THE BUBAL UEW-Y0B5CER. 
WILL’S WIDOW. 
It’s hard enough for folks to work 
Tor such a little pay; 
To me it does not matter much. 
Now Will is gone away. 
The bird whose mate is flown afar 
Cares little for her nest; 
For glimpse of distant paradise 
The barest hough serves best. 
A clip of lea and crust of broad 
Are unite enough for me; 
To give me dainties would be waste. 
As Will’s not here to see; 
Or, leastways, it he can look down, 
He knows too much to care— 
Knows that it does not signify 
What people eat or wear. 
If I was living in the place. 
W here once I lived with Will, 
All going on the same old way, 
But just the. house grown still, 
I’m sure Will would »eem further off, 
So slowly time would go: 
One needn't sit to watch for death, 
That’s sure to come, we know. 
But now I seldom make a moan 
About the sadder part; 
I think the moving of the hands 
Is wholesome for the heart; 
For, as I stitch, I recollect 
The happy t:mea we had. 
Our courting days and wedding morn. 
When every one was glad. 
I have Will's bird lo slug to me, 
And, lest it pine- for trees, 
When Sunday evening’s calm and fair, 
I take it for a breeze. 
Will’s lying not so far from this. 
And that is where wo go; 
The little bird cheeps cheerily— 
I fancy it may know. 
Will’s buried by the old, gray church 
That stands upon the moor, 
And as I can’t, take Dick Inside, 
I listen at the door; 
And every word the parson speaks, 
I seem to hear Will suy: 
“ That’s something good for you, old girl ”— 
For tluit was poor Will’s way. 
And ail the time, as I walk home, 
T watch the sun go down ; 
It makes our grim, old city look 
Like New Jerusalem town. 
And I have such sweet faneles come 
I never had before; 
When you’ve none else to talk with you, 
I tliiuk God talks the more. 
When first Will went. I longed to die. 
But now I wait content; 
As parson Bays, ’’ When comforts go, 
The Comforter is sent.” 
Yet, oh ! how glad I’ll meet with Will, 
And tell him how it came true 
When he said, “ Polly, dear, old girl, 
God will look after you.” 
®j)t ^tonj-iwlln;. 
JACOB’S TEST; 
OR, ITOW BHE LOST HIM. 
BY KENNETH DUNN. 
Doubtless many of you have read the old-time 
story or the young gentleman who called at the 
doors of his lady acquaintances, asking for the 
scrapings of their bread-bowls to feed his horses 
with, and to the one Who was unable to bring 
him any, he offered Ills heart and hand. 
My grandmother used to tell anotherThis 
young man concluded to test the housekeeping 
capabilities of ids young lady mends ny inviting 
himself to tea. At the first, the cheese came upon 
the table with the rlud untouched; here was a 
lack of neatness. At the second, the entire rind 
was removed; here was wastefulness. At the 
third, the rind of the cheese was carefully 
scraped; here was neatness and economy com¬ 
bined; thorefore, the young lady received an 
offer of marriage. 
Jacob Hinton was brought up on these bread- 
scraplng, cheeee-rlad stories; be also read many 
of the popular novels of the day. In these he 
found many angelic women, always faultlessly 
attired, wore they princesses or kitchen-maids. 
And somewhere he had once read, “ Beware of 
the woman who Is not neatly and becomingly 
dressed lathe morning, no matter how beautllul- 
ly she may be attired In the evening." 
Jacob had much good common sense, but he 
might have had more. lie loved Nettie Lkr; 
here he showed Ills good sense. Their homes were 
several miles apart, therefore he only saw her as 
he occasionally visited with his mother and sis¬ 
ters at her lather's house, or attended her when 
the young people planned a plc-nie or excursion, 
or In winter a party or slelgh-rlde, and at. church. 
On all these occasions, she was neatly dressed— 
Indeed, beau til'illy and artistically, to au appre¬ 
ciative eye. 
Jabob was a good young man, aiuFa consistent 
church member. lie was calmly In love with 
Nettie, but before committing himself he wanted 
to take her unawares at home in the morning (you 
certainly cannot blame him). 
Now, lu Nettie's home there were no hands to 
help mother but her own, and Nettie never took 
up a dishcloth mluciugly between her thumb and 
linger, or washed dishes wit h u rag tied to a stick, 
or swept her rooms or weeded her flower-beds with 
gloves on—which It would have been better if she 
had done, for Indeed, she did enter a little too 
heartily into her work. When she rose in the 
morning she dressed herself neatly In calico, with 
a white collar or ruffle at the neck, arranged her 
hair, polished her white teeth, put. on a white 
apron, then over all this neatness of womanly at¬ 
tire, pinned a great homely kitchen apron and 
was ready for work. After the morning toilet, 
there was seldom any time for glances In the mir¬ 
ror In that, busy household until after dinner. If 
a ring at the hell was heard, the kitchen apron I 
was laid aside and mother and Nettie were ready | 
to receive morning calls. 
But Jacob did not see in fo pull the white bell- 
knob peeping out from under the porch ; he rap- j 
ped—rather timidly, to be sure at. Hie kitchen 
door. Prompt Nettie opened It . It was a lovely 
May morning, but mother and Nettie were clean¬ 
ing the cellar. Nettie did not wear her accus¬ 
tomed neat dress; after breakfast, she and mother 
had donned some shabby suits, put on some old 
sub-bonnets and gone with a will Into the cellar, 
which father and the boys had cleaned the day 
before; but a woman’s hand must polish the 
shelves where the nice Jars of butter were to 
stand, and the cement Hoar must be scrubbed 
white. 
Nettie was a little surprised to see Jacob, but 
bade him a pleasant, good-morning and led the 
way lute the dlnlng-rooru-she was not tit to go 
Into the parlor. Her hair was awry, her sleeves 
above her elbows, her arms certainly were dirty, 
and coming hastily up the cellar stairs when she 
heard his knock, she had caught her dress on a 
nail and, lo! a great rent appeared! Jacob saw 
all this, but. he did not see the pleasant smile that 
disclosed the pearly teeth ; he did not note the 
refinement Hint, would make no profuse apologies, 
merely saying, “ We were finishing our house- 
cleaning this morning.” 
“Ah!" said poor Jacob. 
“Yes,” assented Nettie, and began chatting 
pleasantly with him. 
“ The young people are making up a Maying 
party tor the day alter to-morrow, and I called to 
see if you would like to accompany them, and If 
you would accept me as an escort, ?” 
“Oh, 1 should be delighted 1” answered Impul¬ 
sive Nettie- “ Where are you going, and what 
arc the arrangements?” 
“ We are going to Dobbs’ woods; and If the day 
Is warm enough, we will take our lunch with us, 
and If not, we will dine with Bessie Leach.” 
After Jacob had taken his departure and Net¬ 
tie had returned to the cellar, she could not help 
saying to herself, “ 1 wish he hadeotuo this even¬ 
ing,—moonlight evenings, too,—l wonder why he 
did not—such a plight as l was in!” but she added, 
brightly, “I think he has sense enough to under¬ 
stand the situation,” And Jacob mused as he 
rode slowly homeward, that pleasant May morn¬ 
ing, “ She certainly did not look very neat, but 
she 18 pretty, and how she can talk; I’ll try her 
again. She said something about house-clean¬ 
ing, Perhaps she doesn't often look so in the 
morning." 
The May party passed off very pleasantly, but 
it was not considered safe to lunch In the woods, 
the ground being too damp; but nothing could 
he pleasanter for these young people than a din¬ 
ner at Squire Leach's, 
“Surely, Nettie Is my peerless beauty to-day," 
thought Jacob. As they rode homo together in 
the twilight, he came very near whispering word 
that would have gtveu him a lifetime of happi¬ 
ness, but the picture Of a few mornings before 
rose before him. “ 1 will wait,” ho said; “ 1 can¬ 
not marry a slattern.” 
Oh, simple Jacob! Do you think that pure 
skin, that bright hair, those white teeth, that 
neatly-encased loot, can belong to a slattern ? 
Not many weeks after another bright, morning 
found Jacob on his way to Deacon Lee s. It was 
yet early; Nettie was washing the dishes; her 
kitchen was not neat, but shw was making all 
haste, and in an hour everything would be tidy. 
Her mother had not been well tor a week; on 
Monday Nettie did the washing, and having also 
to do the work her mother did, she had not clean¬ 
ed the floor and put the kitchen to rights, as she 
was accustomed to do on that day. The next day 
was rainy, and the kitchen was given up to the 
boys; but Wednesday morning the sun rose 
bright and clear. 
The dishes were nearly finished when, looking 
through the. open door, Nettie saw Bessie la the 
middle of her flower bed, and Jack and Jessie 
making all haste for the open garden gate. The 
boys, alter feeding the calves, had neglected to 
fasten the gate that led Into their pasture. 
“What shall Ido?” thought NETTIE. “I cer¬ 
tainly cannot drive them." She ran for their 
palls, put in a little milk, and hastened out. Her 
coaxing began to have pffect, when the calves 
learned there was milk in the palls- Though 
they were well-fed animals, they rushed upon 
Nettie and soon pushed her Into a run, which 
took them through the gate without seeing It, 
and Nettie quickly secured it. But how was she 
to get away from them? She threw her palls 
over the fence and essayed to mount It quickly 
herself, but Bessie had her apron In her mouth, 
and Jack and Jessie, the twins, had each a mouth¬ 
ful of her dress. She described a circle swiftly, 
made a detour, and reached the fence; landing 
safely at last on the other side, she shook herseir 
out, and reached the door bare-headed an;l bare¬ 
armed, just is Jacob Hinton drove Into the yard. 
This time he had an errand for Mrs. Lee, and 
tying his horse came In through Nettie’s dis¬ 
ordered kitchen. She welcomed him most cor¬ 
dially, taking him Into her mother’s sewing-room 
when she learned his errand. Mrs. Hinton had a 
sister from the West visiting her, and had sent 
an Invitation to Mrs, Lee to meet, her at a tea- 
party given In her honor. 
Mrs. Lee sat at the open window, with a bit of | 
Sewing in her hands—the first work she had dono 
In several days. 
“ Mother has not been well for some time," said 
Nettie. 
“Oh!” returned Jacob, gazing at, what he men¬ 
tally termed tl’C "grease spots” on Nettie’s 
dress, the marks Of her recent exploits with the 
calves. “ Her mother’s stekness can be no excuse 
for such a looking dress as that, if Nettie, now, 
was only as neat as her mother, how gladly would 
1 make her ray wife,” thought, Jacob, with a 
glance of admiration at Mr,. Lee in her neat 
morning dress. 
Jacob had another invitation to leave on his 
homeward way. Fannie Kent was at her morn¬ 
ing practice at the piano as In aruo up the neat, 
flower-bordered walk. She met him at, the door 
in the neatest of dresses, and with tho smoothest 
of hair. Mrs. Lane begged to be excused from 
appearing, as she was very busy. 
“ That Is the girl for me,” said Jacob, as he 
rode swiftly homeward. 
Let us look behind the scenes: Fannie Kent 
rises when breakfast is ready; her mother and 
little sister Susie have been up an hour or two, 
feeding chickens, skimming inllk and preparing 
breakfast. After breakfast Susie must wash the 
dishes, wiille Fannie will dust t he parlor, sweep 
the dining-room, make her own bed, and then 
she Is at liberty until dinner-time, which she 
spends either In making bouquets from the 
flower-beds which Susie’s busy hands have so 
carefully weeded, or In practicing, or with her 
embroidery—sometimes In novel reading, when a 
new one is to be obtained. After dinner, mother 
washes the dishes, because Fannie must take her 
afternoon nap early, so if company come s/ic win 
be ready to entertain them. On Mondays Susie 
must stay at home from school a half day, to help 
mother wash, It blisters Fannie’s bunds so. on 
these mornings she does condescend to wash the 
dishes, with rubber gloves on t 
But Jacob know nothing or all this; if any or 
her young lady friends spent a few days with 
her, they supposed Fannie was having a holiday 
on their ueeouuL. But Jacob had found the girl 
that suited him. Fannie was willing, for there 
were many acres lu the Hinton homestead. She 
would have enjoyed living at the old homestead, 
with Mother Minton at the head and a stout girl 
in tho kitchen; but Father and Mother Hinton 
decreed otherwise, and put up n nice little cot¬ 
tage on one corner of the farm for Jacob; they 
did not, extend t heir wedding tour beyond a few 
visits to relatives lu tv neighboring county; Jacob 
was too sensible; and when they returned, 
Father and Mother Hinton were at the collage 
to receive them. Everything was In perfect or¬ 
der; there were bread and pies and cake in the 
pantry, with vegetables in the cellar, and canned 
fruits on their shelves; the Lea-table was neatly 
spread. Father and mother cams away, to let 
t he you ng people begin housekeeping all by them¬ 
selves. 
Tho tlrst trial of Fannie’s married life was 
washing the supper dishes that night. She cer¬ 
tainly had hoped to rind a well-trained domestic 
in the kitchen. 
Coming In rrom his evening chores, Jacob found 
her I n tears. ’ 
“ Why, Fannie! what Is the matter ?” he asked, 
In surprise. 
It. was n difficult matter lo get at the head 
waters of Fannie’s tears. 
“See how 1 have soiled my nice dress with this 
dish-water!” she sobbed, at length; and by de¬ 
grees Jacob came to comprehend that she would 
like a girl to do her housework. 
“ But, Fannie, you never had help at home. 
You cannot be well to find the work In tills uout 
little house a burden.” 
Day alter day of this wearying complaint at 
last had Its effect upon good, simple Jacob, and 
finally H girl was Installed in the kitchen. Even 
then, Fannie found the care of her house a bur¬ 
den, and dally grew irritable and fretful In conse¬ 
quence. 
Mother Hinton shook her head, but, wisely, 
said nothing. Here let us leave them, only wish¬ 
ing, for Jacob's sake, that he had looked below 
the surface. 
Anil what became of Nettie ? She lived a long 
time at home—its very sunshine, so lovely and 
cheerful, that her big brothers declare they will 
never marry until they flud women as good as 
Nettie. 
When good old Parson Gray was laid In his 
grave, a young minister was called to his place, 
“ to live and grow old and die among them,” tho 
people said. 
The deacons would have teen better pleased 
had he been a married man. 
“ I will soon remedy that defect,” said the 
young minister, quietly. 
So the deacons reported that he was soon to be 
married, thereby saving him much or that pecu¬ 
liar persecution to which young, unmarried min¬ 
isters are subjected. 
Ho preferred to board at Deacon Lee’s until he 
was ready to occupy the parsonage. Nobody ob¬ 
jected; and by-and-by, when he asked Nktttk to 
be his wife, she answered, “ I love you, Parson 
white; but i never wanted to be a minister’s 
wife.” 
“ hut, Nettie, it Is 1 who love you, and not 1 a 
minister,’ ” he replied, and left her to her own re- | 
flections, which resulted so favorably that In a 
few weeks the parsonage was occupied, to the 
surprise and delight, of the deacons, and likewise 
of tho whole congregation. 
COMMODORE VANDERBILT. 
Arbitrary as tlie Czar, he was wont to govern 
In his private affairs with a rod of Iron. The hus¬ 
band of one of the daughters of the Commodore 
being unfortunate In business, many years ago, 
she went to her father for assistance, which was 
refused in a manner more forcible than elegant. 
She abruptly withdrew to fight, ror complete Inde¬ 
pendence. The next, morning the New Yorker of 
those days was highly surprised to rend the fol¬ 
lowing advertisement, especially displayed: 
\ I ns. -desires to state that, she has excel- 
IVI lent table board and accommodations for fam¬ 
ilies or single gentlemen. Refers to her father, 
C, Vanderbilt. 
That advertisement appeared exactly one time, 
for the Commodore realized tho situation and ad¬ 
vanced backward promptly, and there was no 
more dissension In that branch of the family for¬ 
ever afterward. 
SILENT HUSBANDS. 
WHAT ROXANNY BANGS THINKS OF THEM. 
RY MRS. ANNIE H. FROST. 
Fur my part, I’ve lied enough on ’em. Not’t 
I’ve got one o’ my own. Bless ye, no! Providence 
don’t owe me no such splto as that—but slstpr 
Jane has, and the trial that man has been to us 
two! Now, slater Jane an’ I was alius putty good 
talkers. ’Taln'L to say ‘L wc's o’ thorn klnd ’f, can’t 
never answer a question or tell n story Thout 
vergin' off inter a thousan' an’one other things; 
an 'll go meandrln’ on all day 'bout, their own 
little affairs, ’thout once looking off tho carpotter 
see of anybody’s a listenin’ to 'em. No, we don't 
b’long to tlmt persuasion. But I’ve got one o’ the 
sort In my mind jest now. Twas only t'other day 
’t 1 had the mlsfortln to ask her’bout, some school 
down below where she was a-sendlng o’ her 
daughter, an' ef she didn't go on an' give me the 
hull hlstry o’ that Instltooshun, from It's Tcctlon 
up ter the present day. Then a biography of each 
scholar an' teacher, with a full on’ pcrtlkerler ac¬ 
count of one on ’em who bed the consumption, 
what doctor she bed an’ t he cflffrent roots an' 
yarbs slic’d tried, an' wound up with what she 
meant ter be a very ’tectln plctiir of the funeral a■ 
that teacher's father, which It, took place 'way off 
somcrcs In a furrln land, dear knows how long 
ago. An' It did lent mu painful ’nough, for 1’s all 
tho time art hi n lcln ’bout, the bread I’d left a-rlsln, 
au’ how't must be sour as vinegar by that time. 
Fur T you’ll b’lluve me, ’twasright arter dinner 
when Miss-bur, l won’t call names, ’twouldn’t be 
Jost right, you know—but I’d only just swallcrcd 
my last mou’ful, when Miss Woodard— there, 1’vo 
let It right our, alter all; but no matter, I guess 
she’ll never hear on’t, leastways ’f you don’t lot 
on-—but as I was a aayln, I’d only Jest finished 
my dinner when that Miss Woodard come lu, an’ 
as sure’s I’m a-settin here, the sun went down 
behind them mountains yonder ’lore she got. that 
poor man inter his grave. Well, as I said afore, 
slater Jane an’ l used ter talk some. Now-a-daya, 
I can sec’t I'm a loaln a little myself, an' bless 
yer heart, you’d oughtcr see her quiet, 's a mouse, 
her nateral ’vacity clean gone, an’ all along o’ 
that old oyster she’s married. 
Speakin' o’ oysters, 'minds me how’t once when 
we’s down to some seaport town—him an’ me an’ 
her—don’t Justly remember now when ’twas, but 
I know they wurnt a spuftr o' grass or a foot o’ 
land there, only what was brought down in about 
from Boston -sister Jane an' me, the very fust 
day wo’s there, lugged up a basket full of oysters 
and wanted Bijah— that's Jane's husband ; queer 
name, ain't it? But no wonder; ho was the 
’leventh boy, you see, an’ ’twarnt In nat.ur’t, the 
nice namoHshoulrl hold out alltiz. Well, we wanted 
Bijam ter open them oysters, an’ I wish t’ the land 
you could a heard him rap an' pound an' hammer 
at ’em. You see, he'd alltiz lived up ’mong the 
mountains la Vermont, ten mile or more from a 
railroad, so’t lie hadn’t never seen none 'oepttliem 
as come In kags, ’thout any shells on 'em, an'I 
made sister Jane hold In, an’ let him work. Well, 
fur once I was glad ter sec him git red in the face 
an’ look as t hough he’s excited, whether he was 
or not,. Fur you must know, he's generty ’bout 
the coolest hand you ever did see. Well, he kep 
on rappln au’ poundln an’ hammcrln till the pers¬ 
piration run off of his nose—It’s a putty long one 
—In great streams. But no use. Tho more he 
banged and dripped, the closer the oyster kep its 
mouth, an’ the tighter Bi.uk he shot lils’n. 
At last he hed ter gin up beat an’ drop tho oys¬ 
ters, though It eeny most killed him, I promise 
you, fur he was a plucky Greeter anil alluz said 
how’t anybody could do anything If they only 
had will ’nough. Well, when I see him clinch his 
teeth an’ throw the last, oyster—fur he’d tried ’em 
all—Inter the basket, 1 said, says I to myself, 
“ Roxanny, now’s your opport unity." So I march¬ 
ed straight up to him an’ says I, “ Bijah Brown” 
—and they do say’t I can be heard when 1 set out 
—saysl, “ Bljah, Biun Brown, do you know what 
that oyster makes me think on? Well, sir, that 
oyster’s you. An’ just as you’ve been a-tryln with 
all yer might, to git the obstinate thing open, jest 
so my sister Jane, your lawful wife, settlu right 
there in that chair this identical minute, has been 
tryln at different times these dozen ye,ire to git 
your mouth open an* a good aympathlsln word 
out out,; an’Jest as she’s had ter gin up beat at 
last, jest so’ve you. And,” says i. a-settln my 
arms akimbo, “how do you like it?" says 1. 
I wish you could ev seen the look he give me. 
But nothin dumb ever scares me much, so I bang¬ 
ed the door after lie went, out an’ stepped up to 
sister Jane, ’spectln she’d throw her arms ’round 
my neck an’gush a good dual gencrly, ’Slid 0’ 
that, ef she didn’t burst light out a-cryln with, 
“Oh, Roxv, I’m areardyou’ve done It now!” 
“Hope 1 hev,”says 1. An’ I do bileve the old 
feller was ruther more sociable fur a day or two 
arter that; for ho wasn’t bad-hearted, as you was 
