Those people who live in the sunny south, where Jack Frost never comes with his snow-flakes, surely miss one of the greatest delights of our northern climes. We are willing to forego their orange groves, their fig trees, and their grape vines――bending as they may be with fruit――in consideration of the fun of snow-balling. Not that we, ourself――Robert Merry――old, decrepit and gray――ever engage in that lively sport. No――such things are past with us; but though we cannot personally engage in such merry work, we can at least look on――and that is a great pleasure. I remember once when I was at school, the boys agreed to have a game of snow-balling, and each one was only to use his left hand. The work went on bravely and smartly, too, for some time; each boy stuck to the treaty, and faithfully worked with his left hand. But, at last, one cowardly fellow, named Farwell, got into a tussle with another chap, and as he received more balls than he sent, he broke his faith, and hurled with his right hand. This provoked retaliation, for one act of injustice is apt to beget another. Farwell was soundly beaten, and in a short time the whole treaty was violated and overturned. I have often thought of that little incident――and I close my story by suggesting the lesson it inculcates; beware of injustice――for it is very likely that you will yourself suffer from the wrongs that will be done in retaliation. ―――― ANECDOTE OF WASHINGTON.――At the commencement of the revolutionary war, there lived at East Windsor, Connecticut, a farmer, of the name of Jacob Munsell, aged forty-five years. After the communication by water between this part of the country and Boston was interrupted by the possession of Boston harbor by the British fleet, Munsell was often employed to transport provisions by land to our army, lying in the neighborhood of Boston. In the summer of 1775, while thus employed, he arrived within a few miles of the camp at Cambridge, with a large load, drawn by a stout ox team. In a part of the road which was somewhat rough, he met two carriages, in each of which was an American general officer. The officer in the forward carriage, when near to Munsell, put his head out of the window, and called to him, in an authoritative tone――“Get out of the path!” Munsell immediately retorted, “I won’t get out of the path――get out yourself!” After some other vain attempts to prevail on Munsell to turn out, the officer’s carriage turned out, and Munsell kept the path. The other carriage immediately came up, having been within hearing distance of what had passed, and the officer within put his head out of the vehicle, and said to Munsell――“My friend, the road is bad, and it is very difficult for me to turn out; will you be so good as to turn out and let me pass?” “With all my heart, sir,” said Munsell; “but I won’t be d――――d out of the path by any man.”