thousand dollars were like so many anchors, and I stayed and wrote: I was unconscious, and thus the husband of Dora (for I had no doubt it was him who I leave to my daughter Dora, all the satis- brought me home,) had ascertained the fact and faction she can obtain from my hearty curse. paid my bill. Added to this, my wound was When rags whip about her in her only home, not severe enough to need any surgery, morex the street and dogs share with her the refuse." See, Dora," said he, "is not this our old of the gutter, she may regret that she disobeyed friend?" him who once loved her, but who, dying, cursed her." There was something like a chuckle in the direction of old Angeline as the dying wretch dictated these fearful words; but as I looked and saw the stern face as rigid as marble, I concluded I must have been mistaken. I could not, however, divest myself of a certain feeling that all was wrong. A rich old man, accompanied by an old housekeeper, and dying in a strange city, her anxiety to have the will so strong; the curse on his daughter; and the large fee, all conspired to make me feel that I was being instrumental in the accomplishment of some villainous object. Again I meditated the destruction of the paper, and again my fee and my wants conquered. The will was finished, and I read it over aloud, the old man groaning, and the old woman looking an occasional assent; but when I read the terrible curse, a new actor appeared on the scene. Oh! tear it! tear it! Oh God, you know not what you do!" The plantive tones of that voice touched my heart, even before my eyes beheld its owner; but when I saw her, heavens and earth! what an angel she was! The language is yet undiscovered, Harry, that is competent to give you a description of that face, the eyes dancing with excitement, yet liquid with tears; the mouth proud as Juno's, yet compressed with anguish. But why do I attempt a description? The most majestic, yet the sweetest countenance I ever beheld, appealed to me, and not in vain; for while the old man, weak as he was, jumped from his bed screaming "Kill her! kill her!" I tore the will into fragments, and we both fell to the door, he dead, and I stunned by a blow from the heavy candlestick wielded by the old hag, Angeline. When my consciousness returned, I found myself in my own bed at my boarding house, my host and hostess my sole attendants. My mind was clear the moment I looked about me, and I knew I had been brought home, and was now confined from the effects of that blow. I resolved to keep my own counsel, and ascertain what I could of the subsequent proceeding of the night. Upon inquiry I found that I had been brought home by a gentleman in a carriage, who had left funds for the employment of a physician, and had also left a letter for me. I opened the letter as I was alone, and found a fifty-dollar bank-note, with these words: "You did last night a deed worthy of more gratitude than our present means enable us to express. The property which so nearly belonged to the infamous hag who struck you will soon be ours; and you shall then hear from us. May the same kindness which prompted you to tear the paper, seal your lips hereafter as to the scenes of last evening! Gratefully yours, DORA AND HER HUSBAND. My first act was to conceal the letter beneath my pillow; my second to call my host and tender him the amount of my board bill; to my astonishment he told me that my companion paid him when he left the letter. It seemed I raved a little about my inability to pay my host while At the word "Dora," I started; and there before me, sure enough, stood the Dora of thirty years previous; still retaining many of her charms, but with the marks of time, notwithstanding, impressed upon her features. You may well believe our re-union was most pleasant; and after dinner was over, and we were out enjoying the sea-breeze, the whole story was told me. I will not give you the details of it; it was long, but the main features of it were about what I had surmised. Dora was the only child of her wealthy father; her mother died when she was a mere child; old Angeline had remained with her father in the capacity of a housekeeper, and had, while Dora was away at school acquired, as is generally the case, complete influence over him. Dora was wooed and won by a poor clerk; the father would not listen to it; an elopement was the consequence; and the old man in his rage broke up housekeeping, and taking old Angeline with him, had started for the South. Dora followed him with her husband, although she knew he would not see her, and although he had always been harsh and unkind to her, yet she knew he was in the last stages of consumption, and she determined, if possible, to be with him when he died. At the time of his death, they had been following him about a month from place to place, keeping concealed from him, and eluding the keen eyes of Angeline. When Dora appeared in the room, it was only because the man-servant, who had been with her father, and who, as you remember, left the room when I entered, had observed their arrival, and had gone kindly to her and informed her that her father could not live an hour; she was entering the room to make one last effort at reconciliation, when my voice reading the fearful words of her father's curse caused the outcry and the denouement. Her husband, who followed her in, found the old man dead, Dora in a swoon, me senseless, and old Angeline in vain trying to put the many pieces of the will together, raving and cursing like a bedlamite. He and the man-servant put the old man's body into the bed, took Dora to her room, and with the servant kept guard over Angeline, took me home in a carriage. The rest you know. I have only to add that, whenever I wander north, either alone or with my wife and family, we always stop at the house of our kind friends. They have spent one winter with us at the south, and we expect them again in the coming season. And the young gentleman who studied law under my instruction, and who now practices law with my name on the sign with his (as senior partner, although he does all the business,) is Dora's son, and from certain conscious looks and bright blushing ou my pretty daughter's cheek when he calls, I imagine he may possibly be mine, too. But of this, Harry, rest assured-I shall not curse her if she marries him. than was offered by my kind landlady; so when I recovered, (which was soon) I had only my office rent to pay, and then resumed business with the larger part of fifty dollars in my treasury. I made cautious inquiries about the -House as to the subsequent movements of the mysterious clients, but could only ascertain that the old couple arrived on that eventful night, the old man ordering a pleasant room in which he could die; that the young couple came by another conveyance, and had taken other rooms; that the old man's body was immediately boxed up and shipped for the north under charge of his man-servant; the young man paid the whole bill, and left also with his wife. To do my worthy host and kind lady full justice, I must say that they never even hinted at the matter, and I never had a question to answer; they probably took it for granted that I had been the victim of some broil, and avoided annoying me by any reference to it. Thirty years of hard work rolled by, Harry, during which I acquired a family, fortune, name, and gray hairs; but I never, in all that time, saw or heard from my clients, with the exception of one letter, which was received some years after the occurrences which I have related, and which contained two more fifty-dollar bills, with the words: "We are very happy; may God bless you!" "DORA " But in all that time, I have never forgotten that beautiful, angelic face, nor the mute appeal which it made to my heart; the answer which cost me the deep scar which is the subject of your present curiosity, and a one thousand dollar fee, less the amount received from the young folks. Neither did I, in all that time, regret the course I took. Some ten years ago, as you probably remember, I spent a winter in Havana. I boarded with a Spanish landlord, whose house was generally filled with American visitors. But strange to say, I passed one week without a single American arrival, and I was mentally resolving one day to leave for New Orleans, where I could find troops of friends, and rid myself of the ennui consequent upon my solitary position, when I heard my host calling to me: will gladly put him in the way of obtaining money by means more likely to bring him peace of mind." This singular advertisement attracted considerable attention: but the culprit alone knew who made the kind offer. When he read it, his heart melted within him, and he was filled with sorrow for what he had done. A few nights afterwards, as the tanners family were about retiring to rest, they heard a timid knock; and when the door was opened, there stood John Smith with a load of hides on his shoulder. Without looking up, he said, "I have brought these back, Mr. Savary; where shall I put them?" "Wait till I can get a lantern, and I will go to the barn with thee," he replied; then perhaps thou wilt come in, and tell me how this happened. We will see what can be done for thee." As soon as they were gone out, his wife prepared some hot coffee, and placed pies and meat on the table. When they returned from the barn, she said, "Neighbor Šmit), I thought some hot supper would be good for thee." He turned his back toward her, and did not speak. After leaning against the fireplace a few moments, he said in a choked voice, "It is the first time I ever stole anything, and I have felt very bad about it. I am sure I did'nt once think that I should ever come to what I am. But I took to drinking, and then to quarreling Since I began to go down hill everybody gives me a kick. You are the first man that has ever offered me a helping hand.-My wife is sickly and my children are starving. You have sent them many a meal; God bless you; and yet I stole the hides.-But I tell you the truth, when I say it is the first time I was ever a thief." 66 Let it be the last, my friend," replied William Savary. "The secret still remains between ourselves. Thou art still young, and Senor, Senor, los Americanos-Americanos." it is in thy power to make up for lost time. Looking from my window, I saw a fine, port- Promise me that thou wilt not drink any inly gentleman attending to his luggage, and an-toxicating liquor for a year, and 1 will employ swering the demands of the thousand and one leeches of porters who each claimed to have brought something for him. Thinking that I might be of service to him, I went out and with two or three dimes dispersed the villians, who, knowing me for an old stager, submitted to my orders. The gentleman turned to thank me, but suddenly started back, then glanced at my temple, and seeing the end of my candle-stickmark peeping out beneath my sombrero, he caught me by the hand, exclaiming: We have met before, sir! how glad I am to see you!" And then, without explanation, he drew me to the door-way, in which stood a matronly but still beautiful woman. thee to-morrow, on good wages. The little boy can pick up stones. But eat a bit now, and drink some hot coffee. Perhaps it will keep thee from craving anything stronger to-night. Doubtless thou wilt find it hard to abstain at first; but keep up a brave heart, for the sake of thy wife and children, and it will soon become easy. When thee hast need of coffee, tell Mary and she will always give it thee." The poor fellow tried to eat and drink, but the food seemed to choke him. After vainly trying to compose his feelings he bowed his head on the table, and wept like a child. After a while he ate and drank, and his host parted with him for the night, with the friendly words, "Try to do well, John, and thou wilt always find a friend in me." He entered into his employ the next day, and remained with him many years, a sober, honest, and faithful man. secret of the theft was kept between them; but after John's death, William Savary sometimes told the story, to prove that evil might be overcome with good. The Years are the milestones which tell us the distance we have traveled, but it is rarely that women count them. Conversation was hid for a long time, until it was discovered in a bag of filberts. Some persons are fond of "opening their minds" to you, as if it were a dirty linen bagonly to let you see the foul things that can drop out of it. Original. Lines to Miss Swiftly down the rapid river, Seems the great hereafter, maiden, From the National Era. BY J. G. WHITTIER. We cross the prairie as of old The pilgrims crossed the sea, We go to rear a wall of men On Freedom's southern line, We'er flowing from our native hills, We go to plant our common schools And give the Sabbath of the wild Upheaving like the ark of old, The Bible in our van, We go to test the truth of God Against the fraud of man. No pause, nor rest, save where the streams Save where our Pilgrim gonfalon Shall flout the setting sun! We'll sweep the prairie as of old Our fathers swept the sea, And make the West, as they the East, The Ruined Potter. From Dickens's Household Words. K. they themselves with feeble bodies and accumulated debts, which had run on wildly during sickness. First, James was put into jail for the doctor's bill, and then the landlord distrained for rent, and turned them on the world; and so they were ruined. James Fielding came out of Stafford jail a changed character-more clever and less capable of work; daintier, but not so refined; prouder, but not more honorable; the edge was taken from the mind and given to the appetites. Nevertheless, he was a fond father, for he shortly came one again, and a loving husband to a wife who doated on him. But a thoroughly fallen man seldom rights himself, and bankruptcy is a break up for life in the constitution of successful industry. James Fielding labored, but his toil was thriftless; he found friends, but one way or other, he let in everybody who had any thing to do with him. By degrees he got, as was natural, a very bad character, and, as is generally the case under such circumstances, without altogether deserving it. He was an unfortunate but not an evil man; and we all know how fallen bodies quicken in their descent. Still, he was a man born to suffer, and to earn his bread by the sweat of his brow. Men of all countries, stations and fortunes must labor, from the serf to the lord, and Fielding's destiny was only that of his sex. But the gentle, pretty girl whom he had taken from her father's home to comfort and to comfort, to keep his fireside neat, and to to nurse his little ones around him, her lot was not cast by God for labor, for toil, and moil, and anguish; yet who can tell what arrows of grief pierced that woman's heart during her twelve years apprenticeship to wifedom! Who shall describe the unwomanly miseries, alas! too common in England, of her daily shifts and struggles; her pigmy, gaunt looks; her threadbare clothes, insufficient to protect her from the winter weather; her hard day labor; her sharp endurance of her children's hunger, and forgetfulness of her own; her long, sad catalogue of distresses, compared with which the pains of childbirth, and even the death of the child at the breast, are nothing, being feminine sufferings. This poor, woe begone mother stood before good curate Godfrey, one of a noiseless wayfaring body of Christian men who make little stir beyond their own parish, but are there constantly felt and heard of: the true disciples of the Father of the poor, the world's first teacher of quiet charity. "He be goin' fast-indeed he be," said Mary Fielding, speaking of the potter, who had been down some weeks with a low fever. "Tis hard to lose the father of one's children. I could ha' borne any stroke but this'n. Every where is a church-yard now-the life is dug out o' me." James Fielding was the son of a potter, and "Do not murmur, but think of the past. I rebred up to his father's trade. He married young member christening some of those children when long before he could keep a wife-and with he and you were full of health and joy. In this both his parent's consent, or rather forgiveness, journey of life, Mary, there is no hill without its as they could not help themselves. For, as they hollow. Your neighbor, Susan Jackson, will not said, it war very natural, an' he might ha' done have to mourn the loss of a husband, for she has worse; 'twar, to be sure, the first time, and be- never known the love and protection of one; and Eke he wouldn't do it agen. And so they cordi- when she goes she will not leave orphans to ally shook hands with him, and pledged the pret-grieve for her. But, for all that, Susan is lonely ty bride in a flagon of Burton, and were both and destitute, and says no one cares for her." present at the first child's christening. But the cholera came soon afterwards, and took off the old man and his wife. This was the opening scene of James Fielding's sufferings want, pestilence, and death. His wife and himself were soon afterwards both seized with a disorder, and though they recovered slowly, it was only to find their father and mother, and first born child, removed from their once comfortable home to the churchyard, and "Mayhap; but she can't be sorry for what she never had; and poor folk didn't ought to be fanciful. 'Tis me, sir, partin' wi' my husband, that should fret. "But you should remember, Mary, that when James and you were married, it was on the condition that you were to part one day. We must not forget the ninety-nine favors because the hundreth is not granted. The Lord gave and the Lord taketh away." "Oh, sir, 'tis beautiful to hear ye talk; you always say summut so comfortin', feelin' and sensible like. One is ashamed to grumble afore you, 'tis so selfish and ill-natured." "But how are the little ones, Mary?" "I can't say much for 'em, sir; they be but poorly." "They have had some food to day I hope?" "Tis early yet, sir." It was past mid-day. "But indeed they hante well." 'Did they eat anything last night before lying down?" "Baby had a sup o' gruel out o' James's cup, but Billy and Jacky, and the t'other ent had nothing." "And you?" "Oh, sir, God be praised, I am use to it. Ten years is a long 'prentisage. 'Tis surprisin' how the famine feeds itself. An' then the children cries, an' him a dyin' drives the thought away from me. I a'nt got the hard stomach o' hunger, sir; 'tis unfeelin' in a mother." No wonder she did not feel the gnawings of want; she had passed her being into other existences; she had lost her identity in the wife and mother. "Well, well, we must do something for the children, Mary." "Oh, sir, I did na come for that. What I want is work, You ha' comed atween us an' death many's a time. But indeed, what I am here for is, afore Jeames goes I wish he could see you, sir, an' talk wi' you a bit. His mind be strange an' uncomfortable like, about religion." Mr. Godfrey passed along to the potter's cottage. There had been some smart refreshing showers during the day, and the grass was healthily green, and the flowers were vigorous and balmy, and here and there was the restless uneasy chirp in the tree or hedge, of the young bird in its nest. The sheep were settling down for the night in the meadows; and the cows, after milking, were scattered over the distant pasturages. At intervals there was an unyoked horse exulting in abundance and freedom. The poor saluted Mr. Godfrey as he passed, and the rich cordially greeted him, for he was universally beloved. "All God's works are beautiful and happy," said he to himself, as he wound among the green lands and gazed upon the broad benignant sky. "Man alone makes the world miserable. I cannot think the design of Providence was to make the chief of a joyous creation wretched. The departing sun shines on these dingy cottages, and the straggling flowers bloom cheerfully, and cast their sweetness abroad on the air. Outside is God's work, within, is man's." And the curate entered the cabin of James Fielding, the potter. There had evidently been preparations made to receive him. The clay floor was newly sprinkled and swept, and the few articles of cookery and china, nearly all misshapen, or otherwise defective, were as clean as the pebbles in a river. The children's faces, hands, and feet-for they had no shoes-were all fresh from the washing basin, and their hair was sleekly combed across their foreheads. There was evident poverty, but an equally evident wish to conceal it. vestige of furniture or ornament was in the Mayhap he be; but men tell their wives what, room, beyond the few articles of earthenware if they could, they would hide from God; an' I mentioned; all the rest, to the three-legged stool ha' heerd him say awful things, he war always for the baby, had either been sold or burnt for so courageous like. Howsomdever, his hour befuel. There were three or four hossacks of hay come, an' he ha' loosed his darin', and believes jist like a child. I thought, if he could on'y see "I thought him a believer. Mary." you, sir." Mr. Godfrey rang the bell. An aged but notable servant came. Not a for seats, but these, too, had been preyed on for fuel, and ran out at the sides; and there were some layers of chipped, dried up straw, as a bed in the corner. On this was stretched the dying man. The eldest boy ran to borrow a chair as Mr. Godfrey entered, and the thrifty house wife had just drawn the old rags from the three lower "Oh, no, no, sir! 'Tis only my way, what panes of the glassless and only window in the you see in my face; I war alway palish like-hovel, to let the sun and air in. This was the leastways this many a day." Martha, bring Mrs. Fielding a little warm bread and milk." Martha, who had promptly obeyed her master, returned in a few minutes with a basin. "There, take that, gentle Mary, it will warm you," abode of an Englishman in the heart of England. The patient had been propped up somewhat on his straw, and a neighbor had shaved him and lent him a shirt, which, though old, was clean. So, what with well-washed skin and combed The child'en-the poor hun-hair, and a cup of refreshing tea, he was prepar "Will you forgive me, sir? Indeed I cannot. It 'ud choke me. gry child'en, sir!" "They shall be thought of." Mr. Godfrey left the room, shortly after, returning with his long surtout buttoned closely up and a small parcel in his hand. "This contains a loaf, Mary, and something else you know what to do with it. Let me have the ticket when I call, which will be in the course of the evening. Leave me now.' The comforted mother looked on Heaven's minister, and then up to heaven, and passed noiselessly through the small door, with faith, hope, and maternal love-the three strongest pulses of the heart-to support her. She had the only full and perfect lesson of religion-charity. But she did not know, until she got to the pawn shop, that the poor curate had taken his only waistcoat from his back to feed her children Then indeed the tide of religion came strong upon her. So true it is, that one act of kindness is worth a volume of sermons in converting people. The curate's vest was a baptismal robe to the unregenerated spirit of Mary Fielding, the free thinking potter's wife. It was on an evening in the middle of June that ed to receive the curate's visit in something of a decent and Christian manner. One of the boys was in, or rather on the bed-for there was no covering-from sheer nakedness. He partly nestled in the straw, and was partly concealed by the rags taken from the window; he was contented and happy, for he had had the blessing of a full meal; a rarity in the hut of the dying potter. The curate took the chair borrowed for him, placed it by the bedside, and leaned towards the sick man. Well, James, how do you feel now??? Better, sir, thank you; but still weakly. God will bless you for what you ha' done. 'Tis many a long day sin' I could prove my gratitude to anybody." "Never mind that. The Searcher of all hearts knows your intentions, James." "Yes-true! But d'ye think God heeds a poor critter like me?" "Undoubtedly. Our Father." "Ah! Good-good. But I never found a true friend but Him and yourself, sir-they all forsook and misbelied me. I never was as bad as people made me; He knows that, and the chil- and they will remain, under Providence, to be a dren. One's hearth is a fair assize." "True a fond husband and a kind father cannot be a very bad man. I never believed you ill disposed Fielding." "No, bless thee for it, and He will bless thee. Ye ha' made me a Christian; the ways o' the world made me an infidel long ago. A man kindly treated, feels like a Christian, sir." "But we must give up resentments now. I see, by your countenance, you will soon meet your God. Prepare, Fielding, for that great judgment.' "Yes, I know it will soon come, an' that ha' changed me. But, indeed, sir, I am weary of the world. If it war not for her and the children, I had gone years back." "The Christian religion always supposes poverty and suffering, James. Were all the world sinless and happy, the Atonement had been useless." "I can well believe this'n o' thee, sir." If yer were dumb an' blind, yer han' would preach; 'tis the on'y sarmint as goes home to a hungry man. Fine words be o' small account. But when a rich parson, or a bishop, or such as never gives, an' never suffers, tells starving poor fellows like me to bear their crosses, as the only road to heaven, it looks like humbug, sir. If heaven is to be won by poverty-sartintly nothing is so easy for 'em as to give all they ha' more than enow, to feed the hungry, an' comfort the afflicted." "Ah, James, this is bad grace in a dying man. It is enough for every one to look to himself; to bear his own burden, and to know that in the midst of trial, and sorrow, and suffering, he can have recourse to One who knew them all on the earth. This, surely, is fair comfort." "It be, sir. "Tis at the point I am at now, a man feels he must believe in some religion, an' there is none so nat'ral like as our own. A dying man is not a doubter. I wish I ha' been o' this way o' thinkin' long ago-'twould ha' made me content-an' a contented man is a regular man, an' a regular man is a toilsome man, an' a toilsome man is a thrivin' man; but when one begins in grumblin' one ends wi' sorrow. Mary dear, gi' me drink. I feel faintish." The curate took the teapot from the yearning and attentive wife's hand, and the fevered patient, from the broken spout held to his mouth drained the vessel greedily, till the few leaves at the strainer whizzed at their dryness. As he drank, Godfrey had an opportunity of observing his countenance. "This man," said he to himself, "was formed for a lofty destiny, but with him ignorance has marred nature. When will England provide Education for all of her people?" All these thoughts passed rapidly through the pastor's mind, the sick man spoke with a fainter voice, but with renewed energy; "the spirit war willing, but the flesh war weak. Well, sir I know I am a dyin'. I war never a coward, but I does fear death. 'Tis like a dark night-there be none about you but sperits." Keep your eyes steadily on your guiding star, James. That light sufficeth." blessing to themselves and to their country.,' "Thank God, thank God! My soul is at peace now. She is provided for, and they too. Read to me, sir, please; 'twill rouse me up-I feel drowsyish." The curate opened his pocket Bible, and in a low sweet voice read from the fourteenth to the seventeenth of John. As he proceeded the little boy peeped up from his straw, and sucked in the words. The sick man opened his stiffening lids from time to time, and murmured a prayer from unparted and motionless lips, which sounded strange and unearthly in the small chamber. The pale wife, with her infant daughter in her lap, wept silently; and the little boy, Jemmy, was seated on one of the worn out hassocks, holding the candle which was stuck in a bottle, for the good pastor as he read. The other boy was gone of an errand for a neighbor. Night had set in and a gentle breeze fanned the chamber through the open door and paneless window. People glided cautiously by, from time to time, urged by pity or curiosity. After about an hour's stillness, the sick man stirred, then tried to sigh, but the groan died within him, and for a time he whispered, but nobody knew what he said. At length, after the curate had applied a few drops of moisture from an orange to his lips, he spoke audibly. "I was dreaming, Mary, as we war happy with God. The children had enow to eat; they give me my good name back agen; an' we war all very happy. After a pause, and much internal muttering, he resumed with a perceptible spirit of energy, although his spent powers made him scarcely audible. "Oh, Mr. Godfrey, if more would, like thee, only come and see the poor, an' what they suffers! Tell the lads, sir, to wait a bit but to struggle on, for there is hope for the working man. An' bid the rich folk consider the laborer, an' the parsons to be all like these, an' England will be right. Mary, a drink, dear; the heart is as dry as a cinder within me.'" His wife brought him a little cold water, into which the curate squeezed a little orange juice. "Mary! To our Father I commit thee, girl, when I am gone. I am dead afore I am dead, leaving my Mary. Kiss my forehead, girl,God bless thee! Comfort these little children, God! they be orphans now." And he prayed inwardly. In that hour he had no succor but prayer, and the remembrance of any good he had done in his life. The baby was crying on its mother's breast, and the candle trembled in the hands of the weeping boy who still held it. The wife was still and pale; her heart was being rifted from her. The curate had bent his knee, and comforted the dying and desolate. RUDE AND CRUDE OBSERVATIONS.-None of us like the crying of another person's baby. The fire that "went out" has returned. Recommend to your children virtue; that alone can make them happy, not gold. "I won't" is a woman's ultimatum. No man knows when he goes to law, or gets into a cab, what he will have to pay on getting out of it. Red tape is the legal chalk with which a lawyer ruddles his sheep. If we all had windows to our breasts, what a demands there would be for blinds! "Thank Heaven for those words," said the curate; "and now Fielding, since you are in this good state of mind, I must tell you one thing that will lighten your last moments. Old Mrs. Williams is getting too aged for the parish school, and as she is to retire on a small pension, I have secured the post for Mary. I know she will fill it well. This will keep the wolf from the it is "the salmon" always that is to blame for it. When a man has been "drinking like a fish," door, and I will look to the little ones. see things are not so bad as you expected. You Truth, with London Pure Milk, lives certainly will leave those dear to you pretty middling off, at the bottom of a well. So you |