i 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
JUNE 18 
One cannot, however, bo very well acqnalnte 
with the woodlands without quickly losing any 
feeling of patronage he may once have had. 
There are so many dainty wild blossoms to har¬ 
monize with any mood In which they may be 
approached, beheld, or gathered. 
tYe find all sorts of poetry speaking from 
them; palest of blue hare-bells, which suggest 
a dainty poem, full of tenderness without strong 
passion which, Indeed, they as well as people, 
are better without. Then there are violets, blue 
and white nnd yellow, like little ballads, tales 
of unconscious heroines; gill-ovcr-tho-grouud, 
immediately reminding one of scores of verses 
be has seen In the neglected comer of some 
country paper; with blue bits of preUiness scat¬ 
tered here and there, but so small that one 
doesn’t care lor the trouble of bunting them 
out; and besides, like those scraps of verse, 
there Is so much of it that It can be bad at any¬ 
time. 
But flowers, also, tell us other things; they 
are vivid reminders of people we have known, 
of faces we have scon, hearts wo have learned 
to love and trust. 
Who can ever Beo a valley-lily, without a feel¬ 
ing of tender greeting or (to go from the pretty 
to the absurd) who can look at one of those 
saucy Jack-ln-tbe-pulplts, peeping up out of its 
green sheath and not expect it to speak, aud in 
an oration as long as a country minister’s, tell 
of Its relationship to the regal calls? Poor re¬ 
lations, truly! flow Indignant the calla would 
be? 
Then there are the lovely bloB-oras of the 
spring-beauty, at which one feels as much sur¬ 
prise as at finding a Perdita In a shepherd’s cot¬ 
tage. 
The flower* of the mullein aro like families 
In a tenement bouse—pretty enough Individ¬ 
ually, but collectively—well, they’d be rather 
unpleasant guests, to *av the least of It. 
Autumn flowers are like stories of the tropics. 
Their very names are suggestive— golden r u d, 
flaming plnxter, trumpet flowers. 
And water lilies! What shall we any of them ! 
Lovely, tearful Undines, gifted with aouls 
through Unavoidable wretchedness. And, by 
tbo way, what a beautiful allegory that Is, aud 
alas! how true to life. 
But if water lilies have souls, woodland vines 
certaluly have no conscience. Running along 
the ground, climbing up trees, clinging to 
fences, making use of anything and everything, 
without bo much as “ By your leave,” and to bo 
shunned like parasitical friends which, like 
them, once given u footing, cannot easily be 
removed, 
It is quite a pretty amusement to trace In 
flowers resemblances to one's friend*. We have 
often heard people say that every human being 
Is llko some animal—If so, some of them are 
certainly only fossil remains which, by the way, 
has nothing to do with the subject. 
The resemblance of every one to some flower 
Is quite as easily traceable. Bright, Insipid ver¬ 
benas, queenly lilies, royal japoulcas. The 
readers or romance are familiar with heroines 
who are like them all,and can find among their 
friends the same characteristics. 
How people’s dispositions show forth in their 
favorite flowers! Some care only for roses, 
seeing no beauty, smelling no perfume in any¬ 
thing else. Such people arc apt to bo singularly 
pure in llfo and actions, tender In all lovea and 
friendships, but exclusive in everything. Hosts 
of people prefer pansies, and are justly indig¬ 
nant with the writer who said that they always 
reminded him of monkey faces. Love-in-idle¬ 
ness, hearts-eaae, though!*, - certainly there 
never was a flower with so many pet names. 
People of liberal tastes have, of course, their 
favorites, but like nearly all flowers. There cer¬ 
tainly Is nothing which contributes more to the 
beauty of a home than flowers, and nothing so 
full of pretty fancies. 
“ Spake full well in language quaint and olden, 
One who dwolloth by the custled Ithlno, 
When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, 
Stars that iu earth’s flnnmuont do shine." 
[T/iC AI dine for May. 
-♦♦♦- 
“E” OR “I.” AN ORTHOMANIAC RO¬ 
MANCE. 
Friday afternoon last, a young man living on 
Warren Avenue and a young woman dwelling 
on Thirty-second streot, were married. The 
wedding was a quiet one, us the bride's family 
was in mourning on account of the recent 
death of the bride’s mother’s grand mini, and 
though merrily rang not the bells, still these 
were wed. After dinner, the shedding of tears, 
the shying of old shoes, and similar nuptial 
ceremonies had been duly performed, the 
young couple proceeded to t he modest cottage 
on Warren Avenue which was to be their 
home—delicious thought!—their bon.e. 
After tea, the two young people wero sitting 
in the dusk parlor testing the carrying capacity 
nf a chair, when, naturally, they happened to 
remember that at that very moment the groat 
spelling tournament was raging at Farwell 
Ilall. After saying that each would rather bo 
where he or she was than at Farwell Hall, etc., 
the turtle doves organized a spelling tourna¬ 
ment of their own, the reward of merit being 
kisses and the condign penalties for errors 
severe digs. Presently the newly-made bride 
asked tlie newly-made groom to spell “ Impen- 
eirable,’* and he spelled it “ I-m-p-e-n-e- 
t-r-e-b-l-e." “O, you great goose,” blithely 
said the sole partner of his homo and heart. 
“ You, educated at a university, can’t spell 
“ impenetrable,” 
This nettled the head of the family, and he 
asked her how she spelled It. ** I-m-p-e-n-e- 
t-r-l-b-l-e.'' “That’s the worst I ever heard," 
said he, “ for a young woman who pretends to 
have moved in society ani gone to the Dear¬ 
born Academy.” “Pretends," remarked the 
bride, on whoso chct-k* two scarlet spots could 
he seen glowing Id the dusk (for tbo lamp had 
been turned down low,) “pretends," she 
echoed as she left hi* kneo for a rocking chair, 
and began to rock herself vigorously and fan 
hersMf with her handkerchief, “my father 
never was a tailor, and T cannot remember that 
my mother ever took In washing.” "Possibly 
not,” retorted the husband, with forced calm¬ 
ness, “hut at laast my father always paid his 
debts, and my mother’s bridal trousseau, if 
plain, was paid for.” * ♦ * Edwin slept on 
tbo bo fa In the parlor that night, while Angeli¬ 
na shed a bucket and a half of tears In the soli¬ 
tary nuptial ooueh that she occupied. 
At li) A. M. the binhand and wife of a day, 
pale, cold, and determined, called on a lawyer 
who had known their families for years and 
announced their determination to separate a* 
Boon as the requisite papera could be prepared 
ou the ground of Incompatibility of temper. 
Edwin stated that he hoped to find lathe Black 
Hiils present distraction and speedy death, 
while Angelina remarked that, though she 
looked perfectly horrible iu black and detested 
veils she would to » nuuuery go. The lawyer 
after some difficulty, induced them to tell him 
the cause and maimer of their separation, 
“Sir,’’ said Edwin, “1 cannot live with a 
woman that spells ’Impenetrable' with an 
*!■’" “ Did you really do that, my dear?" said 
the kindly old Judge to the weeping wife. 
’’ Yes,” sbo sobbed. "That was wrong, that 
was very wrong." he replied. “So I told her," 
stated the husband, “ but she said she could j 
not Safely trust her happiness to thekeeplugof 
a man who spelled it with an ‘e.’ “Ah!" 
satd the lawyer, “ that Is the way you spell It, Is 
It? 1 —“It Is.” “ Then you are botu wroiiz; It 
should be spelled with an “a.” 
Swift as a flash of lightning Edwin, prosslng 
one hand to his throbbing brow, leaped to the 
book case and seized a Webster's Unabridged j 
while Angelina, whose heaving bosom betrayed 
her emotion, turned over the pages of the | 
Copy of Worcester's that the kind hearted old 
lawyer had placed before her. * * ’’ It Is an 
“a," cried each simultaneously. “Edwin!" 
“Angelina!” * * Like torrents from one 
mountain source, they rushed into each other’s 
arms. 
•-♦♦♦- 
MADAMS JEROME BONAPARTE. 
Madame Bonaparte is still living in Balti¬ 
more, at the age of ninety years. She says she 
has no intention of dying until she Is a hundred. 
She has been to Europe sixteen times, and 
contemplates another trip this summer. To is 
old lady has more vivacity and certainly more 
Intelligence than many of the Jeadlug women 
of fashion of the present day. She expresses 
her opinion upon all subjects with great free¬ 
dom, and sometimes with bitterness. Hlie has 
little or no coufldeuea In men, aud a very poor 
Opinion of women; the young ladies of the 
present day, she say*, all have the “hotuoai-i- 
nia.” All sentiment she thinks a weakness. 
She professes that her ambition ha* always 
been—not a throne but near the throne. 
Mr. l’atteraou, her father, died In at an 
advancod age, in possession of a large fortune, 
fa Ids will, which i* oue of the most remarkable 
documents that has ever been deposited in the 
orphan’s court in Baltimore, he says:—“The 
conduct of my daughter Betsey, lots through 
life been s » disobedient, that In no instanco 
has she ever consulted my opinion or feelings ; 
indeed, she has caused me more anxiety and 
trouble than all my other children put together; 
her folly and misconduct have occasioned me 
a train of experience that, first to last, has coat 
me much money,”—In this, he maims the mar¬ 
riage of his daughter to Jerome Bonaparte. 
The old gentleman left her, out of his great 
wealth, only three or four small houses and the 
wines in his cellar—worth in all about tUO.CKX). 
Madame Bonapurto Is very rich; she has 
made her money by successful speculations 
and by her life-long habit of saving. For years 
she has lived at a boarding house in Hal Urn ore, 
seeing very little company. Mar costume Is 
ancient, and there Is nothing about Imrappoar- 
ance that suggests the marvelous beauty that 
led captive, the heart of Jerome Bonaparte. 
Hvr eyes alone retain some of the brightness of 
former days. 
For forty years, Madame Bonaparte kept a 
diary, iu which she lias recorded ber views and 
observations of European and American socie¬ 
ty. Some of her remarks arc severely sarcastic. 
A well-known Rustam publishing house, ft Is 
said, recently olfered tin,IKK) fur the manuscript 
volumes, but Madame refused to sell them at 
aut price, and lias committed them to the cus¬ 
tody of her younger grandson, Charles Joseph, 
recently u law student of Harvard, now a rising 
member of the Baltimore bar. They will 
probably be published after the writer’s deat h. 
—Scribner for May. 
-- 
GOLD AND CRIMSON BEFORE DEATH. 
Once on a time a little leaf was heard to sigh 
and cry T as leaves often do when n gentle wind 
is about. And the twig said, “ What is the mat¬ 
ter, little loaf?” “The wind,” said the leaf, 
“just told me that one day it would pull me off 
@nd throw me dowq op the ground to die,” 
| The twig told it to the branch ou which It grew 
! and the branch told It to the tree. When it 
heard of It, it rustled all over and sent back 
word to the leaf. “ Do not be afraid; hold on 
tightly and you shall not go till you want to.” 
So the leaf stopped sighing and went on nest¬ 
ling ani singing; and so It grew all summer 
long, till October. When the bright days of 
autumn came the little leaf saw the leaves 
around becoming very beautiful. Some were 
scarlet, some were ydlo ,v and some were striped 
with both colors. Then It asked the tree what 
It meant, and the tree said, “ All thoso leaves 
sro getting ready to fly away, and they have put 
on these beautiful color* because of joy.” Then 
the little leaf began to want to go and grew 
very beautiful In thinking of It; and when It 
was very gay in color* it saw that the brat)dies 
of the tree had no color In them, bo the leaf 
said, “O brunch, why arc you lead-colored and 
wo so golden?" “We must keep our work 
clothes on,” said the tree, “for our life Is not 
done yet; but your clothe* are for a holiday, 
because your task is over." Just then a little 
puff of wind came and the little leaflet go with¬ 
out thinking of It; and the wind took St up and 
turned It over and over and then whirled it un¬ 
like a spark of lire In the air, and let it fall gently 
down under the edge of the fence among many 
other leaves; and it fell into a dream and never 
woke up to toll what it dreamt about. 
- 
HEALTH AND FASHION. 
Not until we deal conscientiously with nature 
as we do with tradesmen shall we, as Individ¬ 
uals, be entitled to reward* of merit. We ask 
for a loud of good wood, pay the market price 
for It, get the worth of our money, and have 
the satlafactlon of warmth from the fire it 
makes. Suppose the dealer knew we would not 
pay for it. He would not be likely to give full 
measure or the beat quality. The dainty bits 
of lace, Jet ornaments and plumes, rosebuds 
aud velvets composing a hat, are very becom¬ 
ing to some face*. The drossy hat ha* a price; 
it takes money to pay for it. Tno little lady 
wishes to look stylish, pays the price and Is sat¬ 
isfied and happy until the fashion changes. Sec 
desires health and elasticity of step, buoyancy 
of sp rit. Could they bo purchased, millions of 
dullur.i would loll Ih to the Credit of bank ac¬ 
counts. Alas, poor child of fashion 1 gold can¬ 
not buy for you the dewy freshness of a vigorous 
life. The sunshine and raindrop* are gifts. 
II uses In cheeky cherries In color of Ups, come 
from within. The price In service—and faithful 
service, too, miller the discretion of a most ger^*pe 
erous and most exacting physician—mother n*-' 
ture. Her rewards are wire, ber punishment, 
certain. There can be no appeal to a higher 
court—no amendment* to her divinely appoint¬ 
ed “constitution.” Willyou.dearreader.enter 
a willing student ? Are you willing to measure 
your life by her rule and compass aud square ? 
“ No.” Then there is little hope for you. 
$abhth pending. 
HAPPY HUJDAND3. 
It Is a man’s own fault if he is unhappy with 
bis wife, in nine eases out of ten. It is a very 
exceptional woman who will not be all she can 
be to an attentive husband, and a more excep¬ 
tional one who will not bo very disagreeable If 
she finds herself wilfully neglected. It would 
be very easy to hate a man who, having bound 
a woman to him, made no effort to make her 
happy; hard not to love one who was constant 
and tender; and when a woman loros she al¬ 
ways strives to please. 
The great men of this world have often been 
wretched In their domestic reflations, while 
mean and common men have been exceedingly 
happy. The reason is vary plain. Absorbed in 
themselves, those who desire the world’s ap¬ 
plause were careless of the little world at home; 
while those who had none of this egotism strove 
to keep the hearts that were their own and 
were happy in their tenderness. 
No woman wflll love a man the better for 
being renowned or prominent. Though ho be 
first among men she will only be prouder, not 
fonder, and if she loses him through this re¬ 
nown, as Is often tlie case, she will not even bo . 
proud. But give her love, appreciation, kind¬ 
ness, and there is mi sacrifice she would not 
make for his content and comfort. The man 
who loves ber well I* her hero and ber king. No 
less a hero to her though he is not one to any 
other; no less a king, though his only kingdom 
is her heart aud homo. 
-- 
ATTENTION TO THE OLD. 
A kittle thoughtful attention, how happy 
It makes the old! They have outlived most of 
the friends of their early youth. How lonely 
their hours! Often their partners in life have 
long tided silent graves; often their chlldreu 
they have followed to the tomb. They stand 
solitary, bending on their stair, waiting till the 
same call shall reach them, llow ufieti they 
must think of absent lamented faces; of the 
love which cherished them, and the tears of 
sympathy which fell with theirs, now all gone. 
Why should not the young cling round and 
comfort them, cheering their gloom with happy 
smlies < 
- * * * 
Feeling maketh a lively man; thought 
maketh astroug man; action maketb a useful 
man—and all these together make a perfect 
man. Now, abide these three : Feeling, thought, 
action, and the greatest of these is action ; hut 
neither can abide without the others. Some 
men think muon, feel little, and act less. 
They aye universally u»safe and unlovely men, 
GOD’S NEARNESS. 
The Lord is In His Holy Place 
In all t-hinv s near and fur, 
Shekirmh of the snowflake, He, 
And Glory of the star j 
And Secret of the Aprll-land 
That st irs the Held to flowers, 
Whose little tabernacles rise 
To hold Him through the hours. 
He hides himself within the love 
Of those that we love best; 
The smile* ami tone* that rnnltc our homes 
Are shrines by Him possessed. 
He tenta within the lonely heart 
And shepherds every thought; 
We And Him not by socking long. 
We lose Him not unsought. 
[ William C, Gannett. 
-♦♦♦- 
AFTER AND OVER. 
After the shower, the tranquil Bim ; 
Silver stars when the day Is done. 
After the snow, the emerald leaves; 
After the harre«t, golden sheave*. 
After I he Clouds, the violet sky; 
Quiet woods when the wind goes by. 
After the tempest, the lull of waves; 
After ihc battle, peaceful grave*. 
After the knelt, the wedding bell*: 
Joyful greeting* from sad farewells. 
After the hud, the radiant rose s 
After our weeping, sweet repo: e. 
After the burden, the blissful meed j 
After the furrow, the waking seed. 
After the flight, the downy nc*t; 
Over the shadowy river—rest. 
-- - * - 
THE RUNAWAY FORGIVEN. 
The affecting story In the fifteenth chapter of 
Luke, of the runaway gort, reckless but finally 
penitent, baa had Its counterpart full often 
since the Divine teacher told It. The lesson of 
tbo last example Is the same as the lesson of 
the first., viz., that God forgive* a* kind parents 
forgive, only with as much greater Jove as God 
is higher than man. 
Many years ago a woman with six children, 
left In sorrow and poverty by the death of a 
bankrupt husband, suffered the climax of 
affliction In the base ingratitude of her eldest 
ton. Wayward and disobedient, the boy eon- 
**1nually vexed and distressed her; and so fur 
from heeding her pleadings and tender admo¬ 
nitions, wont on in headstrong wickedness, 
growing worse and worse. 
To the mother, who could not love him less 
than she loved the rest, of the children, his sin¬ 
ful course and the sad omens of his future wero 
a dufly agony. Ho was her own. her first-born, 
and that was the bitterness of ber grief, when 
she saw him so bad and hardened. Must her 
son be a roprobate, and come to an untimely 
end? ' 
The worst seemed to bo realized, when, after 
some erownlngmledemeanor, the young ingrate 
suddenly disappeared from home, and evaded 
every attempt to trace him. Just at the ago 
when bo should have been his mother’s help 
and support, lie had abandoned her, and under 
circumstances most grievous and aggravating. 
The poor widow hail endured enough before, 
aud this last sorrow fell upon ber like a death¬ 
blow. But tbo sense of duty to her remaining 
ones was strong within her, and she lived on. 
She could never talk of her loot son, nnd turned 
away with anguish If the other children spoke 
his name. 
It was only to God that she ever mentioned 
him, and as the years rolled ou, and brought no 
tidings of the absent one, always In stormy 
nights her family would hear her feet pacing 
her chamber, and her broken voice lamenting 
and praying for her wandering boy. She could 
not give him up as dead, but there were few 
who would havt> believed that her prayers and 
tears were destined to be answered. 
Fourteen years passed, and one summer day, 
while t he sad woman was sitting In her humble 
homo with her two youngest children, now 
grown to be men, a tall, heavily-bearded stran¬ 
ger walked slowly up to the house, and leaned 
bis arms upon the sill of the open window. 
Her astonished eyes met his, but she did not 
know him. She saw tears roll down bis cheek?, 
and then she sprang forward for a closer look. 
It was her long-lost eon. Eagerly she called 
him in, aud ran to greet him w ith weeping joy. 
But the returned prodigal shrank back. 
“ Mother,” said he, “ I shall never come in 
until you say you forgive me; forgive me every¬ 
thing.” 
"George, dear George," cried the mother, “I 
forgave you long ago. There's nothing to for¬ 
give now, only that you’ve staid away »o long! ’ 
That free, self-forgetful welcome was but the 
typo of the longing love of the Heavenly Father 
for His sinful children. He yearns over them 
every day they wander, and by a thousand invi¬ 
tations opens the way for them to come back. 
And when they do come back how divinely 
complete Is His pardon I “As far as the east Is 
from the west”—the beautiful Bible phrase for 
infinite distauce—" so far hath He removed our 
transgressions from ns." 
That is the way that He forgives. Alas, that 
offending, ungrateful hearts should stay away 
from Him so long 1 Alas, that any Bhouid stay 
away too long J 
. 9 - 
