) like a gateway opening out of the celestial 
city. There was a murmurous, drousy hum 
} of bird aud iusect through the air, and the 
I two lovers felt the dreamy influence, and 
talked tenderly and soberly of the real life 
they were but just, entering on. 
“If we ever should leave this spot, and go 
somewhere eDe to finish our lives, I want 
you to promise, Robert, to bring me here to 
bury me,” said Katie, at last, breaking a 
long silence. 
“ But if you should outlive me ? ” answered 
Robert. 
“ That is not likely; promise, at any rate/’ 
“You are sentimental, Katie; hut I 
promise; only, let there he reom for me.” 
“ I had not thought of that; it was only 
myself I was thhiking of.” 
“ We will talk of life, darling, and not of 
death. 1 hope we will enjoy many years of 
happy usefulness together. We will be so 
happy in our home. Let us walk there now,” 
answered Robert. 
But as they turned from the mimic farm a 
dark cloud covered up the lost sunshine, and 
at the same moment u courteous voice asked: 
“ Is this the home of Mr. Sinclair?” 
It was a stranger who stood before them, 
a very handsome, well-dressed man, with 
an exceedingly polished manner. Katie 
thought, in a moment, that, she had never 
seen so handsome a man. 
Robert answered his interrogations brief¬ 
ly, hut pleasantly, and the stranger intro¬ 
duced himself as a Mr. Lovelanh, who had 
land in the immediate neighborhood, which 
lie had come to see Mr. Sinclair about, as 
he-was desirous of selling; and he accom¬ 
panied the young people to the house, and 
was introduced to Katie’s father, with 
whom he was soon deep in a business dis¬ 
cussion. 
lie staid there three weeks, and made him 
self agreeable to everybody; but for K atie 
there was a different tone in his voice, a dif¬ 
ferent look in his eyes. lie read to her, anti 
talked to her of life in that great, far-ofl’city, 
which seemed like a wonderful dream to 
Katie; and she never thought of falling in 
love, but only admired him as some one from 
another world. 
I shall always think the beginning of the 
mischief was caused by a pair of kid gloves; 
Katie’s hand was small and shapely, anti in 
those gloves, which he seemed to have 
brought from the city by the merest acci¬ 
dent, they were marvelously beautiful. She 
put them on many limes a day to admire 
them alone, and began to wish for other 
beautiful things. 
The old people liked the gentleman very 
much at first, but. after awhile they got. tired 
of his pleasant, insinuating ways and grew 
cool to him; and Robert, who hated him 
without imagining why, helped to develop 
their dislike, so he took the hint and left, 
with many pleasant speeches, and a look at 
Katie that should have blighted her. 
Well, I am coming to it,. Katie never 
married Robert, After Mr. Loveland left, 
she grew dull and desponding, or irritable 
and exacting, and took long walks by herself, 
and could not cat. Robert knew what 
troubled her, but his thoughts never went 
forward to the dark ending, when one morn¬ 
ing Katie was gone—gone from the home 
of her youth, the chamber of her girlish in¬ 
nocence, to the arms of an adventurer, per¬ 
haps a profligate. 
Tiie sun never shone there again — never. 
The birds never sung anything hut requiems; 
and two prematurely childish people crept 
back and forth like shadows, while a strong 
man, with an awful agony in his face, minis¬ 
tered to them. So the years crept on. 
Katie had lost herself in the city. Oh, 
girls! girls! don’t go and cast yourselves 
into that vortex which grinds up every 
sweet and seeming grace into a hard, seeth¬ 
ing mass! If you want a long life and a 
happy one, stay on the farm and drink of its 
pure elixir of life. Real clover blossoms 
are better than paper roses. 
A year or two after Katie had dropped 
out of the homo life, and sent back no token, 
a letter came to Robert Myers, He read 
it, and looked almost happy. Then he went, 
away and was gone a week. When lie came 
hack he was not alone, lie brought a pale, 
white form, upon whoso thin lips were 
frozen the last vestiges of weary mortality. 
The three mourners dropped some bitter 
tears upon it, and then it was laid away in 
eternal silence among the white and yellow 
blooms of Katie’s farm. 
There is another and longer grave beside 
it now, and the shadows slant lovingly over 
jS the two. 
And two childish old people babble about 
Katie’s farm, and the flowers upon it; and 
then tall into an abstraction silent as death, 
as if they laid just missed some part of their 
lives. 
And the destroyer,—the murderer? Oh, 
lie sits beside yon madam, who has just 
promised him the next dance. “ Men will 
he a little wild, you know.” 
“ Vengeance is mine, I will repay,” saith 
1 the Lord. 
BREAD ON THE WATERS. 
Many readers of the Rural may have 
seen the following simple but touching 
sketch, yet even they will take pleasure in 
perusing it again, and, with thousands of 
others to whom it is not familiar, will he 
profited by the lesson it, buautifully teaches: 
“Please sir, will you lmy my chestnuts?” 
“ Chestnuts ? No!” returned llALrn 
Moore looking carelessly down on the up¬ 
turned face, whose largo brown eyes, shad¬ 
owed by tangled curls of flaxen hair, were 
appealing so pitifully to his own, “ What do 
T want with chestnuts V” 
“But please sir, do buy ’em,” pleaded the 
little one, reassured by the rough kindness of 
his tono. “ Nobody seems to care for ’em— 
and—anil—” 
She fairly burst into lears, and Moore, 
who had been on the point of brushing by 
her, stopped instinctively. 
“ Are you very much in want of the 
money ?” 
“ Indeed, sir, we are,” sobbed the child, 
“ mother sent me out, and—” 
“ Nay, little one, do not cry in such a 
broken-hearted way,” said Ralph, smooth¬ 
ing her hair down with careless gentleness, 
“ 1 don’t want your chestnuts, but here is a 
quarter for you, if that will do you any 
good.” 
lie did not stay to hear the delighted in¬ 
coherent thanks I lie chi Id poured out through 
a rainbow of smiles and team, hut strode on 
his way, muttering between his teeth : 
“ That cuts oft'my supply of cigars for the 
next twenty-four hours. I don’t care though 
for the brown-cved object did cry as if she 
hadn’t a friend in the world. Hang it, I 
wish I was rich enough to help every poor 
creature out of the Slough of Despond !” 
While Ralph Moore was indulging in 
these reflections, the dark-orbed little dam¬ 
sel whom he bad confronted, was dashing 
down the street with quick elastic step, ut 
tcrly regardless of the basket of unsold nuts 
that dangled upon her arm. Down an ob¬ 
scure lane she darted, between tall ruinous 
rows of old houses, and up a narrow wooden 
staircase to a room where a pale, neat look¬ 
ing women with large brown eyes like her 
own, was sewing as if the breath of life de¬ 
pended on every stitch, and two little ones 
were playing in tlio sunshine that temporarily 
supplied the place of the absent fire. 
" Mary, bock already ? Surely you have 
not, sold your chestnuts so soon !” 
“ No, mother, mother see !” ejaculated the 
breathless child. “A gentleman gave me 
a whole quarter! Duly think mother, a 
whole quarter.” 
If Ralph MooHe could only have seen the 
rapture which his tiny silver gift diffused 
around it, in the poor widow’s poverty- 
stricken home ho would have grudged still 
less the temporary privation of cigars to 
which his generosity had subjected him. 
***** * 
Years came and went. The little chest¬ 
nut girl passed as entirely out of Ralph 
Moore’s memory as if her pleading eyes had 
never touched the soft spot in his heart, but 
Mary Lee never forgot the stranger who 
had given her the silver piece. 
* * * * * * 
The crimson window curtains were close¬ 
ly drawn to shut out the storm and tempest 
of the bleak December night—the lire was 
glowing cheerfully in the well-filled grate, 
and the dinner table all in a glitter with cut 
glass, rare china, and polished silver, only 
waiting l'or the presence of Mr. Audley. 
“ What can it be that detains papa?” said 
Mrs. Ai dley, a fair, handsome matron of 
about thirty, as she glanced at, the dial of a 
tiny enameled watch. “ Six o’clock, and he 
(loos not make his appearance.” 
“ There’s a man with him in the study, 
mamma—come on business,” said Robert 
Audley, a pretty boy of eleven years old, 
who was reading by the fire. 
“ T’ll call him again,” said Mrs. Aum.ky, 
stepping to the door, 
But U9 she opened it, the brilliant gas¬ 
light fell full on the face of an humble look¬ 
ing man in threadbare garments, who was 
leaving the house, while her husband stood 
in the doorway of his study, apparently 
relieved to be rid of liis visitor. 
“ (hi aui.es,” said Mrs. Audley, whose 
cheek had paled and flushed, “ who is that 
man—and wliat does he want?” 
“ His name is Moore, 1 believe, love, and 
be came to see if 1 would bestow upon him 
that vacant messengerghip in the bank.” 
“ And you will ?” 
“I don’t know, Mary; I must think 
about it.” 
“ Charles, give him the situation.” 
“ Why, my love ?” 
“ Because I ask it of you as a favor, and 
you have said a thousand times you would 
never deny me anything.” 
“ And I will keep my word, Mary,” said 
the lover husband, with an affectionate kiss, 
“ I’ll write the fellow a note this evening. I 
believe I’ve got his address somewhere 
about me.” 
An hour or two later, when Bobby and 
Frank and little Minnie were tucked snug¬ 
ly up in bed in the spacious nursery above 
stairs, Mrs. Audley told her husband why 
she was interested in the fate of a man 
whose face she had not seen for twenty 
years. 
“ That’s right, my little wife,” said her 
husband, folding her fondly to his breast, 
“ never forget one who has been kind to 
you in days when you needed kindness 
most.” 
Ralph Moore was sittting that self same 
night in his poor lodgings by his ailing 
wife’s sick bed, when a servant brought a 
note from the rich and prosperous bank di¬ 
rector, Charles Audley. 
“ Good news, Bertha,” he exclaimed joy¬ 
ously, as he read the brief words ; “ we shall 
not starve—Mr. Audley promises mo the 
vacant situation.” 
“ You have dropped something from the 
note, Ralph,” said Mrs. Moore, pointing to 
a slip of paper that lay ox the floor. 
Moore stooped to recover the estray. It 
was a fifty dollar bill neatly folded in apiece 
of paper on which was written: 
“ In grateful remembrance, of the silver 
quarter that a kind stranger bestowed on a 
chestnut girl twenty years ago.” 
Ralph Moore had thrown his morsel of 
bread on the waters of life, and after many 
years it had returned to him. 
-- 
THE DROVER’S STORY. 
I am a drover, and live miles and miles 
away upon the Western prairie. There was 
not a house within sight when we moved 
there, my wife and I, and now we haven’t 
many neighbors, though those we have are 
good ones. 
One day, about ten years ago, I went away 
from home to sell some fifty head of catt le— 
fine creatures as ever I saw. 1 was to buy 
some groceries and dry goods before I came 
back, and above all a doll for our youngest, 
Dolly; she had never had a store doll of her 
own, only the rag-babies hex* mother hud 
made her. 
Dolly could talk of nothing else, and 'went 
down to the very gate to call after me to 
“ buy a big one.” Nobody but a parent can 
understand how full my mind was of that 
toy, and how, when the cattle were sold, the 
first thing, I hurried off to buy Dolly’s doll. 
I found a large one, with eyes that would 
open and shut when you pulled a wire, and 
had wrapped it up in a paper and tucked it 
under my anil, while I had the parcels of 
calico and delaine and tea and sugar put up. 
Then, late as it was, 1 started for home. It 
might have been more prudent to stay until 
morning, but. 1 felt anxious to get back, aud 
eager to hear Dolly’s prattle about her toy. 
1 was mounted on a steady-going old horse 
of mine, and pretty well loaded. Night set 
in before 1 was a mile from town, and set- 
lied down dark as pitch while 1 was in the 
middle of the wildest hit of road I know of. 
I rode on as fast us 1 could, but all of a sud¬ 
den 1 heard a litt le cry like a child’s voice! 
1 stopped short and listened—1 heard it 
again. 1 called, and it answered me. I 
couldn’t see a thing; all was dark as pitch. 
I got down and felt about in the grass — 
called again, and again was answered. Then 
I began to wonder. I’m not timid, but I was 
known to be a drover, and to have money 
about me. It might he a trap to catch mu 
unawares and mb and murder me. 
I am not superstitious—not very, but how 
could a real child be out on the prairie in 
such a night, at such an hour ? It might he 
more than human. The bit of a coward that 
hides itself in most men showed itself in me 
then, and I was half inclined to run away, 
hut once more I heard that cry, and said I: 
“ If any man’s child is hereabouts, An¬ 
thony Hunt is not the man to let it die.” 
I searched again. At lust 1 bethought mo 
of a hollow under the hill, aud groping that 
way, sure enough, 1 found a little dripping 
thing that moaned and sobbed as I took it 
in my arms. 1 called my liurse, and the 
beast came to me, and 1 mounted, and tucked 
the little soaked thing under my coat as well 
as I could, promising to take it home to 
mammy. It seemed tired to death, and soon 
cried itself to sleep against my bosom. 
It had slept there over an hour when I saw 
my own windows. There were lights in 
them, and I supposed my wife had lit them 
for my sake, but when I got into the door- 
yard I saw something was the matter, and 
stood Still with a dread fear at heart, five 
minutes before I could lift the latch. At last 
I did it, and saw the room full of neighbors, 
and ray ivife amidst them weeping. 
When she saw me she hid her face. “Oh, 
don’t tell him,” she said, “ it will kill him.” 
“ What is it, neighbors?” 1 criod. 
And one said:—“Nothing new, I hope; 
what’s that, in your arms?” 
“A poor, lost child,” said T. “ I found it 
on the road. Take it, will you. I’ve turned 
faint! ” and 1 lifted the sleeping thing and 
saw the. face of my own child, my little Dolly. 
It was my darling, and none other, that 1 
had picked up upon the drenched road. 
My little child had wandered out to meet 
“ daddy ” and the dull, while her mother 
was at work, and whom they were lament 
ing as one dead. 1 thanked Heaven on my 
knees before them all. It is not much of a 
story, friends, hut I think of it often 
in the nights, and wonder how I could bear 
to live now if I had not stopped when I 
heard the cry for help upon the road, the 
little baby cry, hardly louder than a squirrel's 
chirp. 
That’s Dolly yonder with her mother in 
the meadow, a girl worth saving, I think,— 
hut then I’m her father, and partial, may 
'he—the prettiest and sweetest thing this 
Bide of the Mississippi. 
htl (Topics. 
THE ONE PASSION. 
“ Unless you can on iikj m a crowd all day 
On the absent fune that fixed you; 
Unless you cjiu love, as the anjrels may. 
With tlio breath of Heaven betwixt- you; 
Unless you can dream chat bis faith Is fast, 
Through behooving and unbehooving; 
Unless you can die when the dream Is past— 
O, never call it luvlnif!” 
Mrs. Browning knew the heart well, and 
when she wrote this verse she (ouched upon 
one of its tenderest chords. But she did this 
more with the romance of the poet, Ihun the 
calm practicality of the every-day man or 
woman. For, after all, there is practicality 
in love, however much the dreamy senti¬ 
mentalist may color it with his idealisms. 
And it is this practicality which insures a 
life-long happiness to the mated, and renders 
iheir home companionship the sweet and 
tender thing it should be through the years. 
That romantic passion which, as pictured 
by the poetess, is mildly suggestive of coffins 
and the like, — for it is defined as a dream, 
and dreams are ever fleeting,—may be called 
“loving;” lml to say that it is love in its 
purest and iulcnsest type, and that there is 
no real loving else, is simply poetical license 
and not. truth. For the sake of all moon¬ 
struck youth of both sexes,—for the present 
and future enjoyment of all such as may he 
“ fixed” upon some “absent face” and who 
fancy just now that earth is heaven indeed 
and that it is all “betwixt” themselves ami 
the adorable adored, — we protest against, 
this definition of love. 
Wed.n’t believe in suicide, — especially 
for love. We don’t think a genuine affec¬ 
tion will prompt any man to his own taking 
off. We can sec how some deep, crushing 
woe might press all sweetness out of life, and 
render dying the only thing desirable; but 
such woe never is horn of love. Exaggerat¬ 
ed passion may induce it. Adolphus, with 
soft hands, soft heart and a softer head, may 
take a fancy to shoot himself because Sera¬ 
ph in a doesn't smile on him; hut he is as 
ignorant of true love its is a puling baby. 
And because some honest young men and 
maidens, with no definite knowledge of their 
own natures, may he cognizant of Adol¬ 
phus' fate, and may put. his experience side 
by side with Mis. Browning’s declaration 
and draw an inference wrong and unwhole¬ 
some, we write this. 
Loving were a sad thing indeed, if, failing 
of full satisfaction, it led solely and surely to 
the darkest of all endings. The sweet stir¬ 
ring of the young heart were sadder to con¬ 
template than any sorrowful picture we 
know, if it foretokened, by any contingency, 
nothing but the heart’s cold stillness, with a 
something dreadful beyond. In pure, un¬ 
biased love, however, there ure no such lead¬ 
ing, no such foretokenings. Its influence is 
uplifting. It is exacting, but it is not mur¬ 
derous. It desires rich return; but <t is not 
malignant, aud has no revenge to vent upon 
itself or others. Thus much in relation to 
the “ dying” part; and considering the re¬ 
cent frequent suicides “for love,” as they are 
denominated, thus much is demanded. 
As regards that woful intensity of passion 
which conquers men or maidens but does 
not quite kill them, — which drives them to 
midnight, ravings and forlorn rhymes,— 
which is provocative of sighs and senti¬ 
mentalisms generally,—it is merely an exag¬ 
geration, a 1 rifle unpleasant, perhaps, but 
clung to because of its unpleasantness, and 
bad in proportion to the time it is clung to. 
It isn’t love, and it has existence only in 
unhealthy minds, being more of the mind 
than of the heart. As long as the ■world 
lasts there will be unrequited affection ; but 
rest assured that the unadulterated article 
will never ruin any sensible individual. An 
over-wrought idea of* the one great passion 
of life, — which is not so much a passion as 
a still-flowing current, — will work untold 
harm, and should not be entertained. 
-- 
DOMESTIC ENJOYMENT. 
Mrs. Lavixia K. Davis, in a lengthy 
article published in the Willamette Farmer, 
thus alludes to domestic enjoyment: 
Who has not been charmed by Sterne’s 
description, in his “ Supper and Groce,” of 
the honest French peasant, who " gathered 
every evening, with the sound of ids violin, 
on the esplanade before his cottage door, his 
children and grandchildren to dance and 
rejoice,” believing, he said, that “ a cheerful, 
contented mind was the best thanks to 
Heaven that an illiterate peasant could pay.” 
The theology of the aged Frenchman may 
be questioned, the peculiar form of amuse¬ 
ment may he objected to, hut the indisputable 
fact still remains that the simple-hearted old 
man had learned, from long years of observa¬ 
tion and experience, that the innocent enjoy¬ 
ment of the outer world of nature was 
wonderfully conducive to health, cheerful¬ 
ness, gratitude and morality; aud so far as 
these go (and they constitute more of the 
real spirit of piety than we are apt to believe,) 
to religion itself. 
The German ladies sit in their public gar¬ 
dens, or in the open doors of their own 
houses, for hours daily, knitting, chatting or 
enjoying, in silent delight, the breath of the 
pure ether which surrounds them ; while, in 
the rural districts, the farm labors are carried 
on largely by the female portion ot the 
community. 
-•» »»- 
LOVE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 
Place a young girl under the care of a 
kind-hearted, graceful woman, and she un¬ 
consciously to herself grows into a graceful 
lady. Place a hoy in the establishment of a 
through-going, straightforward business man, 
and the hoy becomes a self-reliant, practical 
business man. Children are susceptible crea¬ 
tures, and circumstances, and scenes, and 
actions always impress. As you influence 
them, not by arbitrary rules, nor by stern 
example alone, but in a thousand other ways 
that speak through beautiful forms, pretty 
pictures, etc., so they will grow. Teach 
your children, tlien, to love the beautiful. 
Give them a corner in the garden for flowers; 
encourage them to put it. in the shape of 
hanging baskets; allow them to have their 
favorite trees; learn them to wander in the 
prettiest wood lets; show them where they 
can best view the sunset; rouse them in the 
morning, not with the stem “time to work” 
but with the enthusiastic “ see the beautiful 
sunrise!” buy for them pretty pictures, and 
encourage them to decorate their rooms in 
his or her childish way. Give them an inch 
and they will go a mile. Allow them the 
privilege and they will make your home 
beautiful. 
•-- 
WEDDING PRESENTS. 
There was a time when the term “ wed¬ 
ding present” had a charm in it. When it 
meant something fresh, spontaneous, repre¬ 
sentative of the giver’s affection, and when 
the giver was permitted, without creating a 
scandal, to proportion his gift to his means. 
But that was a good while ago. Now it is 
become a regular affair of business. There’s 
neither love nor feeling in the matter. Not 
but that there are love or feeling still in the 
world in plenty, only, it would seem, they 
have taken to sanctifying other things than 
tln-y used. A wedding present now is a 
forced contribution, or a means of gratifying 
the giver’s vanity or ostentation, or an invest¬ 
ment made for the sake of gelling a peg 
higher in “society.” A11 the sentiment is 
gone clean out of it. It means, at tbe best, 
nothing more tender than “ good morning” 
—is said as easily and forgot as soon. That 
is, if the giver can lbrget it as easily. For it 
is not to be disguised that the wedding 
present has become a serious tax, and is only 
endured with patience by those who count 
on getting back the value of their gift when 
themselves shall marry.— Putnam for June. 
■-- 
A gentleman who is extremely fond of 
children, having a large family himself, meet¬ 
ing a number of little golden haired, rosy- 
elieeked elves, in charge of a tidy and good- 
looking nurse, stopped, and, having admired 
the children kissed them good-by He was 
just about starting on, when Madge, the 
cunningest little witch of the group, with a 
puzzled expression, inquired, with the utmost 
naivete, “ A’nt you going to kiss the nurse ?” 
The question was so unexpected that our 
friend declares he felt the hot blood mount 
to his temples while he stammered out, “ Not 
just now.” 
--♦♦♦-- 
Some one has written of three classes of wo¬ 
men as follows:—Mrs. Gaines has a strong 
business sense, and accomplishes all her pur 
poses, while keeping within the sphere ot 
woman. Dr. Walkeb is a nervous, fidgety 
female, having a “ mission” in the world, but 
not, brains enough to find it. There is a 
third class of women, who neither gush out 
in overpowering sympathy, nor brush around 
iu fidgety incompetency, but quietly and 
heroically achieve marked successes, through 
native common sense and womanly persis¬ 
tency. They will work out woman’s mission. 
■-*-*♦- 
Thf. female principal of a young lady’s 
seminary in London cures the innumerable 
cases of “ falling in love” that occur among 
her pupils with close confinement and doses 
of senna tea. She says the tea never tails. 
Sometimes the girl gives in after a few doses, 
but usually it takes two or three days, and 
in one case she was a whole week in effecting 
a cure. For school-girls’ “ love” she declares 
there is nothing like senna tea. 
