MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY JOURNAL. 
I THE SOWER TO HIS SEED. 
< - 
^ FROM THE GERMAN. 
( Sink, little seed in the earth’s black mold, 
( Sink in your grave so wet and »o cold — 
5 There must you lie ; 
/ Earth I throw over you, 
^ Darkness must cover you, 
Light comes not nigh. 
) What grief you’d tell, if words you could say! 
; What grief make known for loss of the day! 
( Sadly you’d speak : 
\ " Lie here must I ever? 
i Will the sunlight never 
) My dark grave seek ?” 
f Have faith, little seed; soon yet again 
^ Tbou’lt rise from the grave where thou art lain, 
i Thou’lt bo so fair, 
With thy green shades so light. 
And thy flowers so bright. 
Waving in the air. 
So must we sink in the earth’s black mold ; 
Sink in the grave so wet and so cold; 
) There must we stay, 
( rill at last we shall see 
') Time to eternity, 
) Darkness to day. 
u liieranj aii& jffiisullaiirau0. 
) From the Hartford Times. 
"COMPANY EVERY DAY.” 
) BY MRS. CAROLINE A. SOULE. 
) “ There is no place like home,” saith the song; 
( but what say our youths and maidens? 
< The family of Mr. Elton, with the excep- 
} tion of the eldest son, were assembled, one 
) cold winter’s evening, in what was styled by 
\ the household the little back chamber.— 
( They called it httle, not only because its di- 
^ mensions fairly entitled it to that adjective, 
\ but also to distinguish it from the back cham- 
^ ber of the main house. 
) The little one was in an ell directly over 
> the kitchen, and originally designed, one 
{ might suppose, to serve in the capacity of a 
) safety-valve for it, as, when the steam, 
^ smoke, odor, or heat, fwhich last, though, 
\ was not often the case,) became disagreea- 
( ble to the “ hired help,” she had only to 
( open the back stair door and the lower room 
i was speedily relieved of its surplus moist- 
l ure, vapor, smell, or caloric, as the case 
? might be. 
) This little back room, which, by the way, 
) had been the cause of considerable conten- 
l tion during the three years Mr. Elton had 
/ occupied the house, was of an indefinable 
) shape. It was neither square nor round, 
^ yet it had both straight lines and curves.— 
( The ceiling was low, and, in consequence of 
) the culinary clouds which swept so often 
I across it, of an iron-gray hue; while the 
walls, which in common parlance were 
“ whiie-%oashed ycdler,” had from the same i 
cause assumed a shade similar to that which ; 
distinguishes an old cent j 
) The furniture was very simple, nothing j 
I but what seemed actually necessaiy finding | 
^ a place there. The floor, or middle portion | 
I of it rather, was covered with a rag carpet, | 
^ in which one might see, not only every col- j 
> or, but every shade of color under the sun; 
> while the nooks and corners were pieced 
\ out with bits of oil-cloth, green baize, and 
^ worn-out druggets. An old-fashioned turn- 
up bedstead occupied one corner, concealed 
) by curtains made from old calico dresses, 
I and like delicate drapery shaded the two 
} windows. A three-legged shind, wdiich had 
^ been the crowning ornament of Mrs. El- 
I ton’s grandmother’s square room; five chairs, 
\ no two of which were alike, and all so anti- 
) quated and tottling as to lead one to sus- 
} pect they came out of the Mayflower, if not 
^ out of the ark; a dumb stove, and a couple 
’ of wooden stools, comprised the inventory. 
^ Everything was scrupulously neat, except 
> the ceiling and walls; everything w'as in 
\ perfect order, and yet the room wore any- 
( thing but an inviting look, and produced 
; any other than a pleasant sensation upon en- 
> tering it One felt, when seated there, that 
\ he had a roof to shelter him; but as to far- 
ther sense of comfort there was none. Yet 
> this room—this little, low, ugly, chilling, 
> grease-scented hole, with its dingy walls, 
} and antediluvian-like furniture—was, du- 
) ring the day and evening, used as parlor 
) and sitting-room by all the members of Mr. 
( Elton’s family, and in the night as a sleep- 
} ing-room for the two daughters. 
( Why, think you? Because it was the 
i poorest meanest ap^irtment in the whole 
) house, and it saved labor, time, light fuel, 
^ wear and tear, and et ceteras innumerable, 
) to occupy it as they did. And, moreover 
) —and this was the climax of all the rea- 
I sons, and had been advanced time and 
) again by Mrs. Elton,—“ it kept the front 
^ part of the liousc in such nice order for 
s company! ” 
? This Mrs. Elton was a woman of many 
I *' excellent qualities. She was a pattern 
liousekeeper, active, industrious, frugal, neat 
It would have been diflficult to have gath¬ 
ered “a spoonful of dirt” in her whole 
house; there was never a dish appeared on 
her table spoiled in the cooking; never a 
garment laid away unmended; never any¬ 
thing lost or wasted. She was called, too, 
a model wife and mother. There was no 
man in the town whose linen was so white, 
or whose clothes were so well brushed and 
cared for, as her husband’s; there were no 
children who in appearance or behavior ex¬ 
celled hera Were her family ill, she for¬ 
got her own existence in the care she be¬ 
stowed upon them, andwhether sick or well 
herself, labored for them incessantly—work 
seeming indeed the object for which she 
lived. 
Much of their present pr osperity was ev¬ 
idently owing to her good management and 
skill in household affairs. They had begun 
at the foot of the ladder, but, sifter a union 
of nineteen years, liad left many a round 
behind them. They dwelt in a spacious, 
elegant house, furnished (one room except¬ 
ed) with taste and splendor; had a com¬ 
fortable sum at interest, and were doing a 
prosperous business. The world had look¬ 
ed on, and its comment had always been— 
“ Elton is a lucky fellow; but no wonder, 
he has such a capital wife;” and more than 
one man had secretly envied him his 
treasure. Everybody told him that he 
ought to be a very happy man; that his 
ought to be a very happy family! He 
thought so too, and tried to imagine they 
were;—but years of stem reality had con¬ 
vinced him that such Yvas not the case, and 
often he feared it never would be. And 
why ? A reason there ivas, a strange one 
too. He was Mrs. Elton’s husband, and 
the young boys and girls, that clustered 
around their fireside, her children. Do you 
stare ? Let me state it, then, in another 
form. He and his children were only “her 
own family—they were not company!” 
Ml'S. Elton with all her good qualities, and 
they w'ere many and fine ones, belonged to 
that class, (alas, that I should have to add 
it,) that large class, who think nothing too 
good for company, nothing to poor for their 
family. There was no need of warming the 
parlors every day and lighting them every 
evening just for her own folks; the little 
back chamber would do quite as well.— 
There was no need of using the dining room 
at ever}’- meal; spreading the table with a 
damask clotli and china and silver; and the 
kitchen with coarse, brown linen, cheap 
crockery and plated spoons, would do just 
as well when they were all alone. And so 
on, ad infinitum. Her own family must not 
take the comfort of their wealth, because, 
forsooth, something might Avear out. Yet 
she would give parties, though the compa¬ 
ny did more injury to her house and furni¬ 
ture in a single evening than her own fam¬ 
ily Avould do in a whole year. A plain ta¬ 
ble would do for themselves, yet she ivould 
furnish an entertainment for visitors, the cost 
of which would spread their private board 
with luxuries for many months. She loved 
her husband and children dearly, but there 
was no use of making a fuss for them; 
that must be reserved for company. She 
must do her duty to her family, not strive 
to make their home a happy one. Her 
house must be pleasant when friends were 
gathered there, it was no concern of hers 
hoAv dull, when they ivere absent. 
They were assembled as I have said, one 
cold winter evening, in the little back cham¬ 
ber. Mr. Elton sat in the comer, his chair 
leaned back, his head resting on the wall, 
his arms folded listlessly. His eyes ivere 
cast upward ivith a steady gaze, riveted 
probably on some imaginary picture, for 
that ceiling surely could not thus arrest 
them. His countenance wore one of those 
moody e.xpressions, so difficult to analyze, 
so unpleasant to behold. He had dropped 
off liis slippers and thrust one and then the 
other against the dumb stove, as though he 
thought by pressure to elicit some little 
Avarmth. A wise proceeding in truth, for 
if there Avere any heat in that stove it Avas 
fair to conclude that it Avas all latent; at 
least so spake those blue noses and quiver¬ 
ing shins. The model Avife sat in an oppo¬ 
site comer, busily engaged in knitting.— 
One might hav'e supposed, to see her fingers 
ply, that a fortune depended upon her toe¬ 
ing off her stocking that evening. Around 
the stove Avere gathered the two ^rls and 
the youngest boy, all conning their lessons 
for the morrow. A goodly portion of the 
evening had been spent by them, in a vain 
attempt to make their lamps give light with¬ 
out smoking. One Avould pick up the wick 
and exclaim, “ noAV I can see a little better,” 
and another would draw it doAvn, saying— 
“ I shall be suffocated with the smoke.” — 
Finally, it Avould seem that they came to 
the conclusion that what could not be cured 
must be endured, and chose what seemed 
to them the least of the two evils, a miser¬ 
able caricature of light Though once in a 
AV’hile, when a momentary pain flashed 
through their strained eyes, their lips would 
curl, and a keen ear might have detected 
escaping from them, the words “cheap oil!” 
A bold blast SAvept doAvn the alley and 
slirieked around the ell. An involuntary 
shiver ran over the parents and children, 
and they looked hastily toAvards the stove. 
“Do, for pity’s sake,” exclaimed the 
youngest girl to her brother, “ run down and 
put some wood in the stove. I don’t be¬ 
lieve there is a spark of fire; I’ve been half 
frozen all the evening, and I shall soon be 
quite so, if somebody don’t conjure up a lit¬ 
tle heat.” 
“ I should think,” said the eldest one, in 
a tone purposely affected, as she looked up 
from her philosophy, “ the mercury Avould 
hardly rise higher than zero here.” 
“ It’s well for you, then, sis, that you ain’t 
a thermometer,” cried the boy in his blunt 
way. “ Here, put on your cloaks,” and he 
brought them from a closet and threw them 
over their shoulders; “ wrap yourselves up 
in them a few minutes, and I reckon I’ll 
.steam up here some. Yes,” apostrophizing 
the stove, “ I’ll warm your dumb tongue so 
it ’ll talk a little. Give us the light” 
“ The lamp, you mean, Ed,” said Fanny, 
rather dryly. 
“ Oh, yes, I forgot; there is a difference,” 
and he bolted down stairs, his mother call¬ 
ing to him, “ one or two sticks will do, Ed- 
Avard; it’s almost bedtime.” If his cars 
heard the words, and it was hardly possible 
for it to be otherwise, his mind did not seem 
to comprehend them, for furiously raking 
up the embers, and trespassing without mer¬ 
cy on the mon’ow’s kindling, he crowded 
in piece after piece, till he filled the stove 
with a generous warmth. 
“ I wish,” exclaimed he as he Avas run¬ 
ning up stairs ; “ I wish,” repeated he, as he 
leaped into the room; then as he put down 
the lamp and seated himself on one of the 
stools close to tlie stove, quite out of breath, 
he a third time cried out, “ I wish ” - 
“ Wish what, Ed ? ” said Fanny. “ Do, 
pray, take a long breath and speak out.” 
“ Well, then, I wish we could have com¬ 
pany every day.” ’ 
The girls laughed, nevertheless exclaim¬ 
ed Avith one voice, “ we’ll join you in that;” 
then speaking the words slowly, as though 
she were all the while thinking, Mary con¬ 
tinued, “if we only could have company 
every day.” 
“ What, children! ” cried Mrs. Elton and 
her mouth and throat were full of impress¬ 
ive sentences as to the folly of such Avishes, 
when a sudden glance at her husband 
checked their utterance, and she swallowed 
or rather choked them down. 
“Why? children,” said the father; “why 
should you like to have company every day.” 
“ Oh, because ”-exclaimed Mary; 
“ because, because,” chimed in Fanny and 
EdAvard. 
“Because what? Don’t all speak at 
once! Come Mary, as the eldest I will be¬ 
gin with you.” 
“ Oh, I have forty reasons, father.” 
“ Say a hundred,” said Fanny. 
“ A thousand, while your’re about it,” 
said Edivard. 
“ Well,” said Mary, “ I can sum them all 
in one sentence; I am so much happier 
then.” 
“ Happier when strangers are around 
you, than when your beloved parents and 
sister and brother ? ” asked her father a litr 
tie reproachfully. 
The tears gushed to her eyes. “You 
misunderstand me, indeed you do, father.— j 
It is not the company I care so much about, 
though I dearly love to see my friends: it 
is not that so much as the privileges we 
haA’e then.” 
“ What mean you by privileges child ? ” 
and Mr. Elton darted a searching glare at 
his wife. 
“Why a great many things, father. For 
instance, that of having the parlors opened 
and Avarmed and lighted, and then sitting' 
down in them and enjoying their comforts. 
I believe I should feel a great deal better 
if I could spend all my evenings down 
stairs, and gaze upon those superb pictures 
and ornaments, tastefully arranged curtains 
and those charming frescoes, I shouldn’t 
tease you to go out half so often, if we sat | 
down there all the time, but up here,”-| 
she hesitated. j 
“Your father and I,” said the mother in j 
a somewhat bitter tone, “ Avould have been j 
glad of so comfortable a room as this, when | 
Ave began the world.” i 
“ Well, mother, if we hadn’t any better ! 
room than this, if we couldn’t afford to have 
any other, I shouldn’t complain. As it is” 
-a long pause—“ if ever I haA’e a house, 
my family shall have the comfort of it” 
Fearing an outbreak from his partner, 
Mr. Elton interrupted Mary by appealing 
to the second daughter for her reasons.” 
“ Mary gave some, in what she said about 
the parlor. We often lay awake nights and 
paint pictures of them.” 
“Your brush? Your brush? Sis,” cried 
Ed, blunt as usual. 
“ Our tongues are our brushes, sir. They 
are not pictures for the eye to see, but for 
the heart to revel on; word pictures, home 
pictures, we call them. If Ave could only 
see them in reality how happy should Ave 
be.” I 
“ What do you suppose, though,” asked 
the lad, in a voice indicative of momentous 
thought, “ what do you suppose girls, Avould 
become of this little back chamber if we | 
should have company and use the parlors ?” 
“Oh, I have it now;” and a roguish 
smile lurked in the corners of his eyes and 
his dimpled cheeks. “ It would be a capi¬ 
tal place for old Rover to sleep. It’s too 
bad to put him out of doors such cold 
nights.” 
“ A fine opinion you must have of our 
bedchamber, to think of turning it into a 
dog-kennel,” retorted Fanny as though high¬ 
ly offended. Then turning to her father 
she continued: “ you know too, we always 
use the dining room when we have compa¬ 
ny, and it is so much pleasanter than that 
kitchen. I wonder sometimes you can keep 
your patience there. EUen is sure to have 
half dozen pots to scrape and as many pans 
to make a clattering; and then she always 
takes that time to rake out her stove, and 
in short, do everything that’ll make a noise: 
it’s a confusion of kettles if not of tongues. 
And then Ave can never get through supper 
without having some strange body thrust 
its head into the door to knoAv ‘ is thar eere 
a girl by the name of Ellen O’Leary lives 
with ye, mam ? ’ ” and she gave the accent 
perfectly. 
They all laughed, even her mother, though 
she immediately smoothed her face, saying, 
“ many a one would be glad of so good a 
place to eat in.” 
“ True mother,” rejoined the daughter; 
“ but I say as Mary did of the parlom; if 
we had no better place, I should be con¬ 
tented ; no, I can’t say that quite, but I 
shouldn’t grumble, I always have, and I al¬ 
ways shall say, there is no use in having 
money, if it don’t increase our happiness.— ! 
We might as well be poor as to live all the 
time as though we were. But come, mas¬ 
ter Ed., let us have your reasons, your thou¬ 
sand reasons. 
“Well then —I declare I don’t know 
where to begin. Oh! the hall lamp is al¬ 
ways lighted then, and I don’t risk breaking 
my legs every time I come in. They are 
all black and blue now, Avith poking through 
the dark. And then—well ever}’thing is 
good natured then, and that’s enough of it¬ 
self to make anybody Avish for company ev¬ 
ery day. •Besides, Ave alAvays have good 
things to eat then, and don’t have to eat 
them off cracked earthen ware either; and 
I then—well the beginning and end of the 
story is, Ave have a first rate time all round. 
I always giA^e three cheers, when I come in 
sight of tlie house and find the parlor blinds 
open. If ever I get to be a married man, 
I mean to call my wife and children compa¬ 
ny, so as to have a good time every day! ” 
“ But tell me,” said Mr. Elton, addressing 
the three, “ if you could have the pleasures 
attendant upon the reception of company, 
Avithout their presence, would you be as 
Avell satisfied ? ” 
“Yes, yes, indeed;” responded they with 
one voice, “ We wish for company every j 
day,” said Mary, “ because Ave should like 
to have our home pleasant and happy every * 
day; and you knoAv, father, you have said 
it too, it is the dullest place in all creation 
when we are alone.” 
An awkward silence ensued. 
Mary broke it by observing in an anxious 
tone, “ the reason that I have most at heart, 
father, for desiring company every day, is 
on account of brother George. He never 
goes out when we have company, but he 
never any more stays at home, when we 
are alone.” 
The parents startled as Mary paused, and 
their hearts in a moment grew sad and anx¬ 
ious. They had never thought of it before, 
but it Avas even so, and Avhere was he now ? 
It was ten o’clock. 
“ It is late,” said Mis. Elton, and she Avent 
to the Avindow as though to listen. 
“ Yes, yes,” murmured her husband 
thoughtfully; “ I Avonder where he can be.” 
Just then, a voice which though rather 
husky Avas yet musical, was heard trolling a 
coarse song, and footsteps sounded upon the 
alley pavement. They all rose and joined 
their mother. - Could that be George? 
George, whose taste in musical as Avell as in 
all other matters bordered upon fastidious¬ 
ness? The surging back of the kitchen 
door proved that it was so. They resumed 
their seats and in silence awaited him,— 
Through the lower room and up stairs he 
came, noAV stumbling, now stamping, noAV 
whistling, noAV chuckling. As he came in, 
he burst into a loud laugh, marched with a 
rowdy air through the chamber, rubbing 
his hands and exclaiming “ Capital! go it, 
Jim! first rate! let’s have it again! ” He 
seemed, he was indeed for the moment, un¬ 
conscious of the presence of his family.— 
They looked on in mute amazement 
“ Where have you been, George ? ” in¬ 
quired Mary after a Avhile, and there was a 
touching pathos in her voice. The brother 
did not notice it; he heard the words; his 
brain w'as too misty to distinguish the tone. 
“ Been! I’ve been to the circus—and a 
fine time I’ve had too, ha, ha, ha Capital, 
go it old fellow, ha, ha, ha But it was 
confounded hot; my blood burns yet;” and 
going to the AvindoAv he raised the sash and 
suffered the cold night siir to fan his flush¬ 
ed face. Taking a handful of snow from 
the sill, he held it to his broAV awhile, and 
as it began to melt, rubbed it through his 
hair, till it hung in wet locks over his damp 
forehead. His long Avalk in the wind cool¬ 
ed somcAvhat his fevered blood; his ablu¬ 
tion in the liquified snow, and the conscious 
presence of his family, aided in sobering 
him; for he Avas only in the first stage of 
dissipation. His step was firmer, his coun¬ 
tenance more rational, when he closed the 
AvindoAv and again paced the chamber. 
“ I thought,” sjiid Fanny to him, as she 
rose and joined him in his walk. “I thought, 
George, you never went to amusements 
without some of us should accompany you. 
Pray, Avhy did you go off to-night without 
taking us ? ” 
“Take you! ” he answered in a sarcastic 
tone “ take my sistem to the circus. A fine 
place indeed for you.” 
“ If it was not a fit place for your sisters,” 
retorted Fanny with considerable spirit, “ I 
am quite sure it Avas not a fit place for my 
brother. George, George,” she exclaimed, 
passionately grasping his hands and wetting 
them with her tears, “ promise, oh promise 
me, that you will never go there again, nor 
to any place where you woiUd be ashamed 
to see your sisters.” 
“Promise! he looked around, and 
thrust her rudely from his side; “ no—I’ll 
not promise. I’ll go there, and to places 
fouler far than that, before I’ll spend my 
evenings in such a hole as this.” 
There were tears, and sorrow, and anguish 
that night in the Elton family. There were 
prayei-s, too; deep, earnest, thrilling pray¬ 
ers, noAv quivering on pale lips, noAV tremb¬ 
ling down in tlie soul’s secret places, now 
gushing up from stricken bosoms. 
And one heart, torn and bleeding at ev¬ 
ery pore, wrapped its raw wounds in sack¬ 
cloth and ashes, and threw itself before the 
Mercy-Seat All the long, dark hours, it 
cried “ Forgive, forgive;” and when the 
morning dawned, contrite upon the bosom 
of the fallen son, it uttered still its prayer. 
Heaven did forgive; the boy too, and wi¬ 
ped away tlie mother’s tears. But never 
from her memory w’as that night’s experi¬ 
ence effaced. Never again did she hear 
her children wish for “ company every day.’* 
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