WHAT THE LITTLE YEARS DID. 
BY REV. R. T. 8. LOWELL. 
These years! These years! These naughty years! 
Once they were pretty things! 
Their fairy foot-falls caught our ears, 
Our eyes their glancing wings— 
They flitted by our scliool-boy way: 
We chased the little imps in play. 
We knew them soon ; for, tricky elves, 
They brought the College gown; 
With thoughtful books filled up our shelves; 
Darkened our lips with down : 
Played with our throat, and lo! the tone 
Of manhood had become our own. 
They, smiling, stretched our childish size 
Their soft hands trimmed our hair; 
Cast the deep thought within our eyes, 
And left it glowing there; 
Sang songs of hope in College halls; 
Bright fancies drew upon the walls. 
They flashed upon us Love’s bright gem ; 
They showed us gleams of fame; 
Stout-hearted work we learned from them, 
And honor, more than name. 
And so they came and went away: 
We said not, Go; we said not, Stay. 
But one sweet day, when quiet skies 
And still leaves brought me thought, 
When hazy hills drew forth my eyes, 
And woods with deep shade fraught— 
That day I carelessly found out 
What work these elves had been about. 
Alas! Those little rogues, the years, 
Had fooled me many a day; 
Plucked half the locks above my ears, 
And tinged the rest all grey. 
They left me wrinkles, great and small!— 
I fear that they have tricked us all. 
Well, give the little years their way ; 
Think, speak, and write, the while; 
Lift up the bare front to the day, 
And make the wrinkles smile: 
They mould the noblest living head; 
They cause the best tomb for the dead. 
Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1858, by 
D. 1). T. Moore, in the Office of the Clerk of the District 
Court for the Northern District of New York. 
ALICE AND ADELAIDE; 
TI-IE TRUE ANY) THE FALSE. 
BY MRS. MARY J. HOLMES. 
[Continued from page 12, last number.] 
Chapter m.—The Brown House in the Hollow, 
Miss Elinor was naturally of a rather inquisitive 
turn of mind and she strove very skillfully to learn 
something of the stranger’s history. But the 
young girl evaded all her questioning, and after a 
few moments arose to go. Mr. Howland accom¬ 
panied her to the door, holding the lamp until she 
passed down the walk and out into the street.— 
Then the door was closed and Alice Warren was 
alone again in the cold, dark night, but she scarcely 
heeded it, for her heart was lighter than it had been 
for many weeks. The gentleman whom she had 
so much dreaded to meet had spoken kindly to her; 
the lady, too, had whispered “ poor child ” when 
she told them of her father, while better far than 
all she had procured a shelter for that father, the 
payment of which would come within their slender 
means. 
Not time, but the joy or sorrow it brings, changes 
people most, and the Alice Warren of to-day is 
scarce the same we saw one year ago. Then, pet¬ 
ted, caressed and glowing with youthful beauty, 
she presented a striking contrast to the pale-faced 
girl who, on the wintry night of which we write, 
traversed street after street until she came to the 
humble dwelling which for the last few days had 
been her home. Every cent of his large fortune 
had Mr. Warren given up, choosing rather to 
starve, and know he had a right to do so, than to 
feed on what was not his own. His handsome 
house and furniture had all been sold, and with a 
mere pittance which would not last them long, they 
had gone into the country where Alice hoped to 
earn a livelihood by teaching. But she was “too 
small,— too childish,— too timid,” the people said, 
ever to succeed, and so at last she resorted to her 
needle, which, in her days of prosperity, she had 
fortunately learned to use. As time passed on a 
kind-hearted woman who visited in that neighbor¬ 
hood, became interested in them and urged their 
removal to Oakland, her native town, whither they 
finally went, stopping with her for a few days until 
further arrangements could be made. Hearing 
that the brown house in the Hollow, as ’twas call¬ 
ed, was vacant, Alice, as we have seen, had rented 
it of Mr. Howland and now, returning home, she 
smooths tenderly the snowy hair of her poor blind 
father, while she tells him how small a sum they 
will have to pay,— tells him, too, how neatly she 
can fit it up with the furniture they have,— and 
how, in the long winter evenings, he shall sit in 
his arm chair before the cheerful fire,— for he likes 
the fire-light best, he can feel it upon his face, he 
says,— can see, too, in fancy, the little room which 
Alice pictures to him, and listening to her as she 
talks, he thanks God that the wife-love he has lost 
forever is in a measure made up to him in the love 
of his only child. 
Two weeks went by and then, in the shoe shop 
and store, the workmen said one to another, that 
“to-morrow was the New Year,” wondering the 
while if Mr. Howland would present each of the 
^ families in his employ with a turkey, as he was 
won’t to do. “He had always done so before,” 
they said—“he would surely do so now.” Nor 
were they disappointed, for when the day’s labor 
'¥ was done, to each man was given his usual gifts and 
/? when all had been served, there was found one left 
for whom no owner came. 
“We] shall need it ourselves,” Mr. Howland 
I 
thought, as he remembered the numerous city 
friends expected on the morrow,—and placing it 
in a covered basket he started for home, turning 
involuntarily down the street, which would take 
him through the Hollow. He did not often go that 
way, for though it was quite as near, ’twas not a 
pleasant portion of the town. But he was going 
that way now, and as he came near the brown 
house, from whose windows a cheerful light was 
shining, he thought of his new tenants and hall 
decided to call—then, remembering that one of his 
clerks had told him of a stylish-looking young 
lady who had inquired for him that afternoon, ex¬ 
pressing much regret at his absence, and saying 
she should call at his house early in the. evening, 
he concluded to go on. Still the light shining out 
upon the snow seemed beckoning him to come, and 
turning back he stood beneath the window from 
which the curtain was drawn aside revealing a 
picture at which he paused a moment to gaze. The 
blind man sat in his old arm chair just as Alice 
had said he should do, and the flickering flame of 
the blazing fire shone on his frosty locks and light¬ 
ed up his grief-worn face, on which there was a 
pitiful expression most touching to behold. The 
sightless eyes were downward cast as if they fain 
would see the fair young head and wealth of soft 
brown tresses resting on his knee. 
Alice was weeping. All the day long she had 
striven to repress her tears and when, as she sat 
in the gathering night with her father, he said, 
“She was with us one year ago,” they burst forth, 
and laying her head upon his lap she sobbed bit¬ 
terly. There were words of love spoken of the lost 
one, and as Mr. Howland drew near Mr. Warren 
said, “’Tis well, perhaps, that she died before she 
knew what ’twas to be so poor.” 
The words, “to be so poor,” caught Mr. How¬ 
land’s ear and glancing around the humble apart¬ 
ment he fancied he knew why Alice wept. Just 
then she lifted up her head and he saw the tears on 
her cheek. Mr. Howland was unused to tears,— 
they affected him strangely,—and as the sight of 
them on Alice Warren’s eye-lashes when she told 
him her father was blind had once brought down 
the rent of that house by half, so now the sight of 
them upon her cheek as she sat at that blind 
father’s feet brought himself into her presence and 
the turkey from his basket! Depositing his gift 
upon the table and apologizing for his abruptness, 
he took the chair which Alice offered him, and in 
a short space of time forgot the “stylish-looking 
lady” who had so nearly prevented him from being 
where he was,— forgot every thing save the blue 
of Alice’s eyes and the mournful sweetness of her 
voice as she answered the few questions he ad¬ 
dressed to her. He saw at once that both father 
and daughter were educated and refined, but he 
did not question them of the past, for he felt in¬ 
stinctively that it would be to them an unpleasant 
subject, so be conversed upon indifferent topics, and 
Alice, listening to him, could scarcely believe he 
was the man whom she had heretofore associated 
with her wages of Saturday night, so familiar and 
friendly he seemed. 
I “Ycju wjll come to see us again,” Mr. Warren 
said to his \ isitor when the latter arose to go, and 
smiling down on Alice, who stood with her arm 
across her father’s neck, Mr. Howland answered, 
“Yes, I shall surely come again.” 
He bade them good night, and as the door closed 
after him, the blind man said, “ It seems darker 
now that he is gone, ” but to Alice, looking 
through the window pane, the room was lighter 
far for that brief visit. Mr. Howland, too, felt 
better for the call. He had done them some good, 
he hoped, and the picture of the two as he had left 
them was pleasant to remember, and then, as he 
drew near his home and saw in imagination his 
own large easy chair before the blazing fire, he 
tried to fancy himself a blind man, sitting there, 
with a brown-haired maiden’s arm around his neck! 
Chapter IV.—The White House on the Hill. 
“Miss Huntington, brother,” and Mr. Howland 
bowed low to the lady thus presented to him by 
his sister on his arrival home. 
She had been waiting for him nearly an hour, 
and she now returned his greeting with an air more 
befitting a queen than Adelaide Huntington —for 
she it was; and by some singular coincidence she 
had come to rent a house of Mr. Howland just as 
Alice Warren had done but two or three weeks 
before. The failure which had ruined Mr. War¬ 
ren had not affected Mrs. Huntington further than 
the mortification and grief she naturally felt at the 
disgrace and desertion of her husband, from whom 
she had never heard since he left her so suddenly 
on the night of the party,— neither had she ever 
met with Mr. Warren, although she had written 
him a note, assuring him that in no way had she 
been concerned in the fraud. Still her position in 
the city was not particularly agreeable, and after a 
time she had removed to Springfield, Mass., where 
lived a distant relative, who supplied her with 
plain sewing—for without her husband’s salary it 
was necessary that she do something for the main¬ 
tenance of her family. Springfield, however, was 
quite too large for one of Adelaide’s proud, ambi¬ 
tious nature. “She would rather live in a smaller 
place,” she said, “where they could be somebody. 
They had been trampled down long enough, and 
in a oountry village they would be as good as 
any one.” 
Hearing by chance of Oakland and its democratic 
people, she had persuaded her mother into remov¬ 
ing thither, giving her numerous directions as to 
the manner in which she was to demean herself.— 
“With a little management,” she said, “no one 
need to know that they worked for a living,— they 
had only left the city because they preferred the 
country,” and old Peggy, who still served in the 
capacity of servant, was charged repeatedly “ never 
to say a word concerning their former position in 
society.” In short, Adelaide intended to create 
quite a sensation in Oakland, and she commenced 
by assuming a most haughty and consequential 
manner towards both Mr. Howland and his sister. 
“She had come as mo’s delegate,” she said, “to 
rent the white house on the hill, which they had 
heard was vacant. Possibly, if they liked the 
country, they would eventually purchase, but it 
was doubtful,—people who had always lived a city 
life were seldom contented elsewhere. Still, she 
should try to be happy, though, of course, she 
I11IL 
,YI 
M % 
should miss the advantages which a larger place 
afforded.” 
All this and much more she said to Mr. How¬ 
land, who, hardly knowing whether she were 
renting a house of him or he were renting one of 
her, so stately and dignified she seemed, managed 
at last to say, “Your mother is a widow, I pre¬ 
sume.” 
Instantly the dark eyes sought the floor, and 
Adelaide’s voice was quite low in its tone as she 
answered, “ I lost my father nearly a year since.” 
“ I wonder she don’t dress in mourning, but that’s 
a way some folks have,” thought Miss Elinor, 
while her brother proceeded to say that Mrs. Hun¬ 
tington could have the white house on the hill, 
after which Adelaide arose to go, casually asking 
if the right or left hand street would bring her to 
the Hotel, where she was obliged to spend the 
night, as no train after that hour went up to 
Springfield. 
For a moment Mr. Howland waited, thinking 
his sister would invite the stranger to stop with 
them, but this Miss Elinor had no idea of doing,— 
she did not fancy the young lady’s airs, so she sim¬ 
ply answered, “ The right hand street—you can’t 
mistake it”—frowning slightly when her brother 
said, “ I will accompany you, Miss Huntington.” 
“ I dislike very much to trouble you. Still, I 
hardly know the way alone,” and Adelaide’s dark 
eyes flashed brightly upon him as she took his 
offered arm. 
Mr. Howland was not a lady’s man, but he could 
be very agreeable when he tried, and so Adelaide 
now found him, mentally resolving to give her 
mother and old Aunt Peggy a double charge not to 
betray their real circumstances. Mr. Howland 
evidently thought her a person of consequence, 
and who could tell what might come of her acquain¬ 
tance with him. Stranger things had happened, 
and then she thought that if ever she did go up to 
that handsome house as its mistress, her first act 
should be to quarrel that stiff old maid away! 
With such fancies as these filling her mind, 
Adelaide went back next day to Springfield, report¬ 
ing her success, and so accelerating her mother’s 
movements that scarcely a week elapsed ere they 
had moved into the white house on the hill, a 
handsome little cottage, which looked still more 
cozy and inviting after Adelaide’s hands had fitted 
it up with tasteful care. It was a rule with Mrs. 
Huntington to buy the best if possible, and as her 
husband had always been lavish with his money, 
her furniture was superior to that of her neigh¬ 
bors, many of whom really stood in awe of the 
genteel widow, as she was called, and her stylish, 
aristocratic daughter. They were supposed to be 
quite wealthy, too, or at least, in very easy circum¬ 
stances, and more than one young girl looked envi¬ 
ously at Adelaidb, as day after day she swept 
through the streets, sometimes “walking for exer¬ 
cise” she said, and again going out to shop,— 
always at Mr. Howland’s store, where she annoyed 
the clerks excessively by examining article after 
article, inquiring its price, wondering if it would 
become her or suit ma, and finally concluding not 
to take it, “ for fear daughter 
in town would buy and '.hat she 
couldn’t endure.” ¥ 
Regularly each week she went up to Springfield 
to take music lessons, she said, and lest something 
should occur making it necessary for her to stay 
all night, Aunt Peggy usually accompanied her to 
the depot, carrying always a well filled satchel, and 
frequently a large bundle, whose many wrappings 
of paper told no tales, and were supposed by the 
credulous to cover the dressing-gown which Ade¬ 
laide deemed necessary to the making of her morn¬ 
ing toilet. “ ’Twas very annoying,” she said, “ to 
carry so much luggage, but the friends with whom 
she stopped, were so particular, that she felt obliged 
to change her dress, even though she merely staid 
to dinner.” 
And so the villagers, looking at the roll of music 
she invariably carried in her hand, believed the 
tale, though a few of the nearest neighbors wonder¬ 
ed when the young lady practiced, for ’twas not 
often that they heard the sound of the old-fashioned 
instrument which occupied a corner of the sitting- 
room. Then, as country people will do, they guessed 
it must be at night, for a light was always seen from 
Mrs. Huntington’s windows until after the clock 
struck twelve. As weeks went by, most of those 
whom Adelaide considered sombodies, called, and 
among them Mr. Howland. By the merest chance 
she learned that he was coming, and though she 
was “greatly surprised to see him,” and was “just 
going out, she was so lonely at home,” she looked 
unusually well in her nicely-fitting merino, which in 
the evening did not show the wear of four years. 
The little sitting-room, too, with its furniture so 
arranged as to make the best of everything, seemed 
home-like and cheerful, causing Mr. Howland to 
feel very much at ease, and also very much pleased 
with the dark-eyed girl he had come to see. She 
was very agreeable, he thought, much more so than 
any one whom he had met in Oakland, and at quite 
a late hour, for one of his early habits, he bade her 
good-night, promising to call again ere long, and 
hear the new song she was going to take the next 
time she went up to Springfield. 
In dignified silence his sister awaited his return, 
and when to her greeting,—“Where have you 
been?” he replied, “Been to call on Miss Ade¬ 
laide,” the depth of the three wrinkles between 
her eye-brows was perceptibly increased, while a 
contemptuous “Pshaw!” escaped her lips. Miss 
Elinor was not easily deceived. From the first 
she had insisted that Adelaide “ was putting on 
airs,” and if there was one thing more than another 
which this straight-forward, matter-of-fact lady 
disliked, it was pretension. She had not yet been 
to see Mrs. Huntington, and now, when her brother, 
after dwelling at length upon the pleasant evening 
he had spent, urged her io make the lady’s ac¬ 
quaintance, she replied rather sharply that, “ she 
always wished to know something of the people 
with whom she associated. For her part, she 
didn’t like Miss Adelaide, and if her brother had 
the least regard for her feelings, he wouldn’t call 
there quite as often as he did.” 
“Quite as often,” repeated Mr. Howland, in 
much surprise. “ What do you mean ? I’ve only 
been there once ,” and then in a spirit which men 
will sometimes manifest when opposed, particular¬ 
ly if in that opposition a lady is involved, he added, 
“but I intend to go again,-—and very soon, too.” 
“Undoubtedly,” was his sister’s answer, and 
taking a light, the indignant woman walked from 
the room, thinking to herself that, “ if ever that 
girl did come there to live,—she’d no idea she 
would,—but if she did, she, Miss Elinor Howland, 
would make the house a little too uncomfortable 
for them both.” 
Chapter V.— Calls. i 
The next morning Miss Elinor felt better, and 
as time passed on and her brother did not again 
visit his new tenants, she began to feel a little more 
amiably disposed towards the strangers, and at 
last decided to call, intending to go from thence to 
the brown house in the hollow, where she was a 
frequent visitor. She accordingly started one 
afternoon for the white house on the hill, where 
she was most cordially received. With the lady¬ 
like manners of Mrs. Huntington she could find 
no fault, but she did not like the expression of 
Adelaide’s eyes, nor yet the sneering way in which 
she spoke of the country and country people; nei¬ 
ther did she fail to see the basket which the young 
lady thrust hastily under the lounge as Aunt Peggy 
ushered her into the sitting-room. On the table 
there were scissors, thimbles, needles and thread, 
but not a vestige of sewing was visible, though on 
the carpet were shreds of cloth, and from beneath 
the lounge peeped something which looked vastly 
like the wrist-band of a man's shirt. 
“Pride and poverty! I’ll venture to say they 
sew for a living,” thought Miss Elinor, and making 
her call as brief as possible, she arose to go. 
It was in vain that Adelaide urged her to stay 
longer, telling her “’twas such a treat to see some 
one who seemed like their former acquaintance.” 
With a toss of her head Miss Elinor declined, 
saying she was going to visit a poor family in the 
Hollow, a blind man and his daughter, and in ad¬ 
justing her furs she failed to see how both Ade¬ 
laide and her mother started at her words. Soon 
recovering her composure the former asked “ who 
they were, and if they always lived in Oakland?” 
“Their name is Warren,” said Miss Elinor, 
“ and they came, I believe, from some city in West¬ 
ern New York, but I know nothing definite con¬ 
cerning them, as they always shrink from speaking 
of their former condition. Alice, though, is a 
sweet little creature, so kind to her old father, and 
so refined, withal.” 
Mechanically bidding her visitor good afternoon, 
Adelaide went back to her mother’s side, exclaim¬ 
ing, “Who thought those Warrens would toss up 
in Oakland! Of course, when they know that we 
are here, they’ll tell all about father and everything 
else. What shall we do?” 
“We are not to blame for your father’s mis¬ 
deeds,” answered Mrs. Huntington ; and Adelaide 
replied, “I know it, but folks think you are a 
widow with a competence sufficient to support us 
genteelly,—they don’t suspect how late we sit up 
nights, sewing, to make things meet. Mercy, I 
hope the pecking old maid didn’t see that,” she 
exclaimed, as her own eye fell upon the wrist-band. 
Then, after a moment, she continued, “I know 
what I’ll do. I’ll go to Alice this very night, and 
tell Tier how sorry we are f<;> ifrhafc has , appened, 
and I’ll ask her to say nothing about father’s having 
cheated them and run away. She’s a pretty good 
sort of a girl, I guess, if I did use to think her so 
proud.” 
The plan seemed a feasible one, and that evening 
as Alice Warren sat bending over a vest, which 
she must finish that night, she was startled by the 
abrupt entrance of Adelaide Huntington, who, 
seizing both her hands, said, with well-feigned 
distress, “My poor Alice ! I never expected to find 
you thus.” 
In his arm chair the blind man slept, but when 
the stranger’s shadow fell upon him, he awoke, and 
stretching out his arm, he said, “ Who is it, Alice? 
—who stands between me and the fire?” 
“ ’Tis I,” answered Adelaide, coming to his side, 
“the daughter of him who ruined you. I have 
just learned that you were living here in the same 
village with ourselves, and at my mother’s request 
I have come to tell you how bitterly we have wept 
over my father’s sin, and to ask you not to hate us 
for a deed of which we knew nothing until it was 
all over.” Then seating herself in a chair she 
continued speaking hurriedly, telling them some 
truth and some falsehood,—telling them how, for a 
few months, they had lived with a distant relative, 
a wealthy man, who gave them money now for 
their support,—telling them how her father’s dis¬ 
grace had affected her mother, and begging of them 
not to speak of it in Oakland, where it was not 
known. 
“I don’t know why it is,” she said, “but peo¬ 
ple have the impression that mother is a widow, 
and though it is wrong to deceive them, I cannot 
tell them my father ran away to escape a convict’s 
doom. ’Twould kill my mother outright, and if 
you only will keep silent, we shall be forever 
gratified.” 
There was no reason why Mr. Warren should 
speak of his former clerk, and he answered Ade¬ 
laide that neither himself nor Alice had any wish 
to injure her by talking of the past. Thus relieved 
of her fears Adelaide grew very amiable and sym¬ 
pathizing, saying she did not suppose they were so 
poor, and pitying Alice, who must miss so much 
her pictures, her flowers, her birds and her music. 
“ Come up and try my piano. You may practice 
on it any time,” she said, when at last she arose to 
go- 
“ I never played much. I was not fond of it,” 
was Alice’s answer, ■while her father rejoined 
quickly, “ Then you keep a piano ? I did not know 
you had one?” 
“ Oh, yes, father bought it for me at auction 
three years ago, and as he was not owing any one, 
our furniture was not disturbed.” 
The blind man sighed, while Alice dropped a 
tear on the vest she was making, as she thought of 
the difference between her and Adelaide, who 
paused as she reached the door, and asked if she 
knew Mr. Howland. 
“ I sew for his store,” said Alice, and Adelaide 
continued, “Isn’t he a splendid man?” 
Alice did not know whether he was splendid or 
not,.—“she had never observed his looks particu¬ 
larly; but she knew he was very kind, and she 
liked nothing better than to have him come there 
evenings, as lie often did.” 
“Come here often,” exclaimed Adelaide, her 
voice indicating the pang with which a feeling of 
jealousy had been brought to life. 
Ere Alice could reply, there was a footstep heard 
without, and the blind man, whose quick ear 
caught the sound, said joyfully, “He’s coming 
now.” [To be continued in our next.] 
Wsm » 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MISCELLANEOUS ENIGMA. 
TO me. forlorn IIOFE. 
I am composed of 24 letters. 
My 1, 8, 2,14, 7,16,11 is a writer who is considered a 
model. 
My 4,14, 2, 8,15, 22, 6 is a favorite amusement. 
My 5,19, 20,18, 4, 5, 2 is what Noah did to the Ark. 
My 8,14,17, 20,14,16,10 is a popular kind of writing. 
My 9,15, 20,1, 21 has always been regarded sacred. 
My 12,15, 5,19,16,15, backwards, expresses Mr. Hope’s 
condition. 
My 18, 9, 21, 24 is a popular person among Romanists. 
My 15,12, 4, 22 is a musical instrument. 
My 20, 4, 24 is a school-boy’s encouragement. 
My 22, 7, 6,1,12 is what Pope wrote about man. 
My 23, 5, 2 is a celebrated colored man. 
My 24, 18, 7 often gives great satisfaction, so I hare 
heard young men say. 
I’ve solved your enigma, and upon my life, 
I find you want a prudent wife. 
Now, Mr. Forlornity, try your skill, 
“ For there’s a way when there’s a will,” 
And if you really feel lonely indeed, 
“ My whole ” will answer your urgent need. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MATHEMATICAL PROBLEM. 
What number of marbles, that are half an inch in 
diameter, can bo packed in a box which is six inches 
square and six and one-tenth inches deep? 
Rochester, N. Y., 1858. L. L. Nioiiols. 
Answer in two weeks. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
RIDDLE. 
I am composed of letters six, 
In syllables I’m one. 
I am divided up in words, 
Which easily is done. 
Erase two letters, 5th and 6th, 
And there’ll be left twice two, 
I’m something then, as you will sec, 
That doctors try to do. 
Erase my 4th, and I’m a shrub 
Whose leaves are always green, 
Erase my 4th and 6tli and I’m 
An agent that’s unseen. 
Erase my 1st, my 4th, and 6th, 
I’m something we all do, 
Erase my 3d, 4th, 5th, and 6tli, 
And I’m a pronoun, too. 
Erase my 2d, 4th, and 6th, 
And then you’ll see I am 
A thing that’s indispensable, 
And that is worn by man. 
My whole all persons should preserve, 
And it is right they should, ^ 
For when you’ve found out who 1 am, 
You will pronounce me good. 
East Gainesville, N. Y., 1S58. E. W. Hoyt. 
Answer in two weeks. 
ANSWERS TO ENIGMAS, &c., IN No. 468. 
Answer to Geographical Enigma:—All the letters of 
the Alphabet, except J and K. 
Answer to Grammatical Enigma—Classical:—Utinam 
minus vital cupida fuissimus—O, that we had been less 
attached to life. 
Answer to Miscellaneous Enigma:—Chewing and 
smoking. 
Answer to Geometrical Problem:—The base is 160 
rods—the perpendicular 120—the hypothenuse 200 rods. 
iHoorc’s Uural ftno-ijorkcr, 
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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 12 A cents 
per copy to the club rates of the Rural. The lowest price 
of copies sent to Europe, &c., is $2,50—including postage. 
Tiif, Postage on the Rural is only Z'A 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 consecutive 
insertions. Patent Medicines, &c., are not advertised la 
the Rural on any conditions. 
PUBLISHER’S SPECIAL NOTICES. 
C3?” The Money "We 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 over $15 we prefer Drafts on either 
New York, Philadelphia, Boston, Albany, Rochester or 
Buffalo (less exchange,) payable to our order—and all such 
drafts may be mailed at our risk. 
Those who are forming large clubs, can forward the 
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. 
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 he appreciated. We 
have no traveling agents, nor do we give certificates. 
In ordering the Rural please send us the host money 
conveniently obtainable, and do not forget to give your full 
address—the name of Post-Office, and also State, ha. 
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 
paper to notice and support in their respective localities. > 
