346 
AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST. 
OT|~f0Oll. 
KNICKERBOCKER FOR AUGUST, 
We have read or heard somewhere of a pa¬ 
triotic Irishman, who to the question “ Is not 
one man as good as another?” answered, “ Faith 
an’ he is, and a little better.” So we think of 
each successive number of the Knickbocker. 
We are just now more especially interested in 
the “Little People’s Side-Table,” and we ex¬ 
tract a few of the nice things from the August 
number. 
Our 1 Ann’ has a little girl to help her with 
the ‘ house-work’—as sui generis a little crea¬ 
ture as the sable Topsy. A few days since, 
when ‘ Ana’ came in from having, as she said, 
a short ‘ chatter' with a friend, she detected her 
little ‘ help’ in some misdemeanor, and pro¬ 
ceeded to reprimand her for it. In the course 
of her Anna-‘mad’-versions she said : 
“ Do you think you are fit to die ?” 
“ I do’ no!” said the little girl, taking hold of 
her dress and inspecting it, “ I guess so, if I 
ain’t too dirty!” 
When my grand-mother, (long since in 
Heaven,) was about three years of age, she was 
taken to the funeral of a deceased play-mate. 
The little corpse was lying in its coffin, around 
which flowers were strewn; and she being 
lifted up, kissed its cold cheek, and whispered : 
“Please give my love to God !” 
This strikes me as one of the sweetest ex¬ 
pressions I ever heard made by a child. 
Our little Charlie has always been in the 
habit of saying a little prayer before going to 
bed. A few evenings since, all things being 
ready for retiring, and when he was about to 
kneel at his mother’s knee, he stopped, and 
looking earnestly into his mother’s face, said : 
“Mamma, I am tired of saying somebody 
else’s prayer; mayn’t I make one myself?” 
His mother said, “Certainly, my boy, if 
you really wish it.” 
He knelt very reverently and clasped his 
hands ; then, with the earnestness of unaffected 
childhood, said to his mother: 
“ Mamma, if I get stuck, will you help me 
out ?” 
My little three-year-old boy never sees your 
Magazine, without asking his mother or me to 
read to him aboutthe “ Knickerbocker'sBabies." 
He once asked his mother to pick a sliver 
out of his hand, “ for” said he “ T don’t want to 
grow up a great big tree!” 
My little boy, after listening some time to 
his mother’s efforts to get a pedlar “to throw in 
something” with every thing she purchased, cast 
his longing eyes on some primers in the trunks. 
The peddler, reading his wishes, offered to give 
him one. The little fellow hesitated - , and when 
urged, said: “I don’t know as I will take it, un¬ 
less you will throw in something." 
A little girl had been playing in the street 
until she had become pretty well covered with 
dust. In trying to wash it off. she didn’t use 
enough water to prevent the dust rolling up in 
little balls upon her arms. In her trouble she 
applied to her brother, a little older than herself, 
for a solution of the mystex-y. It was explained 
at once—to his satisfaction, at least: 
“ Why, sis, you’re made of dust, and if you 
don’t stop, you’ll wash yourself all away?” 
This opinion, coming from an elder brothei - , 
was decisive, and the washing was discontinued. 
One day a little school-mate of Willie’s was 
in here, and the two got to disputing about the 
number of days in a week; Willie persisting 
that there were seven, and his little opponent 
stoutly maintaining that there wei-e only six. 
“ Well,” said Willie, “ you say them over and I 
will count.” So the days were named and 
counted, from Monday to Satui'day, exclusive; 
and then there was a pause, which Willie broke 
by saying: 
“And Sunday.” 
“Ho!” said his diminutive opponent, with a 
look of supreme contempt, “ that belongs to the 
other weeJc." 
My oldest, about eight, one day on his return 
from school, ran up with earnestness to his 
mother, and said: 
“ Mother, have I got any children ?” 
“Why, no! Why do you ask?” 
“ Cause I l’ead in the Bible to-day, at school, 
about “ children's children." 
One pleasant day last summer, I took my 
seat in the stage coach bound from Fall River to 
C - . Among the passengers w r as a little gen¬ 
tleman who had possibly seen five summers. 
The coach being quite full, he sat in the lap of 
another passenger. While on the way, some¬ 
thing was said about- pickpockets, and soon 
the conversation became general on that inter¬ 
esting subject. The gentleman who was then 
holding our young friend remarked : 
“ My fine fellow, how easy I could pick your 
pocket!” 
“No, you couldn’t,” replied he; “I’ve been 
looking out for you all the time !” 
SOW IN A GARRET—HOW SHE GOT THERE. 
A captain of the police relates an incident 
which occurred during the recent inspection of 
the premises in Canal street, where so many 
deaths have occurred. In addition to a genei’al 
neglect of cleanliness, hogs were found penned 
in the cellai’s, in order that they might escape 
the vigilance of the police. A "whole litter of 
small pigs was found in an upper stoi-y, and in 
one instance, a lai’ge over-grown sow was found 
in an attic. Of course, these things naturally 
excited the surprise of the visitants, but when 
they came to the sow in the gan-et, their won¬ 
der knew no bounds. The ricketty stairs lead¬ 
ing to the attic shook under the party ascend¬ 
ing, the passage-ways were so narrow that there 
was scarcely room for one man to pass. 
The question naturally presenting itself was, 
“How was this sow got up here?” The poor 
woman who had conducted the party up, looked 
with much anxiety upon their wondering coun¬ 
tenances, and at length broke out with a rela¬ 
tion of the trouble she had to shield her pigs 
from the vigilance of the police. “ But, my 
dear woman,” said the captain, “ how in the 
world did you ever get this big sow up here ?” 
“ Sui-e, yer honor, she niver was down; she 
was got in this room from another we had here 
long ago.” “ Ah! I see, said the captain, “ she 
growed here.” “Yis, yis. She growed, and 
growed finely too. She’s but a year an’ a half 
old, and see what a fine craythur she is, to be 
sure.” 
Orders were left for the l'emoval of the sow 
who had grown there, and the officers pro¬ 
ceeded on their unwholesome duty.- Albany 
Atlas. 
.—_» •-«— 
THE DEVIL’S FRUIT. 
Potatoes were first introduced at Moscow by 
Mr. Rowland, about sixty years ago. At first 
he would neither plant them nor touch them, 
saying they were the devil’s fruit, given to him 
on his complaining to God he had no fruit, 
when he was told to search in the earth for 
some, which he did, and found potatoes. A cu¬ 
rious Berwickshire legend, which, however is 
palpably anachronicle, attributes the introduc¬ 
tion of potatoes into Scotland to the famous 
wizard of the north, Sir Michael Scott. The 
wizard and devil being in partnership, took a 
lease of a farm on the Mertoun estates, called 
White-house. The wizard was to manage the 
farm and the devil advanced the capital. The 
produce w r as to be divided as follows: The first 
year Sir Michael was to have all that grew 
above the ground, and his partner all that grew 
below; the second year their shares were just 
the opposite way. His Satanic majesty, as is 
usual in such cases, was fairly overreached in 
his bargain; for the wizard cunningly sowed all 
the land the first year with wheat, and planted 
it with potatoes the second; so that the Devil 
got nothing for his share but wheat stubble and 
potato-tops; and this scouring rotation Sir 
Micheal continued until he beggared his part¬ 
ner, and exhausted the soil. In spite of this 
legend, however, we must continue to give 
credit to Sir Walter Raleigh for having been the 
introducer of potatoes into England. 
—— • • • - 
TO HEAD FUGITIVE BEES, 
We were recently on the farm of George W. 
Goodhue, Esq., of Wheatland, N. Y., when woi’d 
was brought us that two hives of bees had 
swarmed and were flying away. On going to 
the house, we found all the good “ women 
folks” playing a not very harmonious or melo¬ 
dious tune with tin pans. But the fugitives 
would not listen to the notes of the fair charm¬ 
ers. Their Queen was ravishing them with 
sweeter strains than the Good-hued republicans 
could generate with milk and pans and drum¬ 
sticks ; while their efforts to drown the music of 
the young Queen, though offering fairer pros¬ 
pects of success, were equally abortive. The 
bees had flown a considerable distance from the 
house when Mr. Goodhue reached the scene. 
“ Now,” says he, “ I’ll show your leaders how 
to head runaway bees.” He procured a large 
looking-glass, and running ahead of the bees, 
placed the glass in such a position as to throw 
the rays of the sun just across their line of 
flight. By moving the glass rapidly, and throw- 
ing the i - ays of light, like flashes of lightning, in 
all directions except one in which he wished the 
bees to go, he not only stopped their flight, but 
in less than three minutes had them safely 
lodged in the fork of a tree. Mr. Goodhue says 
he has never had a swarm escape him since he 
adopted this method .—Rural New- Yorker. 
Beautiful Apostrophe to the Bible. — We 
would be pleased to know the author of the fol¬ 
lowing most eloquent apostrophe to the Bible. 
It appears to have been addressed to young 
men. We have seldom read any thing finer: 
“ Study now to be wise; and in all your get¬ 
tings get understanding.” And especially would 
I urge upon your heart-bound, soil-wrapt atten¬ 
tion, that Book upon which all feelings are con¬ 
centred, all opinions; which enlightens the 
judgment while it enlists the sentiments, and 
soothes the imagination in songs upon the harp 
of the “ sweet songster of Israel.” That Book 
which gives you a faithful insight into your 
heart, and consecrates its character in 
“ Shrines 
Such as the keen tooth of Time can never touch.” 
Would you know the effect of that Book 
upon the heart? It purifies its thoughts and 
sanctifies its joys; it nerves and strengthens it 
for sorrow and mishaps of life; and when these 
shall have ended, and the twilight of death is 
spreading its dew-damp upon the wasting fea¬ 
tures, it breaks upon the last glad throb the 
bright and streaming light of Eternity’s morn¬ 
ing. Oh! have you ever stood beside the couch 
of a dying saint, when 
“ Without a sigh, 
A change of feature or a shaded smile, 
He gave his hand to the stern messenger, 
And as a glad child seeks his father’s arms, 
Went home.” 
Then, you have seen the concentred influence 
of this Book. Would you know its name? It 
is the Book of Books—its author, God—its 
theme, Heaven, Eternity. The Bible! Read it, 
search it. Let it be the first upon the shelves 
of your library, and first in the affections of 
your heart. Search the Scriptures, for in them 
ye think ye have eternal life, and they are they 
which testify of me. Oh ! if there be sublimity 
in the contemplation of God—if there be gran¬ 
deur in the display of Eternity—if there be 
any thing ennobling and purifying in the reve- 
