aE AO TE SF

‘his life as he walked up and

vr . POETRY. a a e/a, ly ly Mg Nl A TWA HAMES (For the Sarnia Observer.) enn How sad and wacsome isthe «:cht, And cheerless is the heart Where a faither staggers hamo at nicht, Singin’ wi’ drunken mirth Sear'd is the look o° ilk wee tot, That creepa to mither's kne Puir things! your wants are a’ forgot, Pressin’ though they may |e. Nae kindly words to banish care, Fa’ frae his lips for you There's nought but threats and curses there, Startin’ a clammy dew On ilka brow; cach looks far ways From him far to remove; - In a’ he does, in a’ he © waeful hame, where ba'rnasrun oot Frae roun’ a mither's kne Whan'er they heara fa Crushin’ a’ rlee

Says,

ther’s foot,

hgirr DeiIrniy &

Sweet is the sound o’ the Dairnies’ mirth, And blythsome is the sicht

©’ smiling faces roun’ the hearth, When dad comes hame at nicht

The labor o° the day s forgot-- Though weary toil it

Whan sittin’ down, a wee bit tot Climbs fondly on your knee ;

Climbs on your knee, and nestlin’ there, Wi lips as pure’s the dew,

Tells o’ his every joy and car Kennin’ fu’ weel that you

Hae a kindly thocht for a’ he says And ‘il gie him love for love;

Will doat on a’ his winnin ways, And a’ his cares remove,

be—

O, happy hame! where faither’s foot, Is heard wi’ shouts 0’ glee, Whare joyous bairns come rinnin’ oot nd catch him roun’ the knee

? y ’ LITERATURE, A TRUE WIFE. Upon the terrace of the principal hotel Whitecliff, two ladies sat in conversation, un- heeding, because unaware of, a listner behind the closed blind of a window near them. Not an intentional listner, for he was deeply absorbed in the contents of a newly arrived letter, when the sound of his own

name al- tracted his atiention. (ne of the pretty ma- trons were speaking :

‘I can’t imagine how such a sparkling brilliant woman as Mrs, Lancaster ever came to marry that ward Lancaster.’

* Solemn most profound scholars, Edith gentleman, too, and very wealthy.

‘ Wealthy!" repeated the first speaker. ‘I | suppose that accounts forit. See him for his money, of course.

‘And spends it most loyally. I can’t im-| agine Edith Lancaster without the ingsof money. jewels, her carriages seems a part of herself.’

‘But she would look beautiful in a dress and straw hat.’

‘ Here she comes now in her new yatching | Is she not lovely?’

o

|

solemn piece

] f granite, Ed-

” ' | }

piece of granite! One of the

A thorough

married |

surround-

Her dresses, her

dress.

The dark eye behind the closed blind fol- lowed the same direction ladies.

merry party, who had just bee

1s those of the two Coming toward the house was a on the water for several hours, and prominent

’

of pretty women, was 4 tall, sleider

ina group brunette, ina jaunty dress of blue cashmere with gilt buttons and broad hat, from underneath which could be seen a of exquisite beauty. The perfe ‘lear

live complexion and crimson cheeks, the

I I face

st oval of gliape, the

regular features and large, dark eyes, were

ali in eriental style; while the masses of

hair needed no artificial ad- |

hapely head

purple biack ion to wreathe the th navy braids. She was

$maii

e

; a

chatting merrily ani laughing as sne taiked, as if youth and happiness were personified in her beautiful fa

The man who watched her frem the closed blind was tall, broad sh: featured. His hair, thick and iron gray, and piled high a!

forehead ; his syes were dee P

uldered and strong curly, was | ve a massive set, but very | jarge and full of earnest expression. Not a

handsome man, but one whose air of distinc. |

tion was undoubted—a man who would be | noticed among any assemblage of men.

As he watched the radient figure in the sunlight coming toward him, the shadow on | his brow grew deeper and deeper, till with a

There was little resemblance to granite in | hia face, as he paced up and down this room, | It worked convulsively, and the emotion that | ina woman would find vent in passionate | tears, found expression only in an oecasion- | al sigh that was a groan.

He was living over the last three years of lown. Until}

With large

“, te Had de- |

that time he was a scholar only Wedith sMiseriled Pull ted baead voted himself to the acquisition of-knowledge living in his library, except when he travels led, always in pursuit of some new light upon some favorite science or study matters were arranged by his lawyers, and his household affairs by a housekeeper, while his books were his werld.

From this scholarly seclusisn at the age of forty-five, he was wakened by a call of friend- ship, being summoned by an o}d schoolmate who besought him to become guardian of a very modest fortune he was about to leave to his only child. Obeying this summons, Ed- ward Lancaster found his friend already dead, and the orphan turning to him for cons solation. He took ber home, gave her to Mrs. Keene, his housekeeper, as he would have dope with a baby, forcare and comfort, and cetired again to study.

Between his eyes and the pages of his book came ever the face of the orphan girl. He found himself sitting idly before his papers, listening fer the sound of a musical voice in the passage or garden. He neglected his studies, to count the hours between meals, when he met his ward athistabie. Never be- fore had a woman's face or voice awakened evena passing emotion in his heart, and in- terest once aroused, love crept in and took root, deep, strong, life-long. ‘There was no possibility of driving away this love, once it was admitted. Edward Lancaster knew that Edith must be won if he was ever to know happiness in this life again. if he lost herhe would live, bury himself in his books once more, but never again could the same peace he had known, be found.

When he took the child—she was about sevyenteen—he loved her, she nestled in his arms, lifted her sweet face to his and pro- mised to be his wife. He never doubted her love, strange as it seemed, anu they were mar- ried within six months after Edith’s arrival to her new home.

Onceshe was his own, Edward Lancaster made his wife a perfect favorite of fortune. He left his dearly beloved library to escort her to gay watering places in summer,to balls and parties in winter. He never counted the the cost of any indulgence she craved. Her dress was of the costliest description; her jeweis were the envy of her circle of friends; and she had but tonamea wishand it was granted. She was of the sunniest temperas ment ; child-like in her gratitude, and flitting from pleasure to pieasure asa jiird flies from fruits to flowers.

His money

Lite had been very sweet to -dward Lans caster, in the three years following his mars riage, though many wondered, seeing the grave, elderly, nan, how he caine to marry his child wife.

But pacing his room in the Whitecliffs ho- tel, Edward Lancaster questioned his happi- ness as he never before questioned it. The letter he hei fast in his clenched hand, the conversation behind the porch combined to probe his heart tothe core, and the question hidden there rose to the surface.

Did Edith love him ?

}so devoted, so

smoothed the

| some of them for you”’

1 | seen a time whena hundred a year seemed

iL a ; ing 100

| some wrong

| to speak. Never before had Edith torn the

| take me about in the gay world.

| soma.”

She had been always gay, tener, alfection-

ate, deferring to his wishes more like a child |

with an indulgent father than a wife; for as | yet, but little wifely duty had been exacted of |

her. Ofhousehold cares sho hadnono. Her life had passed in perpetual pleasure-seeks

ling, with no call for sacralice

But the! told the tens

tter, the fated letter, der husband that the wealth he held so care-

|

| lessly for years had gone in one commercial |

; }

rash; one hour a man of riches, the next a pauper, It was all gone, his lawyer wrete

il 2 | f Elmsgrove, his home, would

} nad we séie Ol

searcely cover the liabilities incurred In the |

last three years.

‘Edith! Edith!’ That was the ery of the

!'man’s heart. His darling who had been | ied from every rude blast, who had

r A al ’ . of iife under

known only the brightest side

his care, who had married him for money

perha Had she married him for money? The | thorn once planted, stung him sore. He was

not a vain man, but he had thought his love,

true, had won a return

’ } . 1] Money had been tojhim, all his life, so sma!l

a consideration, never feeling ils want, that

he had never taken it into consideration, exs cept to be glad it was his to give Edith every And now the hateful thought

rose, and pressed him sorely, that lie could |

ndulgence,

give her no longer.

A rattiing tis name, roused him from his moody | » drew back the bolt to admit

at the door handle, a voice call-

‘Just in time to dress for dinner!’ she|

? cried, comming in. ‘I staid

Shall Ll ring for Mary, Edward, |

dewn until the last minute or—' she looked in her husband's face. ‘Edward An im} test her then and there, and he put the letter

whatis the matter? ulse, a cruel one, prompted him to | |

} in uel

hand, In a moment, before she had crumpled sheet, he repented, and drew near her if she fainted, and to console her if she wept. She read it

all. The light of merriment in her face soft-

to catch

ened to a sweet, earnest gravity, and some of the rich color faded from her cheeks. Her voice was very tender as she said, ‘I’m so

You will miss your

sorry for you, Edward.

library, your books. Perhaps we can save

‘But you, Edith!’ he said, umazed. ‘[? Mr. Morrelitelis you, especially, that | my property is safe. A hundred a year!’ she said with a silvery 1 ‘ How little -tis, compared to what you had, but I have

augh.

positive wealth,’

‘ But Edith, child! you do not understand I have lost everything. I can no longer give you diamonds, lace, Velvets, whenever the whim takes us, I—I can give you nothing.’

Elis face was ashy white, and his eyes rested upon his wife with a piteous, implor- as if entrealting her pardon for She put her arms about him,

beside her on the sofa. her head upon his broad

hand in his before

drew him down Then she rested shoulders, and put her she spoke

‘Edward, my kusband,’ she said gently‘ «do not grieve for me. I never owned jews | u gave them to me. I was brought | The income my father left me was gathered to- at a cost of privation and hardship I When my father

els till y

up in a school of comparative poverty,

gether

can never describe to you. died y was never in beautiful as I never had any one to speak to me so lovingly as you spoke. |

My father had given me an education, and

a house so

ucame. |

Elmsgrore

eachers were fond of me, buthe seldom

t oke tome. I was a desolate child.’

‘Edith! Edith!’ her husband said ten-

‘Then you took me home, You spoke s0} gently; \ou 8 near you. You "—Edith’s tears were falling fast—‘ you loved me. You so noble, so

sto yped dawn to love Ed- | ward, nobody ever loved me in all my life but you. You gave me every wish of my heart; but all the pleasures, all the indug- } ence, were nothing beside your love.’ Lancaster was too

cared to have me

good; so rich, |

poor little me.

Edward much moved

iv mm” 7 ol veil from er

and the certainty he was rapidly gaining |

heart as she was déing now,

| that she had given love for love was a hap-

groan, he rose and went to his own room piness too overpowering to find vent in | and closed the door behind him. | words.

‘And yet,’ Edith said softly, ‘there was always one wish ungratified. Do not think | I underva'ue all the sacrifices you have made for me; I appreciate the care for me that has made you leave your home, your books, to ' I saw that itmade you happy to have me dress hand- somely, to have me invited into society and enjoy its pleasures, but in all these three | years I have scarcely seen I have | craved a home where we could be all to each other; where no claim of the gay world should come between us. Nota grand home with servants to perform each task, but a home your wife could beautify with her own hands. Now we will find one, my husband. [am longing to show how nicely I ean cook; how daintly | can clean a room. While you read | will work; and in the evening we will sit together in our tiny sitling-room, and be far happier than we are in these crowded hotels. And Edward, if we are very saving, we can buy back your books. There are all will buy

you ;

my jewels, surely they

‘Edith, stop! my own happiness bewils ders You like that? You will be ha»py in a poor home cooking and working for me?’

Edtth lifted her shining dark eyes to the noble face bending over her, and drew down her husband’s head till her his.

‘I love you—I love you!’ ‘ Love wil! make all labor light if it is for you.”

There was contention in the gay circle of Edith’s friends when, the next day, she was missed from among them. Speculations were wild regarding the sudden disappear- ance of the biilliant star of society,and many were the pitying words lavished upon her when Edward Lancaster's losses were known.

But the little wife neither knew of the pity nor asked for sympathy. Her%husband ac- cepted a professorship in a college, and fur- nished for her the home Edith craved.

The beauty that had made Edith a star in the most brilliant circle of society, lost no- thing in her husband's eyes when it was the houselight after his days of college and work. In her quiet dresses, without glittering gems, Edith was lovely as she had ever been in her costly ball or dinner toilettes; and the little hands that could rest idly in luxury, glitter with valuable rings, and flash over the piano keys, were busy from dawn to sunset in the housework that women find ever waiting for them.

Edward Lancaster was never very poor, and Edith never knew again the wants and cares of her girlhood; hut the wealth he had lost was not restored and never regret- ted. By its loss he had learned his wife's heart; deprived of thal, he found the trea- sure of happy, domestic life, and in his new duties he found the pleasure of making the knowledge he loved useful to others.

The professor had been two years in his

new home, when one evening, coming from the college, he found Edith sewing busily up- on a cloak for a year old boy crowing in his cradle.

She held up her work for inspection.

‘My yachting dress, Edward.’

‘ Lremember it,’ Edward answered grave~

me, love me

lips touched

she whispered.

‘Do you? I never wore it but once—the last day we were at Whitecliff.’

‘ The day,’ her husband answered, ‘ when, after an hour of doubting agony, I found my wife had married me with the true love, for better for worse.’

| boiling water ove! | for three or f

. mnr ment ij great improvement.

/ onions

| being heated. The st

SIT ae

HOUSEHOLD HINTS.

FR,

2s 2"" 4% S SRO ~~ Nersrry Puppixe.—Pour a point of scald ing milk upon some bread crumbs, beat with an egg or two, alittle sugar or ¢l ated nut- Pour it into a buttered mould, and boil itthree quarters ofan hour.

mor rie

Cold starch should n undissolved portions wi ments. If ofthe right \

Will look as ifrung oul of water. Roll tight-

-and tet it lie for two hours. It will then

t be made too still or i! adhere to the gar-

insistency, the article

} iY

used, and take much less.

Frencu Soup Wrrnovur Mratr.— Take & large lump of butter, and a table- spoonful of flour: brown them in the saucepanin which the soup is to be made; then chop up finely

n i ry, sori

! and pota- put them

some carrots, onions, cele toes, and mix them weil together ;

them, and let them stew

ur hours. To Remove Tie Suet or Pant.—Raw : and set on plates about a newly painted room, are said to take away the smell of paint; or rather, we suppose, to change it for their own, The sliced onions should be every day replaced by fresh ones, till afler the paint has entirely dried. The onions thathave been standing in the atmos sphere of the paint should be destroyed at ‘

ice; as, if eaten, they would be poisonous.

sliced,

(

Gnrittep Mackeret. — Split a couple of mackerel down the bone. Mix some olive oil ina dish, with pep-

per and salt, lay the mackerel in this, and

| Jay them over so that they are well oiled on

both sides. Place them ina double gridiron,

about ten minutes, in

and grill them for 1

f

| front of a clear, but not too fierce tire, and

turning them frequently during the process.

Serve back downwards,

butter on each fish,

with a lar

ge piece of

Appie Jecty.—Soak one quart of apples in four quarts of water, over night, boil until the ap] les are soft, strain the water off care- fully, and to one quart of juice add a quart of sugar, and boil! until it jellies. Ifthe apples are nice, you may sweeten them, and they will do very well for sauce, especially if you havea little lemon to put inthem, But you can use apples for.this that are not fit for the table. In looking over dried apples to stew, throw all that are not first class into a dish by themselves for jelly.

Eanry Risinc on A Fixe Morninc.—-Leigh Hunt truly observes, that life never perhaps fells with a return of fresh and young feeling upon it, as in early rising on a fine morning, whether in country or in town. The health- iness of it, the quiet, the consciousness of having done a young action, not to add a wise one, and the sense of power it gives you ever the coming day, produce a mixture of lightness and self-possession in one’s feel- ings, which a sick man must not despair of because he does not feel it the first morning.

Roast Fillet of Beef.—Take a piece of the undercut of sirloin of beef, trim off the fat neatly, and the thin skin next to it; lard, not too finely, that side of it with fat bacon, and lay It for a whole day ina piesdish, with plenty of olive oil, pepper, salt, parsiey, slices of onion, and laurel leaves. ‘Tie it on the spit, cover the larded side with a piece of buttered paper, roast it at a brisk fire, and do not jet it be overdone. Baste it fre- quently with ils own gravy, and a short time before serving remove the piece of paper to let the larding take color. Serve it with its own gravy, and round it smail potatoes, tossed in butter until done

Closing Cracks in Stoves.—It may be cons venient to know a ready method of closing

up cracks, Which are not uncommon in cast |

iron stoves; and we are assured that the following receipt is a reliable one: Good wood asbes are to be sifted through a fine to which is to be added the same quentily of elay finely pulverized, together with a little salt. The mixture isto be mois- tened with water enough to makea paste and the crack of the stove filled with it. The cement does not peal off or break away, and assumes an extreme degree of hardness after ve must be cool when the application is made. The same sub- stance may be used in setting the plates of a stove, or in fitting stove pipes, serving to

render all the joints perfectly tight.

RANDOM READINGS.

sieve,

to the publisher : ‘Mr. Printer, h

called on me for pay for your paper?’

|

}

la line shouldt ling a sharp angle, a

| A long thread, coveres

} manne

| into the saucepan wilh pepper and salt; pour |

A few herbs are a}

Mrrnop or Curing Gi ass.—If a tube or or other round glass body,is to be cut, yo marked with a gun-flint hav- agate, a diamond, or a) lace where itis required, | { with sulphur, should vesed two or three times round the circular line, and be inflamed and burnt, | when the glass is well heated, throw some draps of cold water on it, and the piece will | separate in an exact manner, asif it had been eut with scissors. Itis by this means that elasses are cut circularly into thin bands, | g

goblet

file, exactly on they

then be py

' } } ; : per » Me > ra | iron as smoothly as if boiled starch had been | which may either be sep rated from, or re- |

pose upon each other at pleasure, in the | r ofa spring. 7re

The druggists have just received a supply of Dr. Wheeler’s celebrated Chemical food and nutrit he Compound Elixir of Phosphates and Calisaya, The preparation has been in usein private practice for fifteen vears, and is contidently recommended to the public as the most elegant and reliable tonic in use for building up constitutions that have fora long time been suffering from ehronic wasting diseases,depending upon poor blood. It perfects nutrition by aiding the digesting and assimilation of food, and thereby builds | ing up and vilalizing all the organs and tissues of the body. In diseases peculiar to women, and in delicate children, it supplies a |

ive tonic,

| want lung felt by the physician, of a safe and

| tient., back, and remove the |

} distressingly afflicted witha combination of

agreeable remedy that may be taken for a protracted period without any possibility of | injury, or of becoming repugnant to the pa- | Sold at $1.00. Dec. 14.—21

= & Promiscvous.—Mrs. Alice Robinson, of Will- iamston, in the county of Annapolis, and | Province of Nova Scotia, deposeth and saith thatin the year 1840, she was fearfully and

| of complaints, which alsegether rendered her |

'which might be realized from the dairy

| cows by pasturing and stable feeding or soil»

‘Qh,’ said the man of types, ‘ we never |

ask a gentleman for money.

ee ee ee thousand and ong remedies recommended | to free chickens from lice are thrown into time we conclude thal he is nota gentleman, | the shade by the following safe and effect. : ual mixture :—A spoonful of lard-oil and ' powder sassafras bark ; mixed and applied

at

manage to getalong when they don’t pay? ‘Why,’ said the editor, ‘after a certain

and we ask him.’

‘Oh—ah—yes—lI see. Mr. Editor, give me a receipt,’ and hands him *‘ Make my name ai) right on your books.’

please

I've Left my Baby.—Ti 2 latest Western train story comes from Perre Haute :-—As the cars were moving away from the station the other day a pretty young woman came from the ladies’ car, andrushing into the smoking car frantically appealed to every oneto stop the train. she explained piteously, ‘ Mr. Conductor, do please stop the train: lve left my baby.’ The train was stopped and the baby re- covered, amidst the hearty cheers of the people on the platform and the passengers ; and while the young mother iaughed and

'One application, if the work is carefully

| pores of the lice that kills them so effectual,

Catching sight of the conductor, | ! | it whatever.

cried and hugged her little one, she tried to |

explain how the baby was sucha new one that she hadn't got used to it.

A SHort FOR ALL WHOM IT MAY Concenn.— Owe no man anything. Keep out ofdebt. Avoid it as you would war, pestil» ence, and famine. Hate it with a perfect hatred. Abhor it with an entire and absol- ute abhorrence. Dig potatoes, break stones, peddle in tinware, do anything that is honest and useful, rather thanrunindebt. As you value, quiet, independence, keep out of debt As you value good digestion, a healthy ap- petite, a placid temper, a smooth pillow, pleasant dreams and happy wakings, keep outofdebt. Debt is the hardestof all task~ masters, the most cruel ef all oppressors. It is a millstone about the neck. It is an in- cubus on the heart. It spreadsa cloud ovei the whole firmament of man’s being. It eclipses the sun, :t blots out the stars, it dims the beautiful biue sky. It breaks up the harmony of nature, and turns to dissonance all the voices of its melody. It furrows the forehead with premature wrinkles; it plucks the eye of ils light; it drags all nobleness and kindness out of the port and bearing of a man. Jt takes the soul out of his laugh, and all staleliness and freedom from his walk Come not under its accursed dominion.

SERMON

Educaté the Girls.—The tenderness diss played towards our daughters in guarding them from all knowledge of the world, sup- plying their every want, and freeing thei from the necessity of exertion in self-support, is acruel kindness. In tbis country, where primogeniture is not recognized, where pro- perty is rarely entailed, where fortunes are so continually shifting hands, where the rich man of to-day may be the pooriman of tos morrow, and whiere the petted and indulged wife has before her the possibility of widow- hood and destitution, there is nothing so wrong, so unjust, so wicked, as training up women to be so dependent upon others, and of a consequence, so forlorniy helpless when their dependence fails them. Every girl, as well as every boy, should have some honest, self-supporting occupation. There may never be need of its practice on the part of the girl; but the accomplishment will be a valuable one, nevertheless, for it will give her courage to meet life, and whatever changes it may bring her ... . The long and short of the matter is that girls must be taught, as boys are taught, that it is disgracefui to look to another for that means of support which they are perfectly competent to acquire for themselves.

An AnGuMENT ror Marnniace.—Powers, the sculptor, writing to a friend of what people call the folly of marrying without the means of supporting a family, expresses frankly his own fears when he found himself in this very position; but, he adds, with characteristic candor—“ To tell the truth, however, family and poverty have done more to support me than I have to support them. They hare compelled me to make exertions which | hardly thought myself capable of; and often, when on the eve of despairing, they have forced me, like a coward in a corner, to fight like a hero, not for myself, but for my wife and little ones. I have now as much work to do as I can execute, unless | find more assistance in the marble, and [ have a prospect of further commissions.” The teuth here expressed by the gifted sculp- tor is like a similar remark we heard not long since by a gentleman who tried matri- mony in the same way, and found afterwards tiat the loose change in his pocket, which he had before squandered in ‘ foolish nos tions young men’s whims, as he called them—was enough to support a prudent wife, who, by well regulated economy, has proved a fortune in herself, and had saveda snug sum of money for her once careless husband. ‘A wife to direct aman towards a proper ambition and to a general econ, omy,’ he said, was like timely succor at sea, to save him from destruction on a perilous voyage.

. -. | while all the loss in her production is causs A patron of a certain newspaper once said | eq py a lack in quantity and quality of food oe ie it that wat haws movan | Coupled with a lack of comfort during the 2) toe yon ere ee | inclement seasons of the year.

almost entirely helpless, during which time | she was treated by one of the ablest phy- siciaus residing in the County, and part of the time by two physicians for about a year, and still was not sensible ofany material benetit | orrelief. And after a lime she was recom- mended to a medicine at that time prepared by Mrs Gates, of Wilmot, which in an in- credibly short time acted like a charm upon her whole system, and she was entirely cured ofall her various difficulties and complainst, and remained, as she considered, a sound and healthy woman for about twenty-five years.

Mrs. Robinson further states, that in the autumn of 1869, she was taken ill, and was under the doctor’s hands all winter, and in the spring ensuing she was taken wilh a most obstinant and distressiug cough, which the doctor was unable to cure. She was also afflicted with piles and othertroublesome com- plaints. atlength she resolved to apply to Dr. Caleb Gates for assistance and help, and soon found them all yielding to the power and influence of his justly celebrated medicines, and says sheis now completely cured of all thos: various difficulties, through the kind- ness of Dr, Gates, and the efficacy of his most exceilent medicine.

Mas. Avice Roprnson.

Sworn to at Williamston, this 9th day of February, A. D, 1872, before me,

Jas. Wuennock. J. P.

AGRICULTURAL.

Give PLenry or I'aep To Cows.—It is pro- bably true that fifty per cent. of tue profit

stock of this country is annually lost to their owners from want of the necessary quantity and the proper quality of food which should be given them. L. F. Allen gives experiments by Dr. Rhode Elden, of the Royal Academy of Agriculture, in Prus< sia, of the comparative yield of milk from

ing, through seven years of each system. The average per cow for the whole seven years in pasturing was 1.583 quarts, while the average per cow for the seven years of stabling or soiling was 3,442 quarts. From this result it is seen that the cow is capable of producing 100 per cent. more than she) usually does, provided she is kept in the

most comfortable manner, and fed with the greatest milk producing substances. She may produce but half of the above quanti. ties if not properly housed in the winter, and scantily fed during the whole year. In either case, the original cost or value of the cow is the same ; the care is about the same,

Remepy For Lick IN PouLttRy:—-A corres- | pondent of the Prairie Farmer, says :—* The |

to the head and neck of the chicken, and under the wings and breast of old fowls.

done, is ail that is necessary.’’ Now, the lard-oil alone, or common clean lard will answer every purpose of the above mixture. {tis the lard or oil stopping the breath

ly, and the sassafras has nothing to do with Some writers have :ecom« mended sulphur and lard for the same pur- poses but the lard alone will do'the work every time,‘and chickens are spared the risk of taking cold and being otherwise injuri- ously affected by the use of sulphur,

A correspondent of the Country Gentle man also says :—If any person will try kero-~ sene in his poultryshouse he will have no further trouble with lice. This is the man- nerof using it? ‘Take a stick suitable for a handle, wind upon one end old rags to form a ball about three inches in diameter : wet the ball with kerosene, light it, and pro- ceed to wash the house with the flame, in the same manner as whitewashing. This is a remedy when all others fail, and should be used with great care.’ Another says: — ‘I have tried nearly everything that | heard of, and I find that hot water is the best thing | ever used. ‘Throw it in the nést and on the roost boiling hot, after that whitewash them. I have tried this remedy for the last five years with entire success. It may be well known and common, but I have never heard of it, nor have I seen it published.’’ Another reports:—After an experience of three or four years, I find that that putting one pint of kerosene, such as [ burn, in the whitewash, and alsotaking alarge paint brush and painting roosts, nests \c., with it (kerosene) three or four times a year, is perfectually effectual. 1 use a large brush because I can do it more quickly, and work it into every crack more readily. It makes the house smell strong- ly, but the chickens do not mind that. It is not much trouble, and is effectual. The same process is equally effective with bed- bugs. ’

Care of Colts. We import stallions at many thousand of dollars apiece, for the improvement of our stock, which is money almost spent in yain, and will continue to be so spent until we, as a class, winter our colts better. Colts should be housed through the cold, rainy days of the fall nnd when it is pleasant they should run out. In the winter they should have a liberal allowance of hay, They should also have a few oats and carrots, Oats are better than corn, for they make bone.

SALE OF

FREEHOLD PROPERTE.

WE WILL SELL By AUCTIOX, AT THE COLONIAL BUILDING, CHARLOTTETOWN, ON

‘Lao. URSEDAYT. 7’ THE 15th OCTOBER NEXT, at the hour of Twelve o’clock, noon, a very desirable Farm of Land, lately occupied by Charles Alleyne, Esq., of Hillsboro’ Cas- tle; situate near the flourishing Village of Mount Stewart, bounded and described as follows: Commencing at the south-west angle ofa tract of 50 acres of land, the pro- perty of the heirs of the late George Dong- las; thence running, according to the mag- netic meridian of the year 1764, south seventy-seven (77) Cegrees, east seventy- six (76) chains, thence south twelve chains and fifty links [12.50] thence north seventy- seven [77] degrees, west seventy-six [76] chains, and thence north twelre chains and fifty links [12.50] to the place of commence- ment,— NINETY-THREE (93) ACRES OF LAND, a little more or less, and is situate in Town- ship number 38, in King’s County. For further particulars apply to E. J. Hopeson, Esquire, Charlottetown, or to J. S. CARVELL, W. H. AITKEN. Ch’town, Sept. 21, 1874.—till sale

The above sale is postponed until Monday,

the 15thfay of February, 1875.

THE EVAWUNER

WY RO toe

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