The Englishman came, and the American stated his grievance. Here," said he, showing his letters," are some letters of introduction to several gentlemen

Pistols.

"The first thing," says the philosophic wag, in his recipe for cooking a turbot," is to catch a turbot." Before you enter upon a discussion, settle it clearly in your mind, what it is you propose to discuss. How many vain disputes, how many angry controversies would be prevented, if the parties would start with a definition,-if, before beginning to cook a turbot, they would catch a turbot.

Some few years since, an American gentleman, who did not understand the French language, being in Paris, wished to go to Bourdeaux. Accordingly he went down to the diligence office, and making such inquiries as he was able, paid his fare, entered the diligence, and set off, as he supposed, for Bourdeaux. Four days and four nights he travelled very patiently, not dreaming that he was in the wrong coach.

At last he reached the termination of his journey, and having taken a long night's repose, he dressed himself care fully, selected his letters of introduction, and, calling the waiter, showed him the inscriptions of these letters, and intimated that he wished to go to the persons to whom they were addressed. The man stared in the traveller's face, and uttered a good deal of incomprehensible French. The American talked English, but all to no purpose. At last the waiter left the traveller in despair, and called his master. He was as much puzzled as the servant, and finally, as the only resort, sent out for an English man living in the town, to come and see

ple to take me to them: but they only gaze in my face, shrug their shoulders, and cry 'sacre-r-r-r,' like a watchman's rattle."

The Englishman stared at the American, as if he, too, thought him out of his head. At last he said to him, "Sir, these letters are addressed to a gentleman in Bourdeaux: where do you suppose you are?"

"In Bourdeaux, to be sure," said the American.

"Not so," said the Englishman: "you are in the city of Lyons, 700 miles from Bourdeaux." The simple explanation of the whole scene was, that the traveller had entered the wrong coach, and instead of proceeding to Bourdeaux, had gone 400 miles in the opposite direction. This story shows the importance of looking well to the outset of a journey—or, if you please, to the commencement of a discourse, or a dispute. In the one case, be sure to enter the right coach—in the other, start with a definition.

If, unluckily, you should by any chance get into a dispute, the best way is to stop short, and ask your antagonist to enter into a consideration of what the point of debate is. This is apt to have a cooling effect upon both parties, and to result in a clear understanding of the real question.

A few years since, I happened to be travelling in a stage coach, where, among half a dozen passengers, there were a Frenchman and an Englishman. There seemed to be a sort of cat-and-dog feeling between them; for if one opened his lips to speak, the other was sure to fly at the observation with the teeth and

I give it gratis to my readers;—if they ever get into a controversy, let them consider whether one of the parties does not mean a ship, and the other a sheep.

The Painter and his Master.

A YOUNG painter had just finished an excellent picture, the best that he had made. His master himself found no fault with it. But the young artist was so charmed, that he looked at this specimen of his art incessantly, and neglected his studies; for he now thought himself perfect.

One morning, as he went to rejoice anew over his picture, he discovered that his master had completely defaced it. Angry and weeping, he ran to him and inquired the reason of this cruel act.

The master answered, "It is the work of serious deliberation. The picture was good, as a proof of your advancement, but it was at the same time your ruin."

"How so?" inquired the young artist. "Beloved," answered the master, "you loved no longer the art in your painting, but merely yourself. Believe me, it was not a finished production, even if it appeared so to us; it was only a first effort. Take the pencil then, and see what you can do again. Let not the sacrifice grieve you. The great must be in you, before you can bring it on canvass.

Courageously, and full of confidence in himself and his master, he seized the pencil and finished his magnificent work, the offering of Iphigenia !—for the name of the artist was Timanthes.

"WHERE are you driving the pig, Paddy?" "To Limerick, your honor." "Limerick! this is the Cork road." "Hush, speak low, I'm only pretending; if it knew I was wanting it to go to Cork, it would take the Limerick road."

The Turkey and Rattlesnake:

A FABLE.

ON a fine day in summer, a wild turkey was walking along over one of the prairies of the far West.

As the sun shone upon his glossy neck, he cast his eye downward, and seemed lost in admiration of his own beauty.

While engaged in this way, he heard something hissing in the grass; and soon a rattlesnake issued from the spot, and, coiling himself up, placed himself before the turkey. The latter grew very red in the face, spread his tail and wings to their utmost extent, and, having strutted back and forth several times, approached the snake, and spoke as follows:

"You impudent serpent! Was it you that I heard laughing at me in the bushes? How dare you laugh at me, the handsomest cock-turkey of the whole prairie? Have I not the reddest wattles, and the largest comb, the blackest wing, and the glossiest neck of any bird that is seen on the plain? Did not my grandfather swallow an alligator alive, and could I not take down such a little, insignificant thing as you, without winking?"

"Don't put yourself in a passion," said the serpent in reply, at the same time swelling up, his flesh writhing, and the colors of his skin growing very bright. "Don't put yourself in a passion; I know you're a coward, like the whole of your race, and you are as vain as you are timid.

Upon this, the turkey seemed bursting with rage; his throat was so choked, that he could not speak distinctly, but he gobbled the louder. He also strutted round in a circle, grating the ends of his wings upon the ground. At length he came bristling up toward the serpent, who, being mortally offended, coiled

himself into a ball, and springing toward the turkey, struck him in the neck with his fangs, and inflicted a fatal wound. The latter in return gave the serpent a deep scratch in his side, and both fell dead upon the ground.

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A wise ant, that dwelt in a little hilcrawled to the spot, and made the follock near by, and saw the whole affray, lowing sage observations: 'It would enough for the creatures that dwell upon seem that this vast prairie were wide their angry passions lead to strife, and it to live together in peace; but, alas! strife ends in death. Nor is this all. As the poison of the serpent taints these lows those who die as the fool dieth.'" carcasses, so an evil name always fol

Flowers.

"SWEET flowers, sweet flowers, baptized with dew,

By the rosy-hand of morn;
Daisies red and violets blue,

In the spring-time newly born.
Beautiful flowers, each ruddy lip
Inviteth the humming bee,
And I, like them, would nectar sip,-
Then, prithee, come talk to me.

"Tell me, oh, tell me, lovely flowers, Why do ye bloom so fair?" "To lighten, my love, the dreary hours, And sweeten the cup of care." "But why do ye fade, oh, gentle flowers?" "By cold winds cruelly slain, That we may spring up in brighter hours, And blossom and smile again.

"So thou, in thy youth, my little child,

Will spring up in golden bloom,
But soon will the storm or the tempest wild,
Smite thee down to the dreary tomb;
But thou shalt arise in beauty fair,-

To a happier clime make wing,
And blossom in heaven's eternal air,
Like flowers in a brighter SPRING!"

CHRISTMAS is an interesting festival, held in commemoration of Christ's birth, which is supposed to have taken place on the 25th of December, the day on which Christmas is celebrated.

Those who belong to the Romish or English church, pay great attention to Christmas: on that day they hold religious meetings, and have their most interesting services. On the occasion, the churches are decorated with evergreens, and have a handsome appearance. In this country the people, generally, do not pay great attention to Christmas; but in all European countries it is noticed by a variety of customs, some of which are pleasing and interesting. In England, though the Christmas customs have many of them ceased, there are others which are kept up and observed with much interest. It is there a time for making presents, particularly to friends, and it seldom happens that any boy or girl does not receive some gratifying mark of regard in this way.

Christmas is a time when hospitality and

kind feelings are cherished and displayed. The rich then remember the poor, and there are few indeed, on that day, that have not the means of making a feast, though in many cases it may be a humble one.

Among the superstitious notions of the olden time, was this: they used to believe that St. Nicholas, familiarly called Santaclaus, used to come down chimney on Christmas eve, the night before Christmas, and put nuts, cakes, sugarplums, and pieces of money, into the stockings of such people as would hang them up for the purpose. Now it really did often happen, that when the stocking was hung up, in the morning it was found stuffed with such things as children take delight in! I have seen this actually done: and in New York, where Santaclaus is supposed to be at home, it is still practised. But the secret of the matter is this: the parents and friends, when children are snug in bed, and fast asleep, slip into the room, and fill their stockings with such things as

please the young sleepers. In the morning, when they get up, they find their treasures, and give old Santaclaus all the credit of the pleasant trick.

There are other very agreeable customs connected with Christmas, but I suppose my readers know as much about them as I do. I will, however, say a few words about twelfth-day, which occurs on the twelfth day after Christmas; being the last of the Christmas holidays, it is kept up with great glee in England.

In certain parts of Devonshire, the farmer, attended by his workmen, with a large pitcher of cider, goes to the apple orchard on the eve of twelfth-day, and there, standing round one of the best bearing trees, they drink the following toast three times :

"Here's to thee, old apple-tree, Hence thou may'st bud, and whence thou may'st blow,

And whence thou may'st bear apples enow!
Hats full! caps full!

Bushel-bushel-sacks full,

And my pockets full too! huzza!"

This done, they return to the house, the doors of which they are sure to find bolted by the women. Be the weather what it may, these are inexorable to all entreaties to open them, till some one has named what is on the spit-which is generally some nice little thing, difficult to be guessed. This is the reward of him who first names it. The doors are then thrown open, and the fortunate guesser receives the tit-bit. Some are so superstitious as to believe that if they neglect this custom, the trees will bear no apples the coming year.

Another custom among these people, is to go after supper into the orchard, with a milk-pan full of cider, which has roasted apples pressed into it. Out of this each person in the company takes an earthen cup full, and standing under each of the more fruitful apple-trees, he addresses it thus :

"Health to thee, good apple-tree,

Well to bear pockets full, hats full,
Pecks full, bushel bags full,"-

and then, drinking up part of the con

tents, he throws the rest, with the fragments of the roasted apples, at the tree. At each cup the company set up a shout.

On twelfth-day, in London, from morning till night, every pastry-cook in the city is busy, dressing out his windows with cakes of every size and