APBiL -It) 
E’S BUBAL NEW-VOBKEB. 
THE ITALY BEYOND. 
BY MA.TA8A. 
Chronicled in olden time, 
Yet the scene so far away. 
Thrill* the soul with wondrous power, 
Like the brave deed* of to-day. 
Lo, yon mountains grandly wrapt, 
In the storm-Ulnn'* mantle white,— 
Can the leader, eagle-eyed. 
Scale the awful, dizzy bight V 
“ Soldiers brave, this barrier wall 
Reaches not unto the skies,” 
And the fair Italian plains 
Soon will greet your weary eyes. 
Onward—upward—see them march, 
Ah, the dreary, toilsome way, 
And the dangers hovering near 
Words are feeble to portray,— 
Nat ure, at that moment, protested against t he 
severity of the ordeal, and was kindlier than her 
audience. Indcod, the applause of her friends 
had a suspicious sympathy In It. Still, some 
kind of a victory had been gained, though the 
world did not know it. The girt know it. That 
was something. In all such cases, the artist’s 
knowledge of herself is more essential than her 
knowledge of Others. This girl, coldly received, 
and fainting at the threshold of the profession— 
with her own and others’ natures to overcome— 
dropped her llrst tear there in the half-closed 
doorway of success, and announced her deter¬ 
mination to succeed. it was the last tear that 
was shed. 
There was not strength enough, said the crit¬ 
ics, and, above nil, culture was lacking. It was 
doubtful if she could succeed at any time. The 
very evidences of the t rue artist organization, 
the keen susceptibility, the over-wrought 
senses, as Well Mm trepidation of inexperi¬ 
ence, the blush of youth and modesty, the 
maidenly reserve, wore upheld against her. But 
they were in part t he elements out of which she 
was to build her future success. 
But the gleam from sunny vales, 
As the Alpine Lights they gain, 
Still Illumes the distant past 
With the glory of their fame. 
Our Alpine Lights, oh, where are they? 
And our fair land of Italy 7 
As hope and fear the bosom swell. 
Each spirit can the secret tell. 
-++«-• 
AUNT EDITH’S ADVICE. 
“These girls are the plague of my life,” said 
Mrs. Temper, with energy; “T would never lot 
one sot foot in my home If 1 had the strength 
to get on Eiloup. I do now far more than I 
ought, to save myself the annoyance of a new 
girl every few months.” 
“ You will lose by it, Maria, depend upon It," 
said her Aunt Komi, a well-preserved old lady 
of sixty-three, whose step was as spry' as a girl’s, 
and whose face wore a placid look that spoke 
of peace within; “you cannot fret over the 
shortcomings of your help without losing a 
groat deal of hoart’s-ease—one of the sweetest, 
flowers that grows, to my mind. You cannot 
over-work yourself without losing great stores 
of health and comfort, which you will sadly 
want when you reach ray time of life.” 
“ But you have had more ease, and lews priva¬ 
tion iia yon went along, Aunt Edith. You did 
not have to pinch and economize when you set, 
up housekeeping, ns we- have to. You could 
afford Unit-class help." 
Auntie smiled. “You should have seen the 
first score or two of girls I employed when we 
lived in a little brown house of four rooms at, 
Edgeworth. Your uncle began at, the bottom 
of the ladder, and you, my dear, know nothing 
of the economiesMif poor folks in your comfort¬ 
able home hero.” 
“Did you have as much patience with your 
girls as you have with people’s short-comings 
now-a-days ? I hope you willsny No,auntie,and 
t hen T shall feel t here may be some chutico for 
mo." 
“ ft was hard work, it Is true; but I novorhad 
a girl come Into my house wit hout the feeling, 
‘Now I will try arid <1 • > something to help the 
girl, if sho is not with me a week.’ I tried to 
teach them for their own sake as well as my 
own. If is astonishing what a difference this 
simple view of the relation of mistress and 
maid makes with both parties. 1 never know a 
girl so dull that she did not fool it was worth 
something to have a friend in her employer. 1 
never hear a girl * sot down* roundly by a wo¬ 
man, without feeling that I should like to hoar 
the girl’s side of the Btory before I made up my 
mind on the case. 
“ Remember, Maria, how poor a chance most 
of these girls have hud; what poor,shiftless 
homes they come from, and If you can lift mio 
to even a little higher place,are you not willing 
to put up with some annoyance in the process? 
When you have seen many, as I have done, who 
were more unpromising, settled respectably in 
homes of their own, practicing over every day 
lessons of thrift you have taught them, you 
will foci it pays to I rain ungainly girls. Then, 
too, poor help Is little better than none. It 
may seem easier for the moment to overtax 
yourself by doing it all, but there is a heavy 
reckoning sure to follow. Take your old aunty’s 
advice, and preserve your health and strength 
by taking suitable rest and recreation, and 
above all, strive hard for a cheerful, even 
spirit." J. B. MOO. 
-- 
MISS. KELLOGG’S FIRST APPEARANCE. 
When, in 1861, a pale and frightened girl came 
before a New Yol k audience at the Academy of 
Music, and sang for them the role of fjlUlu in 
Verdi's“ Itigoletto," she w:is met by that most 
awful of nlI formalities—respectful attention. 
Like so many opera audiences before and since, 
it had come to be astonished and thrilled ; and, 
disappointed because it had not been, it was 
sternly critical. It wauled a phenomenon It 
had been given a fact. The (tibia, like hundreds 
of other first attempts, was just far enough re¬ 
moved from a positive failure to be t iresome to 
the people who desired a sensation. The pale 
and frightened girl struggled with the passion¬ 
ate duties of the role with very tittle human aid, 
and when the curtain fell upon the last act she 
staggered to her dressing-room and fell fainting 
among her friends. 
With this ordeal entered Clara Louise Kellogg 
upon her artist .in career. There was not a single 
prediction made of her ultimate eminence. But 
when wo reflect how many aspirants have .ap¬ 
peared In the same way, and after the same re¬ 
sults have disappeared, never again to be heard 
of; when we consider that at this time Miss 
Kellogg is In possession of an fissured and hon¬ 
orable position at the head of American singers, 
wo can he sure of the ability and determination 
that were hidden from tho wonder-seeking 
spectators In the pale and frightened debutante 
in the role of <Ulda.—Scriluu r'u f or April. 
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WHAT THE NATION NEEDS. 
What this nation, what every nation wants, 
is mothers -mothers who wore first pure, sensi¬ 
ble, conscientious, self, perfected women. How 
few mothers ever think of impressing upon 
their (laughters the fact, that beauty, and par¬ 
ticularly the personal influence and magnetism 
of women, depends mainly upon their personal 
habits! Habits of meainiess, of self-indul¬ 
gence, of trickery, create an atmosphere which 
Is as perceptible to a truthful person as the 
clouds upon it November sky. The features may 
be regular, tho eyes of the proper color, t bw 
company manners attract ivc, but, If there is not 
truth and honesty, these will not win afToctlon 
and sympathy. We arc accustomed to Hpeak 
of such persons as of one who i« always thinking 
of herself; but in reality she is not thinking of 
horsclf, but her belongings. The size <>f her 
puffs, or the length of her train, are of infinitely 
greater Importance) to Iter than the cleanliness 
of her hair, or the healthful condition of her 
skin and body. I'pon herself that is upon her 
own organism—she scarcely bestows a thought, 
while upon the question of whethor she shall 
buy false curls or braids she Bestows the anxious 
thought, of many sleepless nights. Mru, Cntly, 
REVEALING A HUSBAND’S SECRETS, 
La p v Davies, in her “ recollections ” tolls the 
following amusing story; While we were both 
standing opposite Mr. \V -’s dressing-room, 
the door of which in the haste of Ills departure 
had been left open, I perceived u gentleman’s 
wig hanging there, and Inquired of Mrs. W- 
to whom It could belong, for Mr. W -was tho 
last man I suspected of wearing one. She burst 
out laughing at my question, and In reply to it 
exclaimed, “for goodness’ sake, don’t let him 
know pray never say that I told you ; but that 
wig belongs to my husband. Nor that alone, 
for he has four In all -one with very short hair, 
as I f It had Just been cut; another with vory long 
hair, as if It wanted rutting; another with the 
hair moderately long; and one elaborately 
dressed for parties. Sometimes,’’ site added, “1 
can scarcely prevent myself from laughing when 
I hear an intimate friend advise him to go and 
got Ids hair cut, and perceive how, by change 
of wig, it is supposed that such advice has boon 
promptly taken. ' 
TRUST CHILDREN. 
Never accuse a child of a fault unless you are 
certain ho committed it. Children should not. 
be treated with suspicion. We should act to¬ 
ward them in this matter us we feel wo ought 
to act towards others, only With greater tender- 
nciBB—not less, im Is usually done. We should 
always put the best construction possiblo upon 
their conduct; that Is, unless you are sure a 
child is telling a lie, and can prove it, do not 
show the least hesitation In believing what he 
says. Fur better that you should be deceived, 
than run the risk of showing a truthful child 
you do not trust him. Your simple trust may 
make a lying child truthful. Your doubt of Ills 
truthfulness may make a truthful child a liar. 
-- 
Receive at ouca the potent power which will 
lift you above the Ills of life, In the t housands 
of books which cun bo had In this age. Read 
books, pamphlets and newspapers, everything 
useful, instructive, amusing and full of life's 
lessons, (let your mind on yourself at. some 
rate, or you are doomed never to amount to 
anything, or have a friend worth having. 
- 
Ik the secret history of many houses were 
told, Mie gentle and soft-sounding words “ prov¬ 
idence ” and “ bereavement ” would be stricken 
out, and tho sterner ones, “child-murder ” and 
“suicide ” would be put In their places. 
Jading for t\\\ Jgoung. 
KATYDID. 
WHEN the evening star comes out, 
On pleasant summer eves, 
Yon can hear the little Katydids 
Crying out among the leaves, 
Katy did, Kitty did. 
She didn’t, she didn’t; 
Katy did, site did, 
No she didn't, Katy didn’t. 
IIow 1 wonder whal they mean, 
In tlio loaves, so thick and green, 
What tho mischief Is that’s hid, 
Which little Katy did l 
Was Katy once a little girl, 
Who didn’t mind her mother? 
Was It only known to Katydids, 
And net to any other? 
Katy did, Katy dill, 
Sho didn’t, she didn't; 
Katy did, she did, 
No she didn’t, she didn't; 
Was she such a naughty girl. 
That through time's unceasing whirl, 
These insects are forbid 
To toll what. Kilty did? 
My darling on the poroh, 
Eueli ovo when they begin, 
Tries with eager little ears, 
To understand their din. 
Katy did, Katy did. 
She didn’t, she didn’t; 
Katy did, sho did, 
No she didn’t, Katy didn’t; 
But with all their constant cry, 
My little one or I 
Can't make out the secret hid— 
The dreadful thing that Kuty did. 
[ Mr*. Itichardton. 
- *■++ - 
LETTERS FROM BOYS AND GIRLS. 
The Creeley Homestead. 
Mr. EDITOR:—I want to tell you something 
about, the old GREELSY Homestead, but I am 
afraid I shall not describe it very well, for I 8m 
not. fourteen years old, and I have only been in 
school six months In my life. However,I will try. 
My grandfather, Zacckkuh Greeley, settled 
herein 1836. He came from Vorujont. lie was 
one month In getting here. Ho came all the 
way from Buffalo by the Northern and Western 
Canal. What a long, lovely, dreamy Journey to 
make in the autumn ! 
Wher^grandfather got within ten miles of 
this place, In' had to hire a sled with oxen, for 
there the road ended. On the sled he put all 
bis household goods, and his family, and thus 
lie made his first entrance into 1 lie wilderness. 
My grandfather's family then consisted of my 
father, Nathan Haunch GiiRftLftv, and my 
aunts, Arminda, Esther and Margaret. My 
dear uncle Horace had been left In Vermont. 
My grandfather built a log cabin on tho spot 
where our house now stands. M was sixteen 
I»y eighteen feet. II, was built, of rough hewed 
logs; tho floor was made of spilt, umber, and 
the roof covered with the bark taken from tho 
Cucumber tree, it was very wild and lonely 
there. There were no neighbors near to visit, 
and no school or church within ten miles. I 
suppose this seems very strange to oil v people, 
and it. must, havo been very gloomy to dear 
grandmamma, who was so elovor, and so fond 
of reading, and loved intelligent people so much. 
My father was fourteen years old t hen. When 
they went to meeting, he would put tho oxen 
before a wood-shod sled and the family would 
all got in, and rattier would walk beside Mie 
oxen to drive them through the woods. There 
wero no roads, and father says he would drive 
Over largo logs in tho way, and through deep 
streams of water, while the frightened wolves 
would howl, and the deer would bound away 
before them. 
“Oh, solitude ! where are thy charms?” 
Now, all this is changed on the old Home¬ 
stead. There are but a few acres of the primi¬ 
tive forest left. Wo have broad, beautiful 
meadows now, where I hose grand old trees 
once stood, and lambs sport and cows grazo 
where bears and wolves and other wild animals 
once roamed. Tho little log hut bus long since 
been displaced by a nice country mansion, in 
which I write tills. One thing, however, re¬ 
mains sacred to the memory of my grand-par¬ 
ent*— the cold spring that gushed up from the 
ground beside tho rude cabin; that flows on, 
and will 
"-flow on, forever,” 
I suppose, though those dear forms (my grand¬ 
parents) are resting In the distant village church¬ 
yard, anil though my beloved Unde Horace 
sleeps in Greenwood, ami my aunts have found 
new homes far from the old Homestead. 
I’ve lots of pets, o! lambs and birds, 
t love to hear them sing : 
But none brings buck the tHonda I love. 
Like the ripples of the spring. 
Eugenia Greeley, H ' ai / nr , Pa , 
away and would not touch a drop of it for tho 
day; her feelings were evidently very much 
hurt. She is a very destructive bird, and were 
sho let out, she would bite and destroy every¬ 
thing that came In her roach, She always had 
a great passion for getting out. of her cage; so 
wo thought It necessary to tie tho door of it 
down; but what was our surprise, on looking 
op a few minutes after, to see her sitting on tho 
top of the cage, placidly gnawing the window 
sill. \Ve then took a piece of wire and fastened 
the door tight down, but still she would not be 
stopped; she bit It off with the greatest, case 
imaginable. So at last we got a padlock and a 
large brass chain, and for a few days she was 
very indignant; but at last, tludiug that silling 
still would not open it, she went to work, and 
link by link she bit It off, until now wo have 
nothing at all. Every morning, when we como 
down, Roily Bays “Good morning,” and keeps 
on saying it until we answer. And every time 
she hears flic hells of the. street car she screams, 
“There's a car!" to the top of her voice. She 
also says a great many more things that I have 
not time to mention. Minnie Sota, 
A Llttlo Virginia Girl. 
Dear Mr. Editor:— My father takes your 
paper, and I like it very much. I was ten years 
old in March. I ha ve a sister and a little brother. 
We do not go to school, but my mother teaches 
us at home, [live on a farm In Henrico Co., 
Ya. I like living in tho country n. great deal 
bettor than 1 thought I should. 1 would like 
to live in Richmond. Wo have six pigeons and 
eight rabbits, ami so many chickens that 1 do 
not know how many of them there are. I huvo 
a big doll baby; so big, that she can wear a sure- 
enough baby’s clothes; abuts named Amelia, 
ami Just os rosy as she can bo. Iam making a 
polonaise for her ; It Is lawn, and very pretty. 
Mother gave me a cap that I had when a baby, 
and then I made her a little hat, and trimmed 
It with some little cloth flowers that mother 
gave me, and a pretty little cloak. Mary (i. 
Morrison, 
Crowing Peanuts. 
I raised some peanuts hist summer. My 
father gave me a piece of ground, and I got live 
cents’ worth of unroasted peanuts. I hulled 
them and then planted In iiills about (i by 18 
inches. I hoed them over several times, and 
when they were frosted I pulled I Item up, turn¬ 
ed them over and let them dry. When they 
were dry, I pulled them off tho vines. From 
one-half of a square rod I got a peck and a half, 
I gathered two bushels of walnuts last year. I am 
eleven years old. Or, in Tmmrlin, Kokomo, Ind. 
She filthier. 
ILLUSTRATED PROVERB,- No. 3. 
Answer in two weeks. 
-- 
CROSS-WORD ENIGMA. No. 8. 
My first is in girl but not in boy, 
My second is fa boat but not In toy ; 
My third is In left but not in right, 
My fourth Is In falter but not in flight; 
My lift li is In six but not In seven, 
My sixt h is in twenty but not in eleven ; 
My whole you may guess if you try, 
For it is frequently seen In the sky. 
Walter W. It. Fisher. 
P£T Answer in two weeks. 
WORD-PUZZLE.—No. 1. 
I am tiie name of an honorable occupation, 
and contain seven letters. 1 also contain a 
general name for seeds, a surly visage, a con¬ 
junction, an instrument to blow with, a border, 
a. kind of liquor, a verb, an edge, general name 
of the human race, a foolish snille, name of the 
ocean, a circular thing, the atmosphere, a great 
distance, a fish’s membrane, and prollt. 
£ W Answer la two weeks. x. x. 
DROP-LETTER PUZZLE. No. 2. 
Our Parrot. 
Mr. Editor: i thought some of the children 
who road (lie Rural would like to hear about 
our parrot. Sho was bought three years ago, 
and now she says everything you can imagine. 
Every morning sho has coffee, with milk and 
sugar, and when one day we forgot to put, sugar 
in it, she coolly Upped the whole over. Also, 
one day, we had company, and neglected to 
take hor to the breakfast table with us; and 
afterwards, when we gave it to her, she turned 
Every vowel omitted : 
.. Rth ..tgr.ws tli. myth.c f no..s 
S.ng b.s.d. b.r ,n h.r y.,th, 
• ml tn.s. d.b.n..r. r.rn.ric.s 
8..ml b.t <1.11 b.s.d th. tr.th. 
1ST' Answer in two weeks. Enigma. 
-- 
PUZZLER ANSWERS. April 5. 
Problem No. 7.—Eight o’clock, P. M. 
Illustrated Proverb No. 2. Beauty draws 
more than oxen. 
