MOORE’S RURAL WEW-YORK1 
was disgusted. No, she must have more. She 
drove on to another place. The programme 
varied little, except he offered her twenty-one 
.rents. She indignantly proceeded farther, and 
' found a shurper who would give her twenty 
cents. Horrified at this gradual descent from 
the proposed and first price, she returned to 
her first, t he twenty -1 wo cent man. Ho settled 
Ids hands in hla pockets impudently, and coolly 
offered her nineteen cents, though he “ had 
enough on hand.” She covered her melting 
butter, drew the brown veil closer, flourished 
her whip majestically, and sallied homeward. 
She did not cry. It was all so mean and dis¬ 
agreeable. The men were so pig-headed and 
pigmy-souled ; her nag was so lanky ; her but¬ 
ter so soft; her wagon so weak and her pride 
so strong, that a latent sense of the ludicrous 
was touched, and she laughed until the tears 
rolled down Imr checks. How a laugh sweeps 
the cobwebs from the mind J How it strength¬ 
ens and sweetens! BJ«s*od he laughter! 
One day Lou stood id the large, cool, damp 
cellar, skimming milk. She was plain, hoop¬ 
less and neat. Her hair was brushed smoothly 
from a pale face, which was almost gloomy 
certainly sad In expression. Yet that face was 
capable of looking unutterably happy. It was 
almost evening. The milk which had thickened 
since morning rnusi he skimmed, emptied, and 
the pans washed and put up for morning. II 
was all very pretty aa she loosened the rich, 
yellow cream at the edge, and rolled it over and 
over to one side, exposing the pure white mass 
beneath. Lou did not see its beauty; she was 
too busy taking an Inventory <>f her troubles. 
A shadow darkened the small grated windows. 
8 he glanced up, and saw two young ladies dain¬ 
tily arranyed In white, walking down the road. 
She said to herself: 
“ Why should 7 be shut down In this dungeon, 
while others are free; and wear ugly calicoes, 
when others' clothes are fresh and pretty ; and 
look at cellar walls, while gorgeous sunsets are 
without; and wash dishes, when J want to read 
the papers: and cook dinners,when T love to 
botanize; and make hoy's pants, when l prefer 
to draw pictures and arrange rooms, to make 
thorn pleasant as well as neat? Why must T 
forever sew carpel, rags, ugly things? And not 
even a loving word in recompense, t am tired 
of life if this la life. It it was for a stated time, 
or there wag an intermission, very well; but it 
is work over, and over, and over, like a tread¬ 
mill— one hopeless, endless monotony. Cer¬ 
tainly, I might change servitude, as many girls 
In desperation do. William, the good-natur¬ 
ed, industrious hoy, thinks jny pies are good;' 
t herefore, I would make him a good wife. Ex¬ 
cuse me. William. I prefer the frying pan to 
the fire, so 1 expect to stow here in the frying 
pan to the end of my days; but I do hate the 
very sight of milk and butter. If is wicked and 
futile to repine this way.” 
The tears came into the eyes and rolled down 
the cheeks. Both hands being creamy, she 
drew her sleeve across Inn* face and wiped ( hem 
off. Her cream must not be salted witli foolish 
tears. So she absently poured the milk out 
and carried it away, and returned languidly lo 
wash her pans, feeling most desolate, when she 
was roused and startled by a whisper shouted 
down the stairway: 
“LOU, Lou! Aunt Nell is here. Came on 
the six o’clock train." 
Lou was surprised, but not happily ; nor was 
she in the least disposed to rush up and down 
and greet Aunt'NELL, whom she had never 
seen. She prepared to hide her tear-stained 
face and nurse her grief alone. Fhe even un¬ 
generously wished her home again, and won¬ 
dered why City people will add the final straw 
to the hack of tho overburdened country camel. 
She was sure the back would now break. What, 
she thought, did Aunt Nell know of stern 
realities—she who lived in luxury. Lou had 
not considered that often to a spectator, work 
seems far more difficult, than to the skilled 
hand which performs it; nor did she pause to 
think that strangest, sweetest sympathies ami 
perfect charities, are not confined to humble 
life. However, alio at once dutifully made her¬ 
self presentable, and entered the parlor. She 
there met a lady who at once impressed her, 
though she could not have explained it, with a 
sense of her combined strength, elegance, and 
winningness. What she thought, of Lot: I know 
not. !>hc took her brown hands in hers, and 
said some, pleasant words, and. looked into her 
eyes with a discerning gaze. Perhaps she saw 
within them Alpine solitudes, and glaciers, and 
deep chasms, and a few starved Arctic flowers. 
Surely, she saw little warmth and sunlight. 
Whatever she saw, then and there a wordless 
compact of friendship was sealed. 
Thereafter, Lot was not alone. “Another of 
the great family Is neat—aod/erls." 
Aunt Null must fit Lou a pretty jacket; she 
must invade the cellar for a drink of butter¬ 
milk ; she must insist upon skimming the milk, 
while talking up numberless now interests: she 
must amuse the busy ones in a busy hour: she 
must shell thebeansfor dinner; shemustteach 
Lou a Professor Bum ’s method of cooking po¬ 
tatoes. She must fan a flame of ambition in 
Lou by keen, graphic criticisms of new books. 
She must aptly help Lor through with her 
work, and then spirit her away into the great 
woods to gather ferns. 
O! the fragrance, the coolness, the freedom, 
the tranquility of these wood rambles l Coun¬ 
try people are mostly too burdened and pre-oc- 
cupied to seek and appreciate the rare beauty 
about them. Cultured people from the city 
search out these beauties with the eager aban¬ 
donment of children. 
Aunt Nell had a two-fold purpose. She was 
hard at work investigating her own physical 
being, and fit the same time was vitalizing the 
starved spirit of anot her. She must return to 
her home now, but she was one of those char¬ 
acters who refuse to leave an attempted work 
unfinished. She and Lou had been gathering 
cardinals from among the flags and rushes of 
the marsh, and as they sat on the hank assort¬ 
ing their laps full of flowers, she said: 
“Louise, you must go home with me." 
“It is impossible, Aunt Nell; I cannot be 
spared.” 
“ Why, child, what egotism ! You could go 
out of the world, and the ranks would soon 
close up and all go on us if you never existed." 
“ but I have nothing to wear." 
“ No matter : sew when you get there." 
“It Is bo sudden, T cannot, comprehend it." 
“ Well, I will wait a few days longer.” 
So, objections overruled, Lou went to New 
York. 
The Aunt NkllS of this world are, “like an¬ 
gels’ visits, few and far between." So many 
prate of their obligations to others, so few talk 
of self-denial in doing good, so few know the 
luxury of helping others. Aunt. Null was no 
mere follower of precedent. She studied hu¬ 
man woes and wants for herself, and like a wise 
physician, treated them accordingly, bho did 
not east so large a sum in t he treasury t hat t he 
small wants about her, which her keen sense 
failed not to discern, must go unrelieved, it 
gave her more pleasure to save one human 
being than it. would to endow a college, for she 
gave not with the right hand that the left might 
see It. 
LOU was not put. fit once into a wearisome 
round of sight-seeing. She w as encouraged to 
range the house and sleep and read and dream 
her life had been so dreamless. Sometimes 
they would read some funny hook or a poem ; 
often they would go out and study a rare paint¬ 
ing together. Frequently they would Bit down 
with their sewing and have an earnest talk like 
1 lib; : 
“Aunt Nell. 1 have wondered much how a 
woman like you could reach a beautiful ad¬ 
vanced womanhood without being gobbled up 
into matrimony. 'Won't yon approve of mar¬ 
riage ?" 
“ Yes, dear, I surely approvo of marriage. I 
should bo sorry to know you would never 
marry. Yet,, if you have a reasonable ideal of 
the excellence of the man you would marry— 
cling to it! If you never marry. Reach up. If 
you step flown, you lose soul-power. If you 
lose soul-power, you lose t he only power really 
worth possessing. But do not make mo a model 
in anything. You sec, my dear, I am unmarried, 
and very happy. I could have been equally 
happy In a suitable married life. It is less the 
circumstance t.hnn the spirit you carry into life, 
t.'ircumstaueaa do not work Inward with half 
the power that, spirit works outward.” 
"But," said Lou, “circumstances at home 
made me wretched." 
“ No, your spirit was true; but It was neglect¬ 
ed, cramped, undeveloped, and it could not, 
therefore, strongly uplift, itself above trouble. 
Tho nearer to (ion. the stronger. I trust you 
would now return to your home with a strong, 
trustful spirit, ready to boar, to hope, to per¬ 
sistently sfriye to sluipr circumstances rather 
than be shaped by them," 
Soon tho charming quiet was disturbed. Aunt 
Nell could no more belli attracting tlmn the 
magnet, or warming than ( lie sun, nr refreshing 
than can the shower. People, finding she was 
at home, thronged t o sec, discussing this socie¬ 
ty, and that character, find church matters, and 
t he topics of the hour. These social interrup¬ 
tions were pleasant. Gradually they inspected 
many of tho wonders of tho great city. They 
made calls. They drove in flic Park. Would 
you believe it ? Lou's face became happy. The 
eyes grew lustrous, the mouth relaxed and 
gentle; and, “vanity of vanities,” the prim 
smooth hair became crimped and graceful, and 
the form rounded, and—and—rheumatism de¬ 
parted. Her young heart overflowed with glad¬ 
ness. Do we not know, “A merry heart doeth 
good, like a medicine ?” 
In society, Lou was at first shy and reserved, 
boon she conversed with dignity. Presently 
that latent humor gleamed forth in most orig¬ 
inal scintillations, bhe was unconventional 
and unique. She unconsciously drew people to 
her. Among the guests of Aunt Nell wore 
two young men, who much admired Lou. In 
striving to please her, their tactics differed with 
their characters. Montague was adroit; Butt- 
leigh was artless and open. The one was in¬ 
attentive to Lou, luit conversed with her aunt 
most charmingly, slyly observing the effect on 
Lon. He spoke with consummate grace of 
business, of sporting, of books, of society—con¬ 
veying a true impression of his wealth and in¬ 
telligence and popularity. With all this Lou 
was naturally entertained; farther, she gave no 
sign. The other went directly to Lou and sat 
before her, and looked purely and artlessly 
into her eyes, and talked with rare sympathy of 
human life, its curious phases, its aims and 
motives—of religion, of progress; now with in¬ 
tense earnestness, again overflowing with tun 
and redundant vita) ity—no matt er how abstruse 
the subject, taking Lou with him, assuming 
she was familiar with it. 
She met both and was happy. For once she 
dreamed without a stern reality to rouse her. 
She walked on enchanted ground. She deli¬ 
ciously dreamed and did not analyze. 
One evening Mr. Montague invited her to 
walk. The night was a perfect one, and chat¬ 
ting delightfully, they walked a long time and 
a long way. Presently they came to Broadway, 
and tho night being warm, they dropped into 
M ah,laud’s for an ice cream, and sat together 
on a tete-a-tete. 
“Mias Louise,” he said, “I mean to marry 
the first young lady I strongly admire who will 
ask me.” s 
“ How will you manage It ?” laughed LOU. 
“I will make my admiration so visible she 
cannot hut see it, and then, when she proposes, 
I will accept with alacrity. This, you see, will 
insure me against a rejection," lie explained, 
looking up into her face, half-ear nest, half¬ 
laughing. 
“ If people were only truthful, and acted nat¬ 
urally and without disguise, what a world of 
trouble it would save. There would scarcely 
he need of formal proposals to find the truth. 
As it is. 
“ ‘ O, purblind race of miserable men I 
How many ntnong us nt this very hour 
Ho forge a life-long trouble for ourselves, 
By taking true for false, or false for true,’ ” 
Lou responded, thoughtfully; and then, with 
woman’s tact, she glided into another veiu of 
conversation. 
One charming afternoon Mr. Burleigh In¬ 
vited her out for a drive. They passed leisurely 
through the Park,scanning the brilliant throng, 
and thence away up town. 
“ You must see High Bridge, Miss LOUISE." 
They moved onward. Thl3 part of the city 
was new to her. She admired and criticised 
and questioned. They at length left the car¬ 
riage and sat. on the bight above the steps that 
lead down the rock. They looked down upon 
(he Bridge—that monument of civilization, 
where man compels one river to cross another 
for his service. They looked into the shallow 
waters of t he Harlem and at the sunlight slant¬ 
ing across the opposite hills. Now, Lou's hand 
was not over pretty, either in form or color— 
because, you know, hard work is not a beauti- 
tler. But I must, tell you a silly thing. Lou’s 
friend took both her hands In his and hold them 
very tightly, and told her they were t he pret¬ 
tiest hands in all the world. Moreover, he 
looked into her face in i is frank, manly way, 
and Bald, with grave energy:— 14 Precious, I love 
you dearly. Could you be my wife?" 
And somebody's heart flut tered so furiously 
she could not make fti respectable reply. But 
what she said was eloquence itself to him who 
caught the words. 
Some days afterwards, as this couple were 
sitting together, this little confab took place: 
“ I should have told you, puss, t hat i am your 
church-mouse. 1 am not worth a tithe the 
money that”—hesitating Montague Ik; but 
then niv business is good, and wo shall l>e very 
comfortable while I atn making my untune. 
You must see my good mother. Do you know 
1 am country bred ? Yes, we have a little farm 
nn hour's ride from the city, where L usually 
spend my Sundays, and often run out during 
the week. Soon wo will go out together, will 
we not?” 
Lou looked intently at a certain flower in the 
carpet, By-and-by she said : 
“ No; 1 know a better way. I will help you 
make your fortune, i have had such an active 
life, that to board would neither be good for 
my mi.id nor body. I would nut Jive an idle 
woman when God has been so good to me. Let 
mo go to your mother in her old age, and nt&ko 
her home and yours beautiful. You do not 
know, darling, what I am capable of doing. 
Then you could come out to our home every 
night." 
Lou has a country home. The carpets are 
not yot Brussels, nor are the curtains lace— 
neither is the glass “ cut,” and the silver solid. 
Nevertheless, it is aa charming a place to visit 
EH the sun ever shone upon. The rooms con¬ 
tain plain furniture, choice pictures and books 
fresh magazines and papers, and elegant vases 
of flowers. The kitchen and cellar, and milk 
room contain all needed conveniences, and n 
strong woman to use them and keep them in 
order. 
Now 1 will tell you, privately, that when Lou 
has finished her work and put on her pretty 
cambric dress, with its etceteras, and somebody 
comes home lrom business, she not infrequently 
entices him down cellar and proudly opens 
certain Jars to show him the butter she has 
made; and he cal Is her tho great est “ puss” for 
tnilk he ever saw. 
You say. “What, Lou liking to fuss with 
milk and butter I What magic is this?” 
Only the magic difference bet ween hope and 
hopelessness—love and lovelessness. 
- ♦♦♦ -— 
Reading maketh a full man ; conference, a 
ready man; writing, an exact man; and there¬ 
fore if a man write little, he need have a great 
memory, if he confer little, have a present wit, 
and if he read little, he had need to have great 
tact to seem to know what he doth not. Histo¬ 
ries make men wise, poetry witty, the mathe¬ 
matics subtle, natural philosophy deep, morals 
grave. 
-«-♦>-— 
Deliver us from a person who never does 
wrong—and knows it! Deliver us from a man 
whose tongue never made a mistake, and who | 
keeps a note of the fact! If there is anyone J 
thing more provoking to a sinner—and we are 
all sinners—than another, it is one of these con¬ 
scientiously perfect folks. 
AT THY FEET. 
BY DE FORREST P. GUMMERSON. 
Ah ! rosy days, that have been dead, 
For many and many a dreary year; 
My feet grow weary when 1 tread 
The grassy mold anear thy grave, 
And from these eyes drop mnny a tear. 
For Hope was warm within my breast, 
And Joy-bells rang the whole day long: 
And in my heart Love had found rest. 
And life to me seemed then as sweet 
As did the nightingale’s clear song. 
But now! Hope Is no longer mine, 
Dead Love lies bleeding at my feet; 
The stars ot heaven re ruse to shine. 
And life is very dark and drear, 
Behold me, Father, at Thy feet. 
- ■*■-*-+ -• 
PRAYER. 
Great things ask for when thou dost pray. 
And those great are which ne’er decay. 
Pray not for silver, rust eats this; 
Ask not for gold, which metal is; 
Nor yet for houses, which are here 
But earth; such vows ne'er reach God’s ear. 
[Robert Herrick. 
-- 
LITTLE GRAVES. 
Fab and near, over our broad land, lie scat¬ 
tered those little graves, speaking a language 
of their own to all who have been taught by 
bereavement to understand it.. Those little, 
pathetic graves! What mother, who has laid 
her own child beneath tho green sod, can ever 
pass one without a heart-throb of anguish for 
that unknown mother, wherever or whoever 
she may be, who has known and suffered all 
she has known aud sutlicrerJ of grief and deso¬ 
lation ! There la no other loss just like the loss 
of a baby. Other losses may be greater; our 
grief may perhaps be more poignant for older 
friends; but the little baby, taken right out of 
a mother's arms, and from the heart of a family 
whose pet and plaything It has been for the 
few short months of itw Innocent existence, 
leaves a vacancy which nothing exit exceed. 
Oh, desolate mothers! how empty are our arms! 
And yet how full of an unseen presence Is every 
corner of the room where the little life was 
passed! Here he sat. on I he floor with his piny- . 
things around him. Do you remember how, ' 
when he took uf» the toy that pleased him, he 
would raise those sweet eyes to yours, looking 
even then where Instinct (.aught him he would 
find sure synipalhy? And 1,1 e little dimpled 
hand that lifted the toy for you, too, to see, tiie 
happy laugh that bubbled to the ro -y lips—can 
you ever, ever forget ? A ml, sometimes, as you 
open a drawer in your bureau, there lie the 
little, half-worn shoes, taken from the tiny feet 
that-, perhaps, have never trodden on Gob's 
b autiful eart h, and will take their first steps 
uphold by angels;— nr the hat that, made him 
look so cunning when he first wore it, so like a 
hoy- t he first stage beyond babyhood—and you 
shrink back us if the knife, was plunged afresli 
Into your bleeding heart.. Then you think of 
that little green grave, where so calmly sleeps 
your darling; where the blessed sunlight falls, 
and the gentle rain from heaven ; where the 
birds sing in summer, and the pure snow en¬ 
folds it in warm embrace in winter, aiul you 
feel that lie is safe—safe from ever experiencing 
such agony as you feel now—safe from all life's 
woes! 
Oh,sorrowing mothers! 7 have joined your 
band—but I say to you. Our Father is mercif id.' 
We have laid our treasures, at His command, 
out of our arms onto His loving bosom—but 
there is no power on earth or in heaven that 
can undo the links that (Jon hltnaelf has riv¬ 
eted between the souls of mother amt child. 
< Mir babe is ours forever and forever! VVe wait 
here now, a desolate and mournful company; 
but it is only a mist before our earthly eyes 
which veils from us those happy little forms, 
and when the Sun of Death shall arise, dispers¬ 
ing for each one of us that cloud, think of the 
rapture of that meeting! Oh, wait patiently! 
It shall all bo made up to us— the agony of grief 
—tho long weary years of waiting—the bitter 
tears wrung from our aching hearts—all will bp 
as not hing compared to that bliss of possession 
to last through eternity! “ And silence shall 
be up Iri heaven to hear our greeting kiss!” 
A. L. 
-♦ ♦♦-- 
THE VICE OF THE AGE. 
A lively sermon on the “ Vice of the Age ” 
was preached in St. Louis recently by Rev. Dr. 
Holland, of that city, and in the course of his 
remarks he said The middle classes spend 
their income la keeping up false appearance. 
They, toe, must wear dove-colored pantaloons 
and shiny boots. They must wear diamond 
studs and seal rings, and carry young ladies to 
the opei a in Hired carriages at the rate of three 
hours’ us e for three days’ wages. They must 
take a tin ' 11 now and then at billiards, stand 
treat to tht cocktails, bet upon their veracity 
when called iu Question, and, last of all, lest 
they should b 0 deemed timid, must demon¬ 
strate their nor ve b Y ‘ fighting'tho tiger,’ until 
It claws the last c,’ ime out of their pockets, and 
claws lasting scratches upon their souls." 
0 ' 
