;• is® 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL, LITERARY AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
THE SIORMY SEA. 
Ere the twilight bat was flitting. 
In the sunset at her knitting, 
Sang a lonely maiden sitting 
Underneath her threshold tree ; 
And as daylight died before us, 
And the vesper stars shone o’er us, 
Fitful rose the teDder chorus— 
Jamie'S on the stormy sea. 
Warmly shone that sunset glowing, 
Sweetly breathed the young flowers blowing, 
Earth, with beauty overflowing, 
Seemed the home of love to be, 
As those angel tones ascendiDg, 
With the scene and season blending, 
Ever had the same low ending, 
Jamib’s on the stormy sea. 
Curfew bolls remote y ringing, 
Mingled with that sweet voice singing ; 
And the last red ray seemed clinging, 
Lingering to tower and tree : 
Nearer as I came, and nearer, » 
Finer rose the notes and clearer, 
Oh 1 ’twas heaven itself to hear her— 
Jajux’s on the stormy sea. 
Blow yo wed winds ; blandly hover 
O’er the bark that bears my lover : 
Gently blow and bear him over 
To his own dear home and me ; 
For, when night winds bend the willow. 
Sleep forsakes my lonely pillow, 
Thinking of the foaming billow— 
Jamie’s on the stormy sea. 
Hew could I but list, hut linger, 
To the song, and hear the singer, 
Sweetly wooing heaven to bring her 
Jamik from the foaming sea ; 
And while yet her lips did name me, 
Forth I sprang—my heart o'er camo mo— 
Grieve no more, sweet, I am Jam m, 
Home returned to love and thee. 
[Bladaonod’s Magazine. 
THE PASTOR'S ELECT. 
BY VIRGINIA F. TOWNSF.ND. 
“ Now tell me all about it, Weldon. I am 
so anxious to hear the whole story, and it’s 
such a nice evening for this, too. It is so 
great a luxury to be all alone with you, that 
ihe rain sounds really musical, as it drops 
against the panes.” She had pushed a low 
ottoman to his teet, lilted her sweet lace, set 
in its frame work of brown, soft hair, to her 
brother’s. 
“ So you have at last caught me, and in¬ 
tend turning my confessor—do you, little sis?” 
smilingly responded the young clergyman, as 
he turned his eyes from the anthracitic blaze, 
where they had been dreamily fastened for the 
last half hour, and a beautiful, almost dreamy 
tenderness seemed to drift into them as they 
rested on his sister. 
“ Yes. To think you are really engaged, 
Weldon 1 What would your good parish¬ 
ioners say, if they knew it, particularly the 
younger portion of them? 1 am somewhat 
apprehensive their daily bequests of boqnets 
and fruits would be sensibly diminished. But 
about the lady—is she beautiful, Weldon?” 
“ A woman's first query! ” and agaiu that 
rich smile went like sunlight over the grave 
but handsome features of the young pastor. 
“ I am not, certain, Hattie, whether an ar¬ 
tist would think her so. Her features are not 
entirely regular, and her cheeks are less rosy 
than your owu ; but the emotions of her 
deep, gentle, loving nature look out of her 
dark blue eyes, and there is a sweet heart chi- 
rography in the smiles that sparkle at times 
over her small and rather pensive mouth.” 
« You are drawing a charming Raphael 
picture, brother mine. She is young of 
course ?” 
“ Hardly twenty-one.” 
“ And—no, I need not ask if her mind is 
well cultivated, for I know your opinions re¬ 
specting woman too well to doubt this. But 
is she intellectual—in short a book-worm ?” 
“ Well, something of one. The formation 
ot her head indicates a superior mental or¬ 
ganization, but all the faculties are well bal¬ 
anced.” 
“ And—let me see—is she wealthy ? ” 
“ Only in the possession of those great jew¬ 
els which are above all price.” 
“ Bnt her family—who are they ?’’ 
“ I never saw but one member of it, and he 
was a beggar.” 
“ Weldon 1” The little lingers that had 
been playfully braiding themselves with those 
of the young*man’s were suddenly withdrawn, 
the quick blood rushed into the questioner's 
cheeks, and a look of mingled astonishment 
and displeasure filled her browu eyes as she 
breathlessly ejaculated, “ Weldon, you are not 
in earnest?” 
“ Yes I am, Hattie. You know I would 
not jest on such a subject.” 
“ But you took me so greatly by surprise. 
And—and—.” The little red lips trembled a 
moment, and then the tears brimmed over the 
brown lashes, and journeyed slowly down the 
cheeks. 
“ And troubled you too, Hattie ?’’ interro 
gated the young man, as he leaned forward, 
and caressingly smoothed down the bright hair 
of his sister. “ Don’t look so sorrowful, dar¬ 
ling, as though some great evil had chanced 
me; but listen to what 1 shall tell you, and 
then see if your owu true and noble heart, un¬ 
biassed by social distinctions and prejudices 
does not commend my election. Will you do 
this, Hattie, if not for my sake, for Ills who 
said that the poor and the rich were rich in his 
sight?” 
(Sweet Hattie Marshall 1 Her one great 
foible was her pride for her handsome, noble- 
hearted brother ; it was hardly a weakness, 
for he was all that God had left to her of the 
household over whom the spring daisies had 
long spread their golden covering ; and for a 
moment she had looked with the world’s eyes 
upon his betroihal to the sister of a mendi¬ 
cant. But her brother’s words had silenced 
the pride-whispers in her heart, for Hattie 
Marshall bad learned of him who was meek 
and lowly in spirit. 
“ I will do as you ask, Weldon. Forgive 
me if I have done wrong,” she whispered, 
drawing up closer to her brother, and laying 
her head in its old resting place against his 
heart.; for very tenderly did brother and sis¬ 
ter love each other. 
Weldon Marshall drew his arm around his 
sisler's waist, and when the wind moaned 
around the windows, and the anthracite fire 
mingled its ruddy glow with the silver astral 
light, and filled the parspmge sitting-room 
with a dreamy crimson light, he told a story 
of the past, and his eyes grew darker and his 
low earnest tones full of pathetic eloquence as 
he told it: 
“ It is eight years next month, Hattie, and 
I was in >-'ew York, engaged in my collegiate 
studies. You see it was three 3 ears after our 
mother’s dea'li, and you were at that time 
with Uncle Harvard, attendii gschool. 
“It was a cold, wild, disagreeable night; 
and 1 remember standing at the window of 
my snug sanctum, and looking out ruefully 
into the darkness, for I had made an engage¬ 
ment to meet several of my fellow students 
that evening in a distant portion of the city. 
Dear me 1 how the wind blows !’ 1 solilo¬ 
quized, with a very feminine shrug of the 
shoulders, as I drew the curtains closer. ‘ I’ve 
half a mind to ihrow myself on the lounge, 
which looks so provokingly comfortable this 
evening, and not attempt an encounter with 
the elements. It’s absurd to think they'll ex¬ 
pect me such a night as this. In short, 1 
won’t tempt an influenza by showing my face 
outside the door,’ was the conclusion of my 
monologue. 
“I remember that I wheeled up 1 Be sofa 
in a comfortable proximity with the fire, lo¬ 
cated the lamp so that, it rays fell softly upon 
ihe volume 1 intended to commune with, and 
that I had settled myself for a long, quiet 
winter’s evening. 
“ But it would not do. My eyes wandered 
listlessly along the pages ; they could not en¬ 
gage my attention. A strange, uuaccountabie 
feeling "of restlessness and anxiety seemed to 
possess me. At last I resolutely closed the 
book, and a few minutes later 1 was iu Broad¬ 
way. mentally censuring my folly in yielding 
to a feeling I could not resist. 
“ Ah, me ! looking back through the eight 
years that lie between that dreary night and 
the present, how clearly can I discover the 
great Father's love iu it all 1” 
“ What is it you want here, little boy ?”— 
I see him now just as tlmugh I had seen him 
this morning, and ihe light from the tall win¬ 
dow is falling on him just as it fell then, re¬ 
vealing his ragged dress and pale, pinched fea¬ 
tures, and the cold rain is dripping off his thick, 
brown curls, just as it did then. It is a strange, 
mournful picture—the dark night in the back 
ground, and the little ragged boy and the bril¬ 
liant lights, and the great store, with all sorts 
of rare confections in front. No wonder it 
touched my heart. The boy started as 1 laid 
my hand gently on his shoulder, ai d looked 
up with his wild, eager, bright eyes into my 
faca 
“ Ob, sir!” he said, after a moment’s earnest 
perusal of my features. “ 1 was thinking if 1 
only could carry one of those cakes home to 
Ellen ; she is very sick, and—and (the little 
fellow's lips quivered,) we bavn’i had any iliing 
to eat for two days.” 
“ I did notspeak another word ; but 1 caught 
hold of the child, and pulled him after me into 
the store.” 
“ Hand me down a plate of those cakes,” I 
cried to the astonished clerk—he turned with 
more than ordinary alacrity to fulfill my re 
quest. I drew the boy into a small sitting 
room at one end of the establishment. “Now 
eat these as fast as you can, and then tell me 
who Ellen is.” 
“ His hungry look, the strange avidity with 
which he grasped the food, almost wrung tears 
from my eyes.” 
“ Ellen is my sister—my only sister since 
the baby died. We are ail alone now. Last 
month, jast after they buried mother, she grew 
sick. 1 s’pose it was because she cried so 
much ; and she’s becu growing worse all the 
time.” 
“ And there is nobody to take care of her 
now but you, my little fellow ?” 
“ Nobody but me—the money mother left is 
all gone, you see, sir, and though I sometimes 
earn a sixpence by selling papers or cleaning 
! sidewalks, I couldn't leave Nelly for the last 
week, she grieved so much worse. O, sir, how 
good these taste! cau’t thank you, but 1 want 
to.” 
“ Well you needn’t, by boy. I want no 
other thanks than your enjoyment of them.” 
“ But mayn’t 1 take the resthome to Nelly ? 
She’ll be frightened, I’m gone so long. 0, sir, 
if you’d only go with me.” 
“ I’ll come and see you and Nelly to-mor¬ 
row,” I said, “ if you’ll tell me where you live, 
and now while you are eating the remainder 
of your eakesj i’ll get something that Nelly 
will like better.” 
“ I procured a basket which I saw well 
stocked with a variety of fruits and confec¬ 
tions most likely to tempt the appetite of an 
invalid, and adding to these all the money 1 
had with me, I returned to the child. 
“ Go home to Nelly with these as fast as 
you can,” I said, “and tell her that 1 will come 
to see her to-morrow morning. Now be a 
man, my little boy, and take good care of sister 
Ellen till then.” 
“ And are these for her ?” said the child, as 
his large, wandering eyes roamed over ihe bas¬ 
ket. “ And she has been moaning in her sleep 
after an orange for a whole week. 0 , sir, we 
will pray God to bless you for all this ; and He 
will, lor mother used to say he would hold those 
in everlast ing remembrance who ft rgot not the 
widow and the orphan;” a> d tears of mingled 
gratitude and delight were showering last 
down the little fellow's face as we parted. 
“ The next morning, Hattie, 1 received that 
letter which summoned me to my father’s dy¬ 
ing bedside I hud, of course, no time to ful¬ 
fill my engagement with the little orphans, in 
whom 1 had become so greatly interested ; in¬ 
deed, the mourn'ul circumstances which drew 
me once more to the home of my childhood, 
banished them from my mind. 
“ If you will look down to that time, my 
little sister, you will remember that April 
was weaving her green carpet, over ihe mead¬ 
ows before we parted, and I returned to the 
city to complete my studies, and then to enter 
that service in which, before my father’s dying 
bed, 1 had solemnly pledged myself to spend 
ah the life that God should grant me. 
“ 1 bad forgotten the name of the boy’s res 
idence, but I know ihat 1 made several at¬ 
tempts to discover it after my return to the 
city, all of which proved ineffectual. 
“ it was the sunset of a bright day in the 
early May-time, and even the great city looked 
fairer for the sunshine that plated the house¬ 
tops with gold, and swept in golden flukes and 
dimples along ihe pavemenls up which I was 
passing with some fellow students to supper.” 
“ Now Marshall, remember to call for us in 
time, for the Icclure commences at seven, and 
it will certainly be crowded,” called out one of 
my companions, as we reached a corner where 
our paths diverged. 
“ 1 bowed my assent and adieu, and was 
hurrying forward, when my coat was suddenly 
grasped, and an eager but, timid voice said, 
‘ Please, sir, is your name Marshall ?’ 
“ I turned and looked at Ihe speaker ; it 
was a little girl, apparently about ten years 
of age; her long curls falling in a bright, tan¬ 
gled mass about her small, sorrowful looking 
face, while her large blue eyes were fastened, 
with a kind of panting eagerness, upon my 
own. 
“ Yes, that is my name. Arid what do you 
want with me, my little girl?” I queried, 
gieatly surprised at this singular encounter. 
“ Oh, sir, do you remember a little boy 
whom you met one evening last win'er, who 
told you he had a sister Nelly, and—” the 
mystery was at once cleared up. 
“ Yes, I remember it all,” I interrupted.— 
“And you are Nelly, I suppose? and 1 sur- 
veytd ihe child with enhanced interest. Her 
ragged garments, her pale, mournful face bore 
a very legible history of sharp poverty and bit¬ 
ter suffering. 
“ Oh, I am so glad, sir!” and the light that 
hroke into the little careworn face was beau¬ 
tiful to behold. “ 1 was almost sure it must be 
you when ihe gentleman called your name, and 
you looked just, as Willy said you did. Oh, 
sir, I have watched for you so many days that 
I had almost given up hoping.” 
“ Poor child! I have been out of town, or 
I would have come to you as I promised. But 
where is Willy? and what do you want of 
me?” I was well nigh a>hamed after the lat¬ 
ter question ; her poverty answered it plainly. 
“ Oh, sir, Willy is sick, very sick ; and his 
face looks so white lately, I fear he is going 
home to mother sometimes. You see 1 got 
better afier you sent me the oranges, and W il¬ 
ly bought, me some medicine wiili the money 
you gave us. and we paid the rent for three 
rnonlhs, so the woman let us stay there. But 
one day about, a month ago, Willy was out all 
day, in the cold rain selling papers, and lie's 
been gi owing worse, and lie’s so altered now 
you’d hardly know him. But he’s wanted to 
see you so badly that he talks about it all the 
time in his sleep, and for the last two or three 
days he has been so wild about it that I have 
been out looking for you all day, and I couldn’t 
bear to go home at night, tor Willy would 
aping up iu the bed and cry out so loud, ‘ Nel¬ 
ly have you seen him ?’ aud when I shook my 
head, he would lie down with such a look, 
that I would go olf in the corner and cry all 
alone, it made my heart ache so to see it. But 
now Willy will be so glad ! Oh, please, won’t 
you go and see him ?” 
“ 1 see, Hattie, ihat your eyes are growing 
moist with tears ; and if you could have heard 
the simple touching pathos with which the 
fair child told her sad story, you would have 
answered as T did. ‘Yes, Nelly, I will go now.’ ” 
“ Willy, Willy, I’ve brought him." The 
little hand which had guided me so carefully 
up Ihe dilapidated stairs, was withdrawn as 
the little girl broke into that old attic cham¬ 
ber, her eager, joyous tones making the bare 
walls ring again—“ I’ve brought him, I’ve 
brought him.” 
The dying daylight looked with a sweet, 
solemn smile into the room, whose entire des¬ 
titution one glance revealed to me. I had not 
time for another, for a child’s head was lifted 
from a miserable inattrass in one corner. I 
came forward, a pair of attenuated arms were 
stretched out, and those large burning eyes 
were fas'ened a moment on my face as though 
life or death rested upon their testimony. 
“ Yes, yes, I knew you would come at last,” 
and the little cold arms were wrapped around 
my neck. “ Oh, 1 have watched and prayed, 
and hoped so long, and it seemed as if you 
never would come, but I knew you would to¬ 
day, for last night mamma came to me, look¬ 
ing so beautiful, with the flowers woven all 
around her headland a white robe flowing 
down to her feet, and she smiled so sweetly 
and said : 
“ My little Willy, he will come to you to¬ 
morrow ; and his coming will be a signal, for 
then I, too, shall come to you.” 
My tears were falling fast on the boy’s 
brown curls ; but a sharp pang reached my 
heart as he spoke the-e words. 
“ No, no, Willy, you were only dreaming,” 
1 said as 1 lifted up my head and looked at 
him anxiously. One glance at the rigid face 
told me enough—the mother had come for her 
child. 
“ Bend down, quick,” murmured the boy’s 
while lips. “ Nelly will be alone when I 
leave her; for ibere’s nobody to take care of 
her, you see, and 1 want to give her to you. 
You are so kind and good, I know you will 
take good care of her and not let her suffer ; 
and mamma and I will look down from our 
home in heave* and bless you fur it nil, and 
may be we shall come some time to take you 
to us. You will promise me this, won’t you? 
quick, for 1 can’t see you,” and his glazing 
eyes wandered over my face. 
“ Yes, Willy, I promise it to God, to your 
mother in heaven, and to you,” I answered 
solemnly. 
“Nelly you have heard what he said—he 
will take care of you. Kiss me once more, 
lit tie sister. There, there, mother has come 
for me 1 Good bye 1 The little cold fingers 
sought for our hands, and drew them together 
— a smile wandered over the rigid face, and 
the last light of that May-day looked into 
that hare attic, where the beautiful clay was 
lying on the cold mattrass. 
“ 0 , sir, is be dead?” asked the little girl 
with her large pathetic eyes wandering from 
the dead face to my own. 
My looks answered her, for iny lips could 
not. 
“ Willy, AVilly, come back, come back to 
me !’’ she cried out iu a voice whose exceeding 
anguish will haunt my memory, will haunt 
my heart till it has grown cold as the one 
that then lay beneath me, and little Ellen 
Evans lay senseless as her brother in my arms. 
“ Two days later, in a pleasant part of the 
cemetery, the May violets were turned aside, 
and a child’s coffin laid beneath them. 
“ For nine spring tides have laid their 
crimson mantles over his bright head, and the 
shadow of a marble monument has fallen soft¬ 
ly o'er them. Upon this is sculptured a 
beautiful child, and an angel with outspread 
wiDgs is bending over him and pointing up¬ 
ward. Underneath is graven, ‘ His mother 
came for him at twilight.’ 
“It was with me a subject of much per¬ 
plexity where to place the lovely child, whom 
L always felt that Providence had especially 
confided to my care. 1 was all she had on 
earth to love ; aud as time brought its sooth¬ 
ing balm to her heart, the whole affection of 
tier deep, warm nature was poured on me, and 
even then, with the exception of yourself, she 
lay closer within the foldings of my heart. 
“ For a little while 1 placed her in the 
country among simple people, whose curiosity 
would be readily appeased; for 1 was exceed¬ 
ingly desirous that the world should never 
become coguizant of the part 1 had borne iu 
her life-history. 1 read well her sensitive na¬ 
ture, and 1 knew there might come a time in 
her later life when it would cause her much 
annoyance and mortification if the world 
knew our secret. 
“ For this reason, sweetest and dearest of 
sisters, I did not communicate to you till I 
had obtained her permission, which I sought 
in my last interview with her. I could, of 
course, have leceived this at any time I had 
chosen to seek it, but 1 thought it would be 
unfair to obtain her consent to this matter be¬ 
fore her matured judgment had ratified it. 
“ ADer much deliberation, 1 resolved to 
confide Ellen’s history to Mrs. Whittlesey, the 
lady with whom 1 boarded, and in whom I 
placed entire confidence. 
“ She listened with intense interest, and her 
womanly sympathies were at once enlisted in 
behalf of my protege. Besides this, she was 
a widow and childless ; and though by no 
means wealthy, her circumstances were such 
that she could surround Ellen with everything 
necessary to her well-being and happiness. 
“ She proposed to adopt her in the place of 
the children Gi d had laken from her ; and to 
this proposition I joyfully assented, for there 
the religious, social and home atmosphere 
would be all that I wished to be about my 
Ellen. 
“I was anxious, too, that she should no 
longer be dependent upon me, for 1 thought 
even a time might come when I should ask 
her a question, whose answer I would in no 
wise have tegulated by her gratitude for the 
past. 
“ You have often, little sister, heard me 
speak of Ellen Evans, Mrs. Whittlesey’s 
adopted daughter; but you little dreamed 
that I had such a personal interest in all that 
pertained to her. 
“ Her character and person have developed 
with more than all that loveliness which her 
childhood promised. The sister that I shall 
bring you, flattie, is an elegant, accomplish¬ 
ed, talented woman ; and more than all that” 
—and the youDg clergyman’s eyes grew lus¬ 
trous with the almost holy light that beamed 
out from their darkness— “ my Ellen has the 
ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is 
above all pride. 
“ Aud now, my Hattie, you have heard her 
history, will you not welcome her to your 
heart ? 
“ I guessed well the pang which the knowl¬ 
edge of my engagement would give you ; for 
as brother and sister have seldom loved, do 
wo love each other, and I know it must seem 
like bringing another to take your place.— 
But my Ellen is very gentle, and she will 
never come between us. She knows, too, the 
story of our orphaned youth, and of our affeo- 
tion for each other ; and even now her heart 
goes out with great love after you. ‘ Tell her 
all,’ she said to me in that last interview, 
‘ and tell her that without her consent I dare 
not become your wife.’ When I return to her 
questioning eyes asking me if I have obtained 
it, may 1 tell her that you are ready to love, 
to welcome her to our home.” 
And Hattie Marshall lifted her brown, 
tearful eyes to her brother’s face, and answer¬ 
ed, “ Tell her, Weldon, that my heart is wait- 
ing to welcome her to a vacant place—and it 
is the one by your side. — Ladies' Repository. 
Sharp Practice. —A New York corres¬ 
pondent of the Sidney Democrat, says that the 
proprietors of one of the first hotels in that 
city owed the sum of SGOO, which could not be 
collected of them. They were finally sued, 
and the lawyer went up to the hotel to serve a 
summons. When be served it, the landlord 
smiled, and told him he was taking a great 
deal of useless trouble—the property was all 
mortgaged, and judgment would be of no use. 
'l’lio lawyer to d him he might do as he wish¬ 
ed about pa) ing ihe amount, but he should 
come up about dinner time and attach the 
whole dinner, and tepeat the same e'ery day 
until the judgment was satisfied. It is need¬ 
less to add that the §600 were soon paid. 
I 4,000 SWEET POTATO PLANTS. 
For salo at, $1 per hundred, by the Subscriber in 
Phelps, near Jones’ Lime Kiln, 3 miles North of Genova. 
Geneva, May -26th. 282 S. C. HARRIS. 
OATS FOR PALE. 
At the residence of the Subscriber. 13 miles we^t of 
Pike Hollow. 1 m. South of Java lake, and 6 m. N. E. of 
Arcade, in East China, Wyoming Co., N. Y. 
5,000 Bushels of Oats, 
in quantities to suit purchasers. 282-tf 
PATRICK COURT. 
TUB NEW NOVMLUPON “ FASIIICXAIILB ” RELIGION. 
WHICH: THE EIGHT OE THE LEFT? 
Whoever reads this bonk will ask himself this ques¬ 
tion. -‘To which Church do Ibelong? The Church of 
CHRIST, or the Church of SOCIETY.” It is a work of the 
purest and highest Christian Moral. 
It will bo THE Rook of the Nineteenth Century. 
Agents wanted—Address. 
GARRETT & CO., Publishers, 
282-U 18 Ann St., New York. 
FARM FOR SALE- 
Sm'ATOi nine miles west from Rochester, and one mile 
south of Chili Station, on the N, Y. Central Railroad — 
Contains 120 acres, 15 of which is fine timber land, the 
balance is under good cultivation. Good comfortable 
buildings—over 70 acres of crops now on the ground, 
36 of tho same being winter wheat—which, together 
with teams, stock and implements, will be sold with the 
place, and furniture if desired. Price low and terms 
easy, for which apply to Mr. J. B. Dkwky, Rochester, or 
of thesuubscriber outhopremises. URIAH HILL, Jr., 
282-2t North Chili, Monroe Co., N. Y. 
PERUVIAN GUANO—No. 1, 
With Goyornment brand and weight upon each hag, 
(in bond,) at $40 per ton of 2,000 pounds. This article is 
taken from the lower part of the cargoos, constantly ar¬ 
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by many farmers, as the dry. 
Peruvian Guano, No. 1, dry, price $4S per ton of 2,000 
pounds. 
For sale at tho Agency. ANTOINE I.ONGETT. 
280-4t 34 Cliff st., corner of Fulton, New York. 
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33EATTTYS ^VDdj33XJ3VlC, 
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petition, and report on the same. 
280-4t B. P. JOHNSON. Secretary. 
Agricu tural Rooms, Albany, May 16, 1855. 
ROCHESTER EYE AND EAR INFIRMARY. 
Dr. Walker, Oculist and Jurist, (from London, 
#7* ^ England.) attends exclusively to tho treatment 
'%®D^'°f t ;ea U'0'3 and all di-eases of tho EYE and 
EAR. Constant and extensive practice enables 
Dr. W. to treat these cases with success seldom attained. 
Dr. Walker may bo consulte 1 daily, and testimo¬ 
nials obtained, at his office, No. 82 State street, Roches¬ 
ter, N. Y. 280-8teow 
1855. CUTLEti & PALMER 1855. 
GENERAL FORWARDING AND COMMISSION MERCHANTS. 
Corner Uoyd and Canal streets, and Commercial Slip, 
Buffalo, N. Y. 
Nurserymen. Seedsmen, persons removing to tho West, 
and others sending their nroperty to our care, may rely 
upon its being handled carofully. and forwarded to its 
destination with dispatch, by the most reliable and direct 
routes, aud the lowest rates of transportation. 
WM. K. CUTLER. [279-tf] J. H. PALMER. 
IMPROVED PATENT SCYTHE SNATH. 
A New and Improved Patent Scythe Snath, made from. 
Wrought Iron. 
Light, firm, aud durable, aud pronounced by very 
many who have used them for two season's past, supe¬ 
rior to any other Snath. 
Manufactured only by Lamsox, Goonxow A Co., (long 
known as makers of Lamson’s Patent Wood Snaths.) and 
for sale at their Warehouse, No. 7 Gold St., New York, 
and by tho Hardware and Agricultural trade generally, 
throughout the country. 277-1 St 
DOMESTIC ANIMALS AT PRIVATE SALE. 
L. G. Morris’ Illustrated Catalogue with prices attach¬ 
ed of Short-horned and Devon Bulls, and Bull Calves, a 
few Horses, South-Down Rams, Berkshire, Suffolk, ami 
Essex Swiuo, will be forwarded by mail (If desirefl) by 
addressing L. G. Morris, f'ordham, Westchester Co , N. 
Y., or N. J. Becar, 187 Broadway, N. Y. It also con¬ 
tains portrait, Pedigree, and performance on the turf, of 
the celebrated horse “ Monarchy" standing this season at 
the Herdsdale Farm. 278 tf. 
HENRY C. VAIL, 
CONSULTING AGRICULTURIST, NEWARK, N. J., 
Will visit farms, and give suitable advice for their im¬ 
provement, founded on an analysis of thk soil and a 
statement of its mechanical condition. Communications 
addressed as above, will meet with prompt attention. 
References —Prof. Jas. J. Mapes ; It. L. Pell, Esq., Ulster 
Co., N. Y.; J. J. Scoffiold, Esq., Morristown, N. J.; Hon. 
John Newton Gould, Hudson, N. Y. 272-0t 
FORBUSH’S 
IMPROVED MOWING & REAPING MACHINE. 
Manufactured by “ The American Mowing and Rcajdng 
Machine Company ,” at Buffalo, N. l r . 
Tins Machine is warranted to cut from 10 to 15 acres ol 
grass or grain per day, with one span of horses, and to 
do the work as well as can be done by any other single 
or combined machine. It has been iu use during the 
threo past seasons, lias boon thoroughly and satisfactori- 
ally tested ; and with the pro-eiit improvements, is the 
most perfect combined machine in tho world. 
Trice oi the Mower,.$110 
Do. Mower and Reaper,.130 
Do. Mowor and Reaper with Reel,.140 
Torms, Cash iu Buffalo. Address all orders, or com¬ 
munications to CH.tS. W. SMITH, Sec’y, 
272-3m Buffalo, N. Y. 
BUFFALO AGRICULTURAL WAKFJEOUSE, 
AND SEED STORK 
No. 19G Main St, _ BUFFALO. 
H. C. WHITE, 
WnOT.SSAI.H AND RETAIL HEALER IN 
FARMING IMPLEMENTS, 
FIELD AND GARDEN SEEDS, 
TREES, PLANTS AND MIUHHS. 
ALSO AGENT FOR 
Boston Bolting Co.’s Rubber Belting, Ho3e, &c. 
NEW ROCHELLE OR LAV/TON BLACKBERRY, 
For salo at tho South Norwalk Nursery, a small slock of 
tho great New Rochelle or Lawbm Black!erry Plants at $6 
per dozen. GKO. SEYMOUR A CO., 
267-131 South Norwalk, Conn 
