.good fellow and trusts many other good 
:fellows who can’t pay, and in some cases 
die gets to drinking. Bills begin to come 
iin, and he can't collect enough to pay rent. 
•Friends that would help him out with 
nnoney when he had a farm, will now tell 
•him money is mighty scarce, and he will 
have to give a -chattel mortgage on the 
-stock. 
The stock runs down until there’s nothing 
left but a red tin can of mustard with a 
bulk’s head on it, some -canned peaches and 
e*)Te oysters on the shelves, a few boxes of 
wooden clothes-pins, six wagon loads of 
barrels with a little sugar in the bottom, 
a couple of dozen wash-boards, a box of 
codfish of the vintage of 1880, which smells 
like a glue factory, a show case full of 
vthree-eent wooden pocket combs and blue¬ 
ing, hair pins, and shaving soap, some 
•empty cigar boxes that the boys have 
smoked the cigars out of, and a few such 
.things that do not bring enough at an 
.auction to pay for printing the auction 
hills. Then the farmer breaks up and goes 
west, -leaving a .lot of bills in the hands of a 
lawyer for collection, who manages to 
collect enough to pay his commission, and 
the family that was so happy on the farm, 
.and so independent becomes demoralized; 
the girls marry chambermaids in livery 
stables, rather than go west, the boys go 
to driving hack or working a threshing 
machine, or tending bar, and refuse to go 
west, and the old folks go to Dakota ulone, 
.and wish they were dead, and will be 
quick enough. This is the history of 
thousands of farmers who get tired of the 
old farm. If they would but realize that 
they are better fixed than nine-tenths of 
the merchants in towns, and that they 
cannot become successful merchants any 
more than merchants can become success¬ 
ful farmers, they would learn something 
that would be valuable to them. 
Shall it be said that the person who got the 
$CQ0 prize, on Seed-Time and Harvest, received 
twice as much money as he sent the publisher, 
besides all the papers and premiums for nothing? 
Such was actually the case in the award made by a 
Philadelphia paper recently. Can you keep quiet 
and let it go so this time? We hope you’ll not, but 
•w e will wait and see. 
Tolling a Story. 
"Oh! that puts me in mind of a curious 
tiling I heard when I was in New York." 
Everybody becomes quiet to hear Mrs. 
Wobble’s story. 
She continues—"No, ’t wasn’t in New 
York, eh her—yes, it was—no-^but it must 
have been; it was the time I bought my 
black grenadine, father,” turning to her 
lord and master. 
“It was in Pliiladelphy you bought your 
granydine, Maria.” 
“Oh, la! yes; where was I? Oh, as I 
was saying, when I was in Philadelphia— 
but it does not seem as though it was in 
New York—When I was in Philadelphia in 
—in—Strange. I can’t remember when ic 
was! Father, what year was it we were in 
Philadelphia?” 
“Somewhere in the fifties, Maria; fifty- 
six I believe.” 
“Are you sure it was fifty-six, father? 
Seems as though it wasn’t so long ago a* 
that. Dear me sus! how time does ily! 
However, it doesn’t make any difference 
when it was. Let’s call it fifty-six, though 
I still think it wasn't so far back's that. 
Well, as I was saying, when we were in 
Philadelphia (if it was Philadelphia, in 
1856,—can it be possible!) I heard a very 
curious story. It was about a Mr. Whats- 
hisname—I never could remember names, 
but you know him, father. That man with 
the red face and gray beard—no, twasn’t 
him; the man with the red face and gray 
beard was the man we met at Hulda’s. 
Couldn’t have been him. Why, father, you 
ought to remember. ’Tvvas the man who 
lived down on—dear me! what was the 
name of that street ?” 
“Never mind the man’s name mother; 
give us the story.” 
“Of course it’s nothing to do with the 
story; but it makes me so mad that I can't 
remember nothing. Now, there’s your 
sister Sarah, father; what a memory that 
woman has! She always has the day and 
date right at her tongue’s end, and you 
once give her a person’s name and she'll 
never forget it to her dying day. But me! 
it puts me all out of patience. When I go 
