28 
AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST. 
BREAD AND BEGGARS. 
The New Orleans Picayune, in speaking 
of the vast number of the stout and hearty¬ 
looking beggars, of both sexes, which now 
infest that city, relates the following anec¬ 
dote : 
An old acquaintance of ours, a man of 
large heart, [but of a shrewd and inquisitive 
intellect, who had been annoyed by the fre¬ 
quent calls of these strapping, sturdy, but 
piteous applicants, hit on an expedient which 
worked so very well in his case, that we feel 
inclined to recommend it to the considera¬ 
tion of those who are similarly annoyed. 
Going one day to the door, he found at it a 
young man of about eighteen or twenty years, 
and looking able at least to earn a dollar a 
day, who begged for a picayune to buy him 
a loaf of bread. 
“ Don’t you want the money to buy whis¬ 
key ?” 
“No; to buy bread.” 
“ Are you hungry ?” 
“ Very.” 
“ Could you eat a loaf of bread if 1 was to 
give you one 1 ” 
“ Yes.” 
“ Come in, then, and I will see what can 
be done for you.” 
He was led into the dining room, a stout 
man servant sommoned, and a loaf of bread 
and a glass of water put on the table. He 
was then invited to lay to and help himself, 
and particular instructions were given to the 
servants to give the fellow a sound whaling 
in case he did not eat the loaf, crust and all. 
The poor fellow, who evidently was no more 
in want of bread than he was of a coat with 
nine tails to it, went at the task bravely, but 
couldn’t accomplish it—all the food he had 
swallowed before rose in rebellion at such 
an idea, and after an hour’s labor, he was 
forced to yield and plead sickness of the 
stomach. He was well thrashed and kicked 
out of the house, and the choice blackguard¬ 
ism that he hurled back when fully free, con¬ 
vinced every one that he was not fit for their 
sympathy. 
Mrs. Partington on the Markets.—“ I 
don’t understand the bills,” says Mrs. Part¬ 
ington, as she wiped over her specks to read 
over a second time the market returns. 
“ They say the market is ‘ firm well, so it 
ought to be, for they’ve newly paved it with 
granite. And I wonder what they mean by 
‘ a better feeling in the market.’ 1 am shore 
I don’t feel any better there; and I don’t be¬ 
lieve anybody does but the butchers, and 
that’s when they’re pocketing the money 
—things are so dear. Then it says that the 
trade ‘ embraces ten hoghsheads of tobacco ;’ 
I should like to have seen that; it must have 
been a real teching sight. Why do they say, 
‘ coffee was a drug ?’ I always thought coffee 
was a vegetarian; but, perhaps, that’s before 
it undergoes the necessary procession. Tal¬ 
low, it says, was ‘ firm well, I’m glad of 
that; let’s hope now that our candles won’t 
ignale away so dreadful fast. The tea mar¬ 
ket, I find, was ‘ dull;' that must have been 
before it was lit up. In wheat and barley 
there was ‘ no alteration ;’ I should think not, 
indeed—how should there be 1 But ‘ on the 
whole, the trade ruled brisk, at last quota¬ 
tions why, what quotations could they be 
to make the farmers so brisk? ‘We hear 
that in the potatoe district the diseased pro¬ 
duce does not exceed one potatoe in a bush¬ 
el !’ Why, its enuff to breed a famine. ‘ Hay 
was stationary well, that must have been a 
topogrothical error, unless they have found 
out the way of making paper out of fibres. 
‘ There was a liberal supply of flour ah, 
that must have been the work of some filan- 
profests who cared for the poor. Heaven 
bloss ’em! And ‘ last week’s rates were 
readily obtained ;’ well, that’s a good hear¬ 
ing ; considering how bad the times are, it’s 
a wonder to me how rates and taxes can be 
readily obtained.” Bless Jthee, Dame Part¬ 
ington, for thy simple and honest criticisms 
upon market returns! Evidently thou art 
not deeply versed in technicalities. 
Scene in Broadway. —A prostrate horse— 
street blocked up by officious citizens assist¬ 
ing—policeman stands by, whistling cheer¬ 
fully, hands in his pockets—gentleman ap¬ 
proaches him carefully and walks away. 
Scene changes. —Same policeman reads a 
newspaper leasurely at the corner of across 
street and Broadway. Gentleman approach¬ 
es as before : 
(To Policeman.) Will you oblige me with 
your name, sir ? 
Policeman. —What do you want to know 
for 1 
Interlocutor. —That is none of your busi¬ 
ness, sir. A policeman must give his name 
to any citizen who asks it. 
Policeman demures, but gives it. Inter¬ 
locutor walks away. Presently the parties 
repass each other. Policeman, who has 
been ruminating, rushes out and accosts the 
questioner : 
“ Aren’t you the gentleman who asked me 
mv name a little time ago?” 
“ Yes.” 
“ Well, now, I want to know what you 
asked that question for ?” 
Answer refused. 
Policeman (getting fierce)—Tell me what 
your name is, will you ? 
Questioner (cheerfully)—With great pleas¬ 
ure. My name is Fernando Wood. 
Policeman is very humble, apologizes, and 
has visions of stern reprimands, or possibly 
a dismissal. 
Isn’t that pretty well for the first story 
about the Mayor ? People about town are 
talking of it, in connection with remarks on 
“ new brooms.”— N. Y. Times. 
Byron and Peel. —There was at school a 
fine clever boy, who was known as “ little 
Bob Peel.” One day it happened that one of 
the older boys, a stout, brutal fellow, under¬ 
took to make “fag”—that is, a sort of 
school slave of young Peel; but the little 
hero resisted with all his might. This ty¬ 
rant, however, soon conquered, and then 
proceeded to beat him in a most cruel man¬ 
ner. In the midst of this another boy some¬ 
what older than Peel, but too small to hope 
to master the large boy, came running up, 
with tears in his eyes, and his cheeks hot 
with indignation, asked how many blows he 
meant to inflict. 
“ Why, what is that toyou,you youngras- 
cal!” was the reply. 
“ Because, if you please,” said the noble 
lad, “ I would take half." 
This boy was afterwards Lord Byron. Lit¬ 
tle Bob was the great Robert Peel; but the 
big bully who beat them, nobody knows 
anything about him. 
A young man and a female once upon a 
time stopped at a country tavern. Their 
awkward appearance excited the attention 
of one of the family, who commenced con¬ 
versation with the female, by inquiring how 
far she traveled that day 1 “ Traveled!” 
exclaimed the stranger, somewhat indignant¬ 
ly, “ we did’nt travel! we rid /” 
A bachelor, the other morning, remarked 
that wives who use the needle are like the 
enemy spoken of in the parable—they seio 
lares while the husbandmen sleeps. 
Lengthened sweetness long drawn out—a 
pretty girl seven feet high. 
BY AND BY. 
There is music enough in these words for 
the burden of a song. There is a hope 
wrapped up in them, and an articulate heat 
of the human heart. 
By and by! We heard it as long ago as 
we can remember, when we made brief but 
perilous journeys from chair to table, and 
from table to chair again. 
We heard it the other day when two part¬ 
ed that had been “ loving in their lives,” one 
to California, the other to our lonely home. 
Everybody says it some time or other. 
The boy whispers it to himself, when he 
dreams of exchanging the stubbed little shoes 
for boots, like a man. 
Then man murmurs it; when in life’s mid¬ 
dle watch he sees his plans half finished, 
and his hopes yet in bud, waving in a cold 
late spring. 
The old man says it when he thinks of put¬ 
ting off the mortal for the immortal, to-day 
for to-morrow. 
The weary watcher for the morning whiles 
away the dark hours with “ by and by; by 
and by.” 
Sometimes it sounds like a song; some¬ 
times there is a sigh or a sob in it. What 
wouldn’t the world give to find it in the al¬ 
manac, set down somewhere, no matter if in 
the dead of December, to know that it would 
surely come. But fairy-like as it is, flittering 
as a star-beam over the dewy shadows of 
the year, nobody can square it; and when 
we look back upon the many times these 
words have beguiled us, the memory of that 
silver “ by and by ” is like the sunrise of 
Ossian, “ pleasant but mournful to the soul.” 
Anecdote of Rev. E. H. Chapin. —At 
Ballard’s Seminary, where young Chapin was 
prepared for College, it was customary for 
the teachers to call on the boys to relate 
some incident which had come under their 
observation. It was in the spring of the 
year, when it was customary for farmers to 
have an over supply of mutton on the family 
board, that young- Chapin was called upon 
to “ tell the truth.” He rose very slowly 
from his seat, and quietly remarked, in an¬ 
swer to the teacher’s request. “ It’s a posi¬ 
tive fact —I’ve lived upon mutton so long that 
I am ashamed to look a sheep in the face,” 
and sat down again amid roars of laughter 
from the whole school. 
The eloquence of the celebrated Whitfield, 
it is said was at times irresistible. The ac¬ 
complished skeptic, Chesterfield, was pres¬ 
ent when this popular preacher presented the 
votary of sin under the figure of a blind beg¬ 
gar, led by a little dog. The dog had broken 
the string. The blind cripple, with his staff 
between both hands, unconsciously groped 
his way to the side of a precipice. As he 
felt along with his staff, it dropped down the 
descent, too deep to send back an echo. 
He sought it on the ground, and, bending for¬ 
ward, took one careful step to recover it. 
But he trod on vacancy, poised for a mo¬ 
ment, and then fell headlong. Chesterfield 
sprang from his seat, exclaiming, “ By heav¬ 
en ! he is gone ?” 
Jones stepped up to a gentleman who was 
engaged in conversation with about a dozen 
others, and said: 
“It seems to me I have seen your physiog¬ 
nomy somwhere before,but I cannot imagine 
where.” 
“ Very likely, I have been the keeper of a 
prison for upwards of twenty years !” 
Gold and silver are metals quite too heavy 
for us to carry to heaven; but in good hands 
they can pave the way to it. 
