11 
AMiDIliC AN AGRICULTURIST. 
A MISTAKE IN THE WEIGHT. 
Andrew Wyman was like Lord Byron in one 
respect. He had a great horror of growing fat. 
What added to his apprehension on this score 
was the fact that his father, before he died, at¬ 
tained a degree of rotundity which would have 
enabled him to fill, respectably, the office of 
alderman. 
Andrew stood five feet eight in his stockings, 
and weighed one hundred and forty-five pounds 
— a very respectable weight—within which he 
endeavored to keep himself by the free use of 
vinegar and other acids, which are reported to 
diminish any tendency to pinguidity. 
Andrew was in the habit of weighing himself 
once a fortnight, in order to make sure that he 
was not transgressing proper bounds. 
He had been absent from home rather more 
than a week, and just stepped out of the cars 
into the depot, when his attention was arrested 
by an instrument for determining the weight. 
Mechanically he placed himself on the plat¬ 
form, and adjusted the weight to one hundred 
and forty-five. To his surprise he found this 
not sufficient. 
With an air of alarm he advanced it five 
pounds—still ineffectual. Imagine his conster¬ 
nation when the scales fell at one hundred and 
seventy-live! 
“ Good heavens!” said he to himself. “ There 
can’t be anj r mistake about it—I’ve gained thirty 
pounds within the last fortnight! I was afraid 
it would be so. It was so with my father be¬ 
fore me. At this rate I shall go beyond him in 
a few weeks.” 
He entered the house with an air of settled 
melancholy upon his face, which excited the 
fears of his wife who had come forward to greet 
him after his absence. 
“ Why, Andrew—Mr. Wyman — what’s the 
matter?” she asked. 
“Matter enough!” he groaned. “I weigh 
one hundred and seventy-five pounds! Gained 
thirty pounds within a fortnight—or at the rate 
of fifteen per week. Suppose I should go on at 
this rate, or even ten pounds a week, in three 
months I shall be a perfect monster. I am the 
most unfortunate of men.” 
“Iam sure you don’t look any larger,” said 
Mrs. Wyman. 
“ You don’t find that your clothes have grown 
small for you ?” 
“ Why, no.” 
“ I’ll tell you what, Mr. Wyman,” said his 
wife, struck with a sudden idea, “ are you sure 
you didn’t have your valise in your hand, when 
you were weighed ?” 
Andrew’s face brightened up. 
“ Wait a minute,” said he. 
He sped out of the house like an arrow—flew 
to the depot and renewed the experiment. 
A moment after he entered the house again, 
his face glowing with joy. 
“You’ve hit it, wife,” he exclaimed. “I’ve 
weighed myself again, and only weigh one hun¬ 
dred and forty-three.” 
Mr. Wyman was so elated by the altered state 
of the case, that he at once gave his wife money 
enough to purchase a “ love of a collar” that 
she had seen at Mr. Leask’s the day before. 
“ It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good.” 
THE GREEK PEASANTRY. 
These people remind me more and more 
every day of the North American Indian. In 
complexion they are lighter, but not unlike him. 
They have the same vaulting walk, the same 
erect and daring attitude. Perhaps the strong¬ 
est part of the likeness is in dress. The mocas¬ 
sin of raw hide, made by perforating the edge 
with holes, and lacing it over the top of the foot 
with strings, is decidedly Indian. So is the 
coarse stuff legging, fitting the ankle and calf 
of the leg closely, and tied below the knee. The 
tunic, too, is only a white shaggy blanket, hang¬ 
ing down not quite to the knee, with holes for 
the arms, and sometimes with sleeves. The 
Greek as well as the Indian wears a large knife 
stuck into his girdle, with the handle ostenta¬ 
tiously exposed. Their habitations are as simi¬ 
lar as the difference of climate and building ma¬ 
terials will permit. I speak here of the pea¬ 
sants of the interior. The dress of the females 
is a little different. Thej^ are barefooted. Their 
under-garment reaches to the ankles, and is 
usually ornamented with a gay border. 
Over this is worn a tunic like that of a man, 
reaching about to the knee, then a sleeved 
jacket, reaching only to the waist. This and 
the tunic are often ornamented with needle 
work, mostly red in front, at the bottom, and 
down to the middle of the back. A kind of sack 
is often thrown across the neck before, hanging 
to the waist behind, laden with a bunch of often 
very large beads, and little metal plates of the 
size of the smallest coin, worn, I suppose, for 
ornament, and as aid to devotion. The men 
usually wear the Greek cap, which is always 
scarlet, high and cylindrical, surmounted with 
a tassel of blue, hanging from the center of the 
crown. As a substitute for this, I have noticed 
a common cotton shawl or large handkerchief 
wound about the head, not unlike the turban. 
The female peasantry often cover the hand in 
much the same way. In the large towns there 
is some variety in their head dress, and many 
of them wear a red or yellow shoe, sharp at the 
toe, and of bungling workmanship. 
A Crafty Rogue. —A countryman was pass¬ 
ing along one of the streets of Baltimore with 
his wagon a few days since, when one of his 
wheels came off, and he discovered that a linch¬ 
pin was gone. After searching for it some time, 
he offered the boys who congregated a shilling 
to find it. They then joined in the search, and 
in a few minutes one of them brought him what 
he supposed to be the pin. Having adjusted 
the wheel, he paid the shilling and started off, 
but had not gone more than half a block be¬ 
fore a wheel on the other side came off, when 
he discovered that the young rascal had stolen 
the pin from one of the other wheels to obtain 
the reward. 
Rather Cool. — A friend, who has a large 
and sagacious dog, says the Detroit “ Inquirer,” 
told us yesterday that “ Watch” saw the man 
leave in the morning the usual daily supply of 
ice at the door, which not being observed by 
the servant, lay melting away upon the area 
boards. Watch observed this wasting process 
with concern, until he could bear it no longer, 
when he commenced pushing the ice to a 
shaded place, and having been a short time ab¬ 
sent, returned with a piece of old carpet, which 
he threw over it, as he had seen the servant do. 
-- 
A Good Answer. — An exchange tells a story 
of a miserable drunken sot who staggered into 
a Sunday-school, and for a few minutes listened 
very attentively to the questions propounded to 
the scholars, but being anxious to show his 
knowledge of “ scriptur,” he stood up, leaning 
on the front of the pew with both hand. 
“ Parson B-,” said he, “ ask me some of 
them hard ques’shuns.” “ Uncle Joseph,” said 
the dominie, with a solemn face, in a drawling 
tone, “don’t you know that you are in the 
bonds of sin and the depths of iniquity?” 
“ Yes’ir, and in the gall of bitterness to. Ask 
me another ques’shun ?” 
■- »-• • - 
Quite Unanimous. — A good deacon making 
an official visit to a dying neignbor, who was 
a very unpopular man, put the usual question — 
“Are you willing to go, my friend?” 
“ Oh yes,” said the sick man. 
“ I am glad of that,” said the deacon, “ for 
all the neighbors are willing.” 
- *♦ « - 
Good resolutions are like fainting ladies—they 
want to be carried out. 
The First Quaker Pun. —Not long since a 
“ Friend” who rejoiced in the name of Comfort, 
paid his devoirs to a young and attractive 
Quaker widow named Rachel H-. Either 
her griefs were too new, or her lover too old, or 
from some other cause, his offer was declined. 
Whereupon a Quaker friend remarked that was 
the first modern instance he had known where 
“ Rachel refused to be comforted.” The anec¬ 
dote is remarkable as being the first Quaker pun 
on record. 
A Do-Nothing Congress. —The Courier and 
Enquirer thus happily hits the character of the 
past Congress. 
Congress makes it its business to do Nothing, 
and this business is already “thoroughly dis¬ 
posed of.” What did it do yesterday ? Noth¬ 
ing. The day before ? Nothing. The day be¬ 
fore that ? Nothing. Last week ? Nothing, 
except make Nothing of the Know-Nothings. 
Week before last? Nothing. Last month? 
Nothing, but buy land of Mexico where Noth¬ 
ing grows. Month before last? Nothing but 
turn the Missouri Compromise into Nothing. 
The month before that ? Nothing whatever. 
The Jack-Asses employed on some of the 
city railroads, endure the heat and fatigue of 
the Summer heroically. They keep in good or¬ 
der, and appear to be the best description of 
animals that can be employed in the business of 
drawing cars. As yet, they exhibit few of 
those unamiable traits for which public opinion 
gives them credit. 
Caught Fowl.—A bachelor friend of ours 
passing up the street yesterday, picked up a 
thimble. He stood for a moment meditating on 
the probable owner, when pressing it to his lips, 
he said : “ Oh, that it was the fair lips of the 
wearer.” Just as he had finished, a big, fat, 
ugly, black wench, looked out of an upper win¬ 
dow and said: “Boss, jis please to frow dat 
fimble in de entry, I jis drap it!” Our friend 
fainted. 
A Theory Exploded. —The theory started 
some time since, that rain could be coaxed down 
from the clouds by fire, has been put to a hard 
test this season. There have been fires enough 
to make the “ heavens weep” the biggest kind of 
tears, but all in vain. The theory thus far, may 
be regarded as an exploded one.— Nashua Tele¬ 
graph. 
The Height of Meanness. —The Knicker¬ 
bocker tells of a man who stole a five dollar 
bill out in Indiana. His counsel tried to prove 
that the note was not worth five dollars, it be¬ 
ing at a discount. The prosecutor said he 
knew the thief was the meanest man in the 
State, but he did n*t think he was so all-fired 
mean as not to be willing to steal Indiana money 
at par. 
Tn the list of births published in the Liver¬ 
pool Courier of June 25th, is the following: 
“Lately, the wife of Jarvis Wilkingson, laborer, 
Wollaston, Notts, of her twenty-filth child.” 
“Will you rise now, my dear?” said a 
broker’s wife to her sleepy husband, “ the day 
broke long ago.” 
“ I wonder,” replied the somnolent financier, 
“if the endorsers were secured ?” 
An Appropriate Sign. —An apothecary in 
Salem, (Mass.) has written over his door—“ All 
kinds of dying stuffs for sale here.” 
Indolence and indecision of mind, though 
not in themselves vices, frequently prepare the 
way to much exquisite misery. 
Immodest words are in all cases indefensible. 
Preserving the health by too strict a regimen, 
is a wearisome malady. 
A Western editor, noticing a Bloomer, said : 
—“ She looked remarkably well as far as he 
could see.” 
The loquacity of fools is a lecture to the wise. 
