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not brought a man in your talons to the nest ?" “ He is too bulky," said the mother; “ when we find a man, we can only tear away his flesh, and leave his bones on the ground.”

2. “Since man is so big," said the young ones, “ how do you kill him ? You are afraid of the wolf and the bear; by what power are vultures superior to man? Is man more defenseless than a sheep?” “We have not the strength of man,” returned the mother, “and I am sometimes in doubt whether we have his subtlety; and the vultures would seldom feed

upon his flesh had not nature, that devoted him to our uses, infused into him a strange ferocity which I have never observed in any other being that feeds upon the earth. Two herds of men will often meet, and shake the ground with noise, and fill the air with fire. When you hear noise, and see fire which flashes along the ground, hasten to the place with your swiftest wing; for men are surely destroying one another : you will find the ground smoking with blood and covered with carcasses, of which many are mangled for the use of the vulture.”

3. “But when men have killed their prey," said the pupil, “why do they not eat it? When the wolf has killed a sheep, he suffers not the vulture to touch it, till he has satisfied himself-Is not man another kind of wolf ?“Man,” said the mother, " is the only beast who kills what he does not devour, and this quality makes him so much a benefactor to our species.” “If men kill our prey, and lay it in our way,” said the young one, “what need shall we have of laboring for ourselves ?"

4. “ Because man will sometimes," replied the mother, remain for a long time quiet in his den. The old vultures will tell you, when you are to watch his motions. When

you see men in great numbers, moving closely together like a flock of storks, you may conclude that they are hunting, and that you

will soon revel in human blood." "But still," said the young one, " I would gladly know the reason of this mutual slaughter. I could never kill what I would not eat."

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5. “My child," said the mother," when I was young I used to visit an old vulture on the Carpathian Rocks; he had fed,

year, on the entrails of men. He said that, as the boughs of an oak are dashed together by the storm that swine may fatten on the falling acorns, so men are, by some unaccountable power, driven one against another, till they lose their motion, that vultures may be fed. And those that hover round them pretend that there is, in every herd, one that gives directions to the rest, and seems to be more eminently delighted with a wild carnage. What it is that entitles him to such pre-eminence we know not; he is seldom the biggest or the fleetest, but he shows, by his eagerness and diligence, that he is, more than any of the others, A FRIEND TO THE VULTURES.

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THE OLD BROWN DOG.

1. THERE is an old brown dog,

That roams about our streets,
But no one knows from whence he came,

Or where he sleeps or eats.
His name-

-his race-his business here,
Are hidden in a fog;
There seems to be a mystery

About that old brown dog.

2. He often haunts the post-office,

His letter never comes-
He sometimes visits Louderback's,

But buys no sugar plums-
He curls himself beside the door

Which leads to the Gazette,
But never asks the latest news,

Nor seems disposed to bet.

3. He dogs no master round,

Like most of his degree,
But, through the longest winter day,

In one lone spot he'll be;
And there with head between his paws,

He lies mid snow and rain,
As if some dogma wild and vague

Perplexed his troubled brain.

4. And oftentimes I stop,

And gaze, and try to trace
The mournful thoughts that seemed to flit

Across his wrinkled face;
Perhaps he dreams of days,

When filled was pleasure's cup-
Of days of sunshine, mirth and joy,

When he was but a pup.

5. The voice he once obeyed,

May long have died away,
But still he waits to hear its call

From weary day to day.
He dreams of ancient times,

Nor can he quite suppress
A sigh—when visions real rise

Of bones—now marrowless.

6. Enough-I do not wish

To pry into his affairs,
But on his breast he seems to bear

A weight of heavy cares.
His name

-his race-his business here
Are hidden in a fog,
There seems to be a mystery

About that old brown dog.

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joyments dimin

pleasure almost WORTH OF MONEY.-W. Cox.

shadow of

Am

1. To want money is to want “honor, love, obedience, troops of friends;" it is to want respect and sympathy, and the ordinary courtesies of society ; besides, occasionally, victuals. The possession, or non-possession of it, makes the difference whether life has to be an enjoyment or a task; whether it has to be a walk over a smooth verdant lawn, amid fragrant flowers and aromatic shrubs, and all things that minister pleasure to the senses; or a wearisome up-hill journey, through thorns and briers, and other ungracious impediments. It makes the difference whether you have to go bounding exultingly along like the free, full-blooded courser, or wend your way wearily and slowly like the laden and despised packhorse.

2. To want money, in a high state of civilization, is to be kind of slave; it is, at least, to be dependent on the whims and caprices of others, instead of indulging in all the pleasant eccentricities or originalities to which your temperament may prompt you ; it is to have to rise soon when you wish to lie late, and to go to bed early in order to be enabled so to do; it is to have to live in unwholesome and anti-respectable neighborhoods, and mix in daily communion with people whose

ways are not your ways; it is to be a drudge, a hack, a machine, worked for the profit and advantage of others until the springs are broken.

3. It is to be omitted in family celebrations, and roam about invitationless at Christmas ; it is to have to put up with equivocal nods and recognitions in the streets—to have your friends look into print-shop windows as you approach, and suddenly bring their admiration of the engraver's skill to a period as soon as you have passed by ; it is to feel all delicate sensibilities, all free generous feelings, all aspiring thoughts, checked and crushed within you by a petty but overbearing necessity; it is to have to suffer the greatest misfortunes and the

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le vexations; to have family affections and 3. He des uprooted and destroyed, and to be uncom

careful of coats, hats, and other habiliments.

It is to live 6 a man forbid ;" or it is to become an exile from your native land—a wanderer in foreign and unhealthy climes, hunting for the yellow indispensable, until you are of the color of the metal you are in quest of; until the temper becomes soured and feelings deadened, the heart indurated, and the liver in an improper state. How beautifully has Leyden portrayed his own fate and feelings, and those of thousands of others, in that pure gem of poetry, the “Address to an Indian Gold Coin :"

“For thee--for thee, vile yellow slavel

I left a heart that loved me true:
I crossed the tedious ocean wave,
To roam in climes unkind and new;

The cold wind of the stranger blew
Chill on my withered heart—the grave,

Dark and untimely, met my view,
And all for thee, vile yellow slave!"

5. To lack money, is to lack a passport or admission-ticket into the pleasant places of God's earth—to much that is glorious and wonderful in nature, and nearly all that is rare, and curious, and enchanting, in art; or if you do travel about in a small way, it is to have that most miserable, intrusive, and disagreeable of all companions, economy, yoked to you ; to be under a continual restraint from his presence; to feel unable to give your mind cheerfully and freely up to the scene before you; and, in the contemplation of a magnificent view, or a piece of hoar antiquity, to have the wretch whisper in your ear the probable cost of your pleasurable sensations.

6. It is to submit to small inconveniences and petty insults at inns for the accommodation of travelers, where, above all places on earth, the men of money shine out with the most resplendent glory, and the unmonied become the most truly

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