AT. 
IEW-Y0EKS3 
S1PT, 
SHOULDER ARMS. 
by o, o. ness. 
There’s a cry sweeps o’er the land— 
Shoulder arms 1 
Who will no# coward stand, 
While the country needs his aid ? 
Cowardice for fools was made. 
Shoulder arms! 
Who’s afraid to meet the foe ? 
Shoulder arms! 
Who would see the flag laid low 
In the dust by traitors base ? 
Let him ever hide his face. 
Shoulder arms! 
Who would win the soldier’s fame ? 
Shoulder arms' 
Who would bear a hero’8 name, 
Let him raise his strong arm high, 
Now to strike or uow to die. 
Shoulder ann> ’ 
See the rebel ranks advance ! 
Shoulder arms! 
Wake, man, from your guilty trance ; 
This is time for action deep, 
Not the hour for sloth or sleep ! 
Shoulder arms! 
Voices call you from the grave— 
Shoulder arms) 
Voices of the martyrs brave 
Who, amid the shock of wars, 
Battled for the stripes and stars. 
Shoulder arms! 
By the names of heroes dead, 
Shoulder arms! 
Precious hearts as yours have bled 
To maintaiu the Union's might; 
Now it is your turn to smite. 
Shoulder armsI 
Onward! onward to the van— 
Shoulder arms! 
Onward like a fearless man 1 
Stand not like one deaf and dumb 
While you bear tli' appealing drum. 
Shoulder arms! 
God will bless the work you do— 
Shoulder aims! 
He will lead you safely through 
Every peril, while you fight 
"Gainst the wrong t" uphold the right. 
Shoulder anus! 
Hesitate no longer, man— 
Shoulder arms! 
Go and do the good you can. 
Wait not till the day is past; 
Go, and while your heart beats fast, 
Shoulder arms! 
ififtf-lWIiw. 
DEVEREUX DARE, PRIVATE. 
Hits. Asiilkigh Dare always looked at her hand¬ 
some, mauly son, with a maternal pride which was 
altogether excusable. They were a fine couple, lor 
any one’s seeing, the widow and her son. Mrs. 
Dare’s forty years had not met her as enemies. The 
dark brilliance of her eyes was nudimmed. Scarce¬ 
ly a thread of silver flecked the raven blackness of 
her hair. Her complexion kept bright still Us clear, 
dark tints; and even her figure had not lost its old 
stately grace. The haughty French blood in her 
veins was not chilled either. She was as fit to be 
the mother of a hero as she bad been to be Colonel 
Dare's wife—Colonel Dare, whose hack no foeman 
ever saw. 
Her son was after her own heart. He had her 
dark eyes and hair, her sparkling expression, and 
Huguenot hauteur; all intensified in him, however, 
by the Iong-during. persistent nature ol his father, 
which he had inherited along with a certain resolute 
contour of mouth, which was the only external sign 
of his paternity. For all the rest he was. outwardly, 
a Devereux. No need to ask from which side his 
courage came—neither Dare nor Devereux had ever 
reckoned a coward among their children. 
They had been discussing, these two, an engross¬ 
ing question. It was just after that dreadful day at 
Bull Hun, when the country needed go bitterly all 
her children, and every loyal heart was throbbing 
to one anguish of endeavor. Regiments were being 
filled up rapidly, and young Dare, just home, in the 
spring of i- til. from his three years of foreign travel, 
was only waiting his mother's consent tofenlist, He 
looked at her now with persuasive eyes. 
“It should not be you, mamma, the daughter of a 
heroic race, the widow of a man who got his death¬ 
blow in the from of the fray, who would hold back 
your son when the land of his fathers needs him.’’ 
“I do not. Devereux. I am willing you should 
enlist, if only you will use the interest of your 
family to procure you a suitable commission.'' 
“I may not be worthy of one. I have not yet 
proved my fitness to rule.” 
“ Your fitness! It is in your blood.” 
“Well then, seriously, 1 do not want a commis¬ 
sion, because I feel sure that I can do more good by 
going as a private. All can not be officers, and 
more men than you think are holding back because 
they cun not. They say, ‘It is the lower orders 
who serve in the ranks: we will not tight unless our 
comrades can be gentlemen.’ Every one is waiting 
for some other. Do you think there are not men in 
Boston who will follow the flag the more readily if 
they march in company with my father’s son?” 
“Your father would not have done—did not do— 
what you wish to do.” 
“ Because he was needed otherwise.” 
He knelt down beside her, just then, that hand¬ 
some, gallant fellow, whom all women found so 
fascinating. He rested his head on her knee—it 
was an old, boyish trick he had—and looked with 
those great, persuading, dark eyes of his up into her 
face. His voice was full of appeal — his tones grew 
solemn in their earnestness. 
“Mother, I must go. 1 can only go as a private, 
for my conviction that that is my duly is unaltera¬ 
ble. If it is a sacrifice, it is one that must be made. 
Will not you make it with me? If you kept me 
back I should hardly be willing to accept life on 
such terms. It would only be a long misery, with 
the ghost of this unfulfilled duty stalking beside me 
forever. Be brave, mother, brave and kind. If I 
should fall in battle, and lie beside some Southern 
stream with my lite-blood ebbing away, let me not 
have to think, when your voice and your smile come 
back to haunt me, that I went away without your 
blessing.” 
The heart, the quick, impulsive, woman’s heart, 
through which the eager French blood throbbed, 
was softened. Tears fell from the proud eyes, and 
glistened a moment in the short curls of the head 
upon her silken lap. Then she put her hands on 
those thick curls with a caressing touch, and said 
to him: 
“You have conquered. I will not keep you back 
from the duty your eyes see so clearly. You may 
he right. At any rate, if you go, yon shall go with 
my blessing, and remember that one at home prays 
for yon every hour.” 
Tears, not her?, wet the hand her son drew to his 
mouth. Strongest hearts in the fray are tenderest 
' oftentimes at the hearth-stone. 
That was one struggle and one victory. The sol¬ 
dier had yet another conflict to dare — a harder one 
possibly —in ihe boudoir of Clara Gage. 
He went there that night after his enlistment had 
been registered. She was his betrothed wife, and 
he loved her as a brave man can love a true woman. 
It may be that he feared her a little, also. If he did. 
forgive him, for there was nothing eke out of heaven 
that he did fear. In her case it was only because 
she was so precious to him that no calamity, save 
loss of honor, could have been reckoned by the 
same measure as lose of her. Somehow' he shrank 
fromtelliug her his plan, and meeting the look he 
fancied her eyes woqM wear when she heard it; 
and so he had unfolded it to her in a note "which she 
had received that morning. He hoped that she 
would have reconciled herself to his views before 
he saw her. 
I think he could have done a good many sterner 
things with less fluttering of the heart than he felt 
when he walked into the little azure-hung room 
where she waited for him. 
She was a beauty of a different type from his 
handsome mother; but of one no less haughty. She 
was pure Saxon, with hair of dun gold, and blue 
eyes which could sw r im in seas ot passionate tender¬ 
ness, but "which knew how to flash scorn, or sciutil- 
late anger. Just the woman for long loving or lODg 
hating. Your dark-eyed beauties are too stormy; 
their emotions exhaust themselves. For slow, strong 
patience, in hating or loving, give me a slight wo¬ 
man with fair hair and innocent-looking blue eyes. 
Miss Gage met her lover cordially enough —a 
wary general does not commence his attack till ho 
has reconnoitered the field. If he can maintain his 
own line of defense and lure the enemy to leave 
covert and begin the battle, so ranch the better the 
chances in his favor. Perhaps Miss Gage had read 
Hardee. 
She talked smilingly about the weather. She was 
going, next week, to Newport—couldn’t she per¬ 
suade him to go? They would have merry times. 
“I shall have to do with other balls,” he said, a 
little resolutely, determined that she should beat no 
longer about the bush of his purpose. 
She raised her eyebrows slightly. 
“Saratoga?” 
“ Virginia, rather.” 
“ A bad time to go South, in summer.” 
“Necessity makes all times alike. Did you not 
get my note?" < 
“ What—that pleasantry you sent me this morning 
about enlisting? Did yon think I did not know you 
better? Fancy Devereux Dare trudging through the 
Virginia mud, with that, rolled-up bundle, whatever 
they call it, on his back! ” 
“It is well to fancy it, Clara. It will be real soon. 
1 enlisted to-night.” 
“ Without asking me?" 
“Forgive me. .My life was God’s and my coun¬ 
try’s before it was yours. 1 kuew my duty. I 
dared not run the risk of having my resolution 
shaken by your persuasions. I should not be worth 
your loving, Clara, if I could shrink from what 1 
know I am called of Heaven to do." 
“I thought Heaven's calls were of a more peace¬ 
ful nature—to pray or preach to men. not shoot 
them. V hat does your mother say?” 
*• That she will pray for her absent soldier every 
hour in the day. Her prayers and yours will be my 
shield.” 
“ 1 will not pray for you! ” The girl’s lips whit¬ 
ened with anger and resolution as she spoke. 
“Not pray for me?" 
“No; unless I do so unwittingly, in the prayer 
we are taught to offer for our enemies. You are my 
enemy if you go.” 
There was nothing weak or irresolute in Miss 
Gage’s face, ller voice was quiet and even. Dare 
shivered as its firm tones fell on his ear. 
“Clara.” he cried, “wliat does this mean? You 
said that you loved me last night.” 
“It means simply that, like most women, I give 
in such measure as I receive. Last night I thought 
you loved me.” 
“And so I do, God knows!’’ 
“ Do you think I believe you? Would a man who 
loved a woman go away from her to almost certain 
destruction without even the grace to tell her his 
purpose until after he had pledged himself? Why 
did you not come here before you enlisted?" 
“Because 1 was Loo cowardly. You have the 
honest truth now. i loved you so well that I dared 
not trust myself to your persuasions. My duty. 1 
hope, 1 should have done in any ease.; but I shrank 
from the strain my heart-strings would suffer in 
doing it when you were holding me hack.” 
A halt-suppressed triumph looked from Clara 
Gage’s eyes, rriie liked, even then, this confession 
of her power over him. She determined to test it 
fully. As his mother had done before her, she 
asked, 
•• Why do you not get a commission?—I know you 
could. It would be bad enough to have you go at 
best. It is so much easier to fight where the martial 
music clashes, and the excitement of the hour works 
heart and brain to madness, than to wait at home 
and open every day’s newspaper as it it might con¬ 
tain your death-warrant. I might bear it; 1 might 
forgive your leaving me so cruelly, if you went in a 
position worthy of your name. If you go as a pri¬ 
vate. 1 never will.” 
Dare’s courage rose now. Summoned by her 
attack, it leaped up and formed into line-of-battle 
with quick bravery. He answered her as he had 
answered his mother before—gave her, with calm 
patience, all his reasons. 
Her eyes hardened, looking wide at him with a 
cold want of comprehension, of sympathy, which he 
had never seen in them before. She. waited until he 
was all through, when she said —oh! so quietly — 
“ My mind is not changed. If you go, as you have 
planned, you go my enemy, not my betrothed.” 
Passion-beat of the dark-browed Devereux. tem¬ 
pered lo firmness by the Dare persistency, rose up 
in his nature and took the reins. Ilad he yielded 
then to her commands, so ungently given. I believe 
that nothing could have appeased the measure of 
his self-contempt lmt to die by his own hand, like 
an old Roman. Fhe had gone just the one step too 
far. lie had no more persuasion for her now, and 
scant courtesy. His voice shivered through her 
nerves like the sharp whirr of a bullet. 
“I accept the position toward you which you 
elect! Miss Gage, you had better ask God to for¬ 
give you in time; your death-bed will not be easy 
without such mercy!” 
She trembled. There was that in his tone and 
manner which appalled her. She began to feel that 
she was a woman, and weak: and he was a man. 
and strong. But she had a pride as stern and inflex¬ 
ible as his courage. For sole answer she took from 
her finger a ring, wherein a single diamond sparkled, 
and dropped it into his extended palm. Then 
rising, .she bowed as she would have dismissed a 
morning visitor, os he stood, hat in hand, before 
her.* He had loved that woman, with her blue eves 
and her pale hair. He looked at her hungrily. His 
soul clamored for one touch of her careless hand, 
her falsely-smiling lips, But he mastered the emo¬ 
tion, and only said. 
•• I shall fight the better for this. Miss Gage! More 
than one dead rebel will have you to thank for his 
death-wound. The man who leaves least at home 
can best afford to throw his life away.” 
Two days after that he marched with his regiment. 
He had not seen Clara Gage again. 
She did not go the next week to Newport. She 
had said he would lie to her only as her enemy, hut 
a sickening longing took possession of her to trace 
that enemy's fate. She could not have danced — 1 
think her limbs were too unsteady. Her father — 
she had no mother- was astonished at her resolution 
to remain in town all through the season; combated 
it a little at first; then became convinced that, after 
all. no place was more comfortable than Beacon 
Hill, and began to rejoice secretly In the prospect of 
coming from business to au open house, and a home 
which a woman's presence made comfortable. 
He knew nothing of the groat wave that had swept 
over his daughter's life. He heard, indeed, that 
Devereux Dare, whom he knew to he his prospective 
son-in-law, had gone to the war as a private. Like 
every one else he wondered, and grumbled out, be¬ 
sides. a little personal dissatisfaction. He knew not 
that the vow which hound those two had been sun¬ 
dered; and if the face opposite to him was pale, he 
had not too much perception to joke hie daughter 
about her sweet-heart, until one day she silenced 
him with these words, at which he experienced 
something such a sensation as if a rebel shell had 
fallen suddenly at his feet and exploded there: 
“ Father, there are some things which I can not 
bear — this is one. Never name Mr. Dare’s name 
to me again." 
Thereupon she retired into her shell, and he was 
lef t outside wondering. He had thought to please 
her by talking of her lover; to give her an oppor¬ 
tunity to express her grief at his absence, and seek 
for sympathy; but it seemed she did not like it. 
Well, he could He silent; it cost him nothing. 
Little he knew what to hear that name or to speak 
it cost her! 
The autumn had not passed before, in the depths 
of her soul, she had repented; but her stubborn 
pride would scarcely acknowledge it even t.o her¬ 
self. She would not open her heart to one emo¬ 
tion eff tender ruth. Yet there was something 
feverish in the eagerness with w hich she caught at 
every day’s paper. Scarcely his own mother fol¬ 
lowed the footsteps of that regiment so ceaselessly. 
Mrs. Dare waited in hope. Once persuaded to 
consent to her son’s wishes, she had gone with him 
heart and soul. She had said she would pray for 
him hourly, and she did. Perhaps those prayers were 
mighty to turn aside Hon them bullets. He was in 
many engagements—wounded slightly sometimes; 
hut, so far, he had seemed to hear a charmed life. 
No great peril came near him. 
Before he went away he had told his mother that 
all was at an end between him and Miss Gage, 
and given her the reason. He had not entered into 
particulars, but the little he said had been enough 
to enlist on his side all Ms mother’s ardent sympa¬ 
thies. The two women had been almost friends 
before — drawn together by their love for one ob¬ 
ject. Since he went away they had never spoken. 
They had met in the street a few times, passing 
each other with a cold bow, and that was all. Mrs. 
Dare saw at these times that the girl was growing 
pale, and it did her heart good. 
At length came the news from Winchester, of the 
retreat where the Massachusetts boys brought up 
the rear, forming in the line of battle and fighting 
as they went, la the list of the wounded two wo¬ 
men read with strained eyes, these words: 
“Private Devereux Dare — dangerously.” 
One with white lips, and a cry of passionate be¬ 
wailing—“ Oh my, boy! my boy!” The other, with 
tearless face, and the wail of a yet deeper agony— 
“And 1 told him I would not pray for him!” 
Each with the one purpose of hastening to her 
hero. 
Miss Gage did not delay. She put on her bonnet 
and went at once to his mother’s house. Mrs, Dare 
received her coldly. 
“ I do not understand your coming here now." 
she began. •• I am in too much trouble to receive 
visitors. Do you not know — have you not heard 
_ v> 
“Every thing. Can’t you see that, it is killing 
me? Even though you are his mother, you would 
forgive me if you kuew what I have suffered. I 
love him. I did love him all the while. I must, 
1 will go to him. I must hear him speak my par¬ 
don before he dies." 
Mrs. Dare’s warm, impulsive heart softened to 
the poor, anguish-torn creature, who sank implor¬ 
ingly on the floor at her feet. She knelt down be¬ 
side her and folded her arms round her and raised 
her up. 
“ You shall go, Clara; you shall go with me, and 
I pray God that we may yet look upon his face 
again in this life’s life. The train leaves at four. 
Can you be ready?” 
“ You will find me waiting for you at the depot." 
It was well for Clara Gage that she had a proud 
woman’s fortitude. Once assured that she might go 
to him. she did not suffer her limbs to tremble, or 
her face to betray her. With step as lofty as ever, 
she went home. She met her father going up the 
steps. 
•• Father,” she said, speaking with the calmness of 
one all whose plans are fixed—•• Devereux is dan¬ 
gerously wounded, and I am going to him. I shall 
start at four with Mrs. Dare." 
Seldom is a woman in any position more entirely 
her own mistress than was Miss Gage. Her father 
never thought of disputing her will, or interfering 
with her purposes. Moreover, he had never been 
informed of the dissolution of her engagement, and 
thought it but natural that she should resolve to go 
to her lover. She encountered no opposition from 
him. therefore, but rather help. Hurriedly her 
preparations were made, and when Mrs. Dare 
reached the station she found her companion wait¬ 
ing for her. 
It was midnight of the second day when, after 
long travel and many delays, they reached the hos¬ 
pital. For a moment Mrs. Dare held parley with 
the surgeon. 
“ Was it safe to go to him? Would he know them? 
Where was his wound?” 
Clara Gage listened for the reply, clasping Mrs. 
Dare’s arm with her nervous fingers till it ached. 
“ Y T es, they might see him and tend him; it would 
do no harm: but he would not know them, he was 
delirious. His right arm was shot away, and he 
had, besides, a severe wound in his chest.” 
“ Was there any hope?" 
“ A little —Ibere might he a chance for him, with 
good nursing. It looked more like it now than it 
did two days ago.” 
Then they went to his bedside—those two women 
who loved him. 
He lay there, his cheeks flushed, his eyes wild 
with fever. He was talking incoherently — living 
over again, as it seemed, the brave charge in 
which be had fallen. At last he murmured in ten¬ 
der tones. 
“ You said you would pray for me. mother. Are 
yon praying for your boy, now?" 
Then, indeed, tears rained from his mother's eyes 
as she stood bending over him. But Miss Gage 
could not weep; had she not said she would not 
pray for him? 
For dayR they tended him — almost, it seemed, 
without sleep or rest; hardly knowing, in their 
anxiety, whelher it was one day or many. There 
were slow steps from despair toward hope; and by- 
and-by there came an afternoon when he looked 
at them with calm eyes, and spoke to them in his 
own voice. 
“Mother, you here? This makes home in a 
strange land. And Clara—?" 
Miss Gage was not too proud then to sink on her 
knees by the bedside, and her voice shook so with 
her sobs that he could hardly hear her say, 
“Forgive me—oh, can you? I did notmeau it 
when I said yon were my enemy, and I would not 
pray for you. I have prayed for you, Devereux." 
“And I have forgiven you, Clara. Not at first, 
though; the sense of wrong was too bitter then. It 
was just before that last charge. The bullets were 
raining thick, and I knew it was an even chance 
whether I came out of it alive. Then I thought of 
you. 1 remembered how I had loved you. The 
bitterness went out of my heart, and that mighty 
love surged back. When the rest shouted their war- 
cry I only cried * Clara!’ and on we swept.’’ 
“ No more talkiug, ladies, unless you would lose 
again all we have gained.” 
It was the surgeon's • voice, as he went his round, 
and it put an end to a conversation that, gave back 
to Clara Gage hope and youth. 
It was not until they had been able to remove the 
beloved patient by easy stageB to Boston that any 
thing was said about the future. Then, one day, he 
drew from his bosom a ring fastened to his neck by 
a blue ribbon. 
“Untie it, Clara." 
Miss Gage obeyed him. as he reached it toward 
her. 
For a moment he held the ring, sparkling and 
glittering in the fingers of his one hand. Then he 
said: 
“ I put on this ring before with my right hand. ! 
had a strong arm then to shield and support you. 
Do you care to wear my token, when I have only 
my left hund to put it on with?” 
For all answer she held out her finger, "waiting for 
the ring, no hesitated still. 
“ Do you understand all it means? Do you care 
to marry a one-armed man?” 
“ 1 care to be yours, if you think me good enough 
to wear the honor of your name. I shall only bo 
prouder of my hero becauRe he bears about with 
him a token of how dear he held his country and 
his manhood.” 
And so the ring was placed again on Clara 
Gage's finger, and the next week they were mar¬ 
ried. He had wanted her before, hut he needed 
her now; and she bad come too near to losing 
him to delay her happiness by any coy pretenses. 
lie has gained strength rapidly—perhaps because 
he wilted to be well, or because he was so happy. 
Ilis country had yet work for him t.o do. As one 
who had a right to say “ come” and not “ go,” he 
has aided in the cause of recruiting under the re¬ 
cent calls. He who has given so much has a right 
to ask others to risk something. To those who know 
him his example is more eloquent than his words.— 
Haiders Weekly. 
“MY WIFE SAVED IT FOR ME.” 
One hot afternoon, when the air scorched the 
lungs as it was breathed in, and no business was 
stirring to keep the brain from going to sleep, I lay 
and dozed quietly and shadily in my room, which 
overlooked the street. Presently there came voices. 
Two men appeared to be in confab on my door¬ 
step. The windows "were wide open, but the shut¬ 
ters were closed; their voices came up to me with 
great clearness, so that I had no choice but to hear. 
The tenor of their conversation was curious. 
One, it seemed, had found life cheery and pleasant, 
and Fortune’s wheel had revolved with a touch of 
his finger, turning all to gold. The other was at the 
foot of the hill, and gray-headed, as I afterwards 
discovered. Both were men past middle age. Both 
were, to all appearance, hearty and of long-lived 
stock. Each had gone his way thruugh life, and a 
chance meeting had led them both to sit down on 
my door-step and cool off in the shade, and they 
(ell into an earnest talk. Evidently schoolmates 
once, of later years they had seen little of each 
other. It was a favorable opportunity, this of my 
door-step, to compare notes. 
“Tell me, John." said the more poorly clad of the 
two, " how have, you come to get along so well and 
make money till you have got rich?” John’s voice 
fell into a tender lone, as he answered, “I'll tell 
you; it was my wife w'ho did it!” “ Your wile, 
John—how?” -Why, simply in this way.” replied 
John. “One day, when I had been in business for 
four or live years, I wanted money badly, and didn't 
know where to raise a hundred dollars that I needed 
to pay a note falling due next day. I told my wife 
that night. 
She made no reply, but rose and went to the 
closet, handy, and came back holding out a stocking 
well filled. Handing it to me, “There. John, are 
one hundred and twenty dollars, which I have saved 
up in sixpences and shillings: take them and do 
what you please with them.” I hadn’t a word to 
say; but that taught me a lesson. I resolved to be 
careful of the small outgoes after that. Peter, and I 
was; and now. after ten years. I am worth enough 
to keep me and mine above want. 
1 found that the way to make money was to be 
careful of the small things—a sixpence here and 
shilling there. And, above all, that an economical 
and loving wife may make a man instead of break¬ 
ing him. My wife put a new notion into my head, 
and I have never forgotten it. She has made me 1 
what I never should have made of myself.” 
I heard Peter heave a sigh, as he acknowledged i 
that his wife did not consult his interest, but alwnv 
spent up to her income. And then l could not help 
thinking that if women would only realize the 
power they have of making a man’s home happy, }, y T 
adapting themselves to circumstance j, how many 1 
more genial, steady husbands and lathers there 
would he, and how much good it would do every 
man to say, as John said—“My wife saved it fo r 
me. She has made me what I am—comfortable and 
happy and contented.” 
fit 
SOME LITTLE JOKERS. 
None of us like the crying of another person’s 
baby. 
Marriage is like money—seem to want it and 
you don't get it. 
If tobacco gets scarce, there’s no harm done. If 
you can’t chew, eschew. 
Fellow citizens. “ go where glory waits you » 
and don't let her have to wait long. 
“Did you ever know such a mechanical genius 
as my son?" said an old lady; “ he has made a fiddfo 
out of his own head, and has wood enough for 
another.” 
A paper can publish the appointments after the 
coming in of a new administration, but what paper 
in the world is large enough to publish half the dis¬ 
appointments. 
Sheridan, speaking of his stay at a hotel, ob¬ 
served: “ I called for a bottle, of wine that my land¬ 
lord might live; I abstained from drinking it that I 
might live, too." 
“ Why did you come back?” asked a sleek, well- 
fed citizen, of a poor half-sick federal soldier just 
returned from McClellan's army. “ Whrj don't you 
go!'" replied the soldier. 
The rebel government, says Prentice, finding 
that its troops are chiefly remarkable, for running, 
has hit upon the happy expedient of obviating the 
trouble by enlisting cripples. 
§mu Ux Hi? fffittttij. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
LOVE YOUR PARENTS. 
If you love them, you will delight to be in their company, 
and take pleasure in being at home with them. It is painful 
to them to sec that you are happier anywhere than at home, 
and fonder of any other society than theirs. No companion 
should be so valued by you ns a kind father or mother. 
If you love them, you will strive in all things to please the e. 
Wo are always anxious to please those whom we regard, an 1 
to avoid whatever would give them pain. If we are cureless 
whether wo please or displease any one. it is obviously im¬ 
possible that we ran have any affection for them. The essence 
of piety toward Goi>, is a deep solicitude to please Him ; un.-J 
the essence of fllinl piety is a solicitude to please your parents 
Young people, dwell upon this single simple thought 
child's pleasure should hr to please his parents. This is its 
essence of love, and the sum of all your duty. If you n ril 
adopt this rule—if you would write this upon your heart—if 
you would make this the standard of your tonduet—I might 
lay down my pen. for it includes everything in itself. 
Oh, that you could be brought to reason and resolve thin. — 
“I am hound by every tie of Gop and man, of reason snd 
revelation, of honor and gratitude, to do all I can to make 
my parents happy, by doing whatever w ill give them pleasure, 
and by avoiding whatever will give them pain. By Gut 
help, I will from this hour study and do whatever will pro¬ 
mote their comfort. I will make my will to consist iu doing 
theirs, and my earthly happiness to arise from making t.Vu 
happy. 1 will sacrifice my ow n predilections, and be satisfied 
with their choice." Noble resolution, and just and proper 
Adopt it, act upon it, and you will never repent of it. Do 
not have any earthly happiness that is indulged at the ex per. 
of theirs. A: S. D. 
Antwerp. N. Y., 1S62. 
-. ♦ .- 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker 
MYTHOLOGICAL ENIGMA. 
I am composed of 24 letters. 
My 9, 3. 7,14, 8 was a sister of Juno. 
My 17, 23. 21. 18. 13 was the daughter of Saturn. 
My 2. 20. 5 was a son of Mercury. 
My 1, 13,14. 21 10, 20 was the goddess of justice. 
My 17, 21,10, 14 3 was the birthplace of Jupiter. 
My 14. 12.14,1, 6 was a brother of Saturn. 
My 16, 11, 20 was the cave J upiter was secreted in. 
My 22. 6, 7, 20 was the place wheTc Bacchus was educated. 
My 4, IS, 21, 3.12, 24.10 13 were the children of Nereus. 
My 15. 12. 5, 24, IS was what iEolus gave to Ulysses on his 
departure from au island. 
My whole is what we should all remember these bard times. 
Spencer, Tioga Co.. N. V., 1S62. Mary. 
SFjF' Answer in two -weeks. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
GEOMETRICAL PROBLEM. 
Determine the sides of a right-angled triangle, by knowing 
that the radius of an inscribed circle is 2S0 and the s;de of 
an inscribed square 480. 
Gaines. Wyoming Co., N. Y., 1862. Oliver Brows. 
£3?" Answer in two weeks. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
ANAGRAM. 
Sunshine the looking creeps creeps shadow the is over and 
and of always shoulder. 
Bellevue, Ohio, 1862. Ida M. Cowle. 
J3?" Answer in two weeks. 
AN3WERS TO ENIGMAS, &c. t IN No. 6(i0. 
Answer to Miscellaneous Enigma:— Sympathetical. 
Answer to Geographical Decapitations:—Prome, Jask, Sa¬ 
mos. Van, Amour. Linn, Cass, Potter, Ashe. Gentry. 
Answer to Riddle:—Veil—vile—live—evil. 
Answer to Engineering Problem:—3040.122 v feet. 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER, 
the largest circulated 
AGRICULTURAL, LITERARY AND PAJH1Y WEEKLY, 
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