322 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER 
NOV. 43 
■ay nay, now, mid perhaps for a Rood while to 
come.” I flew along that road as fast as good 
horse flesh could carry me; but felt like a guilty 
wretch as I knelt down by the stone and passed 
my band underneath It. A gleam ol happiness 
crossed my heart as 1 held the package in my 
grasp. 
My first Impulse was to hurry home as fast as 
I had come thither. But reflecting that my 
speedy return might throw a suspicion upon 
the affair, I allowed the horse to walk nearly, 
the whole distance. 
Grandmother met me at the door. She aald 
that grandfather had been counting the min¬ 
utes since I left. He was still In the sitting- 
room. 
I held upthe package and grand mother kissed 
me. 
“You are a good boy," she said, "and I'll see 
that your grandfather does the right thing by 
Sallle Miller.” 
“Here you are, sir,” I shouted, coming into 
the old man's presence and placing the package 
in his hands. 
“ Thank heaven 1" he devoutly exclaimed. 
“ I had given It. up, my boy. Did you have much 
of a search V Where did you discover It ?" 
“Just where I said you lost It. On the spot 
where we broke the sha’t.” 
Grandfather examined the package and found 
It all right. Then he hugged me and pulled 
my ear, saying: 
“ Now', you scamp, you can many Sallie Mil¬ 
ler. Bring her home here, for she no doubt re¬ 
quires a good deal of Instruction In house-keep¬ 
ing and ywur grandmother will make her fit to 
keep your house from running to waste.” 
***** v 
Header, these things happened many a year 
ago. All the landmarks about the farm have 
long passed away ; but there Is still a large, flat 
stone by the roadside, <*» one rides out from the 
town of Randolph, and: 1 never gaze upon It. 
without recollect,tnghowlntlmutely my destiny 
and that old rock are connected. 
ANXIOUS TO BE A MAh 
We were growing-up boys—some nea. 
young men, the rest of us smaller—when Uncle 
William, who had left the country when we 
were little, returned to pay a visit to Ms old 
home and friends. He was always much Inter¬ 
ested In father’s children and parti Marly In 
me, perhaps because I wa^; called after him ; 
and I rather think lie noticed a prominent fea¬ 
ture In my character—oue of his own, too—the 
unnecessary anxiety to be a mau beftre the 
time. When we were all together one evening 
and after he had entertained us w ith bis adven¬ 
tures, he took the opport uuity of telling us the 
following story which, doubtless, was Iutended 
for my special benefit: 
“ In the early pait of my life,” said he, “ Just 
about the time when I put on my first pants 
and Jacket and was shod with a pair of top- 
boots with brass toe pieces, I was seized with 
the ardent and longing desire to become.'i man. 
So much wu» »aid among the school-boys be¬ 
coming twenty-one, and so much ado was made 
by parents when their sons urrived at twenty- 
one, and so good and manly character had most 
of them at twenty-one; they could all dress 
well, carry a cane, smoke a cigar, chew tobuoco, 
• take a glusa,’ and swear occasionally, that I 
looked away forward to t wenty-one as If It stood 
up In the lar-off distance as the most desirable 
of all and the only prominent year or my life. 
It seemed to me the sentinel of all years. It 
would be an epoch in my history. It was a war, 
the dawn of which would make me a man. It 
was to be the dividing line between the ages of 
slavery and of liberty. Ou this side of it I saw 
nothing but commands, rebukes, and a good 
sound whipping now and then, or If it went no 
further, at least some severe threatening, as 
» Boy, do this, and boy, do that, or I will flog 
you I' 
“ As I grew up, these disabilities seemed to 
Increase proportionately. There was the end- 
levs school tasks—no escape from them noth¬ 
ing but school, school, school, and wretched 
school bonks, from January to December, till I 
hastily concluded that I was born for nothing 
else than to go to school and be kept a hoy for 
ever and ever. Even t he Sabbath Itself was no 
release. To escape from day school was to 
plunge luto what was tenfolcj worse the Sab¬ 
bath school. Then the tiresome sermon t,o be 
listened to a* If l paid attention! then the text 
and heads must be reported at home. O, how 
I longed to be twenty-one. 
“ Boyhood 1 thought was slavery, bondage to 
one’s parents. 1 wa8 no master of my own will 
nor could 1 follow once my desires. Did f wish 
to spend the evening‘out’among my admired 
companions, my mother Interfered, and said it 
was not proper. If 1 wished to spend the even- 
li g at i he theater, my father had the purse; or 
If by strict economy I had saved enough to pur¬ 
chase my own ticket, l had to ask his consent, 
and that w’as certain to be denied. Everything 
was so exactly measured out for me ; my time, 
my work, my play, my food, clothing, company 
—all must pass under the censure or approval 
oi my father and mother. Why -o much h t,er- 
ferlng? Did I not know better than they what 
suited me ? And then to think a boy of seven¬ 
teen ts not a boy, but a man l Quite competent 
to think and act for himself. If his mother were 
dead; and sometimes the wicked thought oc¬ 
curred, ‘ I wish sli i was below the sod, theu I 
should be free to do as I please, without render¬ 
ing up a daily account.' 
“ A« I came near the year of supposed Jubilr e 
I became impat ient. My fever grew upon roe. 
If at that age I had bad the clock of time under 
my control I should have shoved it forward Just 
four years. Time moves so slowly when one 
hastens to be a man I As It was, I had to bear 
and wait. My grievances Increased. The small¬ 
est request w as an Imposition. I was obedient, 
but after a sulky sort; and my sole comfort 
arose from the thought that I should soon be 
free, a recognized and acknowledged young 
man. 
“ It was the last year of my minority. My ap¬ 
prenticeship was to expire with what I thought 
my despicable boyhood. If I recollect aright, 
I rather fancied that everybody ought to have 
known that I was so near being a l’ull-fledged 
man, r gave my mother and sisters to under¬ 
stand it thoroughly. I took a very common and 
natural means of impressing them with the 
fact. Though I knew that their constant and 
studied care was to please rne, arid that not uu- 
frcquently they did more than they thought 
right in order to conciliate me, 1 noticed not 
their thoughtfulness, hut rather grumbled, and 
freited and found fault the more. 
“My birthday cam,- at last. The usual hon¬ 
ors were done to me. My friends were there. 
I had the inviting of them myself. It w t hs a 
day of joy and feasting and congratulations. 
And yet there was an Inward, painful reluc¬ 
tance that made me feel a little sad. I felt as 
if twenty-one had not brought to mo so much 
after all. At the dinner table fatter took from 
Ids pocket a purse. A tear sparkled in his eye 
as lie reached it to me before all my guests. 
‘That Is your purl ion,’*uld he, 4 you are now 
of age, competent to think and act for yourself. 
Make the best of It. If you use it properly It 
will set you up in business; If not, you cannot 
claim anything more from me.' 
“His lips quivered a little, and my mother 
covered her face with her handkerchief. A 
cold chill passed over me. A vacancy opened 
in my heart that, nothing could fill. I felt as If 
I was leaving home to w ander In a foreign land 
forever. I took the money, and tried to smile 
as I thaukud him, I looked a* wise and manly 
as I very well could before my companions. If 
I bad had the power, I should have made the 
suu go back ton degrees at least, upon the dial 
of my life. 
“I was Injudicious with my money, aia » »ou 
got rid it. I can scarcely tell how. 1 >7as 
proud-spirited, and father saw my struggles 
and difficulties to get along in the world. He 
knew that my heart longed to get back and 
nestle in the peaceful, happy old home, but It 
could not ret urn to the nest. It was only after 
many years, when 1 had struggled and tolled 
with hardships, till I seemed to he gaining 
ground, that father rcuchcd out a helping hand. 
“It la now nearly twice a score of years since 
I loft behind mo that long-looked for tw enty- 
one. But tliest} years have been so filled up 
with cares, aujfletles, crosses, aud vast respon¬ 
sibilities, that a thousand times, I'm sure, 
when almost driven to despair, I have looked 
back to the days of my boyhood, and have fer¬ 
vently wished with a long, deep sigh, fur the 
return of one careless, happy day. Only one 
day hack in my father’s happy home would 
have been to me Paradise regained. Those 
days were gone—past forever! 
“To-day when I sec boys Imputientuuder the 
restraints of school or of home, and wishing 
for the age of manhood, when they suppose 
they shall bo so free 10 think uud act as they 
please, l feel like advising them to rest con¬ 
tented with their happy youth. Childhood’s 
days are the happiest you will over enjoy. Bo 
not impatient to escape from them. AY hen 
they are gone you cannot recall them, though 
you would If you could. Others bo free from 
care, and so full of real happiness you need not 
expect, to find. Stay In your father's house as 
long as you can ; submit to your parent's coun¬ 
sel when they give It, for t hey are wiser than 
you.”— New York Observer. 
-- 
LETTERS FROM HOME. 
The secret longing of nearly all who are wan¬ 
derers, or whose abiding place is temporarily 
among strangers, is expressed in the words of 
that sweet song, “ Write me i\ letter from 
home.” The one thing that the heart uaeds Is 
a word from those around the old hearthstone. 
Especially Is this so in the case of youug men. 
No boy goes out from the home circle without 
a seuse of loss. For a time at Ieast,!the moth¬ 
erly presence Is sadly missed, the sisterly affec¬ 
tion warmly cherished. Then If the mother’s 
letters reach him often, filled With all that a 
mother most eloquently expresses—love, hope¬ 
fulness and prayer—he is still surrounded by a 
holy Influence. If the sister writes frequently, 
manifesting her pure affection In such ways as 
her heart naturally prompts, he can hardly run 
into slu. 
And If home epistles come seldom, what 
then? The loss In the young man’s life must 
be made up. He llnds his leisure hours dull, 
and they must be enlivened. There Is no call 
lor long, heart-full letters In return for similar 
ones. The evenings he might give to penning 
these, he spends In amusements of doubtful 
character. Wanting the tenderness of woman’s 
love, ft Is not strange If he fall a victim to 
wicked wiles. So he forsakes his better self, 
and takes to his bosom pleasures that sting him 
to death. And ere long he becomes a thing for 
the mother and sister to weep over, and hi* 
bright youug life fades out lu darkness. 
A sad picture this, of course. But it is only a 
sad picture of even sadder realities. There are 
hundreds of yoimg men lu every city, in the 
very lowest depths of degradation, whom the 
home Influence, carefully and prayerfully ex¬ 
tended through tender, affectionate, womauly 
letters, might have saved. There are hundreds 
of others. Just taking their first lesson* in vice, 
who may be brought back to purity by loving 
words from mothers, sisters or sweethearts. 
Until a man becomes thoroughly vicious, the 
thought of a pure woman’s love will do much 
to restrain him from Iniquity. If that love 
grow careless of him. he grows careless of him¬ 
self. Think of this, you who have sons, broth¬ 
ers, or lovers away among strangers. Remem¬ 
ber that you owe then: a sacred duty, and give 
them frequent missives from home, freighted 
with love and accompanied by earnest prayer 
-♦♦♦- 
A LION’S REHABD FOR WOMEN. 
A correspondent of the Boston Advertiser 
gives this remarkable incident in his experience 
with lions. A lion rarely attacks women, and 
I once witnessed a scene which will go lurtber 
than the longest explanation toward illustrat¬ 
ing this, it was a hot, sultry day In July. The 
sirocco made the atmosphere dense with sand 
And glare; the very earth seemed on Are. I was 
returning from a little expedition on the front¬ 
iers of Tunis, and as I had some matters to set¬ 
tle with tribes In the environs of fa CaUc, I left 
my troops to return to Constantine, and follow¬ 
ed only by two ipahUi, turned my steps toward 
taOaUe. Having started just before day, We 
arrived about four o’clock in the afternoon at 
the ford of the little river de la Mafrag. Our 
horses, as well as we ourselves, were sadly in 
need of food and drink, and we stopped to re¬ 
fresh ourselves at a little inn kept by an 
European, and situated on a low mound two or 
tbreo hundred yards from the ford. While 
waiting for my frugal repast 1 unbuckled my 
sword, laid by my pistols, and stretched out 
oomfortably in the shade, Idly watched a hand 
of Arab worneu washing clothes lu the river. 
AH at once I was startled by cries proceeding 
from the opposite side of a9and heap bordering 
the river, and half a dozen women came rush¬ 
ing Into the midst of their peaceable compan¬ 
ions, dragging them into the shallow water, and 
behind them a magnificent Mon, bis tall proud¬ 
ly in the air, and hi* great brown eyes looking 
carelessly from one to the other. Baying no 
attention to their retreat Into the river, he fol¬ 
lowed them there, rubbing himself up against 
them, not seeming to mind in the least their 
cries or terrified gesticulations, and when he 
had bad enough of it lie took a long drink of 
the running water, aud, turning, majestically 
walked away Into the mountains from whence 
ho bad come. This lion was a stranger in that 
part of the country, and when on the following 
day I went in search of him, ho had disap¬ 
peared. 
--*-*-*- 
THE STORY OF AN OVERCOAT. 
The advantages that newspaper readers have 
over those who do not read them Is incalcula¬ 
ble. Here is a case In point to show the truth 
of this assertion. A few days ago the peasants 
in the valley of the Cbevreuse were greatly ex¬ 
cited over Ihe discovery of an overcoat In a 
field. It was a thick and oouilortable garmeut 
uulike anything seen in the district, and evi¬ 
dently belonged to a stranger. A crime was 
suspected, and all the more readily because 
Cbevreuse Is not far from Llmoura, the scene of 
several mysterious murders, the authors of 
which have uever been discovered. Tire police 
were sent for, the magistrates o urns upon the 
ground, the people of the district assembled, 
and an official Inquiry was Issued. The peasants 
began to gossip, and several remembered to 
have seen men in similar coats passing in the 
dusk at evening, followed by men of villainous 
aspect. While the authorities were carefully 
examining the ground to find the tracks of the 
assassin. Count Brsteull drove by, reading a 
newspaper, and got out to see what was the 
matter. He took the coat aud found it marked 
“Stlvel.” The mystery was explained to him, 
for he had just then read of the good airship 
Zenith that had gone up on the 33d aud sailed 
away over the valley of the Cbevreuse, and the 
Zenith was commanded by Captain Sllvel. 
Count Brejeull took the coat aud sent It to its 
owner In Paris. Mr. Silvel hud taken up his 
coat to put it own, but had to adjust a rope at 
the moment, and threw it across the edge of 
T,he basket. Ho unfortunately hit it with his 
foot and pushed It overboard, aud haR to suffer 
for his negligence during the cold hours of the 
night.—Boris Letter . 
---♦♦*- 
IN REMEMBRANCE. 
In one of the Rev. T. DeWitt Talmage's ser¬ 
mons he introduces the following anecdote: 
J saw an account the other day of a little boy 
who was to lie taken by a city missionary, with 
some other boys, to the country to find homes. 
He was well clad, and had a new hat given him; 
but while the missionary was getting the other 
children ready to go, this boy went Into the 
corner and took the hat he had thrown off and 
tore the lining • ut of it- The missionary said, 
“What are you doing with that hat ? You 
don't want It. What are you tearing the llulng 
out of It for?" “Ah!” Bald the boy, “that 
was made out of mother's dress. She loved 
nia very much beTore she died, and I have noth¬ 
ing to remember her by but the liulug.” Aud 
so the boy tore it out and put It lu his bosom. 
%bbath leading. 
FOLLOW THOU ME. 
Oh where shall we follow Thee, Saviour beloved ? 
To Kedron, where oft Thou hast thoughtfully 
roved ?— 
Bach rill of enjoyment that winds through our care 
Is Kedron, if Thou wilt but walk with us there. 
Oh. where shall we follow Thee. Jesus, our friend ? 
To Bethany, wjiltlierJThy feet love to tend? 
Our fireside Is Bethany, peaceful and blest, 
And ne’er will we wander, with Thee for our guest. 
Oh where shall wo follow Thao, Master adored ? 
To the beautiful city that knows not her J,ord? 
Alas for our streets full of anguish ami pain I 
Toil with us for cities wept o’er in vain. 
Oh where shall wo follow Thee, tenderost guide? 
To the sweet, mournful garden down Olivet’s side?— 
Ah ! here is Oethsemane, here where we tuourn, 
Here strengthen us. Thou who our sorrow hast 
borne. 
Oh where shall we follow Thee, thou Lamb of God 7 
L'p Golgotha’s death steep, for us meekly trod ? 
The thorns pierce our temples, the cross bears us 
down; 
I.ike Thlna, make our Calvary garland our crown ! 
Oh where shall we follow Thee, conquering Lord ! 
To Paradise unto us outcasts restored 
It la paradise, Lord, In Thy presenc to he, 
And, living or dying, we’re ever with Thee. 
[Lucu Larcom. 
-♦ *-*- 
AN ASTONISHING STORY. 
Cured by Prayer. 
The camp meeting at Ocean Grove, last sum 
mer, had an extraordinary experience in to# 
cure of Rev. 8. H. Platt, who bad been appar¬ 
ently Incurably lame for a quarter of a century. 
Shortly before he preached hi* first sermon 
as an ordained Methodist minister, ho was 
kicked by a vicious horse, and bis right leg w as 
disabled. A “ floating cartilage ” formed In the 
knee, and some of the most eminent tturgeons 
in America declared It a case beyond tbelr 
skill. Four years ago, while limping slowly 
along the »idowa!k near hie bouse, ho struck 
bis left knee against a corner of a drygoods 
box- Precisely the sumo result followed as 
when the horse kicked him. and within a few 
dayH he was wholly disabled, and could move 
only with the aid of two canes or crutches. He 
could no longer stand In his pulpit even on one 
leg, but was obliged to sit while preaching. 
This double affliction was a terrible one, and 
be again exhausted all the sourceB of possible 
surgical relief. 
Besides his house adjoining the De Kalb Ave. 
church, Mr. Platt owns a cottage at Oceau 
Gnve, In which, with his family, he usually 
passes a part of the summer. One evening, af¬ 
ter having preached sitting to about four thou¬ 
sand persons, while he was in bla Cottage suf¬ 
fering considerable pain, and trying to recruit 
his strength, two ladies were announced. One 
of them introduced borteif as Miss Moseman, 
and said the Lord had sent her to him. Mr. 
Platt, as had been intimated, had little or no 
confidence in divine help for mere physical 
ills. 
He received his visitors courteously. Miss 
Moseman told him that if he bad faith in the 
l.otd’s power to relieve him, his crippled limbs 
could be cured, and the minister answered 
that he bad no doubt of His power, but he 
questioned Ills will I u guess. Willing, however, 
to te^t her theory. If he could consistently do 
so, he asked her whether, after experiencing 
the divine revelation that the Lord would ena¬ 
ble her to effect a cure, she had ever failed? 
After a little hesitation, she replied that she 
had not, hut whoa persons had come to her 
and asked her to pray for them, her petition 
had not been answered. “This,” said Mr. 
Platt, speak I ng of the occurence, “took hold of 
my faith at once, for it was In accordance with 
my own belief that It was not a part of a Chris¬ 
tian’s privilege to pray for the removal of tem¬ 
poral Ills, unless with the direct assurance that 
the petition would be grunted. The lady pro¬ 
fessed to have received such assurance, and I 
told her 1 was willing she should pray for me." 
lie told MIsb Moseman he “would believe as 
best he could," and she knelt before him and 
began to pray. It lasted about two minutes, 
aud toward the close the supplicant placed her 
hands upon Mr. Platt’s kueea. “ Rather,” isuld 
the clergyman, “because there was no other 
place to rest them on than with any purpose of 
affecting a cure by manipulation. So little vi¬ 
tality or maguetlc foruo did she seem to pos¬ 
sess that 1 was unconscious of any warmth 
from her hands as they lay on my knees.” 
Having finished the prayer, Miss Moseman 
arose, and the c mversation was resumed. 
Mr. Piatt had not experienced any unusua. 
sensation in Ida Injured limbs, but as be was 
speaking a very singular feeling was percepti¬ 
ble in the joints. “I never,” ho said, “felt 
anything like it before or since. It seemed as 
though a sort of condensation or toning up of 
the fibere around the knees was In progress, 
the sensation apparently spreading upward.” 
The clergyman's limbs grew stronger every 
hour, and he threw aside one of his canes im¬ 
mediately. “ 1 continued to use the other,” he 
said, “nor. because I really required It, but I 
had carried it for twenty-five years, ami I did 
not wish to seem presumptuous; but a week 
ago to-day (Saturday 1 went out without any 
support, and walked two miles; and I could 
have walked teh, for I did uot feel in the least 
fatigued.” 
