MAY 48 
ORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
SPRING SONG OF THE CROWS. 
nr LAURENCE WtSSERT. 
Caw, caw, caw! 
We are all back on the air-line traok— 
Caw, caw, caw! 
Make ready your corn, good Farmer Brown, 
Hoe open your hllla and drop it down; 
We’ll sit ou the fence and see you do’t, 
And when yon ore gone we'll go straight to’t— 
Caw, caw, caw t 
C iw, caw, caw! 
We've built our nest In the pine tree’s crest,— 
Caw, caw, caw 1 
Now while we allay our noisy throats. 
Bring out your old boots and seedy coats, 
Your corduroy pants stuffed out with hay. 
And make a scare-crow to keep us away. 
Caw, caw, caw! 
Caw, caw, eaw! 
Three eggs In the pines, and by the signs— 
Caw, oaw, caw) 
To-morrow within our scraggy nest, 
Another will He with bluish breast. 
So what do wo care for bools and straws? 
We strike at your breast with beak and claws— 
Caw, caw, caw! 
Caw, caw, caw! 
We're tired of grub—so rub-a-dub, dub— 
Caw, caw, caw 1 
Come pLlo up your rags among the rows, 
Your monsters— acare-alU —save to the crows. 
We’ll watch till they blow the dinner-horn, 
Then down like harpies and seize your corn— 
Caw, caw, caw! 
#ur £torg-8tyU$r. 
BEN’S COMING HOME. 
BY EBEN E. REXFORD. 
8he stood upon the wet sea sand and watched 
the good ship Ariel sail away Into the west like 
some groat white-winged bird. Her eyes were 
wet with tears. Love is a precious thing to all 
of us, and we fear to lose it If Its giver goe 3 
away from sight. 
It was so with this girl at parting with her 
sailor. It seemed as If ho was taking away with 
him the love that hud made her life beautiful 
for a brief time. Her life was not so full of 
beautiful things that she could bear the loss of 
one of them, and this lovo was the most beau¬ 
tiful thing her poor life had ever known. It 
brightened It up os sunshine 
can brighten a cloudy, lone- 
some day. It was llower and 
everything else fair and lovely 
for her. It filled her heart with 
music such as she had novor 
hoard. The song of birds In 
spring time was not half so 
sweet. 
And now he had left her— 
this handsome sailor - lover— 
and a year must drag Itself away 
before he came again to kiss 
out the roses on her cheek, or 
call her the pretty,tender names 
that lovers, be they high or low, 
know how to use so well. I 
think this language of love is K 
the one universal speech of all KM 
mankind. It Is beyond no one’s 
comprehension, and adapts it- WSk 
self to all classes of life alike. flKg 
Love does not differ much the 
world ovor, nor the expression 
The ship sailed down the bay S 
and out into the broader waters , 
of tbe ocean. Farther and far- 
ther away, and deeper and more ' 
sorrowful grew the sense of 
loneliness In Margery's heart. U feji 
A year was so long—so long I 
And life is so short, at best. By 
and bytbesailsahoneout dimly 
against the blue of the far-off i23&-SK,ljp! 
horizon, and gradually they dls’ 
appeared. When they were lost j ')• 
to view, Maugxky turned away 'if 
and went up the path to the 
little fisherman's cottage. Jl1| 
It was a plain, homely room. v,-- 
Those who have Been a fisher- J. 
man’s home know how bare It / 
Is of the luxuries, often the ,'fi .■‘/.-SRi 
comforts, of life. No wonder 
that Margery, with a bouI that ijjfi: 
yearned for beautiful things, 
felt alwayB a yearning for some- 
thing different. Ben had prom- YJZ Wk 
ised her a pretty borne when he Ky f 
came back. 8be should have ^ J) ft f 
flowers about the door—a lilac w /f! /! , / 
by t.hc gate and i big rose bush /y' /,■/ y 
by the window and sweet pinks //////./ 
by the path. And he would buy fy //'/// - y 
her pretty pictures to hangup It'(///''/? 
In the little parlor—and better Jf/ 
than all else, she should have 'jM JySA 
all the books she could read. /*/ \ 
Beautiful books, too. Doubly V\jkjt - ' 
beautiful because they should V 
be beautiful to look at and be r - .. 
filled with a beauty to delight , H 
the mind. And she must wait ■ fn/Ifjf 
a year before this dream could tr/i/V/v 
bo realized. This beautiful, •' (/’// / 
beautiful dream, with love /or 
its background, and flowers and books and 
pleasant thinks to make It as bright as any pic¬ 
ture ever was. 
Mahoekt heard her stepmother’s fretful 
words like one In a droam as she went about 
the house. She was thinking of other things. 
Of the loneliness that Ben’s sailing brought 
her, and the gladness that was to be hers when 
he came back again from the voyage into the 
far-off wonderful west she had hoard so much 
of, but never seen. Ben had told her of It, and 
promised to take her with him on a. trip when 
ho got to be master of a ship. Theu— oh, then I 
what strange, new things she should see 1 
And the days slipped by, as days are apt to do. 
Margery counted thorn over often. So many 
days nearer Ben’s coming home, she would 
think, with a little thrill of gladness. So many 
days of waiting gone away. 
Margery was like you and I. We are always 
looking abend to some glad time coming. Tt. 
la always by-and-by with us—never now. I 
have often wo/idered If any one ever was sat¬ 
isfied with what the present held for them. I 
think not. It always seems better farther on. 
The future Is the golden age. But oh. when we 
step into that future—when that future be¬ 
comes the present there la always a sense of 
something lacking. Wo miss something that 
would make life beautiful and complete, and 
say that It. will como to us by-and-by. But, to 
few, If any, the glad, sweet by-and-by ever 
comes in the way wo dream of It. 
The spring merged Itself Into the summer. 
Tho blue skies held a wealth of sunshine in 
their depths, and the air was full of sweet and 
spicy odors from the Inland bills and meadows. 
Marokry loved to sit and look away to sea 
from the purple cliffs and dream of Ben, who 
wa9 her Ideal of manhood. She loved him, and 
that glorified Ida six feet, of brawny, muscular 
life. He was her prince, her king. In every¬ 
thing that she said or did there was a t hought 
of Ben. Every night she watched the stars and 
wondered if he was looking at them too. There 
was something sweet and comforting In the 
thought that., so far apart, the same stars shone 
for both of them. Somehow It seemed to draw 
them nearer to each other. At least It seemed 
so to Margery. 
The summer passed and autumn’s languor 
settled over the little fishing town. The long 
Indian summer days were beautiful, but lone¬ 
some and full of sad thoughts. Sad thoughts 
seem befitting the autumn days. They make 
us think of the things which pass away. There 
Is something akin In the last sweet beauty of 
the autumn days, when the hectlo flush of a 
delusive beauty is on the woods and meadows, 
to the last, brief days of those wo lovo on earth. 
They are going away, never to como again. 
Tho beauty that la so dear—the face that la so 
sweet- is fading out before our eyes, and noth¬ 
ing can keep them from the end we know to be 
Inevitable. But even while we know that tt Is 
useless to try to keep them with us, wo hope 
against hope that our dear ones may bo spared 
to us. As though our doar ones wore any more 
precious to ns than tbe dear ones of those 
about us are to them 1 But every family seems 
to itsolf the conf er of the universe about which 
the lives of others revolve. 
The Winter, too, passed away, and spring 
drew near. And as tho days grew fewer and 
fewer between the present ami the time when 
Ben should take her In hla arms and kiss her, 
M argery 's heart grow lighter, though at times 
a strange sense of foreboding would oorne over 
her that she could not keep away entirely. 
What if the vessel should never comeback? 
More than one ship bad gone down lu tho sea 
with souls on board that were as well beloved 
by somebody as Ren was by bor. Lovo could 
not stay tho fury of the storm. Then Mar¬ 
gery would call herself foolish for thinking of 
such things. And the days went, on, and the 
year was almost done. Almost done! Poor 
Margery I 
One day sho wont down to sit on the cliffs 
and watch the sea. The wind blow a fragment 
of an old newspaper to her feet. Sho picked It 
up. There was a little scrap of poetry In ono 
corner. She read it ovor with a throbbing 
heart, and eyes that, grew dim more than once 
before sho had finished It. It was called— 
I SEA AND SHORFI. 
She sits by tho western window. 
Her tmby close to her breast, 
And slugs of a ship that went sailing 
Out In the rosy West. 
And she sings the child or its father, 
Who sailed so far away. 
That his ship has never sailed back again 
To tho harbor in tho bay. 
" Wind of the YVost.” she sings softly, 
“ Blow o’er the wide, wide soa, 
And bring from my sailor a loving thought, 
And bring him back to rae. 
Blow from tho rosy sunset, 
Breeze of the far-off West, 
And hasten my sailor homo to mo, 
And his baby at my breast.” 
Oh ! well that hor eyes can soe not 
The wreck on the rocky shore, 
And tho white, dead face In tho twilight 
That her eyes shall see no more. 
OLD JAOH -A-UNTID HI0 MASTER 
She will wail at many a sunset. 
With her baby at her breast. 
But her sailor will never come back again 
Out of the far, far West. 
“ Oh, Bf.n !" Margery cried, “como back to 
me ! I shall wan't to dlo If you don’t.” 
Ben was coming back. It was a beautiful 
beaut,Uul day when ho came. Some of the' 
fisher hoys spied the white sail in tho oiling, 
and soon tho glml tidings rang from ono end of 
iho little village to tho other that tho Ariel 
was coming up tlie buy. 
Margery went down to the shore. Her 
heart was full oT tumultous Joy. At last! at 
last! Suddenly some one gave a little cry of 
dismay. The flag at the figure-head was draped 
with black. 
“ Dear knows who’s dead," an old woman 
moaned. ** Ma’bo my George. It’ll be a sorry 
coming home for some ono, I’m thlnkln’." 
M argery turnod pale as death. Maybe Ben 
was dead I 
Soon the ship was at anchor, and tho shore- 
boat was lowered, and a long, black shape was 
let down over tho sido. Every one knew wliat 
that shape was. Homebody's friend had died 
when almost home. Thcro was a strange silence 
as the boat neared shore. They all foared to 
iifk who It ivas under Mint, black covering. At 
lait the old woman who had spoken of George 
went down to tho bench and met tho gallon us 
they stopped to shore. 
“ Is It George?” she askod In a weak, quaver¬ 
ing voice, pointing to tho shape beneath the 
cloth. 
“It is Ben Darcy," they answered simply. 
“Ben! Ben!” There was a wild cry, and 
Margery fell upon tho white sands like ono 
dead. 
Ben had como home to her. Wo who have 
known our ships to como home with such a 
freight as tho Ariel brought to Margery oan 
pity her. Poor Margery! Her watching and 
waiting was done, and her beautiful dream was 
ended. 
The Yvorld has more Margeries than one, 
and more such comings home. 
• ♦ »- 
A KAINY DAY IN A GARKET. 
BY 0. R. C. 
“ Pour, pour, pour—a ceaseless monotone of 
rain!” exclaimed pretty Madge Burton, as 
with pouting lips and vexed expression sho 
drummed restlessly on the window pane. “Of 
all things to give one the blues, deliver me from 
a rainy day I Aunt Lucy, can you not suggest 
— - - something to amuse mo?” she 
added, turning to a lady drossed 
/ft in deep mourning, seated at the 
%#rk other window; “I feel like a 
fretful child.” 
Wy The lady thus addressed an- 
,j r swered, looking dreamily out on 
the never-ceasing rain, “ Why, 
dear, I remember an afternoon 
Just like this some eighteen 
yeara “go, when, In this room, 
1 »£ 2 |\ I asked the same question and 
received for reply Iho lnterro- 
r JMjNjjf; 1 . V. gatloit, ‘ Have yon ever visited 
' \ \ the garret ?’ I advise you to do 
iMpvwHiV as I did and spend your morn- 
I WBUu'mffiu ing there.” 
WHik Madge brightened visibly, and 
eagerly kissing her aunt, she 
ran off after her cousin Kate, 
111 eK&'Y w h° was spending a fortnight 
^ KaBflw . wl, ‘ h hcr ’ Together they as- 
i*i conded the old staircase and 
I . 1 Wwp. merrily surveyed the prospect 
V v ' before them. 
*l wMwl Th 0 garret of Mr. Burton’s 
kViWr'' 0, d homestead was one which 
mjM would have delighted any girl’s 
I VlBK ] heart. Old rafters and beams 
Im/tM Tky I Knarled oak adorned the cell- 
| lri K : windows deep and spa- 
vflrai clous, commanding a view un- 
m equalled by any neighboring 
jjf v house; low window seats oov- 
y ered with dust; here and there 
disabled chairs or invalid pans 
and kettles, retired after an 
honorable service in the culi- 
., nary department; sly nooks and 
corners challenging dormant 
curiosity; piles on piles of 
trunks and boxes arranged In 
picturesque confusion, afforded 
»— ‘ a pleasing prospect for the girl*. 
, i—^ “Here!” called out Madge, 
ybli \ \\\\\\ after they had spent an hour in 
%di |\\V \\M exploring every available nook 
\J\ \Y\\\\ and corner—“Here! thisisjust 
\ V\ • 1 very Now, did you 
Sh Y y \A/a ever see such an inviting look- 
fy A - ' ,nR old tru,lk? lf ' U 0 t Just 
•/- / 1 tX ' - bursting to disclose to us some 
wonderful secret, which it has 
been obliged to retain for cen- 
. j /tA'y’, t^.~\ (Dear reader, pardon the ex- 
y i v! r" - .A travagunt language of ray hero- 
* ne ’ bllt 80,1001 girls are proven- 
- ^ tor their exaggeration, and 
' Miss Madge was only sixteen 
and no exception to the general 
Kate eagerly assented to her 
Sg g ps i p gPP proposition of opening it, and 
~j?^ by their united efforts they suc¬ 
ceeded In getting It unfastened. 
