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beaten out of the husks, they must be kept in a dry place. Examine your wall-fruit trees, and nail the loose branches to the wall. This will protect them, and give the fruit the benefit of the sun and air. If the fruit is too thickly covered with leaves, some of them should be removed. A moderate shade of leaves is good ; too many will prevent the fruit from getting its proper colour or flavour. But take care not to expose the fruit too much. Look at your vines, and see that the grapes are not thickly shaded by leaves or branches. Take away any loose shoots, and remove leaves when they are too thick. If any bunches are entangled between the branches and the wall, set them at liberty. The bunches of grapes when they are ripening may be put into crape bags; bags made of newspaper are thought by some to be a still better protection; some sorts of
paper will not stand against rain. Let those who are going to plant a vine, see that they get a good sort; there are some fine large sorts, which of late years have been planted out of doors, and seem to grow to as large a size as in a hot-house. A bunch of these is worth a dozen of the little shabby sort. Let those who have to gather apples, be careful to do it properly. If they pull off a piece of the tree with the fruit, they will generally find that they have got the shoot which would bring the next year's blossom. Towards the latter end of the month, trees, when the leaves are falling off, may be transplanted, and will have a chance of getting a good hold before winter. You may now plant out strawberry runners. The first shoot from the root is the best, and will often bear fruit the next season. Those who planted runners into a nursery bed early in the season, may now plant them out into their proper places. Plant out such layers of carnations, &c. as have got good roots. Bulbous roots may be put in now..
Anecdote of Bishop Wilson.
ADVICE FOR EVERY SEASON.
In bealth to be stirring shall profit thee best,
(Added to the Funeral Hymn * of the late Bishop of Calcutta, on
hearing of the Death of the Bishop.)
Twou art gone to the grave! and whole nations bemoan thee,
J. M. T.
ANECDOTE OF BISHOP WILSON. Having given orders to his taylor to make him a s cloak, the bishop desired him only to put a button
and a loop in it to keep it together. " My lord," said the tailor, “what would become of the poor button-makers and their families, if every one thought in that way? they would be starved outright." "Do
"Do you say so?" said the bishop. “Yes, my lord, I do.
Then button it all over," was the answer.
* For the Hymn alluded to, see Cottager's Montbly Visitor, page 9, vol. vi.
To the Editor of the Cottager's Monthly Visitor.
SIR, MAY I be permitted to offer to the younger female inmates of the Cottage, a few words of friendly advice, dictated by the experience of nearly fifty years? Yes, my young friends, nearly fifty years have I resided in London from necessity; and I have felt it my duty to move contentedly in the sphere in which Providence has placed me; I have, however, paid many visits to the country, and am fully sensible of its many beauties and advantages. There have I seen a cheerful countenance, and blooming health on the cheek of many a country maiden, contented with the daily round of her humble but useful labours; and I have frequently sighed to think that ere long, perhaps, some thoughtless acquaintance should persuade the credulous girl that London possesses attractions more valuable than those which the country affords. I have seen many instances where this mistake has been attended with ruinous consequences. I have seen the quiet, modest, affectionate girl, the prudent, dutiful, and religious daughter, changed to à forward, vicious, extravagant, disobedient, and unhappy outcast. This change, indeed, did not occur at once ;-the lessons taught by the fond and careful parents, the instruction both in church and at home instilled into the pliant heart by the elergyman of the parish, were not to be overcome in an instant. But they were overcome.
She listened to the inconsiderate,--she became (step by step) discontented-undutiful—rebellious-irreligious-miserable. We have all our assigned duties ;-we have all temptations to withstand :-surely, then, those young people should be the most thankful whose duties are of such a nature as will keep them under the best protection from temptation. And when duty calls a child to remain under her parent's
The Wolf and the Lamb.
423 roof, if those parents are affectionate and Christian-minded parents, where can she be so happy? What can be more pleasing than those labours which may (in some degree) repay the kindness of those parents during the years of infancy and childhood ? Consider well then before you give up the pleasures, the comforts, and the safety of a country life, for the dangers, the inconveniences, and the uncertainty of bettering your condition (even in a pecuniary view) by a visit to London. If indeed some kind friend or guardian will take charge of you, in whose residence you will be constantly and industriously employed, it might then be right for you to accept the opportunity. It may be your duty to do so, and may afford you an opportunity of assisting your parents. But consult them first.
The following Fable (from “ Old Friends in a new Dress”) seems to me so appropriate to this subject, that I cannot deny myself the pleasure of adding it.
S. P. London, August 6th, 1827.
THE WOLF AND THE LAMB.
Tue dogs were sleeping, stretch'd at ease,
The lambkins cropp'd the tender blade,
Upon his pipe the shepherd play'd.
Where he his fleecy charge was keeping;
Through which, of course, a lamb was peeping.
Just then was walking near the place,
One of the little woolly race.
“What look you for, what seek you here?” “ Seeking for tender grass I am,"
The wolf replied, “ my little dear."
“ For my delight is grass, you know,
And the clear stream is all I drink.”
And that was very wrong I think.
“My parents call'd you beast of prey,
Bid me beware, and not to doubt it;" “ Miss,” said the wolf“ mind what I say,
There's not a word of truth about it.
Your parents warn’d you, I suppose,
Of straying far from their protection ;
And call’d their harsh restraint, affection. « Come through to me, and we will go
To those gay scenes wbich they deny you ;"2 " Sir," said the lamb," you tempt me so
I really have a mind to try you. " Yet sadly will my mother grieve,
(By former kindnesses I tell)
Once more-just once, to say farewell. “ But can I thus, unmoved, elope?
Her love, her counsels, all forego;
Her kind advice is good-I know: " Yet I will go-this tiresome field
No more my gay pursuits shall smother;
Adicu, my kind, my tender mother!"
The wolf, impatient for his prey,
And bore the struggling prize away.
To think the innocent and young Should weakly lend a list’ning ear,
To a delusive flatt'ring tongue? O may the wicked ne'er entice,
My readers to their artful spare ! Bless'd with a parent's kind advice,
And safe beneath her fostring care!