“Man is never contented. He is the fretful baby of trouble and care, and he will continue to worry and fret, no matter how pretty are the playthings that are laid before him to please him. He will sometimes fret because he can _find nothing to fret about_. I’ve known just such men myself. If he were bound to live in this world forever, he would fret because he couldn’t leave and go to another, ‘just for a change;’ and now, seeing that sooner or later he _must_ go, and no mistake, he frets like a caged porcupine, and thinks he would like to live here always. The fact is, he don’t know _what_ he wants. “I’ve seen about enough of this world myself. For forty years I’ve been searching every nook and corner for some pleasant spring of happiness, instead of which I have only found a few flood-swollen streams, bearing upon their surface innumerable bubbles of vanity, _and all along by their margins nests of young humbugs are continually being hatched_. I have drunk of these waters nigh unto bursting, and have always departed as dry as a cork. “In fact, I’ve been kicked about like an old hat, nearly used up by the flagellations of Old Time, and am now feeling the way with my cane down to the silent valley. But, yet, I’m happy—‘happy as a clam at high water.’ I sleep like a top, but I don’t eat as much as I used to. Oh! it is a blessed thing to lie down at night with a light stomach, and a lighter conscience! You ought to _see_ me sleep sometimes! The way I ‘take it easy is a caution to children!’ ” ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐ It may not be new, but whether new or not, it is worthy of being repeated to our readers, the beautiful reply of a little lad to an English bishop, who said to him, one day, “If you will tell me where GOD is, I’ll give you an orange.” “If you will tell me where HE is _not_,” promptly responded the little fellow, “I will give you _two!_” Better than all earthly logic was the simple faith of this trusting child. ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐ Here is an awful “fixed fact” for snuff-takers! Perhaps the “Statistics of Snuff and Sneezing” may yet form a part of some remote census of these United States: “It has been very exactly calculated, that in forty years, two entire years of the snuff-taker’s life are devoted to tickling his nose, and two more to the sonorous and agreeable processes of blowing and wiping it, with other incidental circumstances!” How about “Statistics of Chewing?”—the time employed in selecting, inserting, rolling, and ejecting the quid?—the length of the yellow lines at the corners of the mouth, in the aggregate?—the lakes of saliva, spirted, squirted, spit, sprinkled, and drizzled? We commend the pregnant theme to some clever American statist. Ah! well would it be if we be stowed half the time in making ourselves agreeable, that we waste in rendering ourselves offensive to our friends! ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐