THE SOLDIER’S GOOD-BY. 
- * - 
Good-by to you, mother! Though hard to the ending, 
Though sait is the'picture that gleams in vour eye, 
Let. your love for your boy check the tear at its starting; 
Here's my ham] with my heart to be faithful. Good by! 
Good by to you, father! Remember and cherish 
My vow—that lias cost perhaps many u sigh— 
To be xealOQs and loyal—and then, should I perish, 
You'll remember 1 died for my country. Good-by! 
Good by to you, sister! The sun on the morrow 
May he laden with gladness in every ray, 
* Yet no Joy n il! suffice in dispelling the sorrow 
Of thus parting with you, my dear sister, to-day. 
Good-by to you, brother' The deepest dejection 
Gomes crowding upon me in taking your hand; 
But a solace 1 find in the single reflection 
That 1 leave you for service in Liberty’s baud. 
Good by to you, .darling! The vows that we’ve spoken 
Will be sealed with my love for you down in my breast; 
1 hope to return with those pledges unbroken, * 
And find, with you, home for a soldier to rest 
Good by to you, friends! Should iny ardent devotion 
Decree for me death and a patriot's grave. 
You’ll remember 1 lived for my country's promotion, 
And died for the Liberty Washington gave 
Albany Kvenfnff Journal. 
Site jneeg-Seltee. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
AN ORPHAN’S STORY. 
BY NKTTIK. 
When I was nine years old my mother died, and 
there has been a lonesome place in my heart ever 
since she weni away. My lath or, always kind, grew 
more tender than ever toward his motherless little 
ones. Dear, loving Aunt Maky came to be the 
ministering angel in our household, and so, though 
the light of our home was buried in the old grave¬ 
yard, there were still sunny smiles and loving 
hearts around our hearth-stone. Before a year had 
passed, however, Death came again to our door and 
left us orphans. Father had been unfortunate in 
business, so we were nol only orphaned, hut home¬ 
less and penniless. There were seven children of 
us, a brother and sister older, and four younger than 
myself Our kind relatives instantly opened their 
hearts and homes to us, and we were to be scattered 
here and there, henceforth to have separate joys and 
sorrows. Aunt Mary stayed with us some weeks, 
at the old home, while preparations were being 
made for our departure. Six different homes had 
been offered for six of our number, and while Aunt 
Mary was planning anxiously for the seventh, a 
letter came from Mr. Munson, an old college chum 
of my father, stating that he should pass through 
our place on business in a day or two, and claiming 
the privilege of taking one of his deceased friend’s 
orphan children with him on his return, to be cared 
for as his own. He expressed a preference for me, 
and it was at length decided that 1 should go with 
him. 
It is needless to tell how my heart clung to (he 
old home, dear brothers and skiers, and kind aunt. 
I went to the play-house, (ho pwing, and the barn, 
for a formal good-bye, and lastly to the old grave¬ 
yard; then returning home, threw my arms around 
Aunt Mary’s neck, sobbing, “ I cannot be the first 
to go.*’ 
“Be bravo, my precious little girl,” she,said, kiss¬ 
ing me while her tears rained over my lace. She 
added hopeful words of encouragement to me. So 
I did try to bo brave, though my heartaches now at 
the remembrance of that sad parting. 
Mr. Munson was very kind during our journey. 
At first he. let me indulge my grief undisturbed, but 
when it seemed that I would never cease my sob¬ 
bing, he began, little by little, to talk of the home 
to which he was taking me. 
“You love babies, don’t jou, Emily? Well, 1 
fancy we have a little the nicest’one at our house 
that you ever saw. She can ‘peek’ and ‘patty- 
cake.’ and ‘trot to Boston,’ and 1 can’t begin to tell 
you what all. Then we have five great, strapping 
boys, merry enough. I assure you. I will be your 
Uncle Ralph, and you shall call Mrs. Munson 
Aunt Jane, so the five big boys, and the wee baby 
girl will be your cousins,— do you see?” 
Amid sucb pleasant talk T fell asleep and rested 
all night on Uncle Ralph’s shoulder. Next day 1 
pleased him by iny interested inquiries about his 
home. It was a long journey, but just at dark on 
the second day we arrived at the depot three miles 
trom o"r journey’s end. Walter met us with the 
carriage. 
“Ha! ha! here’s a tired little budget,” lie said, as 
he lifted me to a seat. Then he began an animated 
conversation with his father, and the “ tired little 
budget” seemed forgotten. I was wakened at, length 
by John’s cheery voice exclaiming’, “ Halloa! what 
have you here?” He carried me in his arms into 
the house, where a young and smiling lady —step¬ 
mother to the “five strapping boys” and claiming 
personal property in the baby-girl, only,— met me 
very kindly. She kissed me more than once and 
smoothed my hair caressingly. After supper she 
took me to a eosey little room, where she lucked me 
into bed as tenderly as Aunt Mary could have 
done, then gave me a good-night kiss,— and I soon 
fell asleep with pleasant thoughts of my new home, 
and especially of my new Aunt Jane. 
Next morning Uncle Raith introduced the bat y ; 
Fannie, to me, and alter tnat seldom noticed me. 
He was a kind-hearted man, but so absorbed in the 
business of the outer world that he had but little 
time and few words for us at homo. The big boys 
were so engaged in their own amusements and pur¬ 
suits, that they hardly bestowed a thought upon the 
little waif who had been cast among them, and 1 
was left to depend entirely upon Aunt Jane and 
the baby. 
I very soon discovered that Aunt Jane was pas¬ 
sionate and fretful toward her step-tons, but for 
some weeks she was all gentleness and kindness 
toward me. I remember well the day when the 
kindly spell was broken. I had permission to spend 
a day at “drove Farm” with Lizzie Ludden. 
What a happy day it was 1 passed in hunting hens’ 
eggs through the barn, wading in the biook, and, to 
crown the whole, a rule home on a load of liay. 
Child-like I took my sun-bonnet from my head and 
swurti? it carelessly in my hand. As I bounded 
into Aunt Jane’s room, breathless with happy 
excitement, to tell her how delightfully the day had 
passed, I was frightened at discovering that my 
bonnet was lost, and gave a sudden scream that 
wakened Fannte, whom Aunt Jane had just suc¬ 
ceeded in getting asleep, afier a long effort. Amid 
her cries l related my misfortune. 
“ What a careless plague you arc 1” and angry 
blows fell on my head and face. Too frightened 
* * 
and grieved to say a word, I crept up to my little 
bed. With a bitter longing after mother, and father, 
and Aunt Mary, ! sobbed myself to Rleep. 
After that Aunt Janb seemed to think having 
once failed, it was useless* for her to try any longer 
to lie gentle and forbearing toward me. Every 
fault or accident met with an angry reproof; or a 
blow. The very dread of displeasing her made me 
fall into trouble many times through my nei-vous- 
ness. I began a new life of constant fear, and my 
gloomy face, awkward manners, and frequent acci¬ 
dents, must have boon very vexatious. 
In the fall, I was pleased one morning to hear 
Uncle Ralph say, “ Emily must go 1o school;’’ and 
I commenced attending the District School at the 
beginning of the winter term. Books I loved 
dearly. To learn was very easy for me, yet in may 
school lilc I bad my triala Aunt Jane kept, me so 
late at kitchen tasks, that 1 invariably received a 
“tardy mark.” The scholars used to exchange 
comical smiles as I took my seat. Frequently I was 
kept from school for a d3y or two, yet somehow 1 
managed to keep up with my classes. 
Our instructor taught singing, and 1 took wonder¬ 
ful delight in music. I actually brightened up 
enough one day over my work to attempt a verse of 
“O, come, come away.” 
It was, no doubt, a very poor effort at song; and it 
was suddenly checked by Aunt Jane exclaiming: 
“Mercy! Emily! You are enough to distract 
one! You sing about as well as a goose.” 
The spirit of song was hushed. 1 never dared 
try my voice again, either at home or at school. 
Aunt Jane never meant to be unkind. The 
natural goodness of her heart had prompted her 
tenderness when she first received me to her care, 
but her passionate and irritable temper changed me 
from the happy, trusting child I was, and made me 
gloomy and reserved. All rny attempts at being, or 
doing, like others, were ever discouraged as my 
singing had been. So the years went on with a 
weary sameness until I grew up a tall, awkward, 
plain-faced girl of fifteen. 
About this time Herbert Brewster took charge 
of our school. Somehow I was strangely drawn 
toward him. He was one of those intuitive readers 
of character, and 1, who had so shut op my heart 
from others, tell that be understood me. He looked 
sternly at me at first, as morning after morning I 
was on the tardy list; but lie never did so after he 
had staid at our house over night. I think after 
that he gave me credit for being in as good season 
us I was. 
How lie used to encourage me in my lessons! and 
often at recess time he would sit down by me and 
give me higher aims and broader plans for my 
future life fban 1 should have ever dared to dream of. 
Heart and intellect expanded that winter, as they 
had never done before, lu spite of all rny disad¬ 
vantages 1 took Bio lead in my classes, and those 
winter months were the happiest 1 had known for 
years. 
Mr. Brewster was fond of music, and one day, 
when the scholars were learning a new song, he 
said, “ Come, Emily, let us hear your voice.” 1 
refused, of course. He urged. I refused again. 
“1 think you are obstinate, Emily,” he said. I 
felt then that my last friend had lost confidence in 
me, and forgetting all who were looking on. 1 burst 
out crying like a child. 
“1 beg your pardon, Emily,” said Mr. Brews¬ 
ter, kindly. “1 certainly misunderstood you. 1 
believe you have good reason for refusing to Bing.” 
And I was relieved. 
Examination approached. 1 was as anxions to 
do credit to my teacher as to myself, and I believed 
that with a migliiy effort l might do so, when an 
extra bitrden fell upon me. An indolent niece of 
Aunt Jane, a girl of seventeen, e-ame to visit her, 
and a great deal of my time was occupied in doing 
things to make it pleasant for our guest. I rose at 
four o'clock on Monday morning, and finished the 
family washing before I went to school. When 
ironing day came, however, I left our visitor’s half 
dozen starched skirls for her to iron herself. 
Aunt Jane inquired why I had done so, and I told 
her bow hurried I was at school. “ No matter, you 
must do Laura’s things.” 
“ She is better able to do them herself,” was my 
reply. 
Aunt Jane had not struck me since my fifteenth 
birthday, but now, in her passion she snatched a rod 
and plied it over my shoulders until she was morti¬ 
fied by the Riiddpn entrance of Mr. Brewster, who 
was hoarding at our house that week. I was morti¬ 
fied. too, but he spoke to me more kindly than ever, 
and whispered, “ Como to singing school to-night.” 
Aunt Jane followed me to my room. She wept 
when she saw the great ridges on my shoulders,— 
bathed them, asked me to forgive her, told me to lie 
down until after lea, and Ihen I might go to singing 
school. 
At recess that night Mr. Brewster sat down 
beside me and asked an explanation of what he had 
witnessed. 1 unburdened my whole life’s story to 
him. Then he said, “ I am going to study medicine, 
you know, Emily. In about four years I hope to 
be a good physician; then you shall have a home 
with me, if you will. 
1 felt lonely after Mr. Brewster went away, but 
1 remembered his promise, and often pictured to 
myself what his home might be. His wife was 
always a beautiful woman, very much like himself. 
I corresponded with hitn during those four yeais 
llis letters were filled mostly with suggestions in 
regard to my reading and study, which l followed 
most implicitly; and in reply I sent him reports of 
my progress. Aunt Jane read all the letters, and 
thought Mr. Brewster very kind to interest him¬ 
self in me. 
The next year after he went away the greatest 
and happiest event of my lift) occurred,— I found 
that Pearl of Great Price,—the peace of God that, 
passeth understanding. 
One day when I was in my twentieth year, as I 
stood by the kitchen table washing the dinner 
dishes, Aunt Jane came aud said with much sur¬ 
prise expressed in her voice, “ Emily, Mr. Brews¬ 
ter is in the parlor and wants to see youV 
T was surprised, too. And I quickly wiped my 
hands, pulled of! my checked apron, pulled down 
rny sleeves, and went to him. 
“Well! Emily,” was his first greeting, “I am 
here to claim the fulfillment of your promise to come 
and live with me.” 
“You are married, then, Mr. Brewster?” 
“ No, but hope to be soon.” 
“ I am sure i should love your bride very much, 
but then Uncle Ralph and Aunt Janh would think 
me ungrateful to leave them.” 
I looked up into Mr. Brewster’s face and 
instantly it flashed upon me that — well — but — no 
matter what 1 saw, or what more was said and done, 
— for ten years Doctor Brewster has been my 
husband. 
I am happy, but the old gloom has stamped its 
impress on my (ace, for I am told that it wears 
habitually a sad expression. I love my friends, but 
my old fashlpn of shutting up my heart keeps them 
from a knowledge of my inner life. I never feel 
qnite at ease in social circles, and consequently 
have not the happy faculty of making others so. I 
try sometimes to join my voice with Herbert's in 
little songs at home. “ You would be a very fine 
singer, Emmie,” he says, sometimes, “if you hud 
only improved your voice in childhood.” 
Doctor Brewster says I make him very happy, 
and Ilia patients bless me sometimes for my little 
kindnesses to them; but somehow 1 always feel as it 
my nature had been cramped, and 1 believe if a 
gentle and thoughtful spirit , like my husband’s, had 
led me through my earlier years, I should be far 
more useful and happy to day.” 
Shall I tell you how I came to recall this simple 
story of my life ? 
1 have tucked into her little bed, at one end of my 
own sleeping room, Bertie Munson, Walter’s 
orphan child, whose mother died last week and left 
her to my care. After she was asleep I knelt by 
her bedside and prayed Gon to give me a patient, 
thoughtful, loving heart; that with His blessing I 
may mould her into a beautiful, happy, and useful 
woman. 
Afterward 1 sat dowu to recall my own earlier 
years; and again I have resolved that (God helping 
me,) rny dear little Bkhtik shall never tail to find a 
sympathizing friend in her Aunt Emily. The doc¬ 
tor will help me, so I hope if, some day, twenty 
years from now, the precious child shall write the 
story of her life, it may bo a brighter one than mine. 
Rochester, January, 1862. 
-- 
RETROSPECT OF AN AMERICAN MOTHER. 
“I understand you; I passed through all that 
years ago!” said a gray-haired, careworn mother, 
to whom we were mournfully talking aljout the 
boys’ enlistment. “ But there’s a comfort for you. 
There's something to die for now; this is a war for 
rights and liberties; that was a cruel war of con¬ 
quest that took our children in 1847. 
“ I never shall forget the day Charley came to ask 
me it lie might enlist. It was a wet, gloomy day in 
early February. It. bad been raining steadily all 
the week. This was Wednesday, and now the wind 
had refreshed a little, and the clouds were moving, 
but it was heavy and stormy still. It was dark by 
four o’clock, and 1 was hurrying to get my fine work 
done before dark, thinking about him all the time. 
He had been out of work six weeks. I had doue 
everything I could think of for him; had applied 
everywhere, and got the cold shoulder from all our 
rich relations. I knew he was almost discouraged, 
and I didn’t dare ask his father to let him stay at 
home. All six of the girls were at home then, and 
work was dull. 
“ I was trying hard to contrive some plan just as 
ihe door opened, and he came in. He sat down 
with such a tired, discouraged look, I knew in a 
minute he hadn’t hud any lock. The girls were 
sewing and singing l>y one window and I at the 
other; the children had not come home yet. I had 
just putdown a new carpet, and put up a new cook¬ 
ing stove; wc looked pretty comfortable for the hard 
times. Well, he sat there and looked around and 
noticed everything. lie was a great home boy, 
and thought there was no one so smart as his 
mother. 
“ * Where did this new carpet come from mother?’ 
said he. 
“‘I earned it’ 
“ ‘And the stove, too?’ 
“ ‘ Yes, that old affair was fairly burned out’ 
“ ‘ You’re a great woman,’ he said. 
“ 1 1 wish 1 was great enough to get you a good 
place,’ 1 said. 
“ ‘ Have you been to Fee the Joneses?’ 
“ ‘Your father said he’d speak to them.’ 
“‘Yes; they can't do anything for me,’ said he, 
kind of choked up a little. 
“1 kept stitching aud thinking; and the girls, 
poor foolish things, kept (tinging; and he sat still, 
watching us. I knew his heart was full, but I hadn't 
guessed what it was full of. By and by, clearing 
his throat suddenly, he said, ‘Mother, I believe I'll 
enlist, if you'll only say so!’ 
*• ‘ Enlist!’ cried the girls, turning pale. 
“ ‘ 0, Charley!’was all I could say. The word 
fell like death on me. It was the first time he had 
ever mentioned it, 
“ When he saw how we took it he was full enough 
to cry, I could see. ne was always easy touched, 
and he loved his sisters and his mother, as 1 thought, 
with unusual affection. 
“ My work was done for that day. I wouldn’t 
give way to tears, though I wanted to. So after 
awhile we all talked about it, and tried to persuade 
him away from the notion. I talked about the 
country and climate, and told him I knew he 
wouldn't stand it, and not to think any more about 
it. The girls cried, and said everything they could 
think of. They tried to joke a little about ‘ some¬ 
body ’ they thought he waited on. lie smiled a 
little, and threw it back, aud talked very bravely; 
but I knew he only put it on, and that he didn’t 
want to go any more than we wanted to let him go. 
For why i i the world should a young man want to 
join in such a war as that if lie could help it? 
“‘Only a year, you see, mother,’he said, ‘and 
then 1 shall get my bounty land and give you all a 
farm; and perhaps I’ll get promoted; and then when 
I come back times will l>e good, and everything will 
go on smooth. Say yes, mother, and I’ll be 
satisfied.’ 
“ I could not say yes. Wc had talked till long 
after dark, ami all the street lamps were lit. The 
girls got up to get the tea, and presently father 
came in. lie looked a little out of humor when he 
found Charles there. lie always thought his boys 
mustn’t hang about home much after they had left 
it If he had only said one word against it that 
night Charley might have been saved.” 
Here the mother Btoppod to force back the tears 
and bitter recollections. 
“ By and by I told him about it, and ho only said, 
‘Probably it would be the best thing he could do!’ 
“ Such a smart, steady, affectionate boy as Charley 
always had been, I sat and wondered bow he could 
give him up so easy. Before he went away that 
night I had given my consent. That week I cried 
myself down sick. The next time he came home he 
had on his uniform, and tried to seem very cheerful, 
though I could see he had to feign it all. He 
laughed with the girls, and promised to bring the 
children home curiosities, and did all he could to 
make us think he was contented. 
“I hail Warned myself all the week, for I felt that 
1 had left one thing undone. So, afier they bail all 
gone to bed, 1 told him that if be would only stay 1 
would go to the bank and draw the hundred dollars 
I had deposited and let him have it to use. I had 
just begun to lay up a little. I don’t think he knew 
anything about it before. But it was no use. 
“‘No, mother,’ he said, ‘you have said I could 
go; now nothing shall hinder me.’ 
“ This was Tuesday. On Thursday they were all 
to be on board. He stayed that night and the next 
day. We all sewed, and got wbat things we could 
ready for him, and promised to send a box after 
him. But it was heavy-hearted work with him 
looking on for the last time, 1 very well knew. Next 
day, at tea-time, I sent one of the children up to his 
little room to toll him tea was ready, and she came 
back and said be wasn’t there, and the door was 
locked. T ran up; I found the key hanging by the 
window of the next room. I unlocked the door; he 
was gone, and had taken all his things. He had 
stolen off to keep from bidding us good-by — poor, 
tender-hearted, unfortunate boy! 
“ Three months afterward he died of fever in the 
hospital at Puebla. 
“ But I seem to think 1 could bear it well if I had 
your comfort. Your volunteers fight for freedom, 
and on their own soiL 1 never should complain if 
mine had been sacrificed to anything but glory and 
conquest Let him go, and rejoice that you can 
help a great cause. But mine! He died alone and 
in a foreign land, and lies in a forgotten, nameless 
grave!” 
3Mul, jpoftttifir, &c. 
it and Harntne. 
“OWED” TO A TAILOR. 
We take the following cleverly penned witticism, 
entitled an “ Owed" to a Tailor, from a recent 
number of the Boston Transcript We admire the 
author’s ingenuity, both as a poet and financier: 
To silk-thud, broadcloth drees coat,._ _ _ $20 00 
One satin vest, two down garrote collars, 
One PariR neck-tie, gloves all superfine, 
(Delivered July 3d,) .. . 829 
One pair of boating pants, of navy blue, 
Made, up in ex tea style,_ __ 7 42 
At various time* for jobs repairing done, 
And beet gilt buttons used,.. . . 2 31 
One superfine silk vest (orange and green.) 
Srnl by express to Newport,.. 6 13 
One common business cost and vest (steel mix,) 
Made plain, alpaea lined and bound,.. 12 06 
Two pairs of undershirts and drawers__ 5 87 
To money lent on Christmas,... 10 11 
Balance of last year’s bill remaining due, 
Including interest.. .. 12 22 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
ENCKE’S COMET RETURNED. 
The return of a comet was first predicted by T)r. 
Halley. It was that which bad been recorded in 
1531, in IG07, and which Halley saw in 1682, whose 
period thus seemed to be 75 years. Its return fe 
foretold to come in “J758. or beginning of 1750.” 
As Dr, Hai.i.ky died in J742, about sixteen yours 
before the comet actually appeared, it was looked 
fiir by astronomers with higher interest At length 
the comet was seen op Dec. 14.1758, and passed its 
perihelion March 13, 1759, and was held to be the 
predicted one, because the elements of its orbit so 
nearly agreed with those of the comet of 1682, seen 
by nALLEY. This was a great prediction for an 
astronomer one hundred and eighty years ago, and 
the only one fulfilled for more than a hundred years 
afterward. 
From fhe great improvements in astronomy, 
several comets have boon calculated which have 
returned at their predicted periods. One of these 
is Encke’s comet, discovered and calculated by that 
distinguished Professor of Astronomy, Enure. Its 
period is about three years and one-third, and it has 
returned twelve times already at the time calculated. 
It has now appeared again in that part of the 
heavens where its calculated orbit lies, and will 
come to its perihelion in February next, and this, 
its least distance from the sun, will be about 32,000,- 
000 miles. It is now nearly as far from the earth as 
the earth is from the sun, and is not visible without 
telescopic aid. But, coming nearer to the earth, it 
will be visible to the eye, but its splendor, judging 
from the past returns, w ill not be great. Its place 
is definitely known, as its obedience to the laws of 
gravitation is so manifest Besides Halley's comet 
and Encke’s comet, there are others which bear 
the names of their discoverers, as Bida’s, Bond’s, 
Donati’s, Ac. With the increase of can*ful observers 
and the improved instruments, many comets have 
been detected, named only the 1st, 2d, 3d. <fcc., of 
1853, or the given year. Even w hile tills is writing, 
another comet is announced by the Cambridge 
Observatory. 
Surely, this is : n age distinguished by the extent 
and tiie accurateness of man’s discoveries of the 
works and laws of the Great and Infinite Creator 
and Governor of all things. d. 
Rochester, N. Y., Jan. 1, IS62. 
-- 
WHAT IS DYSPEPSIA P 
With due attention to temperance, exercise, and 
early hours, you may set dyspepsia at defiance. 
Neglect one of these precautions, and you lay your¬ 
self open to the approaches of the enemy—neglect 
two of them, and it is hardly possible that you can 
escape. And above all things, keep this in mind, 
that no other disease or affection of the body is so 
stealthy or insidious as dyspepsia. If the first few 
instances of carelessness or transgression were to lie 
visited with the pains and penalties that ailiict the 
palicut when the malady has become chronic, tew 
men would be so insane, or so obstinately reckless, 
as to postpone the work of reformation. But the 
earlier symptoms are rarely of an alarming kind. 
The appetite is not sensibly affected, though the 
digestion is impaired; and (he complaint seems to 
be limited to flatulency and heartburn. Sucb un¬ 
pleasant sensations, however, can be easily removed. 
Essence of ginger and fluid magnesia seldom fail to 
give relief, and the patient flatters himself that there 
is no ground for apprehension. But the symptoms 
do not. disappear. They recur with greater fre¬ 
quency; and the antidotal doses, though increased, 
are found to have lost their efficacy. The stomach 
has now become more seriously deranged. All 
kinds of food generate acid: and i i this stage the 
I a ient usually has recourse to Ihe carbonates of 
soda or potash, which in their turn giye a temporary 
relief, though without in any way arresting the dis¬ 
order. By this means dyspepsia, like an insidious 
serpent, has fairly folded the victim within ils 
embrace, and L squeezing him at its leisure. Every¬ 
thing lie eats disagrees with him, and seems to 
undergo some wondrous transformation. That 
which was served up at the table as haggess, seems 
converted, two hours afterward, into a ball of knot¬ 
ted tow r —a mutton chop becomes a fiery crab, reud- 
ing the interior with his claws; and every vice pud¬ 
ding has the intolerable effrontery to become a 
hedge-hog. After that comes nausea and vomiting. 
You derive no benefit from the food you swallow. 
From twelve stone weight you dwindle down to ten. 
Your countenance becomes ghastly, your eyes hol¬ 
low, and you totter prematurely ou your pine. The 
mere notion of exercise becomes distasteful. You 
feel as if you had no strength for anything. You 
are pensive, moody, and irritable. Your mind loses 
its elasticity and power; and when you sit down to 
compose, instead of manly matter, you produce 
nolhing but the dreariest of drivel.— Blackwood's 
Magazine^ _ < t _ 
It is no more possible to bring men’s minds to think 
alike than to make their faces look alike. 
Totalamount,..... $84 41 
Extra - 3 dollars—paid a man to dun. 
Payment received- 
-But this is all we find, 
In vain wc look to see an undersigned. 
“ Owed ’’ to a Tailor - at the twelfth rejection 
Made over to a lawyer for collection. 
The Two P’s.—Pope is now pitted against Price. 
Let us hope that our military pontiff will give the 
peculiarly pnsilanimous puppy a proper peeling. 
From using glasses on the nose, you see an object 
single; from using them under the nose, you see it 
double. 
A new style of rotation of crops, as pursued by 
some farmers, is one year nothing, and the next 
year weeds. 
itotTO fo* the fffflmg. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MISCELLANEOUS ENIGMA. 
I am composed of 38 letters. 
My 35, 19, 26, 10, 20, 6, 12 is a prominent citizen of the United 
States. 
My 2, 11, 30, 22, 33. 28, 12, 7, 36, 13 is a ship belonging to the 
Federal fleck 
My 10, 30, 13, 38 is an American statesman. 
My 17, 21, 15, 32, 9, 24 is something very desirable to be at 
the present time. 
My 8, 1, 23, 18, 25, 20 is a Federal Major-General. 
My 14. 3, 17. 29, 13, 10, 4, 23 is a Federal Brigadier-Genoral. 
My 37, 19, 27 . 34 is something every man has, or ought to have. 
My 6, 31, 19, 38, IS is a very curious being 
My whole is a patriotic motto 
rontiac, Mich., 18C2. Ike Inkstand. 
Answer in two weeks. 
CHARADE. 
My first is » part of yourself and wife, 
Tis sometimes user! (o pilfer, and often in strife; 
My next's a conveyer of news to his betters, 
And devotes all bis time and his thoughts unto letters. 
My whole, though it points out the way we should go, 
Yet it won’t stir on inch, we v«ry well know. 
JQ?” Answer iu two weeks. 
AN ANAGRAM. 
Unriddle boy many of a woman we smarter will than these 
good riddle girl any little if or can this put ship into men then 
be they than aud know mensliapr words. 
Jjfj?” Answer in two weeks. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
MATHEMATICAL PROBLEM. 
Two ships of war, the “ Wabash M and “ Minnesota,” 
inteuding to cannonade a rebel fort, are, by the shallowness 
of the water, kept so far from it that they suspect their guns 
cannot reach it with effect. In order therefore to measure the 
distance, they separate from each other a quarter of a mile, 
or 440 yards; then each observes and measures the angle 
which the other ship and the fort subtend, which angles are 
83° 45' and 85° 15'. What, then, is tiie distance between each 
ship and the fort? 
Glendale, O., 1862. Jkk. M. Cochran. 
(P^r* Answer in two weeks. 
ANSWERS TO ENIGMAS, &c., IN No. 627. 
Answer to Miscellaneous Enigma:— Diet cures more than 
physic. 
Answer to Astronomical Enigma:—The house that Jack 
built. 
Answer to Grandfather's Riddle:—280 yards. 
Answer to Engineering Question:—6367.624+ feet above 
the level of the sea. 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER, 
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AGRICULTURAL, LITERARY AND PAMILY WEEKLY, 
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