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MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL, LITERARY AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER, 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE FARMER. 
Tub sturdy tiller of the soil 
Enjoys withal a happy life, 
For mingled with his daily strife ; 
Are solaces for constant toil. 
’Tis true, he has a wholesome faro, 
No dainty wines, for pampered spleen ; 
But then he hath a relish keen, 
Nor covets ho their viands rare. 
’Tis true, he wears a homely dress, 
With manners yet unschooled in art; 
But then he has an honest heart, 
A stranger to base selfishness. 
He liveth where the bracing wind, 
Gives vigor to the sturdy frame— 
Where nature, ever bounteous dame, 
Spreads rural banquets for the mind. 
And when has come the winter’s eve ; 
Has season then for thought or mirth, 
While seated by his cheerful hearth 
With friends and books—or plans to weave. 
The Farmer, with a steadfast eye, 
Moves onward at an even pace ; 
In fame, he may not win the race, 
Yet fills a niche of honor high. 
Grand Rapids, Mich., Jan. 23, 1355. L. W. L. 
U'% Wts&BM. 
HOMELY HANDS; 
OR, JUDGING FROM APPEARANCES. 
ri*v JEUNE. 
[Concluded from last week.] 
I had no proof that Susan loved me ; her 
compassionate nature would have dictated all 
the kindness I had received ; but she had pitied 
—she did not despise me ; and this certainty, 
with the sweet consciousness of returning 
health, raised my spirits to their usual level of 
youth and hope. 
A few days after this—what shall I call it ? 
—reversing of my life, Mr. Kendall came 
home from the village, with the news that 
Miss Denyar had returned, and would re-open 
her school for young ladies, on the first of 
September. 
“ Oh! I should delight to go to school there 
again,” cried Cora with enthusiasm ; “ I shall 
go, dear Papa ?” 
“ Why, I was thinking,” he said, “ as you 
had been so much already, and Susan never’s 
had a chance at schooling, since she was a 
little girl; she ought to go now, and you take 
her place, and help your mother.” 
“ La, suz 1 Cora couldn’t do anything to help 
me ; she ain’t strong enough. It would make 
her sick, to take hold of the heft of the work,” 
said Mrs. Kendall. 
“ Then we must hire a girl; for Susan shall 
go to school, that’s fixed—if she wants to ; hey, 
Susy ?” 
“ I do want to, very ranch, father and 
the gratified look which lighted her sweet, 
earnest face, showed, more than words, the in¬ 
terest she felt. But her mother was not sat¬ 
isfied. 
“ If Susan was a rich man’s daughter, and 
going into company all her life, it might be 
worth while ; but as ’tis, it does seem a waste 
of time to be hunting up stones, and weeds, 
and flowers, and learning hard names for them ; 
besides, if Susan learns all the high-flown 
things Miss Denyar teaches, she wouldn’t be a 
bit different. You’d never know by her ways, 
she knew anything more than common folks.” 
“ But edication's a great thing, wife, we 
that never had much can’t jedge about it.” 
“I know,” she replied, “folks are thought 
more on for being edicated, and I’d be glad 
Susan should have her way, if ’twern’t for 
the work. Now Cora could be spared just 
as well as not, and she has a natural turn that 
way, too.” 
“ As for the work,” answered Mr. K., “ you 
shall have plenty of help, so Susy, see that 
you are all ready to go by September.” 
Mrs. K. evidently had her own thoughts 
with regard to help, but she did not express 
them, and the subject seemed settled. 
“ Well, Susan, I should think you meant to 
do up the family’s sewing for at least ten 
years to come,” said Cora, one sultry day, 
about three weeks after the conversation last 
recorded, as she leaned back in her rocking 
chair, and surveyed the pile of shirts her sister 
was cutting out. “ Papa won’t want any 
shirts till next summer, if he does then—and 
the piles of towels, sheets and pillow-slips.”— 
“ Susan,” added the lively girl, suddenly in¬ 
terrupting herself, “ a thought has struck me. 
Are you going to perpetrate matrimony, and 
housekeeping immediately ?” 
“ Not exactly,” was the laughing answer ; 
“ but I make these things because I’ve nothing 
else to do now.” 
“ Why, then, I’d treat myself to a little leis¬ 
ure ; what’s become of your penchant for her¬ 
mit walks? You havn’t been to the pine 
woods for near a month.” 
“ It’s too warm to-day, I should be melted 
before I reached them.” 
Nevertheless, the work stopped, while she 
cast one long look at the cool depth : and 
shadows of that magnificent forest, which I 
had watched yearningly through many a sul¬ 
try noon. 
“ Well, you might read the last Harper; that 
story of Lettico Arnold which interested you 
so much, is concluded. I should like to take 
it over to Lou Herrick, after tea.” 
“ Never mind me, I don’t care about reading 
this number ; she will have time to finish be¬ 
fore I shall want it.” 
And thus it was for weeks. Susan re¬ 
doubled her usual industry, hardly allowing 
herself time to eat. I began to feel profes¬ 
sionally anxious about her health, as early 
and late she plied the swift needle, or flitted 
about her household task, often with playful 
force driving her industrious mother from the 
kitchen ; but her eyes grew brighter, her rose 
cheeks fresher, and her step more elastic than 
ever. Ah! there v r as a power which I had 
not taken into my estimate of the forces of 
nature—enthusiasm, which none would expect 
under that calm demeanor ; the pleasure with 
which she looked forward to the opportunity 
for study and improvement, n ade heavy labor 
light to her. It seemed as if the utmost hope 
of her life v T as about to be realized, and she 
thought nothing too hard to do for those who 
might sufier inconvenience from her approach¬ 
ing absence. 
“ I saw Beeman to-day,” said Mr. Kendall, 
at tea, “ and he says he'll have a gang of 
hands here to cover my new barn, by the 
twenty-ninth, told him I couldn’t have the 
frame exposed to the weather any longer: 
when that’s done, I want the east barn shin¬ 
gled over, and other little jobs ’tended to, so 
we shall have carpenters here a’most all 
the fall.” 
Mrs. Kendall sighed heavily; she was not 
strong, and, moreover, had a special headache 
that day. Susan looked at her with tender 
concern. 
“If Susan wasn’t going away ’twoukl bedif- 
ferent, but I don’t see how I can possibly get 
along and do the work for them.” 
“ Why Susan ain’t the only person in the 
world that can wash dishes and cook. I’ll get 
you a girl before they come. Miss Herrick 
says we can hire Mitty Dingwell, that helped 
there while she was sick. I’ll go and bespeak 
her to-morrow.” 
“ Mitty Dingwell indeed ! I wouldn’t have 
her round the house for her weight in gold.— 
I don’t see how Miss Herrick could ever put 
up with her dirty ways. Why, I saw her with 
my own eyes washing the candlesticks with 
the dishes!” 
Thus with unwonted energy spake Mrs. 
Kendall, who was a pink, I had almost said 
“thorn,” of neatness in her domestic affairs.— 
“I made up my mind, when Irish Norah was 
here, that I never would have another hired 
girl in my house, nor I won’t, so long as I can 
put one foot before the other. I can drag 
through with the work some way or other,” 
she added with a weary sigh. 
“That you shall not, mother; I’ll stay at 
home,” cried Susan, who had several times 
opened her mouth to speak, during the last 
few moments. 
“ No, you needn’t Susan, I wouldn’t have 
you give up the school when you have been 
reckoning so much on it, though I don’t know 
as hard work is anything to be reckoned on.” 
“That’s nothing, mother, I shall be hap¬ 
pier at home, after all, perhaps, you know I 
never was away, and I might get very home¬ 
sick, and wretched, staying among strangers 
four months.” 
“ Let your mother do the work alone if she 
will have it so, you needn’t stay at home,” said 
Mr. Kendall, moved beyond his wont. 
“ Dear father, I’d rather stay,” she answer¬ 
ed, in a low, constrained tone, with her hand 
upon the door, through which she immediate¬ 
ly passed—could none of them guess why ? 
“ I wish you warn’t so particular, wife, 
it’s a pity Susan has to give up everything she 
likes.” 
“ I don’t think Susan cares very much 
about going to school, she has said very little 
about it,” remarked Cora, indifferently. 
“You heard her say she'd rather stay?” 
said the mother. 
And so the sacrifice was accepted, without 
a word of thanks, without the slightest appre¬ 
ciation of the generous deception which con¬ 
cealed her bitter disappointment. Thus ended 
her weeks of hopeful, unnoticed toil! Dear 
girl! how my heart yearned to follow her, to 
sympathize with her, to tell her that I under¬ 
stood it all, how noble and disinterested, how 
angel kind she was. I watched, impatiently 
for her re-appearance in the morning. How 
could they help noticing through her assumed 
cheerfulness, the shadow in her eyes, and the 
tone to her voice, which told so touchingly of 
secret tears. She had sacrificed, not her pleas¬ 
ure or ease, but her mind—the opportunity of 
mental development—to serve those she loved. 
Were they worthy of it? Did they deserve 
that such wealth of devotion should be poured 
out for them, the unappreciative, who seemed 
wholly unconscious that they had received any 
favor, who returned for her rich love not eveu 
a caress ? 
She and her father sat in the front room 
with me, and I had been saying that I was so 
nearly recovered that I should soon cease to 
tax the hospitality and kindness for which I 
never could feel sufficiently grateful; and he 
had replied in his kind, hearty way, that they 
should be really lonesome, it would seem like 
missing one of the family to have me gone, yet 
he was heartily glad that I was “ picking up ” 
so well. Susan leaned lower over her work 
and w T as silent. 
“ What do you say, Susy ? ain’t yon glad 
the doctor is so near w r ell ?” said her father, 
turning suddenly. She seemed startled, made 
an effort to speak, but burst into tears, and 
hurried from the room. 
“ It seems like she was sorry you ever got 
well,” he said, but his honest face belied his 
jesting words, as he looked anxiously after his 
child, and then with earnest, almost stern scru¬ 
tiny, searched my countenance, to see what ef¬ 
fect her emotion had upon me. 
It wai an “ opportunity,” and I told him 
all, and asked permission to woo his daughter, 
when I should be able to provide a home for 
her. 
“ I’m glad you like her, I’m heartily glad 
on’t,” he said, “ there’s nobody I’d rather have 
for a son-in-iaw; I made up my mind about 
you, Dr. Jeune, long enough before I knew 
who you w T as. Last spring, when I was a 
teamin’ on it to town, I used to pass through 
the village middlin’ early, and when I always 
saw you at work afore sunrise, (though you 
was only raisin’ useless posies) I said to my¬ 
self that you was a right smart, industrious 
chap, and bound to make a livin’; that’s why 
I warn’t afraid to trust Susy to you, though 
she’s such a young thing, not eighteen till 
Christmas. You spoke about waiting ; but 
business comes slow to a young doctor ; and if 
you set so much by her, it’ll be lonesome wait¬ 
ing, and lonesome for her too, poor girl! for I 
reckon she loves you already.” 
“ Indeed, I begin to hope so ; but I cannot 
ask her to leave a happy home, while I have 
none at all to offer her.” 
“ We’ll talk about that,” he answered.— 
“ While you’re single, you have to pay for your 
board, and pay pretty high too, as prices are 
going. You pay office rent, keep your horse 
at the livery stable, and hire all your washing, 
making and mending done. Now if you had 
a little place just big enough to pasture your 
horse, and may be a cow, and a house with 
your office in one of the front rooms, you’d 
find it wouldn’t take so much money for two, 
as it does now for one.” 
“ But, dear friend, you forget, I haven’t the 
little place ; would to heaven I had.” 
“ I was agoin’ to say, if you hadn’t stopped 
me, that if you liked the plan, I’d give Susan 
such a place as that, and let her get married 
right off, if she wants to. I can’t give her no 
other privilege as I see. She’s always worked 
hard every minnit’, and always’ll have to, 
while she stays at home.” I caught his tw r o 
rough, honest hands in mine, and pressed them 
in gratitude, but for a moment words failed me 
—then the full tide of my joy received a check, 
a pretty effectual check, too, in the thought, 
that possibly, she might not “want to.” 
The next day was Sunday. I could al¬ 
ready walk about a little, and was to leave on 
Monday. The family went to church, except 
Susan, who volunteered to stay, and prepare 
tea, against their return. 
“ Now I must decide my fate to-day,” tho’t 
I, with some trepidation, as they drove from 
the door ; but she handed me the last papers, 
and then absorbed herself so completely in a 
book, that I did not like to interrupt her. I 
read, and re-read the advertisements, which 
somehow I couldn’t very clearly understand ; 
in fact, one column lasted me all the morning, 
and a part of the afternoon, wdiile the dear 
cause of all this distraction sat quietly on the 
lounge before me, and though her eyes some¬ 
times wandered sadly from the page, they never 
wandered towards me ; and she would, after a 
moment, return resolutely to her reading again. 
“An incorrigibly vulgar hand, isn’t it—so 
different from Cora's?” she said, quietly, as if 
uttering my thoughts, as she looked up with 
an arch smile. In truth, my eyes had been 
fixed upon her hand ; but, without seeing it, 
for I was turning over in my brain, for the 
thousandth time, what I should say, and how 
I should say it. 
“And why is it vulgar? In the service of 
love, it has received marks more honorable 
than a warrior’s scars; but every one is a proof 
of the unselfish devotion of your heart. O, 
Susie, I should be more proud to win this 
faithful hand, than the fairest fingers ever 
nursed by selfish idleness—may I not hope 
sometime to call it minq?” 
“ Oh! why do you talk so to me? Indeed, 
you forget yourself,” she said, springing up, 
with a look of mingled astonishment and re¬ 
proach. “ Poor Cora! have you been trifling 
with her?” 
“ Cora does not love me. I have never 
sought for any heart but yours—if I must de¬ 
spair of gaining that—0, it will be hard to 
live!” I ended, passionately; while a sudden 
conviction that all was lost, seemed to stab me 
with its deathly chill. My paleness put the 
dear girl’s reserve all to flight. 
“ I love you now, indeed I love you!” she 
said, changing her first tone of simple earnest¬ 
ness, to one so sweet and fervent, that it seemed 
to her thrilled listener, like the very utterance 
of a soul. Then, the thought of what she had 
said, overwhelming her with sweet confusion ; 
she would have hurried away, but I caught her 
in my arms, and pressed a fond first kiss upon 
the sweet lips, which had given me more than 
life. Then I told her what pain I had suffered, 
from her avoidance; and the many little ways 
in which she had seemed to show indifference 
towards me. And she said—I shall never for¬ 
get with what mingled confidence and timidity, 
what flitting blushes, and smiles and tears— 
that she had tried not to think too much of 
me, ever since we first met; had tried to rejoice 
in Cora’s happiness, for she had not once tho’t 
it possible that she herself could be preferred ; 
that sometimes when she had heard me speak 
disparagingly of mere beauty, she had thought 
she might have been the one beloved had she 
been educated as well as Cora. In this dear 
confidence the time flew by, till Susie thought 
of the church-goers, and tea. 
When I saw her graceful form swallowed up 
by that everlasting kitchen, so exactly as it 
had always been before, the sunshine seemed to 
vanish with her, and I feared my happiness 
had all been a dream, till she returned through 
the room, on some household errand, and her 
eyes, stealing timidly to mine, and gathering 
confidence from what they read there, blessed 
me with one of those looks—how shall I de¬ 
scribe them?—mere words can give no idea of 
their sweetness, to one who has never felt it— 
who has never been beloved—looks, that come 
with the confidence of petted children, nestling 
in the heart, where they are sure of welcome— 
looks, that brighten with their love, every day 
of my life, now, and which memory hoards, to 
cheer lonely rides, and midnight watches. 
Mrs. Kendall’s consent to our marriage was 
granted more readily than I had anticipated. 
A professional man, however penniless, she 
considered a brilliant match, and was proud 
that her daughter had made such a conquest, 
though she evidently w T ondercd that it had not 
been Cora. 
It took many vivid representations o. the 
loneliness to which I must return, to win Su¬ 
sie’s consent to our immediate marriage. In¬ 
deed, I think it was at last owing to the fact, 
that a widowed sister of her father’s having 
been invited tq make her home with him, 
proved to be very capable, and industrious, and 
therefore of great assistance to Mrs. Kendall. 
What Cora thought of it, I never knew ; she 
busied herself in getting up a wedding party 
unprecedented in that place, at which she shone 
pre-eminent; but I know that my gentle bride 
received more homage, from one heart, than 
mere beauty and superficial grace ever elicited 
from crowds. 
We were immediately established in the lit¬ 
tle home, at the village, which Air. Kendall’s 
generosity had provided; a home which its 
presiding angel made more truly such, than the 
proudest palace could have been, without such 
a spirit. There was not a particle of distrust 
in Susie's nature ; and the assurance of being 
loved and understood, dissipated that cold re¬ 
serve which had made her character seem so 
apathetic at first. To me, she expressed her¬ 
self with all the confidence, and freedom of 
thinking aloud; and I -was surprised at the 
depth of her feelings, the truth and freshness of 
her thoughts, on subjects which her former si¬ 
lence, when they were discussed, led me to sup¬ 
pose she took no interest in. It was a pleas¬ 
ure to explain anything to her ; she seemed to 
listen with such intelligent interest, to compre¬ 
hend so readily. But once, when I had been 
illustrating, at some length, an allusion which 
puzzled her, she sank into a very brown study. 
“ Susie,”—and I sat down beside her,—“ the 
room is changed with your changed face ; even 
the fire-light seems a very different thing; 
what can make so serious, love ?” 
She laid her head on my shoulder, and fairly 
burst into tears. 
“ I am thinking you will soon get tired of 
my ignorance ; 1 cannot understand you, or be 
a companion i'or you, as I want to, and then 
—though I know you mean to always love 
me, dear, faithful Jeune, 1 don’t see how you 
can help wishing you had married another 
woman.” 
“ There is not a woman in the wide world, 
wiser than my darling wife, in that which 
most concerns our happiness ; and that wisdom 
I can never cease to love, to reverence while 1 
live ; yet, if you would like to study—I believe 
you would like it—why caunot you go to 
school? Miss Denyar’s first term has not been 
commenced a week yet, and you told me yes¬ 
terday, that our house-work was so little, you 
wished 1 would find you something to do ; and 
since you have finished all the sewing, I shall 
want none for a long time ; there don’t seem to 
be anything else to set my industrious little 
wife about. Come, let me wipe away those 
tears, and tell me what you think of it—won’t 
you like to go?” 
“ Oh no, I cannot think of it; for what 
would you do for dinner, when I was at school? 
If you will show me about it, I should like to 
study at home.” 
“ You -would find that very dull, love ; the 
order, and emulation of school, makes the la¬ 
bor of acquirement much less. I will look 
over the lessons with you in the evening. I 
want to refresh my knowledge of those half- 
forgotten studies; and we can recite to each 
other, till you outdo all the other young ladies 
in school. As for dinner, we can eat bread 
and milk, and some of that excellent fruit, 
which grows in the garden. I should like that 
better than to have you sweltering over a 
stove, to get so many hot meals every day. It 
would be healthier for us, too ; you don’t know 
how I have longed for such simple food, at 
greasy boarding houses, where a profusion of 
unwholesome dainties took the place of fresh 
fruit and good bread. 
Susie finally consented to try the school for 
a week, though she still seemed afraid that I 
should suffer in some way ; but the house-keep¬ 
ing went on as smoothly as usnal. She knew 
so thoroughly well how to do everything in the 
quickest, and best manner, that it seemed to 
take very little of her time. We had warm 
suppers, instead of dinners, and the washing 
was done on Saturday, conclusively disproving 
the old adage about slovens washing on that 
day. 
She became much interested in her school, 
and studies, and I soon grew quite proud of 
the position she held among classmates, many 
of them older than herself. No one could be 
more pleased about all this all than her father, 
who, asserting that it was his business to edu¬ 
cate his daughters, insisted on paying her tu¬ 
ition, which was quite an assistance to us, just 
then. 
Three years have passed, since then—three 
short, sunny years. Susan has not been at 
school all the time. One term she devoted to 
entertaining an old aunt, my only relative, 
whom she had persuaded to leave her lonely 
home, and visit us. At another time, she 
nursed me through a contagious fever, and 
stayed from school six months afterward, for 
fear I should come in tired or sick, and need 
her care, when she was away. 
She has lately discovered an old thesis of 
mine, written to prove that no one should en¬ 
ter upon the duties of matrimony, before the 
age of twenty-five, which she says gives her 
plenty of time for a good education, before her 
matrimonial duties begin ; but I cannot im¬ 
agine how those duties can be more faithfully 
performed, than they are now. 
Her cultivated voice equals Cora’s in the 
vilage choir, and far out-warbles it at home. 
Her vivacity, the natural overflow of a happy, 
innocent heart, astonishes those who knew her 
silent, unappreciated girlhood, and her manner 
has gradually acquired that indescribable grace, 
the rarest charm of the belle, or coquette, which 
I believe springs more directly from the cer¬ 
tainty of pleasing, the consciousness of being 
admired, than is generally imagined. Her 
beauty, now that it is tastefully clad, is loudly 
acknowledged by those who could not see it 
before, though she is scrupulously careful not 
to out-dress Cora. Dear father Kendall loves 
to spejid a few hours with “ Susie,” in our sun¬ 
ny sitting-room, whenever he comes to the vil¬ 
lage, and her visits home,arc gladly welcomed 
by her mother, and Cora, who seem to think 
ffhat she is doing very well, considering that it 
was only Susan. “ Only Susan !” the light of 
a happy home, the life of our village society, 
and more than light, or life to one worshiping 
heart—my priceless wife is growing up to no¬ 
ble and intelligent womanhood. 
I meant to have noticed before ending these 
reminiscences, whether “ those hands ” had 
grown any prettier, but she is off, this moment 
to school; it was but now I felt their light 
touch, her stolen kiss, (taken without an equiv¬ 
alent) is yet warm upon my forehead ; but she 
has reached the gate, and joined a merry group 
of school companions ; perhaps it is as well; 
how could 1 be a disinterested judge of hands, 
that bestow on me so many unbought favors, 
so many a loved caress. 
Last night, when I had reached the last page 
of my newspaper, pen, ink, and ledger, were 
brought from the office, and placed noiselessly 
beside me, as usual; a silent nod was the only 
acknowledgment for the delicate attention, so 
grateful to my tired frame, (I have plenty of 
practice now.) Susie was about to resume her 
pencil, but she paused, and laying her hands 
upon my shoulders, looked archly into my eyes 
and said : “ Do you know, Dr. Jeune, that yon 
are a most remarkable man?” “ I know a cer¬ 
tain visionary young lady who thinks so,” was 
the answer. “Ah! but I know so; when 
Aunt Itachael was here, two years ago, she 
told me I was spoiling you, that everything 
depended on a young wife's beginning right; 
that if I did not stop waiting on my husband 
now, in a year or two, when—I had more cares, 
he would expect the same attention as a right, 
and think himself neglected, if I did not slave 
myself to wait on him ; not that he would mean 
to be selfish, but would get so used to it, as to 
forget that it was a favor, unless he was a very 
remarkable man—a very great exception to 
mankind in general. I told her that it might 
be so, it was very natural, certainly, but my 
husband was so unselfish, and good at heart, 
that he deserved to be waited on all his life, if 
he did forget to notice it by and by ; yet just 
now when I brought your ledger your dear 
eyes said ‘ thank you Susie,’ as plainly as ever,” 
and tears of tenderness filled her own. 
“ My darling ! I pray to God, that the influ¬ 
ence of long use, and habit, may never betray 
me into expecting, as a matter of course, or ac- 
cepting'unthankfully, the angel-service .”—Ohio 
Farmer. 
s 
Foi; Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MISCELLANEOUS ENIGMA. 
I am composed of 31 letters. 
My 2, 26, 30, 4, 19, 9 is wandering. 
My 6, 14, 21, 26, 23, 15 is freedom of access. 
My 18, 1, 25, 30, 20 is a final decision. 
My 31, 8, 10, 21, 12, 27 is a long seat with a 
back. 
My 3, 18, 26, 20, 17 is daring. 
My 11, 2, 16, 7, 13, 20 is bordered. 
My 3, 24, 20, 30, 4 was killed by Hercules. 
My 22, 29, 31, 31,18, 26 is a mounted soldier. 
My 5, 13, 19, 20, 28, 30 is one who sells. 
My whole was the official dispatch of a dis¬ 
tinguished American Naval officer to his su¬ 
perior in command, during the last war with 
Great Britain. HuBBa 
Boot, N. Y., 1855. 
pf° Answer next week. 
CHARADE. 
Nor thing, nor person, 
You kill me to converse on ; 
In secretest places, 
I live with the sages 
For ages, and ages, 
Their dust my subsistence— 
Yet such my strange case is, 
My life, the strange spell of, 
That even but to tell of, 
It costs my existence. 
gffT* Answer next week. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MATHEMATICAL QUESTION. 
How many words of 12 letters each, can be 
formed out of the 26 letters of the alphabet, 
on the supposition that the consonants will 
form a word. 
Columbus, Chen. Co., N. Y. W. H. P. 
gif* Answer next week. 
Answer to Enigma in No. 5.—XIII. 
Answer to Algebraical Problem in No. 5.— 
The amount of property, $2,500 ; the number 
of sons, 5. 
MOORE’S RURAL HEW-YORKER, 
IS PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY, 
BY D. D. T. MOORE, ROCHESTER, N. Y. 
Office in Burns’ Block, cor. Buffalo and State Sts. 
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Subscription —$2 a year — $1 for six months. To Clubs 
and Agents as follows :—Three Copies one year, for S5 ; 
Six Copies (and one to Agent or getter up of club,) for $10; 
Ten Copies (and one to Agent,) for $15, and any additional 
number, at the same rate. As we are obliged to pre-pay 
the American postage on papers sent to the British Prov¬ 
inces, our Canadian agents and friends must add 25 cents 
per copy to the club rates of the Rural. 
Subscription money, properly enclosed, may be 
sent by mail at the risk of the Publisher. 
*** The postage on the Rural is hut 3 % cents per quar¬ 
ter, payable in advance, to any part of the State (except 
Monroe County, where it goes free.)—and 6K cents to 
any other section of the United States. 
Advertising. — Brief and appropriate advertisements 
will he 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 he advertised in this paper on any terms. 
All communications, and business letters, should 
he addressed to D. D. T. Moore, Rochester, N. Y. 
Tfie 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 West, North or South. Published 
monthly in octavo form, illustrated, at only Fifty Cents a 
Volume —two volumes a year. Volume 7 commences 
January, 1855. Specimen numbers sent free. 
Address D. D. T. MOORE, Rochester, N. Y. 
Mr. C. Moore, of Gerry, Chau. Co., N. Y., is authorised 
to act as Agent for tlio Rural New-Yorker, and for the 
Wool Grower and Stock Register, in the counties of 
Chautauque and Cattaraugus, N Y., and Warren, Pa. 
