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AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST. 
§omT Corner. 
“THE OLD WOMAN.” 
It was thus, a few days since, we heard a 
stripling of sixteen designate the mother who 
bore him. By coarse husbands we have heard 
wives so called occasionally, though in the latter 
case the phrase is more often used endearingly. 
At all times, as commonly spoken, it jars upon 
the ear and shocks the sense. An “ old woman” 
should be an object of reverence above and be¬ 
yond almost all other phases of humanity. Her 
very age should be her surest passport to cour¬ 
teous consideration. The aged mother of a 
grown up family needs no other certificate of 
worth. She is a monument of excellence, ap¬ 
proved and warranted. She has fought faith¬ 
fully “ the good fight” and come off conqueror. 
Upon her venerable face she bears the marks of 
the conflict in all its furrowed lines. The most 
grevious of the ills of life have been hers; trials 
untold and unknown only to her God and her¬ 
self, she has borne incessantly; and now in her 
old age—her duty done! patiently awaiting her 
appointed time—she stands more truly beauti¬ 
ful than even in youth! more honorably deserv¬ 
ing than he who has slain his thousands, or 
stood triumphant upon the proudest field of vic¬ 
tory ! 
Young man! speak kindly to your mother, 
and even courteously, tenderly of her! But a 
little time, and ye shall sec her no more forever! 
Her eye is dim, her form is bent, and her shadow 
falls graveward! Others may love you when 
she has passed away—kind-hearted sisters, per¬ 
haps, or she whom of all the world you choose 
for a partner—she may love you warmly, pas¬ 
sionately! children may love you fondly! but 
never again, never! while time is yours, shall 
the love of woman be to you as that of your old, 
trembling, weakened mother has been. 
In agony she bore you! through puling, help¬ 
less infancy, her throbbing breast was your safe 
protection and support; in wayward, tetchy 
boyhood, she bore patiently with your thought¬ 
less rudeness, and nursed you safe through a 
legion of ills and maladies. Her hand it was 
that bathed your burning brow, or moistened 
your parched' lip; her eye that lighted up the 
darkness of wasting nightly vigils, watching al¬ 
ways in your fitful sleep, sleepless by your side, 
as none but her could watch. Oh! speak not 
her name lightly ! for you cannot live so many 
years as would suffice to thank her fully! 
Through reckless and impatient youth she is 
your counsellor and solace! Up to a bright 
manhood she guides your improvident step, nor 
even then forsakes or forgets? Speak gently, 
then, and reverently of your mother; and when 
you too shall be old, it shall, in some degree, 
lighten the remorse which shall be yours for 
other sins—to know that never wantonly have 
you outraged the respect due to “ old women.” 
—Harrisburg Telegraph. 
A WORD TO LITTLE BOYS. 
Who is respected? It is the boy who con¬ 
ducts himself well, who is honest, diligent, and 
obedient in all things. It is the boy who is 
making an effort continually to respect his 
father, and to obey him in whatever he may 
direct to be done. It is the boy who is kind to 
other little boys, who respects age, and who 
never gets into difficulties and quarrels with 
his companions. It is the boy who leaves no 
effort untried to improve himself in knowledge 
and wisdom every day ; who is busy and active 
in endeavoring to do good acts towards others. 
Show me a boy who obeys his parents, who is 
diligent, who has respect for age, who always 
has a friendly disposition, and who applies him¬ 
self diligently to get wisdom, and to do good to¬ 
wards others, and if he is not respected and be¬ 
loved by every body, then there is no such 
thing as truth in the world. Remember this, 
little boys, and you will be respected by others, 
and will grow up and become useful men. 
“How’s your Ma?” — -This slang expression, 
which at former times was in vogue, had gone 
from use and recollection, until brought to mind 
by a circumstance which transpired a day or 
two since in the street. A little boy was push¬ 
ing his way to school with satchel in hand, in¬ 
tent upon his own pursuit, when one who 
should have been a man in mind as well as in 
stature, hailed him with, “Boy, how’s your ma?” 
The lad stopped, eyed his interrogator from 
head to foot, and then replied: “My ma don’t 
know you, sir. Her acquaintances are gentle¬ 
men.” 
Exit the man of small brains with a flea in his 
ear .' — Buffalo Express. 
That was a noble boy.—E d. 
UliJillaneps. 
LIFE IN GREATi CITIES. 
now people live in new-york. 
The following article conveys a very truth¬ 
ful picture of life in this city. Those who have 
not spent months or years in its very midst, 
have any idea of what daily transpires among 
the heterogenous masses that make up our 
population of three quarters of a million. 
City life presents the two extremes of lux¬ 
ury and want, and in this respect New-York is 
fast becoming an European city. There are no 
such extremes of life elsewhere in town or 
country, and the picture of contrasts is any¬ 
thing but pleasant to Christian eyes or agreea- 
able to republican feeling. Some years ago 
when in the city'- of Naples, we thought it one 
of the most disgusting sights we ever beheld, to 
behold full-grown men, and women too, strong 
in limbs and in ability to labor, engaged in the 
miserable occupation of gathering up from the 
streets and market-places the remnants of old 
rags and cigars, manure and bones, or what¬ 
ever human hands could be laid upon. All this 
had a real value there, where the charming cli¬ 
mate, and almost perpetual summer, makes na¬ 
ture as bountiful in yielding the fruits of the 
earth as it is beautiful in its rich skies, its gor¬ 
geous sunsets, and its green fields. The Beg¬ 
gars arc a class there, and the Lazzaroni are a 
class there also, and there is between a class 
which perhaps we ought to characterise as 
composed of industrious persons who would be 
glad to labor, we were told, if they could find 
work to do. 
But we need not go to Naples to find Lazza¬ 
roni, Beggars, the extremes between busy men 
and those who live by their wits, or even those 
who thrive by gathering up the crumbs, or 
something worse, which are thrown into the 
streets. New-York, in this respect, is becom¬ 
ing a picture of the old cities of Europe. For¬ 
eigners bring their European trades with them, 
and thejr live and thrive upon them, too, disa¬ 
greeable as they are. We have seen able-bod¬ 
ied persons here, gathering up the bits of cigars 
thrown into the gutters by the makers, to be 
made, we suppose, into chewing tobacco, by 
those who revel in the use of tobacco. Think 
of that, ye who are wedded to the weed! The 
Rag Pickers have become almost a profession, 
and so have the gatherers up, with their iron 
hooks and long-pronged forks, of the pieces of 
paper swept into the street. If one-half of the 
people wonder how the other half live, they 
have only to behold, in a city like this, nearly 
one-half living upon what the other half wastes. 
Every old bone, every rag, every scrap of pa¬ 
per, the very dirt of the street is converted into 
silver and gold. The half-burnt coal that comes 
from the grate, the ashes from the fire-place, all 
are money. The barber sells the very hair 
which he cuts from your whiskers and head, - 
the paper-maker buys the old rags and ropes 
which are cast aside as worthless, and boys and 
men go about gathering up the old nails, hoops, 
rods, and scraps of iron and lead which are 
found and stolen in new and old houses or on 
the highway. These are incidents of cityjife, 
and we only record what the early riser can see 
any morning of the week. Thousands are thus 
growing rich daily upon the waste of other 
thousands, and the rag-gatherer and old cigar- 
picker of to-day, will be the millionaire of 
“ Upper Tendom,” and of the Fifth Avenue to¬ 
morrow. 
With all this spirit of saving and economy in 
collecting, there is, nevertheless, a vast amount 
of professional beggary in the city, confined 
mainly to the foreign-born citizens. The Ital¬ 
ians beg with an earnestness and expression 
which sometimes borders on phrenzy. They 
will cling to jrour kn~es, kiss your hands, and 
call down the most eloquent blessings upon 
your head if you give them aught. The Irish 
pass from blessing to cursing, with startling 
facility, which makes one’s blood creep in their 
veins. Who that has ever heard Irish anathe¬ 
mas in old Ireland will ever forget them. “ For 
the love of God, give us a penny to buy bread 
for the darling child!” Perhaps you frown and 
refuse, and if you do, you may find your hair 
standing on end as you hear curses rolling out 
like a flood. In Dublin, upon the Green, as 
daylight recedes into the shades of evening, you 
may see many of these beggars, most of them 
women, usually with children in their arms as 
helpmates in the work of petition. They beg 
eloquently, and they curse frightfully, sometimes 
invoking “ the wrath of heaven,” “ the anger of 
the Lord,” “ decrepid old age,” “ hunger and 
nakedness for yourself, wife and little ones.” 
We have something of this at times in New- 
York, and from those who can get work and 
the means of an honest livelihood almost when¬ 
ever they ask it. But there is hardly a limit to 
the phases of city life. We have cited but one 
or two, as we have seen them in our recent 
walks about town.— Express. 
EFFECTS OF SIGNING THE PLEDGE. 
JOnNSTON’s BAD LUMP. 
Rev. John Abbott, the sailor preacher, re¬ 
lates the following good story of one of his con¬ 
verts to temperance: 
Mr. Johnston, at the close of a cold water lec¬ 
ture intimated that he must sign the pledge in 
his own way, which he did in these words: 
“ I, William Johnston, pledge myself to drink 
no more intoxicating liquor for one year.” 
Some thought he would’nt stick three days, 
others allowed him a week, and a few gave him 
two weeks; but the landlord knew him best, 
and said he was good stuff, but at the end of 
the year Bill would be a real soaker. Before 
the year was quite ended, Mr. Johnston was 
asked by Mr. Abbott, “Bill, ain’t you going to 
renew the pledge ?” 
“Well, I don’t know, Jack, but what I will; 
I have done pretty well so far, will you let me 
sign again my own way ?” 
“0 yes, any way, so that you won’t drink 
rum.” 
He writes: “ I, William Johnston, sign this ^ 
pledge for nine hundred and ninety-nine years, 
and if living a*-the end of that time, I intend to 
take out a lease for life.” 
A day or two after, Johnston went to sec his 
old landlord, who eyed him as a hawk does a 
chicken. “ Oh, landlord,” whined Bill, accom¬ 
panied with sundry contortions of the body, as 
if enduring most excruciating torment, “ I have 
such a lump on my side.” 
“ That’s because you have stopped drinking; 
you won’t live two years longer at this rate.” 
“ If I commence drinking, will the lump go 
away ?” 
“ Yes. If you don’t you will have another 
just such a lump on the other side.” 
“ Do you think so, landlord?” 
