326 
AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST. 
« 
IpstellattmiL 
WINTER. 
BY WILLIAM WHITMORE. 
The hills are hidden in chilly mists ; 
Cheerless and bare are the forest bowers; 
Drearily wanders the moaning wind; 
Wearily droop the doom'd hours. 
On a sodden ground, by the sullen streams, 
The flowers welter and wither, 
And sad boding thoughts the falling leaves 
Waft silently hither and thither ; 
And the dull dark sky and the bare bleak earth 
Are rolled and mingled together. 
But amid these dreary days, good friends, 
Let us look before and after, 
And shake off the load of the leaden clouds, 
And stifle the storms with laughter. 
Let us raise a shout to split the sky. 
Like a dungeon-arch bent o'er us ; 
Let the full fresh tide of our life gush forth 
In a mad anil merry chorus, 
Till the woods again seem filled with song, 
And flowers seem strewed before us! 
And round the bright fire for many a night 
Let us join in a pleasant task, 
Amid streams of blithe talk, like the cheering flow 
Of rich red wine from a flask. 
With song, and with story, and jovial jest 
The hours will flee lightly away, 
And the glad glad light of the mirthful night 
Will shine through the gloomy day ; [glow, 
And fresh buds will blow in our Spring’s sunny 
’Mid the drooping year’s decay. 
- • ci- 
THE PENITENT SCHOLAR. 
School is out. The last lesson has been re¬ 
cited and the evening hymn sung ; and now the 
shouts of merry voices are heard on the green. 
Their spirits overflow' like long pent-up waters. 
But one of their number is still imprisoned. 
All is quiet now' in the school-room. There sits 
the teacher at her desk with a sad and troubled 
look. At one of the desks before her sits a boy, 
whose flushed countenance and flashing eye, tell 
of a struggle within. His arms are proudly 
folded, as in defiance, and his lips are compres¬ 
sed. He wdll never say, “ I’m sorry, will you 
forgive me ?” No! not he ! His breath comes 
thick and fast, and the angry flush upon his 
cheek grows deeper crimson. The door stands 
invitingly open. A few r quick steps, and he can 
be beyond the reach of his teacher. Involun¬ 
tarily his hand snatches up his cap, as she says, 
“George, come to me.” A moment more, and 
he has darted out and is away down the lane. 
The teacher’s face grows yet more sad-; her 
head sinks upon the desk, and the tears will 
come, as she thinks of the return he is making 
for all her love and care for him. The clock 
strikes five, and slowly putting on her bonnet 
and shawl, she prepares to go, when looking out 
at the door, she sees the boy coming toward the 
school-house, now' taking rapid steps forward, 
as though fearful his resolution would fail him ; 
then pausing, as if ashamed to be seen coming 
back. AVhat has thus changed his purpose ? 
Breathless with haste he has throw'n himself 
down upon the green grass by the side of the 
brook, cooling his burning cheek in the pure, 
sweet water; and as gradually the flush faded 
away, so in his heart -died away the anger he 
felt towards his teacher. 
The soft south wind as it stole by, lifting the 
hair from his brow', seemed to whisper in his 
ear, “ This way, little boy, this wayand 
voices within him murmured, “Go back, go 
back.’’ He started to his feet. Should he heed 
those kind words; should he go back? could 
he go ? ah! and here w r as the struggle. Could 
he be man enough to conquer his pride and 
anger, and in true humility retrace his steps, 
and say “forgive?” could he go back? but as 
he repeated the words, he said to himself, “ I 
will go back;” and the victory was won. Soon 
with downcast eye, and throbbing heart, he 
stood before his teacher, acknowledging in 
broken accents his fault, and asking forgive¬ 
ness. The sunbeams streamed in through the 
open window, filling the room with golden 
light; but the sunlight in those hearts w T as 
brighter yet. Ah, children, if you would always 
have sunlight in your hearts, never let the clouds 
of anger rise to dim your sky. 
He was a hero. He conquered himself; and 
Solomon says, “ He that ruleth his spirit, is 
better than he that taketh a city.” At first he 
cowardly ran away; but his courage came again; 
he rallied his forces and took the city. Brave 
is the boy that has courage to do right, when 
his proud heart says, “ I will not.”— iV. Y. Ob¬ 
server. 
—-—♦ 0 -«- 
OUR MOTHER. 
The following is from the pen of a distin¬ 
guished author. The sentiments are true and 
excellent, and beautifully expressed: 
Around the idea of one’s mother, the mind of 
man clings with fond affection. It is the first 
deep thought stamped on our infant hearts, when 
yet soft and capable of receiving the most pro¬ 
found impressions, and all the after feelings of 
the world are more or*less light in comparison. 
I do not know that even in old age we do not 
look back to that feeling as the sweetest we have 
through life. Our passions, and our wilfulness 
may lead us far from the object of our filial love; 
we learn even to pain her heart, to oppose her 
wishes, to violate her commands; we may be¬ 
come wild or angrj' or headstrong at her coun¬ 
sels or opposition; but when death has stilled 
her monitory voice, and nothing but calm mem¬ 
ory recapitulates her virtues and good deeds, 
affection, like a flower beaten to the ground by 
a past storm, raises up her head and smiles 
amongst her tears. Around that idea, as we 
have said, the mind clings with fond affection ; 
and even when the early period of our loss forces 
memory to be silent, fancy takes the place of re¬ 
membrance, and twines the image of our dead 
parent with a garland of grace, and beauties, and 
virtues, which we doubt not she possessed. 
- • - 
Sure Recipe for Happiness. — One of the 
wealthy merchants of our city, whose death the 
past year was universally mourned, often told 
his friends an anecdote, which occurred in his 
own experience, and which was recommended 
to all those who wish to enjoy a serene old age, 
without allowing their wealth to disturb their 
peace of mind. He said that when hq had ob¬ 
tained his fortune, he found he began to grow 
uneasy about his pecuniary affairs, and one night 
when he was about sixty years of age, his sleep 
was distui’bed by unpleasant thoughts respect¬ 
ing some shipments he had just made. In the 
morning he said to himself, “This will never 
do; if I allow such thoughts to gain the mastery 
over me, I must bid farewell to peace all my 
life. I will stop this brood of care at once, and 
at a single blow.” Accordingly, he went to his 
counting-room, and upon examination found he 
had $30,000 in money on hand. He made out 
a list of his relatives and others he desired to 
aid, and before he went to bed again he had 
given away every dollar of the thirty thousand. 
He said he slept well that night, and for a long 
time after his dreams were not disturbed by 
anxious thoughts about his vessels or property. 
—Boston Transcript. 
A Match for a Jew. —“ We were remark¬ 
ing to a gentleman, who was affording us much 
pleasant and general information, how few Jews 
one met in New-England; and asking if he 
could assign any reason, he replied, 1 Oh yes, 
the reason is, that no Jew on earth is a match 
for a Yankee.’ ”— Bunn's Old England and New 
England. 
—=-- 
Hood on Health. —Take precious care of 
your precious health—but how, as the house¬ 
wife says, to make it keep ? Why, then, don't 
cure and smoke-dry it—or pickle it in everlast¬ 
ing acids, like the Germans. Don’t bury it in a 
potato-pit, like the Irish. Don’t preserve it in 
spirits, like the barbarians. Don’t salt it down, 
like the Newfoundlanders. Don’t pack it in ice, 
like Captain Back. Don’t parboil it like goose¬ 
berries. Don’t pot—and don’t hang it. A rope 
is a bad “cordon sanitare.” Above all, don’t 
despond about it. Let not anxiety have “ thee 
on the hip.” Consider your health as your best 
friend, and think as well of it, in spite of all its 
foibles, as you can. For instance, never dream, 
though you may have a “clever hack,” of gal¬ 
loping consumption, or indulge in the Meltonian 
belief that you are going the pace. Never fancy 
every time you cough, you are going to pot. 
Hold up, as the shooter says, over the roughest 
ground. Despondency, in a nice case, is the 
overweight that may kick the beam and the 
bucket both at once. In short as with other 
cases, never meet trouble half way, but let him 
have the whole walk for his pains, though it 
should be a Scotch mile and a bittoek. I have 
even known him to give up his visit in sight of 
the house. Besides, the best fence against care 
is a Ha! ha! wherefore take care to have one all 
around you whenever you can. Let your “ lungs 
crow like chanticleer,” and as like a game-cock 
as possible. It expands the chest, enlarges the 
heart, quickens the circulation, and, “like a 
trumpet, makes the spirits dance.” 
- • O • - 
Blessings Unequally Distributed.— -A cler¬ 
gyman happening to pass a boy weeping bit¬ 
terly, lie halted, and asked, “What is the 
matter, my little fellow ?” The boy replied: 
“ Before, we could hardly get enough to eat 
of any thing, and now what shall we do? for 
there’s another one come.” 
“Hush thy mourning, and wipe off those 
tears,” said the clergyman, “and remember 
that He never sends mouths without he sends 
victuals to put into them.” 
“I know that,” said the boy, “but then he 
sends all the mouths to our house, and the vic¬ 
tuals to your house.” 
-e-*-* - 
Post-office Yarn. —A letter was put into 
the box, the appearance of which denoted that 
the writer was unaccustomed to the use of 
stamps, and had failed to make one stick at all. 
He had tried, and vainly tried; but the invete¬ 
rate portrait of her Majesty would curl up. At 
last, in despair, he pinned it to the envelope, 
and wrote under it—“ paid ; provided the pin 
doesn’t come out.” 
-- 
Early Marriages. —She stood beside the 
altar when she was but sixteen. She was in 
love, her destiny rested on a creature in fash¬ 
ionable clothes, with an empty pocket. He 
“came of good family,” however; and blood, 
you know, is something. She looked lovely as 
she pronounced the vow. Think of a vow from 
pouting lips, auburn hair, and dark eyes, only 
sixteen years old. She stood beside the wash- 
tub when her twenty-fifth birthday arrived. The 
hair, the lips, the eyes, were not calculated to 
excite the heart. Five cross young ones were 
about the house crying, some breaking things, 
and one urging an immediate supply of the lac¬ 
teal secretion. She stopped in despair and sat 
down, and tears trickled down her once plump 
and ruddy cheek. Alas! Nancy, early mar¬ 
riages are not the dodge. Better enjoy youth 
at home, and hold lovers at a proper distance, 
until you have muscle, limb, and heart enough 
to face the frowning world and a family. If a 
chap really cares for you, he can wait for two 
or three years, make presents, take you to con¬ 
certs, and so on, until the time comes. Early 
marriages, and early cabbages are tender pro¬ 
ductions.— Exchange paper. 
