tyrnt Ifletey. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
WINTER. 
Now the white wood sbiueth coldly 
In the azure sky, 
And the twinkling stars are gleaming 
From their homes on high; 
While the fleecy clouds are seeming 
Angela, robed in light, 
Floating there in glorious beauty, 
Guaroi&nB of the night. 
Now the Gerce north wind is shaking 
All the leafless trees; - 
And the drifting snow te making, 
Pearly, waring seas. 
All the flowers have drooped and faded 
In the wintry blast ; 
For he turned to ice their petals, 
Howling as be passed. 
Bat within, the flame is rising 
From the friendly hearth, 
And we fear not, thongh the Storm-King 
Revels o’er the earth. 
Still do we remember, sadly. 
Those who houseless roam, 
Fain would we conduct each wanderer, 
To the joys of home. 
And to Him who feeds the raven 
Shall our prayers ssceud, 
To the Father of the orphan, 
To the sufferer's Friend. 
Grant to their lone hearts the vision 
Of a brighter home, 
Where with joys forever lasting, 
Change shall never ceme. 
Brooks' Grove, N. Y., 1867. 
A. E. M. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
TWO CHRISTMAS EVES; 
OR. THE OLD MAN’S VOW. 
BY LUCY BROWNING. 
Chapter I. 
It was Christmas Eve. Night settled dimly, then 
darkly over the highways and byways of the great 
city. A cold northeastern wind swept furiously 
by, howling in the chimney-tops, and the snow and 
sleet were driven against the well protected win¬ 
dows of the opulent, and clicked on the bare and 
narrow panes of the poor. But it was Christmas 
Eve, and everybody seemed astir, high and low, 
bravely breasting the storm, each intent on his 
own business or pleasure. 
The widow Ryan pressed her hands closer to 
the pane, on either eide ef her face, to shnt out 
the reflection of the tallow candle that burned 
dimly on the mantel-shelf, gazed at the dull, leaden 
mist overhead, at the passers by, and sighed that 
her own little Willis was forced to go out on 
such a night as this. She turned her eyes in the 
direction he had gone, and searched the narrow 
street, ’till nothing was discernible but the street- 
lamps glimmering in the distance; but as she 
turned away, the door opened, and a sprightly, 
bright-eyed lad of ten years, entered, Bhook the 
snow from his brown locks, and holding np a 
bright tin pail, exclaimed, “See, Ma, Mr. Mills 
has filled my pail brimming full of milk, and he 
would not take a penny; he said I might have the 
pennies for Christmaa Now we need not eat sop 
for supper, but we can have clear milk, you, and 
Johnny, and Nellie, and I, and ail.” And the 
little fellow held the cents above his head, and 
danced about the room for very joy, while Johnny 
and Nellik, catching his gleeful spirits jumped 
np from the corner where they bad been playing, 
clapped their little hands, and shouted and danced 
about him they knew not why, except that joy had 
followed Willie in at the door, and taken hold of 
their little hearts. Thus ever susceptible are 
ohildish hearts of the sunshine of life. 
A smile played over the careworn features of 
the widow—a kind of Auroral light that streamed 
above the duBky horizon of her sorrow—as Bhe 
witnessed the guileless mirth of her little ones, 
and with a lighter heart than she had experienced 
for many a day, she drew the little, round table, to 
the centre of the room, spread it with a neat, white 
cloth, bowls and spoons, and proceeded to dip the 
puffing hominy from the kettle. The humble 
meal prepared, they gathered around the table a 
contented group, while hundreds around them, in 
that great city, sat down to their luxuriously spread 
boards, in bitter discontent 
Willie then took np the worn Testament, and 
as UBua 1 , read, in a low distinct tone, a chapter 
from its sacred pages. As he closed the book, a 
faint rap was heard at the door. The widow has¬ 
tened to open it and there, leaning on his staff, 
with his giey hair streaming in the pitiless wind, 
stood an old man. She bade him enter, and 
as he did so, the children looked with wondering 
eyes, on his bent and shivering form, and tattered 
clothing, for humble as their circumstances were 
they were nnaooustomed to filth and ragged 
garments. 
After warming himself by their fire, at the 
widow’s request he drew his chair to the table, 
and filling his bow), devoured it eagerly, and filled 
it again, but looking suddenly aroond, he pushed 
it from him, exclaiming, “Goodheavens! Hunger 
and wretchedness have destroyed my reason, or I 
had never taken food from innocent babes, to pro¬ 
long my own miserable and worthless existence.” 
And the old man bowed bis head and covered hiB 
face with his hands. “ There Is plenty to-night,” 
Baid W iLLiB, in a tone of pity. 
“ Yes, there is plenty to-night, and you are wel¬ 
come, thrice welcome,” added the widow, then a 
dark thought for the morrow flashed across her 
mind, but it was followed by the memory of the 
promises, she had just heard read from the Scrip¬ 
tures—“ Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for 
by bo doing some have ministered unto angels una¬ 
wares,” and, “ 1 will not leave thee nor forsake 
thee.” Again she pressed him to eat, but he 
moved not. 
The meal was finished in silence,the bo wls washed 
and set in a line on the dresser,and Johnny and Nel¬ 
lie nndressed, and after lisping their accustomed, 
“ Our Father who art in Heaven,” were lain snugly 
and fondly in the trondle-bed. The widow then drew 
to one corner of the room, where lay a piece of 
rag carpeting which her own frugal hands had 
woveD, and which served as a sitting-room, the 
little old-fashioned stand, and placing the candle 
on it, sat down in her ruBh-bottomed rocking-chair, 
and commenced her stitchlrg, as she was wont to 
do, day after day, and oltimes night after night— 
Still the old man sat motionless, Bave the heaving 
of his body, occasioned by bis heavy and labored 
breathing. Willie gazed on him in mute aston¬ 
ishment, while the widow wondered at bis strange 
appearance. At length, tired of concentrating 
his attention on one object, Willie turned to bis 
chair in the corner, and gathering up a handful of 
coal, threw it on the fire, and sat down to see the 
bright, red glow creep over it. Thauk Providence 1 
that scanty coal, in the grate of the poverty- 
strickeu, glowed as brightly as if piled lavishly on 
the grate of the opulent. Almost as bright a glow, 
overspread Willie’s own fair face, as he thrust 
his hand in his pocket, and felt again the Christ¬ 
mas pennies. Then he fell to musing on the way 
he would spend them, to-morrow when the sun 
shone again, and he conld go abroad. There were 
Borne books at the book store, which he waoted 
very ronch, but he needed boots, and he knew that 
hiB mother needed better shoes, when she went 
out in the snow to procure work. These he would 
buy, and go without the books. But.no! he re¬ 
membered that be had only four pennies, and he 
needed as many dollars. Then, like many restless, 
dissatisfied spirits, who have possessed an abund¬ 
ance of worldly goods, and yet grown grey in 
wishing for more, he began to wish he had five, 
ten, a hundred, then even a thousand dollars. But 
a thought struck Willie; and jumping up and 
clapping his hands, be exclaimed, 
" 0, Ma, it is the night ior old Santa Claus, who 
knows but he wiil put a thousand dollars in my stock¬ 
ing to-night, if I hang it np by the chimney. You 
know he used to fill them full, before pa was gone.” 
Here he softened his tone and with a saddened 
expression, drew back the faded, calioo curtain, 
and gave a lnng, searching look up Into the black 
heavens, as if he thought to catch, through the 
pitchy darkness, a glimpse of that bright angel- 
land where he believed bis father dwelt. 
ThiB wild buret of enthusiasm, from the bopefol 
lad, aroused the old man. He lifted his head and 
fixed his little grey eyes on Willie, ’till he grew 
uneasy, and crept to his mother’s side. 
At length the old man Baid, “ My lad, what is 
your name?” 
“Willie.” 
“ Wills what?” 
"Willie Ryan.” 
“ Is it possible 1 yet I saw-Then turn¬ 
ing to the widow, he said, 
“ Your husband’s name was-” 
“ William Ryan,” she replied. 
“ He died-■” 
“ For that which he was not gnilty of. God 
knows he was innocent.” 
Her heart bled anew, at this allusion to the one 
great sorrow of her life, and tears streamed from 
her eyes, so that she did not notice the agitation 
of the old man, who sat, pale and giddy, with both 
his trembling hands clntching the seat of his 
chair. “I am a wretched, guilty, old man, but I 
vow that not tuother ChristmsB shall pass over 
that boy’s head, ’till his wishes are fulfilled. No I 
I will not die, ’till I have made some reparation of 
the great wrong I have committed.” As the old 
man uttered these words, he siezed his tattered 
hat and left the room as fast as his trembling 
limb9 could bear him. 
As soon as the widow had recovered from the 
astonishment into which she was thrown by the 
strange conduct of the old man, she followed him 
to the door, peered up and down the street, but 
saw nothing Bave the storm and the misty dark¬ 
ness. Closing the door,she resumed her seat, fully 
persuaded that the old man was crazy; but still, 
her thoughts would dwell on hfs words, and she 
could not resist the conviction, that there was 
deeper meaning in them than he had confessed. 
Chapter II. 
The cold, bleak winter passed away, and spring, 
with her opening buds and smiling skies; and 
Bummer came, and wove her flowery chaplet on 
the orient brow of earth, and pale autumn sounded 
her melancholy horn over its decay, and it was 
winter again,—0, how soon to the sufiering poor! 
And all this beauty had bloomed and faded, while 
the widow Ryan sat day after day, in her little 
rush-bottomed chair, and stitched away for the 
bare necessities of life, with no time to gaze on 
and drink in the refreshing influences of nature, 
and with one dark,.bitter thought, ever gnawing 
away at the core of her happiness. Again it was 
Christmas Eve; not bleak and stormy, like a year 
ago, but the sun sank bright and calm, behind the 
snow-clad hills, and the fall moon threw her dain¬ 
ty effulgence, over the virgin fields, while myriadB 
of etarB Bparkled in the firmament. Again the 
widow was sewing by the dim candle light, and 
she was alone; for Willis had grown weary of 
watobing the fading embers, and hong his stock¬ 
ing beside the others, in the chimney corner, and 
crept up stairs to bis little straw bed. 
Mrs. Ryan rose and dropped in each stocking a 
rosy apple, which she bad bought for the occa 
sion, then with busier thoughts, resumed her nee¬ 
dle. Bhe was thinking of the crazy old man, who 
Bopped with her a year ago, and of the strange 
vow he made. What invisible, mysterious power, 
warns ns of the approach of others, by placing 
them in our minds before the form is visible to the 
outward eye? Is it that the bouI spreads around 
it an extended atmosphere of thought, and when 
these spheres come in contact, the vibrating 
thought oarries the intelligence? Be that as it 
may, as has been done before, times without num¬ 
ber, the thought was succeeded by the corner. A 
feeble rattling at the door startled her, and on 
opening it, lo! there stood the veritable old man, 
only paler and thinner than a year ago. As the 
widow led the way into the room, ho drew his 
ragged coat closer around him and shivered per¬ 
ceptibly, then sank into a chair, faint and exhaust¬ 
ed. Alarmed at his apparent illness, she assisted 
him to the bed, and prepared him a cordial, after 
drinking Mhloh, he revived and sat upright. 
"Madam,” said he, In a feeble tone, "one year 
ago to-nigbt I partook of your hospitality, and 
learned that you were the widow of William 
Ryan, of whose death—I say it to my everlasting 
misery—I was the means. But sinful as my life 
has been, God knows I was innocent of any 
wicked intent toward him. Start not! I Bpeak 
the truth and if my feeble breath holds out, I will 
explain all.” 
Chapter III. 
"Early in life, I was left a widower, with a young 
child—my son and rcy idol. He inherited my own 
ardent and impetaous nature, which was aggra. 
vated, as years rolled on, by constant indnlgence. 
We had no borne, but being possessed of abundant 
means, wandered about from place to place, as in¬ 
clination dictated. After years of luxurious ease 
and wanton dissipation, into which my own reck¬ 
less habits had drawn my child, we went to the 
city where, your husband died in prison. And that 
son was the one of whom your husband was the 
snpposed murderer. At that time our means were 
becoming exhausted, and I was looking around for 
an heiress to become the wife of my bod, and thus 
replenish our wasting fortune. At length I became 
acquainted with a lady who was in every respect 
all 1 conld desire, and I doubted not that my son 
would accede to my propositions; but when I 
made known to him my wishes, I learned from his 
own lips the astounding intelligence that he loved 
and was eugaged to a poor but. beautiful young 
lady—the daughter of our washerwoman. Yon 
well remember that she was your husband’s sister. 
Disappointed hope and wounded pride swelled my 
indignation to a fearful height. I stormed and 
remonstrated, positively forbidding the union, bat 
all was unavailing. The strong will I bad given 
him was as inexorable ag the opposing passion was 
terrible. 
“Finding that I conld not move him from bis 
purpose, I endeavored to calm myself, and mature 
some plan to thwart his designs. At length I hit 
upon an expedient which I thought would result 
in their defeat- That night, when all the inmates 
of the house were at rest, I stole from my lodgings 
to the borne of the poor washerwoman, aroused 
her, and told her that I had important intelligence 
to communicate to her. She dressed hastily and 
admitted me, and I disclosed my errand. I told 
her that 1 had that evening overheard a conversa¬ 
tion between my son and some of hiB associates, 
and learned, for the first time, that he was paying 
his addresses to her daughter, bnt that he did not 
intend to marry her, only to min and forsake her. 
To corroborate this, I told her that he had recent¬ 
ly become acquainted with, and was now engaged 
to a lady of wealth and portion in the city; and 
that she ought to have foreseen that a onion be¬ 
tween Individuals of so widely different standing 
in society as my son and her daughter, could nev¬ 
er be effected, and to bave taken measures to pre¬ 
vent the then existing intimacy between them.— 
Furthermore, that painful as this disclosure had 
been to me, I conld not rest, knowing, as I did, the 
character of my son, until I baa informed her of 
the danger impending over her lovely daughter. 
The poor woman saw the plausibility of my state¬ 
ment, and was almost overwhelmed with grief, by 
the prospective calamity. She gratefully accepted 
my advice to leave the city. I loft a roll of bank 
bills to defray their expenses, and, ere another sun¬ 
set, they had left for parts unknown. Seared as 
my conscience was, I could not stifle its chidings 
for the wrong I was committing. 
"A few days subsequent, while sitting In my 
room, I was startled by the report of a pistol in 
my son’s room immediately adjoining. Speechless 
with horror, I rushed through the door, to behold 
my son prostrate on the floor a mangled corpse, 
and yonr husband standing near with the fatal 
weapon in his hand. I was distracted; I scarcely 
knew what I did; bnt I caused him to be arrested. 
By this time it was generally known that my son 
had won, and report said, deserted the sister 
of the prisoner, and this circumstance went fur to 
convince the public that the murder was commit¬ 
ted to avenge the injured one. 
"The day of his trial arrived; I gave in my tes¬ 
timony againBt him, and he was convicted and 
sentenced to death, notwithstanding he persisted 
in pleading Dot guilty to the end, stating that the 
deceased came to his death by his own hand. The 
result you know. 
"From that day, I wandered over the earth a 
miserable and desolate being for years, earning 
my bread at the gaming-table. After time had 
somewhat abated the violence of my anguish, I 
returned to the city where was enacted the trage¬ 
dy that had driven me a wreck on the Bea of life, 
to look over and dispose of the effects of my son, 
which, at my request, had lain unmolested until I 
called for them. On examining his papers I found 
a note sealed and directed to myself. I tore it 
open and read his guilt. He had indeed perished 
by bis own hand. Disappointed love had driven 
bimto despair; and a character like his, enervated 
by years of lawless pleasures, conld ill sustain the 
weight of crashed hopes that doomed him to a 
life of darkness. Death was preferable, for In 
death he songht oblivion. 
" Words are Idle to express the agony that rolled 
over me as I fully comprehended the extent of the 
evil I had done. Although the blood of two hu¬ 
man beings seemed cry In g to Heaven against me, 
still I was oonaoioua that nothing was farther from 
my heart than taking the life of another. I had 
not believed my son capable of so strong an at¬ 
tachment, neither had I believed him capable of 
so dread an act as the destroying of his own life. 
"O, that I had found that note ere an innocent 
man was doomed to the gallows! Gladly would I 
have ended my life there, even as my son had done, 
but the dread of a something beyond the grave 
deterred me.” 
A long, deep pause ensued, during which the 
old man seemed lost in painfal memories. Very 
pale and motionless sat the widow, with fea 
tores chilled almost to rigidness, and cold hands 
folded across her chest, as she listened to this aw¬ 
ful recital. 
Then he continued: 
“ Too late, 1 felt it was, to serve the unhappy 
viotlm, bnt willing to make all the reparation in 
my power, I caused the note and attending clr- 
cnmltances to be published iu some of the moat 
popular journals of the day, hoping, at least, by 
removing the stain of murderer from bis charac¬ 
ter, to serve his surviving friendB; although it 
should cast a blemish on the memory of an Idol¬ 
ized son. From this time, reckleBss and ubsent- 
minded, my BucceBa at the gaming-table waa lost, 
and at last, reduced to a penniless vagrant, I wan¬ 
dered from door to door to beg my daily bread.— 
Thus I came to your door a year ago, half-famish¬ 
ed and half irozen, and laid me down to die; but 
it was bard to perish on the cold, snowy ground, 
and tempted by the kindly voices within, and the 
words of charity read from that sacred book, I en¬ 
tered. Fancying that I saw in your son the like¬ 
ness of him whom I had supposed a murderer, 
I was prompted to inquire hia name. When I 
learned that you were, indeed, the widow of him 
whom in my indisoretionlhadso deeply wronged* 
my heart was pierced to the quick, and I resolved 
to devote my few remaining days to yonr comfort. 
In my excitement I forgot that the infirmities of 
age had settled npon me, and thought yet to 
raise you to affluence in expiation of my crimes. 
You well remember tlje strange vow I made, and 
doubtless thought me bereft of my reason, bnt it 
was the first sane act of my life. Thank GodI I 
am here to-night to fulfill that vow.” 
Here he took from a worn purse a handful of 
shining gold and proffered it to the widow, who 
refused to take it, saying he had greater need of it 
himself. 
He replied—"My hours are few, and here must 
they end, for my feeble limbs will refuse to carry 
me away. Worldly goods I need no more. Take 
this for the boy, and let me feel that my wasted 
life was crowned at last by one act of jastice. It 
is no more —no! not that —it is bnt an atom in the 
balance against the weight of desolation I have 
brought upon you and yours.” 
He paused, overoome with emotion, and the 
widow’s icy face melted into tears. 
Recovering himself, he added—" One word more 
and I am done. Hear me, for it will take from 
this weight that beare my spirit down, down, 
down. The manner in which I got that gold. God 
will forgive the means, for the end was a righteous 
one. The night I left you I battled the storm 
bravely, for the indomitable will of my early years 
was bearing me up, and the morning found me in 
a distant part of the city seeking opportunity to 
carry ont the planB I had formed. Day after day, 
week after week, and month after month I sought 
in vain, but at last it came. 0, Heaven! the op¬ 
portunity came, and I seized it. It was at a Men¬ 
agerie. I saw a gentleman buy his ticket and pay 
from a well-filled purse. I knew he did not need 
it. He wbb rich. Hia dress, the massy chain he 
wore, his very manner betrayed his wealth. I fol¬ 
lowed him as he entered the crowd, and wheD 
none conld see, I slipped my hand in his pocket, 
withdrew the purse—O, how softly 1—it seemed as 
if a demon waB helping me—and placed it in my 
own. I turned from the crowd, slowly and feebly, 
that none might suspect my guilt. Many a pitying 
glance rested on me, as I threaded my path away. 
Ah! little they dreamed it was a fiend they pitied 1 
The wind fluttered the loose rags on my coat, but 
there was gold beneath, and I could fulfill my vow.” 
An unwonted brilliancy Bhot athwart the old 
man’s face as he concluded his story and placed 
the purse in the widow’s hands. It dropped to the 
floor, and "polluted” escaped from her lips. A 
cold gust swept through the room, and as she 
turned to see from whence it came, she Btarted to 
see a tall, thin man, plainly dressed, standing in 
the door-way. He advanced toward them, tamed 
back the collar of hia coat, took off his hat, and 
brushed back the long, black curls, wlthontspeak- 
ing. The old man passed his hand across his eyes, 
as if to shut out a painful vision, dropped it at hiB 
aide, and sank back upon his pillow. 
The widow shrieked and fell fainting In the arms 
of the stranger. Applying restoratives, she soon 
awoke to consciousness and inexpressible happi- 
ness, but the old man slept the sleep that knows 
no waking. 
William Ryan had indeed returned, not from 
the dead, but from a far distant clime, where the 
past five years of hia life had been Bpent, a dreary 
waste, unrefreshed by one oasis of pleasure. At 
the time of the murder with which he waa charged, 
he waa standing in the hall near the door of the 
room where the suicide was committed. On hear¬ 
ing the report of the pistol, he rushed in and 
seized it from the hand of the guilty man, but it 
waa too late to save him. The weapon bad done 
its fatal work. After hia conviction, among those 
who knew the worth and integrity of hia charac¬ 
ter, and discredited the evidence against him, 
were his jailor and a few other men of wealth and 
influence, who, a few days previous to that fixed 
for his execution, procured a wax figure, and 
placing it in a coffin, had It conveyed secretly to 
his dungeon-cell, while he was released, disguised 
and with an assumed name, took passage for the 
Indies. It was rumored that he had died of an 
infectious disease, then prevailing to a great extent 
in the prison, and, as all feared the contagioD, not 
even Mrs. Ryan was allowed to look on the sup¬ 
posed remains, which were hurriedly buried. 
Boon after this Mrs. Ryan removed to a dis¬ 
tant city, and when it was thought proper to in¬ 
form her that, he still lived, no trace of her could 
be found. Thus time rolled on, and the event had 
ceased to agitate the public mind, when the mat¬ 
ter the old man had published re-awakened the 
excitement and pnblic sympathy, but all had fail¬ 
ed to reach the widow in her solitary home. 
His friends then wrote him that he might safely 
return to bis native laud, and like one who is sud¬ 
denly awakened from a dark and terrible dream 
he set sail for his home. After spending weeks 
and weeks in wandering from place to place in, 
search of hia family, he at last came to thiB city 
and, by the aid of a directory, was led to the loved 
and lOBt of former years. 
The next day there was rejoicing In that humble 
home, notwithstanding the stiffened corse of the 
old man lay beneath the roof. At sunset his re¬ 
mains were decently interred, and an humble mar¬ 
ble slab marks the place of his reposing. 
A few days afterwards the cheerless rooms were 
exchanged for a neat cottage in the suburbs of the 
city, where peace and plenty still reigns over its 
grateful occupants. 
The ill-gotten contents of the old man’s purao 
were scattered In charity among the suffering poor, 
for the upright oottagerB scorned to use the price 
of an erring bouI —nor did they longer need it, for 
the banishment of William Ryan had been 
crowned with abundant earthly goods. 
Uubbbard&tun, Muss., 1867. 
- »•» - 
Great bouIb attract calamity as mountains the 
thunder cloud; but while the storm burns npon 
them, they are the protection of the plain beneath. 
—Jean Paul, 
Uontb's Comr. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
PRIZE EIJIGMA, 
1 am a couplet of 36 letters. 
Aly “feet" fast locked iu my story’s fetterp, 
To solve me, my parts must be inspected, 
And thus to view, my whole eubjected. 
35, 22, 31 limit nouns, and define their bound*. 
9,11, 9,18 A noisy strutting warden that scratches in the 
garden. 
0,19, ID, 1% 7 Plagues at beet; the farmer’s pest. 
25,86 Preceded by 9, I am made feline. 
14, 11,13, 4, 1 come with the sun; but am gone in the 
noon. 
34.10, I fulfill my mission as a preposition. 
13, 19, 81,29, 23, A harbinger am 1, and rapidly I fly. 
27, 22, 20, Though but a particle, I’m an tieeful article. 
23, 16, 12, 8, Duily visits I pay, but neither night nor day. 
36, 22, 17, 4, An ndvrib of time, with a biped I rhyme. 
23, 3, 7, 0,21,16, 6, 33, A certain motive I express’, what I 
am you litre can gucie. 
28,19, 11, 20,1 render assistance, to indicate distance. 
1, 6, 32, A i ronoun an) I, which yoa can supply. 
13.10, II, 7, 27, A place of rest, for bird, not beast, 
34.11, Though in size diminutive, I’m before the inGoitive. 
82,3, 30,19, 9, 22, Whatever I’m took for,I mean to “look 
for.” 
28,10,13, I’m a preposition, denoting trantltion. 
22,24, 7, A pronoun pi'Meanive, of property expressive. 
35.11, 2, 33, 34, an article of food, both healthy and good. 
My parte being scanned, 
My whole will stand, 
A picture of sorry vonfmion, 
But'the figures below 
A secret will show 
Which will load to a proper conclusion. 
26, 29, 27, 3, 13, 4, 31, 30, 6,10,16, 11, 28, 29, 17, 36, 34, 20, 
19, 7,12, 24, 29, 29,18, 3, 8, 23, 27, 22,17, 28, 20, 27, 35, 3, 
13,32. H. M Atrss. 
Elmirs, N. Y., 1857. 
Answer in two weeks. We will Bend the Rural three 
months (from Jan. to April, 1868,) to each of the first four 
persons, (out of this city,) sending a correct solution of 
the above Enigma. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
MISCELLANEOUS ENIGMA. 
I am composed of eight letters. 
My 6, 8, 7, 4 often occurs between wives in curl- 
paperB and pouts, and husbands in untwisted 
moustaches and frtls. 
My 1, 6, 4 uses glasses which have the effect of pro¬ 
ducing red circles round the eyes. 
My 5, 7, 8 when reduced to a proper consistency is 
sweet as any “ lassies” ever seen. 
My 2, 7, 4 when rightly cultivated is conducive to 
Bpirit in horses, but in a wild state is very inju¬ 
rious to young people. 
My 3, 6, 8 is a creature which carries its brains in 
the shape of a hairy appendage on the upper lip. 
My whole is an article manufactured and need to 
a great extent by honsewives, clerks in dry 
goods stores, and venders of “ Irish linen,” while 
it is indispensable to the right getting up of a 
flirtation “ by the light o’ the moon.” 
Charlotte Centre, X. Y., 1857. Ellen C. Lake. 
Answer next week. 
-—*-•- 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
TRIGONOMETRICAL PROBLEM. 
A man had an acre of groun^ In the form of a 
circle. He wishes to lay off 3=circles within— 
tangent to each other, and tangent to the circum¬ 
ference. What is the diameter of each circle.—L. 
Cudbbbc, Angelica, N, ¥,, 1857. 
Answer next week. 
THE WAY TO EMINENCE. 
“ That which other folks can do, 
Why, with patience, may not you.” 
Long ago a little boy was entered at Harrow 
Bchool. He was put into a class beyond bis years, 
and where all the scholars had the advantage of 
previous Instruction, denied to him. His master 
chid him for his dullness, and all his efforts then 
could not raise him from the lowest place on the 
form. But, nothing daunted, he procured the 
grammars and other elementary books which his 
class-fellow had gone through In previous terms. 
He devoted the hours of play, and not a few 
of the hours of sleep, to the mastering of 
these; till, in a few weeks, he gradually began 
to rise, and it waa not long till he shot far ahead 
of all his companions, and became not only leader 
of the division, but the pride of Harrow. You 
may see the statue of that boy, whose career began 
with this fit of energetic application, in St. Paul’s 
cathedral; for he lived to be the greatest ori¬ 
ental scholar of modern Europe—it was Sir Wil¬ 
liam Jones. 
When young scholars see the lofty pinnacle of 
attainment on which that name is now reposing, 
they feel as if it had been created there, rather 
than had traveled thither. No such thing. The 
most illustrious in the annals of philosophy once 
knew no more than the rnoBt illiterate now do.— 
And how did he arrive at his peerless dignity?— 
By dint of diligence; by downright pains taking. 
Life in Earnest. 
Answers to Enigmas, &o„ in No. 414. 
Answer to Enigma:—Law without justice is as a 
wound without a care. 
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MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
DEC. 19. 
