text: A... -^.=^. v 'P\. O^.— AgA" - rk(H -=r==~ ^=^L1 —-r 1 — S r wtur •■ rr a ***'&." y/W 1 zxfl..JL. L~,l 11 1L W-T-l Vv’.r ■ nL 21 M M diEff M*H«F>Wfe^i^WWW^W^W^OWW |i 2O< ■ -OMi lIS roM I . \ iV • • : ‘lyffiifr -\ -:- •) 'ife-W?. -.jr ■ •’’ -“- iS/S^ 3 ■& <■■• Mafr ~ '”‘ 'S f ']\ ~‘ M *^B^B ~■ AHW “'• U®B!' : V.-V'-l'A - -■.7 ■ -'- ffy{ ■"*■ '& •33csr-'sais»csa7 ■■■■iWl ittMKftk ifk fbfi '•«&'' ■. -:^B9HW^^&'S^^HHH|HKgß^±^:V^r,^<.• isBBHHISEjE^®“®iD-' 3CQQffluooooocoM ooonojoon fflpgg^ • - •• Al|fig&--■• -•b /; - VOLUME 3, NO. 50. WRITTEN EXPESSLY FOR THIS PAPER. THE MILLINER’S APPRENT ICE: OR, Life in New York in 1857-58. CHAPTER XXII. Timson gave his humble friend, the coachman, credit for a sincere desire to help him out of prison, at the same time he had not the faintest hope of his success. He was not a little surprised, then, when two hours later in the morning, he was waited upon by one of the police officials, who told him to put his name to the paper he held in his hand, and then go about his business. “What is it?” asked Jack. “It’s only a bond which you give for one thousand dollars, for your appearance to answer this charge.” “But I’m not worth a thousand dollars,” returned Jack. “Well, nobody said you were, innocent young man! It’s only a form. There’s another man who is worth the money, and he’ll have to pay up, if you don’t come up to be tried.” “What’s his name?” “That’s none of your business, but I’ll tell you, though. His name’s Ritton—the same man that had you jugged. He says that you’re a youth, and he pities you. He told me to say to you that you might come up to his house, and he’ll give you a bible, some tracts, and a lot of good advice. A good sort of chap he seems to be, though a little queer.” “Was he here himself?” “He was in the court just now, and before he’d go bail, he asked a great many questions about you, of one of the turnkeys here: —Did you use profane language? had you tried to get anything to drink? did any of the old rogues knew you? and a dozen more of the same kind.” “And what did the turnkey tell him?” “He said that you seemed to be a good kind of a boy, and he didn’t believe that you was a thief. Upon which the gentleman rolled up his eyes and said he hoped that it was all true, and that he’d try and reclaim you, and pluck you as a brand from the burning, or something of that sort. He’s very pious, isn’t he?” “I believe he professes to be,” said Jack, with a smile. “That’s all right, then—now put your name down here, and then go and be saved—for Ritton is determined to save you if he can—he told Justice Flunkey so, and asked his prayers in your behalf. Justice Flunkey’s prayers! I felt like having my head shaved when I heard that,” and the man gave way to a fit of merriment. Jack signed the bond and quit the prison. As he walked along Franklin street, deliberating whether to go direct to Ritton’s house, or first see the coachman Carnes, who, he felt sure, had obliged Ritton to release him from confinement —he was accosted by the policeman Nevis, with whom our readers are slightly acquainted. “Young man,” said Nevis, in an authoritative voice, and stepping directly in front of Jack—“Young man, your name is Timson, and you’re in a very bad way, very bad indeed!” “That’s my name,” answered Jack, feeling, but careful not to exhibit surprise; “you’re right as to the name, but about the bad way I’m in, I’m not so sure.” “I’m afraid you’re a hardened young rascal,” said Nevis with great gravity. “That may be,” Timson answered quickly, and clenching his fists as he spoke, “but if you say that again I’ll throw you into the gutter.” “Do you know who I am?” exclaimed Nevis. Pleasantly stepping back a few steps. "Yes, I know you well enough. If you’ve anything to say to me, speak civil and speak quick, for I’m in a hurry." "I’m a police officer," put in Nevis, "and if you strike me I’ll have you arrested." "What do you want with me?" demanded Jack. I want to save you, if I can, but I’m afraid that’s not so easy a job. You’re not more than nineteen, and a burglar.” “That’s a lie!” returned Jack. “Didn’t you break into the house of Mrs. Randall, and rob it?” “No.” “And carry off the two girls?” “No!” “Hardened young sinner!” said Navis, with an expression of pity. “Are you done asking questions, my fine fellow?” said Jack with a sneer—“because if you are, I’d like to take my turn.” “You may ask as many questions as you please,” returned Nevis. “Then tell me,” continued Jack, “what you were doing there that night, what you arrested the young Doctor for, and what made you draw out a slung-shot, and—” “Was it you who struck me,” interrupted Nevis. “It wasn’t anybody else. It was one of my nice licks—an ear-clip—did you come to your senses pretty soon? the water in the gutter ought to have brought you to,” and Jack laughed in the rascal’s face. “I’ll have you arrested for highway robbery,” exclaimed Nevis. “And I’ll have you arrested for an attempt to commit murder!” retorted Jack. “And this is the young man that the good Mr. Ritton It is trying to reform,” murmured Nevis, as though communing with himself. The good Mr. Ritton may be, and you too,” said Jack! “I know you both, but if you’ve anything to say to me, be in a hurry.” “Mr. Ritton is your friend, and wants to do something for you. The two girls who ran away from Mrs. Randall’s—nobody knows where they are now—must be found too, and I’m trying to get on their track. If you be have yourself and help me, Mr. Ritton will make your fortune. He’s let you out of jail, and he wants to see you now.” Jack understood the object in an instant. The girls might or might not have escaped from Ritton, after he had carried them away in Carnes’ coach. Either way, Jack did not know where to find them. Ritton, it was evident enough, wished to bribe him to secrecy. By pretending to lend himself to Ritton’s plans, he might obtain information which he could get in no other way. Jack’s mind was made up. “I’ll go and see Ritton,” he said to Nevis. “I’m poor, and if he’ll do the fair thing, I’m his man.” “That’s a good resolution, young man,” said Nevis, “now be off; it’s like enough you’ll see me there too, in a little while, and who knows but we may hitch our teams and pull together; Ritton pays well, and in good gold—look at these,” and as he spoke The fellow exposed a handful of half eagles. “Did that come from Ritton?” asked Jack, eyeing the coin. “Yes, and he’s plenty more of the same kind left,” was the reply. “Then he can have me, body and soul.” “Excellent,” exclaimed Nevis, shaking the young man’s hand, “you’re not so degraded after all.” “No,” said Jack with a laugh. “I’ll be as good as you are, if Ritton will pay me as well as he does you.” The two separated. “I’ll have a few of these yellow pictures myself, out of old Ritton, and then we’ll start on fair terms. It’s a poor game that only one can play at,” he whispered, as he took the direction which Nevis gave him to Ritton’s house. Mr. Ritton was at home, and Timson was at once ushered into his presence. As Jack entered, Ritton rose from his seat, and with his hand extended, advanced to meet his visitor. “I’m glad you’ve come, young man. It is better that you should have me for a friend than an enemy. Don’t you think so?” and Ritton’s face wore a very expressive smile as he uttered these words. “I don’t see why I should have enemies,” Jack answered, “I wouldn’t mind them, though, if I was rich, but as I’m poor—” “You would rather have friends, eh?” interrupted Ritton. “Yes, I would, that’s a fact, said Jack. “And if I could make you useful to me, and were to pay you well, you’ll be better off.” Ritton spoke with hesitation, and stopped for an instant—“You would be faithful to my interests,” he continued. “Yes, a man that hires me and pays me, I’ll serve faithfully—” “And ask no questions?” interposed Ritton. “And ask no questions?” interposed Ritton. “And ask no questions,” said Jack, promptly repeating Ritton’s words. “Nor be over scrupulous in any little matters I might want attended to?” “No, I’m not much troubled with scruples,” Jack returned, speaking quickly and with an apparent sincerity that delighted Ritton. “Then, Jack Timson, you are my man,” he said, holding out his hand, which Jack took with alacrity. “But,” continued Ritton, “I must exact an oath from you.” “I don’t like to swear,” replied Jack, affecting a reluctance which he did not feel; for in his plain, direct way of thinking, he had already arrived at the conclusion that it was perfectly fair to fight fraud and treachery with their own weapons, when they could not be openly met and defeated. “I always exact an: Ritton, which, once given, secures my confidence.” “But I can be just as faithful without swearing,” answered Jack, “a man that makes up his mind to play false, will not be stopped by an oath.” “That’s true enough,” said Ritton, “but on the other hand, a man who means to be faithful can have no objection to take an oath, and an oath makes a contract sure and certain all round.” “I suppose it’s so,” said Jack, “but I don’t like to swear, for all that. I’ll give my word and honor—” “And your solemn oath,” interposed Ritton. “Yes, if you will.” have it," said Jack, after a moment's pause, which induced in Ritton's mind the belief that an oath, which Jack regarded with so much awe, would, if taken, be inviolably kept. This was the very impression which Jack wished to make, and he succeeded. “Then swear,” said Ritton, speaking with great solemnity, and holding towards Jack the bible, which the latter laid his hand upon—“swear to keep my secrets, to do my bidding, and to advance my purposes to the best of your ability.” Jack kissed the book. “Now then,” said Ritton, stepping to a desk and taking out several gold pieces—“now then, we understand each other, and here are a hundred dollars to seal the bargain.” Timson put the money in his pocket, and was waiting for Ritton to give him his directions, when the door opened and a servant entered, followed by an old woman. “Here is a woman who wants to see you,” said the servant, addressing Ritton. Jack turned. “Why Aunty,” he exclaimed, running to her and seizing her hands, “why Aunty, you here!” “Jack!” cried the old woman, “I did not expect to find you, and with Mr. Ritton, too!” “Do you wish to see me, madam?” asked Ritton, in a mild, gracious voice. “Yes, you, Ritton,” answered the old woman, walking up to him and looking him in the face—“you, whom I have not seen for so many years. Do you not know me?” “I do not remember,” stammered out Ritton. “Do not remember me, the wife of John.” “Yes, yes, now I remember, perfectly,” and as he spoke nervously, he made a sign to her to keep silent, while he cast a glance on Timson’s face. His eye did not rest upon the young man for a single moment, but that moment revealed to him a fact which, up to this time, he had never suspected. I remember now,” he continued, speaking rapidly, “I remember perfectly well. Don’t you see I have found the young man at last, and henceforth I will take care of him. But he and I are very busy now; but we will both come to see you by tomorrow night, at the latest.” “Will you be sure to come?” asked the woman. “Yes—does Jack know where you live?” “I ought to know,” said Jack, “seeing that—” “Then we will come tomorrow night,” interrupted Ritton. “Yes, Aunty, I’ll see you by that time,” said Jack. Ritton beckoned the woman towards the door, and followed her. When they were in the hall, he whispered hurriedly to her, “Does this young man know anything of ” “No,” said the woman. “Then say nothing to him until I have talked with you. Meanwhile, be sure that I will take care of him. I have already procured him a good situation.” “And you will come tomorrow night, and bring him with you!” “Yes, depend upon me.” The old woman left the house, and Ritton returned to Jack. “If I had known,” he said, taking Jack’s hands, and pressing them with a warmth which for a moment led the latter to believe that the hypocrite was at least honest in what he said—“if I had known, —but never mind now, my dear boy, and you are dear to me— tomorrow I will explain. Now for business. Those two girls have escaped me, but Nevis, the police officer, will hunt them up. You must go with him and induce them to return to Mrs. Randall’s house, that is, should you come across the pretty little fugitives. Will you do so?” “I have sworn to do all that you command.” “Yes, and I believe you.” “Yes,” replied Ritton, “and both of you be off as fast as you can, and come back to me as soon as you have recovered the girls.” Nevis beckoned to Timson, and the two left the house. When Ritton was alone, he pressed his hands to his temples and muttered: “This is dreadful! But Jack shall never see her again. Randall or Lambey must rid me of that cursed old woman, who comes to me like a spectre from the grave!” CHAPTER XXIII. Caroline Tracy and Emma Sterling, anxious only to get away from the city, and the dangers which their own brief experience had taught them lay in the way of dependent and helpless females there, set out from the old farm house, and walking quickly along the lane or by-road, were soon in the broad avenue which runs out on the island on the Hudson river side. Neither of the girls apprehended any danger, if they could once get out of the reach of Ritton and Mrs. Randall. It did not occur to them, that a single person would insult or attempt to stop two young girls, walking quietly along the highway. Their route lay along a most unfrequented place. Here and there, situated at some distance from the road, was a cottage or farm house, while on the line of the avenue were several milk establishments, where cows, tied up and fed on distillery slops, supply the city with most unwholesome milk. As the two girls passed the first of these establishments, three or four ruffians standing in the doorway, set up a derisive cheer. The girls quickened their steps and passed by. But the shout had called out other ruffians who gathered in front of the second dairy, and who gave a responsive yell, as the girls approached. Caroline Tracy turned pale and her knees tottered. “What shall we do?” she asked her companion. “Do!” said Emma Sterling, “do! why walk straight ahead and show no fear. If you look round, or give a sign of fright, we are lost.” The slight young girl, as she spoke, walked. Ed more erect and looked more fearless. There was less danger she thought, and thought rightly, even for weakness, helplessness, to bear a defiant front, than in courting assault by the exhibition of cowardly fear. "They ate pretty ones, they are," said one of the ruffians, as the girls passed. "Come in my pretty dears, and rest yourselves." The girls kept on their way without answering a word. "You must not run off in that style," cried another. "It isn't civil. Shall we let the little S° without a word?" he continued, addressing his companions. "Let them go!" answered another, — "you'd better stay them first. They are good girls, I guess, and if they are, who would stop them." "I would," "and I," was the response of as many wretches. "There's not a man among you," said the first speaker, "who has a sister, who would molest these two girls. Come out here every man who has a sister, or a mother, and let's see if one of you would frighten or harm the pretty ones who have gone by." This appeal produced for a moment its proper effect. One after another the young men thus appealed to, disclaimed any design of harming the two girls. But two of the lot could not be reached by such an appeal. They had neither mothers, nor sisters, and uncontrolled by such softening and humanizing associations, they vented their ribald Laughter and jests on their companions. It so happened that they were the larger and the stouter, and urged on by their brutal propensities, and were able to defy all opposition. The mothers and sisters, said one of these two, with a brutal laugh and sneer, "may stay where they are, we'll be off after these pretty chickens." And with these words they started in pursuit. Caroline and Emma had, by rapid walking, placed some distance between themselves and their pursuers, neither daring to look behind. As the shouts ceased behind them, they became more courageous. "Perhaps they only did it to frighten us," said Caroline. "Perhaps so, but it is well enough to walk fast," was the reply of Emma. "I should so like to look back!" "And why not?" demanded Caroline. "Because, if they see us looking back, it may tempt them to follow. Walk as fast as you can, and keep your eyes straight ahead." They had proceeded nearly a mile when their apprehensive ears caught the sound of footsteps behind them. "Someone is coming," faltered out Caroline, and she quickened her steps to a run. "Stop, stop," exclaimed Emma, "if we are followed, let us walk slower. If we show fear in this lonely place, we are lost." The footsteps grew nearer, and a rough voice called to them, "Don't run so fast, gals; wait until we come up and then take your time." Emma stopped short, and turning round faced her pursuers. Caroline would rather have run, but seeing her companion halt, she also stopped and stood by her side, looking at the two men as they came up. "What do you want with "I am," Emma called out. “Only a kiss, sissy, and that we will have.” The girl looked round, and selecting a large stone, she picked it up and told Caroline to find one also. “If you approach any nearer,” she cried, raising in her two hands the stone, “I’ll beat your brains out.” A loud laugh and an offensive epithet from the foremost of the pursuers, was the only response. The girl stood perfectly still, holding the stone on a level with her head. “Keep off,” she cried, as the man came a few yards off. “Ha! ha! my little tigress,” he replied, rushing in at full speed. The next moment he lay senseless on the ground. With her feeble strength, the girl hurled the stone at the ruffian, which luckily struck him on the forehead and knocked him down. NEW YORK, SUNDAY MORNING, NOVEMBER 12, 1848. “Now We’ll run, Caroline,” said Emma, “the other one will stop to look after his friend, and they won’t trouble us any more.” The girls kept on their way, and were not pursued. After walking four hours, they arrived at last at Macomb’s Bridge. They had no money, and it was getting dark. With some difficulty they passed the bridge, and applied at the first or second house beyond it for shelter for the night. It was a good-looking, matronly woman who opened the door to the young wanderers and heard their story. “Two girls of your age, traveling alone, and trying to get back to Poughkeepsie!" she said, when Emma had finished speaking. "It is a singular story, and there’s so many imposters traveling round, I can’t believe it." "Do we look like imposters, Ma’am," said Caroline, speaking timidly. “No, you don’t look like them, but we can’t trust to appearances now-a-days.” “Do you think we could rob or injure you, if we wanted to do so,” asked Emma more boldly. “No, I don’t think you could,” said the woman, “but there’s so many improper characters going round, that an honest person is not safe in harboring them.” “But it’s hard to deny a night’s lodging to even bad persons, unless you think they could injure you,” put in Emma. “That’s true enough, but we must look after ourselves. We can’t feed and shelter every vagabond that comes along.” “We don’t want any food, Ma’am,” said Caroline; “we’ve enough with us; it’s only a shelter for the night. You needn’t let us into the house. We’ll lay on the hay in the barn, and thank you kindly, if you’ll give us leave.” “I shan’t do any such a thing,” the woman replied, fretfully. “I don’t believe that you are honest girls, to be wandering about this way, and if you don’t move off, I’ll call the dogs.” The two girls left the inhospitable door which was closed against them. It is so convenient to be suspicious and virtuous, when to be otherwise, would cost you the trouble of sheltering an unprotected head for the night, or feeding a famished fellow being, that the only wonder is, how anyone can be silly enough to do a generous act, unless through the agency of an organized charity, which holds its anniversary meetings, and tells to the world, in a carefully written report, just how much misery the organized charity has alleviated! This is the age of machinery, and it is getting to be shockingly vulgar to do anything in the old-fashioned way. The girls thus repulsed, walked along the ' narrow road, .which leads from Macomb’s , Dam to the High Bridge. As they drew near that gigantic structure, a fitting memorial of the gigantic enterprise of which it is so con spicuous a feature, they passed several farm houses, but durst not venture another appli cation for shelter. At last.they came to the shanties occupied by the poor families of the Irish laborers on the works. “ I know we shall find lodgings in any one of these huts to-night,” exclaimed Emma.— “They are very poor people, and they will not drive poor people away.” “ Do let us try them,” said Caroline, “ for I can’t walk any farther ; every step I take , pains me!” “ Keep up a good heart, Caroline, and we’ll be sound a sleep beneath a tight roof, among honest people, in Jess than an hour.” The girls walked_into one of the shanties, where a man and his wife, and two or three children were taking their evening meal. “ Could you give us a little place to lay down for the night in your house,” said Em ma, addressing himself to the man ? „„“Give you a little place to lay down!” the man exclaimed, looking curiously at the strangers—“ Sure., it’s not the best we have ourselves, an’ it may be never.a bit betther that we deserve, but ye’re entirely welcome to it, sich as it is. What d’ye say, Molly ?” “ Kin we do less, Morgie ?” said the wife; but where do you come from, sweethearts, and where are ye going to i” Emma repeated the same story that she had-told at the farm house below. “Sit ye down, sweethearts, and rest yourselves,” cried the warm-hearted Irish woman. “It may be, Morgie, that one of our own will be lonely and without a cabin to shelter her, or a pratie to eat, and the Lord sometimes makes the gentle and the good poor, and the hard-hearted and unfailing rich—it’s all in His wisdom, Morgie, but he never forgave them who turned the unfortunate from the door.” “It’s thrue for you, Molly, and the strangers are welcome to the bed and the roof. God help them that have never!” And so the poor Irishman, who worked twelve hours each day, for seven shillings, and received “store pay,” at that, was the true man, and his humble shanty, a palace—looked upon from the high Heavens! The next morning Caroline was weak, feverish, and foot-sore. It was evident enough they could not proceed on their journey that day, and, though unwillingly, Emma was compelled to ask of the honest Irishman another day’s hospitality, which was freely accorded. In the latter part of the afternoon the girls walked out to see the High Bridge. With childish curiosity they gazed upon its immense columns, and the arches which they sustained, and lost in wonder at the vastness of the work, they had forgotten their own sorrows, and their friendless position, when Emma was too painfully reminded of both. A slight tap on the shoulder caused her to turn, and she saw, standing by her side, Nevis, the Police officer. Caroline was a lit in advance of her, but her companion’s exclamation of surprise alarmed her. She saw Nevis, and would have fallen into a swoon, had not that word run to her assistance. “Well, my pretty runaways, I’ve come up with you at last, but it’s been a hard chase, and a difficult one, enquiring my way all along the avenue. Which of you was it that knocked down the rowdy at the milk house below. I’ve heard all about that, too. But come, it’s time that we were going back to town.” “We will not go with you,” said Emma, firmly; “we’ll call for help, and have you driven off.” “That’s a brave little soul, and I like it; but see, I’ve a warrant to arrest you, and no one will dare dispute it; look here.” And Nevis showed the warrant for their apprehension. “What shall we do?” said Caroline faintly. “Do! only go with me like good quiet girls, and don’t make a muss. Come, it won’t do any good. I’ve brought Timson along with me. “Hallo, Timson, where are you?” “Jack emerged at the call from behind a shanty, where he had been concealed, and came towards the girls. “O, Jack,” exclaimed Caroline, running towards him, “you here! and must we go back.” “That’s the best way, Caroline, according to my notion. But don’t be frightened,” he added, in a whisper, “it’s all right. Do you understand?” At nine O'clock, that same night, Ritton was informed by Nevis and Timson that Caroline Tracy and Emma Sterling were safe at Mrs. Randall’s in Spring street, and he set off at once for the house. From Buffalo to Buffalo. A rich joke. We copy the following amusing sketch from the Buffalo Courier: A great many funny things happen, and any quantity of amusing stories are told of occurrences that take place on railroads. A little incident transpired last week on the road between here and Rochester that is really about as good of its kind as anything we have heard lately, and proves, conclusively that “the longest way round is the surest way home.” One of our fellow citizens having business to transact at Syracuse, took the evening train, here, at 7 o’clock, and departed on his journey. Having been laboriously engaged during the and considerably fatigued, he fell sound asleep just the other side of Attica and only stirred from his position when the conductor came about to collect tickets. The train was rapidly approaching Rochester. Here, as the traveler will remember, passengers are transferred to another train, which takes them east; and those who had come down from the west had arranged themselves comfortably in the other train, — all except “our friend.” He was so sound asleep that nothing woke him. The consequence was that that the cars started promptly at their time, and he was left. So happened that no one went into the car and he remained perfectly undisturbed. The train from the east arrived just as the other was, leaving, and passengers for Buffalo left the cars in which they had been riding, and stepped into those going west—into the same train, in fact, by which “our friend” had gone to Rochester, and where he still remained enjoying a magnificent nap. Another conductor was in charge of the train, and when near the water station, six miles west of the city, gave the usual significant intimation “Tickets!” “Our friend,” had to be tapped on the shoulder once or twice before he “took” and seeing a new conductor, supposed everything was all right. “Do you go through, sir?” asked the conductor. “Yes,” replied the sleepy-head, with a yawn. “I’ll take your fare ” “How much?” “Eleven shillings.” “Well, that's cheap!” (Supposing doubtless that he was paying from Rochester to Auburn.) And forking over the amount he subsided into his former position to finish his snooze. Two hours more brought them to Attica; but not even the noise and confusion at that great point, nor the sonorous announcement that the cars will stop fifteen minutes, and give passengers plenty of time for refreshment, could disturb the slumbers of “our friend” Those fifteen minutes, however, soon passed; the Engineer’s bell rang; the conductor gave a twitch of the Bed-cord, and the train was open somewhere near Peter’s milk metropolis, the conductor open the car door, and exploded on the word "Tick-HTS!" But “our friend” was deaf to the intimation. “Ticket, sir, said the conductor, giving him a good shake on the shoulder. “What?” “Take your fare, if you please.” “Oh!—Yes—By George! I’ve slept like a book all the way; never had a better nap in the cars in my life. What’s the fare?” “Ninety-three cents, sir.” “Well, that is cheap—cheaper than I ever paid before,” (the fare from Auburn to Syracuse is eight or nine shillings,) and after paying up, he wiggled about until he got “quicked up in about the same attitude in which he had been reposing, and went at it again. By and by the cars arrived at the depot, and he was necessarily roused up. ’Twas no use to try and sleep amid such an uproar as there is when a train arrives here, and he accordingly slid out. On alighting, he stopped short—stared about—rubbed his eyes—stared again—looked at the lamps—then at the conductor, and finally exclaimed — “Well!—by thunder!” “What is the matter?” asked the conductor. “This is too bad.” “What?” —“Look here, friend, I should just like to know, where I am?” “Why, in Buffalo to be sure; you can’t go any farther west on this road.” —“Well, this is pretty business. Last night I took the cars here to go to Syracuse, and now I find myself at five o'clock in the morning at Buffalo! If I am an ass, then there never was one. And off he went muttering and swearing, to and at himself; the swearing being done up in a language nervous, but very inelegant; strong, but very unsentimental; such as would be quite improper to ears polite. The fact is, it's just as Reed told him, the only correct way to go to Syracuse is to be sure that you take the right train at Rochester. “I Can’t Spare Time.”—This is a favorite excuse with which lazy people contrive to shirk their duties, and we are glad to see it exploded by some moralist as follows: “The four words with which we head this article, in the effects which they have produced, have been the cause of a great deal of mischief, and have kept many from embarking manfully in the work of storing up intellectual treasures. When the young man is urged to commence at once the work of study, he turns and lets fall the four simple words, — “I can’t spare time,” and thinks he has given sufficient excuse from further attention to the subject. There are many mechanics too, who, instead of doing their part towards the cultivation of their own minds, and throwing their influence and talent into the general stock for the improvement of an association, satisfy themselves with the observation, and perhaps really think they “can’t spare the time.” The excuse is a very handy one, and has passed current too long, for, in a majority of cases there is neither sense nor truth in it. In the first place, it need not occupy a greater portion of time, for, by proper management, a large share of invaluable information may be obtained in a short time; of this many may be convinced by trying the experiment. There is enough lost or wasted in the pursuit of what men call pleasure, which, if properly applied, would place them in a high state of cultivation. Time can be found to ride, and dance, and sing—time can be found to lounge and talk nonsense; but, alas! how... Many think they “can’t spare time” to cultivate the neblest and best part of their nature that alone which elevates and causes them to feel the “divinity within.” Revised Saws—Many hands make light work. That may be true enough in a needle factory—but in an anchor shop many hands make “heavy work.” Many words will not fill a bushel. Of course not, How can words fill a bushel when they are “out of all measure?” Meditation is the fountain of discourse. Men inoculated with religion don't have much of it. That is to say, it don't affect their lives—they don't die with it. Mischief comes by the pound and goes by the ounce. This is half true, at least. We have witnessed several cases of violent personal assault and battery, where very serious mischief came by the pound—but how it went away we can't testify, as we came away first. When the officers and crew of the Empire steamer on Lake Erie were transferred to another craft, a negro-waiter belonging to the boat was encountered in the street by someone who asked: "Why, Pomp, you haven't left the Empire, have you?" "Oh, yes," he replied; "I and Captain Wagstaff's boat quit!" Wasn't that a characteristic reply?—Knickerbocker. THE FRUIT VENDER. It is a rule among respectable, itinerating apple-women and fruit-girls, not to interfere with each other's business. There is no regular organization, nor any written rules; but the unwritten law, or what may be called the common law of regularly established apple-women, is this: If an outsider enter on the route of an apple-woman, she shall be kindly remonstrated with by the party injured; if she persist, she shall be warned by The three apple-women whose routes lie nearest to that broken in upon; if she repent not after the second warning, she shall be deemed an outlaw, and let loose to the fury of every apple-woman who may encounter her. This office has been supplied with fruit, candy, and nuts, for the last three years, by a most estimable lady, whose route takes in Fulton street, from the ferry to Broadway, thence along Nassau street as far as Spruce, down Spruce to Gold, up Gold to Beekman, and so down to the East River. Six months ago an outsider entered the office with two large baskets, which contained a most tempting variety of fruit and sweetants. She seemed to know that, in entering into competition with an established concern, she must have as good, if not a better stock, and sell as cheap as the person whose customers she was trying to get away. In this, the woman evinced sound sense and business tact, and we have no doubt she would have been rewarded with success, but for the stringent rules and regulations already quoted. Surely it is better to sell a finer apple at the same price, than to attempt to pass off a prematurely withered, unripe, sour and unhealthy thing, at the price of good fruit, by abusing the honest vendor already in the field, and whose business and profits the intruder covets. We commend the wisdom of the apple-woman to great numbers of people, and we will reduce it to a maxim, which we advise them to paste into their catechism and often con. If you have a load of apples, punting. A DANGEROUS ADVENTURE. A correspondent of the Boston Courier, writing from the wilds of Maine, relates the following incident of a moose hunt: It is but a little while ago that a white man in this vicinity was crossing a belt of words which separated a neighbor’s ‘cleaning’ from his own, when he heard his dog making a great outcry at a little distance. He repaired to the spot and there found the dog had got a young moose by the muzzle, and was holding him to a strict account. The man immediately came up and seized the animal by his hind legs, and between him and the dog were upon the point of flooring their prize, when a tremendous crashing was heard among the trees. Looking up, the man beheld the mother of the young moose close upon him at full gallop, and with erect ears and dilated nostrils, exhibiting a most ferocious aspect. Having no weapon of defense he came to the judicious conclusion to cut stick and run, which he immediately did for dear life. The moose, who stood six feet in her stockings, stopped a moment to extricate her off spring from the dog, and having accomplished this, started in full pursuit after the man, who had now got a few rods the start. It quickly became an alarming, exciting race. Two legs were soon seen to be no match for four, and our hero found that he could only win by stratagem. He ran as never man ran before, looking at the trees and upturned roots and windfalls as he sped, for a hiding place. But he saw nothing which promised a sufficient refuge from the enraged animal, now hard upon his heels. He had made two or three abrupt turns, in the hope of avoiding the pursuit, and the moose once ran by, as he sheltered himself in the green branches of a recent windfall. She quickly discovered her error, however, and turned her furious steps towards him. The spot was one of those places sometimes seen in our woods, where a summer tornado has passed over and rooted up an acre or two of the largest trees, and piled them in the wildest confusion, across one another. Its ragged surface interposed great obstacles to the moose, while it afforded corresponding advantages to the man. Remaining in the top a moment, a take breath, and to watch the movements of his ferocious pursuer, our hero found himself shaken from his hold, and landed about ten feet down in a clump of blackberry bushes. The moose had made a sudden lunge towards him, and missing her foothold, had herself brought up about six feet from where he fell on the ground. This was getting into close quarters. The juxta position was altogether disagreeable in such a neck-or-nothing race. Our friend, while in the top of the windfall, having bethought him of a pole-bridge across a logging-road, at the foot of a “horseback,” which he saw on one side of him, was on his feet in an instant, and had pulled foot half way up its aclivity before the moose again put her eye on him. She was after him in a jiffy, and gained the top of a bluff-ridge about as quick as he. He heard a snort at his back, and knew that another leap of the mad beast would bring her full upon him. The opposite side of the “horseback” was very rugged and precipitous. He caught a glimpse of the old bridge about five rods below. Seizing hold of the top of a scrub pine, whose roots were bedded half way down the hill, he sprang forward, not knowing where he should fetch up. The tree bent down the bank like a bow, and landed him plump into the bed of the stream. The moose plunged over the hill at the same moment, but stumbled on its steep and rocky sides, and falling nearly end over end, finally brought up all standing on the bridge. By this time the object of her rage was under it, secure from all harm. The game was now up. After a few minutes of silent bewilderment at the sudden and unexpected termination of the chase, the moose walked off, and the man walked home. The Martin.—The Martin is a domestic bird, sociable, and decidedly fond of company. He is a great talker, seldom silent, unless the heat of the day compels him to seek the shade of his chamber, where he is, no doubt, although you can’t hear him, engaged in a little loving chat with his wife. We love to listen, from out our open window, to him and his companions in the cool of the morning. “Birds have no language,” says one of your matter-of-fact people. We don’t believe a word of it. We know that martins can talk. We have heard them, and if anyone doesn’t believe us, let him sit down for ten minutes within ear-shot of a colony of them. Our word for it, he We will admit that we are right. We have listened much to the martins. 