10 
AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST. 
symptoms are a short, shrill cough, as if trying 
to throw up something. A discharge from the 
eyes and nostrils, an offensive smell, a wasting 
away of the flesh to the back bone, when their 
eyes close and swell out full of matter; and 
thus they give up the ghost. If possible, please 
give me a remedy. H. M. K. 
DEATH OF MRS. JUDD. 
The following notice is taken from the Lima 
(N. Y.) Weekly Visitor, of 9 th inst. 
Died. —In New-York City, September 2d, 
MRS. SARAH F. JUDD, wife of ORANGE 
JUDD, Esq., Editor of the American Agricul¬ 
turist. She was buried in the Methodist Cem¬ 
etery of this Village on Tuesday. Aged 33 
years, 8 months and 8 days. 
It will be gratifying to the numerous friends 
of the deceased in Lima, where she formerly 
resided, to learn that she died in the full triumphs 
of faith. Her disease, rectal hemorrhage, 
was of several weeks continuance; but, with 
one exception, it did not appear to be very dan¬ 
gerous till within a few hours of her death. 
She had, however, strong presentiments of 
her approaching end, and had two months be¬ 
fore arranged all her family affairs, and directed 
the manner of distributing her articles of dress, 
books, &c., among her various friends. 
She had also set her spiritual house in order, 
and with a calm, unclouded trust in her Re¬ 
deemer, peacefully waited His call. During 
her last hours she conversed freely with those 
around her, and left messages for her absent 
friends. As her life was ebbing away, bright 
visions of a blissful immortality opened to her 
view, and her three children who had gone be¬ 
fore, seemed visibly to appear, to accom¬ 
pany her through the dark valley and shadow 
of death. Her only anxiety was for an infant 
daughter; but with a strong trust in the good¬ 
ness of God, she cheerfully committed it to the 
same hands which had taken herself when an 
orphan child, and guided her youthful steps, 
and led her in early life to the house of prayer, 
and to the altar of mere)’. 
Those who here knew her many years as a 
member of the choir, a teacher in the Sabbath- 
school, a punctual attendant at the class-meet¬ 
ing, an affectionate and motherly sister in the 
home of her adoption, will well believe that 
during her ten years’ residence in other circles, 
she has ever been found an active and useful 
member in the church, and preeminently a 
most faithful and deservedly beloved wife to 
her now desolate husband. In the removal of 
one in the prime of life who gave such assu¬ 
rance of filling a useful sphere, we are taught 
that God’s dealings are often mysterious. We 
can scarcely fathom the mystery. How true it 
is that 
“ The good die first, 
While those whose hearts are dry as summer’s dust 
Burn to the socket.” 
Good qualities, like great abilities, are incom¬ 
prehensible and inconceivable to such as are de¬ 
prived of them. 
Nothing begets confidence sooner than punc¬ 
tuality. Nothing so well becomes true feminine 
beauty as simplicity. 
He who knows the world will not be too 
bashful, and he who knows himself will never 
be impudent. 
Be quick in resolving, and bold and deter¬ 
mined in executing. 
Scrap-Book—Its Design. —While our paper 
is designed to be chiefly devoted to agricultural 
matters, and to such subjects as relate to the 
health and comfort of those engaged in tilling 
the soil, we think it not inappropriate to devote 
a page or so in each number, to a collection of 
some of the choicest extracts which we find in 
looking over many foreign and domestic jour¬ 
nals. We have met with few families, where it 
is not customary for the younger members to 
gather up bits of wit or sentiment, and paste 
them into a “scrap book.” As we have a 
large field to gather from, and the Agriculturist 
is usually preserved and bound, we design 
these pages to serve the purpose of the usual 
“ scrap-book.” 
We also think it will be pleasant to every 
reader, after perusing the longer articles on farm 
matters, to turn over to a page like this, and en¬ 
joy a little amusement. 
“ A little humor, now and then. 
Is relished by the best of men.” 
SWEET MOTHER. 
The Late Mrs. Jddson. —The Home Journal 
gives a brief biographical sketch of “Fanny 
Forrester,” from which we extract sufficient to 
explain the following exquisitely beautiful lines : 
“ Before saying the few words by which we 
would recall the points of her varied life to our 
readers, let us give one of the drops of agony 
wrung from this heaven child while here on 
trial—a poem written for her mother’s eye only, 
and certainly the most manifest first breath of a 
soul’s utterance that we have ever seen in hu¬ 
man language. It was sent to us some years 
ago by one of her friends, under a seal of pri¬ 
vacy which we presume is removed by her 
death. She wrote it while at Maulmain, the 
missionary station in India, at which place she 
had been left by her dying husband, Dr. Judson, 
when he embarked on a nearly hopeless voyage 
for health. At the date of this poem, he had 
been four months dead, although it was ten days 
before the sad news was communicated to her.” 
The wild south west monsoon has risen, 
With broad grey wings of gloom, 
While here, from out my dreary prison, 
I look as from a tomb—Alas! 
My heart another tomb. 
Upon the Low thatched roof, the rain 
With ceaseless patter falls ; 
My choicest treasures bear its stains ; 
Mould gathers on the walls ;—would Heaven 
’Twere only on the walls! 
Sweet mother, I am here alone, 
In sorrow and in pain ; 
The sunshine from my heart has flown ; 
It feels the driving rain—Ah, me ! 
The chill, and mould, and rain. 
Four laggard months have wheeled their round, 
Since love upon it smiled, 
And every thing on earth lias frowned 
On thy poor stricken child, sweet friend, 
Thy weary, suffering child. 
I’d watched my loved one night and day, 
Scarce breathing when he slept, 
And as my hopes were swept away, 
I’d in his bosom wept—Oh, God! 
How had I prayed and wept! 
And when they bore him to the ship, 
I saw the white sails spread, 
I kissed his speechless quivering lip, 
And left him on his bed—Alas! 
It seemed a coffin bed, 
When from my gentle sister’s tomb, 
LoDg since, in tears we came, 
Thou saidst, “ How desolate each room !” 
Well, mine were just the same that day,— 
The very, very same. 
Then, mother, little Charley came, 
Our beautiful, fair boy, 
With my own father’s cherished name: 
But oh ! he brought no joy—my child 
Brought morning, and no joy, 
His little grave I cannot see, 
Though weary months have sped 
Since pitying lips bent over me, 
And whispered, “He is dead!”—Mother! 
’T is dreadful to be dead ! 
I do not mean for one like me — 
So weary, worn and weak— 
Death’s shadowy paleness seems to be 
E’en now upon my cheek—his seal, 
On form, and brow, and cheek 
But for a bright-winged bird like him, 
To hush his joyous song, 
And prisoned in a coffin dim, 
Join Death’s pale phantom throng—my boy 
To join that grizzly throng ! 
Oh, mother, I can scarcely bear 
To think of this to-day ! 
It was so exquisitely fair, 
That little form of clay—my heart 
Still lingers by his clay. 
And when for one loved far, far more, 
Come thickly-gathering tears, 
My star of faith is clouded o’er, 
I sink beneath my fears, sweet friend, 
My heavy weight of fears, 
Oh, but to feel the fond arms twine 
Around me once again ! 
It almost seems those lips of thine 
Might kiss away the pain—might soethe 
This dull, cold, heavy pain. 
But, gentle mother, through life’s storms 
I may not lean on thee, 
For helpless, cowering little forms 
Cling trustingly to me—poor babes! 
To have no guide but me. 
With weary foot, and broken wing, 
With bleeding heart and sore, 
Thy dove looks backwards sorrowing, 
But seeks the ark no more—thy breast 
Seeks never, never more. 
Sweet mother, for thy wanderer pray, 
That loftier faith be given ; 
Her broken reeds all swept away, 
That she may lean on Heaven—her heart 
Grow strong in Christ and Heaven. 
Once, when yonng Hope’s fresh morning dew 
Lay sparkling on my breast, 
My bounding heart thought but to do, 
To work at Heaven’s behest—my pains 
Come at the same behest! 
All fearfully, all tearfully — 
Alone and sorrowing, 
My dim eye lifted to the sky, 
Fast to the Cross I cling—Oh, Christ! 
To thy dear Cross I cling. 
Maulmain, Aug. 7, 1850. 
Small faults indulged, are little thieves which 
let in greater. 
Many are great because their associates are 
small. 
