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byj.a. turner.} 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 •**wuwai©w U'mißs, tJMtfffWß (DIB “ 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. V V’Yi' . ■ '/■