MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YO RKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
356 
0ctuaL 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
AN OCTOBER RAMBLE. 
BY E. JESSUP EAMES. 
0 ! golden - month, of rarest forest splendor— 
With faltering feet I seek thy haunts once more, 
On each fair landscape radiant and tender, 
My dim eyes rest as in the days of yore : 
Still the trees wear a many-colored glory, 
A foliage world, in melting lustre drest, 
And like the picture linked to some bright story 
The charmed scene upon the eye doth rest: 
Here (hung with tapesty of all georgeous colors,) 
Doth Autumn’s hand its lights and shadows weave; 
On leafy glade, still vale, green hills, and hollows— 
This month of beauty doth its magic leave. 
Oh 1 orchard trees1 ye are a gift most gracious 
Through spring, and summer, and the Autumn prime— 
Beneath your tent-like shades, spreading and spacious, 
My memory turns to childhoods blessed time 1 
Of red stealc’d blossoms ’mid the leaf .‘■cents vernal— 
Of cherry blooms, blown down in snowy showers— 
By the soft gales of spring-time airs supernal, 
Freighted with sweetness from the garden flowers: 
And later still, as memory wanders round me 
I scent the spicy breath of ripening things; 
And bending low the fruited boughs surround me, 
And the rich Grape its wine-like odor brings I 
O golden month! I love you well—but never 
Wert thou so welcome to my Life as now, 
When sick and tired of this world’s “ fitful fever” 
I sit and watch the misty sunshine glow, 
On all the scene I Falls there a dreamy splendor 
Though the soft haze that droops along yon trees? 
Veiling in shadows golden-hued and tender, 
The red-flush’d Maples—and the Willow’s gleam 
Athwart the wave, in paler tinted masses— 
And fair among the scatter’d Autumn flowers 
The fringed fern its slender image glasses, 
And the green Alders tell of eailicr hours I 
All things are steep’d in the delicious beauty 
Peculiar to this georgeous Western land : 
The Clematis sends forth its fragrant duty. 
Its cloud-like tufts by south-west breezes fann’d : 
The Golden Rod and Aster, vie in brightness, 
The braided Mullein shows its topaz gems— 
And, gleaming with a pure and tender whiteness, 
The Wax Berry hangs on its silvery stem. 
Patches of paler green lie upon the meadow— 
The grassy pastures wear a fainter glow, 
The flowers are color’d with a lighter shadow 
And wild-bird-notes, more plaintive sound and low 1 
0 golden month! thine hours are well nigh number’d . 
Calmly thou’rt fading from the Earth away— 
The dreamy sunlight that so softy slumber’d 
On thy fair face looks sad at thy decay— 
And like the coat of many colors splendid— 
Yon forest in its Autumn robe doth shine, 
Iks burnish’d Gold and georgeous crimson blended 
With emerald and amber rich entwine. 
These pleasant days will soon be gone, and Winter 
With bitter blast and cold and storm shall come; 
Through all thy haunts his icy breath will enter— 
Where'er tboust been, his frosty foot shall roam : 
But not forever! days and months will vanish, 
And thou wilt come with hopeful life again; 
Oh! might we thus the world’s cold winter banish, 
And live like thee unknowing care and pain! 
THE DOVE OF THE STORM. 
BY DORA M’NEILLE. 
Gently and quietly the night folded his 
wing over a pleasant home among the Green 
Mountains, where a happy circle were gather¬ 
ed round a blazing fire of maple wood. It 
was one of those old-fashioned homesteads of 
which every one has a bright ideal; tall trees 
bent over it as if to shelter the young hearts 
that beat happily under that roof, and peace¬ 
fully, even as the birds that sung to them 
through the long summer days, dwelt the little 
mountaineers in their secluded home. Their 
parents had now been absent a week on a visit 
to friends at a distance, though it was mid¬ 
winter, and the broad evergreen forests were 
thickly covered with snow. They were not 
the people who spend in pleasure the loveliest 
season God has given us, for little thought 
could they take of journeying for amusement 
when the rich fruit and waving grain was ri¬ 
pening fast for them to gather. 
It was the farmer’s season for flitting now; 
the harvest moon had long since waned, and 
left rich stores in barn and granary. There 
were stalwart boys to leave at home, who knew 
right well what care was needful; and the pa¬ 
rents had not feared to leave the little band 
alone without any protection but their own in¬ 
nocence, and the care of Him in whom they 
trusted. 
Trained as they had been to brave all storm 
and danger, caring lightly for either, the hardy 
children had enjoyed the independence of 
being “left to take care of themselves,” as 
James Graham had expressed it, and now they 
were recounting all the home duties they had 
performed, for the absent ones were expected 
home that night, and each little heart beat rap¬ 
idly in the consciousness of having done right 
“Well,” said James, “I guess father don’t 
expect to find the corn all husked when he 
gets home.” 
“No, nor the old shed all boarded up so nice¬ 
ly,” said Richard. 
« What have you got to tell father, Annie?” 
said James to a little gentle creature, who 
looked like a white morning glory with blue 
eyes. 
“ Oh, I shall tell how good we’ve all been, 
and how I helped you feed the lambs every 
day.” 
“You’lltell him we’ve been good,too, wont 
you, cousin Marian?” asked Richard, for the 
roguish boy began to remember certain instan¬ 
ces of his teasing and fun which he thought 
might not sound very well in the account. 
A gay and brilliant girl was cousin Marian, 
who had escaped from the dull restraint of city 
life, for a little whitb to enjoy the freedom she 
loved. Oh, it was strange how she could 
leave a sphere of gayety and fashion, where 
she was the brightest star, to sit on that old 
stone hearth in the farmer’s kitchen, to crack 
butternuts or help pare apples till her little 
white hands looked black enough; but she did 
love it, and dearly they all loved her, she was 
so gifted and so kind,’so winning to all; and 
then, as James said, she was a first-rate hand 
at making candy and popping corn. 
But Marian Neville was not genteel, indeed 
she wasn’t; for she had rather play the romp¬ 
ing games of the country girls, or coast with 
James Graham, of a moonlight night, than 
dance the bewitching polka in her splendid 
city home; and why should she not? for the 
shadows of old bending trees tremble on the 
frozen lake, and the moon shines brighterthere 
than gas-light does in a crowded room, on 
beauty which God did not make. Perhaps, 
too, Marian had holier thoughts than of mere 
enjoyment, for every night she had gathered 
the children round her, and with them repeat¬ 
ed a prayer so earnest in its few simple words, 
that their young eyes closed reverently as they 
knelt, while all her mirth and gayety were for 
a few moments forgotten. 
Now as she sat on a rude, low seat, with 
Annie’s sweet face resting in her lap, the glow¬ 
ing fire lit up her face with the truest gladness 
as she answered Richard: 
“Yes, coz, you’ve been good most all the 
time, but—” 
While she was speaking the whole group 
was startled by a low distinct rapping on the 
window pane, and there, with its white breast 
close against the glass, was a trembling dove 
picking the frost-covered window, as if it plead 
for shelter amid the driving storm. All the 
children ran eagerly to the door, and Richard 
laid the dove gently and carefully in Marian’s 
hand. The flickering light of the candle shone 
far out on the lonely road, and dimly showed 
two figures all wreathed in the falling snow.— 
It was unusual in that lonely place to see 
strangers passing thus at night, and the ever 
restless Richard exclaimed; 
“ You carry in the dove and warm it, and I 
will run out and see who they are.” 
Beautiful looked that half frozen dove to 
the kind ones who had rescued it. As it nest¬ 
led close in Marian’s bosom, there was a gleam 
in its opening eyes that seemed almost human, 
so earnestly it told of gratitude and content.— 
They all smoothed the ruffled white plumes, 
caressingly, talking all the while to “ Bo vie,” 
as if it knew their meaning. They scarcely 
heeded the entrance of Richard until he said: 
“ These folks were beggars, and wanted that 
we should keep ’em over night, but 1 told ’em, 
as father always does, that every town took 
care of its own poor, and if they stayed at 
home they needn’t suffer.” 
“ Who were they? how did they look? 
where did they come from?” inquired they all 
at once. 
“ Oh, they looked bad enough; there was an 
old man, and a girl as big as Marian, and they 
came from some place down below that I never 
heard of before. The old codger said he was 
going to see his brother up north, but I guess 
he made up that story.” 
“ Why, Dick, I didn’t think you’d turn off 
an old man and a poor shivering girl, in such 
a night as this;” and as James spoke he went 
to the window, adding, “I don’t think father 
and mother will come, it storms so; if they are 
on the way they’ll put up somewhere.” 
“ The old man’s breath smelt, of rum,” an¬ 
swered Richard, “ and if he can buy that, he 
can buy a lodging. I did pity the girl to be 
sure, for when I told them the tavern was two 
miles off, she said, ‘Oh, dear, that seems a 
great ways.’ ” 
“Father says its only encouraging folks to 
drink, if you do any thing for them when they 
wander about so,” continued Richard. 
He did, indeed, repeat an oft-heard senti¬ 
ment of his father’s, when he said, for, though 
a worthy man in most respects, Mr. Graham 
was one of those who “remember the poor” 
only so far as the sufferers were good and vir¬ 
tuous, and. struggling hard to support them- 
selvs. 
But the holier and better teachings of his 
wife had given the children other feelings, and 
Richard’s conscience smote him when little 
Annie quietly said: 
‘ Mother wouldn’t have sent them away if 
the man did drink rum.” 
“You promised us a story, cousin Marian,” 
said Richard, glad to turn from a painful sub- 
juct; “ tell us about old times, I like those best.” 
“Tell about a war,” said James. 
“ About Indians,” said Fred. 
“ About when you was a little girl like me,” 
said Annie. 
“ Tell us about something you never told us 
before,” said a quiet boy in the corner. 
If the gifted Marian had one power in per¬ 
fection, it was that highly valued but rare gift 
of telling stories. There was a long low seat 
in the kitchen, which they called a “ settle.”— 
It answered the purpose of a wood-box and 
sofa in the winter evenings, and being painted 
bright red and varnished, it looked like a good 
natured face in front of the fire. 
On this the children used to set for hours I 
and listen to cousin Marian’s enchanting sto¬ 
ries, which were usually the thrilling realities 
of history dressed in her own glowing thoughts. 
Sometimes she recited an old fairy tale or some 
wild legend of early times, but to-night the 
white-plumed dove lay lovingly by her, and 
her eyes rested sadly on its trembling breast, 
as it uttered these low moaning sounds, which 
nothing on earth can equal in plaintive sadness. 
Marian’s heart beat time to the mournful notes, 
for there were noble feelings striving against 
her woman’s fearfulness; thoughts of poor suf¬ 
ferers in that wild storm, of their peril, and it 
might be of their death. She rose resolutely 
and said : 
“ I am going to find those beggars.” 
As she spoke she began to wrap a shawl 
around her, while her lovely face glowed with 
courageous feeling. 
“ Don’t go,” pleaded little Annie, “you’ll be 
all buried up in snow.” 
“ God will take care of me, Annie,” she an¬ 
swered, laying the blue-eyed dove in the child’s 
lap. 
“ You shall not go alone, cousin Marian,” 
said Richard, whose better feelings were awa¬ 
kened by a little reflection. 
“ I’ll carry the lantern,” said James, for, 
rough boy as he was, he knew how to admire 
her heroic resolution, and he knew the peril of 
such an errand. 
While they are hastily wrapping cloaks and 
coats around them, we will fellow the beggars 
on their lonely path. 
****** 
“That house looked some like our old home, 
didn’t it, pa,” said the pale, sad-hearted girl, as 
she looked back on the sheltered house where 
shelter had been refused them; “oh, how I 
wish we were back where we used to live,” she 
added as the old man walked on silently. 
“ You have forgotten, haven’t you, that the 
old place don’t belong to us now,” he answer¬ 
ed, harshly; “ don’t worry about it, for we can’t 
help it now.” 
“ I know it,” she said sadly, “ we have no 
home any where.” 
Oh, how mournfully those simple words were 
spoken, bearing the tale of a young heart 
crushed and blighted, of young hopes chilled 
forever. It touched the heart of the hardened 
rather, and he drew his motherless child close 
to his side, murmuring : 
“Poor dove, poor Isabel !” 
Ay, the beggar-girl bore that proud name, 
and she had graced it in happier days, when 
her father was an honored and a trusted man, 
when the noblest vessel on the broad lakes was 
his own, before rum had ruined a god-like in¬ 
tellect and wasted a princely fortune. 
It was dark now in those forsaken hearts, 
even as on God’s earth, and their path was lost. 
Faster came down the blinding snow, and in 
their utter desolation the wanderers at last sat 
down, unable to proceed and weary with exer¬ 
tion. And now the neglected Isabel lay fold¬ 
ed in the bosom of the father whose fallen for¬ 
tunes she had so devotedly followed, and hot 
tears fell from his eyes on her pale face. 
“ Isabel, darling, can you forgive me that I 
have deprived you of love and home, and eve¬ 
ry thing on earth ? can you forgive me for be 
ing a drunkard ?” 
“ 0.h, father, do not talk of these things now; 
I am happy in dying with you, my dear father.” 
Shadowy phantoms gathered dimly around 
the repenting man, pointing far back to a lost 
home and character, to the grave of a broken¬ 
hearted wife, and to the fast-closing eyelids of 
his gentle daughter. Broken words of agony 
and contrition mingled with the hollow dirge 
that the old trees suug over the dying. 
Isabel’s eyes were shut; the father knew it 
by bending his cheek down till it touched hers, 
and he felt almost glad that he saw not the 
closing of those gentle eyes, so many a weary 
day their light had cheered him since poverty 
and drunkenness had driven him out to beg 
for daily bread; they were clear and blue as 
the waters of their own beloved lake, and they 
ever looked kindly on him. Now they were 
closed; the eyes of her weary spirit were open¬ 
ed, and she saw such white-winged angels as 
had often floated dimly through her dreams, 
and sun-bright flowers and gushing fountains, 
and dwellings of wondrous beauty were before 
her. 
They were perishing ; though Isabel had 
earnestly longed to die, as she revives a little 
from the death-lethargy, she nestles closer to 
her father’s bosom, and feels it sad to lay down 
a young life there in the dreary tempest, so 
far from all of life and sympathy—and once 
more she gazes round and yees the wild clouds 
parting slowly, and one star trembling in its 
distant home. No,’tis not a star,’tis a light, 
and there are sounding footsteps and cheerful 
voices near. 
The father roused himself at her hurried 
words, but they were too nearly exhausted to 
call help. Marian heard a faint cry as of one 
perishing; it was just like the moaning notes 
of a dove. 
“ Here, Richard, this way with the lantern !” 
she exclaimed as she bounded over the snow¬ 
drift by which the wanderers lay. They saw 
a bright face bending over them, and felt that 
life was yet theirs. Marian seemed suddenly 
gifted with skill and energy to restore them, 
and the boys could hardly believe they saw 
their wild cousin in the snow-wreathed figure 
before them. She poured warm cordials on 
the colorless lips of the old man, while James 
took the light figure of Isabel in his arms and 
wrapped her in his own coat. She smiled 
faintly in gratitude, and entreated him to go 
to her father; but he was already standing by 
his preserver, anxiously inquiring for his daugh¬ 
ter. The whole party now heard the sound of 
approaching sleigh-bells, and Richard joyfully 
exclaimed : 
“ Tis father and mother !” 
Though startled to see so strange a group by 
the road-side, the parents soon understood all, 
and the old man was comfortably placed in 
the sleigh, while the rest followed in his track 
homeward. James would not give up his res¬ 
cued charge, and leaning on his strong arm, 
with cousin Marian’s ever joyous words of 
hope in her ear, Isabel felt like one waeking to 
a new life. 
It was late on that eventful night when the 
blazing fire went out on the hearth, and all 
were asleep. In vain they sought for the res¬ 
cued dove; it had flown, none knew whither, 
for little Annie had fallen asleep while the oth¬ 
ers were away. 
Morning brought new bloom to Isabel, but 
not so to her father. A few days he lingered, 
and those who watched tenderly by the dying, 
saw the flashing forth of a glorious intellect 
even in decay. When the next Sabbath sun 
was setting, the sun of his life went down also, 
not in clouds and darkness, but surrounded by 
a holy light, even that of hope and trust in 
heaven. 
And what became of the orphan, Isabel?— 
They took the sweet bird to their own nest, 
and she became a gentle sister for the little 
Annie, a loved daughter to her protectors, 
and when five bright summers had flown light¬ 
ly by, she became the happy wife of James 
Graham. 
Never was bridal graced by fairer guest 
than the light hearted and lovely Marian; and 
though the white dove never returned to nestle 
in her bosom again she always called Isabel, 
in the language of her own hearUromance, 
The Dove of tub Storm. 
Hit anti Junior, fjoniji’s Corner. 
A CATEGORICAL COURTSHIP. 
I sat one night beside a blue-eyed girl — 
The fire was out, and so, too, was her mother ; 
A feeble flame around the lamp did curl, 
Making faint shadows, blending in each other; 
Twas nearly twelve o'clock, too, in November; 
She bad a shawl on also, I remember. 
Well, I had been to see her every night. 
For thirteen days, and had a sneaking notion 
To pop the question, thinking all was right; 
And once or twice had made an awkward motion 
To take her hand, stammered, coughed and stuttered, 
But, somehow, nothing to the point had uttered. 
I thought this chance too lucky to be lost; 
I hitched my chair up pretty close beside her. 
Drew a long breath, and then my legs I cross’d, 
Bent over, sighed, and for live minutes eyed her; 
She looked as if she knew what next was coming, 
And with her foot upon the floor was drumming. 
I didn’t know how to begin, or where— 
I could’nt speak—the words were always clioaking; 
I scarce could move—I seemed tied to the chair— 
I hardly breath’d—’twas awfully provoking! 
The perspiration from each pore was oozing, 
My heart and brain and limbs their power seemed losing. 
At length I saw a brindle tabby cat 
Walk purring up, inviting me to pat her; 
An idea came, electric-like at that—• 
My doubts, like summer clouds began to scatter; 
I seized on tabby; though a scratcli she gave me: 
And said—‘ Come, Puss, ask Mary if she’ll have me.” 
’Twas done nt once—the murder was now out. 
The thing was all explained in half a minute ; 
She blushed, and turning pussy cat about, 
Said—“ Pussy, tell him yes,”—her foot was in it I 
The cat had thus saved me my category, 
And here's the catastrophe of my story. 
Narrow Escape. —Old Mr. Fuddle fell down 
in a puddle, just as a runaway horse and shay 
came slashing, and splashing, and tearing that 
way. In helpless plight, he roared with fright;, 
the horse came quick—all gallop and kick; 
when the old man raised his great oak stick.— 
The horse then shied a little aside, for sticks 
were no friends to his well-fed hide. Within a 
foot of Fuddle’s toes, within an inch of his ru¬ 
by nose, the wheel came whizzing and on it 
goes. Up rises Fuddle from out of the pud¬ 
dle, and stands on the road with a swaggering 
pride; then wheeling away from the scene of 
the fray, flourishes his stick with a hero’s pride. 
A Fashionable Church. —An old gentle¬ 
man from the “ rural districts,” having been in¬ 
vited, hist Sunday, by one of our citizens, to 
attend divine service with him, at a fashionable 
church, the beams, rafters, etc., of which, 
agreeably to modern custom, are exposed, was 
asked, 
“ Well, Mr.-, how do you like the looks 
of our new church?” 
“ Well,” was the reply, “ arter ye get it 
‘ lathed ’ and ‘ plastered,' it won’t be a very un¬ 
sightly lookin’ consarn.”— Boston Museum. 
ILLUSTRATED REBUS, NO. 45. 
Lady Mary Duncan was a rich heiress, and 
Mr. William Duncan was her physician during 
a severe illness. One day she told him she had 
made up her mind to get married, aud upon his 
asking the name of the fortunate chosen one. she 
bade him go home and open the Bible, giving 
him the chapter and verse, and he would find 
it out. He did so, and thus he read: “Nathan 
said unto David, thou art the man.” 
The young king of Portugal, ou Sir Edward 
Landseer, the animal painter, being introduced 
to him, said, “ he was very glad to make his 
acquaintance, for he was very much fond of 
beasts.” This reminds one of the reverend 
joker, Sydney Smith, who, when Landseer in¬ 
vited him to sit for his portrait, replied, “ Is 
thy servant a dog that he should do this thing?” 
“ Why don’t you wheel the barrow of coals, 
Ned?” quoth a learned vender of black dia¬ 
monds, to his man. “ It i3 not a very hard 
job—there is an inclined plane to relieve you.” 
“ Ay, master,” replied Ned, who had more rel¬ 
ish for wit than work, “ the plane may be in¬ 
clined, but hang me if I am.” 
A house fell into a reservoir in New Bed¬ 
ford on Saturday last, but was rescued by the 
spectators without serious injury. Upon being 
asked by a benevolent gentleman “ if he was 
much hurt?” he said neigh, and trotted off. 
Punch thinks it is not a matter of much sur- 
pise that we hear constantly of absconding 
railroad contractors when it is remembered 
that it is a regular business with these fellows 
to make tracks. 
In a cigar shop in Parliament street, Lon¬ 
don, the following notice is posted:—“ Credit 
given to gentlemen, but cash expected from 
members of Parliament.” 
It is suggested that the “Diet of Worms” 
would be a very good name for the recent 
Joint Worm Convention in Virginia. 
' Answer in two weeks. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
MISCELLANEOUS ENIGMA. 
I am composed of 30 letters. 
My 14, 13, 4, 5, 9 is a troublesome animal. 
My 3, 20, 22, 2 >, 26, 6 is a portion of Africa. 
My 24, 25, 21, 14, 11, 12, 6 is a State in our 
Union. 
My 8, 27, 7,17 is what some like to tell. 
My 7, 11,16, 18 is public property. 
My 19, 30, 28,2,15 is what you give a beggar 
My 1, 29, 25 is what you see in the winter. 
My 10, 16, 17, 20 is a great support. 
My whole is the road to wealth. 
Le Roy, N. Y. 1. n. h. 
jgf” Answer next week. 
Enigma.—I am word used to express regard 
transpose me and I am what you will do when 
you see this ; transpose me again and I am what 
bullies often do to those they meet ; eut off my 
head and I am a useful organ. p. 
Answer next week. 
Sri' 
Answer to Illustrated Rebus No. 43.— The 
Atuocrat of all the Russias failing John Bull. 
Answer to Miscellaneous Enigma in No. 43.— 
A true heart is not found beneath every smiling face. 
Answer to Mathematical Question in No. 43 : 
0.987654321 
' 0.987654321 
1.975308642 
EYE AND EAR INFIRMARY. 
Dr. Wai.kkr, OculiRt and Aurist, (from London, Eng¬ 
land,) may be consulted daily, and testimonials obtained 
at the office, 82 Suite St., Rochester, N. Y, 242-tf. 
THE WOOL GROWER AND STOCK REGISTER. 
A fellow in the jail wishes he had the small 
pox, so he could “ break out.” He has tried 
everything else, he says, but he can’t come it. 
It seems paradoxical, but nevertheless true, 
that the latest intelligence always consists of 
the earliest news. 
An India rubber omnibus is being invented, 
which, when “jam full,” will hold a couple 
more. 
A man down east has invented a cement 
which will mend “ family jars.” 
Mbs. Partington wishes to know if Ole Bull 
plays on one of his own horns! 
Why is a thief called a “jail-bird?” Be¬ 
cause he lias been a “ robbin.” 
Vol. VI.— Enlarged and Improved! 
The Wool Grower and Stock Register is the only 
American journal devoted to the important and profitable 
brandies of }Vuul and Stock Husbandry. It contains a 
vast amount of useful, and reliable iutorniutiou on the 
above and kindred subjects, and should be in the hands of 
every owner or breeder of Sheep, Cattle, Horses, Swine, or 
Poultry—whether located East or West, North or South, 
for the most of the matter given in its pages is equaUy 
adapted to all sections of the Union, the Canadas, Ac. The 
Sixth Volume, commencing July, 1864, will be 
Enlarged to 32 Octavo Pages Monthly!! 
And improved in both Contents and Appearance. Among 
other matters of interest to Wool Growers, Breeders, Gra¬ 
ziers, Dairymen, Ac., the new volume will contain Pedi¬ 
grees ok Pork-Bred Cattle, Horses, Sheep, etc., and the 
Names and Residences of the principal Breeders und Own¬ 
ers of Improved Stock throughout the country. It Is pub¬ 
lished in the best style, and Illustrated with many 
Engravings —including Portraits of Domestic Animals, 
Designs of Farm Buildings, Ac., Ac. The careful Reviews 
ok the Wool and Cattle Markets, giveu in each num¬ 
ber, are alone worth many times the price of the paper.— 
To Wool Growers this feature is invaluable. 
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Chautauque and Cattaraugus, N. Y., and Warren, Pa. 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER, 
18 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY, 
BY D. D. T. MOORE, F.CCHESTER, N. Y. 
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