S3 
9 
july a® 
FARMER GREEN. 
bt r. ransom sANrono. 
He lives in the country and owns a good farm, 
His clothing is common, from boots to hat, 
He makes no display, other people to charm. 
But Jogs on liis way, doing nobody harm, 
Yet he’s not so green, " for a' that.” 
Ho rises each morn, ero the bright, sun appears, 
Stops not to brush clothing, or don a cravat, 
Attends to Ills horses, Ills bogs and his steers, 
And then a pint j breakfast hia honest heart cheers, 
But lie's not so green, *' for a' that.” 
His wife he has chosOn from poverty’s ranks, 
8 ho lives not for baubles, or idle chit-chat ; 
He married her not for her senseless pranks, 
But from a pure love, which all else outranks, 
Do you think ho wan green " for a’ that?” 
His farm Is his pride, and his castle is home, 
His children are rude, unpolished and fat, 
But in each little face he beholds a love tome, 
Growing dearer and dearer, as days go and come, 
But he’s not so green “ for a’ that.” 
He’s a library stored with the Choicest books, 
Can talk any city Bombastes quite flat.; 
In arguing law, you'd scarce Judge from his looks. 
Or the manner lie meet* all your hooks and crooks, 
That he’s quite so green " for a - that.” 
He goes to the city his produce to rend, 
Stares not out, of countenance t his one or that, 
Stops not over night, the new play to attend— 
The fashion is not to him life’s only end, 
And he’s not so green “ for a’ that.” 
His task he performs, like a man of true worth, 
At no place like his hearth has he ever sat; 
What though of due polish there may be a dearth ? 
I would there were more Farmer Greens on this 
earth— 
For he’s not so green “ for a’ that.” 
THE PRESCRIPTION. 
DEDICATED TO THE HUSBANDS OF 
FARMER’S WIVES. 
“T wish you would tell James, when he comes 
in, to turn the cows into the lower lot. And If 
Turpin calls, tell him I have concluded to take 
those sheep I want the Merinos. And while 1 
am getting ready, please lake my memorandum 
book and note down four harness straps, five 
pounds of nails, and a gimlet, half a joe key- 
Btrap, and—and —yes, J believe that Is all. I for¬ 
got them when J made out. the Items this morn¬ 
ing." 
Mrs. Streeter rose wearily, laid her sleeping 
babe carefully In its crib, and proceeded to re¬ 
cord the art icles mimed. She was young not 
over twenty-live- but the complexion was sadb 
faded, and faint linos were already marking the 
white forehead, while the tired eyes told of 
care, and hinted strongly of an unsatisfied 
heart. 
And this thin-ehcekod, pink-lipped woman 
had been called a beauty only seven years be¬ 
fore ! And when she gave her hand to Newton 
Streeter, she could aay what so few girls can: 
“I married my first lovo." 
Judge Streeter, the father, was supposed to 
be wealthy. But soon after his son’s marriage 
a financial crisis came, and Lis thousands dwin¬ 
dled into hundreds. 
It was false pride, perhaps, but the young man 
shrank from a position under (hose who bad 
once looked up to him. And his thoughts turned 
wistfully toward the Western prairies. He ex¬ 
pected objections from his young and accom¬ 
plished wife. But she saw with his eyes, and 
was not only willing, hut eager, to go and help 
him make a home that should be all their own, 
The purchasing of a prairie team, some farming 
implements, and the expense of building a 
small house, exhausted his capital—and the 
young couple began I heir married life as many 
others had done who had not been blessed with 
their advantages. The small dwelling contained 
hut throe sleeping apartments; and this fact, 
added to their uncertain income, induced Mrs. 
Streeter to take upon herself the entire care of 
the household. 
Two children had come in the seven years to 
nestle in her bosom. But one, u fairy child of 
three summers, bad slid away from thorn, and 
was now sleeping beneath the flowers of the 
prairie; and the tried wife had sighed as she 
looked on the cold, folded hands. 
“She will never toil as I have done ; but, oh, 
I wanted her so much," the lonely mother sob¬ 
bed forth. 
Mr. Streeter was now considered a wealthy 
farmer. His acres had broadened and his stock 
increased. Physically and mentally strong, and 
with a gentle, loving wife ever studying his 
tastes and wishes, why should lie wear out fast ? 
But of her? Naturally frail, she had been 
like a willow, bending beneath a burden volun¬ 
tarily taken up. With the exception of an effi¬ 
cient girl for afew weeks when little Mary died, 
she had performed all the labor required in the 
house since she became its mistress. 
Newton Streeter took the memorandum, 
glanced hastily at the neatly-written Items, and 
then he stepped into the light buggy and drove 
away. 
But no longer might she linger, forthesponge 
was waiting in the kitchen to be kneaded, and 
the baby’s naps were like angels’ visits. And 
before the task was well over his bugle note 
sounded to arm;, and the fretful child was taken 
up and caressed and soothed to quietness. 
She was conscious of a strange dizziness. 
When she arose from a stooping position her 
head was aching miserably and her eyes seemed 
burning. What was coming over her? She 
must be 111. Oh, no ; she had no time for that! 
And then her t hought s drifted away ton the dear 
old homo of childhood ; and she asked herself, 
for the first time, if she had done wisely to leave 
It for this life of toil and care? 
It was a dangerous question for a wife-moth¬ 
er, and she clasped her child more closely to 
suppress In her heart the disloyal answer. 
When Mr. Streeter returned, exultant over 
the dollars he hail deposited in the bank, he 
found no supper prepared, and his wife helpless 
upon the bed, with cheeks flushed with fever, 
and the wailing child distracting her with de¬ 
mands for care. 
A physician and nurse were soon summoned 
from the city, and the weary wife enjoyed, the 
luxury of being ill. 
But con va lose nee soon followed; and before 
leaving his patlont, the old doctor, a close ob¬ 
server and deep thinker, took the husband aside 
and asked: 
“Do you know what brought tills fever on 
your wife, Mr. Streeter ? You have worked her 
nearly to death.” 
“ You are speaking of my wilo, not my horse.” 
“Granted; and I say again, you are working 
her to death.” 
“Really, doctor, such language is unpardon¬ 
able.” 
“And yet you will pardon it. And further¬ 
more, by your groat love for the self-sacrificing 
woman wo have just left, I shall perform an 
operation on your eyes that you may see evc*i 
as I Bee." 
And then he placed the cold, hard facts be¬ 
fore him, from the time she came a bride, 
beaut iful and accomplished, to tho village, up 
to tho date of present illness, in which domest ic 
cares only had haunted her feverish dreams. 
In concluding, he added : 
“I truly believe, if she takes up her old bur¬ 
den at once, that before a year lias passed the 
grave or the insane asylum will receive her." 
The strong man shuddered. 
“As heaven is my witness, sir, I have only 
permitted, not exacted this sacrifice. She vol¬ 
untarily took her place by my side, and has un¬ 
complainingly kept step wdth me,” 
“ \ o, she has not kept stop, to follow your 
own figure. Unable to keep up with your long, 
rapid strides, she has fallen, faint and footsore, 
by the way. I tell you, she must lia\e rest for 
both mind and body, or I will not answ’cr for 
the result. And It would be bettor if founa 
away from home," 
“Yes, I begin to comprehend ; and it can be 
found away. And,” offering his hand, “I will 
take care, doctor, that you do not get a chance 
to administer another such dose to me.” 
Mr. Streeter went back to the room where his 
ivito was sitting, propped up by pillows, and a 
,'iish of unutterable tenderness swelled In his 
heart as lie glanced at her pale face and almost 
transparent hands. He sat down besido her 
and said softly: 
“ You don’t know how r glad I am that you are 
better." 
“Thank you. Yes. I am almost well now— 
shall soon bo able to bo in the kitchen. J am 
sure I must bo sadly needed there by thistime." 
“No, you are not needed there. By the way, 
would you like to have me put the farm to rent 
this summer, and you take the boy, and go back 
to the old granite hills ?” 
“Oh.could you? May I go?” and the voice 
quivered with excitement; then wistfully, “ but 
the expense, Newton. It would put us back so 
much." 
"Yes, there It is; the old doctor was right!” 
he thought. And then aloud“Do you know 
what I went to the city for the day you were 
111 ?" 
“To deposit some money for more land, I 
think you said," sho replied, wearily. 
“Yes; but I do not need that land. I have 
far more than I can cultivate now. And you 
shall have that money—or, at least, all that you 
want of it—and go home and stay all summer, 
and try to got some of your bloom back. I shall 
write to-day that you are coming." 
Mrs. Streeter could hardly believe it was not 
one of her feverish dreams. 
But it all came about in good time, and she 
arrived safely at home, where she was petted 
and caressed to her heart's content. 
“You arc all trying to spoil me,” she would 
expostulate; “ I shall never be fit for a farmer’s 
wife any more.” 
And thus, among loving friends, riding, walk¬ 
ing, and when at home reading, music and writ¬ 
ing long letters to her husband, the summer 
passed swiftly away. 
And now he had written that he was coming, 
and she was counting the days that must elapse 
ere she could look back upon his face and he 
clasped to his heart. Sho was eager to go now. 
Her holiday was over. Health had returned, 
aud not for an instant did she shrink from the 
old life. 
And when the husband came and saw the 
wonder ono summer had wrought, he again told 
himself t hat the good old doctor was right. 
A few days w ere given to the old friends, and 
then t hey turned their faces toward their West¬ 
ern home. 
It was evening w r hen they arrived, and the 
wife looked with bewilderment on the change. 
A handsome front had been added to the old 
dwelling; aud before she had time, to question 
she was ushered into a parlor newly furnished 
and already lighted. An elegant piano stood in 
a recess evidently constructed for its reception. 
She turned towards her husband to assure 
herself that he, too,had not. changed intosoroe- 
thing or somebody <dsc. But the merry twinkle 
in his eye told her that he was enjoytughcr sur¬ 
prise, and slowly she began to realize the whole 
situation. Yes, now she understood his strange 
reluctance to mention what he was doing, and 
his willingness to have her remain, even after 
she had expressed her anxiety to return. 
“Come, 1 have more to show you and he 
showed her Into a large, commodious room, 
furnished for her own sleeping apart ment, even 
to her bahy's crib. 
“This Is for you. And now lay aside your 
dusty garments and prepare for tea. It must 
have been ready an hour ago. J will go and see." 
When he returned he found his wife sitting 
in her litt le rocker and weeping silent ly. 
“Havel wounded where 1 wished to heal ?" 
he asked, reproachfully. 
“ Forgive me,” she said, smiling; "I am a 
goose, but, a tireil-wing one, you know. And I 
am so happy to bo at homo in such a home, that 
J have no words in which t.o tell my happiness.” 
He stooped In kiss t he offered Ups. And t hus 
the now life began. Anil what a different life 
it was—busy, not burdened. Time for the wants 
of the mind as well as the body. Good help in 
the kitchen all the time,and choice reading for 
any leisure hour. 
The farm was an unfailing source of income, 
fully defraying all expenses each year and show¬ 
ing a balance in favor. 
“ Been Improving, I see," said Dr. Meeker, as 
he reined his light carriage to she neat fence. 
“Yes, doctor. Come in. I want to show you 
all the Improvements. Here, Mary, the doctor 
wants to see you,” 
And as she came to greet him, rosy with health 
and happiness, lie nodded his head at her bus-, 
band. “ Yes,that will do;" and then glancing 
at the open piano. “ 1 am going to stay Just long 
enough to hear ono In: o played. Will you favor 
me?" And with the old gallantry, fitted, so 
awkwardly to hia brusque manners, he led her 
to the instrument, and stood hat in hand while 
she played. “There, thank you ; I have cut off 
my own supplies. No more foes for me here, 1 
see. Just my luck. I never did know enough 
to secure my own bread and butler. Good bye, 
Mrs. Streeter.” And again nodding to tho hus¬ 
band, he trotted out to his vehicle and went on 
his way, his elusory voice humming to Ids horse, 
perhaps the tune he had just heard. 
- ♦♦♦- 
SPARKS AND SPLINTERS. 
Clerical loans—Lent sermons. 
Si’ENimmnn's’ Capitals -I O U. 
A Woman’s ailment. The stitch. 
A star of the evening a policeman. 
The shade of night—window curtains. 
At what ago do pigs end their existence ?— 
Saus-age. 
When is a singer like a price-list ?—When he 
is invoice. 
Why is a musk melon like ahorse ?—It makes 
the man go. 
When is a man done brown? When his 
friends toast him. 
When are eyes not eyes?—When the wind 
makes them water. 
Speaking by the Card—Corresponding under 
the now postal law. 
A friend at a pinch—one who shares his 
snuff-box with you. 
When is a captain in his heaviest attire?— 
When he wears h:s*hip. 
The paper-makers say their business is such 
as it brings them to rags. 
W r HV is meat not done like a good conun¬ 
drum V—Because it is rare. 
“ Home— sweet, sweet home,” as the bee said 
when he entered his hive. 
Why is a nice young lady like a hinge? Be¬ 
cause she is something to adore. 
Why arc handcuffs 'like guide-books? Be¬ 
cause they are made for two wrists. 
A had marriage is like an electric machine; 
it makes you dance, and you can’t let go. 
The man most likely to make his mark in the 
world—one who cannot write his own name. 
Tiie fork is very quarrelsome—it is perpet¬ 
ually throwing something into your teeth. 
Why was the elephant the last animal to 
enter the ark ?— Because he had to carry his own 
trunk. 
When a woman tries to catch a rich man, it is 
evident that she cares less about husbanding 
him than his cash. 
Whenever a young lady has neither pearls in 
her gums nor pearls in her mind, she had better 
keep her mouth shut. 
Most young ladies are fond of beaux, but 
young gentlemen should remember that none 
of them are partial to cross beaux. 
An old bachelor says;—“It is all nonsense to 
pretend that love is blind. I never yet knew a 
man in love that did not see ten times as much 
in his sweetheart as I could.” 
Many young ladies are going through a 
series of calisthentlp exercises in order to give 
their wrists the strength necessary to wield the 
monster Trianon fans, now fashionable. 
A young lady reoeutly presented her lover 
with an elaborately constructed, pen-wiper, and 
was astonished, the following Sunday, to see 
him come into church wearing it as a cravat. 
THE CONFLICT. 
BY A. CLEVELAND TRINULE. 
In the full fountain of Thy matchless love, 
Weary Of earth, O ! Father grant repose. 
Give vow the quiet which comes from Thee above, 
Blest token that with Thine my hand cloth blend. 
Bugged the path amid the tangled thorn; 
And long the way, to pilgrims weary feet. 
My strength Is gone, loud roars the angry storm, 
Impart 7'hy strength and crown Tby grace complete. 
I am so weary r>f the nimlr.ss strife— 
Tho soul's fleree st ruggle ’gainst Its prison bars :— 
The restless lunging for a purer life,— 
The countless errors which my spirit mars. 
Earth hath no balm for neliine, suffering hearts, 
Nor panacea for the mind's unrest. 
Her only letbean fountain is the grave. 
Her only hope, assurance of Its rest. 
To-niglit I fain would rise above the world 
And catch from angel lips some sweet refrain j— 
Whose inspiration, quelling every fear. 
Would fit me wholly for tho martyr’s pain. 
The martyr's pain—Ah, there are other fires 
<Wliicli purify the soutfrom earthly dross) 
Than those which bore In chariots of flame 
A ransomed flame to glory from the cross. 
Amid the fires a pjrao would 1 raise 
To Him who kindles for my good the liame. 
I raise the song. He floods my so; 1 with praise. 
My weary soul Is laving in » fount of love. 
Earth and Us trials are beneath my feet, 
Its thorns are changed to amarunthinc flowers. 
The victor’s crown is sparkling on my brow, 
The conqueror's song of triumph thrills the hours. 
- >-*■* - 
PRACTICAL THOUGHTS ON PRAYER. 
Prayer I What battles has it not fought! 
what, victories has it not won! what burdens 
has it not carried! what wounds has it not 
healed! what griefs has it not assuaged ! It is 
tho wealth of poverty ; the refuge of afUiolion ; 
tho strength of weakness; the light of dark¬ 
ness. It is the oratory that gives power to the 
pulpit; it is the hand that, strikes down 8al.au, 
and breaks t he fetters of sin; it turns the scales 
of fate more than the edge of the sword, the 
craft of statesmen, or the weight of scepters; 
it has arrested t he wing of time, turned aside 
the very scythe of death, ami discharged heav¬ 
en's frowning and darkest cloud In a shower of 
blessings.—Hen. Dr. Guthrie. 
If the predetermination and immutability of 
God render it improper for men to pray, because 
their prayers cannot change his purposes, then 
the same things must render it equally Improp¬ 
er for men to plow, sow. reap, or make any 
other effort for any end whatev^£kpVlt these, 
without the Divine blessing, will bc"in vain, and 
can no more change I lie purpose of God than 
prayer. This reasoning, wore wo governed by 
it, would plainly put an end to all human exer¬ 
tions at once; and we should neither plow nor 
build, nor collect food nor fuel; nor teach, qor 
study, nor make any other attempt to promote 
tho good, either of ourselves or others.— Ilcv. 
Dr. Timothy Dwight. 
Though Christians at this day have no prom¬ 
ise t hat whatever they pray for shall be granted, 
yet they sometimes have a strong impression on 
their minds that a certain favor they ardently 
desire will be bostowed, if they pray for it on 
the ground of that impression. But since they 
have no promise to believe in, they have no 
right to believe in any impression that what 
they pray for shall be granted. There is reason 
to fear that Christians, many times, believe in 
an impression instead of a promise, and confi¬ 
dently expect that God will grant what they are 
deeply Impressed he will grant, if they ask for 
it.—Dev. Dr. Em mom. 
-- 
PROVIDENCE IN CREATION. 
Many sorts of rare engines we acknowledge 
are contrived by the wit of man, but who hath 
ever made one that could grow, or that had in 
it a self-improving power? A tree, an herb, a 
pile of grass, may upon this account challenge 
all the world to make such a thing; that is, to 
implant the power of growing into anything to 
which it doth not natively belong, or to make a 
thing to which it doth. By what art would they 
make a seed ? and which way would they Inspire 
it with a seminal form? And they that think 
this globe of the earth was compacted by tho 
casual, or fatal coalition of particles of matter 
by what magic would they conjure so many to 
come together as should make a clod ? You 
with whom the daily productions of nature (.‘is 
you call it) are so cheap, see if you can do tho 
like. Try your skill on a rose. Yea, but you 
must have pre-existent matter. But can you 
ever prove that tliB Maker of the world had so, 
or even defend lhe possibility of uncreated 
matter? And suppose they had the free agent 
of all the matter between the crown of I he head 
and the moon, could they tell what to do with 
it, or how to manage so as to make it yield them 
one single flower that they might glory in their 
own production? 
-- 
TRIALS, 
Trials make our faith sublime, 
Trials give new life to prayer; 
Lift us to a holler clime. 
Make us strong to do and bear. 
