MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
DEC. S 
V 
beautlful daughter In the doorway of the old 
farm kitchen. 
“ It's awful hard, Ellen. How much longer 
do you think, before we can settle everything ? 
I have lees courage every day, and I would run 
off this very night If you would only consent, 
Ellen." 
The girl shook her head sadly. “ Faint heart 
never won a fair lady, nor anything elBe worth 
having, ROBERT. T always keep my promises, 
dear," and a little white hand crept up and 
clumped the bearded chin caressingly. 
He stooped and kissed her, once, twice, with 
a lingering tenderness. “ I believe In you, you 
know I do, always. I will come again to-mor¬ 
row night, Ellen,” and the tall figure In the 
coarse blue blouse strode off to the barn. 
She watched him as he went, and tears gath¬ 
ered in her eyes—those great, blue eyes, which, 
wit h golden halrto match, a graceful figure, and 
sole inheritance of her father’s hard-earned 
property, entitled her to be considered the 
most beautiful, as well an most desirable, girl 
in the village. “As good as she is beautiful,” 
many had said, though some had lately felt 
compelled Io retract the statement, or modify 
it by, “Leastways she seemed so, but they say 
she’s deceiving her fathor awfully, aud no mis¬ 
take.'* And now she was standing in the 
doorway, gazing at the quietly retreating figure 
of “ i*AKKF.R’g hired man." No wonder Miss 
Potter felt that she had a call “to look art or 
things.” 
Somebody else seemed to be moved in the 
same direction, a step behind the girl startled 
her and she turned round, 
“Seems to me you're maltin’ quite free with u 
young man you’re known less than a month, 
Miss Ellen. lie kissed you, too; I saw him. 
What would your father say to such scandalous 
proceedings, or the gentleman In New York 
you've as good aa promised yourself to? Miss 
Ellen, there's a good deal of talk down in the 
village, i think best you should know." 
“ Know!—know what, Susan." 
“Mrs. Mkdler told her dressmaker, who told 
the storekeeper's wife, that they say Squire 
Parker ought to know how blB daughter la 
going on with that worthless Robert Siielton. 
There was a. Jot more stuff, but it isn't for you 
to hoar." 
The young girl dropped Into a chair as if she 
had been struck. “A lot more stuff," she re¬ 
peated slowly, “and worthless? Why should 
they call Robert worthless?” 
“He works on the farm, you know, wears a 
blue blouse, and was barefoot when Miss Pot¬ 
ter met you on the road with him the other 
night.” 
“Ah, Susan, I begin to see,” was the reply 
after a little pause, and with a bitterness of 
tone quite unlike the girl; “I can guess what 
they Bay,—that T am deceiving my father, who 
wards me to marry Mr. Morrison, and degrad¬ 
ing myself to flirt with the hired man ; I hope 
that is the worst. Perhaps they haven’t found 
out yet that. Mr. Morrison Iras never written 
me a word since my brother's college scrape. I 
am thankful, though, that there is one true 
heart left (n the world, and that's Robert's, 
aud unless I can manage to reconcile father I 
shall go away with him before long. I will 
never forsake him, no matter vhat they say," 
and she left the kitchen abruptly, while SUSAN, 
going to strain the milk, shook her head omin¬ 
ously, “I have my doubts about her pulling 
the wool over the old man's eyes in this way, I 
wish the whole business was over with. She 
never'U bring him round—never, never." 
Ellfn Parker walked “across lots" to the 
minister’s, and Into the wide-open back door, 
near whioh sat Mrs. Core trying to soothe a 
crying baby. 
“ I oan do it, I know," she said to the worn- 
out mother, and, rocking the. little one upon 
her own sore heart, she said:—“Mrs. Cole, It 
grows harder every day, but I am doing right, I 
know T am. Do tell me so. Father Is so hard 
and cold I have not dared to speak to him yet, 
and I don’t know' as I ever shall; hut. Robert 
Is all the world to me"—ending with a sob. 
And Mrs. Cole, sitting In the chair Miss Pot¬ 
ter had occupied in the morning, replied quite 
calmly“ You are justified in deceiving your 
father, Ellen. Go with Robert to your aunt’s 
if you can do no better." Then she laughed a 
little and ended with the words“ They say 
the minister's wife don’t amount to much any 
way. Suppose they should hear my advice to 
you ?” 
“Old Mr. Parker has another of his spells, 
Mrs. Cole. He wants your husband right 
away,” afld Susan stood in the room, flurried 
and excited, returning with the minister and 
Ellen to the old man’s room. 
“The old trouble with my heart," he explain¬ 
ed, “only It's worse to-night. Brother Cole, 
do you think I had better let Ellen write to 
the buy? It’s hard— hard—he's disgraced us 
all: I never meant to speak of him. but-" 
“Father,” broke in the sobbing girl, “if you 
should find that be was only partly to blame, 
after ail,—that he had given up his w ild asso¬ 
ciates and been hard at work eversince, earning 
his own living and hoping to earn back bis old 
place In your heart and home—father, would 
you take him back—would you, father?" 
“ Daughter," the old man began, huskily, but 
stopped short, for the favorite child, the cast¬ 
off son, came towards him, aud with a great cry 
he fell ou his neck and kissed him. 
“They say things always fix themselves,” 
commented Susan. 
“ ft doe3 beat all nater how that gal man¬ 
aged,” said Miss Potter. “They say she was 
Jest heart-broke about that Mr. Morrison all 
the time, too; but his letters got lost and so he 
came on to get an explanation. I s'pose It’s all 
right now. anyway ; for they say there's to be a 
wedding at Joel Parker's next month. 1 
alius said Ellen was a first-rate gal." 
-- 
A HAPPY MARRIAGE. 
A Husband Without Fault, and a Wife 
that was Still Better. 
After having been married some weeks, it 
came into the head of a young husband in this 
city, one Sunday, w'ben he had but little to 
occupy his mind, to suggest to his wife that 
they should plainly and honestly state the 
faults that each had discovered in the other 
•since they had been man and wife. After some 
hesitation the wife agreed to the proposition, 
but stipulated that, the rehearsal should be 
made In all sincerity and with an honest view 
to the bettering of each other, as otherwise It 
would be of no use to speak of the fault.s to 
which marriage had opened their eyes. The 
liosbund was of the same mind, and his wife 
asked him to begin with her faults, lie was 
somewhat reluctant, but bis wife insisted that 
lie was the first to propose the matter, and as 
he was at the head of the house It was his place 
to take the lead. Thus urged, be began the 
recital. He said: 
“My dear, one of the first faults I observed in 
you after we began keeping house was that you 
a good deal neglected the tinware. You didn't 
keep It scoured as bright a* it should be. My 
mother always took great pride In her tinware 
and kept It as bright its a dollar.” 
“I am glad that you have mentioned it, 
dear," said the wife, blushing a little: “here¬ 
after you shall sec no speck ou cup or pan. 
Pray proceed.” 
“1 have often observed," said the husband, 
“that you often use your dish-rags a long time 
without washing them, and then finally throw 
them away. Now, when at homo I remember 
that my mother always used to wasli out her 
dish-rags when she was done using them, and 
then hang them up where they would dry, 
ready for the next time she would need them.” 
Blushing as before, the young wife promised 
to amend this fault. 
The husband continued with a most formid¬ 
able list of similar faults, many more than we 
have spaco to enumerate, when he declared 
that he could think of nothing more that was 
worth mentioning. 
“Now,” said he, “ my dear, you begin and 
tell me all the faults, you have observed in me 
since we have been married.” 
The young housewife sat in silence; her face 
flushed to t be temples, and a gi’eaf lump came 
in her throat, which she seemed to be striving 
hard to swallow. 
“ Proceed, my dear ; tell me all the faults you 
have observed In me, sparing none 1” 
Arising suddenly from her seat, the little wife 
burst into tears, and throwing both arms about 
her husband’s neck, ciied : 
“My dear husband, you have not a fault in 
the world. If you have even one, my eyes have 
been bo blinded by my love for you t hat as long 
as we have been married I have never once ob¬ 
served It. In my eyes you are perfect, aud all 
that you do seems to me to be done in the best 
manner and just what should be Juu«." 
“But, my dear," said the husband, his face 
reddening and his voice growing husky with 
emotion, “Just think; I have gone and found 
all manner of fault with you. Now do tell me 
some of my faults: I know I have many—ten 
times as many as you ever had or ever will 
have. Let me hear them." 
“ Indeed, husband, it is as I tell you; you 
have not a single fault that 1 oau see. What¬ 
ever you do seems right in roy eyes ; and now 
that I know what, a good-for-nothing little 
wretch I am, 1 shall at once begin the work of 
reform and try to make myself more worthy of 
you." 
“ Nonsense, my dear, you know sometimes I 
go away and leave you without any wood cut; 
I stay up-town when I ought to be at home; I 
spend my money for drinks and cigars when I 
ought to bring It. home to you: 1—" 
“No, you don't," cried his wife; “you do 
nothing of the kind. I like to see you enjoy 
yourself. I should be unhappy were you to do 
otherwise than just exactly as you do.” 
“God bless you, little wife 1" cried the now 
thoroughly subjugated husband; “Irom this 
moment you have not a fault in the world;—in¬ 
deed you never had a fault. I was but joking— 
don’t remember a word I said 1” and he kissed 
away the tears that still trembled in the little 
woman’s eyes. 
Never again did the husband scrutinize the 
tinware nor examine the dish rag—never so 
much as mentioned one of the faults he had 
enumerated ; but soon after the neighboring 
women were wont to say : 
“It is wonderful how neat Mrs,-keeps 
everything about her house. Her tinware is 
always its bright, as a new dollar; and I do be¬ 
lieve she not only washes but even irons her 
dish rags!" And the neighboring men were 
heard to say, “ What a steady'fellow M-has 
got to be of late; he don't spend a dime where 
he used to spend dollars, and can never be kept 
from home half an hour when he is not at 
work. He seems almost to worship that wife 
of his ."—Virginia City Enterprise. 
A SPINSTER’S CHANGE. 
IT Is generally the case that the more beauti¬ 
ful and the richer a young female Is the more 
difficult are both her parents aud herself in the 
choice of a husband, and the more the offers 
they refuse. One Is too tall, another too short,; 
this not wealthy, and that not respectable 
enough. Meanwhile one spring passes after 
another, and year after year carries away leaf 
after leaf of the bloom of youth and opportun¬ 
ity. 
Miss Harriet Sclwood was the richest heiress 
In her native town, but she had already com¬ 
pleted her twenty-seventh year, and beheld 
almost all her young friends united to men 
whom she had at one time or another discarded. 
Harriet begat* to bo set down for an old maid. 
Her parents became really uneasy, and she her¬ 
self lamented in privute u position which is not 
a natural one, and to which those to whom 
nature and fortune have been niggard of their 
gifts are obliged to submit. But Harriet, as 
we have said, was handsome and very rich. 
Such was the state of things when her uncle, 
a wealthy merchant In the north of England, 
came on a visit to her parents. He was a jovial, 
lively, straightforward man, accustomed to 
attach all difficulties bokilv and coolly. 
“You see," said her father to him one day. 
“ Harriet continues single. The girl la hand¬ 
some ; what she Is to have for her fortune, you 
know; even in this scandal-loving town not a 
creature can breathe an imputation against 
her." 
“True," replied the uncle: “but look you, 
brother, the grand point in every affair in thl R 
world is to seize the right moment; this you 
have not done. It, is a misfortune; but let the 
girl go along with me, aud before the end of 
three months I will return her to you as the 
wife of a man as young and as wealthy jus her¬ 
self.” 
Away went the niece with her uncle. On the 
way home he thus addressed her : 
“Mind what I am going to say. You are no 
longer Miss Selwood,; but Mrs. Lumley, ray 
niece, a young, wealthy, childish widow; you 
had the misfortune to lose your husband, Col. 
Lumley, after a happy union of a quarter of a 
year, by a fall from hla horse while hunting.” 
“ But, Uncle-" 
“ Let me manage, if you please, Mrs. Lumley. 
Your lather has invested tne with full powers. 
Here, look you. Is the wedding ring given you 
by your late husband. Jewels and whatever 
else you need your aunt will supply you with ; 
and accustom yourself to cast down your eyes.” 
The keen-witted uncle introduced his niece 
everywhere, and the young widow excited a 
great sensation. The gentlemen thronged 
about her, and she soon had her choice of 
twenty suitors. Her uncle advised her to ao- 
cept the one that was deepest In love with her, 
and a rare chance decreed that this should be 
precisely the most amiable and opulent. The 
match was soon concluded, and one day the 
uncle desired to say a few words in private to 
his future nephew. 
“ My dear sir,” he began, “we have told you 
an untruth.” 
“ How so? Are Mrs. Lumley’s affections-” 
“Nothing of the kind, my niece is sincerely 
attached to you." 
“ Then her fortnno, I suppose. Is not equal to 
what you told me ? ” 
“ On the contrary, it is larger.” 
“ Well, what is the matter, then ? " 
“ A joke—an innocent Joke, which came Into 
my head one day wlien 1 was in good humor; 
we could not well recall it afterward. My niece 
is not a widow." 
“ What! Colonel Lumley living?” 
“ No, no; she Is a spinster." 
Ths lover protested that he was a happier fel¬ 
low than he had ever conceived himself, and 
the old makl was forthwith metamorphosed 
into a young wife. 
-- 
FIGURE VERSES. 
A few years since a new French “poet” 
based his claim to a share of the sunshine of 
the public smiles on an ingenious invention. 
This gentleman, who rejoices in the Bomewhat 
uupoetic name of Pommler (apple tree), hit on 
a method of adding the seductions of form to 
those of style, as witness tho following effort of 
his muse, in which the stauza is made to assume 
the shape of a pyramid : 
A 
t a 
ceme, 
sublime 
monument, 
qul flerement 
leves tesassises! 
Some of bis pieces are square, some round, 
some oval, some oblong, some triangular, hep- 
tagonal, octagonal, rhomboidal; there is lite¬ 
rally no end to the capricious oddities he has 
perpetrated In this way. The subjects of his 
“poems” are equally whimsical. Though the 
invention is not new, for the old Greek anthol¬ 
ogy" has specimens of these “ figure verses,” 
credit must be given to the Frenchman for the 
new devices which ne adopts for his poems. 
-»•»» — 
Sighs and Tears win sympathybut oh, 
for the wise insight, which can sympathize with 
the sighs that are breathed Inwardly and the 
tears that are never seen,— Edward Qarrett. 
Sabbath Reading. 
POETICAL GEMS. 
FREE will. 
Free In his will to choose or to refuse, 
Msn may Improve the crisis, or abuse; 
Else, on the fatalist's unrighteous plan 
Say to what bar amenable Is man ? 
With naught In charge, he ronld betray no trust; 
And, if he fell, would fall because he must; 
If love reward him. or If vengeance Btrlke, 
His recompense In both unjust alike. fCoicper. 
PH OCR ASTI NATION. 
Shun delays, they breed remorse; 
Take thy time while time doth serve thee. 
Creeping snails have weakest force. 
Fly thy fault lest thou repent thee; 
Good Is beat when soonest wrought, 
Lingering labors come to naught. 
Holst up sails while gale# doth last. 
Tide and wind stay no man’s pleasure ; 
Seek not time when time is past, 
Sober speed is wisdom's leisure. 
[Southwell. 
OUR TRUSTS. 
All are not taken ; there arc left behind 
Living beloveds, tender looks to bring 
And make the daylight still a happier thing. 
And tender voices to make soft the wind. 
But If It were not so—If I could find 
No love in all the world for comforting, 
Nor any path but hollowly did ring, 
Where “ dust to dust" the love from life disjointed; 
And if. before these sepulchres umuovlng, 
I stood alone (us some.forsaken lamb 
Goes bleating up the moors in weary death). 
Crying, " Where are ye, 0 my loved and loving?" 
I know n voice would sound, •' Daughter, I am ; 
Oan 1 suffice for heaven and not for earth ?" 
[Mrs. Browning. 
• -- 
THE FALL OF THE LEAF. 
“ Autumn has come In her splendor. 
And gather’d her golden sheaves; 
And ololb'd tho heart, of sweet summer. 
And scattered her blood on the leaves." 
How tenderly these lines suggest the birth 
of I hat most beautiful of seasons, Autumn. 
Clothed In Nature's brightest robes, why should 
she be thought melancholy ? If so, wbat a pleas¬ 
ant mood to be in 1 Sweet In its sadness, Octo¬ 
ber is the month that paints Its leaves. One 
would Imagine Its genius in the form of some 
bright, airy beiug, flying through the trees, 
paint-brush iti band, touching and tinting 
them, one by one, throughout the forest. Wbat 
a boautifu! sight in Autumn Is au American 
forest! The maples and scarlet oaks seem 
burning In their splendor, while tho elms, with 
their lemon-tinted leaves, form a contrast so 
striking that the scene dazzles t he eye. 
It Is a great pleasure to walk In the woods 
after the winds and rains have destroyed the 
leaves on the trees. They seem to have a 
double mission to perform—that of pleasing 
the eye while in their maturity on the tree, 
and that of awakeuiug the imagination and re¬ 
calling memories after they have fallen. Im¬ 
agine a thick wood, sloping on either side to a 
brooklet, the ground strewn with leaves. Then, 
a little squirrel sits on a log, with a half-cracked 
nut between his tiny paws, his merry brown 
eyes twinkling as lie thinks, “Here i reign su¬ 
preme.” Hark!—what sounds? A large oak 
leaf flutters and falls; he starts, drops the nut, 
and rune to his hiding-place, doubtless think¬ 
ing some wily enemy is behind him. How 
gracefully that volley of leaves is borne by the 
wind down into the brooklet, from which a 
spioy, aromatic fragrance arises! The medi¬ 
cinal tea is quite “enough to sot all nature a- 
gosstpplng." 
The leaves die so peacefully, without even a 
murmur, onfy a sob, as they flutter and fall, 
“ never to rise again.” How willingly they give 
back to nature their all and seek their Immor¬ 
tality in new life, in some shape or form ! Can 
man, with all hla faith in immortality, die as 
calmly as the leaf ? M. h. 
Pittsburgh, Pa., Nov., 1874. 
THANKSGIVING. 
The Governor of Massachusetts made a beau¬ 
tiful summary of the mercies for which we 
should be grateful, when in his recent Procla¬ 
mation he said: 
“ Let ua praise God, and render t hanks for all 
his mercies, the dally bounties of his providence, 
the beauty of his smile in the changing seasons 
of the yeai; the grace which garners in our 
hemes the treasures and enjoyments of do¬ 
mestic life; and, above all, for the higher hopes 
and aspirations which spring from the gospel 
of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. With a 
grat itude proved genuine by the generosity and 
kindness kindled in our hearts towards the 
poor and the suffering, the outcast and the 
oppressed, the weak and the criminal, let us 
strive to merit at last the Divine approbation : 
* inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the 
least of these my bretheru, ye have done it unto 
me.”’ 
-♦♦A- 
Love Finds Love. The deaf and dumb child 
yet sees love In the mother’s eye; when she be¬ 
comes a mother she knows wbat the look of 
that eye meant. We are to find Him through 
love. Paul somewhat found this In Him, and 
so the Epistles are an apocalypse.— StotTS. 
rP 
