liW 



THE FARMER'S MONTHLY VISITOR 



September, 1842. 



last full, and have cut a deceut crop of liay — say 

 a ton and a half to the acre, vviti) the prospect of 

 a second crop. 



Another error amongst most farmers in seed- 

 ing the land is, they do not put on so much seed 

 by at least one thiini, if not one half, as is profi- 

 table, in our humble opinion. Seed is expen- 

 Bive, we "cH know, but if you wish a full return, 

 do not neglect to apply a sufficient quantity of 

 seed. — Keene, JV. H. Sentinel. 



The Exile's Song. 



Oh ! bear me back to my native shore, 



O'er the circling ocean's foaui ; 

 And ere 1 die, let me gaie once more 



On my father's humble home. 

 Oh! bear me back to the greenwood's shade, 



To the well-known chestnut tree — 

 To th« quiet vale, and the sunny glade, 



The haunts oT my childish glee. 



My spirit pines for the breezy hills, 



Far off in my own bright land ; 

 For the warblings that gosh from its lonely rills. 



And the joyous household band. 

 Kind faces met by the fireside's gleam, 



When arose the evening hymn : — 

 But their spells are gone, like a passing dream, 



Their memories vague and dim. 



1 list to the biHows' thundering sound, 



As their surges break in the "bay; 

 1 watch them fringing the cliffs around 



With a beautiful girdle of spr^y. 

 But nor bark, nor ship, to tire wandering breeze 



Their cloudlike sails unroH, 

 And the anthem sublime of the swelling sees, 



Like a death-song thrills my soul. 



On the mountain-tops the wild deer springs 



In happiest freedom by j 

 And the proud eagle soars on his golden wings 



To the crystalline dome of the sky ; 

 And the midnight wind unchained sweeps past 



O'er mount and forest dell — 

 But o'er mc there's a strange dull feeling cast, 



With a power 1 may not quell. 



Then bear me back to my native shore, 



O'er the circling ocean's foam ! 

 And ere 1 die, let mc gaie once more 



On my father's humble home. 

 Oh ! bear me back to tlie greenwood shadc^ 



To the well-known chestnut tree- 

 To the quiet vale, and the sunny glade, 



Th« haunts of my childish glee. 



The Married Sisters. 



A TALE OF INDUSTUV A.ND IDI.E.MC.'SS. 

 BV T. S. AUTIIUK. 



" Come, William, a single day out of the three 

 hundred in a year is not niiicli." 



" True, Henry Thonie. Nor is the single drop 

 of water that fust finds its way through the dyke 

 much ; and yet the first drop hut makes room 

 for a small stream to follow, and then comes a 

 flood. No, no, Ileni-y, I cannot go with you to- 

 day ; audif you will" be governed by a "friend's 

 advice, you will not neglect your work for the 

 fancied pleasure of a sporting party." 



"All work and no jilay makes Jack a dull boy. 

 We were not made to be delving with tools in 

 close rooms. The fresh free air is good for us. 

 Come, William, you will feel hotter for a little 

 recreation. You look pale from confinement. 

 Come ; I cannot go without you." 



"Henry Thorno," said liis friend William 

 Moreland, with an i>ir more serious than that at 

 first assumed, " let me in turn urge you to stay." 



" It is vain, William," his friend said, intej-rupt- 

 ing him. 



" I trust not, Henry. Surely, my early friend, 

 and companion is not deaf to rea.soii." 



" No, not to right reason." 



" Well, listen to inc. As I said at first, it is 

 not the loss of a single day, though even that 

 lost, is a serious waste of time, that I now take 

 into consideration. It is the danger of fbriiiiug 

 a habit of idleness. It is a mistake, that a day of 

 idle pleasure recieates the minil and body, and 

 makes us return to our regular and necessary 

 employments with renewed delight. My owii 

 experience i.s, that a day thus spent causes" us to 

 resume our labors with reluctance, an<l makes 

 irksome what before was pleasant. Is it not 

 your own ?" 



"Well, I don't know; I can't altoirplher say 

 that It IS ; indeed. I never thought abolit it." 



" Henry, the wor.st of all kinds of dercpiioii is 

 seir-dece[>tion. Don't, let me beg of you, at- 

 tempt to deceive yourself in a matter so "import- 

 ant. I am sure you have exiieiicnccd thi.» reluct- 



ance to work after a day of pleasure. It is an 

 universal experience. And now that we are on 

 this subject I will add, that I have observed in 

 you an increasing desire to get away from work. 

 You make many e.xcuses, and they seem to you 

 to be good ones. Can you tell me how many 

 days you have been out of the shop in the last 

 three months .'" 



"No, 1 cannot," was the reply, made in a tone 

 indicating a slight degree of irritation. 



" Well, I can, Henry." 



" How many is it, then ?" 



" Ten days." 



"Never." 



" It is true, for I kept the count." 



" Indeed, then, you are mistaken. I was only 

 out a gunning three limes, and a fishing twice." 



"And that makes five times. But dou't you 

 remember the day you were made sick by fa- 

 tigue ? 



" Yes, true, but that is only si.v." 



" And the day you went up to the mountain 

 with the party." 



" Yes." 



" And the twice you staid away because it 

 stormed ?" 



" But, William, that has nothing to do with the 

 matter. If it stormed so violently that I couldn't 

 come to the shop, that surely is not to be set 

 down to the account of pleasure taking." 



"And yet, Henry, I was here, and so were all 

 workmen but yourself. If there had not been in 

 your mind a reluctance to coming to the shop, 

 1 am sure the storm would not have kept you. I 

 am plain with you, because I am your friend, and 

 you know it. Now, it is this increasing reluct- 

 ance on your part, that alarms me. Do not, then, 

 add fuel to a flame, that if thus nourished, will 



" Don't make any excuses, Henry. Think of 

 the aggregate of ten lost days. You can earn a 

 dollar and a half a day easily, and do earn it 

 whenever you work steadily. Ten days in three 

 months is fifteen dollars. All last winter, you 

 know, Ellen went without a cloak, because you 

 could not afibrd to buy one for her ; now the 

 money that you could have earned in the time 

 wasted in the last three montlis, would have 

 bought her a very comfortablo one — and you 

 know that it is October now,and winter will soon 

 be again upon us. Sixty dollars a year buys a 

 great many comforts for a poor man." 



Henry "Thornc remained silent for some mo- 

 ments. He felt the force of William Morcland's 

 reasoning; but his own inclinations were strong- 

 er than his friends arguments. He wanted logo 

 with two or three campanions a gunning, and 

 even the vision of his young wife shi inking in 

 the keen winter wind, was not sufficient to con- 

 ipier this desire." 



"I will go this once, William," he said at 

 length, with a lung inspiration, "and then I will 

 quit it. 1 see and acknowledge the force of what 

 you say ; Inever viewed the matter so seriously 

 hefore." 



"This once may confirm a habit now too 

 strongly fixed," urged his companion. " Stop 

 now, while your mind is rationally convinced 

 that it is wrong to waste your lime, when it is so 

 much needed for the sake of maUing comforta- 

 ble and happy one who loves you, and has cast 

 her lot in life wilh yours. Think of Ellen and 

 then be a man." 



" Come Harry !" said a loud cheerful voice at 

 the shop door; " we are waiting for you." 



" Ay, ay,' responded Henry Thorne. "Good 

 morning, William, I am lileged for to-day. But 

 after this, I will swear otf." And so saying he 

 hurried away. 



Henry Thorne and William Moreland were 

 workmen in a large manufacturing establishmonl 

 ill one of our thriving inland towns. They had 

 married sisters, and thus a friend.'rliip that had 

 long existed, was confirmed by closer ties of in- 

 terest. They had been married about one yeai', 

 at the time of their introduction to the reader, 

 and, already, Moreland could perceive that his 

 earnings bought nfore comforts for his little lam- 

 ily than did Henry's. The difference was not to 

 he accounted for in the days the other took in 

 pleasure taking, although their aggregate loss 

 was no mean item to be taken from a poor man's 

 purse. Jt was to be found, mainly, in a disposi- 

 tion to spend, rather than to eave ; to jiay away 



for trifles that were not really needed, very small 

 sums, whose united amount in a few weeks would 

 rise to many dollars. But, when there was added 

 to this constant cheek upon his pros])erity, the 

 fc-eqnent recurrence of a lost day, no wonder that 

 Ellen had less of good and comfortable clothing 

 than her sister Jane, and that her house was far 

 less neatly furnished. 



.\11 this had been observed, with pain, by Wil- 

 liam Moreland and his wife, Init, until the con- 

 versation recorded in the opening of this story, 

 no word of remonstrance or warning had been 

 ventured Ufion by the former. The s[iirit in 

 which his words were received, encouraged liim 

 to hope that he might exercise a salutary control 

 over Ilenry, if he persevered, and he resolved 

 that he would extend thus far towards him the 

 offices of a true friend. 



After dinner of the day during which her hus- 

 band was absent, Ellen called in to see Jane, and 

 sit the afternoon with her. They were only sis- 

 ters, and had always loved each other much. 

 During their conversation, Jane said, in allusion 

 to the «eason — " it begins to feel a little to-day as 

 if winter were coming. And, by the way, you 

 are going to get a cloak this fall, Ellen, are you 

 not ?" 



" Indeed, I can hardly tell, Jane," Ellen replied, 

 in a serious tone; "Henry's earnings, somehow 

 or other, don't seem to go far with us ; and yet I 

 try to he as I'rudent as I can. We have but a 

 few dollars laid by, and both of us want warm 

 under-clothing, and Ilenry must have a coat and 

 pair of pantaloons to look decent this winter. I 

 must try and do without the cloak, 1 think." 



I am sorry for that. But keep «p a good heart 

 about it, sister. Next fall you will surely be able 

 to get a comforttible one ; and you shall have 

 mine as often as you want it, this winter. I 

 can't go out much you know ; our dear little 

 Ellen, your ntimesake, is too young to leave of- 

 ten." 



"You are very kind, Jane," Ellen said,and her 

 voice slightly trembled. 



A silence of some moments ensuctl, and then 

 the subject of conversation was changed to one 

 more cheerfuL 



That evening, just about nightfall, Henry 

 Thorne came home, much fatigued, bringing 

 with him half a dozen squirrels,and a single wild 

 pigeon. 



"There, Ellen, is some thing to make a nice 

 pie for us to-morrow," he said, tossing his game 

 bag upon the table. 



" You look very tired, Heni^," his wifc said, 

 tenderly ; "I wouldn't go out any more this fall, 

 if I were you." 



"I don't intend going out any more, Ellen," he 

 replied ; " I am sick of it." 



" You don't know how glad I am to hear you 

 say so," his wife said in an altered and cheerful 

 tone. " Somehow, 1 always feel troubled and 

 uneasy when you are out gunning or fishing, as 

 if you were not doing right." 



"You shall not feel so anymore, Ellen," ho 

 replied ; "I've been thinking all the afiernoon 

 about your cloak. CoUl weather is coming and 

 wo haven't a dollar laid by for anything. How I 

 am to get the cloak, I do not see, and yet I cannot 

 bear tlie thought of your going all this winter 

 again, without one." 



" O never mind that, dear," Ellen said in a 

 cheerful tone, her face brightening up. " We 

 can't aftbrd it this fall, and that's settled. But I 

 can have Jane's whenever I want it, she says; 

 and you know she is so kind and willing to lend 

 me any thing that she has, I don't like to wear 

 out her things, but then 1 shall not want the cloak 

 often." 



Henry Thorne sighed at the thoughts his wife's 

 words stirred in his triind. 



" I don't see how it is, he at length said, dos- 

 pondingly ; " William can't work any faster than 

 I can, nor earn more a week, and yet he and Jane 

 have every thing comfortable, and are saving 

 money into the bargain, while we want many 

 things that they have, and have not a dollar 

 ahead." 



One of the reasons for this, to her hiiKband, 

 unaccountable diflercnce trembled on Ellen's 

 tongue. But she could not make up her mind to 

 rejirove hira ; and so bore in silence, and with 

 some pain, what she felt as a reflictioii upon 

 her want of frugality in managing household af- 

 fairs. 



