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. -