Decatur Eagle, Volume 3, Number 6, Decatur, Adams County, 18 March 1859 — Page 1

I II 111 uEI I A 1 I n EAUL ii .

VOL. 3.

TH EE AG L E , »♦♦«•!!■►*** rw "‘ v »'■ PHILLIPS & SPENCER, Terms of Subscription: r rnne Vtar,sl 50, in advance; fcl 75, within . [""ar" and f’2 '»<) after the year has expned ITNo paper will be discontinued until all are paid, except at the option of J.e Publishers. Terms of Advertising: n nP square, (ten lines) three insertion., $1 00 E^Xo'ldmt l isemmH l wiil be considered less than o»e square; over one square will be counted and charged as two; over two, as three, etc. JOB PRINTING: We are prepared to do all kinds of job-work, ■ .neat, aud workmanlike manner, on the most, ’ asonable.terms. OurmPerml forthe compleL id Job-Work, being; new and ot the latest. ““ PS ,ai,d we feel contiJeit that satisfaction c an be ciwn. Q/OVE NEVER DIES.’ ■ When Hook abroad, and sec one other of my > el ds ar.d acquaintance living so unhapily, I to doubt the beautiful fancy that dove never dies.’—Letter. The passing flowers that bud and bloom, The trees that flowers in this dust, Jlav pass into the voiceless tomb, And rot and rest; The stars are all but transient things, That burn along the midnight sky, And,flying with obedient wings, Pass on to die. The earth hath heard its final doom, When filled with fervent melting fire, pg blaze shall light the eternal gloom And then expire; That when the final day shall break Its awful morning through the sky, The disembodied hosts shall wake To never die. The moon has marked her silver course, With circuit year by year, Returned toward her first great source With pain and fear; But like the soul that springs away , Aud seaks its home beyond the sky, Perennial as eternal day Love cannot die. A part of Him whose fi«■'. Pressed oft Judea s rugged sod, With melting heart and lips though mute In talk with God; It lives as quenchles as the soul That wings its pathway to the sky, And seeks its haven and its goal To never die. What though all other things should fail, That give their glories to the heart, Though hope should sink beneath the gale That sweeps the earth? Above all else with fresh green leaves, As ivy clasps the branches dry, Live bids life’s full and ripened she eves Aud cannot die. How should a husband speak to a scolding wife? ’My dear, I love thee still.” How should a miller address his lady love? in the language of flours, tube sure. "’hy should crinoline be abolished?— Because it introduces all sorts of women into the most fashionable Circles. A new stove has been invented for the , tomfort of travelers; it is to be put under ■ 'heir feet, with a mustard plaster on the i Bliead, which draws the heat through the ; ■ '’hols bodv. _y_ — , A Yady being asked to waha, gave the ; lowing sensible and appropriate answer - thank you, sir—l have hugging) enough at home. f A writer on swearing says, that an oath “"tn a woman’s lips is unatural and in- ’ hb'e, and he would as soon expect ‘bullet from a rosebud. Iliere are some mighty mean men in isconsin. One man actually refuses to ! le . un.ess he can have the privilege of diking to the grave. H was remarked by an intelligent old ' rae p ‘I would rather be taxed for education of the body, than the ig»ance of the man, for the one or the er 1 am compelled to be. I iror? en k r ' V ’ m - V l° ve > I wish y ou would I iod i] I , al ! ,o °k’ ai 'd talk with me, 1 (eel I ‘Qk U .. Long silence, and no reply.— ! I W e li a , m -’ f° ot s asleep.’ ‘ls it? “■ 1 on t talk, dear, you might wake it.’ ■uch;' at^ 0 }° u mcan > you little rascal?’ ■Mlh'tk aD ’ n d*' - idual to an impudent Kg g at * seized him by the nose up■Mo ■‘ire in UDe ’ -v f al l ier told me to be i K^dupt’ 0 lwlJ tljc first tbill b that

HOME INFLUENCES. UY SYLVANUS COBB, JR. ‘Who’s that, I wonder,’said Mrs Seaburn, as she heard a ring at the basement door. Ah it s Marshall,’ returned her husband, who had looked out at the window and recognized the grocer’s cart. ‘and what have y ou had senthome now Henry ?’ But before Mr. Seaburn could answer the door of the sitting-room was opened, and one of the domestic lodged in, and asked—‘What’ll I do wid the dimejohns, mum!’ ‘Demijohns?’repeated Mrs. Seaburn. ‘Let them set in the hall, and I’ll attend to them,’ interposed the husband. ‘Henry, what, have you sent home now?’ the wife asked, after the domestic had gone. ‘Some nice wine, Cora, and a little; choice old brandy, replied Henry. Cora Seaburn glanced up at the clock, and then looked down upon the floor.— There was a cloud upon her fair brow, and it was very evident that something lay heavily upon her heart. Presently she walked to the wall and pulled the bell cord, and the summons was answered by the chambermaid. ‘Are George and Charles in their room? ‘Yes, ma’am.’ ‘Tell them it is school-time.’ The girl went out, and in a little while two boys entered the sitting room, with their books under their arms, and their caps in their hands They were bright happy, healthy, fellows, with goodness and truth, stamped upon their rosy faces and the light of free consciences gleaming in their sparkling eyes. George was thirteen years of age, and Charles eleven, and certainly, those two parents had reason to be proud of them. The boys kissed their mother —gave a happy, goodmorning’ to their father—and then went away to school. ‘Cora,’said Mr. Seaburn, sometime; after the boys had gone, ‘what makes you : so sobar?’ ‘Sobar?’ repeated the wife, looking up. ‘Yes. You have been sobar and mute j ever since the grocer came.’ ‘Do vou want me to tell you why?’ •Os course I do.’ ‘Well Henry, 1 am sorry you have had that spirit brought into the house.’ •Pooh! What’s the use in talking so, Cora? You wouldn’t have me be without it, would vou?’ ‘Yes?’ ■Why—what do you mean?’ ‘I mean that I would cut clear from the stuff, now and forever.’ • But—Cora —you are wild. What should we do at our dinner parties with- , out wine?’ ‘Do as others who have it not.’ ‘But—mercy!—what would people say ? Are you afraid —But no — I won’t ask so foolish a question.’ ‘Ask it, Henry. Let us speak plainly' now that we have fairly commenced.’ • Well—l was about to ask if you were j afraid that L should ever—drink too much.’ ‘That is not a fair question, Heniy.— I was not thinking ot that at all. But I will answer it by and by. You have no fix u d appetite for it now?’ ‘Of course not.’ ‘Then it would not cost you any effort \ of will to abstain from its use?’ ‘Not a particle.’ ‘And you only have it in the house, and serve it to your friends, and drink it; yourself, because it is fashionable?—or,j in other words, you do it because otbeis, do it?’ ‘I do it because,’ said Mr. Seaburn, hesitating some in his choice of language because it would appear very odd, and very niggardly, and very fanatical, not i to do it.’ This last was spoken emphatically. , • , M ‘But,’ pursued Mrs. Seaburn, with the calmness and assurance ot one who feels, the sustaining influence of Right, ‘you would not do what you were convinced was wrong, out of respect to any such considerations, would you? ‘You know I would not, Cora. Ihis question of temperance, I know, is a good one in the abstract, and 1 am willing to live up to it, as 1 understand H; but 1 am no tee-totaler.’ •Henry,’ said his wife, with an earnest i look into'his face, -will you answer me a few questions?—and answer them honestly and truly, without equivocation or eva- i sion?’ „ , , •Bless me, how methodically you put it Cora. But 1 will answer. ’.Then-first: Do you beheve you or your friends, are in any way benefitted >y ■ the drinking of intoxicating beverages Jourtard’ 1, *”’•>' \ real good from it: , •No-1 can’t say that we do. •Do you think the time has ever‘been < needed nine In the. house. tn -- health or comfort?

ountiys Good shall ever be our Aim—Willing to Praise and not afraid to Blame.”

BBOATDR. ADAMS COUNTY, INDIANA, MRCH 18, 1859.

‘W hy—l think it has ministered to our [comfoit, Cora,’ ‘How?’ ‘o—in many ways.' ‘Name one of them.’ ‘A. by—in the enjoyment of our guests. ‘Ah—but lam speaking of ourselves, Henry—of you, and me, and our own little family. Has it ever ministered to our comfort?’ ‘No—I can’t say that it has.’ i ‘And if it was banished from our house i to-day, and forever as a beverage, should i we sutlei in ■Certainly. What would our friends—‘Ah—but stop. lam only speaking of I our own affairs, as shut in from the world by our own fireside. I want all extraneous considerations left out. Should we, as a family, suffer, in our moral, physical social, or domestic affaiis in the total absence of beverage?’ ‘No, —I don’t know that we should.’ ‘Phen to you, as a husband, and a father and as a man, it is of earthly use?’ •No.’ ‘And it would cost you no effort, so far as you alone are concerned, to break clear from it?’ ‘Not. a particle.’ ‘And now, Henry,’ pursued the wife, with increased earnestness, ‘I have a few more question to ask: Do you believe j that the drinking of intoxicating bever- ' ages is an evil in this country?’ ‘Why—as it is now going on, I certainly do,’ ‘And isn’t it an evil in society?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Look over this city, and tell me if it is ; not a terrible evil.’ ‘A terrible evil grows out of the abuse of it, Cora.’ ‘And will you tell me what good grows out ot the use of it!’ ‘Really, love, —when you come down ;to this abstract point you have the field. But people should govern their appetites. All things may be abused.’ ‘Yes But will you tell me the use—'the real good— to be derived from drinking wine and brandy?’ ‘As I said before—it is a social custom i and has its charms,’ ‘Ah—there vou have it Henry. It I does have its charms, as the deadly snake is said to have; and as other vices have! But I see you are in a hurry.’ ‘lt is time I was at the store.’ ‘I will detain you but a moment longer, Henry. Just answer me a few more questions. Now call to mind all families ; of your acquointance; think of all the domestic circles you have known, from your I school boy days to the present. Run ; your thought through the various names I where vou have been intimate. Do this j and tell me if, in any one instance, you ; lever knew a single joy to be planted by ; the hearthstone from the wine-cup. Did yon ever know one item of good to flow .to a family from its use?’ i ‘No. I cannot say that I ever did—j not as you mean.’ ‘And now answer me again. Think of; those homes once more. Call to memory i the playmates of your childhood—think ; I of homes they have made—think of other homes—think of firesides where all you have known dwell—and tell me if you have seer, any Sorrows flow from the j wine cup! Have you seen any great ! Griefs planted by the intoxicating bowl upon the hearthstone?’ Henry Sc-aburn did not answer, for j there passed before him such grim spec-1 i tors of Sorrow and Grief, that be shud- ; Idered at the mental vision. He saw the youth cut down in the hour ; of promise, he saw the gray head fall in 1 dishonor—he saw hearts broken, he saw homes made desolate, he saw affection whither up and die, and he saw noble inI tillects stricken down! Good Heaven! — I what sights he saw as he unrolled the i canvas of his memory! ‘Henry,’ whispered the wife, moving to ito his side, and winding one arm gently' about his neck, ‘we have two boys — They are noble, generous, and warm-; hearted. They love their home, and honor their parents. They are here to form those characters —to receive those impressions—which shall be the basis upon which their future weal or woe must rest! Look at them, O, think of them doing battle in the great struggle of the life before them. Shall they carry out from ) their home one evil influence? Shall they, in the time to come, fall by ; the wavside, cut down by the Demon of j the Cup, and, in their dying hour, cause the example whence they derived the ap-1 petite? o—for our children, for those two boyv, for the men we hope to see them, for the sweet memories we would have them cherish of their home, for the good old age they may reap, let us cast this thing out, now and forever!’ Cora kissed her husband as she erased speaking; and then he arose to his feet; but he made her no reply-. •Henry, you arc not offender. •No,’he said. He returned her kiss,

anil, without another word, left the house and w, nt, to his store. How strangely did circumstances work to keep the idea his wife had given him alive in his mind. That very morning he met a youth, the son of one of his wealthy friends, in a state of wild intox-ia-.tiori; and during the foienoon he heard ' hat young Aaron G had died at sea He kii.-w that Aaron had been sent away from home that he might be reclaimed. After the bank had closed, and as Henwas thinking of going to dinner, Wfceived a note thrAaglf the i:cnr ny Post. It was from a medical friend, and contained a request that he would , call at the hospital on his way home. This hospital was not much out of his way, anti he stopped there. ‘There is a man in one of the lower I wards who wishes to see you,’ said the I doctor. ‘Does he know me?’ asked Seaburn. ‘He says he does.’ ‘What is his name?’ ‘He won’t tell us. He goes by the name , of Smith; but I am satisfied that such is not his true name. He is in the last ; stage of consumption and delirium. He | has luc'd intervals, but they do not last long. He was picked up in the street, and brought here. He heard your name and said he knew you once.’ Mr. Seaburn went to the room where the patient lay, and looked at him. Surely he never knew that man! ‘There must be some mistake, he said. The invalid heard him, and opened his ; eyes, such bloodshot, sunken, unearthly i looking eyes! ‘Harry, he whispered, trying to lift himself upon his elbow. ‘ls this Harry j Seaburn? 1 1 ‘ I hat is my name, ‘And don’t you know me. ‘l’m sure Ido not. And be would have said that he did not wish to, only I the man seemed so utterly miserable that j he would not wound what little feeling he ’; might have left. ‘Have you forgotten your old playmate in boyhood, Harry, your friend in other years, your chum in college? ‘WI-. it! gasped Seaburn, starting back I aghast, for a glimmer of the truih burst I upon him. ‘This is not Alec Lomberg! ‘Ail that is left of him, my Hal , re j turned the poor fellow, putting forth his ! wasted, skeleton hand, and smiling a faint quivering, dying smile. ‘Ah—pater : pecavi! ‘Alexander Lomberg!’ said Henry, gai zing into the bloated, disfigured face be- | fore him. •You wouldn’t have known me, Hal.?’ ‘Good Heavens —no!’ j ‘I know lam altered. Ah, Hal., sic [transit gloria mundi!’ ‘But, Alec.,’ cried Seaburn, ‘how is I this? Why are you here?’ 'Hum, Hah, — Hum! I’m about done I for. But 1 wanted to see you. They ■told me you lived not faraway; and 1 would look upon one fi lend before I died.’ ■But I heard you were practising in your profession, Alec., and doing well.’ ‘So I did do well when I practised, Hal. II have made some pleas; but I’ve given up all that.’ ‘And your father —where is he?’ ‘Don’t mention him, Hal. We‘ve broken. 1 don't know him. He taught me to drink! Aye—he taught me!—and then turned the cold shoulder upon me when I drank too much! But—l‘m going. Hal., —going, going!’ I Henry Seaburn gazed into that horrible 1 face, and remembered what its own had been:—the son of wealthy parents; the I idol of a found mother, the favorite at I school, at, play, and at college; a light of intellect and physical beauty; and a noble generous friend. And now—Alas! ‘Alec —can I help you? •Yes.’ And the poor fellow started higher up from his pillow, and something of the old light struggled for a moment in bis eye. ‘Pray for me, Hal. Pray I for my soul! Pray that 1 may go where ;mv mother is! She won’t disown her Ibov!—sl'.e couldn’t have done it had she lived. Oh! She was a good mother, Hal. Thank God she didn’t live to see this! Pray for me —pray —pray!—Let me go to her!’ As the wasted man sank back he fell to weeping, and in a moment more one of his paroxysms came on, and he began to rave, lie thought Harry was his father, and he I cursed him; and cursed the habit that ; had been fastened upon him under that . father’s influence. But Henry could not stop to listen With an aching heart he ! turned away, and left the hospital. He could not go home to dinner then He walked down town and got. dinner there. At night he went to the hospital again.— He would inquire after his friend, if he did not see him. ‘Poor fellow'.’ said the physician, ‘he never came out of that fit. He died in half an hour after you went out.’ It was dark when Henry Seaburn reached his home. •You didn’t tell Bridget where to put

■■those demijohns. Henry,* staid hts wife I She had not noticed his face, for the gas i was hurtling but dimly. ‘Ah—l forgot. Gome down with me, ; Cora, and we’ll find a place for them.’ His wife followed him down into the | basement; and, one by one, he took the. demijohns and carried them into the rear ; yard, and there he emptied their contents i into the sewer. Then he broke the vessels ia pieces with his foot, and hade Bridget have ‘.he dirt-’mar. t.-.ke the fragments away in the morning. Not one' <• or.) he- eti tol ls -.■.■ <■ e'l thw while, nor did she speak to him He re-! , turned to the silting room, where his boys 1 were nt their books, and took a seat upon one of the tete-a-tetes. Ile called his wife ■ and his children about him, an I then he told them the story of Alexander Lomberg ‘And now, my loved ones, he added,! laying his hands upon the heads of his' boys, ‘I have made a solemn vow that' henceforth, my children shall find no such ! influence in their home. They shall never have occasion to curse the example of their father! 1 will touch the wine-cup no more forever! What say you, my boys, will you join me in the sacred ' pledge? _ _ They joined him with a glad, gushine ' willingness; for their hearts were full, | and their sympathies and all tuned, by a mothers careful love, to Right. ‘And you. Cora? ‘Yes, yes! she cried. ‘And may the holy lesson of this hour be never forgotton. 0, God, let it rest, as an angel of; mercy, upon my boysl Let it be a light! to their feet in the time of temptation!— And so shall they bless, through life, the influence they carry with them from their i Uoracl’ ,-r Oneoflhe Mayors. ■ The worthy Mayor of a Western city, j , well known to a host of admiring and warm friends' had ‘a case’ before him in . the person of an individual taken up on! | suspicion of offering a counterfeited note lof hand of a well-known firm for sale.— ;He could not prove its genuineness, an 1 , was committed to jail until information i could be had from the parlies. When it. ' came it was entirely satisfaclui _v, the note . , was good, ami the voting man’s character ; was put beyond doubt. The Mayor had I him brought to his office, and thus addres-! I ed him: ■Young man, it is my duty to congratulate you on being so fortunate for had the note been counterfeit you certainly would . have been sent to the Penitential}’ you 1 may go, and let it be a lesson to you.’ ' The young man demurred to the sentence, it being proved that the note came , directly into his hands from the makers of it, nnd he insisted that ho had been .; badly treated by being put in prison for! several days, and his character aspersed. ‘Not nt all,’ says our worthy -dignitary; ‘you have had investigation, and it is very fortunate for you that the note proves ' to be a genuine one; for assuredly you would have been sent to the Penitentiary if it had proved a counterfeit. 3 r ow go,i and sin no more!’ He went—and our afccsaid Mayor i cannot be made to see the transaction in 1 ; any other light than as a fortunate thing for the young man that the note was genuine! *•* I > — Brains.—An American sloop-of-war had put into an English port, and the first; I lieutenant went ashore to reconnoitre. In the course of his travels, he entered a ' tavern where a number of British officers i were carousing. They at once recognized the lieutenant’s nationality by his dress, i and resolved to amuse themselves by bullying him. ‘well, comrade,’ says one, ‘you belong to the United States, 1 see. ‘Right,’ was the answer. i ‘Now what would you do to a man ; who should say that your navy did not , contain an officer fit for a bumboat?’ continued the Englishman. I ‘I would blow his brains out!’ returned jour lieutenant, with great coolness. J There was silence among her majesty’s ' servants for a moment; but finally, one of I them, more muddled than the rest, managed to stammer out: ,W —well, ‘Yank,’ I say it!' ' The American walked to his side, aud ' replied, calmly: It is lucky for you, shipmate that you have no brains to blow out!. Struck by the dignity of the answer, the offender at once apologized, and our hero invited to join the mess. Connecticut Outdone. — It won't do to laugh at Connecticut any longer for wooden nutmegs. New Hampshire has beat her, for roguery the legislature being obliged to repeal the laws offering a bounty for the destruction of crows, in consequence of the practice which has prev filed of procuring ctow’s eggs and hatching them under hens, and bringing forward the brood for the bountv.

flow Sal aud ni' (jot Monied. BY lETER SI'OHUM, ESQ.' Well, at last the nite cum, that orful nit>‘ as was to fetch me into a new state us bein’ an it found me in a dreadful (lx; ; fust 1 fell good, then bad, fust proud an’ ' tin n skeered like five hundred—i went over the m xt mornin g afore the < ventful idle to see Sal, an found her a tijken it mity easy, rather in a hurry for nite to cum I thought, as for me 1 was in a , l>u»-rv vun nfinit, and the next f-'t l.ku f’d r ille i a l..‘tic it Jih<l l>m put off. After supper 1 washed, then 1 put on 1 the cleanest sort up a shirt that A uiit Jane ' had fixed up mity nice and smooth, then 1 drawed on about as nice a set uv Sunday harness as you ever seed; Quarter I mam an Aunt Jane "hud primed up an i fixed my hair an creevat, 1 was reddy; so I off I put to S tl.s dud.s an 1 reckon I dun [about as much thinkin agonin over thar as was ever dun by enny other feller in ) the same time. At last. 1 arriv, an was marched in too whar Sal was—she sorter I blushed; and then set her head on one sido an look, d about as swi et as enny flour i you ever seed. I thought she was about i as putty acreelur us lever lade my ise on. Directly iSal's sister sea, the parson’s 'cum, an’ in we marched whar thar wns about fifty folks, an I felt mity bad and ' mity skeered, but tried my best to keep a : still upper lip. Well we ink our places, Sal a hangin too my arm, an me a lookin at the floor. Then the parson ses, ses he: j ‘Du you take this ooman,’ (he mite a sed young lady,) ‘as you hold by the hand, to bn your lawful wife, to help her nnd to keep her, too luv and too nus her till : deth dus yu part?’ ‘l’ll doo my best,’ ' ses 1 (standing fust on wun leg an then | on t’other, for all the world like a turkey lon a hot rock ) Then lie looked at Sai. | and ses he: ‘Du you take this man,’ j (like lie didn’t know my naira) ‘as yu hold by the hand, too be your lawful husI band, too nus him aud too help him, and too onneran obey him till deth dus y u part ‘Yes sir.’ses Sal, and ses he, ‘I proinounce you both man an wife; salute your bride.’ With that 1 clinched Sai and I gave Lei about as harty it htfss ns you ■ ever heerd. Then ti e tellers nil cum j around an kissed Sal like blazes; you ! could see it dun etn good from the way ! they pile! t d in—l thought Sal orter a ! stopped i-. but she never sed a word as j fur me, 1 i.isse 1 right ar.-left an cum n<-er a kissed .» nigger gal as was a fetchin in i sum water when every bodv begins a gigjgl'tig an I begins to feel mity mean. Ai- ■ ter a while the kissin and foolin was all 'over, an we al! pitched in too goodies, an ’e( 1 ever saw sweetnius fly, it was then , 1 et till I liked to popped, an every body j else dun thar best. About ten o’clock they all left, an sum of the boya ses, ‘Pct-r won’t y u two g > ; home with us,’an all such things a dev- ; lit: us to go. Arter thev all left, thar I sot bi myself tell a niggargal cums to tho ! door and ses: ‘Mass Peter Miss Sal’s a waitingforyou, ■Whar is she?’ ses I. ‘She’s in her room,’ ses she. •Well, tell her to cuine down,’ ses I. ; ‘l’m reddy to go any whar she wants.’ ‘But,’ ses she ‘she’s in bed , ‘Oh, yes,’ses 1, ‘I forgot, but,’ses I, j ‘its early yet, ain’t it?’ She seed I was skeerd, and begin a I sniggering, 'ell I picked up my hat nnd | followed her, till she cum to adore and ! ses, ‘That’s yure room.’ My hat jumped up to my throat as 1 knocked at the dore but nobody answered; I knocked again, an then gettin desprit, 1 opened it; jeehillikins, the cold chills run over me till I felt like somebody was a pullin a cedar I bush up and down my back. Thar was ; Sal, fast asleep, (or pretefidin like, as I found out,) un the candle a sliinin as lite 1 as dug. I s'ood sum time lookin mity foolish, ■and then puts my hat on a cheer—next 1 draws my cote off, then 1 shed my jacket and the balance of my harness, tell I cum to mv boots, an es I ever saw n pair of | lite bool, them was the wttns. I pulled, 1 fugged and jerked but they wouldn’t cum off, an happeniu to look round, I thought I seed Sal a peepin at me outer wun eye, so I blose the light out, gits mv I boots off and then—, but it ain’t nobody's ; bisness. so I shan’t tell any more. Will I’ve tried marryin sometime, an must say that orter a ftdlcr gits use too it, it aint a bad thing; tn fact, I filusofise as follows: Mnrryin is good a thing, it is a grate thing; as Aunt Jane ses, a grate institushion, (how she nose I can’t tell, for she never ha 1 had a chance to try it. ) It’s j good for every body. Are you old? — inarrv, it’ll make you young, (or ton’ll jdietryinto ’peal.) Ar you young?— j it'll make you old. In fact, it is suted to evry an enybody. Il’s a ten rail fence that sosiety has built up too keep the folks inside the bounds of good behavior and tho I've had m v ups aud downs in it ; an no all about it, still 1 say—Hooray for 1 marry.

NO. (1,