THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
THE HIGHWAY COW. 
nr EUGRXK. J. HAYES. 
The hue of her hide was a dusky brown, 
Her body was lean and her neck was slim; 
One horu turned np aud the other down, 
She was keen of vision and long of limb; 
With a Roman nose and a short stump tail, 
And ribs like the hoops of a hotne-tnade pail. 
Many a mark did her old body bear, 
She had been u target for all things known; 
On many a soar the dusky hair 
Would grow no more where it once had grown ; 
Many a passionate, parting shot 
Had leH upon hnr a lasting spot. 
Many and many a well-aimed stone, 
Many a brickbat of goodly size. 
And many a cudgel, swiftly thrown, 
Had brought the tears to her bovine eyes, 
Or had bounded off ftom her bony back 
With a noise like the sound of a rifle crack. 
Many a day bad she passed in the pound. 
For helping herself to her neighbor's corn; 
Many cowardly cur and hound 
Had been transfixed on her crumpled horn; 
Many a teapot and old tin pail 
Had the farmer boys tied to her time-worn tail. 
Old Deacon Gray was a ptous man, 
Though sometimes tempted to be profane. 
When many a weary mile he ran 
To drive her out of his growing grain; 
Sharp ware the pranks she used to play 
To get her fill and get away. 
She knew when the Deacon went to town, 
She wisely watched him as he went by; 
He never passed bar without a frown 
And an evil gleam In each angry eye; 
He would crack hia whip in an angry way 
And drive along In his " oue-horso shay.” 
Then at his homestead she loved to call, 
Lifting hie bars with her crumpled horn; 
Nimbly scaling his garden wall. 
Helping herself to his standing corn; 
Fating his cabbages, one by one, 
Hurrying home when her work was done. 
Often the Deacon homeward came, 
Humming a hymu, from the house of prayer, 
His hopeful heart in a tranquil frame, 
Hia soul aa calm ua the evening air. 
His head as smooth aa a well-worn plow, 
To find in hia garden that highway cow. 
His human pattHions were quick to rise. 
And striding forth with a aavage cry, 
With fury blazing from both eyes, 
As lightnings flash in a summer sky; 
Redder aud redder his face would grow, 
And after the creaiuru he would go. 
Over the garden, round and round. 
Breaking hia pear and apple trees; 
Trampdng hia melons into the ground. 
Overturning his hives of beea. 
Leaving him augry and badly stung. 
Wishing Hie old cow’s neck was wrung. 
The mosses grew on the garden wall. 
The years wont by with their work and play; 
The boys of the village grew strong and tall, 
And the gray-haired farrnors passed away, 
One by one, as the re.d leaves fall. 
But the highway cow outlived t.Uetn all. 
All earthly creatures must have their day, 
And aome must have their months and years; 
Some in dying will long delay. 
There is a climax to all careers, 
And the highway cow at last was slain 
In running a race with a rail way .tram. 
All into pieces at once she went, 
Jus* like the savinga banka when they fail; 
Out of the world she was swiftly sent, 
Little was left but her old stump tail. 
The farmers' corn-fields aud gardens now 
Are haunted no more by the highway cow. 
®|f j§torij-®fllrr. 
THE OLD WELL. 
I was a bold and fearless girl, and my brothers 
and sisters often dared me to go Into lonely places 
in the dark, or do perilous feats of various kinds, 
which challenges I never refused. Often they set 
out to play tricks on me, but It usually happened 
that they fell Into their own traps, while I per¬ 
formed my part tn safety. 
We lived in a large old house, built of oak, and 
bearing Its nearly two centuries very lightly. 
It opened to the south, the two large parlors 
looking to the east and west. The dining hall 
and spacious kitchen formed the square of the 
house, while at the west and back were the dairy 
and another porch. There were three stairways, 
leading to the upper rooms and a garret, whose 
ample space was broken only by the great chim¬ 
ney In the center. 
We had a gay and lively house, and were used 
to a great deal of company and visitors, for my 
parents were greatly given to the old-fashioned 
virtue of hospitality. The humblest wayfarer 
coming In at the porch was entertained kindly 
and given God-speed, as well as the guest whose 
elegant carriage and span drove around to the 
front door on the southern side. 
It was a summer day, and warm, bright and 
beautiful. The morning promised a lovely day. 
Just after our early breakfast a merry party came 
riding down the lane In carriages and on horse¬ 
back, aDd yelling joyously for my father and 
mother to Join them ou a pleasure trip. They 
were accustomed to this mode of Impromptu fes¬ 
tivity and gaily answered that they would soon 
be ready. It was only the day before that my 
father had returned from the Australian gold 
fields, and had brought with him a bag of gold. 
I knew he had this, for I had seen him, the night 
before, counting It out, and putting it Into another 
bag. 
Thomas brought the chaise to the door. Fath¬ 
er’s favorite black horse, whose coat looked like 
lustrous velvet, and who stopped so proudly, was 
pawing the ground Impatiently as he appeared, 
lie handed In my beautiful mother, and I stood 
looking on with childish pleasure at her beautiful 
and rich dress, that so became her. 
I hastened Indoors again to see them wind down 
the private way that led through our extensive 
grounds, and half wished that 1 were old enough 
to go with them. Hearing a slight noise, I turned 
and saw a stranger, a figure not unusual,—a man 
with a bundle hung on a stick. 
He was leaning on the same wall, and apparent¬ 
ly looking after tho carriages. He came forward 
lu a moment, and asked If be might sit down and 
rest; and If 1 would kindly give him something to 
eat. Of course 1 said yes, and with quick steps 
soon had him a substantial lunch of bread and 
cheese, which he came into the kitchen to eat. 
Betsey and Hannah were busy hurrying to finish 
their work, for they were going out to spend the 
evening. They talked gully about their visit, pay¬ 
ing little attention to the stroller, who was quiet¬ 
ly eating. He had laid his straw hat on the lloor, 
and I saw that his head was bald, and the thta- 
nlsh hair brushed up from behind over It. 
He had prominent ears, low forehead and large 
mouth, wl t,h a receding cliln, where grow a stubby 
beard or grizzly black like his hair. 1 dua’t know 
why I observed all this, or ills eyes, small, and 
hid under grayish brows, that, seemed to glance 
rurtlvely about him, when no one appeared to bo 
looking. Ills voice was harsh and croaking, and 
had startled me when he first addressed me. 
Wc were used to strollers of all kinds, as I have 
Said. Perhaps I was mentally contrasting his re¬ 
pulsiveness with my father's noble and dignified 
features. He seemed to me very ugly. I was 
glad when he had finished hts meal and risen to 
go. He then asked permission to light his pipe, 
which was readily granted, lie went out direct¬ 
ly, passing accidentally through the dining-room 
and out. of the great hall, where lie lingered a 
inomeut or two. Ho had thanked me civilly 
enough Tor his breakfast, but the girls laughed 
and nodded ns he went out, and said they should 
think I had picked up a raven. 
All that, long, bright day, I was busy and happy 
In t he flower garden, or sowing, or reading; and 
When the girts loft, looking very cheerful at, their 
half-holiday, 1 wished thorn a merry time, and 
told them not to hasten home, for Thomas should 
call for them, f expected ray fat lira- and mother 
soon after eight o’clock, and I told Thomas that 
he might go about that time, as they would soon 
be home, and ft looked a llttlo like rnln. Heavy 
clouda were gathering In ilio west, and the thun¬ 
der rumbled sullenly. He took tho covered wagon, 
and old gray, and, before he stepped In, said ; 
"MissAnn, I think you had tier,tor fasten the 
door, as you may be all alone ror a short time If 1 
go so soon, Would you not rather that I should 
wait until your father comes home?” 
“ Oh, no, Thomas; 1 don't mind being left alone 
In the least, and you ought to go, lest It should 
rain hard, for It Is more than three miles to ride, 
and they may not wish to leave you out In It a 
minute. Don’t wall.” 
So Thomas left, and the wagon rattled merrily 
up the lane. 1 bolted tho doors, because he had 
told me to, forolherwlae I would not have thought 
Of It. It grew dark rapidly, and the thunder began 
to peal heavily, and the Hashes of lightning grew 
more vivid and frequent. I went out to the parlor 
aud looked to the south, but the sudden lighting 
up of tho sky and the falhng darkness did not In¬ 
terest me long. I could not see out very well, 
either, as the honeysuckles covered the windows. 
The large mirror reflected me as 1 turned away to 
cross the room, and I stopped a moment with nat¬ 
ural vanity, tor I was young and fair to look upon. 
I let all my hair fall loose and wound It in long 
shining curls over ray fingers. It certainly did 
look handsome, for It was very thick and fell be¬ 
low my waist, and curled almost of itseir as It fell. 
There came a great, flash of lightning, and 1 saw 
distinctly reflected lu the glass a face looking in 
at the window. It was an instant of terror, but I 
neither moved nor screamed. The face dlrl not 
see my face, and I kept my body still and roiled 
the long, shining rings ofT my cold Augers. It was 
an ugly face, and I recognized it. I had seen It 
that morning, and I knew what lay before me. I 
prayed Inwardly a brief prayer for help. 
Turning from tho gbies, 1 wont steadily toward 
the table that stood near the window, and on 
which l had left the candle, I moved steadily as 
usual, and took up the water pitcher and looked 
In, and then took up my candle and went toward 
the kite lien. The lightning kept flashing, but the 
face did not come again. I dropped my candle on 
the hearth and put my foot on the wick. I set t he 
pitcher on the dresser and with soft, light footfall 
hastened through the west room up the rront 
stall’s, into my father’s chamber, and softly closed 
and bolted the door at the top of the stain. 1 un¬ 
locked the box, took out ill'' b;gs or gold,rcrocked 
the box and made wy way into the great chamber. 
I heard voices. 1 heard the doors tried below. 
1 knew It was not my father. 1 dared not tremble 
nor go faint. 1 went through that room and two 
others to the garret stairs. I hardly breathed. I 
heard a window pushed up; more than one per¬ 
son entered in at It. I felt about In tho dark. 
There was a sliding panel In the inside of the 
stairway. I pushed It, and It rolled back, f en¬ 
tered Into a long-closet under the stairs and slid 
the panel carefully Into its place. 1 relt cautiously 
to see If all was sate. I pulled my dress close 
about me, lest it might be caught, and the door 
not closed tightly. 
Then I waited. I heard steps coming up the 
stairs. I heard a search through all the rooms 
below. My heart beat till I thought every bound 
must be audible; heard voices—one voice, tho 
Haven’s—1 knew that harsh croak. It told me. 
nothing—the face had told me all. The man mnat 
have learned In some unaccountable way of the 
bags of gold, and learned loo, when here In the 
morning, that. I was to be alone. It, was all plain 
to me now. Ho had returned and hacl brought 
accomplices. My peril was terribly Imminent. 
Very soon the stops and voices came my way. I 
could distinguish plululy the words that were 
spoken: 
14 Drat her I She must have seen you!” 
•‘No matter; wc'U split tho box open with this 
axe.” 
1 knew the axe was la tho It * porch. Thomas 
had set, It there when we had >: me chopping the 
brush, as It looked like rain. 
1 heard the steps and voices move away, a dull, 
crashing sound, nnd then stilled, angry tones. T 
knew they luid opened the box, and had found 
nothing but the papers. 1 knew they would now 
hunt for me. 1 heard them as they looked Into 
every room and closet, and came up the stairs 
separately. They all rnct at tho toot of the garret 
stairs, a thick board separated us. f thanked 
God that tho panel was Rhut, close. T knew It, for 
no ray of light, came through. 
"She must be up here,” said the Raven,‘‘and 
we’ll soon have her.” 
“ I'll warrant that she Is here, and I’ll wring 
her nock If she makes a noise about It.” 
But tho thorough search was ended and the 
voices very, very angry and full of frightful oaths 
and threaten logs. They sat down on tho garret 
stairs to hold a parley. A spider ran across my 
face, A spider puls me In mortal terror. It was 
with grear. etTort that 1 kept irom screaming. 
“Como,” croaked the Haven, “ let us go and got 
the silver; that win bo something.” 
“Curse the sliver I It’s the gold I’ve come for, 
and I’ll burn the House lr l don’t find t,ho girl! Ho 
let her look out'.’’ 
A cold perspiration. Would they perform their 
throat ? 
Good! then the rats will sque,ak. Down drop 
the money-bags, and we’ll choke the girl to make 
her dumb." 
“ Hold your nol’se. The old man will he coming 
home. We'll be caught here. Be quick. 
“ Who cares for him ? lie’s ouly one; a blud¬ 
geon will give him a handy little headache as he 
comes.” 
“ And his wife?” 
They spoke low hlcloous words that made my 
flush creep. 1 almost was ready to call aloud, to 
open tho panel, to give them the gold aud bid 
them go. They got up, and the steps and the 
voices went down. II, was horrible therein the 
dark. I was Still tag. I moved the panel slightly. 
No light entered. 1 slid It so illy back. My reso¬ 
lution was taken, l would get, out, of the house, 
run down the road aud meet my father. T would 
save him. I left the gold In the closet, shutting 
It In close. 1 stole down, down Into the Chamber 
below. 1 knew there was a. window open there, 
l crept across the room, listening keenly. 1 Hflcd 
myself to the window ledge, ami caught a branch 
of a cherry tree which grew close to tho side of 
the house. Swinging myself lightly out, I hastily 
descended the trunk of tho tree, aud found myself 
on the ground, safe. 
No. The lightning Hash betrayed mo. The 
Haven’s voice shrieked hoarsely 
“There she goes! Catch her! Quick! This 
way I" 
out of the front door Came the pursuers, hardly 
ten steps from me. I dashed toward the thick 
shrubbery to throw them otr the track. Fortu¬ 
nately I knew the way, every step Of It. They 
were guided solely by the sound aud flashing 
light. 
" Shoot her by the next flash!” cried the Raven. 
My flying feet struck loose boards. I was pass¬ 
ing directly over an old, unused well, very deep, 
and It gave back a hollow, resonant sound. Al¬ 
most the next moment 1 heard a crash, the report 
of a pistol, a heavy fall, oaths, and a deep groan. 
Shuddering, T sped on through the garden, up 
toward the Cider press over the stone-wall, down 
the hollow, up the hillside, over the fields. No 
steps rollowed; no voices shouted after mo. I 
rau on, for I heard advancing wheels coming 
rapidly; I stood in tho road and cried“ Father! 
Father!” Tho chaise stopped. Another chaise 
stopped also. It was our next neighbor’s who 
lived a quarter of a mile further on. 
“ Ann, ray child'. Good Heavens! What is tho 
matter? What has happened?” 
I told the whole ta a very few words, amid eager 
exclamations of Joy at my surety, ot surprise, 
even of anger, because Tom had left me alone. 
" Don’t blame him, father, t Insisted on his 
going.” 
A hurried consultation took place. My father 
was brave. Our neighbor was very timid. Ho 
proposed going ou to his house and returning 
with weapons. In the meantime 1 had got Into 
tho chaise and crouched down at my mother’s 
feet, who was halt crying, and wholly thankful to 
feel me there. 
We rode on and came to our gate under the 
willows. There were lights In the house, but 
nothing moved. All was still. My father put the 
reins in my mother’s hands, and opened the other 
gate that led up the lane. 
"Will you go home with Nathan?” said my 
father. 
And leave you here? No.” 
" Take your wife home, Nathan, If you will, and 
come back.” 
“ Let us reconuolter then a little.” 
They got out, leaving us sitting still. Th< rain 
fell heavily. They got something t hat would do 
for weapons from the tool-house. They went all 
around the house—all was quiet. They went in. 
We sat still, speaking few words, my hands 
clasped In my mother’s and my frame trembling 
with fright. 
"Thomas Is coming!” I exclaimed, eagerly, 
“ I hear the wheels." 
We called to him as he came to the gate, for he 
could not see us. llo drove through and called 
out 
“ What’s the matter ?” 
We told him sufficiently, and he left Betsey and 
Hannah, and went ta at once, with only the heavy 
whip. We did not wait long. Nathan came out 
directly. 
“ What have you found?” “ Who is there?” 
"Nothing. Nobody.” 
“ Are they all gone ?” 
" Yes, with some of Iho silver and a fow other 
things.” 
Tho horses were put under the shed, and all 
went In. Father Raid calmly 
•• We’ll take a lantern, Thomas, and look around 
out doors a llttlo.” 
I knew they would go to the old well. I stood 
and looked out of the window and Baw the gleam 
of the lantern as It moved. In a few minutes 
they came back. 
"One of them is dead,” said my father, "and 
the other lies at the bottom and groans. The 
third has escaped.” 
They laid boards across some barrels ta the shed, 
and brought up tho dead man aud laid him on 
them. His comrade, who had fallen ta tho well, 
had shot him through tho head as ho plunged 
down through the hoards. Ills ugly face was 
uglier. It was tho Haven. That night my father’s 
prayers were very solemn, and his embrace was 
Close as he gave rno my good-uiglit kiss. 
The robber In the well was bruised, but not 
seriously hurt. Tho law took him to punishment. 
The third escaped. I was never left at home 
again alone. • 
-♦♦ ♦ 
HOW MAY SUMMERLAND CAME TO BE 
A MUSICIAN. 
BY E. C. 
It was a mystery how May ScmjIbrland came 
to be a musician—not so much to herself as It was 
to her good old Quaker uncle, with whom she 
lived, as lie had always taught her that music 
was connected with gayety and folly, and hardly 
allowed hia three Jolly hoys ta whistle ta hts 
hearing. 
May lived on a large farm about two miles from 
the edge or a little village. At the age ot twelve 
years she was a rosy-cheeked country girl and a 
demuro llttlo Quakeress. Hho seldom ventured off 
iho farm, except ta attend worship at the little 
country meeting-house, and knew no music but 
that of Nature In the pattering rain-drops, run¬ 
ning brooks, sighing breezes, amt staging birds, 
which, year ta and year out, filled her orphan 
heart with happiness, 
fine evening she was allowed to visit a friend, 
who lived just in the edge of the village, and re. 
main ever Sabbath. When Sabbath afternoon 
came, the little girl whom she was visiting, said : 
" Would yon like to go with us to the Methodist 
meeting? They always stag, but 1 am sure It 
would do you uo harm.” 
They wont, arid as May walked down tho sunny 
street, her heart fluttered with expectation, and 
her black eyes sparkled under her green gingham 
bonnet, for she was going ta a mooting where 
she would hear people sing. 
They sang, aud to her excited Imagination It 
seemed that she had suddenly alighted ta another 
world, where angel voices were chanting sweet 
hallelujahs, film tried ta understand everything 
she heard, aud formed the conclusion that her 
uncle was not quite right about singing, tor tho 
Bible said, “Come, let us sing together,” and— 
she was going to stag. 
so the next morning, at home in the kitchen 
washing the dishes, she struck up the tune of 
" Hallelujah to the Lamb;” but she must have 
pitched It a good deal too high, for her aunt came 
running ta with a white face, thinking she was 
dreadfully hurt and was Bcreaml ng for help. May 
laughed at her aunt’s mistake, which caused t he 
latter to say: 
“ I don’t see how thee can trifle with my feel¬ 
ings that way. I couldn't spare time to come to 
the kitchen; besides, 1 broke my spectacles, taro 
ray apron, and mashed my finger, hurrying 
through the door; and I don't see how then could 
scream so loud any how, unless thee bad been 
nearly killed!” 
Our little nerotae kept still until the dishes 
were finished. Her singing spirit was somewhat 
subdued, and now aDd then a bright, pearly tear¬ 
drop foil on the whiting with which she was pol¬ 
ishing the knives and spoons. But she had both 
determination aud energy, and as she repaired to 
the chicken-yard with crumbs and corn, she be¬ 
gan on a luw»r key a new attempt to sing ; but 
the chickens evidently thought her voice that of 
an owl, or else tney were Quaker - principled 
chickens, for they fluttered down In the furthest 
corners of the yard and hid under the highest 
weeds. Bhe could not remember the words of 
any hymn, but after a few days succeeded ta 
singing “ Mary had a Little Lamb,” to the tunc of 
•• Am I a Soldier of the Cross ?” Her aunt discov¬ 
ered that she was very musical, and said: 
“I’d like to know, May, where thee heard so 
much stagin', and who made thee think thee could 
stag ?” 
May Innocently replied; 
“ Why, I heard them sing at Methodist me t- 
lng, and I believe I could learn to stag If I had 
some one to teach me. Several of the little girls 
are going to the village, one afternoon In each 
