MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL, LITERARY AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
TWENTY-ONE. 
BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR. 
Tires far have I come on with Youth, and now 
Manhood, with sterner brow, 
Waits to conduct me on my future way. 
A moment yet I stay, 
And one—a doubtful and a hopeful one— 
At the strange world I am to enter on. 
I doubt! I fear ! 
I know that much of joy must leave me hero. 
Even now I farther seem 
From the earth-heaven of my early dream. 
The melody that filled the summer air 
Like a rich flood, has left me unaware ; 
The clouds that lingor round the sun at even 
Seem not so near as once to the bright heaven; 
The sky is uot as blue, the grass as green, 
I nowhere seo the beauty I have seen. 
Some pleasures fade with every passing yoar ; 
And even when first there fell upon my ear 
Only the distant murmur of the strife, 
I missed a something from my sun of life : 
I know not if it wore the idle play 
Of a free spirit in its uewojt day, 
A fancied joy, 
A hope that only seemed a memory : 
Or if the boy still fe.t the tender care 
Of spirits who had known him otherwhere, 
Not yet earth-blind, 
Could view tha glory he had left behind— 
The lingering radiance of the setting sun 
Gilding the brightness of the ruing one. 
I doubt! I fear ! 
Faint in the distance far, I seem to hoar 
The so.emn swell of the murmur of the sea 
That rolls between eternity and me ; 
, Afi4 how I stand upon the silent shore. 
Oh! nov(jT mo *o 
Tha eager hopefulness of manhood’s prime, 
Tha loves and joys that blessed the early time, 
yiid with a rOsea^O hue die evening hour ! 
'The f'ruit has failed., as fed the early flowon 
Slow to its setting sinks the evening sun, 
Far to the eastward stretch the shadows dun ; 
Lim through the mist before my tired eyes, 
The visions of tho long-gone time arise : 
I seem 
TO he awakening from a troubled dream ; 
The past 
Is but a fearful vision at the last. 
But this is Idle all. 
No fancied fear should cast a gloomy pail 
Over my hope of life. Here I dismiss 
All vain regrets for any parted bliss ; 
All fear of evil that the future hath : 
Along the backward or the onward path 
No more I’ll roam ; 
With hand and brain I’ll build my soul a home. 
I’ll rear the walls with purest marble, wrought 
From the vast quarry-mine of aneiont thought : 
I’ll build it strong and high, 
With graceful turrets pointed to tho sky, 
That ever, as I wish, I may look out, 
And faintly hear the distance-mellowed shout, 
And calmly watch the hurrying to and fro, 
And see, not feel, how goes the strife below. 
Within my spacious ha.ls the softened light 
Shall blend its many colors, sad and bright; 
And pictures, fancy-painted, day by day 
Shall decorate the walls, and pass away. 
Each passing breeze shall bear 
The voice of music to my charmed ear ; 
Songs that were sung 
In deathless numbers when,tho world was young ; 
And harp3, whose chord to-day 
Are trembling with the rush of melody, 
And the sweet voice of sages, calm and deep, 
Shall rest upon the weary brain like sleep. 
So will I live ; and even if wild unrest 
Should drive me from my builded house at last, 
Some weary brother may find shelter there, 
And bless the houseless builder for his care. 
[Knickerbocker Magazine. 
gift’s ymaM. 
THE MOTHER’S FAITH. 
BY ALICE B. NEAL. 
‘‘Being dead, yetspealceth.” 
“ Why, you have not tasted your lunchcou, 
Miss Hope!” 
“ No, Margery ; I do not care about auy,” 
the young lady said, listlessly. 
“ But I made that cocoa nut pudding my¬ 
self on purpose to tempt you,” said the dis¬ 
comforted house-keeper; “ knowing how fond 
you used to be of them when you was a little 
thing, and how poorly you’ve been of late.— 
You used to come and coax me of a baking 
day for one—don’t you remember?—and you 
not higher than the moulding board. It must 
be dyspepsia, Miss Hope.” 
Her young mistress turned from the fire 
impatiently. Her hair was half unbraided, as 
if she had commenced her afternoon toilet, and 
hung heavily around her face and throat, giv¬ 
ing her usually large eyes a wild, troubled ex¬ 
pression. 
“ I’m quite well, perfectly well, Margery ; 
only I do uot choose any luncheon.” 
“ That’s more like master than her blessed 
mother,” grumbled the old family servant.— 
“ And thai’s for all the world, the way he used 
to sit and glower over the library fire after she 
died, and start just so, as if we wanted to wor¬ 
ry him, when a body weut in to see after the 
coals or snuff a caudle. And this nice •pud¬ 
ding not so much as looked at! and my very 
best orange marmalade, too! Well, 1 can’t 
say, hut 1 do think Dr. Coleman ought to be 
called in to look after her.” 
So Mrs. Margery began to pick her way 
down the stairs, lor her eyes were by no means 
so good as when she first took charge of Mr. 
Calvert's household ; and in her own room the 
only child of the mansion—Hope she was 
called—began to pace the floor as one whose 
mind was full of some great unrest. She had 
been sitting,all theshorta'ternoon, “glowering,” 
as her old nurse said, over the wood fire of her 
own room. It was tastefully furnished, though 
. neither the room nor its upholstery was modern. 
The Turkey carpet and dark heavily carved 
chairs belonged to a less glaring style than that 
which now fills our houses with tawdry deco¬ 
rations, and the one large window had a cur¬ 
tain of crimson damask, relieved by a more j 
recent drapery of lace. There were books, 
choice editions in rich bindings, ai.d a cabinet 
piano ; a lounge, with its carelessly tied port¬ 
folio of prints and drawings, but no pictures 
on the walls save one towards which the young 
girl did not even glance. It seemed almost as 
if she studiously avoided it; but as she paced 
to and fro, the large thoughtful eyes, like her 
own, but with a more peaceful expression, fol¬ 
lowed her everywhere. The face was very 
lovely, but delicate, too much so for health, and 
the lady could scarcely have been older than 
Hope herself; but she had known different in¬ 
ner life, which had fixed the signet of gentle 
dignity and peace upon the low white forehead 
and crimson lips. 
The shadows gathered deeper in the room, 
and in the young girl s heart, as she came back 
to her low seat before the fire, and stirred the 
dying embers to a quick red blaze. 
“ Uh, I cannot! ” she said, aloud, as if bat¬ 
tling with some half-formed resolution ; and 
then again, “ 1 must! ” broke lortk as impul¬ 
sively. 
The room was silent again ; you could hear 
the small Geneva watch tick trom its stand on 
the dressing table, as the struggle went ou in 
her heart whether she should leave this home of 
wealth and indulgence, forsaking her father in 
her loneliness, or by renouncing that night’s 
engagement, place a barrier between herself 
ami one who had called out all the romance 
and passion of her li e. 
The loud pea! of the second dressing-bell 
rang in the hall below; for, in Mr. Calvert’s 
mansion, tho old-fashioned courtesies of the 
household were paid and exacted as rigorously, 
though the father and daughter were alone, as 
when years before the great drawing room had 
been Idled nightly with guests. Many years^ 
had gone by since then. Hone h- ", .„, T „* , A 
secluded lite for t’ n- „, Va ^* *«1 a inost 
-.><* rid l ess ol great wealth and 
Old name. She could scarcely remember 
the covers removed from the furniture and pic¬ 
tures except for the annual household cleaning, 
and all she kuew of the li e of society and the 
world Was the occasional visit to a gay rela¬ 
tive, which made the old house seem doubly 
gloomy by contrast. 
She never had dared to ask her lover, who 
had become to her uupracticed judgment the 
embodiment of all manly grace and elegance, 
to enter the house. They had met first at her 
cousin’s bridal lestivities, and since then when¬ 
ever it was possible, until the tacit understand¬ 
ing had ended in stolen appointments, and at 
last, in the half-reluctant consent, to a private 
marriage, wrung from her when the agony o a 
sudden separation was forced upon her. She 
did not slop to think then that ihe honor of a 
soldier was compromised by such a proposition, 
even though his despair, when summoned to a 
distant port, might have prompted it, or of the 
selfishness it involved towards her father as 
well a- herself, reared as she had been in luxu¬ 
ry, and so unfit for the hardship of a frontier 
Ine. But she loved him madly, and separation 
would be a living death, she thought; so the 
promise was given. 
It may be tnat the gay officer did not count 
on a long trial of her laith, and reasoned that, 
when the father found the sudden bereavement 
insupportable, he would recall them both to 
the ease and plenty his fortune would com¬ 
mand. Young and wholly inexperienced, Hope 
thought of none of these things in her mental 
combat, only that she must decide from be¬ 
tween the two. 
Her father's manner towards her had always 
been constrained, she thought it cold at times, 
but that was when she had been listening to 
the impassioned words of her lover, and recall¬ 
ed them all with thrilling pulse as she sat in 
the library, where her father leaned for hours 
over his favorite treatises on the vexed econo¬ 
my of nations, or wrote rapidly without look¬ 
ing up, while his daughter's unbroken reveries 
satisfied him that she was contented in that he 
loved. 
“ He does not care about me j all would go 
just the same if I was not here. Margery is 
more essential to him,” she said bitterly to ner- 
self, as she made her hurried preparations in the 
gloom of' twilight. She would not ring for 
candles, but groped impatiently in her drawers 
lor what she needed, and wound her long hair 
into a graceful knot, without so much as a 
glance at the mirror. 
She met her father in the same mood, her 
heart steeled against him, and more lhau ever 
confirmed in the rash promise she had made. 
Mr. Calvert was already in the diningroom, 
the most cheerful apartment iu the house, ex¬ 
cept her own, for it was under Mrs. Margery's 
immediate superintendence, and now with the 
ruddy light or fire and chandelier streaming 
upon the snowy linen and glistening silver or 
the table, it had a comfortable and thoroughly 
home-like air. 
Hope noticed it, coming from her own dark 
room. The light made her shade her eyes for a 
moment, and, as she did so, Mr. Calvert came 
forward and looked earnestly into her face.— 
Conscious of all that was in her heart, Hope's 
forehead flushed crimson at that searching look; 
but her lather had not even guessed her secret, 
much less fathomed it, for his manner towards 
her was more than usually thoughtful, almost 
affectionate. The daughter's heart smote her 
with a sense of ingratitude towards him, as 
she looked into his careworn face, old even for 
his years, and remembered, what Margery had 
often told her, that his hair had grown gray in 
the short interval between her mother’s death 
! and funeral. 
But she was not prepared for the abruptness 
with which he set down his untasted wine and 
came to her side, after th^servants had left the 
room, bending her head back to his breast as 
she sat, and looking down into her eyes with 
almost a mother’s tenderness as he pushed the 
hair from* her forehead. Her lonely girlhood 
had never known such a caress before, and she 
seemed to feel, yearning as she did for love, 
that there was an affection l'ar deeper and 
stronger than the wild fervor of a lover’s pas- 
I sionate fondness. Her eyes closed and tilled 
with tears, as her head lay there passively lor 
a moment, and then Mr. Calvert kissed her 
lips, trembling with the new leeling he had 
called up. An instant longer, and she would 
have told him all; but he moved away again 
towards the fire, and, leaning his arm upon the 
mantel, called her to him. 
“ So this is your seventeeth birth-day, my 
daughter.” 
Hope started from his side. Her mind had 
been so full of thoughts that she had forgotten 
it till now. 
“ Seventeen years,” Mr. Calvert said, slowly; 
“ yet I can remember every stroke of the clock 
that long, miserable night. I walked this 
room listening and praying, and dreaming of 
future happiness, until they called me to her 
death-bed. Oh, my daughter !” And the stern, 
reserved man groaned with the remembered 
anguish. 
Mope could not have spoken then ; the thick 
beating of her heart seemed choking her. 
“ 1 am afraid 1 have been unjust to you, my 
poor motherless child. I had forgotten you 
were growing to be a woman in the shadow of 
this old silent home and my gray head. She 
named you Hope to comfort me ; but f could 
find neither hope nor eomiori when she was 
gone. You are so like her to-night—so like 
her ! Cod forgive me !” 
And the daughter whose life had cost so 
much, and who had so nearly forsaken him, 
could only press her lips to his hand, not daring 
to look up into that troubled lace. 
“ When you were a little child, Hope, you 
came to me one day, and begged to look into 
the little drawer of the cabinet. I sent you 
away then ; but this is what it held in trust 
for you. You will wear the jewels when the 
time shall come; I can bear to see them now. 
But read the letter to-night before you come 
to me in the library.” 
Still, without speaking, Hope held out her 
hand tor the packet, and went to the solitude 
of her own room to read a dyin^ mother's 
message. Si? strange it fceemeu, "me mother 
she had uevef kiiOwn, who had died in giving 
her birth, yet speaking through the lapse of 
years and the silence of the tomb. 
“ My child—my daughter ; for I feel that a 
daughter will be given to me—I am writing, 
it may be, all you will ever know of a mother’s 
counsel. There is a shadow hanging over me, 
—a mist, for it is not as heavy as a cloud,— 
upon my spirits, but rather like golden mist 
through which we see the sunshine still.— 
Sometimes, as I sit here and dream of your 
sweet baby lace and clasping hands, and fancy 
I can press your velvet cheek to mine, and I 
think of all you might be to me, the friend 
and companion, as you grow up to woman¬ 
hood, pure and good, then I long to live and 
watch over you, and know you, my darling.— 
But I know this cannot be ; and there is a 
keener agony comes with the thought, the blind 
fondness of my husband, your father, my child, 
that refuses to think of such a future. It will 
be a terrible blow, and I know how he will 
shut his heart against all comforting, unless it 
is yours, my precious Hope 1 They must call 
you Hope, for his sake, and you will twine 
your soft arms around his neck and nestle in 
his bosom, an unconscious, blessed babe. I 
shall see you both, and love you- doubly for 
your ministry to him. 
“ He has been so cold and so reserved to¬ 
wards all but me, so distrustful of every other 
love, that 1 know this will be so. Even if he 
should seem so to you, do not doubt him, do 
not love him less. If you knew the story of 
his early manhood, and could feel as I do what 
he will suffer now, you could not blame him it 
he should turn from you at first, as constantly 
reminding him of his loss. Forgive him, dear 
child, for this loving injustice ; win him to you 
and back to the world and its social characters. 
You will be a woman when you read this, and 
perhaps will have loved ; then you can pardon 
him, and the sympathy will draw you closer. 
“ You have a perilous way be'oie you, bless¬ 
ed one, a motherless girl, without the guidance 
or sympathy which only a mother can give. 
Did I not trust my God and his many, many 
promises. I should pray to take you with me. 
But He can teach you, and lead you far better 
than I could do, and preserve you through 
dangers that I do not even dread for you. I 
commend you to Him, and to the lonely heart 
I leave behind. When human love will not 
suffice, His care can be over you. But oh, my 
daughter, as you value a dying mother’s bless¬ 
ing, be true to the trust that I leave with it— 
your father and his happiness. You will stand 
to him in my stead, and he will love you and 
cherish you if you never deceive him. He has 
been wronged and betrayed, but he never must 
suffer through my child, lie may shut up his 
heart irom you, but love him and trust him 
still; give him your confidence, it will win his, 
and. when you come fully to know each other, 
he will be no longer alone. 
“ Never leave him. No one would be worthy 
your love who could tempt you to forsake his 
old age, knowing the story of his bereavement; 
his home and heart will be large enough for 
all you can bring to it. You camiot under¬ 
stand the passionate yearning of a mother's 
heart towards the child she has never seen; 
but by it, and by the anguish which wrings it 
when I look forward toyie ding you up in the 
first blissful moment of possession, listen to 
what I have asked of you ! My precious, 
precious child! my treasure! my Hope 1 God 
bless you and keep you, and unite us all where 
there shall be no more pain nor parting !” 
So it was that the dying mother’s faith saved 
her child in the hour of temptation. 
The costly jewels, her birthright, sparkled in 
their cases unheeded, while the young girl lay 
upon the carpet, her face buried from the light, 
moaning “ Oh mother! mother 1” tears of 
shame, and penitence, and yearning love rolling 
down her pale, convulsed features. Above her 
the sweet eyes of the picture looked down as if 
in pity and forgiveness, and from the floor be¬ 
neath sounded the muffled, heavy tread of oi.e 
who still kept the yearly vigil of bereavement. 
It caught her ear at last, dull as it was with men¬ 
tal anguish, and, without a pause or though*, 
she jiew down the long stairs to where a iile 
had been given for hers, and Wound her arms 
with a strange love and confidence around the 
stern, lonely man. 'The father and daughter 
wept with each other for the first time since 
the wail of a feeble babe sounded through the 
sobs of his first widowed anguish.— Lady’s 
Booh 
it mtlr Jpinmnr. fatjr’s Corner. 
BE QUIET—DO 1 I’LL CALL MY MOTHER. 
As I was sitting in a wood 
Under an oak tree’s leafy cover, 
Musing in pleasant solitude, 
Who should come along, but John my lover ! 
He pressed my hand, he kissed my cheek, 
Then warmer growing kissed the other ; 
While I exclaimed, and strove to shriek 
“ Be quiet—do ! I'll call my mother 
He saw my anger was sincere, 
And lovingly began to cbi ie me, 
And willing from my cheek the tear, 
He sat him on the grass be ide rno. 
He feigned such pretty amorous woo, 
Breath’d such sweet vows, one after another, 
I could but smile, while whisps ing low— 
“ Be quid—do ! I’ll call my mother 
He talked so long and talked so well, 
And swore he meant uot to deceive me ; 
I felt more grief than I can tell, 
When with a kiss ho rose to leave me, 
“ Oh John I” sai l I, “ and must tbou go ? 
I love thee better than all other I 
There’s no need to hurry r o, 
I Merer meant to call my mother !” 
: __ I 
“YOU HAVEN'T, HAVE YOU?” ' 
While in a certain store, the other day, we 
noticed a neat looking old lady enter with a 
basket on her arm, and spectacles on her nose, 
looking for all the world as if she had just 
popped out of a band-box, so clean and tid.v 
WWgf ; Shc stepp6 ' 5 . up to the counter, and 
“V xuuowing dialogue took place between her 
and the clerk: 
Old Lady .—“ You haven’t any butter, have 
you ?” 
Clerk .—“ Yes, ma’am, some nice and fresh, 
just received.” 
0. L .—“You don’t sell it at twenty-five 
cents yet, do you ?” 
C. —“That’s our price, madam.” 
0. L .—“ You couldn’t let me have a couple 
of pound?, could you ?” 
C .—“ Oh, eertain'y.” Taking the plate he 
weighed out the butter, and she threw down a 
ha f dollar which he scrutinized closely. 
O. L .—“ Youdon’tthink that’s bad, do you?” 
C .—“ Yes ma’am, I do.” 
0. L .— (much excited.) — “You wouldn’t 
take this truck back again, would you?” 
C. —“ How do you know I wouldn’t ?” and 
taking the butler lie dashed it back into the 
firkin. The old lady seized the plate and bo¬ 
gus half, and started to leave, but when she got 
to the door, she turned around and said in the 
way of a final clincher, “ You’re not iu any 
ways riled, I reckon, are you?” 
“ Perseverance,” said a lady, very earnest¬ 
ly, to a servant, “ is the only way to accom¬ 
plish great things.” One day eight dumplings 
were sent down stairs, and they all disappeared. 
“ Sally, where are all those dumplings?” “I 
managed to get through them, ma'am.” “Why 
how on earth did you contrive to eat so many 
dumplings? ” “ By perseverance, ma’am.” 
In buying bulbs keep your wits about you. 
If you don't, you may purchase onions for 
dahlias, and kidney potatces for turnips. By 
not heeding the advice last year, Mrs. Gerani¬ 
um cultivated a bed of mercers instead of 
Prince Eegent Lillies. She never discovered 
her error until Mr. Clod asked her “ what she 
charged a peck.” 
At a debating society in Schenectady, the 
other day, the subject was, which is the most 
beaut Util prcduc ion, a girl or a strawberry? 
After continuing Ihe argument for two nights, 
the meeting finally adjourned without coming 
to a conclusion—the old members going 'or 
the strawberries, and the young ones lor the 
girls. 
“ Ah, you don’t know what jnuthical enthu- 
tiathm ith!” said a music-mad miss to Tom 
Hood. “ Excuse me, madame,” replied the 
wit, “ but I do ; musical enthusiasm is like tur¬ 
tle soup ; for every quart o' real there is nine¬ 
ty-nine gallons of mock, and calves’ head in 
proportion.” 
Interesting to Ladies.— Every time a wife 
scolds her husband she adds a new wrinkle to 
her lace! It is thought that the announce¬ 
ment of this fact will have a most salutary e'- 
fect, especially as it is understood that every 
time a wife smiles on her husband, it will re¬ 
move one of the old wrinkles ! 
Collateral Security. —Banks in Arkansas 
manage business in rather a primitive manner. 
Some one writes from ihere, that before he 
could get a $50 note discounted, be had to depos¬ 
it as“ collaterals ” two cook-stoves and a cross¬ 
cut saw 1 
The Agricultural Society of Clermont, in 
the department of the Oi-e, has recommended 
the use of that agricultural nuisance, couch- 
gra^s, as a substitute for malt in the making 
of beer. 
Yankee Poetry. —A down east poet thus 
“immortalizes” thebeauti ul river Connecticut: 
Roll on loved Connecticut, long hast thou 
ran, Giving shad to old Hartford and Ireedom 
to man! 
They have high times at Montreal—plenty 
of sleighing, and lots of girls. To make the 
winter pass away pleasantly we know of noth¬ 
ing better. 
The following is said to be the motto on a 
tombstone in the Western country:—“After 
life’s fitful fever and ague, he sleeps well.” 
Congress is about erecting a lunatic asylum 
in Washington. We can think of no place 
that stands more iu need of such an institution. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
HISTORICAL ENIGMA. 
I am composed of 60 letters. 
My 12, 4, 1, 32, 53, 20, 37, 60 was an Anglo- 
Saxon King. 
My 24, 41, 57, 47, 15 was a name given to Ire¬ 
land by the Greeks. 
My 52, 55, 29, 38, 60, 34, 32, 18, 22, 25 was an 
ancient Grecian Republic. 
My 26, 46, 52, 36, 12, 35 was a Cardinal in the 
time of Henry VIII. 
My 43,11, 16, 23, 52, 37, 54, 42, 56, 13, 38 was 
a King of France of the Carlovingian dynasty. 
My 3, 10, 19, 13, 51, 60 was an Arch Bishop of 
Canterbury. 
My 31, 37, 52, 53, 2, 59, 13, 17, 49, 56 was 
England's ablest Commander. 
My 34, 52, 50, 6, 37, 60 was a Saxon nobleman. 
My 13, 37, 56, 13,-27, 8, 48, 57, 30, 16, 25 was 
the tyrant of Eastern Tartary, who threw 70 
men into as many cauldrons of boiling water. 
My 65, 21, 58, 9, 44, 28, 60, 37, 48 was a just 
Grecian, banished by the Ostracism in the 
year 484 B. C., and recalled by Themistocles. 
My 29, 5, 14, 45, 25, 39, 40 was a Grecian city 
rebuilt by Ctesr in the year 45 B. C. 
My 33, 42, 23, 7 was a Queen of Scotland. 
1 ' 1C L’uth of my whole aR must acknowl¬ 
edge. ' J. G. C. 
U'rmel, Jan., 1855. 
Answer next week. 
CHARADE. 
There .'ire two words that you and I 
Make bold and loud, or soft and s’y— 
Both mischevious—and oft we go— 
Together set ’gainst friend or foe—■ 
Yet different courses we pursue : 
For when there’s any danger, you 
Go off—and I in secret lurk, 
And keep my legs for surer work. 
Answer next week. 
Tiie Twins. —This great picture by Landseer 
by many pronounced the best that ever came 
from his hand, is visited by thousands, at F. 
Parker’s, in Cornhill, Boston. Many anec-. 
dotes are to'd of the effect of this picture upon 
those visiting it. One litt c girl sat very at- 
tentive'y viewing it for some time, when, 'ean- 
ing over t<x her father, she asked : “Father, 
what makes the dogs keep so still ?’ ’ This was 
a compliment to the life-likeness of the dogs, 
but the greatest was that by a dog, which was 
admitted with his master. The instant his eye 
rested on the two dogs watching over the twin 
lambs, he darted for the canvas, and broke 
through the green cambric bordering that in¬ 
tervened, in his desire to make the acquaint¬ 
ance of the supposed canine. The dog wasn't 
to blame .—Boston Post. 
There was a singular proh’em among the 
Stoics, which ran to this purpose: “When a 
man says ‘I lie,’ does he lie, or does he not ? 
If he lies, he speaks the truth; if he speaks 
the truth, ho des.” Many were the books 
written upon this wonderful problem. Chry- 
sippus favored the wor'd with no less than 
six ; and.Phi etus studied himself to death in 
his vain endeavors to solve it. 
--- 
Answer to Charade : 
Your first a’one wou’d give no guide 
The wor d’s vei ed meaning to divine ; 
For what fair lady could decide 
That such would he the effect of wine? 
The next affords a better clue, 
To female hearts is more akin, 
Maternal love, both strong and true, 
Will ever fondly b essa twin. 
To arts and arms, to toil and skill, 
Too true it is not always in 
The power of those who have the skill, 
Success in their pursuits to win. 
But now its parts restore, beho'd, 
The word’s full sense will c early shine, 
A’though the vaunt is somewhat bold, 
Round maiden’s heart so sure to twine. 
MOORES RURAL NEW-YORKER, 
IS PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY, 
BY D. I). T. MOORE, ROCHESTER, N. Y. 
Office in Burns’ Elock, cor. Buffalo and State Sts, 
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Advertising. — Brief and appropriate advertisements 
will be inserted at $1,50 per square, (ten lines, 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 ''e advertised in this paper on any terms. 
j63T All communications, and business letters, should 
b8 addressed to D. D. T. Moore, Rochester, N. Y. 
The Wool Grower and Stock Register is the only 
American journal devoted to the Wool and Stock Growing 
Interests, it contains a vast amount of useful and relia¬ 
ble information not given in any other work, and should 
he in the hands of Every Owner of Domestic Animals, 
whether located East or Wo A, No: th or South. Published 
monthly in octavo form, illustrated, at only Fifty Ckntsa 
Volume —two volumes a year. Volume 7 commences 
January, 1855. Specimen numbers sent free. 
Addi ess D. I). T. MOORE. Rochester, N. Y. 
Mr. C. Moore, of Gerry, Chau. Co., N. Y.,is authorised 
to act as Agent for the Rural New-Yorker, and for tho 
Wool Grower and Stock Register, in the counties of 
Chautauqi.e and Cattaraugus, N Y., and Wanea, Pa. 
