56 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YO RKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
to prepare bis soul for its going forth into 
^ortiral. 
STANZAS. 
BY R. BENIN* SMITH. 
The tears of morn that steep the row 
A zephyr soon may kiss away *, 
Sporting ’midst odor to unclose 
The virgin bud to loliage gay. 
But then at eve the fragrant flower. 
Oppressed with (Jews, will droop—decay ; 
For zephyr hath no longer power 
To kiss the dews of night away. 
Our childhood’s team’s like*dew-drop< flow; _ 
A mother's kiss soon dries the tear: 
But tears the aged sited in wo. 
Arc only dried up on the hier. . 
«Sjj? Jlural Iketrl; $ook. 
[Wri'tcn expressly for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
A1NSLIE, THE BAKER 
BY CAROLINE CUES EBRO* 
( Concluded from last week's paper.) 
Ainslie, ono morning wltilo reading in his 
shop, was drawn to the door by the noise of 
a crowd of hooting boys, that was following 
a drunken woman aj she went, a marked 
“ sign of the times,” cursing and crying thro’ 
tho streets. A lad walked by the woman’s 
side, striving as ho best could, to defend his 
mother from the brutal assaults and speeches 
of the retinue, that gathered and followed 
without hindrance or molestation, until they 
reached the baker’s shop. Tho lad was en¬ 
deavoring to support his mother, and was 
himself half-crying and half-crazed with rage 
and shame ; he saw the baker’s door wide 
open before him—it seemed an escape-way, 
and when he caught sight of tho quiet man 
within, ho tried to induce his mother to en¬ 
ter there. Then it was that, touched to the 
heart by the cruel scene, Ainslie sprang 
upon the side-walk and dispersed the crowd 
almost by a wave of tho hand, for his word 
was law with tho best part of tho village 
youngsters. This done, the baker turned, 
assisted the woman into his shop, placed her 
in a chair and closed tho door. From the 
hoy ho learned their story, a common story 
of common distress; it touched him to the 
heart, and induced him to exert himself for 
tho two, and this he did effectually. 
Inquiry proved to him that exhaustion, 
caused by a long foot journey, had tempted 
tho woman to “ stimulate” her worn ener¬ 
gies, and a human feeling overcoming his 
disgust led him to seek for her a comforta¬ 
ble shelter, and to give the boy a home un¬ 
der his own roof. This was a deed ol char¬ 
ity which he never found occasion to regret 
—a deed that had been constantly renewed, 
until now in effect, when Ainslie left the 
youth in charge of all his worldly goods; 
ho had never found occasion to regret it, for 
the lad was faithful, and honest, and eloar- 
headod, and Ainslie loved him. 
But tho littlo girl who sat so silent and 
thoughtful beside the sick man as he lay up¬ 
on his bed,—she who wandered about while 
he slept, oppressed with strange fears she 
could not understand, who talked in whis¬ 
pers with Hiram in the shop, who waited up¬ 
on Gideon with such sense and alacrity, she 
was another recipient of his charity—a love¬ 
ly and until now light-hearted child. How 
Gideon Ainslie loved her! ho kept her as 
tho applo of his cyo; ho centered in her all 
those hopes which ho had onco for himself, 
ho built up for her a future that rivalled in 
loveliness and pride every imagining to 
which he had over for himself given way.— 
Thoro was not a development of her nature 
or her character, that disappointed him — 
every thought of her heart, every action of 
her daily life, was pure and brave, and grace¬ 
ful_he gloried in his child, for lie saw and 
felt she was all that lie was not—and, ho 
must leavo her ! After all, this was the re¬ 
served, tho bitterest pang of death—with 
whom, how must ho leave her? alono, un¬ 
protected, miserably provided for, doomed, 
with all thoso bright powers whose foro- 
sliadowings lie saw, to a life of common toil, 
misapprehension, unappreciation! 
She was his child, ho had a right to look 
upon her as such. For she had been given 
to him by her mother—thus. Ono morning 
a woman very poor and miserable came into 
tho shop, leading a child, (this same girl who 
was now called Milly Ainslie,) a littlo woo 
creature not more than five years old. The 
child was crying with weariness and hunger, 
and a cako was bought to pacify her, for 
which the woman was about to pay, when, 
as pausing a moment in her efforts to sootlio 
her littlo ono, she turned and looked upon 
the baker, and ho road a story sho could not 
have told with words, in the appealing look 
of those sad, thoughtful eyes, those eyes by 
which alono ho now remembered her ! Ho 
remembered her, and sho know him, hut not 
a word oxpressive of as much passod between 
them. Tho baker pitied her whom he had 
loved—perhaps ho did more than pity, hut 
(I he saw it was no timo for recognitions,—he 
placed for her a chair, for sho seemed ready 1 
to drop with fatigue, and brought for her a 
glass of water, hut he could not bear to look 
upon her, tho poor, crushed, dying flower, 1 
and he could not trust himself to speak and 
call her by her name. Therefore he went back 
into the little dark bed-room, and remained : 
there, until he heard her go away into the ; 
street again. If the silence lie kept was a 
proud and heartless one, you would never 
ask, had you seen the face of Ainslie when 
he came out again into the shop where she j 
had been so recently. 
At. twilight ho left his house alone, as it 
seemed to him for not more than a moment, 
yet when he returned the child of Milly 
Colt was sitting alono upon his counter, ; 
and a slip of paper pinned to her apron, i 
boro these words, “Keep hor Gideon.” Sho j 
was his child henceforth! The generous I 
courage with which Ainslie signified his in- j 
tention of taking this child under his special 
care, instead of leaving her, as some suggest- j 
ed he might do, to the alms-house, not half 
an hour’s walk from his shop, was under- j 
stood by none, though some observing ones I 
who heard him calling tho child Milly, re- j 
collected that the baker, in his youth, had ; 
flirted with the milliner’s apprentice, poor | 
Milly Colt —but none of these knew what ! 
Ainslie knew, when, a few weeks after the ■ 
adoption, he went, at the bidding of stran- j 
gers, to attend the funeral of a pauper who 1 
had died in the poor house of a neighboring j 
county. 
They might laugh and wonder at him, but j 
Ainslie was independent, since his debts 
were paid, of all who would laugh at him;— 
all the pity that was in has heart, and the 
old, unsatisfied affection, found now and 
heroin the child that looked to him for care 
and love, all the vent and satisfaction need¬ 
ful. 
It was strange that with these acts to re¬ 
flect on, even if they were the only good 
deeds of his life, that Ainslie should, as he 
laid upon his bed in those dark November 
days, the last of his life, moan so constantly 
in his heart, thinking of ids unfulfilled work, 
of the children of his care, of that child of' 
his great love, and saying ever to his dissat- j 
isfied soul, “ It is a hearl-breaJcmg thought 
to have lived in vain .’’ 
It was strange, because, looking hack over 
all his past years, he could not blame him¬ 
self for his career. He saw no point at 
which the fatal misstep was made, that con¬ 
demned him to drudgery all his days; he 
saw no reason why, when he had much to 
live for, because of the children fate had 
given him, if not for himself-—ho saw no 
reason why he should now, when his use in 
the world was apparent, he removed from 
the quiet path of life. And it was because 
he saw that his death would frustrate all he 
had striven to accomplish and secure for . 
Hiram, and especially for Milly, that lie 
wailed and complained over the life that had 
been lived in vain. 
Ainslie had no physician during his last 
days. This he said was needless—ho was 
in no pain, and no medicines could conquer 
his disease. So there ho lay, “ languishing 
into life;” patient, and still, yet grieved and 
gick at heart, bearing, during those gloomy 
days, a renewed sense of the bitterness of 
all tho disappointments ho had met with in 
his life. How trivial, poor, and intolerably 
mean seemed to him evory event of his ca¬ 
reer ! What a failure his existence, when 
it spread before his memory, accomplished, 
irretrievable. How it mocked him, when 
contrasted with the fancies of early daring, 
and ambitious youth ! Tho deeds he had 
thought to do were, every ono of them, un¬ 
performed—“ the love of his heart had been 
blighted, and it bloomed not again”—the 
paths he had essayed to I read, were un¬ 
marked by his footsteps—the heights he had 
thought to climb “ far oft', unattained, and 
dim,” loomed heavenward, every path that 
wound over them guarded from his ontraco 
by a triplo gato and guard. 
Deeds of charity, aye many of them be¬ 
sides this truly great deed we have recorded 
—acts of kindness, pleasant-spoken words, 
help of tho hand and the counsel—ho might 
havo pondered upon these, and received them 
back to memory for death-bed consolations, 
since they were strewn thickly, liko wild vi¬ 
olets, all along the way by which he had 
come—unobtrusive, lovely flowers of hu¬ 
manity, beloved of man, quickened to life of 
God; but these to his mind were only works 
of duty,—he thought not of them—thoy had 
been wrought in compliance with the teach¬ 
ings of his human nature—thoy answered 
not his aspirations—they were not the ful¬ 
filment of high hopes, tho outgoing of great 
desire. So it was in silence and disconso¬ 
lateness that the days of his last woek of life 
went on. 
Hiram and Milly were Ainslie’s only at¬ 
tendants during his sickness; he had no 
watchers, ho took no medicines, and all as¬ 
sistance tendered him by the neighbors, he 
declined. No minister was with him. Ains¬ 
lie prayed for himself, as he had never fail- 
od to do—he meditated for himself, and tried 
the Unknown; Regions. 
Towards the conclusion of his time lie 
made no attempt to rise from his bed, but 
from morning till night, and all the night, 
silently, wakefully, and in calm expectation, 
he waited the coining of Him whose dread 
shadow was already within the dwelling. It 
was tho last day of his life, and the dying 
man's thoughts were all resolved now in 
those two, of (iod and his adopted child 
child, not children, for Ainslie’s fears and 
highest hopes had never been for Hiram — 
they were now all for Milly. Regrets were 
over—pain was removed—the eternal Fath¬ 
er to whose presence, to whose presence ! 
he was hastening, and tho helpless girl in 
his going doubly orphaned, alone were in 
his thought. 
Ho was praying for the child as such a 
father might well pray to a God in whom he 
trusted for a charge he loved, when his sup¬ 
plications were broken by tho sound of a 
voice which thrilled his frame liko an elec¬ 
tric shock. A person was making inquiry 
of Hiram for him. Ainslie had heard the 
voice before—something lingered in its tone 
that he could trace back to no name or na¬ 
ture, yet it was as familiar and distant to 
his memory as the voico of his father. 
Hiram had •received his instructions.— 
Ainslie’s determination that his last hours 
should remain unmolested had suggested 
them, and in compliance with tho explana¬ 
tion Hiram made, the visitor was about to 
leave the shop, though with great reluc¬ 
tance, when Ainslie, forgetful of his own or¬ 
ders, knocked on tlio partition wall and call¬ 
ed out impatiently, 
“Let him come in, IIiram.” 
The stranger turned suddenly as he heard 
j this permission, and putting the hoy out of 
his way, he hastily strode on to tho littlo 
dark bed-room. 
“Ainslie,” he said, finding his way up to 
the bed side, and drawing tho curtain so 
that tiio light fell upon his face, and on the 
face of the sick man, “Ainslie, what tho 
deuce is to pay with you ?” 
“ Dying only, Sandy,” Ainslie said, look¬ 
ing up with an instant recognition into the 
face of the new comer, who, drawing a chair 
forward, sat down beside tho bed, grasping 
with cordial tenderness the thin and fever- 
glowing hand of his old friend. 
“ So you know me—am I changed ?” he 
asked. 
“ Yes—but I could’nt forget that voice of 
yours—nor that srnilo.” 
“ I began to think I shouldn’t get in.— 
Folks in the village said I wouldn’t, and the 
boy did seem bent on turning mo off. If I 
had’nt seen you Gideon- ” 
“ Where do you come from, Sandy T 
“The West Indies,” said tho man, in an 
absent, sorrowful tone, the whole anticipated 
joy of his return dashed away, as ho saw 
Ainslie in this dying state. 
“ You’re just in, then ?” 
“This very week — and you’re tho first 
man I’ve hunted up. You seo I remember 
the promise 1 made when I went away.” 
“ It’s too late, Sandy,” Ainslie murmured 
faintly. 
“ No man I say it isn’t,—how old are you?” 
“Just thirty.” 
“ I’m a trifle past that—hut we’ro young 
yet. and have a long road to travel. Don’t 
you know we’ro going to study now—then 
there’s that immense debt I owe you to 
be paid up—wo shall be rich both of us.— 
You helped mo off when I’d ruined you, and 
I’ve never wanted for broad a minute since, 
thank God ! Our fortune is made,—we’ve 
nothing to do hut enjoy it. We’ll shut up 
your shop to-morrow and go off south be¬ 
fore tho winter sets in. Don’t think I’m 
going to let you lio boro. I have a will of 
my own, and besides a habit of taking the 
lead I shan’t get rid of in a hurry. You’ll 
obey mo, and I’ve enough stories of my ex¬ 
perience to keep you laughing all winter 
long.” 
“ It’s too lato ” Ainslie repeated, though 
ho had listened to his friend’s words with a 
brightening face, and pleased smile. “ Tell 
me about yourself Wynn,” ho said, propping 
himself upon ono elbow, and with head rest¬ 
ing on his hand he sato earnestly regarding 
him—“ tell me now.” 
“Not a single word of it yot. I’ll toll it 
all after wc set out. To-morrow, that shall 
he.” 
“ Sandy, I tell you it’s too lato ! Try as 
you will, you can’t get the thought into my 
head that I’m going to live. I shall bo a 
dead man to-morrow. It’s all over with mo. 
I’m to dio, I tell you. You must know it as 
well as I—why look at mo man!” 
Tho words he said, his manner of saying 
them, the look with which Ainslie regarded 
Wynn, seemed to impress the latter marvel¬ 
louslyho sate back in his chair and was 
silent—ho was too sad, and sick at heart, to 
speak. Dow bitterly had lio also boon dis¬ 
appointed. 
In moving thus, tho light fell inoro clearly 
upon his faco, and Ainslie said : 
“ How much you aro liko what you used 
to ho—yet how you’ve changed, too.” 
“Not a bit—I’m just tho same—and I 
hate this village heartily as ever. All I came 
here for was to seo you;” his voice faltered 
—he came to a full stop. 
“ And you came in time. Then you did 
love me. Sandy r” said the dying man, mu¬ 
sing on tho words fondly, and feeling then 
how blessed a ng it is to bo loveI 
“ Always ! forever, Gideon ! I ” verloved : 
man or woman as I have you Lor I never j 
found your equal! Not a night since I left | 
this place but I’ve prayed for your prosper¬ 
ity and happiness. The money you made 
me tako away, I’ve made a fortune of—I’m 
rich—but your advice was better than all tho 
rest. I ruined your wholo prospect in life, 
though—I know I did—oh, Gideon !” 
“No, no—it’s no such thing, Wynn,” 
Ainslie said, speaking with difficulty—“the 
service I rendered was only a trifle; don’t 
name it.” 
“It was all you had, Ainslie. If you ! 
hadn’t helped mo, may bo I should have died 
on the gallows, as some said I would. Gin, 
you’vo been the host friend I’vo had m this 
world,” ho added, with a trembling voice;— 
“ look here”—he took from his pocket a 
time-worn leather wallet — “You’vo seen 
that before ?” 
Ainslie’s arm dropped from beneath him, 
nerveless, his head fell upon the pillow, and 
the tears burst from his eyes; scarcely less 
overcome, tho speaker continued solemnly, 
“ If it is as you say, Gin, 1 never can be 
grateful enough that I came back here in 
time to seo you, and to thank you. You’vo 
been a blessing to me—but what a curse I’ve 
been to you! What’s all I’ve made worth, 
if you can’t share it ? I made it for you.” 
“ Stay with me, Wynn, till, till it’s all over. 
Will you ?” 
“Stay ? I’ll never leavo you, Ainslie.” 
“This is my daughter, Wynn —her moth¬ 
er gave tho child to mo,” said Ainslie a little 
while after, when the child, obeying his call, 
came and stood beside the bed. “ You can’t 
imagine how I love her, Wynn.” 
Sandy took hor hand and kissed the child, 
repeating thoughtfully, “You love her, and 
her name is Milly” —and silently and rev¬ 
erently ho listened while Ainslie told him all 
the hopes and purposes he had cherished re¬ 
specting tho young girl, until tho time when 
it was revealed to him that he must leavo 
hor, even before tho groat work of education 
which ho proposed, was fairly begun. Later 
in the day a thought settled softly down up¬ 
on the soul of Ainslie, and though it was a 
thought of death it occasioned him no pain 
now. It was tho conviction that ho should 
dio that ovon. For him tho sting of death 
was removed, and a glad conviction, inspired 
by the strong life that watched beside him, 
a conviction that he had not after all lived 
in vain, was making his dying moments more 
than happy—-joyous and triumphant. 
Tho last thought of care was taken from 
him—not a cloud of doubt dimmed tho sun¬ 
light that dawned upon his soul that dull 
November night when sho departed. For 
while Hiram and Milly were with him and 
Sandy Wynn, while they stood beside his 
bed together, tho latter, as ono inspired with 
an unpremeditated thought had said, as ho 
caught the glance of love that Ainslie fixed 
upon the children of his charity— 
“Give thoso children to me, Gideon —let 
them be my son and daughter. I will ren¬ 
der you an account at last that I shall not 
be ashamed of Speak ! may it bo so ?’’ 
Tho last words that tho baker said as ho 
yielded up the ghost were those—his glad 
reply— 
“Lord God be thanked ! Thou hast not 
sufferod mo to live in vain; bo it as thou 
wilt, Sandy.” And so ho went his way re¬ 
joicing. ______ 
A PUZZLED PROFESSOR. 
In a class in college there was a member 
noted for his waggery. Ono day tho Pro¬ 
fessor of Logic was endeavoring to substan¬ 
tiate that a thing remains tho same, notwith¬ 
standing a substitution in some of its parts. 
Our wag, who had been exercising the Yan¬ 
kee art of whittling, at length hold up his 
jack-knife, inquiring: 
“ Suppose that I should loso tho blade of 
my knife, and should get another made and 
inserted in its place—would it bo tho same 
knife it was before ?” 
“To bo sure,” replied the Professor. 
“Well, then,” tho wag continued, “sup¬ 
pose I should then loso tho handle and get 
another, would it bo tho same still 
“ Of courso,” the Professor again replied. 
“ But if somebody should find tho old 
blade and tho old handle, and should put 
them together, what knife would that bo ?” 
Wo never heard the Professor’s answer. 
The Bolfast Journal tolls of a chap who 
stepped into a store where liquor was kept 
for “ medicinal and mechanical purposes,” 
and producod a largo bottle which ho do- 
sired to have filled. Upon being asked for 
what purpose ho wanted it, ho said, “ mo- 
chanical—ho was going to mako an ox-yoke 
in tho afternoon.” 
Root of ovil,—stump of an aching tooth. 
^mitli’s ffitmnm. 
“ Attempt the end, and never stand to doubt; 
Nothing's so luird, but search will find it out.’ 
ILLUSTRATED REBUS.-No. 7. 
This Rebus is respectfully dedicated to the “as¬ 
sembled wisdom of the State”—and the Senator 
or Assembly man who sends us the first correct 
solution, previous to publication of answer, will be 
entitled to the Rural one year. 
A nstver next week. 
For tha Ru raSNew-Yorker. 
SYLVAN ENIGMA. 
I am eomposed of 32 letters. 
My 2, 11, 15, 29, 20, G is a fruit tree. 
My 25, 10, 19, 3, 17 is a tree valued in building. 
My 32, 21, 5 is an evergreen tree. 
My 28, 12, 18, G, 31 is a small but useful tree. 
My 7, 30, 32 is a New England tree. 
My 22,15, 9, 2l is a tropical tree and its fruit. 
My 25, 4, 10, 8, 1, 13,2G is a tree boys like. 
My 1G, 24, 11, 25, 4 is a tree boys dislike. 
My 27, 17, 28, 14, 5, 2,28, 23 is a tree well named. 
My whole is an American author and his work. 
Rochester, N. Y. 1852. 
Answer next week. 
For the Rural New-Yorker. 
MISCELLANEOUS ENIGMA. 
I am composed of 20 letters. 
My 15, 2, 8, 9, G is a pronoun. 
My 11, 10, 14, 15, 13, 4 is a professional man. 
My 12, 5, 14, 15, 3, 7, 18 is one of the U. States. 
My 9, 8, 1 should he banished from the land. 
My G, 1G, 4, 17, 3, 14 is known by all. 
My 20, 19, 10, 11 is a Spanish coin. 
My whole should be in every family. 
Plymouth, Ohio. Lociiiki, 
E3F* Answer next week. 
For the Rural New Yorker. 
A PUZZLE. 
T wo men bought eight quarts of alcohol each 
paying an equal share. It was all put in an eight 
quart jug, and on their way home they purchased 
a live quart jug and a three quart jug. Now when 
they came to separate how did they divide the 
alcohol equally, using only tire three jugs to meas¬ 
ure ifc with? 
Clayton N. Y. Feb. % 18521 Rustious. 
Answer next week. 
ANSWERS TO ENIGMAS, &c., IN No. 110. 
Answer to Illustrated Rebus, No. G: 
‘ WRITE SV 
Tie that \ 
i 
frdtf&L \ DRAWS/ 
-mx 
He that under writes and overdraws inevitably 
bursts his boiler. 
Answer to Miscellaneous Enigma— Harper's 
New Monthly Magazine. 
Answer to Acrostical Enigma.— Iloy. 
Answer to Enigma— Highland Mary. 
Those of our readers who will turn to our Il¬ 
lustrated Rebus No. 4, will call this rather a cute 
answer to the same ; 
He’s pressed for favors great and small*. 
But as he cannot please them all, 
And knows the effort would he vain, 
He grinds his teeth in mental.pain. 
This da ndy figure wants t o fill 
Some office near the capital. 
Chief magistrate I think would poor- 
Ly fill the office of a mower, w. x. 
Alabama, N. Y , Jan., 1852. 
MOORE’S KUKAL NEW-YORKER: 
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