4 4 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER, 
JAN. 30 
THE MEETING-PLACE. 
BY DR. n. BOKAR. 
The ransomed of the Lord sliall return and come to j 
Zion with songs and everlasting joys upon their heads.”- 
Isaiah, 30: 10. 
Where the faded flowers shall freshen, 
Freshen never more to fade; 
Where the faded sky shall brighten, 
Brighten never more to shade; 
Where the sunblaze never scorches, 
Where the starbeams cease to chill; 
Where no tempest stirs the echoes 
Of the wood, or wave, or hill; 
Where the moon shall wake in gladness, 
And the noon the joy prolong; 
Where the daylight dies in fragrance, 
’Mid the burst of holy song. 
Brother, we shall meet and rest 
’Mid the holy and the blest! 
Where no shadow shall bewilder, 
Where life’s vain parade is o’er, 
Where the sleep of sin is broken, 
And the dreamer dreams no more, 
Where the bond is never severed, 
Partings, claspings, sobs and moans, 
Midnight waking, twilight weeping, 
Heavy noontide—all are done; 
Where the child has found its mother, 
Where the mother finds the child; 
Where dear families are gathered, 
That were scattered on the wild. 
Brother, we shall meet and rest 
’Mid the holy and the blest! 
. Where the hidden wound is healed, 
Where the blighted life reblooms, 
Where the smitten heart the freshness 
Of its buoyant youth resumes; 
Where the love that now we lavish 
On the withering leaves of time, 
Shall have fadeless flowers to fix on, 
In an ever Spring-bright clime; 
Where we find the joy of loving 
As we never loved before, 
Loving on, unchSled, unhindered, 
Loving once and evermore. 
Brother, we shall meet and rest 
’Mid the the holy and the blest! 
Where a blasted world shall brighten, 
Underneath a bluer sphere, 
And a softer, gentler sunshine, 
Sheds its healing splendor there; 
Where earth’s barren veils shall blossom, 
Putting on her robes of green, 
And a purer, fairer Eden 
Be where only wastes have been; 
Where a King in kingly glory, 
Such as earth has never known, 
Shall assume the righteous sceptre, 
Claim and wear the holy crown. 
Brother, we shall meet and rest 
’Mid the holy and the blest! 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MAGGIE LEE. 
BY MRS. MARY J . HOLMES. 
The usually quiet little village of Ellerton was, 
one June morning, thrown into a state of great 
excitement by the news that the large stone build¬ 
ing on the hill, which, for several years had been shut 
up, was, at hist, to have an occupant, and that said 
occupant was no less a personage than its owner 
Graham Thornton, who, at the early age of twen¬ 
ty-eight, had been chosen to fill the responsible of¬ 
fice of Judge of the county. Weary of city life 
and knowing that a home in the country would not 
materially interfere with the discharge of his new 
duties, particularly as Ellerton was within half an 
hour’s ride of the city, young Thornton had con¬ 
ceived the idea of fitting up the old stone house, 
bequeathed to him by his grandfather, in a style 
suited to his abundant means and luxurious taste. 
Accordingly, for several weeks, the people of Eller¬ 
ton were kept in a constant state of anxiety, watch¬ 
ing, wondering and guessing, especially Miss 
Olivia Macey, who kept a small store in the out¬ 
skirts of the village, and whose fertile imagination 
supplied whatever her neighbors lacked in actual 
knowledge of the proceedings at “ Grcystone Hall,” 
as Judge Thornton called his place of residence. 
At last everything was completed and the day 
appointed for the arrival of the Judge, who, dis¬ 
liking confusion, had never once been near his 
house, but, after a few general directions, had left 
the entire arrangement of the building and grounds 
to the management of one whom he knew to be a 
connoisseur in such matters. As was very natural 
a great deal of curiosity was felt concerning the 
arrival of the distinguished stranger, and as his 
mother, a proud, stately woman, was to accompany 
him, Miss Olivia Macey, who boasted of having 
once been a schoolmate of the haughty lady, re¬ 
solved upon meeting them at the depot, thinking 
she should thereby show them proper respect. 
“So, Maggie,” said she to her niece, a dark- 
haired, white-browed girl of fifteen, who at noon 
came bounding in from school, “so, Maggie, you 
must watch the store, for there’s no knowing how 
long I shall be gone. Miss Thornton may ask me 
home with her and it would not be polite to re¬ 
fuse.” 
For an instant Maggie's dark brown eyes danced 
with mischief as she thought how improbable it 
was that the lofty Mrs. Thornton would seek to 
renew her acquaintance with one in Miss Macey’s 
humble position, but the next moment they filled 
with tears, and she said:—“Oh, aunt, must I stay 
from school again? It is the third time within a 
week. I never shall know anything!” 
“ Never mind, Mag,” shouted little Ben, tossing 
his cap across the room and helping himself to 
the largest piece of pie upon the dinner table._ 
“Never mind. I’ll stay with you, for I don't like 
to go to school anyway. And we’ll get our lessons 
at home.” 
Maggie knew how useless it would be to argue 
the point, so with a dejected air she seated herself 
by the open window and silently watched her aunt 
until she disappeared in the distance;—then taking 
up her book, she tried to study, but could not, for 
the heavy pain at her heart which kept whispering 
of injustice done to her, unconsciously, perhaps, 
by the only mother she had ever known. Very 
dear to Miss Macey were the orphan children of 
her only sister, and faithfully did she strive to ful¬ 
fill her trust, but she could not conceal her partial¬ 
ity for fun-loving, curly-haired Ben, nor the fact 
that the sensitive and ambitious Maggie, who 
thirsted for knowledge, was wholly unappreciated 
and misunderstood. Learning, — learning was 
what Maggie craved, and as she sat there alone 
that bright June afternoon, holding upon her lap 
I the head of her sleeping brother and watching the 
summer shadows as they chased each other over 
! the velvety grass in the meadow beyond, she won- 
} dered if it would ever be thus with her—would 
: there never eome a time when she could pursue 
1 her studies undisturbed, and then, as the thought 
i that this day made her fifteen years of age, her 
| mind went forward to the future, and she said 
i aloud—“Yes;—three years from to-day and I shall 
j be free—free as the air I breathe!” 
But why that start, sweet Maggie Lee? Why 
that involuntary shudder as you think of the long 
three years from now! She cannot tell, but the 
shadows deepen on her fair, girlish face, and lean¬ 
ing her brow upon her hand, she thinks long and 
earnestly of what the three years may bring. A 
footstep on the floor—the first which has fallen 
there that afternoon—and Maggie looks up to see 
before her a tall, fine-looking man, who, the mo¬ 
ment his eye fell upon her, checked the whistle, in¬ 
tended for his dog, which was trembling on his 
lips, and lifting his hat deferentially, he asked if 
“this were Miss Macey’s store?'’ 
“Yes, sir,” answered Maggie, and laying Bennie 
gently down, she went round behind the counter, 
while the young man, gazing curiously at her, con¬ 
tinued, “You surely are not Miss Macey?” 
There was a most comical expression in the 
I brown eyes which met the black ones of the 
stranger, as Maggie answered, “No, sir, I’m nobody 
but Maggie Lee.” 
There must have been something attractive either 
in the name or the little maiden who bore it, for 
long after the gentleman had received the articles 
{ for which he came, he lingered, asking the young 
i girl numberless questions and playing with little 
Ben, who, now wide awake, met his advances more 
than half way, and was on perfectly familiar 
terms both with the stranger and the dog Ponto, 
who had stretched his shaggy length before the 
door. 
“Mag, cries, she does, when Aunt Livy makes 
her stay home from school,” said Ben, at last, be¬ 
ginning to feel neglected and wishing to attract 
attention. 
Showing his white, handsome teeth, the gentle¬ 
man playfully smoothed the silken curls of little 
Ben, and turning to the blushing Maggie, asked 
“if she were fond of books?” 
“ Oh, I love them so much,” was the frank, im¬ 
pulsive answer, and ere ten minutes had passed 
away, Judge Thornton, for he it was, understood 
Maggie’s character as well as if he had known her 
a life time. 
Books, poetry, music, paintings, flowers, she wor¬ 
shiped them all, and without the slightest means 
either of gratifying her taste. 
“I have in my library many choice books, to 
which you are welcome at any time when you 
j will call at Grcystone Hall,” th6 stranger said at 
last. 
“Grcystone Hall!” gasped Maggie, the little red 
spots coming out all over her neck and face, 
“ Greystone Hall;—then you must be-” 
“Judge Thornton, and your friend hereafter,” 
answered the gentleman, offering his hand and 
bidding her good bye. 
There are moments which leave their impress 
upon one's life-time, changing instantaneously, as 
it were, our thoughts and feelings, and such an 
one had come to Maggie Lee, who was roused 
from a deep reverie by the shrill voice of her aunt, 
exclaiming, “Well, I’ve been on a Tom-fool’s er¬ 
rand once in my life. Here I’ve waited in that hot 
depot over two trains, and heard at the last minute 
that Miss Thornton and her son came up last 
night, and I hain’t seen them after all. Its too 
bad.” 
Very quietly Maggie told of the Judge’s call, 
repeating all the particulars of the interview, then 
stealing away to her chamber she thought again, 
wondering where and what she would be three years 
from that day. 
******** 
A year has passed away and Graham Thornton, 
grown weary of his duties, has resigned the office 
of Judge and turned school-teacher, so the gos¬ 
sipping villagers say, and with some degree of 
truth, for regularly each day Maggie Lee and Ben 
go up to Greystone Hall, where they recite their 
lessons to its owner, though always in the presence 
of its lady mistress, who has taken a strange fancy 
to Maggie Lee, and whose white hand has more 
than once rested caressingly on the dark, glossy 
hair of the young girl. To a casual observer the 
Maggie of sixteen is little changed from the Mag¬ 
gie of fifteen years, but to him, her teacher, she is 
not the same, for while in some respects she is 
more a woman and less a child, in everything per¬ 
taining to himself she is far more a child than 
when first he met her one short year ago. Then 
there was about her a certain self-reliance which is 
now all gone, and he who has looked so often into 
the thoughts and feelings of that childish heart 
knows he can sway her at his will. 
“ But ’tis only a girlish friendship she feels for 
him,” he says; “only a brotherly interest he en¬ 
tertains for her;” and so day after day she comes 
to his library, and, on a low stool, her accustomed 
seat at his side, she drinks in new inspirations with 
which to feed that girlish friendship, while he, 
gazing down into her soft, brown, dreamy eyes, 
feels more and more how necessary to his happi¬ 
ness is her daily presence there. And if some¬ 
times the man of the world asks himself “ where 
all this will end?” his conscience is quieted by the 
answer that Maggie Lee merely feels towards him 
as she would towards any person who had done 
her a like favor. So all through the bright sum¬ 
mer days and through the hazy autumn time, Mag¬ 
gie dreams on, perfectly happy, though she knows 
not why, for never yet has a thought of love for 
him entered her soul. She only knows that he to 
her is the dearest, best of friends, and Greystone 
Hall the loveliest spot on earth, but the wish that she 
might ever be its mistress has never been conceived. 
With the coming of the holidays the lessons 
were suspended for a time, for there was to be 
company at the Hall, and its master would need all 
his leisure. 
“ I shall miss you so much,” he said to Maggie, 
as he walked with her across the fields which led 
to her humble home. “ I shall miss you, but the 
claims of society must be met, and these ladies 
have long talked of visiting us.” 
“Are they young and handsome?” Maggie ask¬ 
ed involuntarily. 
“Only one — Miss Helen Deane is accounted a 
beauty. She is an heiress, too, and the best match 
in all the city of L-,” answered Mr. Thornton, 
more to himself than Maggie, who at the mention 
of Helen Deane felt a cold shadow folding itself 
around her heart 
Alas, poor Maggie Lee. The world has long 
since selected the proud Helen as the future bride 
of Graham Thornton, who, as he walks slowly 
back across the snow-clad field, tramples upon the 
delicate foot-prints you have made and wishes it 
were thus easy to blot out from his heart all mem¬ 
ory of you! Poor, poor Maggie Lee, Helen 
Deane is beautiful, far more beautiful than you, 
and when in her robes of purple velvet, with her 
locks of golden hair shading her soft eyes of blue, 
she flits like a sunbeam through the spacious rooms 
of Greystone Hall, waking their echoes with her 
voice of richest melody, what marvel if Graham 
Thornton does pay her homage and reserves’all 
thoughts of you for the midnight hour when the 
hall is still and Helen’s voice no longer heard?— 
He is but a man,—a man, too, of the world and so 
though you, Maggie Lee, are very dear to him, he 
does not think it possible that he can raise you to 
his rank,—make you the honored mistress of his 
home, and still lower himself not one iota from the 
station he has ever filled. And though his mother 
loves you, too, ’tis not with a mother’s love, and 
should children ever climb her knee calling her 
son their sire, she would deem you a governess be¬ 
fitting such as they, and nothing more. But all this 
Maggie does not know, and when the visiting is 
over and Helen Deane has gone, she goes back to 
her old place and sits again at the feet of Graham 
Thornton, never wondering why he seems so often 
lost in thought* or why he looks so oft into her 
eyes of brown trying to read there that he has not 
wronged her. 
******** 
Another year has passed and with the light of the 
full moon shining down upon him, Graham Thorn¬ 
ton walks again with Maggie Lee across the fields 
where now the summer grass is growing. The foot¬ 
prints in last winter’s snow have passed away just 
as the light will go out from Maggie’s heart when 
Graham Thornton shall have told the tale he has 
come with her to tell. With quivering lips and 
bloodless cheek she listened while he told her in¬ 
differently, as if it were a piece of news she had 
probably heard before, that when the next full moon 
should shine on Greystone Hall, Helen Deane 
would be there,—his bride! 
“This, of course, will effectually break up our 
pleasant meetings,” he continued, looking every¬ 
where save in Maggie’s face. “And this I regret— 
but my books are still at your disposal. You will 
like Helen, I think, and will call on her of course.” 
They had reached tly little gate and taking Mag¬ 
gie's hand, he woui^iave detained her for a few 
more parting words, but she broke away and in 
reply to his last question, hurriedly answered,— 
“Yes, yes.” 
The next moment he was alone—alone in the 
bright moonlight. The door was shut There was 
a barrier between himself and Maggie Lee, a bar¬ 
rier his own hands had built, and never again, so 
long as he lived, would Graham Thornton’s con¬ 
science be at rest Amid all the pomp of his bridal 
day,— at the hour when, resplendent with beauty 
Helen stood by his side at the holy altar and 
breathed the vows which made her his forever— 
amid the gay festivities which followed, and the 
noisy mirth which for days pervaded his home, 
there was ever a still, small voice which whispered 
to him of the great wrong he had done to Maggie 
Lee, who never again was seen at Greystone Hall. 
Much the elder Mrs. Thornton marvelled at her 
absence, and once when her carriage was rolling 
past the door of the little store, she bade her coach¬ 
man stop, while she, herself, went in to ask if her 
favorite were ill. Miss Olivia’s early call at Grey¬ 
stone Hall had never been returned, and now she 
bowed coldly and treated her visitor with marked 
reserve until she learned why she had come; then, 
indeed, her manner changed, but she could not tell 
her how on the night when Graham Thornton had 
cruelly torn the veil from Maggie’s heart, leaving 
it crushed and broken, she had found her long after 
midnight out in the tall, damp grass, where in the 
wild abandonment of grief she had thrown herself; 
nor how in a calmer moment she had told her sad 
story, exonerating him from wrong and blaming 
only herself for not having learned sooner how 
much she loved one so far above her, so she simply 
answered, “ Yes, she took a violent cold and has 
been sick for weeks. Her mother died of con¬ 
sumption; I’m afraid Maggie will follow.” 
“Poor girl, to die so young,” sighed Mrs. Thorn¬ 
ton, as she returned to her carriage and was driven 
back to Greystone Hall, where in a recess of the 
window Graham sat, his arm around his wife and 
his lingers playing with the curls of her golden hair. 
But the hand dropped nerveless at his side when 
his mother startled him with the news that “Mag¬ 
gie Lee was dying.” Very wonderingly the large 
blue eyes of Helen followed him, as, feigning sud¬ 
den faintness he fled out into the open air, which, 
laden though it was with the perfume of the sum¬ 
mer flowers, had yet no power to quiet the voice 
within which told him that if Maggie died, he alone 
was guilty of her death. “But whatever I can do 
to atone for my error shall be done,” he thought at 
last, and until the chill November wind had blasted 
the last bud, the choicest fruit and flowers which 
grew at Greystone Hall daily found entrance to the 
chamber of the sick girl, who would sometimes 
push them away as if there still lingered among 
them the atmosphere they had breathed. 
“They remind me so much of the past that I can¬ 
not endure them in my presence,” she said one day 
when her aunt brought her a beautiful boquet, 
composed of her favorite flowers, and the hot tears 
rained over the white, wasted face as she ordered 
them from the room. 
Much she questioned both her aunt and Bennie 
of her rival, whose beauty was the theme of the 
whole village, and once when told that she was 
passing, she hastened to the window, but her cheek 
grew whiter still and her hands clasped each other 
involuntarily as she saw by the side of the fair 
Helen the form of Graham Thornton. They both 
were looking towards her window and as Helen 
met that burning gaze, she exclaimed, “Oh, Gra¬ 
ham, it is terrible. It makes me faint,” and shud- 
deringly she drew nearer to her husband, who, to 
his dying hour, never forgot the wild, dark eyes 
which looked down so reproachfully upon him that 
memorable wintry day. 
******** 
Three years have passed away since the time 
when first we met with Maggie Lee —three years 
which seemed so long to her then, and which have 
brought her so much pain. She has watched the ] 
snow and ice as they melted from off the hill-side. 
She has seen the grass spring up by the open door 
—has heard the robin singing in the old oak tree— 
has felt the summer air upon her cheek. She has 
reached her eighteejilh birthday and ere another sun 
shall rise she will indeed be free. 
“Oh, I cannot see her die,” cried poor little Ben, 
when he saw the pallor stealing over her face, and 
running out into the yard he threw himself upon 
the grass, sobbing bitterly, “My sister, oh, my 
sister.” 
“Is she worse?” asked the voice of Graham 
Thornton. 
He was passing in the street and had heard the 
wailing cry. Ben. knew that in some way Judge 
Thornton was connected with his grief, but he 
answered respectfully, “She is dying. Oh, Maggie, 
Maggie. What shall I do without her?” 
“You shall live with me,” answered Mr. Thorn¬ 
ton. 
’Twas a sudden impulse, and thinking the assur¬ 
ance that her brother should be thus provided for 
would be a comfort to the dying girl, he glided 
noiselessly into the sick room. But she did not 
know him, and falling on his knees by her side, he 
wept like a little child. “ She was sleeping,” they 
said, at last, and lifting up his head, he looked up¬ 
on her as she slept, while a fear, undefined and ter¬ 
rible, crept over him, she lay so still and motion¬ 
less. At length rising to his feet, he bent him 
down so low that his lips touched her’s, and then, 
without a word, he went out from her presence, for 
he knew that Maggie Lee was dead / 
The next day at sunset they buried her in the 
valley where the mound could always be seen from 
the window of Graham Thornton’s room, and, as 
with folded arms and aching heart he stood by, 
while they lowered the coffin to its resting place, 
he felt glad that it was so. “It will make me a 
better man,” he thought, “for when evil passions 
rise and I am tempted to do wrong I have only to 
look across the fields towards the little grave w'hich 
but for me would not have been made so soon, and 
I shall be strengthened to do what is right.” 
Slowly and sadly he walked away, going back to 
his home, where in a luxuriously furnished cham¬ 
ber, on a couch whose silken hangings swept the 
floor, lay his wife and near her his infant daughter, 
that day four weeks of age. As yet she had no 
name, and when the night had closed upon them 
and it was dark within the room, Graham Thorn¬ 
ton drew his chair to the side of his wife and in 
low, subdued tones told her of the fair young girl 
that day buried from his sight. Helen w r as his 
w r ife, a gentle, faithful wife, and he could not tell 
her how much he had loved Maggie Lee and that 
but for his foolish pride she would perhaps at that 
moment have been where Helen was, instead of 
sleeping in her early grave. No, he could not tell 
her this, but he told her Maggie had been very dear 
to him, and that he feared it w r as for the love of 
him that she had died. “I wronged her, Nellie, 
darling,” he said smoothing the golden tresses 
which lay upon the pillow. “ / broke her heart, and 
now that she is gone I would honor her memory by 
calling our first-born daughter, “ Maggie Lee.” — 
’Tis a beautiful name,” he continued, “and you 
will not refuse my request.” 
There was much of pride in Helen Thornton’s 
nature, and she did refuse, for days and even weeks, 
but when she saw how the shadows deepened on 
the brow of her husband, who would stand for 
hours looking out through the open window to¬ 
wards the valley where slept the village dead, and 
when the mother, in pity for her son, joined also in 
the request, she yielded, and, as if the sacrifice were 
accepted and the atonement good, the first smile 
which ever dimpled the infant's cheek, played on 
its mouth as with its large, strange, bright eyes 
fixed upon its father’s face, it was baptized “ Mag¬ 
gie Lee.” 
******** 
Four years of sunshine and storm have fallen 
upon Maggie’s grave, where now a costly marble 
stands, while the handsome iron fence and the well 
kept ground within show that some hand of love is 
often busy there. In a distant city Ben is striving 
to overcome his old dislike for books and seeking 
to make himself what he knows his sister would 
wish him to be. At home the little store has been 
neatly fitted up and Miss Olivia sits all day long 
in her pleasant parlor, feeling sure that the faithful 
clerk behind the counter will discharge his duties 
well. Greystone Hall is beautiful as ever with its 
handsome rooms, its extensive grounds, its wind¬ 
ing walks, its bubbling fountains and its wealth of 
flowers, but there is a shadow over all,—a plague 
spot which has eaten into the heart of Graham 
Thornton and woven many a thread of silver 
among his raven locks. It has bent the stately 
form of his lady mother, and his once gay-hearted 
wife wanders with a strange unrest from room to 
room, watching ever the uncertain footsteps of 
their only child, -whose large, dark eyes, so much 
like those.which, four long years ago, flashed down 
on. Helen their scrutinizing gaze, are darkened 
forever, for little Maggie Lee is blind ! 
They are getting somewhat accustomed to it 
now,—accustomed to calling her their “poor, blind 
bird,” but the blow was crushing when first it 
came, and on the grave in the valley Graham 
Thornton more than once laid his forehead in the 
dust and cried, “ My punishment is greater than I 
can bear.” 
But he, “who doeth all things well,” has in a 
measure healed the wound, throwing so much of 
sunshine and of joy around her, who never saw the 
glorious light of day, that with every morning’s 
dawn and every evening’s shade, the fond parents 
bless their little blind girl, the angel of their home. 
Brockport, N. Y., Januarv. 185S. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
CULTIVATION. 
BY JOHN IL BAXLEY. 
Cultivate the lands, my boys, 
Cultivate the soil, 
The prairie-west has many joys 
And will repay your toil 
At this go right ahead, boys, 
It will bring you real joys. 
Cultivate your heads, my girls, 
Cultivate your brains; 
Mind much less your beads and curls, 
And look to higher gains. 
Go ahead my “bonnie lasses,” 
Less display and silly gases. 
Get knowledge sound, be just and true, 
On tactics don’t rely, 
But keep the right always in view 
And thus the wrong defy. 
Go right ahead, my girls and boys 
And so obtain substantial joys. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
BOTANICAL ENIGMA. 
T am composed of 26 letters. 
My 22, 10, 25, 22, 3, 7 is a flower with purple blos¬ 
soms. 
My 18, 22, 18, 22, 6, 18 is a kind of shrub. 
My 22, 5, 21,12, 11, 18, 8, 9, 14, 2 is a splendid gar¬ 
den flower. 
My 20, 14,15, 19 is the name of a dwarfish shrub. 
My 22, 11, 15, 26, 11, 16, 24, 25, 19 is a fragrant gar¬ 
den flower. 
My 17, 25, 3, 8, 1, 25, 26, 24, 11 is a flower, common 
in New England. 
My 19,11, 2, 22, 24, 8, 7, 2, 8 is a beautiful white 
flower connected with heathen mythology. 
My 4, 17, 25, 10, 19 is a poisonous-seeded plant 
My 25,10, 18, 26, 13, 14 is a well known fruit of the 
Tropics. 
My whole is an old saying. 
Hartford, Wis., 1858. E. W. D. 
Answer in two weeks. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
ARITHMETICAL PROBLEM. 
Says A. to B. and C., give me 4 of your money 
and I shall have $1,000. Says B. to A. and C., give 
me 1-5 of your money and I shall have $1,000.— 
Says C. to A. and B., give me 1-6 of your money 
and I shall have $1,000. Required the sum of each. 
Bennettsburg, N. Y., 1858. n. D. d. 
-JSeT* Answer in two weeks. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker 
MATHEMATICAL PROBLEM. 
Required the size of the largest cubical block, 
that can be made from a ball one foot in diameter? 
Middleport, N. Y., 1858. M. B. 
Answer in two weeks. 
ANSWERS TO ENIGMAS, &c., IN NO. 419. 
Answer to American Biographical Enigma: 
No flocks that range the valley free 
To slaughter I condemn; 
Taught by that Power that pities me 
. I learn to pity them. 
Answer to Grammatical Enigma:—Novels dissi¬ 
pate youthful minds. 
Answer to Poetical Enigma:—Bird’s-nest. 
Answer to Geometrical Problem:—8 97686464- 
100000000 rods. 
Answer to Algebraic Problem:—John’s division 
was 263 acres and 12 rods, at $2 .281 nearly; Jona¬ 
than’s division was 336 acres, 3 roods, 28 rods, at 
$1 .781 nearly. 
llOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKEft, 
THE LEADING WEEKLY 
Agricultural, Literary and Family Newspaper, 
IS PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY 
BY I>. I>. T. MOORE, ROCHESTER, N. Y. 
Office, Union Buildings, Opposite the Court House. 
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one to Agent or getter up of Club,) for $10 ; Ten Copies (and one to 
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sent to the British Frovinces, our Canadian agents and friends must 
add 12>£ cents per copy to the dub rates for the Rural. The lowest 
price of copies sent to Europe, Ac., is $2 50,— including postage. 
Vj/“ Subscribers wishing their papers changed from one Post-Office 
to another, should be particular in specifying the offices at which they 
are now received. 
Advertising — Brief and appropriate advertisements will be 
inserted at 25 cents a line, each insertion, payable in advance. Our 
rule is to give no advertisement, unless very brief, more than four con 
secutive insertions. Patent Medicines, Ac- are not advertised in the 
Rural on any conditions. 
PUBLISHER’S NOTICES. 
I3X" TnE Currency of the Country is so deranged at present 
that we trust all who remit for the Rural will send us the beat funds 
conveniently obtainable in their respective localities. If our Western 
and Southern friends can remit in Drafts on New York at former 
rates of exchange,—or in bills on New York, Canada or New England 
solvent Banks, or in Postage Stamps,—they will save ns both trouble 
and expense. Though Western and Southern money may be per¬ 
fectly good at home, and is not absolutdy refused by ns, yet we can¬ 
not use it without a great sacrifice;—hence this request If our 
friends in all parts of the Union, the British Provinces, Ac- will com¬ 
ply with these suggestions so far as convenient, they will favor ns. 
Clubbing with the Magazines, Ac— We will send the Rural 
New-Yorker for 1858, and a yearly copy of either The Atlantic, 
Harper’s, Goderfs, Graham's, or any other $3 magazine, for $4. The 
Rural and either The Horticulturist, Hovei/s Magazine, Arthur’s 
Magazine, or any other $2 magazine for $3. 
tTjf“ The Rural is pnblished strictly upon the cash system— 
copies are never mailed to individual subscribers until paid for, (or 
ordered by a responsible agent) and always discontinued when the 
subscription term expire* Hence, a prompt renewal is necessary to 
secure the regular continuance of the paper. 
tjjX” Any person so disposed can act as local agent for the Rural, 
without certificate, and each and all who volunteer in the good canse 
will not only receive premiums, but their aid will be appreciated. 
13 V In ordering the Rural please send us the best money con¬ 
veniently obtainable, and do not forget to give your full address—the 
name of Post-Office, and also State, Territory, or Province. 
The Lowest Price for a single yearly copy of the Rural is 
$2, and the lowest club price $1,50 per copy, and any one remitting less 
will be credited proportionately for amount received, instead of re¬ 
turning money. 
Non - Subscribers who may receive this number of the 
Rural are invited to examine carefully, and, if approved, lend their 
kind offices to introduce the paper to notice and support in their re¬ 
spective localities. See Premium List. Ac., on rirerediw' ram 
