MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER 
compared with those who labor for their bread.— 
Your grand-father was considered rich, and al¬ 
though it would have been for our own good, yet 
he never required us (your father and myself,) to 
labor at all, unless we were disposed to of our own 
accord, and our mother petted us to an unusual 
degree. Consequently, I at least, hail a great many 
young "ladyish” ideas of work, not yet wholly 
extinct in our family I fear. I not only pitied but 
almost despised those who labored for their own 
support I remember once, shortly after my debut 
as a young lady, of striving to impress your father 
with some of my notions of rank, for in my esti¬ 
mation then, he had no very nice distinction, bu t 
would as soon associate, he said, with a ditch- 
digger as with a prince, if both were equally 
rLIi WAIT TILL IT BUNS BY. 
GETTING A COMPETENCE 
Thousands of years ago a story was told of a 
stupid traveler who, eomiug to a river, sat down 
upon the hank, ssying:—“I’ll wait till it runs by.” 
Thousands of times sinee people have laughed at 
the simpleton, priding themselves on their own 
greater wisdom. And yet tens of thousands of 
times have these very people, in reference to the 
general affairs of life, imitated the lazy ignorance 
of the fool, and waited for the river to run by. 
How often do parents, for example, when they 
witness exhibitions of anger, falsehood or disobe¬ 
dience in their children, shut their eyes willfully 
to the couseqncnoes of lettiug the evil go uncor- 
reoted, and say to themselves, “He will outgrow 
it?” What is this but waiting for the river to ran 
by? The first lesson which a child learns should 
be that of self-discipline. No man can succeed in 
life, or win the esteem of his neighbors, or deserve 
the approbation of his own conscience, who gives 
way to petulance, duplicity, or other vices; and it 
is as much easier to check these natural infirmi¬ 
ties in youth, rather than in age, as it is to cross a 
river near the fountain-head instead of where it 
widens into an estuary of the sea. The parent who 
hopes that such vices will cure themselves will 
wait in vain for the river to run by. 
A merchant fiuds his trade declining, a me¬ 
chanic his business falling off; a lawyer his clients 
leaving him, a doctor his practice ceasing; but 
instead of going to work resolutely to discover the 
cause and rectify the error, he sits down, folds his 
bands, and says 
For Moore's Ilttr&l New-Yorker. 
NOT MOW. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
AUNT BETTY’S STORY. 
Oh, Death, why lioger'at in my home ? 
Why elatm'stuie now for thine—thy own ? 
When earth’s green leaves and budding flower* 
All speak of hope and joy-lit hours, 
And flitting birds their sweet notes trilling, 
With joy the earth, the sky, ia filling, 
And fond arms clasp me—me alone— 
Why olaim’st me now for thine—thy own? 
Oh, Angel or the icy brow, 
I cannot go—not now—not now. 
Not now, when joy snems welling up 
From every flower and every enp. 
And a mother kneels beside me still— 
Stay, Death—thy hand with icy thrill 
May not unclasp the chords of life 
Ere fond Ups breathe “ My hrtde"—“ my wife,” 
While fond arms clasp me—me alone— 
Why claim'st me now for thine—thy own ! 
Oh, Angel of tho icy brow, 
I cannot go—not now—not now. 
Not now when gentler hands than thine 
And a heart whose every throb is mine, 
la waiting for the life-long el asp 
To shield rae from earth's ohilling blast, 
How can I turn from him and sleep 
In the churohyard lone where the willows weep 
1 cannot go with thee — alone— 
Why claim’st me now for thine—thy own ? 
Oh, Angel of the icy brow 
I cannot go—oh no—not now. 
Pompey Falls, N. Y., 185T. 
CLOVER. 
tong, ana vnen at just suen a time, and in just 
■uoh a manner, fall in love any way,”—and pretty 
Clara Howland pouted her red lips quite angrily, 
after having delivered her long speech. 
“Fall in love, just when you please Clara,” said 
Aunt Betty, - but I wish you to let Wisdom direct 
you, for remember when your choice is fixed tis 
for a life-time, not for a day. I know yon have a 
very wise head, bnt then, your fanciful heart might, 
lead yon astray.” 
“Please, Aunt Betty, don't lecture me anymore 
to-day,” exclaimed Clara, petulantly, “but just 
tell me, did you ever have a lover?” 
“Rather a bold question, truly, Clara, and one 
yon never asked me before, and perhaps would 
not now, only yon are a little vexed,” said Annt 
Betty slowly, never raising her eyes from the pan 
of apples she was “stringing” to dry; "and be¬ 
side,” she continued, “ old maids you know are not. 
noted for being accommodating in relating heart- 
histories, for speaking of youthful days makes 
them acknowledge themselves old now.” 
“Pardon me, Aunty, if I acted vexed,” (and 
Clara blushed, for she knew tbe accusation was 
true,) “and I should never have asked yon such a 
question only I don't see how such a good, kind, 
Aunty ever escaped matrimony; and I know you 
don’t care one bit about being an old maid. Now, 
Aunty, won’t you oblige me? Please do, now,” 
and Clara clasped her hands coaxiogly^in Aunt 
honest 
“In my childhood I, too, was free from all suoh 
false idea* of worth, for all children are true cri¬ 
terion* of society,—they will love what is good, 
without taking money into consideration. And I 
remember when I was a little child, a bright-eyed 
farmer’s boy, who would come to oar door, almost 
every day, for “little Bkssis,” as he called me, and 
he would bring me presents, from his pet rabbits 
down to the yellow apples in hia father's orchard, 
or tbe gay flower* from bi* mother's garden. And 
I received the gifts as gladly, and kissed the little 
giver as kindly, as though he had been a little lord. 
As I grew older not a day passed hut what my lady 
mother reminded me that my position was such 
that my associates should he of tiie first class, and 
ere long, arrayed in all my native pride, I learned 
to shim my old playmate, the former’s hoy. It may 
seem impossible how r, witii wrinkled brow, and 
sallow cheek, oould ever have had a lover, and yet 
at your age, Clara, I was as fair as yourself, and 
had as many friends, and neod I say that the truest 
of them all was the farmer’* boy, or man, as he 
now was. But I never spoke of him, and tried not 
to think of him, save as one far below me in life. 
“One bright winter day, when I was alone in my 
room, a letter was handed me. 
luck will turn some day.” Does 
such a man deserve to succeed? Have such men 
ever succeeded? Life is a battle, in which victory 
is with him who tights the bravest, perseveres the 
longest and brings the most ability to bear on the 
campaign. When the British marched on Balti¬ 
more, did our fathers lay in their beds and trust to 
chance to save them? No! they went boldly forth 
to meet the enemy, and the God of battles reward¬ 
ed them with success. So in the pursuits of life, 
he triumphs who deserves it most. Wealth and 
fame are the prizes of those who struggle hardest 
for them. The only way ia to plunge boldly into 
the current of adverse fortune, breast its waves, 
and buffet your course manfully to the. other shore. 
It will never do to wait till the river runs by. 
In friendship, if some nnkuowu cause has pro¬ 
duced an alienation, don't say, as too many do, 
“he may get pleased again as he can;” hut find 
out the reason, of the alienation, apologize if 
you are in the wrong, and expostulate amicably if 
otherwise. If you wait till the 
For Moore’s Rural Now-Yorker. 
SELF. 
that 1 can see no reason why a man of good judg¬ 
ment should select for a wife one evidently pos¬ 
sessing so few noble, womanly qualities.” 
“In ordinary things he has good judgment, but 
a passion for wealth will warp that of any man._ 
1 think, however, hi* mind is now open to its little 
value compared with true domestic happiness!” 
“ He certainly did not seem to despise us for 
our poverty!” 
“I think he rather envied ns, Ellen, from a re¬ 
mark that he carelessly dropped in conversation. 
But you will go with me to Mr. Newman's?” 
“ Perhaps you had better call at his store first, 
and sec what ho may have to say.” 
“Well, I will go immediately, bnt will not be 
gone long. Do yon enjoy yourBelf as well as you 
can in my absence.” 
William went out, and while he was out E]>i.kk 
wrote a letter to her sister. Just as she had fin¬ 
ished he rctnrned, saying that he had seen Charles, 
and found him all right—that he had politely in¬ 
vited them to dinner, which invitation he had ac¬ 
cepted. Business detained him or he would hare 
’Twa* from the 
farmer-boy, and in it he told me of hi* iutentions 
to go to a neighboring State to study law, ‘and if,' 
he wrote, ‘if I am successful in my profession, 
oan I hope, dear Bessie, that you will share my 
heart and home?’ And then be wrote briefly, 
firmly, how his childhood's and manhood’s affec¬ 
tions were ruino. ‘True,’ he added, 'I have no 
wealth to offer, but with your love to urge me on 
to high and noble labor, I will succeed.' There 
was no romance in the letter, or I might have 
thought of it differently; if he had proposed an 
elopement, I might have been induced to 
centre and origin in it It is a principle which 
widens and widens in some mind* until it* con¬ 
centric rings encircle many objects; in others it 
narrows and narrows down to an insignificant 
point, visible only to him who has cherished it— 
Though tbe “ego” and the “nm ego ” are the first 
conceptions of which the ohild ia cognizant, yet 
the former ever precedes the latter, and seems to 
imbue itself with every thought, word, and deed. 
Nor is it limited to childhood, but grow* with its 
growth, and strengthens with its strength. Are 
not our people, our chnrch, our institutions para¬ 
mount to all others? 
The moat marked and unpromi«ing feature of 
the raling power of self is, that it apparently in¬ 
creases with civilization. As the arts and sciences 
progress, and intelligence becomes generally dif 
fused, human sympathy grow* less and personal 
importance greater. If it is the peculiar province 
ies, glara, I will gratify your ourio»ity.thia 
time, but not now; you see I have all these apples 
to cut,” said she, pointing to a huge pan-roll at her 
side, “and then the dinner is to be prepared, and 
yon Clara, must prove yonrselt industrious by 
working on your ‘star quilt,' and the old saying is 
‘ fingers are idle when the tongue is at work,’_so 
we'll finish onr work, and at twilight to-night I’ll 
tell you my story, although it will no doubt be 
more pleasing to you than me,” and Aunt Betty 
drew a deep sigh, as she proceeded to cut her ap. 
pies. Claua took up her patch-work, but sould 
not help thinking, that Aunt, Bbttt was too pre- 
oise and particular for this “ fast” age. 
We will leave them to tlieir labors while you and 
L dear reader, take a little peep into the “home 
history ” of Aunt Betty and Clara. Aunt Bet¬ 
ty Rowland waa an old maid—not a withered, 
cross, snuff-taking, old maid, but a particular, 
advice-giving, youth-protecting, kind-hearted old 
maid, altogether a different speaies from those 
who hate birds, because they come in pairs, and 
pretty flowers became they look young. She was 
home-keeper for an only brother who had had the 
misfortune to lose his wife many year* before, but 
Annt, Betty protected his household and cherish¬ 
ed hi* daughter, pretty Clara Rowland, almost 
as fondly and prudently as a mother coaid have 
done. How old Aunt Betty was, nobody pretend¬ 
ed to know, for Bhe went to reside with her 
brother in Clara’s infancy, looking jmt about as 
old as she did now, and that was twenty year* 
before our story commences. 
Clara was an only ohild, and as her mother 
died in her infancy, she was of course petted and 
spoiled by her father, (who never married a second 
time.) and indulged by her annt, whom she re¬ 
garded as fondly as she would her mother. Clara 
possessed perhaps as amiable a disposition as most 
young ladies would under the same training, yet 
she would sometimes lose control of her tongue, 
a* the opening of onr story Bhows. Clara was 
not strictly beautiful, yet she had a rosy, happy 
look, the reward of certain morning rambles I 
which Aunt Bhtty insisted on her taking, despite ] 
tbe young lady’s inclination. Annt B. also in- j 
structed her in knitting, quilt-making, Ac.,—useful j 
accept 
him for the romance of it But that he Bhould 
write to me as an equal, and never in any word 
allude to what my pride styled superiority, seemed 
to me to be Mumming too inuoh. I returned hi* 
letter, bidding him Beek a companion among hi* 
equals. I have repented that freak of pride, as I 
hope you will never repent. I never saw him 
again, but when, a few years afterward, I heard of 
his prosperity and marriage, my heart told me 
that it was my own false pride that had dashed a 
full eup ol joy from my lips. 
“About this time I was engaged to marry an 
almost stranger, who was reputed rich, and who I' 
wished to marry only to rid myself of bitter mem¬ 
ories which were wrinkling my brow in youth. 
Everything was ready for tbe gay bridal—many 
friends were collected to witness the ceremony. 
river rnns by you 
I may wait forever, and find the longer you wait the 
current runs deeper and deeper. In yonr own 
family, never wait till the river runs by, but if a 
wifo’sfeelings are hart explainer make reparation 
at, once; for life is too short and happiness too 
precious to be wasted in obstinacy, sullenness, or 
misunderstanding, when a few words will remedy 
alL Never stand on the shore, in cold and suffer¬ 
ing, while green and sunshiny field* invite yon 
across, in the idle hope that the river will run by. 
Nations have been lost forever by imitating tbe 
folly of the traveler. They have put oft' making 
needful reforms, in hopes that time would correct 
them of itself. “ After me the deluge,” said Louis 
the Fifteenth. But Uod is just, his laws arc inex¬ 
orable, and nations as weli as individuals mast 
obey or perish. Great evils demand action. Eu¬ 
rope is even now shrinking from the reformation 
of her corrupt social life. She wishes to await on 
events. Better cross the stream at once. Alas! 
“ Arlington,” the well known correspondent of 
the National Intelligencer, draws a comparison 
between the worshipers of the rising sun as they 
existed in former days with their descendants of 
the same family. He says: 
On the inauguration of Mr. Madison, in 1809, the 
pilgrim departed from hi* u*ual habit of being 
merely a “looker-on in Vienna," and took a »ome- 
what remarkable part in the event* of the day.— 
When tbe President retired from the Capitol, on 
rusLed the crowd to the worship of the risingsun. 
The avonue waa nearly deserted, while the hum 
of the multitude faded in the distance: then ap¬ 
peared on horseback, and entirely alone, Thomas 
Jefferson. The old pilgrim pointed out this spec¬ 
tacle to two revolutionary otfioers, CoL Thomas 
Parker und Maj. Bnticr, (who were lookers on) say¬ 
ing, “See, gentlemen, how soon a great man be¬ 
comes neglected and his services forgotten in 
America, when he ceases to be the fountain of pat¬ 
ronage and power! Whatever may be the revolu¬ 
tionary patriot and statesman’s politic* now, they 
Phil a nth itoi'Y,— The wreath of literary fame, 
tbe laurel of the warrior, the tribute of praise of¬ 
fered to superior wit, are empty and worthless 
compared with the pure, bright crown of the phi¬ 
lanthropist. There ia a time coming when tho 
former shall be of no value in the eyes of their 
possessors or tho world; but the distinctions of 
superior beneficence belong to an order which 
shall bo acknowledged in Heaven, and shall be 
worn with unfading brilliancy through eternity. 
Sorrows.— Sorrow is the night of the mind.— 
What would be a day without its night? The day 
reveals one sun only; tho night brings to light the 
whole of the universe. Tho analogy is complete. 
Sorrow is the firmament of thought and the sohoo 
of intelligence. 
riout. 
How beautiful is night! 
A dewy freshness fills the silent air ; 
No mist obscures, nor clouds, nor speck, nor stain 
Breaks the serene of heaven ; 
In full orbed glory, youder moon divine 
Rolls through the dark blue depths ; 
Beneath her steady ray 
The desert circle spreads, 
Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky. 
How beautiful is night! [ Shelly. 
uer nose, (ior aunougu aunnaautiy able to wear 
better, she said a* spectacles were for use, not or¬ 
nament, she could see “just a«well” through brass 
as gold frame*,) and with her worthy headcovered 
with a black cap and brown ribbons. It was thus 
arrayed, and thus seated in the gloomy ohi;kitchen, 
rendered Btill gloomier by the approaching twi¬ 
light that Annt Betty proceeded to tell her 
promised story. 
“My youth, Olaka, was passed even more indo¬ 
lently than yours. Nay, do not frown; you labor 
all it ia necessary, and yet you are almost idle 
Flowing water is at once a picture and a mu«io 
which causes to flow at tlie same time from my 
brfrin, like a limpid and murmuring rivulet, sweet 
thoughts, charming reveries, and melancholy re¬ 
mem bruuces. —Alphonse Karr. 
Du. Adams says that oue reason why the world 
is not reformed is because every man is bent on 
reforming others, and never think of his own ways 
as in ueed of mending. 
More evil truths are disoovered by the corrup¬ 
tion of the heart than by the penetration of the 
mind. 
The true preceptions of a child are the objects 
that surround him; these are the instructors to 
whom he owes almost all his Ideas. 
