AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST. 
251 
ciously received the committee, but respectfully- 
declined the proposition, urging as a chief ob¬ 
jection, that the salary, though large for the 
parish they represented, would be inadequate 
for his expenses, having a considerable family of 
small children to educate and provide for. One 
of the committee replied: 
“ The Lord will take care of them; he has 
promised to hear the young ravens when they 
cry, and to provide for them.” 
“ Very true,” said the reverend gentleman; 
“ but he has not promised to provide for the 
young hawks.”— Authorless. 
Mrs. Partington mistakes the Omnibus Man 
for a Friend. —“How do you do dear?” said 
Mrs. Partington smilingly shaking hands with 
Burbank, in the dock square omnibus, as he 
held out his five dexter digits towards her. 
“Fare, ma’am,” said he, in reply to her inquiry. 
“Well, Pm sure, Pm glad of it; and how are 
the folks at home ?” “ Fare, ma’am,” continued 
he, still extending his hand. The passengers 
were interested. “ How do you like Boston ?” 
screamed she, as the omnibus rattled over the 
stones. “ Fare ma’am,” shouted he without, 
drawing back his hand; “ I want you to pay me 
for your ride.” “ Oh,” murmured she, “I thought 
it was some one that knowed me,” and rum¬ 
maged down in the bottom of her riticule for a 
ticket, finding at last five copper cents tied up 
in the corner of her handkerchief—the “last 
war” handkerchief, with the stars and stripes 
involved in it, and the action of the Constitution 
and Guerriere stamped upon it. But the smile 
she had given him at first was not withdrawn— 
there was no allowance made for mistakes at 
that counter—and he went out, with a lighter 
heart and a heavier pocket, to catch t’other 
coach. 
-- 
Going that Way. —An old woman observing 
a sailor going by her door, and supposing it to 
be her Billy, cried out to him—“ Billy, where is 
my cow gone ?” The sailor replied in a con¬ 
temptuous manner, “ Gone to Satan for what I 
know.” 
“Well, as you are going that way,” said the 
old lady, “I wish you would just let down the 
bars.” 
A Conductor’s Joke. —A great improvement 
has been made on the Camden and Amboy Rail¬ 
road line, by petticoating all round the cars, 
which prevents the dust from rising and annoy¬ 
ing the passengers. You may now travel in 
these cars in your best Sunday-go-to-meeting 
cloths. A Frenchman travelling in the other line 
by way of Brunswick, which is Uncle Sam’s line 
asked the conducter, “ What for you no have ze 
petticoat on zis line ?” “ Can’t, sir,'” answered he; 
“This is a mail line!” 
Epitaph. —A number of odd epitaphs are go¬ 
ing the rounds of the press. The following 
upon a tombstone in the cemetery near Cincin¬ 
nati, is worthy of being placed among the num¬ 
ber :—“ Here lies , who came to this city 
and died, for the benefit of his health." 
Best Medicine.— Rest is very fine medicine. 
It beats sarsaparilla. Let your stomachs rest ye 
dyspeptics. Let your brains rest, ye wearied 
and worried men of business. Rest your limbs, 
children of toil. You can’t? Cut off all super¬ 
fluities of appetite and fashion, and see if you 
can’t. 
-—o ^ - - 
Mew Market Rule. —A wag recently appen¬ 
ded to the list of market regulations of Cincin¬ 
nati, “ No whistling near the sausage stalls.” 
The man who “ carried the thing too far,” has 
let it drop. The sheriff was after him. 
- • 9 •-- 
Heaven’s gates are not so highly arched as 
princes’ palaces ; they that enter there must go 
upon their knees. 
The Five Daughters. —A gentleman had five 
daughters, all of whom he brought up to some 
useful and respectable occupation in life. These 
daughters married, one after the other, with the 
consent of their father. The first married a gen¬ 
tleman by the name of Poor; the second a Mr. 
Little; the third a Mr. Short; the fourth a Mr. 
Brown; and the fifth a Mr. Hogg. At the wed¬ 
ding of the last, her sisters, with their hus¬ 
bands, were present. After the ceremonies of 
the wedding were over, the old gentleman said 
to his guests: “I have taken great pains to ed¬ 
ucate my five daughters, that they might act 
well their parts in life ; and from their advanta¬ 
ges and improvements I fondly hoped that they 
would do honor to my family 1 and now I find 
that all my pains and expectations have turned 
out nothing but a Poor Little Short Brown 
Hogg''—Boston Weekly Journal. 
JENNY LIND AND HER BABY. 
Jenny Lind, the peerless—the Nightingale of 
the North—has a baby. — Exchange paper. 
Well, what of it? Hasn’t Jenny Lind, the 
peerless—the Nightingale of the North—a right 
to have a baby, we should like to know? Would 
you always have her singing to the cold world, 
warm as it may be in admiration of her songs, 
charming it by her sweet notes ? Must she al¬ 
ways be warbling to gaping crowds who gaze 
upon her only as a public performer? Look 
into the nursery where Jenny’s baby sleeps in 
its little cradle, and hear the low lullaby of her 
sweet voice. See how fondly she gazes upon 
the helpless thing; and when it opens its little 
eyes, and looks trustingly up to the face of its 
mother, hear how she warbles the bird song to 
charm it back to sleep. Listen to the angel 
sounds! There is no effort, no art in that se¬ 
raphic music. It comes gushing forth from a 
heart full of a mother’s affection, overflowing 
.with a mother’s yearning. How soft and low 
it is, and yet how full of the intensest love. Be 
still! Applaud not. It is nature, all nature, 
supremely sweet though it be. Disturb not the 
enchanting harmony by the voice of praise. 
See! those little eyes have closed again. Jenny’s 
baby sleeps, and the song has died away—van¬ 
ished slowly like a dream, or a receding shadow, 
into silence. 
“ Rock the cradle,” Jenny. 
But why, we ask again, should not Jenny, the 
world-renowned Jenny, have a baby to love, to 
hold in her fond arms, to kiss and hug, to toss 
into the air, and trot upon her knee, and chir¬ 
rup too, and tumble about with all a mother’s 
doating playfulness ? She has conquered fame— 
shall she linger in solitary age, and die alone at 
last? Shall the heart’s affections be wasted in 
the pursuits of ambition ; and shall no loving 
and trusting faces cheer her through life, and 
stand around her death-bed like bright visions 
looking up towards the sky ? Shall she walk 
the world’s high places companionless, and with¬ 
out a staff for her age to lean upon ? No ! Ten 
thousand times dearer to her mother’s heart is 
the crowing, even the cries of that little one, 
than the loudest applause that ever went up 
from the crowded audience, on the day of her 
proudest triumph. Ten thousand times sweeter 
is the smile, than the fragrance of the flowers 
that were showered upon her, as a tribute of 
admiration to her transcendant sweetness of 
song. Yes, yes, ambition is nothing—triumphs 
are nothing—admiration of the world, fame and 
wealth are nothing. The mother looks upon 
her little child, and her heart clings to its feeble¬ 
ness, and all other world-visions vanish away. 
“Rock the cradle,” Jenny. 
Go out to sing before the great world never 
again—pass for ever from its gaze, to sit calmly 
by the domestic hearth, gathering your little 
ones around you, teaching them the value of 
“ the divinity that stirs within them,” the du¬ 
ties of life, and hope of eternity. Tell them 
the littleness of fame, and folly of ambition, the 
beauty of holiness, and the home with the just 
at last. And when angels shall gather around 
the Great White Throne, among the voices that 
shall mingle in the song of the Redeemer, yours 
and theirs shall be heard in the full volume of 
their sweetness, chanting the praises of Him 
that liveth forever.— Albany Register. 
->»•- 
For the American Agriculturist. 
Baked Potatoes. — In all that has been writ¬ 
ten in regard to cooking potatoes, I have never 
seen the following method recommended, and 
think it has at least not been generally adopted. 
g * * * *_ 
Pare the potatoes and place them in the drip¬ 
ping-pan with the meat; it matters not whether 
it be beef, veal, mutton, or pork, though the 
fattest meats are preferable. Pour into the pan 
a gill or more of water, unless the meat is very 
fat, in order that there may be a sufficient 
quantity of gravy. Bake three quarters of an 
hour, or an hour, according to the size of the 
potatoes. The oven should be quite hot, in or¬ 
der to give them a fine brown color. 
- * - 
Nourishment of Meat. — To preserve, in 
dressing, the full nourishment of meats, and 
their properties of digestiveness, forms a most 
important part of the art of cooking; for these 
ends, the object to be kept in mind is to retain, 
as much as possible, the juices of the meat, 
whether roast or boiled. This, in the case of 
boiling meat, is best done by placing it at once 
in briskly boiling water. The albumen on the 
surface, and to some depth, is immediately coa¬ 
gulated, and thus forms a kind of covering 
which neither allows the water to get into the 
meat, nor the meat juice into the water. The 
water should then be kept just under boiling 
until the meat be thoroughly done, which will 
be when every part has been heated at about 
165 degrees, the temperature at which the col¬ 
oring matter of the blood coagulates or fixes. 
At 132 degrees, the albumen sets, but the blood 
does not, and therefore the meat is red and 
raw. The same rules apply to roasting; the 
meat should first be brought near enough a 
bright fire to brown the outside, and then 
should be allowed to roast slowly. 
Minot’s Pudding. —A baker’s loaf sliced, the 
crust taken off, the slices buttered, laid upon a 
flat dish, and a custard poured over, as much as 
the bread will absorb ; let it stand half an hour, 
then fry it 
Egg Dumplings. —Make a batter of a pint of 
milk, two well beaten eggs, a salt-spoonful of 
salt, and flour enough to make a batter as thick 
as for pound cake; have a clean saucepan of 
boiling water, let the water boil fast, drop in the 
batter by the tablespoonful; four or five min¬ 
utes will boil them ; take them on a dish with a 
skimmer, put a bit of butter and pepper over, 
and serve with boiled or cold meat; for a little 
desert put butter and grated nutmeg, with 
syrup or sugar over. 
Fried Oysters. —Select the largest oysters for 
frying. Take them out of their liquor with a 
fork, and endeavor, in doing so, to rinse off all 
the particles of shell which may adhere to them. 
Dry them between napkins; have ready some 
grated cracker, seasoned with cayenne pepper 
and salt. Beat the yolks only of some eggs, 
and to each egg add half a tablespoonful of 
thick cream. Dip the oysters, one at a time, 
first in the egg, then in the cracker crumbs, and 
fry then in plenty of hot butter, or butter and 
lard mixed, till they are of a light brown on 
both sides. Serve them hot. 
