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AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST. 
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CHILDHOOD’S GRIEFS. 
¥no says a little merry child, 
However joyous, gay, or wild, 
Does not know sorrow ? does not feel 
The anguish years so liberal deal ? 
I say that every season’s share 
Of joy and woe is equal here; 
There’s bliss and ill in every stat e , 
And the child’s little grief is great— 
As great as loss of wealth or power 
Is to the man when dark clouds lower. 
The broken toy or plaything lost 
Has many a tear to childhood cost; 
Bitter perhaps as those the man 
Weeps over some defeated plan ; 
Yet does not last—a sunny sky 
Succeeds before their course is dry 
And the small sorrow sinks to rest, 
Forgotten in the infant’s breast; 
While the deep cares of manhood trace 
Their curves of sorrow on his face, 
Marking with many a furrowed line 
The broken hopes that life entwine. 
The infant’s grief can come and go, 
And leave no mark of pain or woe ; 
While every blast that manhood feels, 
The bowing of his frame reveals. 
The petty trials teach the child 
With influences firm but mild; 
And fits its frame to bear the woe 
Which every man must bear below. 
By gradual force it steels the heart, 
To hold with patience sorrow’s part, 
To treasure, more and more esteem 
Each fleeting good and happy beam, 
The morning dawn, and sunshine bright, 
Because it follows sorrow’s night. 
Marie Lane Express. 
DEATH OF THE ROBIN. 
[The following sweet and touching lines on the 
“Death of the Robin,” are from the gifted pen of 
our fair correspondent, Mrs. Emeline S. Smith. They 
are here published for the first time .]—Home Jour¬ 
nal. 
From his sweet banquet, ’mid the perfumed clover, 
A robin soared and sung; 
Never the voice of happy bard or lover 
Such peals of gladness rung. 
Lone Echo, loitering by the distant hill-side, 
Or biding in the glen, 
Caught up, with thristling lip, the tide of sweetness, 
Then bade it flow again. 
The summer air was flooded with the music; 
Winds held their breath to hear, [ored, 
And blushiDg wild flowers hung their heads enam- 
To list that" joyance clear.” 
Just then, from neighboring covert rudely ringing, 
Broke forth discordant sound; 
And wily fowler from his ambush springing, 
Gazed eagerly around. 
Still upward, through the air that yet was thrilling 
To his melodious lay, 
One instant longer, on a trembling pinion, 
The robin cleared his way. 
But, ah, the death-shot rankled in his bosom— 
His life of song was o’er ! [way, 
Back, back to earth, from out his heavenward path- 
Ile fell, to rise no more. 
A sudden silence chilled the heart of nature_ 
Leaf, blossom, bird and bee, 
Seemed each, in startled hush, to mourn the pausing 
Oftbat sweet minstrelsy. 
And Echo, breathless in her secret dwelling, 
Like love-lorn maid, in vain 
Waited and listened long, to catch the accents 
She ne’er would hear again. 
Oh bird ! sweet poet of the summer woodlands! 
How like thy lay to those 
Of tuneful bards, whose songs begun in gladness, 
Have oft the saddest close! 
Thus, many a strain of human love and rapture, 
Poured from a fond, full heart, 
Hath been, in one wild moment, hushed forever 
By sorrow’s fatal dart. 
HUSBANDS IN LITTLE THINGS. 
“Ah, Brown, how are you ?” 
“Why, Jones, is that you? IIow d’ye do, 
my good fellow.” 
Such were the exclamations with which two 
neighbors greeted each other, as they met one 
evening about sundown on their way homeward 
from business. After a few inquiries about each 
other’s families, for both were married men, and 
the stereotyped complaints respecting hard 
times—of which merchants complain as pro¬ 
verbially as farmers do of bad crops, Brown 
said to his friend: 
“ Suppose we try a few oysters, Jones, I’ve 
found a place where they keep capital ones. 
You don’t have supper yet?” 
“No, there’s plenty of time, I’ll go with 
pleasure.” 
So the two husbands turned aside into a sa¬ 
loon, where, in the course of an hour’s chat, 
they managed to spend half a dollar a-piece; 
partially in brandy and water, “to make oys¬ 
ters,” as they said, “ digest.” 
Meantime Mrs. Jones, the youngest of the 
two wives, sat wondering why her husband did 
not come home. She had been into the kitchen 
two or three times, to see that supper was all 
ready, and being kept hot, for Mr. Jones was 
one of those men who neither like to wait for 
a meal, nor eat a cold one. At last, nearly an 
hour after his usual time, the husband made his 
appearance. 
“ Take up supper,” cried Mrs. Jones, running 
to the kitchen door. “ It’s Mr. Jones, I’ll let 
him in myself,” as she spoke, she breathlessly 
hurried to admit her husband. 
“Supper’s on the table, Jones,” she said, as 
she clung to him. “ I’ve made your favorite 
cake, and hope it will turn out well. Only I’m 
afraid it’s half spoilt by the delay. But I sup¬ 
pose business kept you, and so it can’t be 
helped.” 
The husband did not contradict his wife. But 
when he came to try the cake, he pushed it 
away. 
“ Isn’t it right?” said the wife, the tears com¬ 
ing into her eyes. 
“ Yes, it will do,” answered Mr. Jones, “ only 
it is not quite up to the thing, and besides I’m 
not hungry.” 
Poor lady! She fancied that these last words 
were said in order to still her feelings, and that 
the reason why her husband did not eat, was, 
because the cake w T as bad. Her afternoon’s 
happiness had consisted in thinking how agree¬ 
ably her husband would be surprised at this 
little delicacy. But this was all destroyed now. 
She had no appetite herself to eat, and really 
fancied the cake tasted fiat; in short it was as 
much as she could do to command her feelings. 
Her husband saw and partially understood 
her emotion. A single word from him could 
have explained all, and he knew it; but he was 
ashamed, at first, to say he had been loitering 
on his way home; and afterwards it was too 
late. At last he became angry with his wife 
for being hurt, as some men strangely will when 
themselves in fault. It was a miserable evening 
for poor Mrs. Jones. 
Meantime Mr. Brown had reached his home. 
His wife was also waiting for him. 
“ Where have you been my dear?” she said. 
“ How late you are! But come, don’t lose a 
moment, supper’s waiting, and I want you to 
take me to the concert to-night.” And as she 
spoke, she led the way briskly to the supper 
room. 
“A concert?” 
“Yes, my dear,” answered his wife, turning 
cheerfully around, and I’ve promised sister Jane 
to meet her there. If we don’t hurry, all the 
best seats will be filled before we arrive.” 
“ Really, my love,” as he took his seat and 
began curiously to examine his fork, not caring 
to meet his wife’s eyes, I’m afraid-” 
He stopped. Mrs. Brown’s face fell. She 
knew from his manner what was coming. But, 
she ventured, for once, a remonstrance. 
“Its only twenty-five cents a-piece,” she 
said, “ and surely we can afford that. I don’t 
go any where, as you know. I feel as if I could 
enjoy this concert.” 
Thus urged, Mr. Brown would probably have 
gone, if he had not already spent half a dollar 
himself. But that settled the affair. One extra¬ 
vagance, as he reasoned, was sufficient. He had 
not, however, told his wife why he persisted in 
his refusal 
“I’d go—in a minute—if I could afford it, 
my love,” he stammered, “but fifty cents here, 
and fifty cents there, soon runs up—we may 
live yet to see the day when we’ll want even 
that sum.” 
Mr. Brown, like many others, was always 
ready to preach, but slow to practice ; scarcely 
a day passed that he did not spend something 
in an unnecessary lunch; but he never thought 
of curtailing this item of foolish expense; it was 
invariably his wife’s comfort and recreation that 
was made to suffer under the plea of economy. 
Mrs. Brown sighed. She had been long 
enough to know that expostulation was useless 
with a husband, at least with Mr. Brown. But 
the disappointment was greater than she thought 
it wise to show. 
Her husband, however, saw her feelings, was 
vexed, and sat for the rest of the evening silent 
and sulky. This did not add to the happiness 
of his wife, so that the hours wore away gloomily 
enough. 
There are a great many husbands like Mr. 
Brown, and quite as many, we suspect, like Mr. 
Jones. In a thousand ways, indeed, wives 
suffer from the selfishness of those who 
have “ sworn to love and cherish” them, but, 
alas! forget to keep their vows, at least in little 
things.— Peterson's Magazine. 
Woman. —Do you love her? Has she left 
home, her parents, brothers, sisters, her friends, 
all, all for you? Do you love her? has famili¬ 
arity induced you to carelessness? have you 
forgotten the vows you made her before heaven’s 
tribunal? have time and the troubles incident 
in all life made her physically less favorable in 
your eyes? have you forgotten her youth, her 
hopes, her aspirations for that sphere that all 
honorable women covet, were pledged to you ? 
and have you cherished her, and are you still 
to her all in all ? If you are, then she is happy 
and you have acted a part to be applauded by 
your fellow-men, and you will receive one day 
your recompense of reward. 
But, on the other hand, have you been sa¬ 
tiated, have you forgotten the being you swore 
to cherish? have you left her to her own re¬ 
sources, and by your continual absence caused 
her to pine in solitude, like a meek, yet gentle 
sufferer? If you have, remember, oh man! you 
will one day pay the penalty of your neglect.— 
Author unknown. 
-- 
The Book of Proverbs. —What a book it is 
that of the Proverbs! Forget that we were ever 
obliged to repeat them mechanically in our child¬ 
hood, read them as they stand in all their breadth 
and richness of their meaning, with our better 
experience of life, and nothing short of astonish¬ 
ment and admiration will be our feeling. Such 
gems of wisdom in such golden settings from 
one who lived and died before the name of wis¬ 
dom was known among the nations from whom 
