400 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YO RKER: AM AGRICULTURAL AMD FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
Btjmllant]. 
For the Rural New-Yorker. 
I REMEMBER, 
I remember the home of m.y childhood 
The scenes of my earliest days, 
■When oft times I roamed o'er the wildwood, 
And chanted with songsters their lays. 
I remember the murmuring streamlet 
That rippled along the green vale, 
'Where often, at mid-day, 1 wandered 
Blooms gleaning from meadow and dale. 
I remember the little thatched cottage— 
And the trees that embosomed it too, 
And oft I sat under their shadows 
As daylight bade nature adieu. 
I remember the room where my mother 
In sickness, long wasted away,— 
There, she passed from (his world to another, 
Ah 1 well I remember that day. 
I remember of youth all the pleasures, 
So rich with the beauty of joy, 
Though memory alone keeps the treasures 
No time and no change may destroy, 
j Eden, Erie Co., N. Y. Olive. 
THE LITTLE PAUPER. 
The day was gloomy and chilly. At the 
freshly opened grave stood a delicate little 
| girl of five years, the only mourner for the 
silent heart" beneath. Friendless, hopeless, 
homeless, she had wept till she had no more 
tears to shed, and now she stood with her 
scanty clothing fluttering in the chill wind, 
pressing her little hands tightly o> er lioi 
heart as if to still its beatings. 
“ It’s no use fretting.” said the rough man, 
! as ho stamped the last shovel lull ot earth 
overall the child had loft to love; “fret- 
! ting wont bring back the dead folks to life; 
pity you hadn’t no ship’s cousins somewhere 
to take you; its a tough world, this ere; I 
don’t see how you are going to weather it. 
Guess I'll take you round to Miss Fether- 
! bee’s; she’s got a power of children and 
wants a hand to help her, so come along.— 
If you cry enough to float the ark it won t 
do you no good.” Allie obeyed him ine- 
I chanically, turning her head every lew min¬ 
utes. to take another and yet another look 
to where her mother lay buried. 
The morning sun shone in upon an un¬ 
der-ground kitchen in the crowded city.— 
j Mrs. Fetherbee attired in a gay colored cal- 
i ico dress, with any quantity of tinsel jewel- 
: ry. sat sewing some showy cotton lace on a 
cheap pocket handkerchief. A boy ot five 
j years was disputing with a little girl ot three, 
| about an apple.* From big words they came 
! to hard blows; and peace was finally declar¬ 
ed at the price of an orange apiece and a 
| stick of candy —each combatant “putting 
I in ” for the biggest. 
■ Poor Allie, with pale checks and swollen 
eyelids, was staggering up and down the 
i ■'floor under the weight of a mammoth baby, 
who was amusing himself by pulling out at 
j intervals little handfuls of hair. 
“ Quiet that child ! can't ye ?” said Mrs. 
Fetherbee, in no very gentle tone. “ I don’t 
i wonder the darling is cross to see such a 
i solemn face. You must get a little life into 
I you somehow, or you won t earn the salt 
; to your porridge, here. There, I declare, 
you’ve half put his eyes out with those long 
1 curls dangling around; come here, and 
| have ’em cut off; they don’t look proper for 
a charity child !” (and she glanced at the 
short, shabby crops on the heads of the lit¬ 
tle Fetherbecs.) 
Allies lip quivered as she said, “mother 
| used to love to brush them smooth every 
morning: she said they were like little 
dear sister’s; please don't, ’ said she, be- 
! seechingly. 
“ But" I tell you I do please cut ’em, so , 
there’s an end to that,” said she, as the sev- 
! eral ringlets fell in a shining heap on the 
kitchen floor; “ and do, for creation's sake, 
i stop talking about dead folks, and now eat 
| your breakfast if you want it. I forgot you 
I hadn’t had any — there’s some of the chil¬ 
dren’s left; if you’re hungry it will go down, 
| and if you ain’t, you can go without.” 
Poor Allie ! The daintiest morsel would’nt 
! have “gone down;” her eyes filled with 
I tears that wouldn’t be forced back, and she 
|| sobbed out, “ I must cry, if you heat me for it 
—my heart pains me so bad.” 
“ H-i-t-y — T-i-t-y ! what’s all this ?” said 
a broad faced, rosy milkman, as lie sat his 
shining can down on the kitchen table; 
“what’s all this, Miss Fetherbee? I’d as 
lief eat pins and needles as hear a child cry. 
Who is she,” pointing at Allie, “ and what’s 
the matter of her ?” 
“Why, the long and the short of it is, 
she’s a poor pauper that we’ve taken in out 
of charity, and she’s crying at her good 
luck, that’s all,” said the lady with a vexed 
toss of her head. “ That’s the way benevo¬ 
lence is always rewarded. Nothing on earth 
| to do here but tend baby, and amuse the 
childron, and run to the door, and wash the 
! dishes, and dust the furniture, and tidy the 
| kitchen, and go of a few errands; ungrate¬ 
ful little baggage!” 
■ Jimmy’s heart was as big as his farm, (and 
j that covered considerable ground,) and 
! glancing pitifully at the little weeper, he 
said skil l filllv. “ that child's going to be sick, 
Mios Fecheroee, and then winit are you go- 
I ing to do with her ? besides she’s too young 
! to be of much use to you; you had "better 
i let me take her.” 
“ Well, I shouldn’t wonder if you was half 
| right,” said the frightened woman; “ she’s 
j been trouble enough already; I’ll give her 
I a quit claim.” 
“ Will you go with me, little maid ?” said 
i Jimmy, with a bright, good-natured smile. 
“ If you please, said Allie, laying her lit- 
| tie hand confidingly in his rough palm. 
I “ Sit up closer,” said Jimmy, as he put 
| one arm around her to steady her fragile 
i figure, as they rattled over the stony pave- 
| ments ; “ we shall soon be out of this smoky 
old city; (consarn it! I always feel as if I was 
poisoned every time I come into town ;) and 
then we’ll see what sweet hay fields, and 
new milk, and clover blossoms, and kind 
hearts will do for you, you poor little pluck¬ 
ed chicken 1 Where did you come from 
when you went to live with that old Jez¬ 
ebel ?” 
“ From mother’s grave,” said Allie. 
“ Poor thing ! poor thing !” said Jimmy, 
wiping a tear away with his coat sleeve.— 
“ Well, never mind; 1 wish I hadn’t asked 
you; I’m always running my head agin a 
beam. Do you like to feed chickens, hey : 
Did you ever milk a cow ? or ride on top of 
a hay cart ? or go a berrying ? Do you love 
bouncing red apples, and peaches as big as 
your fist ? It shall go hard if you don’t 
bavo ’em all. What’s come of your hair, 
child ? have you had your head shaved ?” 
“ Miss Fetherbee cut it off,” said she. 
“ The old sarpent! I wish I’d come quick¬ 
er. Was it your curls them young ’uns 
were playing with ? Well, never mind,” 
said he, looking admiringly at the sweet face 
besido him, “ you don’t need ’em, and they 
might get you to looking in the glass oftoner 
than was good for you.” 
“ Well, here we are, I declare, and there 
stands my old woman in the doorway, sha¬ 
ding her eyes from the sun. I guess she 
wonders where I raised you.” 
“Look here, Betsey, do you see this child ? 
The earth is fresh on her mother's grave.— 
She has neither kith nor kin. I’ve brought 
her from that old skinflint of a Fetherbee’s, 
and here she is; if you like her its well and 
good, and if you don’t she’ll stay here just 
the same; but I know you will,” said he, 
coaxingly, as he passed his brawny arm 
round her capacious waist; “ and now got 
her something that will bring the color to 
her cheeks, for mind you, I’ll have no white 
slave on my farm.” 
How sweetly Allie’s little tired limbs rest¬ 
ed in the fragrant lavendered sheets! A 
tear lingered on her cheek, but its birth was 
not of sorrow. Jimmy pointed it out to his 
wife as they stood looking at her before re¬ 
tiring to rest. 
“ Never forget it, Betsey,” said ho. “harsh 
words ain’t for the motherless. May God 
forget mo, if she ever hears one from my 
lips.”— Olive Branch. 
CHURCH MUSIC. 
Church singing is not a “ concert ” for 
the display of talent and the delight of the 
ear, simply: it is a sacred act of worship ; 
the utterance of a heart of love, or penitence, 
or joy or gratitude. Hence the more per¬ 
sons there are who unite in the singing, the 
more befitting and edifying the service.— 
Would that all the Lord’s peoplo were sing¬ 
ers ! But they are not yet. Still, in most 
of our congregations not a tithe of the wor¬ 
shippers sing who can sing well—not artis¬ 
tically, perhaps, but well. A serious diffi¬ 
culty now lying in the wav of a more gener¬ 
al union in this part of worship, is the in¬ 
cessant change which is made in the tunes. 
Either new ones, entirely unknown to the 
congregation, are introduced, or the old 
ones are as entirely metamorphosed as was 
Rip Van YYinkle by his nap on the Ivaatskill. 
Now one of the most obvious means by 
which music affects us is association. The 
air which we heard on our mother’s knee ' 
sounds more sweetly on our ear and touch¬ 
es our heart more tenderly than the most 
applauded tune, that challenges the highest 
skill of the most practised performer to ex¬ 
ecute it. Everybody knows this. Why are 
not we wise to regard it ? But very few 
persons in our congregations have time to 
learn new tunes, even were it desirable to 
have them introduced by the choir to any 
great extent. Still fewer are those who can 
appreciate those little delicacies of execution 
I which are often sought for, to the great loss 
of the substantial and generally appreciated 
portion of the tune. 
We believe there should bo a revolution, 
not simply a reformation in our church mu¬ 
sic, both in the tunes and in the manner of 
singing them. Wo are aware that this is a 
delicate point. But for this very roason we 
are for touching it before it is tenderer; be¬ 
fore a custom has become a prescriptive 
right; before a habit offensive to many, and 
not in accordance with the true idea of 
church music, shall have so fixed itself upon 
the worshippers as to bo unchangable. We 
are not advocates of “ congregational sing¬ 
ing” in tho usual acceptation of the phrase, 
simply because our congregations are not 
sufficiently well skilled in music to keep 
time and perform their part in a proper 
manner. We would have a choir, a large 
old fashioned choir, composed of the best 
singers in the congregation. Then we 
would have all the congregation sing into 
whose mouths the Lord has put tho voice of 
song. The power of the organ and choir 
will direct and sustain the voices of tho con¬ 
gregation. The tunes should bo old, famil¬ 
iar, substantial tunes, which will wear and 
grow better for their wear, for ever. Tho 
choir should be composed of reverent and 
serious worshippers, whose deportment is 
such as to givo dignity to the service. The 
conduct of some choirs is disreputable and 
disgraceful. Incessant whisperings and 
laughing fill up the space between the ver¬ 
ses occupied by the voluntary; a shameful 
rustling of leaves disturbs the minister in 
his prayer; and a zoalous perusal of the 
last novel helps to fill up the lagging twen¬ 
ty minutes or interminable half hour which 
the minister occupies with his sermon.— 
This is not the conduct of all choirs; far 
from it. But it is the conduct of some.— 
Singing is one of the most solemn acts of 
worship— as solemn as tho prayer. It is 
prayer. Some of tho hymns sung are tho 
most solemn expressions of penitence, or 
the most joyful expressions of gratitude.— 
Some are appeals to God and invocations of 
his blessing. Should not this bo done rov- 
erently by reverent hearts?— Christian In¬ 
quirer. 
HEARTS-CHATTERTON AND GRAY. 
As I sat watching the fantastic wreathing 
of flame and smoke from a stewing mass of 
bituminous coal, I was led gradually from a 
meditation on the book I had been discours¬ 
ing to a contemplation of the source, or tho 
propeller of the source of lifet—hat flutter¬ 
ing bosom friend whose constant toil for us 
is too often thanklessly received. Wo are 
so accustomed to its services, as to be for¬ 
getful of them. When chance, or some 
better causo, leads us to pause in the chase 
after the nothings of life, to ponder upon 
this wonderful portion of a mysterious whole, 
we cannot but pay a tribute of admiration 
to its perfect mechanism. Wo hear of 
people “who have no hearts;”-but this, I 
take it, is merely a figure of speech. I have 
never known this organ to throw off its fet¬ 
ters of veins and arteries, or to leap from \ 
its prison-house of sinow-locked and bone 
barred flesh. The book which I had been 
perusing led mo to ask whether this ever 
did really happen; and to inquire, also, as I 
placed my folder between tho end and com¬ 
mencement of a couple of essays, “where 
were their hearts ?” 
It was of poor young Chatterton and his 
woes I had been reading, and it was after 
the hearts of those who knew him that my 
inquiry was made. The witty Horace Wal¬ 
pole, who was not deceived by the forgeries 
of tho precocious child, nor ignorant of his 
genius and poverty, though cruelly unmind¬ 
ful of tho latter, undoubtedly had, as a mat¬ 
ter of fact, a heart, or he would not have 
out-lived his world, nor built his bauble 
house, nor written such agreeable letters.— 
Figuratively, ho had none for tho meteor of 
the age, or its destiny would have been dif¬ 
en tly guided. 
Gray, too, that melodious songster amid 
the tombs, betrayed tho beatings of his, in 
every song he warbled; but not in generous 
succor, or in warm sympathy for the “ sleep¬ 
less one,” as Chatterton has been styled.— 
So we might speak of a host of others, famed 
in fashion and in learning’s courts, who 
showed no visible proof of any superior en¬ 
dowment of this vital impulse. Go with 
me into this dim, cold garret. Look on the 
wasted form, standing with stern defiance 
in utter desolation and woe, his eloquent 
eyes pleading a hundred ills, unsoothed by 
sympathy, and unhallowed by religious faith. 
Behold the crucible from which ascends un¬ 
holy flame and deadly vapor. There lie the 
fragments of his busy schemes, torn by his 
despairing hands. Silence, deep, dreadful 
and sublime within. Without, tho din and 
strife of life. Life ! See it fading from the 
hollow cheeks of the emaciated boy. Then 
ask with me “ Where are their hearts ?” 
Will no one come with kindly hand and 
winning smile to snatch him back to life ?— 
No ! He hears the trampling feet without, 
but they bring no human hearts to him.— 
The scornful curling of his lip is sculptured 
in the marble chill of death, ere his ear loses 
the echo of the world without. Alone !— 
ah, what isolation ! Will no gentle hand 
close those eyes so darkly beautiful in tho 
consciousness of utter desolation, and lofty 
gifts ! Fai*ewell young spirit, thou knowest 
no Winter now, or scowling glance, nor pal¬ 
liating circumstance. 
To Him who exemplified through life this 
power over circumstance, let us turn, and 
contemplate the sorrows that could not 
crush his love of beauty and truth. Pover¬ 
ty, tho dreaded evil of the world, was his. 
We are told that he labored with his own 
hands. Think of this, ye who indulge in a 
perverted train of thinking.' Yo who dis¬ 
dain to use all the faculties of your nature, 
and have limbs to pamper your own in sloth 
and folly. 
Contumely, scorn and slander were his 
portion. Yet amid them all he walked 
fearlessly, armed with the consciousness of 
right. It would seem that the contempla¬ 
tion of such a character could not fail to 
touch every heart, and to fill it with an ar¬ 
dent longing for the attainment of such 
traits. Through grace, we, too, may tri¬ 
umph over adversity, and bend the evils of 
life under foot, so that they have no longer 
the power to wound. Strengthened by 
moral courage, we shall fear not, nor fly 
from the evils attendant on the present life, 
but bravely meet its scoffingsand change.— 
•V. Y. Times. 
THE MACKEREL FISHERIES. 
Probably but few aro aware of the great 
extent of the mackerel and other fisheries 
of this country. It has been estimated 
that during the summer months, or rather 
between June and November, more than 
twenty thousand vessels are constantly en¬ 
gaged in the different kinds of fisheries, em¬ 
ploying no less than 250,000 men. By a 
treaty with Great Britain, American vessels 
aro allowed the privilege of fishing within 
certain limits off tho Gulf of St. Lawrence, 
and the quantity of fish taken from this 
place alone, is truly astonishing. The coast 
of Newfoundland yields its codfish to the 
hardy sailor from May until December, 
while the better class of mackerel are taken 
from August to October. Many mackerel, 
however, of a proper class, are taken along 
the Southern shore of our own country prior 
to this, but as a general thing they are 
deemed worthy of little notice. The Bay 
of Chaleur, along tho coast of Prince Ed¬ 
ward’s Islands, the Magdalen Islands and 
Northumberland Straits, are considered the 
choicest mackerel grounds. Here the fleet 
of vessels congregated at one time will of¬ 
ten amount to two thousand sail, although 
as a goneral thing not more than from two 
to four hundred vessels sail in company.— 
At nights, when the fleet is safely anchored, 
the lanterns lighted on each vessel and 
swung upon the shrouds, one may fancy 
they are looking upon some huge city lying 
in repose, with its lamps all trimmed and 
burning. 
The bait alone, which is ground up and 
thrown to the fish to keep them about the 
vessel, is a very large item in the expense 
of carrying on tho trade. This is either 
herring, porgics, or clams, well salted and 
cleansed, put up expressly for the purpose. 
The average cost of it is about three and 
a half dollars per barrel, at least two bar¬ 
rels of which are thrown away per day in 
good fishing. Allowing at the time we were 
in the Gulf there wore two thousand sail, 
you then have Iff 1G,000 per day thrown away 
to tho fishes, or say $100 per vessel for 
each trip which is below the actual amount, 
and we thus have tho enormous sum of 
$ 200 , 000 . 
The method of taking the mackerel is 
very simple. The vessel is “ hove to,” and 
men ai-e arranged on the “ windward ” side 
as many as can conveniently stand from 
bow to stern. Each man is provided with 
four lines, only two can be used in fast fish¬ 
ing. On each line is attached the hook, 
which is sunk into an oblong bit of lead 
called a “jig.” A barrel is placed behind 
each man into which tho fish aro “ snapped ” 
as caught, the jaw tearing out as easily as 
though mado of paper. Owing to this ten¬ 
derness of tho jaw, the fish must be hauled 
very carefully, though with great rapidity. 
One man stands “ amidships,” throwing the 
bait which has been carefully ground, to 
keep the fish about the vessel while the hooks 
aro bated with any tough substance, either 
pork rind, a bit of silver, or a piece of the 
mackerel itself. When the fish bite l’apidly, 
no sport is more exciting; a dozen men will 
often catch from thirty to fifty barrels in an 
hour. When caught they are split, gribbed, 
scraped, washed in three waters, and then 
salted—the whole being done with astonish¬ 
ing celerity.— Exchange. 
Humorous anil Untuning. 
A TEXAN COLONEL'S STORY. 
“ No, my friend,” said the colonel to his 
grave companion. “ No, it is entirely im¬ 
possible for one nursed as you have evident¬ 
ly been, in the lap of luxury—perhaps even 
in a coiled and framed house—to know what 
we suffered here in ’36. I’ll just tell you 
exactly how it was with me, and I have seen 
nothing—O, nothing at all—to what some 
have ! You see I was there in Sabine coun¬ 
ty, had a little cabin in the woods away from 
town some dozen miles. I had a hundred 
cows, twenty mares, and seventeen fillies, 
and a wife and three children, but not a 
dollar in the world. However, I was a law¬ 
yer, and had engaged to defend a man for 
cow-stealing at court in town next day, for 
which I was to got two bushels of meal.— 
You see my clothes had well nigh worn out, 
and so I swapped with a Bedi Indian for a 
suit of deer skin. Did you ever see a real 
suit of deer skin, stranger ? 
Well, I have—felt it too. You see the 
Indian told me to dye it in dogwood ooze. 
I did so. you know; left them in all night. 
Next morning I was up early, and off for 
court, for I needed that meal—didn’t have 
anything in the house at all. My deer skin 
suit fitted well—had tassels round the calves 
and skirts. Well. I rode out of the mott 
of timber in which my cabin was built, to 
the prairie that stretched the rest of the 
way to town ; as tho sun got hotter, tho wet 
skin—you see I had to put it on wet, for I 
must be at court, had to have that meal— 
tho wet skin begun to get tight! Pshaw it 
don’t mind, says I. hut in twenty minutes it 
| did mind ! Got off the mare out there in 
that broad prairie, with the roasting, broil¬ 
ing busning sun right over my head, and my 
clothes creeping up and coiling tight around 
mo like a nest of snakes. My arms wore 
fastened so by the sleeves that I couldn't 
get at my bowie knife to rip anything. My 
hair stood on end like the thorns of a hois 
d’arc. O, the misery ! the agony ! My 
whole body was bound up, and screwed to¬ 
gether, and strangled. Blood rushed to my 
head—couldn’t get on my horse. Well, I 
lay there in the blistering sun till somebody 
going to court happened to pass and rip me 
up. He cut me in two or three places, ho 
was shaking so with laughter while he did 
it. Well, you see I rode back home; took 
the last sheet in the house—cut it up—wife 
sewed up one leg while I sewed up tho oth¬ 
er—got to court just in time with my white 
suit—cleared the man, and got the meal.” 
Gunology. —Shillaber, of the Carpet Bag, 1 
tells the following outrageous gun story :— 
“ Speaking to-day with a son of a gun re- ; 
garding some gunning exploits, he told mo • 
of a singular instance of a gun hanging fire, i 
which, were it not for his well-known vera¬ 
city, I should feel disposed to doubt. Ho had 
snapped his gun at a grey squirrel, and the 
cap had exploded, but the piece not going 
off betook it from his shoulder, looked down 
into the barrel, and saw tho charge just 
starting, when, bringing it to his shoulder 
again, it went off and killed the squirrel ?” 
Auctioneer’s English. —While spending 
a few moments in an auction room on Wash¬ 
ington Street, a few evenings since, we were 
somewhat surprised to hear the auctioneer 
announce for sale the following articles : 
“ A largo cassimere lady’s shawl,” “ a pair 
of thick men’s boots,” and “a pair of moroc¬ 
co lady’s shoes.” 
Holding up a saw plate, he said : 
“ Gentlemen give me a bid for this fine 
saw plate, givo mo a bid warranted perfect, 
give me a bid thirty-seven inches long! ” 
“Who is that lovely girlexclaimed the 
witty Lord Norbury, in company with his 
friend, Counsellor Grant. 
“ Miss Glass,” replied tho Counsellor. 
“Glass!” reiterated the facetious judge. 
“I should often be intoxicated could I place 
such a glass to my lips.” 
He that wears a tight boot is likely to 
have a narrow understanding. 
Mmmm. 
“ Attempt the end, and never stand to doubt; 
Nothing’s so hard, but search will find it out.” 
For the New-Yorker. 
ILLUSTRATED REBUS.-No. 50. 
Written for the Rural New-Yorker. 
HISTORICAL ENIGMA. 
I am composed of 57 letters. 
My 17, 33, 31, 16, 25, 19 discovered a great treas¬ 
ure in the poems of Homer. 
My 15, 8, 37, 13 Samaria has made the capital of 
Israel. 
My 10, 43, 22, 27 by paying a fine obtained the 
body of Miltiades, his father, for burial. 
My 49, 41, 18, 6, 13, 11, 38 was the chief of the 
thirty tyrants. 
My 34, 28, 53, 53, 19 assassinated Darius. 
My 10, 22,43, 45, 1, 53 was killed by Alexander 
in a drunken revel. 
My 14, 5, 40, 42, 49, 27, 1, 52 took part of Alex¬ 
ander’s army in command. 
My 20, 25, 47, 52, 13, 11 was a divine nymph 
whom Numa Pompilius was said to meet in 
solitary places. 
My 3, 13, 24, 10 43, 2, 24, 21, 26,1, 38 was called 
from his plow, and appointed dictator of the 
commonwealth. 
My ‘14, 50, 37, 40, 3, 48 was once lost to the 
Macedonias. 
My 4, 35,10, 1, 41, 25,1, 9 whose institutions the 
Lacedamonians departed widely from. 
My 57, 1, 36, 51, 14, 51, 53 became an “ ally ” of 
Rome. 
My 46, 11, 10, 54, 37, 43, 11 did not acquire its 
great extent till 182 B. C. 
My 25,40, 29,12, 11 came to the throne at the 
age of seventy-five. 
My 13, 29, 30, 16, 18, 11,14,19 was an unworthy 
brother of Tacitus. 
My 17, 57, 53 occupied the throne of Constanti¬ 
nople at the time of the distraction of the 
Western Empire. 
My 39, 23, 37, 53, 40 was sent with Hengist to 
help the Britons. 
My 5, 4, 31, 23, 41 was brother of Edgar. 
My 47, 17, 56, 37 was son of Edgar. 
My whole is a very popular work and its author. 
Tompkins County, N. Y. Mattie. 
ggf” Answer next week. 
POETICAL ENIGMA. 
A gentleman two daughters had. 
And both were very fair, 
A purse of money, ’twas in gold. 
Between them he did share. 
Their shares just eighty thousand make. 
When multiplied together; 
Their squares two thousand are 
When added to each other. 
The elder says she’ll give her hand 
To him who can declare 
What was the sum her father gave, 
Ancf likewise each one’s share. 
Answer next week. 
A problem for the curious and ingenious — 
solve it who can : 
“ To five and five and fifty-five 
The first of letters add, 
You’ll see a thing to shame a king 
And make a wise man mad.” 
ANSWERS TO REBUS, &c„ IN No. 49 
Answer to Illustrated Rebus No. 49 .—Twelve 
inches iu a Toot. 
Auswer to Miscellaneous Enigma. — “ Fourth 
Volume of the Rural Few- Yorker .” 
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tTsF 411 communications, and business letters, should 
be addressed to D. D. T. Mooke, Rochester, N. Y. 
The Wool Grower & Stock Register, 
AN ILLUSTRATED MONTHLY JOURNAL, 
Devoted Chiefly to Wool and Stock Growing. 
Tms Journal is the only one published in America, pri" 
manly devoted to the interests of Wool Growers, Stock 
Breeders, Graziers, Dairymen, &c., and should be lujthe 
hands of every 
OWNER OF DOMESTIC ANIMALS. 
Fifty Cents a Year. To Clubs and Agents, — Five 
Copies for §2; Eight Copies for $3; Eleven Copies for $4; 
Twenty Copies tor 87, and any additional number at the 
same rate— 35 cents per copy. The three back volumes, 
bound, will be furnished at 40 cents each,—in sheets at 35 
cents, or the three for 81- 
Address D. D. T. MOORE, Rochester, N. Y. 
