STABS OF MY COUNTRY’S SKY. 
_ w 
BY LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY 
Are ye all there? all ye all there, 
Store of toy country's sky? 
Are ye all there? are ye all there 
In tonr ► bluing home* on high? 
“ Count us! Count oh!” woe their answer, 
Ab they daraled on rny view, 
1 b glorious perihelion. 
Amid their fields of blue. 
11 1 cannot count ye rightly, 
There’s a clout with sable riin; 
I cannot make your number out, 
For my eyes with fears are diru. 
O, bright and blessed Angel, 
On white wing floating by, 
Help me to count, and not to miss 
One star in my country's sky.” 
Then the Angel touched my eyelids, 
And touched the frowning cloud 
And its sable rim disparted, 
And it lied with murky shroud. 
There was no missing Pleiad 
'Mid all that sister race: 
The Southern Cross shone radiant forth, 
And the Pole Star kept its place. 
Then 1 knew it was the Angel 
Who woke the hymning strain 
That, at our dear Redeemer’s birth. 
Flowed out on llcthlehcm’s plain. 
And still its echoing key-tone 
My listening country held, 
For all her constellated Htars 
The diapason swell’d. 
line Stovv-fSiUfY. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
EDITH RAYMOND. 
A LOVE STORY. 
BY KATE CAMERON. 
[Concluded from page " 6 , last number. I 
Jnstas J wish oil, my father was the first to enter | 
the room; an introduction was hardly necessary, and 
in a few moments the two persons dearest to me on 
earth were apparently much interested in one 
another. I waB very happy, anti would have risen 
and re-arranged my toilet, had not an occasional 
paroxyism of pain warned me that for one day, at 
least, 1 must remain perfectly quiet. 
In an hour more, mama and Bertha came in 
from ft shopping expedition. They had learned from 
the sen-ant that there was a gentleman in the parlor 
with Miss Kthth; so their outer wrappings were laid 
aside, and they entered the room, dressed in faultless 
taste. Father introduced them, and 1 could see 
Paul's admiring gaze fixed upon Bertha all the 
while lie was listening to mama’s studied greeting. 
I did not wonder at it, it seemed to me that my half- 
sister had never before looked so bewitchiugly lovely, 
and 1 well knew how devout a worshipper at the 
shrine of the graces was my Artist-lover. 
Dinner was annouced, and my Father stopped as 
he was passing my conch to stroke my head, and 
say, “poor child!” then stepping into the hall, he 
waited for Wr. Vernon, who bent down and kissed 
my brow, and then I was alone. 1 could not think,— 
my suffering was too great for that, but there was no 
undefined shadow of approaching Borrow, which 
seemed to dim my spirit. 1 longed to lift the vail, 
and meet the dread certainty, whatever it might be, 
face to face. 
In the afternoon, the conversation turned upon 
music and the opera; and mama reminded Bertha 
that the celebrated oantatrice, whom she bad been 
so anxious to bear, was to appear for the last time 
that evening, and expressed her regret that “dear 
Edith’’ would be unable to go, otherwise they might 
get up a delightful little company. Fal l glanced at 
Bertha, then at me; he felt sure, he rejoined, that 
Edith would excuse him for one evening, especially 
as she needed repose most of all things, and he 
should be only too happy to wail upon the ladies. 
After a little hesitation, they acquiesced; but I 
saw that my father looked displeased, although he did 
not speak: yet the cloud which I bad learned to inter¬ 
pret, darkened Ida brow for a moment. “ Shall I not 
help yon up stairs, Edith?” lie asked at last, kindly; 
“ I fear this excitement has been too much for you; 
your cheeks are flushed, and your hands dry and 
hot,” he continued, standing by my side. “No, 
dear father,” I answered, “let me stay here until 
evening, 1 am already feeling better.” 
Most of Paul’s conversation was addressed to 
mama and Bertha, though he often looked at me 
with a smile, or spoke some kind word, as if in 
atonement for a greater neglect. The short winter 
afternoon drew to a close. The family took tea, and 
the ladies went to dress for the evening. Paul sat by 
my side until they came down, and then, with a fond 
“Good night,” ho Jell me and joined them. Bertha 
was dazzlingly beautiful, in jewels, ermine, and 
velvet. Mania, dressed full as richly, wore an 
exultant smile. BhC felt that she was helping her 
daughter wiu a prize in Life’s lottery. 
No sooner had the carriage rolled from the door, 
than I said, faintly, “now, father, dear, 1 am ready,” 
and taking me in his arms as lie would an infant, he 
carried me to my room, and rang the bell for the 
maid to assist me in undressing. Very kindly did 
he kiss me, and again murmur, “ poor child.” 
For hours, dark phantoms and an undefined dread 
hovered about toy pillow; at last, a troubled, but 
deep slumber, brought the balm of forgetfulness, and 
when I again awoke, it was late in the morning. I 
felt too weak to rise, and when my faithful attendant 
came softly into the room, I asked her to bring me 
toast and coffee, and told her 1 should not attempt- 
going down stairs that day. On her returning with the 
refreshments, she said, “Mr. Vernon is in the parlor, 
and wishes to know how yon are feeling to-day, and 
bow soon he may hope for the pleasure of seeing 
you.” 
"Tell him,” I answered, “that I am better, but 
very weak; I shall be happy to see him tomorrow 
morning.” In a little while I heard strains of music; 
the sweet voice of Bertha blended with the rich 
tones of her piano. My heart told me that she was 
not playing for her own amusement merely, and I 
was not surprised to learn that Mr. Vernon had 
remained to dinner, and left late in the afternoon, 
again expressing his regrets at my continued illness. 
The following morning I was aide to meet the 
family at breakfast. At an early calling hour, Paul 
came again. Mama and Bertha were both out, and 
we spent two hours with nothing to interrupt our 
pleasant converse. Very kind, considerate, and 
thoughtful of my comfort, seemed my betrothed; but 
not one word was spoken of our future, and 1 felt 
that it was not for me to introduce the subject. 
Paul urged another engagement for not remaining 
with me through the day; but said he would come in 
again towards eveuing, and then he left. At five 
o’clock he called, but for a moment, he said. He 
hoped I was now quite well; the next day we would 
go out together, and visit some of the places of 
interest in the city. Ho trusted I did not doubt his 
love for me, and Urns “ striving to make assurance 
doubly sure,” he again went away. 
That evening mama proposed to father that they 
should give a party in honor of his future son-in-law. 
Father did not seem to think it necessary,— indeed, 
I felt that be disapproved ot Paul’s attentions 
to Bertha. However, he did not dispute the point, 
but, as usual, left it all to bis wife. Hhe and Bertha 
arranged the matter, and fixed the time one week 
from that night. I fancied I saw in this plan a plea 
for lengthening Paul’s visit, which I knew be bad 
not originally contemplated a* lasting more than a 
week at the furthest. But I was not to have a voice 
in the matter, and why should J not rejoice at any¬ 
thing which could keep him near me? 
The day following, Paul called for me early, as he 
had promised, and we had a delightful time; visiting 
picture galleries, and stately edifices, some of the 
“lions” of our great city. I felt very proud of 
Paul as I leaned upon liis arm, arid he said, warmly, 
“ You look like Glenwood and yourself, to-day, dear 
Edith.” But when we returned to the house, and I 
had gone to my room to lay aside my outer garments, 
mama and Brrtiia quite monopolized him, and 
made him promise to remain through the rest of 
the day. He chatted with them until dinner time, 
while 1 sat by the window, sewing. 
But why dwell thus minutely upon the events of 
those days? Is it because I dread the record of the 
next week’s occurrences? 
On the sabbath, Paul accompanied us to church, 
and I heard his voice, dear and full, in the responses. 
We sat beside each other and used the same Prayer 
Book; it was bound in velvet, and my name was j 
engraved on the gold clasp. 
“ Will you give this to me, Edith?” he asked, as 
the services concluded. 
“Certainly, if you wish it, Paul; but it is a | 
strange request.” He hurriedly placed it in his 
breast pocket as if it could soothe the troubled 
throbbings of lvis heart. 
A day or two more passed, in which Bertha saw 
Paul quite as often as I did. He seemed entranced 
when listening to her musical voice, or watching her 
countenance which was ever the same in its perfect 
radiance. It lacked the rhanging expression that 
was the chief charm of Paul’s own face. Bertha 
was more like a living picture, or breathing statue. 
One evening I had been alone in my chamber, 
watching the rich sunset hues of the western sky, 
when remembering a new volume of poems which I 
had left on the Center-table, T went down to get them, 
that T might thus beguile the time of its weariness 
until Paul should come, as lie had promised to at 
seven o’clock. 1 opened the parlor door and saw it 
was quite dusky there, for the windows were toward 
the east, and already had twilight wrapped the earth 
in shade. What was my surprise to hear the voices I 
of Paul and Bertha proceeding from the recess of ) 
the damask draped window. They did not hear my 
soft steps. 1 had approached the table arid taken the 
book, which 1 readily found, when 1 heard Bertha 
nay,—“ But what will Edith think? J must not take 
you away from her.” 
“Edith is generous,” was the response; “nor 
would she wish my hand without my heart, and Jiat 
is yours., my beautiful Benito a! Must I plead in 
vain?” 
But 1 could hear no more. With noiseless, yet 
hurried tread, I left the apartment, and in another 
moment had reached the library door. Father was 
there alone; he bad just lighted the gas, and ns he 
saw the startled expression of my face, ho exclaimed, 
“Why! child, what is the matter?” 
“ Paul,—Bertha, —” I gasped, and throwing my¬ 
self into his arms, 1 laid my head upon his shoulder, 
am^ sobbed long and convulsively. Gently did he 
soothe me, and when 1 became more composed, I 
told him all, how I had over heard Paul’s declara¬ 
tion of love to my sister, and how sure I felt that it 
was reciprocated. My father’s face wore a stern look 
which almost frightened me; hut I did not cease my 
intercession until he promised to do as I wished, — 
give Bertha, instead of me, to Paul. 
“You are right, child,” ho said, at last. “Mr. 
Vernon is no longer worthy your love. It shall be 
as you request. And, ‘ he added, bitterly, “if the 
daughter prove to be like the mother, he will be 
punished, he will be punished!” 
So the bell was rung, and a servant sent to the 
parlor with the word that Mr. Raymond wished to 
see Mr. Vernon for a few moments in his library. 
Five minutes elapsed, which seemed an age to me, 
and then I heard Paui.’r footsteps, slow and 
unsteady, along the ball, and when he entered the 
room, a troubled look of doubt and uncertainty was 
on his usually frank and open brow. I stood by my 
father’s chair; he motioned Paul to he seated, and 
then proceeded:—“I am informed, Mr. VERNON, that 
you have transferred your attentions from my eldest 
daughter to her sister, and I felt that I had a father’s 
right to learn the truth from your own lips.” 
He stammered a reply, but 1 interrupted him. 
“Forgive me, Paul, for overhearing words that 
were not intended for my car, I went into the parlor 
unperecivcd by you, while yon and Bertha were 
conversing in the window, and so I now give you up 
toiler. Be tine to her, Pail, for she is child-like 
and trusting.” At that moment she seemed to me 
as aunt Fanny had said Paul’s mother did to her, 
“just like a baby.” But I,— 1 was a strong woman, 
—I could endure anything! And I continued, hold¬ 
ing out my hand, ■ Good bye, Paul, God bless you. 
It- will not be right for me to see you again for a long 
while.” Ho seized ray hand, pressed it- to bis lips, 
and said, “ My noble Edith, Heaven will reward you 
for all this.” He seemed much affected. My father 
remarked with some bitterness, “I presume, Mr. 
Vernon, that you will require nothing more from 
me. Having but these two daughters, it will be 
impossible for me to accommodate you, should you 
choose to make another change in the object of your 
affections,” and ere Paul could reply to this well 
merited sarcasm, he was coldly bowed from tire 
room, and my father clasped me to his heart. 
“What can I do for you, my poor, dear Emm?” 
he asked with pitying fondness. 
“ Only help me to be strong, my father; I must not 
think now.” 
“ I felt bow it would all end,” continued he, 
“when I saw bow much Mrs. Raymond was capti¬ 
vated with this young man; T knew something wrong 
would be the consequence. Depend upon it she is 
at the bottom of it all. It is her maneuvering to 
secure so desirable an alliance for her daughter and 
you, my child, are the sacrifice.” 
“ Don’t, father, don’t, — Icaunot, btar this now,— I 
must not dwell longer upon this painful theme. 
Good night my dearest friend,” and kissing him. I 
left him for my own room, which I resolved to keep 
until Paul should leave town. 
The next day, a small package was banded me; on 
opening it, I found an elegantly bound Prayer Book, 
far more costly than the one which, at his own 
request I had given to Pact., accompanied by a 
pencilled note: 
“ I replace your Prayer Book, Edith. Would tbatl 
could as easily restore your peace of mind, and hap¬ 
piness of heart. But you will be happy. It is I who 
have sinned, and who must suffer. I am unworthy 
your remembrance. Forget me if you can. Paul. 
Well might he say, “ if you can.” Forgetfulness 
is not a boon granted to those who sorrow over 
blighted hopes! For one whole day, mine was the 
mournful task to uproot, every fond memory and antici¬ 
pation, which bad bloomed or budded in the garden 
of my heart With tear-dimmed vision did I read 
the lesson which none can fully understand until 
stem experience has written it in their own history. 
" Alas I for tiife bright promt--’ of our youth ! 
How toon the golden chord* of Hope- are broken, 
How U'O a we Ond that dreanru- we trusted most 
Are very shadows 1” 
Henceforth the name of Paul Vernon must not 
have power to thrill my very being; he was no longer 
my own, but another’s,— and that one my sister,— the 
daughter of my father! For his sake I rauBtbe calm; 
it was my duty. And then I remembered that, each 
one must, bear a cross, and this was mine; and then 
I prayed for strength to endure this heavy sorrow, 
and my prayer was answered. Think not that with 
that serene t wilight hour, ended my sufferings. Ah, 
no! only from that time 1 ceased to bear the burden 
alone. It was a relief to me when I learned that the 
talkeil-of party had been given up; that was a step 
further than mama dared go. Having gained her 
object in securing Paul for Bertha, she forbore to 
add aught to the crushing weight of my grief. 
My father told mo when Paul had gone, and once 
more I mingled with the household bodily, but there 
was little of spiritual intercourse between us. My 
only social horn's were spent in father’s library. At 
my request he promised not to give Uncle Philip an 
account of the recent events, which we knew would 
excite his indignation; it was better to wait until all 
was over, and then lie would hove no opportunity to 
remonstrate with Paul. 
The wedding was to he iu April, for Paul had 
decided to go to Italy, to remain at least two years. 
I could hut think how fondly I had ever hoped to 
visit that classic shore, but not mine the coveted 
boon. I must stand silently by and see another in 
the enjoyment of the blessing. 
But 1 soon found that idleness must be avoided if T 
would retain any degree of composure. I had suffi¬ 
cient pride to keep my cheek from paling, and my 
form from wasting, until the cold world should be¬ 
stow its pity upon the broken reed. But in my hours 
of solitude, it was so hard to be cheerful, and I 
determined to he constantly employed. 1 marked 
out for myself a thorough course of Historical and 
Biographical reading. 1 also offered to write two 
hours daily for father, copying business letters or 
important papers, and soon had the satisfaction of 
finding myself an indispensable assistant to him. 
This, with a dally wail; for healthful exorcise, and 
the reading, occupied my mornings. Writing, sew¬ 
ing, music, or poetiy filled up the remaining hours 
of day; and the evenings were sometimes devoted to 
lectures, or a cliurch service, which 1 attended, 
accompanied by some lady acquaintance; for inti¬ 
mate fi ieud 1 ”• 
Tlii I • pv "to accnsr- lajr-eir oi seiiisiinoss, an a 
thought of my sister so soon to leave me, and I was 
doing nothing for her,— nothing for the bride of my 
Paul. It cost me a severe struggle, hut I conquered, 
and then I ofloral to aid her in her preparations. She 
seemed very grateful, and kissed me with unusual 
affection,— J tbofight with a pang Of remorse for the 
wrong she had done me. A portion of each day I 
now spent in the sewing room, and garment after 
garment passed from nay hands completed. At last 
I placed the finishing stitches in Die bridal robes of 
snowy satin, trimmed with costly lace — and it was 
my own hand that fastened the orange wreath ami 
graceful veil over the sunny tresses of the fair bride. 
They wore married in church on a warm April 
evening. Father and mama formed part of the group 
around the altai\ but 1 sat alone in our own seat, 
holding the prayflr book which Paul had given me. 
Like a vision of beauty Bertha glided past iuc 
through the aisle. I could not seo Paul’s face, but 
the tall and graceful form, the wealth of dark-brown 
hair, were visible, and I felt his presence. The im¬ 
pressive service commenced, and soon I heard the 
rich tones of Paul’s voice, vowing to another the 
love once pledged {o mo. With ft fixed, stony gaze, 1 
looked, until I could not see for the tears that blinded 
me, and then I bowed my head upon the prayer book, 
at the moment the newly-wedded knelt at the altar. 
I prayed for grace and strength, and they were given 
me. And when the organ ponred forth its deep- 
toned melody, my spirit seemed to rise exultant 
above tho cares and changes of this fleeting world— 
and I thought of that blessed home above, where 
“they neither marry, nor are given in marriage, but 
arc as the angels of God in beavon." 
Slowly did they pass from the church. My father 
paused a moment, and 1 took his arm and returned 
home in tho carriage with him and mama. When 1 
entered the drawing-room, Paul and Bertha were 
receiving the congratulations of tbeir friends. Father 
was standing near, and he led me up to them. Ber¬ 
tha kissed me, with the words, "My darling sister, 
I am very happy 1” But Paul only took my band 
and said — “ Edith !” 
I moved through the crowded rooms that night, 
striving to make it pleasant for all oof guests. Per¬ 
haps I carried ray complaisance too far for a young 
lady of twenty-three. 1 might have been too patron¬ 
izing; for ! heard one lady say to another, “Well! 
really, Miss Raymond is getting to be quite an old 
maid! She already wears that benevolent smile 
characteristic of the race.” But I cared little for the 
opinion of the world; I had the approval of my owu 
conscience, and 1 was content. A week intervened 
between the wedding aud their departure for Europe. 
That occurred on the first of 31 ay, the anniversary of 
my journey to Glenwood. "W e had sent cards to 
Uncle Philip, with a brief account of what we. knew 
would be to him startling intelligence, immediately 
after the marriage. He- replied at once with great 
affection: but it was easy to see his indignation was 
thoroughly aroused. Very kindly did he urge my 
coming to Glenwood again for the summer, but that 
was not for a moment to be thought of. I must wait 
for time to heal the wounds of estrangement, ere I 
could trust myself to revisit those loved scenes. My 
father proposed that 1 should accompany him on a 
long tour through some of the Western States to the 
great lakes, Niagara, and the Thousand Isles. Mama 
had already declared her intention of spending the 
season at Newport and Cape May. All this wus 
talked over before Mr. and Mrs. Vernon left us. I 
was glad to have Paul know that I should not remain 
pining at home. They sailed on a bright morning. 
Bertha smiled amid her tears as she parted from 
her mother, but she bade father and me a cbeefnl 
good-by. Paul said but little — but when I gaily 
remarked, “Think of me in Florence,” he answered, 
with a touch of sadness, “I shall never forget yon, 
Edith!” Had he already repented? But that was 
no concern of mine. For a long while we were all 
lonely. It was mama’s first real trial, the parting 
from her darling child; hut she consoled herself with 
her preparations for the summer’s pleasures. We 
left New York the same day, traveling in opposite 
directions. 
Delightful were our rumblings through that long 
summer. My father, ever kind to me, his pet child, 
seemed to redouble his thoughtful attentions, and 
spared no pains or expense to gratify my slightest 
wish. Our tour was protracted until late in Septem¬ 
ber, then, as we were on our homeward way, we 
received a telegram, begging us to hasten, as Mrs. 
Raymond was very ill. Wo rode day and night, but 
when we readied home it wfts too late for human aid 
to avail aught. She only lived three days. In her 
djing hour she called us to her bedside, and taking 
our hands in hers, already cold with the death-damp, 
she hade us ever love her darling Bertha, and 
prayed us to forgive all that she had done to cause us 
pain. That death hour drew the veil gently over her 
past errors, and my father aud I never again spoke 
of her save with that charity which “tliinkethno 
evil.” 
• Letters were exchanged with Bertha after her 
mother’s death, and then for a year we heard nothing. 
The winter months we spent in our city home, and 
the following summer we went to Glenwood. 
Another Autumn, and we heard from the wan¬ 
derers. A letter from Paul announced the advent 
of a daughter, named from their chosen abode, 
“Florence.” There was not a word of returning 
to America. Two years more, and only an occasional 
letter reached us. These again ceased, and we scarce 
ever mentioned the absent ones who had brought 
upon themselves this apparent oblivion. 
J had now passed my twenty-seventh birthday, and 
bad so long worn the dignity of housekeeper, that I 
felt even older. One day a large letter with a foreign 
post-mark was brought in. It was directed in Paul’s 
clear hand, but the letter itself was traced in tremb¬ 
ling characters by Bertha, The contents startled 
me. She wrote, as she said, upon her death-bed, 
knowing that soon she should he in her grave far 
away from home and kindred. She entrusted her 
little Florence, now three years old, to my care, 
begging me to he a mother to her, and make her like 
myself; not allow her to lead the frivolous and use¬ 
less existence she herself had led. Touchingly she 
prayed me to forgive her, and to forgive Paul for all 
they had caused me to suffer. And with a message 
of love to our father, she bade ns both a long fare¬ 
well. There was a postscript from Paul, from which 
I knew that many weeks ere the sad letter was 
received the hand that penned those lines was cold 
in death. 
My father seemed much affected by the mournful 
tidings; indeed, be appeared to grow old very rapidly, 
and could not bear to have me out of his sight. My 
whole life was devoted to bis comfort. But ere win¬ 
ter again commenced bis icy reign, our family circle 
was increased by the arrival of the husband and child 
of our lost Bertha. Paul was sad, but very kind; 
there was an expression of earnest thoughtfulness on 
kis face, which T hod never before seen it wear. I 
FLORENCE Was a penvut nuum-aui; tu pci eun, » uiln- > 
iatureofhor mother, with the same matchless beauty, 
but with a deeper toned nature, and more affectionate 
and witming ways. Paul’s first intention was to 
leave her with us, and go to his old home in Boston. 
But father persuaded him to open a Btudio in New 
York, and remain with us; he said his house was 
large, and seemed so lonely with only two or three 
inmates. Florence was already a pet with her 
grandfather; and indeed she seemed the bright link 
uniting aU our hearts. 
Little remains to be told, for with me the age of 
romance lias passed, and I cannot now, as formerly, 
dilate upon the occurrences of each day and hour. 
Tn after-life we only count the years, while youth 
hoards the moments. For a year had Paul and his 
little Florence been with us; and very dear were 
they both to my heart. The love which I had first 
felt seven years before, seemed to arise phoenix-like 
from the ashes of the past, and it was now a purer, 
holier affection. 1 think Paul read this in my eyes, 
for 1 often met his earnest gaze fixed on me. And 
then again, he told me of his love. Of liis early 
repentance for his fully in linking his destiny with a 
mere child, instead of the mature mind whose aid he 
so much needed. Of the unavailing regrets iu which 
he indulged, and then of the struggle, in which he 
had finally been victorious, and devoted his life to 
making Bertha more like the ideal he had long 
cherished of a true wife. In a measure, he succeeded; 
but Bertha lacked that depth of feeling and earnest¬ 
ness of purpose which could enable ber to sym¬ 
pathize iu his aspirations and aid his endeavors. 
Their life was embittered by tbe recollection of their 
early error, nor could they forget the great wrong 
they had done me. But death severed the tie which 
united them, and then again Paul and I were thrown 
into each other’s society. And now, did I love him, 
could I love him? 
Again our father gave us his blessing — and on my 
thirtieth birth-day I became tbe wife of my first, my 
last, my only love, Paul Vernon. We visited Gleu- 
wood, taking our little Florence with us; and the 
delight of our good uncle and aunt was unbounded. 
We went together to ull the well-remembered haunts, 
and lived over again the joyful experiences of that 
lirst summer of our acquaintance. And contrasting 
then with now, we felt that our discipline, although 
severe, had been wisely ordered. We were better 
prepared for the stern conflict of life. 
We are again in our city borne; and now I close 
this long record of eight years of ray life. My path¬ 
way has led through sunshine aud shadow; but now, 
whatever be in store for me, I go forth, leaning upon 
a strong arm; and however thorny may be our mor¬ 
tal pilgrimage, yet 
See we not up earth's dark glade, 
The gate of Heaven unclose?” 
We are a happy family — father, little Florence, 
Paul aud I. Nor are our Dead forgotten. Beside 
mama’s monument in Greenwood, there is one erected 
to tbe memory of our beautiful Bertha, though an- 
CGusecrated by the presence of her dust; for “o’er 
her the myrtle showers its leaves, by soft winds 
fanned.” Carefully trained plants shed a wealth of 
bloom and perfume around the spot; but they are 
less sweet and enduring than the flowers of love and 
forgiveness, with which our memories have entwined 
the names of the Departed. 
itoohcFU’i. N. 3'.. ltutl. 
It is a good rule always to back your friends and 
face your enemies. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker 
AGRICULTURAL ENIGMA. 
I am composed of 40 letters. 
My 23, 37, 39, 10, 2, 15 is a well known kind of hay. 
My 6 , 38, 14, 37 is very fond of manure. 
Sly S, 5, 15, 33, I 29, 30, 34, 12, 25 is one great cause of poor 
forming. 
My 38, 11 , 4, 35 is what most fast young men sow in their 
youth. 
My 29, 31, 22, 14, 7 is what every farmer ought to have 
plenty of. 
My 3, 31. 39, 24, 9, 34, 21 , especially in the Western States, 
a .re tho fanners’ deadliest enemies. 
My 15, 22, 34, 19, 37 is what every fanner ought to read 
regularly. 
My 31, 38, 23, 24, 29, 39, 15, 40 is the center of one of the 
host, farming district* in the West. 
My 35, 14, 28, 24, 37,16 is still retained as the emblem of the 
harvest field, although long since gone out of use. 
My 23, 37, 28. 31, 24, 35 is what too many farmers’ boys want 
to bo. 
My 13, 39. 26, 30, 20, 38. 16,25con«titutesan important article 
of food. 
My 23, 39, 32,13, 38, 6 , 17, 18. 33, 11, 13 is what a great many 
farmers never saw. 
My 27, 19, 34,10, 2, 6 , 20 is generaliy a very busy time. 
\fy 36, 14, 15, 40, 21 is what every farmer ough to protect. 
My whole every farmer ought to remember. 
Rockford, Ill., 1861. E. W, Hicks. 
EVg?” Answer in two weeks. 
ILLUSTRATED REBUS. 
{o<rm. /^XC f S IRK 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker, 
ALGEBRAICAL PROBLEM. 
A poulterer going to market to buy turkeys, met with 
four flocks. In the second were six more than three times 
the square root of double the number in tho first; the third 
contained three times as many as the first and second; the 
fourth contained six more than the square of one-third the 
number in the third, and the whole number was 1,938. How 
many were there in each flock? H L. 
Marshall, Calhoun Co., Mich., 1861. 
Answer in two weeks. 
“BITE BIGGER, BILLY.” 
A great friend of the children, Mrs. Gii.drrsi.hvk, of 
Buffalo, contributes the following beautiful and touching 
incident to the Bovs’ and Girls' Department of tho American 
Agriculturist: 
“ Walking down the street, we saw two very ragged boy* 
with hare toes, red and shining, and tattered clothes, upon 
which the soil of long wear lay thick aud dingy. They were 
• few axd far between'—only jacket and trowsers, and these soli¬ 
tary garments were very nuneighborly, and objected ton union, 
however strongly tbe autumn wind hinted at the comfort 
of such an arrangement. One of tho boys was Jubilant over a 
half-withered bunch of flowers some person kad cut away. 
1 1 say, Billy, warn! somebody real good to drop these ’ere 
posies just where I could find'em, and they're so pooty pad 
nice? Look sharp, Billy, and maybe you'll Hnd somethin, 
wnclrjr*—on, pitir. oiuy, ir nnc otn * m..r.„ i,.,k a peach, and 
’tain’t much dirty, neither. Cause you hain’t got no poach, 
you may bite first. Bite bigger, Billy, may be we’ll find 
another ’fore long.' 
‘‘That boy was not cold, nor poor, and never will be; his 
heart will keep him warm, and if men and women forsake 
him, the very angels will feed him. and fold tbeir wings about 
him. ‘Bite bigger, Billy; may be we'll find another 'fore 
long.' What a hopeful little soul! If he finds his unselfish¬ 
ness illy repaid, he will not turn misanthrope, for God made 
him to be a man, one. to bear his own burden uncomplainingly, 
aud help his fellows besides. Want cannot crush his spirit, 
nor filth stain it, for within him and about him the spirit of 
the Christ-child dwelleth always. 
ANSWERS TO ENIGMAS, &c., IN No. 580. 
Answer to Miscellaneous Knigraa:—Hugh Swinton Legare. 
Answer to Illustrated Rebus:—The Rural iu circulation 
reaches nearly 100 , 000 . 
Answer to Poetical Enigma:—The letter Y. 
Answer to Algebraical Enigma:—’ , (5 ± 5.) and ± )l 
4 /5. 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER, 
THK LARGEST CIRCULATED 
AGRICULTURAL, LITERARY AND FAMILY WEEKLY, 
18 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY 
BY D. D. T. MOORE, ROCHESTER, N. Y. 
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