$15.  A  Prize  Series.  $15. 
HOW  DII)  YOU  SUPPORT  YOUR  FAMILY  ?  HOW  CAN  PARENTS 
HELP  THE  DISTRICT  SCHOOL  ?  DAINTY  COOKERY  FOR 
THE  FARM  TARLE. 
These  are  the  three  topics  to  be  treated  in  a  series 
of  prize  articles,  these  articles  to  be  written  by  sub¬ 
scribers  to  The  R.  N.-Y.  or  by  members  of  their  fami¬ 
lies.  For  full  particulars  and  conditions  see  issues  of 
The  R.  N.-Y.  for  February  20  and  February  27. 
Rural  New-Yorker  Notes. 
AN  instance  of  the  total  depravity  of  "things,  and 
the  danger  of  judging  from  circumstantial  evi¬ 
dence,  and  also  a  hint  to  contributors  to  exercise  due 
care  in  directing  letters,  may  be  found  in  the  recital 
of  what  befell  several  people  through  the  pretty 
little  story,  of  “  The  Christmas  Angel,”  published  in 
our  Christmas  issue.  Not  that  the  story  was  in  the 
least  to  blame  ;  oh,  no  ! 
But  things  fell  out  in  this  wise  :  The  story  was  or¬ 
dered  several  weeks  before  it  was  wanted  ;  yet,  when 
it  was  due,  it  did  not  come  to  hand.  Our  contributor 
was  notified,  and  sent  the  story  at  once,  stating  that 
the  manuscript  sent  was  a  copy  of  the  original,  which 
had  been  mailed  us  some  two  or  three  weeks  earlier. 
Apparently  no  harm  was  done,  save  the  extra  work 
and  the  bit  of  uncertainty  and  delay  ;  but,  strange  to 
say,  a  Western  woman’s  paper  also  published  the  little 
story  as  original  matter,  and  the  issue  in  which  it  ap¬ 
peared  nearly  coincided  in  date  with  our  Christmas 
number  ;  too  nearly  for  it  to  be  a  case  of  appropriation 
without  thanks. 
An  open-eyed  subscriber  of  The  R.  N.-Y.  wrote  us 
asking  about  the  matter,  and  adducing  several  reasons 
showing  that  it  must  be  the  fault  of  the  contributor 
(a  favorite  one),  who  had  evidently,  it  was  insisted, 
sold  the  matter  twice,  or  else  donated  it  to  one  publi¬ 
cation  and  sold  it  to  another. 
Certainly  things  did  look  pretty  much  against  the 
writer  of  the  story  ;  yet,  being  very  loth  to  believe  her 
guilty  of  such  duplicity,  we  wrote  her,  stating  the  facts 
in  briefest  language,  and  asking  an  explanation.  Dead 
silence  on  her  part  for  two  or  three  weeks  began  to 
shake  our  confidence  in  the  originator  of  “The  Christ¬ 
mas  Angel.”  Yet  how  could  we  believe  that  one  who 
could  create  this  sweet  angel  of  peace  and  good-will 
could  be  untrue  ? 
A  little  later,  still  intent  on  sifting  the  matter,  we 
sent  a  note  of  courteous  inquiry  to  the  editor  of  the 
other  publication  which  had  used  the  story,  asking  if 
she  could  explain  the  strange  concidence.  Before  her 
reply  arrived,  however,  a  note  was  received  from  our 
story  writer,  inclosing  another  from  her  (her  delayed 
answer  to  our  letter  of  inquiry)  which  she  had  just 
received,  with  a  note,  from  the  very  publication  which 
had  used  the  story  !  This  note  informed  her  that  as 
they  had  bought  out  a  publication  formerly  printed  in 
New  York  city,  called  the  “  Woman  and  Home,”  her 
letter  had  been  sent  to  them,  but  that  there  was 
evidently  some  mistake. 
A  day  later,  we  received  from  the  editor  of  this  pub¬ 
lication  the  answer  to  our  letter  of  inquiry.  She  was 
new  to  the  office,  having  taken  the  editorial  chair  the 
week  previous  to  the  one  in  which  the  story  was  used. 
Finding  a  Christmas  story  in  her  desk  at  the  very  time 
when  a  Christmas  story  was  needed,  she,  naturally, 
used  it. 
With  the  right  threads  in  hand,  it  was  easy  enough 
to  follow  out  the  simple  explanation.  The  original 
letter  with  the  story,  was  addressed  “"Woman  and 
Home,  Times  Building,  New  York.”  Among  the  scores 
of  offices  in  the  Times  Building,  Uncle  Sam’s  officials 
might  have  spied  out  the  “  Woman  and  Home,”  had  such 
a  paper  existed.  As  they  could  not  know  that  it  was 
but  a  department,  they  followed  the  only  “  Woman 
and  Home  ”  of  -which  they  had  knowledge,  westward, 
and  a  change  of  editors  in  the  paper  which  had  ab¬ 
sorbed  the  original  “  Woman  and  Home,”  completed 
the  confusion. 
The  moral  of  all  which  is:  all  letters  intended  for 
this  Department  should  contain  the  name  of  The 
Rural  New- Yorker  as  a  part  of  the  address,  as  well 
as  the  name  of  the  Department. 
*  *  * 
Let  us  look  at  this  statement: 
Only  in  case  there  is  a  possibility  of  betterment  is  it 
advisable  to  present  facts  strongly  again  and  again,  in 
their  worst  aspects.  May  we  not  say  that  this  is  a 
good  general  rule  to  follow?  If  we  could  all  impress 
this  fact  upon  the  consciousness,  a  large — a  very  large 
proportion  of  the  fretting  and  scolding  which  are  a 
part  of  the  daily  lives  of  many,  would  be  abolished.  If 
there  is  no  possibility  of  making  things  better,  let  us 
not  speak  of  the  disturbing  elements;  for  no  good,  but 
only  harm  will  come  of  it.  If  there  is  a  possibility  of 
improving  things,  let  us  not  fret  at  the  difficulties, 
but  go  at  once  about  lessening  or  removing  them. 
*  *  * 
In  the  beginning,  these  thoughts  were  induced  by 
the  consideration  of  Mrs.  M.  A.  Kellerman’s  article, 
given  in  the  present  issue.  The  facts  which  she  gives 
us  are  all  too  true;  and  are  unusually  well  stated. 
Doubtless  it  will  seem  to  many  that  there  is  no  rem¬ 
edy  for  the  existing  state  of  affairs.  Yet  we  hope  that 
our  correspondent,  since  she  has  so  clear  a  view  of  the 
difficulties  in  the  daily  path  of  the  mothers,  is  able  to 
see  still  further,  and  to  propose  some  mitigations  or 
remedies.  *  *  * 
Failing  this,  one  thing  at  least  is  gained;  if  we  are 
impressed  with  a  clear  idea  of  all  that  our  mothers 
have  done  and  borne  for  us,  we  cannot  help  being  in¬ 
spired  to  a  greater  devotion  toward,  and  a  larger  con¬ 
sideration  for,  these  dear  mothers.  Does  not  each  one 
of  us  owe  more  than  can  ever  be  paid  to  a  mother? 
“Women  and  Children.” 
DURING  the  holidays,  while  visiting  the  old  home¬ 
stead,  I  came  across  a  bundle  of  old  Rural  New- 
Yorkers,  bearing  the  date  of  1862.  They  were  faded 
and  yellow.  Thirty  years  have  passed  since  they 
gladdened  the  home  circle  with  their  ever- welcome 
fund  of  entertainment  and  instruction.  I  looked  them 
over  with  considerable  interest,  and  found  so  many 
good  things  in  them,  that  I  thought  it  a  pity  they  had 
been  relegated  to  the  attic. 
There  was  one  short,  selected  article,  headed, 
Women  and  Children,  which  brought  to  mind  a  recent 
conversation  with  a  lady  friend,  bearing  upon  the 
same  subject.  Let  me  quote  from  the  article,  and 
afterwards,  from  the  conversation. 
“I  have  seen  scores  and  scores  of  women  leave  school, 
leave  their  piano  and  drawing  and  fancy  work,  and  all 
manner  of  pretty  and  pleasant  things,  and  marry,  and 
bury  themselves.  You  hear  of  them  about  six  times  in 
ten  years,  and  there  is  a  baby  each  time.  They  crawl 
out  of  the  further  end  of  ten  years  sallow,  wrinkled  and 
lank — roses  gone,  plumpness  gone,  freshness,  vivacity 
and  sparkle,  everything  that  is  dewy  and  springing  and 
spontaneous  gone,  gone,  gone,  forever.  This,  our 
tract  society  books  put  very  prettily, — ‘  She  wraps 
herself  in  the  robes  of  infantile  simplicity  and  buries 
her  womanly  nature  in  the  tomb  of  childhood,  pa¬ 
tiently  awaits  the  sure  coming  resurrection  in  the  form 
of  a  noble,  high-minded,  world-stirring  son,  or  a  vir¬ 
tuous,  lovely  daughter.  The  nursery  is  the  mother’s 
chrysalis.  Let  her  abide  for  a  little  season,  and  she 
shall  emerge  triumphantly,  with  ethereal  wing6  and 
happy  flight.’ 
“  But  the  nursery  has  no  business  to  be  the  mother’s 
chrysalis.  God  never  intended  her  to  wind  herself  into 
a  cocoon.  If  He  had,  He  would  have  made  her  a  cater¬ 
pillar  *  *  *  No  woman  has  a  right  to  sacrifice  her 
own  soul  to  the  problematical  high-minded,  world¬ 
stirring  sons,  and  virtuous,  lovely  daughters.” 
“  But,  my  dear,”  I  said,  “  you  vowed  you  would  not 
be  like  other  farmers’  wives ;  you  always  said  that 
marriage  should  not  interfere  with  your  progress,  your 
accomplishments  ;  you  declared  your  determination  to 
keep  up  your  music,  your  drawing  ;  to  cultivate  your 
taste  for  literature  and  to  indulge  yourself  with  fancy 
work.  Now,  here  you  sit,  and  tell  me  that  you  never 
touch  your  piano  ;  you  never  take  up  your  drawing 
pencil ;  you  have  no  time  for  reading,  and  fancy  work 
is  a  thing  of  the  past.” 
“  Ah,  I  know,”  replied  my  friend,  “  that  dreams  and 
realities  are  vastly  different  from  each  other.  My  air 
castles  soon  fell  to  the  ground.  My  husband’s  parents 
were  growing  old,  and  becoming  more  feeble  each 
succeeding  year.  It  seemed  our  duty  to  care  for  them 
in  their  declining  years.  They  disliked  music,  or  did 
not  like  to  hear'me  practice  ;  naturally  it  was  dropped. 
Babies  came,  and— well— it  was  with  me  just  as  it  is  with 
many  other  farmers’  wives.  My  whole  time  and  energy 
were  taken  up  with  domestic  duties  ;  with  household 
cares.  Instead  of  practicing,  drawing,  etc.,  I  was  wholly 
occupied  with  thoughts  and  plans  for  the  comfort,  the 
welfare,  the  education  of  the  children.  I  would  live 
my  youth  over  again  in  their  progress,  I  fancied,  and 
in  a  few  short  years  they  would  be  able  to  take  my 
place  at  the  piano.  I  tell  you  when  one  stands  still 
for  10  or  15  years  it  is  a  difficult  matter  to  move  grace¬ 
fully  !  I  do  not  wish,  by  any  means,  to  belittle  the 
natural  work  of  mothers,  but  a  farmer’s  wife  who  is 
obliged  to  do  her  own  housework  and  care  for  her 
children  without  any  assistance,  cannot  possibly  keep 
up  with  the  times,  at  least  it  is  the  case  with  me  and 
with  all  whom  I  know.” 
Is  it,  then,  just  as  it  was  30  years  ago  ?  With  all  the 
improvements,  all  the  helps  and  inventions  of  the  last 
30  years,  must  the  mother  stand  still  for  10  or  15  years 
before  “  she  shall  emerge  triumphantly,  with  ethereal 
wings  and  happy  flight  ?”  Is  it  right,  is  it  just,  is  it 
fair,  that  so  much  is  demanded  of  mothers  ?  It  is  an 
awful  thing  to  bear  a  child,  and  the  fact  that  mother¬ 
hood  is  the  God-given  mission  of  woman’s  life,  does  not 
diminish  the  pain  she  endures  to  win  the  crown. 
Glorify  the  martyrs  who  for  truth’s  sake  suffered  at 
the  burning  stake  ;  sanctify  those  who  died  for  relig¬ 
ious  zeal,  but  place  the  crown  upon  the  gentle,  patient, 
enduring,  uncomplaining  mother.  What  long,  long 
weary  days,  what  sleepless  nights,  what  hours  of 
suffering  are  hers  ere  she  clasps  the  little  one  to  her 
bosom  !  Nor  is  it  required  of  her  that  she  pass  through 
the  ordeal  but  once.  Again  and  again  must  the  crown 
be  won. 
We  cry  out  against  the  peasants  in  Germany  for 
their  cruelty  to  animals,  when  we  see  a  cow  hitched 
to  a  cart  or  a  milk-wagon,  declaring  that  “  a  cow  is  to 
give  milk,”  that  done,  her  mission  is  fulfilled.  “Just 
th’nk  of  using  the  milk  when  they  work  the  cows,” 
exclaimed  an  American  lady  to  me,  as  we  watched  a 
German  woman  urging  along  a  tired-looking  cow  that 
was  hitched  to  a  quaint,  clumsy  milk-wagon.  And  yet 
how  many  farmers’  wives  leave  the  wash-tub,  the  iron¬ 
ing  table,  or  equally  severe  labor  to  nurse  their  little 
ones  ?  No  matter  how  tired  mothers  are,  the  little 
ones  must  be  cared  for  ;  and  not  only  during  the  day, 
but  when  restful  sleep  would  fain  restore  the  wear 
and  tear  of  daily  cares. 
It  is  iwt  the  care  of  her  children  which  “  winds  the 
mother  into  a  chrysalis,”  but  the  care  of  children 
added  to  tier  routine  household  work  ;  it  is  the  double 
duty  required  of  her  which  blanches  her  cheeks,  wrin¬ 
kles  her  brow,  and  crushes  the  sparkle  and  spontaneity 
of  her  soul.  The  house  must  be  put  in  order ;  the 
meals  prepared  ;  washing,  ironing,  churning,  baking 
are  to  be  done ;  the  family  wardrobes  need  constant 
replenishing,  and  never-ending  repair ;  stockings  are 
always  wearing  through,  and  there  is  not  a  minute 
into  which  a  dozen  duties  would  not  fain  crowd. 
Then  who  can  enumerate  the  demands  made  upon  the 
mother,  in  cases  of  sickness  ?  It  is  she  who  administers 
with  love  and  gentleness  the  thousand  little  deeds  of 
kindness  that  serve  to  lessen  pain  and  comfort  the  suf¬ 
ferer.  It  is  she  who  bathes  the  fevered  brow,  who 
holds  in  her  own  the  little  restless  hands. 
Not  many  years  ago,  husbands,  fathers,  brothers, 
sons  were  called  upon  to  risk  their  lives  for  their  coun¬ 
try’s  sake.  Those  who  suffered  physical  injury  are  in 
a  measure  compensated  by  a  pension.  For  the  sake  of 
the  human  race  woman  ofttimes  risks  her  life,  endures 
pain,  suffers  life-long  injury ;  but  the  human  race 
does  not  even  render  thanks  to  the  uncomplaining 
mothers,  who  sacrifice  the  best  part  of  their  lives  to 
the  duties  of  maternity.  mrs.  w.  a.  kellerman. 
Too  Loose  a  Rein. 
OT  long  ago  I  heard  several  persons  discussing 
the  cause  of  an  accident.  A  lady  had  been  thrown 
from  a  carriage  and  sustained  some  painful  injuries  by 
a  sudden  start  on  the  part  of  her  horse,  while  trav¬ 
ersing  a  narrow  road.  One  theory  after  another  was 
advanced  as  a  cause  for  the  starting  of  the  horse,  when 
the  injured  woman  said:  “  You  are,  none  of  you,  right; 
the  real  secret  of  the  matter  is  that  I  was  driving  with 
too  loose  a  rein.” 
When  I  see  a  farmer  whose  crops  are  put  into  the 
ground  a  little  too  late  in  the  spring  and  harvested  a 
little  too  late  in  the  fall;  whose  farm  implements  are 
Did  you  ever  see  a  sickly  baby  with 
dimples  ?  or  a  healthy  one  without  them  ? 
A  thin  baby  is  always  delicate.  Nobody 
worries  about  a  plump  one. 
If  you  can  get  your  baby  plump,  he  is 
almost  sure  to  be  well.  If  you  can  get 
him  well,  he  is  almost  sure  to  be  plump. 
The  way  to  do  both — there  is  but  one 
way — is  by  careful  living.  Sometimes 
this  depends  on  Scott’s  Emulsion  of  cod- 
liver  oil. 
We  will  send  you  a  book  on  it  ;  free. 
Scott  &  Bownk,  Chemists,  132  South  5th  Avenue,  New  York. 
