MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL, LITERARY AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
CONDUCTED BY AZILE. 
For Moore’s Sural New-Yorker. 
SUMMER IS PASSING AWAY. 
BY MYKIA. 
Terre's a sigh in the Autumn hreeze 
As it wafts the faded leaves, 
A mournful tone, which sesms to say, 
“Summer, bright Summer, is passing away.” 
The silvery stream as it murmurs low 
Breathes a sigh, ’mid its rippling waters’ flow ; 
And the wild bird warbles a mournful lay, 
For Summer, bright Summer, is passing away. 
The chill Autumn wind as ithurrieth past, 
A withering blight o’er the flowers hath cast; 
Their beauty is fading, how soon ’twill decay ! 
Flowers, brght flowers are passing away.” 
Oh ! does not a cloud always rest on the sky ? 
And the soft breezes murmur, “ the spoiler is nigh?” 
While each pale drooping flower, to our hearts seems 
to say, 
“ Every thing lovely is passing away.” 
Be still, Oh ! vain heart, and know it is well, 
Ye would not forever in this dark earth dwell; 
Far, far away is a sunnier clime, 
Untouched by the withering hand of Time, 
Where angel-choirs their anthems are singing. 
And fadeless flowers in that Laud are springing— 
Where no shadow may darken Love’s holy light, 
For we know there shall come no wearisome night. 
And when we have passed through the fear and gloom 
Which ever encircle the dreary tomb, 
We may enter those “ Gates,” to “ go out no more,” 
We shall meet the ones who have “gone before 
Earth’s treasures are there, free from blight and 
decay. 
And their beauty and bloom shall ne’er pass away. 
Attica Centre, N. Y., 1855. 
BIRDS IN AUTUMN. 
BY KRS. SIGOURNEY. 
Soon, voices were heard at the morning prime, 
Consulting of flight to a warmer clime ; 
“ Let us go 1 let us go 1” said the bright-winged Jay ; 
And his gay spouse sang from a rocking spray, 
“ I’m tired to death of this hum-drum tree, 
I’ll go, if ’tis only the world to see.” 
“ Will you go,” asked the Bobin, “ my only love ?” 
And a tender strain from the leafless grove 
Responded, “ Wherever your lot is cast, 
’Mid sunny skies, or the wintry blast, 
I am still at your side, your heart to cheer, 
Though dear is our nest in this thicket here.” 
A GOOD WIFE, 
Thh good wife ? How much of this world’s 
happiness and prosperity, says Mr. Burnap, 
is contained in the compass of these two short 
words! Her influence is immense. The pow¬ 
er of a wife, for good or for evil, is altogether 
irresistible. Home must be the seat of hap¬ 
piness, or it mast be forever unknown. A 
good wife is to a man wisdom, and courage, 
and strength, and hope and endurance ; a bad 
one is confusion, weakness, discomfiture, de¬ 
spair. No condition is hopeless when the wile 
possesses firmness, decision, energy, economy. 
There i3 no outward prosperity which can 
counteract indolence, folly, and extravagance 
at home. No spirit can long exist bad do¬ 
mestic influences. Man is strong, but his 
heart-is not adamant. He delights in enter¬ 
prise and action, but to sustain him he needs 
a tranquil mind and a whole heart. He ex¬ 
pends his moral force in the conflicts of the 
world. His feelings are easily lacerated to 
the utmost point of endurance by perpetual 
collision, irritation- and disappointment. To 
recover his equanimity and composure, home 
must be to him a place of repose, of cheer¬ 
fulness, of comfort; and his soul renews his 
strength, and again goes forth with fresh vigor 
to encounter the labor and troubles of the 
world. But if at home he finds no rest, and 
is there met by a bad temper, sullenness, or 
gloom, or is assailed by discontent, complaint, 
and reproaches, the heart breaks, the spirits 
are crushed, hope vanishes, and the man sinks 
in total despair. Let woman know, then, that 
she ministers at the very fountain of life and 
happiness. It is her hand that deals out, with 
overflowing cup, its soul-refreshing waters, or 
casts in the branch of bitterness, which makes 
them poison and death. Her ardent spirit 
breathes the breath of life into all enterprise. 
Her patience and constancy are mainly in¬ 
strumental in carrying forward to completion 
the best human designs. Her more delicate 
moral sensibility is the unseen power which 
is ever at work to purify and refine society. 
And the nearest glimpse of Heaven that mor¬ 
tals ever get on earth is that domestic circle 
which her hands have trained to intelligence, 
virtue, and love, which her gentle influence 
pervades, and of which her radient presence 
is the centre and the sun. 
Pockets.— What about a youngster’s dress 
is he more proud of than his pockets ? Does 
his mother forget to insert a pocket in his 
apron, she is quickly reminded of it, and ob¬ 
tains no peace until the omission is supplied. 
What mother ever finished her boy’s first pan¬ 
taloons without a pocket on either side. And 
with his legs encased in the little cloth tubes, 
as he struts off, where are his hands ? Has 
his mother lost her thimble, where can she 
find it ? Is any thing ever suffered to lie loose 
on the floor, small enough to go into his pock¬ 
et? And at a later stage of life, when the 
world’s goods begin to attract his attention, 
and that decidedly human nature commences 
stealing over him, and his pockets are larger, 
and he has more of them, are they Ies3 used ? 
Let the following exposition answer. A mo¬ 
ther, in a neighboring village, says she emptied 
her hopeful eon’s pocket, the other day, and 
the following articles were brought to light: 
Sixteen marbles, one top, an oyster shell, two 
pieces of brick, one dough nut, a piece of 
curry comb, one paint brush, three wax ends, 
a handful of corn, a chisel, two broken knives, 
a skate strap, three buckles, one ball, two 
primers, five hen’s eggs, and a birds nest. 
THE MOTHER AED HER FAMILY, 
Philosophy is rarely found. The most 
perfect sample I ever met was an old woman, 
who was apparently the poorest and most 
forlorn cf the human species—so true is the 
maxim which all profess to believe, and none 
act upon invariably, viz : “ that happiness 
does not depend upon outward circumstances.” 
The wise woman to whom I have alluded, 
walks to Boston, a distance of twenty or 
thirty miles-, to sell a bag of brown thread and 
stockings, and then patiently walks back 
again with her little gains. Her dress, tho’ 
tidy, is a collection of “ shreds and patches,” 
coarse in the extreme. 
“ Why don’t you comedown in a wagon?” 
said I. when I observed that she was wearied 
with her long journey. 
“ We baint got any horse,” she replied; 
“ the neighbors are very kind to me, but they 
can’t spare theirn, and it would cost as much 
to hire* one as all my thread would come to.” 
“You have a husband—don’t he do any 
thing for you ?” 
“ He is a good man—he does all he can, but 
he’s a cripple and an invalid. He reels my 
yarn and mends the children’s shoes. He is 
as kind a husband as a woman need to have.” 
“ But his being a cripple is a heavy misfor¬ 
tune to you,” said I. 
“ Why, ma’am, I don’t look upon it in that 
light,” replied the thread woman. “I con¬ 
sider that*I have great reason to be thankful 
that he never took to any bad habits.” 
“ How many children have you ?” 
“ Six sons and five daughters, ma’am.” 
“ Six sons and five daughters ! Why, what 
a family for a poor woman to support!” 
“ It is a family, ma’am ; but there aint one 
of ‘em I’d be willing to lose. They are all as 
healthy children as need to be-all willing to 
work, and all clever to me. Even the small¬ 
est boy, when he gets a few cents now and 
then for doing an errand, will be always sure 
to briDg it to me.” 
“ Do your daughters spin your thread ?” 
“ No, ma’am, as soon as they are big enough 
they go out to service, as I don’t want to keep 
them always delving for me; they always 
give me what they can ; but it’s right and 
fair that they should do a little for themselves. 
I do all my spinning after all the folks are 
gone to bed.” 
“ Don’t you think you should be better eff 
if you had no one but yourself to provide for ?” 
“ Why, no, ma’am, I don't. Tf I had not 
been married, I should always have to work 
as hard as I could, and now I can’t do no 
more than that. My children are always a 
great comfort to me, and I look forward to 
the time when they will do as much for me as 
I have always done for them.” 
Here was true philosophy! I learned a 
lesson from that poor woman, which I shall 
not soon forget.— Miss Sedgwick. 
REMOVING RINGS FROM FINGERS. 
Dr Castle communicates to the Boston 
Medical and Surgical Journal, the following 
ingenious method, devised by him, for extri¬ 
cating a young lady’s finger from a ring which 
was too small for her. We give his story in 
his own language: 
“ An interesting young lady, about 17 years 
of age, had presented to her a gold ring, which 
she forced over the joints of her middle finger. 
After a few minutes the finger commenced 
swelling, and the ring could not be removed. 
The family physician, Dr.-, was sent for, 
but could do nothing. The family, and the 
young lady especially, were now in the great¬ 
est consternation. A jeweler was sent for.— 
After many futile attempts to cut the riDg 
with cutting-nippers, and to saw it apart with 
a fine saw, and after bruising and lacerating 
the flesh, warm fomentations and leeches were 
applied, but all without affording the slightest 
benefit. Dr.-requested my presence with 
the compliment that ‘ perhaps my mechanical 
ingenuity might suggest something.’ 
I at once proceeded to the house of the pa¬ 
tient, and found the young lady in a most de¬ 
plorable state of mental agony, the doctor 
embarrassed, and the family in a high state of 
excitement. I procured some prepared chalk, 
and applied it between the ridges of swollen 
flesh, and succeeded in drying the oozing and 
abraded flesh, then with a narrow piece of soft 
linen I succeeded in polishirg the ring, by 
drawing it gently round the riDg between 
swollen part-3. I thei? applied quicksilver to 
the whole surface of the riDg. In less than 
three minutes the ring was broken (by pres¬ 
sing it together) in four pieces to the great 
relief of all parties. 
In a similar manrer, (without the chalk,) 
I sometime since extracted a small brass ring 
from the ear of a child, who, child like, had 
inserted it into the cavity of the ear. The 
operation was more painful and tedious, but 
was equally successful. 
The modus operandi: The quicksilver at 
once permeates the metals, if clean, (with the 
exception of iron, steel, platina, and one or 
two others,) and amalgamates with them. It 
immediately crystallizes, and renders the metal 
as hard and brittle as glass. Hence the ease 
with which metals amalgamated with quick¬ 
silver can be broken.” 
Mankind and their Language.— Mankind 
moves onward through the night of time like 
a procession of torch-bearprs, and words are 
the lights which the generation carry. By 
mean 3 of these they kindle abiding lamps be¬ 
side the track which they have passed, and 
some of them, like the stars, shall shine 
forever. 
The heart-strings will SDap, just like harp- 
strings—from excess of cold and neglect. 
Were it not for the tears that fill eur eyes, 
what an ocean would flood our hearts. 
The best mode of revenge is, not to imitate 
the injury. 
KEEP BUSY. 
BY J. I. OTIS. 
Days are busy 
Gliding by, 
Wouldst thou use them 
As they fly, 
Thou must likewise busy he, 
Else they’re ever lost to thee. 
Life is busy, 
Soon ’twill close, 
So Improve it, 
As it goes, 
For if past—’tis past forever, 
And we can recall it never. 
Streams are busy 
Rolling by, 
Trees are busy 
Growing high, 
When these such examples set, 
Man wilt thou he idle yet? 
All things busy 
Why not thee, 
Do no longer 
Sluggish be. 
But arise and strive to find, 
Lasting clothing for thy mind. 
[Temperance Qem. 
TYvlttcn for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE ABORIGINES OF OUR COUNTRY. 
Of the former history of the Aborigines 
we know but little. A feeble light glimmers 
down upon us through the mist which envel¬ 
opes their early career ; and in the few tradi¬ 
tions which we have received, we can discern 
nothing except that they probably dispos¬ 
sessed a people who were more advanced in 
civilization, but less warlike than themselves. 
But fancy portrays the scene which was 
displayed centuries ago; when this fertile 
country was the home of the Indians, and the 
vast continent “ slumbered in silence” on the 
bosOm of the great deep, unknown to civilized 
nations. No cultivated fields then waved in 
the luxuriance of the ripened harvest; no 
cities rose along the seaboard; no white¬ 
winged vessels plowed the waters ; no church 
bells reverberated pver the land, nor did the 
tall church spire point upward to the heavens. 
The Indian owned it all. Here his silent life 
has passed away, and he laid to sleep, unre¬ 
membered, with his fathers. These brooks 
have murmured music in his ear. These hills 
hive echoed back his voice. These lofty 
trees have shaded him. Here his wigwam 
sent its blue smoke curling to the sky. He 
was the child of Nature and he neither in¬ 
creased nor diminished the ample possessions 
which she had bestowed. His inheritance 
came down to him through a long line of an¬ 
cestors unchanged. The same wilderness that 
existed with hi3 forefathers he received as a 
legacy to transmit to his posterity. The for¬ 
ests still grew their giant growth. The lakes 
and the rivers still rolled their floods unbur¬ 
dened to the ocean. The smaller streams with 
their vast powers still flowed on, unchained 
by the hand of man. 
Bat there was a change. Another race, in 
searching for a shorter passage to the East 
Indies, stumbled upon the great continent. 
Europeaffcivilization triumphed over Ameri¬ 
can barbarism, and this Western World re¬ 
ceived the elements of an empire which out¬ 
shines the splendor of ancient Greses and 
Rome. The forests were removed, and their 
sites covered with the works of enlightened 
man. The lakes and the rivers became the 
highways of a great national intercourse.— 
Tne noise of machinery mingled with that of 
the stream as it fell over the artificial barriers 
which obstructed its course. Flocks and 
herds cropped the grass where once the wild 
elk and buffalo roved in unbounded freedom. 
And in place of the rude bark wigwam we 
now behold the thriving city and the commo¬ 
dious mansion of the prosperous American 
farmer. 
The Indian has vanished like a mist from 
the face of the earth. Where now are those 
proud tribes who once held possession of all 
the country this side of the Mississippi ?— 
They have disappeared !—and with the excep¬ 
tion of the scanty remnants which linger up¬ 
on the eastern slopes of the Rocky Moun¬ 
tains, they have left not a trace behind.— 
Mysterious Providence permitted them to be 
swept from the face of the each, and they left 
no literature, no works of art, no splendid 
ruins, covered with the dust of centuries, by 
which they may live in the recollection of 
men. Possessing a country that afforded as 
many natural advantages as any in the world, 
they seemed to need but the touch of civili¬ 
zation to rise rapidly into importance among 
the nations. Bat as the line of improvement 
gradually extended itself from the sea-coast 
towards the interior, they retired deeper and 
deeper into the heart of the continent. They 
refused to mingle with the superior race, and 
disdained to learn of them the art of peace 
and national prosperity. They could not live 
in the sunshine, and they followel the shade 
of their majestic forests. Step by step they 
have gone backward from the shores where 
they first beheld with astonishment the ships 
of Columbus, —from the graves of their fore¬ 
fathers and their favorite hunting grounds— 
across the Alleghanies, the Ohio, and the 
Mississippi, until they stand in the shadows 
of the Rocky Mountains. Hemmed in on 
all sides, the surges of emigration are contin¬ 
ually encroaching upon their limits, and ere 
another century shall have passed away, the 
once proud race that ruled the land may be 
extinct. o. f. w. 
Perinton, Oct., 1855. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New Yorker. 
ONE SINGLE STEP. 
How great an influence the stepping on¬ 
ward or receding one single step may exert 
over a whole lifetime 1 A little step has de¬ 
cided the destiny of nations, sealed the fate of 
individuals, caused days, months or years of 
unmitigated misery, or ages of unclouded hap¬ 
piness. 
Down life’s dusty highway, the paths of 
peace and woe lie parallel, and separate but 
one short, easy step. A trifling word, per¬ 
chance a look even, has caused tho taking of 
that first step, which leads the traveler down 
through years of immeasurable misery, while 
he raves at fate, and heaps anathemas upon 
that power which he blindly believes placed 
him there,—forgetting, in his delirium of mad¬ 
dening woe, the agency of his own will. On 
the other hand, a single step may bring about 
the happiest consequences. He that now 
rules a kingdom may trace the origin of that 
character which has placed him there, to the 
utterance of a single sentence. Go, peruse 
the recorded deeds of mankind and say if you 
find aught but proof positive establishing, our 
asseveration beyond a doubt. Said Byron of 
Napoleon Bonaparte, 
“ A single step into the right had made 
This man the Washington of worlds betrayed; 
A single step into the wrong has given 
His name a doubt to all the winds of heaven.” 
It is too well' known to need repetition here, 
that Byron’s singular, and by no means com¬ 
mendable conduct, was traced to a remark 
made by his own mother. Lord Exmouth’s 
attention was first drawn to the sea, by the 
casual remark of a groom. There is an anec¬ 
dote extant in some life of Columbus, stating 
that his idea of the existence of another hem¬ 
isphere was originated and confirmed by hear¬ 
ing that savage rebes and weapons had been 
: cast upon the shores of Flores, after westerly 
storms. 
"We might continue to enumerate instance 
j after instance, more forcible in application, 
wherein the most trivial circumstance has 
originated a train of thought or action that 
j leads to such vast results, that the mind is 
incapable of comprehending their importance 
at one view. Well did the poet philosopher 
utter the words of truth, when he said, 
“The world in its boyhood was credulous, and dreaded 
the vengeance of the stars, 
The world in its dotage is not wiser, fearing not tho in¬ 
fluence of small things. 
Planets govern not tho soul, nor guide the destinios of 
man, 
But trifles lighter than straws, are levers in the building 
up of character.” 
I Jackson Co., Mich., 1865. F. H. 
OH, I WISH I COULD! 
What? you envy that fashionably dressed 
man, who lounges so listlessly along the street, 
lazily gazing into the store windows ? And 
for what ? Because he has such fine times of 
it—so little to do—seeking pleasure, his whole 
occupation, and you, unfortunate man, toiling 
out your monotonons life—work—work— 
work! 
How many are they who know not the 
pleasure of industry, who think they have 
nothing to do, being a gentleman of ease the 
very essence of happiness ? And how it 
would surprise some of these “ wishers” if they 
only knew the affliction of a fashionable indo¬ 
lence, yawning out its useless life in wearisome 
ease. Let only industry for a week or two 
dres 3 itself up in indolence, strut its brief 
hour, and endure its enjoyments ; and with 
what joy it will doff the implements of 
idleness, and renew its rusty suit of work.— 
Yes, there is no greater mistake than to sup¬ 
pose happiness can be found under the cloak 
of frivolity. Life without work ; to breathe 
your existence into vacuity ; dissipating your 
time, without a useful action to achieve; 
wasting away your energies and allowing vi¬ 
tality itself to evaporate into inanition, may 
seem to the thoughtless, enjoyment; but, to 
the manly mind, it is punishment. No one 
feels life so burdensome as he who has time to 
do nothing. N o one feels monotony and un¬ 
happiness so much as your man of pleasure. 
A short time serves to cloy satiety, and to 
make his very leisure the torment of his ex¬ 
istence. Life, to be enjoyed, must be employ¬ 
ed. It is industry, and iudustry alone, no 
matter in what occupation, that gives zest to 
life, and brings contentment to the mind. 
Toil on and be happj. Work is the bless¬ 
ing of nature, crowning man with dignity, 
and making hiai sovereign upon earth. When 
tho tempter comes, and seeks by false views to 
dazzle you into indolence, and makes industry 
repulsive, conquer him by self-respect for that 
which is man’s duty and glory—“ to earn his 
bread by the sweat of his brow.” 
To be thrown upon one’s own resources, is 
to be cast upon the very lap of fortune, for 
our faculties undergo a development, and dis¬ 
play an energy of which they were previously 
unsusceptible. 
Grief never sleeps ; it watches continually, 
like a jealous hand. All the world groans 
under its sway, and it fears that by sleeping 
its clutch will become loosened, and its prey 
then escape. 
THE FOUNTAIN OF KNOWLEDGE. 
A GERMAN LEGEND. 
Early in the morning, the good god Balder 
called his children around him, and sent them 
down into the Earth, there to remain until 
the day was past. 
“ Go,” he said, “ and dwell amoDg men. 
Work there for good or evil, as seems best to 
you, and when' the evening is come, return ; 
and I will reward you according to your deeds.” 
Then gave the god to each a portion of the 
water from his magic fountain, which they 
had power to convert into whatever they most 
desired on Earth. So they departed. 
The Day was long, but at last the Night 
appeared, and the children of Baldev passed 
through the thick cloud, one by one, and came 
home. 
“ Hasten, oh, Siegfried !” said the god, “my 
mighty hero child ! To thee gave I the lar¬ 
gest portion of my magic fountain. How hast 
thou blessed with it the children of men ?” 
Then said Siegfried : 
“ Thy children of Earth are weak, oh, Bal¬ 
der ! From thy magic gifs fashioned I a 
sword keen and glittering, and called it 
Strength. I gave it to them ; yet they forgot 
the power came from thee, and murder and 
rapine rule now on Earth.” 
“ And thou, Hugo,” said the god, “ hast 
thou also wrought evil, and not good, among 
my children?” 
“ The dwollers on Earth grow mighty in 
their own eyes, oh, king, and from the water 
of knowledge I distilled a black and brilliant 
liquid, and called it Doubt. Whosoever 
drank thereof, forgot thee, and while they lift¬ 
ed their heads haughtily, saw only their fellow 
men a little way beneath, but could not see 
how far above thou wert in the heavens.” 
Then spake the third of Balder’s children : 
‘ By the magic of thy gift, I built a mighty 
temple, and called it Science. Its foundations 
were the granite of the everlasting hills.— 
Earth’s broad savannahs and rushing rivers 
were shadowed by its pillars, and through its 
dome the stars of heaven moved in solemn 
silence. And the children of men worshiped 
the temple, and with mad haste tore the mas¬ 
sive rocks from the earth to make it strorg ; 
summoned the trees, the flowers, all living 
things, the invisible air, the terrible lightning, 
to add to its glory ; but they could not see 
the perfect image of thy face shiniDg on every 
part, and therefore over their temple hangs a 
shadow which they cannot banish.” 
“Woe is me!” said Balder. “Behold! 
my children have cursed men, and not blessed 
them. And thou, Freda, oh, weak, yet well 
beloved, thy portion was the least—what hast 
thou done ?” 
Then the'child, Freda, bowed her head, and 
answered : 
“ The Earth was cold and dark, oh, my fa¬ 
ther, for thou wert not ihere ; and I wearied 
for the evening. Because my portion w^s 
but small, and I feared that with it I could 
not bless the children of men, I made of it a 
flower, and called it Love. I taught it to 
look up to thee, that haply thine eyes might 
sometimes be turned downwards on the earth, 
and for a moment it would give thee pleasure. 
And when the flower bloomed, and shed a 
sweet fragrance around, whoever passed by, 
looked up also, oh, my father, and blessed thee, 
who had given so beautiful a gift to man.” 
Then Balder rejoiced that the flower even 
now bloomed upon the dark earth, which was 
one day to cover it and make it holy. 
ORIGIN OF YANKEE DOODLE. 
A writer in Harper’s Magazine, in a no¬ 
tice of Duyckinck’s Encyclopedia, gives the 
following account of Yankee Doodle : 
We are happy to be able to gratify the pa¬ 
triotism of our readers with proof of an hon¬ 
orable though humble descent for our adopted 
child, Yankee Doodle. The tune has, we are 
aware, been claimed as the composition of one 
Dr. Shackburg, of the British army ; but he 
don’t deserve the credit, for the wicked wits 
of Charles the Second whistled it in the ears 
of the Nell GWynnes of the rollicking times 
of that merry monarch, and we find it jing¬ 
ling with the following werds in a song on a 
famous lady of easy virtue in those days : 
“ Lucy Locket lost her pocket, 
Kitty Fisher found it ; 
Nothing in it, nothing in it, 
But the binding round it.” • 
But this is only the tune ; the authors, with 
an instinct which belongs to their ancestral 
Dutch descent, trace back to Holland the or¬ 
igin of our adopted child, Yankee Doodle, 
whose roguish liveliness has made him a uni¬ 
versal favorite. A song in use among the 
Dutch laborers trolls out thus : 
“ Y&nker didel, doodel down, 
Didle, dudel lauter ; 
Yanke viver, voover vown, 
Botormilk and TAUther.” 
Yankee Doodle probably came over in the 
Mayflower, aboard of which he smuggled 
himself no doubt, hid away in the profane re¬ 
miniscences of some late Puritan convert, 
and thus unexpectedly got admitted into the 
reputable company of psalms and spiritual 
Bong 3 . He was undoubtedly improved by tho 
Puritan companionship, and like many a jol¬ 
ly beggar coming to this country, has turned 
out a very respectable citizen, and deserves to 
stick the feather in hi3 cap. 
Keenness of His Celestial Majesty — 
One day the old Kiec-Sung, Emperor of Chi 
na, asked George Staunton how medical men 
were paid in England. When the system was 
explained to him, he asked if there could be a 
single Englishmen in good health. “ I will 
tell you,” continued he, “ how 1 treat my 
physicians. I have four to whom the care of 
my health is confined. A certain sum is giv¬ 
en to each weekly ; but as soon as I am ill, 
the ealarie- are stopped till I am well. I need 
not tell you that my illnesses do not last long.’ 
There is beauty enough on earth to make a 
home for angels.— Wright. 
