154 
AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST 
Opticians say that their business is never more 
flourishing than after a solar eclipse. 
It appears, in a short notice of this eclipse by 
the Boston Journal , that it will be seen in the 
morning, and the editor recommends early ris¬ 
ing to his readers. 
This mistake, probably, arose from confound¬ 
ing astronomical time, which is reckoned from 
noon alone, with civil time, which is reckoned 
from both noon and midnight—thus 4 o’clock 
means in astronomy 4 P. M., and 4 A. M., is 
called 10 o’clock. 
It is, probably, not unknown to many of our 
readers, that in a period of about eighteen years, 
called the Chaldean period, or the lunar cycle, 
eclipses go through an order of performances, 
which are repeated, with but slight variations, 
again and again ; but that in the course of time 
these variations amount to great changes, so 
that from time to time some old eclipse will be 
dropped out, and some new one taken up in the 
eighteen year programme. This subject is 
finely discussed in Ferguson’s astronomy, and a 
history of the returns of the coming eclipse is 
given as an example. 
The approaching eclipse first appeared on the 
list about the fifteenth century, and will con¬ 
tinue to return till about a thousand years after 
its first appearance, when, having gradually 
passed off the earth, the shadow, at the corres¬ 
ponding returns of new moon, will continue for 
more than ten thousand years to sweep by the 
earth without touching it, and then will again 
return to entertain or terrify, perhaps, a new 
race of men. 
TOT-look. 
For the American Agriculturist. 
WHAT IS THE PARTICULAR SORROW OF A 
SAD IRON I 
“What is the particular sorrow of a sad 
iron ?” the Agriculturist asks. Why, indeed, 
does it receive this gloomy prefix? Its face is 
bright and smooth, all unwrinkled by sorrow, 
nor furrowed by care. Is it because of the sad 
spirit which sometimes, nay often, shoves it 
over the rough linen ? Is it because the busy 
housewife sighs as she looks at her week’s 
ironing, which must be done, if baby does cry 
unattended in his cradle ? Is it because of the 
breaking hearts and worn bodies of those who 
earn their daily bread rubbing and wringing, 
sprinkling and folding, starching and smooth¬ 
ing? 
How many a tale of killing toil could these 
sad irons tell. The tears of the poor sufferer 
have “ sissed” on their hot surface,—the tears 
too of children have fallen on them, as they 
have been sped on their mission to procure 
bread for the starving. 
Why are they called sad ? Could not many 
a housekeeper answer this question with some 
conjecture of her own ? See that table piled 
with clothes. Look at that care-worn woman, 
pale and tremulous perhaps, or purple, it may 
be, with the coming “chill.” No wonder she 
looks with a tearful eye, and aching heart, at 
the polished irons arranged on the mantle. No 
wonder she gives them a name which reflects 
the state of her own feelings. 
It is because these irons are associated with 
life-consuming toil—with over-tasked and ex¬ 
hausted strength—with much that makes the 
duties of domestic life a weariness, even to the 
loving, that they receive their peculiarly “ sad” 
and melancholy name. 
It will not be many years, I hope, before 
some “ cunning man endowed with understand¬ 
ing,” shall invent a machine, which shall lighten 
the cares of ironing-day, and banish sad irons 
for ever from our sight. Anne Hope. 
DEAL GENTLY WITH MY MOTHER, WORLD. 
BY HENRY CLAY PREUSS. 
Deal gently with my mother, world ! 
Her days are in the yellow leaf, 
And time with her is growing brief; 
She is not now what she hath been, 
Her eye hath lost its glowing sheen: 
The rose is faded from her cheek, 
And life’s dark stream grows faint and weak; 
The forms which walked with her of yore, 
Come back again, oh, nevermore— 
Deal gently with my mother, world. 
I was not favored by thee, world! 
Oh, life was dark, e’en from my birth, 
And I have tired long of earth; 
But now I know mine hour has come, 
I feel the death damps on my brow, 
But. world, I do not blame thee now ; 
Though thou hast been unkind to me, 
1 cast no harsh reproach on thee ; 
My boyish dreams have passed away, 
But with my dying breath I pray, 
Deal gently with my mother, world ! 
Spare her in your sorrows, world! 
I was her favorite, darling boy— 
Her earthly hope, her spirit’s joy, 
God only knows I loved her well— 
How much, no language now can tell; 
But I am fallen in my prime, 
As leaves in early summer time, 
And when my soul shall leave its clay, 
Her last fond hope shall pass away— 
Then in my deep despondency, 
This dying boon I crave of thee— 
Deal gently with my mother, world. 
A YANKEE GETTING MARRIED. 
Chancing to visit the office of Alderman 
-, the other day, we witnessed an hyme- 
nial ceremony that will bear narrating. 
The bridegroom was a weather-beaten coun¬ 
tryman, a perfect picture of good nature, but 
so tall that in entering the portals of the office 
an involuntary obeisance was necessary ; while 
the artificial hollyhocks on the summit of the 
bride’s bonnet just touched the elbow of her 
expected lord. Their entrance was preceded 
by an urchin with dilapidated garments, who 
claimed and received three coppers as his fee 
for guiding them to the spot. 
“ What can I do for you, my good friends ?” 
asked the urbane alderman, as if in utter igno 
ranee of the object of their visit. “ Pray be 
seated, madam.” 
“ Well, squire,” answered the groom, with a 
complacent glance at the filagree breast-pin that 
fastened a dashing ribbon around the lady’s 
neck; “ old Mrs. Pettibone down to Lynn— 
you’ve hear’n tell about her I reckon ?” 
“Well, really, I think—I hardly know—I 
guess not.” 
“ Not heard tell of her, ’squire! why she 
makes about the best punkin sass you ever put 
in yewr stummik, I reckon; slips deown jist as 
sleek as a greased cat crawlin’ through a jint of 
stove-pipe.” 
“Very happy to be introduced to her, sir; 
but don’t let me interrupt you. Pray pro¬ 
ceed.” 
“Jes’ so, jes’ so. Well, old Mrs. Pettibone 
gin’ me Dianthy, here, to get spliced to ; she’s 
a widder woman, and old deacon Pettibone 
made ropes of money in the shoe-peg business 
when he was alive, and I larnt the business with 
him ; so yew diskiver that nat’rally I liked the 
gall, and the old lady gin consent; so, ef yew’ll 
pronounce the ceremony, your money’s ready.” 
“So you wish to be married, eh?” queried 
the alderman, willing to spend a few moments’ 
leisure in conversation; may I venture to ask 
what induced you to break through a bachelor’s 
life?” 
“ Sartin, squire; sartin. Yew see its nat’ral. 
Who ever hearn tell of a bachelor chippin’ bird 
or a bachelor bob-o-link? I reckon nobody 
has. And then ain’t doubiin kinder nat’ral? 
Ain’t double roses and double mornin-glories, 
and double pinyes the pootyist, and don’t every 
body like ’em better than single ones. The 
amount on it is, nature teaches it, squire, clear 
through the programmy, beginning with the 
robins and leaving off with the apple blossoms.” 
“Very true, my good sir; a very philosophi¬ 
cal view of the object. (Turning to the lady.) 
And you, madam have you given this subject 
the attention it merits?” 
“Never mind her, squire, jest let me settle 
that air business ; ’tain’t no kinder use to trou¬ 
ble yourself about Dianthy. Jest you fetch out 
yeour books and fire away.” 
The ceremony was soon performed. Our 
“Reform” alderman has carried improvement 
even into that department of his duties—and a 
two dollar bill was duly plac.-d in his palm by 
the newly-made husband. After he had con¬ 
gratulated the pair and wished them success, 
Jonathan exclaimed: 
“Squire, you’ie a reg’lar trump, you are; 
and if you ever come to Lynn, you’ll find a 
stoppin’ place with me, and a rousing welcome. 
But. squire and Jonathan facetiously inserted 
his forefinger in the region of the Alderman’s 
ribs, “ I’m done with one-hois« bedsteads; I am. 
Good-bye, squire!”— Journal of Commerce . 
YOU WILL BE WANTED. 
Take courage, my lad. What if you are but 
an humble, obscure apprentice—a poor, ne¬ 
glected orphan—a scoff and bye-word to the 
thoughtless and gay, who despise virtue in rags 
because of its tatters. Have you an intelligent 
mind, all untutored though it be? Have you a 
virtuous aim, a pure desire, and an honest 
heart ? Depend upon it, one of these days, you 
will be wanted. The time may belong deferred. 
You may grow to manhood, and you may even 
reach your prime, ere the call is made; but vir¬ 
tuous aims, pure desires, and honest hearts are 
too few and sacred not to be appreciated—not 
to be w'anted. Your virtues shall not always 
wrap you about as with a mantle—obscurity 
shall not always veil you from the multitude. 
Be chivalric in your combat with circumstances. 
Be ever active, however small may be your 
sphere of action. It will surely enlarge with 
every movement, and your influence will have 
continual increment. 
“In the world’s broad field of battle, 
In the bivouac of life, 
Be not like dumb driven cattle, 
Be a hero in the strife.” 
Work on, for surely you will be wanted, and 
then comes your reward. Lean upon the sacred 
vesity, “I have never seen the righteous for¬ 
saken or his seed begging bread.” Never des¬ 
pair ; for the lives of good men abundantly tes¬ 
tify that often when clouds are blackest, and 
the tempest is fiercest, and hope is faintest, a 
“still small voice” will be heard, saying, “ Come 
hither, you are wanted,” and all your powers 
will find ample employment. Therefore, take 
heart, young men, for ere long you will be 
wanted.— Our Drawer. 
Hope is a bright and beautiful bird; it comes 
to us ’mid darkness, and sings the sweetest song 
when our spirits are saddest, and when the soul 
is weary and longs to pass away, it warbles its 
sunniest notes, and tightens again the slender 
fibres of our hearts, that grief has been tearing 
away. 
