THE ROSE BUSH. 
FROM THE GERMAN. 
A child sleeps under the rose-bush fair, 
The buds swell out in the soft May air; 
Sweetly it rests, and on dream-wing flies 
To play with the angels in Paradise. 
And the years glide by. 
A maiden stands by the rose-bush fair, 
The dewy blossoms perfume the air; 
She presses her hand to her throbbing breast, 
With lore’s first wonderful rapture blest. 
And the years glide by. 
A mother kneels by the rose-bush fair, 
Soft sigh the leaves in the evening air; 
Sorrowing thoughts of the past arise, 
And tears of anguish bedim her eyes. 
And the years glide by. 
Naked and alone stands the rose bush fair, 
Whirled are the leaves in autumn air ; 
Witherod and dead they fall to the ground, 
And silently cover a new made mound. 
And the years glide by. 
f mu 
Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1858, by 
D. I). T. Moore, in the Office of the Clerk of the District 
Court for the Northern District of New York. 
ALICE AND ADELAIDE; 
THE TRUE A INTI) THE FALSE. 
BT MRS. MARY J. HOLMES. 
Chapter I.—New Year’s Eve. 
In the parlors below all was elegant, princely 
and grand. Rare flowers, in vases rarer still, sent 
through the rooms a fragrant odor, bringing back 
as it were the summer glory which had faded in the 
autumn light, and died ’neath the chill December’s 
breath. Fresco paintings gleamed from the ceil¬ 
ing, costly pictures adorned the walls; carpets, 
which seemed to the eyejlike a mossy bed inlaid 
with roses, covered the floors, while over all the 
gas-light fell, making a scene of brilliant beauty 
such as was seldom witnessed in the staid city of 
-, where our story opens. 
’Twas the night of Alice Warren’s first presen¬ 
tation to that portion of the world known every¬ 
where as “fashionable society,” and now in her 
tasteful dressing-room above she stands before her 
mirror, bending low her graceful head while her 
lady-mother places among her flowing curls one 
more tiny bud, and then pronounces the toilet com¬ 
plete. Very, very beautiful was Alice Warren, 
with her fair young face, her waving hair, and lus¬ 
trous eyes of blue, which had looked on the suns 
of only sixteen summers, mil whirl) now shone 
with more than their wonted brightness, as, 
smoothing down the folds of her elegant lace dress, 
she glanced again at the mirror opposite, and then 
turned towards her mother just as a movement in 
the hall without attracted the attention of both.— 
’Twas a slow, uncertain foot-fall, and darting for¬ 
ward, Alice cried, “ ’Tis father,— come to see just 
how I look on this my sixteenth birth-night.” 
“Not to see you, my child, the doting father an¬ 
swered ; and in the tones of his voice there was a 
wail of sorrow, as if the struggle of seventeen 
long years were not yet fully over. 
And well might Hugo Warren’s voice be tuned 
to a note of sadness—for to him the world was one 
dark, dreary night, and the gold so many coveted 
would have been freely given could he but once 
have looked upon the face of his only child, who, 
bounding to his side, parted the snow-white hair 
from off his forehead, and laying his hand upon 
her head, asked him “ to feel if she were not beau¬ 
tiful.” 
Slowly—tenderly—caressingly the hand of him 
who could not see, moved over the shining hair, 
touched the glowing cheek, the snowy neck and 
rounded arms of the graceful little figure which 
stood before him, then dashing a tear away, the 
blind man made her answer, “Yes, beautiful my 
Alice must bo, if she is, as they tell me, like her 
mother,” and the sightless eyes turned instinctively 
towards the mother, who, coming to his side, re¬ 
plied, “Alice is like me as I was when last you 
saw my face—but I have changed since then—there 
are lines of silver in my hair, and lines of time 
upon my face.” 
The blind man shook his head. The picture of 
the fond, girl-wife, who, in his hour of bitter agony, 
had whispered in his ear, “I will be sun-light 
moon-light, star-light, — everything to you, my 
husband,” had never changed to him—for faithfully 
and well that promise had been kept, and ’twas bet¬ 
ter far, perhaps, that ho could not see the shadows 
on that face,—shadows which foretold a darker 
hour than any he had ever known,— an hour when 
the sun-light of her love would set forever. But 
no such forebodings were around him now. He 
held his wife and daughter both within his arms, 
and holding them there thus, he e’en forgot that 
he was blind. 
“ Did you invite Adelaide f” Alice asked at 
last, and Hr. Warren replied, “Yes, but ’tis 
doubtful whether she will come. She is very 
proud, her father says, and does not wish to put 
herself in a position to be slighted.” 
“Oh, father,” answered Alice, “Adelaide Hun¬ 
tington does not know me. I could not slight her 
because she is comparatively poor, and if she 
comes, I’ll treat her like a royal princess,” and 
over Alice Warren’s face there stole a bright, 
deep flush, as she thought how attentive she would 
a he to the daughter of her father’s “confidential 
g? clerk.” 
Meantime, in a distant part of the city, in a 
Ylfl dwelling far more humble than that of Hugo 
Pm ^ Warren, another family group were assembled, 
m.f father, mother, daughter, — all, save old Aunt 
llf' Peggy, who, thankful for a home which saved her 
It/' from the almshouse, performed willingly a menial’s 
if/** part, bearing patiently the whims of the mother j 
■yA' and the caprices of the daughter, the latter of I 
f ) *50* 9 £ 
whom proved a most tyrannical and exacting mis¬ 
tress. Tall, dignified, and rather aristocratic in her 
bearing, was Adelaide Huntington. Handsome, 
too, and agreeable she was called by those who 
failed to see the treachery hidden in her large, dark 
eyes, or the constant effort she made to seem what 
she was not. To be noticed by those whose posi¬ 
tion in life was far above her own was her aim, and 
when the envied Alice Warren extended to her 
family an invitation to be present at her birthday 
party, her delight was unbounded. “She should 
go, of course, and her father would go with her. 
She should have a new dress, too,—her father 
would give her the money,—he could, —he must,” 
and he did, sighing deeply as he placed it in her 
hand and thought from whom it came. The dress 
was purchased, and though ’twas only a handsome 
muslin it well became the queenly form of the 
haughty Adelaide, who, on that New Year’s Eve, 
stood before her father, seeking from him a word 
of commendation, and asking if “ he did not think 
she would overshadow the diminutive Alice? 
“I don’t see why there should be this difference 
between us,” she continued, as her father made no 
answer. “Herd must be poor all my life while 
she will be rich, unless Hr. Warren chances to 
fail-.” 
“ Which he will do ere three days are passed,” 
dropped involuntarily from the lips of Hr. Hunt¬ 
ington. 
Then, with wild, startled look be grasped his 
daughter’s arm, exclaiming, “Forget what I just 
said—breathe not a word of it to any one, for 
Heaven knows I’d help it if I could. But ’tis too 
late,—too late.” 
’Twas in vain that Adelaide and her mother 
sought an explanation of these strange words. Mr. 
Huntington would make them no reply, and in 
almost unbroken silence he accompanied his 
daughter lo the bouse of Hr. Warren. 
Very kindly did Alice welcome the young girl, 
striving in various ways to relieve her from the 
embarrassment she would naturally feel at finding 
herself among so many strangers. And Adelaide 
was ill at ease, for the spirit of jealous envy which 
had ever a home in her heart whispered to her of 
slight and insult where none had been intended; 
whispered, too, that her muslin dress, which at 
home with her mother and Aunt Peggy to admire 
had been so beautiful, was naught compared with 
the soft, flowing robes of Alice Warren, whose 
polite attentions she construed into a kind of 
patronizing pity exceedingly annoying to one of 
her proud nature. Then, as she remembered her 
father’s words, she thought, “ We may he equals 
yet. I wonder what he meant? I mean to ask him 
again,” and passing through the crowded apart¬ 
ments she came to the little ante-room, where all 
the evening her father had been sitting,—a hard, 
dark look upon his face and his eyes bent on the 
floor, as if for him that festive scene possessed no 
interest. 
“Father,” she said, but he made her no reply; 
he did not even know that she was standing at his 
side. 
Far back through the “long ago” his thoughts 
were straying,—back to the New Year’s Eve when 
penniless, friendless and alone he had come to the 
city, asking employment from one whose hair was 
not then white as now,—whose eyes were not then 
quenched in darkness, but looked kindly down on 
him, as the wealthy merchant said, “ I will give 
you work so long as you do well.” 
Hugo Warren was older than William Hun¬ 
tington by many years, and his station in life had 
ever been different, but far over the mountain side 
the same Sabbath bell had once called them both 
to the house of God —the same tall tree on the 
river bank bore on its bark their names—the same 
blue sky had bent above their childhood’s home, 
and for this reason he had given him a helping 
hand, aiding him step by step until now he was 
the confidential clerk,—the one trusted above all 
others—for the helpless man when the darkness first 
came upon him had lain his hand on William’s 
head, saying, as he did so, “I trust you, William, 
with my all, and as you hope for Heaven, deal not 
falsely with the blind.” 
“ Deal not falsely with the blind!” How those 
words, spoken seventeen years before, rang in 
William Huntington’s cars as he sat there, think¬ 
ing of the past, until the great drops of perspira¬ 
tion gathered thickly around his lips and dropped 
upon the floor. He had botrayed his trust,—nay, 
more, ho had ruined the white-haired man who 
had been so kind to him, and ere three days were 
passed his sin would find him out. Heavy bank 
notes must be paid, and in his employer’s coffers 
there was naught with which to pay them. The 
gambling table had been bis ruin. Gradually had 
he gone down, meaning always to replace what he 
had taken, and oftentimes doing so; but fortune 
had deserted him at last, and rather than meet the 
rebuking glance of those sightless eyes, when the 
truth should all be known, he had resolved to go 
away. He had asked for a holiday on the morrow, 
and ere the first New Year’s sun was set, he would 
be an outcast—a wanderer on the earth. Of all 
this, then, was he thinking, when Adelaide came 
to his side. 
The sound of her voice aroused him at last, and 
starting up he exclaimed, “ It’s time we were at 
home. The atmosphere of these rooms is stifling. 
Get your things at once.” 
Rather unwillingly Adelaide obeyed, and ten 
minutes later she Vas saying good night to Alice 
and her mother, both of whom expressed their 
surprise that she should go so soon, as did also Mr. 
Warren. 
“ I meant to have talked with you more,” he 
said, as he stood within the hall with Mr. Hunting- 
ton, who, grasping his hand, looked earnestly into 
the face which for all time to come would haunt 
him as the face of one whom he had greatly 
wronged. 
Another moment and he was gone, while on the 
hand he had just released there lay a large, round 
drop, and the blind man, brushing it away, knew 
not that ’twas a tear. 
Four o’clock, and all is still around the house 
where but a few hours since mirth and revelry 
were reriguing. Flashed with excitement and the 
flattery her youthful beauty had called forth, Alice 
Warren had sought her pillow, and in the world 
of dreamland is living over again the incidents of 
her sixteenth birth-day party. The blind man, 
too, is sleeping, and in his dreams, as he always 
does, he sees again the forms of those he loves, but 
he does not see the storm-cloud hovering near, nor 
yet the crouching figure which, across the way, is 
looking towards his window and bidding him 
farewell. 
Mr. Huntington had accompanied Adelaide to 
his door and then, making some trivial excuse, 
had gone from his home forever, leaving his wife 
to watch and wait as she had often done before. 
Slowly waned the December night, and just as the 
morn was breaking—the morn of the bright New 
Year—a train sped on its way to the westward, 
bearing among its passengers one who fled from 
justice, leaving to his wife and daughter grief and 
shame, while to the blind man there was left dark¬ 
ness, ruin, and death. 
Chapter n. — The House of Mourning. 
The third day came and passed, and as the twi¬ 
light shadows fell upon the city, Alice and her 
mother pushed back the heavy damask curtain 
which shaded the window of their pleasant sitting- 
room, and looked anxiously down the street for 
one who seldom tarried long. An hour went by; 
another, and another still, and then he came,—but 
far more helpless than when he left them in the 
morning. The blinded eyes were red with tears,— 
the stately form was bent with grief,—the strong 
man was crushed with the blow which had fallen 
so suddenly upon him. He was ruined—hope¬ 
lessly, irretrievably ruined, and in all the wide 
world there was naught he could call his save the 
loved ones who soothed him now, as one had done 
before when a mighty sorrow overshadowed him. 
As best he could he told them of the fraud which 
for many years had been imposed upon him—told 
them how he had trusted and been betrayed by 
one whom he would not that the officers should 
follow—he would not have him brought back to a 
felon’s cell. “ ’Twould do no good,” he said, “ and 
’twould save the wife and daughter from more dis¬ 
grace,” and so William Huntington was suffered 
to roam at large, while in the home he had desolat¬ 
ed there was heartfelt mourning made and bitter 
tears shed—the blind man groping often through 
the familiar rooms which would soon be his no 
longer—the daughter stifling her own grief to 
soothe her father’s sorrow and minister to her 
mother’s wants. 
As has before been hinted, Mrs. Warren was 
far from being strong, and the news of the failure 
burst upon her with an overwhelming power, pros¬ 
trating her at once, so that ere two weeks were 
passed the blind man forgot his ruined fortune— 
forgot everything, save the prayer that she, the 
wife of his bosom, the light of bis eyes, the mother 
of his child, might live. 
But “ He who doeth all things well,” had not 
decreed it thus, and she, who had been reared in 
the lap of luxury, was never to know the pinching 
wants of poverty—never to know what ’twas to be 
hungry, and cold, and poor. All this was reserved 
for the gentle Alice, who, younger and stronger, 
too, could bear the trial better. And so, as day 
after day •''” kneeling at. le r 
side felt what * could not see —felt the death 
shadows come creeping on—felt how the pallor 
was deepening on her cheek—knew that she was 
going from him fast—knew, alas, that she must 
die, and one bright, beautiful morning, when the 
thoughtless passers by, pointing to the house, said, 
one to another, “ He has lost everything,” be, from 
the inmost depths of his bleeding heart, uncon¬ 
sciously made answer, “Lost everything — lost 
everything,” while Alice, the motherless, bowed 
her head in anguish, half wishing she, too, were 
blind, so she could not see what was written on 
the still, white face which lay upon the pillow. 
Suddenly the deep stillness of the room was 
broken by the scum} of tramping footsteps in the 
hall below, and, lifting up her head, Alice said, 
“Who is it, father, say?” but Hr. Warren did 
not answer. He knew who it was and wherefore 
they had come, and, going out to meet them, he 
stood upon the stairs, tall and erect, like some 
giant oak which the lightning stroke had smitten, 
but not destroyed. 
“ I know your errand,” be said, “ I expected 
you ere this, but come with me and then say if 
you will leave me alone a littlo longer,” and turn¬ 
ing he led the way, followed by those men, who 
ne’er forgot that picturo of the pale, dead wife, the 
frightened, weeping child, and the blind man 
standing by with outstretched arm to shield them 
from all harm. 
The Sheriff was a man of kindly feelings, and 
lifting his hat reverentially, he said, “ We did not 
know of this, or we would not have come,” and, 
motioning to his companions, he left the room, 
walking with subdued footsteps down the stairs, 
through the hall, out into the open air. And when 
the sun went down, not an article had been dis¬ 
turbed in Hugo Warren’s borne, for Sheriff, credi¬ 
tors, lawyers,—all stood back in awe of the mighty 
potentate who had entered that house before them, 
and levied upon its choicest treasure—the whito- 
haired, blind man’s wife. 
Chapter m.—The Brown House in the Hollow. 
Nearly a year lias glided by since we left the 
blind man weeping over his unburied dead, and our 
story leads us now to the handsome rural town of 
Oakland, which is nestled among the New England 
hills, and owes much of its prosperity and rapid 
growth to the untiring energy of its wealthiest 
citizen, — its one “aristocrat,” as the villagers 
persisted in calling Richard Howland, the gentle¬ 
man from Boston, who came to Oakland a few 
years ago, giving to business a new impetus, and 
infusing new life into its quiet, matter-of-fact people, 
who in time looked up to him as the great man of 
the place. He it was who built the factory, bought 
the mills, and owned the largest store and shoe- 
shop in the towD, furnishing employment to hun¬ 
dreds of the poor, many of whom moved into the 
village, renting of him the comfortable tenements 
which he had erected for that purpose. 
Very beautiful, indeed, was Richard Howland’s 
home, overlooking, as it did, the town and the sur¬ 
rounding country, and the passer by stopped often 
to admire its winding walks, its musical fountains, 
its grassy plats, graceful evergreens and wealth of 
flowers, the latter of which were the especial prido 
of the stately Hiss Elinor, the maiden sister, who 
kept that handsome house, for Richard Howland 
had no wife. Many there were, both blonde and 
brunette, who, in the exceeding kindness of their 
hearts, would willingly have borne that relation to 
him, but their disinterestedness was not appreciated, 
and on the night when first we introduced him to 
our readers, he was still unmarried, and in his 
pleasant sitting-room, with his sister at his side, 
and every possible comfort at his command, he 
wonders how any one can think he is not happy. 
The chill December wind which howls among the 
naked branches of the maples, or sighs through 
the drooping cedar boughs, cannot find entrance 
there. The blinds are closely shut,— the heavy 
curtains sweep the floor,— the fire burns brightly 
in the grate, casting fantastic shadows on the wall, 
and with his favorite paper in his hand, (the Rural, 
it may be,) he almost forgets that in the world 
without there is such a thing as poverty or pain. 
Neither does he see the fragile form toiling through 
the darkness up the street, and pausing at his gate. 
But he does hear the ringing of the door-bell, and 
his ear catches the sound of some one in the hall, 
asking to see him. 
“ I wish I could be alone for one evening,” he 
said, and with a slight frown of impatience upon 
his brow, he awaited the approach of his visitor. 
’Twas a delicate young female, and her dress of 
black showed that sorrow had thus early come to 
her. 
“Are you Mr. Howland?” she said, and her 
mournful eyes of blue sought the face of the young 
man, who involuntarily arose and offered her a seat. 
Her errand was soon told. She had come to rent 
his cheapest tenement ,— the brown house in the 
hollow, which she had heard was vacant, and she 
wished him to furnish her with work— “she could 
make both shirts and vests tolerably well, and she 
would try so hard to pay the rent! ” 
The stranger paused, and Miss Elinor, who had 
been watching her with mingled feelings of curiosi¬ 
ty and interest, saw that the long eye-lashes were 
moist with tears. Hr. Howland saw it, too, and 
marvelling that one so young and timid should 
come to him alone, he said,—“ Little girl, have you 
no friends —no one on whom to depend, save 
yourself? ” 
Very beseechingly the little hands were clasped 
together, and the tear on the eye-lashes now 
dropped upon the cheek, for the little girl, as Mr. 
Howland had called her, mistook his meaning,— 
fancied he was thinking of security, payment, and 
all those dreadful words whose definition she was 
fast learning to understand. 
“ I have a father,” she said, and ere she had time 
for more, the plain spoken Miss Elinor asked, — 
“ Why didn’t he come himself, and not send you, 
who seems so much a child ? ” 
There was reproach in the question, and the 
young girl felt it keenly —felt that her father was 
censured, and turning towards Miss Elinor, she 
answered, “ Alas, lady, my father couldn’t find the 
way — he never even saw my face — he couldn’t 
see my mother when she died. Oh, he’s blind, he’s 
blind,” and the voice, which at first had merely 
trembled, was choked with bitter sobs. 
’Twas enough. The hearts of both brother and 
sister were touched, and the brown house in the 
hollow — nay, any house which Richard Howland 
rented, was at that orphan girl’s command. But 
he was a man of few words, and so he merely told 
her she could have both tenement and work, while 
his sister thought how she would make that blind 
man and his child her especial care. 
[ As this is a story of absorbing interest, and ex¬ 
cellent moral, the reader will thank us for giving 
it, though continued (contrary to our usual custom) 
through several numbers.—E d.] 
lUit on!) €) itmor. 
KNICKERBOCKER GOSSIP. 
Here is a pretty fellow, who would “ lay violent 
hands upon a woman,” and she a Muse. But we 
can prove by more than a thousand “pieces o’ 
po’try ” from our “Balaam” basket that, after all, 
ho is more than half right. He says: 
IIow very absurd is half the stuff 
Called “ Poetry,” now-a-davs ! 
The “ stanzas,” and “ epics,” and “ odes ” are enough 
To put every lover of rhyme in a huff, 
And e’en old hens with their “ lays.” 
Ono asks but a “ cave ” in some “ forest dell,” 
“ Away from the cold world’s strife 
Now the woods in fine weather are all very well, 
But give them a six weeks’ “ rainy spell,” 
And he’d soon “ cave in ” in his “ forest dell,” 
And bo sick enough of the life. 
One loves ( how he loves) the glittering foam 
“ And tho mad waves’ angry strife 
But take the young genius who wrote that “pome,” 
“ Where the billows dash and the sea birds roam,” 
And he’d give all he had to be safe at home,” 
And stay there the rest of liis life! 
M Ml 
Reparthe.— Coleridge was a remarkably awk¬ 
ward horseman, so much so as generally to attract 
attention. He was one day riding on the turnpike 
road in the county of Durham, when a wag ap¬ 
proaching him, noticed his peculiarity, and mis¬ 
taking his man, thought the rider a fine subject for 
a little sport, and, as he drew near, ho thus accost¬ 
ed Mr. C.: 
“ I say, young man, did you meet a tailor on the 
road?” 
“Yes,” replied Mr. C., who was never at a loss 
for a rejoinder, “ I did; and he told me if I went a 
little further I should meet his goose!” 
The assailant was struck dumb, while the travel- 
er jogged on. 
Pretty Good.— Uncle Bill Fidd was a drover 
from Vermont. Being exposed to all kinds of 
weather, his complexion suffered somewhat; but 
at best he was none of the whitest. Stopping at a 
public house, a man of notoriously bad character 
thought, as Uncle Bill came in, he would make 
him the but of a joke, and, as the black face of 
the weather-beaten man appeared in the door, he 
exclaimed:—“Mercy on us, how dark it grows !” 
Uncle Bill, surveying him frt^~^,ead to foot, cool¬ 
ly replied: — “Yes, sir — yo .c character and my 
complexion are enough to darken any room.* 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
SCRIPTURAL ENIGMA. 
Consisting of proper names with their significations. 
I am composed of 48 letters. 
My 8,13,88,28,2G, 15,28,29 signifies “ God with us.” 
My 25, 27, 12,19 
My 7, 25, 85, 30, 22,11 
My 22, 81, 8 , 40,42 
My 22, 9, 36, 48, 28, 6 
My 21, 22, 9, 1, 34, 9 
My 19,12, 6 , 20 
My 88 , 41, 17, 83, 2, 23, 4 
My 14,10, 84, 11 
My 6 , 34, 24, 32 
My 9,10, 88,15, 28, 29 
My 9, 5, 29, 18, 18, 87, 16 
My 88 , 89, 6 , 28 
“ taken from earth.” 
“ God is my judge.” 
“ that which oppresses.” 
“ hidden.” 
“joyful.” 
“exalted.” 
“ given.” 
“ a worker.” 
“filled.” 
“ asked of God.” 
“ peaceful.” 
“ s!r»:igth.” 
My whole is a portion of the 119th Psalm. 
Clinton, Oneida Co., N. Y., 1S58. John A. Paine. 
E2S*" Answer in two weeks. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MATHEMATICAL PROBLEM. 
A gentleman has a garden whose shape is an equi¬ 
lateral triangle, each side of which measures 800 feet. 
At each corner of this garden there is erected a tower; 
the first or lowest of which measures 40 feet in height; 
the second tower is 50 feet high, and the third or high¬ 
est tower is 60 feet in height. What must be the length 
of a ladder, and how far from the base of each tower 
must the foot of it be placed so that its top may just 
reach the summit of each tower, supposing the ladder 
to turn on a pivot, and tho garden to be a horizontal 
plane ? Artemas Martin. 
Franklin, Venango Co., Penn., 1858. 
’$3F a Answer in two weeks. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
GEOGRAPHICAL ANAGRAM. 
The following letters composo the name of a city. 
Where, and what is it? Wm-. 
oooooometlislb. 
Cohocton, N. Y., 1858. 
C5?" Answer in two weeks. 
THE COOK WHO DOESN’T LIKE PEAS. 
A GAME FOR THE CHILDREN. 
The leader of tho game puts the following question to 
the assembled players in succession : 
“ My cook doesn’t like peas; what shall we give her 
to eat?” 
A player suggests “ turnips,” “ potatoes,” “ a piece of 
bread,” “ chops,” “ a penny roll,” “ pork,” etc. 
To all these the questioner replies, “ She does not like 
them (or it)—pay a forfeit.” 
Another proposes “ carrots,” “ dry bread,” “ beef,” 
“ mutton,” &c., the answer to any of which is : 
“That will suit her,” and the questioner pays a forfeit. 
If only two or three are in tho secret, the game pro¬ 
ceeds for some time to the intense mystification of the 
players, who nave no idea what tliey have said to iiicr—• 
or escape the penalties. It depends upon a .play of 
words. The cook not liking “ P's,” the players must 
avoid giving an answer in which that letter occurs. As 
the same proposition must not be repeated twice, those 
even who are in the secret are sometimes entrapped ; 
the answer they had resolved on, being forestalled by 
another player, they have no time for consideration. 
ANSWERS TO ENIGMAS, &c., IN No. 467. 
Answer to Illustrated Enigma:—Mr. Forrest’s money 
is Mrs. Forrest’s alimony. 
Answer to Miscellaneous Enigma:—A prudent wifo 
wanted. 
Answer to Riddlo :—Jonah in the Whale’s belly. 
JHoQrc’5 Huval 3mu-|)orkcr, 
THK LARGEST CIRCULATED 
Agricultural, Literary and Family Weekly, 
IS PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY 
D. D. T. MOORE, ROCHESTER, N. Y. 
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Sixteen, and one free, for $22; Twenty, and one free, for 
$26; Thirty-two, and two free, for $40, (or Thirty for $37,50,) 
and any greater number at same rate —only $1,25 per copy 
—with an extra copy for every Ten Subscribers over Thirty. 
Club papers sent to different Post-offices, if desired. As we 
pre-pay American postage on papers sent to the British Prov¬ 
inces, our Canadian agents and friends must add 12X cents 
per copy to the club rates of the Rural. The lowest price 
of copies sent to Europe, 4c., is $2,50 —including postage. 
Tiie Postage on the Rural is only SJ4 cents per quarter 
to any part of this State, and 6 cts. to any other State, if paid 
quarterly in advance at the post-office where received 
Advertisements— Twenty-Five Cents a Line, each inser¬ 
tion, payable in advance. Our rule Is to give no advertise¬ 
ment, unless very brief, more than six to eight consecutivo 
insertions. Patent Medicines, 4c., are not adrertisod in 
the Rural on any conditions. 
PUBLISHER’S SPECIAL NOTICES. 
ZV Tun Money Wh Receive.— Bills on all solvent Banks 
in the U. S. and Canada taken at par on subscriptions to the 
Rural, but our agents and other friends will please remit 
New York, New England or Canada money when con¬ 
venient. For all amounts oyer $15 we prefer Drafts on either 
New York, Philadelphia, Boston, Albany, Rochester or 
Buffalo (less exohange,) payable to our order—and all such 
drafts may be mailed at our risk. 
Those who are forming large clubs, can forward tho 
names and money for a part, and complete the lists after¬ 
wards-receiving the same gratuities, when completed, as 
if all were remitted at once. 
£if~ Any person so disposed can act as local agent for the 
Rural, and each and all who form clubs, will not only 
receive extra copies, but their aid will be appreciated. Wo 
have no traveling agents, nor do we give certificates. 
tSf~ In ordering the Rural please send us the best money 
conveniently obtainable, and do not forget to give your full 
address—the name of Post-Office, and also State, &c. 
Non - Subscribers who receive this number of the Rural 
New-Yorker, are invited to give it a careful examination, 
and, if approved, lend their kind offices to introduce the P 
paper to notice and support in their respective localities. 1 
im 
