ttjr * 
Jj 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
MEMORIES OF MY EARLY HOME. 
BY CEO. A. JIABII TOK. 
AT mention of roy early home, 
What precious memories start! 
Again a happy hoy I roam 
With pin.' mates and my cart!— 
Again the brook, with whirl and foam, 
Oft tearing through the meadow loam, 
U pictured on my heart! 
That quaint oM house I nee once more, 
Now looking just the same 
As in those happy days of yore, 
When from the school I came. 
I wonder if the old dark store, 
With peaked roof and double door, 
Has ever changed its name. 
And there on the four-corners stands 
The school-house where we played— 
Where oft we meet In playful bands, 
And study quite delayed— 
Where we so ol't, with childish hands, 
Rebuilt the walls around our lands, 
Or house or fortress made. 
And here we all rode down the hill,— 
'Twas winter’s favorite game; 
There runs a little leaping rill, 
As bright as then it catne; 
The brook winds through the meadow still, 
And then around behind the mill, 
1 fancy, just the same. 
The large, old barn, again I see, 
Where, playing hide-and-seek, 
With bounding hearts and spirits free, 
We met most, every week; 
That burn looks just the same to me 
As in those days of childish glee, 
With ducc-holct In the peak. 
1 see the Helds and play grounds where 
! tried uiy boyish kite, 
The meadow and the orchard there, 
The woods and brooklet bright; 
Those youthful hours so free from care— 
The place where first 1 bowed in prayer— 
Dear memories of delight, 
Those early scenes, then bright and grand, 
Look just the same to-day; 
But where are they who took my hand, 
And joined in every play? 
To-day we are a scattered band- 
some gone uuto the better land, 
Some wsnd'ring far away. 
South Butler, N. Y., I860. 
@? 
saeSjSS&S&ySi'? -s 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
Norman Thorpe’s Guardian Angel. 
BY CAROLINE A. HOWARD. 
[Continued from page 2S4, last number.] 
I have told you that Lucre was intelligent look¬ 
ing. In her case looks were not deceitful. The 
full forehead and the large, far-seeing eyes, told a 
true story when they spoke of deep thought and 
great power of expression. I cannot say that she 
was really a genius, for that indicates u sort of 
fire-Uy versatility of talent, a perpetual creating 
of something new. Lucy rather worked in those 
materials already so plentifully strewn along the 
ways of life. She sang of Nature, of the over- 
new and never-fathomable mystery of Creation,— 
she saug of human hearts and human loves,—she 
sang of earthly joys and heavenly aspirations. 
A bitter drop bad mingled with her cup of life, 
but the fountain was still sweet When first her 
lips recoiled from the unpalatable draught, she 
did not dash it buck into the pool, and force 
other lips to share its bitterness, hut like a 
true ministrant, she turned it quietly aside, and 
dipped again the sparkling tide for those who 
would partake. 
While living in Montville, several of her simple 
songs and poems had found their way into the pa¬ 
pers of neighboring towns; some had even 
reached New York, nnkcraled and unclaimed; 
but as her father disapproved of spending time 
on “such nonsense,” most of these productions 
never went beyond the pages of a book kept by 
her for that purpose. Now, however, alone in the 
great city, without near or dear friends, with lit¬ 
tle to do in the way of correspondence, her pen 
became once more a companion, and her heait 
found relief mid solace in this mental music. 
There was now no need to restrain the natural, 
and by no means self-assurant wish to see her 
iledgeliugs clothed in print. In a .short time edi¬ 
tors were not wanting to lend their aid in that 
essential matter. To tell the truth, editors are 
generally very accommodating in such cases. If 
a young lady or gentleman writes articles of real 
merit; mind, 1 say real, and modestly makes them 
a present of them, in the hope of an opening, they 
don't mind taking a little trouble to bring said 
articles before the public. If the writer is not too 
obscure, and promises to "be somebody,” they 
will even bestow a little praise sometimes. 
They did in Lucy’s case. It did not inflate her 
vanity; it did not make her relax one bit her wish 
and effort to please. She did not write for fame; 
indeed, it was a long time before she permitted 
her name to accompany her brain-children in 
their voyages. She was lonely. There was no 
one to claim her, to draw her close to a great 
heart, so she had an instinctive desire to draw 
near to the great heart of Humanity, for she was 
sure there was a warm spot in it somewhere. As 
to her poems, she rarely considered what others 
would say of them,—she deemed them too humble 
for criticism. She was like a mother who looks 
upon her children, and, simple and untaught as 
they' may be, loves them for a certain beauty 
which they have in her eyes, feels that they are 
good children in their way. They are bound up 
with many a hallowed association, many a strong 
cord of her own being, and more for what she 
wishes them to be, than for what they are, she 
brings them to the baptismal font. 
Lucre’s life in New York began in Autumn, and 
on January first was the great festival of the New 
Year, the day of all days to New Yorkers. All 
the previous day there were runnings to and fro 
in and out of the great house on Twenty-third 
street., and by ten o’clock on the important morn¬ 
ing, Mrs. ItiDGLEY, Mias Ridglky, and Mis^Flora, 
had ruBtlcd into the drawing-room to await the 
first call. 
Miss Ridglky, or Bella, was engaged. Miss 
Flora was juBt finishing under the charge of 
Music and French master*. The remainder of 
the youthful family were a boy of fouiteen, or so 
and three little Ridgleys, presided over by Miss 
Hastings, the governess. As the children had a 
holiday, bo hud the teacher, though she was fre¬ 
quently called upon to perform some service for 
the impatient but aflcCtionate little creatures. 
The day seemed to Lucy more lonesome than 
any which she had passed since leaving Mont¬ 
ville. She sat in her room and tried to rest and 
think, hut she was continually liable to Interrupt 
ions, so she resigned that idea and took up her 
station at an upper front window to watch the 
throng of sleighs which went and came so mer¬ 
rily. For a time this was a novel and amusing 
occupation,—an ever-shifting panorama of gaiety. 
The sight of elegant and fashionable equipages, 
prancingstceds, the handsome and youthful forms 
of many of the riders, with the continual peal of 
the door-bell and the sound of merry voices be¬ 
low, kept np a sort of excitement for her. But 
as the short winter afternoon began to wane, the 
arrivals decreased in number, and, with an aching 
heart, I.rcY could not hut notice the unsteady 
step and huud with which many a manly form de¬ 
scended the st< pB of the aristocratic mansion, and 
with bold jest or maudlin mirth, drove recklessly 
away. Once in passing the drawing room door 
she heard Mias Bella say she wished, 
"If that horrid Hicham must call, he would 
COmft earlier in the day; he was sure to get so 
shockingly boozy by two o’clock.” 
Yet she had no hesitation about pressing an¬ 
other glass upon him with her sweetest smile. 
While Lucy sat at the wiudow, a little Bhell-like 
cutter flew past, and ju one brief instant a bat 
was lifted gallantly and she had a glimpse of a 
cluster of dark hair and two bright eyes darting 
smiles upon the lower windows. It was but a 
flash, a fancied resemblance, but something 
sprang up in her heart, fluttered a moment, then 
fell heavily, as wcjbavc heard of those buried 
alive, waking from their trance, struggling vainly 
with their winding sheet and dying at last with¬ 
out a sound. £>ho arose, and bolding by the back 
of a chair, reached a glass of water from a table 
near, ami ten minntes after, you would have seen 
no trace of emotion on the calm features of the 
governess. 
Iu March came Miss Flora’s eighteenth birth¬ 
day, and of course there was a grand party for the 
“coming out.” Over a hundred invitations were 
given to the very elite of the city, and a crowd was 
expected. 
Lncv’s taste and readiness of hand were found 
very available in the decorations of the rooms 
and the preparation of the numerous toilets. 
Flora was a pleasant and social, though rather 
shallow-minded girl, and, on the whole, Lucy 
liked her. She made herself “everlastingly to he 
remembered,” so the young lady herself declared, 
by braiding and arranging her Lair in a new and 
beautiful manner for the great occasion. 
At a late hour in the evening, Lucy stood at 
one of the windows of the ladies’ dressing-room, 
gazing into the silent and moon-lit street Flora 
fluttered i[i, over-heated with the dance, to rc-nr- 
range her dress and hair. , 
"Why Miss Hastings! ar». you here? How 
you atariled me! Why don you come down 
stairs instead of staying up here so mopey?” 
I.UC\ ansured-hffr that she did not feel mopey 
in the least 
"But come! This is my birth night andl want 
every body to enjoy themselves. Come down and 
hear the music and see the dresses. You should 
sec Anna Foulard to-night she is magnificent! 
She has on a set of diamonds that cost three thou¬ 
sand dollars; only think of it! And I want yon 
to see — you know who? Give me your opiuion, 
you know. There! I’m ready. Come down with 
me und 1 will find you a cosy place in the library 
where you can see everything and not he seen. 
The music has stopped now; Mrs. Thorpe is just 
going to sing. They were talking about it when 
I came up.” 
"Who did you say?” asked Lucy, as the name 
caught her ear. 
“Mrs. Norman Thorpe. She was Yiola 
Hughes, daughter of one of our rich merchant- 
captains. She is a splendid Binger, though not so 
good as before she was married.” 
“ Hush!” said Lucy, for they had began to de¬ 
scend the stairs. 
No one noticed the pale face and slender figure 
in plaiu brown silk, which from the curtained and 
dimly lighted alcove of the library, smvoyed the 
scene beneath the blaze of the drawing-room 
chandelier. I say surveyed the scene, yet after 
the first brief glance, Lucy could scarcely have 
been said to see anything except in the direction 
of the piano. Seated on the music-stool was a 
little airy creature, surely not over nineteen years 
of age, and pretty as we iu our childhood think 
wax dolls. There was about her face a flutter of 
little curls, aud about her dress a flutter of rib¬ 
bons and lace, and that was the most definite idea 
one could get wf her at a distance. One or two 
gallants vied with each other in attentions; held 
her boquet and fan, turned the leaves of her music 
and poured iuto her ears a stream of the smallest 
coiu of conversation. She 6milcd, coquetted, and 
nodded to all, as her jeweled fingers flashed along 
the keys in a lively prelude, then in a clear, ring¬ 
ing voioe, she sang a wild Swiss caroL 
Lucy looked and listened much as she would 
have done if a bird of Paradise had suddenly 
alighted near her and greeted her with melody 
unknown before. Again and again she sang, and 
each effort was greeted with renewed applause. A 
gentleman approached and bending over her 
spoke a few words in a low tone. She was about 
to retire from the piano, hut eager voices cried 
" One more! Only one more!” 
She smiled, and the gentleman who had spoken 
to her, stepped back and stood leaning against 
the deep eiuhrazme of one of the windows. He 
was facing the alcove in the shadow of which 
Lucy stood, and she saw in an Instant that the 
face of one whom she had Been three j ears be¬ 
fore, on the top of the stage, one clear June 
morning, and the face that shot by, on New Year’s 
day, were here in one. 
Higher, more joyous the notes swelled, and 
while all nyes were turned toward the singer, no 
one observed that the brown silk had emerged 
somewhat from its obscurity In its wearer’s ab¬ 
sorbing eagerness to catch every word, and that, 
unconsciously to herself, the full glare of the 
chandelier fell upon her. A slight but hasty 
movement on the part of the tall form at the front 
window, awakened her to that fact, just as the last 
etrains of the song weie dying away. lie took 
one step forward, their eyes met, and like a flash 
she was gone. Her eyes were blinded and in her 
ears was a rushing sound like falling water, an she 
flew along the dark passage and up the back stairB, 
and (die never paused until safely locked in her 
own room she waited for the dawn. 
What was the electric language of those two 
looks, who can tell? 
Chapter IV’. 
The great financial crisis of 18— had come. 
Many a brillant scheme lay shattered in the dust; 
many a noble house bad a name no longer "upon 
’change;” many an up town resident had been 
compelled to move lower down, and was no more 
to be found on the calling liBts of their former 
"good society.” The recent failures, aud the 
great changes wrought thereby, were the daily 
theme of drawing-room and dinner-table talk. 
Lucy always dined wuh the family at the ltmo- 
lky’s, unless she preferred not to do so, and for 
some time she had heard little discussed aside 
from money matters. She had begun to weary of 
the sameness of the subject. 
"Pupa,” said Miss Flora, one afternoon atdln 
ner, “I see, in this morning’s list of failures, that 
of Messrs. Rush, Ryzk and Thori-e; is it bad?’’ 
“Bather, I’m afraid. Not over fifty cents on a 
dollar.” 
"Poor Mrs. Thorpe! How hard it will be for 
her to give up their nice house. I should think 
her father would help them.” 
"Not he. He is not any too well off himself. 
That last speculation came near upsetting him. 
IJe is too shrewd to trust much to young Thorpe, 
who, to tell the truth, is going it a little too fast.” 
"I tlionght so,” said Mrs. Ridglky; "I don’t 
knew a youug couple in our acquaintance who 
live more elegantly, or entertain on a larger scale. 
I have thought this long time that it would never 
do. There has been some rumors that Thorpe 
and his wife did not agree. Some Bay lie married 
her for her money. However that may be, she is 
but a silly child, and the best thing she can do is 
to go homo to her mother and live as modestly as 
shccan until lie gets oc.b is feet again. Herrnother 
has property, though she is stingy enough, good¬ 
ness knows.” 
“If she would do that, and Thorpe would car¬ 
ry a steadier hand than he has lately, they might 
get along. But if he don’t look sharp, there will 
not be a house in New York that will have aDy 
dealings with him.” 
“ Why, father ( 1 thought he was a very prom¬ 
ising young man. You don’t mean that ho is 
dissipated ?” 
"I can’t say so of my own knowledge, but 
things look very like it. JTe has first rate natural 
abilities, and might make a merchant of the first 
class, if he would apply himself. But when a 
youug man neglects Ills business, gives too many 
oyster suppers, and plays billiards outside of his 
own house, it is about time to look out for him.” 
" Well,” said Mrs. Ridgley, “if that is the case, 
it has come about since his marriage. There 
never was a young man who commenced life un¬ 
der better prospects,—so I have heard Mr. Foulard 
say. I never saw anything amiss in his conduct 
until the night of Bella’s wedding,— 1 think he 
drauk more wine than any other gentleman at the 
table.” 
"And at my birth-night ball, ma, two years ago, 
don’t you remember bow odd he appeared at sup¬ 
per and during the rest of the evening. You 
know he laughed and joked incessantly, in such 
reckless manner, yet 1 did not think he was in¬ 
toxicated.” 
" Several persons remarked on him that night. 
I think even hiB wife was astonished.” 
In July Mrs. Ridgley and Flora went to New¬ 
port, hut the children remained in town with their 
governess, having the privilege of occasional ex¬ 
cursions into the country. One sultry day Lucy 
took them out to Bloomfield, lor a breath of fresh 
air and a taste of summer fruits. It was twilight 
when they returned to the city, and as she assist¬ 
ed her charges from the oar to the platform, a man 
attempted to step from the car in front. He ac¬ 
complished this feat with some difficulty, coming 
so close to Lucy that her dress touohed him. As 
she turned to look at him, wondering at his 
strauge manner, he reded suddenly to one side 
and fell heavily between the cars. She uttered a 
short and frightened scream, aud extended her 
hand, though too late to save him. In that mo¬ 
ment she had recognized him. One of the brake- 
men and a gentleman standing xieur raised him 
from his uncomfortable position, aud found him 
unhurt, beyond a few braises, and some slight 
damage to his fashionable suit of clothes. 
Lucy was about to seek a carriage to convey 
herself aad the children home. Should she do so 
without another look or thought for him? She 
could not make up her mind to do this. She 
hesitated an instant, looking around to see if any 
one present seemed to know him, then turning to 
the hackman at her elbow she said, 
“Drive this geatleman to number twenty, East 
Fifteenth street. Is your hack in waiting? Then 
I will see you help him in.” 
She stood by at a little distance, while her re¬ 
quest was being obeyed, heedless alike of the 
looks of one or two bystanders and the curions 
questions of the children. ‘ 
"Poor girl,” said one of the lady passengers to j 
another, “ I suppose it is her brother. How dread- ] 
full” i 
If ghe heard, she did not think it necessary to 1 
inform her of her mistake. When the man had j 
safely deposited his half fainting burden, he turn- i 
ed to Lucy and, lilting hishat, asked if she should 
go, and the "children.” 
"No. Here is your fare. Drive carefully and . 
Bee him into the house safely.” 
As she spoke, she put some silver into the 
rough hand, and her veil being down, did not no¬ 
tice that she dropped her handkerchief until she 
had entered another carriage, and was on her way 
home. The man picked it up, but she was gone, 
and thinking it would doubtless do as well, thruBt 
it into one of the pockets of the individual in 
bis charge. 
Norman Thorpe’s Bleep that night lasted far 
into the next day, and when at length he became 
aware that he was not only a living but a waking 
man, things seemed strangely mixed up some how. 
He rubbed hi» eyes aud forehead, gazed vacantly 
around the room, and languidly raising himself, 
Heized the bell-rope at the bead of the bed. Pres 
ently a curly pate and mahogany viBage appeared 
at the door ami a short dialogue ensued. 
“ What time is it?” 
"Ten minutes past ten, Sah.” 
"Where is Mrs. Thorpe?” 
“At her father’s. Went yesterday morning, 
Bah.” 
" Hand me that writing case. Here, take this 
note to the store, and mind and tell them that you 
left me in bed. But before you go, hand me those 
pants aud that coat.” 
"Yes, Bah.” 
One by one the pocketa were emptied and their 
contents found safe and in good order. But what 
is this? He looks at it curiously and spreads it 
on the bed before him. It iB a delicate web of 
muslin,of French manufacture, and inonecorner 
are some tiny black characters which ho Beans 
attentively. What can there be about that limp- 
gey fragment of fashion to make u strong man 
tremble aud turn pale? Another earnest exam¬ 
ination of the black characters, and a gleam of 
returning recollection. Yes, it is the name! We 
have no need to ask whose name, for with the lit¬ 
tle handkerchief clutched tightly to his breast, 
Norman Thorpe buries his face in tbe»pillow, 
moaning like a grieved child— 
“ 0, Lucy, Lucy I” 
Rising, lie dressed himself with elaborate and 
particular core, and taking an up-town omnibus, 
very soon found himself at the door of Mr. Ridg¬ 
ley, in Twenty-Third street. He knewthe family 
were away, but that made no difference. To the 
•servant who showed him into the drawing-room, 
now retired into nun-like wrappers, from the 
vanities of this world, he said— 
"I believe there is a young lady here, named 
Hastings; 1 wish to see her.” 
"The governess, sir?” 
"Governess, or visitor, or something; it’s all 
the same.” 
The waiter retreated only to return speedily 
with word that Miss Hastings received no calls 
in the absence of the family. 
"Pshaw! Did you tell her who it was?” 
"I did, sir. Mr. Thorpe, I believe.” 
“Confound you! Who asked you to take that 
liberty? No matter, I can call again some time.” 
The day after this unsuccessful call, Lucy re¬ 
ceived a letter bearing the city post-mark. The 
hand-writing was ioo familiar to be mistaken, 
though years had passed since last she saw It. 
Bbe was strongly tempted to return the letter un¬ 
opened, but the thought that it might be in her 
power to heuelit the writer iu some way, induced 
her to chang - her mind. She read; 
Lucy —Perhaps 1 ought to say Miss Hastings— 
perhaps 1 ought to aay —nothing at all; but the 
rush of old recollections is strong to-night, and 
notwithstanding your cruel refusal to Bee me this 
afternoon, I have courage to address you through 
the only medium left me. Two years ago I be¬ 
came awure that you were in this city,—you will 
remember when aud how; but it was not until lately 
that 1 knew that you were actually su inmate oi 
Mr, Rrpn ley’s family. 
For the present, l have to refer to a recent 
event which I feel certain lias in some mysterious 
way laid nn- under obligations to you lor unde¬ 
served, though, believe me, not unappreciated 
kindness. It is humiliating, under any circum¬ 
stances, to have to speak Of scenes such as trans¬ 
pired two days ago, arid with which I feel sure 
that.you are in some way connected; bat doubly 
humiliating is it vo me now. 
1 have in my possession a handkerchief hearing 
your name. 1 lournl it in one of my coat pock¬ 
ets, but my re rent fall and consequent illness ren¬ 
der me unable to recollect how it came there. I 
feel, however, ilmt some good Genius must have 
placed it iu my way to point out uiy guardian 
angel. I beg that I may keep it. It, witn the last 
letter which I ever received from you, is now all 
that, remains to speak to my unhappy heart of 
what has been. 
0, Lucy! my first, best, and only love! I feel 
that it is folly to ask your forgiveness, though 
surely you could forgive an act which prevented 
you from uniting your fate with that of a wieteh 
like me. 1 do not write to you with any wish to 
explain my conduct or exonerate myself.— 
Neither could avail me anything—could not even 
restore to me your good opinion. J only wish to 
bless you and" thank you for all that you have 
been in times past, and lor this new proof of your 
geutleness and goodness. 
God Diets ami keep you forever more. And in 
the world to come, if such there he,—whether I 
shall be permitted to meet you in its blissful 
realms, oi be doomed to perpetual banish men r, a 
continuation of the sutleiings which are already 
mine,—may all be made clear to you, that you may 
know wherein and bow deeply 1 have erred. If 
ever a thought of my unworthy self crosses your 
mind, oh! be lenient, out of the depths of your 
divine compassion! Norman. 
The letter was read again and again, and blotted 
by countless tears. Lucy had been less than hu¬ 
man not to weep. A severe struggle took place 
in her mind, whether she should reply to it or 
not. It did not seem to require an answer, and 
Lucy was far too upright in spirit, too well disci¬ 
plined in mind, to feel any weak, lingering desire 
to hold some sort of communication with the 
loved and lost, merely from reluctance to be sev¬ 
ered wholly. No, it was no such slavish motive 
that caused her to hesitate. It. was the interne 
yearning to stretch forth a saving and helping 
hand to one whom she felt surely needed it, 
weighed against the fear of being misunderstood. 
It was several days before she lound courage to 
write and dispatch theBe words: 
Mr. Thorpe — I am not aware that you are un¬ 
der any weighty obligations to me. Whatever I 
may have done, however I have been of service 
to you, it has been only from the same motives of 
humanity which T trust would actuate me in deal¬ 
ing with all my fellow beings. You must of 
course be aware that both my feeling? and con¬ 
duct must long have ceased to bear any relation 
to yon. Do not understand me as denying all in¬ 
terest. in your welfare. 1 were unchristian, could 
I so stifle the best, feelings of human nature from 
wholly selfish considerations. You have surely 
mistaken woman’s character, if you think she can 
at once recall her affections from tbelr object, 
never to wander again. I do still retain so much 
memory of and interest in you, that I desire of 
all things to see you rise to an honorable position 
in society. Not that society which has become a 
household word in the fashionable world; bat a 
society composed of the best and truest souls God 
ever made. 
Nothing but the thought of incalculable good 
sometimes produced by " a word spoken in sea¬ 
son,” could ever have induced me to reply to your 
letter. You have intimated that words and thot’s 
of mine are still valuable to yon. If in this yon 
are sincere, T trust that what I now say will not 
be lost Once 1 not only loved yon. but respected 
you above other men. The love is laid away with 
other treasures, “where neither moth nor rust 
doth corrupt;” it is for you to say whether I shall 
I part with the respect. Do you still possess those 
high qualities of mind and heart which once dis- 
tinguUbed yon? I* there nothing which you 
would wish to conceal? Are you still as much 
entitled to my respect and that of others, ns 
formerly? 
You have called me your “first, beat, and only 
love.” The first, I do believe I was, and the best, 
perhaps; hut the only I have no wish to be. Yon 
are married. 1 have’seen and admired your wife; 
there imnhch in her that is attractive and lovable, 
worthy of a more devoted heart than yours. I 
cannot, will not, believe that you have become so 
base as to win the hand of snch a child-like crea¬ 
ture without giving her at least some portion of 
your affections. It were easy for me to forgive 
your faithlessness towards myself, If you discov 
ered that you had mistaken the depth of yonr 
own feelings; far easier llian to forgive you so 
great a sin as perjury In taking the marriage vow. 
O, Norman ! by all that I have been to you—by 
all that I desire you to be — be faithful and true 
to her whom you have chosen — faithful and true 
in all the relation* of y our life! Only thus can 
you retain uiy regard. Wo shall never meet,— 
worlds will soon lie between us; but come what 
will, let me feel that the one error has been atoned 
for, by after Integrity. Let mo not live to thank 
God for the day that severed our paths. 
I will pray tor you, that ihe all-seeing One may 
hold you in his peculiar care. Do yon ever pray 
for yourself? I do not mean to catechise you,— 
I but seek to remind you of the presence of Him 
“ who forgiveth all our iniquities, who healeth 
all our diseases,” and whose ears are ever open 
to those who come to ask for strength and 
guidance. Lucre. 
[To l»e continued.] 
t®r -K ^ g 
PfJ &K1 ®S:> 
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1 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
BIBLICAL ENIGMA. 
I am composed of 52 letter*. 
My b. 2R, 10. 41, 43. 20 wuh the name of a prophet. 
My 19, 82, 38. 11 was the name of Timothy's grandmother. 
My 811"’ S3. 22,1. 34 was a country io Palestine. 
My 39. 10, 42, 41. 1H was n king td Persia 
My ti. 20. 4 was ft tree mentioned in the Bible. 
My 8 1 4!*, 61.36, 40 wii» hu ancient coin. 
My 13. I. 21 wa» a tree spoken *>t ,n 'he 8H>h‘- 
M" v 3o. ». -jl 8. 27 was an ancient mu-deal instrument. 
My 24 1A 4.15. 23 wusa district of Kaateru Palestine. 
MV StL jo! 25 52, 41, 23 win » script utuI tree. 
My 34 3 24 15 was Ihe father of Eleszar, 
My 12, 29. 47, 40, -14 was a part of the Temple. 
My 32 2, 3:: was « bird spoken of fn scripture. 
Mv 29. b! 7, 50, 13 I* was a mountain In Palestine. 
My 4dl 36, 62,1-i, 35, 3d was u measure mentioned in the 
gospel, 
Mv 37,15, 26, 26,1 w.i* r town iu Greece. 
My whole is a proverb of Solomon. 
Penfleld, Monroe Oo , N. Y , I860. A. J< D- 
Answer iu two weeks. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
GEOGRAPHICAL ENIGMA. 
I AM composed of 20 letters. 
My It). 7. 7 3 i- mi island south of Mftlno. 
My 7.12 10,10, 7 is a lake in the southern part of Canaua, 
My IO, 7,17- 10 >8 ft river in Maine. 
My 2. 6,16. 7 is a CO Only Iu Illinois, 
M v 7 0, 11. 7 is one of the great lakes. 
My 16 8 6. 12,18 is a county in Kentucky. 
Mv 6, 2, 0, 1 is a Wipe south of South America. 
My 9,14. S, 13, 7 0 9,2 is a river in South America. 
My 11 15, 7, 3 is a river in Bavaria. 
My 20. 2. 9. 14,12 ts a city In Spain. 
Mv 8 20, 4, 7, 9 »• town in Russia. , 
My whole is the name of two islands north of Norm 
America. _ . 
•Tftnof.rille, I860. F. I. HoTT. 
Ejr Answer In two weeks. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
ALGEBRAICAL PROBLEM. 
A gkxtlkman has a tract of land, containing 048 acres, 
which he wishes to divide among 3 sons aud 2 daughters, 
in proportion to their ages; each daughter receiving 
four-fill be as much no proportion to her age,) as each 
son. The eldest eon is 14 years older than the youngest 
daughter, who is twn-thitus as old na the youngest son. 
The eldest daughter's age, divided by 5. is equal to two- 
ninths of the age of the seconds on, who i» three jeer* 
older than the youngest son; and the sum of all their 
ages is b7 years. How rnauy aCH-s of land dues each one 
receive. _ _ 
Gainesville, Wy o. Co,, N. Y. J. Martin Bbainbrd. 
J3F” Answer in two weeks. 
ANSWERS TO ENIGMAS, &c„ IN No. 554. 
Answer to Miscellaneous Enigma:—A a soft answer 
turneth away wrath. . . 
Answer to Geographical Enigma:—Saxo Meintngen 
HllburgbftURen. , 
Answer to Arithmetical Problem:—A, 3; 11, 2; L, l. 
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