August 21.] 
THE COTTAGE GARDENER. 
322 
stable dung and loam, provided all is well incorporated 
together, and enough of good holding loam applied to 
modify and secure the necessary heat and moisture. 
In preparing a bed, we shake out the very largest of tire 
straw from the stable dung, take in all our materials, if 
| the bed is to be made in a house or shed, well incorpo- 
i rate them, and tread or ram all firmly together in 
! forming the shape of the bed. In about six or eight 
days, if the bed is made of all fresh materials, we find it 
requires turning, and if considered a little too warm, 
more loam is added; it is then again firmly trodden or 
rammed together; and in about six or eight days after, is 
generally in a fine condition for spawning. The spawn 
is broken into small pieces, about the size of a common¬ 
sized hen’s egg, and is placed in the bed, about one foot 
apart, and just covered under the surface. If the ma¬ 
terials are considered too moist to suit the spawn, a 
little handful of dry mulchy dung is wrapped about 
each piece of spawn, previous to its being placed in the 
bed. By taking such precautions, the spawn will 
generally run very kindly, and, in due time, produce a 
line crop of firm short-stemmed mushrooms. We case 
with good fresh loam, too, about the thickness of two 
or three inches, made very firm; after being cased 
about a fortnight, it is again beaten over with the back 
of a spade. When the mushrooms begin to show, the 
surface is watered all over from a water-pot with a 
moderately fine rose, or with boiling water, which will 
moisten the surface, kill and destroy the insect jiests and 
their larvae, and create a warmth and humidity in which 
the mushroom delights. The proper warmth for mush¬ 
room culture should be from 55° to 00°, which will 
produce them good, both in quantity and quality. 
James Barnes. 
MISCELLANEOUS INFORMATION. 
OUR VILLAGERS. 
By the Authoress of “ My Flowers ,” etc. 
Lessons of infinite value are taught us by the poor. If 
young people were early accustomed to give time and 
attention to the wants and sufferings of their humble 
neighbours, they would receive a double blessing; for they 
would learn how many luxuries, and even comforts might 
be done without; and it would make them, under the 
severest bodily afflictions, grateful for every alleviation, and 
thankfully contented when means are wanting to procure 
them. 
A sick-room, under every aspect, speaks to us with a voice 
that will be heard. Where luxuries surround a holy mind 
in suffering—there we hear it; where they attend one who 
cares not from whence they come—there we hear it too; 
but there is a word of peculiar power uttered by the bed-side 
of languishing poverty. 
Alary Williams inhabits two little rooms at the back 
of a baker’s shop. The whole tenement, which is very 
old and crazy, is her own for life; but to support herself 
and her child, she has let it many years, retaining only space 
enough to turn round in, and hardly to exist. She is a kind, 
affectionate-hearted creature, and was a devoted attendant 
upon a sister who lately died beneath her roof, and whose 
patience under lingering sickness was very great. Nancy 
C-- was the wife of a man who was transported in 
consequence of the riots in 1830. She never heard of or 
from him since he quitted his home; but she lived in 
respectability and industry as long as her health lasted, and 
did her utmost, with the help of her friends, to support her 
two little boys. Gradually her health declined, and poverty, 
of course, increased. Her sister Mary took her into her 
little close kitchen, and waited upon her with unwearying 
kindness. She struggled to “ keep about ” as long as 
possible; and sat by the cold, miserable fire-place, when 
affluence would have been propped with pillows; but death 
stole closer and closer, and at length she could not climb 
the ladder that led to her sleeping room. She took quietly to 
her bed, and lay there, calmly and contentedly, for many 
months. The old broken ladder was placed in a recess, 
where stairs were meant to have been. On reaching the 
I top, the visitor stepped upon a ledge, and crept along a low 
| place formed by the sloping roof, at the end of which was a 
i square hole in the wall, just lai’ge enough to admit those 
who could double themselves up in a small compass, and 
| stoop down to the ground. This opening admitted them 
into a small, but clean room, the floor of which was con¬ 
siderably lower than the way into it. On a very clean little 
; bed in a corner, lay the emaciated form of poor Nancy, 
1 sometimes sadly oppressed with the heat and closeness of 
the room, but always thankful and uncomplaining. Very 
few persons knew she was ill, and not more than one or two 
could possibly get to her, so difficult and awkward was the 
way. The wonder was how she had crawled up and down 
so long. There she lay for months, with a cheerful mind, 
but an exhausted frame, gradually weakening away, with 
nothing to support or refresh her but that which occasionally 
came from those who had little to give. A cup of tasteless 
tea, and a bit of bread and butter, or of coarse, heavy 
pudding, was the only food her poor, kind-hearted sister 
could supply; yet a murmur never escaped her lips, and, I 
believe, never arose in her heart. She appeared to desire 
nothing but that which it pleased God to provide; and the 
sight of such contented nothingness, appealed loudly to the 
hearts of those v^ho stood beside her. How often are we 
led to complain, with a thousand blessings around us! 
How often do we find fault with the good things set before 
us, and fancy we are very unfortunate because something is 
not quite nice, or our taste covets that which we cannot 
obtain! 
j A few visits among England’s cottage homes, beautiful 
and interesting as they often are, would be of inexpressible 
advantage to us. We should leam to blush at our own 
ungrateful waywardness under trial, at the multiplied wants 
and wishes we give way to, and the deadness of our hearts 
to the many blessings and alleviations that others do not 
possess, and yet are satisfied. When we see the fevered 
hand stretched out for the cup of water, or pale, weak tea, 
without sugar or milk to make it palateable, or the few half- 
ripe currants that a neighbour may have had to give, or the 
sour, bitter orange that is almost dried up from the close¬ 
ness of the room, we should look back to our own comforts 
when we are sick, to the trouble we give to all around us, 
to the many delicacies placed before us, and, probably— 
most probably—our discontent and impatience with them all. 
We should learn how few things are necessary, how many j 
things we might do without, in what numberless ways we 
might spare the anxious hearts and weary feet of our kind 
attendants, and yet enjoy such blessings as thousands lan¬ 
guish for in vain. We should learn, too, a little considera¬ 
tion for the poor. 
I have frequently heard the sick cottager condemned for 
fanciful tastes and ingratitude, when his failing appetite lias 
turned from the daily gift of gruel, or his weakened stomach 
from the broth which would, in earlier days, have nourished 
and delighted him; and I have heard these observations j 
made by persons who, in sickness, possessed every comfort, | 
and every change of food the sickly palate longed for. If 1 
we considered all we see and feel, it would be better for our- j 
selves, as well as for others. We should bear with much j 
more ease our own afflictions, and we should minister with 
more discretion, perhaps, or, at least, more feeling, to the 
wants of others. It would tend, too, to teach us that which 
He who was “ a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief," 
laid down so forcibly for our instruction—“ but one thing 
is needful.” Oh! if we possessed that one thing, all other 
things might be withheld, but we should not miss them. 1 
' We might be stretched, as many are, on the bed of suffering, j 
