’aturs' |3ort-3|olior. 
UNDER THE ELMS. 
BY GEO. L. GATLIN. 
UsofcR the elms wo walked 
As the moon wus climbing the sky, 
And vowed, as we tenderly talked, 
Together to live and to die. 
IIuw little, how little we thought, 
When living those moments of bliss. 
That hard-heurLnd time could have brought 
Such cold separation as this. 
And yet—was there not In each heart 
A vague apprehension ; a dread 
That after all this, we might part 
And be to each other us dead ? 
Ah yes ! for it was but a dream, 
A sunset that sinks in the sea, 
A waif floating down on I lie's stream. 
For now she Is dead unto me. 
Under the elms r walk 
As the moon is climbing the sky, 
And vow, as unanswered I talk. 
That alone I will live and will die. 
JOHN. 
I sta xu behind his elbow-chair, 
1 'y soft hand rests upon his hair— 
Hair whose silver is dearer to me 
Than all the gold of earth could bo; 
And my eyes of brown 
Look tenderly down 
On Johu, my John. 
The firelight leaps, and laughs, and warms- 
Wraps us both In Its ruddy arms— 
John, as he sits in the hearth-glow red, 
Mo with my hands on his dear old head— 
Encircling us both 
Like it ring of troth. 
Me and mu John. 
Ills form has lost its early grace, 
Wrinkles rest on his kindly face: 
Ills brow no longer is smooth and fair, 
For time has left its autograph there ; 
But a noble prize. 
In my loving eyes, 
Is John, mu John, 
“ .My love,” he says, and lifts his hands. 
Browned by the suns of other lands, 
In tender clasp on mine to lay— 
“ How long ago was our wedding day ?” 
I smile through my tears. 
And say. " Years and years, 
My John, dear John.” 
We suy no more—the flrelight, glows; 
Both of us muse, on wliut—who knows? 
My hands drop down in a mute caress— 
Each throb of my heart Is a wish to bless 
With ray life's best worth 
The heart and the hearth 
Of John, my Johu. 
KEY NOTES-MAJOR AND MINOR. 
BY OUACE GLENN. 
No. 5.—Duty of i’lircnts. 
“ If some one else eonkl choose for iue, I 
coultl undertake almost anything.” 
The poor hoy tarried on t he dear home 
threshold of his youth, and the door out in¬ 
to the world grew wide ajar every hour he 
lingered. Behind him a myriad of sweet, 
pure voices—perhaps the sweetest, purest, 
the least mingled with the hitter and impure 
that lie would ever hear,—were blending 
their nameless choruses in his ear, and there 
were few mocking undertones to help him 
he willing to leave them. But the door kept 
swinging open on its cruel hinges that could 
not lie for one moment clogged to let him 
think without loss of time,—and beyond it, 
“out into the world," strange faces and 
strange hands smiled and beckoned him for¬ 
ward in a thousand different ways, with a 
thousand different manners, and which of 
tlioni, all untried, should he, could lie ven¬ 
ture forth and trust? Which would let him 
keep most of his darling treasure of the 
past, grows to ho a part of his life, and that 
without clogging his onward, upward pro¬ 
gress ? 
There is somewhat such an hour as this in 
the life of every earnest-minded young man 
or woman of America, climbing the hill be¬ 
fore them. Not here, as in the old Father¬ 
lands, do the parents map the way for the chil¬ 
dren’s feet and compel them to walk in it by 
binding them to an apprenticeship or pro¬ 
fession, or at least to an education, the pa¬ 
rents hound thereto by the rigid hand of 
Government; and this freedom, better thoug h 
all concede it, sometimes galls oil the young 
mind when lie first realizes that all others 
consider him capable of self-help, while to 
liimscll he seems most helpless of at any 
dine hia memory can trace. In that hour lie 
feels that all others know him better than he 
knows himself, that to none other in all the 
wide world is lie more a stranger than to his 
own soul, his own capabilities and adapta¬ 
bilities, his own desires and his own strength, 
h then he feels that he is a stranger, too, to 
Ins God, —though you never did before, 
though you never do again, father and moth¬ 
er, pray for your child ! 
I he unseen hand of Time is as firm upon 
dm as upon you, pushing him forward—his 
I 'ot is raised for that step over the threshold 
'yoii'l which your government does not 
'wiend. Now watch him, uphold him, cheer 
11111 ’ '* 1MUSt be, nay, if it may be, under 
IL eye of the Father, choose for him, ere he 
his foot in the wrong pathway,—any 
pjUwoy being wrong bat the one m which 
II ls best fitted to walk firmly and upright- 
* ’ ' ln d who can choose better than you 
" o have known all his growth and attain¬ 
ments? Ah! pity the truth must he told 
here, and such a pitiful truth too; your un¬ 
certain despairing look says plainer than 
your lips might, that you do not know your 
child. You have not lived close to him ,— 
have not known bis associates,—have not 
studied what food they were giving him day 
by day and night by night, or the food they 
were keeping him away from, untasted, 
which it. was your God-given right to pre¬ 
pare and place before him, and you neglect¬ 
ed it, dreaming away the hours of your duty ! 
Blended pity aiul shame be upon you if 
you come, now to realize Unit you stepped 
into the world away from him far back there 
by the nursery door, only just inside of 
which his empty crib stands with its mock¬ 
ing smooth pillows and unsullied while 
spreads. Redeem yourself in part if you 
can yet; he may not repel you if you come 
back to him at this late hour; but you must, 
come gently, carefully, for if you have failed 
to unveil the best, side of your nature to him 
through all these years, you have first to 
show to him, prove to him, and convince 
him that there is a best side, and that it is 
for him. If lie greets you with sarcasm in 
his smile and ice in his eyes, pity him that 
the peaceful sunshine of parental love lias 
not given its vitality to his growth, ami save 
your ehidings for none other Ilian yourself. 
Many a stern father and sobbing mother 
rebuke their offspring for ingratitude when 
they repel advice they never had been 
taught to prize, but your boy and girl are 
not brutes that they should yield you all 
honor ami homage because you have pro¬ 
vided for them physical comforts. If you 
have not given them soul-sustenance, what 
just claim have you upon them for soul 
acknowledgment? 
You have no cause to wonder if they turn 
upon you with the stubborn truth they have 
rend from A to Z, before you thought il. had 
seen the day-light, “ What reason have I to 
feel grateful? 1 was not born for my own 
wish or pleasure; who should feed and 
clothe me hut, you, the self-ordained agents 
of my being, for no choice or gratification 
but your own ?” 
Young parents, and parents of young 
children, live with your children. Let your 
life, your love, and your confidence be so 
inwoven with theirs that lime and circum¬ 
stance, distance, disease and even dealli 
shall not separate you wholly from them. 
Surround them with protective principles, 
whose very steadfastness shall go with them 
like a halo of your presence through high¬ 
way and hyeway, rough or smooth, till the 
foot of the hill on t he other side is reached. 
Fathers, keep your lives so that you can 
never blush for the truth of any statement 
that may reach the ears of your daughter, 
never hide your eyes from the innocent 
searching of hers, lest, she sec Mi l ough those 
windows' of your soul and read dark charac¬ 
ters on your life. And mothers, who arc 
apt to busy yourselves only with your girls, 
keep the acquaintance of your hoys, and still 
let them lie hoys. Tie their whips for them 
and toss them their hall; let. them whistle 
and bound and shout till the echoes ring 
from cellar to garret, through halls and 
rooms with open doors. If it tires you and 
your head aches, and a dozen ailmenls assert, 
theil* superiority over you, kill out the cursed 
fashions that have given them that power, 
and live worthy of the beautiful realm of 
wifehood and motherhood yon have entered. 
It must be at the cost of either one that you 
keep the brightest glory of the other,—your 
fashions or your home. Which will you 
sacrifice? 
The question stands before you to-day; 
your house is your temple, and the idols you 
have sought to enshrine therein have gath¬ 
ered breath and are struggling for the victory. 
The crown and the scepter are in your 
hands; to which will you give them? The 
Balance weighs for time and for eternity. 
With a steady baud lay in your answer. 
You shall kuovv its perfect and entire value 
not until the seals are broken and the books 
are opened. 
Saginaw City, Mich., July, 1871. 
THE HUSBAND’S COMMANDMENTS. 
Some selfish, exacting, unloving and un¬ 
lovable husband has written the following 
commandments, to which we hope his (or 
some other man’s) wife will respond in an 
appropriate manner: 
1. I am thy husband ; thou slialt have no 
other husband but me, whom thou didst vow 
to love, honor and obey; for I saved thee 
from old tnaidisni.and rescued thee from the 
terrors of single blessedness. 
2. Thou slialt not look upon any other 
man to love or admire him ; for I thy hus¬ 
band, am a jealous husband, who will visit 
the sins of his wife upon her followers; 
therefore, keep thou faithfully to thy mar¬ 
riage vow. 
3. Thou shalt not backbite thy husband 
nor speak lightly of him; neither shalt thou 
expose bis faults to thy neighbor, lest he 
should hear of it, and punish thy perfidy by 
a deprivation of sundry items, such as bon¬ 
nets, dresses, etc. 
4. Remember the seventh day, to keep it 
free from unnecessary labor; for there are 
six days in which to do thy work. Thou 
shall have thy house clean and tidy by four 
o’clock on Saturday afternoon, and there 
shall lie no washing of children or baking 
after that hour. Thou shall do thy market¬ 
ing alone, lest in company of women thou 
buycsl. ribbons for thyself instead of cigars 
for thy husband. 
5. Honor thy husband's father and mother; 
and let not thy thoughts wander selfishly to¬ 
wards their cupboards and pockets while 
so doing. 
6. Tliou shall not box thy children’s ears, 
nor thump them for plundering the sugar 
pot, or running away with the pastry or 
jam ; for a hungry stomach knows no law 
save cut and run. 
7. Tliou slialt not listen to flattery, nor 
accept gifts or trinkets from any man hut 
iliy husband, who eslcemeth woman’s purity 
her greatest ornament.. 
8. Thou shalt not l'ific thy husband’s 
pockets for money when he’s asleep ; neither 
shall, tliou read any letters thou mayesl. find 
therein ; for il is his business to look after 
his own affairs, and thy business to let his 
alone. Ask no questions, hut believe. 
9. Tliou shalt conceal nothing from thy 
husband. Always speak the truth, and 
make no false representation of the state of 
his pantry aiul purse, for thy husband ah- 
horretli petty larceny iu the domestic de¬ 
partment, which shall he punished by clos¬ 
ing the exchequer until such financial irreg¬ 
ularities are abolished. 
10. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s 
house, nor her furniture, nor her dress, nor 
her caps, nor anything that’s lier’s; and 
when tlum guest, out with thy husband tliou 
shalt not wear a crinoline, nor any other 
dangerous machine likely to come in con¬ 
tact with his shins. 
II Look for no jewelry from thy hus¬ 
band on Lhe anniversary of thy wedding, 
for il is written, “ Blessed are they who ex¬ 
pect nothing, for they will not be disap¬ 
pointed.” 
-- 
R0MANTI0 STORY 0E A RING. 
Tli© Empress Eugenio mol Josephine’s Ring, 
A romantic incident is related of the way 
in which fate seemed to decree that the 
Monlijo.s and the Napoleons should lie unit¬ 
ed. The story is of Joseph I tie's betrothal 
ring, and is in this wise: Eugenie's lather, 
while serving in the First Napoleon’s army, 
resided in Paris. In 1809, a little girl, Maria 
Montijo, about three years old, went to play 
in the Tuilieries with her nurse. There she 
met a little boy who gave her a gold ring. 
As the children were strangers to each other, 
and did not. meet, again, the owner of the 
ring remained unknown, and so the little 
Marie kept it. for a plaything. The ring was 
Josephine’s, and the little boy was Louis 
Napoleon, who had run away with the ring. 
The loss of the ring was a bad omen to Jo¬ 
sephine, for a year afterward she lmd to re¬ 
sign in favor of another. Little Marie kept 
Lhe plaything till she grew up. 
At sixteen years of ago she married, and 
became the mother of Eugenie, whose birth 
look place May 5, 1820. Her mother en¬ 
graved this date on the ring she had worn 
so long herself, and when Eugenie was older, 
gave it to her. When quite a child, Eugenie 
went to London to pay a visit; there she be¬ 
came acquainted with Louis Napoleon, who 
saw the ring with the date and Josephine’s 
name on it, and knew that it belonged to her. 
From this circumstance Louis looked upon 
the little Montijo us attached to his house, 
amt twenty years afterward it became a fact. 
After a time, Eugenie’s mother came to re¬ 
gard the token as of great importance, and 
formed a plan of bringing the two families 
together. That was the secret of so lovely 
a woman as Eugenie remaining single till 
t lie age of twenty-six. A crown awaited her, 
which she never lost sight of. 
-- 
CONUNDRUMS FOR THE SEXES. 
Fon the girls;—Could you love a man 
who wore false hair on his head when lie 
had euongli of bis own? Who paints his 
face and improves his form as you improve 
(?) yours? Who pinches his feet with small 
shoes, his hands with small gloves, his waist 
with corsets; and then, us if lie had not been 
deformed himself, enough, lies a huge hustle 
to his hack, and thrusts tiny mountains of 
wire into his bosom ? 
For the boys :—Could you love a girl who 
defiled her mouth with tobacco, and loaded 
the air with fumes of cigars? Who staggered 
home several times a week the worse for 
liquor? Who indulges in fast horses, bets 
high at races and swaggers around the 
streets with questionable companions? 
-- 
“ The last word" is the most dangerous 
of infernal machines. Husband and wife 
should no more strive to get it than they 
would struggle to get possession of a lighted 
bombshell. 
If you want to glide smoothly, use the 
oil of patience freely. 
Deoplc. 
u 
HUNTING HEN’S NESTS; 
Or, Robbie’s A it venturi: with Old Frisky. 
When the sheep were put in the yard at 
night, it was Bobbie’s delight to be among 
them, petting ami feeding them,—bringing 
an ear of corn, an armful of clover or a hand¬ 
ful of oats. But old Frisky, the “horned 
patriarch,” was never a favorite of Robbie’s, 
and was always denied a share in the dain¬ 
ties, though lie asked lor them as plainly as 
a sheep could. I think old Frisky has a dis¬ 
position very much like an Indian. For he 
treasured up all of Robbie’s ill doings, and 
patiently waited for an opportunity to he re¬ 
venged. And thus it came about: 
Robbie had lost none of his interest in 
lien’s nests, notwithstanding his experience 
with old Speck, lie had long felt sure that 
there were certain nests under the old gran¬ 
ary. lie could find but one hole through 
Which a hen could pass, and that was too 
small for a boy. So one night, having de¬ 
termined to get at the nests in some way, he 
succeeded in enlarging the opening sufficient¬ 
ly, he thought, to crawl through, lie made 
the attempt, and crawled part of the wav 
through, Iml alas! there he was, and with 
all his efforts could get. neither forward nor 
backward. lie kicked and squirmed; he 
sent, forth yells that would have distin¬ 
guished a Camanche, hut all iu vain. 
Old Frisky had been quietly watching the 
proceedings from the fence corner, where he 
was lazily chewing iiis cud. Perhaps lie 
mistook Robbie’s frantic efforts to get free, 
for a challenge to fight. Possibly he delib¬ 
erately determined to take a mean advantage 
of an unfortunate enemy. I cannot tell you 
what were his thoughts. I can only chron¬ 
icle the result of bin meditations. With a 
shake of his broad head, and a prolonged 
“ Bna-a-a,” lie charged the enemy in the rear. 
The sudden shock almost pushed Robuie 
through, and elicited a yell that can he com¬ 
pared to nothing less than a score of wild 
cats in full voice. Again the old “patriarch” 
made ready, and with the remembrance of 
wrongs to he avenged, mice more came upon 
the helpless foe. Another terrific: yell came 
from beneath the granary, and the whole 
force of field and house—Undo Jake, John¬ 
nie, mol her, aunt and children—came upon 
the scene, and rushed to the rescue. With 
considerable difficulty, Robbie was released 
from his perilous position, and duly pelted 
and soothed. But it was a good many days 
before lie cured much about silling down. 
Aunt Phebio. 
-♦♦♦- 
LETTERS FROM GIRLS AND BOYS. 
From ii Smlly Heron viol Lillie Girl. 
Mu. Editor— Dear Sir : lam a little girl, 
eleven years old, and live on a farm in the 
northern part of New York, among the 
rocks and hills of St. Lawrence county, hut 
il is a pleasant home. I have three brothers 
and one sister. I have to go almost two 
miles to school. It takes so long to go and 
come that I do not get much time to do 
fancy work or to learn to cook, but 1 have 
been making a cake after Jennie R.’s 
recipe, and think il very nice. My sister 
has been sick over four years and is now 
almost helpless. I wait on her and gather 
flowers ami berries for her, and try to make 
her happy. 1 low I wish she could get well; 
then she could teach me to play the organ 
and do fancy work. 
1 want to tell the little girls that read the 
Rural New-Yorker what a sad change 
lias come over our happy home. LasL 
month my dear father was taken sick and 
died in one week. My kind and good grand¬ 
mother, who lived with us, could not stand 
the shock; she died in three days after. O, 
you cannot think how sad and lonely it is 
for us children. But the minister said we 
were glad at blessings and we must not mur¬ 
mur at afflictions, for God could not do 
wrong. Mother says she cannot take so 
many papers now, but sbe says she will take 
the Rural ; we like it so much, and it tells 
us how to do everything. Mother says we 
must read and learn to care for ourselves 
now.— Florence G. 
Letter from il Kansas Girl. 
Editors Rural:— I have read all the 
little girls’ and boys’ letters in the Rural 
New-Yorker, and think they are interest¬ 
ing. I am a little girl in my eleventh year, 
and never tried to write for a paper before, 
though mamma sometimes writes. We 
moved to Kansas over a year ago from 
Kalamazoo, Mich. I have a dear grandma 
and grandpa there that I write to often. 
“When we came to Kansas I wus afraid we 
were coming into a new country, where we 
should not enjoy the benefit of schools. But 
we have excellent Sabbath and week-day 
schools. Our teachers are very kind, and 
the scholars love them. We five in the village 
of Waniego, on the Kansas River. We have 
had two school picnics down by the river 
side. 1 would like to tell you all about my 
Western home, which I think is very pleas¬ 
ant, also about my flower garden—but am 
afraid Mr. Editor will think my letter too 
long, so will close. Perhaps if this appears 
in the columns of the good old Rural, I 
shall lie encouraged to try again. 1 do wish, 
Mr. Editor, I could send you some of our 
Kansas watermelons.— Maggie E. H. 
How Jenny Mu lies n 11 ai ruin Cushion. 
Dear Editor:— I am u little girl eleven 
years old, and live in the country We have 
taken the Rural New-Yorker ever since 
I can remember, and I like it very much. I 
have been much interested in the Boys’ and 
Girls’ Letters, and since you have been so 
kind as to publish them, I thought I would 
write too. Perhaps some of the girls would 
like to know how to make a very pretty 
Hairpin Cushion. Take a paper collar box; 
knit a strip out of zephyr long enough and 
wide enough to go around the box. Sew 
the strip around it. Then knit a round 
piece, large enough to go over the top of the 
cover, and stuff it. This is quite pretty us 
well as handy. Any colored zephyr can be 
used. 1 have tried Edith’s recipe for cream 
candy, and find il very nice. But I fear my 
letter is getting too long. Excuse all mis¬ 
takes—J enny G., East Troy. 
A Girl who Ileli>r» her Invalid Mother. 
Dear Editor: —I have been wanting to 
write to you a long time, but mamma says 
that I am not old enough to write to a paper. 
T am a girl of eight years old, hut will he 
nine the twenty-third day of July. I live in 
the country. Mamma said that 1 might have 
a birth-day parly if I. would he a good girl. 
I can wash dishes and wipe them, and scour 
the knives, 1 have to walk a mile to school 
every morning. My mamma has been an 
invalid live years. I dust her room every 
morning. She has a little hell that she rings 
when she wants me, and I run and wail on 
her when I am home from school. Papa has 
taken lhe Rural New-Yorker ever since 
I can remember. I like to read Lhe letters 
from the hoys and girls, ami I thought they 
might like to read one from mo.— Cora A., 
/>rochport, N, Y.. June 12, 1871. 
VVImt a TeiiucHMU© Hoy Hoc* nml Knows. 
Dear Mu. Editor:— 1 am a hoy, but not 
a little one. I am twenty years old, and 
very well grown. Can plow and lime, reap 
and mow, and learned it all myself, or at 
least without any instruction from my father, 
who was a merchant before the war. But it 
is settled 1 shall be a farmer, and my parents 
subscribed for the Rural Nkw-Youkkr for 
me this year. 1 have been reading and 
experimenting, and now I write you a few 
tilings I know about, that have been specu¬ 
lated on in columns of the Rural. 
First.—Coal oil will kill lice on colts or 
calves, but will take the hair off clean. 
Second,—Snakes do hiss, or, rather, blow 
lilce a goose. Third.—The moles were about 
to ruin our garden. Ma peeled and cut 
green apples in pieces about as large as the 
end of my thumb at the first joint, and 
rubbed strychnia on them and carefully 
dropped them iu their burrows—and they 
are not so had. She is going to try again 
and thinks she will kill all, Fourth.—Tell 
Mrs, D. if, instead of dried beef shavings, 
she will shave off rennet nicely and eat she 
will surely be benefited. So says my mother. 
Fifth and last.—Wo are delighted with the 
Rural, all of us. 1 have laid by my corn, 
sixty acres; cut wheat, sixteen acres, anti am 
now cutting oats, forty acres. Then I have 
the meadows—not more than twelve acres— 
and I shall have a little time to rest, and re¬ 
read the Rural. 
Excuse the penmanship and all mistakes; 
and don’t understand me to say I have done 
all the farm work alone. I have good hired 
• help.—C. B. C., Robertsville, Tain., June, 1871. 
A Young Chicken Fancier’* Experience. 
Dear Mr. Editor: —I have been think¬ 
ing a great while about writiug some¬ 
thing for the “ Boys’ and Girls’ ” column, 
hut have been afraid I could not; but 
I must tell you a few things. Iam fourteen 
years old ; I have taken your paper (the 
Rural New-Yorker) almost a year, and 
oh, how much 1 like it. lliave read in your 
paper about how profitable liens were, and 
so 1 concluded to keep some. I have fifteen, 
and a trio of full-blooded Black African 
Bantams, which I keep to look at. My 
hens are all of the common breed, but they 
are excellent layers. I have a few Ban ley 
chickens and some other kind. A great 
many people in our town have set Houdnn 
eggs tills year, and most of them have had 
good luck. I did not try any. For my 
next year’s hens I intend to keep the 
White Brahmas. I must state that I have 
paid out. for my liens about $o and have re¬ 
ceived about $10 in return. I think that is 
doing well. Truly your friend.— Geo. W. 
G., Jr., Vergenites, Vi, July, 1871. 
-— ♦♦♦ - 
A SCHOOL BOY, having very good-natured¬ 
ly helped another in a difficult lesson, was 
angrily questioned by the teacher :—“ Why 
did you work bis lesson ?” “ To lessen his 
work,” replied the youngster. 
