ft 
W' 
<r y 
MOQBI’S RURAL KlU 
f 
tliis was when life ends—death. Could 1 
live all the years away from Piiil? and 
could I go to the grave and lie down in 
peace after living a falsehood—for gold ? 
Wasn’t it better to wait and trust, to meet 
suffering as a friend, to grow old alone, than 
to enter a new way of life with a lie upon 
my lips ? 
I snatched the thread rather rudely away. 
It had been but a minute, but it seemed so 
long I was afraid he had broken it. 
“No,”l said, “I shall work on this for 
days, till it comes right. When it vexes me 
too much, I shall put it away, and begin 
again the next day. And if it is really like 
my life, I shall do the same with that. 
When this troublesome mystery presses on 
my heart too heavily, aud I cannot hear it, 
I shall put it out of my thoughts till 1 get 
stronger. 1 shall do as Philip told me:— 
‘ Take it on trust a little while.’ I wish 
you would go now, and be sure, my skein 
will be unraveled,!’ 1 added, triumphantly. 
I thought there wus a secret pain in his 
face, and 1 knew there was a sense of defeat 
there, as he said, slowly: 
“Noha, faith like yours is rare—months 
of waiting do not chill it; and though your 
words bring grief to me, yet I honor you 
more fully for them. Perhaps you have 
awakened my si umbering spark of man¬ 
hood ; for believe me, if 1 have worked 
against you in the past, I will help you now. 
I may have the clue to your unyielding 
knot—who knows ?” and a half smile dawn¬ 
ed over his face. “ Good-by, Noka !” 
I could not answer then—there was such 
a conllict of emotions in my heart; but 1 
let my hand rest in his with a more kindly 
pressure than ever before; and as he went 
down the garden walk 1 thought I had 
never liked him so well—and, after all, it 
would not have been such a terrible thing 
to marry him. 
“Ill my willfulness,” bo had said, I took 
up the obstinate skein again, and began to 
pull at it liercely, as 1 heard mother coming. 
She was in the kitchen, moving here and 
there, humming a merry air to herself 
while IIorack had been with me; and 1 
knew she must, have caught some stray 
wail's of our talk, and piecing it together, 
after her own fashion, was already congratu¬ 
lating herself and me—how she came in, 
with more of the bright, contented look 
about her than 1 had seen since we lost the 
great house and the money. T was so sorry 
to bring back the cloud, so I kept still, pre¬ 
tending to be very busy. 
“Well, Noha?” 
“ Well, mother?” and I kept my head 
resolutely bent over my work. 
“ Don’t be foolish, my dear, but tell me 
all about it. You have grown reasonable at 
last, for 1 Iorace never would stay so long, 
unless-” 
“ And I’m very glad for you, and very 
happy, I’m sure, my dear,” she continued, as 
I sat quiet before her. “ I always liked him 
the best. Tic's a very good young man, lii.s 
position in society is established, and lie's 
richin short everything we could ask. 
You don’t know how to be poor; and I’ve 
always wanted to see you settled in life be¬ 
fore anything happens to me; and I call it 
a direct interposition of Providence, for us. 
Not but that, the other one, is all very well; 
but you know 1 never thought lie moved in 
just the first society—and then it might be 
so long bcf< we he could take care of you. My 
good, sensible girl, your mother’s heart can 
understand your feelings to-day.” 
I was very silly, but 1 seemed powerless to 
stem the current of mother’s approbation, till 
she spoke of Phil— and then what I said, 
was so weak. 
“Mother, neither of these young men is 
anything to me. You are mistaken. Horace 
will never ask me to share his home again ; 
I have told him not to.” 
Mother stared at me in amazement. 
“ Noha Campbell, are you telling me the 
tmth ? Do you mean that you have refused 
the richest offer in this place, and made your 
poor mother a beggar in her old age? With 
all my other trials, my dear husband’s death 
and all, it is hard to have my only child so 
ungratetul. After all I’ve done for you, it— 
is—cruel,” and the tears, always ready, came 
in copious showers. 
I could’nl hear any more. It was so un¬ 
kind to me, when my heart did ache so,—to 
be reproached, because I had a conscience! 
and snatching my work, I rushed off to my 
own room. But in a minute, I was sorry. 
It was unexpected to mother, and so the 
disappointment was all the keener; and 
poverty seemed the worst of evils to her. 
We had always lived so grandly. She had 
never known what it was to work;—all the 
luxuries of life had fallen at her feet,—till the 
crash came, and our loss. From the wrecks, 
we only saved enough to pay the rent of our 
little collage and buy food to eat. The 
clothes and everything else we must earn; 
and it fretted mother. 
Trouble sweetens some natures, showing 
hidden depths of strength and patience, 
quickening love and tenderness—relining, as 
by lire. But in others it works painfully; 
they cannot cling to the Great Rock, in a 
weary land, but they beat aimlessly against 
their prison bars, till the little complainings 
and worries grow into a constant dropping, 
that cats away the heart fragrance. 
.Just now I seemed to lose all trust, and I 
looked forward helplessly, despairingly. 1 
had tried to work on bravely; hut it was all 
so new, and J made so many mistakes. If 
mother would let me, 1 might have gone 
away to teach music or drawing, or be a 
governess—but no, 1 mustn’t leave her. I 
never could like sewing; it made my side 
ache so, and sharp twinges ran through my 
shoulders, as if 1 had the ague; it took me 
so long to do it nicely that I was completely 
discouraged. Mother’s eyes troubled her so 
much she could not do this fine sort; so I 
must earn money t his way, while she, with 
her delicate white hands, washed the dishes, 
scrubbed the tables and took care of the 
house. 
“ Bad, very bad,” old lawyer Griswold 
said, when he came to see us the day before. 
But lie had heard the rumor, 1 suppose, and 
thought 1 was going to make it better soon; 
for he shook my hand very heartily and 
wished us “ good luck,” and left with a be¬ 
nignant smile and the usual compliment. 
“ If there was anything he could do, he 
should be most happy,” &c. 
I must find something that would pay 
better; that was plain, now that 1 had told 
mother my decision about Horace. 
He said that about my life—“all in a 
tangle,” and it meant Phil; and it was very 
strange and perplexing. I had known them 
both a long time, but I always thought the 
most of Phil. I don’t know why, for lie 
never said half as many tender things as 
Horace, when we used to go to school to¬ 
gether. But then Phil had never been very 
rich, so he bad troubles, and was always 
graver than the, rest of us. He used to 
study very hard, because he had "nothing 
to fall hack upon but himself,” he said. “ He 
must carve his own way in the world, un¬ 
aided, and 1 should be bis little wife before 
we grew old.” But it was when we lost our 
fine tilings that he seemed to love me most ; 
and after we went into the little house he 
used to come to see me twice as often; so 
poverty hadn’t made the difference with him. 
Then what was it? 
When he first went to Atheraby, he used 
to write every week, and tell me everything, 
—how fast he was rising, and how soon he 
should be back for me, and how he loved me 
more every day. Then he began to com¬ 
plain, because 1 did not write him oftener; 
when 1 used to strain my tired eyes till the 
tears blinded me, sitting up late, to write 
him what i had done through the day. Ami 
his letters grew shorter and reproachful, and 
lie said “ I was unstable as water," and then 
I got angry, and wrote him a little spiteful 
note. He answered that, thanking me for 
taking “ any notice ” of him. It was so pro¬ 
voking that I said I'd never write again; but 
at last I put my pride down in the dust, and 
sent him such a long, loving letter; and he 
never answered it. It was all so unreasona¬ 
ble. 1 never dreamed iL of Pm i.. 
Once I thought be might never have had 
my letters. I remembered all the ways 1 had 
heard they got lost. There was the dead 
letter office; but mine were always directed 
too plainly for that fate,—" Mi-. Puilti* Ross, 
M D., Athersby,N. Y,” Perhaps somebody 
had kept them back from him ; but that was 
altogether too romantic. I had no vindictive 
aunt or spiteful rival; and 1 used to post 
them myself, too. Ilis came all right to me; 
and my cross one that I hoped might get 
lost, reached him safely enough. 
So I was groping round in the dark, and 
the only comfort mother gave me was: “ It’s 
a foolish fancy on both sides, and I would 
not lose a good chance for him.” Perhaps 
not. But how could I forget when he held 
up my face to his, that night, and said, “ My 
Nora will wait for me, and love me always.” 
I must trust a little longer. 
So I concluded to put on my black silk 
and blue bows—my best dress—andgo down 
stairs very fine, to show mother my heart 
was not greatly disturbed about any lover, 
and to try to cheer her up. The bell rung 
just t hen, and as I opened the sitting-room 
door, mother playfully threw a note to me, 
with an expression that meant, “I told 
you so.” 
“The boy just brought it, Nora. What 
does he say? He is coming to-night to get 
a sensible decision, now that you have 
thought it over—I suppose—” 
“ This is what the note says, mother; you 
can judge for yourself: 
*1 hope yon will be at home to-night, as a 
friend or mine from Athersby, who tins heard 
of you, wants to see you very much. It is im¬ 
portant, as ho goes back to-morrow. PI wise t'or- 
tflve me for not helping you with ‘the tangle* 
before. I was thinking only of my own happi¬ 
ness. My friend has been traveling in Europe 
for some months, and has just returned. 
Yom ' s > H.Gray.'” 
I read this, but I kept the card that was 
inside in my hand. 
“Well, Nora, I am satisfied you have 
some chance left, yet, if you only won’t be 
sentimental, child. Girls don’t hold to a 
faithless lover, the way you’ve done. I’d I 
have pride enough to show PniLip Ross 
that I could have more offers than one.” 
“ Oh, mother ! please don’t talk that way. 
I can't bear it.” 
“ I won’t then. Goodby—I’m going to 
see Mis. Gray a little while, and I shan’t be 
late.” 
Then I looked at the card; the words 
swam before my eyes. I must be wrong. 
Horace was playing me a trick. It was 
such weak revenge, too, to test my nerve 
before his friend came. Yet there the ad¬ 
dress was, “ Philip Ross, M. D., Athersbv, 
N. Y.” 
It was a lie ; for one thing 1 did know, 
Phil, had not been traveling one day for the 
last six months. If he thought he could 
palm off this false excuse for his conduct, on 
me, he was mistaken. 
How long I sat there by the window, 1 
don’t know. I was angry—burning with 
rage now; aud lie might come and sue for 
pardon, seventy times seven, and I wouldn’t 
forgive him. 
I heard Mr. Gray’s step on the walk. 1 
knew he would come right in with him, as 
the door was open ; and what I should say, 
I didn’t think nor care. 
“Good evening, Nora. My friend, Mr. 
Ross, Miss Campbell,” and Horace added 
quickly, “I have an errand down town,and 
I’ll meet you, Ross, by-and-by.” 
1 knew lie lifted bis hat aurl went out 
again. I had stood up and bowed very low 
to Phil., when we were introduced , but I 
had not looked toward him. Now, I threw 
hack my bead wtik a withering look of 
scorn: hut 1 stopped, and stammered to the 
tall stranger. 
“ Won’t you sit down, Mr.—Mr. Ross?” 
As I sank into my own chair, I thought 
he seemed to enjoy my discomfiture vastly; 
but he said, quickly:— 
“Yes, Ml*. Ross—Miss Campbell. And 
I should he very sorry that my respected 
parents lmd ever endowed me with the mime 
on your account, if I could not, in the pres¬ 
ent, atone for the wrongs of the past;” 
and he drew from his pocket a package, 
neatly tied with blue ribbon, that he handed 
to me. 
I mechanically untied the knot, and my 
letters, directed to Philip Ross, fell into 
my lap, with Athersby crossed out, and. 
Paris, Rome, Berne and other names in its 
place. 
I think my face must have shown more 
kindly upon i’AAcPhii.ip than at first, as ho 
said:— j 
“If you don’t guess, Miss Campbell, 1 
must tell you the way these came into my 
possession. They were sent after me to 
Europe, and 1 was traveling round so fast, I 
did not know how to begin to rectify the 
error. I knew I should return sooner than 
1 could send them all back, and the mistake 
might have still gone on. The first one is 
opened, you see. You must give me credit 
for great, self denial in resisting further 
temptation,” he added. 
1- could feel the color mount up in my 
cheek; but I thanked him for his forbear¬ 
ance, and T was very glad to hold the sealed 
missive in my hand. I had a pleasant, call 
after that, and lie told me how persistently 
my letters had chased him from place to 
place, till he almost believed they belonged 
to him. If lie bad been at home, lie said he 
should have found I’niL out long ago, and 
there would have bfecn no trouble about, the 
name. To make all amends in his power, 
lie came down to our village the day after 
the steamer arrived. I bade him good-by, 
telling him 1 hoped his namesake would be 
as good in a similar case, and then I was 
alone. 
Horace knew where my letters went, and 
never told me! But, poor fellow, 1 would 
not blame him now, for he was helping me 
to unwind the skein; and I forgave him 
wholly, as I heard a step I could never mis¬ 
take on the gravel path. Phil came in. In 
the dim light I saw the same true, noble 
face, the same loving eyes beaming out his 
constant, unswerving faith, and I threw my 
arms right around his neck, and dreamed 
that, Eden had come down to earth. 
After a while I let him talk. Horace 
had kindly telegraphed him to come on, and 
had told him about the letters, and I said I 
knew it would all come right some day, and 
I was going to let him know that 1 was in 
Athersby, when I went to visit cousin 
Mary, and have an explanation then, in 
spite of everything 
We got the skein all out and wound 
smooth on the reel. Phil’s fingers were 
very deft, though lie made mine work more 
awkwardly than ever. I should never have 
blundered through it alone. 
“ Don’t you see it wasn’t meant you should, 
Nora ?” he whispered. “ I was to come and 
help you. You were just ready to find the 
straight thread when your life seemed most 
sadly twisted. It is only our impatience, 
our blind tugging at the wrong bit, that, car¬ 
ries us wrong. Take the true one steadily, 
hopefully, with faith in God’s love, if man’s 
fails us, and we shall all reach ‘the goal 
from finished labors, the anchorage at last.’ ” 
THE BEST THAT I CAN, 
“ I cannot dn ronch,“ said a little star, 
“ To make the dark world bright! 
My silvery beams cannot struggle far 
Through the Inlrflng gloom of night! 
But I'm only apart of God’s great plan, 
Aud I’ll cheerfully do the best thut I can.” 
** What is the use,” said a fleecy cloud, 
" Of these few drops that 1 bold ? 
They will hardly bend the lily proud, 
Though caught in her cup of gold. 
Vet I um n part, of God’s great plan, 
So my treasure* I'll give as well as I can.” 
A child went merrily forth to play. 
But a thought, like a silver thread. 
Kept winding in and out all day 
Through the happy, golden head; 
Mother said, " Darling, do all you can. 
For you are a part of God's great plan.” 
She knew no more than the glancing star. 
Nor the cloud with Us chalice full, 
How, why, and for what, all Btrange things were: 
She was only a child at school ! 
But she thought, *' It is part of God’s great plan, 
That oven I should do all that 1 can.” 
She helped a younger child along, 
When the road was rough to the feet; 
And she sang from her heart a little song. 
That we all thought passing sweet; 
And her father, a weary, toil-worn man. 
Said, “ I will do likewise the best that I can.” 
Our best? Ah! children, the host of us 
Must hide our faces away. 
When the laird of the vineyard comes to look 
At our task at the close of day! 
But for strength from above (’tis the Master’s plan,) 
We’ll pray, and we’ll do the best that we can. 
THE BOYS’ TWO RULES. 
“ Here arc two rules for you, Fred,” said 
Giles Warner, looking up from the paper lie 
was reading, and addressing a younger broth¬ 
er, who was sitting by the stove, playing 
with a favorite dog. 
“ Well, what arc they? let’s have them,” 
said Fred, suspending his sport with the dog. 
“ The first is, ' Never get vexed with any¬ 
thing you can help.’ The second is, ‘ Never 
get vexed with anything you cau’t help.’” 
“Are not these rules tis applicable to you 
as to me?” inquired Fred, archly. 
“No doubt of that,” replied Giles, good- 
humoredly; “hut then it is so much easier 
to hand over a piece of good advice to an¬ 
other than lo keep it fur one's own personal 
use. It is a kind of generosity that does not 
require any self-denial.” Fred laughed. 
“ But what do you say to these two rules?” 
continued Giles. “ How would they work 
if we do adopt them?” 
" I think they take a pretty wide and clean 
sweep,” said Fred. “ They don’t leave a fel¬ 
low any chance at all to get vexed.” 
“That might be an objection to them,” 
said Giles, “ if any one became wiser, better, 
or happier for getting vexed. 1 think they 
arc sensible rules. It is foolish to vex our¬ 
selves about what can’t be helped. Let us 
assist each other to remember and obey these 
two simple rules. What say you?” 
“ I’ll agree to it,” said Fred, who was 
usually ready to agree to anything his 
brother proposed, if it was only proposed 
good-humoredly. 
“That’s too bad,” exclaimed Fred, the 
next morning, while making preparations 
for school. 
“ What is the matter?” inquired Giles. 
“ I have broken my shoe-string, and it is 
vexations; I’m in such a hurry.” 
“ k is vexatious, no doubt," replied Giles, 
“ but you must not get vexed, for this is one 
of the things that can be helped. You can 
find a string in the let! corner of the upper 
drawer of mother’s bureau.” 
“But we shall be late at school,” said 
Fred. 
“ No, we shall not,” said Giles. “ We 
shall only have to walk a little faster. Be¬ 
sides if you keep cool, you will find the 
striug and put it in much sooner than you 
can if you become vexed and worried,” 
“ That’s true,” said Fred, as he went for the 
string, quite restored to good humor. 
Several opportunities occurred during the 
day for putting the rules into practice. The 
best was this: In Hie evening, Giles broke 
the blade of bis knife while whittling apiece 
of hard wood. 
“ It can’t be helped, so you are not to get 
vexed about it,” said Fred. 
“It can’t be helped, but I can do better 
than fret about it. I can learn a lesson of 
care for the future, which may some day 
save me a knife more valuable than this. 
The rules work well. Let’s try them to¬ 
morrow.” 
The next morning Fred devoted an hour 
before school to writing a composition. 
After lie had written a half a dozen lines, his 
mother called him off to do something for 
her. In his absence, his sister Lucy made 
use of his pen to write her name in a book, 
and she let fall a great drop of ink on the 
page lie was writing. Fred returned while 
she was busily employed in doing what she 
could do to repair the mischief. 
“ You have made a great blot ou my com¬ 
position,” he exclaimed, looking over her 
shoulder. • 
“ I am very sorry. I did not mean to do 
it,” said Lucy. But Fred was so vexed that 
he would have answered his sister very 
roughly if Giles had not interposed. 
“ Take care, Fred; you know the thing is 
done and can’t be helped.” 
Fred tried hard to suppress his vexation. 
“ I know it was an accident,” he said pleas¬ 
antly, after a brief struggle. 
Lucy left the room, and Fred sat down 
again to bis composition. After a moment 
he looked up. “ No great harm is clone after 
all. Two or three alterations are much need¬ 
ed, and if I write it over again I can make 
them.” 
“ So much for a cool head and not getting 
vexed,” said Giles laughing. “Our rules 
work well.” 
At night Fred tore his trowsers in climb¬ 
ing a fence. “ That’s too bad.” 
“ It can be helped,” said Giles; “ they 
can be mended.” 
“ The way to Help it is what troubles me,” 
said Fred. “ I don’t like to ask mother, she 
has so much to do.” 
Giles proposed that he should get over his 
difficulty by asking Lucy to do the job lor 
him, as her mother had taught her to mend 
very neatly. Fred was not, at first, disposed 
to adopt this measure. He knew that Lucy 
disliked mending very much, and was afraid 
she would he cross if asked to do it; but at 
last decided to run the risk of that. They 
found Lucy busily employed with a piece of 
embroidery, and quite absorbed with her 
work. 
Fred looked significantly at Giles when he 
saw how she was employed; but lie con¬ 
cluded lie had gone too far to retreat, and he 
must make a bold push. 
“ I wish t o ask a great favor of you, Lucy, 
but I fear I have come in the Avrong time,” 
said Fred. 
“ What do you want ?” said Lucy. 
“ I’m almost afraid to tell you. It’s too 
had to ask you to do what I know you dis¬ 
like.” 
“ You are a good Avhile getting to what is 
Avanted,” said Lucy, laughing. “ Come out 
Avith it,” 
Fred, thus encouraged, held up his foot 
and displayed a rent. 
“ Well, take them off; I will do my best,” 
said Lucy, cheerfully, 
“ You are a dear, good sister,” said Fred. 
“ When I saw Avhat you were about, I thought 
3’ou Avould not be willing to do it.” 
“ My unusual amiability quite puzzles you, 
does it?” said Lucy, laughing. “I shall 
have to let. you into the secret. To tell the 
truth, 1 have been thinking all day Avliat I 
could do for you in return for your not get¬ 
ting vexed with mo for blotting your com¬ 
position. 8o now you have it,” 
“ So much for our rules,” exclaimed Giles, 
triumphantly. “ They work like a charm.” 
“ What rules?” inquired Lucy. 
“ We must, tell Lucy till about it,” said 
Giles. 
They did tell her all about it; and the 
result Avas that she agreed lo join them in 
trying the ueAr rules. 
-»♦» 
MISCALCULATIONS. 
Charlie, as we are informed, is a bright 
four-year old, who, although a good boy, as 
boys go, sometimes gives occasion for serious 
reproofs from his mother. On a recent 
occasion of this sort Charlie began looking 
rather sour, when his mother took him to 
task for it, and told him he ought to look 
pleasant. But his face continued to wrinkle 
till his mother remarked, “ Why, Charlie, 1 
am astonished to see you making faces at 
your mother!” Charlie brightened up at 
once, and retorted:—“ Why, 1 calculated to 
laugh, but, mamma, my face slipped.” The 
“calculation” was suddenly Avorked out in 
chorus. 
-- 
RURAL FOUR-YEAR-OLDS. 
TMoxilEns of Smart Children are invited to contri¬ 
bute to this Department.) 
A Liltlo Souiliorner'ii Idea _A boy in North 
Carolina writes as follows:— I Imve a little sister 
who says many SAveet ttnd odd things. One day 
not long ago, she found a hen's nest in an odd 
place, and took the eggs out of it and carried 
them in the house; hut soon after, a thoughtful 
look passed over her face, and she said,—“I wish 
I had left them in the nest and let the old hen 
clucked up some little chickens out of 'em." 
A Singular Talc.—My grandmother Lias pea 
fowls, which you know are a great curiosity to 
some children. A little boy went to her house 
one day, and, seeing the peacock, lie said: 
“ Mother, mother, there is a turkey with a fly¬ 
brush tail I ” 
Medicinal.—Little Osmond saw his father put 
tar on a sick sheep's nose, and soou after this 
his mother was taken sick and he asked Ids 
lather if he was going to put tar on her nose too. 
Rather Mealy.—little Seth, a miller’s son, 
arose from his bed. and seeing I be ground all 
covered with enow,cried out:—“Mamma, mam¬ 
ma ! all dad's meal is wasted !” 
Aery Prettily Put.—A Michigan correspond¬ 
ent writesOur 111 He four-year-old Bessie's 
mother hns been explaining to her what an echo 
was: and how well she caught the idea may be 
inferred from wbat occurred the next day. Her 
mother happening to make some remark upon 
a subject Bussi&at tlio same time wits thinking 
about, the little one looked up with:—“Now, 
mamma, that is dtst the echo ol’ my think!" 
Well Oeilned.—*• Lenny, you're u pig." said a 
father to his little “perfect image.” “Now do 
you know what a pig is, Lenny?” “Yes, sir; a 
pig's a hog’s little boy.” 
