CHRISTIAN SUN.
IN ESSENTIALS, UNITY ;
IN NON-ESSENTIALS, LIBERTY;
IN ALL THINGS, CHARITY.
Volunie XXXIII.
SUFFOLK, VA., FRIDAY AUGUST 27, 1880.
Number 34.
|ottrg.
in thjTnest;
Gather them to your loving heart —
Cradle them on your breast;
They #ill loon enough leave your brooding
care;
Soon enough mount youth's topmost stair—
Little ones in the nest.
Fret not that the children’s hearts are gay,
That their restless feet will run,
There may come s tins in the by-snd-bv,
When you'll sit In yar lonely room and sigh
For a sound of childish fun.
When yonUt Ibng foe sirepetltion sweet
That sounded through each room,
Of “Mother,” “Mother,” the dear lore-calls
That will echo long in the silent hulls,
And add to thsir stalely gloom.
There may come s time when you’ll long to hear
The eager, hoy sh tread,
The tuneless whi tie, theclear, shrill shout,
The busy bustle s and out,
And pattering rver head.
When the boys *|d
And scattered
Or gone to the u
Whence youth
You will miss
tail
Cradle them 01
Thev will soon e
girls are all grown up,
ir and wide,
discovered shore,
t age came nevermore,
rem from your side.
Then gather thei close to your loving heart,
your bre^t;
. _mgh leave'yoar brooding care,
Soon enough mor it youth's topmost stair—
Little ones in t e nest. ,
Hcott\»h Amet^an^JournaL^
j|eUriiu$.
WHAT A MOTHER
AN DO.
BY W. S. PLUM* , D. D.
In bis admirable trac on parental
obligation, Dr. Dabue says: “A
church was rejoicing wi its new pas
tor in an ingatberiug f souls, and
amoug the converts wt one whose
appearance was sosurpiiiug that it
fitted them with wonden f gratitude.
The subject was a man i the world,
who had lived past mi lie life, for
from Christ and good He was a
man of inherited wealth id social po
sition, generous and pr< ise, profane
when irritated, a sportsr n and keep
er of thoroughbred hors , a frequen
ter ol all soeups oi gaiet and world
ly amusement which w -e not low.
This man now suddenly manifested a
solemn interest in divin things, was
constant in ftodf hou i, and was
fouud, before ong, sittini jike a con
trite child at he i et ol i Jesus, and,
let it be add< i I* re, tint his after
life uobly atte ited he ^eimiueuess of
the change. Ie 1 ed a rtire Chris
tian and dev ted p lilanthpipist, and
died iu the fa th.
There wa3dnat*ally in the new
pastor’s hear a aariosity to know
how so snrpr ing nud gratifyiug a
revolution wa wrought, and perhaps,
a trace of elat in as he argued with
himself that t is oase must be purely
a result of pi Ipit instrumentalities.
So when the c 'overt came to confer
with the sessii a, be was asked what
sermons had b >en the special means
of his awakening. It seemed hard
.for him at firsi to apprehend the drift
of such a qnesi ion, but at last he an
swered very si nply that his change
was not due to any sermons or receut
means but toj his mother. To his
mother t She thud been dead so long
that few remeiibered what manner ol
mother he had 1 She had been in
her grave more than forty years.—
The oldest elder present had never
seen her; had, in fact, never hedM ol
her. She had died in the bloom ol
her beauty and maturity, when he
was a boy' of Ms years. Thus the
wonder grew. Bnfc be explained tout
she was a Chris tisn woman, a frnitof
the great ingat lerlng of Samuel Da
vies lu the colonal days, and she be
gan to instruct her oldest bom iu the
Wnth. He stated that now, if lid was
Christ’s, it was'the power of these
teachings ovet his infant niind, and
especially, of tte dying scene, which
was the true iastrtment of bringing
him back; without which all other
instruments w6ul| have been futije.
> 'When this yoifng mother was about
to die, she had gathered her little
'flock' at her bedside, cowering like a
cluster of frightened birds beiore the
mighty harvester, Death, liad prayed
for and blessed them, and as she laid
far dying baufl upon his bfow, had
--him, her tirst born, to fear
his mother’s G id, 'and remember her
indtVdetidn's. That hand bad beeu
upon his head evdrsinee, through the
long years of liU wortdliucss; he had
felt its touch in the hoars Of business,
as wbll a* in bib hours of soiitade; in
the hunt as he was hieing bis hounds
Utter the fox { on the race-held as he
cheered bis winning hone, and it was
this which at lasts had brought him
back to God.”
O mothers, mothers, pray on 1—
Hope On. Be strong iu faith, giving
glory to God. “Take this child and
nurse it for me, and I will give thee
thy wages.”—Interior.
THERE IS REST H)R THE WEARY.
Our Bessie is an unconscious inis
siouary iu the large house iu which
we live, a dear little instrument iu
the bauds of the Father to give fresh
hope to those who suffer, to utter
just the one small word that is often
ueeded to awaken a sleeping soul.
She is a merry little lassie, but she is
one of the Lord’s little one’s, and
even in infancy Ilis owu know Him
and do His work.
All of ns hiul been interested in a
lady who had recently come among
us; a tall, stern, reticentdooking wo
man She was, stud yet there was a
pathetic look of sorrow iu her eyes
that touched our hearts and made us
long to comfort her, although we
knew not how. One rainy day, when
I was sitting busy over my sewing
aud Bessie was bappy with her play
things m the hall just without, the
ice was brokeu about the proud, re
served heart. For a long time there
was silence, nothing but the patter
'of the raiudrops-to break the quiet,
and theu there broke upon the air
the child’s clear, sweet voice
‘‘There is real for the Weary,
There is rest tor the weary,
'Ahere is rest for you,”
was the burden of the low-toned chaot.
Lookiug up, 1 saw Bessie standing by
the window with clasped bands, sing
iug softly to herself aud peering out
iuto the leaden skies with a far away
look on her dear little face. Almost
simultaneously a door opened upon
the other side of the hall,, aud our
sad-faced stranger stood upon the
threshold, but there were tears now
upon the white cheeks, aud the prond
lips quivered.
“Will you come and see me, my
darling, and siug all for me your
sweet songf” she said, with a wistful
look at Bessie. The child was start
led at first, but after a long look at
the face betiding towards her, she
slipped her small hand into the oue
outstretched to receive it, and passed
from my sight iuto the room of the
stranger. Remembering onr poor
-, I wondered what fresh sermon
the little one was about, to preach it:
her unconscious way. In about an
hour she stood before me.
“Poor lady, poor lady 1” she said,
gently lingering in her daiuty way
the work upon which 1 was busy.—
“Poor lady she repeated with a long
sigh.
“What is it, Bessie T
baud upon her golden cu
“She had a little girl
ouce, she said, and G<
And then she cried so
‘O dear 1 O dear 1’ An
didn’t know what to do,
1 would put my arms
laying my
and kiss her, ami then)
gooj
took her little girl, wh
cry, lor God was
was a beautiful place
she said she was
then I said if her Httj
to heaven, she
or tired any more,
not he very long
too, and wouldu’t
have her own littli
and show her the
to God. And she
about me and kis:
was ‘a blessed
makes people alw
bad wheu their c
heaven f If it is
think they’d be
have the best e
ly.”
“But human
sie, ah, so weal
through tears
the window w
as they fell.
t like me
took her.
, and said,
hen first 1
11 thought
ud her neck
aid if God
for made her
and heaven
live in. And
lonely. Aud
irl had gone
ever bo sick
that it would
she could go,
>e beautiful to
get meet her
right straight
her arms tight
me, and said I
mforter.’ What
cry and feel so
dio and go to
autiful, I should
d to have them
if they are lone
Is are weak, Bes
said, as I gazed
the tiuy figure at
liiug the raindrops
erican Messenger.
The Joy oipiviNG.—When Sinn
uel Budgett,
merchant, w
es I have ha
coilld desire/mt
pleasure in
only so far
pleasure nui
eonlession
being noted
ery young
teaches tin
istinguished English
lying he said : -‘Bich
is much as my heart
I never felt any
for their own sake,
hey enabled me to give
Others.” This dying
rich man is worthy ol
,d remembered by ev
rant' after wealth. It
icmiuco ...-'wholesome truth that
none but tlpmost sordid natures can
tiud any pJjsnre in the mere pos
aesstiou of Kites. No millionaire is
happy merit because ho owus a mil
lion dollai Ordinarily, that la6t
eraails veeKions, cares and duties
which buieu and disgust him. But
when he Jos mouey to feed the hun
hit, clod the naked, iiistruct the
iguorantiod bu*d up the cause ol
Ohrist ibecomes a fountaiu of bles
siug to W heart. He is theu an liui
tat5rof]im who, owning all things,
oau rech’o nothing—oven of God
who iB oBr giving. Hence the riot,
man byliviftg grows Godlike in am
lure. The pleasures of his
cause him to take higher
delight n giving than iu gaining, aud
hie cbbty pierces hie natural covet
ousndewith a destroying sword.—
But ft this right use of mouey he
oouldiet be both rich and innocent.—
ZionWerahl.
4
A DRUNKARD’S DREAM.
It seemed as though I had been
suddenly aroused from my slumbers.
I looked around and found myself
the Centre of a gay crowd. The tirst
sensatinii T experienced was that of
being borne with a peculiar, gentle
motion. I looked around. 1 was in
a long train of cars, which were gli
ding over a railway many miles in
length. It was composed of many
ears. Every car opened at the top,
was filled with men and women, all
gaily dressed, all hftppy, all laughing,
talking and singing. The peculiar,
gentle motion of the cars interested
nte. There was no grating, such as
wo hear on a railroad. This, I say,
interested life. 1 looked over the
side, and to my astonishment found
the cars made of glass. The glass
wheels moved over the glass rail
without the least noise or oscillation.
The soft, gliding motion produced a
feeling of exquisite happiness. I was
happy. It seemed as if everything
was at rest within. I was full of
peace.
While I was wondering over this
circumstance, a new sight attracted
uiy gaze. All along the road, on
either side, within a loot of the track,
were laid lines of coffins, and every
one contained a corpse, dressed lor
burial, with its cold, white face, tur n
ed upward to the light. The sight
tilled me with horror; I yelled in
agony, but could make uo sound. The
gay throng who were around me,
only redoubled their songs and laugh
ter at the sight of my agony ; aud we
swept on, gliding with glass wheels
over the glass railroad, every moment
nearer to the end of the road, far, far
in the distance.
“Who are theset” I cried at last,
pointing to the dead in their coffins.
“These are the persons who made
the trip before us,” was the reply of
the gayest persous near uie.
“What trip I” I asked.
“Why, Uie trip we are now taking
—the trip on the glass railway,” was
i t he answer.
“Why do they lie along the road,
each one iu a coffin 1”
I was answered by a whisper and a
hall' laugh which froze my blood 1
“They were dashed to death at the
end of the railroad,” said the person
whom 1 addressed.
“You know the railroad terminates
at an abyss, which is without bottom
or measure. It is lined with pointed
roeks. As each car arrives at the
end, it precipitates its passengers into
the abyss. They are dashed to pieces
against the rocks, and their bodies
are then brought here and placed iu
the coffin as a warning to other pas-^
sengers, but no one minds it—we are
so happy on the glass railroad.”
I can never describe the horror with
which these words inspired me,
“What, is tbo name of this glass
railroad !” I asked.
The persou whom I addressed, re
plied in the same strain :
“It is very easy to get into the cars,
but very hard to get out; for once in
t.hese cars, every one is delighted with
the soft gliding motiou. The cars
move so gently ! Y'es, this is the
railroad habit, aud with the glass
wheels we are whirled over a glass
railroad to a fathomless abyss. In a
few minutes we’ll be there, aud then
they’ll briug our bodies aud put them
in coffius, as a warning to others; but
nobody will mind it, will they ?”
I was shocked with horror, ^ strug
gled to breathe, and made frautic ef
forts to leap from the cars, and in the
struggle, awoke. I kuow it was all a
dream ; and yet, whenever I think of
it 1 can see the long train of cars
move gently over the glass railroad ;
I can see the dead iu their coffins,
clear and distinct on each side of the
road. While the laughing and sing
ing of the gay and happy passengers
resounded iu my ears, 1 only see those
cold faces of tho dead, with their
glassy eyes uplifted, and their frozen
hands upon their white shrouds.
It was a horrible dream. A long
train of glass cars gliding over a glass
railroad freighted with youth, beauty
and music—while on either hand
strewed the victims of yesterday—
glidiug over the fathomless abyss.—
lYia. Free Freaa.
“That uian is my thoru in the
desli!” exclaimed uu ■ exasperated
yenog Christian, when some careless
delay on the part of a fellow-worker
had caused unusual trouble. “Make
him a means of graee, theu,” was the
cheerful auswer. Most of ns, iu home
or busiuess life, are daily pricked by
t'»e habitual carelessuess, ill-temper
or sylhshuess of some associate. The
Chri&an philosophy teaches that the
veryJxisteuce of these buffeting
thorns joints them out as means of
gmce.
Subscribe for the Sun.
OVERWORKED WOMEN.
Here is a woman who from dawn to
dark is busy with the actual work of
a household, with its cooking, sweep
ing, dusting, mending, and general
moil and toil. There is never one
consecutive working hour in which
she can, without a sense of neglected
duties, rest absolutely. She spends
day after day in the seclusion of home
without any thing sparkling and mer
ry to inspire her, with no very enno
bling thoughts, except in the direc
tion of religion, and her religion is
top often a compound of ascetic self
denial and sentimental fervor, rather
than of high principle and holy love.
When she is unequal to the perform
ance of her tasks, she takes tea, and
as her nerves become more diseased,
more tea. With neuralgic pain often
seizing her in the beginning of that
slow decline which saps the life and
happiness of so many of our women
before they reach the middle age, she
is irritable. Little trials cause her
torture, and she sees herself constant
ly falling below her ideal; she loses
heart, thinks herself a miserable sin
ner, and very likely doubts her claim
to the uarno Christian. Doubtless
she will get spiritual help by praying,
but she had better confess to a phy
sician than to a clergyman. She does
not bear petty crosses with unfailing
sweetness, and perhaps says a hasty
word for which she repents, only to
repeat the fault again and Again, des
pite her prayers and struggles. What
ails her is not temper, but tiredness
and tea, and too hot rooms, and a
lack of variety and cheer in her life.
Doubtless God could keep one in a
holy and patient frame of mind who
constantly violated every law of
health, but there is not the least war
rant for believing that he ever will
do so, because if human suffering
means anything, it means that we are
to learn by it, not only spiritual
truths, but that the soul and body
are like yoked oxen—if one lies down
the other must too or be sorely
cramped. No delusion is more com
mon than that illness is conducive to
saintliness, and that God sends sick
ness upon ns to make ns holy. On
the contrary, sickness is the penalty
ol'wrong-doing, either by ourselves
or our ancestors, and in many cases
should make us ashamed and truly
penitcht. The most devout Christiau
will have the nightmare if ho eats
half a mince pie belore going to bed,
and a crusty temper next morning,
and his spiritual agonies will not save
him in the future, nnless he adds to
his faith knowledge.— Wo7tian,s Jour.
GIRLS INJJOCIETY.
^That would be a very one-sided so
ciety which was composed wholly of
one or wholly of the other sex. In
fact we cannot conceive of the best
kind of society as existing in that
wny.
At colleges and schools there are,
very properly, large communities of
youug men, who, having plenty to
do, and preparing for the hard work
of future life, have uot much time for
mere enjoyment. They get along
very well with the business for the
time, without each other’s company,
though in some quarters co education
has been found desirable. Still, even
there it is well for the boys and well
for the girls to have occasional even
ings for parlor diversion. Each set
can contribute to the other, and the
presence of the one stimulates tire
other to do well.
There are some girls who do uot
take any pains to be agreeable, how
ever, when only their girl friends are
with them. They are as dull and stu
pid as you please, and you cannot
imagiue their being either bright or
charming. But let a gentleman, ever
so young, make his appearance, and
lo! a change. They are animated
and eutertaining directly. Some girls
are always seeing a possible lover in
every new acquaintance, and so they
lose the advantage aud pleasure they
might have in knowing their friends
brothers and cousius.
It is rather curious that theso young
ladies, so ready to appropriate atten
tions aud invite affection, are seldom
attractive to the persons they7 so de
sire to please. It is man’s preroga
tive to woo ; woman’s to be won ; aud
she should uot be won too easily or
bUU BUUU.
While you are dignified and above
even the most refined flirtation, it is
not necessary that you should be
Deedlessly prim and austere. Enjoy
conversation, and music, and excur
sions with your friends, and in the
thorough trust of friendliness, and
take the sweetness,of innocent hours
with those young }ikp yourselves.
But, in all thiugs wherein you have a
doubt—in all questions of propriety
take council of your mothers.—Young
Folk's JiMral,
HOW MUCH ARE YOU WORTH.
How iuih'Li are you worth ?
Do you mean how miieli money
, have I ?
No; £ mean how much are you
worth? . '_.
Perhaps yon have not thought, my
| iriend, how valuable you are. When
I tills question has-been ashed, “how
much are yon worth V’ you have
thought how lnueli your farm is worth
how much money you have in the
hank, or in stocks. Perhaps you are
poor, arid in answer to the above
question you would answer, “1 am not
worth anything.” Now let me tell
you what you-already know, your
money isn’t you.
How much, 1 again ask, are you
worth? If yon have ue\ei thought,
let me tell you, you are ituuiaist ly val
uable. We may make mistakes and
pay more lor an article than it is
wort h. Wo may lie cheated, but God
knew how much We were, worth when
he bought m; for we must never for
get we are bought aud paid for. And
iu this case we may estimate the val
ue by the price.
Now, my friends, do you not. think
| it reasonable that the one who bought
you should have you 1 After you
pay for an article, do y ou not say, it
is mine? Now God's word is, ‘-Ye
are not your own, ye are bought with
a price.” God gave the greatest
price lie could pay. You were so
valuable, and he so wanted you, that
he gave his only son to die for yon,
that yon might not perish, but have
everlasting life. And you must now
choose whether you w ill let God have
what he bought at such an immense
cost, or you are lost forever. There
is no other way of escape; and for
yon to be lost—such costly property,
is a greater loss than for this world
to be sunk into ruins. A never dy
ing soul! Say this moment, 1 will
give God what belongs to him : aud
because Chiist lias died for uie, 1 be
long to God! I am the Lord's! And
thus believing, you are saved.—Every
body's Paper.
THE PALM TREE.
Tbe Scripture says: “The righte
ous shall flourish like the palm tree.
Let us see what this comparison
lueaus: “The palm grows not 111 the
depths of the forest or in a fertile
loam, but in the desert. Its verdure
often springs apparently from the
scorchiug dust. -It is a friendly light
house; guiding the traveler to the
spot where water is to be found.’ The
tree is remarkable for its beauty, its
erect aspiring growth, its leafy cano
py, its waving plumes, the emblem ol
praise in all ages. Its very foliage li
the symbol of joy and exaltatiou. It
never lades, and the dust never set
tles upon it. It was, therefore, twist
ed iuto the booths of the feast of tab
ernacles, was burue aloft by the mul
titude that accompanied the Messiah
to Jerusalem, and it is represented as
in tne hands of the redeemed in hea
ven. For usefulness, the tree is un
rivalled. Gibbon says that tbe na
tives of Syria speak of 3G0 uses to
which the palm is applied. Its shade
refreshes the traveler, fts fruit re
stores his strength. When his soul
fails for thirst, it announces water.
Its stones are ground for his camels.
Its leaves are made iuto conches, its
boughs into fences and walls, and its
fibres into ropes or riggiug. Its best
fruit, moreover, is borne in old age ;
the fiuest dates being often gathered
when the tree has reached 100 years.
It sends, too, from the same root a
large number of suckers, which, in
time, form a forest by their growth.
What an emblem of the righteous iu
the desert of a guilty world! It is
not nninstructive to add that this
tree, once the symbol of Palestine, is
uow rarely seen in that country.'’-*-!.’; .
CARLLESS WIVES.
It is very common to hem1 tins .re
mark made of a young man that he is
so industrious and so economical that
he is sure to be thrifty and prosper
ous. And this may be very sure of
him so long as he remains single.;
But what will his habitual prudence
avail him against, the careless waste
and extravagance of an uncalcula
tiug, unthinking wife I He might as
well be doomed to spend his strength
and life iu attempts to catch water in
a sieve. The effort would hardly be
less certainly in vain. Habits of
economy, tbo way to turn everything
in the household affairs to the best
account—these are among the tilings
which every mother should teach her
daughters. Without instruction,
those who are poor will never become
rich, while those who are now rich
may become poor.—Selected=
Sunday is the golden clasp that
biuds the volume of the week.
THE STUDY OF SOILS.
'J in' successful fanner must neces
sarily devote some of his time to tb.
study nf soil, <viif*tlir;r he does it i’ a
so culled sc’iciif ilii*. way or not, for lie
k Hint's I lint soils of different character
ami lexturc require different, modes
of treatineut. The owner of a light
and porous sandy soil may dispense
entirely jpith snbsoiling and under
drainage, defer plowing till late in
the spring,' aid save niaiime l».v ap
ply ing it. only in I lie drill, f all and
\t inter plowing of such laud is often
a dee.ided disadvantage ;aud mechan
ical and ferineailing man a res are not
necessary to mellow up and lighten a
soil already fully enough so, hence
there is little sense in broadcasting
inanmes. But- the owner of a heavy
clayey soil, or one with a clay sub
soil only a few inches from the surface,
must, in the first place; ditch or un
derdrairi to get rid of the superabun
dant moisture of winter and wet sea
sons generally,—to provide against
heavy falls of water and get it to soak
up speedily without washing away
the cream of the soil, and to help in
the improvement of the land in a
general way, he will often find it des
irable to use a subsoiler also,—and
the better and quicker to improve the
mechanical texture of the ground and
open it up to the action of light and
air, lie must apply manures broadcast
and use a good deal of animal tiepos
its and other fermenting stuff, whose
action within the soil is similar to
lhat of leaven in the roll of dough,
i Some very stubborn soil require a
i great deal of such treatment to make
11 hem reasonably and freely workable
before plow or hoe. Much land of a
| medium texture, and from that ap
proaching light, needs much less of
these ameliorating treatments, but
it is certain that a very large propor
j tion of this sort never gets the little
| it should have. It is for the latter
class of farmers, mainly that wo are
now writing.
V\ e remember having read some
yeais ago, ir. the Patent Otlice report
for 1ST9, a long andsomeivhat elabor
ate paper on “fbe Study of Soils,’’
and if any of our farmer readers have
the book lying around they would do
well to hunt it up and peruse the saul
article. It contains, of course, the
usual array of scientific terms, but
according to our memory there is
much in it that could not but be of
benefit to any oue interested in the
matter and engaged in the work of
improving his soils. It opens up an
extensive field for mental research,
and oue tliSt farmers generally ought
to cultivate with a great deal more
assiduity than is now apparent on
the face of things. The soil is the
medium through which organic and
inorganic nature acts. It is, iu short,
the parent of life, aud of course its
health and virility, so to speak, is a
matter ot the iirst importance to all
engaged iu the production of food.
But, as wo have said, soils are very
iliverse in their character, calling for
quite dissimilar treatment on the part
of the tiller. The farmer must under
stand his soil before he can begiu the
work of amelioration with intelligence
or with success. And it is safe to say
that tlio modes of treatment are al
most as diverse as the number of
fields, '.scarcely and two farms he
worked exactly alike. \Y« have but
intimated some of the most patent
differences—there are a thousand oth
er modifying influences aud coudi
tious which the intelligent farmer
must in his own case trace out. The
present seems a fit time to give this
subject, some thought. Turning iu
green crops and fall and winter plow
ing arc of priceless value to all close
hard soils. If your land is of this
sort you must begin now to prepare
it for next year’s crops. Turn in ail
the green matter you can within this
aud the next month, or break deeply
as soon as present crops are off’, and
refallow in the spring, and if the
drainage is good, you may saleiy
count on paying crops-—Rural Mes
senger.
Roots fob Stock.—Sameness falls
upon tlio appetite; a variety of food
encourages it. A good farmer loves to
see his animals eat, aud the more they
eat and healthfully digest, the great
er are the owner’s profits. Out or
pulped roots will be found the best
basis for winter feeding, and with
these, corn fodder aud oat straw may
be given liberally, saving the hay un
til the early spriug.
Lemon juice will allay the irrita
tion caused by the bites of gnats
aud flies.
DISTRIBUTING MANURE.
It is still the practice to a great ex
! tent to draw out munufe and leave it
in heaps, where it renfftins till plotr
j ing necessitates its spreading,or rath
er i blowing of the heaps apart, mak
ing an uneven distribution, some
none at all. Besides, there are lumps,
more or less dry : those on the sur
face are of little more when turned
'< under, unless the cultivator is used
to break and distribute them in the
| soil, which is not often done. The
• whole proceeding is a bad one. The
! manure should have been spread
| carefully and evenly when drawn;
, not plowed under at all for general
j cropping, unless very shallow, or cul
tivated in. Where the manure ie
; spread from heaps in the spring, the
i harrow’, weighted, should be passed
j over, which not only fines and distri
butes the manure more evenly, but
| mixes it with the soil, makiug a mel
low surface fit for a sea bed, or, if
turned down, improving the soil be
low. l-'armers do not sufficiently re
alize the benefit of mellow soil turned
down. There are those who use a
cultivator or harrow on their stuble
land before they plow it, not plowing
deep; then reduce the upturned soil
to the same condition. This is oiie
of the advantages in a fallow, if ma
nure is used before and after plowing,
with shallow treatment, the poorest
land can he made to yield well at
once ; better still, if the manure each
time is permitted to be spread till
the rain has washed out the soluble
parts.
Cotton Mili.s.—The establish
ment of cotton mills in 'North Caroli
who invested in the enterprise. Ac
cording to the Star, the mill at Wind
sor, which uses two of the Clement
attachments, is working fourteen
hands and yield a daily net profit ex
clusive of interest on capital, insur
ance, etc., of £22.10, but they make
enough otherwise to cever the ex
penses not included.
From ten to twelve thousand dol
lars is the capital required for one of
these mills. This facter.v, says the
Raleigh Observer, is a great success,
and three others of the same kind
are now being, or soon will be built
iu the State. This is very cheering
news from North Carolina, and that
State is setting an example that will
be extensively followed in Virginia.—
Leilgor.
To Clean Corsets.—Take out
the steels at front and sides, then
s: rub thoroughly with tepid or cold
lather or castfle soap, nsiug a small
scrubbing brush; do not lay them in
water. When quite cleau let cold
water run on them freely from the
spigot, rinse out the soap thonghly.
Dry without ironing (after pulling
lengthwise until they are straight
and shapely) in a cool place.
Remedy foe Flies.—It is claim
ed that if a couple of handsfnll of
the common blackwalnut leaves are
put in a vessel of water all night, and
next morniDg boiled for fifteen or
twenty minutes; then when oeld take
sponge or rag and moisten the ayee,
seek, legs, etc., of a hone, the flies
will give those places a wide berth.
In some cases this applieaftkm haaj
be valuable. - pM of
_m m ■■ ’ ij them a set
_ i i a j, ax love your
Paint applied to the pi;.e them mouey
buildings in autumn or wim rigging.
, , .. ^nen and boys, if J»u
dure much longer than wl^d fwl g0o4—if you
in early summer or in hoe happy—W ei«h
In the former case it dije^ fot',hia town, it cap»
becomes hard like a glased haa bMn uy'
not easily affected afterwarda|roM smith.
weather, or worn off by the r
| Soft Soap.—Take six gmeas at soc. Better
| soft or rain water, add three !.5(,rpG st^RE.
| of best hard soap, cut fine, OB--“
sal soda, four tablespoouRfnl r~
I horn ; boil the whole till petted by Mr. J. B.
' solved; pour into vessels,
' cold it is lit to U8e. This a,w. L. Daughtrey’s.
j pounds of fine jelly soap.
mi is paying most handsomely those
of storms.
A lump of bread abont tht—
a billiard ball, tied up in a V _
aud placed iu the pot in which “ * *
are boiling Will absorb theltmellt of ftuit *“4
which ofteuticues seud soch '4a about 1st No
pleasant odor to the regions i
Onion Peeling_In
slicing onions, it is said, that
hold between soar teeth ■"—
scissors, a steel knife, or riV,
VER,
Nausenond Co.,
Va.
THE POPU
. . . „ XKIHDS, at whole
iron or steel subataoc*ni ^ retau at
be shed during the opt WEBB’S Drug Store.
To stiffen a crape re-for the destruction of Po*
it folded aud pressed'? .
book, and when it kn * y J08. P. W1M.
oohol enough to wi
then shake it dry, f<
press. t \