in five years from date of the passage of the act, and that no portion of the endowment may be used for the erection of the buildings. Indeed not more than ten per cent, of the proceeds of the sale of lands may be used for the purchase of the Experimental Farm. But it so happens that, in our case—and in this respect the older States have the advantage—the "scrip" will not be issued, allowing the purchaser to locate in any of the Territories, but our own land! must be sold, whether valuable, and readily marketable or not. They should, therefore, be accepted, and put into market at the earliest possible moment.

But, if we do the best we can, it is questionable whether a sufficient amount could be realized in time to purchase the Farm, erect the buildings thereon, and get the College into actual operation within the next four years.

We accordingly suggest that the site for the College and the Experimental Farm should be contributed by the locality where the institution may be established. Or, in other words, that the College be offered to that county or town which will make the most advantageous offer of a site and land for the Farm. And secondly, that the buildings be provided for by the State at large.

This would leave the entire grant to be converted into an endowment fund, and thus the better insure the upbuilding of such an institution as would be an honor and great advantage to the State.

We have our eye on sundry desirable localities which, in doing themselves the honor of donating the requisite lands, would at the same time so far enhance the value of surrounding property as to become pecuniary gainers by their liberality. The site for the College, and the land for the farm once secured, we are prepared to guarantee that the funds for the buildings shall be forthcoming.

Farmers, and friends of Industrial Education, turn this matter over in your minds, and so be prepared to act with promptness and energy when the time comes for worthy and generous deeds.

Education of the Farmer.

The following extract is from Mr. Greeley's late address before the Vermont State Agricultural Society:

No man can afford to bring up his children in ignorance of the principles and facte which underlie tucceesful farming. I do not know that this truth is yet accepted by the great body of your farmers; if not, I must try to make it so. I hear complaints that our cleverer farmers' sons dislike their fathers' vocation, and I am not surprised that it is so. The father has unconsciously taught them to despise it as the least intellectual and most stolid of all pessible pursuits. He never brought home a book that treats attractively, wisely, enthusiastically of Agriculture. He has, as a general rule, never considered an Agricultural journal worth taking. He has not deemed it important that they should be instructed in the natural sciences which underlie and elucidate his own vocation. He never made the latest improvements and discoveries in aid of agriculture the subject of inquiry, of study, and of fire-side discussion. In his daily life and thought, farming is as dreary and mindless a drudgery as it can be to a horse in a bark-mill, How, then, can ho expect his sons, if they have any aspirations beyond hog and hominy, to like farming? He has given them every possible negative reason to detest it.

Now I do not hold that every man, or even every farmer's son, should be a farmer. There are other pursuits equally important, laudable, honorable. But I do contend that every farmer should so instruct and train his children, that they shall at least respect his vocation, though they should not follow it, and understand its laws and processes so thoroughly that they will never forget them. I would have every farmer's son feel that, if defeated in his chosen pursuit—law, medicine, trade, mechanics, or whatever it may be—he can, at any moment, return to the vocation of his youth, and earn therein an honorable and adequate subsistence. He is morally certain to prove more upright and independent in whatever pursuit, if he enters it with this well grounded confidence in his ability to live without it.— But I still more urgently insist that each farmer shall so honor and esteem his own vocation, shall so render it and respect it as an intellectual and liberal pursuit, that his better educated and mentally developed sons shall not despise and reject it as fit only for oxen."

fi@"* In our reference to the Madison Normal and High School, in the Oct. No., we greatly understated the success of Prof. Allen. Instead of "75 or 80," he has 150 pupils in the several departments.


Pleasant School Houses.

It is not always in tlie power of a people just establishing themselves in a new country, with every thing to be newly done, and but little capital to do it with, to make the SchoolHouse what it ought to be—a model of taste and neatness. But there is nothing like having a true ideal to work up to as fast as we can; and it is on this account that we have so often called the attention of our readers to this subject.

Pleasant as were the days of our childhood, we remember the old log school house where the work of study was commenced, with a kind of grudge against the clever but ignorant and prejudiced old fellows who resisted every attempt of the better informed men of the district to supersede the old hut with a respectable and inviting little structure. The old house stood on the brink of a hill without inclosure or shelter. Its floor was of loose, clattering boards; the windows high and prison-like; the scats, slabs of logs, warped, rickety, and so high that our feet dangled most painfully in mid air; the desks, rough boards supported upon long pins driven into the wall. True, we lived through that period of penance, and made progress in our studies, but it was only because we were ambitious and determined that noth

ing should hinder us; and, but for a pleasant grove a quarter of a mile distant, to which

"Wo loved to steal awhile away," and where, by permission of a kind teacher, we spent the most of our time on pleasant summer days, the memory of the old school house, which ought to have been made dear forever, would be perfectly hateful.

Had it been our good fortune to have had a neat little school house, like the above, to learn our primary lessons in, how much more rapid would have been our progress—how different the memories which would have illumine! those early days of familiar childhood.

Parents, remember that the hearts of your children are affected and theircharacter moulded by all the circumstances that surround them at this most important period of their lives.— Learn to treat them less like young colts and calves, destined merely for drudgery or the shambles, and more like wonderfully endowed, immortal beings, whose great future is to be determined by the shaping of the present. If you are about to locate a school house for yonr district, give it the pleasant est locality that can be found. If your house is already built, and its surroundings are not what they should be, set about the work of making them so by every improvement within your power. The late autumn is a good time for setting out young shade trees. Enlist the boys of the district in the work and it will be done. One word more. In planting out trees, don't set them in stiff, ugly rows, but here and there, singly and in clumps, so that they shall seem to have been planted by nature.


The Welcome Back.

Sweet is the bour that brings us home,

Where all will spring to meet us; "Where hands arc striving, as wo come,

To be the first to greet us.
When the world hath spent its frowns and wrath,

And care has been sorely pressing,
'T ia sweet to turn from our roving path,

And find a lire-aide blessing.
Oh, joyfully dear is the homeward track,

If we are but sure of a welcome back.

What do we reck, on a dreary way,

Though lonely and benighted,
If wo know there are lips to chido our stay,

And eyes that will beam love-lighted t
What is the worth of your diamond ray,

To the glance that flashes pleasure;
When the words \\\at welcome back betray

We form a heart's chief treasure?
Oh, Joyfully dear is our homeward track,

If we are but sure of a welcome back.

Politeness Necessary among Intimate Friends.

The common fallacy is, that intimacy dispenses with the necessity of politeness. The truth is just the opposite of this. The more points of contract there are, the more danger of friction there is, and the more carefully should people guard against it. If you see a man only once a month, it is not of so vital importance that you do not trench on his rights, tastes, or whims. He can bear to be crossed or annoyed occasionally. If he does not have a high regard for you, it is comparatively unimportant, because your paths are generally so diverse. But you and the man with whom you dine every day have it in your power to make each other exceedingly uncomfortable. A very little dropping will wear away a rook, if it only keep at it. The thing that you would think of, if it oocurred only twice a year, becomes an intolerable burden when it happens twice a day. This is where husbands and wives run aground. They take too much for granted. If they would but see that they have something to gain, something to save, as well as something

to enjoy, it would be better for them; but they proceed on the assumption that their love is an inexhaustible tank, and not a fountain depending for its supply on the stream that trickles into it. So, for every little annoying habit, or weakness, or fault, they draw on the tank without being careful to keep the supply open, till they awake one morning to find the pump dry, and instead of love, at best, nothing but a cold habit of complacence. On the contrary, the more intimate friends become, whether married or unmarried, the more scrupulously should they strive to repress in themselves everything annoying, and to cherish both in themselves and each other everything pleasing. While each should draw on his love to neutralise the faults of his friend, it is suicidal to draw on his friend's love to neutralize his own faults. Love should be cumulative, since it cannot be stationary. If it does not increase, it decreases. Love, like confidence, is a plant of slow growth, and of most exotic fragility. It must be constantly and tenderly cherished. Every noxious and foreign clement must be carefully removed from it. All sunshine, and sweet airs, and morning dews, and evening showers must breathe upon it perpetual fragrance, or it dies into a hideous and repulsive deformity, fit only to be cast out and trodden under foot of men, while, properly cultivated, it is a Tree of Lfe.—Atlantic Monthly.

Punishment to Children.

In a late number of the Atlantic Monthly, the "Country Parson" has a charming little essay on "Sorrows of Childhood." In the course of which he makes these remarks:

An extremely wicked way of punishing children is by shutting them up in a dark place. Darkness is naturally fearful to human beings, and the stupid ghost stories of many nurses make it especially fearful to a child. It is a stupid and wicked thing to send a child on an errand in a dark night. I do not remember passing through a greater trial in my youth than once walking three miles alone (it was not going on an errand) in the dark, along a road thickly shaded with trees. I was a little fellow; but I got over the distance in half an hour. Part of the way was along a wall of a churchyard—one of those ghastly, weedy, neglected, accursed-looking spots where stupidity has done what it can to add circumstances of disgust and horror to the Christian's long sleep. Nobody ever supposed that this was a trial to a boy of twelve years old, so little are the thoughts of children understood. And children are reticent; I am telling now about that dismal walk for the first time, and in the illness of childhood children sometimes get very close and real views of death. I remember, when I was nine years old, how every evening when I lay down to sleep, I used for about a year to picture myself lying dead, till I felt as though the coffin was closing round me. I used to read at that period, with a curious fascination, Blair's poem, 'The Grave.' But I never dreamed of telling anybdoy about these thoughts. I believe that thoughtful children keep most of their thoughts to themselves, and in respect of the things of which they think most are as profoundly alone as the Ancient Mariner in the Pacific. I have heard of a parent, an important member of a very straight sect of the Pharisees, whose child, when dying, begged not to be buried in a certain foul old hideous churchyard, but in a certain cheerful cemetery. This request the poor little dying creature made with all the energy of terror and despair. But the straight Pharisee refused the dying request, and pointed out with polemical bitterness to the child that he must be very wicked indeed to care at such a time where he was to be buried, or what might be done with his body after death. How I should enjoy the spectacle of that unnatural, heartless, stupid wretch tarred and feathered! The dying child was caring for a thing about which Shakspeare cared; and it was not in mere human weakness, but 'by faith,' that Joseph, when he was dying gave commandmentconcerning his bones.

The Babie.

Nao shoo to hide her tiny tao,

Nno stockings on her foot,
Her suple ankles white as snaw,

Or early blossoms sweet.

Hit simple dress of sprinkled pink,

Her double dimpled chin,
Hct puckered lip anil lummy nose,

With nao one tooth between.

Her eon, sae like her mother's een,

Twa Irehtle liquid things;
Her face is like an angel's face—

We're glad she had ua wings.

She ts the budding of our love,

A giftie God ha' gie'n us;
We munnn love the gift ow'r weel,
'Twad be nao blessing to us.


Sklp Sacrifices —There is not one of us who has not a brother or a sister, a friend or a schoolmate, whom we can make better as well as happier. Every day calls upon us for sacrifices of small selfishness, for forbearance under provocation, and for the sujugation of evil propensities. Drop the stone you were about to throw in retaliation for insult; unclench that fist with which you were about to

redress some supposed, perhaps some real wrong; silence that tongue, about to utter words which would poison like the venom of asps; expel that wicked imagination, that comes into your thoughts as Satan came into the Garden of Eden; for if you do not drive that out of your paradise, it will drive jou out.—Horace Mann.


The Wasp and the Bee.

A wasp met a bee that was just buzzing by,
And he said; "Littte Cousin, can you tell me why
You are loved so much better by people than It

"My back shines as bright and as yellow as gold,
And my shape is most elegant, too, to behold;
Yet nobody likes me for that, I am told."

"Ah, cousin," the bee said, " 'tis all very true;
Hut if 1 had half as much mischief to do,
Indeed they would love me no better than you.

"You have a fine shape, and a delicate wing;
They own you are handsome, but then there is one thinr
They cannot put up with, and that is your sting.

"My coat is quite homely and plain, as you see,
Yet nobody ever is angry with me,
Becauso I'm a humble and innocent bee."

From this little story, let people beware:
Because, liko the wasp, if ill-natured they are,
They will never be loved, if they'ro ever so fair.
Jane Taylor.

All About my Friends.—No. 3.

Early in May, there came a pair of bluebirds and made a nest in a bird-house which was in a wild cherry tree that stands very new the front gate. Every day they sang their sweet little songs, which was ample payment for their house rent; but they did more, they daily destroyed a great many worms and insects.

They would perch themselves on tVe fence, the well, or the low branch of a tree, and whenever they espied anything such as they use for food, they would dart down and pick it up, and then go back to their station, to watch for more.

About the same time, a piir of Brown Thrushes came. Just across the road from the house is a wild crab apple tree, and a woodbine has run up on the tree and made a complete bower at the top; and there the thrushes made their nest.

The nest was composed of roots, sticks, and the stubble of grass, with never a bit of moss, or wool, or feathers for a lining.

The male bird came, every morning, and took his station on the very tiptop of the hick

ory tree that stands in the yard, and trilled his roundelays of etherial notes, imitating nearly every other song bird.

When cherries and currants were ripe, he took his pay for his musical entertainment.

I believe that this bird is the Ground Thrush. It is sometimes called the Mocking Bird. It usually makes its rest on the ground, by the side of a bush, a stump, or a large stone. Its eggs are speckled. Uncle William.

Some Things about the Sea.

In the last number of the Farmer we intimated to our young friends, that we might have many things to tell them in the future about what we saw in our voyage upon the ocean and our journey in foreign lands. Very .well, we mean to keep our promise, and will begin by telling you some things about the Sea. Some of you have seen the great Atlantic, and have heard the roar of his mighty waters. Possibly a few have crossed in a ship from shore to shore, and with your own wondering eyes seen some of the strange sights—such as icebergs, whales, sharks, and other monsters of the deep, and even fierce storms—of which we are going to tell you. But even if you have, perhaps we may tell you something you had not learned before.


An ocean is often called "the sea," but a sea is never called an ocean. A real tea is a large body of salt water nearly shut in by land. Take your atlas and see the difference. Thus you will find the Mediterranean, the Black, the Baltic, the Caspian, and many other teas—all less than any of the great oceans in size, and quite nearly surrounded by land. "But why," you ask, "do you, then, sometimes call the ocean the tea 1" Just because a sea is almost an ocean, and the word sea has a more pleasant and poetic sound to the ear and mind; nothing else.

"What, then, is the ocean?" That great body of salt water which surrounds the continents—such as America, Europe, Asia, and Africa—and which covers more than three-fifths of the whole surface of the great globe. That

is the ocean. Isn't it grand—this almost boundless "waste of waters?"


"What the ocean is made of? Why, water, of course!" I hear some little boy say. Not all water, my boy; one part in thirty parts is salts—chiefly common salt. That is, in every thirty pounds of the water there is one pound of salt. Or, in other words, every bucket-full (ordinary wooden bucket, holding three gallons) of sea water contains a little over one pound of salt. You see, then, a good reason why the ocean is called the "briny deep."— There are, also, many other kinds of salt, besides common salt, in the sea, but they are in very small quantity, and have long, hard names, and so our little readers must wait until they study chemistry, when they will learn all about them.


Because there are strong currents in the sea it is difficult to find out just how deep the water is, in many places, and at great depths.— It is very well known, however, that the bottom is uneven, just like the land, with its mountains and valleys and plains; and hence, in some places, the water is) very much deeper than in others. Scientific men have measured, or tounded the depth a great many times in a great many places, and estimated the average depth at two miles. That is, if the bottom were perfectly level like the floor of a room, then the depth of the ocean wherever its waters cover the globe, would be two miles.— Think of it! Isn't it wonderful? Let's see, now, how much all this water of the whole ocean would weigh. By a calculation, which your parents or teachers will tell you how to make, we find that a single oubic or solid mile of water would weigh forty-etght billions, one hundred and eighty-one millions, one hundred and eighty-six thousand, one hundred and eighty-four tons. But the water of the entire ocean is sufficient in quantity to make four hundred millions of such cubio or solid miles. So that to ascertain the weight of the whole ocean in tons, we must multiply these two vast numbers together. Expressed in figures the

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