Jabits' |icrrt-jtoli0. 
COTTAGE AND HALL. 
Tl»® Lnfe Alice Cbtrv’s Last Poem. 
WITH eyes to her sewing work dropped down. 
And with hulr in it tangled shower. 
And with roses kissed by the sun, so brown. 
Young Janey set in her bower— 
A garden no "k with work and book; 
And the bars that crossed her girlish gown 
Were as bine ns the flaxen flower. 
And her little heart, it beat and beat, 
Till the work shook on her knee, 
For the golden conibs are not so sweet 
TO the honey-fasting bee 
As to her her thoughts of Alexis. 
And across a good green piece of wood. 
And across a field of fl >wers, 
A modest, lowly house there stood 
That held her eyes for hours— 
A oottftge low, hid under the snow 
Of cherry and bean-vine flowers. 
Sometimes it held her all day long, 
For there at her distaff bent, 
And spinning a double tbicad of song 
And of wool, In her sweet content. 
Sat the mother of young Alexis. 
And Janey turned things In and out. 
As foolish maids will do. 
What could the song be all about ? 
Yet well enough she knew 
That while the Angers drew the wool 
As Dae as fine could be, 
Tho loving mother-heart was full 
Of her boy gone to sea— 
Her blue-eyed boy, her pride and Joy, 
On the cold and cruel sea— 
Her darling boy. Alexis. 
And beyond the good green piece of wood. 
And the field of flowers so gay, 
Among It* undent oaks there stood. 
With gables high and gmy, 
A lofty hall, where mistress of all 
She might dance the night away. 
And as she and sowed her seam 
In the garden bower that day. 
Alike from seam add alike from dream 
Her truant thoughts would stray: 
It would be so One like a Indy to shine. 
And dance the night away 1 
And oh and alas for Alexist 
And suns have risen and suns gone down 
On oherry and benn-vlne bowers, 
And the tangled curls u J «r the eyes dove-brown 
They fall no mure in showers; 
Nor are there bar- in tho homespun gown 
As blue as the flaxen flowers. 
Ay. winter wind und winter rain 
Have beaten a way tho bowers, 
And little Janey la Lady Jane, 
And dances away the hours! 
Maidens she hath to play und sing, 
And her mother’s house and land 
Could never buy the Jeweled ring 
She wears on her lily hand— 
The hand that is false to Alexis! 
Ah, bright were the sweet young cheeks and eyes, 
And the silken gown was guy. 
When first to the hull as mistress of all 
She came on her wedding day. 
“ Now whore, my bride," soya the groom in pride— 
” Now where wilt your Chamber be?” 
And from wall to wall she praises all, 
But chooses the one by tho sea ! 
And tho suns they rt*e and the suns they set, 
But she rarely sees their gleam, 
For often her eyes with tears are wet, 
And the sewing work is unfinished yet, 
And so Is the girlish dream. 
For when her ladles gtrd at her. 
Ai d her lord Is cold and stern, 
Old memories In her heart must stir. 
And she cannot choose but mourn 
For the geutle boy, Alexis 1 
And alway, when the dance Is done, 
And her woary feet are free, 
She sits In her chamber all alone 
At the window next the sea, 
And combs her shining tresses down 
By the light of the fading stars. 
And maybe she thinks <>t her homespun gown 
With the pretty flax-flower bars. 
For when the foam of wintry gales 
Runs white along the blue, 
Hearing the rattle of stiffened sails. 
She trembles through and through. 
And maybe tbtnk9 of Alexis. 
fjfarpcr'i Magazine for March. 
PLEA FOR THE INNOCENTS. 
While the rights of the Blacks, and Wo¬ 
men’s Rights receive so much attention, 
what has become of Children'll Rights in this 
nineteenth century ? In olden times, a large 
family was considered an honor, and women 
who were not mothers, considered them¬ 
selves denied of the Lord’s greatest blessing. 
But in the light of the present ilav, what a 
“plague" children are—the fewer of them 
the better, seems to he the wish of many. 
One would naturally suppose that a child 
had a right to all the care it needed, and that 
from its own mother, if her health permit. 
But how few observe this law of nuture! In 
the rich classes, the children are lell to the 
mercy of hirelings. In the would-be rich 
class, (which constitutes two-thirds of the 
world,) they are often drugged with sooth¬ 
ing sirups and opiates until the constitution 
is undermined. As they grow older, they 
are sent off to school to get them out of the 
way, at an age when they should be learning 
from a mother’s lips the lessons which would 
prepare them to withstand temptation when 
old enough to mingle with all sorts of chil¬ 
dren and people. 
“ But,” says the mother, “ I have not so 
much time as I would like to spend with 
my children.” Not time ? Say you have 
not time to put so much trimming on your 
own and the children’s clothes; not time to 
bake a warm pie or pudding for dinner; not 
time to do up three fine shirts a week for 
your husband, (if a farmer or mechanic, let 
him wear colored ones;) not time to do up 
white or light colored dresses for your chil¬ 
dren for every day wear. Not time for 
many things, done every day, that might be 
dispensed with without derogating your 
success as a housekeeper, (in the eyes of sen¬ 
sible people-,) but don’t say you have not 
time to attend to your children and “ bring 
them up in the nurture and admonition of the : 
Lord.” 
I have seen the evil effects of this neglect¬ 
ing system so much during a long export- ^ 
ence as teacher, that I feel that too much can - < 
not be said on the question. I have seen a 1 
mother so busy fixing trimming for her cliil- ( 
dren’s dresses that she had no time to notice < 
her four-year-old boy, who had the poor, J 
faithful dog lied up and was whipping, or 
pounding it, rather, with a big club. And I j 
have seen the same mother slap diat child < 
for going out with the men to help pick up ' 
potatoes and getting Ids blouse soiled. If , 
that child (who is fast learning to think that 
“might makes right") grows up to he a : 
lazy, tyrannical man, perhaps abusing his 
mother and sisters, may she not take time lo 
reflect on the past, and wish she had seen 
and doue her duty? I might relate many 
such instances, among those, too, who are 
called good mothers and good housekeepers 
by the world. I have seen so much that it 
makes my heart ache to think of the future 
—of the time my darling (in the cradle be¬ 
side me now) must go out in the world with¬ 
out his parents. May God help us to pre¬ 
pare him for that time, for human wisdom 
is so short-sighted that without Divine aid 
we can do nothing. 
Oh, Mothers! Sisters !—Shall we not rise 
above such trifles as now fritter women’s 
lives away, and see our greatest pleasure in 
making home what it should be?—in having 
the fireside surrounded with happy, indus¬ 
trious, loving little ones, striving to do what 
they can for each other, and for father and 
mother? I have seen a few, a very few, 
such households, and they are bright oases 
in the great desert Let us prepare our¬ 
selves for the work of training our children 
as thoroughly as the tradesman prepares for 
his work. Let us help each other with ad¬ 
vice and counsel. Why can we not, (with 
permission of the Editor who is so gallant 
to the ladies and so kind to children always,) 
have a Mother’s Column In the dear old 
Rural ? But, above all, do not let us forget 
to ask Him who blessed little children to 
help us keep our innocents innocent , but not 
ignorant. a. s. q. 
White Co., Tenn., 1871. 
Our correspondent writes like a true 
mother, upon a subject which demands at¬ 
tention, discussion und reform. The abuse 
and long suffering of children—the manner 
in which they are misguided, neglected or 
ignored by parents, and mismanaged and 
maltreated by ignorant or unprincipled ser¬ 
vants—Is a shame and reproach, especially 
among the fashionnble classes in our large 
towns. Not three days ago we saw a beautiful 
and rieldy-dressed child outrageously beaten 
by a brutal nurse, because the little one did 
not walk along the street last enough to suit 
the vixen. But the abuse of children—the 
disregard of rights to which they are en¬ 
titled, and which parents, at least, are bound 
to respect and guard—is not, we regret to 
say, confined to the fashionable and wealthy 
classes in our large cities. The evil is be¬ 
coming alarmingly prevalent in village, hum- 
let and country, and it behooves the right- 
thinking and influential of all classes to in¬ 
augurate a much-needed awakening and re¬ 
form—to further which our pages are open 
to such timely and cogent sentiments as 
those expressed by A. S. G. If the Mothers 
will speak out they shall have a hearing,— 
- and if needs be we will introduce a new De- 
, partment, entitled a “ Mother’s Column," or 
3 “ The Mother at Home.”—E d. 
or goitng jltoplc. 
SONG OF THE DUCKS. 
One little black duck, one little gray, 
8tx little white ducks running out to play; 
One while lady duck, motherly and trim. 
Eight little baby ducks hound for a swim. 
One littlo white duck holding up Its wings, 
One little hobbling duck making water rings ; 
Ono little block duck turning round its head, 
One big black duck guess he's gone to bed. 
One little white duck, running front the water, 
One very fat duck pretttylittle daughter! 
Ono very grave duck swimming °ff alone, 
One little white duck standing on n stone. 
One little white duck walking by its mother, 
Look among the water reeds, may be there's another; 
Not another anywhere ? Surely you arc Mind: 
Push away the grass, dear, ducks are hard to find. 
Bright little brown eyes o’er the picture linger; 
Point me all the ducks out, chubby little finger! 
Make the picture musical, merry little hout! 
Now, where's that other duok ? \N hat is he about t 
I think the other duck's the nicest duck ol all: 
He hasn't any feathers, and his mouth is sweet and 
small! 
He runs with a light step, and Jumps upon ray knee. 
And though he cannot swim, he’s very dear to me. 
One little lady duck, motherly and trim; 
Eight little baby ducks bound for U swim; 
One. lazy black duck taking quite a nap. 
One little precious duck here on mamma's lap. 
ANOTHER POETICAL ALPHABET. 
Having noticed in tho Rukal New-Yorker 
the Alphabet expressed In an “Apple Pie,” re¬ 
minded mo of another way in which I was 
taught, as follows: 
A WAS an Archer and shot at a frog, 
B was a Butcher und haft u great dog. 
C was a Captain all covered with luce, 
D was a Drunkard und had a rod face. 
K was un Esquire with pride on his brow, 
F was a Farmer who followed the plow. 
G was a Gamester and had ill luck, 
H was a Hunter and hunted a duck. 
J was a Joluer and built him a house, 
K was a King and governed a mouse. 
L was a Lady and hud a white hand, 
M was a Mereliunt in some foreign land. 
N was a Nobleman gallant und bold, 
O was an Oyster Wench anil a very sad scold. 
P was a Parson who wore a black gown, 
Q was u Queen «ad wore a fine crown. 
R was u Robber and needed the whip, 
S wns a Sailor and lived In a ship. 
T was a Tinker and mended the pot, 
V wns a Vinter and every grout sot. 
W was a Watchman who guarded the door, 
X was Expensive und so became poor. 
Y was a Youth that didn’t lore school, 
Z was a Zany and looked like a fool. 
So. Kirtlaud, Ohio. Jonnt Daggett. 
MARRIAGE 
Leigh Hunt concludes tin essay on mar¬ 
riage as follows:—“There is no one thing 
more lovely in this life, more full of the di¬ 
vine courage, than a young maiden, from her 
past life, from her happy childhood, when 
she rumbled over every field and moor 
around her home; when a mother antici¬ 
pated her wants und soothed her little cares, 
when her brothers and sisters grew from 
merry playmates to loving, trustful friends ; 
from Christmas gatherings and romps, the 
summer festival iu bower or garden, from the 
room sanctified by the death of relatives; 
from the secure backgrounds of her child¬ 
hood and girlhood and maidenhood, looks 
In the dark and unilluminated future, away 
from all that, and yet unterrified, undaunted, 
leans her fair cheek upon her lover’s breast, 
and whispers, 1 Dear heart! I cannot see, but 
I believe. The past was beautiful, but the 
future I can trust—with thee.’” 
- -- 
The good fortune of the bad bows their 
head to the earth; the bad fortune of the 
good turns their faces to heaven. 
The power of pleasing is founded on the 
wish to please. The strength of the wish is 
the measure of the power. 
The way to be happy is not to try too 
much to he so. You can’t catch sunbeams 
if you try; but you may enjoy their light 
and warmth by letting them shine unsolicited 
upon you. 
THE SWALLOW. j 
Roy and Frankie want the Rutki. 
readers to know about he fate of Ihcjx swal¬ 
low. They had watched the progress of 
nest building under the eaves of the barn 
from the earliest moment, when gay parties 
of twittering birds had swooped down to the 
damp clay in the pasture, evidently inspect¬ 
ing its quality for building purposes. They 
had been so Interested in these masons, who 
work so merrily without anybody to tend 
them, and carry up their mortar to them. 
Every day a report was made to mother of 
the progress of such and such a neat. 
By-and-by the nests were all finished and, 
ere long, tiny bird-voices could lie heard 
twittering under the eaves, and gay parties 
of old birds in dainty waistcoats, and brown 
swallow-tail coats were seen making raids 
over the fields in quest, of bugs that might be 
carelessly gadding abroad. 
Well, one day these two little fellows, in 
the greatest dismay, rushed in to tell mother 
that one of l lie nests had broken to pieces on 
the side, and the poor young birds had fallen 
upon the rocks below. They were advised 
to go and bury tlie poor dead darlings, so 
that Clung Flail—rather a Chinese sound¬ 
ing name for a cat—might not mangle them 
with her foraging teeth. 
In a minute or two there was another 
stampede for mother. One little bird, hav¬ 
ing fallen upon the earth between two stones, 
was alive. What could they do with him V 
Where could they put him? O, mother! 
So mother nmi9t find a box and a bunch of 
cotton, and put him up out of the said Ching- 
Flau’s reach. 
Next, “ What will lie eat?—what can we 
get him?” Millers and grasshoppers were 
decided upon, for such they had seen the old 
birds capture and carry to the nest. 
How frightened the dear little, helpless 
thing was of us, at first—running under the 
cotton, clinging with his little toes to every¬ 
thing, and refusing to eat, only as his little 
beak was held open and a bit of something 
dropped iu, when he would quickly swallow 
if. But in a few days he lost his fears of us, 
feathered out. fust, and seemed to grow nice¬ 
ly. He would open liia little beak and call 
for us when be was hungry, dipping readily 
into a teaspoon of water for a drink. When 
he got so that he could stand on the edge of 
his box, he was so glad to see any of us— 
blessed little creature! He would flutter his 
wings in exlasy and chirp, and when placed 
upon the finger, delighted to be carried from 
window to window. So in a fortnight we 
grew to love lits little voice, and he seemed 
to return the attachment. Then came the 
question, “What shall we do with him?” 
The air was stifling in the place where we 
kept him—the only place where he was se¬ 
cure from that robber cat, and it would not 
do to put him out doors until he could fly. 
Suddenly, one day, he seemed to droop, 
and saL with his bright eyes closed. The ; 
next morning his little voice welcomed us 
with a feeble chirp, and soon after he died. 
I am afraid some of you would laugh if I 
should tell you of my thoughts as I held the 
dead bird iu my hand—so I forbear. 
With solemn faces the little people buried 
him under the shadow of the damask rose 
bush; and Frankie, with his sensitive chin 
quivering, asks:—“Mother, will I see the 
little swallow in Heaven? Will he know 
me, and flutter his little wings just tho same 
as ho did here?” Oh, blessed faith and trust 
of childhood ! Would that it might cling to 
our riper years! Mrs. C. 
-♦-*-*.- 
FROM RURAL GIRLS AND BOYS. 
Letter from an Indian (iirl. 
I am an Indian girl. 1 have been going to 
school here iu Fort Smith five months. The 
gentleman that I board with takes the Ru¬ 
ral New-Yorker, so I have read all the 
little girls’ letters. I would have written 
sooner, but I did not feel free to write, for 
yon know that the White Alan is a natural 
i enemy to the Red. 
I live fiir from here, in the Indian Terri- I 
tor, in a small log cabin on the hunk of a j 
river where I often go with my brothers fish¬ 
ing, and take rides for several miles in a bark 
canoe. I have four brothers, and more noble 
looking men cannot be found among our 
tribe. Their delight is hunting. They hunt 
in the mountains and kill all kinds of game. 
Their wants being few are easily supplied. 
They dress deer hides for clothes, which I 
would make for them and ornament with 
beads and fringe. I have a great, many heads 
which were given me by a young tnan from 
St. Louis, who, led by love of adventure and 
hunting, has sought, our wild regions. He 
has told us a great many things about how 
the white man lives, and got my parents to 
send mo hero to school. I went t.o school 
for some time at, a seminary at our wigwam. 
I have, no flowers, only the wild wood 
flowers which I gather for their beauty’s 
sake, and make wreaths to wear around my 
head. 
We have a few pets at home—a bear, a 
deer, and a coon, and some squirrels. 1 
guess the girls would like to know what J 
do when 1 am at home. 1 don’t stay in the 
hut much. I have a pony, so I take rides 
. when 1 wish, and I roam through the woods, 
gathering nuts, grapes, and all kinds of wild 1 
f fruits that grow here. I clilub the trees like 
i my squirrel, and sometimes hunt frogs and 
i lizards to shoot them with my bow and ar- 
i row. I could tell them a great many things 
• about how we live, but it would make my 
’ lines too long. 1 am fifteen years old. I 
> am very slender, with long hair, which I 
l plait and hang down, tied with red ribbon. 
. I tun dark, but not so much as my brothers, 
f My Indian patents are proud of their daugh¬ 
ter, and my red brothers call me a “ Wild 
, Rose.” Give this room, if you think worthy. 
1 Please correct all mistakes.—W ild Rose, 
s Fort Smith , A rk. 
flow ii Itoy Mufti- Ten Dollrirs. 
Dear Editor:—I would like to write a 
piece for the Rural, but I can hardly sum¬ 
mon the courage. I would like to tell you 
how I made ten dollars. My father is a 
farmer, and last spring he gave me a piece 
of ground to put in potatoes. He plowed 
the ground and helped me plant them. After 
that 1 took care of them. Sometimes we 
would get through our day’s work before 
night; then I would have the rest of the day 
to work in my patch, or do whatever I liked. 
I took good cure to keep all weeds out of 
my patcli and to keep the potatoes nicely 
hilled. When I gathered them in the fall I 
had eighteen bushels. Potatoes were plenty, 
and 1 could not get more than twenty-five 
cents a bushel, and 1 thought that would 
not pay me. So 1 bought a pig anil boiled 
my potatoes, mixed a little meal with them, 
and fed them to the pig. The pig cost me 
two dollars, and I sold it for twelve, and I 
never missed the time it took to raise the 
potatoes or feed the pig, — and that ten dol¬ 
lars lasted me a good white for pocket 
money. I think nearly every farmer hoy 
can get a little patch if he wants it, to plant 
in what he likes best. I guess I will try 
potatoes next year. I remain your friend.— 
J. H., Jefferson Co ., 0. 
Little Pitchers from Ekk Shells. 
Dear Mr. Editor :—I have never written 
for a paper before, but as some of the little 
girls do I thought I would try. I thought 
some of the girls would like to know ho v to 
make little pitchers out of egg shells. Take 
an egg, break off l lie top about the size you 
want it, and then take sonic paper, (any 
color you like—mine is blue,) cut it out the 
shape of a spout on a pitcher; paste it on 
the egg, then take a straight piece and paste 
on for the handle. Next lake another straight 
piece and paste it around the bottom of the 
egg for it to set on. This ma k .es a very 
pretty toy for the corner stand, an* I think 
if the girls follow my directions tl ev will 
think it is too, for it is quite simple.— Ella 
Wisner, AIt. Aform, N. Y. 
qo 
ttbbatb Grabing. 
IN ARMOft. 
BY T.ETTTE A. tRONS. 
Over the pathway my feet walk in, 
Thera hovers a presence rare. 
By day unft nlsht., he If. (lark or bright, 
’Tis ever and always there— 
Forever and always there. 
Through n darksome vale, o'er rugged stones, 
My narrow life-path lies, 
But on either hand as I journey on 
I see fair mountains rise, 
O'erhung with smiling skies. 
But, if worn out with my weary walk 
Along the rugged way, 
I would turn where mountains fair and grand. 
In smiling sunshine lay, 
The Presence bars my way. 
If I should put from my burning lips, 
Life's cup or bitter pain. 
The Presence hovering at my side 
Offers it mo again— 
" Reward shall follow pain." 
If Love appoiu-3 and tempts my soul. 
Eager t,o claim Its mute, 
The shadowy Presence draweth near, 
And softly whispers “ Wait; 
Yet a while longer, wait." 
If, tired of the battle never won, 
l would lay down my sword, 
And, weary ol strife my soul doth cry, 
"Yet how much longer. Lord?" 
The fateful Preseuco stands by my side, 
And shyt to my soul. " Be strong 
Yet a while longer; resume thy sword, 
And buttle with glaut Wrong, 
After the Victory-Song.” 
And I wait, with what patience I may. 
Knowing God guides in all. 
And that at last, in His own good time. 
My Chains Will surely fall— 
He’ll free tut- from every thrall— 
Knowing at last the pain will cease, 
The battle surely won. 
At last the weary walk be o'er, 
The painful struggle done— 
The tiresome race he. run— 
Knowing at lust 1 shall bear the words, 
" Well done !" and my sword ioy down— 
Leave this dark vale fur the mountains fair— 
The Cross exchange l’or a Crown. 
-- 
THE SHADOW OF A ROOK. 
The Bilile uses every event in nature and 
history to teach the only lesson man should 
pre-eminently learn—his soul’s salvation. It 
makes every season preach Christ. That 
most fruitful, and, us usually treated, most, 
foolish of all themes, the weather, in the 
hands of the inspired penman, always be¬ 
comes spiritually illuminated. Does it snow? 
“ lie sendeth forth his snow like morsels.” 
Does it rain? “He sendeth the early and 
latter rain.” Is it cold? “ Who can stand 
before His cold?” Is it hot? “lie is the 
shadow of a great rock iu a weary land.” 
Is it spring ? “ He renewetli the face of the 
earth.” Is it autumn? “The summer is 
past, the harvest is ended, and we are not 
saved.” So should every mm attune the 
weather to the heart. He will thus make 
these varying hours an ASolian harp that 
sings Divine songs in this devout spirit. 
We have passed through a season of vio¬ 
lent and unchanging heat. Day after day 
the sun rises hot and dry, sweeps through 
arid heavens and over a parched soil. In¬ 
fants faint and perish ; invalids pant and die ; 
laborers toil wearily at their tasks. The 
whole head is sick and the whole heart is 
faint. Murmurs against tho weather climb 
the sky. God hears these complaints, too 
often couched in oaths, rarely couched in 
prayer. 
And yet n«s intends this very dispensation 
as one of instruction. He would lead us 
’through this burning to the cooling shelter 
of His side. He would instruct Ufl by it of 
the greater heat that falls upon the soul—a 
heat that burns up happiness in the destroy¬ 
ing flames of death, that consumes holiness 
in the more destructive flames of sin, which 
burn unto the lowest hell. He points us to 
Himself as the only shelter. He proclaims 
Himself “ the shadow of a great rock iu a 
weary laud.” 
--- 
ACTIVITY. 
The doctors will tell you, and your own 
observation will confirm it, that the healthiest 
men in the world are the men most actively 
employed. The child’s hymn has it that 
Satan finds mischief for idle hands; and the 
ghastly goddess of ill-health and diseaso 
finds mischief for sluggish blood and indo¬ 
lent muscles. 
Even the mountain tarn, for all the cool, 
fresli wind that continually crisps its dark 
surface into tiny waves, grows dull, and Mag¬ 
nates in its inactivity; and that Christian life 
which is only a pool, shut into its own brood* 
ings, must of necessity stagnate also. 
How different the dull surfaceof thestand- 
1 iug water, with its matting of heavy weeds, 
from the clear, musical tide of the streamlet 
that rushes by field and wood with a song 
! and a blessing wherever it goes. 
1 Activity is essential to healthy life, and es- 
» pecially to healthy Christian life. The 
i Christian life is like the bicycle that hurries 
5 along our roads— while it is in motion you 
[ are borne onward safe and upright, but 
; when it pauses you fall helpless to the earth. 
- —Golden Hours. 
We should be looking at earth as from heac~ 
en instead of looking at heaven from earth. 
