APRIL 3 
fitearg ^istrllaitg. 
EASTER HYMN. 
Cr.AP hands, O ye heavens. 
Thou firmament ring I 
From highest to lowest. 
Thou universe sin?! 
The darkness and tumult 
Have ended in calm; 
And glory has come 
And victory's palm. 
Oome forth, 0 ye flowers, 
Gome forth with the Spring ! 
And dock the fair plains 
With each blossoming- thing; 
With violets meek 
Let roses be Joined, 
And marigolds bright 
With lilies combined. 
Thou song of our Joy 
Rise higher and higher; 
Thou spirit of gladnesH 
Breathe forth from the lyre; 
For Jesus is risen, 
As truly he said; 
Uncomiuercd, unharmed, 
Ho has come from the dead. 
Clap hands, all ye mountains, 
Ye valleys, all ring 1 
O wurblo, ye fountains; 
Ye little hills, sing ! 
Ho livoth again. 
As trul y he said: 
Unconquerod, unharmed, 
He has come from the dead. 
—Extant Sixteenth Century. 
-- 
A SUMMER VACATION. 
(Continued from page Sort.) 
After this we had many delightful evenings. I 
felt myself under a spell which dominated all my 
faculties. My friend and my patients were for¬ 
gotten; indeed, when in Miss Linwood’s society I 
could remember nothing but that she was near. 
When alone 1 (lid not fall to upbraid myself for 
my folly. I knew that 1 was last falling into a 
state of midsummer madness, and conscious of 
tails fact, I determined ' a see as little as possible 
of Miss 1,in wood during the remainder of my stay. 
on the morrow I Bet. out very early in the morn- 
lng on another of my Ashing expeditions. I was 
absent all day; indeed, It was quite dusk when, 
faint and weary, T reached the little gate In front 
of Malcombe Cottage. 
Then I saw at once that somethltg had hap¬ 
pened—that something was amiss. 
The mald-of-all-work—the only servant the 
modest establishment could boast—came running 
towards me In evident perturbation. 
“ Oh, sir!” she said, breathlessly, " I am so 
glad you have come back. I have been for Dr. 
Buchanan, but he Is out, and no one seems to 
know where ho Is—or when he will come home I" 
“The doctor 1 What has happened 7” 
“ Miss Unwood, sir!" 
“ Miss l.ln wood i” 1 repeated, iu a voice which I 
tried in vain to keep steady. “ What of her ?” 
“ Oh, she’s dreadful ill, sir. 8ho has not boon 
well all day, and now she lies In a dead ralnt and 
do what we will we cannot rouse her from It! I’m 
afraid she's dying, sir l” 
As for myself, the shock to my feoAngs was so 
great, that a minute or so elapsed before I could 
speak. 
The appearance of my old nurse at the front 
doer of her cottage aroused me. .She was very 
much agitated, but her countenance brightened 
when she caught sight of me. 
“ Why, nurse 1” I exclaimed, “ what la all this 
about Miss Uuwood’s Illness ?” 
“ Oh! my boy, that Is more than i can toll you. 
Thank Heaven, you have returned! Follow me at 
once I” 
I did so, and on outerlng the bedroom found 
Miss Llnwood lying quite Insensible on the bed. 
Her face wua drawn Into an expression of great 
suffering. 
1 could detect a alight pulsation, and by using 
powerful ruHlorullvcH, was at length rewarded by 
seeing a slight, nickering of the closed eye-lids, 
a gasping attempt to breathe ensued, followed by 
a cry of the wildest anguish. 
A violent hysterical attack now seized upon her. 
Her wild cries—her tears—her struggles were 
terrible to listen to and witness. 
Bho was quite unconscious of where she was 
and who was standing at her side. 
in all her paroxysm of grler one sentence alone 
escaped her lips, " Oil! Uuy I” in heartrending 
tones, “llow could you—how could you? And 
1 trusted you so!’’ 
Gradually, however, the violence or the attack 
expended Itself, and In a short time she sank ex¬ 
hausted Into a heavy slumber, 
“We can do nothing, now, nurse, 1 ’ 1 said, “ but 
wait for her wakening. But toll me what can 
have happened to cause this? Mias Lluwood 
seemed well enough last night.” 
But Mrs. Chamberlain shook her head. 
“You do not know her so well as I do. She has 
seemed for days to have been laboring under 
suppressed excitement.” 
“ Still that would not account for this attack. 
She must have had a shock of some klud.” 
“Yes, that la it, no doubt. She received a let¬ 
ter this morning; I saw her turn perfectly white 
as soon as she commenced reading it, and when 
she had finished she looked so 111 that I said ‘ Miss 
Llnwood, you are very pale, is there anything 1 
can do for you V ■ Do not trouble yourself about 
me,’she answered, In her gentle way. ‘lhave 
Just received some bad news.’ She made a great 
effort to recover her calmness, and 1 fancied she 
had succeeded; but feeling anxious about her, 
i entered her room, and found her In an lnsenxl- 
tole.oondition, just as she was when you returned.” 
Leaving nurse to watch for her waking, I went 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
down to the sitting-room, my head in a whirl 
A deep pang was at my heart too, which told me 
how dear—how very dear Miss Llnwood was to 
me. 
The attack was followod by a low, nervous 
fever, with which T was powerless to cope. I 
knew, indeed, well enough that It was ODly the 
physical manifestation of a mental grief. 
I had heard frequently from my friend. Every¬ 
thing was going on satisfactorily there was no 
necessity for my Immediate return, and I felt 
that no thing hut a case of extreme urgency could 
call me away from the seaside. 
And how patiently she bore herself all through 
that tedious Illness-how grateful she was for all 
that we had done for her- and how she reproach¬ 
ed horself for having caused us so much trouble 
and anxiety I 
But she made no mention of the letter which 
had produced such disastrous effects, nor did Bhe 
make a single reference to past events. 
Her countenance, however, now wore an ex¬ 
pression of settled melancholy, which my heart 
ached to look upon. She never smiled, except In 
recognition of some service rendered. 
By my advice she went out for walkB and drives 
dally. The weather was fine and tho balmy ocean 
breezes full of invigorating power, 
In these excursions I was frequently her com¬ 
panion, drinking In deep draughts of Joy and 
sadness, for much as I loved her I could detect 
in her demeanor no sign of a reciprocal attach¬ 
ment. 
One afternoon we had taken a much longer 
walk than usual. Crossing an old stone bridge, 
we had made our way along the grassy slopes of a 
little promontory, jutting out Into the sea. 
We sat down on a rocky projection, partly to 
enjoy the scene, and partly that my companion 
should have a brief rest, for I feared she had over¬ 
tasked her strength, and 1 hinted as much. 
But thrilling me by one glance from her glorious 
eyes, she said, more cheerfully than I had heard 
her speak since her Illness: 
“ Indeed, Dr. Broughton, I don’t feel tired In the 
least, and 1 am sure I am quite equal to the walk 
back.” 
“Then, said 1, with assumed gaiety, “I sup¬ 
pose I must consider I have lost my patient. I 
esteem myself fortunate In hating been able to 
see you quite recovered, for I cannot prolong my 
Btay here more than a day or so.” 
“I am sorry tor that; I shall mlsa you so 
much.” 
She spoke frankly and calmly, though her regret 
at my departure was undoubtedly sincere. I was, 
however, woefully disappointed If I expected the 
parting would be the pang to her that I knew It 
must be to me, 
“ You are very kind to say so. I confess I would 
gladly stay a few days longer, but it Is high time 
I went back to my patients. My regret la that 
when we port It will probably be for ever. It 
will be a great cbance If we meet again. My 
visits here are annual ones, and next year-” 
“Yes,” she said, sighing softly, “next year! 
How much happens In one twelve months !" 
My remark had evidently brought the past more 
vividly to her mind, for her smiles faded away, 
her eyes filled, her head bowed tor ward, 
“Dr. Broughton,” she said at length, with 
evident effort, “ I know It must seem very strange 
to you that I should bo Uvlng here In such se¬ 
clusion and perfect Isolation. You have tried, 
perhaps, to account for It In various ways, and 
yeti will ventuxo to say that you were never 
once near the mark.’’ 
ner clear eyes were looking Into mine, and I 
could only admit that she was correct In her sur¬ 
mise, 
“But,” 1 added, -do rae the justice to believe 
that 1 have not tried to pry Into your motives, 
nor do 1 wish to surprise you Into an avowal of 
them.” 
“ It Is unneceseary for you to say so. You, 
however, have been so kind, bo patient, and have 
taken so much Interest In my recover}’, that I 
feel 1 can indeed call you my friend; and being 
so, I feel also that 1 ought to give you a few ex¬ 
planations-” 
“Not if they will cause you any mental un¬ 
easiness. In friendship there are two essentials 
—trust and confidence. In you 1 have the most 
perfect, trust, and therefore there Is no reason 
why you should give yourself pain by referring to 
past events.” 
“ You surmise, then, that my story Is a painful 
one ?” she asked, after a short pause. 
“ 1 do; and I shall be greatly surprised to find 
that It. Is not. ” 
“ It is painful; and yet, do you know, this 
evening 1 feel that It would be a solace to me to 
relate my troubles to a sympathetic listener, such 
as I know you would bo.” 
“Indeed I should 1” was my earnest answer. 
“ And if It should happen that I should he able to 
render you some klud of service—If ” 
“No-no 1” she Interrupted. “My past life Is 
over. It Is dead to me. You will understand when 
you have heard. In tho first place, my name is 
not Llnwood." 
I bowed in assent, l was quite prepared for 
such an announcement, 
“ My real name, however,” she continued, "can¬ 
not be known to you, nor does It affect In any way 
what 1 have to relate. Let It sufilco to say that I 
am an orphan, and was an heiress.” 
“ You speak In the past tense." 
“ Yes, for i am an heiress no longer. At the age 
of twenty-one I succeeded to a large sum of money. 
It was left to me unreservedly by my father— that 
Is, as soon as I attained the age mentioned l was 
my own mistress, aud free to do as I chose—an 
enviable state of things, as many would think. 
“ I had suitors. That, as the French say, 1 goes 
without telling 1’ But there was only one for 
whom I felt the least regard. 
“This was Captain Ohesney, a young man of 
position and well connected. 
“ Ha proposed andl accepted hlm.l have told 
you that I had no control over my actions. 
“But when the news of our engagement wa 
made public, an old friend of my father’s came to 
call upon me. 
“ ‘ T cannot congratulate you upon your engage¬ 
ment,’ he said, very gravely. ‘ I wish with all my 
heart you had made another choice. Excuse me 
for speaking thus to you, my child; I do It only 
out of anxiety tor your welfare All I ask Is, If 
Captain Ohesney tries to urge you Into a speedy 
marriage, do not give your consent—say you have 
no desire to part with your freedom Just yet—and 
then consider carefully before you take the irre¬ 
vocable step.’ 
‘“Do you know something to Captain Chesney’B 
prejudice?’ 
“ ' Not more, perhaps, than T do of others. He 
has led a gay life, and despite a liberal allowance 
from his father he Is heavily In debt.’ 
“ Of that I am aware. He told me so with per¬ 
fect frankness, alleging, however, that It was his 
misfortune, not his fault..’’—(To be continued. 
♦ ♦♦- 
BRINGING THEM TO THE POINT. 
Ttikrk Is no foolishness about some of the fathers 
of Dubuque County, kJWr, who have marriageable 
daughters, and they know howto precipitate busi¬ 
ness when the fruit Is ripe for plucking, and hangs, 
wasting Its sweetness, when it should be plucked. 
Matters were brought to a ellmax with a rush at, a 
certain farmer’s residence In Vernon Township 
recently. A young tiller of Che soil had for months 
been paying most, assiduous attentions to one of his 
daughters, but he was such a bashful, modest 
chap, never having been much In the company of 
girls, except this one, that he had never been able 
to raise his courage sufficiently high to pop the 
question. 
He had gone to the house In which the lady lived at 
least twenty different occasions, resolved to know 
Ms fate, but when ushered Into the presence of the. 
fair one lu whose keeptng he bud placed his heart 
his courage would invariably “go back On him,” 
and he would return to his lonely room In greater 
suspense than before. Upon the evening In ques¬ 
tion, ho had determined that, come what would, 
he would tell his Mary that he loved her. lie 
would once for all decide the matter, but, as upon 
each former occasion, he could not get the pro¬ 
posal further than his throat. There It stuck, and 
he determined to gulp It down ami give up the 
siege, when the door opened, and in walked tho 
girl’s father, who advanced to where they were 
sitting, and thus addressed them— 
“I came to put a stop to this here foolishness. 
It ain't countin’ expenses that I’m lookin’ at, tor 
coal oil is cheap, an’ wood can be had for the 
haulin’, but I’m sick and tired of this bllLn’ an’ 
oootn’ like a pair of sick doves, keepln’ me awake 
of nights, and It’s got to be stopped right here. 
Mary Jane lookup here. Do you love John Henry 
well enough to marry him ?” 
“ Why, father, I—I—you must—” 
“Stop that silly foollshln,” yelled the old man. 
“ Answer yes or no, and quick too, It’s got to be 
settled now or never.” 
" Well—but. father, don't you know—If you’ll" 
only wait, and—" 
“Dryup; answer yes or no. speak!” roared 
the old gent. 
“ Well. then, yea! There now. ” and Mary again 
hid her face. 
“ That’s business; that’s the way to talk. Now, 
John, look here—look up here, or 111 shake you all 
to pieces. Do you want that gal o’ mine for a 
wife ? Speak out like a man now.” 
“ Why, Mr.- , ain’t Uds rather a—I mean 
can’t you—" 
“ Speak It out, or out of this house you’ll go, 
head foremost, I won’t wait a minute longer. 
There’s the gal, and there ain’t a likelier gal In the 
State, an’ you Just heard her say that she wanted 
you. Now, John, I won't stand a bit of foolin’. 
Once tor all, yes or no ?’’ 
“Well, yes, sir. I have been presumptuous 
enough to hope that I—” 
“Oh, atop your soft talk; the thing’s settled 
now. You two fools would have been six months 
more at that Job that I've done in five minutes. I 
never saw such toolim its there la among young 
people now-a-days. Ain't like when I was young 
—an’ now, good-night. You can talk the thing 
over, an’you an’me John, ’U go up to town an' 
get the license to-morrow. Soon be tlino to get to- 
plowin’; no time tor love-makin’ then. Good 
night, good night; I hope I wasn’t too rough, but I 
was dotermlned to fix the thing one way or 
t’other,” and the old man went back to bed. 
Now that the Ice was broken, the young people 
laid all their plans tor the future, and John felt 
just a Uttle bad at the comfort he had lost when 
Mary looked up at him shyly, and said— 
“ This would have been all right months ago, 
Johu, tf you hadn't been so skeery. I knowed all 
the time that you wanted to ask me; but It wasn’t 
my place to say anything, you know.” 
THAT BLOCK PUZZLE. 
John Henry, whose engagement to Sarah Eme- 
llne Is Just announced, goes up to spend the eve¬ 
ning with his beloved, who has Invited a few 
friends to meet him. Ue takes the block puzzle 
up with him to make It pleasant for them, tie Is 
quite dexterous In the use of tho bits of wood, and 
has come out even several times. W ith great 
pride he showed It to Sarah Kmellne and her 
friends. He works It out carefully. Somehow or 
other It bothers him more than usual this time. 
“ I wish so many of you wouldn't stare at me,” he 
remarked; “it makes me nervous." Then he 
goes into a quiet corner and woiks It out by him¬ 
self. After a few minutes he returns, exclidmi ng, 
“Eureka!” The guests all gather around, and 
there, sure enough, la is, u, is. •* it ain't right, 
after all,” says Sarah Emetine; “ you've got 12 , 
ll, Instead of 11, 12 .” And so he hod, and no shift¬ 
ing of the blocks could bring It right. Is it any 
wonder that John Henry put the box In his pocket 
and never saw his Kmellne more? “For,” said 
'1 
224 
»e, reflectively, “ a girl who would take a fellow 
down like that before a room full of Invited com¬ 
pany has got no feelln’, and It’s feelln’ that tells 
In the long run.” 
Mark Twain was accused of bringing a plague 
upon his country when he Invented the horse-car 
poetry: 
A blue trip-slip for a slx-oont fare, 
A pink trip-slip for an eight eent fare, 
etc., Is a terrible thing to get running through 
one’s head. But that flows easily along, and while 
It occupies the mind It does not torture the brain. 
The block puzzle turns black hair gray, makes 
amiable men cross and sane men lunatics. It Is, 
however, tho bond of sympathy that binds the 
people of this city close together, and when a man 
la seen to stand upon the corner of a street and 
throw Ms hat In the air and shout for Joy, every 
person who passes that way joins In the wild hal¬ 
loo, for they know he has got 13—14—15 !—Toledo 
Blade. 
-- 
WHERE DOES THE DAY BEGIN T 
As a matter of fact, the lay begins all round 
the world—not at the same Instant of time, but 
Just as tbe sun visits successive portions of the 
earth in his Journey from east to west. But the 
traveler who crosses the Pacific ocean can give 
another answer to the above question: tha t on the 
180th degree of longitude—one-half of the circum¬ 
ference of the glohe, starting from Greenwich east 
or west—there la an arbitrary change or dropping 
of a day, and that at this point, If anywhere, the 
day may ho said to begin, it was with Btrange 
feelings that the writer, crossing the Pacific, hav¬ 
ing gone to bed on Saturday night, leaving every¬ 
thing pertaining to the almanac In a satisfactory 
condition, awoke on Monday morning! Sunday 
had completely dropped from our calendar, for 
that week at least. Every one knows that In trav¬ 
eling round the world from east to west a day Is 
lost, and In order to adjust his reckoning to that 
of the place he has left, oue must drop a day as 
though he had not lived It, wlien In reality the 
time has passed by lengthening every day during 
the Journey. For a long time It was the custom 
for Bailors to affect this change pretty much where 
they pleased; but It has now become a settled 
rule among American and English navigators that 
at the isoth degree a day must be passed over if 
going west, and one added If going east, In which 
latter case the traveler enjoys two Sundays or two 
Thursdays, as the case may be. It Is most likely 
that this particular degree was decided on from 
the fact that, except a few scattered Islands of 
Polynesia, there, are large communities, with their 
vast commercial and social transactions, to be 
affected by the change.— Watertown Reformer. 
-- 
BRIC-A-BRAC. 
What Did thb Man Sat?— A scene in court 
with a stupid witness. A man has been caught 
In the act of theft, and pleaded In extenuation 
that he was drunk,—Court (to the policeman who 
was witness): “ What did the man say when you 
arrested Mm 7” — Witness r “ He said he was 
drunk.*’—Court: “I want his precise words Just 
as he uttered them; he didn’t use the pronoun he, 
did he 7 He didn’t say ‘ he was drunk ?’ “ Oh 
yes, he did—he satd he was drunk; he acknowl¬ 
edged the fact.”—Court (getting impatient at the 
witness’s stupidity): « You don't understand me 
at all; I want the words as he uttered them; didn’t 
he say ‘ I was drunk?’ ’’—Witness (deprecattngly): 
" Oh, no. your honor. He didn’t say you were 
drunk ; I wouldn’t allow any man to charge that 
upon you in my presence.”—Prosecutor : “ Pahawt 
You don’t comprehend at all. His honor means, 
did not the prisoner say to you, * I was drunk ?’ ” 
—Witness (reflectively); “Well, he might have 
said you were drunk, but I didn’t hear him.”— 
Attorney for prisoner : “ What the court desires 
Is to have you state the prisoner’s own words, 
preserving the precise form of pronouu that he 
made use of In reply. Was it first person I, 
second person thou, or the third person he, she or 
it ? Now then, sir—(with severity)—upon your 
oath didn’t my client say, * I was drunk ?' ’’—wit¬ 
ness (getting mad): No, Ue didn’t say you were 
drunk, but if he had, I reckon he wouldn't have 
been wrong. Do you suppose the poor fellow 
charged the whole court with being drunk ? ” 
Business on thb Brain.— One night last week 
the wife of Justice Moses was roused from a sound 
sleep by a stern voice. 
“ Are you ready for trial, 1 say ?” 
“Hush! Don’t make a noise, or else you’ll 
wake the baby,” she replied, endeavoring to soothe 
him. 
“ Don't talk back to this court, he vociferated. 
“ If you’ve got any witnesses, bring 'em on, but 
let the lawyer do the talking.'.’ 
“ Why, Tom, how you take on! What Is the 
matter?” 
“ I’U 8end you up for sixty days—that’s what’s 
the matter. Enders, take her away. Now I'm 
ready for that petty larceny case. Bring up the 
prisoner.” 
And Jumping out of lied, he started for the next 
room to summon a Jury, but fell over a rocking 
chair, barked his shins, woke up, and asked his 
wire what the Dickens was the matter, anyhow.— 
Virginia Chronicle. 
THANK GOD FOB THE FLOWERS. 
Thank god for the beautiful flowers. 
That blossom so sweetly and fair ; 
They garnish this strange life of ours 
And brignteu our paths everywhere. 
_D. 6. 
Thk clever Dr. RltcMe, of Edinburgh, met with 
his match while examining a student: He said : 
“And you attended the class for mathematics,?” 
“Yes.” “How many sides have a circle?” “Two,” 
said the student. “What are they?” What a 
laugh in the class the student’s answer produced 
when he replied" an'nslde and outslde."Butthls 
