dbrigitml
Silver Spring, Florida.
[concluded.]
Meanwhile in deep nmnze they stood?
The Spanish band advancing still,
Till halting round the holy rood,
Prostrate in humble prayer they kneel?
In solemn, deep and earnest tone,
Their hymus of praiso and worship rise;
Wafting a music all unknown?
Unknown beneath those Indian skies?
,, KIIW, iuius ui invp are shaken,
like tendrils in the breathing air.
Within the Indian crowd there Mood,
One on whose dnrk but gentle brow,
Mantled the pride of Indian blood,
And Indian beauty's sunlit plow.
Ocala's sole and darling child,
Doth at her father's feet recline-?
Chuli, the young, the brave, the mild?
Chuli, the slouder, graceful pine;
The flashes of whose rich black eye;
Whoso tresses free and glossy wave;
Made many a youthful warrior sigh,
In hopeless love her willing slave?
Chuli, whose fresh and tender soul,
Had ne'er throbbed with love's control?
Chuli, whoso virgin heart was strong,
With cords that loved the wild birds note;
Whose thoughts and feelings all were sprung
From throbs so pure they faltered not?
Now felt her heart's quick pulses beat,
With quicker motion's warmest heat.
As on Do Soto's knightly face.
She looked with fond and 1 incrti ini? rmv**
? e B-~I
She felt within her bosom swell,
Emotions warm, and strange, and deep,
As fancies o'er the sleeper dwell,
That wnko him from some happy sleep.
She hung an every word ami look?
Her dark eyes watched his every move.
Until her young heart gently shook,
With a full sense of beaming love!
And every flash thnt crossed his brow,
Ssemed brighter, brighter still to glow,
As o'er her gentle bosom come.
The throbbings of a kindling flame.
To those whose hearts arc early taught.
In all t?ie snares and arts of feeling;
Whose youth'e fresh hours arc all forgot;
Firstdove is an ideal tiling.
But that yoang being with heart unlearned,
In passion's bright, though troubled life,
Whose gentle bosom hath not beamed,
With love's intense and thrilling strife.
In that sweet hour when first it feels,
rm _ as
* no innil that all of love reveals.
Dwells with a fond and {(rowing pleasure,
Upon its rich and new.found treasure ;
, The wotds of low that first are spoken.
When fi.ru young passion's teal is broken ;
The teen of joy that first are shed,
O'er hopes we think will never fade?
The tender looks that first are gWen,
Hsfsee fonder, brighter, more like heatr'a.
Than all that after life e'er brings;
All *hat the fulleet sense can cast,
Upon thai weary heart whose strings,
Hath felt first lore, and feels it past!
It knows not when its hour will come,
* Set tike the yonng and tender bloom,
WakOmg some eeerehlese, unknown ray,
To ttelt Its gentle charms away?
Sleeping at night a folded blossom,
as on tne gentle morning mr,
The god-like, strains rose full and clear,
With hearts spell-bound, the Indian throng,
Stood listcuing to the sacred throng.
Their worship done, their chief advanced,
And stood before his gallant line,
His proud eye on the Indian glanced,
Then waved aloft a peaceful sign.
Ocala's King, with steady gait,
Advanced the Spanish Knight to meet:
Say, pale-faced chief! whence contest thou ?
Thou of tho bright and beaming brow ?
Why dost thou wander thus unknown?
What purpose with us dost thou own ?
Dost thou seek here the paths of war?
Or wilt thou break the bread of peace ?
For brave and fierce our warriors arc,
Yet we'ro a hospitable race.
To whom Do Soto thus replied :?
"I come from o'er the Atlantic tide,
A loyal knight of mighty Spain,
The proudest realm of Europe's main ;
Where power and wealth, by all confessed,
O'crroaches e'en the golden West:
With peaceful purposes come I here,
And only seek thy friendly cheer;
Tho cross that waves above our hand,
Gives peaceful signal to thy land !
Brave Chief! then let thy warriors rest
Their arms against their friendly walls.
And joining! i tho social feast,
We'll sock tho shelter of thy halls."
"Welcome, pale-chief! I ofielthec
My people's welcome, warm and free"'
The Spaniard and the Indian then,
Met as they ne'er should meet again!
In friendly grasp they hold each other;
E'en as one heart should meet its brother.
All day tho Spaniards tarry there,
Partaking in tho Indian fare;
Tho social feast, and dance, and song,
Unite them in one happy throng.
Religion's zeal, and gold, and war,
Forgot their dark and gloomy traces,
Nor raised one cruel voice to mar,
The meeting ofthoso stranger races.
But in that hand one gallant knight.
More brilliant seemed than all the rest;
From whose bright brow Warning light
Had kindled in one Indian breast,
That tender, deep and burning passion,
Which knows no rule, nor taste, nor fashion.
Dc Soto's noble form and mien,
His lofty form and Hushing eye,
Oft in the brilliant halls of Spain,
Were deemed the chief for knightlybeauty,
And many n Spanish heart had burned,
For him with passion unreturncd;
And many a gentle glance of love.
Essayed his stubborn heart to move;
And many a bright and warm love-token ;
And many a whisper gently spoken,
Had vainly sought within his breast,
To kindle love at love's behest?
What wonder, then, if he awaken,
Tho fire of some young bosom there,
a -<
At morn hath oped it* glowing bottom ?
But when that love is fruitless?vain,
And derived unknown?untold to sleep?
Its dream of bliss is mingled thou,
With agony intense and deep! #
Yet thero are times when thus we love,
When all our hopes must lifeloss prove,
And vain each dreani of bliss we cherish,
And cv'rv tear, and cv'ry sigh,
As foot-prints on the strand that perish.
Yet we must live on?or die!
'Twas thus that Chuli. in that hour.
When first she felt love's virgin blush,
Felt, too, the shado of fate's durk power,
Upon her tender heart-string crush !
She knew she loved that bright-browed one,
Whose fate and hers must part forever;
She felt the hour come swiftly on,
Which would her dream of rapture sever
She knew 'twas misery, death to her,
Yet could she not her love defer ?
But growing still with deeper yearning,
Within her soul the flame was burning.
And as the vain and fiery dream,
Dwelt in her soul with withering breath,
All her young love of life became,
The fondest, deepest, prayer for death.
The sun was setting in the West,
Whilst hues of glory marked his way;
And realms of beauty oped their breast,
To greet the mighty got! of day,
As that knightly band went forth,
Wending towards the fateful North;
And wondering still, ns when nt first,
Upon their startled gaze they burst,
The Indians watched the light that fell,
From their receding coat s of mail.
In floods of gold the sun went down?
The last traco of that band was gone!
But still with long and ling'ring gaze,
The Indians watched the fading rays?
Save she who had been deepest moved?
Save she who had so strongly loved?
Who, when she saw that band depart,
Felt desolate and broken-hearted?
Whose life wjis death?whose love dispair?
Sad Cliuli watched no longer there!
No longer in Ocabi's walls,
Was heard young Chub's happy song ;
No longer at her joyous calls,
The youthful warriors eager sprung.
Ixing did < tenia's maiden's grieve,
For her. the pure, the loved, the mild ;
Ami long close of gentle roe.
Chanted for her their dirges wild.
'Twnssnid that in the Silver Spring,
Despairing Chilli found her grave?
And that those lights whose gloamings fling
Such streams ofheauty through its wave
Do all their brilliant hues inherit,
From Chilli's pure and loving spirit!
That there the Indian maidens went.
Where Chub's soul immortal smiled;
That there her Hire his footsteps bent,
To gaze upon his beaming child.
IkftrljfG of K\it
kPEEP INTO THE OFFICE
OF A SAVING'S BANK.
nv mks. n.vvii) ogii.vv.
There are no places in Loudon inon
provocative of speculation to the thought
fill stranger than the public buildings am
oftiees of business. 1 heir huge door,ban
ging continually with the ingress nn<
egress of visitors, the large lettered namoi
on their faces?cabalistic to the stranger
familiar as household words to the "citj
man "?their mysterious blinds, the grav?
faces of the folks who hurry in and out
i t;*>d narticularly the utter iin|>os.Mbility o
j knowing wha.* 'hey went in to do, 01
what they Jiaw done cb.\M'ng ou* i the.*
I are all so many stiintliailb* 1" 'ho
I of the curious gazer, and Mir lmn l'.'t* thr
more to a longing desire to penetrate thcii
solemn fastnesses.
" Hut are you going in hero to this
small, shabby, brown-Minded house F'
44 Ves?I have some money to get there
for a sick servant. Come in?you will
see a page not unchotpierod in the daily
history of this wonderful metropolis."
You see at once this is no bank for the
moneyed keepers of carriages, wherein
to deposit their thousands, and their tens
of thousands. It Wars legibly on its front
" For the Poor," written in the dingy wire
blinds, thickened by layers of impenetrable
dust?in its narrow entrance?its uniinported
passage. Here are no swingdoors
glaring with brass plates, no carj?eted
ante-room, no plate-glass windows and
airy office. You find tno straitened pjwsjige,
still further straitened by a greasy
wooden railing; your foot passes over a
fozy old mat; the well handled door at
the further end is dark and repelling?
everything speaks of the Poor. The very
air is scented with a memory of their various
trades; the groom has brought here
a hint from the stable, the washerwoman
gave a whiff of soap-suds, the dyer his
moat fragrant weeds; and to crown all,the
pipes an<l the mock Havanuas have left
records of their visit to the savings' hank?
yes, the place smells of the Poor!
I You have now entered by the half-door
the other side of which conducts the pass|
era out along the other path from which
you, Coming in, are divided by the atore'
said greasy wooden railing. Tho room is
lighted?like a melon'l>ed?by sky-lights
of very small panes; it is as ho* a* a melon-bed
and as close, for this is June, and
the attendance is very numerous. All
round the walla runs a bench, which owes
its glossiness not to French polish, but to
the ever changing crowd of occupant*.?
It is at present crowded, but you aud I
having given in the book of the bank, belonging
to the aheusnt depositor, must find
a cranny soinewhoro to bestow our persons
until the unknown operations, hidden
from our view by that high balustrade
have put our affair In train for our further
assistance. Tin's is the day for withdrawing
deposits, and there is much to make
us melancholy in the sight U-fore us. Far
different is the day for putting in money ;
how bsjkpy then look the prou i possessors
ctsupsrfliiOn*caah !?howthev nirnrdnwo
the money ,and taA&r the moment,** great
men m Rothschild or Coutt*! Why it *11
only last week that little boy with bis clothes
so neatly darned, brought ten Shillings of
his own earning, and retired with the ?4r
of a man of capital-one wbomight expect a
%
visit from the commissioners of the property-tax.
To-day ho is in changed moo
" llow much do you want, my little
follow!" says the clerk, kindly.
"Ton shillings," falters tho urchin, and
his eyes look very much as if he could
cry, but wouldn't.
44 Why that is all you have put in,"
says the man of oflice.
" 1 knows it, but can't help ; mother's
had a lace gown she had to wash stole at
tho bleaching, and she's got to pay it."
" Then you are not likely to put again
into tho bauk ?" pursued the interrogator.
" I don't?don't know," said tho boy,
1 1! . ' At. . L.AA? 1
! uis distress miny getting uie ueuer ui mis
! manliness ; "it took a power o' linrtl work
J to save ton shillings, and now if I get any
I more, it'll all go to that laco gown, that
l mother couldn't help no more than you."
! And in spite of all effort, tho poor child
burst into tears.
"And what did so young a boy as you
want to do with savings already t" says
a benevolent old gentleman, who lias
brought a power of attorney from some
absent servant. " What did you mean
to buy for yourself witn all your money 1"
The lad looked up, shyly, but searchingly,
into the questioner's face ; and seeing
there only good wishes and kind
thoughts, answered at once?" Why, sir,
mother's a poor woman, and slaves liko a
nigger, and she lives out of tho way, and
has to bring all tho clothes into town in a
b irrow, and it docs tire her dreadful this
hot weather; so I thought I might get
i shillings and shillings, till I had enough
to get a little cart and a donkey for her,
to bring her in without trouble."
Tho old gentleman nodded his head
.and seemed to muse.
" Where do you work ?"
" I works for tho shops?runs errands
carries parcels,and that sort of things;
and I can write, so then I can get receipts
and sign 'em, which some of the boyscannot
do, and therefore I'm always busy."
The sequel of this little colloquy was,
that the old gentleman?who was a weal
i thy merchant?inquire*] about the lad,and
iinumg suusiaciory replies, resoivcu upon
taking him into his counting house, whero
I have no doubt. he will succeed, and realize
his vision of the washing cart and the
donkey for his mother. Meantime the
three clerks who stand at those three open
places, are calling, name by name, fertile
owners to come and sign various documents
ere they are admitted to the cashier's
corner, where they receive their money
and are dismissed.
' Poor old widow 1 how feeble she looks,
and how sad ! she comes on a painful errand.
Her only, and dear son, a bricklayer,
has fallen from a scaffolding and
been injured ; and, though sufficiently recovered
from the hospital, he is disabled
for work, ane his mother must draw out
, all her little savings to supjmrt him and
herself till ho is again strong enough to
work, as before, for the two.
After the widow, comes a widower?a
little, grim, sour man, in rusty black; with
a black, unshorn chin, that seems also m
i a dusky suit of mourning: lie has lost
I his wife, and has come here to procure
money, she, good, industrious woman had
saved up during a course of ten years
amounting to aliout twenty pounds. But
eagerly us the bereaved looks for that all
jiowerful consoler?gold, he finds unexpected
obstacles between him and the object
of his desires. Ho must first bring
. certificates from a magistrate or a clergyman,
that he Is the man who married that
. especial woman known to the bank as a
depositor; and also he must provo that
she left hint the said money, and that lie
' is thus empowered to claim it. To do
this will cost him about half a crown, and
delay his receiving the money for ubout
ten days. The heart that boro a wife's
death with fortitude, cannot calmly resolve
to pay away half a crown out of the
dearly purchased legacy ! The widower
waxes very wroth, and ejaculates sundry
1 disnwpoC! ^ epithet# towards theiuexora'
hie c.Vrk : that geiu.'-wau hears him quietly,
and inflK^? tho same ansr.",r to his
|>otulant outbreaks?"It must^ be done ;
must conform to tho rules, it does n?t
matter h w small or large the sutn is, tn?
rules must be obeyed."
Meanwhile, tho other expectants arc
growiug impatient. The dispute between
the widower and the clerk is likely to be
interminable : the one utters over aud over
again, the same complaint; the other
makes the same freezing reply. The next
on tho roll?a hurley drayman, coine to
draw out the necessary sutn for the expenses
of his tenth child?will wait no longer;
he pushes aside, with a vigorous shove,
the not-to-be-satistied widower: "Come,
you've had your answer; go and get the
slitticats. and make no more bonus of the
matter. I'm in u hurry ; whoso to listen
to your growling 1 iiero, you clerk, I
want a ti-pun note for my good 'woman ;
and be quick, w ill you t
Mark those two girls sitting, sido by side,
ou the bench; they are no relations, they
never met before this minute; and their
situations are as different as roso-colur and
and sepia are in tints. That tall, smart,
lively damsel, with her largo white teeth
and glossy ringlets, has ooiuo to* her moni?V
flint ?*lw? n?av nvtmiiil it ? ? u
j J ? ouitit.
Do you i?co her bridegroom, how
proud he in of her, and of himself too ;
concious that his chocked waistcoat iiwof
the brightest, and his satin flowered with
Uie gayest rose-bud* I Pretty Harriet
Luea*, his bride, in rather smart, we
should say, for a nursemaid, as you hear
i her tell the clerk alio is. ller silk flounced
E1 wu, liluc bouuet and flower*, pink and
Art shaded panuo), and imuiitatioo lace
ukcrehic/, impress you, I sec, in her disfavor
; but yon must not judge her too
hardly. She has made her foible encouraged
by her silly mistress, who dresses as
much above her station as her servants
dp above theirs; and by giving them hur
cast off adornments, accustom* them to a
sort of slatternly shabbly finery, very far
froiu Ix'ing r<?pectablo. You see liariet's
shaded parasol is <|uito soiled, and
tiitt lilnc bounet is more than faded ; but
he got thoae from tier mUlreaa, who nev- ,
er thought what unsuitable articles of wear ,
they uiuet I*} for a young serving girl.?
No wonder Harriet likea to be smart, see- |
mg Mm. Burchdl trailing through the |
trceto in light satins, or muting feather*, J
out in the glass clarence, which she hire*
when she wishes to be styling ia her i
ning calln. Bad examples Horn rniftreekj
make bad imitations in maid*
Meanwhile, the money is paid?the receipt
signed.
"Are you likely to pay any more into
this bank I" asks the clerk.
"No," blushes Harriet, with a conscious
glance towards her affianced; as if asking
him whether it is really true that they
two are to leave London, and set up their
small homo in the quiet, secluded village
of Hungerford.
Now they set off, with full pockets,
and happy hearts?first to the jeweller's,
A. 1...? A1_ _ A1 A^ ? . *11. L
iu uuy uio nug?uh,ii w a *iiK-iiiirrrcr p,
for the wedding-dress?then to the upholstery
warehouse, for sonic smart London
furniture to adorn their house. John
fixes on a nice strong horse hair sofa, very
cheap; but his fair lady has discovered a
charming couch, covered with palo bluo
moreen on which she has set her heart.
"True, it Is much dearer; but then it is
#o genteel. It is very much like one Mr.
Burchell bought, such a bargain
"But, my dear, it won't wear, it would
be a bad bargain were it cheaper than
the horse-hair, which would see out ten
of these trasheries."
Harriet began to pout?"I declare it's
very hard I cannot please my own taste,
when it is to bo bought out of my own
money, that I've been working so bard to
save this long time."
Such an argument was unanswerable.
John submitted to the thriftless blue 1110I
reen; but the prudence of his bride's
choice remains yet to be proved. At any
rate he purchased, by bis concession,
cloudless smiles for tlio whole of that happy
summer day.
But wo have left poor Anne Ilatton
waiting timidly for her turn, l'oor girl,
she is pale and melancholy; and the coarse
dress she wears is covered with rusty
crape. So young, too, yet she has seen
sorrow. You know at once, by licr neatness
of person, her sallowness of complexion,
and small parcel of work, that she is
a young dress-maker?a very skillful one
| nor mistress woui<l ton you, atul tne nest
fittor in lior establishment. Hut she is
past wrfrk now, and past nil foiling of
pride in hor skill. Six months ago she
came up to London full of health, and
hopes, conscious of hor own aptitude for
her trade, sure of making a fortune, and
that, right speedily. Then she loved
finery and pleasures, quite as much as
Harriet Lucus docs now : she was giddy
and untried. Her principal, Madame
Sarbaine, was an ill-natured, selfish, prosporous
person, with a high reputation ia
the fashionable circles, a large connection
in business, an increasing fortune, and an
only son.
Adolplic Sarbaine was indolent, easytempered,
and selfish like bis mamma;
but he was execoding good-looking, dressed
well, and understood tho art of tlattcry.
His part in the establishment was to answer
the street-door ; for it behoved so
great a dressmaker as Madame Sarbaine
to have a male attendant on her customers,
and she was too sting}- to go to the expense
of keeping a footman. Adolplic did not
dislike Insist: he had tho advantage of
seeing all the lovely aristocrats who swept
up to his mamma's door in their lordly
chariots; and he was quite happy in the
succession of imaginary love affairs which
ho cultivated for the sake of these haughty
beauties, not one of whom would have condescended
to accept his services as foot
man 1 '
When Anno Ilatton, however, came
from the fresh meadow of Evesham, with
all tho fragranco and brightness of the
country about her fair young face, Adolplic
made the discover}' that beauty and
elegance belonged to 110 pecular sot of the
haut-ton. There was a sense of fitness
and propriety about Anne that made
every thing she did exactly what it ought
to ho ; her liveliness was tempered by
that same tact, and full of gaiety and gladness
us she was that of an aristocrat of
nature. Adolplic first woumlcred at her
?for hlio was n solecism in his creed of
fashion?then he admired her, then he
loved her. He began to arrange mentally
a charming project, that his mother should
/ypmpte the skilful apprentice to be forewoman,
anJ afterwards receive her into
fp*?tD?rs',U) 118 Having been a
spoiled chllo, lie mado."? dou.! of his
parents consent, and, wn'u n" l'!? pr^ipitancy,
told Anne, his passion ft,,d his
intentions.
Anne, who was a simple-minded' niodniodest
girl, was perfectly overj>owere<l
by the generosity of thU offer : and divided
by his tine person and honeyed words,
thought she could never love liimsufticiently.
His vanity was fully gratified by her
unbounded aud artless adoration, but be
was prudent enough to enjoin her to keep
his projects secret for the present, until
Anno had displayed so much genius in her
art as to give color of propriety to his j
proposition for her advancement in dignity.
Anne was well pleased to lot matters continue
in their agreeable state, and all went
on smoothly till the end of February : then
Aline heard that her poor old mother was
seriously ill, ami desired the presence of
her only child. Anne asked leave of al>sence
fr<un Mad. Karbaine; it was promised
for the ensuring week, provided no ole
stncle rose to prevent her being spared,
Alas ! the first drawing-room was fixed
i. usualyearly in the season, and the dressmaLrskvu
?-11 1 1
nun un l nm illinl Willi HUdlll-n
ami peremptory order*. Anno must gr>
from house to house, trying and fitting on
rich robes Aw the lovely d*f>uUmU$?no
respite for her! The weather was very
ooid, with a bitter east wind : Anno caught
a ooid, which programed into a onugh: her
mind waa in a moat unhappy state; the
accounts from her mother grew w orse and
wuvso. Often, when she came home at
night, she thought of running away by
stealth; but she waa a timed girt, and the
long journey, the crowds at the rail way,
and the difficulty of escaping from Madame
Harhaine'a establishment, made her
Sut off tho deed until it was too late. Tlic
ay before the drawing-room she had heen
at the house ofavoung countess, nllerning
the triiuuiiugs other satin train, which the
lady had ordered should be done under her
own eye. The Countess had b -on very
cross, and found fault with all heir sxer
Uone ; not a flower or ribbon wru? where
?ha wanted it, aad tbn wh<>!<> drff wa*
spent in tndnff to astiefr her caprice*. At
ladt the diftlcnitto wore all oeerorwrte by
the patient finger* of the yon# art**U . the
rlrapety feltnwwr. graeeftitlf. TbeOohntwa
tri??i it otf, and oyed herwlf, full of &m\
plaeeney, in the eheral glaea. Eren the
had had a good rating from his mother
for his folly, in earing for a designing chit
like that Anne llatton ; and he had relieved
himself by a hurst of passion, and a
defiance of his mamma, his disinterested
affection died a natural death! His
fickleness was caught by the beauty of]
the season, a high-born Jiuncec, who came
out very frequently to arrange about
her wedding parcpharnulia. When Aune
llatton returned after her illness to get j
| her trunk, her bloodless face, and sunken
eyes impressed him with horror instead of j
love. She had lost die beauty which had
won his light vows, and the scllish man
saw no charm in her patient and uncomplaining
sorrow. So have all Anne's early
hopes been cut of in the bud: she is returning
to die home of childhood with a
sad heart, and there is none to welcome I
her as of old. To-day she comes tor her
little savings, to defray the expenses of her
journey to Kveshain. ller ovi* till as
she looks round the place. The last time
she came here, it was to draw out a sovereign
to buy a new gown, to go with
.ivuoipuc 10 inc piny. j urn, alt was
brightness: no iff, the very faces of
the fat-checked boys, who copy nil the
entries into tlie ledgers, seem altered to
her; tiio clerks look grim ; the atmosphere
is hot and sickening. She draws
I down ,lcr black veil, and with unsteady
I step hurries Ou! to t,lC 8UU,I>'' ,,oi7 8tr0ot|
To mu,T?n ?'"> *ai t? ,lwv:E
fields: can they ^ h?J "er/??ng
gladness, so soon deopai*. \n ? 1
live upon the memory of past hnp|.'IM*s' I
As she sits, vainly striving to earn a scan- |
ty livelihoxl, by making Sunday g.ovns ;
for the farmer's wives and daughters, will i
not the gaudy splendors of Ixtndon come :
back on her? The luxurious residence of :
the nobility?the fair, languid features of
; of those stately damsels, whose forms she
! has so often robed?the glitter of the
streets, the thltndffr of the equipages, the
Sunday lounge* with Adolphe in the
park?will not these uneasy memories
tling a feverish excitement into the monotony
of her existence, and |*oi*on her dcarly-ptmbaaed
tranquility?
Hut we have forgotten our own business,
mid the elerk is calling on? us most
. i.. ii- i.
u|>?Mriiuy? 0 ni'iniv, we can i wail longer.
office shut at two; it only want* eight
minute*!"
And their dinner*?the pork pice, tho
mutton chop*?we are keeping the poor
hnngry creature* fmm one great pleasure
oi their humdrum live*. We present oar- (
slvea at the desk, sign the receipt, jMM-ket ,
the cash, and shuffle out along the dark i
passage. In our rear we hear a confused j
slamming down of desk-lids, fluttering of ,
pnj?en?, pushing hack ut* wtooden stoo's, ]
and gabbling or many fnAgites ; and in a j
few seconds, clerks, cashier, and lodger- 11
copying boys turn hie pell-mell out oithe ;
office, and s?4zing sundry shapclCM arti- <
eles of hend-gear, dive down the neighbo- |
ring streets in" search their long-antki- ,
pated repast. ,
The savings' hank is shut for the day, I
and we are fain tn lal-.t Kifiu?? Sr. a
- ? ,?. ...... %?. in o unr
foctionera *hopn find bury oursclvc* and <
our experience* in a brimming glaiw of i
ra*ph?rry ice?"Another, if you plea**." i
How delK-iou* the fragrnnoc of thnne strawberries.!,
Thoac early pcaehea and hotr i
houte grapes wbuld soon squander all the 1
savings w?> hav?- aeon thmday withdrawn; 1
but oh, how ehanning a sniff of that bo 1
quet, ufter the aaAfcry eU-nraiiMr hava 1
und#rgAntf fir ohr reetHmb tnfoffice of a 1
Saving*' Han\tIxtufrM txutUf (** i
panim, f
fastidious aoubrctto declared " Que mailemoitlle
avail uh goat vraiment Perisien
and Anne, weary and dispirited, plodded
her WllV llOttlP. Anlnlindiil nnt nnnn tlin
door as usual; one of tfie girls did, and said,
with a rather significant gesture, that Madame
wished to ej>eak with her in the
parlor.
"Any letters for me, Miss Niblett ?"
gasped poor Anne.
"Yes?no?it was not for you?for
Madamo ; she'll tell you.
A foreboding chill struckAnne's heart ;
she grew pale as death, she rather staggered
than walked into the parlor and the
presence of Madame Sari nine. That lady
eat very stiffly in her chair, very gravely
eyeing the poor girl: her expression
was of mingled pity and indignation.?
She was sorry for Anne's bereavement;
but she had discovered her son's attachment,
and was furiously enraged at tlio
presumptous apprentice. She began in a
curiously undecided tone; "1 am sorry to
tell you Miss Hatton, that your mother
is dead, poor woman! There is the letter;
you can read the particulars. Anil
now, had it been at any other time, I j
should have been seriously displeased : I i
don't know how I should have nunished '
you?an impertinent upstart to make !
love to my son ! I dare sav you thought
you had it all your own way. Miss!
I'rettil v you forgot your station and mint! :
But I don't mean to scold you now ; you j
have trouble of your own : though I must
say it looks very much like a judgement
on your audacity! Now go away and let
inc hear no more of it. You must sco j
that no young person so destitute of propriety,
so forward and presuming as you
have been, can be lit to remain in my establishment.
You can depart on Saturday,
when all the dresses are finished and
sent home. I don't wish to be severe; I
see you arc in trouble."
She might have expatiated for ever;
Anne heard nothing but that her mother
was dead ; the bursting of her love's day- I
dream was unheeded at the moment.?
She moved mechanically from the room,
ami went to the work-room; the girls
started forward at her entrance. M0h
Miss Hatton!" cried one, "show me how
to put on this ruche."
4<)h, Miss Ilatton," cried another,
"should these flower stalks lie upward or
downward 1"
"But, good graciousexclaimed two
or threo together, "how ill she look ! Is
her mother really dead 1"
"Bead!" screamed Anne, at that word,
and she burst into hysterical laughing,
that presently put the whole room into
contusion. Before night Anne was in a
delirious fever, and in her wild ravings
mingling the name of Adolphe with her
callings for her dead mother. For some j
days she lay in great danger, but her
youth triumphed for the time, and she reoovered.
Alas for man's constimi'vt Ailnlrilm
^Igrirnitnrtit. 1
Improvement of onr Common Stock.
There is perhaps no one branch of agriculture
which more needs improvement,
or which would become productive of
greater profit to the agriculturist, than
that of neat cattle; and it is gratifying to
observe some littlo interest awakening in
the minds of fanners of generally to this
important branch of their profession.
Improvement has been confined too much
to the more wealthy; and the man who
has been tho n.ost liberal in his expenditures
to benefit the county in this particular,
has not unfrequentlymct with the ridicule
of his neighbors. Hut happily for
such?more particularly lor tho country?
public opinion Is undergoing a change,
and those who once opposed improvement,
are now in some degree availing themselves
of its benefits.
That our im roved breeds are greatly
superior to the common stock of the country,
1 presume uo ono will deny. This being
conceded, it becomes a matter of no
little importance to ascertain in what manner
we can most speedily avail ourselves
of the means within our possession for the
improvement of our common stock. It is
evident that we should seek a cross with
some of the improved breeds, the relative
merits of either of which I do not propose
hero to discuss. Every individual, before
making choice of any particular breed,
should carefully examine tie subject, take
into consideration his locality, and, more
particularly, should consult h is own taste;
ibr unless fully convinced in his own mind
that some particular breed is the best, he
will probably make but slow advancement.
Having made choice of the breed,
it is evident that ho should then seek to
engraft its characteristics and good quali
lies upon ins own stock. And here allow
inc to say that the farmer not (infrequently
makes a great mistake. lie procures
perhaps a few half-bred heifers, and
a male animal of the same grade,
and commences breeding. Where is the
chance for improvement in this selection ?
It is true that he may select from year to
year bis best animals, and thus advance
slowly ; yet the prude remains the same;
or perhaps (which is more frequently the
case) lie procures nothing but a half-bred
male animal, and with this intends to
make great improvement. The first cross
by this animal from our common cows
j would l?e but one fourth; this produces again,
in like manner, one eighth, and the
next only one sixtenth of the blood of the
pure-bred animal, and so on, deteriorating
in the same proportion with each successive
generation. It is perfectly plain that
he has takeu a wrong view of the subject,
and that his improvement (.') will soon
end where he commenced. The most
speedy and successful improvement, therefore,
can only be obtained by the selection
and use of a thorouph-bred or pureblooded
male animal.
For illustration of this, we will suppose
the breed made choice of to be the shorthorn
or Durham. The produce from the
first cross between a thorough bred anij
mal and our common cows, would be one
| half Durham ; the next cross would give
three fourths; the next would be seven
eigths, and so on increasing in the same
I ratio with eacli successive rronomfinn m>.
I o "v"? ""
til a herd would bo reared, nearly equaling
the pure-blooded lhirhains in l>eautv
and practical utility. Why will notour
farmers generally avail themselves of such
accessible means for speedy at d certain
imporvemcnt? It would add to their
wealth individually, and benefit the country
immensely. Instead of the poor, mis|
erable, and almost worthless animals that
I are now two common in almost all parts
| of our conntrv, wo should have a breed
1 that would justly l?ecome a source of
| pleasure ami pride to their owners, and excite
the admiration of all.?J'low, the
Loam, and the Anvil.
Imported Hay.
The annual influx of Ohio baled bay
is again setting in at our lauding. Now
let us think of this ! An acre of land
that will make eight barrels of Indian
corn, will make a ton and a half of eloper
bay, or a hundred bushels of Irish potatoes.
A hand can cultivate i!0
-es ill corn, or lie C.*!" cultivate '20 acres
i iivo in potAtoM. Two corn in
in hay an,. ,.orth *1,50 per bb!.
cur market is notv . ?MC} ctiitivaSo
that the year's lnl?or of n tin- i?.
t ng corn, yields ,240?while a year's 1..
Ixir of the siuiio hand cultivatinghav and
j>otatocs, yields SftO in hay and $500 in
potato,*?$800 against $'240. Think of
this!?and yet the great staple of Tennessee
is corn, shipped to distant markets;
lfow long will our farmers continue to
exercise stit-li economy J Their land is
wearing out under the com err.p. Clover
tillage would rest ami fertilize it- We
trust to-sec a speedy change in this condition
of things.?Nushrille Manner.
Fences Without Rails.
Three years ago last September, when
I commenced farming, I built siyjy rods of
w ire fence. In the first plnee 1 built a
tyke by plowing and scraping twice on
>ant, ,;L r.f .k- ?J? * *
?iuv ui luc iiih;iih?*?i nne or icnee,
making a <litcli about one foot or fourteen
inches in depth, and the dyke about
ughtccn inches above the natural surface.
[ then aet p<mt* eight feet apart; three feet
in the ground, foirr feet above ; put on
frnrr wires of No. 0, and at the top a board
11-2 inches wide, The wires were fhst?ned
at eaeh end of the sixty rods to a
argo wrought spike, and attached to the
>ther poets hy wedge-shaped iron pins
made of common n ail-rods, with a nole
through tlio head, through which the wires
sere drawn. . \Y heu the wires wotfe strainy|,
the pin* wer* driven tato the posts
rafflciently to bind the wires and prevent
dipping. '
When thif fenoa was completed, I was
*bout M mtk a person as you often find;
it looked like the Mhadow of' nothing, and
[ did ftot suppose it would lie good for ?ny
ihinsr, Ml it has stood the test ?Wa
?ud a half, *nd not hnrt t?n kriniilei
Flic moat br*Mhy nimnU fcH to vrmkomy
Wfc. I never have known
inythiitg in got through it hog^
= =_ I
and it is hard work for tliom,?they have
to root away the dyke, and cratel under.
I in/end to make moro the coming season,
and shall put a board one foot wide at
the bottom, and the rest wire, and tbpt
will stop anything commonly kept in an
enclosure,
Now as to tho expense. The dyke was ,
two days work of three persons and one
yoke of oxen, $8 ; post", 120 pieces, cost
t); setting, 2 days, work 92,60; wire
14; top board, $2 ; putting on wire and
boards, 2 days, $2;?making the entire
cost, 3T,00..
This brings tho expense at something
over fifty cents a rod, but tho actual expense
to me was much less, as I had some
boy help, and the prices in this estimate of
work are higher than I paid. The scraper
used in making the dyke was made of 1
j 1-3 inch stuff alxmt nix feet !<"% two
I feet wide, and edged with an old mill saw;
it would scrape very rapidly, and do its ^
work bettor than an Irishman with a
shovel. The actual expense of such a
fence need not excoed 40 to 45 cents per
ro?l.
This fence, with the wires well painted,
will last, longer than any other fence usually
built on a farm, requires less repairs,
: and is, I think, a little safer, or more to.?
| llural New Yorker.
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\ i