AU8. 22 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER 
420 
TROUT-FISHING. 
’Tis twenty years. Do you remember 
When, boy and girl, we stole the shlff. 
And wenta-flshing one September ? 
The la l, e so clear, it was as If, 
Upborne on lore’s debotbus learcn, 
We floated tn a pure mtc-heaven, 
With clouds of lilies for a border. 
The fragrant summer seemed to ache 
In blossom for dear paastou's sake. 
Excessive with Its sweet disorder. 
In you, too. was that fond distress 
Of flush and feur und happiness, 
Caresses by cares* unhanded, 
TUI, Angers mated on the reel, 
I thought the very trout could feel 
His double spoil was caught and landed. 
Alas that love which we remember, 
Blush-ripe as nil those wanton weeds. 
Should be n blossom of September, 
Born guiltless of the promise seeds— 
* Sweet dying things, whose only duty 
Is clothing life in forms ot beauty! 
For though I hold you iu tny arms. 
As full of honey in your charms 
As when the trefoil holds the clover. 
Your Angers, tutored In a thimble, 
In playing trout were found so nimble 
You hooked the Osb and cast the lover. 
But often, since we slipped the books 
To play for life with halted hooks 
In pools loss pure, do I remember 
The fragile blossom of September. 
Bom guiltless of the promise seeds— 
A dying thing, whose only duty 
Was clothing life In forms of beauty. 
With henven above and heaven below it. 
Though life has grown to other noeds. 
Our boat lies rotting In the weeds. 
And we can neither raise nor row It. 
[ W. IF. Harney, (it Harper’s Magazine. 
#ur ^torg-®^l^r. 
BELL ItIcBIRME’S LITTLE MISTAKE. 
BY MR3. QEO. BAIITI.ETT. 
“ Yks, I roinetnber what they said that day; I 
was a bride then, and so very happy; my new 
clothes were perfectly charming, and Barry 
so devoted. And Mrs. Jenkins laughed be¬ 
cause he couldn't wait till dinner time, but 
came home In the middle of the day, Just to 
kiss me, and call mo his darling. Yes, Mrs. 
Jenkins laughed, and said If husbands would 
only be lovers always; and Mrs. Morton said, 
‘ We’llseo; just wait a few months.’ Hateful 
old thing! And then that disgusting Miss 
Giumshaw said something about ‘ hot love 
soon cold what should tbo horrid creature 
know about love any way,! I thought thon I'd 
Bbow them my husband wasn't an ordinary 
husband ; but oh dear, dear, how droadful it 
all Is! Let mo see, every evening this week he 
has been out; and he swallows his meals In 
such an awful hurry, and thon off ho goes 
again.” 
This was what little Mrs. McBirnie said to 
herself, and so very distinct wore her thoughts 
It seemed very much as tnough she had spoken 
them aloud. And It was not the first time this 
train of reflection had been In Bell’s mind. 
Indeed she had begun s > to watch her husband’s 
abstracted look, and hurried manner, that she 
herself was becoming silent, and losing every 
gralii of cheerrulness. 
“ Bell, dear, will you mend my overcoat this 
morning,” called Baiiuv from the foot of the 
stairs. “Just two or three stitches; it is so 
mild I can leave it off." 
“Yes, yes, I II try to find time, answered 
Bell, coming down. 
Barky had thrown the coat on a chair in the 
parlor, but bis wife saw—scarcely, noticing, 
however, at the moment—that he crossed from 
the further corner of the room. In an Instant 
he was gone, shutting the door with a bang. 
Two or three hours after the coat was taken 
up for the mending—and the pockets, of 
course!—the invariable direction suspicious 
thoughts take. And was suspicion awakening 
Itself In Bell McBirnie's heart? How many 
times her eyes, bright and happy, had peeped 
into those pockets to see if a forgotten letter 
for herself was to be found, or if Barky had 
remembered to buy the opera tickets. 
This time, as it happened, it was not neces¬ 
sary to peep, for the pockets were turned 
Inside out, and of course empty. And then it 
flashed into Bell's mind that Barky had step¬ 
ped across the room; "and there was some¬ 
thing stealthy In his manner, now Ithink of 
it,” was the next reflection. Poor Bell— the 
color flushed upto her face as she rose quickly 
and proceeded to the parlor. “Why did he 
come In here at all,” she said to herself, and 
“ who would have thought of his figuring to 
hide his letters.” A little India box In the cor¬ 
ner of the room caught her eye; and with a 
nervous motion she went to it and turning the 
key opened it. 
Yes, there were the letters; old letters they 
were: yellow letcers, and white. They looked 
very familiar, still Bell took them up and 
glanced them over. And a wonder it is she 
didn’t drop them quicker than she picked 
them up; for there among them was—good 
gracious,—a woman's photograph !—a girl’s 
rather: a young, pale-looking thing, with 
short curls, end a round hat. 
“Well!” was all that escaped from Bell's 
U ps, but she spoke aloud, and with an emphasis 
that meant a great, deal; then she threw the let¬ 
ters down with an uely toss, and looked again 
at the photograph. But there might be a note 
from some horrid woman ; so again the little 
heap of papers were carefully examined. None 
at all was there; so, pushing them back into 
the box, she gazed with angry eyes into the 
quiet face of the picture. Two minutes more 
and it was sent with a furious whirl Into the 
grate, to writhe and shrivel In the flames. 
And now, to be sure, was Bell as wretched 
as she well could be. She cried, of course, and 
had a headache, uundag her wrath and grief 
to the full extent. Presently she noticed it 
was four o'clock; Bakky would be home at. 
live, and she meant to bring a terrible accusa¬ 
tion against him. Should she go to bed sick, 
and so appeal to his pity ? Sho remembered 
poor Mrs. Obey; she herself had called her a 
pink-eyed pimp, and had declared that If sho 
was afflicted with a husband too fond of soci¬ 
ety she would show a little spirit. But, oh 
dear! what should she do? Bakky would see 
that she had been crying, and iu truth she 
could hardly compose herself. How easy it 
had been to talk of spirit—how difficult now to 
stop cryingl But she would—she must—and so 
she bathed tier eyes and dressed herself. Her 
resolution was taken ; she would “not live an 
hour with Buob a husband." Fortunately, she 
reflected, she had a good purse full of money, 
and that would maintain her some time. 
At one of the fashionable hotels, Tom 
Hunter— an old lover lu truth—had rooms. 
It would lie a comfort to have some one to 
talk with, even if she did not pour out the 
whole story of her wrongs. She went to the 
hotel; called for a room, and sent her card to 
Mr. Hunter. But it happened that that gen¬ 
tleman was out of town, and poor Bell, after 
a vain attempt to beguile the time with a 
newspaper, was forced by her Increasing head¬ 
ache to go to bed. How utterly miserable it all 
was! bow she longed for a tittle home comfort 
—the sound of Barry's voice, and the touch 
of his hand, as it all used to be; but oh, that 
hateful photograph! 
Thinking it over, and over, through the rest¬ 
less night, she persuaded herself that it would 
be more satisfactory to go home fora brief in¬ 
terview, before they parted forever. So when 
the morning was somewhat advanced Mrs. 
Bell paid her bill, and ordering a carriage 
proceeded to her house. Mr. McBirnie had 
not been home all night, the girl said ; but 
there on tiie table this injured wife espied a 
telegraphic dispatch. It read: “Must stay at 
the offloo all night; don’t be uneasy.” 
In half mi hour Barry himself appeared, 
“You got the dispatch,” he said, “and, of 
course, you didn't feel anxious.” 
Bell hesitated; “I don’t know as I was 
anxious, but you have been at home so little 
lately, and are in such an awful hurry when you 
are here, that I thought perhaps you had run 
away altogether.” 
Barry laughed, failing utterly to notion his 
wife’s stony face. “'Well, dear,” he said, 
“ there lias been quite a little snarl in ourofflee 
affairs for two or three weeks. VVe thought wo 
would say nothing about it, but it has kept me 
very busy, and confoundedly nervous, [have 
hardly been able to think of anything else. 
Yesterday P im. Harlan onmo in, and 1 was so 
pressed with business that I was barely civil; 
more bear than civil, a good deal. He hadn't 
time to come up here, but he gave mo a photo¬ 
graph, let's see where la It? 1 put it In that 
India box, with some old letters, I remember 
now." And Bakry started to find it. “Well, 
iu my hurry I must have dropped It, for hero 
are the letters, but no photograph ; that's too 
bad! ” 
Bell had begun to breathe freely; Phil, 
then, had given that thing to her husband. 
“ Whose picture was it ? ” she u.sked, " any one 
I know." 
“ Why yes; I meant you should guess ; it was 
a favorite of yours.” 
“ A favorite! ” 
“ Yes, I believe you used to like him very 
much." 
“Him!” 
Barmy might have set himself to thinking, 
bo earnest was the tone iu which BellsurI 
this “Him;” but he, good, amiable fellow, 
thought nothing. 
“Why, yes, It was a picture of his little 
brother Charley. Why Charley must be seven¬ 
teen now—dressed as a girl for n tableau. You 
know what a pale, slim boy he always was, and 
nowiince his sickness ho looks more like a 
girl than ever." 
B-hry got a remarkably warm kiss a few 
minutes after, tittle dreaming, however, of all 
that was going on in his wife’s heart; and 
never did he know how near he had come to 
being a deserted husband. 
THE BOUND BOY, 
“I don’t care!” sobbed Julius Kingsley. 
“ You’re real mean, so you are!” 
And he threw himself down on a pile of dis¬ 
jointed kindling wood in a paroxysm of child¬ 
ish rage. 
“ Is that the way to talk to me ?’’ angrily de¬ 
manded Mrs. Parley, bestowing a cordially- 
given box on either hide of the doomed victim's 
head, “and you nothing on earth but a bound 
hoy I L hain’t no patience with you, and Job 
himself wouldn't have!" 
“ Gently, mother, gently. What’s the matter 
now?" demanded Fanner Parley, cautiously 
thrusting his sunburnt shock of hair into the 
woodshed door. 
“ Matter I” echoed Mrs. Parley. “ Why, just 
look here. Them wheels of the old wheelbar¬ 
row hysted up to the ruff, with the second-hand 
harness you bought, o’ Deacon Sllsbury and the 
strips for the new rag carpet—und all the wood 
tumbled down bigglcdy-olggledy to make room 
for It. And the hens ain't fed, and the cows 
ain't gone after, and—and there ain’t nothin’ 
done that ought to. I toll you I huin’t no pa¬ 
tience with his experiments and Ids tricks. 
Get up, Julius, this mfnuto, and go for the 
cows, and not a blessed mouthful of supper 
will you get this night.” 
Julius Kingsley obeyed sulkily and with 
down-dropping bead. He was a bright-looking 
boy of about thirteen, with dark gray eyes and 
thick brown hair, which hung over a low, 
square forohead, and as ho walked he clenched 
hla boyish hands, until the nails Indented the 
flesh In crescent-shaped marks. 
” 1 won’t stand It” muttered Julius to him¬ 
self. “ They've no business to treat me so.” 
And then the wrathful mood subs! led In 
some degree, as he remembered the many deeds 
nf kindness ho had received from both Mr. and 
Mrs. Parley—the care io sickness, the neatly- 
made clothes, the many little tokens of watch¬ 
fulness, so new and grateful to the orphan hoy ; 
and little A lice, too, who trotted at. bis heels 
when he went, to gather apples lu the orchard, 
and thought the wooden toys his ingenious 
jackknife furnished the most marvelous of 
creation. 
“ I suppose I am a trial," sighed Julius; “but 
she needn't have torn all my machinery down, 
and then to box my ears, too." 
It was rather a derogatory process to the boy¬ 
ish dignity of thirteen. 
" You ain't in earnest about, his supper, 
mother?” said Farmer Parley, as they sat down 
to the well-spread evening board, 
“ Yes, 1 b «- Have some quince sass, Alice?" 
“ Remember, lie's a grow in’ boy,” pleaded her 
husband. 
I can t help that. He's got to learn to be¬ 
have himself. There ain’t no other way of 
managin’ him. It was only yesterday heblow’d 
t.lie top off n.y bent preservin’ can, to show Alice 
how a steamboat, worked, and Inst week I 'most 
got poisoned with a bottle o' some stuff he'd 
tucked awuy on a shelf, that I took for vine¬ 
gar.” 
“ Sulphuric acid, mother," said little Alice. 
“ It was to-" 
“ I don’t care what It was for!" interrupted 
the farmers wife. “Julius can behave well 
enough when he's it mind to, ami he’s got to." 
And the farmer knew from the way his wife 
compressed her lips together that she was in 
• unmitigated earnest. 
Julius Kingsley went supperless to his room, 
but before ho had begun to undress a soft 
knock came to his door and Alice’s voice whis¬ 
pered : 
“ Julius I Julius 1” 
“What is it?” 
“Open the door. I've got a piece of peach 
pio for you, and two rusks and a bowl of milk.” 
“ But what will your mother say, Alice?” 
“ She's gone to Mrs. Balger's, and she thinks 
I'm in bed ; but I got up and dressed myself. I 
QOuldn t sleep, Julius, thinking how hungry 
you must be." 
And sho nestled down c.'ose at the bound 
boy’s side as ho eagerly devoured the supper 
which she brought him, 
“ L was hungry, Alice," said Julius, as he took 
a long draught of milk, “and you're a good 
little thing, i’ll doaemuch for yousome day.” 
Alice laughed. 
” 1 don’t got Into scrapes like you, Julius." 
“ That's no sign you never will." 
Mrs. Parley, secretly relenting in the depths 
of her motherly heart, gave Julius the brown¬ 
est cakes and the Juiciest bit of meat, for break¬ 
fast. the next morning. 
” He’ll behave himself now, I guess,” she 
thought; but in this she was mistaken. 
Julius “did up" his chores In the shortest 
possible period ot time that afternoon, when 
Mrs. Parley hud betaken herself to the sewing 
circle with Alice, and the farmer was going to 
the neighboring village, and applied himself 
with wore zeal than discretion to the further 
prosecution of the experiment that had ended 
so disastrously for the preserving can. 
“The teakettle isn't of glass," thought Ju¬ 
lius, “ and I know 1 can make that work.” 
Vain unction to lay to his soul! for just as 
that, experiment, whatever it happened to be, 
reached the culminating point, up flew the tea¬ 
kettle from the stove, tortured by too much 
caloric, and bang went the lid right into the 
dresser cupboard that held Mrs. Parley's best 
set of china. 
Julius stood staring aghast at the ruins. All 
housekeepers have their Idols, and this new 
“ iron-stone " set wa-s Mrs. Parley’s. The tea¬ 
pot lay noiseless and demolished before his 
eyes, throe cups were broken, and the handle 
was dashed off from the cream pitcher, while 
the knob was neatly clipped off the sugar bowl. 
Julius only paused for one glance at the gen¬ 
eral ruin, then he turned and ingiorlously fled 
from this Waterloo of hla scientific efforts. 
And the next day all Brlckerton knew that 
Farmer Parley's bound boy had run away, after 
first demolishing all of Mrs. Parley's china out 
of sheer revenge, because she had boxed his 
ears the day before. 
“I always knew tlmt boy wouldn't come to 
good,” said Deacon Jones. 
* 4 There was a vicious look in his eyes” 
croaked Miss Lavinda Denham, "and I only 
wonder that he didn't set fire to the house or 
bum you ail In your beds.” 
P 
