lutbtfs’ Dort- 
THE WATER SIDE. 
BY HARTE S. LADD. 
THE winding beach binds round the bight. 
The willow droops into the wave. 
The water-lilies, gleaming white. 
Their petals softly lave. 
Bright star llowers are peering there. 
And paler ones lift up their eyes 
Upon the light the ripples wear. 
And on the cloudless skies. 
The pearly shell tills at the brink 
From limpid waters waving nigh. 
And shining tisti arise and sink 
As sounds the lake bird's cry. 
The dipping oar breaks the repose 
Of golden sunbeams in its way, 
That gild the eddies which it throws 
Across the beaming bay. 
Near w here the rocks like bulwarks stand, 
A lingering with a sweet delay, 
Upon the white and yielding sand, 
Two lovers idly stray. 
And well it scetns to linger here, 
When waters foam or lay at rest, 
When clouds in shining gold appear. 
Or in more somber garb are drest. 
THE "CARPET WRONG SIDE OUT," 
' BY MARGARET KARLE. 
The oM story of the weaver unci the car¬ 
pet lias a fur wider application than many 
ititiitrine. There are countless looms where 
the eye of the looker on secs nothing hut a 
hopeless tangle of threads and colors, front 
which it seems impossible order can ever 
come. And, what, is worse, the weaver him¬ 
self as lie sits fit his weary work sees no 
pattern brightening into beauty, but works 
on with a dreary kind of hope that in some 
other day an invisible hand may somehow 
out of all this confusion evoke order and 
harmony. 
note paper and envelopes ? Ah, do not look 
at t hat delicately tinted paper, with ils beau¬ 
tiful rustic device or exquisite monogram. 
The sight of the eyes will surely affect the 
heart. The extra cost, trifling though it 
may be t,o other purses, will not do for yours. 
You have to weigh well your pennies where 
others scatter their dollars; and even that 
small sum must eke out the payment for 
some indispensable outlay. Docs it quiet 
your mind to look at. the untold wealth of 
books spread so tantalizingly all around yon ? 
—your hungry eyes devouring them; and 
your whole soul crying out for them ?—and 
yet. compelled by an inexorable necessity to 
leave them all untouched? It is just here 
tiiat the Association Library comes in like a 
good angel, giving snob an amount of read¬ 
ing to those whose means allow no addition 
to the home library. Yet litis is not like the 
sense of ownership which makes a favorite 
volume so precious — greeting you like a 
friend’s face when jam enter your room, and 
always a I. hand when there is leisure to peep 
between its covers. 
Then there are the many nameless little 
articles that would add so much to the home 
surroundings—little touches of grace .and 
beauty, so small for even a moderate purse, 
hut, so utterly beyond the roach of yours. 
Ami lmw often do you long, with an unut¬ 
terable longing, to get this or that beautiful 
gilt for a dear friend—ft gilt that just touches 
your heart, so appropriate nnd timely, and 
would lie sure to strike the same chord 
in theirs. Alt ! with your proud, sensitive 
heart, no oue need ever tell you that “ it is 
more blessed to give lltait to receive.” In 
every fiber of your soul do you feel the 
truth of it; but alas! in your independence, 
it has a far different, or perhaps an added 
meaning to that our blessed Saviour gave 
it. It has the color, but not the ring, of the 
true metal. 
And then in one other point, perhaps, the 
mortification is move bitterly felt than in 
1 o day I have taken a peep into mv j almost any other. You are called upon 
neighbor’s loom, and have certainly found anc ,' agnin for „, c thousand undone 
“ ^ car l*t wrong side out.” For, amid alt *‘ Uimftt0 objecl8 of church benevolence, to 
the gladness of this spring-timeresurrection wUk . u AV(Ulia gladly give generously, 
I have heard an undertone of trouble am! (m( huve not ont . a( , n , u . yo „ can conscicn- 
discontcnt that, muffle itscll as it may amu tirjtisly call your own. A natural and prouer 
tie- general rejoicing, deserves a hearing,, rog(jrVL . forbids an expose of your finances, 
and appreciation too. 
This bright, warm spring day has tempted 
y t down the thoroughfare of fashion ; and 
do you think I cannot guess what brings you 
home with such a dissatisfied face? Yours 
is a tell-tala countenance, my friend, and by 
tin- tipples that vex the surface I know the 
> nTuffg Jfnd fretting below. There has been 
a stirring in your heart to-day. It has felt 
the impulse that all Nature is feeling, to pul. 
on newness and life; and as the leaf-buds 
are preparing to cast off their swathing 
bands of russet and brown, and come forth 
in the beauty and freshness of spring, so you 
ate longing to cast aside the sober and worn 
garments that have encased you for so many 
months, and come out in like freshness and 
beauty. You cannot repress that instinctive 
desire of nature. And so that walk past tlm 
•shops, where on every hand the goods are 
displayed so temptingly in the windows, has 
dune everything but give you a calm, con¬ 
tented spirit. You do so long to step in and 
buy a fresh, new dress, that shall for once 
vindicate your taste and show what Nature 
meant to do for you. Oh! it. is a fearful 
gauntlet to run with an empty purse, and 
pride and desire both tugging at the strings, 
And do I not know that you have the 
same little feminine prejudices in favor of a 
and you end by subscribing what you know 
you ought not to give, or, in I he event of de¬ 
clining, are told tiiat you are “ the only lady 
in the church who has refused to give to 
the cause." Your whole soul is boiling 
within you, tiiat the unavoidable refusal is 
considered only the excuse of a niggardly 
heart to cover a niggardly purse. 
Oh! it is very comforting to he told this 
is all a needful discipline, and should be 
borne patiently! Nay 1 it is exasperating 
to lie told by those who never knew a want, 
and by fortunate speculation or inherited 
wealth, are placed forever beyond the fear 
of it—to be told by them that the truest wis¬ 
dom is to look on the bright side of things— 
that “ if you cannot bring your circum¬ 
stances to your mind, you must bring your 
mind to your circumstances,” and a thou¬ 
sand other wise tilings that may be said so 
glibly. 
Willi tastes just as fastidious by nature 
and former position as theirs, and witli 
equal, perhaps greater, culture and refine¬ 
ment, to be doomed to the daily mortifica¬ 
tion and denial of such tastes, with a nice 
sense of the fitness of things, to be compelled 
to wear ill-assorted things that put you in a 
false position, and offend all yonv notions of 
beauty and adnptedness, condemned to the 
well gloved band and nicely lilting boot stiffness of linen, which you detest, instead of 
tiiat your more favored sisters have ? Every ,| 1( . H( ,a fop of i ue0i because you won't wear 
; ‘ b feels humiliated in wearing a soiled imitation, and can't wear real—not able to 
='" ve or a shabby boot. But, alas! new get. even the little triflesof a woman’s adorn- 
gloves are annua], or at the most semi-annual juir ( that would brighten up and give a new 
luxuries with you; and I have noticed with air to the garment that has already been 
1 e: '* commiseration (shall I say sympathy ?— turned wrong side out and upside down—to 
hiut implies a fellowship of suffering, you undergo this daily martyrdom of innate 
Know,) the many make-slufts which reserve tastes and desires, and real wants, is a 
those for grand occasions only, until their greater drain upon one’s strength, mental 
U bt lu sliuesa is lost. and physical, than one not so circumstanced 
oil then with what, dismay you have can possibly imagine, 
watched the first signs of giving out in those And when this rigid economy amounts to 
tmn hoots ->f yours, and longed for the mini- absolutely nothiug—giving the direct lie to 
l e . , ' ie Israelites to ho repeated, in that the old specious proverb, “ A penny saved 
! "*‘ 1 s * 10f ‘ s never waxed old on their feet.” fo a penny earned," when the utmost one 
° e to llie l ,M >t of aristocratic slenderness can do is to earn a daily living; when, as is 
b it will not fit itself to any but the highest too often the ease, a chain of unfortunate 
l’ 1 °i hoots'. \ou pave seen the time, circumstances have placed you hopelessly 
'I' 1 > aud often, when boot and gloves were jn debt,—and yon see the gradual but sure 
jU tnoiigh beyond your reach—for you were going down of things within and without 
1 > unable to compass the menus for get- your home, and not a penny to put them In 
»g either,. But if you have wished fora repair, then the last turn, almost, is given to 
ti! ,. - 11 ? 1 ' lill -'-lon., lease of the hoofs, yon the screw. 
ii ir l'' ' iaV<! 1 "' Vt ‘ r wished for the twin When one has felt all this, endured all this, 
limn (>t that ancient people—the raiment and yet has come forth unscathed from tiie 
tiiins' ( ' " " le ° ut ' ^ ecAllHe hi better furnace—with a cheerful heart, a snunyfucc 
tc ' s } on u rated yourself to a rarer fabric, and a loving charity for all—we give them 
clmn-, " V ■ t0 ' V< -‘ U !t sl1ml|, y the homage of our inmost souls, and listen 
for a doze 1,uu > !l »d in new combinations, humbly to any lessons they may teach. We 
a ir aiirt°iT n a convu icjng argument may sav to ourselves as wc will tiiat a well- 
wcar out* C< ' llj ' eucss °‘ 6°°ds that never balanced mind will rise superior to these 
^ n i . trials. But the saying it will never make it 
a bentincr "r * i' e m ?*‘ tPro1 ,lross . there is such rise. Among the lesser helps, the dwelling 
posaibilh °nV e ftigninst the bars of upon blessings given, instead of upon those 
directions ‘‘j c °nflict is yet fiercer in other withheld, will often prove useful. At first 
hook store °'' \ vljeu ' ou l )uss the it may seem to answer no better purpose 
’ oi venture in for tbe plainest ] than for a Catholic to count his heads, but 
in time we shall find the list of the one j 
lengthening while the other is sensibly di¬ 
minishing. 
A true philosophy may do much—a natu¬ 
rally buoyant spirit more,—but nothing short 
of a true Christian faith, a loving trust in our 
Father’s wisdom and kindness too, can bring 
us out of the furnace without even “ the 
smell of fire having passed upon our gar¬ 
ments.” 
--- 
WHEN SHOULD THE HONEYMOON END. 
My husband said, “ It is time, now, the 
honeymoon was over, and we began real 
life. These sentimentalities will do awhile, 
I hut cannot last.” 
And is it so! And must it he that my 
happy dream is Over, and shall I he forced 
to see that if is indeed a dream? I said— 
yea, I felt it was not so; I believed that in 
the grave only my “ honeymoon ” would go 
down. She was too bright, too full, too 
Steady on the zenith ever to decline. I joy¬ 
fully, wildly, passionately — my husband 
says —madly gazed upon her, aud in my 
transport l wanted nothing more the world 
could give. My heart was ever full, so lull 
that it could not Imt pour itself out, in glad¬ 
ful song all the day—when duties prevent¬ 
ed ils outpouring on tho bosom where l felt 
that it emptied itself into responsive love. 
f know my husband loves me; that his 
heart is as surely mine as when lie called 
Heaven to witness the sacred vow. Then 
why call these tilings unreal? it is said 
that we must lay aside “ such sentimentali¬ 
ties and turn to real life." Is a tale of 
tedious prose more real than the same in 
measured, musical rhythm ? Is a scene more 
true to life when pictured in harsh, miul- 
tractivs cuts than in a softly, finely shaped 
engraving? Is bread less the staff of life 
because served in a nicely seasoned and 
shaped loaf? 
And is my life to he no longer watered 
and gladdened by the sweet honey dew, ex¬ 
cept at intervals when it may not appear 
sentimental ? Do Hie trees refuse to receive 
it lest they become dwarfed ? Do the flowers 
refuse to taste it lest, their hJooom become 
unreal? Does the grass refuse to drink it, 
fearing it may be less nutritious? No- Olio! 
Nature no more refuses the honey dew than 
the hard, stern, blighting frost. The one is 
as real as the other, and nature rejoices mid 
gladdens, and produces in the influence of 
the one wbileshe drinks from and sliellereth 
herself against the other. Tbe heart is a 
tender thing. Is the day more real when 
the sun is obscured? Ah, is it not indeed 
day when his warm, glad, genial rays pour 
aud continue to pour down? and when this 
ceases then it is not. day, Why should, 
married life he shaded by this setting of her 
light? Ah, it is real though slow death 
when love of the expression of it begins to 
decline. 
“John Anderson, my Jo” proves that, 
Burns, at least, believed in an old honey¬ 
moon. Caledonia. 
-♦♦♦- 
A NOTABLE FAMILY OF GIRLS. 
Tiik late Judge Daniel E. Griswold, 
whilom law-partner of the now venerable C. 
F. Sanford, and son-in-law of ancient David 
Dunham, tbe patron ol‘ Hubert Fulton, and 
the Vanderbilt, of his generation, was the 
father of eight daughters. Mary S. Gris¬ 
wold, the oldest, now deceased, married 
Brantz Mayer of Baltimore, a lawyer and 
author of old-time celebrity, who will he re¬ 
membered as the writer of “ Mexico as It 
Was and Is,” and “Captain Cauot; or, 
Twenty Years as an African Slaver," dedi¬ 
cated to his friend and college male at Yale, 
N. P. Willis; also as a contributor to Har¬ 
per. Helen E. Is relict of the late Joseph 
Harrington, brother of Minister Harrington, 
and a celebrated Unitarian clergyman, Mr. 
Harrington was I lie personal friend of Starr 
King, who was the first to encourage Bret 
Harte in tbe literary profession. Georgiuna 
married the late medical Celebrity of tbe 
West, Dr. John Jay Stuart. Matilda S. is 
the wife of L. T. Zander, a musical composer 
of promise, resident in California. Adelaide 
A., lately deceased, was the wife of Amherst 
Wight, the artist-lawyer of Wall street, and 
brother of Wight, the well-known drafts¬ 
man. Edmondc Andrade, nephew of the 
great banker of Paris, Peri ere, who origi¬ 
nated the famous Credit Mobilicr, is the 
husband of Caroline D., another of the eight 
Andrade is a millionaire, as well as a celeb¬ 
rity in musical circles. Anna Griswold is 
the wife of Francis Bret Harte—a name too 
familiar to need more than mention. Jo¬ 
sephine M., the youngest, well known as an 
author and contributor to the leading peri¬ 
odicals of the day, is Mrs. Francis Gerry 
Fairfield. Mr. Fairfield is a nephew of the 
late Sumner Lincoln Fairfield, is largely 
known as a journalist, critical essayist and 
writer of fiction, both poetic and prosaic. 
The eight ladies mentioned are, or have 
been, all celebrated in their circles for their 
; brilliant talents in the specialty of music ; 
: and three of them have made their mark in 
; literature. 
ut co t 
Jfar Uomta people. 
% ^ & r 
“KISS ME HARD.” 
No half-way kiss would do 
For little pet to-day; 
Thoujrh iuuiiuiIh's bunds were full. 
She stopped— Jar a kiss—her pluy. 
Preparing to greet friends. 
The time Hew quickly by : 
A hu)T(id kiss I i<uve— 
Just one to pacify. 
But t hat would never do, 
Though twus u busy day; 
Whiit cured she for the work 
While she could sing and play? 
And soon Miss Three-Years carna 
To claim another kiss; 
And, quickly 119 before, 
I gave the asked-for bliss. 
Again nnsal.istlod— 
What asks the darling more? 
Just. One thing—" Kins me lutni—'’ 
No lull / kiss from love’s store. 
JOSIE AND THE GANDER, 
by aunt pkebe. 
How Joste did love the little chickens 
and goslings? She would sit by the coop 
half an hour at a time, (and that was a good 
while for Jobie to keep still,) and watch the 
dear little downy chicks, feeding them with 
crumbs of bread ; catching them, softly, and 
putting them against her cheek. Then she 
would kiss their little velvet heads and feel 
as though slic muxt squeeze them, she loved 
them so much. 
She would run after the goslings to the 
edge of the water, nnd many a time she. 
came to the house sprinkled with wet. ami 
mud from her attempts to catch them, it 
was not till her mother found a chicken in 
her pocket, and another in the bib of her 
apron, that slie was forbidden to go alone 
to the chicken yard, or after the geese. 
It was three days after this, and Josie 
had obeyed her mother very well, when the 
silence of an intensely warm afternoon was 
broken by terrific screams from the chicken 
yard. Josie was supposed to be at play in 
tbe children’s playhouse. Johnnie, Ril- 
lah and Bobbie were at school, Jessie 
was taking her nap, and we older ones were 
trying to follow her example. The screams 
grew louder, and there was an immediate 
farewell to repose for that day, for out we 
rushed in a body—to find Josie at the gate 
of the hen yard, her apron full of goslings, 
and the oldest nnd crosscut gander of the 
flock tugging at a corner of it, and flapping 
his great wings in her face. As she saw us, 
helped mamma get. dinner. At t wo o’clock 
I went to visit my little playmate. We went 
out into the woods where there was an ar¬ 
bor. We sot our dinner table t here*. We 
had apple pie, ginger cakes, cookies, fruit¬ 
cake, tarts and custards. Before dinner we 
crowned our dolls Queens of May. Just as 
we were going to sit down to dinner, mamma 
came, (Blinking there was going to lie a 
shower, aud we would get wet,) and so wc 
treated her to some of our dinner. After 
dinner it rained and I got leave to spend the 
rest of the day with my playmate at her 
house.—I. C. D., DuUoix, 111., May, 1871. 
About Lizzie’-. l’c-t Sheep, 
Dear Mr. Editor: —l am a little girl 
eleven years old, and Jive in the country. 
We take the Rural Nkw-Yqrkkr, and I 
have read nil the letters from the Rural’s 
; little girls and hoys, telling about their flow- 
era and ponies—so I thought I would tell 
you about my sheep. I have a sheep that I 
drive before a wagon, with harness, bits and 
lines, just like a horse. 1 often ride to the 
post-offlee, which is about a quarter ofamile 
from our house. She draws me up hill and 
down, ami is not afraid of wagons. 1 reared 
her from a little lamb and trained her myself. 
Her name is Kaly, I ride on horesbnek, too, 
quite often ; but my horse is not a pony, like 
the other little Rural girl’s. There is a 
nice pond in our yard, and in summer I have 
a bout on it, and can row ; in winter T skate, 
I have fine times, though I have no brother 
or sister. I do not go to school; 1 get. my 
lessons at home, and when they are finished 
I love to be out of doors—my papa says it 
makes me healthy. I never wrote for the 
Rural before, and I guess my letter is long 
enough, If any other of the Rural’s little 
girls or boys have a sheep they cun drive like 
mine, I would he glad to hear from them.— 
Lizzie i J ., Manchester JJrhlye, JV. V. 
Wlint mi Etiivcu-Yenr-Old Uirl Can Do. 
Dear Mil Editor :—I thought I would 
try and write some. My father is a fanner, 
so l have quite a good many things to do. 
Last summer I reaped about, ten acres. I 
have mowed three or four summers, before 
last; about five acres the first, and ten acres 
the other three. I rake with a wheel rake, 
go to mill alone, take cure of the horses, and 
sometimes milk the cows. Now, maybe 
some of the girls will think this very hard, 
but. [ don’t. 1 will tell you next time about 
my doing house-work and piecing bed quilts, 
&c.— Myutie. 
| We do not dare give Myrtie’s full name 
and address, lest the shrewd boys among 
our readers should lie calling upon her, 
she. dropped the goslings, and the old gun- „ Avilll 8erloos motions,” too soon-before 
der, releasing bis hold, settled his wings 
and walked tnvny, triumphant. Josie, still 
screamiug, ran to her mother, and between 
her sobs managed to say :—“ The old gan- 
iicr—she—she—the old gamier, she—Hewed 
up her wings — and caught, hold of my 
apron ;” nnd there she broke down. 
Uncle Jake, who lmd run from the field 
on hearing Josie’s screams, looked very 
sober at Hie rest of us laughing, and then 
said:—“That ‘old gander, site’—she de¬ 
serves to be eaten. We’ll have her for 
Thanksgiving, and Josie shall have the 
wings.” 
those bed-quills are completed, or she reaches 
the proper age for becoming a farmer’s wife. 
-Ed.] ' __ 
1,oiler from n iviiiisn* Boy, 
Dear Ain. Editor:— 1 was glad to find 
my letter in the Rural New-Yorker, so I 
am going to try again, i want to tell you a 
little story that a man told us. He said be 
was buffalo bunting one time, and shot a 
buffalo and thought it was dead ; be went 
up to it and put bis foot on its neck, and 
went to stub it. with his knife, when the buf¬ 
falo jumped up and ran a good ways with 
Then lie took her up, and carried her to the man on ils neck. After awhile the man 
the house, where, after a refreshing hath, 
sleep soon look away from her mind all 
thoughts of the “old gander,”—but through 
jumped off, nnd the buffalo went right on. 
I wouldn't like to ride in that way, would 
you ? Can you toil us hoys how to train pet 
I he remainder of her visit, “ the. old y under, animals ? I think it is a splendid place out 
she,” was the source of much mortification here to raise chickens, it is so dry. I have 
to Josie. * }mi here two years, aud in that time we 
-- huve hud only two chickens get sick that I 
LETTERS FROM BOYS AND GIRLS, know of. There are plenty of worms for 
- them. I have got, a prairie dog that I 
1 1°"' 11 1 ‘ H " ur , * , ‘ ,ua <,,rl '. caught; it is fun to see it stand up just like 
Mr. Eon or: A peat many gu s uve IU(U) 'riie girls are beating us boys in 
written for your paper, hut I have seen none wrUi letters> T , 10pe the boys win write 
yet from Uong Island. 1 am a couutiy gu , nKU . e they do. From your friend—F. 
as you could easily tell by looking at me. 1 g FoH Sar&e Kanm ^ 
am about thirteen years old — short and _ 
plump, and have gray eyes (gieen, Ella From a virKinia i*iant«i' , ii Boy. 
calls them), brown hair, and skin ditto. I Dear Editor:—1 have often seen pieces 
would very much like to correspond with pi the Rural New- Yorker written by boys 
some ot the Rural readers, and would also aiu j gjHs,BO I thought 1 would try and write 
ask il any oi them know of a good way to Bural. 1 have a put colt, one year 
crystalize flowers. I have tried the recipe old; her name is “ Shoo-Fiy.” My pa told 
given in the Bural, hut the flowers laded. nie p* [ took care of a sow and pigs, lie 
If this is published, I may write again, and wouU1 g .; ve me a young pig . S o I did it,and 
if I can give any one any information, L am now j j iave a p jg. i i„ len( i t0 raise some 
perfectly willing to do so.- Lilias B. O., corn 111 is summer to feed my pig on, and 
Idtp, N. Y. __ , iex t f a p j will sell it. I live on North 
An Illinois Ciri’H iHiiy-Diiy. River. We catch plenty of fish and crabs. 
Dear Mr. Editor :— 1 think the Rural We have nineteen kinds of shade trees on 
New-Yorker very kind to devote so large Hie lawn. We have plenty of cherries now. 
a space to the children, lam a little girl I hope some of the hoys will answer this, 
eleven years old, aud have never written lie- If you publish this, I will write again. Ex- 
Port) to any paper, and hardly know what to cuse all mistakes.— Charles Thomas, Glou- 
say. I like to read the Rural very much, center Co., Va. 
My parents and myself moved to Illinois -♦*•"*-- 
four years ago. My father bought a small B«y«, Reutl aud Remember, 
farm. lie gave me a small portion of land, One drop of ink will blacken a whole 
on which 1 have potatoes and a little flower glass full of pure water. Ho will one evil 
garden. I do all the work myself. 1 will communication make the whole world foul, 
tell you what I did May-Day. In the morn- 0, beware of those evil words. You might 
ing I went to a little playmate’s house and drop many, many drops of pure water into 
living baskets on Iier door; then I came the tumbler, but it would have no percepti- 
home, helped mamma a while, and then went blc influence. So ii will take thousands of 
out in the cornfield and dropped pumpkin good precepts and good instructions to root 
| seeds until eleven o’clock, when I came in aud out this evil word. 
