AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST. 
123 
“A little humor now and then, 
Is relished by the best of men.” 
BEYOND THE RIVER. 
The following beautiful lines, from the 
Dublin University Magazine, will remind the 
reader of the last scene in Bunyan’s “ Pil¬ 
grim’s Progress 
Time is a river deep and wide ; 
And while along its banks we stray, 
We see our loved ones o’er its tide 
Sail from our sight away, away. 
Where are they sped—they who return 
No more to glad our longing eyes 1 
They’ve passed from life’s contracted bourne 
To land unseen, unknown, that lies 
Beyond the river. 
’Tts hid from view; but we may guess 
How beautiful that realm must be ; 
For gleamings of its loveliness, 
In visions granted, oft we see. 
The very clouds that o’er it throw 
Their vail, unraised for mortal sight. 
With gold and purple tintings glow, 
Reflected from the glorious light 
Beyond the river. 
And gentle airs, so sweet, so calm, 
Steal sometimes from that viewless sphere; 
The mourner feels their breath of balm, 
And soothed sorrow dries the tear. 
And sometimes list’ning ear may gain 
Entrancing sound that hither floats ; 
The echo of a distant strain, 
Of harps’ and voices’ blended notes, 
Beyond the river. 
There are our loved ones in their rest; 
They’ve crossed Time’s river—now no more 
They heed the bubbles on its breast, 
Nor leel the storms that sweep its shore. 
But there pure love can live, can last— 
They look for us their home to share ; 
When we in turn away have passed, 
What joyful greetings wait us there, 
Beyond the river! 
SHE WISHED HE’D BEEN THERE. 
A few sabbaths since, an orthodox clergy¬ 
man, in this vicinity, exchanged with a Bap¬ 
tist brother from a neighboring city, who 
preached on the character of David, giving 
his own ideas of that good man, which did 
not agree exactly with the opinion of the 
church to whom he was talking. After the 
congregation had emerged from the house, 
we made it perfectly convenient to walk 
along with the deacon—a fine man, and “ of 
the strictest sect,” an orthodox Congrega- 
tionalist. 
“ Well, deacon -,” we commenced, 
what did you think of our preacher’s sermon 
on David ?” 
He looked at us a moment, while a roguish 
expression was playing on his features, and 
answered : 
“ I’ll tell you what I think of it, but I 
shall have to ‘ illustrate’ by a story which 
would not come under the head of ‘ Sunday 
Reading,’ perhaps, in a newspaper.” 
“ Well, deacon-” 
“ Well, when I was a small boy, I lived 
with an old farmer, who was a strong Univer- 
salist, and, as there was no church of that de¬ 
nomination in the neighborhood, he used to 
have Sunday services at his house, and 
sometimes would have a preacher from 
abroad. In the other part of the house 
lived an old lady, who was as stiff a Baptist 
as my master was a Universalist. One Sun¬ 
day we had a preacher who had Noah for a 
subject, and preached long and eloquently. 
The day was rainy, and the old lady in the 
other part could not get out to her church ; 
and as there was but a thin partition between 
her room and ours, she heard most of our 
minister’s sermon. The next morning as I 
was standing outside of the door, with my 
master, the old lady came out, and he said : 
“ Good morning, ma’am. We had a preach¬ 
er yesterday.” 
“Eh! Preached about Noah, eh? I 
lieered him. I only wish Noah’d been there 
— he'd ’a kicked him cut quicker V' 
We had the deacon’s opinion of the ser¬ 
mon about David ! [Lynn News. 
A Domestic Scene. —“Ba-a-a! Ba-a-a !” 
shrieks a half-naked infant, of about eighteen 
months old. “ What’s the matter Avith 
mamma’s thweet yittle ducky 1” says its af¬ 
fectionate mother, while she presses it to 
her bosom, and the young sarpint, in return, 
digs its talons into her face. “ Daden, 
Missis, I know what little massa Dim want 1” 
exclaimed the cherub’s negro nurse. “ You 
black huzzy, why don’t you tell me, then 1” 
and the infuriated mother gives Dinah a 
douse with her shoe. “ Why, he wants to 
put his foot in dat pan ob gravy wots on de 
harf!” whimpers the unfortunate blackey. 
“ Well, and why don’t you bring it here, you 
aggravating nigger, you?” replies the mother 
of the bawling one. Dinah brings the gravy, 
and little Jim puts his bare feet into the pan, 
dashing the milk-warm grease about his 
SAveet little shanks, to the infinite delight of 
his mother, Avho tenderly exclaims : “ Did 
mamma’s yittle Dimmy Avant to put his 
teeny Aveeny footies in the gravy 1 It shall 
paddle in the pan as it scoosey-wooseys, and 
then shall have its pooty red frock on, and 
go and see is pappy-yappy!” 
HOPE AND MEMORY. 
BY MRS. SIGOURNEY. 
A baby lay in its cradle. A being Avith 
bright hair and a clear eye, came and kissed 
it. Her name Avas Hope. Its nurse denied 
it a toy, for Avhich it cried, but Hope told it 
of one in store for it to-morrow. Its little 
sister gave it a flower, at which it clapped 
its hands joyfully, and Hope promised it fair 
ones that it should gather for itself. 
The babe grew to be a boy. He was 
musing in the summer twilight. Another 
being, with a sweet and serious face, came 
and sat by him. Her name Avas Memory, 
and she said, “ Look behind thee, and tell 
me what thou seest.” 
The boy answered, “ I see a short path 
bordered with flowers. Butterflies spread 
out gay Avings there, and birds sing among 
the shrubs. It seems to be the path Avhere 
my feet have Avalked, for at the beginning of 
it was my own cradle.” 
“ What art thou holding in thy hand 1” 
asked Memory. And he answered, “ A book 
Avhich mother gave me.” “ Come hither,” 
said Memory, with a gentle voice, and I will 
teach thee how to get honey out of it that 
shall be sweet when thy hair is gray.” 
The boy became a youth. Once as he lay 
in the bed, Hope and Memory came to the 
pillow Hope sang a merry song, like the 
lark Avhen she rises from her nest to the 
skies. Afterward she said, “ follOAV me, and 
thou shalt have music in thy heart, as sweet 
as the lay I sang thee.” 
But Memory said, “ He shall be mine 
also.” Hope said, “ Why need we contend ? 
For as he keepeth virtue in his heart, we will 
be to him as sisters, all his life long.” So 
he embraced Hope and Memory, and Avas 
beloved of them both. 
When he aAvoke they blessed him, and he 
gave a hand to each. He became a man and 
girded him every morning for his labor, and 
every night he supped at the table of Mem¬ 
ory, Avith Knowledge for his guest. 
At length, age found the man, and turned 
his temples Avhite. So dim his eye, it seemed 
that the Avorld was an altered place. But it 
was he himseif that had changed, and the 
warm blood had grown cold in his veins. 
Memory looked on him with grave and 
tender eyes, like a loving and long-tried 
friend. She sat down by his elboAv-chair, 
and he said to her, “ Thou hast not kept 
faithfully some of the jeAvels that I entrusted 
to thee ; I fear they aie lost.” 
She ansAvered mournfully and meekly : 
“ It may be so. The lock of my casket is 
worn. Sometimes I am weary, and fall 
asleep. Then time purloins my key. But 
the gems that thou gavest me Avhen life Avas 
new, see ! I have lost none of them. They 
are as brilliant as when they came into my 
hands.” 
Memory looked pitiful on him as she 
ceased to speak, wishing to be forgiven. 
But Hope began to unfold a radiant Aving 
which she had long Avorn concealed beneath 
her robe, and daily tried its strength in a 
heavenward flight. 
The old man lay down to die. And as 
the soul Avent forth from the body, the angels 
took it. Memory ascended by its side, and 
Avent through the open gate of heaven. There 
she expired, like a rose faintly giving forth 
its last odors. 
A glorious form bent over her. Her name 
was Immortal Happiness. Hope commended 
to her the soul which she had followed 
through the Avorld. “ Religion,” she said, 
“ planted in it such seeds as bear the fruit of 
heaven. It is thine forever.” 
Her dying words were like the music of 
some breaking harp, mournful aiid sweet. 
And I heard the voice of angels saying, 
“ Hope which is born of the earth must die, 
but Memory is as eternal as the books from 
Avhich men are judged.” 
THE BRIDAL. 
BY A CONFIRMED BACHEEOR. 
Nor a laugh was heard, nor a joyous note, • 
As our friend to the bridal was hurried ; 
Not a wit discharged his farewell shot, 
As the bachelor Avent to be married 
We married him quickly to save his fright, 
Our heads from the sad sight turning; 
And we sigh’d as we stood by the lamp’s dim light, 
To think him not more discerning. 
To think that a bachelor free and bright, 
And shy of the sex as we found him, 
Should there at the altar, at dead of night, 
Be caught in the snare that bound him. 
Few and short were the Avords we said, 
Though of wine and cake partaking ; 
We escorted him home from the scene of dread, 
While his knees were awfully shaking. 
Slowly and sadly we marched adown, 
From the first to the lowermost story. 
We never have heard from or seen the poor man 
Whom Ave left not alone in his his glory. 
Doavn east there resides a certain M. D. 
One very cold night he was aroused from his 
slumbers by a very loud knocking at his 
door. After some hesitation he went to the 
window and asked : 
“ Who’s there!” 
“ A friend.” 
“What do you want ?” 
“Want to stay here all night.” 
“ Stay there, then,” Avas the benevolent 
reply. 
A horse fell into a reservoir, in New-Bed- 
ford, a short time since, but Avas rescued by 
the spectators Avithout serious injury. Upon 
being asked by a benevolent gentleman “ it 
he Avas much hurt ?” he said “ neigh," and 
trotted off. 
