JUDGE LONGSTREET.
“I describe a Georgia family. It is
a fair specimen of Georgia families gen
erally, the heads of which are parents
of good sense, good'morals, and well
improved minds. To be sure, there
are in Georgia as many notions about
parental government, as there are in
any other country, and the practice as
various as the opinions. Some pa
rents exercise no government at all,
others confine themselves exclusively
to the government of the tongue; and
others rule by the rod alone ; but by
far the larger class blend these several
modes of government, and prefer the
one or the other, according to the time
:nd circumstances. To this class be
longed Mr. and Mrs. Butler, the heads
of the family whb*h I am about to de
scribe. Gilbert was the Christian
name of the husband, and Eliza the
wife. I was intimately acquainted
with them both, betbre their union;
and was ever afterwards admitted to
their household with the freedom of
one of its members—indeed I was a
connexion of one of them.
They had been married about eight
months, when a dull November eve
ning found me at their fireside. In
the course of the evening the conver
sation turned upon raising children.
“By the way, Eliza,” said Gilbert, “ I
have been thinking for some time past,
of interchanging views with you upon
this subject; and there can never be a
better time than now, while Abraham
is with us, whose opinions w r e both re
spect, and who will act as an umpire
between us.”
“Well,” said Eliza, “let us hear
yours.”
“ If we should ever be blessed with
children, (Eliza blushed a little,) let it
be a fundamental law between us, that
neither of us interfere with the discip
line of the other, either by look, word,
or action, in the presence of the chil
dren.”
“ To that rule I most heartily sub
scribe.”
“ When a child is corrected by one
of us, let not the other extend to it
the least condolence or sympathy.”
“In that also you have my hearty
concurrence.”
“Let us never correct a child in a
passion.”
“ The propriety of that rule I fully
admit, but 1 fear I shall not always be
able to conform to its requisition. I
will, however, endeavor to do so.”
“ Well, if you will do your best, I
shall be satisfied.”
“ Let us, as far as it is practicable,
introduce among our children the uni
versally admitted principles of good
government among men.”
“ That is a very indefinite rule, hus
band, I know very little of the prin
«ciples of good government among men,
;and much lessof those principles which
xare universally admitted.”
“ Well, I will bea little more specific.
£ believe it is universally admitted that
daws should precede punishment ; and
that none should be punished who are
incapable of understanding the law.
in accordance with these principles, I
would never punish a child who is in
capable of distinguishing between right
and wrong, nor until he shall have
been forewarned of the wrong and
taught to avoid it.”
“ These principles seem very reason
able to me,” said Eliza, “ but they can
never be applied to children. If you
do not correct a child until it is old
enough to learn from precept the differ
ence between right and wrong, there
will be no living m the house with it
for the first five or six years o its lite,
and no controlling it afterwards.
Gilbert received these views of his
wife with some alarm, and entered up
on a long argument to convince her
that they were erroneous. Stie main
tained her own very well, but Gilbert
had certainly the advantage of her in
argument. All he could say, however,
did not in the least shake her confidence
in her opinion.
K Mtflilii cbottft t# literature, flolitits, anil (lateral fsfetfta|.
I was at length appealed to, and I
gave judgment, in favor of Gilbert.
“ Well,” said she, “1 never was bet
ter satisfied of anything in my life than
I am that you’re both wrong. But let
us compromise this matter, Ell agree
to this: if ever I correct a child after it
is old enough to receive instruction
from precept, and } r ou do not approve
of my conduct, I will then promise
you never to do the like again.”
“ Well,” said Gilbert, “ that is very
fair. One more rule will settle the
fundamentals, and we safely trust all
others to future adjustment. Let us
never address our children in the non
sensical gibberish that is so universally
prevalent among parents, and particu
larly among mothers. It is very silly,
in the first place, and it greatly retards
a child’s improvement, in the second.
Were it not for this, I have no doubt
children would speak their mother
tongue as correctly at four years old,
as they do at sixteen.
Eliza smiled, and observed that this
was such a small matter that it had also
better be left to future adjustment. To
this Gilbert rather reluctantly assent
ed.
About two months after this conver
sation, Gilbert was blessed with, a fine
son ; whom lie named John James Gil
bert, after the two and
himself—-a profusion of names which
he had cause afterwards to repent.
Just fourteen months and six days
thereafter, lie was blessed with affine
daughter, whom Eliza namod Ann
Frances Eliza, after the two grand
mothers and herself.
Fifteen months thereafter lie receiv
ed a third blessing called George Hen
ry, after the two brothers.
Thirteen months and nineteen days
after the birth of George, a fourth
blessing descended upon Gilbert in the
form of a fine son. ■‘This took the
name of William Augustus, after two
brothers of Lis wife.
Eliza now made a long rest of nine
teen months four days and five hours,
(I speak from the family record) when
by way of a mend, she presented her
husband with a pair of blessings. As
soon as his good fortune was made
known to him, Gilbert ex pressed regret
that he had not reserved his own name
until now, in order that the twain
might bear his own name and mine.
Seeing this could not be, lie bestowed
my name upon the first born, and gave
me the privilege of naming the second.
As I consider “a good name rather to
be chosen than riches,” I called the in-,
nominate, after Isaac the patriarch, and
a beloved uncle of mine.
In this very triumphant and lauda
ble manner, did Mrs. Butler close the
list of her sons.
She now turned her attention to
daughters, and in the short space of
five years produced three tliat the
queen might be proud of. Their names
in the order of their birth were Louisa,
Rebecca and Sarah. It was one of
Mrs. Butler’s maxims, “if you have
anything to do, do it at once,” and she
seemed to be governed by this maxim
in making up her family, for Sarah
completed the number of children.
John was abon': a year old when
I was again at Gilbert’s for the evening.
He was seated by the supper table with
tne child in his arms, addressing some
remarks to me, when 1 called his at
tention to the child who was just in
the act of putting his fingers into the
blaze of the candle. Gilbert jerked
him away suddenly, which so incensed
Master John Gilbert, that he screamed
insufferably. Gilbert tossed him, pat
ted him; but he could not detract his
attention from the candle,
He moved him out of sight of the
luminary, but that only made matters
worse, lie now commenced his first
lessons ip the “principles of good gov
ernment.” lie brought the child to
wards the candle, and the nearer it ap
proached, the more pacified it became.
The child extended its arms to catch
the blaze, and Gilbert bore it slowly
towards the flame until the hand came
nearly in contact with it, when he
snatched it away, crying “bunny fin
gers !” Eliza and I exchanged smiles,
but neither of us said anything.
The child construed this into wanton
teazing, and became, if possible, more
obstreperous than ever. Gilbert now
resorted to another expedient. He put
his own fingers in the blaze, withdrew
them suddenly, blew them, and gave
every sign of acute agony. This not
only quieted but delighted the child,
who signified to him to do it again. He
instantly perceived (what was practical
ly demonstrated the minute afterwards)
that the child was putting a most dan:
gerous interpretation upon his last il
lustration. He determined, therefore,
not to repeat it. The child, not satis
fied with the sport, determined to re
peat it himself, which the father oppo
sing, he began to reach and cry as be
fore. There was but oue experiment
left; and that was to let the child feel
the flame a little. This he resolved to
try, but how to conduct, it properly
was not so easily settled. It would not
do to allow the infant to put his hand
into the blaze ; because it would burn
too little or too much. He therefore
resolved to direct the hand to a point
so near the flame, that the increasing
heat would induce th,e child to with
draw his hand himsfelf. Aceordinly
he brought the extended arm slowly
EATONTON, GA., SATURDAY, JANUARY 20, 1855.
towards the flame ; the child becoming
more and more impatient with every
rnbment’s postponement of its gratifica
tion, until the hand came within about
an inch of the wick, when he held the
child stationary. But John would not
let his hand remain stationary nor at
the chosen point. He kept snatching
at the candle till finding all his efforts
fruitless, he threw himself violently
back, gave his Either a tremendous
thump on the nose with the back of
his head, and kicked and screamed
most outrageously.
“You little rascal,” said Gilbert “I’ve
a good mind to give you a good spank
ing.”
“ Give him to me,” said Mrs. But
ler.
“You’d better not take him,” said
Gilbert in an under tone, “ while he is
in such a passion.”
“No danger,” she said, “hand him
to me.”
As she received him, “hush sir 1”
said she very harshly, and the child
hushed instantly and was asleep in a
few minutes.
Strange,” said Mr. Butler, “ how
much sooner the mother acquires con
trol over a child than the father.”
“Not at all,” said Mrs. Butler. “ You
would have controlled him as easily as
I did, if you had given him the same
lesson before hand that I did. He got
in just such an uproar the other day,
and finding nothing else would quiet
him, I spanked it out of him: and I
have had no more trouble in quieting
him since.”
“ I begin to think, Butler,” said I,
“ that Eliza was right in the only points
of difference between you, touching
the management of children. I ob
served that you addressed the child
just now in that gibberish you so much
condemned before you became a father;
and though itseemed ridiculous enough
especially in you, I think it would have
appeared still more ridiculous, if you
had said to a child so young, ‘John,
my son, do. not put your fingers into
the flame oi.the candle, it will burn
them.’ And your experiment has
taught you the absolute impossibility
of governing children of tender years
by prescribed rules.”
“ I am half inclined to your opinion,”
said Butler. “Eliza’s discipline has
performed several good offices. It has
relieved us of John’s insufferable noise.
It has taught him to control his temper
m its first appearance, and it learned
him the meaning of the word (hush!)
which will often supply the place of
correction, and always forewarn him
of desires unlawful.”
Long before the second son arrived
at the reasonable age, Gilbert abdicated,
unreservedly, in favor of his wife;
contenting himself with the subordi
nate station of her ministerial officer;
in which he executed her orders in ca
ses requiring more physical strength
than she possessed.
Passing over the intermediate pe
riod, I now introduce the reader to his
family after most of the children had
reached the “age of reason.” In con
templating the scene which I am about
to sketch, he will be pleased to turn
his thoughts occasionally to Gilbert’s
principles of good government.
Sarah was about two years and a
half old. when Gilbert invited me to
breakfast with him one December mor
ning near the Christmas holidays. It
was the morning appointed lor the
second killing of hogs; which as the
Southern reader knows, is a sort of a
carnival in Georgia. I went, and found
all the children at home, and Gilbert’s
mother added to the family circle.
John and Anna had reached the age
when they were permitted to take seats
at the first table; though on this occa
sion John being engaged about the
pork did not avail himself of his priv
ilege; the rest of the children were
taught to wait for the' second table.
Breakfast was announced, and after
the adults and Anna had despatched
their meal, the children rvere summon
ed. As they were bidden, and there
were some preparatory arrangements
to be made, they all gathered around
the fire, clamorous with the events of
the morning.
“By Jockey,” said William, “did’ut
that old black barrah weigh a heap !”
“Look here, young gentleman,” said
his mother, “ where did you pick up
such language as that? Now let me
ever hear you by jodeiug or by-ing any
thing else again, and I’ll by jockey
you with a vengeance, I’ll warrant you!”
“ But the black barrah,” said George,
“ did’nt weigh as much for his size as
the bobtail speckle, though.”
“ He did.”
“ He did’nt.”
“ Hush your disputing—this instant,
stop it—you shall not contradict each
other in that manner, and let us hear
no more of your hog pen wonders—-
nobody wants to hear them.”
At this instant William snatched a
pig-tail out of Isaac’s hand.
“ Ma,” said Isaac, “make Bill gi’ me
muh tail.”
“ You. William, give him his—thing.
And if I Was near you, I’d box your
ears for your pains. Mr. Butler you
really will have to take that fellow in
hand. He’s getting so that I can do
nothing with him,”
“ Ma,” said Bill, “he took my blatha
j “ffushr
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“ I didn’t.”
“ You did.”
“Don’t I tell you to hush your dis
puting !” M
“ Well ma, uncle York gave it to
me.”
“He didn’t, uncle Monday gave it
to me.”
“ He didn’t.”
“lie did.”
Here the mother divided a pair of
slaps equally between the two disput
ants, w hick silenced them for a few
moments.
At this juncture Miss Rebecca cried
out with a burnt finger ; which she re
ceived in cooking another pig-tail. The
burn was so slight that she forgot it
as her mother jerked her from the fire.
“You little vixen,” said the mother,
“what possesses you to be fumbling
about the lire ? Mr. Butler, I beseech
you to forbid the negroes giving these
children any more of those poisonous
pig-tails; they are a source of endless
torment. And now young gentlemen
—one and all of you—the next one of
you that brings one of these things in
this house again, I’ll box his ears as
long as I can find him. Now remem
ber it. Come along along to your
breakfast.”
In a little time, after some controver
sy about places, which was arrested by
the mothers eye,„they were all seated;
John, who had dropped in in the mean
time, taking his father’s seat.
“Is-s-p!” said William, 11 sassidges,
that’s what I love.”
“Hoo!” said Isaac, “spare ribs!
that’s what I love.”
“ Well cease your gab, and eat whats’
set before you without comments. No
body cares what you love or what you
don’t love.”
“ Souse,” said Abraham, “ I don’t
love souse. I wouldn’t eat souse, taint
fitten ior a dog to eat.”
“Get up, sir, right from the table,
and march out of the house until yon
learn better manners. I’ll be bound
if I say you shall eat souse you will eat
it. Do you hear me, sir?”
Abraham raked himself lazily out
of his seat, and moved slowly off, cast
ing a longing look at the many good
things on the table which he thought
“ fitten ” for a prince to eat.
“ Ma,” said he, as he retired, ‘ I wish
you’d make Bill quit laughing at me.”
“ William, I’ve as great a mind as
I ever had to do anything in my life,
to send you from the table, and not let
you eat one mouthful. 1 despise that
abominable disposition you have, of
rejoicing at your brother’s misfortunes.
Remember, sir, what Solomon says:
“He that is glad at calamities shall
not be unpunished.’ ”
“Ma,” said Abraham, “mayn’t I
come to my breakfast? ”
“Yes, if you think, you can behave
yourself with decency.”
Abraham returned ; and they all
broke forth at once:
“Ma, mayn’t I have some sassidge?”
“Ma, I want some spare rib.” “Ma, I
a’ntgot no coffee.” “Ala, if you please
ma’am let me have some ham gravy,
and some fried homonj- and some eggs,
and
“And some of every thing on the
table I suppose. Put down your plates
—every one of you. George what will
you have.”
“Some sassiclge and some fried po
tatoe.”
“John help your brother George.”
“Whatdo you want William?”
“I want some spare rib and some
fried homony.”
“Chaney, help William.”
“What do you want Abraham?”
“I reckon,” said John smiling, “he’d
like to have a little souse.”
“Now John behave yourself. He
has suffered the punishment of his
fault, and let it there rest.”
“I’ll have,” said Abraham, “some
ham-gravy, and some egg and some
homony.”
“Help him Chaney.”
“What’ll you have Isaac?”
“I’ll have some ham gravy, and some
homony and some sassidge, and some
spate-rib and some-
“Well you’re not a going to have
every thing on the table I assure you.
What do you want?”
“I want some ham gravy, and some
homony.”
“John help I- ”
“No, don’t want no gravy, I want
some spare rib.”
“John give him
“No, I don’t want no spare-rib, I
want some sassidge ”
“Well, if you don’t make up your
mind pretty quick, you’ll want your
breakfast. I tell you lam not going
to be tantalized all day long by your
wants. Say what you want and nave
done with it.”
“I want some ham-gravy and some
sassidge, and some, homony.”
“Help him, John.”
John helped him to about a tea
spoonful from each dish.
“Now, Ma, jest look ut bud John !
He ha’ntgi’me only these three little
bit-o’-bits.”
“John, if you can’t keep from tan
talizing the children, tell me so, and I
will not trouble you to help them any
more. I confess that lamat a loss to
discover what pleasure one, of your age
can take in teazing yoiir younger bro
thers.”
“Rebecea, what do you want ?”
“I want my pig tail , ma’am.”
“Bless my soul and body, havn’t you
forgot that pigtail yet? It’s burnt up
long ago I hope. Look Bob and see,
and if it isn’t, give it to her. I wish
in my heart there never was a pig tail
upon the lace of the earth.”
Bob produced the half charred pig
tail and laid it on Miss Rebecca’s plate.
“There,” continued her mother, “I
hope now your heart’s at ease. A
beautiful dish it is truly, for any mor
tal to take a fancy to.”
“Ma, 1 don’t want this pig tail.”
u Take it away —I knew you didn’t
want it, you little perverse brat, I knew
you didn’t want; and I don’t know
what got into me to let } ? ou have it.—
But really I am so tormented out of
rny life, that half the time I hardly
know whether I’m standing on my
head or on my heels.”
“Misses,” said Chaney, “auntDorcus
sav please make Miss Louisa come out
of the kitchen, say if you dont make
her come out o’ the fire she’ll git burnt
presently —say every time she tell her
to come out o’ the fire she make mouth at
her.”
“Why sure enough, where is Lou
isa? Go and tell her to come into her
breakfast this instant.”
“I did tell her ma’am, and she say
she won’t come, till she gets done ba
kin' her cake.”
“Mrs. Butler left the room; and soon
reappeared with Louisa sobbing and
crying:
“Aunt Darcas jerked me just as hard
as ever she could jerk, ’fore I done any
thing ’tall to her.”
“Hold your tongue! She served
you right enough; you’d no business
there. You’re a pretty thing to be
making mouths at a person old enough
to be your grandmother. If I’d
thought that when I give you that lit
tle lump of dough tliat the whole plan
tation was co be turned up side down
about it, I’d let you have done without
it. ”
Miss Louisa, after a little sobbing
and pouting, drew from her apron a
small, dirty, ashey, black, wrinkled,
burnt biscuit, warm from the kitchen
shovel, which would have been just
precisely the proper accompaniment
to Miss Rebecca’s dish ; and upon this
in preference to every thing on the ta
ble commenced her repast.
“Well, Lou,” said the mother with
a laugh as she cast her eye upon the
unsightly biscuit, “you certainly have
a strange taste!”
Everybody knows that the mother’s
laugh is always responded to with
compound interest by all her children.
So was it in this instance, and good hu
mor prevailed round the table.
“I’m sorry,” said Abraham, “for
Louisa’s b-i-s, bis, k-i-t, kit, biskit .”
“Well, reall}',” sajd Mrs. 8., “you
are a handsome speller. Is that the
way you spell biscui\T ’
“I can spell it, ma,” bawled out
Isaac, “B-i-s, bis—c—(“Well that’s
right”)—h —a.
“Well, that will do, you needn’t go
any further, you’ve missed it farther
than your brother. Spell it, William.”
William spelled it correctly.
“Ma,” said George, “what’s biscuit
derived from?”
“I really do not know,” said Mrs.
8., “and yet I have read somewhere
an explanation of it. John what is it
derived from ?”’
John. —From the French ; bis, twice,
and cuit, baked.
William.—Why ma, you don’t bake
biscuits twice over!
Abraham.—Yes, ma does sometimes;
don’t you ma, when company comes?”
Mother.—No ; I sometimes warm
over old ones when I have not time to
make fresh ones, but never bake them
twice.
Butler.—They were first made to
carry to sea, and then they were ba
ked twice over, as I believe sea biscuit
still are.
Isaac.—Ma. what’s breakfast ’rived
from ?
Mother.—Spell it and you will see.
Isaac.—B-r-e-c-k breck, f-u-s-t breck
fust.
Mother.—Well, Ike, you are a
grand speller. Breakfast is the word,
not breekfust.
Abraham. —I know what it comes
from.
Mother.—What ?
Abrahm—You know when you
call us child’en to breakfast, we all
brake off and run as fast as we can
split.
Mother. —Well, that is a brilliant
derivation, truly. Do you suppose
there was no breakfast before you
children were born?
Abraham. —But, ma, everybody has
child’eu.
Mrs. Butler explained the term.
Isaac. —Ma, I know what sassidge
comes from !
Mother. —-What?
Isaac.—’Cause its got sciss in it.
“Well there, there there, I’ve got
enough of your derivations, unless
they were better.: You’ll*learn all
these things as you grow older.”
Just here Miss Sarah, who had been
breakfasted at a side table, was seized
with a curiosity to see what was on the
breakfast table.
Accordingly, she undertook to draw
herself up to the convenient elevation
by the table qloth. Her mother ar
rested her just in time to save a cup,
and pushed her back with a gentle ad
monition. This did not abate Miss
Sarah’s curiosity in the least, and she
recommenced her experiment. Her
mother removed her a little more
emphatically This time. These inter
ruptions only fired Miss Sarah’s zeal,
and she was returning to the charge
with redoubled energy, when she ran
her cheek against the palm of her
mother’s hand with a rubifacient force.
Away she went to her grandmother,
crying “Gramma, ma whipped your
precious darlin’ angel baby.”
“Did she, my darling? Then gram
ma’s precious darling angel must be a
good child and mother won’t whip it
any more.”
“Well I will be a dood chile.”
“Well, then, mother won’t whip it
anymore.” And this conference was
kept up without variation of a letter
on either side, until the grandmother
deemed it expedient to remove Miss
Sarah to an adjoining room, lest the
mother should insist upon the imme
diate fulfilment of her promises.
“Ma, just look at Abe, he saw me
taking a biscuit, aud snatched the very
one I was lookin’ at.”
“Abe,” said the mother, “I do wish I
could make you quit nicknaming each
other, and I wish more that I had nev
er set you the example—put down that
biscuit, sir, and take another.”
■ Abraham returned the biscuit, and
William took it up, with a sly, triumph
ant giggle at Abraham.
“Ma,” said Abraham, “Bill said God
*turn!”
“Law, what a story ! Ma, I declare
I never said no such thing!”
“Yes you did, and Chaney heard
you.”
William’s countenance immediately
showed that his memory had been re
freshed : and he drawled out “never
done it now,” with a tone and counte
nance that imparted guilt to some ex
tent. His mother suspected that he
was hinging upon technics, and she
put the probing question —
“Well, what did you say ?”
“I said, I be teto’tly od urn.”
“Well, that’s just as bad. Mr. But
ler, you positively must take this boy
in hand. lie evinces a strange pro
pensity to profane swearing, which if
not corrected immediately, will be
come ungovernable.”
“Whenever you can’t manage him,”
said Butler as before, “just turn him
over to me, abd I reckon I can cure
him.”
“When did he say it?” enquired the
mother, turning to Abraham.
“You know that time you sent all
us children to the new ground to pick
peas?”
“Why, that’s been three months ag°
at least; and you’ve just thought of
telling it. Oh! you malicious toad
you, where do you learn to bear mal
ice so long? I abhor that trait of
character in a child.”
“Mar,” said Bill, “Abe hain’tsaid his
prayers for three nights.”
Abe and Bill now exactly swapt
places and countenances.
“Yes,” said the mother, “and I sup
pose I should never have heard of
that, if Abraham had not.told of your
profanity.”
“I know better,” dragged out Abra
ham, in reply to William.
“Abraham,” said the mother solemn
ly, “did you kneel down when you
said your prayers last night?”
“Yes, ma’am, ” said Abraham,
brightening a little.
“Yes, Mar, continued Bill, “he
kn°els down and ’fore I say, “now I
lay me down to sleep,” he jumps np
every night and hops into bed and
says lie’s done his prayers, and he
hain’t had time to say half a prayer.”
During this narrative, my name-sake
kept cowering under the steadfast
frown of his mother, until, he trans
formed himself into a perfect personi
fication of idiocy.
“How many prayers did you say
last night, Abraham?” pursued the
mother, in an awful portentous tone.
“I said one, and—’’(here Abraham
paused.)
“One and what?”
“One and piece of t’other one.”
“Why Mar, he couldn’t have said it
to have saved his life, for he hadn’t
time.”
“I did,” muttered Abraham, “I said
t’other piece after I got into bed.”
“Abraham, said his mother, “I de
clare I do not know what to say to
you. lam so mortified, so shocked at
this conduct, that I am completely at
a loss how to express myself about it.
Suppose you had died last night, after
trilling with your prayers, as you did,
who can say what would have be
come of you? Is it possible that you
cannot spend a few minutes in prayer
to your Heavenly Father, who feeds
you, who clothes you, and who gives
you every pood thing you can have in
the world. You poor sinful child, I
could weep over you.”
“Poor Abraham evinced such deep
contrition under this lecture, (for he
sobbed as if his heart would break,)
that his mother deemed it prudent to
conclude with suasiyes; which she did
in the happiest manner.
Having thus restored Abraham’s e
quanimity, in a measure, with a gently
encouraging smile, she continued :
“And now, Abraham, tell your.
j sen wm. -*ww mm 9
I *2.00 A YEAR, IN ADVANCE*
NUMBER 3.
mother how you came to say a part
of your prayer?”
“I couldn't go to sleep till I said it,
ma’am.”
“Well, that is a good sign, at least.
And what part was it?”
“ God bless ray father and mother. 1 ’
Mrs. Butler felt quickly for her
handkerchief. It had fallen from her
lap, and she was dad of it. She de
pressed her head below the table in
search of it—dismissed the children
before she raised it, and rose with a
countenance suffused with smiles and
tears.
“Poor babes,” said she, “what an
odd compound oT good and bad they
are?”
The grandmother returned just at
tkis time, and discovering some un
easiness at Mrs. Butler’s tears, the lat
ter explained. As she concluded—
“ The Lord bless the poor dear boy,”
exclaimed the venerable matron, rais
ing her apron to her eyes, “that shows
he’sgotagood heart. No danger of
the child that can’t sleep till he prays
for the his father and mother.”
The Battle of the Bees.
Galignani’s Messenger informs us of
a curious circumstance that occurred
recently at Guilleville, in France. A
small fanner had a field of about 250
beehives, containing a vast number of
bees. He sent a man with a cart,
drawn by five horses, to remove some
earth from the wall near which the
hives were placed. The carter, having
occasion to go to the farm house, tied
the horses to a tree. Almost imme
diately after, a multitude of bees, eith
er irritated at the shaking of their
hives by the removal of the earth from
the wall, or excited by the electricity
with which the atmosphere happened
to be charged, issued from their hives,
as if in obedience to a given signal,
and with great fury, attacked the
horses. In an instant the poor ani
mals were entirely covered with bees
from head to foot; even their nostrils
were filled with them. When the car
•ter returned, he found one of his horses
Tying dead on ihe ground, and others
rolling about furiously. Ilis cries at
tracted several persons; one of them
attempted to drive away the bees, but
they attacked him, and had to plunge
into a pond, and even to place his head
under water for a few seconds in order
to escape from-them. The curate of
Guilleville also attempted to approach
the horses, but he too was put to flight
by the enraged insects. At length
two fire engines were sent for, and by
pumping on the bees a great number
were killed on the horses or put to
flight. The horses, however, were so
much injured that they died in an hour.
The value of the bees destroyed was
about.£6o, and of the horses £IOO.
A few days before, bees Pom the same
hives had killed seventeen goslings.
Sleeves and Sauce.
The most stupid and ugly fashions
always last the longest. How many
years the long dresses have swept the
streets ! For the last twelve months
bonnets have been falling off the head,
and so, probably, they will continue
for twelve months more. However,
the bonnets are simply ridiculons. As
to long dresses, there is something to
be said for them. They are conveni
ent for aged ladies. They enable them
to enjoy, without attracting remark,
the comfort of list slippers and lace
stockings, and rollers for their poor
old ancles. They render it possible
for young ladies to wear bluchers and
high-lows, thereby ad voiding damp
feet, and to save washing, by making
one pair of stockings last a week. So
they will'doubtless continue to be worn
whilst the laws of fashion are .dictated
by a splav-footed beauty, or a lady
troubled with bunions.
But this kind of apology cannot be
made for hanging sleeves. They are
not only absurd but inconvenient.—
They are always getting in the way,
in the sauce and in the butter boat.
Your wife cannot help you to a pota
toe across the table but she upsets her
glass and breaks it with her dangling
sleeves. It may be said that your
wife has no business to help potatoes —
that there ought to be footmen in at
tendance for that purpose. Certainly;
or else she should not wear sleeves.
But ladies must,, of course, follow the
height of the fashion, whether suita
ble to their circumstances or not.
Could not the leaders of fashion,
then, in pity to the less opulent classes,
devise and sanction a class of sleeves,
adapted to life in a cottage —whether „
near a wood or elsewhere —to be call
ed cottage sleeves, and to be worn by
the genteel cottager-classes, without
prejudice to their gentility ?— Pimch.
A good anecdote is told of an old
Methodist Preacher, who rode a cir
cuit a few years ago. While going one
of his appointments, he met art old ac
quaintance, who was one of the niag
istrates of the county. lie asked ylie
minister why lie didn’t do as the kav
ior did—-ride an ass. ‘ Because, said
the divine, 4 the people have taken
them all to make magistrates of.
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