An Illustrated Monthly Rural Magazine 
FOR EVERY ONE WHO PLANTS A SEED OR TILLS A PLANT. 
Subscriptions 50 cents per year. -•©:- Advertising space $5.40 per inch. 
Vol. 6. SEPTEMBER, 1885. No. 9. 
WIND WHISPERINGS. 
BY LUCY DEWEY CLAY. 
What do the soft winds say to-night, 
The genial winds of spring, 
As they come all laden with sweet perfume 
From the far off isles where spices bloom? 
The fresh young winds, a story of youth. 
Of life and beauty, of hope and truth, 
And of innocence they sing. 
And what to-night do the winds so warm, 
The summer breezes, say, 
As they kiss the lilies so pure and white, 
And shake from the roses the dew-drops bright ? 
They whisper of joy, and a lover’s kiss, 
Of promises sweet and a dream of bliss 
That fades too soon away. 
And what say the autumn winds to-night 
So mournfully and low, 
As they sough and moan thro’ the tree tops tall 
.Like a spirit’s wail o’er a loved one’s fall? 
They tell of hopes that were false as fair, 
-Of a blighted life, and a dumb despair, 
O’er ashes of “long ago.” 
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And what say the winter winds to-night, 
The winter winds so cold, 
As they drearily, wildly, bitterly blow 
O'er the flinty ice and the frozen snow ? 
They chant a dirge for joys that are fled, 
For “hopes that like withered leaves lie dead,” 
And a heart fast growing old. 
QUATRAIN. 
They build too low who build beneath the stars." 
Aye! lay your sure foundations in the skies, 
And then build upward! Who hath power to tell 
How high the glory of your house may rise. 
Or in what golden chambers you may dwell? 
—Paul H. Hayne, in Youth's Companion. 
What Shall we do With Her. 
When I married I had an earnest convic¬ 
tion that earth held no mission for woman 
quite so heavenly as that of being the 
mother of daughters. 
I, the oldest of seven sisters, appeared to 
have spent my whole life in helping moth¬ 
er in every possible way in her care “of the 
girls”—-hemming and ironing ruffles, tying 
sashes, brushing curls, trimming pretty 
hats, making dainty sun-bonnets and 
aprons, dressing dollies, making play-houses 
and helping to educate the youngsters in all 
the ways that model children of the fem¬ 
inine gender are supposed to need training. 
Ah. the sweet, romping, yet gentle, dainty 
six! At this distant day I look back at 
those easily governed darlings with wonder. 
When I left my happy childhood home 
for the new, untried west, all my ideal 
pictures of domestic happiness embraced 
the “rosebud garden—garden of girls.” 
Before the new farm was fairly opened, 
before the wonderful prairies had lost their 
newness and fascination, a little bundle, 
well fianneled, was brought to my bed one 
morning. 
“A fine boy, ma’am, a noble little fellow,” 
said the nurse. 
“Dear, dear—a boy” thought I. “What in 
the world shall I ever do with the creature?” 
And I had an indistinct idea that he would 
have to be wrapped up in his father’s old 
coat until some trousers and boots could be 
