of childhood, “ and every dream we know of life 
is one of purity ?” And if we are true to our¬ 
selves, true to our friends, true to our country, 
and true to our God, it is sweet 
To look backward through the shadows 
Where our Journey first begun, 
And the guidon flowers of mom’ry 
Turn their faces to the sun 
There is grandeur and beauty in the melodious 
flow and kindling sentiment of the following ex¬ 
tract from “The Mountains of Life:” 
Oh ' the stars never tread the blue hea* ens at night, 
But we tliiiik where the ransomed have trod, 
And the. day never smiles front his palace of light 
But. we feel the bright smile of our God. 
We are traveling homeward, through changes and gloom, 
To a kingdom where pleasure* unchangingly bloom, 
And our guide is the glory that shines through the tomb, 
From the evergreen mountains of life. T _*. * -*!.» 
The world-wido circulation of the tine ballad 
entitled “Marion Moore," is one of the truest tests 
of its merits. It has been married to music, 
which bears the same relationship to it that fra¬ 
grance does to a flower, or light to a star, or love 
to a human heart. 
Gone art thou, Marion, Marion Moore 1 
Gone, like the bird iu the atflumu that singeth— 
Gone, like the flower by the wayside that springeth— 
Gone, like the leaf of the by that dingeth 
’Bound the tone rock on a storm beaten shore. 
I repented as I kissed little Frank's forehead, 
that I had ever spoken unkindly to him. Hours 
of sorrow went by, and wo watched by his couch, 
hope growing fainter and fainter, and anguish 
deeper, until, one week from the morning on 
which he spoke of his childish sports, we closed 
Iris eyes, once so sparkling, and folded Ms hands 
over his pulseless heart. He sleeps now in tho 
grave, and home is desolate; but the little wind¬ 
mill, the work of his busy hands, is still whirling 
in the breeze, just where he placed it, upon the 
roof of the old woodshed ; and every time I see 
the tiny arms revolving I remember the lost little 
Frank—and I remember also the thoughtless, the 
unkind words! 
JAMES G. CLARK, VOCALIST AND POET. 
BY UEOKGE W. BUNGAY 
Hazlitt says “kings lay aside their crowns to 
sit for their portraits, and poets their laurels tu 
sit for their busts.” What Rembrandt and Cor¬ 
reggio were in their relations to art. Thackeray 
and Dickens are in their relations to letters. 
They are pen-and-ink portraitpaintors — true 
delineators of character, to whom future genera¬ 
tions will be indebted for the correct, likeness of 
representative men of the present age. The 
reduplication of a man on canvas or in descrip¬ 
tion is a delicate and difficult task, but a most 
agreeable one to the genuine, artist, whether he 
paints in words or colors. He must not omit the 
nice and delicate touches that bring out the real 
character, nor gloss over the. squirms and pim¬ 
ples. if they are found in the prototype. James 
G. Clark is comparatively a young man. who 
has scarcely attained the zenith of life, and yet 
he has, hy his energy, industry, and genius, won 
a reputation which cannot fall to ripen into fame. 
Without the advantages of rich relationships or 
lofty literary attainments, he has risen up among 
the people —like the lark from her low nest 
among tho flowers, he rises with dew on his 
wings—and pours out the hymn of emotion, his 
heart beating the sentiment into song. Tme 
inspiration never fails to put the right word in 
the right place. T3irds make no mistakes in their 
flinging, because God perfects their utterance. 
Bards, like tho birds, are the chosen medium 
through which the soulof nature speaks, iu tones 
too exquisite and in language too refined for gross 
minds to appreciate, hence their flings at tho 
poets. Few are endowed with that foresight and 
poetic vision, wMch looks beyond the stars, and 
far, far into the future. “ Leona,” a poem worthy 
of Poe. Illustrates my meaning. It is one of Mr. 
Clark’s happiest efforts. 
Lkona, the hour draws nigh, 
Tli# hour we've awaited so long, 
For tho angel to open a door through the sky, 
That, my spirit may break from its prison, and try 
Its voice in an infinite song. 
Just new as the -lumbers of night 
Came o’er me with peace-giving breath, 
The curtain, half lifted, revealed to my sight 
Those windows which look on the kingdom of light, 
That borders the river of death. 
And a vision felt solemn and sweet, 
Bringing gleams of a morning lit land 
1 saw the" white shore which the pair water?, beat, 
And l heard the low lull as they broke at their feet 
Who walked on the beautiful strand 
And I wondered why spirits should cling 
To their ( lav with a straggle and sigh. 
When life s purple autumn is better tliHtt spring, 
And the soul flies away like a sparrow, to sing 
In a climate Where leaves never die. 
Leona, come close to my bed, 
And lay your dear hand on my brow; 
The same touch that blessed me in days that are fled, 
And raised the lost rv • • of youth from the dead, 
Gan brighten the brief moments now. 
We have loved from the cold world apart, 
And your trust was too generous and true 
For their hate to o’erthro w; when the slanderer's dart 
Was rankling deep in my desolate heart, 
I was dearer than ever to you. 
I thank the Great Father for this, 
That our love is not lavished in vain; 
Each germ, in the future, will blossom to bliss, 
Aud the forms that wo love, and the lips that we kiss, 
Never shrink at the shadow of pant. 
By the light of this faith am 1 taught 
'That my labor is only begun; 
In the strength of this hope have I struggled and fought 
With the legiote. of wrong, till ray armor has caught 
The gleam of Eternity’s sun 
Lkona, look forth and behold, 
From headland, from hillside, and deep, 
The day king surrender* his banners of gold. 
The twilight advance- through woodland and wold, 
And the dews are beginning to weep. 
The moon’s silver hair lies uncurled, 
Down the broad breasted mountain away; 
Ere sunset’s red glories again shall be furled" 
On the walls of (tie west, o’er the plains of the world, 
I shall rise in a limitless day. 
I go, hut weep not over my tomb, 
Nor plant with frail flowers the sod; 
There is rest among rosea too sweet for its glooip, 
And life where the lilies eternally bloom 
In tho balm breathing gardens of Gon. 
Yet deeply those memories hum 
Which hind me to you and to earth, 
And 1 sometimes have tho’t that my being would yearn, 
In the bowers of its beautiful home, to return 
And visit the homo of its birth. 
’Twould even be pleasant to stay, 
And walk by your side to the last; 
But the land breeze of Heaven is beginning to play— 
Life's shadows an- meeting Eternity's day, 
And its tumul t Is hushed in the past. 
Leona, good-bye; should the grief 
That is gathering, now, ever be 
Too dark for your faith, you w ill long for relief, 
And remember, the journey, though lonesome, is brief, 
Over lowland and river (o me. 
The spirit breaks away like a bird front its cage, 
and soar.- to the windows of heaven, commanding 
a view of the “ morning-lit land,’ 1 where the soft 
waves break Oil the beautiful shore, where the 
purple pomp of autumn is more gorgeous than 
spring, and where its magnificence is never hid 
under the cold winding-sheet of winter. 
The soul of man is so constituted that the idea 
of annihilation is repulsive. We all hope to live 
hereafter in abetter and more perfect state of ex¬ 
istence. We all love to be remembered, and onr 
poet has most happily expressed that sentiment 
in one of his most popular lyrifls, ’ 
Oh ! ’tis sweet to he remembered 
When our life ha* lost its bloom, 
And every morning sun we meet 
May leave u.v at the tomb; 
When our youth i- half forgotten. 
And we gaze with yearning, fond, 
From a world where all are dying, 
To a deathless world beyond 
’Tis sweet to he remembered, 
As the -tars remember night, 
Shining downward through the darkness, 
With a pure and holy light. 
It is sweet to be remembered in the dawn of 
life, when our thoughts are pure as the prayers 
* Thousands of our readers, who kttow and admire the 
will be pleased to see the accompanying Portrait aud 
“'(•graphical Sketch of a popular Vocalist and Poet—one 
wnose. name and songs arc as I:,miliar as "household 
oyer a large pnr-.ionnf the country Mr Buxoat’i* 
. sepi . ed In the Amsrvnn t‘krmoloip'nH 
» 1 vii V idesr • incizing it wider publicity 
A»$w l.r "'wbri is a genuine T.mou mao. A Koch.-ter 
1 : i' ly agra -•• tSinee the t #sof 
^ ha#given one-third of hii earning- 
...f^ V i' 11 V hocteties, and has donated over a tbou- 
-bum* G. CI.ARK well merit* 
i’nv vu C fnl/> V,'t‘'i’l' rs Dyed ’ He jb a true patriot, display- 
t?r tev, ,.r c r 01 instead of plundering hi* coun- 
Avoto Bad Company. — The following little 
fable contains a deal of wisdom ; and editors, 
clergymen—indeed, all classes in society, will do 
well to remember it, aud govern themselves 
accordingly: 
A skunk once challenged a lion to single 
combat. The lion promptly declined the honor 
of such a meeting. 
“How,” said the skunk, “ are you afraid?” 
“Very much so.’’ quoth the lion, “for you 
would only gain fame by having the honor to 
fight a lion, while every one who met me for a 
month to come would know that 1 hud, been in 
company with a skunk.” 
mm 
Ingenious.— Here is a long sentence of thirty- 
two words which some ingenious child has got 
up with just the letters found in the word mmkn. 
“ Ida, a maiden, a mean man named Ned Dean, 
and Media, a mad dame, made me mend a die 
and a dime, and mind a mine in a dim den in 
Maine.” 
A little girl has made a Soldier’s hospital 
shirt, which is to be sent to Washington, bearing 
the following inscription: 
“ The little fingers of Alice Heath, of Bunker 
Hill, Charlestown, Mass., aged four and a half 
years, sewed every stitch in this shirt She loves 
the soldier.” 
JAMES €E 
he even puts his pen to paper, and can quote a 
new poem of his own before he has written it 
He writes and re-writes, and is never iu haste to 
rush into print; hence the fine polish and finish 
of his ballads. Without intending to draw in¬ 
vidious contrasts, I echo here what has been 
repeated a thousand times all over the land, that 
he is the best ballad-writer in America. Hols 
quoted more frequently by the press than any 
other writer of ballads. Mr. Clark is a musician 
as well as a poet; like Moore, bo Can sing his 
own songs. lie has written more music than 
poetry, and his melodies may be found on cen¬ 
ter-table and piano everywhere. He is better 
known as a singer than a poet—indeed, bis repu¬ 
tation as a singer gives him full houses wherever 
he is announced For an entertainment. There 
are many persons who can sing, few who can 
write verses lit, to sing, and fewer still who can 
write exquisite poetry, aud write music to match 
the poetry, and then eng it so as to make the 
voice and tone harmonize with the sentiment 
There is nothing vitiated, false or spurious, in 
his poetry. 11 keeps abreast of truth. It is in 
front of the age. It is like a trumpeter with a 
golden trumpet at his lip lie collects manna in 
the wilderness, and It is sweet to the taste. He 
smites the rock in the desert, and it flows with 
pure, sparkling water. The rod blossoms in his 
hand. He has lived among pastoral scenes, 
hence his muse delights to draw images from 
nature. Tho flowers blossom, the birds sing, the 
streams flow, the winds whisper, the clouds sail, 
the rainbow gleams in his verso. In person he 
is a noble specimen of manhood, being six feet 
in height, straight, and square-shouldered. His 
head is well-orbed and nicely poised over "a 
broad, sympathetic heart. Ills hair is chestnut- 
brown, inclined to curl. 1 lis eyes are of a gray¬ 
ish blue, mild in repose, but stars of fire when 
excited. He wears a full, red beard, disciplined 
with brush and comlt. He dresses in good taste, 
pays attention to the amenities of life, has that 
suavity of manner and courtesy which spring 
from a heart welling over with respect and love 
for the race, which insures hosts of admiring 
friends. Ilia personal magnetism brings about 
him hosts of men and women whose acquaint¬ 
ance seldom fails to ripen into esteem and friend¬ 
ship. 
The future will class him iu an enviable rank 
among American song-writers—indeed, the pres¬ 
ent has already crowned him with laurel. 
James G- Clark was born in Constantia, Os¬ 
wego county, N. Y,, on the 28th of June, 1830. 
nis father is still living at that place; is in mod¬ 
erate circumstances, but highly respected by all 
who know him, for his Intelligence and integrity of 
character. He is a Jeffersonian Democrat, and 
has been for many years prominent in the poli¬ 
tics of Oswego county, and was a member of the 
State Constitutional Convention in 1846. The 
mother of our subject, a ho died iu 18(10, was 
highly refined aud of a very sensitive and poet¬ 
ical nature, great moral worth and piety, and 
also decided musical and poetical talent, and it 
was from her that he received these gifts, while 
he inherited the practical mostly from the father. 
Though a member of a conservative family, Mr. 
Clark’s sympathies have been from childhood 
radically in favor of tho oppressed, as the sharp 
arguments of his boyhood In favor of the slave 
signally attest. Mr. Clark’s personal habits, in 
an age of dissipation, are peculiar, he never 
having drank a glass of ardent spirits, nor used 
tobacco in any form. 
His mother’s memory is cherished by him with 
all the tenderness ol a timid girl, and with all 
the strength of stalwart manhood. He cele¬ 
brates his estimation of her in the following 
touching tribute, which we are sure our readers 
will thank us for inserting: 
MY MOTHER IS NEAR. 
Sweet mother, the bird* from oar bowers have fled, 
The reaper has gathered hi* sheaves, 
The glorious summer lies silent and dead, 
And the land like a pale mourner grieves; 
But the garden of metary is blooming to day, 
With flowers and leaver ever new, 
And the birds, and the fountains around it that play, 
Are singing, dear mother, of you. 
CLARK. 
Like green shores receding beyond the gray seas, 
Seem the years hy your tenderness blest— 
A nd youth 's merry music grows faint on the breezo 
That, is 'vlifting me on to life’s west. 
Yet beautiful seeing the mild glaoee of your eye, 
And the blessing your fond spirit gave, 
As the mists of the valley bang bright in the sky, 
Though the mountains are lost in the wave. 
I wonder, sometimes, if the «imlx that have flown, 
Return to the mourners again, 
And I ask for a sign from the trackless unknown, 
Where million* liav* questioned in vain— 
I see not your meek, loving face, through the strife 
Which would hlind me with doubting and four; 
But a voice murmur* •• Pwwo' to the tumult of life, 
And 1 know that my mother U near 
The cold world may cover my pathway with frowns, 
And mingle with hitter each joy; 
It, may load me with crosses and rifli me of crowns— 
1 have treasure* it can not destroy ; 
There’s a green, sunny isle in the depth* of my soul 
Whoso rose* the winds never strew, 
And the. billows and breeze* nrntind it that roll, 
Bring tidings of Heaven and you. 
Conn/■ xUnlv ’9 up thr flop? of Tim?; 
They bear a train of smile* and tears. 
Of burning hope* and dreams sublime; 
But future years may never lling 
A treasure from their passing hours, 
Like those that come on sleepless wing, 
From memory's golden plain of flowers. 
The morning breeze of long ago 
Sweeps o'er my brain with soft control, 
FiPtninu Hii I'lHhi.i'i to ,1 ,//,rVJ, 
.4mill tii? arhf'Jf r<nin<l, my soul; 
And by the dim and flickering light, 
I see thy beauteon* form appear, 
Llkn one returned from wanderings bright, 
To bless my lonely moments here. 
The infamous rebellion against which the pens 
of all the poets and the swords of many of them 
have been directed, has called out some of the 
best poetry written during the present century. 
The “Fremont Battle Hymn ” is one of the best 
efforts in that, line. It, is now embodied in the 
history of the war, aud has a permanent and con¬ 
spicuous place in Ihe “ Record of the Rebellion.” 
I quote the entire poem without public comments. 
It appeared originally in William Cullen Bry¬ 
ant’s paper, the Evening Post: 
FREMONT’S BATTLE HYMN. 
Oh ! spirits of Washington, Warren, and Wayne ! 
Oil ! shades of the Heroes and Patriots slain I 
Como down from votir mountains of emerald and gold, 
And smile, on the banner ye cherished of old. 
Descend In your glorified ranks to the strife. 
Like legions sent torth from tin.* armies of life: 
Let us feel your deep presence, as waves feel the breeze, 
When the white fleets, tike snow flakes, are drank by the 
sea*. 
As the red lightning? run on the blnck, jagged cloud, 
Ere the thunder-(ring speak* from his wind woven shroud, 
So gleam* tho bright steel along valley anil shore, 
Ere the combat shall startle the land with iu roar. 
As the veil which conceals the clear starlight is riven, 
When clouds strike together by wtunog Winds driven, 
So the blood or the race must be offered like rain, 
Ere the star* of our country are ransomed again. 
Proud ions of the soil where the Palmetto grows, 
Once patriot* aud brothers, now traitor- and foes, 
Ye hare turned from the path which our forefathers trod, 
And stolen from man the best gift of Ids God. 
Ye have trampled the tendril* of love in the ground, 
Ye have scoffed at the law which the Nazarene found, 
Till tho great wheel of .1 ustiec seemed blocked for a time, 
And the'eye* of humanity blinded with crime. 
The hound* of oppression were howling the knell 
Of martyrs and prophet*, at gibbet and cell, 
While Mercy despaired of the blossoming years, 
When her harp strings no more should be rusted with 
tears 
But God never ceases to strike for the right, 
And the ring of lli* anvil came down through the night, 
Tho’ the World w;i* a^cep, and the nations seemed dead, 
And Truth into bondage by Error was led. 
Will the banners of morn at your bidding be furled, 
When t.he day king arises to quicken the world f 
Can ye cool too fierce fires of nis heat-throbbing breast, 
Or turn hha aside from Ids goal in the West ? 
Ah! sons of the plains where the orange tree blooms, 
Ye may come tt) our pine-covered mountains for tombs; 
But the light ye would smother was kindled by One 
Who gave to the universe planet and sun. 
Go, strangle the throat of Niagara’s wrath, 
Till he otters no sound on his torrent-cut path; 
Go, bind hi* green sinews ot rock-wearing waves, 
Till lie begs tit your feet like your own fettered slaves; 
Go, cover his pulses with sods of the ground, 
Till he hides from you* sight like a bare from the hound; 
Then swarm to our borders and silence the notes 
That thunder of freedom from million* of throat* 
Come on with your “ chattels, all worn, from the soli 
Where men receive tcotirging in payment for toil; 
Come, robbers—come, traitors, w e welcome you all, 
As the leave* of the forest are welcomed by fail. 
The birthright of manhood awaits for your slaves, 
But prison? aud halters are waiting fin- knaves; 
And the blades of our “ mud sills’’ are longing to rust 
With their blood who would bury onr stars in the dust 
They die uidaniented by people and laws, 
Whose lives are but shadows un Liberty’s cause; 
They slumber unblest, hy Fraternity’s star, 
Who have blocked up the track of Humanity’s car. 
Regarded, when dead, by the wise and the good, 
As the shepherds regard the dead wolf iu the wood: 
And only unhated when Heaven shall efface 
Tho metn’ry of wrong from the souL of the race. 
Thu streams may forgot how they mingled our gore, 
And the myrtle entw ine on their border* once more; 
The gong-birds of Peace may return to our glades, 
And children join hands where their father* joined blades 
Columbia may rise from her trial of fire, 
More pure than -he came from dm ha mi of her sire; 
But Freedom will lift the cold finger of scorn f 
When History tells where her Traitors were bom. 
The quotations I have given are but the dust 
of diamonds. I hope wo shall have the diamonds 
in a setting ol'blue-and-gold before long. Mr. 
Clark writes but little, but he writes] that little 
excellently well. He elaborates carefully before 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
AGRICULTURAL ENIGMA. 
I AM composed of 35 letters. 
My 1, 7, 28, 29 t* necessary on almost every farm. 
My 5, 19, 10, 9, 34, 12, 15 of„17, 11, 4, 18, 10 are also very 
useful In supplying my 2, 0, 32, 5, 31, 15 with that 
useful and natural^d, 28, 7,12, 31,14, 21 which nature 
lias provided for them. 
My 35, 13, 10, 15, 14, XI, 35 is a garden vegetable. 
My 20, 10 is a word often used by 24, 18, 3, 12, 25, 19, 33, 
32, 0.1 
My 10, 23, 21, 5 are good to feed my 22, 16, 32, 26, 9,15, 
aud it is said they also thrive] aud do w ell when fed 
with $, 17, 7,18, 19, 27, 36, 35, 29, 31, 25. 
My 10, 18, 23, 35, 7, 32 has wrought a great change in ag¬ 
riculture. 
My 5, 30, 9, 31, 35 is a very useful[aniuial. 
My 26, 0, 9 is a useful implement. 
My 10, 3, 8, 9 is part of a sled. 
My whole is a very common expression, and may be 
found in Scripture. Chaun’CBY N. Batkh. 
Mesopotamia, Ohio, 1803. 
Answer in two weeks. 
SPEAK GENTLY-A STORY FOR CHILDREN. 
“ Please to help me :i minute, sister,” said little J 
Frank. 
“Oh, don’t disturb me,” I aaid, “I’m read¬ 
ing.” 
“Hut just hold this stick, won’t you, while I 
drive the pin through." 
“ I can't now, I want to finish this story,” said I, 
emphatically; and my little brother turned away 
with a disappointed look, in search of somebody 
else to assist Him. 
Frank was a bright boy of ten years, and my 
only brother. He had been visiting a young 
friend, and had seen a windmill, and as soon as 
ho came home his energies were all employed in 
making a small one; for lie was always trying to 
make tops, wheelbarrows, kites, anti al! sorts Of 
things such as boys delight, in. lie had worked 
patiently all the morning with saw and knife, and 
it only needed putting together to complete 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MISCELLANEOUS ENIGMA. 
I am composed of 10 letters. 
My 4, 2, 5, 1 is what every farmer should use. 
Mp 7, 0, ft, 4 was a race of peoplejofij^outhern Europe. 
My 9, K), ft, was once the symbol of wisdom. 
My 3, 9, 10, 6, 1 is used for promoting cleanliness. 
My 10, 8, 2, 4, 6 i* What every one should be ablo to do 
My.whole 1* the name of an Indian Chief. 
Saint Peter. Minnesota, 1803. Lizzie Cct.t.K.v 
now 
it; and his only sister hail refused to assist 
him, and ho had gone away with his young heart 
saddened. 
I thought of all tins immediately after he had 
loft mo, and my book gave tno no pleasure. It 
was not intentional unklnduoss, only thoughtless¬ 
ness, for I loved my brother, and was generally 
kind to him; still, I laid refused to help him. I 
would have gone after him, anti offered the as¬ 
sistance needed, but 1 knew he had found some 
one else. Cut l had neglected an opportunity of 
gladdening a childish heart. 
in half an hour Frank came bounding into the 
house, exclaiming, “Come. Mary, I’ve got it up. 
Just gee how it goes!” His tones were joyous, 
and I saw that he had forgotten my petulance, so 
that I determined to atone by unusual kindness. 
I went with him, and, sure enough, on the roof 
of’ the outhouse was fastened a miniature wind¬ 
mill, and the arms were whirling around fast 
enough to suit anybody. I praised the windmill 
anti my little brother’s ingenuity, and he seemed 
happy, and entirely forgetful of my unkindness ; 
and I resolved, as I had so many times before, to 
be always loving and gentle. 
A few days passed by, and the shadow of a great 
sorrow darkened ourdwolling. The joyous laugh 
and noisy glee was hushed, and on r merry boy 
lay in a darkened room with anxious faces around 
him. his checks flushed, and his eyes unnaturally 
bright. Sometimes his temples would moisten 
and his muscles relax, and hope would come into 
our hearts, and our eyes would till with thankful 
tears. It was in one of these deceitful calms in 
his disease that lie heard the n»iso of his little 
wheel, and said, “ I hear my windmill.” 
“Does it make your head ache?” I asked.— 
“Shall we take it down?” 
“Oh no,” he replied, “it seems as if I were 
out of doors, and it makes me feel better.' He 
mused a moment, and then added:—“Don’tyou 
remember, Mary, that I wanted you to help me 
finish it, and you were reading and told me you 
could not? Hut it didn’t make any difference for 
mama helped me.” 
Oh, how sadly those words tell upon my ear! 
and what bitter memories they awakensd. now 
For Moore'* Rural New-Yorker, 
AN ANAGRAM. 
Tub hitw het «vnrla]usn dan ami, 
I surtt Ido orbni 1 wil ocem giana; 
Elda yetgln iwth ihm ft eh ocmsc, 
Doruna uory ordo ot ekso’ovf burmsc. 
Raspe lal het drib* nadarpe* hcrit'setsn; 
Vigc on apni ol hettr tileltjrasebts; 
Elt emht nojoy ehtri volse nda utif, 
Naulicdmr ta tonal yb oby ro]ugu. 
Pickering, C. \V., 1803. 1 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker, 
GEOGRAPHICAL DECAPITATIONS. 
Bkiikad a river, and leave a girl's name. 
Behead a gulf, and leave a verb. 
Behead u river, and leave a title 
Behead a volcano, alidjeave a puzzle. 
Behead an island, ami leave a town. 
Behead a cape, and leave a part'of the head. 
Behead a river, and leave a boy’s nickname. 
X3T Answer in two weeks. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
ARITHMETICAL QUESTION. 
The sum of two numbers is 148. If the greater be di¬ 
vided by the less, and the less by the greater, the greater 
quotient bo multiplied by 7, and the smaller bo multiplied 
by 49, both will be equal. Required the two number*. 
LatoniaSprings, Ky.,51863. Mis* F SWFOR" 
fy Answer in two weeks. 
ANSWERS TO ENIGMAS, &c., IN No. 684. 
Answer hVlllustratcd Rebus:—Acbing teeth are incen¬ 
diary tenants. 
Answer to Miscellaneous Enigma:— What is]worth do¬ 
ing at all, is worth well doing. 
Answer to Algebraical Problem:—30 rods. 
Answer to Anagram: 
Do they mis. me at home, do they miss me, 
At morning, at noon, and at night; 
And linger* one gloomy Guide round them 
Which onlv m - piocuee can light?« 
Vi-ojov* less invitingly.welcome, 
And pleasure*!*-* hate than before, 
Because on<t i* mu*ed from the circle,) 
Because I mu withjyou no more ? . 
v*Answer to Geographical] Decapitations:—Cape, Amite, 
Morgan, Dan, Glynn, Drave, Block, Osage, Ware, Potter, 
