APRIL 22 
THE RURAL 7 NEW-YORKER. 
277 
THE EDITOR’S ROOM. 
WILL CABLETON. 
The editor sat In his sanctum, his countenance fur. 
rowed with care, 
His mind at the bottom of his business, his feet at 
the top of a chair. 
His chair arm and elbow supporting, his right hand 
upholding his head, 
His eyes on the dusty old table, with different docu¬ 
ments spread. 
There were thirty long pages from Howler, with un¬ 
derlined capitals topped, 
And a short disquisition from Growler, requesting 
his newspaper stopped : 
There were lyrics from Gusher the poet, concerning 
sweet (lowrets and zephyrs, 
And a stray gem from Plodder, the farmer, describing 
a couple of heifers. 
There were billets from beautiful maidens, and bills 
from a grocer or two, 
And his best lender hitched to a letter, which in¬ 
quired if he wrote It, or w-ho ? 
There were raptures of praises from writers of the 
smooth and mellifluous school, 
And one of his rival's last papers, informing hint he 
was a fool; 
There were several long resolutions, with names 
telling who they were by, 
Canonizing some harmless old brother, who had 
done nothing worse than to die ; 
There were traps on the table to catch him, and ser¬ 
pents to sting and to smite him ; 
There were gift enterprises to sell hlrn, and evil 
biters to bite him ; 
There were long, staring “ ads” from the city, and 
money with never a one, 
Which ad led : “ Please give this Insertion and send 
In your bill when you're done 
There were letters from organizations—their meet¬ 
ings their wants and their laws— 
Which said : “ Can you print this announcement for 
• the good of our glorious cause ?" 
There were tickets Inviting his presence to festivals, 
parties and shows. 
Wrapped In notes, with “Please give us a notice,” 
demurely slipped In at the close ; 
In short, as his eye took the table, and ran o'er Its 
Ink spattered trash. 
There was nothing It did not encounter, excepting 
perhaps, It was cash. 
THOENS AKD EOSES. 
CHAPTER XXII. 
(Continued from page 253.) 
“ And that is the tone in which you speak 
of a man who, to save your worthless life, 
threw away his own!” 
“You exaggerate slightly,” returned Nevil, 
coldly. “ Mr. Dana did not intend to throw 
away his life; if he could have saved himself 
he would have done so.” 
“You thiuk be ought to have felt honored 
by being permitted to save you? Well, I never 
heard you praise either the living or the 
dead.” 
“ If you wish me to praise Mr. Daua I am 
sorry I cannot. With your praise he does not 
need mine.” 
“ Have you come from almost the presence 
of death to quarrel ? Are you jealous even of 
the dead? and did not that poor cold face, 
once—oh, me!—so bright and sunny, wake a 
touch of pity in you?” 
“ I don’t understand you, Edith. I fail to 
see why I should feel any special pity for Ed¬ 
gar, or any special grief, or any gratitude 
even; because if he had not been there, one of 
the laborers would have assisted me. You 
take a romantic view of the case—I a prac¬ 
tical one; and I repeat that any man would 
have done as much.” 
“ Yes, any man might indeed have done so, 
but any man was not your defeated rival. 
You know that he loved me, that he knew 
you had won where he had lost, yet he saved 
his rival—saved you, who never gave him one 
kind word or look; who sneered at his pov¬ 
erty so gallantly borne; who tortured his sen¬ 
sitive nature hourly, and delighted in doing 
it; whom he had no cause to like and bitter 
cause to hate! And even when he is dead you 
cannot say one kind word. Oh, would to 
Heaven you were In his place! ” 
Mr, Verner stretched out his arm to bring a 
chair nearet, and seating himself with un¬ 
ruffled composure, lifted the book I bad been 
reading from where it lay a* it had fallen. 
“You are not yourself,” he said, forbear- 
lngly, and calmly examining the illustra¬ 
tions. “ I can quite-” 
Edith clasped her hands behind her neck, 
and continued as though Nevil had not spoken: 
“He was the only one who ever loved me 
purely and unselfishly. Even when he knew 
how I had deceived him he was too good, too 
loyal, to say one harsh word of me I What is 
your selfish love to his, and what are you to 
him? Had you been worthy the name you 
bear, had there been one touch of higher 
feeling in that cold, mean heart of yours, you 
would at least have pitied him; but you are 
dead to gratitude or sympathy—to every feel¬ 
ing noble, good, or manly. As I do now, I 
have ever hated and despised you, and you 
know the truth at last!” 
He walked slowly to her, putting his arm 
round her, and drawing her hand away from 
her face. I left the room, confused and 
•tunned, and met aunt Dorothy. 
He heard with much the same expression a 
physician might have worn whilst listening to 
the ravings of a delirious patient. That any¬ 
one could despise him was impossible, and he 
bore this with lofty patience and not unpity¬ 
ing superiority. 
“ Have you finished, my dear ? You are ex¬ 
cited. You would be better for rest. You 
should go home this week instead of next, I 
think.” 
Her only answer was an impatient gesture. 
“ There is no reason why our marriage 
should be postponed, Mr. Dana being related 
neither to you nor to me. Don’t make your¬ 
self ill, my dear Edith t ” 
“Kate, how white you are! What is the 
matter?” 
“ Nevil has brought bad news, aunt.” 
She followed me into the dining-room, and 
there I told her. James Henley had only 
confused the story. 
Poor aunt Dorothy! I comforted her as best 
I could, until my own tears broke forth, and 
we cried together. 
I heard Nevil enter the hall. The outer door 
closed, and then aunt sent me to Edith, All 
traces of her late emotion had disappeared. 
Coldly and calmly she looked at me. 
“You have seen a picture of our future, 
Kate. Do you wonder why Nevil was so 
strange? Our bitterest enemies are they whom 
we befriend! Gratitude is a burden too heavy 
for human nature to sustain! Who says there 
is no record that the traveler was grateful to 
the Good Samaritan? Evil for good is the law 
we follow, and Nevil is smarting under an 
eternal obligation to Edgar Dana. I hope 
Brandon will come. He, at least, is generous.” 
How the weary day passed I scarcely knew. 
We sent aunt Dorothy to lie down; and slow¬ 
ly afternoon melted into a stormy evening. 
Edith and I sat together, silently and sadly. 
The raiu beat against the windows, the wind 
howled, yet through it I heard the sound of 
horse hoofs. 
“ Brandon,” said Edith, without removing 
her eyes from the fire, which sent its red glow 
on her face 
She was right, for presently our kinsman 
entered, 
I left the room to tell aunt of his arrival; 
and when I returned Brandon and Edith were 
talking of Edgar. 
“ Did he say anything about me? I wish 
you would tell me all, Brandon. We shall not 
cry. Tell me. What did Nevil say? What 
did you do?” 
“ I went at once to Edgar. The General 
and Dr. Fairfax were with him. Nevil came 
in, and said he must go, and I asked him to 
call here. Later on he returned.” 
“ Did he see Edgar then? Did he speak to 
him?” 
“ He did not see him. I think he stayed in 
the library until it was all over. He offered 
to remain, but we thought he had better re¬ 
turn to Mrs. Veiner.” 
“ What did he say about Edgar? ” 
“ That he was very sorry." 
“Nothing more?" sail Edith, her brows 
slightly contracting. “ Was the General 
sorry ? ” 
“ Oh! very, very sorry. He liked Edgar so 
much.” 
“ Brandon, did he, Edgar, know you?” 
“ Yes; he knew me as soon as I entered.” 
“ Did he know that he would die?” 
“They had told him. I asked him if he 
were in pain, and he said no, he was only 
tired. At the last he turned to me with A 
smile, and I thought he was reviving, but it 
was death.” 
“I remember,” said Edith, speaking rapidly, 
as if she did not observe the tremor in that 
usually firm voice, “that we were talking once 
of death. He said that when he died he would 
like one whom he loved beside him, that he 
might bear with him the recollection of some 
dear face—a strange fancy; but be bked you 
well, Brandon.” 
“Yes," said Brandon, simply, fixing his dark 
eyes on the burning embers. “ The General 
has written to Sir Egbert Dana," he added 
after a pause. 
“It was unnecessary,” said Edith, raising 
her head, which had dropped low. “They 
ignored him all his life, and they will not 
acknowledge him in death. Now they’ll have 
discovered that they never knew him. How 
did the General write? Did he speak of Edgar 
as * my late secretary V ” 
“He wrote as people do write to those whom 
they know very slightly, and he spoke of 
Edgar as one whom he had grown to regard 
as a son.” 
“ Good old gentleman! The House of Dana 
will tell their friends that he had adopted 
their relative.” 
“ Here’s aunt, though, so speak of anything 
else.” 
Brandon rose as she entered, placing a chair 
for her, tenderly and lovingly taking leave of 
the sad event of which lie bad been speaking. 
And Edgar was dead! All his words, his 
confidences, his boyish confession, came back 
to me as mournful echoes. What his future 
would have been had he lived who could say, 
for who will build up futures for the dead? 
It was better that he should die thus, whilst 
the white folds of his banner still hung unsul¬ 
lied and pure. 
He was buried in the shadow of the old 
church—a stranger among strangers, but not 
unloved. Even those who had scarcely known 
him were touched by the story of his death. 
The day after the funeral Brandon came to 
us with a letter, which the General had 
given him permission to show us, which was 
written by Edgar’s uncle a perfectly well bred 
letter, expressing sorrow for his untimely 
death, offering condolences, and thanking the 
General for bis letter. 
Edith was right. Pride would not bend over 
a grave; they who had been his only kindred 
would not toueh the lifeless hand. 
“I expected this,’' said Edith, quietly refold¬ 
ing the letter and returning it. “It is over. 
We may turn the page of Edgar Dana’s story 
and write * Finis’ across it." 
{Conclusion next week.) 
for Women. 
UNSATISFIED. 
" Only a housemaid !" She looked from the kitchen— 
Neat was the kitchen and tidy was she: 
There at her window a seamstress sat stitching ! 
“ Were I a seamstress how happy I'd be !” 
“ Only a Queen !” She looked over the waters,— 
Fair was her kingdom and mighty was she ; 
There sat an Empress, with Queens for her daugh¬ 
ters: 
“ Were I an Empress, bow happy I'd be !” 
Still the old frailty they all of them trip In ! 
. Eve In her daughters Is ever the same ; 
Give her all Eden, she sighs for a pippin ; 
Give her an empire, she pines for a name ! 
THE PHILADELPHIA SILK FAIR. 
MARY WAGER-FISHER. 
It is a pretty generally known facii, that 
several Philadelphia women, wealthy, patri¬ 
otic and energetic, have been endeavoring, 
during the past year or two, to establish the 
cultivation of silk in this country, as a source 
of revenue to women and children whose cir¬ 
cumstances are such as to admit silk-worm 
raising, but are too limited or confined to al¬ 
low them to engage in other equally remuner¬ 
ative employment. Perhaps it would be true 
to say a revival of silk culture, as there have 
been at various times during the past century 
several attempts at silk-raising in certain por¬ 
tions of the country; but failure has always 
been the result, largely from the lack of a 
home market for the cocoons. 
In this work of revival, to insure success a 
great many things must necessarily be provi¬ 
ded for—silk-worm eggs, leaves for the worms 
to feed upon, and final disposilion of the 
cocoons. Circulars from the Woman’s Silk 
Culture Association, 1828 Chestnut Street, 
Philadelphia, to be had upon application, gives 
all the required particulars relative to the 
business of silk-culture, and my only object in 
this brief paper is to say something concerning 
the Fair, which seemed a fitting culmination 
of the first year’s result in the new venture. 
To enter a large hall filled and decorated 
with silken fabrics all manufactured in the 
United States, was in and of itself something. 
We have, in truth, become great as silk man¬ 
ufacturers. To aid in this display soma of the 
large Philadelphia dry goods shops contribu¬ 
ted handsomely of their wares. Then there were 
many sorts of decorations on silk. There were 
silk-worm eggs, and silk-worms and cocoons, 
and cocoon reeling, and silk and plush weav¬ 
ing, so that the constant stream of visitors, in 
silk attire, could see the alpha and omega of 
their gowns. In a glass case was a sample of 
the superb satin being woven for a frock for 
Mrs. Garfield, made from cocoons raised the 
past year in twelve different States—an en¬ 
tirely American production. In glass jars 
were prize cocoons, and cocoons that won no 
prize. It was pleasant to know that the 
cocoons that won the first prize of $200 had 
been raised by the venerable mother of the 
late Bayard Taylor. The old lady is in her 
eighty-second year, and is one of the most 
successful and enthusiastic of silk eulturists. 
Scattered about were relics of by gone spasms 
of silk-raising. One of these was a pair of 
silk stockings made from silk raised in New 
England, I think, in 1820. 
But the center of interest was in the center 
of the exhibition hall—the process of reeling 
the silk from the cocoons. Of course uo 
American is a3 yet sufficiently expert in silk 
reeling to appear as a professional at a Fair, 
and an Italian woman from Milan was the 
reeler. She sat in front of a tub of hot water 
in which she placed the cocoons, and stirred 
them around with a whisk broom. That was 
all I could make out, for the outcome of her 
manipulations appeared entirely magical. By 
and by the tiniest strands of gold began to 
encompass the arms of a reel which whizzed 
about with those spun sunbeams until a certain 
amount was reeled, when the woman slipped 
it off carefully, gave it a twist, and lol there 
was a skein of the shining, beautiful stuff— 
incarnated sunshine “ itBelf.” One wondered 
how enough was ever obtained to produce the 
yards—the thousands of yards—of silken fab¬ 
rics annually demanded by “the trade.” No 
raw silk that I have ever seen equalled in 
beauty and sheen the skeins of silk reeled off 
at the Fair. 
To learn to reel silk is very important, as 
the silk manufacturers of this country will 
buy all the raw silk the country can produce. 
To further the acquirement of this art, the 
Association has a school for the purpose of 
teaching it, in connection with other features 
of silk culture. The production of silk worm 
eggs may be made another source of profit. 
So far, more people in the Southern States 
than elsewhere are interesting themselves in 
silk culture, but the officers of the Association 
report great interest throughout the country, 
among country women in particular, who are 
desirous to find a way in which they can make 
“a little money.” Children quickly become 
expert in silk-culture, the wonderful develop¬ 
ment of the silk-worm egg, until the worm lies 
in its winding sheet, fascinates them with 
wholesome interest. All in all, silk culture 
seems on the high road to success, and the First 
Silk Fair, just closed, gave it a most brilliant 
“send off.” 
“A Day After the Fair,” might be ap¬ 
propriately 6aid of this article, that has been 
crowded out forseveral weeks, but as we were 
not there, and perhaps thousands of our read¬ 
ers can say the same, we think it is one of 
those things that are never “too late” Ed. 
--- 
MRS. LEE’S JOURNAL. 
BY MARGUERITE. 
Jan 12. 1882,—This is Fred’s birthday, and 
after the family all around gave him a whip¬ 
ping-five strokes “ and one to grow on" we 
went to breakfast. Bessie had prepared a 
tempting one of steak, toast, fried potatoes, 
graham bread, biscuit and coffee, with oat 
meal, and milk for the children. A little 
glass slipper, a memento of the Centennial, 
held a few fresh rose geranium leaves near 
Fred’s place. 
By aud by Fred asked, “ Papa are you not 
going to give me a present 
John’s thoughts were evidently on his bus¬ 
iness, so I answered pleasantly, we will pull 
taffy in honor of the day which delighted all 
the children, but my after-thought was this, I 
must sew to day. Bessie can make the taffy 
and help them pull it, She enters into their 
pleasures with zest and they will enjoy it. 
This thought was quickly followed by another. 
If he has no mother when his next birth-day 
comes would it not be better for him \o carry 
pleasant memories through future years of 
this one ? and in another year I may not have 
this son, and then I would be comforted in 
knowing that I made this exertion for him. 
I made the taffy aad pulled the most of it, 
for he cut his fiuger, and Gertie’s would stick 
instead of pull. Baby danced around us in 
merry glee. I made a tn ffy cane which brought 
the sparkle into Gertie’s eyes; for a candy one 
for Fred’s Christmas gift from her, had been 
her heart's desire. I discouraged herand told 
her the risks were many of her getting it 
home from the city unbroken but she wanted 
to try so I yielded. I think the most woeful 
expresssion I ever saw on a face was on hers 
when it fell on the depot door, broken into a 
score of pieces. I cut the rest of taffy in sticks 
and we all had some for dessert at dinner 
time and what was left was sent to their 
friends as opportunity came. 
We bad callers in the afternoon, Mrs. Tren¬ 
ton and aunt Belinda. “ Was that all the treat 
you had for Fred exclaimed the former.” 
“ Why I always think I must give our chil¬ 
dren a party or something nice worth giving, 
and as I can scarcely ever do that, birthdays 
pass at our house generally like eveiy day.” 
“ That is a great mistake that many make” 
said Aunt Belinda, “ I never have much to 
give (turnovers excepted) l’or I always bake 
one or more cf them when I bake pies. Some 
little one is sure to come along, that goes 
away looking happy.” Just as the ladies 
started Fred wrapped a stick of tuffy in paper 
and gave to aunt Belinda. He recognized 
her kindliness of heart as children are apt to 
do. and wanted to share his good things with 
her. “We are so apt to tbink if we cannot 
do something great we will do nothing. It’s 
the dew-drops that makes the morning beau¬ 
tiful and everything rejoice that grows. One 
flower given with love from the heart is worth 
more tbau a bountiful supply given indiffer¬ 
ently, because they are plenty,” said aunt Be¬ 
linda. 
■ ♦♦ 
Clothe yourself with the silk of piety, the 
satin of sanctity, and the purple of modesty; 
so shall you have God himself to be your 
suitor.— 1 Xertullion. 
