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SEPT. 2§ 
OOBE’S BUBAL NEW-YOBKEB. 
200 
THE BEAPER8. 
The reapers bend their lusty backs; 
Their sounding sickles sway; 
At every stroke the golden sea 
Recedes to give them way; 
The heavy ears fall bowing down, 
And nestle at their feet. 
Such will, such work, as theirs perforce 
Must win—must homage meet. 
So careless of fatigue they go, 
So true, so steadily, 
The admiring traveler on the road 
Leans o’er the gate to see; 
With marvel of the soon-fallen breadth 
The lounging gossips tetl; 
But the reapers labor for us all; 
*Tis need they should work well. 
Ere the great sun that burns above 
Shall crimson in the West, 
And the children's poppy nosegays fade, 
And they lie down to rest, 
Each golden spear that upward points 
Shall fall upon the field, 
And the farmer drain a sparkling glass. 
Rejoicing o'er the yield. 
Ply, bonny men, yonr sickles bright. 
And give the people bread ! 
At every conquering stride yon take 
On want and woe you tread. 
T)rop, heavy ears, and give the strength 
Ton gnthcred from the plain, 
That man may rise refreshed and firm, 
And do great things again I 
God bless the bands, all hard and brown. 
That, guide the cleaving plow. 
That cast abroad tbe shining seed. 
And build the weAlthy mow ! 
They rear the bread our children eat; 
’Tisby their toil we live; 
Hurrah ! give them the loudest cheer 
That grateful hearts can give ! 
©ur j&org-Seller. 
THE PRESCRIPTION. 
“I WISH you would tell James, when he 
comes In, to turn the cows in the lower lot. 
And If Turpin calls, tell him I have concluded 
to take those sheep. I want the Merinos. And 
while 1 am getting ready, please take my mem¬ 
orandum book and note down four harness 
straps, five pounds of nails and a gimlet, half a 
jockey strap, and—and, yes, I believe that Is all. 
I forgot them when I made out the Items this 
morning.'’ 
Mrs. .Streeter raso wearily, laid her sleeping 
babe quietly in its crib, and proceeded to 
record the articles named. She was young— 
not over twenty-live, but the blonde complexion 
was sadly faded, the brown hair thin unr' 
lusterless, and faint lines were already mark 
inn the white forehead, while the tired eyes 
told of care, and hinted strongly of an un¬ 
satisfied heart. 
And this t.hin-cheoked, pink-lipped woman 
had been called a beauty only seven years 
before! She had been admired and petted, 
but not spoiled. And when sho gave her 
hand to Newton Streeter, she could say what 
so few girls of eighteen can, “ I married my 
first love." 
Judge Streeter, tbe father, was supposed 
to be wealthy. But soon after his son's 
marriage a financial crash came, and his 
thousands dwindled into hundreds. 
It was false pride, perhaps, but the young 
man shrank from a position under those 
who had once looked up to him. And his 
thougbtsturned wistfully towards the West¬ 
ern prairies, where the sum he could now 
call his own would render him Independent, 
of others at least. He expected objections 
from his young and accomplished wife. 
But she saw with his eyes, and was not only 
willing, but eager to go and help him make 
a home that should be all their own. The 
purchasing of a prairie team. Borne farming 
implements, and the expense of building a 
small home, exhausted his entire capital; 
and the young couple began their married 
life as many others bad done who had not 
been blessed with their advantages. A hired 
man seemed necessary on the farm, but a 
girl could be dispensed with. Indeed, the 
small dwelling contained but three small 
sleeping apartments, and ibis fact, added 
to their uncertain income. Induced Mrs. 
Streeter to take upon herself the entire care 
of the household. 
She was a systematic housekeeper—ab¬ 
horred dirt In all its phases; and tbe rich, 
alluvia] soli seemed ever haunting her, iiko 
a taunting spirit that could not. beappeased. 
In dry weather it was a fine, black dust that 
found its way everywhere ; and in wet it be¬ 
came a smutch that was hardly less aggra¬ 
vating. 
Two chllden had come in the seven years, 
to nestle In her bosom. But one, a fairy 
child of three summers, had slid away from 
them, and was now sleeping beneath the 
flower of the prairie. And the tired wife 
bad sighed :ts she looked on the cold, folded 
hands. 
“She will never toil as I have done, but, 
oh, I wanted her so much I” the lonely 
mother sobbed forth. 
E Mr. Streeter was now considered a wealthy 
armer. His acres’bad broadened and his 
stock increased; the Llittle village, a mile 
away, had put on city airs, and the steam horse 
waited respectfully at Its depot. 
Still the thrifty farmer confined himself 
oiosely to labor, hardly taking time for needful 
rest. The love of getting had increased with 
his gains, and he was constantly scheming and 
planning to add to his already many acres. 
Physically and mentally strong, he grappled 
with toll, and it hardly left a mark on bis splen¬ 
did physique—bronzed a little, and with a gen¬ 
tle, loving wife ever studying his tastes and 
wishes, why should he wear out fast? 
But of her? Naturally frail, she bad been 
like a willow bending beneath a burden volun¬ 
tarily taken up. With the exception of an 
efficient girl for a few weeks when little Mary 
died, she bad performed all the labor required 
in the house since she became its mistress. 
As a girl, she was a great reader and extrava¬ 
gantly fond of music. But there was no room 
in the small dwelling for a piano, and books 
only added to her labor by accumulating dust, 
for where was the time? 
I know this is a dreary picture for a farmer’s 
wife, but perhaps there is another side. New¬ 
ton Streeter took the memorandum, glanced 
hastily at the neatly written items, and then 
said: 
"One thing more, Mary, and then I’m off. 
Please sew this button a little closer.” 
The loose button was confined to its place, 
and then Mary Streeter watched her husband 
as he stepped into the rfght buggy and drove 
away. 
But not longer might she linger, for the 
sponge was waiting In the kitchen to be 
kneaded and the baby’s naps were like angels* 
visits. And before her task was well over bis 
bugle note sounded to arms, and the frerful 
child was taken up and caressed and soothed to 
quietness. But he would not go down again, 
and back and forth from the hot kitchen she 
carried him, aa 6he watched the loaves brown¬ 
ing In tbe oven. 
She was conscious of a strange dizziness when 
she arose from a stooping position; her head 
was aching miserably and her eyes seemed 
burning. What was coming over her She 
must be III I Oh, no 1—sho had no time forthat! 
And then her thoughts drirted away to the dear 
old home of her childhood. And sho asked her¬ 
self for the first time if Bhe had done wisoly in 
leaving it for this life of toil and care. 
It was a dangerous position for a wife and 
mother, and she clasped her child more closely 
to suppress in her heart the disloyal answer. 
Bhe beard James, the hired man, come in, 
and, recollecting the message for hint, arose, 
and that unaccountable giddiness siezed her 
ami aim sank back utterly powerless. 
When Mr. Streeter returned, exultant ov*«r 
the thousand dollars lie had deposited in the 
bank—and with which he hoped to purchase 
another parcel of land—be found no supper 
prepared, and bi^vife helpless upon the bed 
with cheeks flushed with fever, and the wailing 
child distracting her with demand for care. 
A physician and nurse were soon summoned 
from the city, and the weary wife enjoyed the 
luxury of being ill. 
But. convalescence soon followed, and before 
leaving his patient the old doctor, a close ob¬ 
server and a deep thinker, took the husband 
aside and asked: 
“Do you know what brought this fever on 
your wife, Mr. Streeter?" 
“ No ]” in a surprised tone. 
“Shall I tell you ?” 
“ Certainly. I am anxtous to know.” 
“ You have worked her nearly to death.” 
“You are speaking of my wife, not of my 
horse.” 
“ Granted, and I say again, you are working 
her to death." 
“Really, doctor, such language is unpardon¬ 
able.” 
“And yet you will pardon It. And further¬ 
more, by your great love for the self-sacrificing 
wernan we have Just left, I shall perform an 
operation on your eyes that you may see even 
as I see.” 
And then, in his own peculiar, abrupt man¬ 
ner, he placed the cold, bard facts before him, 
from the time she came a bride, beautiful and 
accomplished, to the village, up to the the date 
of her present Illness, In which domestic cares 
Only bad haunted her feverish dreams. Iu con¬ 
cluding, he added : “ I truly believe If she takes 
up her old burden at once that before a year 
has passed the grave or insane asylum will re¬ 
ceive her." 
The strong man shuddered. "As heaven la 
my witness, sir, I have only permitted, not ex¬ 
acted this sacrifice. She voluntarily took her 
place by my side and lias uncomplainingly kept 
step with me." 
“No, she ha9 not kept step, to follow your 
own figure. Unable to keep up with your long, 
rapid strides, she baa fallen, faint and footsore 
by the way. And now you have but to go back 
and take her in your strong arms and carry her 
awhile. I tell you she must have rest for both 
mind and body, or I will not answer for the re¬ 
sult. And it would be better if found away 
from here.” 
“ Yes, I begin to comprehend ; and It can be 
found away. And,” offering hiB hand, “I will 
take care, doctor, that you do not get a chance 
to administer another such dose to me.” 
“ Then see that you do not need It," said he 
dryly, a« be mounted on his horse and rode 
away. 
Mr. Streeter went back to the room where his 
wife was sitting, propped up by pillows, and a 
gusli of unutterable tenderness swelled iu Ills 
heart as he g'ancod at her pale face and almost 
WASHKD gAfcSHORE — A. SEASIDK£SCENE. 
transparent hands. He sat down beside her 
and said softly: "You don’t know how glad r 
am that you are better." 
“Thank you. Yes, I am almost well now— 
shall soon be able to be in the kitchen. I am 
sure I must be sadly needed there by this time.” 
“ No, you are needed here. By the way, would 
you like to have me put the farm to rent this 
summer, and you take the boy and go back to 
the old granite hills ?" 
"Ob. could you ? May J go? •* ft nd tho voice 
quivered wit excitement; then, wistfully, “ But 
the expense, Newton. It would put us back so 
much." 
Yes, there It is; the old doctor was right 1” 
he thought. And then aloud“ Do you know 
what I went to the city for the day you were 
To deposit some money for more land, I 
think vou said,”Bhe replied wearily. 
“ Yea « r do not need that land. I have far 
more than I can cultivate now. And you shall 
have that money-mr,at least, all that you want 
of It—and go home and stay this summer, and 
try to get some of your bloom back ? ” 
“ And you ?" 
Never fear for me. Only hurry and get well 
enough to travel, and I will either go with you 
or place you In the hands of kind friends, and 
you shall he sheltered in the old home-nest 
tins summer. 1 shall write to-day that you are 
coming.” 
Mrs. Streeter could herd!/ believe it was not 
one of her feverish dreams. 
But It all came about iu good time, and she 
arrived safely at homo, where sho was potted, 
caressed and cared for to her heart’s content. 
You are all trying to spoil me," she would 
expostulate; “ I shall never bo flt lor a farmer's 
wife any more/ 1 
“And why not, pray?” asked a younger sis¬ 
ter, as sho tangled a spray of apple blooms 
among her curls. 
“ There, if you ever nut your hair up In that 
ugly knot you wore when you came home, 
i farmer’s wife, or President’s wife, I’ll—I’ll—" 
“ Pinch the baby, suggested Ered. 
“ No, he shall never suffer for the sins of his 
parents, and sho ran off with the household 
pet, as was her wont, to relieve the mother of 
all care. 
And thus among loving friends, riding, walk¬ 
ing and, whon at home, reading, music and 
writing long letters to her husband, the sum¬ 
mer passed swiftly away. 
And now he had written that he was coming, 
and she was counting tho days that must, elapse 
ere she could look upon his face and be clasped 
to his heart. She was eager to go now. Her 
holiday was over. Health had returned, and 
not for an instant did sho shrink from tho old 
life. 
Ami when the"imsband came and saw the 
j vendor one summer] had wrought, ho again 
told himself that tho good old doc tor was 
right. 
I A few days were given to tho old friends ; 
Judge Stroctor had recovered hla equipoise 
in the financial world and then they turned 
their fact s toward their Western Immo. 
It was evening when they arrived, and the 
Hi/e looked with woeful bewilderment on 
tho change. It was not her home, and yet 
it should he. A handsome front bad been 
added to tho old buihluig; and before rhe 
had time to question she was ushered into a 
parlor a parlor newly furnished and already 
lighted. An elegant piano stood in a recess 
evidently constructed 1 or its reception, and 
mi in ity u card with tbe Initials of judge 
Streeter, and the words, “To my daughter.” 
bho turned toward her husband to assure 
herself that he, top, had not changed into 
< /nothing or somebody else. But tho merry 
winkling in his eye told her that he was ni- 
oying her surprise, and slowly she began to 
Crtllzo the whole slluation. Yes, now she 
iinterstood hie strange reluctance to tnen- 
•lon what, he was dolr-g, and bis willingness 
•i have her remain, even arter she expressed 
ter anxiety to return. 
“ Come, | have more to show you,” and ho 
showed her Into a large commodious room, 
urnlebed for her own sleeping apartment, 
oven to her baby’s crib. 
1 his is for you. And now lay asido your 
dusty garments and prepare fur tea. It must 
lave been ready an hour ago. I will go and 
iee." 
—When he returned he found Lis wifesitting 
in her little rocker and weeping silently. 
" Have I wounded where I wished to 
heal ?” he asked, reproachfully. 
“Forgive me,“she said, smiling; “I ama 
*oose, but a tlred-wingod one, you know. 
And I am so happy to ho at home, and in 
-ueh a home, that 1 have no words in which 
o tell my happiness." 
He stooped to kiss the proffered lips, and 
then went out, leaving her to prepare for 
the evening meal. 
At the table sho found a neat, tidy girl, 
who took charge of tho child. And thus the 
new life began. And what a d.fferent life 
it was—busy, not. burdened. Time for the 
wants of the mind as well ns tho body. 
Hood help in Ihe kitchen all tlm time; a 
sewing-machine in U o fitting-room ; a piano 
in the pat lor, and choice reading for any 
leisure hour. 
The farm was an unfailing source of in¬ 
come, fuilydefraylDg all <xpt uses etch year 
I and showing a balance in favor. 
“ Been improving, I see,” said Dr. Meeker, 
-34 
