passed on without a word. Not to Cross 
Corners that day, he took the by-road off, 
then crossed the lots toward home. “ Abus¬ 
ing his mother,” that grated terribly. He 
had considered himself martyred for her. 
But little incidents of her self-sacrificing de¬ 
votion, and bis own ingratitude, came to 
prove Jack’s estimate, as he re-called the 
past year; and he sat down on the ground 
in a miserable self-aliasing despair. Toward 
night, with an utterly exhausted feeling, he 
dragged himself home. The house was 
silent and cold. He remembered that his 
father was attending a sheep sale that day, 
and from her little dark bedroom his mother 
called his name. 
“Are you sick?” he asked, with a fright¬ 
ened look, as he saw her pain-contracted face. 
“Only n headache, and a little tired out” 
—with a faint smile—“ but you have come 
home and T shall feci belter now." 
“ Mother, 1 have made you sick," said 
Fred, bis mother twitching weakly as lie 
took her thin, hot hand. “ I’ve been selfish 
and ungrateful.” 
“No, Fred," — the tears starting in her 
eyes, — “ I never thought that. I knew that 
you could not. live as we do, and ought to 
have known that you could do nothing bet¬ 
ter here. 1 was selfish and weak in letting 
you come home; but I got so homesick to 
see you and tried to think that because you 
were a man you could make things more 
your own way; but you cannot, nobody 
can here. 1 know how hard you have tried, 
dear, and 1 will not keep you here any 
longer. I’ve been thinking it all over as T 
lay here, for the more my head ached the 
faster I must think, and the faster I thought 
the more my head ached, until I think 1 
should have been crazy if you had not come. 
“ It was t wenty - four years ago that I 
taught school here, Fjjed. 1 had all that I 
needed to make me happy then, hut 1 was 
foolish and did not know it. Plenty of good 
friends, and hooks, and clothes, and a home 
to go to. But your father saw me, and 
fancied me, and everybody said this would 
be such a nice home. I laughed and made 
fun of the idea at first, for I was smart and 
proud if I was poor; hut he grew more and 
more fond of me, and did so much to please 
me, and when 1 did not quite want to mar¬ 
ry him, everybody thought I was foolish, 
and l thought so too, and finally I married 
him. I planted those trees with my own 
hands that first year; and, Fred, it is not 
my fault that we live as we do, for I have 
always worked hard, and tried to save. I 
gave your father all the money that my 
father left, me; it was not much, but it 
would have more than half built the house 
we talked of. I never knew what he did 
with it, but I have not had so much since I 
was married as 1 could earn in one year be¬ 
fore. When l begun to give up trying to 
have anything to break the hard work, I 
used to hope that when you became a 
man-. Do you remember how we used 
to talk of what, we’d do then? But 1 don’t 
care now. I’ve got so used to living in this 
way that I don’t mind it., and 1 shall be hap¬ 
pier to know that, you are enjoying yourself. 
You must go hack to Cousin Landis.” 
“ No, mother, I can't go." 
“ Yes, dear, you can. L always knew 
there’d he some time that you’d need some¬ 
thing, and so I’ve saved — I don’t know but 
it was wrong, but 1 milked the cows and 
did all the work,—I saved out butter, a little 
every week, after you went away, and Mrs. 
Burrell or Jack sold it for me. 1 hated to 
do so, for it seemed like stealing, but I went 
without eating any, and he never missed it; 
and I have got twenty dollars, and now you 
must take it and go back to Cousin Landis.” 
"Oh, mother, don’t 1 lean’ll I won’t! 
I have been only a trouble to you, hut I am 
going to do better now. You shall not live 
so. Didn’t 1 hear father bragging of the 
money he had in the savings bank? And 
isn't, everybody talking about his storing 
away his wool, year after year, instead of 
selling it, and making things comfortable 
around him ? He can talk about things be¬ 
ing good enough when he has you to build 
fires for him to sit by, and sleep by, to go to 
bed by, and get up bv. I tell you I will not 
stand this any longer. I’ll do something; 
I’ll burn this old shell-” 
“ Oh, Fred ! Fred !” said Mrs. Dascome, 
in a frightened voice. “Don’t say so; don’t 
feel so ; it isn’t so had as you think. Your 
father isn’t a bad man. 1 did wrong in tell¬ 
ing what I did. Your father is a good man. 
lie never abused me in his life. lie gets me 
all I need—all lie thinks I need, and pro¬ 
vides well for the table. It's no matter 
if I don’t have much; he’s got it, and some 
time it will all he yours; it. is no matter 
about it now; it will be all yours, and you 
can do as you like with it, only now you’d 
better go back to Cousin Landis. You will 
be so much happier there. You must’nt. 
mind me; I get tired and nervous,some¬ 
times, and feel discontented, hut it is because 
my health is not stout. Promise me that 
you will go.” 
“ No, mother; but I will premise that, you, 
or anybody, shall not. soe me again as T was 
last night. I’ll promise not to make your 
life any harder by staying.” 
It seemed to Fred that a new kind of 
courage grew out of his very despair. It was 
a hard thing to do, but within the week, 
with a resolution that quite conquered his 
wounded pride, he surprised Jack Burrell 
at his work with— 
“ Y'oa were so good as to tell me what I 
ought not to do, the other day. I have 
come now' to hear what I ought, to do.” 
“ Why, what do you mean, Fred V” rest¬ 
ing his ax on the log he was splitting. 
Then Fred sat down on the end of the 
log and told his Jong story, concluding 
with— 
“ You know you wouldn’t try to farm it 
with such awkward old tools as I do, with 
everything at disadvantage, when you knew r 
there was no need of it. You wouldn’t give 
up all your common sense to some unrea¬ 
sonable whim, and go on year after year 
with no hope of anything better. You 
wouldn’t live as we do; and yet you wouldn’t 
forsake your mother, wouldn’t get into bad 
habits, or get discouraged. What would 
you do ?” 
“ Why, Fred, it’s a tight place, I know. 
1 used to he turnin’ it over in my mind last 
summer, when I saw you at work, and 1 
’lowed sometliing’d have to be done. You 
commenced right, and nr n't aright to a little 
more length of rope, and now I’d lake it. 
That is, I’d put up with all I could, so’s to 
take one thing at a time. Such things as I 
couldn’t stand I shouldn’t mope over; I’d 
correct ’em. There’s your house, now; as 
you say, ’t,ain't tit, for no man to live in, let 
alone the winnnin. Instead of waiting for 
spring to open, I’d go to the masons and 
carpenters and git their figures. I’d get 
some logs into the saw-mill for lumber, then 
T’d clear out. that, old cellar; the stone is 
already there, and if t’was me, I should 
rather have the walls of the house com¬ 
menced than to carry a gold watch and 
chain.” 
“ 1 don’t, understand what you mean.” 
“Well, there’s Barker, your boss mason, 
lie’s a tradin’ man. I should turn out that, 
watch to him, to begin on, and keep a sharp 
look out to toiler it up.” 
“ Cousin Landis got the watch for me, 
and I think a great deal of it; but I’d let it 
go, only it would do so little.” 
“ Eighty or a hundred dollars will make 
them stone show up some; at. least, show 
the old man that you’re in earnest; and if 
you crowd right along, there'll be a way. 
’Twouldn’t be surprising if those old chitn- 
bleys should cave in, so that you couldn’t 
live there; or the old house blow down, only 
I shouldn’t wait for it, When you’ve got as 
far as you can go one way, something will 
happen to show you another way.” 
It was with all liis anticipations toned 
down, to a resolute determination to “crowd 
a way,” as Jack had advised, instead of 
waiting for one to open, that, Fried com¬ 
menced the second year. It was a great 
undertaking, even with such allies as bis 
mother and Jack Burrell, and indeed, the 
whole sympathizing community; and he 
sometimes grew irresolute as he tried to see 
his way through. But Jack was a true 
prophet.; nit,hough the old house did not 
blow down, nor the chimneys fall, some¬ 
thing happened. Just as the last dollar 
Fred could command was gone, Cousin 
Landis paid them a dying visit. 
“1 wish 1 could afford to give something 
toward this good work,” he said; “but 1 
will loan you a little; your mother’s and 
your promise is security enough.” 
So the work went on. The walls had 
begun to grow under Mr. Da scheme's growls 
of contempt and dislike, and although lie 
declared over and over vehemently, that 
neither he nor his money should go into 
that house, the walls rose higher and higher. 
Poor Mrs. Dascome spent, many a troubled 
hour iu trying to solve th.e enigma of the 
future; but by-and-by the solution came. 
The doctor called it cholera. The self- 
appointed coroners decided variously—some, 
that, it, was the effect of the old, unwholesome 
house ; some, the indulgence of a gluttonous 
appetite; while Jack Burrell expounded 
it as sheer desperation, at not being able to 
squelch the spirit of improvement at work. 
But the old man died; convulsed with pain, 
liis spasmodic contortions rendering his 
sensual face vet. more repulsive than while 
in health. He died aud was buried ; solemn¬ 
ly and tearfully, even sadly, as we bury all 
old soul-crushing conservatism; but, with 
that sense of relief that the self-accusing 
widow tried loyally to call loneliness and 
sorrow. 
And the new house went on; the walls 
the roof, the floors, and partitions; aud by- 
and-by, when the winter came, enough was 
finished for mother and son to live in. The ! 
wool that the old man had been ucctnnula- 1 
ting was sold, enabling Fred, when winter 
interposed between him and his work, to 
take his recluse mother to visit Cousin Lan¬ 
dis, and to pay the debt there. Nellie 
Sprague had not forgotten her student-like 
lover, but ihe brown, brawny man who 
claimed his place, held her hand with a firmer 
clasp and pleaded his suit in a firmer tone. 
“ It is not the fine old estate that I sketch¬ 
ed for you, Nellie, only an exaggerating 
imagination could make it, that. It is a 
rigid old farm, that metes out the reward of 
labor bestowed, with Jewish exactness. 
And the house I have built is only plain 
square walls now, but I believe I can make 
it a happy home for you. Will yon let me 
try ?” 
Nellie Dascome— nee Sprague— takes a 
glad pride in the carpets, the pictures, and 
all the beautiful things she had brought to 
adorn the great stone house; but. we doubt 
if all her music, gaiety and sunshine are ex¬ 
pressive of more happiness than the grateful 
smile with which Aire. Dascome watches 
the elms and maples as they successively 
bud and leaf, and scatter their foliage on the 
smooth grass around. 
-- . . 
DUFF AND REBUFF. 
BY GRACE LEAVENWORTH. 
There was once a dandelion whose name 
was Buff. She lived in New York, on 
Eighteenth street, in a hyacinth bed, edged 
round with muscle shells, in front of a bay 
window that belonged to the comfortable 
little library, that belonged to the comforta¬ 
ble little house, that belonged to the com¬ 
fortable doctor, Lemuel Owen. 
It was early in May, and only the most 
ambitious flowers made their debut*. Among 
these was a beautiful pink hyacinth, who 
grew very near little Buff, but was too aristo¬ 
cratic and sensitive to be pleasant to her un¬ 
assuming neighbor, and shrunk away from 
her so obviously that little Lilly Owen, 
who was propped up in an easy chair in 
front of the window, noticed it, and said, 
“ O Maud, come and see ! one of tire flowers 
has got the Grecian Bend.” 
So the pink hyacinth gave the first rebuff. 
It was followed by many others; in fact all 
the hyacinths considered her an upstart and 
an intruder, and kept as far away from her 
as possible. All but one; that was a little 
fellow who nestled Iris tiny white buds un¬ 
der the graceful lion-toothed leaves, just as 
little Lilly would tuck her curly head Un¬ 
der her sister’s protecting, caressing arm. 
For Lilly was a cripple and the pet of the 
family, and the especial favorite of Maud. 
She was a strange child, and had queer 
fancies aud odd notions. She loved to lie 
there in the window and look out on the 
street, with her eyes half closed, dreaming 
and thinking, tflue loved the little dande¬ 
lion and had christened her Buff, though she 
was really bright gold. 
And Buff struggled stoutly on, against the 
gusty wind which swept around the corner 
of the ho,use, against the shivering rain and 
the cold dank ground, sheltering the little 
white hyacinth, which would have died but 
for her care, and cheering Lilly by nodding 
and by smiling into her languid eyes. 
At length, when Buff had grown old and 
her golden locks had turned to silver, there 
came a bright sunshiny day, when Maud 
put on her garden gloves, and trowel in 
hand, commenced weeding the hyacinth bed. 
Somebody came along just then, and leaning 
against the gate stopped to watch. It was a 
somebody who passed the house often, and 
always bowed and smiled to Lilly as he 
passed. As she glanced up Maud’s face 
glowed with a rich color deeper than the 
pink hyacinth. (Exercise in the open air is 
just the thing to freshen the roses on one’s 
cheeks, you know.) Somebody did not 
speak, only bowed and stood watching her 
hand as it glided in and out among the 
flowers; and he thought bitterly,— “She 
cares no more for me than for that old dan¬ 
delion, and directly she will throw it with 
the rest of the had weeds over the back 
fence.” 
There was an awkward pause, Maud in¬ 
dustriously chipping away with her little 
trowel. By-and-by, the silence growing un¬ 
comfortable, she said: 
“ Do you see that dandelion, Gus?” 
“ Y T es,’’ said he, flushing crimson, as though 
she had read his thoughts, and saying to 
himself, “ Now for a rebuff; bear your fate 
like a man, Augustus;” then speaking ea¬ 
gerly, he asked,— 
“ Why don’t you throw the worthless old 
thing away ?” 
“ Because,” said she, tenderly, “ I love it. 
Lilly has watched it ever 6ince. it blossomed, 
and since she is too weak to leave her room, 
she has called piteously for her Buff. It has 
grown old, but I would not have it disturbed 
for anything.” 
“And Lilly, is she so very ill?” asked 
Gus, gently, entering the garden at the same 
time, and stooping to examine Buff with 
moist eyes. 
“No," replied Maud; father thinks her 
better, or I should not leave her to-night.” 
“ Then you are going to Mrs. Dasha way’s 
party,” said Grs. “ That was what I stopped 
to inquire. May I call for you?” 
Buff did not hear any more, for Gus went 
away, and Maud snipped off the pink hya¬ 
cinth with her garden scissors, and took it 
■with her into the house. And when the 
moon came up over the houses on the other 
side of the street, she came down the steps 
again, dressed in an exquisite pink silk, with 
the hyacinth in her hair, and Gus handed 
her into a carriage and they drove away. 
Several hours later they came back, and 
both went into the house together, and into 
the library, where Dr. Owen was reading, 
all alone. But the laded hyacinth fell from 
her hair as she passed up the steps, and told 
the story in the flower bed first, so that Buff 
knew before the doctor just bow it all hap¬ 
pened, how the rebuff did notcome, and that 
they were engaged. 
An hour later, after Gus had gone, as Maud 
kissed Lilly “good-night,” a change came 
over the sleeper’s face, and as she knelt anx¬ 
iously beside her, the child opened her eyes 
wearily and moaned, “ I want Buff; take me 
to Buff.” And Maud lifted the slight form 
in her arms, and wrapping her carefully, 
carried her to the bay window and sat down 
in the low chair. The doctor raised the 
sash; it was early morning twilight, and a 
soft breeze played t hrough the open window, 
gently lift ing the curl on Lilly’s forehead, 
then hastening back to rock the slender dan¬ 
delion stem with its crystal globe. The air 
revived her. 
“ Good-by, Buff, I wish you could come 
too,” she said; and with a little fluttering 
sigh, the blue eyes closed forever. 
But Buff hoard; for the soft wind blew a 
little stronger, and the dandelion globe rose 
lightly in the air and floated away. 
"Her wing* are grown, 
To Heaven she's Hown; 
’Cause 1 lmvc none 
J’m left,” 
sighed the pink hyacinth. And the whitehya- 
cint.ii which Buff had tended, transplanted 
by Maud’s loving bands, blossomed at last 
on a tiny mound in Greenwood, edged round 
with muscle shells, among other hyacinths 
and many, many dandelions. 
THE SILLY YOUNG RABBIT. 
There was a young rabbit 
Who hn<1 n bad habit— 
Sometimes lie would do what his mother forbid, 
And one frosty day, 
His mother did say, 
“My child yon must stay in the burrow close hid; 
For I hear the dread sounds 
Of huntsmen and hounds. 
Who are searching around for rabbits like you ; 
Should they see hut your head, 
They w.iuld soon shoot you dead ; 
And the dons would be otr with you quicker than 
boo J” 
But the poor, foolish being, 
When no one was seeing. 
Looked out from his burrow to take a short play; 
He hopped o'er the ground, 
With many a bound. 
And looked around proudly’ as If he would say, 
Do 1 fear a roan ? 
Now catch me who can ! 
So this young rabbit ran to u tine apple tree, 
Where, gnawing the bark. 
He thought not to hark 
The coming of hunters, so careless was he. 
Now as rabbit* are good, 
■When roasted or stewed, 
A man came along hunting rabbits for dinner 
He saw little Bun- 
Then raised his big gun— 
And there he lay, dead, the foolish young sinner. 
{From the German. 
■ ♦ « ♦- 
BERTIE’S SPEECH. 
BY MRS. G. B. 
Bertie Ford lives in Boston. He hasn’t 
any brothers or sisters, but he lives with his 
father aud mother, and Tom, the big cat, 
lives with him. 
Bertie Is nbout six years old, and he has 
blue eyes ami golden hair that curls all over 
his head, ne goes to school, and then, when 
school is out, he runs about, and plays with 
the boys that live near by. But sometimes 
Bertie sits down by his mother, and she 
teaches him a pretty little piece, and Bertie 
says it all over, very carefully, until he knows 
it every word, by heart. Then his mother 
teaches him how to stand up and make a 
how, and speak it off nicely, making the 
right gestures with his hands. 
Bertie speaks his pieces so prettily, that 
sometimes when there is a Sunday School 
exhibition, or a temperance meeting, for all 
he is such a little fellow, they like to have 
him come out on the platform, and speak 
one of them, and everybody is very much 
pleased to hear it. 
Well, as I told you, Tom lives at Bertie’s 
house, and now I must tell you what Tom 
did. One morning there were six nice little 
fishes sent home. They were put on a large 
plate on the kitchen table, until it was time 
to cook them for dinner. The table stood 
right by the window, and the window was 
open. And what do you think that naughty 
Tom did ? He got upon the table, and then, 
when Bertie’s mother came in, she saw 
Tom with a fish in his mouth, just jumping 
out, Ihe window. 
Bertie’s mother took a stick, as though 
she was going to whip Tom; but Tom knew 
very well he w'as doing wrong, so he ran, as 
fast as he could go, and got away. 
When Bertie came homo to dinner, his 
mother told him what Tom had done. That 
evening there was going to be a temperance 
meeting, and Bertie was to stand up before 
all the people and speak a piece, which was 
called “ Come take the Pledge.” 
When it came evening, Bertie was 
dressed in his new, dark suit, with the 
bright buttons, and his hair was curled, and 
pretty soon his father and mother were all 
dressed and ready to go. 
“I wonder where Tom is” Mrs. Ford 
said, just as they were going, “I can’t find 
him anywhere. I think he must have been 
very much frightened, because I scolded 
him this morning. 1 guess he has run away 
for a little while, for when 1 call him he 
don’t come.” 
And then they all went off, Bertie and 
his father and mother, to the exhibition. 
There were a great many people there, and 
there was a platform put up, and all around 
the great hall were beautiful evergreens and 
flowers, and lights. You can’t think how 
bright and beautiful it did look. 
First a gentleman made a short speech, 
and then some boys, and some girls all dress¬ 
ed up in white dresses, sang n pretty song; 
and then, after a while, they wanted Ber¬ 
tie to stand up and speak his piece. So 
Bertie’s father took hold of his hand and 
led him out; and then his father went back, 
and left Bertie standing up, all by himself, 
on the stage. 
He made a how very nicely, and then he 
lifted up his hand, as though he was going 
to say :—“ Come, take the Pledge;” hut in¬ 
stead of that, he said : 
“ When people are naughty, they must be 
punished. I know a cat whose name is 
Tom. Tom is a naughty cat. Tom is a 
thief—he stole a fish. Whore is Toni now ? 
He is shut, up in a box. There’s a hole in 
the side of the box, and Tom sticks his bead 
out. and hollers. I guess Tom won’t steal 
any more fish when he gets out of the box !” 
Then Bertie made his best bow, and all 
the people laughed, and laughed very much. 
Then Bertie turned, and was going to walk 
aw’ay, but the people clapped their hands for 
him to stay, and so his father whispered to 
him, and then Bertie went back and spoke 
his piece. 
I wish you could have heard how nicely 
lie spoke, it. The people liked it very much, 
and when lie had finished it, they wanted 
him to tell them something more about Tom, 
but Bertie’s father said he must not speak 
any more. 
When they got home, Bertie’s mother 
told him she thought Tom had been pun¬ 
ished long enough, and that after that, he 
would be good, so Bertie opened the box 
and let Tom out, and Tom promised, just as 
well as he could, that he never would steal 
any more fish,—and I hope he will keep his 
promise. 
-»♦» 
STRETCH IT A LITTLE. 
A little girl and her brother were on 
their way to the Ragged School one cold 
winter morning. The roofs of the houses, 
and the grass on the common, were white 
w'ith frost, and the wind was very sharp. 
They were both poorly dressed, but the lit tle 
girl had a sort of a coat over her, which she 
seemed to have outgrown. 
As they walked briskly along, she drew 
her little companion up to her saying— 
“ Come under my coat, Johnny.” 
“It isn’t big enough for both,” lie re¬ 
plied. 
“ Oh, but I can stretch it a little,” she 
said ; and they were soon as close together 
and as warm as two birds in the same nest. 
How many shivering bodies and heavy 
hearts and weeping eyes there arc in the 
world, just because people of all ages do not 
stretch their comforts a little beyond them¬ 
selves. 
--— 
RURAL FOUR-YEAR-OLDS. 
[Mothers of Smart Children are invited to contri¬ 
bute to tills Department.; 
Rather Cool. — Little NUKE lives ill a town 
whose name is dramatically suggestive. One 
day she pot offended at her papa for some slight 
cause,ami going to her aunt said:—“I don’t 
like my ma’s husband. I wish she bad never 
married him!” 
Fair Warning,— Another time, going to the 
parlor where her auntie was entertaining com¬ 
pany, Nknb japped on the door and demanded 
admittance, but getting uo reply, called out.:— 
“Auntie, you'd better let me in, or I shall say 
something bad." 
A Very IVutnral Request.—An irrepressible boy 
of five years, who was always compelled to.keep 
quiet on Sunday, having grown weary toward 
the close of a Sabbath day, frankly aud honestly 
approached bis excellent, but rather strict fath¬ 
er, and bravely said:—“Pit, let’s havo a little 
spiritual fun.” This was too much, not only for 
the gravity, but for the strictness of the father, 
aud for once ho “ let nater caper” till bedtime. 
A Parody of a Text.—Little CHARLES, on com¬ 
ing home from church, where the preacher's 
text had been, “ Why stand ye here all the day 
idle? Go into my vineyard aud work, and w hat¬ 
soever is right I will pay thee," was asked to re¬ 
peat it. He hesitated a moment, and then, as if 
it Just oameto him after much thought, he said: 
“ What are you standing ’round here doing noth¬ 
ing for ? Go into m.v barn-yard and go to work, 
and I’ll make it all right with you. 
