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Citojanj. 
THE STORY OF STONY BROOK FARM. 
HENRY STEWART. 
CHAPTER XIV. 
(Continued from page 738.) 
As Emily Bates approached the rock, she 
sprang upon a boulder by the fence and turned 
and looked backward. The charming view 
entranced her for a few moments. “How 
beautiful,” she exclaimed, “ this is I And I 
have missed this, all this time. Why, George, 
did you know of this fairy bower and never 
told me ?” 
“Husk, Emily; here comes the fairy. At 
least, I suppose this is Miss Bartlett coming 
this way.” 
It was Patience Bartlett, wearied with her 
load of misery, who walked slowly towards 
the rock—a favorite seat of hers—her hands 
held to her breast, her head bowed, and her 
eyes red w weeping. 
8he had some time since heard of the bar¬ 
gain made between her father and Jonas Pratt 
and of the desire—nay, the command—of her 
father, that she should be married to Pratt 
in the Spring, so that the new arrangement 
could be more conveniently carried out. 
Changes were already making in the farm 
arrangements, of which, however, she took 
little note. A settled melancholy fell upon 
the poor girl. She no more sang blithely as 
she went about her varied duties. The health¬ 
ful color of her cheeks had departed; a pale, 
transparent whiteness took the place of the 
former rosy flush of health, but it enhanced 
her beauty, adding to the perfection of form 
and feature the mature expression of com¬ 
plete womanhood; a greater delicacy of fea¬ 
ture, and a wonderful depth of feeling in the 
sadness of the large violet eyes and the patient 
air of submission betokened by the lines of 
the face and lips. 
“ What a lovely girl she is I” said Emily, in 
a whisper. 41 She does not see us; she is com¬ 
ing this way. But how fad and unhappy she 
appears. Some great grief weighs her down. 
I have heard something of her from Jabez’s 
sister. Let ub meet here. I want to be ac¬ 
quainted with her.” 
At that moment Patience, within a few 
steps of the rock, lifted her eyes, saw the 
strangers, and looked this way and that, half 
turning, as to retire; then walked to the rock 
and approached the fence to meet Emily and 
George, who had risen, and were evidently 
awaiting her. 
“ Miss Bartlett, I believe ?” said Emily, 
offering her hand, “ and our next neighbor.” 
“Yes,”8aid Patience; “and Miss Bates, I 
believe our next neighbor,” smiling sadly, 
*•' and-” 
“My brother George; George Bates—Miss 
Bartlett, the farmer of the Stone House Farm 
And now we are all introduced, let me say 
how very glad I am to meet you. I have often 
almost longed to know you, because you and 
I are the only young ladies here, and it is a 
pity if these dreadful fields should keep us 
separate forever.” 
“I have to make an apology, Miss Bates, for 
not making your acquaintance and welcoming 
you to this retired little valley; but we are 
only plain farmers, and you-” 
“ Now please don’t, Miss Bartlett; don’t say 
we were not worthy of your acquaintance, 
nor that we were above it; for one would be 
just as far wrong as the other. We are plain 
farmers, too; I want you to understand that. 
We don’t even own our own home, and we 
are working for our daily bread; and if we 
can only succeed in gaining it, we shall be the 
happiest people iu the world. At least, I 
speak for myself.” 
“ I am sure, then, you will And your happi¬ 
ness unless, indeed, something comes in your 
way and dashes it to the ground; but I ought 
not to say that, for what can you fear of that 
kind ? I hope you are pleased with your new 
home.” 
“More than pleased, Miss Bartlett; your 
name is Patience, I believe, and mine is Emily, 
and, if you won’t object, and as we are neigh¬ 
bors and will be friends, I will say, Patience.” 
“ Oh, certainly, Emily,” and Patience actu¬ 
ally laughed the first time in many months. 
“Yes, we are delighted, and find something 
new every day to add to our pleasure; to day 
we discovered this fairy bower and made the 
acquaintance of the fairy. It is delightful, 
indeed; and if you will permit me I will in¬ 
clude both the bower and the fairy—for I 
must confess I have been very lonesome of 
late until mamma came home, and I am very 
happy indeed that we shall not be so lonesome 
any more. But who made this charming 
retreat I” 
“It made itself, I believe; ‘it growed,’in 
fact; it is all nature’s work, and has been let 
alone; it is yours and ours; and nothing can 
be done with it unless both owners agree; and 
I hope we a hull both agree to leave it just as 
it is. The tree is the corner of both farms, 
and the rock is on the line. It is just such a 
delightful bit of nature as would please Ike 
Marvel.” 
“Ah, you have read‘My Farm at Edge- 
wood,’ then; I like parts of it, and parts of it 
I don’t. I can’t agree with him always; and 
yet the book is delightful.” 
“ He would have said something very severe 
about the whitewashed stones along your 
road-sides, Miss Bartlett ; but as for your 
dairy, that would have pleased him as much as 
this pretty arbor of rock and vine,’’said (I eorge. 
“I have no doubt he would think as badly 
of those whitewashed stonee as of our glaring 
white house and the green blinds; and j et 
there is a purpose in those; and Ruskin be 
lieves that fitness for the purpose is true art, 
and I think so, too.” 
“I agree with you, Patience; but tell me 
why people have tho3e whitewashed stones 
on the borders of the paths.” 
“Well, you see—or more truly, I should 
say. you don’t see—when yon walk on the 
roads on a dark night you could not find your 
way, but would go stumbling about on to the 
flower-beds or perhaps into a clump of Japan 
quinces, and then Mr. Ike Marvel, if he did 
that, would find hla path of art a thorny one. ” 
“There is a good reason for everything, no 
doubt, if we but knew it; now, Miss Bartlett, 
tell me why the white house and green shut¬ 
ters are so much admired by the New England 
farmers V' 
“ The white color reflects the heat and makes 
the house cool, and the green shade of the 
blinds is cool and agreeable to the eyes. There 
is no other color so soft and easy for the ej T es 
as green. I have often had a mind to have 
our dairy whitewashed, because the brown 
stones become so hot in the sun; but the vines 
and ivy have nearly covered the walls, and I 
have fortunately avoided that barbarity, as 
some would call it. We can’t always sacrifice 
usefulness to beauty upon a farm, and if wri¬ 
ters on farm subjects were always farmers, 
they would write differently about some 
things.” 
“In more ways than one, Mi9s Bartlett,” 
said George, “for they would not write so 
much about the degrading character of farm 
work; and if they had to do it they would 
say less about the ennobling nature of it. 
They would not class all farmers among 
the boors one sometimes meets; nor would 
they make them all like Meliboeus and Tity- 
rus flinging verses at each other; nor like the 
shepherds competing with their piper for a 
garland. A farmer need not be a boor, nor 
can he well be a gentleman of leisure and 
eschew soiled bands and clothing.” 
“George has spoken about your dairy so 
often that I am anxious to see it. He is in 
raptures about it, I have heard of Stony 
Brook Farm before we came here, and we 
have had some of your delicious butter in 
Boston; I certainly never thought then we 
should live next door to it.” 
“Yes, I shall be very happy to show you 
all there is of it, and if I can help you at any 
time in your dairy I am sure I shall be very 
glad to do so. Tuesday is one of my churning 
days—Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays— 
and if you will come on Tuesday, about 10 
o’clock, I will show you everything here 
from beginning to end.” 
“Thank yon, indeed, I shall have no rest 
until then. I have so much to ask yon that I 
am afraid I shall worry you out of all pa¬ 
tience. But then, you know you are Patience 
herself, and sol shall risk it. ” And the new 
friends parted, having been drawn very 
closely together by a sort of instinctive de¬ 
sire for companionship and this acquaintance 
was destined to have in the future a most Im¬ 
portant influence upon the after life of Pa¬ 
tience Bartlett and upon the welfare of one 
she mourned as lost to her. Patience slowly 
returned, resting half way upon a broad 
boulder in the meadow-, absorbed in deep 
contemplation of her own wretchedness. 
Formerly she bore her isolated and lonely life 
without complaint or sadness, in fact she 
never felt it. As the caged bird that never 
knew freedom, warbles and gayly flits from 
perch to perch, aud pours out its little soul in 
its joyous song, never knowing its want of 
freedom because it never knew what freedom 
was, so this girl, happy in her robust health, 
in her conscious ability to carry her burden 
of care and work, aud in the success she 
met with in her efforts to succeed; performed 
such duties as fell to her share; sang blithely 
about her occupations, lightened up the 
household, and even eased her father’s 
self-made worries; enjoyed ber various pur¬ 
suits, of sketching this or that piece 
of well known scenery about the farm; of 
music; reading, and of studies of natural 
history. Left to herself to occupy her leisure, 
of which her industry and skillfulness in 
kitchen and dairy gave her much, she had 
become absorbed in theee pursutts, and days 
and weeks fled and passed away without 
thought of their passage. 
But love came to the heart of this young girl 
and opened a new world to her. New hopes, 
new anticipations, new purposes in life, and 
a boundless scope for new experiences, all 
passed as the scene* of a dream, vividly 
and rapidly before the newly-awakened soul, 
and for a short time she lived in this new 
world, but long enough to realize and antici¬ 
pate its promises. 
Then came clouds with their shadows. But 
every one experiences these, even if they 
have to be self-made. And these clouds passed 
over, and the bright dawn of life to her 
grew on to the full rising of the sun. She saw 
the golden chariot of Aurora floating upon 
the painted clouds, and as we all have done, 
believed life would be always so full of glory 
and of promise. But her day was darkened 
at its bright dawn. Night came too soon and 
brooded over it; the prison bars which she 
liad never seen, and which, as she approached 
them, now closed about her with a clang, aad 
shut her out from her bright world. Ah! 
then she learned what it was to be in solitude; 
then she realized what isolation is and how 
the worst and most dreary solitude in' the 
world is to be alone with one’s Belf, af¬ 
ter having lost one's self. Worn down 
by hopelessness at the loss of her lover, 
for in either way he was lost; dead or liv¬ 
ing ; and pressed down by her father’s steady 
relentless inertia; it could not be called ac¬ 
tive pressure, because it was that sort of 
negative influence which shows continually 
that there is a purpose and determination 
that it shall be respected and obeyed—this 
poor girl fell into the current, and was borne 
helplessly along with it without power or 
even inclination to resist. 
(To be continued.) 
SLEEPLESSNESS. 
Some of its Causes. 
Part II. 
The bedroom should be of good size, well 
ventilated, scrupulously clean, not over-fur 
nished, and should have a fire-place in it, or, 
failing this, some means by which the room 
may be efficiently supplied with fresh air, 
when the doors and windows are closed. 
The less opportunity there is for the col¬ 
lection of dust in the bedroom, the more likely 
will it be that the occupants have healthy 
sleep; and there can be no doubt that plain 
boards, with perhaps a mat or two by the 
side of the bed and washstand, a simple iron 
bedstead, with no hangings whatever, curtains 
of white net, and walls unpapered, would 
make the healthiest though, perhaps, not the 
most comfortable bedroom. 
The furnishing and general management of 
this room is a far more important matter 
than many think, and it is to be hoped that it 
will soon receive the strict attention to laws 
of health that It undoubtedly deserves. We 
seem to forget the fact that in this room we 
are shut up for eight hours or more, and un¬ 
less it be most efficiently ventilated and kept 
most unquestionably clean, we must, of neces¬ 
sity, be breathing and re-breathing an impure 
and vitiated atmosphere. Let anyone, coming 
out of the pure fresh morning air, go into & 
bedroom just vacated, or when the occupant is 
rising, and he will then have some idea of the 
impure air that has been breathed daring the 
greater part of the night. 
Unless the morning be a wet one, the bed¬ 
room window should be thrown widely open, 
the bed-clothes taken off and thrown over 
clothes horses or chairs, the bed well shaken 
up, and left there for some little time to be 
thoroughly and efficiently ventilated. Never 
by any chance allow yourself to get into the 
uncleanly and unwholesome habit of sleeping 
in any garment worn by yon during the day; 
common sense must clearly tell you how de¬ 
trimental this must be, not only to ordinary- 
health, but also to sound and good sleep. 
It is a good plan, and one which conduces to 
sleep, to rub oneself all over with a coarse 
dry towel, or flesh-glove, before getting into 
bed; and with regard to the night-dress, it 
should be made of some simple cotton mate¬ 
rial, and be of such loose dimensions as to 
allow of perfect freedom of respiration, cir¬ 
culation, and voluntary motion. 
Except in caseB of illness, or where it is 
specially^ordered by the medical attendant, 
a Are iu the bedroom is not only unnecessary, 
but unwholesome, and whenever it is used, 
care should be taken that fresh pure air be 
admitted into the room, either by means of 
the door being left ajar, or ventilating holes 
in the same, or by some other of the numerous 
methods of ventilation that are now so much 
in vogue, of which, perhaps, the most simple 
Is the following. Get your carpenter to cut 
out a piece of wood about three inches deep 
and the width of your window-frame, and 
place this so that the lower sash of the win 
dow will shut down upon It instead of upon 
the window-sill, and thus you allow the outer 
air to come in, and the impure air of the 
room to go out, through the space at the 
middle of the window, between the upper and 
lower sashes, at the same time doing away 
with any actual draught. 
Feather beds are considered luxuries, and 
so they are, if it is luxurious to be unhealthy, 
but certainly not otherwise; and they do not 
possess one single redeeming hygienic quality. 
That they are soft, warm and comfortable, I 
will admit; but that they are debilitating, 
relaxing, enervating, and positively unwhole¬ 
some, I will also most decidedly state; and it 
is my firm opinion that they ought to be for¬ 
ever discarded by every human being who 
values health above all other earthly blessings. 
A plain hair mattrass is by far the health¬ 
iest thing to lie upon, and persons who affirm 
they cannot sleep upon anything but a feather 
bed, only conclusively prove by their asser¬ 
tion what a baneful thing habit often is. 
The bed-clothes should also be properly and 
adequately regulated if we are wishful of 
rendering the sleep sound and refreshing. 
Too much and too warm clothing over us at 
night is quite as likely to prevent sleep as to 
encourage it. 
These details concerning the bedroom may 
appear in the eye3 of some to be trivial, but I 
can assure my readers that they are, on the 
contrary, most important, and cannot with 
impunity be disregarded. 
If the sleeplessness be caused by too great 
application to business or mental work of any 
kind, then, until this is lessened, I am afraid 
no plan of treatment will succeed. For these 
cases nothing answers so well as complete 
change of scene and entire rest of mind, and 
in bad cases of sleeplessness from this cause it 
should be insisted on. 
I have known a cup of coffee taken at bed¬ 
time to induce sleep when ordinary means 
have failed; and this simple remedy is well 
worth trying, particularly if the sleepless in¬ 
dividual have a languid circulation. 
For elderly, weakly persons, who suffer from 
wakefulness, nothing answers so well as a 
stimulant, or what is known by the old name 
of “ a night cap and the effect of this is 
enhanced by the addition of some digestible 
nourishment. 
With regard to sedative drugs, let me give 
my readers a timely word of warning. Un¬ 
less specially ordered by your medical man, 
never take a sleeping draught; for, however 
careful you may be, whatever confidence you 
may have of your own strength of mind to 
do without this after a night or two, rest as¬ 
sured that this habit will grow upon you. 
Chloral may be, in the hands of the medical 
profession, a most useful and beneficial drug 
in oertaia cases; but its usefulness seems to 
me to be entirely counterbalanced by the 
frightful abuse which has, duriBg the past few 
years, been made of it. I am afraid we never 
know how many victims are offeradup yearly 
on the shrine of this fashionable hypnotic, 
and each individual medical practitioner 
should never miss an opportunity of instilling 
into the minds of his patients the utterly de¬ 
structive, the baneful aud dangerous nature 
of this drug, if taken by them as a means of 
gaining their nightly rest. 
As t» parting word, then, I would repeat: 
never, by any chance, have resort to medici¬ 
nal ‘agents for gaining you a sound night’s 
sleep, unless it be under the immediate direc¬ 
tion of your medical attendant; and if I can 
have impressed my readers with the stern ne¬ 
cessity for strictly- adhering to this rule, mak¬ 
ing no exception whatever, then I can only 
say that I shall not have 'ritten in vain. 
Still I hope I have done more than this, and 
that the few hints I have now given you may 
prove useful, and be the means of procuring 
for some, who have had the misfortune of 
passing “such a restless night,” that sound 
and refreshing sleep they so mnch desire. 
HINTS TO LOVERS OF THE VIOLIN. 
To those who would gain the love of the 
violinist a hint or two may be of service. 
Never call his violin a “fiddle.” He looks 
upon it with too sacred and too deep an affec¬ 
tion and reverence to care to have it called 
by that name, which in his mind is coupled 
only with jigs and hornpipes, or music on 
board the harbor steamer. Another thing in 
which the violinist stands singular and supe¬ 
rior to the players on keyed instruments is 
in the matter of praise. No matter how far 
above his fellows he may be in the manipula¬ 
tion of his bow, or in execution, or exquisite- 
ness of his play, he has such a keen apprecia 
tion of his own short-comings (which may be 
quite imperceptible to ordinary mankind) 
that to tell him “How beautifully you played 
that piece L” would lower you in his estimation 
as being ignorant of “what’s what” in violin 
playing, and therefore make yonr praise of 
no value. But if 16 is your wish to show 
your appreciation and give him pleasure, 
simply remark after, perhaps, he may have 
just finished his piece, and the execution, per¬ 
haps, of some insurmountable difficulties, 
“What a wonderful tone that violin of yours 
has;” or, “What a beautiful instrument; I 
