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Colonist, Volume III, Issue 295, 17 August 1860, Page 3

, Sleepiness.—Our friend the Thakoor also visited us, and he excused the nonappearance of his little son on the ground that he was asleep under his waterfall. I had almost omitted to mention the curitius habit of the hill people to which this phrase of the Thakoor relates. Whenever a. woman wishes to put her child to sleep, she takes it to one of the numerous places for this purpose, which are all over the mountain sides, wherever there is water. They consist of a shed or sheds in which there are stone troughs filled from the running stream; and.from those troughs are little pipes made of reeds, or hollow stems of trees, which spout out water with a gentle trickling fall, under which the child's head is placed at, the distance of a few inches. The effect is almost immediate. The child closes its eyes and its mouth, and falls into a profound, sweet, and healthful sleep, which endures so long as it is left under the waterspouts. I have seen dozens of children thus lying fast asleep; and as far as I could ascertain, no evil effect whatever can be attributed to the practice. It certainly seems an admirable preparation against colds in the head; and if a devoted mother would only make the experiment in this country, and it were found successful, she would be regarded as a blessing to her species in introducing such a delightful custom, pleasant to children, and invaluable to parents. — Diary in India* Interest.—"No blister draws sharper than interest does. Of all industries none is comparable to that of interest. It works day and night, in fair weather and foul. It has no sound in its footsteps, but travels fast. It gnaws at man's substance with invisible teeth. .It binds industry with its film, as a fly is bound upon a spider's web. Debt rolls a man over and over, binding him hand and foot, and letting him hang upon the fatal mesh until the long-legged interest devours him. There is no crop that can afford to pay interest money on a farm. There is but one thing raised on a farm like it, and that is the Canadian thistle, which swarms new plants every time you, break its roots, whose [blossoms are prolific, and every flour the father of a million seeds. Every leaf is an awl, every branch a spear, and every plant like a platoon of bayonets, and a field full of them is like an armed host. The whole plant is a torment and a vegetable curse. And yet a farmer had better make his bed of Canada thistles than attempt to lie at ease upon Interest.— H. W. Beecher.