452 
MOORE’S RURAL WEW-VORKER 
future! H lie could have known what might o 
be! But, lirhie fnbo prfde and Ms prejudice s 
and deadly apathy, he had stood aloof from t 
what- tnight have saved his boy from a disgrace- t 
ful death, and the result was there at his feet 
—a drunkard's grave! v 
-- 
MABY MOOBE. 
_ h 
A PLEASANT LOVE STORY. 
Ar.r, iny life 1 had known Mary Moore: all my 
life I had loved her. e 
Our mothers were old playmates and first 
cousins. My 11 ret recollections ore of a boy, In j, 
a red frock and morocco shoes, rocking a 
cradle, in which reposed a sunny-haired, blue- j, 
eyed baby, not quite a year old. That boy was c 
myself— Harry Church; that baby was Mary 
Moore. , ,, . . t 
Later still, I see myself at the old school- t 
house, drawing my little chaise up to the dooi ^ 
that Mary might ride home. Many a beating 
have 1 gained on such occasions, for other boys y 
besides me liked her, and she,I fear,was some- 
thing of a flirt, even In her pinafore. How ^ 
elegantly she came tripping down the steps } 
when 1 called her name; how sweetly her blue 
eyea looked at me, how gaily rang.mi her mer¬ 
ry laugh. No one but Mary could ever bring 
her heart so near her Ups. 1 followed that f 
laugh from my days of childhood till l grow an 
awkward, blushing youth ; 1 followed It through 1 
the heated noon of manhood ; and now when I 
the frosts of age are silvering my hair, and many < 
children climb upon my knee and call me 
" father," 1 find that the memories of youth are 
strong, and that even in gray hairs, I am fol- , 
lowing the music still. i 
When I was fifteen the first great soirowof 
my life came upon my breast. I was sent away | 
to school, and was obliged to part, with Mary. ; 
AVe were not to see each other for three long 
years. This to mo was like a sentence of death, , 
fur Mary was like life Itself to me. But hearts , 
are tough things after all, 
I left college in all the fluah of my nineteenth j 
year I was no longer awkward or embarrassed. , 
I had grown Into a t all, slender stripling, with . 
a very good opinion of myself both In general 
and particular. If l thought Of Mary Moore, It , 
was to think how 1 could dazzle and bewilder ( 
her with my good looks mid wonderful mental 
attainments, and never thinking she might 
dazzle and bewilder me still more. I was a 
coxcomb, I know, but as youth and good looks 
have fled, 1 trust that I may be believed when 1 
say that self-conceit has loft me also. 
An advantageous proposal was made me at 
that time, and accepting it. I gave up all Idea 
of a profession, and prepared to go to India. In 
my hurried visit home of two days I saw noth¬ 
ing of Mary Moore. She had gone to a board¬ 
ing-school at some distance, and was not ex¬ 
pected home until the following May. I uttered 
a sigh to the memory <>1' my little blue-eyed 
playmate, and then called myself "a man 
*In a year, 1 thought as tho vehicle whirled 
awav from our door-1 will return and if Mary 
Is as pretty as she used to be, why t hen, per¬ 
haps I may marry her. 
And thus 1 setLledthe furture of a younglady 
whom 1 had not seen for four years. I never 
thought of the possibility of her refusing me- 
never dreamed that she would not condescend 
to accept my offer. ^ 
But now T know that had Mary met me then 
Bhe would have despised me. Perhaps in the 
scented and affected student she might have 
found plenty of sport; but as for loving roe, 1 
should perhaps have found my-Mf mistaken. 
India was my salvation, not merely because of 
my success, but because my laborious industry 
had counteracted the evil in my nature, and 
had made me a better man. When at the end 
of three years, I prepared to return, I said 
nothing of the reformation of myself, which 1 
knew had taken place. They loved me as 1 
was, I murmured to myself, and they shall hud 
out for themselves whether lam better worth 
loving than formerly. 
I picked up many a token from that land of 
romance and gold for the friends I hoped to 
meet The gift for Mary Moore I selected with 
a beating heart; It was a ring of rough virgin 
gold with my name and her’a engraved Inside 
.-that was all, and yet the sight of the little toy 
strangely thrilled me as 1 balanced it on the 
tip of my Anger. 
To the eyes of others it was but a small plain 
circle, suggesting thoughts, perhaps, by its 
elegance, of the beautiful white hand that was 
to wear it. But not to me—how much was em¬ 
bodied there—all these delights wore hidden 
within that little ring of gold* 
Tall, bearded, attd sun-bronzed, 1 knocked at 
my father's house. The lights in the parlor 
window, and the hunt of conversation and 
cheerful laughter, allowed me that company 
wa* assembled there. 1 hoped that sister Lizzie 
would come to the door, and 1 might greet my 
family when no strange eye was looking care- 
out a golden head, a tiny, delicate form and 
sw'eot. childish face with blue eyes, so like 
those of one who had brightened my boyhood, 
that I started with a sudden feeling of pain. 
“What Is your name, my prettyV" I asked, 
while the wondering servant held the door. 
“Mary Moore." 
“And what else?" I asked quickly. 
She lifted up her hands to shade her face. I 
had seen that, very attitude In another, in my 
boyhood, many and many a t ime—and answered 
in a sweet blrd-like voice: 
“ Mary Moore Chester." 
My heart sank down like lead. Here was an 
end to all the bright dreams and hopes of my 
yout h and manhood. Frank Chester, my boyish 
rival, who had oft en tried in vain to usurp my 
place beside the girl, had succeeded at last,and 
had wen her away from me. This was the 
child—his child and Mary’s. 
I sank, body and soul, beneath this blow, and, 
hiding my face In my hands l leaned against 
She turned, and laid her hand in mine and 
aaid hurriedly.— 
“ I am glad to see you here, Harry.” 
Simple words and yet how blessed they made 
me. I would not have yielded her up at the 
moment for an Emperor’s crown. For there 
was the happy home group and dear home fire¬ 
side, with sweet Mary Moore. The eyes I had 
dreamed of day and night wore falling beneath 
the ardent, gaze of mine, and the sweet face I 
had so long prayed to see was there beside me. 
I never knew the meaning of happiness until 
that moment. 
Many years have passed since tho happy night, 
and the hair that was dark and glossy is fast 
turning gray. 1 am now grown to be an old 
man, and can look back to a happy, and I hope 
a well spent life. A ml yet sweet as it has been, 
I would not recall a single day, for the love that 
made my manhood so bright, shines also upon 
my white hairs. 
An old man ! Can this be so? At heart, I am 
lessly on. 
But no, a servant answered my summons. 
They were too merry In the parlor to heed the 
long absent one who asked for admittance. A 
bitter thought like this ran through my mind 
as I heard the sound from the parlor, and saw 
the half-suppressed smile on the servant’s face. 
I hesitated a moment before making mysoli 
known or asking for any of my family. And 
while I stood silent a strange apparition grew 
up before me; from behind the servant peered 
The little one gazed at me, grieved and a mazed, *** 
and put up her pretty lips as If about to cry, 
while the perplexed servant stepped to the * 1 
parlor and called my sister out to see who it da 
was that conducted himself so strangely. I 1 
heard a light Btep, and a pleasant voice,saying: 1“ 
“ Did you wish to see my father sir? ” 
I looked up. There stood a pretty, sweet- 
faced maiden <>f twenty, not much changed 
from the dear little sister I had loved so well. 
I looked after her for a moment, and then still¬ 
ing the tempest of my heart, by a mighty 
effort, I opened my arms and said: 
" Lizzie don’t you know me V” , 
“Hurry 1 oh, my brother Harry!” she cried, 
and threw herself upon my breast, and wept as 
if her heart would break. cr 
I could not weep. I drew her gently into the 
lighted parlor, and stood with her before them hi 
all. , . 
There was a rush, and a cry of joy, and then a | 
my father and mother sprang toward me, and 
welcomed me home with heart-felt tears. ^ 
Oh, strange and passing sweet Is such a greet¬ 
ing to the way-worn traveler. And as I held ac 
my dear Old mother to my heart, and grasped 
my father’s hand, while Lizzie cl rig beside 
me. J folt that all was not yet lost; and al- 
though another had secured life’s most 
choicest blessing, many a Joy remained for me tr 
in the dear sanctuary of home. 
There wero four inmates of tho room, who r< 
had risen ou my sudden entrance. One was 
ti e blue-eyed child whom I had already seen, n 
and who now stood beside Frank Cheater, (| 
dinging to liis hand. Near by stood Lizzie 
Moore, Mary’s eldest sister, and in a distant 
corner, to which she had hurriedly retreated 
when my name was spoken, stood a tall and * 
slender figure, half hidden by the heavy win¬ 
dow curtains that fdl to the flooi 
When the first rapturous greeting was over, " 
Lizzie led me forward with a timid grace, and 
Frauk Cheater grasped my bund. 
“ Welcome home, my boy! ’’ he said, with the 
loud, cheerful tones I remembered so well. 
You have changed so l hat I never would have l 
known you; but no matter about that, your r 
heart Is In the right plr.ee, I know.” 
“ How can you say that bo is changed V” said \ 
my mother, gently. “To be sure he looks older 
and grayer, and more like a man than when lie i 
went away, but Ids eyes and smile arc I he same 
as ever, it is a heavy heart which changes him. ( 
He is my boy still.” 1 
“ Aye, mother,’ 1 answered sadly, “ 1 am your , 
boy still.’ _ ... 
Heaven lmlp me 1 at, that moment I felt like . 
a boy, and it would have been a blessed relief , 
to have wept upon her bosom as 1 had done in . 
my infancy. Hut 1 kept down the tremor of my 
lips, and answered quietly, as I looked into his 
full handsome face. T , . 
You havo changed, too, Frank, but I think 
for the better.” 
“ Oh, yes—thank you for the compliment, he 
answered with a hearty laugh. “My wife tells 
xne T grow handsomer every day. 
Hia wife! Could I hear that name and keep 
silent still. 
“And have you soon my little girl ( he added, 
lifting (be infant, in his ai ms, and kissing her 
crimsoned cheek. “ l tell you. Harry, there is 
no such other In the world. Don’t you think 
she looks very much like her mother used to?’’ 
“ Very much,” 1 faltered. 
“ Hallo 1” cried Frank, with a suddenness 
which made me start violently, “ I have forgot¬ 
ten to introduce you to my wife; I believe you 
and she used to be playmates in your younger 
’ days—yes, Harry,” and ho slapped me on the 
), ac lt_“ for the sake of old times, and because 
you were not at the wedding, I will give you 
t leave to kiss her once, but ralml, old fellow, you 
r arc never to repeat the covetntfny. Conic, here 
1 she is, I for one want to see how you will 
. manage those ferocious mustaches of yours in 
3 ! the operation. . 
He pushed Lizzie, laughing and blushing to- 
. I ward me. A gleam of light and hope almost 
too dazzling to hear, came over me. and I cried 
out before 1 thought, “Not Mary.” 
e I must have betrayed my secret to every one 
V In the room. But nothing was said ; even Frank, 
d in general so obtuse was this time silent. I 
,v kissed the fair check u.r the young wife, and 
i. hurried to the silent figure looking out of the 
If window. 
d “ Mary—Mary Moore!” I said in a low, eager 
iv tone, “ have you no welcome to give the wan- 
d derer?” 
hair parted smoothly from a brow that has a 
flight furrow upon it, is still the Mary of other 
days. To me she can never grow old or changed. 
The heart that held her in infancy and sheltered 
her in the llush and beauty of womanhood can 
never cast her out tillllfoshall cease to warm it. 
SPARKS AND SPLINTERS. 
Love-age is the root, of marrl-age. T 
A voice from the grave—the tomb s-tone. U 
“ The cause of Woman Suffrage”—Scarcity of 
husbands. y 
When well attended to, “home duties” In- a 
crease the revenue, 0 
The coop d’osft of the poultry show is said to j, 
have been very flue.} F 
The reported rise in Havana cigars will prob- A 
ably end in smoke. A 
When Is a lawyer like a mule? When he y 
draws up a conveyance. T 
There is nothing a man will so stoutly deny 
as the possession of an umbrella. ^ 
A genius Is popularly said to be one who can j_ 
do everything except make a living. __ 
Ie you want to make a hustle in the world, ,, 
take five newspapers and a piece of tape. / 
A young lady Jumped Into the Ohio River to c 
recover her muff—Just tu keep her hand in. 
There 1h nothing that will change a man so ( 
much as a great-grief, unless it is shaving off his ^ 
moustache. I 
Mrs. Smith, says her husband is like a tallow j 
candle, because he always will smoke when he t 
is going out. 
An English wag asserts that machinery is the 
most modest of ail things, since il almost al¬ 
ways travels in cog. 
A facetious saloon-keeper out West hoisted 
a white flag when he could no longer hold out ] 
against the ladies, In token of surrender. , 
A Pennsylvania man went out to get his ( 
boots heeled, eight years, ago, and as he has , 
never returned, his wife is becoming uneasy. . 
We have been Informed that a pair of lovers i 
will sit up half the night, and not burn as much 
kerosene as the family uses in an hour during 
the evening. 
“ me find," tellingly remarks an Indianap¬ 
olis" editor, “tyvt wo ostN GM oxt owr pepar 
with ill it the of af ony of thase husky Onlun 
compositors," 
At a late conference session a clergyman gave 
a reason why the Baptist church is like a bea¬ 
ver’s hut;—“ There is only one entrance to it, 
and that Is under water.” 
A Dutch Congressman remarked:—“Von 1 
vas elected I thought I vould Uiid dem all Solo¬ 
mons down here; but 1 found derc vas some as 
pick fools here as miueself.’’ 
A Louisiana man puts a two ounce can of 
nitro-glycerlno inside of a chicken, tosses the 
chicken to an alligator, and that alligator does 
not trouble the bayou any more. 
“There!" said Jones, as he wrathfully 
pushed away the pie which his landlady had 
just nerved him, “that stuff isn’t fit for a pig to 
oat and J am uot going to cat It I” 
A startling conundrum comes from the 
Maine Pomologieal Society in this form: “ Shall 
Maine grow her own fruit, trees?" Certainly, 
by all means. Who’s a hinderin’ of her? 
“ OOH!" said a love-sick Hibernian, “ what a 
recreation it is to be dying of love! It sets the 
heart aching so delicately there’s no taking a 
wink of sleep for the pleasure of the pain 1 ” 
“Miss C—,” said a gentleman, one evening, 
“why are ladies so fond of officers?” “How 
stupid!” replied Miss C-; “isIt not natural 
l and proper that a lady should like a good offer, 
, sir?” 
The poem of “ Enoch Arden” has encouraged 
hundreds of dead husbands to return and annoy 
l their families, who would otherwise have kept 
1 away. The Enoch Arden of real life is usually 
a scaltawag, and comes home ragged, dirty and 
j drunk. 
, A strong-minded woman In Detroit made 
I the following gentle reply to a politician w ho 
3 had called at her house to get her husband to 
e go to the polls and vote“ No, sir, he can’t go! 
He’s washing now, and he’s going to iron to- 
r morrow; and if he wasn’t doing any thing he 
i- couldn’t go. I run this ’ere house, 1 do; and if 
any one votes it’ll be this same Mary Jane. 
THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 
It wes an humble temple; ami it stood 
In the metoxure of a quiet wood. 
Thef treat trees o’ershiMiow’d all the place. 
And mountains round it added a rude grace. 
To charm the eye, and aid the thoughts arise 
Amid the towering summit to the skies. 
The valley lay below, half bid from view 
Hr duMoring bushes on Its banks that grew; 
And in its depth a winding streamlet strayed 
Of crystal water, murmuring through the glade— 
An emblem of that living water given 
To quench the thirst of splr.t# hound for heaven. 
Sweat wns the rur.il scene of sweet repose, 
An i bright the sun that o’er tho Sabbath rose, 
When we, ns stringers, sought that house of prayer, 
And join’d the few who met to worship there. 
We cross'd the open door-way, sure to meet 
A welcome e tr ue ati l a willing scat. 
Amid the scant nnd scatter’d flock that come 
Their own familiar places there to claim, 
Fret- access t.p that dome was none denied; 
Nor outward show of fashion nor of pride 
Cheek'd the devotion of the solemn hour, 
Or took from Truth Its deep, momentous power. 
No studied eloquence was there displayed, 
No poetry of language lent Its aid. 
But plain words from the preacher enme— 
A preacher young, and nil unknown to fame; 
While youth and ago a listening ear Inclined, 
To learn the way the pearl of price to And. 
The. solemn hy tun, to ancient music set. 
In many a heart response of memory met, 
To me, it seem’d, dep u ted Sabbaths hung 
Upon those notes, which gave the past a tongue 
To speak again in voices from the dead. 
And wake an echo from their silent bed. 
Oh! what a power hath music; ho w it sinks 
Into the spirit’s fountain depths, and drinks 
Familiar draughts perchance long buried there, 
And blends the scenes that were with scenes that 
All Nature seem’d to hull that Sabbath morn, 
With sight and sound religion to adoin. 
The hills, with verdure crown’d, majestic stood, 
Whoso leaves, mirr’ i by the breezes' viewless wings, 
Whisper'd in worship of the King of kings. 
While b! da In freedom t banted forth their lays, 
Untaught, unwritten, to their Maker s praise. 
go calm, so beautiful; that lonely spot, 
’l’wero well that there the world should be forgot, 
And every thought attuned to sacred themes, 
Oast off awhile life's vain, distracting schemes. 
1 love a country church, where'er it be ! 
It brings hack happy memories to me, 
It cancels years, and shadows pass away, 
And form# beloved now mingled with the clay, 
By Fancy 's touch, recover life and breath, 
And I forget that they are thine, O, Death'. 
SUM tenants of the grave ; to rise no more, 
’Till the last trump snail sound, and time be o’er. 
[EliaabetK Bogart. 
—-* ♦■»-- 
LOVE TO GOD. 
Love is the good seed that Is sown in every 
mind. Love is the dlvino part of man; in other 
words, the seed of Divinity, sown in th8 garden 
of the mind a fertile soil capable of producing 
a great crop of love, but which in often les¬ 
sened by bad cultivation. To treat this in a 
general manner, we would say love to lion and 
love to all His works is what should be culti¬ 
vated. To define love to God Is to have your 
feelings well up within you in earnest thought 
to that great, that mighty Power who fll.s all 
space. Tuis produces harmony In the mind. 
Earnestness has intercourse with the divine 
part , which conceives, and In time Love Is bo’ ii. 
This is regeneration—being born ngain. If this 
regeneration is perfect the whole mind is filled 
with Love—our oldest son in Divine relation. 
Our earnestness then unites with Love, and the 
lovely daughter, Fultip is born. After having 
Faith awhile we look upon Love as a fixed fact 
in our mind, and the sturdy boy. Confidence, is 
born, and as they grow up together they beget 
Trust, who is a grandson of Earnestness and 
Love. Now, we are not only born again, but 
we raise up a family of divine relations. This 
is Love to Gov. aud if we have perfect love to 
God we will have perfect love to all liis works 
—to all Ho has created. If wo have perfect 
love to all He has created, the garden of our 
mind will bo kept perfectly clean of all such 
weeds as envy, hatred, strife, jealousy, etc., aud 
Love will reign supreme. E. m. b. 
Palmyra, Neb., Feb. 18.1874. 
-- 
WORK AND PRAYER. 
People sometimes say, “To work is to 
pray.” This Is true and it is not true. To work 
in the highest way is to pray; to pray in the 
highest way is to work. Jesus prayed when he 
was working, for he kept his soui open toward 
God to receive inspiration, while lie stretched 
out his hand toward man to do good. Work 
that is full of heavenly Inspiration Is a mode of 
prayer, just as heat is a mode of motion. But 
to go through a routine of outward duties me¬ 
chanically is neither praying nor Working. 
' And prayer, to be true prayer, must be prayer 
looking at work for its cud; prayer that says, 
* “ Thy will he done on earth ;" prayer that holds 
in its soft embrace all the human hearts we are 
5 to meet in our day’s task and toil. To say one’s 
1 prayer as a duty, to pray for a selfish good, to 
i go through the routine of prayer as a priest 
! reads his breviary in the railroad ear, so many 
- hours a day—that is neither prayer nor work. 
e Inspired prayer is work; inspired work is 
f prayer; but routine prayer and routine work 
are neither one nor the other.—J. F. Clarke. 
