AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST. 
155 
TO MY LOVED ONE IN HEAVEN. 
The eye must be dark that so long has been dim, 
Ere again it may gaze upon thine ; 
But my heart has revealings of thee and thy home, 
In many a token and sign; 
I need but look up, with a vow to the sky, 
And a light like thy beauty is there ; 
And I hear a low murmur like thine in reply, 
When I pour out my spirit in prayer. 
And though, like a mourner that sits by a tomb, 
I am wrapt in a mantle of care ; 
Yet the grief of my bosom—0, call it not gloom! 
Is not the dark grief of despair. 
By sorrow revealed, as the stars are by night, 
Far o(f a bright vision appears; 
And hope—like the rainbow—a being of light, 
Is bom, like the rainbow, in tears. 
I know thou art gone to the home of thy rest; 
Then why should my soul be so sad ? 
I know thou art gone where the weary are blest, 
And the mourner looks up and is glad ; 
Where love has put off, in the land of its birth, 
The stain It had gathered in this; 
And Hope, the sweet singer that gladden'd the earth, 
Lies asleep on the bosom of bliss. 
WHAT I LIVE FOR. 
BY F. L. BANKS. 
I live for those who love me, 
Whose hearts are kind and true ; 
For the Heaven that smiles above me, 
And awaits my spirit too ; 
For all human ties that bind me ; 
For the task by God assigned me ; 
For the bright hopes left behind me, 
And the good that I can do. 
11. 
I live to learn their story 
Who’ve suffered for my sake ; 
To emulate their glory, 
And follow in their wake ; 
Bards, patriots, martyrs, sages, 
The noble of all ages, 
Whose deeds crowd History’s pages, 
And Time’s great volume make. 
hi. 
I live to hold communion 
With all that is divine ; 
To feel there is a union 
’Twixt Nature’s heart and mine ; 
To profit by affliction, 
Reap truths from fields of fiction, 
Grow wiser from conviction, 
And fulfill each grand design. 
IV. 
I live to hail that season 
By gifted minds foretold, 
When men shall live by Reason, 
And not alone by Gold ; 
When man to man united, 
And every wrong thing righted, 
The whole world shall be lighted 
As Eden was of old. 
I live for those who love me, 
For those who know me true, 
For the Heaven that smiles above me, 
And awaits my spirit too 
For the cause that lacks assistance , 
For the wrong that needs resistance ; 
For the Future in the distance, 
And the Good that I can do. 
At Court.— A person recently returned 
from Europe, told his friends he had been 
presented at Court there. 
“ Did you see the Queen there V’ asked 
one. 
“Wall—no—I didn’t see her, ’zactly; but 
I seed one of her friends—a judge. Yer 
see,” he continued, “ the Court I was pre¬ 
sented at, happened to be a Police Court.” 
BETTER LAUGH THAN CRY. 
So say we. There’s no use in rubbing 
one’s eyes and blubbering over all the ills that 
flesh is heir to. The best way is to stand up 
to the rack, and take the good things and the 
evil as they come along, without repining, 
always cheering yourself with that philoso¬ 
phical, “ better luck next time.” 
Is dame fortune shy as a weazel 1 Tell 
her to go to Jericho, and laugh in her face. 
The happiest fellow we ever saw, worked 
hard, slept upon a plank, and hadn't a shil¬ 
ling in his pocket, nor even a coat upon his 
back. 
Do you find disappointment lurking in 
many a place ? Then throw it away, and 
laugh at your own folly for so long pur¬ 
suing it. 
Does fame elude your grasp ? then laugh 
at the fools that are so often her favorites. 
She’s of no consequence, and never buttered 
a piece of bread, or furnished a man a suit of 
clothes. 
Is your heart broken by some maiden fair ? 
Then thank God that you escaped with your 
neck, and make the welkin ring with a hearty 
laugh. It lessens the weight of one’s heart 
amazingly. 
Take the advice, under all circumstances, 
“laugh dull care away.” Don’t be in a hurry 
to get out of the world; it’s a very good 
world, considering the creatures who inhabit 
it, and is about as full of fun as it can be. 
You never saw a man cut his throat with a 
broad grin on his face ; it’s a grand prevent¬ 
ative of suicide. There’s philosophy and 
good sense, too, in laughing—it shows a 
clear conscience, and a sincere gratitude for 
the things of life, and elevates us above the 
brute creation. So here goes for good humor, 
and we put in for our share while the ball is 
rolling. 
- —■— 1 thiiipi-- 
PAT AND THE OYSTERS- 
Pat, who had been transplanted, had been 
sent by his master to purchase a half bushel 
of oysters at a quay, but was absent so long 
that apprehensions were entertained for his 
safety. He returned at last, however, puff¬ 
ing under his load in the most musical style. 
“ Where have you been, Pat,” exclaimed 
his master. 
“ Where have I been 1 Why, where should 
I be 1 To fetch the oysters.” 
“ And what in the name of St. Patrick kept 
you so long 1 ?” 
“ Long ! be my soul, I think I have been 
pretty quick, considering all things.” 
“ Considering what things ?” 
“ Considering what things ? why, consid¬ 
ering the gutting of the fish, to be sure.” 
“ Gutting what fish ?” 
“What fish! why, blur-an’-owls, the oys¬ 
ters.” 
“ W T hat do you mean ?” 
“ What do I mean ? why. I mean that as 
I was resting down foment the Pickled Her¬ 
ring, having a dhrop to comfort me, a gentle¬ 
man axed me what I’d got in my sack.” 
“ Oysters,” says I. 
“Let’s look at ’em, says he, and he opened 
the bag. “ Och ! thunder and praties,” says 
he, “ who sold you these 1” 
“ It was Mick Carney,” says I, “ aboard 
the Poll Doodle smack.” 
“ Mick Carney, the thief of the world ! 
What a blackguard he must be to give them 
to you without gutting.” 
“ Aint they gutted,” says I. 
“ Mischief a one,” says he. 
“ Musha, then,” says I, “ what’ll I do 1” 
“ Do ?” says he, “ I’d sooner do it myself 
than see you abused.” 
“And so he takes ’em in doors and guts 
themnate and clane, as you’ll see,” opening, 
at the same time, his bag of oyster shells, 
that were as empty as the head that bore 
them to the house.” 
THE IRON INDIAN; 
OR A RIGHT HANDER BADLY INVESTED. 
“ Thank you, I don’t care if I do,” said a 
fast young man, with a large pressed brick 
in his hat, as he surged up to the Indian that 
stands in front of Van Cott’s tobacco-store, 
in Broadway, with a bunch of cast iron cigars 
in his hand. “ I'll take one, I smoke some¬ 
times,” and he reached out to take the prof¬ 
fered weed, but the Indian would not give it 
up. He hung on to the cigars like grim 
death. “ Look here, old copper-head,” said 
the fast young man, “ none of that, no tricks 
upon travelers, or there’ll be a muss, you and 
I’ll fall out, somebody’ll get a punch in the 
head.” The Indian said never a word, but 
held on to the cast iron cigars. He was calm, 
dignified, unmoved, as an Indian should be, 
looking his assailant straight in the face, 
and no muscle moving a single hair. “Yes! 
yes! Look at me old featherhead ! I’m one 
of ’em, I’m around, I’m full weight, potato 
measure,” and he placed himself in a position, 
threw back his coat and squared off for a 
fight. All the time the Indian said never a 
word, looked without the least alarm unwink- 
ingly straight into the face of the fast young 
man, still holding out the cigars in a mighty 
friendly way. The young man was plucky, 
and just in a condition to resent any sort of 
insult, or no sort of insult at all. He was 
ready to “ go in,” but the calmness and im¬ 
perturbability ofthe Indian rather cowed him, 
and he was disposed to reason the matter. 
“ I’ll take one,” said he, “ certainly ; I said 
so before, I freeze to a good cigar; I’m one 
of the smokers. My father was one of the 
smokers, he was; one of the old sort, and I'm 
edition number two, revised and corrected 
with notes, author’s hand-writing on title- 
page, and copyright secured. Yes, I'll take 
one.” But the Indian said not a word, all 
the time looking straight in the face of the 
fast young man, and holding on to the cigars. 
“ Look here old gimlet-eye, I’m getting riled, 
my back’s coming up, and you and I’ll have 
a turn ; smell of that, old copperhead ;” and 
he thrust his fist under the nose of the cast- 
iron Indian, who said not a word, moved not 
a muscle, but kept right on, looking straight 
into the face of the fast young man, as if not 
caring a fig for his threats, or taking in at all 
the odor of his fist. “Very well,” said the 
fast young, “ I’m agreeable—I’m around ; 
look to your ugly mug, old pumpkin head;” 
and he let go a right-hander, square against 
the nose of the cast-iron Indian, who never 
moved an inch nor stirred a muscle—looking 
with calm, unchanged dignity, as before, in 
the face of his enemy. “Hallo,” cried the 
fast young man, in utter bewilderment, as he 
reeled back half-way across the side walk, 
with the blood dripping from his skinned 
knuckles ; “ Hallo ! here’s a go—here’s an 
eye-opener—here’s a thing to hunt for 
around a corner. I’m satisfied, old iron- 
face, I am. Enough said between gentle¬ 
men.” Just then he caught sight of the 
tomahawk and scalping-knife in the belt of 
the savage, and his hair began to rise. The 
Indian seemed to be making up his mind to 
use them. “ Hold on,” cried the fast young 
man, as he dodged round the awning post. 
“ Hold on—none of that—I apologise—I 
squat—I knock under. Hold on, I say,” he 
continued, as the in Indian seemed to scowl 
with peculiar fierceness. “ Hold on, very 
well, I’m off —I’ve business down the street 
—people are home waiting for me—can’t 
stay,” and he bolted like a quarter horse 
down Broadway, and his cry of “ Hold on," 
died away as he vanished beyond the lamp¬ 
lights up Columbia-st. [Albany Register. 
