A

SILLY young cricket, accustomed to sing

Through the warm sunny months of gay summer and spring,

Began to complain, when he found that at home

His cupboard was empty, and winter was come.

Not a crumb to be found

On the snow-covered ground;
Not a flower could he see,

Not a leaf on a tree;

"Oh, what will become," said the cricket, of me?"

II.

At last, by starvation and famine made bold,

All dripping with wet, and all trembling with cold,

Away he set off to a miserly ant,

To see if, to keep him alive, he would grant

Him shelter from rain,

And a mouthful of grain.
He wished only to borrow,
And repay it to-morrow:

If not, he must die of starvation and sorrow.

III.

Said the ant to the cricket, "I'm your servant and friend;

But we ants never borrow, we ants never lend.

But tell me, dear sir, did you lay nothing by

When the weather was warm?" Said the cricket, "Not I!
My heart was so light

That I sang day and night,
For all nature looked gay."
"You sang, sir, you say?

Go, then," said the ant, "and dance winter away."

Thus ending, he hastily opened the wicket,

And out of the door turned the poor little cricket.

IV.

Though this is a fable, the moral is good:

If you live without work, you will go without food.

ROM the Cascades' frozen gorges,

Leaping like a child at play,

Winding, widening through the valley,
Bright Willamette glides away:

Onward ever,

Lovely river,

Softly calling to the sea;

Time that scars us,

Maims and mars us,

Leaves no track or trench on thee!

2. Spring's green witchery is weaving
Braid and border for thy side;
Grace forever haunts thy journey,
Beauty dimples on thy tide.
Through the purple gates of morning,
Now thy roseate ripples dance;
Golden, then, when day departing,
On thy waters trails his lance;
Waltzing, flashing,

Tinkling, plashing,

Limpid, volatile and free-
Always hurried

To be buried

In the bitter, moon-mad sea.

3. In thy crystal deeps, inverted,
Swings a picture of the sky,

Like those wavering hopes of Aidenn
Dimly in our dreams that lie;
Clouded often, drowned in turmoil,
Faint and lovely, far away-
Wreathing sunshine on the morrow,
Breathing fragrance round to-day.
Love would wander

Here and ponder-

Hither poetry would dream;

Life's old questions,

Sad suggestions,

"Whence and whither?" throng thy stream.

4. On the roaring wastes of ocean,
Soon thy scattered waves shall toss;
'Mid the surges' rhythmic thunder
Shall thy silver tongues be lost.
Oh! thy glimmering rush of gladness
Mocks this turbid life of mine,
Racing to the wild Forever,

Down the sloping paths of Time!
Onward ever,

Lovely river,

Softly calling to the sea;

Time that scars us,

Maims and mars us,

Leaves no track or trench on thee!

SAM. L. SIMPSON.

LESSON IX.

A NEVADA QUARTZ-MILL.

PART FIRST.

A măl'gam āte, to mix or com-
pound, as quicksilver with sil-
ver and gold.
Sulphate, a salt formed by
sulphuric acid in combination
with any base; as, sulphate of
copper.

Charged, prepared.

Chem'ie al, pertaining to that

science which treats of the composition of substances, and the changes they undergo. Con'di ment, seasoning; as, pepper, mustard.

Ae cu ́mu lā ́tions, gather- Freight'ed, filled; loaded.

ings.

HE young man who sets out in this commercial

THER

age with the worldly lust of wealth in his heart, ought to take his first lesson in a Nevada quartz-mill. It is hard enough to get money even after it has been poured into the lap of Trade as stamped and glittering

coin; but to appreciate its value properly one must know something of the dangers and difficulties involved in its original rescue from rock and soil. I had already learned how hard, and long, and dismal a task it is to burrow down into the bowels of the earth and get out the coveted ore; and now I learned that the burrowing was only half of the work, and that to get the silver out of the ore was the dreary and laborious other half of it.

2. We had to turn out at six in the morning, and keep at it till dark. The mill in which we worked was a six-stamp affair, driven by steam. Six tall, upright rods of iron (the stamps), as large as a man's ankle, and heavily shod with a mass of iron and steel at their lower ends, were framed together like a gate, and these rose and fell, one after the other, in a ponderous dance, in an iron box called a "battery."

3. Each of these rods, or stamps, weighed six hundred pounds. One of us stood by the battery all day long, breaking up masses of silver-bearing rock with a sledge, and shoveling it into the battery. The ceaseless dance of the stamps pulverized the rock to a powder, and a stream of water that trickled into the battery turned it to a creamy paste.

4. The minutest particles were driven through a fine wire screen which fitted close around the battery, and were washed into great tubs warmed by superheated steam-amalgamating pans they are called. The mass of pulp in the pans was kept constantly stirred up by revolving mullers.

5. A quantity of quicksilver was always kept in the battery, and this seized some of the liberated gold and silver particles and held on to them. Quicksilver was also shaken in a fine shower into the pans about every half hour, through a buckskin sack.