MOORE’S RURAL HEW-YORHER. 
APRIL 20 
Mary Ann was always fond of flowers, 
and she ornamented the garden with shrubs 
and flowers. Sam Jay allowed her to take 
all the plants she loved best from his gar¬ 
den. They were here and he would not de¬ 
prive her of them. He seDt his head man 
to plow tho five-acre lot, and came up him¬ 
self to help her top-dress the west field and 
the lower meadow. She displaj'ed a won¬ 
derful lot of thrift, the neighbors said. Wc 
had three cows and fifty-eight hens, and, by 
good management, I made the cows and 
hens provide food for the family. We had 
pork and beef left from last year. 
We got on finely. Vines and climbing 
roses rendered our back kitchen one of the 
pleasantest rooms in the house. Sam Jay 
used to sit there and talk for hours with 
Mary Ann about the farm, and what seed 
and roots would grow with the smallest 
amount of work ; and together they studied 
how to make the farm pay the best. The 
first year was a perfect success. Mary 
Ann cleared from her oats, hay and corn, 
nearly five hundred dollars. Jamie was 
kept at school. Mother was cared for. like 
a lady, and wo felt comfortable. 8am Jay 
spent long winter evenings at our house, 
reading books and papers with Mary Ann. 
He took the Rural New-Yorker and 
brought it to us every week. 
So the spring came round again and we 
found our hands full. “ Doing the chores ” 
fell upon me; the burden of milking the 
cows, raisiug calves, and nursing sickly 
lambs, was my share, while Mary Ann at¬ 
tended to feeding the pigs, and raising the 
chickens,and other work round the barn. 
Some very fine rose bushes and a box of rare 
flower seeds were sent us from the city aud 
caused Mary Ann to pay some extra regard 
to horticulture. 1 knew Sam gave the seeds, 
and wondered if her small brown hands had 
not opened a wound in his heart, lie was 
very kind to us all, I believe; he managed 
to find a hand to do all the hardest of our 
work. He did not like to see Mary Ann's 
hands sunburned aud blistered. She was 
so merry all the time—there was something 
about her so refining and humanizing—she 
loved so passionately tlu: beaut ies of Nature. 
Her mind was well stored with the beauties 
of thought and language, suggestive of na¬ 
ture and life—her kindly feelings and re¬ 
ligious principles rendered her a superior 
character. Her simple piety threw over 
our homo a holy influence, beautiful as it 
was touching. 
8am was a gentleman of refinement and 
mental cultivation, ilia manly qualities in¬ 
vested him with a wonderful charm. His 
gentle dignity, tho sweetness and gravity of 
his speech, together with his wide range of 
thought and elevated sentiments, attracted 
Mary Ann; and later in the season l no¬ 
ticed her face would flush when his name 
was mentioned. 
There was a gay party down to the Jay 
mansion; 8a at's two sisters were home from 
a boarding school. They brought a number 
of their schoolmates with them. Sam had 
forsaken us—so we thought. He had not 
been to see us for three weeks. Mary Ann 
saw him riding every day with a dark-eyed 
girl from the city, and once t hey passed the 
field where Mary Ann was wooding corn. 
He lifted his hat gracefully, but the beauty 
by his side laughed sueeringly, saying, 
“ What rustic beauty is that?” 
Mary Ann heard her ask this in a haughty 
tone. 
“She is beautiful, but not rustic; she is a 
queen among women," was his gay reply. 
Mary Ann heard this answer, and felt like 
weeping. She finished her work before tea, 
and came to the house looking as if she had 
seen a spirit. She was as white as a sheet. 
I did not say a word to her, for 1 knew she 
bad seen Sam J ay riding by with a lady, and 
knew Mary Ann thought more of him than 
was good for the peace of her soul. 
Mother saw how ill she looked, and re¬ 
marked about it. Mother waa very proud 
aud fond of Mary Ann. She resembled 
John, who was mother's idol while he lived. 
Jamie, and little Ned, who was killed by a 
fall, did not seem half so near. Ned did 
not live long enough to display any peculiar 
smartness; he was killed the same year 
John died. I don’t think father rightly got 
over the death of his sons. Jamie, the 
baby, did not seem to fill their places in his 
his heart. 
“Are you sick, child?” said mother, in a 
frightened tone; “you do look dreadfully, 
Mary Ann.” 
“No, dear mother, 1 am only weary; pull¬ 
ing weeds in the hot sun gave me a dreadful 
headache.” 
I thought of Sam, and that he had given 
her the. heartache—heart and head both. 
“I am not going out again to-day, and 
will change my dress. Would you like to 
have me sing to you, mother?” she said, 
cheerfully. 
She knew mother was troubled, and put 
on a gay expression, in order to banish her 
fears. That was Mary Ann’s way—to hide 
her own suffering from a fear of making 
others uncomfortable. She was never sel¬ 
fish. 
“ J would love dearly to hear you sing, 
child. I was thinking, to-day, that you 
must have forgotten your music.” 
“ I’ll change my dress in a moment, and 
sing you that new song I composed last 
summer,” said Mary Ann, leaving the 
room. 
She. returned after a while, dressed in a 
nice new print, white apron, and lace col¬ 
lar, made by myself. I had a talent for 
fancy work as well as bread and butter mak¬ 
ing. She looked so fresh aud fair, no one 
would have guessed that she had plowed 
and planted, hoed and weeded, all the 
spring. Her hands were brown and hard, 
but small and shapely, and they glided over 
the ivory-keyed instrument gracefully 
enough to suit even quality people. Mother 
was proud of her, and it did not much mat¬ 
ter if other folks did not like it, if mother 
was satisfied. 
“What Bhall 1 sing, mother?” she said, 
smiling, while her eyes were full of tears. 
“Siug ‘Thedearest spot on earth tome,’ ” 
said mother; “ And then, if you will, sing 
that pretty thing you composed last fall, 
for Jamie, i have not heard it for a long 
time.” 
Mary Ann’s voice was sweet and clear. 
The instrument was a cabinet organ, pre¬ 
sented to her by father on her last birth¬ 
day but one. She sang “Home, sweet 
home,” and after a moment’s thought sang 
one of her own about tho “ Heavenly 
Home.” 
Mother was weeping softly behind her 
handkerchief. Mary Ann’s face had a hap¬ 
py expression like snshine over flowers. 1 
think we got a glance of the faith which 
had given her so much strength to labor 
through all seasons. If anybody ever knew 
the glory of prayer, our Mary Ann did. 
She was a true woman. 
Mother said she was glad she was so near 
tho “Heavenly Home;” and thought she 
had already put on autumnal shades, touch¬ 
ing her silvery locks with her fingers. “I 
hope to ace you both happily married, dears, 
before 1 go,” she said smiling. “I think 
you will prove a crown-jewel in somebody^ 
home, Marv Ann.” 
“The Lord grant it may bo mine!” said 
Sam, who had come in noiselessly, just in 
time to hear mother’s speech. He said in a 
trembling voice: 
“ Will you come back to the old home, my 
darling?" He opened his arms and Mary 
Ann sprang into them, und was clasped to 
a faithful heart. Brother Sam does tho 
farming now. 
-- 
ROMANCE OF THE BARLEY STRAW. 
.J JbESSOJV EOH M.OVBHH. 
A young married couple were walking 
down a oountry lane. It was a peaceful, 
sunny morning in autumn, and the last of 
the honeymoon. 
“ Why are you so silent and thoughtful?” 
asked the young, beautiful wife. “ Do you 
already long for the city and its turmoil? 
Are you weary of my love? You regret, I 
fear, that you have renounced your busy 
life yonder, and consented to live only for 
me and our happiness.” 
He kissed her forehead, which she ten¬ 
derly raised up to him. She received no 
other answer. 
“ What can you miss here?” she continued. 
“ Can all the others together love you more 
than I, my single Belf ? Do I not suffice ? We 
are rich enough, so that you need not work; 
but if you absolutely must do something — 
well, then, write romances and read them 
to me alone." 
The youug man again replied with a kiss. 
He then stepped across a ditch into a stub¬ 
ble field and picked up a straw left by the 
gleaners. It was an unusually flue aud 
large straw, yet attached to its root, and 
entwined by the withered stalks of a para¬ 
sitical plant, upon which a single little flower 
might be discerned. 
“ Was that a very rare flower you found ?” 
asked the little lady. 
“ No; it was a common bind-weed.” 
“ A bind-weed? ” 
“Y'es, that is its vulgar name. The 
botanists call it Convolvulus arven&s. The 
peasantry name it fox-vine; in some locali¬ 
ties it is called tangle-wood.” 
He paused and gazed thoughtfully on the 
straw. 
“ Pray, what interesting thing is it, then, 
that you have discovered?” 
“ It is a romance." 
“ A romance?” 
“ Yes — or a parable, if you like.” 
“ Is it in the flower?” 
“ Yes; the flower and—tho straw.” 
“ Please tell me the story about it.” 
“But it is a sad one.” 
“No matter for that; I should like to 
hear it vei*y much.” 
She seated herself at the edge of the 
grassy bank; her husband did the same, 
close at her side, and told the story of tho 
straw. 
At the outer edge of the barley field, near 
the ditch of the highway, grew a youug, 
vigorous barley shoot. It was taller, stron¬ 
ger and darker than the others; it could 
look over the whole field. 
The first thing it noticed was a little vio¬ 
let. It stood beyond, over the other edge 
of the ditch, and peered through the grass 
with its inuooeiit azure eyes. The sun shone, 
and the balmy wind breathed over toward 
the field from the field where the violet 
grew. The young straw rocked itself in 
spring air aud spring dreams. To reach one 
another was out ol the question; they did 
not even think about it. The violet was a 
pretty little flower, but it clung to the earth 
aud soon disappeared among the growing 
grass. The barley, ou the contrary, shot 
up higher and higher each day, but the dark 
green shoot still above all the rest. It. re¬ 
joiced already in si long, full ear, before, any 
of the others had commenced to show their 
beards. 
All the surrounding flowers looked up to 
the gallant ear of barley. The scarlet pop¬ 
py blushed yet a deeper red whenever it 
swung over it. Tho corn-flower made its 
aroma still more piquant than usual, aud 
the flaunting yellow field cabbage expanded 
Its bold flower. By-and-by the barley straw 
blossomed in it h manner. It swayed about, 
now here, now there, in the balmy atmos¬ 
phere; sometimes bending over the corn¬ 
flower, at times over the poppy, and then 
over the tare and wild field cabbage; but 
when it had peered down in their chalices 
it swung back again, straightened up, and 
thought, “ You are but a lot of weeds after 
all.” 
But in the grass at the ditch flourished a 
bind weed, with its small leafy vines; it 
bore delicate snow y and rose-colored flow¬ 
ers, and emitted a delioate fragrance. To 
that the barley st raw bent longingly down. 
“You gallant straw," it smiled; “bend 
yet lower, that 1 may embrace you with my 
leaves and flowers.” 
The straw essayed to do it with its best 
will, but in vain. 
“I cannot,” it sighed; “but come to me, 
lean on mo, and cling to me, and 1 will raise 
you above all the proud poppies and con¬ 
ceited corn-flowers.” 
“ 1 have never had any ambition to rise in 
the world, but you have been my constant 
dream ever since I was budding, and for 
your sake I will leave the green sward and 
all tho little flowers in whose company I 
grew. AVe will twine ourselves together, 
and flower alone for each other.'” 
Thus said the bind-weed, and stretched 
its tendrils into the field. It clung tenderly 
to the straw, and covered it with its green 
leaves and modest flowers up to its topmost 
blade. 
It was a beautiful sight. The two seemed 
to suit each other to perfection. The straw 
felt now really proud, and shot up higher 
and higher. 
“Do you wish to leave me?” sighed the 
weed. 
“Are you dizzy already?" smiled the 
straw*. 
“Stay with me; cling to me. Why do 
you rise higher?” 
“Because I must. It is my nature.” 
“ But it is uot mine.” 
“ Follow me, if you love me.” 
“ You won’t stay? I know now that you 
do not love uie any more.” 
A nd the weed loosened its tender arms, 
and sank to the earth; but the straw con¬ 
tinued to shoot ever upward. 
The bind-weed began to wi ther. Its flow¬ 
ers grew more and more pale. “ I have but 
lived and flowered for you. For your sake 
have I sacrificed my spring and my sum¬ 
mer. But you do not notice my flowers— 
you leave my little buds to wither in the 
air; you think upon anything else but me 
aud the beautiful summer —my time.” 
“I think upon the harvest; my time has 
also its claim.” 
Presently the rain came. Great drops 
fell upon the desolate leaves. 
“ My time is soon over,” wept the weed, 
and closed its little flowers to hide the cold 
tears. 
Tears are heavy- The straw came near 
sinking under its burden. But it felt tho 
importance of keeping upright; it straight¬ 
ened up, gallantly facing the storm. It grew 
stiffer in the body—harder in the joints. 
11 was one of t he dark days. The heavens 
were gray and the earth dark; it had been 
raining for a long time. The weed had grown 
downward into the earth, as if it would hide 
itself from the 6torm. 
“ Bend down once more as you did in days 
of yore, when my love was all in all to you,” 
begged the weeping flower. 
“ I cannot, I dare not," groaued the straw. 
“ And I, who have bent a thousand times 
for your sake—I who now bend myself to 
the very dust before your feet,” wailed 
the weed, groveling on the earth. 
Then fell a couple of large rain drops upon 
the blades; the weight was too much; tho 
bravo straw yielded, the weed pulled it 
down, and both straw and weed sank down 
on the wet earth, never more to rise again. 
The harvest came. All the golden corn 
was bound in sheaves, and brought in the 
barn with song and joy. But that, which 
once so gallantly had reared its head above 
all the others remained prostrate on tho 
stubble field. The grain was moldy and 
straw withered. Of the beautiful vine, 
whoso loving embrace had been so fatal, 
only the dry, blackened stalks remained. 
Tims ended the romance of the barley 
straw. 
The young wife had tears in her beautiful 
eyes, but they were the balmy tears which 
strengthen, not tho scalding ones which 
crush the soul t,o the earth. She wound her 
arms around her husband’s neck, and whis¬ 
pered a single word ill his ear. It was 
“ Thanks.” 
Then she plucked the last half-withered 
blossom from the bind-weed. 
“ It is a flower of memory, that I will take 
with me, when I to-morrow return with 
you to the city again,” she Raid, softly, as 
she hid it in her bosom. “ Love is good, but 
labor and love is better. Pleasure is perfect 
only when it harmonizes with our perma¬ 
nent interests, as it is also true that no de¬ 
light can be enduring which interferes with 
duty.” 
-- 
OLD CHESTNUT TREES ON MOUNT ETNA. 
Mt. Etna is celebrated for the great ago 
and colossal dimensions of its chestnut trees; 
for one of the largest and oldest trees of the 
kind in the world is that on Mount Etna, 
which is called Castagno dl Cento Cavalli. 
It is said Jeanne of Arragon, on her road 
from Spain to Naples, visited Mount Etna, 
attended by her principal nobility, and be¬ 
ing caught in a heavy shower, she and a hun¬ 
dred cavaliers took refuge under the branch¬ 
es of this tree, which completely sheltered 
them. A century ago, according to Brvdon, 
this treo measured feel in circumference 
near the ground ; but more recent travelers 
givo only 180 feet as Its girth. There are 
also two other celebrated chestnuts on 
Mount Etna, one called the Castagno dl San¬ 
ta Agata, which measures 70 feet in girth, 
and the other, Custagno della Nave, which 
measures 04 feet; the stems, however attain 
no great hight, but soon branch off above 
the ground. According to Dr. Philippi, 
the Castanea vesca does not appear to bo 
wild in any part of Mount Etna, but always 
to be cultivated.— The Garden. 
--- 
A STRING OF PEARLS. 
' Sense shines with a double luster when it 
is set in humanity. An able yet humble man 
is a jewel worth a kingdom. 
Base all your actions upon a principle of 
right; preserve your integrity of character, 
and in doing this never reckon the cost. 
Sincerity is to speak as we think, to do as 
we pretend and profess, to perform and 
make good what we promise, and really to 
be what we would seem and appear to be. 
A Man who has no enemies ought to have 
very faithful friends, aud one who has no 
such friends ought not to think it a calami¬ 
ty that he has enemies to be his effectual 
monitors. 
It will afford sweeter happiness in the 
hour of death to have wiped one tear from 
the cheek of sorrow than to have ruled an 
empire, to have conquered millions, or to 
have enslaved the world. 
A philosopher says that the true secret 
of earthly happiness is to enjoy pleasures as 
they arise; for that man who can keep his 
eye upon the bright present, while it is 
bright, tastes the cup of sweetness prepared 
Nature is the only workman to whom no 
material is worthless, the only chemist in 
whoso laboratory there are no waste pro¬ 
ducts, and the only artist whose composi¬ 
tions are infinitely varied, and whose fer¬ 
tility of invention is inexhaustible. 
