THE RURAL WEW-YORXER. 
284 
I could descry the phantom shadow ot disaster 
floating- high above—soon to overcast all. 
I was wayward and wild. Her father distrusted 
me; her friends Interposed words of bitterness 
and calumny between us. still she trusted me— 
told me that nothing could ever shake her t rust. 
I smiled, and said I knew she would he true: but 
I smiled not because rny knowledge was hers, 
butbecouse it was far more certain and far less 
bright. Poor child! what was she to do? We 
were parted, and then when strange rumors 
reached her, magnified threefold by the lying 
speeches of her enemies and mine, hit by hit the 
rock ot her confidence gave way. Bravely she 
bore up, till at last It was all gone, Her love, I 
think, never left me; nor would her trust, tud I 
been near, and had she hut been able to gaze, 
wrapped close to my heart, Into ray face and 
eyes as lu the old bygone times. But long 
leagues separated us, and she fell away from me. 
The venom of calumny had done Its work; the 
poison of fal3e counsel had diffused itself through 
all her being; and so she ceased to be mine. I 
hoard ot her, but I heard of her as being another's 
—or as soon to bo another's. Yet this loo 1 knew 
—by the same unerring signs as those I havp 
already montloned—was destined never to come 
to pass. Why or how I knew this, I could not 
tell you then, nor can I tell you now. it Is 
euough that 1 had the knowledge without being 
able to account for the manner In which 1 had 
gained It. 
At last I heard that the day was fixed on which 
she was to pass altogether away from mo. They 
talked of her as soon to become as rich and as 
great as she was beautiful; they talked ot her as 
future mistress of houses and lands, of wealth In¬ 
calculable. Yes, in my presence did they talk of 
all this,—actually before me—before me, who 
knew that none of these things would be. Often 
as I heard them, 1 laughed to myself; often 1 
wondered how they could be so blind. But I 
said nothing. I left them to discover after the 
event that what I had said to myself was true. 
And so months and days rolled ou; and at last If 
was the day but, one before that which was to be 
her br dal. We were miles away from each 
other; but something told me that on the night 
before the wedding morn I should see her. To 
that wedding I had bpen Invited: but I said 111- 
health would not let mo attend. I WAlted to dis¬ 
cover whither and how I should bo ted to her; 
for I felt assured that nothing would prevent If. 
I was right. On the early morning of the next 
day 1 departed to visit her—for l lie last ttmo. 
I had to travel a long distance first—more than 
two hundred ratios. Long watching and sleepless 
nights caused mo to stumber in the train as I 
journeyed towards her. And as I Journeyed 1 
dreamed a dream. It was a simple dream, and 
easy to he remembered, some form—half angel, 
half devil—seemed to descend before me and dls 
play to my eyes a cloth of pure white—white (is 
the driven snow; but, dyed here and there with 
crimson spots. T woke with a start, and, ponder¬ 
ing on what I had seen, was at a loss lo know what 
it. meant. Fool, and slow of understanding! 
But 1 knew arterwards. The t rain stopped, and I 
alighted at the station. It was the dusk of a 
glorious summer evening. The air was heavy 
with perrume; but, for some reason or other, as I 
scented ttio breeze, the very perfume terrified 
me. I had some miles to walk before I could 
reach the house In which she was, and some little 
dimcully In finding the path, which was strange 
to me; but I reached it at last, nearly an hour 
before midnight,. 1 1 . was one ot those old country 
houses which are now growing scarcer and 
scarcer every year-low, long and rambling. 
Outside It, was covered with Jasmine and roses 
and Ivy. No lights were to be seen down-stairs, 
save in that portion of the mansion which l 
knew must he allotted to i lie servants, who were 
busied about the coming marriage festival on the 
morrow. But lu all the bedrooms t he lamps wore 
yet burning. Round the house I wandered 
stealthily and silently—treading on the grass, lest 
my met should disturb the gravel and raise an 
alarm; keeping In the shade or trees and shrubs, 
whence I could observo everything around with¬ 
out myself being seen, o, how carefully I 
walked! At, a sudden turn I was met by a dog 
chained to his kennel, who began barking 
furiously at me. But I was not afraid; I crept, 
cunningly round, got behind him; and, then, at a : 
moment when the brute was not looking, l 
stretched out my hand towards bis throat, ! 
clutched It tl rht,—so tight.—and in a minute the 
only creature that could have disturbed me was ! 
dead. 1 
As 1 looked at his body lying still quivering and 
panting upon the earth, there rose a strange feel¬ 
ing within me -a feeling that I cannot and do 
not attempt to explain. I knew afterwards what 
if meant, and i will tell you presently. O, it Is a 
glorious thing to fool that, mortal though one Is, f 
one can hold In one’s hands the keys ot life and 
death—to know that one has but to say to one¬ 
self the word and do the deed, and that then In a L 
moment another life will have gone. It Is this 
love of power that makes many a man a mur- v 
derer. r 
Still 1 continued groping my way stealthily and 1 
silently—so silently and so stealthily!—round the 
house, l had been there more than an hour now, J 
and except, the servants through the window, and i 
a man who, when that accursed dog began to 1 
bark at me, thrust his head forward from I lie up- o 
stair apartment, and withdrew It when I hud c 
stilled the brute's barking forever, I had not seen u 
a trace of a living soul. It was half an hour after a 
midnight, and I knew that I should soon have to t 
see my lost love, or not at all. Presently there fl 
were no lights in any of the bedchamber windows y 
—nane in auy, save one. Something told me p 
■ whose that one was,—It was my darling’s. The 
window itself was not twenty feet from the 
ground, and, as you may often see In such old- 
fashioned mansions, a flight of stone stairs led 
directly up to It. l T pon this the window itself 
opened into a kind of balcony. And now It was 
left ajar. In order that whatever breath of wind 
there Uappcned to be st irring might waft, coolness 
and refreshment over the face of the steeper in 
the sultry July night. For more than an hour 
did I Unger beneath her window. 1 held my 
breath quite closely, and l did not move muscle 
or llrnb, so fearful was I that I might, disturb her 
slumbers, —O so fearful { Tho window Itself was 
guarded by the gauzlest of curtains, but still my 
eyescoilld not penetrate through them. 
At, last I made up my mind to ascend the stairs. 
T felt quite sure that my darling was still asleep, 
and I hinged to look upon her features once again 
—only just this once. How noiselessly I crawled 
up them! the serpent himself creeps along less 
silently than I did then. Presently I reached the 
top, and my breath was hot against the glass of 
the window, still I stood there fearing to move a 
step. Then I pushed back first one side Of the 
window, then the other,—O ro oautlously | for I 
dreaded to wake the sleeper. Next I listened • 
but all was quiet. “ y.ulet ,08 death;” I said to 
myself yes, as death:” and as 1 repeated the 
word, 1 started, and my root Jarred against the 
window ; and my ears could tell me that my dar¬ 
ling, surprlsod by the sound In her sleep, had 
moved. 1 think I must have walled half an hour; 
but 1 heard no further sound. 8o T pulled aside 
tho light gauzy curtain, and thrusting forward 
my head, I could see ( bat my darling lay stretched 
our, before me In a Bweet deep sleep. Cautiously 
—how cautiously I—I advanced forward a step to 
let my eyes rest once more on her dear loved (ace. 
1 was close beside her. I then perceived that she 
must, in sheer weariness of delight, have thrown 
herself on the c^uch directly Hho had left the 
compauy ot her friends; for she still had on her 
a robe of white muslin, and her dear golden hair 
was still bound with the blue ribbon that she 
always loved. Yes, she was Just as In the olden 
time I Nor, a trace of difference had rour years 
wrought upon that lovely face since I used to call 
It mine. Mine! I repeated tho word. She was 
mine no longer. But why should she not be ? 
SMI I gazed down upon her; and still she re¬ 
mained wrapped In slumber. 
I thought 1 heard a noise of someone behind 
mo. 1 looked, but (here was uo one there. It, 
was merely the wind lightly rustling the gauzy 
curtains; bur. as l looked toward the windows, I 
could descry In the distant horizon the first faint 
streaks which speak of tho coming dawn, and 
then 1 knew that my time to linger there was 
short. 
Still I gazed down upon her—upon that angel- 
toco, upon that wealt h of golden hair resting upon 
the most, spotless or white robes. Suddenly the 
vision of the morning seemed to appear to me 
again. A robe of pure white, dyed with crimson 
spots. What did It mean ? I had not known It 
before, but l knew then well enough. 
White and crimson—rare colors! rich and beau¬ 
tiful l o, the contrast—the crimson of passion, 
and the pallor of death ! Still I gazed ; and as I 
gazed my life-blood came and wont, now at fever, 
now at, freezing-point. My whole frame trembled, 
for I had interpreted the Import of my vision. 
My hand clutched lo my pocket a knife long 
since purchased In a foreign laud, containing in 
it a dagger-blade opened by a secret spring. ] 
drew It forth, I touched the spring, and the dag¬ 
ger was bare. A wild mad kiss, an uplifted hand, 
and then the dagger was plunged bill-high In my 
darling’s bosom. The ruddy torrent gusbed forth, 
and my vision was accomplished. 
A shriek In the agony of death, resounding 
though the low vaulted corridors of the mansion, 
and the household rushed to the chamber. 1 had 
bolted the door; It was burst open, and there 
tneysawmy darling's murdered form—the robe Of 
white stained with the crimson of blood. 
But they saw not, mo. I had moved behind the 
window-curtains—O so cautiously 1—and I could 
see from my station all the attendants, the father 
and mother w eeptng and walling for her who, In 
a few hours' time, was to have been a bride. Last 
of all, the betrothed, came ; and when he saw the 
sight, he swooned lu desolation and agony of 
spirit. And seeing him, and hearing hla cry of 
woe from where l had so cautiously stationed my- 
selt, there came from me, by I know not what Im¬ 
pulse, a long, loud scream of laughter; and the 
laugh betrayed me. But in death, though not in 
life, I had made my darling mine. 
< »♦ - - 
BRIC-A-BRAC. 
BY C. n. E. B. 
CONDUCTED BY FAITH RIPLEY. 
Why should Grant care to go to the German 
Spas, when he had his Bad-eau ? 
ant American who gets Ills boots blacked for a 
cent, In Paris, will fetch home a sou-veneer. 
It is said that the Cz ir knlr, his brows when he 
heard that the Russians were worsted on the 
Lorn. 
As an Instance of the Inadequate, not to say de¬ 
ficient Ideas of numbers entertained by most peo¬ 
ple, I will mention an Incident. When, after the 
Restoration, It was proposed to raise a milliard 
of francs for the F.eneh emigres, General Foy ex¬ 
claimed : “ Do you know that a milliard or min¬ 
utes have not elapsed since the death of crn lst ?” 
Although this was said nearly halt a century ago, 
the milliard of minutes ( 1 , 000 , 000 , 000 ) have not) et 
flown by. There being but 525,600 minutes In a 
year, the milliard minute will not have been com¬ 
pleted until 1902. 
2 DESTINY. 
UY r.ETITI.V 1'*. ST1MWON. 
n - 
r Wejparted ! and tlio hand of fata, 
y With iron will and stem decree, 
e Still hold our destinies apart, 
r While Bailing o’er life's troubled sea, 
S Wo drifted on tbrmiKh weary years, 
y Through days of gloom and summer shine, 
And broken ties and fnlllnpr tears 
i. Have been thy lot as well as mine, 
*’ And byirono inew’ry slumbered deep, 
n Buried, Uiethouvht, 'neath Lethe's stream ; 
d The future but a dreary waste— 
a The past a brief but happy dream. 
In fortune's smile, or darker frown. 
Fond mem’iy struvrled to be free, 
a But- fetters held tho captive down— 
e The mighty power of Destiny. 
* And now " thou’rt near and yet so far," 
Sweet friendship’s tie may bind us yet ; 
0 The past is but a troubled dream 
B That each must struggle to forget, 
B [Transcript. 
■— --- . 
1 ANNOUNCEMENT. 
8 A list of the successful competitors for books 
1 offered In Rubai, of 22nd of September, will be 
1 published In our next Issue, P , K> 
T -♦♦♦-— - 
5 FROM A WOMAN FARMER. 
3 Lock port, N. Y., Oct. 20 , ’ 77 . 
Deak Madam :—You would like me to write you 
something of my experience in farming, as you 
1 have heard that I have been successful. That 
r term “ successful.” might be qualified, as T have 
‘ not become rich by my farming operations. I 
1 have, however, within nine years subdued and 
| made productive what was before an unproduc¬ 
tive farm; and I may add I have also made It a 
s beam irul place. I would not like the Impression 
to obtain that I have been successful in all my 
undertakings, or that I think a woman cun man¬ 
age a Tarm better than a man. 
I dally have reason to foel the disadvantages of 
' being a woman. I have not the physical strength 
that a man has, and I cannot lead iny men In 
work, and this 1 consider to be one of the greatest 
[ drawbacks to a woman managing a farm. An- 
, other serious drawback la tho divided cares— 
housekeeping and farming. Very low men would 
think they could koep house, manage a farm, and 
entertain company; and this falls to the lot of 
most women who undertake the management or 
a farm. Accepting all the disadvantages T labor 
under on account nr sex, I prefer this work i,o any 
other that women generally engage in, but to 
succeed, one must love tho work or the result* : 
not so much tho money to bo made (although it 
takes money to carry on the work,) as the love of 
seeing the things grow, and of having the best 
produce in market. 
In the growing of small fruit, women are gen¬ 
erally successful. I have seven acres or Franco¬ 
nia Raspberries which I marketed In Buffalo and 
New York, obtutnlng for them more than the 
market price for Same variety. I have shipped 
Raspberries to the Platt Fruit Co. of Buffalo, for 
more than twelve years, and I have never lost, one 
quarL of berries, and they roll me they have re¬ 
ceived them in good condition, without exception. 
And this result Is attributable to care In the pick¬ 
ing, packing and shipping. I have realized a 
liandiome profit on my Raspberries, as there la 
always a good demand Tor them, 
I generally have from one to two acres of Straw¬ 
berries which pay me well, nut coum not market, 
a very large amount to advantage, as so many 
are grown In this vicinity. 
This year I have engaged In what has been to 
mo a new branch of business; that Is, growing pro¬ 
duce for the canning factory, which Is situated 
at Lock port. I have not full returns as yet, 
but think I shall realize a handsome profit, a 
month later, l could tell you the yield per acre 
If It would Interest you. The cropa grown for the 
factory consist of Peas, Sweet Corn and To¬ 
matoes. 
What l have written,! cheerfully send to you 
for you to use as you like, i wish I might do 
something to help women to help themselves to 
an Independent living. Yours Is a great field ot 
work, and you can do much. Aline Is a little 
farm, but it I succeed, my example will be some¬ 
thing in my narrow sphere. As I remarked to a 
gentleman once, “ It I could do nothing else for 
the woman’s cause, I meant to prove to the men 
in this vicinity that a woman could plant a 
straight row of Strawberries,”and he admitted 
that I hud “ did it." Yours truly, 
Mbs. J. D. Shaler. 
HAVE FATHERS ANY RESPONSIBILITY t 
This query Is suggested by the fact that al¬ 
though the pulpit, the press and the school-room 
deluge the land with homliles ou motherhood, its 
estate and Its duties, one rarely meets with dis¬ 
quisitions on the obligations of fatherhood. It is 
reasonable to suppose That most men are, or win ‘ 
become, fathers; why then, this quietude about 
'.lie duties pertaining to thatcooduion / Doestbe 
knowledge come to them by lntuuiou. <r have 
wire aud children no claim on husband and l ather < 
Other than deriving their support from him? < 
J udglng by their actions, most men take i he lat- i 
ter view. 
From early childhood, it is carefully Instilled 
Into the mind of a girl, that her destiny Is wife¬ 
hood and motherhood, and her education Is shaped 
accordingly £8he is put through a course of cook- 
z lug, sewing, and housework generally. Whether 
or not this Is fair treatment for the girl, la no part 
of the present discussion ; the fact remains, that 
she Is so educated, and certainly some sort of 
training Is not ouly necessary, but it is an Imper¬ 
ative duty. 
flow is It with boys? is mairlage or parentage 
held up to them as something to be prepared for 
and looked forward to as the crown of their lives 7 
Are they trained tor husbandB? Whoever heard 
of such lunacy! Imagine the derision with which 
a discourse ou btnfa as to the proper care of In¬ 
fants, or on any homo topic, would bo greeted by 
a class of young men | Yet, what Is there absurd 
about It, ? Why shouldn’t men, as well as women, 
know what Is best for their offspring? What 
right have they to make their wives solely re¬ 
sponsible for the physical, ment al and moral well¬ 
being of the children? Ills a copartnership af¬ 
fair, and yet men shirk their share of the labor. 
The Ilfs in college, In the business world, and the 
state, of public sentiment, all tend to lead men 
from home,and to make them Indifferent lo fam¬ 
ily life. Tho great need of the hour Is fathers, 
not mothers. 
Man lightly assumos thesacred relation of fath¬ 
er, and seems never for a moment to realize the 
awful responsibility of It- To bo told that it Is 
his duty to spend himself In the service of his 
i children, would seem rank Idiocy to most, men. 
> Enough Chat be pays for their clothes and food; 
ror the rest, he looks to his wife, pleading the 
fatigue of business aa an excuse for not walking 
the floor with the ailing baby, for not amusing 
Jounny or helping Sun with her lessons. By what 
law of Justice does man Insist that to woman be¬ 
long all tho sacrifice and tho anxiety or rearing 
a fatally? The fact of man’B being the purse- 
; bolder, secures for him an amount of attention 
and consideration out of all proportion to his de- 
seiis. The choicest bits, the cosiest coi ner—In 
fact, the very ernaru ot homo comforts, uro appro¬ 
priated by him ns Ills Just due, as a fair equiva¬ 
lent, for bis services as bread-winner, wife and 
children uro expected to study his moods, and 
govern themselves accordingly. Entertain his 
wife—amuse his children ? Why, unless r.he club 
claims him, there are the papers to be read—or 
perhaps my lord would sleep. 
I n my opinion, it -wouldn’t be a bad idea to allow 
mother h to rest for a while, and bend our efforts 
to the reformation ot fathers. Jacqcklina. 
-■ ■ ■ 
LADIES’ NECKTIES. 
Economical and very pretty ties for the neck, 
may be made of gros grain ribbon which has done 
service as a belter bonnet ribbon, even though It 
is considerably worn and faded, for after being 
raveled and finished, only the bright now side 
appears. The ribbon should be cut exactly by a 
thread In strips from one-half to three-fourths of 
an Inch wide. These strips should he raveled out 
on each side, leaving about four or rive threads In 
the center; then twist each strand with the right 
hand, holding It with tho thumb and fore-finger 
of the left, pressing the center closely with the 
thumb-nail. This gives tho appearance of che¬ 
nille cord. Hew together at the ends—with silk 
thread, of course—some five or six of those twisted 
Strands of a suitable length, and fasten a tassel, 
or two or three small ones, at each end. The tas¬ 
sels are made ot the raveled thread which should 
bo carefully saved for this purpose, as they are 
pulled out. 
one of our frlend3 has four or five of these ties, 
each of a dlfferentcotor. They are much admired, 
and one who did not know all about It, would not 
even suspect that they were home-made. If a 
ball Is preferred at the top of the tassel, It may 
be made by sowing the raveled silk many times 
aver two circular pieces ot pasteboard about 
three-fourths of an Inch in diameter- smaller, if 
for small tassels—and having a circular hole in 
the.centor, near one-fourth inch In diameter; then 
with the scissors cut the silk between the boards 
on tho outer edge, and tic It firmly between them 
with a strong silk thread. Full off the hoards, and 
If you have filled In enough silk, you have a pretty 
ball, though possibly It may need a little trim¬ 
ming with the scissors. Julia M. Wukklock 
-- 
When I see a woman put an exquisitely line 
needle at exactly the same distance from the last 
stitch at which that last stitch was from Us pre¬ 
decessor, I think what a capacity she has tor as¬ 
tronomical observations. Unknowingly, she is 
using a micrometer; unconsciously, she Is gradu¬ 
ating circles. And the eye which has been 
trained in the mating of worsteds Is specially 
fitted for the use of prism and spectroscope.— 
Prof. Marla Mitchell. 
-- 
When a person has Iho ability and raDge of ex¬ 
perience necessary for the Correct Investigation 
or nature, It Is waste of time arid talent, that he 
must, for bread-and-butter reasons, drudge In the 
college, or university, or the ordinary routine of 
professional service.—Sarah p. Monks. 
»« » - 
The field of literature Is conquered for women. 
There are uo longer bars or obstructions of any 
sort, in the way. A woman who has anything to 
say la privileged to say it; and If It Is worth hear¬ 
ing the world will lend an attentive ear.— Mrs. E. 
E. Duffy. 
A STRONG, free and happy womanhood seems to 
demand, In addition to moral, mental and physi¬ 
cal culture, such a direction of practical energy 
as will make self-support aa easy as It Is tor men. 
—Ant m 0, Oarlin. 
