MOOSE’S RURAL NEW 
AGRICULTl 
AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER, 
0 e t! t a 
HOME AND FHLENES. 
BY CHARLES SWAJM, 
On, there’s a power to make each hour 
As Bvreet as heaven designed it, 
Nor need we roam to bring it home. 
Though few there be who 2nd it; 
We seek too high for things close by, 
And lose what nature found us; 
For life hath here no eharre so dear 
As home and friends around na. 
We oft destroy the present joy 
For future hopes, and praise them; 
While flowers as sweet bloom at our Jeet, 
If we’d but stoop to raise them; 
.For things afar still sweeter are, 
When youth’s bright spell hath bound ub; 
But soon we're taught that earth was nought 
Like home and friends around ns. 
Tire friends that speed in time of need, 
When Hope’s last reed is shaken, 
Te show us still, that, come what will. 
We are not quite forsaken; 
Though all were night, if but Ibe light 
From Friendship’s altar crowned us, 
Twould prove the bliss of earth was this— 
Our homes and friends around us. 
MILLIE LEE. 
ISY *LKMBNT E. BARR. 
“There,” said a friend to me one day, 
“ there goes a heroine.” I looked around but 
seeing only a little girl, trudging barefoot 
along the road, with a basket almost as large 
as herself, I turned my eyes with a glance of 
inquiry to the speaker. He answered it by 
pointing to the unromantic object just dscri- 
bed. “I mean her, Millie free. You think 
she is only a poor, shoeless, stockingless child; 
but I tell you she is a heroine, with a nobler 
heart than ever beat in the bosom of Joan of 
Arc, or Margaret Anjou.” 
My friend was not accustomed to talk at 
random; hence my curiosity was excited, and I 
drew from him as we sat in the shade to rest, 
this history of Millie Lee. 
Five years ago there came to our village, a 
laborer named Thomas Lee. He was idle and 
intemperate, his wife feeble, and heart-broken, 
their children so pale, so hungry, and so sickly 
looking, that it made my heart ache to look at 
them. They had been born beneath the shad¬ 
ow' of a father’s neglect—a mother’s hot tears 
had fallen on their faces as they drew nourish¬ 
ment from her breast, and lay upon her break¬ 
ing heart. How could they be like other 
children? On the desert shrub, every new 
leaf tells by its premature searness, of the arid 
sand in which its roots are withering. Hence 
those children never played or smiled. They 
crept about so still and sad—they ate their 
hard dry crusts, with such a melancholy look, 
that you would have thought that their home 
must have been a house of death. And so it 
afterwards was. Their father would be for 
hours as one dead!—dead to all the beauties 
of nature, to all the activities of the world, to 
all the nobility of nature, that he was burning 
to a cinder of everlasting remorse, with the 
fires of rum. Often have 1 accosted those 
children, crouching together by the door of 
their home, and tried to draw from them a 
smile; I gave them food when I knew' they 
were very hungry, and they would thank me 
sweetly; but not a gleam of sunshine would 
pass over their faces. They were grateful, 
but could not be gay. 
We tried to do something for his family, but 
the wretched father would not let any of them 
leave him, and would squander for rum, or de¬ 
stroy for spite, whatever we gave them. He 
had a great deal of maudlin independence, and 
our kindness he scornfully refused as an offi¬ 
cial interference with his affaire. Hence we 
could only carry food to his starving wife and 
children while he was at the dram-shop. 
At last Mrs. Lee died. Never saw I such 
a scene before, and God in mercy save me 
from ever seeing the like again! Lee w’as rol¬ 
ling on the floor, too drunk to understand 
what was going on, or even to rise. But his 
tongue was loose, and he accompanied the 
groans of his wife, and sobs of his children, 
with snatches of ribald songs and curses that 
made my blood curdle in my veins! 
I need not dw r ell upon the funeral. We 
managed to keep Lee sober until his poor 
wife wag under the ground. But he seemed 
to have little feeling; he went to the church 
and to the grave, like a man stunned or in a 
dream. We left the family at night, with eve¬ 
rything nesessary for their comfort, intending 
to provide homes for the children next day. 
In the morning, having made our arrange¬ 
ments, we went early to the cabin. We heard 
as we approached, a discord of mingled curses, 
screams and blows. We entered, aud there 
was Lee, in a drunken rage, with a poker in 
his hand. He had driven the children into 
one corner, and before the younger ones stood 
Millie, covering them as a hen covers her 
brood, and meeting the eye of her father with 
such a look of reproach and sadness that, de¬ 
mon as he was, he quailed beneath it After 
we had gone away the night before, the 
wretched man had stolen out to one of those 
low dens, where they would sell rum to a 
grinning skeleton if it had only three cents in 
its baud. There, pawning the clothes that 
had been given him for the funeral, he prepar¬ 
ed himself for the scene we witnessed. 
Having disarmed him, and released the 
trembling orphans, we insisted upon taking 
them all away. Millie said we might take 
Sally, and Georgy, and the baby; but she 
would stay, for, since mother was dead, there 
was nobody else to look after father. 
“ But, Millie, he will beat you, he will kill 
you!” 
“ Maybe he will, sir,” she answered,“but yet 
I must not leavehim. He gets drunk, I know, 
and then he is cross; bat still, he is my father.” 
I looked with wonder on that feeble child. 
I thought of all she had suffered from that 
brutal man, who had never smiled even on 
her childish prattle. I thought of all she had 
yet to fear from him alone in that cabin, and 
felt that no recorded instance of female hero¬ 
ism exceeded hers. We reasoned, and we 
pleaded; but Millie was firm. We were obli¬ 
ged to leave her, but with numerous sad fore¬ 
bodings. 
We heard nothing from her until the next 
day. Then she run up to see the baby, which 
was at my house. I asked her, “ how are you 
getting on at home now, Millie?” 
“ Pretty well, I thank you,” was her reply. 
“Did your father get drunk last night?” 
She tried to keep back the tern's as she an¬ 
swered: 
“ He came home very cross, sir.” 
“ Did he beat you, Millie?” 
“Oh, not much. He only struck me twice, 
and ouce it was nothing but his hand.” 
‘•And the other? yes, I see, it was with the 
poker, and he made a deep gash in your head! 
You must not stay there, Millie.” 
“ Oh, sir, it did not hurt me much, and when 
he saw the blood, it seemed to sober him a lit¬ 
tle, and he threw down the poker, and told me 
to wash my face and go to bed. And after I 
was in bed, he sat by the fire, arid muttered to 
himself, and by what 1 heard I knew that he 
felt sorry because he struck me, and I don’t 
think he will do so again.” 
Poor, patient, loving, hopeful Millie Lee!— 
She kissed the baby, and hurried back to get 
some supper for her father. 
That night I was cut late. I returned by 
Lee’s cabin about eleven o’clock. As I ap¬ 
proached I saw a strange looking object cow¬ 
ering under the low eaves. A cold rain was 
falling. I drew near, and there was Millie 
asleep, wet to the skin. Her father had driven 
her out some hours before; she had lain down 
to listen to the heavy snoring of his drunken 
slumbers, so that she might creep back to bed. 
But before she heard it nature became ex¬ 
hausted, and she fell into a troubled sleep, with 
the rain drops pattering on her. I tried to 
take her home with me, but no, true as a mar¬ 
tyr to his faith, she struggled from my arms, 
and returned to the now dark and silent cabin. 
Things went on so for weeks and months.— 
But at length Lee became less violent, even in 
his drunken fits, to his self-denying child; aud 
one day when he awoke from the heavy slum¬ 
ber of a debauch, and found her preparing 
breakfast for him, and singing a sweet childish 
song, he turned to her and with a tone almost 
tender, said: 
“ Millie, what makes you stay with me?” 
“Because you are my father, aud I love 
you.” 
“ You love me!” repeated the wretched man; 
“love me!” He looked at his bloated limbs, 
his soiled aud ragged clothes; “Love me,” he 
still murmured. 
“ Millie, what makes you love me? I am a 
poor drunkard; every one else despises me.— 
Why don’t you?” 
“Dear father,” said the little girl with swim¬ 
ming eyes, “mother taught me to love you; 
and every night she comes from heaven, and 
stands by my little bed, and says: “Millie, 
don’t leave your father; Millie, love your fath¬ 
er. He will get away from that rum-fiend one 
of these days, and then, how happy you will 
be.” 
Lee buried his head in his hands, and tears, 
the first for a long time, trickled through his 
fingers. He said no more; but having eaten 
his breakfast w r ent out- That night he came 
home sober—the first time for many years.— 
He gave her a dollar that he had earned, and 
talked with her kindly, until it was time to go 
to bed. 
O! how light and glad was the heart of Mil¬ 
lie Lee. For hours she lay awake and wept 
for joy. After she fell asleep, the angel came 
to her in her dreams; and 0, how sweetly her 
mother smiled. Next morning she exerted her 
childish skill, to prepare a nice breakfast for 
her father. She sang and prattled with a light 
heartedness she had never known before; and 
Lee gazed with something like a parent’s pride 
and fondness on her. ne went out to work, 
and at night—late at night, after the poor 
child had waited for long—long hours, he reeled 
home drunk. 0, what a bitter disappointment. 
It almost crushed her. But the angels came 
again and whispered, “ Courage, love never 
faileth,” “ hope never faileth,” and that night 
she was repaid by the early return of her fath¬ 
er in his right mind. 
We learned afterwards that the rumseller, 
when Lee tried to reform, would waylay him 
coming from his work, and entice him back to 
the den of death. If the tempter found him, 
he wmuld yield and fall. Otherwise he would 
return home a sober man—a kind father to his 
motherless and loving child. Her patience and 
cheerfulness were unsealing the fountains of 
his heart, and had there been no human spider 
to spread a snare for his feet, he would then 
have been restored. But alas! ever and anon, 
the meshes were too skilfully woven and too 
strong. 
“And is he still a drunkard?” I asked. 
Wait a mament—my tale is nearly told.— 
Millie heard one day, of Mr. Darland, the elo¬ 
quent reformed drunkard of Westville. At 
once she concluded that he could save her 
father. So, without a word to any one, she set 
off, as soon as her father had gone to his work, 
and walked the whole six miles to Westville. 
She sought out the lecturer; she told him her 
artless, touching story. He came back with her 
and took his seat in the cabin, and sent Millie to 
briDg her father from his work. Mr. Darland 
knew how to accost him, how to advise and en¬ 
courage him, for he had gone through the same 
firey ordeal and fully conquered the appetite for 
ruui. While he, (Washingtonian and drunkard) 
talked, Millie listened and prayed. She thought 
she heard a rustling as of an angel’s wings in 
the cabin, and as the sunbeams played upon 
the wall, she imagined it was her mother’s 
smile of love and hope! That night her father 
signed the pledge, and by the help of kind 
friends, he has kept it to this day, 
It is now six months since, that memorable 
night, and though they live in the same cabin 
still, and are poor, there is not a happier, no¬ 
bler heart, than beats in the breast of Millie 
Lee. What do you think now of my heroine?” 
“She deserves a higher name than that,” 1 
nswered. “ She is an angel!” And as I look¬ 
ed at the delicate child, carrying her basket 
along the dusty road, I thought how many an 
embryo cherub may be trudging along the 
paths of human poverty and scorn, and how we 
shall wonder at the revelations there are yet to 
be, when the tinsel shall full from the false 
greatness of the earth, and its true nobility 
shall rise to shine forever in the holy light of 
heaven. 
WASHINGTON’S FISHERMAN. 
Washington ceased to be a sportsman af¬ 
ter 1787, when he gave up the hunting estab¬ 
lishment. True he had bred the blood horse, 
and a favorite colt of his, named Magnolia, 
was entered and run for a purse; but this was 
more to encourage the breeding of fine horses 
than from any attachment to the sports of the 
turf. All the time that he could spare for ac¬ 
tive exercise in his latter days was devoted to 
riding about his farm and inspecting his im¬ 
provements. Tu this he was ably assisted by 
several of his stewards and managers, who 
were Europeans, and who had brought from 
their own countries, habits of industry and 
knowledge of improved agriculture and rural 
affairs, so that, had the lurmer of Mount Ver¬ 
non been spared but a few years longer, his 
estate would have exhibited a series of model 
farms, examples to neighboring improvers and 
to the country at large. 
Mount Vernon in the olden time was cele¬ 
brated for the luxuries of the table. The 
fields, the forest, and the river, each in their 
respective seasons, furnished the most abundant 
resource for good living. Among the pictur¬ 
esque objects on the Potomac to be seen from 
the eastern portico of the mansion-house, was 
the light canoe of Father Jack, the fisherman 
to the establishment. Father Jack was an 
African negro, a hundred years of age, and 
although greatly enfeebled in body by such a 
vast weight of years, his mind possessed un¬ 
common vigor. And he would tell of days 
long past, of Afric’s clime, and of Afric’s wars, 
in which he (of course the sou of a king) was 
made captive, end of the terrible battle in 
which his royal sire was slain, they consigned 
to the flame, and he to the stave-ship. 
Father Jack possessed in an eminent de¬ 
gree the leading quality of all his race, somno¬ 
lency. By looking through a spy-glass you 
would see the old fisherman, bent nearly dou-1 ^ a u {jjg misery, 
ble, enjoying a nap, which was only disturbed ] 
by the hai-d jerking of the white perch that 
would became entangled with his hook. 
But the slumbers of father Jack were oc¬ 
casionally attended by some inconvenience.— 
The domestic duties of Mount Vernon were 
governed by clock time. Now, the cook re¬ 
quired that the fish should be forthcoming at 
a certain period, so that they might be served 
smoking on the board precisely at 3 o’clock.— 
lie would repair to the river bank and make 
the accustomed signals; but, alas, there would 
be no response; and the old fisherman was 
seen quietly reposing in his canoe, rocked by 
the gentle undulations of the stream, and 
dreaming no doubt of events “long time ago.” 
The unfortunate artiste of the culinary depart¬ 
ment, grown furious by delay, would now rush 
down to the water’s edge, and, by dint of loud 
shoutings, at length the canoe would be seen 
turning towards the shore. Father J ack in¬ 
dignant at its being even supposed that he 
was asleep on his post, would rate those pres¬ 
ent on the landing with, “What you all meek 
such a debil of a noise for, hey; I want 6leep, 
only noddin’.” 
Poor Father Jack ! no more at early dawn 
will be seen, as with withered arm he paddled 
his light canoe, on the broad surface of the 
Potomac, to return with the fancy spoils, and 
boast of his famous fish taken “on his own 
hook 1” His canoe has long since rotted on 
the shore, his paddle hangs idly on his cabin, 
his “ occupation’s gone,” and Father J ack, the 
old fisherman of Mount Vernon, “sleeps the 
sleep that know no waking.” 
A hunter, too, was attached to the house¬ 
hold establishment. Tom Davis and his great 
New Foundland dog, Gunner, were as impor¬ 
tant characters in the department of furnishing 
game and wild fowl as Father Jack in that of 
fish. So vast were the numbers of the canvas- 
back ducks on the Potomac in the ancient 
time, that a single discharge of Tom Davis’ 
old British musket would procure as maLy of 
those delicious birds as would supply the lar¬ 
der for a week .—Gust is. 
TnE Farmer. — Ic does your very heart 
good to seo a merry, fat, round-faced far- 
mor—so independent, and yet so free from 
vanity and pride; so rich, and yet so in¬ 
dustrious—so patient and persevering in his 
noble calling, arid yet so kind and obliging. 
There are a thousand noble traits about his 
character which are rarely met with in city 
life. You may eat and drink with him, and 
he won’t set a mark on you and swear it 
out of you with compound interest—ho is 
hospitable. He will do you kindness with¬ 
out expecting a return by way of compen¬ 
sation—ho is generous; not so with every 
body. He is generally more honest and 
sincere, and gives society its best support— 
is the firmost pillar that supports the edi¬ 
fice of government—he is the lord of Na¬ 
ture. Look at him in his “home-spun grey” 
frock—gentlemen! Laugh at him if you 
will—but believe us, ho can laugh back, if 
he pleases. 
Be always frank and true; spurn every sort 
of affedtation and disguise. Have the cour¬ 
age to confess your ignorance and awkward¬ 
ness. Confide your faults to but few. 
HONOR THY MOTHER. 
“Come on, boys; come on boys!” shouted 
Harvey B. to a group of his playmates. 
“Where! where!” 
“ Let’s go down to the river and have a good 
skate; I’ll show you how to cut your names 
scientifically.” 
“ Yes, come on! let’s go! let’s go!” 
“Where are you going, Millard?” 
“ I am going home.” 
“ Come on, don’t back out.” 
“ I dare not go without the consent of my 
mother.” 
“ Coward! coward! coward!” cried the boys. 
“I would not be such a child as to ask my 
mother to permit me to go where I wanted to!” 
“I’m not a coward!” replied Millard, his 
eyes flashing, and his manly form erect; “I’m 
not a coward! I promised my mother I would 
not go where there was danger, without first 
obtaining permission from her.” 
“ lie is right,” said George, “ I am going 
with him to ask my mother aLso.” 
“You can wait, or go on, as you choose,” 
said Millard; “I am going immediately, and if 
she consent I’ll join you;” and he turned on 
his heel and walked off with George. 
“ Let them go,” cried Harvey; “ They’re the 
milk sops,” were the bravos, and he ran to¬ 
wards the river followed by all of the boys. 
It was early in spring, and the sun was 
thawing the ice very fast, which made it dan¬ 
gerous to go on it, and for that reason Millard 
would not go. 
Harvey was a bad boy; he respected neither 
his father nor his mother; he prided himself on 
his manliness, smoked segars, and was coming 
on very fast 
Millard respected his mother, obeyed her 
in all things, loved all his playmates and feared 
God. 
How many Millards and Harveys I wonder 
there are who read the Sun ever}’ week? I 
think not many Harveys. 
Dear boys do you always obey your mother? 
Do you respect her? If I were to say you did 
not love her, you would be very much shock¬ 
ed, would you not? Well, you must prove 
your love by obeying her always. 
As soon as a boy thinks he is too old to 
obey his mother, scorns her counsel, smokes 
segars, runs with fire companies, stands at cor 
ners making remarks on all who pass then it 
is all up with him. I would Bot think much of 
him, but pity him and think of his poor moth¬ 
er, his wasted youth and unhappy old age.— 
Many a ruined man looks back to the time 
when he first disobeyed his mother, when he 
was tempted to do wrong, as the stepping-stone 
If you have the moral cour¬ 
age you will never fear to be called a coward. 
The real coward, is he who disobeys his moth¬ 
er from fear of ridicule .—Philadelphia Sun. 
Tub editor of tho Kenosha (Wis.) Tele¬ 
graph, says : 
“Last year we had a tree which bore ono 
apple. This year the crop of tho tree has 
doubled.” We think tho nature of the 
tree must have been totally changed, as it 
is certainly the first instance that >vo rc- 
mombor of any tree bearing one year an ap¬ 
ple, and the next year a pair. 
Decidedly Rich. —Speaking of the recent 
appearance of the sea seapent near Dunkirk, 
N. Y., the Journal of that place says :—“We 
are also told that several of our fishermen have 
long been impressed with the idea, from actu¬ 
al observation of the existence of some imag¬ 
inary monster in the waters of the lake.”— 
Very few persons are favored with actual ob¬ 
servation of imaginary monsters. 
ILLUSTRATED REBUS, NO. 49. 
The last number of tho Revue des Deux 
Mondes, contains an article on Thackeray, 
by M. Forguos. In the course of it, ho 
mentions the novelist’s cynical exclamation^ 
when he found “Esmond” eclipsed by “ Un¬ 
cle Tom’s Cabin,” “ I forgot to put a nigger 
in my novol.” 
'The principal of an academy, in his adver¬ 
tisement, mentioned his female assistant, 
and tho “ reputation for teaching which she 
boars;” but tho printer (careless fellow) left 
out the “which,” so the advertisement went 
forth, commending tho lady’s “ reputation 
for teaching she bears!” 
With love, the heart becomes a fair and 
fertile garden, glowing with sunshine and warm 
hues, and exhalfhg sweet odors; but without it, 
it is a bleak desert covered with ashes. 
An imaginative Irishman gave utterance 
to this lamentation :—“1 returned to the 
halls of my fathers by night, and I found 
them in ruins 1 I criod aloud, ‘ My fath¬ 
ers, where are they?’—and echo respond¬ 
ed, ‘ Is it you, Patrick M’Glathory?’ 
A man says the first thing that turned his 
attention to matrimony, was tho neat and 
skillful manner in which a protty girl han¬ 
dled a broom. Ho inay see the time when 
the manner in which tho broom is handled, 
will not afford him satisfaction. 
A rowdy, intending to be very witty thus ac¬ 
costed a lady in the street:—“ Madam, can you 
inform me rare I can see the helephant?” “No, 
save,” said the lady, “ but if I had a looking- 
glass I could show you a very large monkey.” 
The rowdy slid. 
LWritten for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
MISCELLANEOUS ENIGMA. 
I am composed of 30 lett-era. 
My 28, 3, 12, 24, 19, 2 is what all desire. 
My 7, 10, 1, 29 is used on farms. 
My 14, 15, 18, 6, 1, 18, 16, 7 is an art. 
My 8, 13, 5,19, 3 is a mnsical instrument 
My 21,14, 29 is a quadruped. 
My 11,24,26, 23 is a part of the human frame. 
My 22, 25, 27, 12, 16, 1 is not filled. 
My 4, 15, 26, 29 is a coin of Genoa. 
My 9, 3, 17 is a color. 
My 20, 15, 14 is a kind of juice. 
My 30, 14, 11, 9 is sharp. 
My whole is stupendous and beautiful to be¬ 
hold. i. r. t. 
Answer next week. 
Enigma.— My whole is eagerly sought after 
by all, yet the wise man will love me most when 
the penultimate letter is elided from my name. 
Answer next week. t. 
Marry a pint of rum to a lump of sugar, 
and in less than an hour there will spring from 
the union a whole family of shillelahs and bro¬ 
ken heads. The marriage ceremony can be 
performed with a toddy-stick. 
At military funerals in California, it is said 
to be the practice, after burying the dead, f o 
have the band go back to the residence of the 
deceased and serenade the widow. 
Answer to Illustrated Rebus No. 47.— I un¬ 
derstand a drunken man falling 100 feet in a well, 
kicked the bucket in the bottom. 
Answer to Miscellaneous Enigma in No. 48.— 
A prophet has no honor in his own country. 
Answer to Charade in No. 48: 
Tho Sea is crossed all o’er and o’er by help of r ©edie 
fine, 
The yellow, red, and black and white—and ere you cross 
the line 
You see its waters blue and green. The second is a 
Son, 
Which all men are of women horn—yet so unborn was 
one. 
For Adam was ere woman was; thus every man on 
earth, 
Beggar and king, a mother had to whom he owed his 
birth. 
Join Sea and Son —yon Season make, which varies 
everywhere, 
As climate or as weather make?, and is or foul or fair; 
’Tis hot, ’tis cold, ’tisvret, ’tis dry; fish, flesh, fowl, love 
and treason 
Even prose and rhyme aro sometimes in aud sometimes 
out of Season. 
KEDZ1F3 RAIN WATER FILTERS. 
MANUFACTURED BY 
J. E. Cheney & Co., Rochester, N. Y. 
The use of water impregnate d with lime and othjr min¬ 
eral substanoes, in the opinion of all medical men, is one 
of the chief exciting causes of many diseases incident to 
the varied climate of this country. 
These Filters have been fully tested, for many years, by 
hundreds of families in this city and in various pans of 
the country, and have in all cases given the highest satis¬ 
faction. 
Rain water, of whatever color, taste, or smell, by this 
means becomes as clear os crystal. 23S-lamtf 
Hr. C. Moore, of Gerry, Chau. Co., is authorized 
to act as Agent for tho Rural New-Yorker, aud for the 
Wool Grower and Stock Register, in the counties of 
Chautauquc aud Cattaraugus, N. Y., and Warren, Pa. 
MOOSE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER, 
18 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY, 
BY D. D. T. MOORE, ECCHESTEE, N. Y. 
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£57“ Subscription money, properly enclosed, may be eent 
by mail at the risk' of the Publisher. 
* # * The postage on the Rural is but &)£ cents per quar¬ 
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cents to any part of the United States,— except ilouroe 
County, where it goes free. 
Advertising. —Brief and appropriate advertisements 
will be inserted at $1,50 per square, (ten lines, or 160 
words,) or 16 cents per line —in advance. The circulation 
of the Rural Nkw-Yokkku is several thousand greater 
than that of any other Agricultural cr similar journal in 
America. Patent medicines, &c., will net be advertised in 
this paper on any terras. 
!3T All comraunicationH, and business letter?, rbould 
be addressed to D. D. T. Moore, Rochester, N. Y- 
