MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
4S 
bard back his fifty cents. The same day I re¬ 
ceived a summons to Captain Laibd’b room, 
and was much enraged and mortified to find he 
knew the whole story. They wrote nlm from 
home. I did not know all till long after: but It 
was enough for me to eee the amused twinkle 
in his eye and fear perhaps be had beard about 
“the young lady.*' If I bad known they sent 
him my letter I could not have looked in his 
face. He gave me a reprimand—not a very se¬ 
vere one,—hoped I would not transgress again, 
and said he would write for my coat to be sent 
by express. 1 saw be wanted to laugh, bi^»I 
felt It was not consistent With my dignity to do 
so and I replied, “Thank you, sir. Is that all, 
sir?” 
“It Is, sir. Good morning, sir," and I de¬ 
parted. 
The next day the coat came to ray address. I 
rejoiced secretly, said little about It, and kept 
out of Captain Laird’s way. “Boning”—our 
word for studying—went on as bard as ever. 
A fortnight later 1 was again surprised by a 
summons to tbo Captain’s room. My old ac¬ 
quaintance the baggage-master stood there, 
glowering at mo with no friendly eyes. 
“ DicxTEn," demanded Captain Laird, “ have 
you received your coat? I wrote for it, but 
hearing not hing from you, I knew it could not 
havo come; therefore I sent for this man from 
New York to know what it means.” 
Of course I ought to have notified the Captain 
when my baggage arrived. I saw my duty 
plainly enough now, ami longed to vanish loto 
thin air without a word. But I must face iny 
Inquisitor and answer. I shall not soon forget 
his expression, nor the pithy, sarcastic, “That 
will do, sir," that crushed every - remaining par¬ 
ticle of my conceit. 
So ended rriy memorable mishaps, lighter in 
the telling than In themselves, f have grown 
wiser slnoo. My grievous lesson taught me hu¬ 
mility, and, on land nr sea, 1 am not too proud 
to take advice. 1 trust also this may be a 
warning to some other middy or young trav¬ 
eler. Yet 1 know, as in all things else, we may 
read books upon books of good counsel, but 1 
only our own experience teacheth us lasting 
wisdom. 
ELIZABETH: 
A. XEW-YEAR STORY. 
BY ROSE GERANIUM. 
“Mamma, 0, Mamma 1“ cried a voice full of 
Injury, “Willie broked my soldier off my 
drum and run'd sway with It, and Willie's 
mamma didn't make him give It back;" and 
the little golden-balred child burled bis face in 
the folds of bis mother's dress, giving way to 
perfect torrents of grief. 
Elizabeth was too purely n woman not to 
sympathize with the boy’s love, or understand 
that it was as real and moro active than her 
own. So aho stroked the little, grieved face, 
holding it to her breast until all traces of pain 
had died out and hope was rovlved by tbo com¬ 
forting assurance of another soldier, “ all gilt, 
with a scarlet belt and cap.” By-and-by, tired 
by his romp In Mia yard and luliod by thefalllng 
dusk, he fell asleep and left the woman free to 
assume her busy task. 
It was only a trifle, but our lives bingo upon 
trifles, and this one opened the way to a great., 
unseen world, where ber mind went out, while 
her deft hands gathered seam after Heam, rast 
the clicking noelle. There were suDny fields 
where she wandered and memory cast upon 
them a glamour of enchantment. But the 
shadow came—the ajisdow of a father’s grave, 
fresh and clayey, stretched out by the grassy 
mound that held u mother she could not re¬ 
member. How it came about she never knew, 
but by some of the legal processes, which can 
sometimes he garbed In Justice, her home went 
Into the hands of strangers and she was left 
almost portionless. 
Then came out another rift of sunlight shin¬ 
ing above the gloom; the day when Arthur 
Fielding sought ber out in ber helplessness 
and claimed tbo right to take her out of the 
wlnter-ohlll of poverty and frlendleseness Into 
the warmth and shelter of bis love. He had 
little to offer her else; but was not that Itself 
enough ? And he had strong bands and a hralu 
on fire with tru6t and ambition, sure earnests, 
to him, of suooess. Home, one of the rare, pure 
retreats, so seldom but so gratefully found, he 
gave ber, and she lived In all the thanksgiving 
and perfect bllsa of the present. 
A wife, a widow and a mother—all in ooo 
short year 1 Elizabeth, holding the frail baby 
In her arms, prayed for death, but In Its placo 
came endurance, brought by the tiny messen¬ 
ger for ltB own sweet sake. A distant relative, 
the only one sbe knew, offered her a shelter 
under her roof, which she gratefully accepted, 
giving In return the best fruits of her toil. 
The years went creeping by. Little Paul 
grew through all the stages of infancy, a heavy 
burden upon her hands, but a sweet weight 
upon her heart; grew into his father’s Image 
and Into the many demands of every child's 
life. How painfully she realized that she could 
not answer them ! Her time was a grateful 
sacrifice to those who gave ber bread; her 
hands were weak at best; she had to leisure, 
not a moment, that she could freely call her 
own for her'boy. 
“Give Paul to me, Elizabeth.” said Fred 
■Wallace, one day, as he met them on the 
street, going for a rare walk to the edge of the 
green flslds that rimmed the town out a mile 
away, “I’ll keep up with him. You can't run 
away from me, young man !” he laughed to the 
child, turning and chasing the chubby, runa¬ 
way feet. 
“ Eo?, mo tan See I” and away be scampered. 
“ Stop, I’attl 1” Fred called; “ I want to talk 
to you." 
“ Of toursc oo tan talk If oo has any bizzlness 
wid roe." And the small pedestrian immedi¬ 
ately assumed a matter-of-fact air. 
“ Wall, I was asking ymir mamma to give you 
to me. Would you like to come and live with 
mo?” 
“ Has you dot any ’tfctle boy?” 
“No, not one.” 
“I*e sorry for oo. I fink 'ittle boys Is heap 
of treasure. Mamma finks bo, too. TIaeoo dot 
any pony?” 
“Yes, two of them, and a carriage that you 
could drive.” 
“Well, den. I’ll fink about It. Maybe I’ll 
tome and stay forty or six hours.” 
“O, that wouldn’t do at oil! I ■wont you to 
keep." 
Tbo child looked amazed. 
"Want to take me from my mammal Who 
do oo 'spose would do flngs for her if T was 
'way? 1 touldn't stay only two or seven min¬ 
utes ‘way fron. her.” 
“Then I suppose I shall have to give you up 
but T want you. I would buy you a pretty pony 
entirely for your own, and let you help me keep 
store.” 
“ Me don't want to teop store ; me wants to 
be a nartist an’ paint pictures." And the merry 
child darted away again. 
“1 am In earnest, Elizabeth," Fred con¬ 
tinued, walking by her side; “ I would like to 
have PAUL." 
“ Tn earnest!" and her reply sounded almost 
like a wail. "Oh, 1 could not part with him. 
Ho is my all. 1 am very grateful, but please 
don’t ask mo!” 
So the months passed. Every now and then, 
desptte the little fellow’s objections, Fred per¬ 
sisted in coaxLngblm, and they became devoted 
friends. Elizabeth secretly rebelled. Bhe 
wanted tbe first place and the only place In her 
child's heart. She wanted to fill it fully. She 
was beginning to be almost In dread lest he 
should be won from her: and, penniless and 
helpless as was her condition, she was not wil¬ 
ling for the sacrifice. 
Her strength, through care and depression, 
through loneliness and lovelessness, was grad¬ 
ually failing. For those good friends who had 
given the charities of their hands had forgot¬ 
ten, as doo too many, alas 1 the tenderer chari¬ 
ties of the heart. They gave her little love or 
sympathy, and sbe needed both. On this night 
of which we rpeak. how her henrt. ached Tor 
them 1 She thought of the years to corrw< when 
her boy would be strong-limbed, bravc-bcort- 
ed. a perfect shelter for her. Then came the 
quick, stunning thought of her poverty—of the 
barren wastes that- lay between him and an in- i 
dependent manhood. Thevlslon nearly blinded 
ber. “Oh, my baby, mydarllngl” :--he walled, 
going over to his snowy bed and kneeling down 
with her face close to his. 
Would It be better to give him up? Would 
GOD demand it of her? Did it not seem almost 
like thrusting away a providence sent 1<> suc¬ 
cor him from a poverty-bitten childhood? She 
knew full well that Fred Wallace was sin¬ 
cere; that he was noble and honorable and 
could be trusted. As she kneeled there, show¬ 
ering passionate tears and kisses upon the face 
and hands and hair of the quiet sleeper, she 
felt that to part with him In this way seemed 
almost like the bartering of a soul for gold ; yet 
she resolved that it must be done. “ I will not 
tell him Just yet." she thought; “next week, 
or next month will do better, I must have him 
a little while yet." 
So New-Year's Eve came, and Fred. “ Come 
and talk to me, Elizabeth ; I havo something 
to say." Her heart gave a great throb and then 
stood still. Oh, could it be possible! Was It 
to-night, of all other nights, that she must 
make this sacrifice, darkening the now year ct 
its very dawn? What a herd, hard fato had 
hers been 1 Oh, why waa GOD eo for away, so 
forgetful of her? 
“ Yes, I knew you bed oome for this, and you 
shall not bo disappointed. I will let you have 
him. My strength Is falOng-he may suffer by- 
and-by. You will keep him from that. Oh, 
FrEP! you will be kind to my baby. It Is so 
hard to part with him!" And her voioesounded 
like dsepsfr. 
“But, Elizabeth," and be crossed to her 
side, “ I did pot moan you to part with Paul; 
“I came to ask for him and—.for you I Will 
you not make tbe New-Year’s gift complete by 
giving both ? Oh, Elizabeth, weary child, 
come and rest upon my love.”. 
“You love!—you love me? Oh, Arthur, ray 
lost I" 
“ I do not mean to wrong you, Elizabeth, 
nor your memory of your beloved. Looking 
down upon me, the pure spirit of Arthur 
Fielding can bear me no reproach for the love 
I offer you. I could not forget how sacredly 
he Is enshrined In your heart. I would not In¬ 
trude in that holy sanctuary, even if it were pos¬ 
sible. But I ask what will render me abund¬ 
antly blessed—yourEecond love. Will you give 
me this, Elizabeth? I will try to be worthy." 
AH the merry ring had died out of his voice. 
He spoke gravely, reverently, as a man speaks 
when alt that Is dearest is cast In a balance. 
And, after all, he did not speak in vain. 
“Come down here, Paul,” Fred called, next 
1 day, as he went past the gate. Paul came. 
“I asked your mamma, last night,to come and 
live with me, and Bhe has promised. Will you 
oome with her?” 
Paul danced with delight. “Of course I 
will I T waa just a waiting for you to Invite her, 
too. I fought you’d ’member it b 7 -an’-by. 
Yes I Jsfi a tummina!" 
-- 
TELEGRAPHING EXTRAORDINARY, 
We have heard much of tbe wonders of cable 
telegiaphy In outrunning time and annihilating 
space, but an anecdote related t>7 Mr. W. 1\ j 
Phillips, assistant agent of the State Associated 
Press in New York, snrimsaes RR?ttJi.g we havo 
ever beard. 
A gentleman of tbe Western Union Tele¬ 
graph office at No. 145 Broadway, New York, 
was sitting in the cable-room when a telegram 
from Philadelphia, destined for Paris, came 
over the wire*. The me«sago, like all othera for 
Franco, was to go over the cable via Duxbury, 
Mass. The operator called Duxbury a few 
times, and then said “That fellow Is asleep, 
evidently; but the cable men are always awake. 
I’ll have to get one of them to go In and wake 
him up." Pu ho stepped to anothor desk, called j 
Plaister Cove, In Newfoundland, and sent the j 
following message To Cable Operator, Dux- 
bury: Please go In and wake up my own true 
lore." This message Plaister Cove hastened 
cO send across the Atlantic Ocean to Valencia, 
Ireland, who In turn “ rushed ” it to London ; ! 
thence it was hurried to Paris, and still on- j 
ward to the P.mopean end of the French cable 
at St. Pierre; tbo operator there flashed It back 
to Duxbury. In less than two minutes by the 
| clock the message had accompli shed Its Jour¬ 
ney of some 8,000 miles by land and sea, ns was 
evidenced by tbo clicking of the instrument on 
the Duxbury dealt, which ticked out in manner 
a little more petulant, “That is a nice way to 
do; go ahead. Your own true love.” 
■-♦♦♦-- 
MAKING IT WARM FOR HIM 
The Burlington Hawkeye says the other 
night, a man who lives out on Columbia street 
was kept down town by business until n very 
late hour, and his wife, knowing how cold he 
would be when he got. home, put an Iron on the 
stove, and whon she heard him open the gate, 
jumped up, and hurriedly wrapping the Iron In 
a piece of flannel, chucked It into bed for him 
to warm hi* great ugly feet by. Tbe man was 
I cold and taciturn and cross. He crawled Into 
bed with a growl, and shuddered with cold as 
ho stretched blrnseir out. Then he gave a yell 
that lifted the roof of the bouse, and Jammed 
his head through the head-board, and screamed 
fire, and waltzed out on the floor aud around 
the room In tbedark, straddling rocking-chairs 
and breaking his shins on bureau corners, and 
knocking down brackets with his shoulders, 
and upsetting ono or two things, and filling 
the darkness with weird, fantastic profanity. 
Whon hi* wife lighted tbe lamp they discov¬ 
ered a beautiful photograph of a flat-iron on 
the bottom of that man’s foot, utid it was found 
that the flannel had somehow got off the foot- 
warmer. The man says that hereafter, if he 
must sleep with a, hardware store, he wants It 
put In cold. 
-- 
THE OLD FLAG. 
The Stars and Stripes became the National 
flag of the United States by virtue of the reso¬ 
lution of Congress, passed June 14, 1777. Tbe 
use of stripes to mark the number of States on 
the flag cannot be clearly traced, but can be 
accounted for by a custom of the camp at 
Cambridge. The army of citizen volunteers 
comprised all grades of men. Very few were 
uniformed. It waa almost, impossible for the 
sentinels to distinguish general officers from 
privates. Frequently officers were placed at 
the outposts and held for Identification until 
j the arrival of the officer of the day. Orders 
were Issued that the different grades of officers 
should be distinguished by a colored ribbon of 
light blue. The star* on the blue field—“ a new 
constellation "—were suggested by the constel¬ 
lation Lyra—time-honored aa an emblem of 
union. The thirteen stars with wb]oh the flag 
was originally adorned were to represent the 
then number of States, and from time to time, 
as new States have been annexed, the number 
of stars have been increased. 
BROTHER JONATHAN. 
The term Brother Jonathan, as applied to the 
United Btat-ee, originated In a playful remark .of 
Washington- The lncldeot Is this:—When 
General Washington, after being appointed 
commander of the army of the Revolutionary 
War, went to Massachusetts to organize It, he 
found a great, want of ammunition and other 
means of defence, and on one occasion it 
seemedthat.no means could he devised for the 
necessary safety. Jonathan Trumbull, the 
cider, was then Governor ot the State of Con¬ 
necticut, and the General, placing the greatest 
reliance on bis excellency’s Judgment, re¬ 
marked, “We must consult Brother Jonathan 
on the subject." The general did so, and the 
Governor whs successful In supplying many of 
the wants of the army; and thenceforward, 
when difficulties arose, and the army waa spread 
over the country. It became a by-phrase, “ We 
must consult Brother Jonathan;" and the 
name has now become a designation for the 
whole country, as John Bull has for England. 
Sabbath Reading. 
I CANNOT BE YOUR WIrE, JOHN. 
BT RUNE BLUTT. 
I cannot be your wife, dear John : we're not alike 
»t all. 
I’ll tell my reasons plainly, and to me they're noways 
small: 
I’d want no better husband; I should be a happy 
wife. 
If when we've lived our time out here, we'd reached 
the end of life. 
My heart is full with love to God. who loved me long 
ago, 
And when J die I want His blessed faoe to see and 
know; 
And what Is worth tbe tolling for, If He and Heaven 
are not ? 
And If we lose them, what Is all the future hut a 
blot? 
But you won’t think of all these things? you are 
content to llvo 
And change your soul for Just the passing Joys that 
earth can givo; 
They are not worth it, John ; oh 1 see how fast the 
years do fly! 
And there’s a future waiting you; you’ll roach It by 
and by. 
When that time comes—you may bo young, you may 
be old and gray.— 
You don’t care for Christ’s love, and you’ve for¬ 
gotten how to pray I 
How can I Join my life with yours, and risk roy own 
soul too? 
For It might make me careless, living years along 
with you. 
You stroll about and chat the one best day of all the 
seven; 
You read the papers—never ono that speaks a word 
of nenvon: 
You talk of farms and stock and funds, of nothing 
worse. I trust. 
And all the while your Bible clasp Is fastened down 
with rust! 
I’ve loved you patient, three—four ycors, end almost 
promised twice, 
But Reason told mo for yflur love I’d pnf too dear a 
price; 
I’d rather lead a single life, and work my way alone. 
If I can stop to rest at last before the great wlitto 
throne. 
I would’nt care if you were lame, or deaf, or blind, 
you know! 
If you but loved the God I love, and cared His ways 
to go; 
I'd gladly work for both of us from morning umK 
night, 
And count myself a happy wife with prospects fair 
and bright. 
But. when two persons hlteh to pull life's burdens, 
two together, 
And promise to be kind and true, in fair or stormy 
weather, 
'Twon’t do for one to pull ahead, the other one hang 
back— 
They'll never make much headway, nor go happy In 
one track. 
I want to kneel at morning and to thanlc GOD for 
His care, 
And ask for blessings through the day, for things to 
eat and wear; 
And when the day's work all Is done, I think It's 
only right 
To pray to Him to keep me and my loved ones 
through the nlgbt. 
And when the Sunday comes, I want to lay my week’s 
cares by. 
And from the world to go, afresh that easy yoko to 
try; 
In church, I’d want my husband sitting by me In tho 
pew. 
And travel with him so that wo oould keep Heaven’s 
gate in view. 
Sometimes I've thought I'd marry you, and try with 
might and main 
To be a kind, true wife to you, and never give you 
pain: 
To lead tny Christian life alone, and not ask you, as 
now, 
To *6 to church, or ev'n at homo, with mo in prayer 
to how. 
And then again I’ve sometime thought an earnest, 
loving way. 
With helpful bunds and kindly words might some¬ 
time win the day; 
But I'm afraid to try that plan ; I’ve seen It tried 
before: 
The strongest holds the helm, and he it to or from 
the shore. 
They mostly drift together as they go. the man and 
wife. 
And anchor In the self-same port, way down the 
stream of life; 
I want be sail where God’s great love makes Heav. 
en'6 eternal duy. 
And you would want to tack about and steer some 
other way. 
Don't say that I don't love you, John I for well you 
know Idu. 
Your heart! Ah. John,— in this I have as sad a 
heart a- yuu: 
I lived a careless life for years; I never will again, 
For life is short and when I die, youi love can't help 
roe then! 
Christ loves us all. Yes, even me; and all I have 
lie gave. 
He loves me! Why. you'd linrdly give your blood 
my life to save !— 
And I will leun upon nis loving urro, let come what 
mat — 
I dare not risk my soul's long rest; I’ll go my choBen 
way. 
I've dreamed and hoped vou'd mend your ways, and 
felt so sure and glad: 
Those dreams and hopes of you have been the hap¬ 
piest I have had: 
I'd risk all but my soul for you. Are, give you all 
but this I 
8o, good-by, John ! What did you say 1— Yes, once, 
a good-by, kiss. 
