MOOBE’S KEW-YORKER. 
“SOME DAY.” 
“Some day” is tbe bunion of toady a song that wan 
never done in rhymtb. Florence Percy has thus given 
one of them: 
You smooth the tangles from my hair 
’With gentle touch and tends rest care, 
And count the years ere you shall mark 
Bright silver threads among the dark — 
Smiling the while to hear me say, 
“ You'll think of this Again some day, 
Some day I" , 
I do not scorn the power of Time, 
Nor count on years of fadeless prime,, 
But no white gleams will ever shine 
Among these heavy locks of mine;— 
Ay. laugh as gaily as you may, 
You'll think ol this again some day, 
Borne day. 
Some day I shall not feel, as now, 
Your soft hands move about my brow,— 
1 shall not slight your light commands, 
And draw the long braids through my hands;— 
I shall be silent, and obey,— 
And you—you will not laugh that day; 
Borne day! 
I know how long your loving hands 
Will linger with these glossy hands, 
When you shall weave my latest crown 
Of those thick loadings, long and brown; 
But you will see no toueh or gray 
Adowp their shining length that Cay- 
Some day I 
And while yonr tears arc falling hot 
Upon the lips which answer not, 
You'll take from these one treasured tress, 
And leave the rest to silentness— 
Remembering that 1 used to say, 
“ You’ll think of this again some day;" 
Some pay! 
»iv m>tr 
Mi 
i TW 
ssfe&Si 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
Where There’s a Will There’s a Way. 
IJY MURIEL HEATH. * 
“On dear! What has that troublesome child 
done, now!” 
The words were uttered in no very amiable 
tone, as with a flushed cheek and frowning brow, 
Mrs. Barclay turned from her wash-tub and 
rushed to the door, to ascertain the cause of the 
loud scream. The top of a littio curly head, just 
visible in a large tub of water, which stood at the 
corner of the house, explained it all, and with 
something of a jerk, master Wii.t.ik, a youngster 
of three years, was fished out, and placed, drip- 
, ping wet, upon terra-flrma. 
“ You naughty boy! How came you in there?” 
exclaimed the young mother, angrily, as she 
dragged him into the house. “Only see how 
much trouble you make yonrma! Hero I must 
stop all business, to change your clothes! It’s a 
wonder you don’t get in bead first, though!” 
“I sorry, ma!” and poor Willie looked up, 
with a woc-begone expression, which seemed to 
say, he thought liis mother was not the only 
sufferer. 
It was Monday,— blue Monday,— and then, as 
Mrs. Barclay said, every thing seemed to go 
wrong,— and indeed, everything seemed to go 
wrong, most of the time, nowa days. Wilde 
was soon divested of his wet garments, and made 
more comfortable with dry ones,—the necessary 
scolding finished, and lie dismissed with an in¬ 
junction not to leave the house, from which only 
a short time before he had been ejected, lest Mrs. 
Barclay should be crazed by his voice, and she 
was ready to return to her tub, when the chubby 
occupant of the cradle, in the corner, began to 
Bliow signs of activity. It was no use now to jog 
the cradle. Baby’s nap was finished,— he was 
wide awake, and ready for immediate attention. 
He was not to be put off, either, ns he assured 
his mother, with all the strength of his little 
lungs, when she attempted to leave him! Mrs. 
Barclay glanced anxiously at the clock. It was 
almost eleven, but there was nothing else to do, 
hut to take up the baby and attend to bis wants, 
immediately. By the time this was done, the lire 
was out, and the water cold. 
“Well, Harry will have to take a cold lunch 
to-day, that’s all!” sighed Mrs. B., “and that al¬ 
ways vexes him. But I can’t help it, I'm stire!” 
and with a troubled brow, she returned to her 
work. 
The bouse presented a scene of confusion. The 
floor was unswept, and as Willie could not go 
out of doors, he must needs hare employment in 
the house, and had therefore drawn the chairs in¬ 
to a pile, and was busy constructing houses. The 
baby sat upon the floor, in his dirty wrapper, sur¬ 
rounded by tin pans, cups, and everything the 
house affordod, likely to keep him quiet. Mrs. 
Barclay’s appearance was anything but prepos¬ 
sessing. Her dress was a worn-out calico, with 
many a rent and groase spot, and the wavy masses 
of her brown huir had evidently been untouched 
by a comb, that day. Her flushed fuce, might 
have been very pretty, bad it not been for the 
care-worn look, which seemed habitual. And ee 
she scrubbed away, and Willie drew bis chairs 
about the floor, and tho baby rattled bis tin pans, 
and in the midst of it all, the door opened, and 
the husband and father entered. It wti» no very 
inviting sight to a hungry man, and he glanced 
about the room, with a just as-I-expected sort of 
air, and something of ft cloud on his flue brow. 
“No dinner to-day, Lizzie?” 
“No! You’ll have to take a cold lnnch in the 
pantry. You don’t expect I can do everything, do 
you?” 
“No, and I do not think you have everything to 
do, either.” 
“0! of course not! Woman’s work is nothing, 
but 1 only wish you had these two children to 
take care of, for on, 4 'ay!” 
| Harry said no more, for he disliked a scene, 
and with a scornful look, wended his way through 
I the multiplicity of things, to the pantry. His 
dinner was, indeed, only a cold lunch, not sea¬ 
soned will) kindly smiles, loving tones, or pleasaut 
thoughts, and it was hastily eaten. As be passed 
through the room again, he cast one glance of 
almost disgust, at the disorderly state of things,— 
at the slatternly figure of his wife, and the 
uncared-for appearance of his children, and with 
bitter thoughts, bunied from the house. Ashe 
passed on, he thought of the home he had so often 
pictured to himself in former days,—the cheerful, 
inviting fireside, and the neat, smiling wife who 
should always greet him there. 
And Lizzie Barclay had caughtthat look of 
her husband, and it spoke to her plainer than 
words. She saw what was in his thoughts, and 
with a feeling of utter despondency, she called 
het husband unjust, and unfeeling, never once 
dreaming that she was not doing the best in her 
power to make him happy, and contented. Thus, 
with a heavy heart, she plodded wearily on thro’ 
the day, and when at night the tea-things were 
put away, after the unsocial meal, and the child¬ 
ren fast asleep, she sat down by the fire, to soothe 
her sorrows, and ease her troubled heart, by wo¬ 
man’s solace,— a good, hearty cry. Harry bad 
gone out. It was not often now that lie spent an 
entire evening with her, and it was seldom that 
Bbe knew where he was. She reviewed again, in 
thought, the huppy scenes of her childhood, when 
a mother’s love shielded her from evil, and in 
fnneystood again, with a bursting heart, beside 
that mother’s grave. Then, when the poignancy 
of her grief had subsided, the Joyous hours of her 
girlhood, in the home of a wealthy and indulgent 
uncle, who bad done everything but teach her the 
responsibilities of life, passed before her vision. 
Hhe remembered her first meeting with Harry, 
and their happy courtship, when his dark, earnest 
eyes had looked into her own, and vowed eternal 
love. She knew then that he was poor, compara¬ 
tively, and if she married him, she must forego 
many of the luxuries to which sin; had been ac¬ 
customed; but, oh! she had such bright,romantic 
dreams of love in a cottage! Little did she dream 
of the cares and anxieties found even there! 
Scarcely five years bad passed, and now!—she 
had never imagined that she could be half so 
miserable. She did not know why it was, but 
Harry seemed to have grown weary of her. And 
then be was so very particular,— she. thought him 
rather exacting! 
Lizzie Barclay was not bad at heart. She was 
young and inexperienced, and her greatest fault 
was a lack of energy. She had been too much 
accustomed to loan upon others, and was too 
much inclined to yield to trilles. If her husband 
chided her for a fault, she wept, and told him he 
did not love her; and us he was not always as 
gentle in his reproofs as he might have been, she 
had learned to answer Bharply in return. But 
Harry was far from being the cruel man she 
thought him. Trained to habits of the most per¬ 
fect neatness, by a mother whom ho considered 
the embodiment of all womanly virtues, nothing 
shocked him more than a slovenly appearance, 
and disorderly lionso arrangements. He bad 
never once imagined that bis wife could be dif¬ 
ferent, in this respect, from his mother, and he 
did not consider how little accustomed Lizzie had 
been to managing affairs herself, or how much 
she needed the earelul training a mother only can 
give. Had ho really understood these facts,—-had 
lie only known how well she really loved him, and 
how much she would have been willing to do for 
him, the case would have been different. As it 
was, he attributed all to a want of taste and love 
of order, and a disregard for his comfort, and so 
each laid the blame entirely to the other, and the 
breach between the husband and wife was daily 
growing wider. If, at times, she did strive to do 
better, bo considered it only what she might 
always do, and it. was his opinion that no one 
deserved praise for the mere performance of a 
duty, and so withheld the word of praise and en¬ 
couragement which his young wife so longed for, 
and which might have done so much toward 
establishing the very stato of things he desired. 
And Lizzie thought. “Tt is no use trying! Harry 
does not care how I look, or what I do,— he does 
not even appear to notice it,” k and so she relapsed 
into the same old way. 
On this particular evening Harry wc-nded his 
way, as usual, to the reading-room. Taking up a 
paper, he glanced rather carelessly over its con¬ 
tents, for his thoughts were not there. The sad 
face of his wife haunted him, and her words as he 
left the house,—“Are you going again to-night, 
Harry? ’still rang in his ears, lie thought,— 
“ How gladly would 1 stay with her, if she would 
but make my home pleasant! If I stayed she 
would only recount her day’s trials to me, and 1 
have enough of my own, and, besides, her untidy 
appearance is enough to drive any one from 
home!” He only thought this; he would not 
have said it, for the world. Suddenly his eye 
was arrested by the title of a sketch in the paper 
ho held,—“ Praise among the married.” His first 
thought was, “ How little have / to praise!”—but 
then a secret monitor whispered, “Do yon even 
praise when you have occasion.” lie read the 
piece carefully through. The thought hud never 
occurred to him before, that perhaps it was praise 
and encouragement when she did do well, that his 
wife needed. Long time did Harry Barclay 
ponder that eveuing, ns he sat there, unmindful of 
wbatwas passing around him, and at last be came i 
to a conclusion, which it would have been well 
for him to have reached before,—viz: that he 
might possibly have misunderstood his wife, and 
might nothave done exactly right, in all things! 
And he resolved that if ever again he saw her 
striving to do right, it should not be for lack of 
encouragement, that she did not succeed. 
Meantime Lizzie sat with her face buried in her 
hands, giving loose rein to her bitter thoughts, 
and so entirely was she engrossed by her gloomy 
reverie that she heeded not the gentle rap at the ; 
door, which was twice repeated, and then the door j 
was softly opened, and a good motherly face look- i 
ed smilingly in. Lizzie looked up, as she heard i 
a footstep beside her, and met the kind eyes of 
Aunty Brown. It was too late to try to hide the 
tracts of tears, and, indeed, Lizzie knew that 
Aunty Brown would only sympathize with her. 
and she felt that she could open her heart to her. 
,So she said, “ Oh! I am so glad you have come! 
I am feeling very wretchedly to-night!” 
Quietly the good old lady kissed the brow of 
her young Mend, and laying aside her bonnet, 
took from her pocket the never failing knitting- 
work, and drawing her chnir close beside Lizzie 
said, “ Now, dear, what is it? Tell me all about it” 
“0, I am so unhappy!” sobbed tbc poor girl, 
her tears fulling afresh at the kind words, as she 
buried her face in Aunty Brown’s lap. 
She let her weep, gently stroking her hair with 
her soft hand, and gradually she grew calm, a9 if 
there were something mesmeric in the caress. 
Then she told her all her troubles,— bow every¬ 
thing Beamed to go wrong,—and Hahry did not 
love her, and went away evenings,—and how very 
particular he was, and found fault when every¬ 
thing was not just so nice —as if one could always 
keep things in order. 8he was sure she did her 
best, but her children were very troublesome, and 
of late she had felt quite discouraged, and thought 
It was no use trying. 
Very soberly Aunty Brown listened to the 
story of her young friend’s trials, and with ready 
tact saw where the difficulty lay. She knew 
Lizzie’s whole life, and made all allowances for 
her. When she had finished, she said, kindly, 
“Now, my child, you would give all the world, 
were it yours, to better this state of things, would 
you not?” , 
“Oh yes! yes!” cried Lizzie, eagerly; “canyon 
tell m a—will you tell me what to do?” 
“I think I see what the trouble is, and I think I 
can tell you how you may win hack your husband 
to your home and heart; but, dear Lizzie, can you 
bear to have me speak very plainly to you? Aud 
will you not be offended if, perhaps, 1 tell you, 
that in some things you are much to blame?” 
“No, indeed, I will not!” said Lizzie. “If I 
am wrong, 1 surely wish to know it, and I will 
try—oh! so hard!—to do better, if you will only 
tell me how!” 
And faithfully, as if she were teaching her own 
daughter, did the good woman strive to show her 
wherein she failed, and how she might amend. 
“Yon should have,” said she, “a regular system, 
and tho most, perfect order in the performance of 
your household duties. A time for everything, 
and a place for everything. Let no trifle disturb 
your arrangements,—mnch less your temper. A 
husband dislikes to see a frowning face, aud 
smiles beget smiles. Next to this, and of no less 
importance, is your own personal appearance. It 
is almost as easy to appear in a neat und becom¬ 
ing attire as in a slovenly and unbecoming one, 
and there is no way in which the wife will sooner 
Iorc the respect of her husband, than by allowing 
him to see her so habitually.” 
“ But,” said 1 .izzik, blushing at the thought of her 
own neglected appearance, “Harry does not say 
anythintr when I do (try to reform, and I think 
sometimes he does net notice it.” 
“But, my dear, do you not give up i uu ouour 
Are you not too easily discouraged? Aud I am 
afraid my Lizzie has been petted too much, and 
learned to work more for praise than principle! 
Yon must strive, darling, to make these fixed 
habits, and soon you will perform your duties 
with a real love for them, and to please yourself, 
as well as your husband.” Much more did Aunty 
Brown say, in her kind, motherly way, and Lizzie 
saw, and acknowledged, with tears und blushes, 
how sadly deficient she had been. “Never fear 
but that you will succeed, if you persevere, and 
just Ree bow much you can do toward a reform, to 
morrow,” said Aunty Brown, as she bade hc-r a 
kind good night. Lizzie could hardly Bleep that 
night, so busy was she with plans for the morrow. 
It hardly seemed possible that one day could 
have wrought such a change) Tho tea-table was 
drawn out, In the kitchen of Harry Barclay’s 
home, and Lizzie was impatiently awaiting his 
arrival. Very tempting looked that tea-table, with 
its snowy cloth, and neatly arranged dishes. 
Liz/, i k looked at least two years younger—for the 
anxious look was almost gone, and there was no 
frown on the fair brow-. She could not refrain 
from casting a smiling glance into the minor, 
now and then, and whispering to herself—’' 1 am 
sure, Harry must be pleased now!” And cer¬ 
tainly, he would be a very difficult man, were he 
not—for Lizzie was looking very piettily. The 
neat, dark deluinefltted bertrim figure to a charm, 
and the bit of dainty lace around her fair throat, 
waH vastly becoming. And her hair,— Lizzie had 
not forgotten that Harry once admired curls, and 
for the first time, in many a day, she had taken 
pains to wind it around her Unger, aftd let it 
fall In brown, shining ringlets, but it had not for¬ 
gotten the way. The room was arranged as 
neatly as two tastful hunds could arrange it—for 
Lizzie bad both taste and skill, when she chose to 
exercise them. 
The children had not been forgotten in the gen¬ 
eral reform, and were as sweet and clean-looking 
as could be desired; and Willie was quite lost in 
admiration of himself and his “pretty mamma,” 
as he called her. But Lizzie concluded that it 
would not do to wear curls every day — for baby, 
too, had taken a wonderful fancy to them, and 
seemed to think them an admirable plaything, 
arranged for liis special benefit. She bud just 
succeeded in quieting this youngster, aud had 
laid him away in his little crib, when she heard 
Harry’s step. It called a bright flush to her 
cheek, and caused her heart to beat a little luster, 
but she strove to look very unconcerned. As 
Harry entered, at once glance he saw the change 
—the tidy room—the neat table—and, above ail, 
the charming figure of his little wife, who sat 
there with her eyes cast down, trying to look very 
demure and unconscious, though the smiles would 
keep dimpling round her mouth, and she could 
not refrain from stealing a glance at her husband, 
just to see if he was observing. There wrh a glad 
smile on his face, and he came toward her with an 
admiring gaze, exclaiming, “Why, Lizzie, you 
look just like the girl I married, now! Yes, I be¬ 
lieve quite as pretty!” and he imprinted a really 
lover-like kiss on her glowing cheek. That was a 
very happy meal, at the Barclay's that night 
Harry found his new system of praise worked so 
well, that he even went so far as to praise the 
nice, light biscuit and fragrant tea, though they 
were nothing very unusual. Lizzie felt that it 
would be very easy to follow up the same course, 
if he were only so kind always; and Harry 
thought he would never ask for a pleasanter 
home, if Lizzie only persevered. After tea, how¬ 
ever, Lizzie’s heart sauk, when she saw him take 
nphis hat to go out. He saw her anxious look 
and said, "I will not be gone long, Lizzie. You 
could not coax me to stay away from such a 
pretty wife and cheerful fireside as I have found 
to-night!” 
When he returned, the tea things were put 
away, Willie wag snug in bed, the lamps were 
lighted, und Lizzie sat with her work-basket, by 
the stand. It was Just such a picture of borne- 
comfort as he had often longed to see; and it was 
with a feeling of real satisfaction, that he drew his 
chair opposite her and asked, a» he displayed a 
volume which ahe had expressed a wish to see, 
“Khali I read to you, Lizzie?” She gave a glad 
assent, and the evening passed swiftly and happily 
away. And it was not the last of such evenings. 
Encouraged by Harry’s praise and her own suc¬ 
cess, Liz,zie persevered. She met with many 
obstacles—for It was not easy to change her 
whole course at once; and it was a long time 
ere a perfect system was established in her house 
arrangements; but she never forgot the painful 
experience of former days, and good Aunty 
Brown often culled and gave her a word of ad¬ 
vice, and, at last, all went on harmoniously. 
Harry no longer spent his evenings away from 
home; and had yon visited his wife at any time, 
you would have seen a neat little woman, with 
smooth, glossy hair, (the curls only appeared occa 
sionally,) and a pleasant face, whoso dress was 
always tidy, and who always found time, by a little 
management, to get her husband a warm dinner— 
even on wasbing-day! 
Webster, N. Y , I860. 
■ — ■■■■ •»»-»• - 
| Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
VISIT TO A LOBSTER FISHERY. 
As the day was pleasant, I determined gratify¬ 
ing my desire to witness the catching of lobsters. 
Off I started, and in about two hours found myself 
in close proximity to several shabby-looking 
shanties, situated on the shore, while before them 
waved the sparkling waters, causing many scat¬ 
tered blocks of wood to bob up and down. As 
they neither approached the shore, nor each 
other, and as each kept in a particular place, my 
curiosity was aroused. On entering the first 
shanty I reached, I discovered, to my delight, an 
old friend whom I hud not seen for a long time. 
He was seated on a stool, whittling, and smoking 
his pipe, and the solo occupant, except a snap¬ 
pish cur that sprung, growling, ul me bs I entered. 
But my friend, throwing down his stick, pocket¬ 
ing his knife, and laying aside his pipe, sprung 
forward to give me welaama. 
After being seated, and having chatted awhile, 
I Inquired why it was that no one was stirring 
about, as I thought there would be many. 
“All are having a holiday, but me,” he replied. 
“I came here with the expectation of seeing 
yon catch lobsters, but don’t see any of that 
business going on.” 
“You will if you be here in the morning. 
That is the time we work the most,” he answered. 
“For what use ate those blocks of wood?” I 
asked, pointing through the doorway. 
“They are oar buoys, and are fastened by lines 
to oar lobster pots, which are sunk to the bottom 
by means of a stone. But you had better stay 
with me to-night, aud to-morrow morning I will 
show you all.” 
I did not much like the idea of sleeping on a 
hard bunk of straw, but after much persuasion, 
consented. 
My friend and I were up the next morning 
just as the sun began to shed its flood of light 
upon the water. After partaking of a light 
breakfast, we got into a wherry and started for 
the buoys. Pulling up alongside of one, iny 
friend grasped the block of wood, aud, by tbc 
line attached to it, pulled a sort of basket into 
the boat, called the “lobster pot.” It was about 
three feet long and two wide. Its form semi-cyl¬ 
indrical, and rested, while in water, on its flat 
side. On the top was a door, through which the 
lobsters were taken out. 
“How did they get into the trap?” I asked. 
“into the ends,” he replied; and showed me 
an opening at each end, around which were 
placed short and flexible pieces of wood, project 
ing into the basket, and arranged so that they 
would easily separate and allow the lobster to 
enter; bnt their points came together alter him, 
so that he could not get out. After replenishing 
the bait, which was the offal of fresh fish, he 
dropped the basket iuto the water. After all the 
pots (of which there were about twenty) bad been 
emptied, the bait replenished, and again dropped 
into the water, there was quiie a pile of lobsters 
in the boat. They were very tierce, and quarreled 
with each other desperately. But my friend had 
prevented them from doing any injury, by insett¬ 
ing sharp, wooden pegs, which he had provided, 
into the joints of their pincers, so that they could 
not come together. He had to be very careful, 
however, In handling them, else he would receive 
many a sharp bite. 
As soon as wo landed, the lobsters were put 
into a long box, made of planks, and bored full 
of holes, which was pushed out in the water at a 
short distauce from the shore, where they would 
keep fresh for several days. Some others, as I 
noticed, who had been engaged in the same kind 
of employment, put theirs in hand-barrows, and 
were wheeling them to a shed on the shore. On 
asking what they were about to do with them, my 
friend replied that they were preparing them for 
market. Being desirous of seeing and knowing 
how it was done, at my request my friend accom¬ 
panied me to the shed, but the sight was not very 
pleasing to Witness. A brisk fire had been 
kindled under a large cauldron, suspended by 
chain from a long and stout piece of timber, 
resting horizontally on the crotched ends of two 
posts set firmly in the ground. The kettle was 
filled with water, and as soon as it commenced 
boiling the living lobsters were thrown in, and 
kept there by a heavy plank cover until their 
color was changed into a bright scarlet They 
were then taken out, ready for market Their 
color when first taken out of the water, was of a 
dark green. I once did think, when I saw them 
for sale in the streets, that scarlet was their natu¬ 
ral color. The season for catching lobsters lasts 
from March to July. 
Having seen all I desired, and having bid fare¬ 
well to my friend, I departed. 
Shelby, N. Y , 1860. W. Harrison Ross. 
^ .m'w m 
mm* 
mm 
imm 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
HISTORICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL ENIGMA. 
I am composed of 37 letters. 
My 3, 4, 6, 35,16, 28 was a celebrated geographer. 
My 20, 36 was the name of a barbarous tribe of 
Europe. 
My 29, 3ft, 33, 9, 35, 6, 9 was a title given at one time to 
the emperors of Rome. 
My 27, 26, 10,11,12, 6 was the moBt eminent leader of 
the reformation. 
My 21, 27, 24, 6, 34, 35, 37, 6, 35 was an Egyptian queen. 
My 21. IS, 6, 26, 9 was the founder of the I’emian Empire. 
My 34, 19, 2, 29, 8, 34 was the father of Alexander the 
Great. 
My 3A, 26, 31, 5, 26, 17 delivered an oration on the death 
of Julius Ca-far. 
My 23,12, 27, 3, 22 is tbo name of the inhabitants ot a 
principality of South Britain. 
My 29, 8, 20, 21, 20, 28, 26, 3ft, 37, 25, 3 was a Roman dic¬ 
tator. 
My 34, 7,6, 6, 1, 25, 36 was king of Epirus in ancient 
Greece. 
My 80, 33, 34, 27,14. 6 was a German astronomer, 
My 8, 32, 3ft, 13, 36, 34, 12,36. 6,14 was one of the greatest 
of dramatic poets. 
My 18, 6, 27, 3,12, 7 was Henry VIlTs prime minister. 
My whole is an axiom. Lovisa 0. Card. 
Gainesville, N. Y., 1860. 
Answer in two weeks. 
For Moore’B Rural New-Yorker. 
MISCELLANEOUS ENIGMA. 
I am composed of 38 letters. , 
My 23, 32. U, 17, 26, 3(1,20, 6, 38 is a county in Illinois. 
My 13, 0, 19,11 Is a building material. 
My 36, 3. 18, 28,16, 6,16, 6, 36, 6 is an islaud in the Pacific 
ocean. 
My 4,13, 6,1 if: something worn by young ladies. 
My 7. 25, 29. 24 is without an cod. 
My 38, 6,16, 28. 37, 27 is the name of a general in the 
war of the Revolution. ) 
My 2, 8, 38,21 is one of the sweetest words in our lan¬ 
guage, 
My 22, 7,12. 0,10 is an article of food.. 
My 33, 34, 88, 23 is an Ex-Governor of Virginia. 
My 15, 31, 22, 17, 26 is the name of a bird. 
My 14,10,19, 3, 15 is the name of a small animal. 
My whole is a proverb of Solomon. 
Oxford, N. Y., I860. Libbib, 
1 3T Answer in two weeks. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MATHEMATICAL PROBLEM. 
I, in my garden, having traced 
A walk that ran due cart and west; 
At the east, wiih good design, 
I drew a true meridian line, 
And at the place of intersection, 
Planted was, by my direction, 
A white N&rcUea, wbieh there grows, 
And at the western eud a rose,— 
Southward, where the meridian ends, 
A beauteous lily, drooping, bends. 
Now, from the lily to the rose, 
A butterfly directly goes, 
And, at right angles to its roam, 
A bee from tbc Narcissa comes. 
Feet two hundred eighty-eight 
From the rose the insects meet, 
And tarry not, but each pursue,— 
The coarse that either insect flew, 
The bee halted, when due west 
Of where the butterfly did rest. 
Feet one hundred sixty-two 
The little bee must yet pass through, 
Or it can’t sip the lily's dew. 
The length of the walk, meridian, and course that 
either insect flew, required. C. 
Ravenna, 0 , I860. 
Answer in two weeks. 
ANSWER8 TO ENIGMAS, Ac., IN NO. 544. 
Answer to Grammatical Enigma:—A man is known by 
the company he keeps. 
Answer to Miscellaneous Enigma:—A stitch in time 
saves nine. 
Auswer to Arithmetical Problem:—90 miles. 
Answer to Mathematical Problem:—2.5198 plus inches. 
Answer to Charade:—Drag-o-man. 
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