290 
OORE’S RURAL WEW-YORKER. 
“Thesis o’clock dinner brought Will. Ella 
was In tho ball as he entered, and led the way 
to the dining room, where a cheery brightness 
reigned. 
“Company, Nell?” queried Will, his eyes 
resting upon his wife. The golden hair care- 
fully curled, waa gathered into a mass with a 
oomb, and fell In n profusion of natural ringlets 
upon Ella's shoulders, the waving bands drawn 
back from her face. Her dres? of soft, blue 
merino wo* finished with dainty ruffles at the 
throat and wrists, and Will’s last Christmas 
gift, a set of cameos, held collar, cuffs and 
dropped from the delicate ears. Not a costly 
dress, but carefully-adjusted, fitting exquisitely 
and certainly most becoming. 
“No company,” said Ella, “but ourselves, 
unless you count Harry. T have made you some 
of the bread sauce you are so fond of. Will.” 
“ You’re a jewel I Only don’t make yourself 
sick In the hot kitchen, Nell! You are not 
very strong, you know." 
Nell blushed at tliut, for it reminded her of 
many a neglected duty, many a lazy hour for 
which the pica had been offered in excuse. 
“That did not hurt me,” said she, “for I wag 
In the kitchen making some lemon pies.” 
“Lemon pies! You make my mouth water. 
Nobody else can make them to taste like 
yours! ” 
So the dinner was a success. Ella was a good 
cook, and Will was never sparing of prai: e for 
the dal titles she provided. But she had left the I 
kitchen to Jane so long that her husband had 
ceased to look for the dainty trifles that had 
graced his table before Ella’s health had be¬ 
come feeble. 
Dinner over, Will, in good humor, went to the I 
sitting-room. The open grate threw a ruddy I 
glow upon the bright surroundings, mid his 
face lighted with pleasure. But the large eyes 
fairly danced as he cried: -“The piano open ! 
I began to think it was burled forever! ” 
“Not quite I” said Ella, laughing and yet I 1 
blushing brightly; “I thought from what you 1 
said last night you would like to hear me sing 
again 1" 
“ You bet I would I ” was the emphatic if not I 1 
very elegant response. I I 
“Let’s play dominos,then, till 1 can sing. It 1 
is too soon after dinner now. Be merciful, for J 
1 am out of practice, remember.” I * 
Here Jane came in with master Harry, ready I 8 
for bed, and after soft kissos he waa taken into I * 
the next room aud put into his cradle. I s 
“You will coino up if ho cries, Jane,” Ella 8 
said, and took down the dcmlno box. “I think I ‘ 
Harry is old enough to spare me in the even- I 1 
lug,” she added, in explanation. I ^ 
“Little Monkey, how ho grows!” was tho re- I 4 
ply, “Come, what Is your highest ? ” I *- 
Cunningly Ella kept up the interest of the I n 
game till nearly nine o'clock, when Will cer- I 1 
tainly would not go out. Then she sang for I t 
him. Her voice, dear and sweet, had been I !1 
highly cultivated, and she was surprised to find 
how much pleasure she felt herself in once I a 
more exercising it. 
Eleven o'clock chimed from the little mantle a 
clock, when Will was pleading for “just one I si 
more” song, and Ella sang the “ Good night” J 
in answer. I j, 
“By Jove!” cried Will, “I was to meet J 
Charley at the club room at eight. Where has h 
the evening gone ? ” 
“ Never mind ! Any other evening will do as o 
well, said Ella. t) 
The next day was stormy. Ella appeared at I 
breakfast with the neatest of collars and cuffs, n 
hair In n knot like burnished gold aud a face 
like a sunbeam. Will, who had eaten in soil- si 
tary state tor more mornings than Ids wife I 
oared to count, was as as attentive aa a lover. I 
His parting kiss accompanied the words: tr 
“Take a nap, Nell, this morning. Wo must 131 
keep you Well, you know! I haven’t enjoyed 
my breakfast so much far a year.” I ai 
“Han’t, forget tho ii w songs, Will. If you w 
will send them round l will try them over be- I m 
fore you come home.” I I 
“ I’ll send them as soon as I go down town.” I J< 
Wet and dismally muddy. Will came in from I tr 
a February storm of rain upon melting snow. I u< 
Ella w a? waiting for him, and drew him Into I w 
the bedroom. Before the fire hung a dressing I 
gown »f bright cashmere lined wuh blue silk, M 
while under tho dry, warm socks a pair of gor- a 
geous slippers were toasting. t !l 
Good gracious, Nell, where did those come 1° 
from?” said Will, hastily, drawing "ff bis 
soaked boots. af 
“ If is your birthday; have you forgotten ? 1 
bought those to-day for you." pi 
“ Out In all this rain ? " I 
“ I did not walk much. Try them on. Will,” ' 
“ Fine as a Turk! ” said Will, twisting before m 
a mirror mi see how the dressing-gown fkud, su 
“ Now come have some hot soup I made.” 
“See here, Nell, ain’t you doing too much?" m 
“Not a bit. I needed n good roosting over 111 
the lire after lu log out, and I took It over soup 
aud pudding in the kitchen instead of a novel ”f 
here. That is all the dlffV; ( to e. .June will ring th 
the tongue out of tbftt bell if «»: ami’t. burry. 
That is the third time she lias summoned us." 
Dinner over, I ho new songs were tried, a few | 
game? of checkers preceding the music. Then 
there was 9r>mo animated chat about a new 
business Interest of which Will spoke and Ella l 
confessed to having min about it. It was oru wl 
of her old customs* resumed, for Will bad dear- hi 
ly liked to discuss the day’s new? with her in m 
the evening. She had a bright, Intelligence and ul 
oould converse well on the the interest of the na 
day, but novels had superseded newspapers 
while she “waa not very strong.” 
Again eleven o’clock struck before Will knew 
the evening was half gone. 
“ Charley will think 1 have deserted him," he 
said, “but slippers and dreaxing gowns are too 
comfortable to be easily resigned.” 
Ella softly stroked the hair of a head resting 
upon the back of the great arm chair as Will 
spoke. A ptrong arm encircled her, and she 
was drawn to her husband’s knee. 
“Little woman, he said, tenderly, “ 1 cannot 
tell you bow glad I am you are well again. It 
was awfully dismal seeing you always in that 
direful wrapper. But-" and man-like he hesi¬ 
tated “I suppose I ought to have stayed at 
home more!" 
' You will now? ” she said, anxiously. 
“Where can 1 find so pleasant a place,” he 
said, with loving fervor, “or so precious a com¬ 
panion ?" 
It was nearly a month Jater that Aunt Mary, 
spending an evening with Will's mother, heard 
Charley grumbling! y declare: 
“There Is no getting Will to go anywhere 
now-a-days. He slicks at home in the evenings 
as if he were glued there. I went round there 
Saturday. Jane was out, Nell lying on the 
lounge with a headache, and Will reading to 
her while he rocked the cradle with one foot. 
‘Can’t leave,’ hr told me; ‘Nell requires all 
my attention, for I can’t possibly afford to have 
her sick again ! ’ " 
And so Aunt Mary knew that Ella had 
“bt ied ” to make homo pleasant, and suc¬ 
ceed ed —Exchange. 
meatic creatures met within the sphere of 
” home," diffusing around the influence cf her 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
In New York, in 1706, my store was in Malden 
Lane, within three doors of the store of John 
Mowatt, an extensive dealer in shoes. His 
foreman was John Peluse, who sat behind the 
counter stitching shoos and watting on cus¬ 
tomers as they stepped in. One day a corpse 
wax found In t he dock, at the foot of the street. 
The Coroner took the jurymen from the neigh¬ 
borhood, among them John Mowatt and his 
foreman, John Peitiso. Tho corpse lay on a 
table in the center of the room. Some of the 
jurymen remarked Ibut as soon ar. John Pc I use 
looked on the corpse, lie started, turned pale, 
and looked as it going to faint,. He rallied how¬ 
ever, but his subsequent movements occasioned 
some curious remarks. The jury having ren¬ 
dered a verdict of death by drowning, were 
discharged. Mowatt turned around to look for 
his foreman, but behold, he was not there. 
We stepped out of door? and saw him high up 
the street, on a half run, when he quickly 
turned a corner. All sorts of Inquiries were 
made, but nothing could bo heard of him. 
This, with his turning pale at the first view of 
the corpse, occasioned some strange surprise 
among the jurors, for many days afterward*. 
John Mowatt was a bachelor of thirty-five, 
and Peluse had seeu about thirty summers. 
On a certain day, about one month thereafter 
a lady In deep mourning stepped into Mowatt’? 
store and asked lor a pair of shoes. While 
John was trying how I be shoe fitted, the lady 
Inquired:-“You had a man iu your store— 
John Pel use by name—what has become of 
him?" 
“Acs,” said Mowatt, “ but what has become 
of him, I would give a good deal to learn.” He 
then related the story as above stated. 
“Strange," replied the lady. “And you have 
not, seen him since ?’’ 
“ No,” replied Mowatt, “I have not seen him 
since.” 
“ Yea, you have seen him," replied the lady. 
“I certainly,” said Mowatt, ” would not con¬ 
tradict a lady of your appearance, but I have 
not seen him, to rny knowledge." 
“ Well, then," said she, “ I am John Peluse: 
and that subject on whom we held the inquest, 
was the corpse of my husband. My family 
name is Randall, I was born In Philadelphia. 
I married (against the wishes of uiy parents) 
John Conner, a sober, industrious man, hy 
trade a shoemaker. He tool; to drinking, 
neglected his business, and once struck me, 
while in liquor. We had no family, so I re¬ 
solved, while we were stitching .shoes together 
to learn hi? trade and leave him. I soon made 
a pissable shoe, when 1 assumed male attire, 
came to New York, and you gave mo work as a 
journeyman. The rest you know." 
John told the present narrator, some days 
after, that on hearing this he wasdu mbfounded. 
“ Well madam,” said John, “what are your 
plans for the future?" 
Says she, “ l have not yet formed my plans." 
“Well," said John, “ I liked you asa journey¬ 
man, and when my foreman, I was pleased; 
suppose •■.,:< now go into partnership for life!" 
In foriy-eight hours thereafter, they were 
married. She waa a line looking woman, and 
might iuive passed for tweniy-fivo. 
'J Liv. perhaps, is the first Instance oc record, 
uf a Woman sitting ns a Coroner’s juryman on 
the Cai. c- i .f her husband. 
The above Is a simple tale of truth. 
- 
A NIUE GIRL. 
r goodness, like the essence of sweet flowers. 
A nice glr) ia not the languishing beauty, 
> dawdling on a sofa, and discussing the last 
i novel or opera, or the giraffe-like creature 
sweeping majestically through the drawing¬ 
room. The nice girl may not even play or 
dance well, and knows nothing about using 
her eyes or coquetting with a fan. She never 
languishes, she is too active. She is not given 
to sensation novels, she la too busy. In public 
she is not in front showing her shoulders; she 
sits quiet and unobtrusive at the back of the 
crowd moat likely. In fact it is not often we 
discover her. Home is her place. 
Who rises betimes to superintend the morn¬ 
ing meal ? Who makes the toast and the tea, 
and buttons the boys’ shirts, and feeds the 
chickens, and brightens up the parlor and sit¬ 
ting-room ? Is It the languleher, or the giraffe, 
or the “elegante?" Not a bit of it; it’s the 
nice girl. » 
Her maiden toilet ta made in the shortest 
possible time, yet how charmingly it is done; 
and how elegant and neat her dress and collar! 
Not presenting her cheek or brow like a “fine 
girl," but, an audible smack, which says plainly 
“I love you ever so much.” Jf you covet any¬ 
thing, it’s one of the nice girl’* kisses. 
Breakfast over, down In the kitchen to see 
about dinner, and all day long she Is up and 
down, always cheerful and light-hearted. She 
never c eases to be active and useful until day 
i» corn , when she will polka with the boys, or 
read, sing old songs and play old tunes to her 
father or mother for hours together; she Is a 
perfect treasure, Is the nice girl. When sick¬ 
ness comes it Is she who attends with unweary¬ 
ingpatience in the sick chamber. There is no 
risk, no fatigue that she will not undergo; no 
sacrifice that she will not make. She In all love, 
all devotion. I have often thought it would be 
happiness to be 111 to be watched hy such lov¬ 
ing eyes, and tended by such a fair hand. 
One of the most strongly marked character¬ 
istic? of a “ nice girl" is tidiness and simplicity 
of dre*8. She Is Invariably associated In my 
mind with a high frock, plain collar, and the 
neatest of nice ribbons, bound with the most 
modest little brooch In the world. I never 
knew .if a “nice girl" who displayed a pro¬ 
fusion of rings and bracelets, or who wore low 
dresses or a splendid bonnet, 
I say again, there is nothing In the world half 
so beautiful, half so intriusically good as a 
“ nice girl." She is the sweetest flower lu the 
path of life. There are others far more stately, 
far more gorgeous, but these we merely admire 
as we go by. It is where the daisy grows that 
we like to rest. 
Though that class is by uo means extlnot, 
still they are not so numerous as might be 
wished. There Is nothing half so sweet in life, 
half so beautiful or delightful or so lovable, as 
a nice girl. Not n pretty or dashing girl, but a 
nice girl. One of those lovely, lively, good- 
natured, sweet-faced, amiable, neat, natty, do- 
LITE&ARY MEN PUZZLED. 
Cottle, in his “Life of Coleridge,” relates 
the following amusing incidentI led the 
horse to the stable, when a fresh perplexity 
arose. I removed tho harness with difficulty; 
but, after many strenuous attempts I could not 
remove the collar. In despair I called for as¬ 
sistance. when aid soon drew near. Mr. Words¬ 
worth brought his ingenuity into exnreisc; but, 
after several unsuccessful efforts, herellnqulsh- 
cd the achievement as a thing altogether Im¬ 
practicable. Mr. Coleridge now tried his hand, 
but showed no more grooming 6klU than his 
predecessors; for, after vainly twisting the 
poor horse’s neck almost to strangulation and 
the great danger of hla eyes, ho gave up the 
useless task, pronouncing that the horse’s bond 
must have grown (gout or dropsy?) since the 
collar waa put on; for he said It was a down¬ 
right impossibility for such u huge os frond*, to 
pass through so narrow a collar. Just at thlB 
point a servant girl came near, and, understand¬ 
ing the cause of our consternation, ‘La, mas¬ 
ter.’ said she, ‘ you don’t go about tho work In 
t bo right way. You should do like this;’ when, 
turning tho collar completely upside down, she 
slipped it off In a moment, to our great humili¬ 
ation and wonderment, each satisfied afresh 
that there were hights of knowledge in the 
world to which we bad not attained.” 
-- 
LIFE’S LESSONS. 
Fob mo nothing is more interesting than to 
see a man in the first intense strain of a new 
enterprise: it may be a new cider-mill; it may 
be a new newspaper. It is a great crisis in that 
man’s life. He lives thirty days In one. Old, 
trite proverbs take on new and startling mean¬ 
ings. He looks upon ail men and all things In 
h strange, new light. Ho judges «]1 men and 
all things with regard to the accomplishment 
of his one, supreme design. During a certain 
time rhe stars In their courses fight for him; 
then Lie very universe changes its direction’ 
and pushes with all its weight against hie tot¬ 
tering watte ; another chance, and a thousand 
accidents are In his favor. He does not know' 
till yo rs afterward with what concentration he 
labored in rhoso days of beginning. He smiles 
at blmseif, and tells pleasant stories of his 
make-sbifts and absorption ; and now when he 
see? another and younger person starring hla 
elder-mill, with the old, outworn enthusiasm, 
he looks on with the same half-sympathetic, 
half-cynical Interest with which an old married 
couple contemplate two young people who 
have just fallen lu love.—Scribner’s Monthly. 
—-■ ■ 
A nEART full of grace Is better than a heart 
full of notions. 
JSaMralh Reading. 
ONE HUNDRED YEARS AGO. 
Lexington-1775. 
BY JOHN G. WHITTIER, 
No maddening thirst for blood had they, 
No battle-joy was theirs who set 
Against the alien bayonet 
Their homespun breasts in that old day. 
Tbelr feet had trodden peuceful ways, 
They loved not strife, they dreaded pain ; 
They saw not. whal to us is plain, 
That God would make man’s wrath Hts pralae. 
No seers were they, but simple men; 
Its vast results the future hid: 
The meaning of the work they did 
Was strange, and dark, and doubtful, thou. 
Ewiftfts tho summons came, they left 
The plow, mid-furrow, standing still, 
The half-ground corn-grist in the mill, 
Tho spade In earth, tho ax In cleft. 
They went whore duty seemed to call; 
They scarcely asked the reason why; 
They only knoy they could but die, 
And death was not the worst of all. 
Of man for man the sacrifice, 
Unstained by blood, save theirs, they gave. 
The flowers that blossomed from their grave 
Have sown themselves beneath all skies. 
Their death-shoe shook the feudal tower, 
And shattered slavery’s chain as well; 
On the sky’s dome, as on n bell, 
Its echo struck the world’s great hour. 
That fatal echo la not dumb; 
The nations, listening to its sound, 
Wait, from a century’s vantage-ground, 
The holier triumphs yet to come,— 
The bridal time of Law and Love. 
The gladness of the world’s release. 
When, war-sick, at tho foot of Peace 
The hawk shall nestle with tho dove,— 
The golden age of brotherhood, 
Unknown to other rivalries 
Than of the mild humanities. 
And gracious Interchange of good. 
When closer strand shall lean to strand 
Till meet, beneath saluting flags, 
The eagle of our mountain crags, 
The lion of our Mother-land. 
-- 
RELIGION OF NATURE. 
There is something exceedingly pleasing and 
sublime in the contemplation of the growl h of 
vegetables, tho germination of seeds, appear¬ 
ance of aprout.s, development, of stems, branch¬ 
es, loaves, buds, blossoms, flowers and fruits, 
tbelr variegated forms, dimension*, move¬ 
ments, colors and orders. Some person.?, who 
have nover turned their attention to this sub¬ 
ject till the evening of their days, have been 
astonished at, the wonders which burst on their 
view. A new state of existence seemed to open 
upon tbom. Their perception and estimate of 
things were changed. Instead of considering 
the world as calculated only for what man 
too generally makes It,—a scene for the display 
and gratification of the most groveling and sor¬ 
did passions—they find a theater crowded with 
enchanting specimens of the Creator’s skill, 
the study of which imparts the sueeteat, pleas¬ 
ures and the knowledge of which contributes 
the greatest wealth. 
Those pious, mistaken people who incessant¬ 
ly murmur against the world and long to de¬ 
part. from the “howling wilderness,” as they 
are pleased to term It, reproach their Maker by 
rovlllng his work*. They are waiting for future 
displays of His glory and neglect those ravish¬ 
ing one* by which they are surrounded, forget¬ 
ting that “ the whole earth is full of HtegJory,” 
looking for sources of pleasure to come and 
closing their eyes to those before them, thirst¬ 
ing for the waterB of heaven, and despising the 
living fountain which the Fat her of all Intel¬ 
lects has opened for them on earth. They seem 
to think happiness hereafter will not depend 
upon knowledge or that knowledge will be ac¬ 
quired without effort—a kind of passive enjoy¬ 
ment independent of the exercise of their in¬ 
tellectual or spiritual energies. But they have 
no ground to hope for any such thing. Reason¬ 
ing from tho analogy and the nature of mind, 
the happiness of spirits must consist In being 
imbued with a love of nature in contemplating 
tho wisdom and other attributes of the Deity, 
as they are unfolded in the works of creation. 
In what else can it. consist ? It l* not probable 
that human or finite beings of any class can 
ever know God except through the medium of 
hla works. 
It 1? admitted that the studv of nature Is a 
source of exquisite pleasure to Intelligent be¬ 
ings and the most refined one, too, that the 
mind can conceive of: It Is also one that can 
never he exhausted. Those persons, therefore, 
who take no pleasure In examining the works 
of creation here, are utile prepared in encsr 
upon more extensive and more scrutinizing 
views of them in tne otner wonds. If they have 
no relish forati acquaintance with the Creator’s 
works while they live, they have no right to 
expect ne'v tastes for them after death. The 
works of G >d are all perfect, those In thte 
wor d as we I ms those in the other: and he 
J that can look with apathy upon a tulip ora 
rose, a passion flower ora lily, or any other pro¬ 
duction of a flower garden or forest, ha? not 
begun tr> live. Resides, wo are not sure that 
other worlds possess more c ■ ptivatin'r or more 
ennobling subjects for coniemplation &nd re- 
i search, more thrilling proofs of the wisdom aid 
beneficence of God. 
