THE CHRISTIAN SUN.
■
IN ESSENTIALS, UNITY;
IN NON-ESSENTIALS, LIBERTY;
IN ALL THINGS, CHARITY.
Volume XXXIII.
SUFFOLK, YA., FRIDAY FEBRUARY 273 1880.
LsPurriber f).
Jotlrg.
THE SILVER KEY IS LOST.
BY ADELAIDE STOUT.
One gate of pearl that opened to the soul
Of our dear child is shut.
Tho key is lost, she cannot even hear
The anguished cry I put
Up to the Father, that his dear hand may
Open the door that shut* all sound away.
She only watches me, and tries to frame
The few sweet words of speech
She learned before the silent angel came :
As one might blindly reach
For silver coin that glint and slide away,
She fost bright coin of speech from day te day.
The temple that God made is very still;
Our child can hear no sound.
She does not brighten at our evening hymn;
No half shut rose is fouud
To open in her cheek with sudden start,
When words are read that should touch any
heart.
I do not know this secret of (he Lord’s,
The anguish is so new.
I have not learned to say, “God’s will be done.”
} And yet it must be true
That he, in loving mercy, shut the door
Of sound to that young soul forever more.
Forever must Way, “My little child,
Come lean upon my knee,
And trust me till 1 learn thro’ mother love
How tender God must be.”
I have not said, as yet, “His will be done.”
Teach me unquestioning faith, my little one.
I try the wards from which God’s master hand
Hath taken the true key :
And when those eyes are lifted to mine own,
It almost seems to me
That thou canst read my face and ca»ch my tone,
That soul can speak to soul, and then, my own.
The bitterness is gone that kept my soul
From trusting God in this,
The sorrow of my lire. O sweet, dumb child ;
It may be I would miss
The strange sweet tenderness that came to me
When first 1 learned how still thy life would be.
It lieB like dew on the deep-hearted rose,
Aud if 1 keep alway
This tenderness, it may be at the last
My quivering lip can say
That it was best for others I should feel
This anguish pierce my soul like the sharp steel.
.^elections’.
CREAM OFJTHE PRESS.
—Christianity always suits us well
enough so long as we suit it.
—The more a man sees of the
world, and the more he mingles with
others, the smaller space is he iuclin
ed to claim l'or himself among his fel
lows. He sees that in the pushing
struggle of life, other people’s rights
must be considered ; aud he must not
take more ground than just enough
to stand on. This is very marked in
all crowds, and in all public places
and conveyances. The man or wo
man who is best versed in society
makes smallest demands, aud occu
pies least space. The persons who
take more room than belongs to them
are those who have beeu least in com
pany, least accustomed to adapt them
selves to the needs of those about
them. If you waut to be thought
well bred, traveled, cosmopolitan,
keep in your elbows in a crowd aud
sit close in a street car. If you waut
to be thought boorish aud uncultiva
ted, and*to be recognized as one who
was never much in good company,
push both sides of you, as well as iu
front and rear, in a crowd, and spread
yourself out in a car, or in a public
hall.—S. S. Times.
—A celebrated divine wrote to a
young minister as follows :
“You laid your plan well; your di
Tisions and subdivisions were natural
and proper; but there was no appli
cation of your matter till you came to
the conclusion. Now, to bo useful,
there must be an almost perpetual
application. The people need arous
ing; they must be shown the bearing
every thing has upon their particular
case aud thus be made to feel through
the whole discourse the personal in
terest the/ have in every part,”
The advice is sound aud is greatly
needed by ^many. We are not to
preach before our congregations, but
to them, aiming always at their
hearts.—Biblical Reoorder.
—No humility is perfect and pro
portioned but that which makes us
hate ourselves as corrupt, but respect
ourselves as immortal; the humility
that kueels iu the dust, but gazes on
the skies.
_lie real men, and the Kingdom
of Truth will honor you. Mighty
powers will uot ouly express themsel
ves iu your silence. Be real man, and
oven your solitude will be waited up
on with scenes greater thau all the
theatres of liurope ever represented,
or can represent. The eye of the
world hath uot seeu, nor hath the
ear beard, nor the world’s heart con
ceived, what “The Spirit of Truth’
will roveal you.
BARNABAS.
For tho needy saints Barnabas
emptied his purse and then put to
sale his estate to replenish the open
hand of his charity. He did not
comfort the hungry and distressed
with soft wonls only, but added sub
stantial acts of mercy.
There was a time when Paul need
ed a friend. When the converted
Saul returned to Jerusalem he met
the scowling faces of old comrades at
every turn. The church shunned
him. “They were afraid of him and
believed not that he was a disciple.”
It was a crisis with the new convert
if the apostles and the brethren at
Jerusalem should repudiate him, the
“young man whose name was Saul,”
great as he was, could not easily re
cover from such a blow.
The heart of Barnabas was wiser
than the wisdom of the apostolic col
lege. The instincts of the kindly
Joses were broader and braver than
those of the hesitating church. ^But
Barnabas took him and brought him
uuto tho apostles.” That noble act
was oil and wine on the sensitive and
wounded spirit of Paul. Barnabas
was not of the ignoble sort that edge
away from a brother under a cloud
or in stress of evils. lie was ever
ready to champion the cause of the
friendless.
Paul preached in Jesusalem. He
was well known to the people in au
thority. He didn’t keep back any
thing and in his “disputiugs with the
Grecians” he was not to be sneered
away, so they went about to kill
him.
The brethren sent him oil' to Tar
sus. When the great revival began
at Antioch, the church dispatched
Barnabas to conduct affairs there.—
He took in the situation better than
the brethren in Jerusalem. Antioch
was a great shipping centre. The
gospel, once firmly rooted there,
would send out by ships and caravans
its influence far and wide.
Barnabas kuew his awn powers.—
In that busy mart where the coins
and traders of every nation met and
mingled, the advocates of every su
perstition also were contending for
the mastery. lie doubted his own
skill to cope with them. He had
heard Paul “disputing with the Gre
cian’s,” in Jerusalem The wise Jo
ses knew who was the man for Anti
och. The church had sent him, but
he saw that a master spirit was the
need there. The grand man without
a thought for his own reputation, set
out to find Paul, new somewhat in
obscurity in Tarsus. It is recorded
that Barnabas “Exhorted” the Chris
tiaus and then left, for Cilicia in search
ofpue who could meet the foes of
the Church at the gates. “And when
he had found him, brought him to
Antioch, and for a whole year they
taught much people.”
The mention of the two now is,
“Barnabas and Soul.” In a chapter
or two it will be “Paul and Barna
bas.” The noble Levite “must de
crease,” but not a pang of regret ev
er smote his breast. Lowly in heart
as Saint Paul was, he did not care to
be considered a whit behind the fore
most of the apostles in labor and suc
cess.
And these two men—high and puro
after long and severe campaigns to
gether, were to part rather rudely.
It was the sympathy of Barnabas for
a suspected disciple that first brought
the two together; it was the sympa
thy of this “Sou of Cousolatiou” for
another under injurious surmise, that
divided the two asunder. The j ouug
Mark had forsaken Paul and Barna
bas in one of their perilous missiona
ry excursions. The boy came back to
his home. His mother was a saint
and her house the meeting place for
the brethrep. Mark’s behaviour hurt
the good woman, and soon he was
heartily ashamed of it. He craved an
occasion to redeem himself. He heard
of a projected expedition of the two
evangelists. Ho went all the way to
Autioch to join t hem. Paul refused to
allow the deserter to go with them.
Mark had run away once, and that
was a crime unpardonable with Paul.
“He went not with them to tho work ”
Barnabas took tho part of tho peni
tent youth. He wished to give him
another chance. Paul was fixed.—
Barnabas honored and loved the
great apostle, but he would not sacri
fice the boy that stood pleading for
his sympathy and protection, even
for the friendship of Paul. Barna
bas, too, was unyielding. “They de
parted asunder, the one from the oth
er.” '
And here, too, the great heart of
Barnabas proved the surer guide.—
Murk never turned back again. Paul
made a mistake. Barnabas was right
and saved to tho church one of tho
truest men that ever honored its ser
vice. Tradition tells us that after
loug companionship with Mark, in
many toils, bitter persecutions, and
in glorious achievements for the Mas
ter, the tender and heroic Joses,—
worn out,—died ou the island of Cy
prus which he had redeemed from
paganism. Mark received his dying
counsel. The old saint besought him
to seek out Paul and give himself to
the work in company with the great
apostle.
And ho broke away from a faithful
colleague rather thau campaign with
a doubtful axuihary has left on rec
ord the highest testimony to the fidel
ity aud courage of the youthful de
serter of Perga. Mark is 'meutioued
by Paul as his fellow laborer and
messenger to the church. When
dangers thickened around the im
prisoned apostle aud death impended,
the most trusty began to waver.
Deuias, who had been true up to this
crisis, uow fled. There is a shadow
eveu on Titus. The old man, Paul
the aged, in bonds, sadly says, “Only
l.uke is with me.” He writes for
Timothy aud Mark. He could trust
them. And it is likely enough that
Mark was near by when Paul fell
under the lioman axe a blessed mar
tyr.
The Scriptures bring out the traits
of Barnabas, unselfishness, tender
ness, courage and discretion “a good
man, full of laith and the Holy Ghost.
Such a soul was fitted with a worthy
body. At Lystra they mistook the
two apostles for heathen deities.—
they called the quick, smaller man
aud spokesman Mercurius, but to
the stately, benignant and noble Bar
nabas they gave the name of the
chief of the gods Jupiter.—Richmond
Christian Adtocate.
LETTER FROM ELDER TIMOTHY HAY.
ORNAMENT IN DUESS, &C.
Dress should never be made a mat
ter of ornament. The best style of
dress is like the best style of nose—
one who will attract no notice what
ever.
Ornament in apparel snows want ol
taste. When the savage wraps him
self iu the gayest colored blanket—
loading his ears, nose and the unis
cles of his cheeks wi th rings, j owe Is
and colored quills ; wlieu the country
belle blossoms out in a profusion of
rainbow-colored ribbons, and of arti
ficial llowers, which make the holly
hock and pumpkin blossom look pale
and tame; when the “sporting man”
stands on the curb-stone, with per
fumed hair elaborately curled—with
a vest pattern as variegated as a pan
orama—with rings aud watch chain
gorgeous to behold, and with a dia
inoud breastpin brilliant as a cat’s
eye: sensible persons discern the
lack of telined taste. Now, the same
want of taste is shown, in its degree,
by the lady who, eschewing the uose
jewels, still puts rings iu her ears,
and wlip is arrayed in an attire which,
though less glaring than that of the
squaw or the country maiden, is yet
calculated to attract attention.
It is not long since ornament iu
dress was deemed as necessary for
man as for woman. The gallants of
Queen Elizabeth’s court attired them
selves iu rich velvets aud heavy silks,
trimmed with finest laces; gold
chains aud buckles with costly jewels
ornamented their persons, while their
hair flowed iu perfumed ringlets on
their shoulders. In Washington’s
“republican court” the style was still
somewhat the same. Only a quarter
of a century ago, stylish young men
wore waistcoats aud pantaloons of
brilliant patterns, which to-day would
collect a following of small boys on
the promenade, while “soap-locks”
were thought “stunniug.” But there
has been a steady tendency towards
| simplicity iu male attire, and to day
the dress of the finished gentleman
is about as plain as it could be made.
Now, no one will deny that this
charge has been in the direction of
good taste,—that the dress of the
gentleman of to-day is more becom
ing the true man than the gaudy ap
parel of the earlier time. Aud it
would be as truly in the direction of
good taste if woman’s dress—which
remaius, iu principle, the same as it
was two centuries ago— should un
dergo the same transformation, and
lay aside all which is iutcuded merely
for show.
Ornament iu dress is to bo con.
demned, not because beauty is not to
be sought after, but because such or
namentation is antagonistic to true
beauty. A true man or woman ap
pears to bettor advantage in plain
dress. Ornameut in the apparel de
tracts from jdie dignity of the oue,
and the giace and beanty of the
other.
Never lived there a people of more
refined taste than the Ureeks. Iu
questions of esthetic they are an au
thority. Aud their example testifies
that ornameut in dress shows lack of
taste and is antagonistic to real
bcanty. The Greek attire-as is
seen in the Niol»e or any other draped
statue—was rigidly plain. The Qua
kor’s garb is not moro severely sim
ple. Their robing was graceful, but
they eschewed everything which di
rectly alined at ornament. And the
artist of to day gives prominence to
hi|9 central characters by dignity and
grace or bearing, rather than by or
nament in apparel. The artist makes
much use of the cloak, which is the
plaiuist of garments. Artistic taste
tells ns that adornment of apparel is
not beautiful—that it is a deformity.
When the dressmaker of the period
takes a garment which, left plaiu,
would have the grace of long lines
and easy curves, and sticks it all over
with bows, and ribbons, and bugles,
and spangles, and gimcracks, and
fliuniuididdles—sbo shows an utter
lack of the artistic sense. And the
lady who wears the fashionable dress
of the period shows that she also is
wanting iu artistic perceptions. In
the name of good taste—iu the name
of true beauty, let tbe fashionable
dressmaker be at once suppressed.
When Paul told the women to wear
‘■modest apparel,” and not “gold or
pearls or costly array,” ho spoke line
a man of esthetic as well as religious
perceptions.
The cost of ornament in dress —not
merely the cost in money, but the
waste of a woman’s time in working
over trappiugs which, after all, serve
only to show her want of taste,—this
cost of ornament is auother reason
why it should be discarded. And.
furthermore, it is unbecoming the
dignity of a woman to ask to tie
judged, not by what site is in herself
but by tho dressmaker's aud jewel
ler’s work she has oil.
It is nonsense to say that ornamen
ted dress is worn by women to please
the men. Do sensible men think
more of a woman for seeing her mop
ping up tobacco spit in the street
with a silk shirt? Does she raise
their opinion of her by contriving to
keep putting a long trail under their
feet? No true woman thinks less of
a man for his not having on as many
rings or as large diamonds as some
Mr. Adolphus Niucompoot,—and no
more will a true woman appear to
less advantage iu true men’s eyes for
not being dressed like an image iu
the shop window.
This is a subject for the thoughtful
consideration of “women professing
godliness,” who, by reason of wealth
and social position, have an influence
in moulding the customs of society.
If they will be true to the apostolic
idea that dress is intended for cover
ing and not for ornament,—that mere
ornairttent is as much out of place in
a woman’s apparel as iu a mau’s—an
advance will be made in the direc
tion of good taste, aud much will be
done iu slopping a waste of the wealth
of our laud.—Elder Timothy Hay in
Religious Herald.
THOMAS CARLYLE.
The two most extraordinary men
now living in Great Britain are W.
E. Gladstone and Thomas Carlyle.
The one is a genuine Scotchman, and
the other has Scotch blood in his
veins, for Sir John Gladstone came
train Glasgow to Liverpool where his
brilliant son, the future premier, was
horn 1809. Gladstone is a public
character living in the face of the
sun aud every step is read and seen
of all men. But Carlyle, the farmer’s
son from Eclefechan, is a recluse and
always has been. Not one in fifty
thousand of his readers has ever seen
him. When I first went abroad,
fresh from collego, thirty-five years
ago, I had a desire to see Carlyle,
Wordsworth and Macaulay. With
the sweet poet of ltydal I spent a de
lightful morning. Macaulay I missed
and shall never cease to regret it.
Hut one day I received at my lodg
ings in London a queer note which
closed as follows, “you will be^tery
welcome to me to morrow at two
o’clock, the hour at which I become
accessible to my garret here. Yours
sincerely, T. Carlyle.
In the same small brick honse, No.
5. Great Cheque liow, in Chelsea,
the scraggy and sturdy Scotchman
lives to-day, aud there 1 saw him six
years ago. His garret was a plain
substantially furnished library on the
secoud floor, an apartment which
Goldsmith or Johnson would have
danced for joy to have owned. Mrs.
Carlyle, a modest, gifted woman, was
the mistress of her qniet home aud
the daily sunshine of her husband’s
life. She kept him well appareled.
As he. an me f&rmmi to weit>»s>» h>*>
he was neatly dressed iu a long black
frock coat, with scrupulously clean
linen, polished boots and the geueral
air of a Scotch country preacher. He
was busied over a large German book
w th a portrait of direr Cromwell
behind him. Almost his first remark
was, “I had a visit yesterday from
your Professor Longfellow. He is a
man skilled in the tongues.” In
broad, racy Scotch dialect he talked
for an hour with most characteristic
wit and humor. When L urged him
to visit America and observe for him
self the prosperity of our working
classes, he shrewdly replied,'“Oh,
yes, you may talk about your dimmo
cracy or any other cracy or any kind
of political trash, but the secret o’
the happiness in Ameerica is that ye
have got a vast deal of land for a vera
few people.” Carlyle talked with
great gusto about his boyish passion
tor Burns. “When 1 was a boy,”
said he, “I used to go into the church
yard at Doomfries aud find his grave
among the poor artisans aud labor
iug folk, and there I used to read
over his name, ‘Robert Boorh^, Rob
ert Bourns.’” He pronounced the
hallowed name with deep enthusiasm.
When 1 told him I had just been to
the land of Burns, aud that the old
man who kept the poet’s native cot
tage at Aloway had euded his days
by drinking to Burns’ memory, Car :
lyle laughed immoderately aud ex
claimed, “ah, a wee bit drop will
sometimes send a mon a long way.’
After our talk Carlyle took his hat
and cane and we walked together as
far as Hyde Park corner. As I bade
him adieu ho was stalking away with
a sturdy stride, the very picture of an
old Puritan m the days of Cromwell.
Six years ago I paid another visit
to the old philosopher of Chelsea who
had almost reached his fourscore. I
fouud the house aud library unchan
ged. But thirty years haA made p
w o u d e r t u 1 t r a 11 s to r m atro u^i • me* in-air. *
His wile was dead. His toilet showed
sadly the need of a woman’s over
sight. Wrapped in a loug, blue tlau
nel gown the aged man walked fee
bly into the room. His gray hair
was unkempt, his clear bine eye still
glowed as a live coal and a spot o I
red shone oil his thiu, wasted cheek.
His hands trembled so that he told
me he had almost given up the use of
the pen. But what a talk lie poured
forth, or rather what a volcanic erup
tion of denunciation upon the degen
eracy ot the ago. ‘-All Luglaud,” lie
said, “was gone down into an abom
inable and dummnble cesspool of lies
and shoddies and shams.” Since the
Iron Duke of Wellington had died he
had but a poor opinion of Parliament.
He pronounced the debates au “infi
nite babblement of wind, and endless
grinding of mere hurdy gurdrts/^lie
gave me a very ludicrous account of
au argument he had with John
Bright, while the Quaker wife »at
and listened to the fray. “I tell you,”
he said, “Bright gat as good as he
gie.” (L have no doubt of that.) Car
lyle theu broke into an eulogy of
Cromwell as a “man who could pen
etrate into the veritable core and
heart of the fact.” Finally he wouud
up by declaring that everything was
“ganging down iuto a bottomless pit
of everlasting damnation, whatever
meaniug ye' may gie to that word.”
This astounding harangue was deliv
ered with the most ludicrous twist
ings of the countenance and au arch
expression of fun as if he were mak
ing sport for my entertainment. It
was sad and yet it was infinitely en
tertaining. Grand old man—the last
of the giants. There is a wonderful
Scotch grit in him yet, and I hope
uot a little Scotch grace in his heart.
He was nurtured on the West minis
ter catechism aud the Bible. In his
old age hois coming back to the
sweet strong saVory faith of his child
hood. I firmly believe that he will
pillow his dying head on the promises
and fix his eyes oil that Divine Lord
who was the joy and strength of
John Knox in his dying hours.—Her.
T. L. City Ur.
Did you ever, I ask you, hear a re
ligious man say, as years went on,
that his religion had disappointed
him f Nay, the life ot our God is
continued eveu now upon earth; aud
where that life is, there is the lull,
unending, irresistible power by which
God will lead us from strength to
strength, until at length wo come to
appear before our God at iliou. Wo
worship no absent God. We serve
no lifeless abstraction. We devote
ourselver to no more idle idea. We
are buoyed up by no mere iuflated
enthusiasm. We serve a God living
—a God preseut—a God who loves—
a God who acts—a God who bids us
trust Him to the uttermost, as ivo pa
tiently pursue-Q1® path from whose
end, eveu now He'ls beckoniug to us,
wlu.speti.ug to ua the whde, as our
minds are dark, aud our hearts are
cold, and pur fears are great, |tliese
rich words of most abundant prom
ise, “I have yet many things to say
uutoyou but_^-?.J.r
now.”
ivhem
iSupennTFlivf^.,
Suffolk,
Jfarm and J?irc3ide.
THE CHAN3ES OF EXPERIENCE.
A whole treatise on farming might
be written in three words—plowing
soicing, reaping. This is all there is
about it. The details of modes, sea
sons, and methods are all that make
the difference. Each spring the far
mer starts anew on the same old
track he did the year before—he be
gins by plowing, and ends by reap
ing, varying his practice it may be a
little from the old only as experience
and observation has shown him abet
ter way. Jf he does not vary his
practice a little from year to year, it
is an evidence that he is making no
progress— that his knowledge re
mains at a stand still. He is a very
poor farmer that does not make some
advances on his former methods. Ex
perieuce will, and even accident of
ten does, show a better way. There
are easier and cheaper ways of doing
almost every work of the farm, and
thought—if farmers would only think
as they should—would soou find them
out. A progressive practice must ne
cessarily vary—farmers have not
learned one half of the art of success
ful cultivation yet, and neVer will til
they employ more brain work. The
farmer must study his farm as nlose
ly as the diligent scholar his book.
He must learn new facts as fast as
possible and change the details of his
work to correspond with them. Even
nature varies her methods in obe
dieuce to the law of progress. There
is money—yea, and health and hap
[pTiiess too, in the sort Tor any-indus
trious man who will employ his braiu
fund as he may. There is no better
place for developing the qualities ot
a good and useful citizen and neigh
bor than a good farm,—and if men
would but bring to hear upon tbeir
work all the resources of a determin
ed energy and resolute will they
would succeed much belter, and there
would be far less croaning and croak
ing. Let the man who owns a farm
make up his rniud that ho is going to
stay there during life, and then let
him set to work to develop out of
that, it may be rugged, borne bis
ideal of a good and pleasant resting
place. Let him be constantly on the
lookout for new facts that may help
him, and make bis routine of labor
bear the marks ot a constant pro
gress to better things.—Rural Mes
senger.
GRASS AND CLOVER,
In preparing land for seed, let eve
ry farmer in this section be sure to
reserve at least two or three acres for
clover or grass. For home purposes
nothing is so handy to have on the
farm as a bountiful supply of good
clover, or sweet, well-cured hay. It
is but little trouble, and assures you
that all the year round the work ani
mals will have an abundance of food,
and it also enables the good wife to
have a little homo dairy from which
to supply herself with those iudis
peusables for good living—pure milk
aud sweet, yellow butter.
It is always best where the largest
results are expected, and a good
“catch” is essential to this, to mix
several varieties of grass seed with
the clover seed. Orchard grass
growus finely in this section, and so
does “red top.” Both are excellent
for pasture, and they are ready for
the scythe at the same time with the
clover. • v
Our simple abject is to urge this
matter on our farmers, as is our us
(mlauimal custom. We do not for
get the tact that timothy is grown to
great advantage in Norfolk county,
by several enterprising gentlemen,
but we do want to get all our truck
ers and farmers in the habit of rais
ing at least sufficient forage for their
own cattle, although many of them
will continue the ruinous practice of
buying bacon, lard and butter for
their home consumption. — Norfolk
Ledger.
Chicken Cholera.—What is it
and how to cure it, that’s the ques
tion, and it will be for years to come.
I do not know of any sure cure but
one for a clear case of cholera, and
that is to cut the head from the sick
chicken and plant it aud the body in
your manure pile. You at least gain
something by so doing, while if left
with the other chickens, the disease
soon spreads all through the flock.—
Cholera and the balk of diseases
which chickeus are subject to are
j caused from neglect. Keep yon hou
ses warm aud clean, feed your chick
ens regularly with good nourishing
food, and they will bo free from di
way.—Exchange.
e eggs, and be more
OATS—'SCW NOW.
I
While September and October are
the proper months to sow fall oats,
now is the time for spring oats. No
general crop is worth as much in pro
portion to the cost of production ; and
none so convenient to “meet the next
crop.” All the labor of enltivationis
in sowing, which involves no more
work than simply preparing the hvnd
for corn. Tho food value is greater
than that of corn ; oats being more
cooliug, and muscle-producing, and
therefore better as a spring and sum;
tner feed for work stock. We can
raise in our climate ami soil as many
bushels per acre as corn ; and with
rust-proof varieties we need not ap
prehend rust. There is no crop on
which fertilizers will tell more, espe
cially ammoniated potash or suiter
phosphate; fifty bushels of cotton
seed (stowoith) will improve the yield
fifty per cent. If the ground is not
too rough, oats can be sown without
the land being previously broken, aud
Covered with a single turning plow
light, or two horse plow on heavfy
soil. But the surer plan is to brea|k
the ground first, then sow the seekl
aud cover by cross breaking and af
terwards run over with a harrow ;
with little manure added to this pro
cess, the yield will be doubled,and pay
magnificently. Oats wilt soon be re
garded the great food crop of the
South for working animals.—Dixie
Funner.
I
11 E M F. D Y FOR SCRATCHES OR
Grease.—Take one pint of fish oil,
one ounce of verdigris, one tables
poonful of salt; heat well and stir
thoroughly; then add two ounces of *
white hellebore powder, and three
ounces of sulphur; st:r~ SsTircdoIhf^
Then rub in with end of the fingers,
filling all cracks. After a day or two (
wash thoroughly w ith castile soap, .
and rub nearly dry, when fill all the U
hair as well as the sore with dry sul- l
pbur. Use the salve until all the '
scabs come off, w hen only the sulphup
need be used. If scabs show again,
I use salve again.. Whenever the legs
j are wet, dry with the sulphur.
j—Loaf Cake.—Qne ponud of l
! half a pound of sugar, half a pound of
; blitter, half a punud of chopped rais
j ins, half a pound of citron, and four
! spoonfuls of yeast. Let it stand in a
warm place and rise till quite light.
Then add four well-beaten eggs and
one grated nutmeg; stir well, aud
pour into deep dishes. Let it rise a
second time; then bake quite quickly.
A sure test to determiue when all
kinds of cake are doue, is to take a
medium sized knitting needle aud in
sert it in the centre of the cake; if it
conies out eleau the cake is done ; if
the dough sticks to it, it must be bak
ed longer.
Corning Hams.—For oue hundred
pounds meat, take teu pouuds salt,
four pounds sugar, four pints molas
ses, four ounces salt petre, four ounces
pepper, two ounces soda. Dissolve
the salt in four gallons water; .boil
and skim, then add the other iugre
dieuts ; pour on while warm. In six
week they will be ready for smc-kW;
some prefer to take them out in turee
or four weeks. Smoke with corn
cobs or hickorychips,
Stringhalt is an affection of the
nerves, aud is incurable. It is caused!
by a loss of power of the nerve which
controls the muscles by which the
leg is lifted; the action is then spas
modic, irregular and excessive, caus
ing the high lifting in this disorder.
Kemember that the first spark
burns down the house. Quench the
first spark of passion, aud all will be
well. No good comes of wrath; it
puts no money in the pocket and no
joy in the heart. Auger begins with
folly and ends with repentance.
Cream Cake.—One capful of sour
cream, two cupfuls of sugar, three of
dour, half a cupful of butter, one tea
spoonful of extract of lemon, and one
teaspoonful of soda. This is a quick
ly made, cheap cake.
He who travels with his eyes open
canuot fail to see that others, as well
as himself, have their discomforts and
drawbacks, aud he will thus be all
the more disposed to meet his own
with a brave spirit^
A stock-keeper reports curing ma
ny bad warts on cattle and horses,
during several years, by applicatioi
to each of “one good daub of tar.”
t
There is one kind of work in which
we ought to never want to take a va
eatioa. Thai )9, voss/mm ea/'i&a
vor to'ido what we ought to de.
If oue marches abreast with
uate men, who will rush on
spikes, he must share the
ces.
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