MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
FEB. 13. 
Wm 
Written for Moore’* Rural New-Yorker. 
LIGHTS AND SIIADOWfci. 
IT HEnKOX BELL. 
Tn winter *kies are draped with elo»d*k 
And wild the night wind* roar, 
The silv’ry *tars are wrapp’d in *hr«»«* 
As though they’d shine no more; 
And thus my thoughts are veiled in *;!••** 
My mind, a rayless night, 
Hv eyes shed tears above the tom\ 
Where Hope sank from mjr eight. 
Yet, soon the clouds will leave the sky. 
The winds to zephyrs turn, 
The stars, unveiled to mortal cy«. 
Like diamond lamps will burn; 
And soon my thoughts will strip the veil. 
Light dawn upon my mind, 
The tears from sorrows fount will fall. 
And Hope will Pleasure find. 
’Tis ever thus within this world. 
Day surely follows Dight; 
The clouds of gloom about us curl’d 
Will vanish from our sight— 
When storm-clouds break, the stars on high 
Shine with a purer ray, 
Anfl after tears are shed, the eye 
Looks brighter through the day. 
Prairie Cottage, III., 1868. 
Written for Moore's Knral New-Yorker. 
POMPLY HOUSE. 
BY CAROLINE A. HOWARD. 
[Continued from page 62, last No.] 
The act was merely a thoughtless one on Philip’s ^ 
part. lie supposed that should Arthur find him- ^ 
self suddenly obliged to exertliis powers,he would h( 
he able to manage well enough. There was, too, in 
his mind, a tinge of malicious pleasure in the fright ^ 
it would give the timid hoy, to find that he was ^ 
riding in spite of himself. The pony, once fairly ^ 
freed from his master’s hand, and feeling a strange 
rider upon his hack, began to perform various an- ^ 
tics and capers intended to dislodge the unwelcome ^ 
burden. Arthur exerted all his skill and knowl¬ 
edge, and for some time succeeded in keeping his 
seat and the road, but could not turn the pony’s 
head homeward. On they flew towards a brawling T 
little stream, over which a rustic bridge had been 
placed, and which ran through the pasture where 
Caesar was accustomed to graze. As they came in . 
sight of it, he quickened his pace and flew across 
the bridge just as Philip appeared at the top of the 
hill. He was exactly in time to see his pony leap 
the low feuce, and, with a sudden jerk, send Arthur 
into the middle of the brook. 
Before he could reach the spot, his father, who S1 
from a neighboring field had seen the ride and sup¬ 
posed Philip to he the rider, had raised Arthur 8i 
from hi 3 watery bed, some bruised by the fall and n 
dripping wet. Truly sorry for what lie had done, 
and trembling with fear of his father’s dipleasure, 
Philip hastened towards them, while Caesar with¬ 
drew a short distance and stood looking on. 
“What is the meaning of all this, sir?” sternly 
asked the General, when Philip had recovered a 
breath enough to ask Arthur if he was hurt. He 
hesitated a moment, and then looking at Arthur, 
he said:— “Why Arthur was trying the pony and 8 
he jerked the bridle out of my hand and ran out of 
the yard. He was gentle enough at first.” 
It was the first deliberate falsehood that Philip f 
had ever told his father, though the fear of his se- ' 
verity had often led him to concealment and decep¬ 
tion, and his crimsoned and averted face revealed i 
his shame. After what he had said, he felt sure > 
that Arthur would not betray him, and with an f 
imploring glance at him he assisted his father in 1 
getting him up to the house. IJ 
Arthur was too honorable to have betrayed his, - 
cousin if he could help it, and he was spared the*' 1 
necessity of prevarication by an unexpected inci-1 
dent. On going to the stable to send a hostler for 1 
the recreant pony, the General found him tied to a 
stake and the groom busy in taking off the saddle. . 
From him he learned, on inquiry, enough to con- 1 
vince him that Philip had been greatly to blame. 1 
On entering the house he met him on the stairs, i 
coming from Arthur's room, and said, in the 
sternest manner, “You may go to your room, sir; 
you will remain there until after we have started 
on our excursion this afternoon.” 
No other word passed between them. Philip 
obeyed immediately, but with a scornful lip and a 
haughty air. There was no kind of reproof, no earn¬ 
est reasoning, no affectionate exhortation —justice 
was done; that was sufficient 
Early in the afternoon, Philip stood at the win¬ 
dow of his room, and, with feelings of bitterness 
and chagrin, saw the whole family and their guests 
drive away ou an excursion of pleasure, which had 
been looked forward to by all, for some time. When 
they were fairly out of sight, he descended and 
■wandered for a time from place to place, uncertain 
what to do. The house was still and lonesome, and 
he soon left it to ramble in the garden. A loud 
neigh from the stable caused him to look up, and 
there he saw Caesar looking from the window, evi¬ 
dently pleased to see him. A sudden thought 
struck him; there was to be a horse-race about six 
miles from there that afternoon, and he had often 
wished to see one. He would just ride over and 
stop a little while and return before the folks would 
be back. He knew his father would object, but he 
would not know it, and besides he had not told him 
that he should not ride. Thus it was settled, and 
they were soon on their way. Caesar was pretty 
frisky, the effect of his morning frolic; hut Philip 
managed him welL He arrived on the ground in 
good season and was delighted with the sight, to 
him a great novelty. When the race was over, sev¬ 
eral other horses were shown off by their owners, 
and an old man who had noticed how enthusiasti¬ 
cally Philip cheered and gazed, turned to him and 
said: 
“ Trot out you little nag there, my hoy! He’d go 
with the best of them, I’ll warrant.” 
The idea was new and flattering, and was imme¬ 
diately acted upon. Again and again he rode 
round, while Ciesar caught the excitement of the 
moment and flew like the wind. The air rang with a w 
the shouts of the men, the cheers of the boys, and let 
in the gratification of his pride Philip forgot that “ 
the sun was sinking towards the west As soon as out 
this became apparent to him, lie turned his horse’s woi 
head homeward, with a beating heart. He had six gro 
miles to ride, and it was already five o'clock. He F 
spared neither whip or heel, and rode into the yard, to 1 
his horse sweating and foaming, just as the return- ^ 
ing carriages appeared in sight. Hastily putting Mrs 
Caesar into his stall, he stopped only to remove the clo: 
saddle and throw a blanket over him, then went to tru 
his room and locked the door. 0ltl 
When the family assembled at supper Pm UP was sen 
with them and nothing was said on the subject of U T 
his delinquency. By noon the next day Philip 8U ^ 
began to breathe freely,—he thought his father 801 
would never know anything of his adventures of S re 
the day before. ei " 
“ Murder will out,” and so will some other things. a >' 
Tn the afternoon Gen. Pompi.y had occasion to hli: 
visit a neighboring town, and meeting with a man «oi 
who bought and sold horses for those who desired "' a 
his services, he was thus accosted: 
“Smart little pony, that of yours, sir! And smart raa 
little fellow, too, that rides him. Regular chip of un 
the old block, as we say sometimes. Going to cor, 
make a soldier of him, I suppose. Well, it won't Do 
be hard to do, the pluck is born in him. Why sir, en ' 
yesterday when we had the race down here, he rode his 
in the ring, and, by George, there were few that ] 
were bigger, who could beat him!” °P 
The General’s astonishment and curiosity over- wa 
came, for the moment, his pride, which usually w!; 
forbade him to have anything to do with such char- eal 
acters, save on matters of business. By a sudden tin 
exclamalion he showed his ignorance of the matter, 1)0 
and soon heard the whole atl'air. Fairly purple an 
with rage, he sprang upon his horse, and did not 
stop to say “Good day!” to the jockey, who turned w« 
to a bystander and remarked: ov 
“My! Ain’t the old gent mad, though! I’ll bet wt 
the youngster’ll have to catch it for mixing with an 
the vulgar herd. I’ll be blessed if I did not suppose he 
he knew all about it, or I never’d a ’peached." 
Arrived at borne, the General stalked through In 
the house, leaving an uneasy feeling with all who 11 • 
saw him. Meeting his wife, he said, “Send Philip t!l 
to my room when he comes in,” and passed on to ar 
liis room where he paced the floor, “nursing liis w; 
wrath to keep it warm,” until his son should an- m 
. ar 
swer the summons. u , 
Philip had gone berrying with the children to 
whom he had been unusually gracious, and the ^ 
whole party soon returned mirthful and happy.— 
The sound of tlieir cheerful voices was only an ag- ‘ ' 
gravation to the General, who, when he was dis- ^ 
pleased, could not bear that anything should have 
pleasure. 
In a voice which she vainly attempted to render 11 
firm and unconcerned, Mrs. Pomply said, “My son, t0 
your father is in his room, and wishes to see you.” w 
With an anxious heart Philip went, for lie felt . 
sure that his secret must have been discovered. 
As he entered his father’s room and heard his 
sternly uttered “Where did you spend your after- ^ 
noon yesterday?” his heart and courage failed him 
entirely; he could not reply. 
“Answer me, sir! Quick time, or I will bring an ^ 
answer out of you.” n 
“I went to ride,” was the low response. 
“That is not answering the question. Speak! 
and speak the truth, or it will not he well for you!” f . 
, “ I rode over to Granby.” g 
“Well!” said the General, with an intonation that .■ 
i showed he waited to hear the rest, f, 
f “To see the race,” was reluctantly added. 
His father could restrain himself no longer,—his d 
» fury boiled over and poured upon the youth’s de- r 
. voted head. I 
“Yes, I know' you did! You thought I should v 
1 not find it out, did you? But I heard of it. Heard r 
> it too, from the lips of a jockey! A low, trading \ 
i fellow, that spoke as familiarly of my son, as if lie f 
, had never known any other associates than horse- ] 
I jockies and gamblers. And this is the company ( 
3 1 you choose? You, the son of a gentleman and a 
soldier?” I 
" j Here Philip ventured to remark that it was ( 
| rather the result of circumstances than choice. £ 
i “Stop!” said his father. “You need not attempt ; 
any palliation of your conduct Your word is not f 
- to he depended on after the falsehood which you 
■. told yesterday morning. Shame! shame! that 1 i 
^ should have such a son!” ; 
e Stung by Hie tone in which these words were 
•; spoken, the boy’s anger and pride were roused be- 
d yond control, and with a fiery glance he answered: 
“It may be shame that you should have such a 
p son, but had your son a father who thought a gen¬ 
ii tleman and soldier should control liis temper, the 
i- shame might not be so great?” 
, e The words were boldly, proudly spoken, hut they 
had scarcely passed the lips of the speaker, ere a 
i- powerful blow from his father’s hand stretched him 
5 S on the floor. The measure of angry passions on 
ts both sides needed but one drop to be brimful, and 
R that drop had fallen. 
n Philip sprang up erect, and folding his arms 
stood motionless and defiant, 
in “Go to your room! You will hear from me 
,<1 again!” thundered the General, and with a bow of 
k! mock humility, Philip left the room, 
id The night and the next day wore away, yet 
,j_ Philip saw no one except the servant who brought 
l, t him his meals, only as he caught glimpses of the 
i x members of the household in the garden from time 
> n to time. Another day passed in silence and bitter 
reflection to him,—how did it pass down stairs? 
Id Their guests bad departed, the family had gatli- 
he ered around the supper table. No one spoke and 
im a gloom seemed to have settled on every face.— 
nd That of Mrs. Pomply betrayed sleepless nights and 
tty anxious days. Little Grace, her father’s favorite, 
.ip pushed her plate from her untouched. Her father 
in looked up and said, “ Grace, what will you have, 
to do you not like fish?” Her under lip quivered and 
ev- a big tear rolled down and fell on the table cloth. 
, r8j In a voice between a sigh and a sob, she said, “ Y T es, 
5 ti- I like fish, but I dou’t like to have everybody look 
.ml as if they had lost all tlieir friends.” Mrs. Pomply 
rose hastily and left the room. In a few ino- 
go ments her husband followed, and rising from the 
table, Constance shut the door after him, not very 
ne- softly. 
5 de “I declare!” she burst out, “I think it a down- 
the right shame to keep Phil penned up as if he were 
a wild animal, or a highway robber, and not even H 
let one of us see him.” Dm 
“I too,” said Bella, “If I was he, I would got cha 
out of the window and make off. I guess father liav 
would have his match to keep me if I was wri 
grown up.” the 
Poor little Grace left the table and went sobbing spe 
to her retreat, her mother’s chair. and 
While this pleasant little scene was transpiring, Gei 
Mrs. Pomply and her husband were engaged in me: 
close conference in another room. Let us not in- all 
trade upon a privacy so sacred as that in which avn 
either of a united pair strives to make the other C 
sensible that they are more or less in fault and Tsa 
urges the necessity, the duty of amendment. It is sci< 
sufficient to say that General Pom ply’s anger had be 
somewhat cooled, and with reflection had come re- im] 
gret and mortification for his hasty and ungov- C re 
erned passion. But pride was strong and that, with 8 ic 
a feeling that he was hut just, would not permit ] 
him to abate one atom of his sternness toward his s ea 
sou. IIis wife argued that Philip, though fiery, ers 
was sensitive and affectionate, and when once made inj 
sensible of a fault was willing, even anxious to sin 
make amends; that the General was too hasty, too tri< 
unforgiving, unwilling to -persuade where he could j 
compel. The result of the confab was that Mrs. 8 ui 
Pomply obtained permission to visit her son, and 8 pi 
endeavor, if possible, to bring him to a sense of flij 
his misconduct. ea< 
It was just sunset when Philip heard the door a lc 
open and turning, saw liis mother within it. He 
was standing at the window, and his mother started toi 
when his pale and haggard face met hers. He had a l\ 
eaten little in his confinement, and during that w i 
time every varied feeling of the human heart had an 
been at work upon bis features, but wounded pride m< 
and outraged self-respect left the strongest traces. h a 
Mrs. Pomply locked the door and without a word til 
went up to him and passing her cool, soft hand de 
over his burning brow she kissed him tenderly. It mi 
was a mesmeric touch. The staring eyes softened, 
and with a half sob the miserable child bowed bis tli 
head on her bosom. in 
Long they conversed together in a low tone, the l'a: 
mother urging, encouraging, reproving; the child ha 
listening but unconvinced. She warned him of 
the evils of unchecked passions, he met her with la: 
an account of his father’s looks and conduct to- wi 
wards him. She reminded him of the lessons of tli 
meekness and filial regard exemplified in the life ar 
and teachings of our Savior, he only answered, 8 t 
“Mother, how can I ?” e\ 
It seemed a hopeless task to endeavor to bring 
to the mind of an impetuous youth of fifteen, such 0 i 
a sense of Christian forbearance and filial regard m 
as is seldom acquired in maturity. Poor Mrs. tli 
Pomply, slie could weep with her children and pray d< 
for them, but she could not thus infuse into them cl 
her own meek and yielding disposition. There was C 
too much flint in them not to strike fire when struck 
with steel. — 
At length Philip arose from her side, and draw¬ 
ing himself up to his full height, he said, “Mother, 
1 will! For your sake, I will go to him and ask his 
forgiveness for all. Yes, I will humble myself to = 
the very dust, but I shall at that very moment feel 
greater than he. Do not look so despairingly. 1 
cannot help it. Mother, that blow has made me a 
man. I am going from home and the fear that 1 1, 
may never see you again makes me willing to sacii- 2 
Dice everything to, maybe, your last request.” 
1 Without waiting for a reply, Philip entered his 3 
’ father’s presence, and in a calm voice and with a 4 
gaze that neither wavered or flinched, lie said:— 
t “ Father, I am here to ask your forgiveness; first, 5 
for a faleshood, second for acting contrary to your 6 
known wishes, last for giving way to anger and 7 
5 disrespect towards you. I am here, too, to ask per- 
" mission to go to sea, to enter the navy. I have 8 
long desired to go to sea, as you know, but as you 
1 wished me to choose the army rather, I partly gave C 
1 up my wishes. But now I must go. I cannot 
? longer remain in a place which hereafter will be 1 
3 full of unwelcome associations. Once away from 
here I hope the disgrace which I may have brought 1 
y on my family may be done away.” 1 
a More affected than he cared to show, General 
Pomply extended liis hand with dignity and con- 
8 deccnsion, and said, “I forgive you, heartily, my 
son. I felt sure that due reflection would convince 
it you of your error. As to your wishes, I will con- 
it sider them.” 
u Philip turned away and walked out on the now 
I moonlit piazza. l)o you think he repented? Do 
you think he forgave? 
■e As he stood leaning on one of the pillars, a little 
2- hand slid softly into his and a little head rested on 
1: his shoulder. It was Grace. He could not bear 
a the mute caress, and touching his cheek a moment 
n- to hers he left her. 
ie The next morning ho appeared at breakfast with 
the family, but spoke to no one. That over, he 
>y walked to the stable to Caisar’s accustomed place, 
a but it was empty. Returning, he met Constance, 
m who, linking her arm in his, walked by his side.” 
m “Con. where is Ciesar?” lie asked eagerly, 
id “Didn’t you know?” she said, looking into his 
face with a pitiful look. “Father sold him the day 
ns after—after the trouble.” 
“Wliat! Sold him!” exclaimed her brother, pale 
ne with apprehension. 
of “ Yes, Phil., lie said you should not have it in 
your power to abuse his gifts.” 
et Philip compressed his colorless lips more tight- 
lit ly as if lie feared to give vent to something which 
lie he might regret. 
ne it was true, Caisar was sold. In the first heat 
ter of liis anger, Gen. Pomply had disposed of him as 
an additional punishment to Philip, though he had j 
tb- deeply regretted it since, but that no one knew but 
nd himself, for it was a part of his policy at least to 
appear to think his own judgment infallible, 
nd That night while the household at Pomply House 
ite, was rapt in slumber, Philip arose and, taking a 
ier portmanteau and a few dollars which liis purse cou- 
ve, tained, and his mother’s little bible, from which 
md she had read to him, left his father's house, as he 
tli. supposed, forever. 
'es, When he was missed, his mother expected that 
>ok liis father would be angry and perhaps disown him, 
’ly but no, lie said nothing. He seemed almost to have 
no- expected it. 
the In a week or two a letter came to his mother from 
cry Philip, informing her that he liad taken passage 
as an apprentice on board a man-of-war bound on 
wn- a cruising voyage to Mexico and the Pacific. The 
ere letter was postmarked at Boston, Mass. 
How the years do fly! Four have passed since 
Philip left home, and what are the attendant 
changes to Pomply House? From the absent, they 
have heard as often as he has had opportunities for 
writing and they have all written to him. Once 
there came a letter from his commanding officer, 
speaking in terms of high praise of the promising 
and intelligent young midshipman. To this letter 
Gen. Pomply replied. He was gratified beyond 
measure to receive so flattering a testimonial, and 
all anger toward his son, had long since died 
away in anxiety for his welfare and advancement 
Constance and Isabel are at boarding school.— 
Isabel is more beautiful than ever and more con¬ 
scious of it By comparison, Constance can only 
be called pretty, but she has less of her youthful 
impetuosity, and her natural thoughtfulness has in¬ 
creased with her mother’s failing health and the 
sickness of Grace.' 
Yes, Grace is sick. Consumption has set its 
seal on her and she is fading with the sweet flow¬ 
ers, passing away even as the birds which are leav¬ 
ing our chill northern air for a more genial clime. 
She is a patient, uncomplaining little invalid, and 
tries to cheer up the mournful hearts around her. 
A few more days and the sorrowing sisters are 
summoned to the bed side of the little one whose 
spirit wings are already poised for their upward j 
flight A cheerful, affectionate farewell is taken of 
each member of tlie family, then she asks to be left 
alone a moment with her father. 
“ Father,” she says in her weak hut affectionate 
tones, “I want to ask a favor of you. You have 
always been so kind, so tender to me, I could not live 
without your love, hut now that I am going away 
and shall not need it, I want you to give to 
mother and Constancii and Isabel, the love you 
have given me. Poor mother is sick, and some¬ 
times very sad, I know she needs it. Say, father 
dear, won’t you kiss mother sometimes as you do 
me and call lier ‘ dear,’ and ‘ love’ as you do me?” 
“Yes, yes, child! anything you wish,” answered 
the proud heart falteringly. A new light was let 
in on Gen. Pohply’b self-obscured mind. It was a 
faint gleam, it is true, but it showed him that he 
had lived for himself rather than for others. 
IIow sweet the little angel-face looked within its 
last resting place! How comely the little hands 
were folded over the breast that had always 
throbbed with love! Who can paint the sadness 
and gloom which lingered around tlieir hearth¬ 
stone when the child-missionary had passed for¬ 
ever from their midst? 
Clad in sombre garments, the sisters returned 
once more to their studies, and tlieir grief stricken 
mother set herself to the task of writing to Philip 
that the little hand which liad been the last, of the 
dear ones at home, to rest lovingly in his, would 
clasp his no more, until the gates of the Eternal 
City should open to receive him. 
[Concluded in next number.] 
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To every one sending Pix or more subscribers, an extra copy, or, a 
post-paid Gross of the above Pens. ...... ,, 
IV" The Specific < 'ash Premiums can lie retained by those entl- 
titled The Books, Pens, Ac., are ready for delivery or mailing to 
order. 
1, a domestic fowl, and something used in the hair. 
2, a grand division in Asia, and the name of a cele- r 
brated house in N. Y. city. a 
3, a cunning animal, and an article of dress. p 
4, a vital part of man, and something loved by the J 
indolent. 
5, an interjection, and a hoy’s name. i 
G is never seen in summer, and a boy's plaything. J 
7, appellation applied to young men, and a wild 
beast i 
8 is the habit of cross dogs, and an imaginary ani- J 
mal spoken of in the bible. ( 
9, a title of respect to women, and a part of her 
attire. i 
10, an insect, and the last name of a celebrated 
biographer. 
11 is pleasant to the taste, and a vegetable. ( 
12, is something loved by children, and a great an¬ 
noyance to gardeners. 
Stanford, Feb., 1858. Kate. 
pf}' Answer in two weeks. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
POETICAL ENIGMA. 
My first in the land of the Gael is found, 
(Those sons of the mountain, for valour renowned;) 
On the Uble of state, at the cottager’s hoard, 
'Tis the favorite alike of vassal and lord. 
With a gleam, as of sunlight, my second speeds by, 
Reflecting the blue of the midsummer sky; 
With a sound of soft music it murmurs along, 
As if Naiads were guiding its course hy their song. 
The trumpet sings wildly, the roll of the drum 
Is heard in the distance; the foemen they come: 
But already their graves are dug deep on the plain, 
And Valhalla’s grim daughters are choosing the slain. 
Hark! a sound, as of thunder, the chargers rush hy, 
With the speed of the ernc» as he swoops from the sky; 
Down! Down! they are caught in the terrible snare, 
And their wild shrieks of agony burden the air. 
Ten thousand invaders, thrice told, fell that day, 
And covered with shame tied their monarch away; 
And while Caledon’s mountains are trod hy the free, 
The name of my whole long remembered shall he. 
» The Eagle. 
Hartland, N. Y., 1858. D. S. Cleghorn. 
J'j?” Answer in two weeks. 
ANSWERS TO ENIGMAS, Ac., IN NO. 421. 
Answer to Botanical Enigma:—Truth is stranger 
; than fiction. 
i Answer to Arithmetical Problem: — A’s sum, 
$62G 18-107; B’s, $719 G7-107; C’s, $775 75-107. 
> Answer to Mathematical Problem ; — 6 .9209 
i inches, or 7 inches nearly. 
My respects,—J. R. W.,— 
i I trust they’ll not trouble you,— 
e For you treated “ Soft Soap” pretty well,— 
In return, may you never 
■t In your life and endeavor, 
G Through its influence, meet with a “sell;”— 
e May you never he fleeced 
Through its nauseous grease, 
a Nor bitten by its “ awful strong” lye, 
e When you’re done with earth’s groans 
n May no hand pile its bones 
e Upon the marble that tells how you die. 
Charlotte, Centre, N. Y., 1858. Ellen C. Lake. 
EXTRA PREMIUMS FOR LADIES! 
To t!ie Lady sending us the largest list of Yearly Subscribers to the 
Rural New-Yorker, in accordance with our terms, previous to the j 
first of April, 1858, we will give a copy of the 1LLUM1N A’l KD 
B1BLK, (publiidied by the Haui'ERK.) containing Sixteen Hundred 
Engravings, mostly Irom original designs and splendidly boundhi 
Turkish Morocco and Gilt—tbo cush price of winch is IWF.NJi- 
FIVK DOLLARS. , „ , , 
To the Lull v sending us the second largest list, as above, we will 
give a copy of the PICTORIAL BIBLK, illustrated with over One 
Tlmusand Engravings, and bound in Morocco and Gilt, (price $.2.) 
and'ab-o a copy of WF'.BSTF.K'S ROYAL OCTAVO DICTIONARY, 
Unabridged in Words, (price $S.5U.) . , . , , 
To the Lady sending us the next list, as above, a handsomely bound 
copy of tne PICTORIAL BIBLE, (same as above, except in bind¬ 
ing.) worth Eight Dollars. . lrvnc’n.'P'Q i t tv 
To the Lady sending the next list, a copy of WEBSTERS UN¬ 
ABRIDGED DICTIONARY, the lowest cash price' 'rj” 1 ' 1 ! “ . 
To the Lady sending the next list, a copy of WEBSTER b KOVAL 
OCTAVO DICTIONARY. „ , 
[ItWill be understood that the Ladies compete ayainst each other 
only, for the above, and that all our regular April 1 remiums and our 
Specific Premiums, are also open to them.] 
EXTRA PREMIUMS FOR BOYS AND GIRLS! 
To the Boy or Girl under 17 years of age, sending us the largest list 
of Yearly Subscribers to die Rural New-Yorker, previous to April 
1 186 .H we will nive a copy of the I'lOTOJilAL ill HI jh, in Morocco 
and Gilt,(price $12.) and a copy of WEBSTER8 ROYAL OCTAVO 
DICTIONARY, (price $3,50.) , , . . , . 
For the second hu gest list, as above, a handsomely bound copy of 
the PICTORIAL BIBLE, (price $8.)-or, if preferred to tlie Bible, a 
copy each of Webster's Unabridged, and \\ elister's Royal Octavo 
** For Uie'next largest list, as above, a copy of WEBSTER’S UNA¬ 
BRIDGED DICTIONARY. wrumanTR-s ROYAI 
For EACH of the next three lists, a copy of \\ EBSTEKTi KOVAL 
OCTAVO DICTIONARY. , . ... 
[ Our young friends will please note that they only compete with 
each other for the above, but that all our regmar April and ^pectuc 
Premiums are open to them.] 
TERMS, ITT ADVANCE. 
Two Dollars a Year. Three Copies one year, for $5 -Six Copies 
for $H )—Ten Copies for $15, mid any additional numher at same rate, 
($1,50 tier copy.) As we pre-ray American Postage on papers sent lo 
British] 'roimces, $1.02% per copy is lowest club price to Canadtans.- 
Club palters sent to different post-offices, and names added at any ton*.— 
j'//- liuis on alt solvent Hanks in U. S. and Canada taken at par, out 
fluents will please remit Xew York, Canada or Hew Lmjiand money 
when convenient, tor all amounts over $16, we prefer drajts on Hew 
York, (less exchange,) where the cost is not greater that last year. 
Specimen Numbers, Show Bills, Ac, furnished free to all dis¬ 
posed to compete for the Premiums, and thus aid in extending the 
usefulness of the Leading and Largest Circulated Rural, Literary 
and Family Weekly. Subscriptions should be properly inclosed, 
and carefully mailed to 
1>. 1>. T. MOORE, Rochester, N. Y. 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER, 
THE LEADING WEEKLY 
Agricultural, (Literary mill Family Newspaper, 
IS PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY 
BY H. D. T. MOORE, KOC1IK8TEK, N. Y. 
j Office, Union Buildings, Opposite the Court House. 
TERMS, IN ADVANCE: 
Two Dollars a Year— $1 for six months. To Clubs and, 
Agents as follows:—Three Copies one yeur, for $5 ; Six Copies (and 
one to Agent or getter up of Club,) for $10 ; Ten Copies (and one to 
Agent,) for $15, and any additional number at the same rate, ($1 to par 
copy.) As we are obliged to pre-pay the American postage on papers 
sent to the British Provinces, onr Canadian agents and friends must 
add 12% cents per copy to the club rates for the Rural The lowest 
price of copies sent to Europe, Ac., is $2 60, including postage. 
Iff/- 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 do advertisement, unless very brief, more than four con 
8ecutive Insertions Patent Medicines, Am are not advertised in the 
Rural on any conditions. 
ty The Currency or the Country is so deranged at present 
that we trust all who remit for the Rural will send us the best funds 
conveniently obtainable in tlieir respective localities. If our Western 
and Southern friends can remit in Drafts on New York at former 
rates of exchange,—or in bills ou New York, Canada or New England 
solvent Banks, or in Postage Stomps,—they will save ns both trouble 
and expense. Though Western and Southern money may be per¬ 
fectly good at home, and is not absolutely refused by us, yet we can¬ 
not use it without a great sacrifice;—hence this request If onr 
friends in all parts of the Union, file British Provinces, Ac. will com¬ 
ply with these suggestions so far as convenient they will favor us. 
