.'atdfs' |lort-3Fnlt0. 
§> 
COME TO ME NOW 
(W ITH THY HAZEL EYES AND GOLDEN HAIR,) 
ADDRESSED TO E. 
The dark waves are rolling, like the death hells 
telling 
Their funeral notes on the air; 
Tliea ei winds are moaning, through tho forest aisles 
groaning. 
In the ” dying time ” of the year. 
The dead leaves are falling, tho Innh dove Is calling 
For her lost mate, in grief and in fear; 
\mi my life now Is fulling, and iny sad heart is wail¬ 
ing. 
With no one to give me pity and a tear ! 
Then come to tne, darling—O oome declaring 
Thou hast heard my love-hallowed prayer; 
Conic with those eyes—sweet hazel eyes— 
Cumo with thy soft golden hair. 
Non while I am living, O come forgiving 
Each little otnmse light as air ; 
With pity in those oyes.—mild hazel eyes,— 
Let mo press thy bright, golden hair. 
Now i am pining; life is declining; 
Lot me lie in the sad autumn air; 
Looking up t" those eyes tneek hazel eye3— 
And smoothing thy dour golden hair. 
When t am drooping,—over me stooping,— 
Place around mu thy little arms fair ; 
Look down into my eyes, with thy sad hazel eyes, 
Ami let fall thy bright golden hair. 
When 1 am sinking, O let me be thinking 
We will meet again forever, “ up there;” 
See this hope In those eyes pure hazel eyes. 
As they tveep through lliy light golden hair. 
When l am dying, O let bo lying 
On thy little arm loving and lair; 
Whim my spirit. Dies, o close thy hazel eyes, 
And mine with thy soft golden hair. 
When I inn sleeping, and thy hazel eyes are weep- 
And heaven ascends thy lone prayer, [ing 
0 place within my liior—hallowed by thy loving 
One tress of thy sweet golden hair. [tear. 
Then come to me relenting—O enmo consenting. 
In thy true woman’s heart to forbear; 
Cnine to me regretting—O come forgetting 
Every Utile trifle light as air. 
Come while I am lying—O come while l am dying— 
Come In ull thy beauty so rare; 
With thy meek hazel eyes—with thymild hazel eyes. 
Oh come with thy bright golden hair. 
My birthday, August 2,1871. P. 
-♦ ♦♦ 
THE OLD HOUSE AND HOME. 
It was an old, gabled house, unpainted, 
with mossy roof and plenty of garret room 
—tin 1 windows to garret broken and patched, 
nntl to young eyes, O so far up! But little 
feet often found the way there, up a long, 
winding stair, then a pair of narrow, steep 
ones, and we entered that (in our home) 
8t<>i i‘!iouHe uf goodies. There my elder broth¬ 
er brought the nuts for winter storage, with 
strict injunctions that icc (/iris were not to 
touch one until tliey were dry, which would 
be about mid-winter. But said girls bad 
secretly discovered that hickory nuts, but- 
tiTiuits, and chestnuts were good when fresh, 
and with care lest the slain on our lips 
might betray us, many a rich morsel found 
its way between our parted lips. 
There, too, our good mother had found a 
nice open south window, where whortle¬ 
berries and other small fruit dried beautiful¬ 
ly (for in those primitive days fruit was 
dried in the sun). IIow daintily we picked 
the rich fruit—here a berry and there a 
berry all over the plotters, that she would 
think the spaces were caused by the shrink¬ 
age of the fruit. We knew her eyes would 
not discover the pilferage, for they were 
never looking for evil in her children. Bless¬ 
ed saint I 1 have wept tears enough to sink 
a small ship, for so deceiving the best friend 
I ever had—the truest and noblest of women. 
That garret also contained a desk full of 
ni l papers—letters from my father while 
hying to win her be afterwards called wife 
—love letters. There I first entered into 
the mystery of love; read with interest the 
old-fidiioned style of saying sweet tilings to 
luvely women, and wondered if / should 
tver lie the recipient of a genuine “ love let- 
hr." There, too, in an obscure corner, sat 
>ny mother’s loom and spinning wheel. I 
being die youngest child, could but just re¬ 
member when they were in active service— 
for n >otlier hud long since grown too feeble 
to use them, and bad set them away as 
things of the past. 
My little cherry cradle occupied a promi- 
nent place in the old garret; and later, 
Maggie, my darling sister, and I satin that 
l,,w lniIj y couch, while with head on my 
shoulder she spoke of her new found joy— 
Jin; great boon of love bestowed upon her 
l 0 one entirely worthy of my gifted sister. 
- “d she left me to go out with him into the 
untried future, full of hope and happiness. 
1 i there, after the cloud hud darkened my 
pathway, when the faith of my childhood 
S'owing dimmer and further away— 
V', tJ * c °tdd discover no sun behind the 
t ok tempest—after much struggling, and 
; . ' M 7 an< ^ fettling, I bowed submissively 
j , G !' eal Outlier, crying “ Lord save, or 
1 'U iMi! —and through that open window 
i n- streamed a ray of sunset glory, seem- 
lieiv! re ® unerate< * 80ul the very gate of 
^it let us retrace our steps down those 
Wf / u sl airs, then down the winding, and 
‘ each the ground floor of that old-fash¬ 
ioned house. There was one apartment 
called the little room. Don’t think it. was its 
size that gave it this title. Why it earned 
this appellation I never knew. Within its 
four walls my eyes first looked upon a world 
of sunshine and shadow; it was hallowed by 
a mother’s prayers and tears. When my 
feet first learned to pat ter on the oaken floor 
of the old kitchen—when summer days 
seemed so long—if, in gazing tip to heaven’s 
dome I chanced to see signs of an approach¬ 
ing storm, I would hasten to mother, coax 
her into that dear little room,climb into her 
lap, and with my face buried in her bosom, 
feel that there was no safer place from that, 
terrible sound which ever tilled my young 
spirit with deepest awe and (away from her) 
fright. Three of my sisters took upon them 
the holy bonds of marriage there ; and, in 
solemn stillness, broken only by suppressed 
solis, my brave, talented brother went up 
from that lillle room to receive the angel’s 
crown. Other rooms there were, which, if 
their walls could speak, might tell of many 
a prayer for strength to overcome a passion¬ 
ate, willful nature—of many a good resolve 
made—of vows that were often broken, and 
discouragements and heartaches, until I 
learned to look lip and no longer fear the 
storm. 
O! if time could only have spared that 
sacred pile—my childhood’s home ! But it 
lias crumbled and fallen, and where it once 
stood a while, stately mansion rears its proud 
bead, magnificent in architecture, beautiful 
in detail, but to me not so attractive as that 
old, unpainted structure, that battled so long 
with time, yet submitted al last and bowed 
its gray bead down to the dust. Farewell, 
old home l I, too, am weather-beaten and 
gray; my face is seamed and tho marks of 
time show plainly in my bent form. 1, too, 
will soon lie down in the dust. But if there 
is one human being who will love my mem¬ 
ory as 1 do thine, I shall be satisfied. 
Molly. 
-- 
Mixed, gut Good. — Some men show 
most wisdom in making blunders. A West¬ 
ern journalist seems to have been wiser than 
lie knew, when, drawing upon his memory 
for poetical quotations about women, lie de¬ 
livered himself in bis newspaper us follows: 
“ O, woman, in tliino hours of ease, 
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please : 
Ilut seen too oft, familiar with her face, 
We llrst endure, then pity, then embrace." 
It is doubtful if Hcorr and Pope, so es¬ 
sentially unlike, could, with the greatest ease, 
be again so happily combined to present an 
old subject in a new light. 
»♦+- 
Love Best of All Blessings.—A wo¬ 
man may lie surrounded by all the luxuries 
that money can buy, and have the fawning 
friendship of people whose smiles only live 
in prosperity; but if she feels herself unloved 
and alone in her heart, the crown jewel in 
her diadem of happiness is lost, things lose 
their value, and life becomes insufferably 
monotonous. The honest, tender love of 
two brave hearts who have started out, and 
are struggling to get a home for their little 
ones, and money enough to feed, clothe and 
educate them, makes life a thousand times 
more attractive and inspiring. 
-*-♦•*- 
Bad for Would-be Sensible Girls.— 
“ Carrie” writes from Brooklyn to say that 
it is impossible for her to lie a sensible girl 
because the men won’t permit her to be so 
If upon a moonlight night she wishes to talk 
about the stars, tho male idiots about her 
compare the stars with her eyes. If she 
speaks of a rose as possessing a beautiful 
hue, they say her cheeks rival it. Should 
she venture to call atleulion to the melody 
of the night-bird’s song, these monkey-men 
tell her that her voice is sweeter music. In 
view of this stuto of affairs, “ Carrie ” asks 
how she can be anything else than a fool. 
- 4~*~* - 
The Loss of a Mother is always se¬ 
verely felt. Even though her health may 
incapacitate her from taking any active part 
in the care of her family, still she is a sweet 
rallying point, around which affections and 
obedience and a thousand tender efforts to 
please, concentrate, and dreary is the blank 
when such a point is withdrawn. It is like 
that lonely star before us; neither ils beat 
or light are anytbiug to us in themselves, 
yet the shepherd would feel Ids heart sad if 
he missed it when he lifts his eyes to the 
brow of the mountain over which it rises 
when the sun descends.— Lamartine. 
Very True. —IIow much would neigh¬ 
bors rise in value, ami how much would 
neighbors rise in beauty, if all should lay 
aside habits of criticism, and neighborhood 
scandal, and petty feuds, and ridicule 1 And 
if men should study the thiugs that make for 
peace, and the things that make for happi¬ 
ness, everybody trying to make everybody 
else happy, what a revolution there would 
be! 
- 4 ~*~*- 
A girl in the interior of this State has a 
prairie rose bush trailed over the sides of 
her room, and last week it had 1,000 roses 
upon it. A bower of roses, truly. 
IJcople. 
DON’T LET MOTHER DO IT ! 
BY CARRIE ALTON'. 
Daughter, don’t lot mother do it I 
Do not let her slave and toil 
While you sit, a useless idler, 
Searing your soft hands to soil. 
Don’t you see tho heavy burthens 
Daily she is wont to boar, 
Bring the lines upon her forehead— 
Sprinkle silver ia her hair? 
Daughter, don’t lot mother do it! 
Do not let tier hake ami broil 
Through tho long, bright summer hours, 
Share with her the heavy toil; 
See, her eye has lost iia brightness, 
Faded from her cheek tho glow. 
Ami the step that once was buoyant 
Now is feeble, weak and slow. 
Daughters, don’t lot mother do it! 
She has cared for you so long, 
Is it right (ho weak anil feeble 
Should be lolling for the strong? 
Waken from your listless languor. 
Seek her side to cheer and bless; 
And your grief will be loss bitter 
When the sods above her press. 
Daughters, don’t let mother do it! 
You will never, never know 
What were homo without a mother 
Till that mother liolb low— 
Low beneath ihe budding daisies, 
Free from earthly care or pain— 
To the home so sad without her, 
Nover to return again. 
--- 
A VIOLIN “HOUSEWIFE.” 
Four pieces of morocco, of any color, aro 
required to make this very convenient 
" housewife.” Cut them in I,be shape of a 
violin or fiddle, about live inches long, 
and bind them neatly with narrow ribbon; 
I think blue and bronze look well together. 
Then lake two of the four pieces and sew 
a piece of silk or ribbon, about a half an 
inch wide, to either side, so as to make room 
for the stuffing to form the pin cushion. Tn 
the upper piece of morocco cut two small 
holes (indicated by dotted lines in the figure), 
which are to be bound, and neatly lined 
with morocco, forming two little boxes, for 
bolding a thimble and a small spool of cot¬ 
ton. Hew tho two remaining pieces together 
on the edge, leaving u spaco from A to 12 
open, thus making a neatly lining case for a 
pair of scissors ; it also forms the lid. On 
the under side of ibis lid sew two or three 
pieces Ol line flannel lor needles, or else 
make a little silk bag for bolding scraps. 
The lid is to be sewed on at C. It is then 
finished with the addition of hows and 
strings. Other things may be added us 
fancy dictates.—if. 
-♦♦♦- 
LETTERS FROM GIRLS AND BOYS. 
A Sensible Talk to the Girin. 
Dear Rural Girls:— I have been much 
interested in your letters in the Rural New- 
Yoiucer. I think it a very valuable paper; 
my father lias taken it a longtime, and some 
years before it was enlarged. We take three 
other papers besides the Rural, I have 
never tried to add my mile before, for l'enr 
my letter would be thrown in the waste pa¬ 
per basket; but vvbal, is the use of thinking 
so. If at first I don’t, succeed, I will “try 
again.” I have noticed in some of the 
girls’ letters that they talk as though 
they knew nothing of milking, helping 
make cheese, climbing up in the barn 
to bunt lien’s eggs, crawling around in 
the deep, waving grass after the bright red 
strawberries, feeding the chickens, and a 
great many more romping chores too numer¬ 
ous to mention;—yes, 1 will call them romp¬ 
ing chores, I am not very healthy, and 
mother says she would never have raised me 
if she had not let me run wild. 1 would like 
to make the little parlor ornaments as well 
as the rest; but I would not want, while I 
was doing ibis, to have my poor mother off 
doing the chores I have before mentioned. 
I. do not speak of this because I think the 
girls should not have such privileges, but I 
think there is a time for everything, and 
everything should be done in its time.— Em¬ 
ma D -, N. Y. 
What a Missouri Girl Says ami Wants. 
Dear Mr. Editor.— I am a little girl 
nine years old, and live in Sedaiia, Mo. I 
have long wished to write to your paper, but 
did not know what to say. I pieced one 
quilt, last winter, when il was so cold that I 
could not go to school. I can make a nice 
ginger cake and bread pudding. Can .also 
wash the dishes and sweep the floor and set 
the table. I have a great many flowers that 
I cultivate. I have no pet, sheep as Lizzie 
has, but my brother lias an Indian pony that 
is very gentle and 1 ride it a great deal. He 
can stand upon its back and ride on a gallop. 
We came to Missouri three years ago, from 
Ohio. We like Missouri very much, but, I 
do not like it sis well us Ohio. Mr. Editor, 
I have one great favor to ask you, that, is that 
you will put, your portrait in the Rural 
New-Yorker, 1 have a great many photo¬ 
graphs and would like to have yours, for we 
want to see the man who is so kind to little 
girls and boys. But I am afraid my letter is 
too long; so good-by.— Mary L., Sedaiia, 
Mo., 1871. 
A Western Girl’s Travels. 
Dear Editor As most of the boys 
and girls that write for your paper are farm¬ 
ers’ children, I thought maybe a short, sketch 
of my (ravels might be interesting. I lake 
the Rural New-Yorker, and after read lug 
it send it. to my brother CHARLIE, who is a 
great reader. 1 am a sort of a " Wandering 
Jew," although I am only fifteen years old. 
I was born in Michigan, and when seven 
years old my parents moved to Nevada. 
There was no railroad then, and we Avcnt in 
a four-horse wagon. I learned to drive four 
horses quite well. We saw lots of Indians, 
antelopes, and those cunning little prairie 
dogs. We were just three months on the 
road, and camped out and slept, in a tent 
and under the wagon allot' thCAvay. I saw 
Salt Lake cily, Ibc great Mormon Temple 
and lots oi Mormons. Wo stayed in Nevada 
seven years, and then I went to California 
alone, and remained there three months; 
enjoying the luxuries of that beautiful 
country. I then returned to Nevada, trav¬ 
eling by stage, steamboat and the cars. I 
rode on the Bay, saw the ships (including 
the Golden State), I lie grand old Pacific 
Ocean, and San Francisco and other cities. 
I stayed in Nevada three weeks visiting my 
aunts, and then came with my father to my 
uncle’s in Wisconsin; where I attended a 
graded school three months. From there 1 
came here to Pennsylvania alone. 1 wish 
ilie boys and girls of the Rural could have 
been with me and seen the thousands of 
buffalo the other side of the Platte River, 
ami llm splendid scenery in the Sierras and 
Rocky Mountains. 1 have a canary bird 
and a flew organ. I want to go to New 
York city, and see the Atlantic Ocean, which 
will complete my trip across the Continent. 
Hoping to hear from some other young 
readers of the Rural about, their travels, 1 
will close my already too lengthy letter.— 
Flora E. P. 
A Ti.-xiis Girl’s Find Latter. 
Dear Mr. Editor:—I am a little girl 
eleven years old. Wc live in the country 
on a farm. I do not go to school, but am 
taught at home by my oldest sister. I have 
no pony of my own, as some of the Rural’s 
girls have, but I ride a good deal on horse¬ 
back. I help do tho milking and tho house¬ 
work. My father takes your paper, and I 
like so much to read the loiters from the 
little girls and boys, that I thought I would 
try to write one. This is the first time l 
ever tried to write to any one; if you think 
it worth publishing I will write again and 
tell the girls more about my homo and wlmt 
I do, and will try to send some useful re¬ 
cipes. Your little friend— Sallie G., Prai¬ 
rie Home, Texas. 
AVIiiii :l Louisiana. Hoy is Doing. 
Dear Mr. Editor:— I am quite a small 
boy, only seven years old, and can only send 
you a short letter. I live in the bright and 
sunny pint; woods of Louisiana, near the 
southern line of Mississippi. I do not have 
as good opportunities for learning as many 
of your little correspondents, but still I love 
my books as well as my play, and am going 
to be a man—a big man—some day. And 
then 1 am going to do a great deal of good. 
My fuLlier lias plenty of horses, dogs and 
guns, and we go out, bunting often and find 
plenty of birds, rabbits, squirrels, oppos- 
Hiims, raccoons, and some line deer. We go 
fishing sometimes in Silver Creek, near by, 
and catch some nice little blue fish and red 
perch, and sometimes a trout. I am going 
to school and my teacher says I am learning 
fust.— Oliver C. T., Osyka, Miss., Aug., '871. 
Front a. California. Hoy. 
Dear Mu. Editor:—I read the Ru: 
New-Yorker every week, and like it ve. 
much, especially the children’s department 
1 have a pet calf which is very tame. This 
is a nice place to raise chickens. We have 
about seventy-five, and had only about two 
or three die. I live in Lhe country, about 
thirty miks from San Francisco. I am 
eleven .years old. I have a little black kit¬ 
ten which plays all of the time. I call him 
Senator Revels .— George, Napa Go., Gal. 
bout Willie’* Woodchuck. 
Dear Editor :—I have often seen letters 
in the Rural New-Yorker written by 
boys and gills, and L thought that I would 
try and write one loo. I am nine years old, 
live on a farm, milk four cows every night 
and morning, and have got a pot woodchuck. 
His name is Dick, and I Avish that some of 
the boys would tell me how I can keep him 
next winter.— Willie, Middle-field Center, 
N. ¥., 1871. 
--- 
The China Doll.— This is the way our 
two and a-half years old freed his mind upon 
finding the arm broken off his china doll: 
“ Well, now, what for you, you blake its arm 
off for V It can’t tan, tan, taad up at alinow, 
cider (either.”) 
Sabbat!) Reatdim. 
HYMN OF THE WEARY PILGRIM SOUL. 
Slow stop by step, tiny after day, 
I Journey mi ray homeward way; 
And darkly dream the land of Unlit 
Is drawing near ni«lH after night. 
Where I shall reach my rest at last, 
And smile at all tho perils past. 
Sometimes I sing, sometimes I sigh. 
Sometimes 1 lil t the longing oye, 
Sometimes my heart, laughs ’death its load 
To think of that august abode 
Where I shall reach my rest at last, 
And smile at all llio perils past. 
This poor mortality of mine 
Shall soon put on Its dress Divine, 
To meet Him with the blest above, 
Who gave Ills life to gain niir love: 
And rich will he my rest at last. 
When all the poverty is past. 
He will he near, my life my hope. 
When at the gloomy gale I grope, 
And take my hand anil reach for mo 
Tho fruit of I in mortality : 
And I shall know my rest at last. 
And triumph in the trials past. 
Just one more thorn razed from His crown 
Of sorrows, I will oust me down ; 
And my last tears shall run to meet 
Him ! pour my full heart at His feet. 
And I shall reach my rest al, last, 
To smile at, all the troubles past, 
[(Ifnihl Massey. 
-- 
“THY WILL BE DONE.” 
Dear Editor: —Alter much hesitation, 
and many doubts and fears in regard to their 
being accepted, 1 have concluded to send 
you some of my though|.n, and if you think 
them worth Hie space they would occupy in 
your paper,, well ;—if not, l shall not beat 
all disappointed. I am a farmer’s wife, and 
have been much interested in the sayings <>f 
my rural sisters, and others. I can sympa¬ 
thize -with many of them—from Martha, 
careful and troubled about many tilings, and 
perhaps neglecting the “one thing needful,” 
lo M , of Eagleville, Go., who wrote when 
the heart, av.ts sad, and perhaps calling in 
vain for human sympathy, (for human eye 
cannot read llm heart.) Tho dearest friend 
cannot know our conflicts as we si rive for a 
pure life—cannot know the pang it costs us 
to say “Thy will lie done,” .when Ilia will 
conflicts Avil.li ours—when our bright antici¬ 
pations are not realized, and our hopes die 
out one by one, until at limes we feel there 
is not much left, us but the hope of heaven, 
and there is no oye but, Hie All Seeing can 
see the graves of our dear ones, away down 
in our heart, whom all else have forgotten. 
But. it Is a sweet thought libit there is a 
Friend who sees and murks each secret, bit¬ 
ter tear. lie hears Ibc softest, sigh breathed 
from I lie burlbened heart, and is over ready 
to strengthen, cheer and comfort ns. O, how 
dark would this world become, were earth 
and earthly things our only hope—Imd wo 
no friend but those as frail and fleeting as 
ourselves. There are times in the livcsofall 
when we can but led that we have nowhere 
else logo but unto the meek and the lowly 
One who has said, “Come unto Me, all ye 
Unit are weary and heavy laden, and I avIII 
give you rest.” And 0, how weary we arc 
at times—so weary wc would fain lie down 
beside the dear ones w ho m e sleeping so 
sweetly, so peacefully in yonder silent City, 
where are sited no more bitter tears, and 
heartaches are known no more forever. 
Very many of my sisters would not write 
in so sad ft strain. Deuili lias not robbed 
them of their treasures, Tlrnir litilo ones 
are with them, and the ties that bind them 
to earth are very, very strong. But ray dar¬ 
lings are in that better land, and I need them 
so much to cheer my heart and brighten 
life’s pathway, that at limes I am very sad ; 
yet when I realize how bloat they are, and 
that I am fast hastening to them, then am I 
glad. Those of you that liutfe your dear 
ones yet with you, be thankful; enjoy their 
dear presence while you have them, for they 
may be here to-day, to-morrow with the 
angels. 
Let us all, therefore, bear the burthens 
and do tho work of to-day, cheerfully, 
prayerfully — learning to duly prize tlm 
blessings God has given us, for we may lie 
licit upon at any time to resign the dearest 
i.' a.-’ures of the heart. But avc all have this 
bias assurance—that if we will accept His 
guidance the dear Father will ever lead us 
in the right Avay, even to the end of the 
journey. Neither w ill lie forsake us there, 
but will bear us in His loving arms as avc 
pass over the river to the sweet hy-aud-by. 
And O! how our heart bounds as we think 
of the joyful greeting that Avaits us there, 
where will be no more parting—neither sor¬ 
row nor tears—for the former tilings will 
have passed away. *L o. 
Dawn, Mo., July, 1871. 
--- 
We should always rest satisfied with 
doing well, and let others talk ol us as they 
please, for they can do us no injury, al¬ 
though tliey may think they have found a 
flaw in our proceedings, and are determined 
to rise on our downfall or profit by our 
injury 
-- 
0 
Men mayjnJge us by the success of our 
efforts; God Iooks at the efforts themselves. 
A 
