OCT. 9 
MOOSE’S RUBAI NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER, 
329 
! 
INDEPENDENCBTHALL. 
Written for Moore's Knral New-Yorker. 
Sketches from the Alps to the Adriatic. 
NUMBER FIVE. 
Dismal Morning’—Peasants Rolling at Ten Pins—The 
Guitar Player — A Picture from Robinson Crusoe — 
Ascent to a High Valley—A True Tyrolese—Tyrolese 
House and Village — Crossing the Mountain — The 
Brenner Road. 
It was a dismal morning when I left Fugen. A 
mist kept constantly descending, and the clonds 
formed a roof over the valley, lower down than the 
tops of the mountains, so that the view was con¬ 
fined to the bottom and half a mile or so up the 
slopes on either side. A group of peasants was 
collected at almost every house along the road, 
amusing themselves by rolling at ten pins on rude 
platforms, or the hard ground, beneath the widely 
projecting roofs which sheltered them from the 
storm. 
The valley grew narrower, and the slopes, as high 
up as I could see, were dotted by innumerable huts. 
In three hours, I saw the taper spire of the church, 
rising out of the village of Zel), which, though 
not the largest, is the liveliest village in the valley. 
While in the dining room of the inn, a young man 
entered with his Zithem, a kind of guitar which is 
laid on a table when played, and has fifteen or 
twenty strings. The music is soft and dreamy, 
suited well to the climate and people of the East, 
where the instrument might have originated. One 
imagines with delight its dreamy strains among 
the orange and fig groves of Italy, or amid the 
ranker vegetation and vuluptuous climate of a more 
Oriental land, but amid the stern mountains and 
fierce storms of the Tyrol, it seems sadly out of 
place. But I shall never forget the musician; his 
quaint costume, his masses of raven hair, falling 
on his shoulders, his dark and dreamy eyes, now 
and then flashing with enthusiasm and feeling, and 
his finely cut and poetical cast of features, told 
plainly that he, as well as his instrument, were in a 
land foreign to their real character. 
Shortly after leaving this village, I met three 
peasants driving a flock of goats and sheep, which 
strongly reminded me of some pictures I used 
greatly to admire in the “Adventures of Robinson 
Crusoe.” The main valley ends a couple of miles 
above Zirl, and I took a foot-path, leading into a 
higher valley, and across the mountains to the 
main road from Innspruck to Italy. 
The foot-path brought me to Leanersback, where 
I found qnarters for the night. The first two-thirds 
of the way were as wild and romantic as one 
could desire. Down the mountains ran streams of 
foam, falling into a large torrent which roared in 
the bottom of a deep gorge, hundreds of feet be¬ 
low me. The foot path wound along the brink 
often dangerously near, and crossed the torrents 
by rude wooden bridges. I could not have follow¬ 
ed this path in the dark, for frequently places oc¬ 
curred where a single misstep would have pre¬ 
cipitated me into the torrent; and there was no 
barrier to hinder the making of a false move,— 
The latter part of the way was far less wild, and 
the stream flowed between low banks in the bottom 
of a green and narrow valley. High above me, 
wherever there wa3 a green spot, though in the 
midst of yawning precipices, stood the low wooden 
peasant cottages. 
Most of the way up this valley I had a fine speci¬ 
men of a mountain peasant for company—one who 
would undergo the severest privations rather than 
emigrate. He was about twenty years old, and his 
business was to transport articles to such portions 
of the valley as were inaccessible to horses. He 
carried a heavy load of cloth on his shoulders, but 
notwithstanding this, and the steepness of the way, 
he kept me on a fast pace. He said he could earn 
twenty-five or thirty dollars yearly, and he lived 
mostly on milk and cheese, with now and then 
some hard, black, rye bread. I described to him 
the advantages which America offered to the la¬ 
boring man, and asked him if he would not like to 
go to a laud where all the people ate, daily, meat and 
wheat bread. “ Have you got mountains like these 
in America?” he asked. “No,” I replied, “not 
where the white men live.” “Then I shall not 
go,” said this proud son of the Tyrol, “I had rather 
live where I can climb the mountains.” 
“ E’en tlie loud torrent, and the whirlwind’s roar, 
But bind him to his native mountains more." 
June 2d.—I slept last night in a real Tyrolese 
house, in the cluster of low, unpainted, wooden 
buildings, standing without any order on the green 
meadow, called the village of Leanersback. The 
windows of my room consisted of only four small 
panes of glass each, and a door opened from it 
upon one of the wooden balconies in front of the 
house. The rooms were all boarded up on the in¬ 
side for plaster or stone would have been too damp 
and cold in that high region. I had the curiosity 
to look into the kitchen, and found the fire burn¬ 
ing on a large platform of stone, raised abont two 
feet above the floor. The smoke escaped through 
the door and windows, and a hole in the corner, 
which was apparently meant for the chimney.— 
Wood for fuel was drying in frames around the top 
of the walls. 
I sent my boots, which had suffered on yesterday’s 
journey, to the shoemaker, and he delayed me till 10 
o’clock. I employed myself by observing the peo¬ 
ple who gathered about the inn, and appeared to 
have little to do, although the day was warm and 
the sun shone. The men were large and broad- 
shouldered, but nearly every one stooped from the 
practice of carrying heavy loads up the mountains 
on their backs. They wore shoes and stockings, 
and their pantaloons—which reached only just be¬ 
low their knees—and short coats, were made of the 
coarsest cloth. Their costume lacked much of be¬ 
ing so good and picturesque as that of the inhab¬ 
itants of the lower valley. Nor were the people 
themselves so fine-looking. There was more of the 
brute, and less of the intellectual in their counten¬ 
ances, and many of them showed the effects of 
hard drinking. I observed, too, that but little beer 
was drank; mostly schnapps. I am inclined to 
think, that the inhabitants of the highest valleys 
in mountain countries, are inferior to those who 
dwell lower down. They are worn by continued 
hardships and battling with nature, and their in¬ 
tellects are not developed by contact with their 
fellow men. 
The weather was so warm that I pulled off my 
coat, when I started on my day’s journey. The 
sloping meadows were colored by beautiful flowers 
of which I saw eeven or eight species. In fifteen 
minutes I crossed the rapid torrent twice, by foot 
bridges, and in -a couple of hours came within 
sight of Hinter Dux, which is the last village in 
the valley. It consists of a dozen wood-colored 
houses, clustered together on the green meadow, 
without a fence or a cultivated spot anywhere 
around them. Above, on all sides, rise snow-cov¬ 
ered peaks. A flock of hens came strolling over 
the meadow towards me, and a few goats and sheep 
were grazing around. When I got among the 
houses, I saw four peasants, lying on the grass, and 
one of them hailed me, and asked if I were going 
over the Jock. On my telling him that I was, he 
said they were also going in half an hour, and 
they would show me the way. I went into one of 
the cottages, and ate some bread and milk and put 
some lunch in my pocket. When we started, one 
of the peasants put my knapsack into a long basket 
which he carried on his back. Another carried a 
fox skin, and a bird that he had shot. The tail of 
the bird, for which he expected to get several 
florins at the market in the village on the Brenner 
road, was fastened in his hat. 
A winding foot-path leads up the steep moun¬ 
tain side from Hinter Dux. We passed a large 
water-fall, formed by a torrent, and in an hour and 
a half, came to extensive snow fields. The snow, 
in many places, was several feet deep, and after 
wading to our breasts, one time — in that which 
was fresh fallen—we had to retrace our steps and 
seek a place where it was firmer. On our left was 
a glacier, and on our right the highest peaks rose 
a few hundred feet above us. They are more than 
seven thousand feet above the sea. The sun glared 
hotly, and the snow melted some, though the air 
was piercing cold. The snow dazzled us, and my 
companions put handkerchiefs over their eyes, and 
warned me to do the same, or I might be snow- 
blind when I came into the valley. All arouEd 
wa3 snow and rock, and the scene was wild and 
desolate beyond description. We had left the 
flocks and the pastures out of sight, and had en¬ 
tered the highest Alpine region — the home of the 
Avalanche and the Tempest. There was no vege¬ 
tation in sight, nothing but frowning rock and un¬ 
trodden snow. The wind blew, and it waved no 
tree, no shrub, no grass—nothing but dead snow. 
The sun shone, but no happy insects hummed in 
the atmosphere, and no gentle flower woke to life. 
Did you ever stand in a winter night—after the 
clocks have struck twelve — on the summit of a 
high hill, underneath a sky covered with broken, 
stormy clouds that sent down showers of snow, 
and admitted scanty moonbeams? Did you look 
out then over the landscape, at the fierce and 
ghostly sky, the leafless trees, the white fields, the 
dead fences, and the lightleas houses, all dimly 
seen through the moaning storm? If you did you 
have witnessed one scene of desolation; but if you 
would picture to yourself that Alpine scene, let 
the hills swell to jagged mountain peaks and glit¬ 
ter white against the jewelled sky—let the valleys 
deepen to almost impassable gulfs, full of preci¬ 
pices and chasms, and all the works of man turn 
to drifting snow banks, and then imagine the hot¬ 
test summer sun all powerless to dispel the desola¬ 
tion, and you can fancy the scene I have tried to 
describe. 
Two of my companions were boys, and one of 
them showed a little of the Yankee propensity, 
when he offered to swap coats or hats with me, 
even. Ho said he could sing, and when I asked 
him if he could dance, he began to go through 
the motions of fiddling, and to dance about so 
lively on the rough rocks, that I was half afraid he 
would tumble over the precipice by our side. One 
of the men was much interested about America 
and said he would like to emigrate, but he should 
never get money enough, for he could barely pro¬ 
vide his family with the coarsest food and clothes. 
He had been a soldier in Italy, in his younger days, 
and in the loneliest spot of our day’s journey, he 
gave me the comforting advice, “not to trust my¬ 
self alone to the Italians, in by places, as I did to 
them.” 
On getting across the ridge we descended into a 
deep and green valley. The descent was very 
steep, and in one place we went down a long strip 
of hard snow very quickly, by leaning backward 
on our sticks and sliding. We followed this valley 
downward for a couple of hours, and came to the 
village of Stafflacb, on the Brenner road. As the 
sun was quite high I went on, and gained the sum¬ 
mit of the pass of Brenner by dark. The ascent 
is so easy and the road so smooth, that a horse can 
trot almost to the hamlet on the very summit.— 
The wide arched door, low roof, and thick walls of 
the inn welcomed me after my hard walk, and I 
found the table laden with hearty food and gener¬ 
ous wine. The temperature rendered a blazing 
fire quite comfortable, and snow lay on the moun¬ 
tains but a few hundred feet above. In the morn¬ 
ing I was in a warm valley—at noon among snow 
fields on the mountain—in the afternoon again in 
a warm valley—at night comfortable by a blazing 
fire on Mount Brenner. a. f. w. 
MAHOMET. 
Slightly above the middle size, his figure, 
though spare, was handsome and commanding, 
the chest broad and open, the bones and frame¬ 
work large, the joints well knit together. His 
neck was long and finely moulded. The head— 
unusually large—gave space for a broad and no¬ 
ble brow. The hair, thick, jet black, and slightly 
curling, fell down over his ears. The eyebrows 
were arched and joined; the countenance thin, 
but ruddy. His large eyes, intensely black and 
piercing, received additional lustre from their 
long, dark eyelashes. The nose wa3 high and 
slightly aquiline, but fine, and at the end attenua¬ 
ted. The teeth were far apart A long, black, 
bushy beard, reaching to the breast, added manli¬ 
ness and presence. His expression was pensive 
and contemplative. The face beamed with intel¬ 
ligence, though something of the sensuous might 
also be there discerned. His broad back leaned 
slightly forward as he walked; and his step was 
hasty, yet sharp and-decided, like that of one rap¬ 
idly descending a declivity. There was something 
unsettled in his blood-shot eye, which refused to 
rest upon its object. When he turned towardsyou, 
it was never partially, but with the whole body.— 
Muir's Life of Mahomet. 
Above we present. Rural readers with an illus¬ 
tration of one of the moat celebrated buildings in 
our country — an edifice which, did the respect 
and veneration of the people go forth to such an 
object,- would justly lay claim to more of the hom¬ 
age of Americans than any other in the land 
The old State House, in Philadelphia — better 
known as Independence Hall—was the theatre of 
many of the most interesting and important de 
bates it has ever been the lot of our country to 
witness—the place where Washington, and Jef¬ 
ferson, and Franklin, and Adams, and others, no 
less remembered or honored, held communion, ac¬ 
tuated by the spirit of liberty, forgetful of selfish 
Interests, and only anxious for the fate of their 
common country—the room where that noble band 
of patriots threw off the galling yoke of British 
[Concluded from page 332, this No.} 
At noon she ate her lunch with the children un¬ 
der the beech trees. She listened to their childish 
talk with evident interest, laughing at their jests 
and stories, and then at her proposal they went, 
down the dark pine lane after flowers. She made 
a garland for Debby’s curls and crowned her with 
a pretty speech, and she taught them the botany of 
their pet blossoms. Then she told them much 
about the birds they saw, and many of the insects. 
They had a very happy time, and Debey said it 
made them think of their walks with Miss Miller. 
Four o’clock came that afternoon before it waa 
expected. Abby was not granted the opportunity 
she had always had before of meditating over her 
desk in silence, for Pete and Debby, and a dozen 
more, were waiting to walk home with her. They 
did not go by the dusty road, but across the fields 
and along by the creek side, down by the mill 
where they came in sight of the village, and where 
Abby said she must leave them as Bhe wished to 
call at the post-office before going home. 
“You always go to the post-office, don’t you?’ 
ashed Debby. “Do you always get a letter?” 
“Ob, no,” was the laaghing reply—“I get one 
but seldom.” 
“Have you got a father and mother, Miss Wa¬ 
ters?” timidly asked a little girl, who had clung 
to her hand all the way. 
Abby told them that she had, and how far away 
they lived, and how long it was since she had seen 
them, and the many weeks that must come and go 
before she could be at home again. 
“I should think your father or mother would 
write to you every day,” said Kitty. 
They saw her lips tremble and the big drops she 
brushed from her eyes ere she replied,—" They are 
both sick. Mother’s eyes are so poor she cannot 
wr ite—we fear she is growing blind. Father has 
laid in his bed more than a year. He writes me 
all tho letters I get, and he writes as often as he 
can. Good night,” and meeting the faces that 
were upturned for her kiss, she went silently on 
her way. Had she heard what those children said 
as they stood gazing after her, she might have 
wondered at her power to make them love her so 
soon. 
The next morning there were several boquets 
on her desk, and Pete Graham opened his books, 
and the “noisy corner” was comparatively quiet 
Abby, though harrassed with perplexing thoughts 
of her home, did not suffer the cloud to darken 
her face, cr sink her spirits into the sullen gloom 
she had nursed so long. She found that hope 
made the burden lighter, and feasted her soul up¬ 
on it But she oould not find courage enough to 
appeal to Mr. Dobbs that night, or the next, or the 
next, and when the rainy, dull Saturday came, and 
the children were troublesome, and everything 
seemed warring against her resolutions, she was 
fast giving way to bitterness and misanthropy, 
when Mr. Dobbs’ carriage arrived for the impa¬ 
tient Debby, and with it an urgent invitation for 
the school-mistress to come to tea. Abby was 
just starting off on foot, through the mud and rain, 
when Debby called loudly after her. 
That night as she sat alone with good Mrs. Dobbs 
talking cheerfully and freely, for it was impossible 
to resist the influence of that generous, tender¬ 
hearted woman, she fonnd herself, before she was 
aware, treading upon her own history and sad ex¬ 
perience. She paused, and would have retreated 
from the subject, but Mrs. Dobbs had laid down 
her knitting and drawn close beside her, and, with 
tears in her mild eyes, she urged her to go on and 
tell her her trouble, for since the little, Debby had 
told her about her sick father and mother, her 
heart had ached for the poor girl. 
Before Abby went to bed that night, Mrs. Dobbs 
gave her a warm, motherly kies, and told her to 
cheer up aad he happy. “Don’t vex yourself, 
childie,” said she, “ for it is all coming out right 
yet, I know it is.” 
Therefore she was not surprised at the ready ad¬ 
vance of the little sum she requested of Mr. Dobbs, 
but she was greatly so when he informed her short¬ 
ly after of the considerable increase of her salary, 
which he hoped would be a# inducement for her 
to remain a3 their teacher through the winter 
term. r 
She taught in the little (red school-house four 
years after that, and wheyf, in ©ne summer vaca¬ 
tion, the young rector toolk the orphan girl to the 
parsonage as bis wife, th/e village children hung 
the little gray church wYrh flowers, and wept and 
smiled when the Holy Rftte was over, hardly know¬ 
ing whether to be sorry or not. 
Rochester, N. Y., 1858 J 
bondage and foreign servitude, and proclaimed to 
the world that America should be free, should 
stand as a monument to incite American youth to 
emulate the glorious acts of their fathers. 
Erected in 1730, it is now 128 years old, but with 
the care it will receive from the patriotic citizens 
of Philadelphia, it will yet last many years. In 
front of the Hall are many beautiful shade trees, 
but these have been omitted in the engraving in 
order to more perfectly place before the eye the 
style and dimensions of the building. 
The building on the southeast corner of Chest¬ 
nut and Sixth streets (on the right of the engrav¬ 
ing,) was the “ Old Congress Hall.” Here Wash¬ 
ington bade farewell to public life, and delivered 
that memorable address which will ever be cherish¬ 
ed as a sacred legacy by his admiring countrymen. 
itownw im fine 
For Moore's Rural Now-Yorker. 
ACR03TICAL ENIGMA. 
I am composed of 23 letters. 
My 1, 12, 2, 10, 16 is king of grain. 
My 2, 13, 15, 12, 4 is a number. 
My 3, 7, 20, 9 makes young folks merry. 
My 4,17, 7 is a weight. 
My 6, 20, 3, 16, 17, 7 is a city in one of the Eastern 
States. 
My 6, 8, 1, 14,18 is a boy’s name. 
My 7, 6, 1, 16, 20, 17 was a philosopher. 
My 8, 6, 5,16 is the cause of much trouble. 
My 9,10, 4, 19, 12 is a time piece. 
My 10,14, 7, 10 is a girl’s name. 
My 11, 21, 10, 18 is a bird. 
My 12,10, 4 is a covering for the head. 
My 13, 7, 8, 22, lo, 18 never forgets a kindness. 
My 14, 22, 4 is a small insect 
My 15, 10, 7, 15, 23, 10, 9 is a useful machine. 
My 16 is a kind of drink. 
My 17, 7, 13, 17, 7 is a garden vegetable. 
My 18, 6, 10, 23, 12, 20 is a town in Wisconsin. 
My 19, lo, 3, 12 is hard to get. 
My 20, 12, 22, 20 is the name of a State. 
My 21, 10, 3, 12, 22, 18, 15, 4, 20, 7 was a President 
of the United States. 
My 22, 8, 10 is a girl's name. 
My 23, 20, 4 is a name for a drunkard. 
My whole is the name of a Town, County, and 
State. 
West Bend, Wash. Co., Wis., 1858. H. G. H. 
Answer in two weeks. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
PROBLEM. 
SurrosE a round tub, the perpendicular height of 
which is four feet; the bottom diameter is two 
feet, and the top diameter three. After putting 
into the tab a chain composed of twenty-five 
round links, each link being six inches in circum¬ 
ference, and made of round iron one-fourth inch 
in diameter; also an iron globe twenty inches in 
diameter, with a cavity in the form of a sphere in 
the centre, occupying § 29 160 of the whole globe, 
with a round orifice, leading to this cavity, one 
inch in diameter—how many gallons of water will 
be required to fill the tub? 
Ballston Spa, N. Y., 1858. Mekcy P. Manx. 
fSB' Answer in two weeks. 
ANSWERS TO ENIGMAS, Ac., IN NO. 465. 
Answer to Miscellaneous Enigma: — Herman- 
stadt. 
Answer to Puzzle:—For example:—4 + 3 + 2 + 7 
= 16, subtracting this amount from 4,327 gives 
4,311—adding them as at first, and rejecting 3, the 
number is 6. Subtract this number from 9, and 
yon have the figure omitted. If this number 
given should be composed of units and tens, (13, 
for instance,) add the tens to the units and sub¬ 
tract the amount from 9. If it should happen that 
the figure to be taken from 9 is 9, the figure omit¬ 
ted will be 9. Of course the person to tell the 
figure omitted must not see the operation per¬ 
formed. 
UNHEALTHY POSITIONS. 
Those persons engaged in occupations requir¬ 
ing the hands alone to move, while the lower 
limbs remain motionless, should bear in mind, that 
without constantly raising the frame to an erect 
position, and giving a slight exercise to all parts 
of tho body, such a practice will tend to destroy 
their health. They should, moreover, sit in as 
erect a position as possible. With seamstresses, 
there is always more or less stooping of the head 
and shoulders, tending to retard circulation, respi¬ 
ration, and digestion, and produce curvature of 
the spine. The head should be thrown back, to 
give the lungs full play. The frequent long-drawn 
breath of the seamstress evinces the cramping and 
confinement of the lungs. Health cannot be ex¬ 
pected without free respiration. The life-giving 
element is in the atmosphere, and without it, in 
proportionate abundance, must disease intervene. 
Strength and robustness must come from exercise. 
Confined attitudes are in violation of correct theo¬ 
ries of healthy pnysical develoyment, and the in¬ 
stincts of nature. Those accustomed to sit writing 
for hours, day after day, can form some idea of the 
exhausting nature of the toilsome and ill-paid 
abor of the poor seamstress .—Scientific American. 
ABIGAIL WATERS. 
A COUNTRY GIRL AT THE FAIR. 
Friend Moore: —From within the precincts of 
my quiet country home, I have thought to write to 
you. You, of course, will not be surprised at the 
reception of a letter—you who receive so many— 
nor yet when I tell you the writer is an “ unsophis¬ 
ticated country girl,” barely out of her teens, 
homely and—clever. I do not expect you will 
even notice my letter—much less reply to it—yet, 
because I wish to do as others do, I have conclu¬ 
ded to write to you. But my letter shall speak for 
itself. 
We have very few holidays here, its “ all work 
and no play,” which yon know “ makes Jack a dull 
hoy,” so you must know I was for a long time an¬ 
ticipating with delight our County Fair. As the 
time drew near I was all excitement, how I should 
dress, how appear, for I knew I should meet very 
many of your city folks and didn’t like to look or 
appear insignificant I knew how I should he 
squinted at and laughed at as “only a country 
girl,” for with all my attempts I cannot carry my 
head quite so high, or walk quite so genteel as yonr 
city-bred ladies. 
At last the time arrived; I arranged my hair af¬ 
ter the latest fashion, donned my best gown (didn’t 
see many better there) and left my country home 
for one day at least. Ere long we arrived at the 
grounds, and after duly flourishing our badge, 
waiting half an hour for an opportunity to enter, 
we were unmistakably at the Fair. I regret very 
much, Mr. Moore, that I did try to be so nice, bat 
then I wasn’t going to walk round “ regular country 
style,” so I passed round once in our carriage, 
looked straight ahead, and as a consequence know 
nothing about the splendid horses and cattle, poul¬ 
try and rabbits, which they say were there. 
I can’t tell you of all the nice things I saw—my 
letter would he far too long—but the idea struck 
me forcibly that lazy people—those of whom I 
have heard it said, “ were too lazy to eat”—ought 
to procure a set of those jaws I noticed, over 
which the will has no control. 
Contrary to the customs of many of our “ coun¬ 
try people,” I didn’t carry my provisions with me 
but dined in the Hall, with all others who could 
afford it, and weren’t too stingy. I wouldn’t like 
to tell you how long I had been saving my small 
allowance of spending money, so that when I went 
to the Fair I could appear like somebody— you 
would laugh at me for my forethought. I saw you, 
Mr. Moore, figuring pretty extensively in the 
dining hall, and thought when I left, your appetite 
might soon he appeased, providing the waiters did 
their duty. I haven’t told any one I ate at the ta¬ 
ble with you—if I should they would think me so 
highly honored perhaps I might Iobo some of my 
country friends. Had it not been for this circum¬ 
stance, I doubt whether I should ever have written 
this letter. 
I am greatly in favor of these gatherings and 
shall look forward to a pleasant time when next we 
have our County Fair. By-the by, Mr. Moore, I in¬ 
tend to take something pretty nice next time, and 
I know if you have anything to do with awarding 
premiums you will not forget yonr humble friend, 
Castle Farm, Sept., 1858. Jane Jackson. 
[ Our ironical iriend is assured that we always 
endeavor to perform onr duty—eve n at a dining 
table, in presence of rare specimens of “ Heaven’s 
last” if not always “ best gift” If Jane will do ns 
the honor of making herself known at the next 
Fair, she shall have an opportunity of seeing some¬ 
what outside of the dining hall, albeit we can 
promise nothing about the award of premiums.— 
By the way, Jane puts on too many airs to com¬ 
port with the character of a genuine country girl, 
and we suspect resides in the suburbs of the city,] 
CLERKS AND FARMERS. 
Messrs. Eds. :—I see by the Rural of August 
21st, that there seems to be quite a contest going 
on between the Clerks and Young Ruralists, in re¬ 
gard to whether the Clerks shall have a place in 
the corner heretofore devoted to Young Ruralists. 
I can see no reason why they can object to our 
sharing the corner with them. Are they afraid 
that some bright star from among the Clerks, will 
outshine them? Or, do they consider themselves 
so much our superiors, that they will not conde¬ 
scend to have their writings printed in the same 
column with ours? I hope it is neither. IVhy 
will they not come out and welcome us kindly and 
openly, instead of driving us off. I think it would 
he much more manly, and certainly much pleasant¬ 
er. Can yon, or some Young Ruralist inform me 
when it is the best time to put down layers of the 
grape vine ? Also, the manner in which it is done ? 
—Clerk, Buffalo, N. Y., 1858. 
Remarks.— All that is necessary to do to layer 
the grape vine, is to take a branch in spring, after 
having removed a little of the surface earth, lay it 
down, and cover it with mellow earth; cover afoot 
or two in length, and let the end of the shoot re¬ 
main uncovered, tying it to a stake. Where yon 
have a long branch it will make two or more layers 
by covering it at two or more points. 
AUTUMN IN THE, COUNTRY. 
Messrs. Ens.:—As I am one of the “young 
country folks,” as we are denominated by the 
Young Ruralists of Monroe county, I presume upon 
your goodness to write a few lines. The country 
is my home, and I trust I am truly thankful that I 
am permitted to live far, far from the ceaseless din 
of a noisesome, busy city. But be that as it may. 
How beautifully the sun’s rays are intercepted 
by the vines which go clambering up against the 
window near which I am seated. I raise the win¬ 
dow, part the vines, and gaze at the setting sun.— 
No walls of brick or highly painted wood-work to 
rear their, to me, gloomy surfaces, (when compared 
with nature’s ever-ceasing scenes,) to weary the 
eye with the monotonous appearance; no grocery, 
jewelry, or dentist Bigns to gaze at, but instead, the 
broad fields of corn and clover, the trees, already 
decked in autumn’s gorgeous colors, awaiting only 
the frosts and winds of the coming month, to lay 
them in their early graves. Oh that we may be so 
prepared, that when death comes, we, like the au¬ 
tumn leaves, may descend gently, peacefully into 
the dark valley, supported on the arm of Him who 
hath said “it is I, be not afraid.” 
Calhoun Co., Mich. Nilla. 
