MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER 
AU8. *§ 
OUB OWN. 
If I had known In tho morning 
How wearily nil the day 
The words unkind would trouble my mind 
That I said when you went away, 
I had been more careful, darling, 
Nor given you needless pain ; 
But wo vex our own with look and tone 
We might never take back again. 
For though In the quiet evening 
You may give me the kiss of peace, 
Yet It well might he that never for me 
The puln of the liuart should cease; 
How many go forth at morning 
Who never come home at night.! 
And hearts have broken for harsh words spoken, 
That sorrow can ne’er set right. 
We have careful thoughts for the stranger, 
And smiles for the sometimes guest; 
But oft for our own the bitter tone, 
Though we love our own the best. 
Ah! lips with curl Impatient. 
Ah ! brow with the shade of scorn, 
’Twere n cruel fate were the night too late 
To undo the work of the morn, . 
<©ur ^toru-i^Uej', 
ONCE AND AGAIN. 
BY A. A. O. 
“ Young Underwood lias been here and left 
that bouquet for you, Maggie.” 
While making this communicat ion. Mrs. Car¬ 
penter watched her daughter's face anxiously, 
to discern its effect. But Maggie nell her smiled 
nor blushed ; and ns her mother was not quick 
to road faces, she was pujt&lcd by the expression 
of the sweet face that bent over the flowers. 
“ Mother,” said the girl, presently, “ l should 
like to go to Aunt Jane’s to spend a week, if 
you feel well enough to spare me.” 
“Why, Maggie 1” her mother exclaimed, 
“ and miss the Banks' party and the shore pic¬ 
nic! I thought you had promised young Un- 
dehwooi) to go to both with him.” 
“ Yes, I know it,” said Maggie, indifferently, 
“but I am tired out with such things, and want 
a little quiet.” 
“ My dear child." said tho querulous invalid, 
In an excited tone, “ if you are going to be sick, 
I don’t know whatever I shall do. 1 am sure 
you are coming down with a slow fever, or you 
would never talk of getting weary of young 
folks' pleasuring." 
“ No, no, mamma," said the girl, rocking im¬ 
patiently, “ don’t begin to Imagine and fret. I 
am not sick, nor going to be." Then, seeing by 
her mother's face that more questions were 
coming, she stopped them liy saying abruptly, 
with n faint blush, “I want to get away from 
Charlie Underwood. Why, mamma? Be¬ 
cause he is getting to think too much of me, 
and I like him too well to want the bitterness 
of a refusal between us." 
“My dear, if you like him so well-" 
“ Mamma," she said,springing up, “ you don't 
understand. Can't a girl love a man well enough 
to die for him and not well enough to mnrry 
him? lean." 
After her daughter had left the room, Mrs. 
Carpenter sighed a little, thinking how her 
own wedded misery had probably marked the 
girl with a horror of marriage; and then smiled 
a little at the child's thinking that a week’s ab¬ 
sence could prevent tho “bitterness of refusal 
coming between them." * * * * * 
Sunday at Aunt Jane's even, at. 11 A. M„ 
promised to he a long day, and when M AGGIE, 
coming slowly down tho broad staircase, saw 
“Young Underwood," as her mother called 
him, “ Dr. Underwood," as She called him, or 
Charlie, as she thought of him, standing be¬ 
fore the open door with outstretched hands, 
she could no more help springing down the 
last two steps, and smiling w elcome, than she 
could help blushing at the looks with which he 
answered hers. It w as so pleasant to have him 
want her enough to come so far that, with an 
instinct for preserving her happiness, aho put 
hack the though! of “what It meant." But as 
they sat in the vine-covered porch together, 
the young man’s eager tones and excited eyes, 
and the dangerous conversational ground he 
ventured on, made her wonder at herself for 
allowing their meeting to be what it had been, 
in spite of the good resolutions which had 
brought her there. She was obliged to exert 
all her qulrk-wittedness to keep away from 
fatal topics. It was close sailing. Tf she were 
merry, he was more so. and began to compli¬ 
ment her alarmingly. If she grew sad. he grew' 
tender. If she frowned or even looked cold, he 
so ined about to make some desperate move; 
so she was much relieved when ho at last per¬ 
ceived her weary looks and asked if she w ere 
sick. To w hich question, put with almost lu¬ 
dicrous anxiety, she answered with studied 
coolness. “No, but 1 am very tired; I came 
down for rest.” 
On this, the doctor rose quickly, quite hurt 
and embarrassed, and apologized for bis long 
stay. Ho stopped, however, at the foot of the 
step3, and plucking nervously at the vine leaves, 
asked stiffly If a short call that evening would 
be too great a weariness to her. 
How well she would have liked to have said, 
“ Do oomo, Charlie ; I am always happier for 
your company." “ What a pity friendship can¬ 
not be," she sighed to herself, as she answered 
with much show of polite indifference, “I shall 
be happy to see you, sir,” and then added, earn¬ 
estly, “ if you will bo content with a quiet, per¬ 
haps dull, evening, and not talk on exciting 
topics, and then, laughing, “nor expect me to 
be responsive or entertaining." 
(’hahi.es Underwood walked slowly and 
musing. “What could she mean by exciting 
topics? I wanted to tell her I loved hew, to¬ 
night. Hut I suppose I must wait. Perhaps 
she knows It. J should think she would. A 
fellow can’t have on as much steam as I have 
without blowing the whistle occasionally. What 
if she shouldn’t”—and tho thought, though but 
half expressed, mode hlmstop with a set, troub¬ 
led look In his eyes; but he continued to him¬ 
self, smiling as the memory came, “ how beau¬ 
tifully she met mo this morning I Such asndle ! 
By Jove! I almost kissed her. She drew off 
with a little scared look just In time." * * ♦ 
At evening Maggie met him at the gate with 
a proposal to go rowing on the little lake, afew 
rods distant. The late sunlight made darker 
things golden than Maggie’s curls, as St slanted 
over the still water and darted over the broad 
shoulders of the oarsmen, who pulled fast when 
he felt inclined to broach forbidden “topics." 
The two talked with the ease of old friends 
while the sunlight lasted, and sank into easy 
silence when H faded. At last, the long quiet 
was broken by the young man’s asking after 
Maggie’S comfort, as the air rtcw chill. She 
answered, unguardedly, “ I am very comfort- 
aide, thank you ; but It Is too bad to let you do 
all the rowing." 
The quick answer was, “ I should ho quite 
content to do all tho rowing, Maggie, if I 
might always have you in rny boat." 
Marguerite could hear his quick breath, 
could feel her heart beating strong, felt a mis¬ 
erable sense that she must hurt tho heart that 
loved her. Words would not come; all she 
thought, of seemed too harsh, booking up at 
last, with a senseless instinct of looking for a 
way of escape, she met his eyi =. She fell as if 
she were putting them out when she said, slow¬ 
ly. “ No, Charlie, that, would not bo fair, and 
we could never row together." The poor fel¬ 
low dropped t he oars, and covered ills face with 
that strange instinct which wo all possess of 
hiding the expression of pain on the face from 
everyone. They drifted a few moments in si¬ 
lence; then Marguerite said, gently, “You 
can row very well without me, CHARLIE; take 
up the oars.” 
“I can’t," ho said, hoarsely; and then, bend¬ 
ing forward to see her face in the darkness, he 
began to pour out the heart full of love which 
not even his pride could keep back. 
She shrank from him, crying, “ Don’t, don’t! 
Why will you torture tut both for no good ?" 
“ Both ?” ho repoated, eagerly. 
“ Yes," she said, “ for I love you so well-" 
he grasped her hand, which she drew away 
quickly, looking at him steadily the while and 
repeating, “I love you so well that it almost 
breaks my heart to have you expect more of me 
than I can give, or he disappointed in my heart.” 
“ You said," ho murmured, " that—that you 
loved me.” 
“I do, but not enough,” she said. 
He took up the oars and rowed with despe¬ 
rate rapidity. Whon he helped her from the 
boat he felt her hand tremble and held It tight, 
while he asked, “No repeal ?” 
“ No repeal," she said. 
The boat darted from the shore, and Mar¬ 
guerite watched him In it half the night, but 
with her light out, lost he should see It. 
Boeing her white face in tho glass next morn¬ 
ing, she smiled sadly. Haying, “I guess he will 
get over It first, after all;" and wiping away a 
few hot tears with the face towel, sighing, “I 
have lost my dearest friend." 
Poor bird, trying to fly with a broken wing! 
She was wounded, but not conquered. Hhe 
could not give up all to her love, and her love 
would not give up all to her, and so there was 
nothing to do but to get over it, as she said to 
herself, with great show of bravery. * * * * 
rive years passed, and Marguerite Carpen¬ 
ter began to confess that getting over It wms 
hard work. The dead friendship showed signs 
of a resurrection in a more glorious form ; but 
Ch arlie was not there. Her home had been in 
Florida since her mother's death, where her 
father had large orange groves. He never could 
get her to wear t lie flowers In her hair; she said 
it made “her sick; so it did—at heart. When 
she took the fever her father was anxious, but 
she only said, “ I shall get over it." One day he 
came in, looking very happy, and shouted at 
her. “ Good news, my dear; a real providence. 
I met Dr. UNDERWOOD on my way to Augusta ; 
ho has come right here,and will have you about 
In no time; he has had great luck, he tells mo. 
In bucIi coses. His coining has saved us the 
week it would have taken to get some one from 
Augusta. Shalt i bring him right up ?" 
“Oh, no, don't,” she replied, trembling. “I 
can't see him. I'd rather wait till you go to 
Augusta. I’m not very tick. Please don’t bring 
him here-" 
“ Well! ” interrupted her father, testily, 
“what ridiculous talk is this? Not see him? 
What's got. into my sensible girl's head? You 
needn’t be afraid of a young doctor, for he looks 
old enough. Don't let rue hear another word ; 
I shall bring him right up." 
She tried to smooth her thin hair with her 
weak Augers, caught sight of her sallow face in 
the glass, and hid it on the pillow. She heard 
footsteps on the stairs and her father's voice, 
Baying, "The ilrst door to the right; go in. 
There's a man waiting for me, so you must get 
on alone; you will find her rather nervous, but 
I suppose you expect that." 
He stopped a moment outside tho door, ns if 
he wore wait ing for her to get a steady voice, 
with which to say “Come in,” which she did 
not got after ail. Ho wont in, bowing gravely, 
and after one glance at her stood silent, com¬ 
pressing iiis pale lips and looking away. He sat 
down when she invited him to, and said, grave¬ 
ly :—“ I could not avoid hearing your objections 
to my presence, and oouhl not have intruded if 
I had not felt that I must save you a long sick¬ 
ness, Which, by curing at once, I hope to do. If 
your objection arose from a fear that I would 
take advantage of this opportunity to press 
upon you again my rejected love, I can remove 
it by assuring you that 1 will not annoy you by 
a single word, nor, if possible, by a look. I feel 
it. cruel," he added, with a painful flush, “to 
intrude myself upon you In the Intimate capa¬ 
city of a physician, but he walked to the 
window for a moment, and then turned, saying 
with a professional air, “Your hand —your 
pulse, 1mean, if you please." 
She put Out her hand, and its thin Angers 
clasped his in a burning grasp and drew him to 
the bedside. 
“ I love you," she said. 
“Enough, Maggie?” 
“Enough," she said. 
--V+4- 
SPARKS AND SPLINTERS. 
FIVE YEARS AFTER. 
I Din not love your yellow hair, 
Or skin of tawny hue; 
I never said your hand was fair, 
Or that your eyes were blue. 
I iltd not call your ilgiiro tine, 
Or praise your tiny fret; 
Nor, when to sons you did Incline, 
Declare your voice was sweet. 
I did not woo as others woo, 
With vows Pot), weak and rash ; 
For every charm I saw In yon 
Was told in one word—Cash! 
Pluck requires a good stomachful. 
The (light of Cupid-ity Love-making. 
“Weight for the wagon,” sang the fat lady. 
Scots on i lie sun—Freckles on your boy’s face. 
What word is always pronounced wrong? 
Wrong. 
A woman who tells fortunes from a tea-cup 
is a sauceress. 
A man that ought to be re-membered—A 
one-legged soldier. 
A kangaroo is a curious chap; whon it's 
wideawake it's leaping. 
People who are always wanting somothing 
new, should try neuralgia. 
A bore is a man who spends so much time 
talking about himself that you can't talk about 
yourself. 
Drinkers in this country can hardly be called 
heathens, but still the great idea with them is 
Jug-or-not. 
A YOUNG lady iu Springfield dismissed her 
Im cr the other day because he said she couldn't 
hear arms. 
New apples are one dollar and ten cents a 
quart. Ten cents for the apples and a dollar 
for a doctor. 
Wh at was the proverb that King Lear heard 
from the lips of his two daughters?—Go father 
and fare worse. 
A Kentucky man has named his sixteenth 
child, recently born to him, Omega, hoping it 
will be the last. 
It is said tb«t iron is a good tonic for debili¬ 
tated young ladies. That may be so, but iron¬ 
ing is a better one. 
It is said that, to be perfectly consistent, Miss 
Anthony always concludes her prayers with 
“Amen and Women.” 
A debating society in North Carolina is 
engaged in discussing liie difference between 
a horse-radish and a reddish horse. 
When Shakespeare’s mother wished him to 
confess a theft, what distinguished character 
did she hold up before him?—William Tell. 
We never knew a man to be elected to an 
office of trust who carried horse-chestnuts in 
his pocket as a preventive of rheumatism. 
“If you don’t want the soot, don’t go up the 
chimney," was the reply of an editor to “re¬ 
spectable ’’ partiee w r ho requested him not to 
mention the fact that they had been arraigned 
in the police courts. 
A man lately learned what it was to have 
Insult added to injury, in being first scared out 
of bis wits by his horse running away with him, 
and then arrested and fined for driving at an 
Illegal rate of speed. 
An ambitious Nashville youth says he only 
lacks three tilings of being perfectly happy and 
contented, and these are: a handsome wife, 
plenty of money and black curly hair. Let him 
supply himself with t he second; It will buy him 
the other two. 
Said a tipsy husband to his wife, “ You need 
—needn’t bl—lame me! 'Twas woman that first 
tempted man to eat forbidden things." “ Wo¬ 
man may have tempted man to eat forbidden 
things," said ids w ife, “ but lie took to drinking 
of his own accord." 
Smith sued for damages in a case of breach of 
promise of marriage. He was offered two hun¬ 
dred dollars to heal his broken heart. “Two 
hundred!” he exclaimed—"two hundred dol¬ 
lars for ruined hopes, a broken heart, blighted 
affections and a blasted life! Two hundred dol¬ 
lars for all this! No, never! Make it three 
hundred, and it’s a bargain.” 
ablinth Reading. 
A PRAYER. 
BY OLIVE HENRI. 
Oh ! to be led by Thee, Father, 
In the paths where the Saviour has trod, 
With onr faith on the Beautiful City, 
And Boarinir above the clod 
TUI from sin all redeemed, we meet'round the throne, 
Where grief 1 r unfelt, and sorrow unknown. 
Oh ! to be led by Thee, Father, 
When Spring In the heart reigns bright, 
When the sky bends serenely above us, 
And our paths gleam with life's fairest light; 
Oh I our step would bo lighter, and our hearts beat 
more free. 
To know we were walking In paths found by Thee. 
Oh ! to be led by Thee, Father, 
When sorrow and grief gather ’round ; 
When our brows, no more circled with sunshine, 
Are rather with thorny wreaths crowned, 
May thy arm he around ns, nnd thy love shed a light, 
To dispel the dark gloom, and guide us aright. 
Oh! to be led by Thee, Father; 
In thy promises none sweeter we BOO 
Than this-that, wherever our footsteps, 
Wo may ever be guided by Thee. 
Whether o’er Joy's fair plain, or through sorrow’s 
dark sea. 
May we ever be guided and led by Thee. 
-»-*-•*- 
A CHILD-LIKE FAITH. 
I’a rents who neglect, the religious training 
of tho little ones, unconsciously lose much that 
would be of spiritual benefit to themselves, be¬ 
sides the incomparable loss to the children thus 
neglected. Nothing can be more touching or 
beautiful than the simple and perfect trust and 
confidence of a child's faith In God. Its doubts 
and fears arc so easily removed. It comes to 
you with a troubled face. Son 10 puzzling ques¬ 
tion, concerning God, has arisen l:i its little 
mind, nnd how anxiously it awaits your answer! 
What can be more gratifying to a mother’s heart 
than to see its face brighten and the clouds dis¬ 
appear, as your answer Is slowly Impressed on 
its mind ? As it resumes its play, perfectly satis¬ 
fied, you will surely discover a now beauty in 
those words, “ A child-ilke failh.” 
The following truthful Incident beautifully 
illustrates the practical benefit and controlling 
influence resulting from the pious training of 
children: 
One afternoon, through the absence of their 
mother, two little children, Willie and Edik, 
aged, respectively, seven and five years, were 
left alone. She was necessarily detained from 
her home until after dark, and tho children 
vainly watched for her coming, until they could 
no longer distinguish one object from another 
in the fast-gathering darkness. Their only light 
being a dim nrio, proceeding from the stove, it 
was no wonder that an undefined fear came 
creeping into their little hearts; but Willie, 
being the older, put on a bravo “outside” for 
a while, answering cheerfully to F.pie’s ques¬ 
tion, “Ar’ilt you afraid?" “No, what do yon 
suppose can hurt me hero?" But when Edge 
crouched down in affright, declaring, between 
her sobs, that she heard something, be uncon¬ 
sciously realized the need of a higher power 
than his own. Taking hold of her hand he said, 
“ Please don’t cty. Edif. ; lot cs pray. God can 
take care of ns. even if there was a Hon right in 
the room." “Why, how could He?" “God 
can do anything, Edie. Don’t you remember 
how mamma told us about Daniel— how he 
was put right in among lots of lions, and God 
cauic and shut their mout hs so they couldn’t 
bite nt all?" “Couldn’t they growl, either?" 
“ Well, I don’t know, for sure, about t hat,; but 
I know God could make them atop growling, if 
Ho wanted to, for I tell you God can do any¬ 
thing." “ Well, Willie, if He can do anything, 
I wish He would make mamma come home." 
“ May be He will, if we ask Him to,” Clasping 
her little bauds together, Edie said, “Oh, God, 
please make mamma come home, and make it 
light so we can see." “ Why, Edik, that isn’t 
tho way to pray; we must kneel down, and try 
to think what a big God Ho is, and how He 
knows ail about whether wo have been good 01 
not.” “ Then let’s kneel down, and you pray." 
They knelt down, and Willie repeated the 
Lord’s Prayer, and then said, “ Please, God, wo 
know we have been very naughty, lots of times, 
but we want you to help us to lie good. Please 
take c are of us, and make mamma come home 
quick, for we are all alone." Edie then said 
her little prayer, “ Now I lay me down to sleep.” 
They arose from their knees with a peace of 
mind they could not express, and. young as t hey 
were, they realized a perfect tru&t in the willing¬ 
ness and ability of God to care for them under 
any circumstances. u. h. n. 
•- 
Cheerfulness— “Be cheerful,” says the man 
who Is easy in his circumstances, missiug no 
loved face at the table, nor by the hearth. But 
does he ever consider how hard it may he to be 
“cheerful" when the heart aches, and the cup¬ 
board is empty, and there are little fresh graves 
in the church yard, and friends are fewer indif¬ 
ferent, and even Hoaveu, for the time being, 
seeniB to have forgotten us. So desolate is our 
lot! How difficult for one man to understand 
another, in such differing circumstances! How 
easy to say, “ Be cheerful! ” How iiard he 
would find it to practice it, were lie stripped of 
all life’s brightness! 
