LITTLE CARL. 
I!Y ANHO.I G. GHK8TKH, 
Little dimpled lingorr. 
JJttle fairy feet, 
f<ittle silvery accent*— 
Silvery and Bwcel— 
Cheek* a* fair a* lilies, 
)lair a* golden bright 
Ah the eta if of heaven 
On a summer flight, 
Eyes as blue as harebells, 
IJpB us red a* wine, 
lirow hh white as snowdrops— 
Mother’* brow and mine! ^ • 
Such In toy baby-boy— 
Such 1* little Carl. 
'Twae but now he Uin*ed me— 
Kissed mo ere he slept, 
Pillowed on a bORom 
Where I oft have wept; 
While I gaze bo fondly, 
A* in (deep he Hob, 
Lot he is transfigured 
To my wondering eye»; 
And hi* mother changes, 
A* I look upon her— 
Surely thi* is Bethlehem, 
Christ and the Madonnu! 
Blessed, blessed baby-boy— 
Blessed little Carl. 
Life i* sad, my baby! 
Man is false and strange; 
Barth in full of Borrow, 
Bitterness and change! 
Meet them like a hero, 
As thy years increase— 
Fearful its the struggle, 
But the end 1 b peace! 
Angels hover o'er thee, 
CheruhB sing thee on, 
Till thy race is ended, 
Till thy work in done I 
Cot) keep my baby-hoy— 
Keep my little Carl. 
[Iluffalo Courier. 
;t©?: t@m® 
vttkmltLJ Eli tMk 
£ 
[Written for Moore's Bund New-Yorker.] 
LYDIA MATHEWSON’S JOURNAL 
BY EMILY C. HUNTINGTON. 
[Concluded from page 44, last number.] 
March 12 th. —I have been pitting for an hour in 
the great chintz-covered rocking-chair, by the 
kitchen hearth. I walked across the room, too— 
and an our Irish Maggie need to say, “It is so 
good that I can go through the floor again.” It is 
understood in the family now that I am to go 
away as soon aR I am fairly well; and while 1 
measure my strength day by day, as eagerly as a 
miser would his gold, Mrs. Watson is continually 
pointing out my weakness and bad symptoms. 
I believe she will heartily regret losing me; and 
I am sure 1 shall never forget her motherly 
kindness. 
I looked in the mirror to-day for the first time 
since I was sick. My hair has nearly all fallen 
out, and I am as bald as a Chinaman; and alto¬ 
gether I present rather a ludicrous visage. 
March With. —1 begin to feel very much like my 
old self, and watch from the window to boo how 
the Bnow is disappearing, except little strips on 
the tops of the bleak hills. Spring is stealing 
into these valleys slowly but surely; and I think 
I shall see them green again before ) leave them. 
1 have seen very little of Seth lately, as lie is over 
seeing the spring work on a farm several miles 
from here, and only comes home occasionally. 
But last evening Airs. Watson went out to a 
neighbor’s and left me all alone, and 1 promised 
myself a delightful time. ] drew the little stand 
in front of the bright fire, got out my portfolio, 
and established myself for a long chat with 
Frankie, I was very happy, both in the actual 
present and in the possible future, to which i 
looked forward; but 1 had got no further in my 
letter than “ My Dearest Frankie,” when T heard 
somebody's heavy boota “a mspin on the scraper,” 
and in a moment Seth walked in, bade me a civil 
good evening, and hung up his hut and whip in 
their accustomed places. “Oh dear!” thought I, 
my heart sinking at the sight, “then he has come 
to stay all night, and I shall have to talk to liim'till 
his mother comes home.” 
Seth drew a chair before the fire and stretched 
out his great feet towards the blaze; ran his hands 
through his shock of straw-colored hair; now and 
then glanced slyly at mo, but did not seem at nil 
disposed to converse. 1 tried in vain to think of 
something to say about his farm work, and finally 
went to writing. Beth began to fidget in his 
chair, and T knew something was coming,—as 
Mrs. Wathon says of the approach of a north¬ 
easter, “ I felt it in my bones.” 
“’Bposo you’re mighty glad you're goin back 
cast,” he begun after several stammering attempts. 
" Yob,” said I, “ it will be pleasant to be with 
my friends again, although the people here arc 
very kind to me.” 
“Waal, 1 shouldn't like livin cast Jim Barnks 
says, down in Connecticut where he has been 
visitin, they don’t raise no wheat; live on a kind 
of brown bread, that looks ns if the meal was 
ground in a sawmill, und bolted through a 
ladder.” 
I laughed, but did not refute the charge. After 
a moment he began again—“I reckon I've got 
about the nicest farm here that can be scared up 
in this neck of woods; there aint no prettier land 
in the Btatc of New York than them south med- 
ders.” Then another silence, during which he 
looked anxiously at me to see the ell'ect of this 
eulogy, then went on. “I’ve been thinkin some 
about gettin married. Mother is gettin middlin 
old to have the care of the dairy, und, any way, 
a right smart, girl would bring in more money 
than ’twould cost to keep her, I reckon, takin one 
year with another.” Again I laughed, and com¬ 
mended his resolution, but he hardly waited to 
hear me through before be said, “’Spose you 
wouldn’t like furrain, would you? cause if you 
would I’d—you might- Fa 6c wHim t<> marry you 
myself.” The last words were bolted out with a 
desperate energy, and, as if greatly relieved by 
the utterance, he pulled out his red silk handker¬ 
chief and rubbed his forehead vigorously. I very 
calmly assured him that I did not think I should 
like farming at all, and suggested that it was 
nearly nine o’clock, and he had better go after his 
mother. “ I reckon I had,” said ho, slowly, rest 
ing his hands upon his knees, and gazing into the 
fire. “Tell ye what,” said he, “I'd be willln to 
have it in the bargain that you should have all 
the egg and butter money to get gimcracks with, 
and I’ll give you that red heifer besides. Come, 
now, that's fair.” I was obliged to decline even 
thi* tempting offer, and then he put on his hat 
and started for the door. Coming back in a 
moment, he said, “ I reckon you'd better take a day 
or two to think about it ’Taint every day you'll 
git so good a chance, and you uint uncommon 
handsome, nor no ways smarter than the ordinary 
run, as I know on.” 
With these complimentary words, Seth vanish¬ 
ed, leaving me to laugh or cry over the occurrence, 
as I saw fit. I think I did both, and then went off 
to bed, thinking to myself, sure enough, 1 am not 
“uncommon handsome”—I shall find it out, by- 
and-by. 
April 17 th .—It is all arranged that I am to start 
to-morrow. My good-byes are all said, my trunks 
nearly packed, and I am ready to leave this place, 
where I have passed so many hours of mingled 
joy and sorrow. Mrs. Watson has made me a 
parting present of a Blaster of Paris cast, repre¬ 
senting a green parrot standing on a coal-hod 
full of frost-bitten tomatoes. She bought it of a 
traveling peddler, because, us she said, “the 
tomatoses was so natural.” 
I shall go directly to New York, and spend a 
short time with Helen; then go to Judge Hyue’b 
until Helen gets to house-keeping, in the fall, 
when I shall make my home with her. 
Oct. Hth .—Ever since last spring thiB journal 
has been lying untouched in the bottom of my 
trunk. I pulled it out this afternoon and sat 
down and read it all over. I am glad 1 have 
written it; for it will always keep fresh in my 
memory things that I should be very sorry to 
forget. I am pleasantly situated here in Helen’s 
new home, and 1 think I would rather be here 
tlian at Judge Hyde's. 1 was there all summer, 
but I do not think I was quite as happy as usual. 
Dr. Harley was often there, and was quite atten¬ 
tive to me, as the guest of his friends, hut it did 
not take much penetration to see that all his 
thoughts were with Frankie. I am sure he loves 
her, but some bow I never could bring myself to 
say anything to Frankie about it. Eddie has 
noticed it too, and I think it is troubling him. J 
may as well write it down here that I was not at 
all pleased with this discovery. 1 am not w illing 
to own that 1 have foolishly fallen in love with 
this Dr. Harley, hut 1 must confess that I have 
have become altogether too much interested in 
him, and have allowed myself to treasure up a few 
idle words, that were forgotten as soon us uttered, 
and give them an undue weight. How blind it 
was in me not to have seen all tiiis long ago, or to 
have imagined that any one would have a thought 
for me, when one so beautiful, so lovely as 
Frankie was by. 
At the time when I settled all this in my mind, 
I took up a miniature ol' Frankie and gazed long 
at the exquisite beauty of the pictured face; then, 
walking resolutely to the mirror, 1 took a delibe¬ 
rate survey of myself, and inventoried every 
feature. "It is a fact, Lydia,” was my conclu¬ 
sion, that you are, as Beth said, "not uncom¬ 
mon handsome. Yon are in every respect, quite 
ordinary, and you may as well make up your 
mind to be a quiet sort of a nobody.” ] have 
made up my mind, but as the old lady said, 
“ sometimes 1 don't know, and then again I'm in 
doubt.” 
Nor. 3(7.—Aunt Esther has had an ill turn, 
and was greatly alarmed, and fancied she was 
going to die. I sat with her last evening, and 
read to her until she was tired of listening. All 
at once she began to question me abont Judge 
Hyde, — his house, his children, hi# present wife, 
and finally himself. “How does he look," she 
asked. I described him as a noble old man, with 
a fine head, and a face that I should think must 
once have been very handsome. “ He was,” said 
she, eagerly interrupting mo; “he was the hand¬ 
somest man 1 ever saw.” “Then you knew him,” 
said 1, smiling at her involuntary betrayal of this 
long-cherished secret. "Who said 1 knew him,” 
was the pettish answer. Then, after a moment of 
silence, she said, “ 1 may as well tell you all about 
it.” So she gave me the story of her life, and of 
her engagement with Judge Hyde —how It was 
broken up on the very eve of her expected mar¬ 
riage; almost shaking her reason by the sudden¬ 
ness of the shock. Even now she could not speak 
of it without some bitterness. “It was not just 
because be didn’t love me, for I bad no right to 
have expected that, but be did me the greatest 
wrong in taking from me all my trust in human 
affection and honesty. It came hack to me very 
slowly, and even now I make my life bitter by 
doubting where others only confide, Oik; thing 
I want you to promise me. When I die 1 want 
the dress and veil that are in that little trunk put 
into my coffin, and the dead roses, too; and I want 
the ring put on my finger—it will stay on when 
my hands arc still—and I don't want to leave any 
of these things behind me, for folks to laugh at. 
Will you promise me this?” I promised, and she 
lay quietly for a while; then, raising herself up, 
she looked at me, and said, “I've said this to 
you because I think you’ll be more apt to remem¬ 
ber. Helen will have her husband and family 
to think of, and she'll forget all abont me; but I 
don't think you'll ever be married. You'll be an 
old maid like me, only I hope you will have more 
comfort of your life than I ever had.” 
“ Why do you think I shall be an old maid, 
Aunt Esther,” I queried. 
“ Oh, I can’t tell yon exactly, but you never 
had any of Helen’s winning ways. You look 
well enough, but somehow people never seemed 
to take to you very much, and—perhaps it’s only 
a whim—but I always felt from the day of your 
birth that my fate was on you.” 
“ An old maid," thought I, a* I sat there in the 
silence, “can i quite accept that prophecy? Am 
I strong enough to go through this life without 
some love to lean on that will be greater than any 
human love I have yet found? Is there no 
throne for rne in any earthly love? Well, if thi# 
be so, I will try to accept my fate, and remember 
that though the finite fails u# in our utmost need, 
the Infinite love ia offered unto all.” 
Dec. 18 th. —Frankie has sent me an urgent in¬ 
vitation to come and spend the Christmas Holi¬ 
days with them, and Helen insists upon ray 
going. Eddy will be there, and that is one in¬ 
ducement, hut I do not know as it will be well for 
rne to go. Frankie writes that she ha# some¬ 
thing very special to tell me, but will not write 
it 1 know well enough what it is, and hope I 
shall be sensible enough to hear quietly from her 
lips that she is engaged to Dr. Harley. I think 
I shall go. 
Dec. 23(7. —Frankie has just left my room. 1 
was sitting by the fire, half stupid from the effects 
of my journey in the cold, for I only reached 
here late this evening, when the door opened, and 
Frankie stole in and crouched down on the floor 
beside me. We talked of Indifferent matters for 
awhile, and then sbe said, timidly, “ I wanted to 
tell you about my engagement before I went to 
bed” —she hesitated, and I said, calmly," I 
know all about it, Frankie, and am not so very 
much astonished.” 
“ Ob, then he has told you, has lie? Well, I am 
glad—buf,” she added, looking doubtfully in my 
face, “arc you really willing?" 
Bo she fancied 1 was in love with him! My 
pride was touched, and I answered quickly, “ I am 
sure I don’t know why I should have any objec¬ 
tions. Why do you ask such a question?” 
“ Because,” said she, hesitatingly, “ I always 
thought you thought he was so perfect, that be 
was most loo good for anybody.” 
“ You are very much mistaken,” 1 answered, 
“I do not think him such a paragon by any 
means?” 
“Well, then, / do," was her laughing retort, and 
she kissed mo, and ran off to her room. 
It is strange how a little pride lias helped me.— 
II Frankie had not go plainly intimated that she 
thought me an ardent admirer of the Doctor, I do 
believe I should have felt badly; as it is, I never 
eared less for any announcement. One tiling 1 
would like to know, and that is, if he really did 
take that lock of my hair? 
Dec. 247/r.—1 am so bewildered by the recur¬ 
rences of this day that I can hardly feel sure that 
it is really I, Lydia MathewbON, sitting here and 
making this record. 
Eddy and I were sitting alone in the parlor 
this morning after breakfast; 1 pretending to look 
over a book of engravings, and Eddy drumming 
upon bin boot With 1 ti*. nkje's little riding-whip. 
“ I suppose,” said lie, after an awkward pause, 
" that Frankie has told you about this new en¬ 
gagement,” 
“Yes,” said I, dryly, and turned over several 
leaves in the book. Then, looking in his happy 
face. I added, in a surprised tone, “you look as if 
you were very glad.” 
“ Glad! Why shouldn’t I be glad, I should like 
to know? Isn’t Frankie the very dearest, sweet¬ 
est girl in all New England, and the rest of crea¬ 
tion besides—and am 1 not the very luckiest 
fellow in this universe! Glad! I should like to 
to know why not!” 
“Eddy!”—and I dropped my hook, and stood 
facing him —“do you mean to say that Frankie 
IIvdk is really engaged to you?” 
“Of course I do,” was his astonished answer. 
“I don’t sec anything else to he specially happy 
about. Are you going crazy? I'll call Frankie 
and get her to testify.” 
1 wont straight up to my room and sat down, 
and tried to think. Everything was confused at 
first, but by-and-by I saw how it all was, and really 
blushed to think how glad I was that Fkankif. 
was not going to marry Dr. Harley. The light¬ 
hearted girl came singing along the hall, 
“1 sing because my heart is light, 
My heart i* glad l»y day and night.'' 
She called me to come down and help her make 
evergreen wreaths for the w indows, and we sat all 
the forenoon on the dining-room iloor, tying up 
wreaths and festoons of evergreen and the bright 
red berries of the Alder and Bitter-Sweet. Eddy 
pretended to help, but it was only to be near 
Frankie, and us 1 watched him, following her al¬ 
ways with swell a world of pride and tenderness 
in hi# eyes, I wished sucli a love might he for me. 
Just before dark Dr. H arley came, and 1 was so 
much afraid of having him think me too glad to 
see him, that I surprised him by an unusual cold¬ 
ness and formality. Ah, it was ft bright, merry 
evening, and with songs and smiles, and pleasant 
words, the long hours sped lightly by. We 
played some merry games, in which even the dig¬ 
nified Judge joined heartily, in redeeming some 
forfeits, Dr. Harley was sentenced to repeat a 
verse of poetry. He stood a moment to think, 
and then in his clear voice repeated, 
“Sculptorsof Life me we us we stand 
With our souls mi carved before us, 
Waiting tho hour when, ut Cion’s command, 
Our ljfe*droalvi pusses o'er mb. 
If we carve it then on tho shapeless stone, 
With many a sharp incision, 
lbs heavenly beauty Bhall be our own, 
Our lives , that nrigel vision.” 
There was perfect silence in the room for a 
moment, as if every one of us were repeating the 
beautiful words over in our hearts. “Sculptors 
of Life,” said the Judge slowly, “that is grand;” 
and he sat looking thoughtfully into the fire.— 
For me, I hardlyjhCcde.d the rest ol'them, memory 
was so busy with me, bringing back tho picture 
of that sweet May morning, almost three years 
ago, when 1 first heard from those same lips the 
noble words of the poet They were spoken then 
to encourage me in a struggle upon which I was 
just entering, and in a moment all the changes 
that had swept by me since that hour came up to 
my mind. Some one else was thinking of it too, 
for presently, when the merry voices were ringing 
again, a familiar voice asked, close beside me, 
“Is there not more of pleasure than of pain in 
looking back over those old conflicts and vic¬ 
tories?” 
I started from my reverie, and glanced around 
the room. Eddy and little Wallace were going 
through a pantomime amid the laughter of the 
company, and no one seemed to be noticing that 
1 #at alone by the window—not alone, for Hr. 
Harley was still waiting the answer to his ques¬ 
tion. I answered him presently, amid smiles and 
tcarp, for after all it was pleasant to look back, 
even though my heart had traveled over more than 
one grave in coining from that May morning to 
this blessed Christinas Eve. Thrice blessed it 
was to me, for before the chiming bells warned us 
of the late hour, and voices and footsteps died 
away from the pleasant rooms, I knew that I held 
in my keeping a precious gift—even the greutlove 
of a noble heart. 
“ Ob, tench ub. Christ, to overflow 
Our love with prayer, anil hallow *o 
The human by divine.” 
Jan. 1st, 18—Three years ago to-night I began 
this journal, and now I make my last record on 
its pages before closing it. I may keep another 
journal, but 1 shall write no more In this. I shall 
seal it np as a precious package of memories.— 
How many changes have been crowded into those 
three brief years! I have lost some treasures, 
and have gained many. No, not lost. All my 
dearest, treasures that have been taken from me, 
shine purely upon my soul, whenever 1 catch a 
glimpse into that storehouse, where they are laid 
up beyond the reach of moth und rust Horae of 
my old hopes and dreams are gone; l have found 
better in their stead, and just now I am dreaming 
the one fond dream of womanhood. When Jane 
comes next with her rose# I shall, if it please God, 
he married. No one looks for storms and dark, 
ness in so looking forward; bow can I? Yet even 
if it comes, it seems to me it will not be so bard 
to wait for the dawning, if 1 have tills great love, 
like a glorious planet on the brow of night. Of 
all my ambitious dream# and longings for fame, I 
have only this left—to he truly worthy of the lovo 
that has been bestowed upon me—to be to thi# 
man, whom I once called “my evil genius,” a 
true type of all that is mo#t gentle and tender and 
womanly. And if, when we have lived our live#, 
he may truly say to me, “You have been my good 
angel, in all high and noble promptings, in all 
tender consoling#,” then I shall be satisfied. 
- - ♦ ♦♦- 
OLD-FASHIONED COMFORTS. 
The following graphic picture of some of the 
old-fashioned comforts of New England farmers 
is given by the Exeter News J.el ter, and its truth¬ 
fulness will be recognized by thousands of New 
England hearts: 
Our ancestors wore a frugal, self-denying 
people, inured to hardship from the cradle — 
they were content to be without almost all the 
luxuries of life, but they enjoyed some of its com¬ 
forts to which many of us are. strangers, old- 
fashioned comforts, we may term them, and among 
these the old lire place, as It, used to be termed, 
held no mean rank. How vividly tho picture of 
one of those spacious kitchen# of the oklcn time 
comes to our mind with its plain furniture, and 
sanded floor innocent Of paint, but as white a# the 
neatest of house-wives could make it. In one 
A 
corner stood the old clock, its very face wearing nn 
aspect of good cheer, and seeming to smile benig¬ 
nant!) upon a miniature moon over its head, which, 
tradition said, had at a remote period followed the 
rising and setting of its great prototype in the 
heavens, though its days of active service were 
long ago over. 
But the crowning glory ol that kitchen was not 
its white sanded floor, nor the high desk with its 
pigeon holes, and secret drawers which no ventur¬ 
ous youngster ever dared invade, nor yet, the old 
dock ticking so musically in one corner, but it 
was the old-1,i.- liioncd fire-place with its blazing 
embers, huge back log a nd iron li re-dogs Unit shed 
a glory ever the whole room, gilded the plain and 
homely furniture with its bright light, and render¬ 
ed the place a fit type of true New England homes 
“in ye olden time.” 
Never were there such apples as those which 
swung round and round upon strings before the 
bright lire of a winter’s evening,—never such 
buked potatoes as those buried deep In the ashes 
upon the hearth,—never such corn-stalks as those 
which caught a golden hue from the blazing 
embers, or turkeys like those turned slowly upon 
a spit, filling the room with savory odors so sug¬ 
gestive of a dainty repasL 
Before (lie fire was the wooden settle, and here 
the children were wont to sit in the long even¬ 
ings, tolling stories, cracking nuts, conning their 
lessons for the morrow, or listening in silence to 
the words of wisdom that fell from the lips of 
their superiors,—and anon goziu;; in silence into 
the bright fire and conjuring up all sorts of 
grotesque and fanciful images from among the 
liurniiig coals. No fabled genii willi their magic 
lamps of enchantment# could build such gorgeous 
palaces, or create such gems as the child could 
discern, amid the blazing embers of the old 
fashioned fire-place. 
And we must not neglect the chimney corner, 
where sat our grandfather iu his accustomed scut 
— his hair silvered with the snows of many 
winters,—a venerable man to whom old age had 
come “ frostily but kindly,” and whose lust days 
were like those of an Indian Summer, serene and 
beautiful even till the stars appeared iu the 
heavens. 
How pure was the air of the room iu those days! 
The huge fire-place, with its brisk draught, carried 
off the impurities of the atmosphere and left the 
air pure, life-giving and healthful. Now we 
crouch around hot cooking stoves and think it 
strange that wo l'eel so stupid and drowsy of an 
evening, or we huddle about air-tight stoves and 
wonder that the air seems burnt am! impure: or 
wo sit down iu chilly rooms lieatcd by a furnace, 
and marvel that with n)l our costly furniture, sofl 
carpets, bright, mirrors and damask curtains, they 
arc such cheerless places, so little like our Ideas 
of a New England home. 
Alas! that with all the so-called improvements 
of our advanced civilization, tho fire should be 
permitted to go out forever in our old-fashioned 
tire-places, thus burying in the ashes of the past 
so many means of health, home comfort, good 
cheer and happiness. 
'IIEIF 
"mmm 
Isbli : Lh i ' 1 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
GEOGRAPHICAL ENIGMA. 
I am composed of 35 letters. 
My 1, 7, 31,16 is a river in Rurope. 
My 25, 27, 4, 3, 13 is u peninsula. 
My 22, 26. 4, 18, 21, 6 is an ancient Empire. 
My 28. S3, 9, 27 is n capo of Africa. 
My 2, 6, 20, 30, 34, 0 is an Llaml in Polynesia. 
My 31,21, 33, 7.!), 5 is a city in Prussia 
My 32,29, 8, 13, 18 is a city in Portugal. 
My 23, 11, 10, 13 in a gnlf In Russia 
My 14, 30,12,16 is a river in Africa 
My 18, 27,15, 17,3, li), 35 is a cluster of islands in Oceanica, 
My whole is the watchword of every patriot. 
Flint Hill, Fairfax Co., Va, 1860. j,. p o 
"Answer In two week* 
■ — » —--— 
CHARADE. 
Why for my first should tears bedew my eyes, 
While for his health my fondest prayers arise? 
But that my second waits the fav'ring breeze 
To waft that first to cold Arcadia's seas; 
Ob, may my third no low of absence find, 
No weak suspension in ray laboring mind; 
But in thin breast, as durable as fair, 
Forever keep its much-loved image there. 
IffT Answer in two week*. 
— - m . 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
TkRITHMETICAL PROBLEM. 
A DOG a square well which was 6 feet by 5 feet nnd 32 
feet deep. He walled it up with stone which he bought 
ol If, agreeing to pay 75 cents per perch, (the perch to 
consist of 26 cubic feet,) leaving a circular hole down 
the centre 2>£ feet in diameter. How much must A nay 
B for the stone? J B 
Kinsman, Ohio, 1860. 
Answer in two weeks. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
A PUZZLE. 
Take five pieces, either of pasteboard or wood, the size 
of No. l,ana four the size of No. 2, and form a square, 
Which shall he 1,?» inches each way. 
King's Ferry, N. Y., I860. S. Boyer. 
fig/'" Answer in two weeks. 
ANSWERS TO ENIGMAS, &c„ IN NO. 524. 
Answer to Grammatical Enigma: 
All men are by nature equal. 
But differ greatly In the sequel. 
Answer to Poetical Enigma:—A Pen. 
" » — ■ 
Boys out Nights.— Going out nights is often one of 
the causes of evil with our hoys. There is too much of 
it with moil boys, especially iu our cities. Father Tay¬ 
lor. the sailor preacher, who has a thorough knowledge 
of hoys, a* well ub seaman, save, in hi* opt way, that 
“ night-running i* ruinous to the morals of boy* in all 
instances. They acquire, under the cover of night, an 
unhealthy stale ol mind, bad. vulgar, and prnftino lan¬ 
guage, lawless and riotous bearing, indeed,ft Is in the 
street, alter nightfall, that Vary* principally acquire the 
education of the bad. and capacity fur becoming rowdy 
dissolute men " Tin* is a true word. Boys.be careful 
of night Bfrolling. Keep in evenings, at home, and seek 
good company, good books, or innocent amuse incut there. 
llHt ani fjmnor. 
SHAKSPEARE ILLUSTRATED, 
■sfm 
5c v? 
a> SrSv w _ 
P 11 
la 
li 
71 
li ! 
flamlet — Thou eom’st in such a questionable shape 
that I’ll speak to thee.’’ 
MOORE'S RURAL NEW-YORKER, 
the largest circulated 
Agricultural, Literary and Family Weekly, 
IS PCftLlBHKD KVKitV SATURDAY 11V 
II. I>. T. MOOlit; JHKTIESfEK, li, y. 
Office, Union Buildings, Opposite (lie Court House, Buffalo St. 
Agent# in Now Yorlt and Boston. 
Subscription- C. M. SAXTON k Co,, Agricultural Book 
Publishers, 25 Park Row, (opposite Aster House,) N. Y. 
Wuoi.KKAt.lt, (to supply Periodical Dealers, Ac.) -DEXTER 
ti BKO., 14 Arm St.—ltOSS k TUI’SEY. 103 Nassau St. 
AnvititTitoNt; -S. M. PKTTL’NGlI.r. k CO.,No. 119 Nassau 
8t., New York, and No. 10 State St, Boston. 
TKHMS IN ADVANCE: 
Two Dollars a Year ?I for six months. To Glub* and 
Agents as follows:—Three Copies one year, for $5; Hix, and 
one free to club agent, for $10; Ten, and one free, for $15; 
Fifteen, nnd one Tree, for $21; Twenty, nnd one free, for $25; 
and any greater number nt same rate -only $1,25 per copy 
—with an extra free copy for every Ten .Subscribers over 
Twenty. Club j vipers sent to different Port-offices, if de¬ 
sired. As we pre-pay American postage on papers sent to 
the Britirli Provinces, our Canadian agents and friends must c 
add 12!i cents per rnpy to the club rates of the Rl’RAI..— 
The lowest price of copies sent tq Europe, Ac., is $2,60—in¬ 
cluding postage. 
tCSTF or Special Notices, &c., see preceding page. i 
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