■V'\ ^ 
OOBE'S BUBAL NEW-YORKER. 
NO MORTGAGE ON THE FARM. 
Mary, let’s kill the fattened calf and celebrate the 
day, 
For the last dreadful mortgage on the farm is wiped 
away; 
1 have got the papers with me, they are right as right 
can be— 
Let us laugh and sing together, for the dear old farm 
is free! 
Don't all the Yankees celebrate the Fourth day of 
July, 
Because ’twas then that Freedom’s sun lit up our 
nation’s way ? 
Why shouldn’t we then celebrate, and this day ne’er 
forget! 
Where is there any freedom like being out of debt? 
I've rlz up many a morning an hour before the sun. 
And night has overtaken me before the task was 
done, 
When, weary with my labor, 'twas this thought that 
nerved my arm: 
Each day will help to pay the mortgage on the farm. 
And, Slnry, you have done your part in rowin’ to the 
shore, 
By tailin’ eggs and butter to the little village store. 
You did not spend the money for dressing up for 
show, 
But sang from morn till evening in your faded 
calico. 
And Bessie, our sweet daughter, God bless her lov¬ 
ing heart! 
The lad that gets her for a wife must be by nature 
smart— 
She’s gone without piano, her lonely hours to charm. 
To have a hand In paying off the mortgage on the 
farm. 
I’ll build a little cottage Boon, to make your heart 
rejoice; 
I’ll buy a good piano to go with Bessie’s voice ; 
You shall not make your butter with that up-and- 
down concern, 
For I'll go this very day and buy the flnest patent 
churn. 
Lay by your faded calico, aud go with me to town. 
And get yourself and Bessie a new and shining 
gown; 
Low prices for our produce need not give alarm. 
Spruce up a little, Mary ! there’s no mortgage on the 
farm. 
While our hearts are now so Joyful, let us, Mary, 
not forget 
To thank the God of Heaven for being out of debt, 
For Ho gave the rain and sunshine, and put strength 
into my arm, 
And lengthened out our days to see no mortgage on 
the farm. 
#ur ^torg-i^r. 
BECAUSE SHE LOVED HIM. 
BY EBEN E. UEXFORD. 
I 1 
“I don’t see how Sarah Wayne can caro 
for Rob Conway as she seems to,” said one 
gossip to another, as they sat together one 
afternoon over their tea. 
“ Nor I," was the reply. “ But I suppose she 
loved him. Love goes a great way 
toward covering up faults and fall¬ 
ings, you know." 
The secret of the mystery—for to 
many it was a mystery how Sarah 
Wayne could cherish any regard for 
young Conway, knowing his grave 
faults — was just there, she loved 
him! 
Robert Conway was like too many 
young men of the present day. He 
knew the right from the wrong, hut 
ho was often led, by evil influences, 
to choose tlie wrong. Ho found it 
hard to say No, when be ought to. 
A young man of many good impul¬ 
ses, of a kind heart, but. fatally weak 
and undecided. There were possi¬ 
bilities in his nature, but the weak¬ 
ness there prevented their being 
probabilities. More than once Sarah 
had heard of his being under the in¬ 
fluence of liquor; but she hoped that 
in time this habit bo was fast form¬ 
ing of indulging in intoxicating 
drinks would wear off. When lie was 
married and settled down In a home 
of his own, he would see the folly of 
such a course and become a sober 
man. Now he bad no home of his 
own; both parents were dead, and a 
young man left in his circumstances 
could not help forming some bad 
habits, she told herself. Sometimes 
she talked with him about it, and 
always he would promise to do bet¬ 
ter ; but—he was so weak! 
And the days went by. 
And by-and-by the rumor grew 
and spread that Robert Conway 
was becoming a gambler as wull as a 
drunkard. A man of notoriously 
bad character had come to Hampton, 
aud formed an acquaintance with 
him. Easily led away, Robert had 
given himself up to this man’s in¬ 
fluence and had played heavily, losing 
often, but winning hardly nothing. 
To a man of bis temperament, the 
excitement of the card table was 
something overmastering and irre¬ 
sistible, aud so he played time aud 
again, only becoming the more eager 
when he lost. Some men would have 
taken warning by his ill luck and T 
broken away from the fascinations of tbo gam¬ 
bling table; but he was too weak for that. He 
knew he was doing wrong as well as any one, 
but he had not. the moral power to break away 
from the habit and shun the associates whose 
influences wero only for evil. Over and over 
again he told himself that, be would never step 
Inside the saloons again, and over and over 
again he broke this promise made to himself. 
In manv ways Roueut Conway was different 
from most of the young men about him. There 
was a vein of Bcntlmont in his nature which 
proper culture would have made the means of 
refining him and making ills moral courage 
stronger and truer, and it might have saved 
him. But, Je-ft at an early age to his own con¬ 
trol, the better, finer impulses of ids nature had 
been neglected, and the woods and brambles of 
evil habits had overgrown and choked the flow¬ 
ers which held still a feeble ronthold in his na¬ 
ture. Sarah’s love for him did not blind her 
to the fact that ho lacked courage and resolu¬ 
tion to uproot the weeds and brambles alone; 
she felt that some hand must take hold aud 
help him, and when they were married she 
hoped that her efforts, coupled with ids own, 
might give the flowers which few save herself 
could see in Robert Conway's nature a chance 
to grow and thrive. She had faith In him be¬ 
cause site loved him. She know that many won¬ 
dered why she clung to him in pi to of hts reck¬ 
lessness and shiftless ways, but she could only 
answer that site loved him, and her love was 
like that, oharity which “ oovereth a multitude 
of sins." 
It was in early autumn when the terrible 
knowledge came to .Sarah that Robert had 
taken money from his employer to pay hisgam- 
bllng debts. The money had been used some 
weeks before, and the loss of it had not been 
discovered while Robert was at his post in the 
counting room, hut lie had fallen sick, and the 
clerk who had taken hla place had discovered 
the detlolt. At first Sakau could not believe 
the story; but when liisemployertold her with 
his own lips that it was true, she had to give it 
credence. 
“He is very sick, I hear," Mr. Tiverton 
said. “Fever, of somo sort, 1 believe. We have 
done nothing about the matter yet, and shall 
not do anything until lie recovers. I am truly 
B orry. Young Conway had many good quali¬ 
ties about him, and might have made hts mark 
In the world if he bail had a little more decision 
and moral courage. He lacks strength of mind 
to resist bad influences. It's a sorry affair." 
And it was all true, then ? And lie was sick ? 
Who would care for hi m in his Illness ? He bad 
no uiothor or sister to take the place by his 
bedside which only a woman could nil. Was 
she not his promised wife, and In this hour of 
need was It not her duty to go to him ami care 
for him? She felt that it was, and she went. 
“Oh, Sarah!” he said, smiling wearily, “ I 
didn't think to see you here, after what lias 
happened." 
“Don't talk about it,” she said, taking bis 
thin hands in hers, and kissing him, her eyes 
full of pitying tears ; “you need a friend now, 
I and I think I am the best earthly friend you 
have, and my place is here, where I am needed." 
“Oli, Sarah!” tie cried, eagerly, as a child 
might have done, “ 1 meant to put back that 
money. 1 did not steal it.; 1 swear I didn't! 
Don't believe that of me. I don’t, care very 
much what others think of me, but you, Ha r au, 
you’re the only person in all the world who 
cares for me, and I don't want yon to think me 
a thief.” 
“I don’t, Robert," she answered. “I trust 
you. I have too much faith in you to think 
that. If I had not, I should not be here." 
“ My mother was just such a noble woman ns 
you are," he said, wearily. “ If she could have 
lived, I might have been a different boy." 
And then he sank Into an uneasy sleep, from 
which lie woke in delirium. He babbled of 
“posting the books," and “putting back the 
money,” and of a thousand Incoherent, things. 
And so the days went by until November had 
come and the Iudlan Bummer glory hung over 
the Hampton hills, Tho trees put on a crown 
of yellow and scarlet glory, and tho sumach 
bushes along the country ianeB and by-ways 
were ablaze witli beauty, and held up their 
crimson torches in the soft languor of the hazy 
air. Tho breezes which blew down from the 
bill summits whirled the falling yellow aud red 
and russet leaves into drifts o[ rustling crisp- 
nets In tbo hollows. The ground was carpeted 
thickly in the orchard with the Bummer’9faded 
foliage ; in tbo fence corners the purple asters 
made tho air full of soft and tender beauty, 
and tlie golden rod on the hills and in tho pas¬ 
ture lands waved its yellow plumea, giving a 
shower of sweet scents to every breeze that 
wandered by. The yellow-coated bees hummed 
lazily amongthe few late flowers, and the squir¬ 
rels inado the woods vocal with chirp and chat¬ 
ter, as tho brown nuts fell, rustling through the 
almost, leafless branches, to the ground. The 
bluebird twittered now and thou among the 
leafless maple branches where bis nest had 
been,yellow birds made loflesoine noises in the 
pastures where t he thistles had ripened, and 
every wind blew their winged white seeds about 
In showers of silvery snow. Tho Bky was lull 
of soft and languid tints, and the far lines of 
the horizon were almost hidden In the denser 
haze that seemed to huva settled down from 
the sky alone and rested on tho hilltops. 
It. wits the saddest., and at tho same time tho 
sweetest season of the year. Why Is it that it 
is so? I think, sometimes, that the year gets 
to be like some dear, kind friend to us, whom 
we hate to lose. When we see the beauty that 
presages death steal over It, we know that In a 
little while it will vanish evermore from sight, 
and we shall miss its brightness and its beauty. 
The dear face of a friend never seems half so 
dear to us, nor so fair, as when the night of life 
is closing round it with its gloom and shadow, 
to lift In the morning of a new, glad day on 
which no night shall drop its sombre darkness. 
Robert was in his right mind at last, Tho 
long and weary days of delirium were over, and 
the short day of his earthly life was draw<ng to 
a close. 
“There is no hope,” the doctor said. “The 
I springs of life are giving out. His nature has 
aS. i' ■>;■■■ •-.•!• dir* .• ’ 
—- >’•. $ ■ 
THE LESSON OF THE BEAUTIFUL FLOWERS.-See Page 
not vitality enough to counteract the exhaust¬ 
ive effects of the disease." 
Poor Robert I So young, and so soon to die! 
They did not tell him what t he doctor bad said, 
but one day ho oponod his eyes andaald “ I’m 
going to die. I know it; don’t try to deceive 
me. How long will it be before—before " 
Sarah bent down over tbe pale face, grown 
so poor and thin, her tears falling on it like 
dew on a frail lily. “ Dou’t talk of it now, 
Robert," she said, brokenly. 
“ But I must," he replied: “ I want to know. 
I’ve been bad, very bad, but l didn’t mean to 
be a thief, Goo knows." 
“ Don’t talk of that, dear," she said, smooth¬ 
ing his hair very tenderly'. “ You were tempt¬ 
ed, and you were weak and gave way to the 
temptation. All of us are liable to do wrong, 
Robert. Think of that." 
He seemed satisfied, and covered his eyes as 
though in sleep. 
“ Poor Robbie," Sarah said, and bent down 
and kissed him. He was not sleeping. He 
openod his eyes and strove to lift his arms and 
clasp Thom about her neck; but the poor arms 
were too weak.” 
“I can’t do It," he said sadly. “I can hold 
your hand though. You love me after all I’ve 
done, don’t you, darling?” 
Tho next day drew to Its close. They had 
drawn Robert up to the open western window, 
where im could look out and see the day die 
royally in the West. 
“I’ve been a bad boy,” he said, holding 
Sarah’s hand. “You won’t think harshly of 
me when I’m gone, will you?" 
“ Robert," she said, tears choking her voice 
ns she spoke, “all of us have our faults and 
failings, and you are like tho rest of ua. If you 
have done wrong, and are sorry for It, that’s all 
you can do; and no one should remember it 
after Goo has forgotten it, and I think He for¬ 
gets and forgives us everything wo’ve done 
when He sees we’re really sorry for it." 
“I would like to stay a little longer for your 
snko,” he said alowly. “ But perhaps it’s bet¬ 
ter as it. Is. I’m so weak, Sarah —so weak 
that I couldn’t resist the wrong, like enough, 
if I were to live. I always thought I’d like to 
die at this time of the year. It seems easier to 
die now when everything fair and lovely Is 
dying. If it was iu spring or Bummer, when 
everything grows bright and glad, I should 
want to live and enjoy the beautiful things all 
about me, but now I don’t think it so very 
hard to die. It seems like lying down when 
I’m tired to rest a long, long time, till morning 
comes." 
“ You’ll find your mother and father waiting 
for you,” Sarah said, by-and-by, when he 
spoke of them. 
“ But mother—will she love mo, do you think, 
after what I’ vo done ?” ho questioned. 
“Sbe 11 love yon none the less for the errors 
and mistakes of your earthly life," she an¬ 
swered. “ Out of the infinite pity and tender¬ 
ness of the life God gave her long ago, she will 
judge your frailties and faults in the merciful 
charity which we cannot measure nor compre¬ 
hend here.” 
“I’m glad you told me that," he 
said, a glad, eager light breaking 
through the shadowy depths of his 
eyes, grown large and wistful. “I 
hated to go, thinking mother would 
see the great, stain on my soul. She 
is so pure, ami I’m so stained with 
sin." 
After that there was a deep and 
holy silence. The sun sank down 
behind the hill, and the West grew 
full of golden and purple mist. The 
quail called among the stubhle fields 
in plaintive voice, and the whip- 
poor-will answered softly from the 
neighboring shadows. A late robin, 
who had tarried long among tbe 
Northern hills, flew down upon a 
branch which stretched its naked 
limbs before l.im window, and sang 
softly a little vesper song. 
“I’m tired; I’ll try to sleep,” he 
said, and the blue-veined iids fell 
over the shadowy, far-seeing eyes, 
the brown laslies swept the wan, 
white cheek?, and Robert, poor 
Robert, was asleep In the last sleep 
God glvetli to His children. 
Two days after there was a new 
grave made upon tbe hill, where his 
parents had slept for many years— 
if it be that our dead sleep when we 
lay them down to rest beneath the 
grasses and the blue sky—and Rob¬ 
ert was laid beside them with the 
seal of peace upon his Ups. And 
there upon the hill they left him in 
the autumn afternoon to the rest 
that was better for him than tho stir 
and bustle of life had been. Hence¬ 
forth for him there would be no 
temptation and no giving way 
to the counsels of evil men—no sor¬ 
row over wrong-doing; no pain, nor 
tears. 
And (Sarah wont back to take up 
her life work again, with a tender 
memory to carry with her to the 
eud—tho memory of a love which 
had no bitterness iu it for her. She 
forgot his errors and his weaknesses, 
and thought only of his better quali- 
ties — because she loved him 1 
