ing twilight, I almost imagine that I can see the 
gleam of white wings. She is all that is beautiful, 
and true, and good.'' 
“ 1 have never met her,” said Pact.. 
“No, you have not. She does not wish to meet 
you here, nor elsewhere. When I speak of you to 
her, her cheeks brighten,—there is a dcwyness in 
her eyes, and a tremor in her voice. She grows rest¬ 
less, and hurriedly directs my thoughts and words 
into another channel. I have noticed this.” 
“Her name?” said Paul, quickly. 
“She said I should simply call her Mira.” 
“Miriam, you mean.” 
“No, Mira, as I have said.” 
“ Has she ever been to Europe?” Paul asked the 
question with much anxiety. 
“She has,” was tho reply. 
“So—and when will she come again?” 
“To-night.” 
Just then the door opened, and Miriam came in. 
The rush of wind made the light burn dimmer, and 
Paul shrank away in the darkness. 
Ves, there she was, calm and beautiful still! 
There was a holiness, a resignation in the cast of her 
features. Her dress was simple, unadorned by 
gems, and her bait* was parted plainly over her 
high white forehead. 
She was unconscious of the presence of Paul; she 
did not cast her eyes around the room; had she done 
so. it is likely that she would not Lava seen him, it 
was so dark where lie stood. She smoothed the pil¬ 
lows of the sick old man; she held cooling liquid to 
ie,— of tho 
ness of your inner life. I can shut my eyes'and 
imagine you beside me now. Hut you can be 
nothing more to ine, Paul.” The latter sentence 
she repeated a number of times, bowing low her 
head, and sobbing bitterly in the intervals. “ 1 
turned away from you with coldness—nay, with 
rudeness. There was defiance hi my glance, scorn 
on my lips, and bitterness in my hearl. Unobserved 
from the window above, I beheld you kneel in the 
moonlight, and heard the low earnest pleading of 
your voice. Ah! often 1 see you kneeling and hear 
you pleading thus. O, Paul! to treat you so! 1 am 
not worthy enough even to stand where your shadow- 
may have fallen. No, I cannot share your fortunes; 
it cannot bo. The gulf between U3 is wider than 
ever. Much as I love, idolize and adore, 1 must 
shut up my love in my heart forever. You are now 
the heir and I—what? A wandering, weary, heart¬ 
broken woman. But I will write to you, Paul. 
Perhaps there may be something sweet to you in the 
sadness w T bieh I feel.” 
minnit and ask the man to walk in. Thinks I that’s 
a good idee; but I saw others do it, and they didn’t 
seem to get in any faster than their turn come. Says 
i to the man that stood by me. and lmd sent in his 
piece of paper a good while ago, says I, “ Why don’t 
yon get called?’’ Says he, “1 aint a distinguished 
man.” “Oh,” says I, '-if that’s what makes the 
mare go, I’ll try my hand.” So I tore off a piece of 
the edge of a newspaper, and wrote COL. JOHN 
J’LOWHANDLE on it, big as life, and handed it 
to the door-tender, and when he read the name, he 
kinder looked at nje, and then at the name, and then 
opened the door and went in, and J went back to the 
backside of the rpom, for I thot I wouldn’t be in 
anybody's way. Pretty eoon a man came out. and 
the little bell rung, and the door-keeper went in. 
and came right out and looked all round the room 
till he saw me. and then he came up to me and made 
a bow, and says he, “Col. Pi.owhanulk. 1 believe.” 
I kinder straightened up as I used to when 1 was" 
corporal, aud said “ 'Tcntion, Rangers,” and says I, 
“ That’s my name, sir.” Says he, “ The President 
would like to see you, sir.” Didn’t the folks stare 
when they found I belonged to “the distinguished 
individuals!” 
As soon as I got in, I pulled off my cap. You see 
we military men all wear caps now, and you'd be 
surprised to see how plain Hie General and I dross, 
and all the oilier real military men do. It’s only 
them officers that aint used to it at homo, that mag¬ 
nify their buttons, and think everybody sees how 
fine they look, and don't speak to soldiers and com¬ 
mon folks, or officers that haint as many buttons as 
they have, I hadn’t any more than got my cap off 
before tho President corned right up to me, and says 
he, “I'm glad to see you, Colonel.” And we shook 
hands, real glad like, and says be, “you aint in any 
hurry ; 1 want to have a long talk with you.” 
Says I. “President, 1 am in no hurry.” “Well, 
then,” says he, “you go and sit down by the window 
and read the papers, and I’ll be through soon.” So 
I went and sit down by tho winder and looked at 
the papers, which came from everywhere, and the 
folks kept coming in and going out till it was noon, 
and then they all went away, and Mr. Lincon come 
and set down in his arm chair close by me, and 
turned round and put Ills legs ever the arms of the 
chair- Hut as my paper is most used up, I 
can’t, write any more now till next time. 
1 wonder if you ever felt just as I do when you 
got to be Colonel, and mixed up with the big (oiks. 
1 don’t think now I'd run for Supervisor, or Member 
of Assembly, if I knuwed I'd get elected. I tell you 
a man don’t want to ride colts when he’s on big 
bosses. At any rate, that’s some idee how I feel, 
but 1 don’t want yon to say anything about if, for 
perhaps my big horse may stumble some day and 
throw me, and then a small horse is better than no 
horse. Yours to command, 
John Plowuandle. 
“ Ai.i. quiet along the Potomac.”they fay, 
“ Except now and then a stray picket 
Is shot as lie walks oil his heat to and fro 
By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 
Tis nothing — a private or two, now and then, 
Will not count in the news of the battle; 
Not an officer lost—only one of the men 
Moaning out. all alone, the death-rattle.” 
Ail quiet ntong the Potomac to-night, 
Where the soldiers lio peacefully dreaming; 
Their Wilt* in the rays of the clear autumn moon, 
Or the tight of the watch tire gleaming. 
A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind 
Through the forest leaves softly is creeping, 
While stars up above, witli their glittering eyes, 
Keep guard — tor the army is sleeping. 
There's only the sound of the lone sentry’s tread 
As lie Lamps from the rock to the fountain; 
And thinks of the two in the Ion trundle-bed, 
Ear away in the cot on the mountain. 
His musket tails slack — lain face, dark and grim, 
Grows gentle with memories tender, 
As he mutters a prayer for tho children asleep — 
For their mother—may Heaven defend her. 
The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, 
That night when the love yet unspoken 
Leaped up to ids lips, when love-murmured vows 
Were pledged to he ever unbroken. 
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, 
He dashes oil* (ears that arc welling, 
And gathers his gun closer up to its place, 
As if to keep down the heart-swelling. 
He passes the fotinlnin, the blasted pine tree. 
The footstep is lagging and weary; 
Yet onward tie goes, through the broad belt of light, 
Toward tlic shade of tho forest so dreary. 
Hark 1 was it the night wind that rustled the leav es, 
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing ? 
It looked like a rifiu—“Hal Mary, good bye!” 
And the life blood is ebbing and plashing. 
All quiet along the Potomac to-night, 
No sound save the rush of the river; 
While soft falls the dew on the face’of the dead — 
The picket's off duty forever! 
CHAPTElU VI. 
Paris, November 12th, 186-. 
Dear Paul:— With tears in my eyes, and with a 
wildly throbbing heart, 1 have perused your letter; 
a letter full of hope, and love, and life; a letter 
touching my heart in the simplicity of its eloquence: 
a letter winging mo swiftly back to the beautiful 
long ago; a letter such as none other blit mine own 
loved Paul could write. And yet 1 scarcely know 
how to reply to it; my Jove, my heart, Paul, dictate 
one thing, and my pride, my sensitiveness another. 
And so you are the heir of Kemstead Place? Well, 
1 am glad of it, Paul. You are worthy of such a 
boon — far, far more worthy than 1 was. Von have 
waited long and patiently;' struggled hard, and yet 
have ever been satisfied with the allotments of Provi¬ 
dence. 
And T, Paul? Have 1 not been fed and pam¬ 
pered upon what was rightfully yours?—my soul 
thereby turned away from its truthfulness and its 
beauty? While you were toiling and struggling; 
while you labored and yet learned to wait; while 
you suffered and yet. were strong; while you pushed 
aside with resolute arms the waves of yotfr adverse 
fate, cheered by the deep, solemn promises of God 
and the memory of the- pale, hallowed face of your 
invalid mother,— I was rolling in ease and luxury, 
extending no hand to succor, proud and defiant even 
in the consciousness that 1 stood up guilty before tho 
eyes of Goo my Maker, and of Paul my beloved, 
Paul, you have asked uie to come and share your 
fortune with you. Tins I cannot do; I cun scarcely 
believe you mean 1 should. It would be mercenary 
in me. You would think I did so, not for love of 
you, but for the love of wealth and station; not in 
answer to the prayer my heart has lire allied for 
many long weary months, but in response to Hie 
voice of luxury and affluence. 
How have l treated you, Paul? God forgive me 
that, for 1 can never forgive myself. Did you know, 
too, Paul, when you asked me to relinquish the 
estates, that you w ere the heir? I am slowly becom¬ 
ing satisfied in my mind that you were. '/ did not 
know it though, and relinquished all for love of you, 
not when you bid mo, it is Irue, but after awhile,— 
because my soul was so lull ol yeanling and unrest, 
flow sad lb ui those estates must still stand between 
our happiness and our love! 0, Paul! were you 
poor and wretched, sick and weary, how i would fly 
to succor you, and with rny gentle wooings make 
your heart grow well and strong. Have 1 not been 
dreaming tor months ot corning to bless your life, to 
share your lotversily with you, to show how my 
spirit, in obedience to the lessons it has learned from 
yours, at last grew beautiful and strong, and stood 
up to catch the lire of congratulation and encour¬ 
agement. gleaming from your eye? But ass it is now, 
Paul, it cannot be; no. no. no! 
You may cull it pride. Paul: no doubt it is. We 
may be too proud, you know, to receive a'tns as well 
as too proud to give them. Have charily for me, 
Paul; try to forget one so wholly u invert by of you. 
You have forgiven, Paul, and yon may i'orgei. 1 
can write no more; I am writing now "like iv very 
child — just as dotuelicdly. just as incoherently, 86 I 
would speak, were you here, Paul — here beside 
me, with your hand in mine. 
Farewell, Paul; have no more fond thoughteofmo; 
Up to (Scotch) Snuff. 
POPPING THE QUESTION 
Fair Sally and her lover. Mat, 
Close by tho fire in silence sat; 
A dish of apples, rosy-faced, 
Was ’tween them on the table placed. 
In vain poor Mat essayed to speak, 
While blushes mantled Sally’s cheek. 
For well she. knew what Mat. would sav, 
If he could only find the way 
To him she east a side long look. 
Then from the dish ati apple took 
And deftly slicing it in twain, 
She passed half to the sitent swain. 
Mat looked confused, then brightened up, 
And said as lie the apple took: 
Now, Sfdly, dearest, unto me, 
As kind as to this pippin be— 
You've haJved the apple—pray have roe ! ” 
his parched lips; she spoke of life and hopi 
life to come, and of the hope that points far, far 
beyond the confines of the tomb! She knelt in 
earnest, thrilling, life-inspiring prayer. Paul stole 
forward and knelt beside her: and when she had 
finished, she was startled to hear a rich, mellow 
voice, the familiar voice of the long ago, breathe out 
additional sentiments of inspiration and truth. 
She rose to her feet and found both her bauds 
within Paul's, pud his eyes gazing lovingly into hers. 
“Miriam, toy beloved, my little with! have you 
come back to me at last?” 
“Yes, 1 have. Paul!” aud her head rested on his 
shoulder, and her boRoin heaved with emotion. 
Their lives were there consecrated anew to each 
Other; and the old man, w ith his white locks stream¬ 
ing over his shoulders and his wan hands out¬ 
stretched, rose halfway up in bed and blessed them. 
A N. Y. paper says that “ King Cotton is upon 
hie marrow bones.” The poor old King, or ex-King, 
hasn’t any marrow in his bones. 
The most likely thing to-make a rebel swear is to 
proffer to him, under trying circumstances, the 
privilege of taking the oath of allegiance. 
The Nashville Union says that “ Tennessee has 
one little matter to settle with Kentucky.” Ken¬ 
tucky has a score to settle with Tennessee. 
A ret of poetasters in the South are writing 
Dixie songs. They for the most part treat all sen¬ 
sible thoughts as General Dix does the Virginia 
niggers —don’t permit them to come within their 
lines. 
1). W. Idk, of Missouri, writes angrily to a Mis¬ 
souri paper that he can’t see the object of prose¬ 
cuting the war. He is not expected to see very well 
—he is cross lde. 
Ip the Union men in Southern Kentucky have 
any property as yet unstolen, let them look out for 
it.. It is said that Ployd has been ordered to Bowl¬ 
ing Green. 
It is amusing to reud Beauregard’s letters and 
communications. Why need the rebel General, 
even though he must rebel against all other laws, 
rebel against the laws of grammar? 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE HEIR OF KEMSTEAD PLACE. 
COL PLOWUANDLE AT WASHINGTON. 
Wawiixotox, II. ft,, Dec. 10,1801. 
Col. Moore:— The President and f have been so 
busy getting the Message into Congress, that I 
haven’t had time to take my pen in hand to write to 
von before now. You’ve no idee what a site of 
trouble it is to get. up a Message. I don't think but 
what if we’d been left to ourselves, Mr. Lincon 
and 1 could have got it. up in a little while; but- I 
toll you the way everybody wanted to help us was 
a caution. They wanted us to put everything into 
the Message just as they wanted it. Well, when we 
got all ready to write it out, we had near upon a 
pile of idees as big as a potafer hole, and says Mr. 
Lincon, says he to me, “ what in all creation are we 
going to do with them idoes; it will take us a month 
to sift ’em.” “Why.” says I, “President, run ’em 
through a fanning mill.” “ Well,” says he, “ that's 
it, exactly; I never thot of that, before. But,” says 
lie, “we liaint got any fanning mill anywhere round 
here.” Says I, “Pi 1 bet I can find one.” So off I 
started and went over to Geu, McClellan and 
borrowed his, for I thought he could get along with¬ 
out it for a little while anyhow. When we'd got 
it in, says l, “President, I’ll turn and you put into 
the hopper.” So 1 begun to turn it about as hard 
as I turned it at die General’s, and they flew 
all about the room, and he looked down to the head 
of the mill and nothing come through, Then he 
wanted me to turn slower, and so I did, and he kept 
putting into the hopper, and looking down at the 
place where the wheat conies out cleaned, but. he 
couldn’t linil nary idee; everything kept blowing out 
at the tail of the mill. And so we cleaned up the 
whole jiile, hut nothing cante down through. And 
when we’d got done, it. was kinder queer to see 
what a heap we made on the floor, scattered all 
over everywhere, fur some of 'em were so light that 
they enamost Mowed up chimbly. Says lie, “ aint 
that funny?” “ Well,’’ says I, “it does beat Gen. 
McClellan's piles. ••Why,” says he, “does the 
General clean up his Wheat that way?” “To he 
sure,” says I, “lmt we never clean up such a pile 
that there aint something that comes down through 
the mill where the wheat comes, that pays pretty 
well for cleaning up.” So you see there's work to 
he done before you can make a Message, but I’d no 
idee about it till I’d seen with my own eyes. 
But I haint told you how Mr. Lincon and I corned 
to cotton to one another so well. Well, you sec, 1 
and the General had been using the tanning mill one 
morning, and the General says to me, says lie, 
“Colonel, have you been over to see the President 
yet?” Says I, “No, for 1 sposed he’d call on me 
first.” Says he, “It's considered polite here for all 
distinguished persons to call on the President, and 
not he on them.” “ Well then,” says I, “ I aint 
acquainted with the etiketofforin coils, and if that’s 
so, i’ll go right off.” Hays he. “I'm going to grind 
out the wheat we’ve got out of this big heap ol idees 
this morning, and you can go as well as not.” The 
General always takes them info a little room by 
himself w hen he wants to think on 'em, for lie and 
1 can’t so much as have a thought when we are out 
round but somehow it gets into the papers. For 
my part, i think the air is full of newspaper fellows, 
which tell everything they see and don’t see. 
So 1 brushed up my coat a little, but it want any 
kind of use, for Mr. Lincon never seemed to know 
or care whether I had any coat on at all or not 
J list as I cotno to the door and was going to knock, 
a fellow opened it. and I walked light in arid looked 
all round to see Mr. Lincon. But there want hardly 
anybody in the room. I expect the fellow at the 
door seed J hadn’t got the hang of the baru yet, so 
says lie, “Is it the President you’i'e lookin’ after?” 
Says I, “That’s the man.” “Well then,” says lie, 
“it’s up chamber. But,” says he, “the aunty 
room is full now, and maybe ye’d like to see (he 
aist room.” “ Well,” says I, “ what kind of a room 
is the auidy room.” “Be dad, honey,” says he, 
“and isn’t it the room a here everybody waits to see 
Uncle Abe?” I didn’t sec exactly where tho laff 
came in, and don’t now, but the fellows round 
winked and luffed big, and I just walked off up 
stairs, thinking, maybe they don’t know who I am. 
A fellow showed me info the aunty room, and 
sure enough, it was chuck full of all kinds ol people, 
waiting to see the President. Well, I waited a good 
while, and evej-y little while some fellow would 
come and hand the door-keeper a little piece of 
paper, and he’d carry it in, and come back in a 
[Concluded from page 20 , last week.] 
CHAPTER V. 
Poor Miriam! 
She sat down by tho window again, and wept like 
the very child that she was. And why? Should 
she not rather have been happy, and should not her 
heart have beat joyously ? Ah! a sensitive nature 
was hers, a delicate organism, ever strong in pride, 
and ever alive to the great fear of having her mo¬ 
tives misconstrued. 8he still loved Paul. Sleeping 
or waking, her memory was sliil with him. For him 
she had given up Kemstead Place and all; and she 
had been calmly, surely looking lor the time when 
Paul would torgive her, and when she could share, 
with a soul now far better attuned to his, his priva¬ 
tions, liis poverty, and his toils. She would be tho 
day-star in his adversity, the worshiped one of his 
soul, the strong arm to rest upon when his heart 
grew faint; and in that thought lay the mGccaofher 
beaming hopes. 
But now ho was rich and she poor. She had con¬ 
cealed her movements; and her address from him; 
she had closed the avenue of communication be¬ 
tween them, so that she alone could have the 
pleasure of re-opening it; and now her pride would 
neither allow her to make nor receive advances. 
Could Paul put high.faith and trust in her? Might 
he not think that pride, and love of wealth and 
station were still strong in her son!, and that, she luid 
turned to him again but from these motives. 
Ah! Pail could never be anything more (o her! 
She sat awhile in Silence, then brushing away her 
teare, she returned to the table and look up Die 
remaining letter. She read the inscription and 
recognized the writing of Paul Devarkux. With 
more calmness than could have been expected 
under the circumstances, she opened the letter and 
read its contents. 
Rkmhtkau Place, N. Y.. October lot)). 165—. 
Dear Miriam:— My beautiful, my beloved! Many 
weary months have passed since ive last, met, anu 
since*thou you have been as silent as the grave. In 
vain 1 inquired of Mr. Morgan for your add mss: he 
remained inflexible in regard to your orders. But. 
yesterday, while transacting business with liirn in 
his office! I noticed a letter lying on the desk, directed 
to you. Unobserved I copied the address, and I urn 
noiv happy beyond measure to know tlnit 1 can at 
last pour into your ears llie deep earnest love t hat 
has of late been flooding my soul. I love you now 
far more than ever—with a love deep and unfathom¬ 
able as the ocean, and ever singing the same low 
sweet retrain in inysonl! 
You are more than all the world to me; and often, 
as I sit in the calm moonlight, it. seems to me that 
your spirit, arrayed in the whiteness of its own 
purity, comes to stand beside mo; aud then I look 
up into your eyes, hear your lips murmur as of old, 
“Paul, ‘my own beloved” 1 know then that you 
arc thinking of me, too, ami that in turn tho magnet¬ 
ism of my character is sbapening itself by your 
side. And, O! l ibel so unaccountably happy when 
you seem tints in my arms, that t hold my very 
breath, from fear that you will vanish away. 
Dear Miri am — 1 am not happy. As u minister of 
the Gospel, as a messenger ot hope and of peace.to 
others, J should not say so, but it is nevertheless 
true. You are necessary to the completion of my 
happiness. You have become part of rny life, Miri¬ 
am— part of my soul — part over which absence 
allows me no control, aud makes me sit in the abject 
darkness of wretchedness and despair. 
Miriam, my own. my dearest, my little wife! You 
have come out of the tire glorious and beautiful in 
your womanhood: you have proven all that is good, 
and noble, and trim. That dark, overawing pride 
lies a smoldering’sacrifice upon the altar; arid von 
have risen far above my highest summit of grandeur 
aud womanly perfection. 
Come home, Miriam; do as your heart says you 
shall;-become what you so earnestly long to*be¬ 
come. Share my fortunes with me now, Miriam; 
they shall be yours and mine; we will bless and 
glorify each others lives; and arm in arm at last go 
THE CHARACTER 0F A GENTLEMAN. 
Tub power which the husband lias over his wife, 
in which we must include the impunity with which 
he may be unkind to her; the father over his pupils; 
the old over the young, and the* young over the 
aged; the strong over the weak; the officer over his 
men; the master of a vessel over his hands; the 
magistrate over the citizens; the employer over the 
employed; the rich over the poor; the educated 
over the unlettered; the experienced over the con- 
tiding; the keeper of a secret over him whom it 
touches; the gifted over the ordinary man: even the 
clever over the silly; the forbearing and inoffen¬ 
sive use of ail the power or authority, or a total 
abstinence from it, where the case admits it. 
will show the gentleman in a plain light. The 
gentleman does not needlessly and unceasingly re¬ 
mind an offender of a wrong he may have committed, 
against him. U - cannot only forgive, but he can 
forget He wit! never use the power which the 
knowledge of a t offence, a false step, or an unfor- 
tunaie exposui ■ of weakness give him, merely to 
enjoy the power of humiliating his neighbor. A 
true man of honor feefs humbled himself when he 
cannot help humbling others.— Dr. Lieber. 
“Speaking of bores,” says a victim to one of the 
species, “I oan scarcely imagine one capable of 
inflicting more misery than an intolerable whistler, 
I can stand a life, when all the nation is ‘armed and 
equipped’ on training day, and the drum with its 
‘Hang,Jiang,’ serves to drown its screams; but to 
listen to a poor air, badly murdered by a poorer 
puckerer, I prefer death in some easier if not quicker 
way. I always think of the French stage-coach 
driver, who, being very much annoyed by such a 
bore, turned upon him with, ‘Mine frien’, vat for 
you all de times vissel? You loss your dog, eh?”’ 
A Western clergyman, in presenting a revolver 
to a volunteer, said, “If you get into a tight place, 
and have to use it, ask God’s blessing if you have 
time, but be sure and not let your enemy get the 
start of you. You cau say amen after you shoot” 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MISCELLANEOUS ENIGMA. 
A young lady at Niagara was heard to exclaim: 
■• What an elegant trimming that rainbow would 
make tor a white lace overdress.” ■ 
I am composed of 23 letters. 
My 1. 3, 10, V, 17 means lonely. 
My 2, 5, 8 is found in winter. 
My 3, 1, 1, 1(3 was the mother of poetry. 
My 4, 22,13 is a knot. 
My 5, 12,11 IS is raised by farmers. 
My 6, 17, 2, 11, 17 should be preserved. 
My 7, 20, 13 is a kind of groin. 
My 8, 18, III, lti is a Hebrew measure. 
My !), 2, 21, 4 ( 13, 12 is what I love, as also, 
My 10, 11, 14, 1.0, 8, 7 , 
My 11, 18, 4, 22, 23 is ari organ of sight. 
My whole is an old apothegm. 
Glendale, Ohio, 1862. 
Answer in two weeks. 
Men who endeavor to look fierce by cultivating 
profuse whiskers, must he bair-em-scare-em fellows. 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER, 
THE LARGEST CIRCULATED 
AGRICULTURAL, LITERARY AND RAM ILY WEEKLY, 
13 PUBLIdHKl) KVKJlY SATURDAY, 
I). D. T. MOORE, ROCHESTER, N. Y. 
J. M. Cochran 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
ASTRONOMICAL ENIGMA. 
T’ER.MS IiN" A-DVAISrOE: 
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Europe, kc., is $2.50—including postage. 
13 :- 'p U g active Terms and Ilates .ireinvariable. Therefore, 
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is the best time, aud we shall send from it for some weeks, unless 
specially directed otherwise. Please “make a note of it" 
Our iNnccKMHXTS for obtaining subscribers to the Thirteenth 
Volume of tbe Ritual, for 1862. are of the most Liberal and 
Substantial character. Premium Lists, Show-Bills, kc., sent 
tree to ail di/posed to act as agents. 
Any xic-rson so disposed can act as local agent for tbe Rural 
Xew-Yof.kkk, aud those who volunteer in the good cause will 
receive gratuities, and their kindness be appreciated. 
No Travklixg AGENTS are employed by ns. as we wish to 
give tbe whole held to local agents and those who form clubs. 
Sjy~ See Publisher's Notices on preceding page. 
1 Alt composed of 21 letters. 
My 9, 4,14, 20, 8, 7 was an Astronomer and one of the seven 
wise men of Greece. 
My 16, 6, 15, 2, 11, 17 is a star in Ursa Minor. 
My 20, 3. 7, 18, 12, 10 is a star in Scorpio. • 
My 13, 5, 17 whs an ancient Astronomer. 
My 15, 8, 1, 6, 7 is the name of a constellation. 
My 19, 5, 21, 14 is a star in Libra. 
Sly whole is a celebrated building. 
New Lisbon, N. Y., 1862. H. C. Buck. 
Answer in two weeks. 
As 1 was beating o’er the forest grounds, 
Up starts a hare before my two greyhounds; 
The distance that she started up before 
Was fourscore yards exactly, and no more. 
The dogs being light of foot, did fairly run 
Unto her fifteen yards just Jweuty-onc 
Now, tl*is I d have you .unto me declare — 
How far they ran before they caught the hare I 
JJ3P” Answer in two weeks. 
CFIAJPOLER. VII. 
Another year passed on. 
In a low-roofed yet comfortably furnished cottage 
five or six miles from Kemstead. Place, an old man 
lay upon a bed of sickness aud disease. For many 
weeks his body had been undergoing a slow pros- 
etration. By his bedside, administering spiritual con¬ 
solation, sat the man of Gor>, Paul Devarkux. 
“Mr. Devarkux,” said the old man, “you have,of 
late, made me an especial object of your care. For 
this I am very, very thankful; my gratitude is ft 
gratitude which I cannot, convey to you in words, 
and which iny rapidly waning life will not allow me 
to express in deeds. However, may God’s choicest 
blessing rest upon your soul forever and forever. I 
have had, too, for some weeks, another friend; one 
who comes and waits on roe, and makes my soul to 
grow strong with her teachings, the same as with 
'thine, and sits and reads to me until, in the gather- 
i;ivu 11 j u 1 v lviju uj 111 »ii ui iu iu iuatp 
down the deep and silent rivePof death, (olive aiid 
love forevermore that darkling stream beyond. 
Write to me. Miriam; make my soul to be glad; 
breathe life, and spirit, and energy there; for believe 
me, my beloved, ray tmsatisficil yearnings have 
made me of little benefit to myself of to others. 
(Yinw hume to roc ! from thee apart 
Faintly and low my pulses beat, 
As if the JiIV-blood of my heart 
Within thine own heart holes its scat, 
And flowf tli only where thou art! 
Come home, mine own ’ 
Yes, write to me soon, and ever look upon me as 
one wno lovue you more than life ilselfi 
Paul Devarkux, 
MrRiAM closed the letter with a sigh; tears bedim¬ 
med her eyes, and there was much of sadness in her 
tone as she murmured:—“Yes, Paul —you do come 
and stand beside me in the grandeur and the bright- 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker, 
ENGINEERING QUESTION. 
Tan boiling point of pure water on a hill is 201° Fail.—tem¬ 
perature of the air 87°. Determine the altitude of the hill 
above the level of the sea. Edwin A. Dodds. 
Govemeur, St. Law. Co . N. Y., 1862. 
Answer iu two weeks. 
Answer to Zoological Enigma:—All is not gold that glitters. 
Answer to Decapitations—Tin, pants, slip, Fannie, for, 
stop, shoe, president, star. 
Answer to Puzzle;—John A. Dix. t 
Answer to Geometrical Problem:—14.167 plus rods. 
