44 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL, LITERARY AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
* «i*Z*x a « jrsourttt' *#mvi •u.-wiv. vww 
[Written for Moore'8 Ru al New-Yoi k«r. J 
MY EARLY HOME. 
Tuwik was a low hut by the green wood’s side, 
Whore the waving branches spread far and wide ; 
Its walls with the moss of years were gay, 
I remember it well, it seems but a day, 
Since I loved it all with a chiidi-h prido 
That little low hot by the green wood’s side. 
In that little hot was my childhood passed, 
Tho-e joyous days too happy to last; 
’Twas there a mother’s fond love I knew, 
Until fleetly to riper years I grew, 
And with hr others and sisters oft sported in pride, 
Round the little low hut by the green-wood’s side. 
That little low hut had a well that was nigh, 
Whore oft on a warm sultry day I would hie, 
And watch the bright pearl di ops that playfully fell 
From the “ old oaken bucket that hung in the well.” 
Oh how happy was I, for no ill could betide, 
In that little low hut by the green-wood’s side. 
But that little low hut no longer is known 
For many a wearisome year has flown, 
The walls are white where once they were gray, 
The old oaken bucket i-: taken away, 
And one of our loved ones has since than died, 
That dwelt in the hut by the green-wood’s side. 
That little old hut—It is dear to me now, 
Though sorrow and care may havo shaded my brow, 
But soon—Ah soon ! with truth I can say ; 
From that dear old home wo havo all pass’d away, 
Yet in fancy and dreams—whatever betide— 
I.dwell in the hut by the green-wood’s side. 
Wyoming, N. Y., Jan., I860. ESSIE.- 
"Slit’s JYssmts. 
HOMELY HANDS; 
OR, JUDGING FROM APPEARANCES. 
BY JEUNE. 
“You’ll get to Mack's soonest by taking 
a cross-cut through Esq. Kendall’s lane, that 
runs close by that great red house up yonder; 
who's sick over there?” 
“ Mr. McLeod himself, the stage driver told 
me; I thought he lived on this street, and 
therefore did not ask his direction. 
“ 1 guess Mac ain’t any sicker lhan liquor’ll 
make any man,” said the good natured coun¬ 
tryman, of whom I had asked iny direction.— 
“ I’d advise you, young man, not to waste 
much physic on him, you’ll get nothing but 
cusses irom him, do what you may. 
This damped, somewhat, the ardor with 
which I had come thus far. It was my first 
patient, and there I had been “ located ” in the 
village of Alton lor two months, in ail the ver¬ 
dant inexperience of hope, in ali the unappre¬ 
ciated importance of my liard-won diploma.— 
1 had thought myself prepared for this. I 
knew that, in all probability, I should have to 
solace myself with “ hope de erred,” until 1 had 
acquired the prestige of age; but as the long 
summer days wore by, I could not repress im¬ 
patient yearnings to enter upon those duties 
lor which 1 had so laboriously prepared myself. 
I longed to try the skill of which I doubted 
not my possession. If the patients who sent 
so far for l)r. De Bray, were only a little less 
patient, aud would send for me, would not I 
like to have cured them? I was glad of any 
opening, however unpromising; so 1 turned up 
the designated lane, rather slowly, however.— 
I felt some interest in Esq. Kendall's house, 
and noticed with pleasure the taste displayed 
around it; the vines aud flowers so well cared 
for, bespoke a refined and elevated mind. I 
was very fond of tiowei’3, and cultivated some 
choice varieties about my office, i had plenty 
of time for it. 
1 had heard of Cora Kendall, the beauty of 
the whole region. I had niy dreams, too, of 
clasping some fair white hand—looking into 
some sweet, truthful eyes, and asking some 
dear girl to share my lot. when it should have 
become brighter. Her haps it might be Cora; 
at any rate i wished to see her. Suddenly i 
became almost transfixed with surprise and de¬ 
light. A young giri—beautiful as an angel, 
I reverently thought—stood in a little porch 
almost overhanging that green lane, gazing 
at the summer's sunset, ller face seemed in¬ 
spired. The parted lips, the uplifted eyes’ 
every feature seemed glowing and radiant with 
enthusiasm. 1 was close to her—the velvet turf 
gave forth no sound ; but just then a twig 
cracked under my horse’s foot, and she started 
—looked down—and I, caught gazing at her 
in such a trance, had recourse to McLeod's di¬ 
rection. The question seemed simple enough ; 
but she stammered, and became so painfully 
red, and contused, that, pitying her embar¬ 
rassment, I involuntarily averted iny eyes; 
they fell upon her hand, which rested on the 
white trellis of the porch ; and such a hand! 
large, coarse, and red ; my eyes could not be¬ 
lieve themselves ; but traveled up the sleeve of 
stout gingham to see if that hand was really 
an appendage to the lace I had recently almost 
worshiped. She was still stammering out the 
direction—I was still gazing at her hand, in a 
sort of bewilderment; when two o.her little 
hands tell upon it, like flakes of light, and their 
owner, looking over the shoulder of the first 
one, greeted me with graceful self-possession, 
and gave the direction in a few words, adding 
some witty remarks descriptive of the man, 
which set us all laughing, and relieved the 
awkwardness of the interview ; lor which 1 felt 
very grateful. 
“ Dear Sis,” she said, “ was such a timid lit¬ 
tle thing, and saw me near her so suddenly, 
that she never would have collected her senses 
enough to tel! me anything.” •• Dear Sis ” 
looked down, and suddenly withdrew her hand, 
which those lily white fingers were caressing. 
The other seemed to take no notice of this, but 
put back her curls with ike liberated fingers, 
and I turned, with regret, irom her 'oscillating 
face, beside whose sparkling vivacity the first 
seemed latne and cold; or I he sunset glory had 
faded from it, as completely as from the dim 
forest toward which 1 now turned, deeply pon¬ 
dering whether I had seen Cora Kendall. It 
could not have been the last sj>eaker, for, 
reared in that country place, where would she 
acquire those bewitching manners, or the taste 
displayed in Ihe arrangement of those cluster¬ 
ing curls, and that snowy dress, thin and deli¬ 
cate a3 a mist, floating about her. Dow could 
a farmer's daughter wear white at all, in the 
kitchen and dairy, where she must assist? for 
1 knew the Kendalls kept no servants. “ Im¬ 
possible, she must be some lady from the city, 
rusticating, some wealthy relative from the 
highest walks of society, and far above my 
thoughts.” I concluded with a sigh, which, 
however, did not release said thoughts. Per¬ 
haps the first one whom I had seen was Cora. 
If she possessed such a soul as seemed to look 
forth when I saw her watching Ihe sunset, I 
was not surprised that she had led captive so 
many hearts. Yet, there would be no proprie¬ 
ty in saying to her “ Lay thy sweet hands in 
mine, and trust to me.” I was sure I never 
should love her, not that I had decided upon 
employing that particular form when I should 
have occasion to make so momentous a request. 
I tried to convince myself that it was not be¬ 
cause I prized mere physical delicacy and reg¬ 
ularity, above the indwelling beautiful soul ; 
but to my shame I failed here, how else could 
1 account for my repugnance. 
So absorbed wus I, with this knotty ques¬ 
tion, that I scarcely noticed a stout boy, with 
his yoke of oxen dragging a tree with all its 
branches down the precipitous road before me; 
till 1 felt myself suddenly dashed upon a rock 
considerably below the forest path, here bro¬ 
ken by ledges ; for Iny horse having just real¬ 
ized that a tree-top was moving along the 
road, without any visible cause, contrary to 
the known habits of trees, was startled into a 
sudden shy, w’hich took me completely by sur¬ 
prise. “ i’ll not be such a coward as to think 
I’m killed,” said I to myself. I hud thought 
so, in the first moment of agony. 
“ Ha’llo, there, are you hurt?” said the boy, 
coming up with much concern in his counte¬ 
nance. 
“No, not much,” and 1 made an effort to 
spring up, but everything turned dark and fa¬ 
ded from my senses. 
When I became again conscious, the neigh¬ 
bors had gathered around, and were placing me 
on a litter. “ We must take him to the near¬ 
est house,” said one. “ Jenkin’s house is near¬ 
est, but then Jenkin’s wife is sick,” said anoth¬ 
er. “ We d better take him up to my house, 
by all odds, it's a’most as nigh, and an easier 
road.” 
“I believe I’m considerably hurt,” I inter¬ 
posed; “cannot I go to Mr. Kendall’s?”— 
“ Why, yes, that’s just what I was sayin’,” re¬ 
sumed the last speaker, “you’d better come up, 
by all means, we’ve got plenty of women folks 
to nurse and tend ye, aud you’ll need it one 
while, I’m thinkin, if that's where you fell,” he 
added, with a glance at the rough rock. 1 
scarcely noticed at the time, what followed, 
but remembered afterward, how, when 1 was 
carried into the house, the fair lady in white 
screamed, and grew so faint, that she had to 
be hurried from the room; how the old tarnier 
looked fondly after her, and said, “ Cora can’t 
do nothing, she’s so tenderhearted, call Susan,” 
how that “ Susan ” appeared and turned very 
pale, but after a moment busied herself in 
washing and binding up a wound on my head, 
which had covered my face with blood; and 
how, while every body commiserated me, and 
asked me how 1 felt, she alone was cold and 
silent, till I began to think she did not con¬ 
sider me much hurt, though I wished her volu¬ 
ble mother would follow her example; for the 
pain I suffered took away all disposition to 
answer questions. One of my limbs was bro¬ 
ken, but the surgeon who had been sent for did 
not reach Alton till the next day. 
Some weeks after my accident, we were all 
assembled in the little parlor, which indeed I 
had not left since first brought there. “ I 
think your work very beautiful,” I said to Co¬ 
ra, who was embroidering with worsteds, and 
whose fair hands I had long been watching 
with a sort of id e pleasure, as they moved 
about their graceful task, and thinking how 
much I should like to clasp—to kiss one of 
those beautiful dimpled hands. “ You do this so 
skillfully, that I think you must have employed 
yourself often in this way bet ore.” 
“ Yes, I have embroidered considerably, I 
am very fond of it,” said the young lady. 
“ Then 1 hope you will some time give me 
the pleasure of seeing the former triumphs of 
your needle.” * 
“ Oh, certainly, since you are so kind as to 
take an interest in my poor efforts, you shall 
see them now,” she replied, with a ready, yet 
modest acquiescence, which contrasted favora¬ 
bly with the manner of those young ladies, who 
have to be entreated by the hour ior a sketch 
or song of which they are secretly vain all the 
time. “ Susan dear,” she continued, you know 
where they are, you have been revolutionizing 
our chamber, so that I never could find them 
if I were to try.” 
“ I put them in your drawer,” said Susan, 
without raising her eyes. 
“Ah, but—it is so far, and you are nearest 
the stairs, so be my little page this once,” said 
Cora, sportively, with such sweet entreaty in 
her eyes that I longed to be her page. Per¬ 
haps it had some influence on Susan, for she 
laid down her work good humoredly, aud 
brought the embroideries. 
“And now show us yours, Susan,” I said 
when these had been sufficiently admired; 
“ have you not executed some of this needle- 
painting ?” 
“ I have none,” she said. 
“ You surprise me, I don’t see how you can 
re ist the temptation of doing some of this 
beautiful work, when you see ihe leaves and 
blossoms growing under your sister’s lingers.” 
“ Indeed 1 should like it,” she answered, 
but I never find time to try.” 
“ I should think you did try once ; it almost 
makes me die with laughing, now, to think 
what a piece of work you made of it,” cried 
Cora. 
“ That was hardly a fair trial,” replied her 
sister, coloring, “since 1 used stocking yarn 
insfead of worsted ; 'or you remember, Cora, 
that you were afraid you should not have 
worsteds enough to finish your flower-piece, if 
I v, asted any ; yet my best efforts would never 
compare with Cora's.” she added, turning to 
me, “ for I have not the talent for such things, 
which she has.” 
“ I think Susan’s talents seem to distinguish 
themselves more in her present line of occupa¬ 
tion than any other; I must confess, I don't 
know, I’m sure, what dear papa would do for 
clothes without her; for such coarse work 
makes my lingers bleed, if ever I try to do il.” 
I wondered within myself if Nalure was a 
thoroughly democratic institution—if she had 
not made some patricians. How naturally the 
manners and occupations of a lady seemed to 
belong to this elegant creature ; while her sis¬ 
ter did not seek to go beyond the homely ne¬ 
cessities of life. Yery useful this latter class, 
too, but not so agreeable, nor ornamental. 
The silence was broken by Busan, who said, 
as she glanced from the window, “ That's a line 
carriage for this place.” 
“ 0, it must be the new merchant Mr. De 
Bent,” cried Cora, with animation, springing 
from her chair to the window ; the large easy 
chair rocked back heavily agains my helpless 
foot; Susan hastened to draw it away before 
it should rock back again, while tears started 
in her eyes at the groan of pain which I could 
not repress. “ Oh! how cruel that was of me! 
how careless!” cried Cora, “how can I ever 
forgive myself!” And the sweet girl took both 
my hands, impulsively, between hor’s, as if she 
would thus take upon herself the pain she had 
unintentionally caused. Good, kind-hearted 
Busan, I did not need your tears. I felt more 
than repaid for the momentary pang, by the 
earnest pressure of those lair hands. 
The kitchen, where the cooking and dairy 
work of the farm house was done, was built at 
right angles with the room where 1 lay ; and 
it thus happened, the windows of both rooms 
being open one sultry morning, that I became 
the unwilling listener to a dialogue, which gave 
me some new ideas with regard to the two 
young girls of whom I had already seen so 
much, and, as I now found, knew so little. 
“ 1 wish, Cora dear, you would go in and sit 
by Dr. Jeune, you can take your book right 
along; I want to finish up these dishes before 
mother comes in, for she ought not to do so 
much hard work this warm weather.” 
“ I indeed!” answered the other, who must 
have been Cora, though her voice seemed to 
lack its usual sweetness, “ do you expect me to 
go in there with this ragged dress, and my hair 
all in strings? I expect you will ask me to 
wash up the greasy dishes next!” 
“No Cora, I am too proud of your pretty 
hands myself, to be willing you should spoil 
them so, and I don’t want you to go, either.— 
I did not think of your ‘dishabille,’ I will 
leave the dishes.” 
“ Let him lie alone awhile, it won’t hurt him, 
sulky and cross as he is sometimes.” 
“ O Cora, how can you say so? He is never 
cross, and if his spirits are low sometimes, it 
is not strange that an active energetic young 
man, as I think he is naturally, should find it 
hard to lie helpless whole weeks and months.” 
My face glowed with shame ; I had been im¬ 
patient, but it was toward her who now gener¬ 
ously defended me—never, 0, revered and queen¬ 
ly Cora, to thee. But a light step had eutci ed 
my room, and I met the blue eyes still tender 
with the compassion which had animated her 
last words. 
“ I shall want nothing before noon, my kind 
little nurse, except a glass of fresh water you 
have brought. Perhaps I can sleep, I did not 
rest much last night.” As I spoke I could not 
help thinking how pretty she looked, with her 
smooth brown hair and ginghtun dress, con¬ 
trasted with the figure which her sister’s words 
had described. 
“ A litt'e household goddess she, 
That witchetb all for good.” 
I thought., as I heard her all through the 
morning hours, tripping about her work, and 
singing blythly, the per ect embodiment of 
cheerful industry. I began to have a dim idea 
that nature had made something superior to 
the patrician order, after all. Cora did not 
occupy so prominent a place as usual, in my 
day-dreams. 
“ So you and Cora want some new dresses ?” 
said Mr. Kendall to his daughter, one evening, 
as he laid down his paper aud look her fond:y 
upon his knee. “ Why, Father, do you think 
we look shabby ?” “ No, I shouldn’t know the 
difference if you were dressed in tow cloth, as 
your grandmother used to be ; but Cora says 
she can t go to church again, till she has a new 
dress; so I suppose you can’t either,—what 
will they cost, and what will my Susy wear ? 
Scarlet, green, or yellow ?” 
“ All at a time, if you like them, Father.— 
But I have seen some delicate blue bareges, at 
De Pout’s, which I think would be pretty for 
us; such a dress would cost four dollars ; if 
you can spare the money, I should really like 
one.” 
“ Well, that won’t break me; there’s four 
for each of you; I want my children to have 
clothes fit to go to church,” lie added mischievi- 
ously, as his daughter left the room. “ She’s 
a goc>d girl, quite a3 good as Cora, though, as 
her mother says, she’ll never make no show.” 
“ It is quite natural,” I answered, " that a 
mother should be proud of Cora’s rare beauty 
and accomplishments, but Susan is quite as 
lovely, though she does not know it; and 1 
certainly never saw a temper so sweet and even 
under all circumstances, as her’s.” 
“ Well, I’m glad you’ve found it out,” said 
the farmer, heartily, “for it seems to me as if 
nobody knew how good, nor how handsome 
neither—though that ar’s a small matter— 
Susan i s, while every body praises Cora.” 
For several days a ter that, 1 s'aw the sisters 
employed on a delicate blue material, which I 
thought must have cost much more than the 
sum Susan had mentioned. She still sat up 
and worked after the family had retired on 
Saturday night. “I will take my work into 
another room now, so that, you may sleep,” she 
said. “ No, sit here; I do not sleep half the 
night, from being so idle through the day, and 
I should like your company. I anticipate the 
pleasure of seeing you come out in that, beau 
tiful dress to-morrow; I am sure it will be¬ 
come you.” 
“ Oh no, I have no new dress, this is my 
sister’s,” she said, a shade passing over her face. 
“Why, I thought you both had dresses like 
this ?” “ ’! here was not money enough to get 
two dresses of this kind, and Cora, who has more 
taste in dress than I, says light blue is only be¬ 
coming to very lair blondes, and 1 was afraid 
the dress I wanted would not suit my appear¬ 
ance, so 1 concluded not to get one.” “ Why, 
dear girl, what arc you but a blonde ? If your 
checks are more rosy, and your hair darker 
than your sister’s, it dees not make you any 
less fair or beautiful.” 
“ 0 there you are wrong,” she said earnestly, 
yet blushing as she spoke, “ everybody knows 
that Cora is tar the handsomer, and that is 
another reason why she ought to have this 
dress, though I can have none, tor everybody 
will look at her, while no one notices how I 
am dieted.” 
“Then I cannot agree with everybody, thou 
naivest of reasoners.” 
Hours flew by; the great kitchen clock 
struck eleven.’ “ I’m afraid, Suise. your eyes 
will bedim in the morning. 1 would let Cora 
sit up to finish her own dress, another time.” 
“ That she would have done, but she cannot 
gage and set on the robe, which is what I am 
doing now.” 
“ Then she is not so skilled in needle-work 
as you ?” 
“ She is much more skillful than I, only she 
ha3 never tried—I mean she has never learned 
to do this ] articular thing. One cannot be 
expected to do anything well, without practice 
you know, and I have had plenty of that, for 
I have gaged her di esses and Mother's for sev¬ 
eral years; it would be unpardonable if 1 
should not excel her, when she has only tried a 
few times.” 
“ And failed ?” 
“ Partially so, her work was not quite right; 
it could not be expected till she learned how, 
you know.” 
“ She has an eloquent defender, yet there 
was no excuse for you, no encouragement in 
your first attempt at embroidery!” 1 ventured 
in a low tone. A momentary charge of her 
transparent countenance showed how keenly 
she had felt her sister’s slighting manner on 
that occasion ; but she replied with a dignity 
which I never could have expected from her— 
“ If she is sometimes inconsiderate, a person 
like Cora can well afford to have some faults.” 
“ I entreat your forgiveness, so noble an an¬ 
swer shames me, pray forget my idle words, it 
is the first time, Susan.” 
“ Then let it be the last, my friend,” she said, 
smiling kindly again, as she folded away the 
completed dress. 
As I watched, day after day, the dispositions 
of these two fair sisters, acted out in the ten 
thousand minutia which make up human hap¬ 
piness or misery. 1 began to long for the love 
of that noble, self-torgetting heart, whose con¬ 
stant object was to make every hour and 
every moment pass pleasantly to those around. 
But she, as I grew to need less of her care, 
gradually withdrew herself more and more from 
the room where Hay, sending her mother, who 
could lalk of nothing but Cora, to sit by me, 
while she took her place in the kitchen. If 
she were ever left alone with me she would go 
and bring some one in, immediately, with a 
plausible excuse, noticed only by the sadly 
keen sense of jealousy; all the while she was 
kind to me with a quiet sisterly kindness, 
which gave no hope. Having no chance by 
active exertion to divert or shake off my un¬ 
happy thoughts, they preyed upon ine till I 
grew actually sick—sick with a malady for 
which my books prescribed no cure. 
“ Why, Doctor you’re worse this morning; 
your countenance- looks very bad, I’m con¬ 
cerned about you,” said my hostess, as she was 
passing through the parlor one morni.ug. “ it 
is the oliect of a severe headache and sleepless 
night, which has awakened your kind concern ; 
1 think it will soon pass oft',” I said, while ihe 
throbbing pain increased its I asked my exact¬ 
ing heart why Susan, who w..s quietly arrang¬ 
ing the room, had not noticed how ill I was. 
But her mother said, “ Susan, why don't you 
magnetize his head? You always ease my 
headaches aud put me to sleep.” “ I will try,” 
she answered as she laid her duster in the 
closet, and came forward. “I did not know 
that you possessed the mesmeric power ?” “ I 
do not claim to,” was the answer, 1 1 suppose 
it is the chafing which eases pain. They say 
one must close his eyas if he wishes to be put 
to sleep,” she added in a tone which was neither 
cold or kind, as she seated herself on the edge 
of the couch. Why would she not bear a mo¬ 
ment, the eyes that worshiped her ? I longed 
to close down crushing lids upon my agonized 
Ihoughts, also; but slowly they changed under 
that kind touch, I felt—1 could not, deny that 
it was earnestly kind, no mere mechanical 
manipulation. And ihen it wassuch a novelty 
that she should touch me at all, 1 could not 
remember that she had ever done it be ore, 
even to shake hands; I forgot the pain entirely. 
“ He's fast asleep, Susan, you needen’t work 
any longer, I want you should help me fix my 
hair.” I heard Cora say as she came into the 
room. “Oh hush, wait a little while, I want 
he should sleep soundly first; don’t you see 
how ill he looks?” “ Well, i you won’t do it, 
mother will,”said Cora, shutting the door not 
very gently, while my good angel patiently 
strove to charm away my pain, and I dared 
not let her know that I was awake, after what 
I had so mal-appropriately heard. Soon he 
cautiously discontinued her chafing, aud rose 
to go, then resting her arm upon the pillow be¬ 
yond my head, she bent over and pressed her 
fresh young cheek, fondly, upon my forehead ; 
another moment and she had left me, but, nev¬ 
er, dear heart of love, has the happiness left 
me conferred by that mute caress. Even now 
I seem to icel again the joy that flooded my 
whole being, thrilling to my finger ends ; my 
Ihoughts rehearsed, and never wearied of re¬ 
hearsing the minutest circumstance, even to 
the cool touch of her braided hair, damp from 
the morning bath. My blissful reveries grad 
ually lost themselves in refreshing sleep, and 
when I awoke Cora had come to sit beside me. 
Cora was an excellent reader, and a sweet and 
accomplished singer, and many a weary hour 
had been shortened by her kindness, though I 
had lately come to feel that it was the cruel 
kindlier of a coquette, constantly seeking the 
triumph of winning what she would not trouble 
herselr to wear; and now as she combed my 
hair, and rolled it into curls with “ her fingers 
small and fair,” I felt as if that soft touch 
lacked something. I seemed to see a cold de¬ 
ceit in those blue eyes, and could not admire 
the glossy, golden curls that swept my pillow ; 
whi e she read Lalla Rookh, I listened for the 
homely, Monday sounds of rubbing, pounding 
and rinsing clothes, from the kitchen, where I 
knew a dear, true heart directed willing hands. 
—Ohio Farmer. 
[Concluded nextweok.] 
’$ Corner. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
ENIGMA. 
Four things I saw, all of one height, 
One deformed, the rest upright. 
Take three away, and then you’ll find 
Exactly ten tiler’s left behind. 
But if you should them split in twain, 
One-half you’ll find would eight contain. 
f jW 3 Answer next week. 
Written for the Rural New-Yorker. 
ALGEBRAICAL PROBLEM. 
A man had an amount of money which he 
divided among his sons. To the first he gave 
one hundred dollars* and one-sixth of the re¬ 
mainder ; to the second he gave two hundred 
dollars and one-sixth of what then remained : 
to the third he gave three hundred dollars and 
one-sixth of what then remained; to the fourth, 
four hundred dollars and one-sixth of what was 
left; and soon, until nothing remained, when 
lie found that his property was equally divided 
among them. What was the amount of his 
property, and the number of his sons. 
Cl.TN’B. 
IffT* Answer next week. 
WINTER. 
HcRR'n, school is over ! the lessons all-said, 
And now lor my skatos, and iny new painted sled; 
Then down to the ice, all the village is there, 
There’s baby upon it, I really declare 1 
Hurrah for the ice ! now, dear mother, don’t fret, 
If I should fall through, I could scarcely get wet, 
For my promise I keep, to skate near the shore, 
There ’twill bear father says, a full stage-coach and four. 
Aud what do I care, if my oars should get froze, 
And Jack Frost bites the ends of my fingers and toes ? 
I but play the harder, in spite of the storm, 
And in froiic und exorcise, soon get them warm. 
Now come to the win low, dear mother, and see, 
IIow I can cut backwards a line figure three, 
And how over tho ice like the lightning I flee— 
Hurrah for the winter ! cold winter for me I 
Answer to Charade in No. 4 : 
What bolder, louder than a gun ? 
Change u to i —beware—oh, shun 
That sly, soft path—and see therein 
The metamorphosis to gin. 
Spring, gun, and gin, are sometimes one ; 
You’re caught by gin, and shot by gun ; 
Yet gun and gin, in general view, 
Two ways of doing work pursue. 
For gun goes olf, if there he danger— 
But gin is not so wide a ranger, 
But close and secret lurks, for such is 
His art to catch you in his clutches. 
, This ridd e may a trap imply, 
Which may not at first reading strike. 
That as the letters—You and I— 
Whate’er we seem, are not alike ; 
Hi nail difference in our moral sight [right. 
Makes right seem wrong, and wrong seem 
Answer to Premium Puzzle in No. 3 .—Truth 
is mighty and will prevail. 
Answer to Historical Enigma in No. 4.-— 
History is the great mirror, in which we may see the 
actions of all mankind. 
MOORE'S RURAL NBV/-YORKEIS, 
IS POBIJSUKD EVERY SATURDAY, 
BY I). D. T. MOORE, ROCHESTER, N. Y. 
Office in Burns’ Block, cor. Buffalo and Stato Sts, 
TERMS, IN ADVANCE ! 
Subscription — %'l a year — * 1 for six months. To Clubs 
and Agents as follows :—Three Copies one year, for $5 ; 
Six Copies (and one to Agent or getter up of club,) for $1!); 
Ten Copies (aud one to Agent,) for *16, and any additional 
number, at tho name rata. As wo are obliged to pre-pay 
tho American postage on papers sent to tho British Prov¬ 
inces, our Canadian agents and friends must add ‘i5 cents 
per copy to the club ratos of the Rural. 
Subscription money, properly onciosod, may be 
sent by mail at the risk of the Publisher. 
*„*The jK>stage on the Rural Is but 3% cents per quar¬ 
ter, payable in advance, to any part of tho State (except 
Monroe County, whore it goes free.)—and cents to 
any other section of the Unito i States. 
Advertising. — ltriof and appropriate ad verti-omonts 
will bo inserted at SI,50 per square, (ten lines, or 100 
words,) or 15 cents per line —in advance. Tho circulation 
of ttic Rural Nbw-Yorxbr is several thousand greater 
than that of any other Agricultural or similar journal in 
eitlior America or Europe. Patent medicines, etc., will 
not he advertised in this paper on any terms. 
Kir All communications, and business letters, should 
he addressed to D. I). T. Moore, Rochester, N. Y. 
The Wool Grower and Stock Register L the only 
American journal devoted to the Wool and Stock Crowing 
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 Owrier of Domestic Animals, 
whether locate I Fast or We t. North or South. Published 
monthly in octavo form, illustrated, at only Fifty Oustsa 
Volume— two volumes a year. Volume 7 commence* 
January, 1855. Specimen numbers sent f ee. 
Addieaa I). D. T. MOORE. Rochester, N. Y. 
Mr. C. Moor*, of Gerry, Chau. Co., N. Y., is authorised 
to act as Agent for the Rural New-Yorker, and for tho 
Wool Grower and Stick Rdgjstkr, in the counties of 
Chautauqua and Cuttaraugu*, N Y., aud Warren, I «. 
