354 - 
QOf?£’S RURAL MEW-YOBKER 
MAY SO 
mained Inside the old building, where lie stood 
by his pen of flue Suffolk#, not to estimate the 
number of pounds of pork he could sell in the 
autumn, but because he could not set himself 
to work, and he wandered about aimlessly 
when not attending to his chores or watting 
upon his sick wife. 
“ If mother ever does get well I shall use her 
better whether father does or not.” 
Mr. TiJOMtriJON started like a guilty one as he 
heard these words, for they were the confirma¬ 
tion of something that had been slowly forcing 
itself upon his mind since lie had listened to 
Ids wife’s ravings. He bad t reated her In such 
a manner that even his children saw that lie 
did not treat her well. Ho thought that he 
had never intended to be unkind. Vet lie 
could not deny, even to himself, that he had 
been thoughtless and unfeeling. He had al¬ 
ways treated her as though she were dependent 
upon him ; but had she not done as much for 
him as ho had done for her? Year after year 
she hud tolled and helped him pay for his 
broad and fertile farm, and In return for it all 
he. had grudgingly dealt out to her the clothing 
that she positively needed. She could claim 
nothing as the representation of her labor, ex¬ 
cept the love of those for whom she had tolled. 
Mr. Tmomi'min felt that there had been noth 
big In his conduct to assure her that she had 
even this repayment, lie could plow see how 
such a nature as hers would suffer from a lack 
of kind and affectionate treatment. He re¬ 
membered her as sin* wafl in the days of their 
courtship. It seemed almost impossible that 
his pale, careworn wife could once have been 
the blithesome Hkrtha Wksoott, who had at¬ 
tracted him with her beauty and sweet, eh'ld- 
llke ways. With what perfect trust, she had 
given her happiness into hi# keeping I Could 
lie wonder that she now looked upon her life 
as useless, when all her labor of love bad been 
met with reproaches because she did not labor 
harder? “ Why, I haven’t used her as well as I 
have my horses,” he exclaimed, “ for I've had 
some consideration for them when they were 
tired.” 
Mr. Thompson's determinations were usually 
hasty and Inflexible. A he stood there a deter¬ 
mination was born in Ids heart, one that would 
not die out when all danger was over; l hat, If 
kind treatment in the future won id atone for 
l.he unkind 11 ess of the past, lie would make a 
complete atonement. But he was harassed by 
the terrible fsar that he would never have the 
opportunity of canceling the past In this 
way. She might never get well. He could not 
stand there and endure this thought for a mo¬ 
ment, but rushed away to her bedside as though 
his presence there would prevent such a catas¬ 
trophe befalling him. lie felt as though there 
was a crisis in his own life when the fever left 
his wife so white and still. And when she 
awoke from the death-Iiko sleep, and the doc¬ 
tor, who was standing by, said that she would 
live, the great burden that was lifted from off 
his soul left him faint and weak, ami he went 
out in the clear night air where the very stars 
aeemed twinkling down with Joy and sympathy 
for him, and there, in Ids great thankfulness, 
he knelt down, and, for the first time In his 
life, tried to pray. He tried to thank Uor> for 
his awakening. 
Mrs. Thompson’s first thought, after compre¬ 
hending that she had been ill, was that, after 
all, no change had come. She would soon be 
able to go about I lie house, and then everything 
would go on in the old way. Often afterward 
she wondered how she could have been bo 
wicked, as she lay there scarcely nearer life 
than death, as to desire to leave her children 
without a mother’s care and tenderness. She 
never t.o?>k up the old burden—the burden of 
thankless toil, with the feeling that no one 
Cared for her. hong before she got well, she 
felt that she hud made a great mistake in 
thinking that her husband and children did 
not. love her. It was a happy time for her when 
she was able to resume her labors, or I hat por¬ 
tion of them that her husband would allow her 
to resume. Of course, she was often tired after 
her day's work was done, but thero Is such a 
difference when the weariness of the body is 
not also accompanied by the weariness born of 
discouragement. 
As Mr. Thompson saw his wife again uboiit 
the house, making their home so pleasant and 
cheerful, he learned what joy there is in thank¬ 
fulness. He was thankful, not only because 
she had not left their home forever, but also, 
because she had returned to him the Bertha 
of long ago. 
Mrs. Thompson’s prayer was answered. Her 
life was made different. Yet she felt that the 
change was in a great measure wrought in her¬ 
self. When everything goes smoothly we forget 
that those we love have ever been unkind to 
us. And so Mrs. Thompson remembered 
naught of the bitterness of the past, excepting 
her great mistake In giving way to those mor¬ 
bid thoughts. Instead of doing her duty cheer¬ 
fully and uncomplainingly. Her home was 
pervaded with a healthier atmosphere,In which 
her children would attai n to a nobler manhood. 
They seemed just as anxious to imitate their 
father, but his conduct was in all respects 
more worthy of imitation. Hi# life had also 
been made different—made different by that 
change which comes when all worldly desires 
are superseded by t he desire to do right, from 
love of Him whose tender mercy is over ail. 
-->*-*-♦>- 
A clergyman out West lias been found 
guilty by achurch councilor “ not always hand¬ 
ling the truth with sufficient carefulness to 
meet the demands of veracity,” 
AUNT JANET’S STORY. 
BY' MARIK S. LADD. 
The wide expanse of the lake lay, a dark and 
gloomy blue space, before the door of Aunt 
Janet’s time-browned dwelling. It was about 
to rain. They knew that; and all the bright 
faces in that little back room had put onaco/.y 
look. Their arrangement# were all made Jur 
the night. They were to rest under that roof 
and hear the rain patter upon it. The rats 
would run riot above their heads, and in every 
nook and hollow of the wall. They would 
arise betimes, In the morning, and each give a 
helping hand at milking the two cows and pre¬ 
paring the warm meal. To-night they were to 
have red berrle# and white milk for supper, 
and then they would settle down in a delight¬ 
ful group and hear one of the richest, rarest old 
stories in the calendar. 
lfut, non*, who was to petition for the story? 
There was a clamor of voices and a hushing 
Into silence, which Aunt Janet enjoyed in the 
pantry with a sly smile all to herself. Four 
busy pairs of hands helped her to lay the cloth 
for supper, to remove it at last, and then to 
vash the dishes. The floor was brushed, a 
bright Are kindled on the hearth ; the patch- 
work was produced and they all sat around the 
old lady in the blaze <>f the firelight. “A line 
view you have hereof Lake Champlain, in fair 
weather," said Maky Hagen, to whom was as¬ 
signed the duty or alluring Aunt Janet’s 
fancies Into the story-telling vein. A charming 
spot il must have been when the trees grew 
down to the water's edge. And in those days 
you were all happy, were you not, Aunty, in 
your f retdi log cabins ?” 
“We knew little Of the cares and envyings 
that come of a life of luxury,” but we had our 
little heart aches, and small troubles then as 
“Is that the way with life, Aunty? 1 feel 
brave enough, somehow, to struggle with its 
difficulties. It seems a pleasant thing enough 
to live. See how happy we all arc here. Are 
you glad we are with you to-night, Aunt 
,i ctn v ?" 
“Yes, you are always welcome—thriee wel¬ 
come xvhen it rains, for that is about the only 
time 1 feel very lonely. And you need not, my 
dear girls, be so long coming to the point, for 1 
am going to tell yon a story to-night.” 
They gathered around her closely at the 
stand, and as they made ready to listen, each 
took a piece of patchwork from the old lady's 
work box. She kept these block# in readiness 
far nor young friends, for well she knew that 
to them these were belongings of her old-time 
dwelling, and that in helping her at this work 
they were preparing warmth for many a poor 
man's child. 
While the girls were waiting patiently for the 
story to begin, Aunt Janet sat among them 
with folded arms, looking out solemnly at the 
darkness. 
“T am hardly in the mood for story-telling 
to-night," she said at length. “ 1 will not 
answer for what gloomy tale I might relate. We 
had better sit ami chat pleasant ly by the fire.” 
At. this they all protested. 
“Then it shall be a true story," and uftera 
moment’s thought t lie old lady began. 
“ In my early days this country looked little 
as It now does. There was only a clearing here 
and there, and there were plenty of grand 
elms hereabouts that might, better have been 
left standing to this day. it is nigh on to fifty 
years,” said Auut Janet, falling almost un¬ 
consciously into the speech of the time she was 
carried back to, for her grammar was usually 
quite perfect, “nigh to fifty since the time 
1 shall tell you of. There were a good many 
young people In the settlement la t hose days, 
though t hey had to be gathered in from miles 
around if there were any doings for them to 
attend. There were fresh-faced, bright-eyed 
girls among them too, but none rosier or hand¬ 
somer t han Esther 1, a noon." 
‘‘ESTHER Lasdon?" interrupted one of her 
auditors. 
“ Yes, we w ill call her by that name, Esther 
had had bettor advantages than the other girls. 
She had been educated by her aunt, who lived 
away in a grand city. She understood arith¬ 
metic, and grammar too, and for two years she 
had taught their school. This gave her conse¬ 
quence In the eyes of the young men. Fur that 
reason, and because of her pleasant lace, Bhe 
received much attention among them. But she 
bestowed her favor only ou young Richard 
Hyde.” 
Again was Aunt Janet interrupted by an ex¬ 
clamation. 
“Iam telling a true tale,” she replied gravely. 
“The names are all J withhold from you. 
Though good and trusty, you are but young 
things to hold the secrets of your elders." 
And Aunt Janet continued her story. “There 
was to be a quilting frolie at ’Squire Groves’, 
whose house, a framed one, was t lie largest and 
most covenient in the settlement, and he had 
made a large clouring and had started a fine 
orchard. There was a lovely lookout upon the 
lake too, from his front door. We were ex¬ 
pecting a pleasant day and evening there, I can 
tell you. It was a bright day In June. I re¬ 
member the blush roses had climbed into the 
best room window and filled it full of fragrance, 
and we girls were about as fresh as the roses. 
“The quilt was a pretty one. of pink and 
white—nine small blocks of pink in a white 
ground, and they called lithe nine beauties. 
Wetpokitoff that afternoon. Esther Landon 
took the last stitch, and then four of them 
shook it ovpr her head. This signified that of 
all those girls she was to be married first. And 
the prospect did seem fair enough, for the wed- ; 
ding day was already set. 
“ Tbe evening brought allot the young men 
together; among them was a stranger from the ^ 
city, who had come up to the lake and wilds to ,j 
fish and hunt. This evening the girls were in -j 
quite a strife to see which could secure this s 
man’s attention, for he gave himself fine airs- < 
and was so graceful and gallant that he quite 1 
throw the honest boy# of the settlement into 
the shade. Well, he gave to all these country, 
maidens ready smile# and polite speeches, but ’ 
to Esther Landon lie gave entire devotion. • 
lie had been trying to woo her ever since Ids 
visit at the lake. Hitherto he had found her \ 
but coy, for Esther, though somewhat of a 
beauty was not giddy, and she loved only ] 
Richard Hyde. \ 
“But this evening she w T as weak enough to • 
wish to enjoy a mean triumph, and show her ’ 
companions at last, how coolly she could cast 
off what they coveted, and thus teach them and 
this stranger also, a wholesome lesson. But j 
Esther had but illy counted on the forbear- | 
atice of the man she loved; neither had she - 
considered him enough in the plan she was 
forming. She danced first with Wharton (for l 
so I will call the stranger,) and gave him encour¬ 
agement to fix himself closely at her side; then ! 
as the evening waned, she treated him with the 
utmost coolness. Richard had left at an early 
hour, angered to desperation at the apparent < 
caprice of Esther. That he had had high words 
with the stranger, before leaving, Esther well 
knew, and now a dark hint thrown out by 
Wharton, who was also maddened by the 1 
change in her treatment, to him, so filled her 
with alarm that whan lie too, left, she followed 
him out Into the woods, keeping him always at 
a little distance. 
“ lake moBt of the people of the settlement, 
Esther had keen senses, well trained to sighi 
and sound ; and while she followed she never 
fora moment lost trace of Wharton. At length 
nhe knew that lie halted, and she heard him 
answer, in excited tones, to a steady, deter¬ 
mined voice. Esther hastened on; she ar¬ 
rived within hearing of their words. ‘Fool!’ 
she heard in Wharton’S voice, ‘take your 
doom; your blood be on your own bond.' There 
was a short silence, then the repfft of two 
fowling pieces, and all again was still. She was 
soon on the spot. The moon was shining bright 
as day on u little clearing In the woods, where 
Richard Hyde lay weltering in his blood. 
Wharton, pale as death, wa> bending over 
him. Sitting on the mossy turf, she took the 
head of her only love in her arms. He was 
dead. He had died instantly. 
“ 1 He would have It so, Esth ek,‘ said Whar¬ 
ton, In accents of terror. ‘ 1 told him I was a 
dead shot, and for your sake, at first, I would 
have spared him. But be was determined, and 
you had exasperated me so.’ 
“ Esther extended an arm slowly toward tbe 
South. 
“ ‘Yes, 1 will go. But with this curse upon 
me, must I also take the abhorrence of the 
woman I truly love ?’ 
‘‘Esther’s finger still pointed to the South. 
Her heart lay like cold lead in her bosom, and 
she hail no tongue for speech. Wharton cov¬ 
ered his head, and with a smothered groan 
went Ilia way. 
“Until broad dnv took possession of the 
woods, Esther sat alone with her dead. Then 
she sought the nearest house, and led its In¬ 
mates to the little clearing. The guns of the 
two young men, laying where they hud dropped, 
told the tale. She ‘ Had found him dead.’ She 
said this, and nothing more.” 
Tbe patch-work had long ago dropped from 
aunt Janet's hands, and there were beaded 
drops standing on her forehead. The little 
Augers of her auditors had also ceased their 
labor. On their minds, this story would cer¬ 
tainly leave a vivid impression of quill ing frol¬ 
ics and the early days of the settlement. 
“What became of this Wharton?” inter¬ 
rogated one of them, at length. 
“ He became a minister of t he Gospel." 
“ And did he ever see Esther again ?” 
“ He wrote her a long letter (it was several 
years after this) and soon after the letter 
reached her he came to visit her. He had 
greatly changed. His sorrow had worked him 
good." 
There was still inquiry on the faces of her 
young friends, and aunt Janet stifled her reti¬ 
cence, not without a pang, to gratify them,— 
for she was telling them, reader, a passage in 
her own life history, ns they well knew. 
“ He came to ask Esther t > marry him. But, 
dear girls, she could not; for, though she 
blamed him less than she did herself, yet it was 
his hand that had taken the life of Richard 
Hyde.” 
The lire sparkled and snapped on the hearth. 
Tortoise shell purred softly on the rug hard by. 
It was too cosy a picture of comfort to retain 
long a dreary impression. "It is nice ami 
cheerful in this pleasant room, aunty, and the 
shadows of your early days shall not steal In 
and make us gloomy,” said one of the group. 
Aunt Janet returned her a cheerful smile, ami 
i they all resumed the patch-work and their 
pleasant conversation. 
MIRACLES. 
Three times on earth the Saviour used His power 
To wrest from Death bis prev. The first, when she, 
The ruler’s daughter, fell asleep, and friends, 
Stricken with grief. His presence sought for help, 
Or comfort. Unto them He said, “ Be it 
To you, according to your faith,’’ and lo! 
The maiden woke to life and joy. 
Next, on 
The pathway to the grave, the widow's sou 
He raised. How sang with joy the mother's heart 
That her last stay was given her again. 
And how the multitude beheld, with awe, 
The might of Him who came to seek anil nave. 
Lastly, when I.A/.arits had Inin four days 
Within the “ gloomy portals of the tomb,” 
The Saviour raised him up to lift* once more, 
That they, who in His power believed, might see 
The glory of their (ion. 
And still these miracles are done, and pass 
Unnoticed by our eyes, so lost are we 
In wnrhiliness. The Saviour's power draws back 
The heart to Him, which hue but entered on 
l he downward, evil ronrse : still the cold heart, 
Lost to all good, with heavenly grace He melts : 
Nor is there one so dead to virtue, or 
So sunk In sin. His power cannot revive— 
His hand lead upward to eternal life. 
n. C. D. 
-- 
SUGGESTIVE AND SERIOUS THOUGHTS. 
An ox that had been eating fermented grain, 
which was in preparation for making ale, be¬ 
came intoxicated, and was offered for sale by 
his owner as “ corned beef.” 
When engineers would bridge a stream, they 
often carry over a single thread. With that 
they stretch a wire across. Then strands are 
added until a foundation is laid for planks, then 
the bold engineer finds safe footing—waIks 
from side to side. So God takes from us some 
golden-threaded pleasure, and stretches it 
hence into heaven. Then he takes achlld, then 
a friend. Thus he bridges death, and teaches 
the thoughts of tile most timid to find their 
way hither and thither between the two spheres 
BAYS a venerable divine:—As we advance in 
life, so many whom we loved and honored are 
translated to t he other side, itscems sometimes 
as if heaven would be more familiar and home¬ 
like to us than earth. Wo do not go when we 
die to a land of strangers, but to one where 
scores of our best friemla are occupying man¬ 
sions, in which they will welcome us as cor¬ 
dially, and entertain us as hospitably and lov¬ 
ingly as they used to In their earthly homes. 
Lazy Christians think that they arc in the 
church, as plants In a hot-house, to receive all 
manner of care. They expect the preacher to 
stir them up every Sunday with the most mus- 
tardy kind of a sermon ; common Gospel will 
not do for them ; they wish Jt spiced, or they 
will not go to church. They nave, of course no 
duty In the mutter. They stay away for three 
mouths from (ho prayer meeting, and then 
drop in to see if there is any Interest. 
You toll me God is not personal. From the 
utieonsolipgstatement, how much do I le.irn? 
What else is he not 1 What more Important 
quality can you climinat e ? What is personality 
but t he focus or burning-point, where all the 
faculties meet, the concentration in which judg¬ 
ment and memory flame into genius, the grip 
wherein every ability is hurled to accomplish¬ 
ment; the prosperity whose scale with each 
new degree Is the measure of greatness?—C. A. 
Bartdl. 
Work is of a religious nature work is of a 
brave nature, which it is the aim of all religion 
to be. “ All work of man Is as the swimmer’s.” 
A waste ocean threatens to devour him; if lie 
front it not bravely, it will keep its word. By 
lueessant, wise defiance of it, lusty rebuke and 
buffet of it, behold how it lo> ally supports him 
- bears him <is its conqueror alone ! “ It is so,” 
says Goethe, “ with all things that man under¬ 
takes in this world."— Carlyle- 
When lifeseems rather dreary, and you begin 
to think your lot is a hard one, just break forth 
into singing. The first line will come hard, per¬ 
haps, but the second will lie easier. There is 
no better antidote for low spirits. It is aston¬ 
ishing how quickly the evil spirits of malice, 
anger, gloominess or discontent flee before that 
of song; and cherishing this, we will fulfil the 
command, making melody in our hearts to the 
Lord. 
H» walks as in the presence of God, that con¬ 
verses with him in frequent prayer andfreqiient 
communion; that runs to him in all his neces¬ 
sities, and asks counsel of him in all his doubt¬ 
ing#, that opens all his wants to him, that weeps 
before him for his sins, that asks remedy and 
support for his weakness, that fears him as a 
judge, reverences him as a lord ;and loves him 
as a father.—Taylor. 
The nature of the good angels is an humble 
loving and kindly nature. An angel’s is a line, 
tender, kind heart. As if we could find a mau 
who had a heart sweet ail through, and a gen¬ 
tle will; without subtlety, yet of sound rea¬ 
son; at once wise and simple. He who has 
seen such a heart has colors wherewith he may 
picture to himself what an angel is.— Luther. 
Just as a mother grieves over her child’s 
weakness and faultiness, but still loves him 
most tenderly, so God cherishes us, notwith- 
, standing all our frality. 
We mount to heaven mostly on the ruins of 
r our cherished schemes, finding our failures 
were successes.— Alcott, 
l 
