MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER; AN AGRICULTURAL, LITERARY AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
MY WISHES. 
Kure bo only simple pleasures— 
Guardian angel, stay with me, 
While I number what they be— 
Easy ’tis to count my treasures. 
Books of poems, sweet, not many, * 
And ft>r love and company 
Spare my friends—(I have but three) 
Strength to work ; and is there any 
Man or woman, evil seeing 
In my daily walk and way, 
Give me piety to pray 
For a less imperfect being. 
Grant a larger light and better 
To inform my foe and me, 
So we quickly shall agree— 
Grant forgiveness to my debtor. 
Make my heart, I pray, of kindness 
Always full, as clouds of showers, 
Keep my mortal eyosfrom b indness— 
I would see the sun and flowers. 
From temptation, pray deliver, 
And, good angel, grant to me 
That my houso be by a river— 
Herein all my askings be. 
gift’s ii essons. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
KATE SMITH ; 
OR, THE NEW TEACHER. 
BY Midi. MARCIA W. HDDNTJTT. 
It was a bright, beautiful, sunshiny morning 
in the latter part of the month of May, that a 
bevy of young girls and boys was assembled 
under the shade of a large hickory tree in front 
of the old school house, in a rural district in 
the quiet town of Brooksville, awaiting the 
arrival of the new school-mistress. Two 
weeks before they had followed to the grave 
the teacher under whose gentle ministry they 
had sat, summer and winter, for four years, 
and whom no one — parents or children— 
thought of exchanging for another, till death 
removed her from the midst of her sphere of 
usefulness. This spring she had commenced 
her school as usual, but at the close of the first 
week she was seized with the measles, and now 
Mary Arthur, and four of her young pupils, 
in a neighboring grave-yard, “slept the sleep 
that knows no waking.” No wonder there 
was anxiety depicted on the faces of the little 
group under the hickory tree,—no wonder their 
little hearts beat faster, and the tears rose un¬ 
bidden to their eyes at thought of the strange 
lady coming amongst them,—for a teacher 
wields an almost unlimited power for happiness 
or misery over her flock, and many a timid 
child’s heart has suffered martyrdom under 
ome loud-voiced disciplinarian. 
“ Oh dear, how I do dread 9 o’clock,” said 
Ellen Havens, the eldest of the group; “ it 
will seem so strange to have any but Miss 
Mary to hear our lessons. I wonder how long 
before she will be here.” 
“I wonder if she’ll be cross,” said timid 
little Alice Lee, with a half-frightened look 
on her sweet young face. “ I know I never 
can read if she scolds me.” 
“ I wonder if she’s ugly,” said a bold, bright- 
looking boy. Willie Prentice had spent 
some years at the south, and used the word 
“ ugly” in its true sense, for what we Yankees 
call homely. “Because, ifishe is, I’ll never 
love her. Ugly teachers are always cross to 
Sissy and me.” 
“ Do you know what her name is ?” asked 
Jane Irvine of Ellen Havens. 
“ No, father said he had forgotten. He said 
he and Squire Prentice were standing in the 
hall of the hotel of the village, Saturday, talk¬ 
ing about who they could get to fill Miss 
Mary’s place, and the door in tho parlor hap¬ 
pened to be open, and this young lady heard 
them, and asked them to come in, and told 
them she would like to have them hire her. 
She had just come in in the stage, and was 
going on to Buffalo, but would stay gladly if 
they would let her have the school ; and father 
said he liked her, and so they hired her; but he 
did not remember what she said her name was.” 
During this conversation, one after another 
had been added to the group under the hickory 
tree, until about twenty-five scholars were as¬ 
sembled, ranging from fourteen years down to 
the little four-year-old, essaying her first sum¬ 
mer at school. And now Squire Prentice 
and the strange lady were seen coming down 
the road together, and every voice was hushed, 
and every eye turned towards them. Allies Lee 
crept close to Ellen Havens, and Willie 
Prentice held Sissy more firmly by the hand. 
Squire Prentice unlocked the school room 
door, and teacher and pupils entered the room 
together. The latter were soon quiet in their 
accustomed seats, and then Squire Prentice 
said:—“ Children, this is Miss Smith, your 
new teacher. I hope she will find you all dili¬ 
gent and attentive to her wishes. Willie, 
you and Sissy will bring Miss Smith home 
with you to-nightand he took up his hat and 
left them to get on as best they could together. 
Miss Smith attempted to remove her bon¬ 
net, but her fingers trembled so that she could 
not untie the strings; and at last she desisted, 
and looked round at the rows of young faces 
all agape with childish curiosity, with a bewil¬ 
dered, painful expression, Ellen Havens could 
not resist. She rose from her seat, came softly 
across the floor, and while her own eyes filled 
with tears, looked earnestly into Miss Smith’s 
face, and said gently, 44 Let me help you, Miss 
Smith; I think I can undo the knot. Miss 
Smith thanked her, and seemed on the point of 
bursting into tears herself, but restrained her 
feelings by a strong effort, and said, “ So many 
strange faces embarrasses me and make me 
nervous, but I shall get over it directly.”— 
Ellen hung the deep mourning bonnet and 
black bombasin cape on the teacher’s nail, be¬ 
hind the door, and then coming back to the 
table, opened the drawer and took out a small 
bell and a written paper. “ Here is Miss 
Arthur’s list of our names and classes.— 
May-be it will help you some.” “ Oh yes, 
thank you ; now I shall get along without any 
trouble.” Ellen returned to her seat, and 
Miss Smith commenced the exercises of school. 
The scholars had been well trained — were 
quiet, orderly and respectful—and with the 
former teacher’s list to guide her, Miss Smith had 
no trouble in getting through the forenoon. 
The district was a rural one, extending 
about two miles in each direction, and the 
school house being built as nearly as possible 
in the centre, many of the children had long 
walks to and from school, and brought their 
dinners carefully packed in baskets. The dis¬ 
trict still adhered to the primitive mode of 
having the teacher 44 board round,” but as the 
community was a farming one, this was not at 
all objectionable. 
Just before uoon, Mrs. Havens, who lived 
in the little brown house nearest the school 
house, sent a half-grown son to the school, to 
ask the new teacher to come home with Ellen 
to dinner, saying to her on her arrival, “ that 
she was afraid she had bro’t none from the hotel, 
and it would not do for her to go without.” 
After the children had dispatched the bread 
and butter, and cake and pie, with which their 
baskets were well filled, they assembled under 
the shade of the old hickory to discuss the 
merits of the new teacher. 
“ She isn’t cross,” said Alice Lee. “ She 
didn’t scold me a word when I stammered so 
at my reading ; and when I turned over my 
inkstand, and spilled the ink all over my clean 
desk, she didn’t even call me a careless girl, but 
helped me take it up with her pen. 1 believe I 
shall like her as well as I did Miss Arthur.” 
“ I don’t know whether she’s ugly or not,” 
said Willie Prentice. “ 1 never saw 7 a pretty 
woman with such a white face as she’s got; 
but then w T hat big eyes her’s are, and how 7 
nicely her hair curls. She don’t look any like 
my mother, and my mother’s pretty.” 
“But I think she’s pretty too,” said Sissy. 
“ I wonder if her little brother is dead, that 
makes her wear that black frock,” said Hatty 
Nash, looking at her own mourning dress, and 
thinking of the lovely baby brother she had 
seen laid away in the cold ground a few weeks 
before, and thinking, too, that this was the only 
loss that could make any one wear a black dress. 
“ May-be it was her sister,” said another 
little girl. I meau to ask her when she comes.” 
“ Oh no, you musn’t do that,” said Hatty, 
with instinctive delicacy ; “ it might make her 
cry. You know mother always cries when 
any one talks about Tommy.” 
And this was all that was known about the 
new teacher—that she came into Brooksville 
in the stage—that she said her name was Kate 
Smith —that she came from the East, and was 
an orphan ;—but the children soon knew that 
she was kind, and gentle, and patient in school, 
bearing with their childish thoughtlessness, re¬ 
proving mildly, but punishing firmly, though 
not angrily, wdien. punishment was necessary,— 
and where is the school in which it is not, occa¬ 
sionally ;—that she sympathized in all their 
joys and griefs, and strove to make them happy 
by every means in her power; and in a few 
weeks they loved her just as well, and were just 
as much at heme with her, as they had ever 
been with Miss Arthur. The parents observ¬ 
ed that her wardrobe was not very extensive, 
and all of the deepest mourning, though she 
had a few articles of considerable value, among 
which was a splendid gold watch and chain, 
which she wore constantly,—that she was sel¬ 
dom seen to smile, and never laughed,—that 
she never inquired at the office for letters, or 
referred to any friends or relatives, except once 
or twice to her parents, whom she said had 
both died about two years before, within a few 
hours of each other, and were both buried in 
one grave,—that she shunned the village, and 
seemed to shrink earnestly from the observa¬ 
tion of strangers. .All these things were no¬ 
ticed and. commented upon for a while by the 
parents of her scholars, but she seemed so simple 
and unaffected in her maimers, so desirous to 
please and so grateful for any little acts of 
kindness, and withal so devoted to her school, 
and so eager to promote the welfare of her 
pupils, that the parents even loved her quite as 
well as the children ; and there was not a fire¬ 
side where the pale face and slight form of 
Kate Smith was not eagerly welcomed and 
gladly entertained as long as she chose to stay. 
So the summer days wore on, and as the 
heat increased, all noticed that the pale face of 
Kate grew still more pale—that the slight 
form drooped more and more, and that at the 
close of each day’s toil her step was slower and 
more languid than on the preceding. Mrs. 
Havens, urged by her own good heart and 
Ellen’s constant affection for her teacher, of¬ 
fered Kate a constant home with her, and so 
relieved her of the long walks to and from 
school under the broiling August sun. With 
a mother’s care she watched over the patient 
girl, doing a thousand little acts of kindness, 
which singly were not worth speaking of, but 
which taken together, made up the greater 
amount of Kate’s enjoyment. Still the moth¬ 
ers shook their heads when her name was men¬ 
tioned, and feared she had not long to live,— 
said she was too good and pure for this world, 
and that the coming fall would close her duties 
as a teacher and her earthly sufferings ; for it 
w 7 as evident she was laboring under some deep 
and hidden soitow. However, when the cool 
autumn days came, Kate began to gain in 
looks and health ; and when the trustees asked 
her if she would stay with them during the 
winter, and offered her an advance on her pres¬ 
ent salary, and to pay her board at Mrs. Ha¬ 
vens’ in addition, Kate unhesitatingly said 
“ yes,” and that her health was so much better, 
she thought she should be able to resume her 
boarding through the district; but this they 
would not for a moment listen to. 
Winter passed away and spring came again, 
and still found Kate domiciled in the little 
brown school house. She was now looked 
upon as the undisputed property of the district. 
Her health had become good—her cheeks wore 
a faint tinge of pink—and though her manner 
was sober and subdued, there were times when 
a smile hovered on her lips, and chased away 
the look of suffering her face habitually wore. 
It was about the middle of an oppressively 
hot afternoon in July ; the door and every 
window in the little school-room stood wide 
open, but not a breath of air came through 
them to refresh the sleepy children. Not a 
leaf stirred on the old hickory, but underneath 
its shade, on the green grass, sat all the little 
A-B-C-darians, whom Kate had turned out of 
doors to find a cool place, if a cool place were 
to be found. The usual drowsy hum of the 
school-room was hushed, and pupils and teacher 
seemed alike listless and sleepy. Presently the 
low, faint muttcrings of distant thunder roused 
Kate from her inactivity, and rising, she look¬ 
ed out at the western window, and saw a huge 
black cloud rapidly covering that part of the 
sky. “We are going to have a shower ; you 
may take recess before it begins to rain,” said 
she to the children, and instantly the room was 
deserted. The cloud drove rapidly on, and in 
a few minutes the rain began to patter—the 
air became almost as black as night—and the 
children, without any summons, came into the 
room, and clustered around their teacher with 
frightened faces. The lightning and thunder 
were incessant, and the rain, mingled with 
hail, fell in torrents. In the very midst of the 
storm, a man on horseback came over the brow 
of the hill on which the school-house stood, and 
looking hastily to the right and left, without 
perceiving any other shelter near, galloped 
directly to the door, and dismounting, took 
refuge with his horse under the woodshed ; but 
the dilapidated condition of the roof let such 
torrents of rain through upon him, that he was 
glad to abandon his horse to his fate, and come 
for shelter into the entry. The inner door was 
opened, and as he enteral, he cast a comical 
look at the group ; but the moment his eye 
rested on the teacher, he started, changed color, 
and sprang, rather than walked, into the room, 
exclaiming “ Kate ! Kate ! Miss Ingham ! 
Good heavens! is it possible!” 
At the sound of his voice, Kate, who sat 
with her back to tho. door, but who had been 
informed by the children that a stranger had 
taken refuge from the rain in the woodshed, 
started from her seat, and clasping her hands 
convulsively over her heart, uttered the single 
word, “ Frank,” and sank fainting to the floor. 
“ Bring me water—quick—quick,” cried he to 
the terror-stricken children, and raising Kate 
he laid her on a bench, and kneeling by her, 
hastily deluged her face with water, using every 
effort to bring her back to life. 
A moment more and Kate recovered from 
her swoon, and rising from the bench, she 
forced composure into her manner, though her 
face was ashy pale, and her lips quivered, as 
she turned to the gentleman, who was still 
kneeling, and said :—“This is a most unfortu¬ 
nate meeting, but since it has occurred, let us 
mutually strive to forget it as soon as possible.” 
“ Unfortunate meeting!” cried he, starting to 
his feet, “ what in the name of heaven does this 
mean? how came you here?—they told me 
you were dead! that you left your Uncle’s 
house unknown to any one, and that there was 
every reason to believe you had committed 
suicide. Why must I strive to forget you; 
are you so changed from what you were, that 
all our former lives must be forgotten ?” 
44 This is no place for an explanation,” said 
Kate, with a look at the staring children; “ the 
storm will soon he over, and then, if you will 
accompany me home, I will be glad to talk 
with you.” The young man took a seat, and 
Kate proceeded to dismiss the children with 
her usual quiet manner. As the younger 
children, unawed by the presence of a stranger, 
came to receive the usual good night kiss of 
the teacher, they almost shrank from the cold¬ 
ness of the lips that pressed theirs with mqj’e 
than usual fervency. The last child had gone, 
the rain bad ceased, and Kate took down her 
bonnet from its nail behind the door, and 
merely saying, “ I am ready,” passed out into 
the air. The stranger rose, went into the wood¬ 
shed, and returning with the bridle of his horse 
thrown over his arm, walked in silence by 
Kate’s side till they reached Mrs. Havens.— 
Kate waited at the gate till he had tied his 
horse, and then walked quietly up the path to 
the house. “ Mrs. Havens, Mr. Foster,” said 
Kate, as she paused a moment in the sitting- 
room, and then ushered the stranger into the 
parlor. The door was closed, the bonnet laid 
aside, and then all Kate’s assumed composure 
left her, and sinking into a chair, she exclaim¬ 
ed passionately : 
“ Oh, why is this meeting ! why after striv¬ 
ing for months and years to forget this one face 
—after having partially succeeded in regaining 
cheerfulness, if not happiness, through montlis 
of agony— why must you come now to tear 
away the veil hiding the -wounds, and leave me 
miserable again!” 
‘ 1 Why leave you miserable, dear Kate, ’ ’ said 
Footer, coming to her side and taking her hand 
in his. “ Why do I find you here in this ob¬ 
scure neighborhood, a teacher, when I have 
been led to believe you dead. Oh ! Kate, if 
you only knew how I have mourned for you, 
sorrowed for you in bitterness of spirit, you 
would not turn so coldly from me.” 
“Have you mourned for me,” said Kate, 
turning eagerly towards him, while a glad light 
came into her eyes, and her cheeks and lips 
glowed ; 4 ‘ did you dare to do that, were you 
free to do it; were you not bound to another— 
married ?’' 
“Married! Kate — Oh, no, no, indeed! I 
have never met a woman who has claimed one 
thought from you ! I loved you when I went 
away. I loved you during all my sojourn in a 
foreign land. I love you now as dearly, as 
fondly, as truly, as when I first sought your 
love. Do you still love me, Kate ?” 
“Yes, yes,” murmured Kate, burying her 
face in her lover’s bosom, weeping and cling¬ 
ing to him as if she feared he might again 
vanish, and leave her to her former desolation 
and loneliness of heart. 
4 4 But tell me how all this came about, dear 
Kate,” said Frank, as half an hour later they 
sat side by side together on the sofa in Mrs. 
Havens’ parlor. “I understand the most of 
this cruel affair, but not all ; give it to me in a 
connected story, if you can.” 
44 You know, said Kate, that my father and 
mother died, with a prevailing epidemic, about 
two years ago, leaving me an orphan, without 
brother or sister ; and that in a will made by 
my father, my Uncle, in New York, with whom 
I went to live, was appoiuted sole trustee of 
my property, till I should become of age or 
marry. You know the importunities I suffered 
from this Uncle’s son, that I would marry him ; 
not that he loved me, but because he wished 
to possess himself of my estate. You saw 
me, loved me, and asked my hand of my Uncle. 
I loved you, and as he could find no objection 
to you, he reluctantly gave his consent to our 
union, when I was nineteen. You left for 
Europe on that perplexing business of your 
father’s, and I was left alone, and almost 
friendless, at my Uncle’s. For a while after 
you left your letters came regularly and fre¬ 
quently, and were all that I fondly wished or 
hoped ; but by degrees they became shorter 
and colder, and in a few months ceased alto¬ 
gether. Your excuses for the brevity, had 
been pressure and perplexity of business, and 
with true woman’s heart I overlooked all their 
deficiencies, and replied cheerfully and liope- 
fnlly, not dreaming that the heart which 
dictated them was changed. At last they 
ceased altogether, and as weeks and months 
passed wearily away, and not a word from you, 
oh! how my heart sank and my spirits drooped. 
My Cousin again urged his suit. My Uncle, 
too, added his importunities, and brought 
forward another will later than the first, which 
he said had since been found among my 
father’s papers, in which was a clause, that 
if I married without his consent, all my prop¬ 
erty should revert to this Uncle. This will I 
believed, and still believe to have been a 
forgery ; hut what could I, young and friend¬ 
less and unacquainted with business, do ? At 
last my health began to fail, when one day a 
letter was put into my hand, bearing a foreign 
post-mark and directed in your well-known 
hand. How eagerly I seized it, how rapidly I 
tore it open, and ran over the first few lines ; 
but they chilled me into ice. You liad been 
mistaken in your feelings towards me, you did 
not love, you had never loved me, as you had 
now discovered, by finding her you did love— 
to whom you were engaged — to whom you 
would he actually married when this letter 
reached me. Then followed some regrets at 
the past — hopes that I would not grieve too 
deeply over the matter — the writer’s best 
wishes for my happiness, and — your name! 
What I did or said I know not. I remember 
crushing the letter convulsively in my hands, 
and when I next recovered consciousness I was 
slowly convalescing, from an attack of brain 
fever, and preparations for my marriage with 
my Cousin were going on around me. They 
said that I had consented to be his wife, that 
the day was settled, and that in a fortnight I 
must he his bride. 
41 1 did not rebel in words, I was too weak, 
and helpless, and hopeless. I thought that 
before the time came round I should be in my 
grave, and I could not renew the scenes of 
violence to which I had been subjected before 
from his .persecutions. So 1 let things take 
their course, but as the day fixed for the mar¬ 
riage approached, I found that instead of dying 
I was on the contrary regaining strength 
rapidly—that though the heart was crushed, 
it was not so easily broken. I began to look 
about me, and to realize my situation. I re¬ 
membered hearing in my young years that my 
mother had distant relatives living in Buffalo, 
and bearing her maiden name of Wilson, and 
I resolved to flee from my Uncle’s house, and 
seek these unknown frieuds. The night before 
the appointed wedding day, I collected a few 
[Concluded on page 28, this number.] 
CHARADE. 
Cut off my head—look in your glass, 
Oh! what complexion, red and white : 
I make your sparkling eyes surpass 
The precious ray of diamond bright— 
Your lips to redden with delight. 
Cut off my tail—my head repair, 
Now take it, Clioel, to thy breast; 
Though it will double all thy care, 
And thou but give it half that nest, 
Thy fondest love it will attest. 
Cut off at once both head and tail, 
Behold a word which shows the will, 
What many wish to do, and fail, 
Of those who spare, and those who kill, 
In war, peace, arms, in arts, and skill. 
Restore, dear maid, the several parts, 
The change declares what I would do 
Around your very heart of hearts 
If Hymen would but let me woo;— 
And you and I were one, not two. 
gif ’ Answer next week. 
PREMIUM PUZZLE. 
Here is another puzzle, in cipher, for solu¬ 
tion by our young friends. It is possible that 
even the seniors may find its solution difficult: 
Csmol xb nablhh bey zxum gmhkkkc. 
jlgf 3 Answer in two weeks. 
We will send the Rural for six months, free, 
to each of the first four persons (residing out of 
Rochester) who decipher the above, (giving the 
correct mode of solution,) previous to publica¬ 
tion of the answer.—E d. 
Can you so arrange four 9’s that they shall 
count or equal 100 ? Arrange four l’s so that 
they shall equal 12. Can you place the 9 fig¬ 
ures so that they shall count or equal 80 when 
added ? Can you take 1 from 19 and leave 20 ? 
THE BOY AND THE BRICKS. 
A boy hearing his father says, 4 4 'Tis a poor 
rule that won’t work both ways,” said : 
4 4 If my father applies this rule in his work, 
I will test it in my play.” 
So, setting up a row of bricks, three or four 
inches apart, he tipped over the first which, 
striking the second caused it to fall on the third, 
and so on throughout the whole row, until the 
bricks all lay prostrate. 
“Well,” said the boy, “each brick has 
knocked down the neighbor which stood next 
to itself; yet I only tipped one. Now I will 
raise one, and try if it will raise its neighbor. 
I will see if this rule works both ways.” 
He looked in vain to see them rise. 
44 Here, father,” said the boy, “ it is a poor 
rule that won’t work both ways. They knock 
each other down, but"arc not disposed to help 
each other up. ’ ’ 
“My son,” said the father, “bricks and 
mankind are alike—made of clay, active in 
knocking each other down, but are not dispos¬ 
ed to help each other up. When men fall they 
love company ; but when they rise, they prefer 
to stand alone, like yonder bricks, and see oth¬ 
ers prostrate and below them.” 
Answer to Miscellaneous Enigma in No. 2.— 
Perform your part fearlessly , and trust the event 
with God. 
Answer to Rebus in No. 2.— Reims. 
Answer to Charade in No. 2.— Charade. 
Answer to Premium Puzzle in No. 1.—News¬ 
papers being now ranked among the necessa¬ 
ries of life, it is important to select for the 
family only those which possess true merit.— 
We may safely challenge the world to produce 
one equal in all respects to Moore’s ' Rural 
New-Yorker. 
The first four solutions were received from 
J. A. Peters, V. V. Bullock, F. M. Ball, and 
J. L. Hanchett — to whom we send the Rural £ 
six months, according to our offer. I 
MOORES RURAL NEW-YORKER, \ 
is ru3usiacD every Saturday, 
BY D. D. T. MOORE, ROCHESTER, N. Y. 
Office in Burns’ Block, cor. Buffalo and State Sts. 
TERMS, IN ADVANCE : 
Subscription — $2 a year — SI for six mouths. To Clubs 
and Agents as follows :—Threo Copies ono year, 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 tho same rate. As wo are obliged to pre-pay 
the American postage on papers sent to tho British Prov¬ 
inces, our Canadian agents and friends must add 25 cents 
per copy to the club rates of tho Rural. 
Subscription money, properly enclosed, may he 
sent by mail at tho risk of tho Publisher. 
V^Tho postage on the Rural is hut 3X cents per quar¬ 
ter, payable in advance, to any part of tho Stato (except 
Monroe County, where it goes freo,)—and 6>£ conts to 
any other section of tho Unitod Stat03. 
Advertising. — Brief and appropriate advertisements 
will be inserted at $1,50 per square, (ten lino.s, or 100 
words,) or 15 cents per line —in advance. The circulation 
of the Rural New-Yorker is several thousand greater 
than that of any other Agricultural' or similar journal in 
either America or Europe. Patent medicines, etc., will 
not be advertised in this paper on any terms. 
All communications, and businoss letters, should 
be addressed to D. D. T. Moore, Rochester, N. Y. 
The Wool Grower and Stock Register is tho only 
American journal devoted to tho Wool and Stock Growing 
Interests. It contains a vast amount of useful and relia¬ 
ble information not given in any other work, and should 
ho in the hands of Jivcry Owner of Domestic Animals , 
whether located East or West, North or South. Published 
monthly in octavo form, illustrated, at only Fifty Centha 
Volume —two volumes a year. Volume 1 commences 
January, 1856. Specimen numbers sent free. 
Address D. D. T. MOORE, Rochester, N. Y. 
