THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
285 
fiterarg UlisttHattg. 
THE WOODPECKER. 
BY LAURA S. HAONER. 
Tap! Tap! goes the woodpecker’s busy bill. 
Tap ! tap ! on the old oak tree. 
He hunts small game 
With his tongue of flame, 
For a woodman bold is he ! 
“•’Tie the early bird gets tho worm,” he cries 
As ha flies from his nest at morn: 
And his cry so shrill 
The woodlands All, 
Like the hunter's bugle horn ! 
In their chamber dark 
’Neath the moldoring bark 
The grub and the worm lie still; 
But hohurrles them out 
With a terrible rout, 
And gobbles them up at will! 
Natures own red republican, 
He sings and steals, and fights 
And from the ash tree’s highest limb 
Harangues about “ his rights.” 
’Tis a melancholy truth. 
Not in bird-Iaml alone. 
That thoKo who trample others’ rights 
Still clamor for their own. 
-- 
JOHN ASCOTT'S DAUGHTER. 
BY OHABLES HI OH ARDS DODGE, 
Author of “ Louise and I.” 
CHAPTER I. 
AN ALTERNATIVE. 
“ Father, I want to buy a farm.” 
“ You want to—what ?” 
“ Buy a farm, I said.” 
“ Buy a fiddlestick,’’said Mr. Ashton, with a con¬ 
temptuous glance. “ Want to sink some money, 
do ye?” 
“ Yes—to the extent of paying for the land." 
“ Umph l Well, why don’t you buy It then. 
You’ve got the money your aunt left you, and you 
are of age 7” 
“ Yes—but—” the young man hesitated. 
“ ‘ Yes, but—» what?” growled the old gentle¬ 
man, perching his spectacles upon the tip of his 
nose, and looking hard at his son. 
“Aunt Jane’s money ls’nt quite sufficient for 
the purpose.” 
“ And so you’ve come to ask me for tho bal¬ 
ance ?” 
“ Well—yes—that is, If—” 
“ If I am dum fool enough,” interrupted the 
elder, “you’ve made a failure of everything else 
you’ve tried since you left college, and now—” 
“But no money was Involved.” 
“ Simply because you had none to Involve ; so 
this time you pippose to go the whole Agger. A 
farm ! what in i ho name of common sense would 
you do with a farm ? V ou could’nt keep books for 
Mallery & Richards, at eight hundred a year; how 
on earth could you keep your own 7” 
“ You know, father, it was too confining. 
“ You thought you’d be a writer and you 
scratched away lor halt a year, and then gave 
that up.” 
“ I had no encouragement to go on, for you very 
well rememb—” 
“Thenyou took a sewing machine agency and 
never made a dollar at It.” 
“ The business was done to death. Besides, I 
went into It against my inclination.” 
“ Well, 1 have’ut advised you to go to farming, 
have I ?” Mr. Ashton snappishly asked, resuming 
his newspaper. 
“ £Jo, but you drove me Into a scientific school 
by refusing me a regular academic course unless 
I would take up law at its close. I hate law—and 
lawyers too, as far as that goes.” 
“ You young chaps seem to know better what’s 
for your good than your father’s do. It want so 
In my day. However, 1 don’t see what the scien¬ 
tific school has got to do with It.” 
“ It gave me the theory of farming. I studied 
agriculture and zoology.” 
"Nonsense, and how to catch butterflies,” Mr. 
Ashton, interposed, turning his paper Inside out. 
“And chemistry and modern language, if you 
will remember. I chose the course that seemed 
most to my taste; and i must now choose a pur¬ 
suit In life in the same manner.” 
*• Headstrong as over,” was the only reply the 
old gentleman deigned to make, and he resumed 
bis reading. 
George Ashton had never been a favorite 
with Ills father, wits never understood by him, 
father and sou viewing life through as totally 
different spectacles as could be possible. Mr. Ash¬ 
ton’s Ideas of parental authority were of the old 
school, hlB tjnst (Hxlt, right or wrong, being final. 
He had endeavored to rule everybody with whom 
he came In contact In the way In which he ruled 
his household, until he had fairly earned the 
name of a “ dogmatic old curmudgeon.” He had 
early marked out a life career for each of his 
three sons: two of them had followed it as a 
matter of course, and with fair ability and a 
good capital, they were plodding along comfort¬ 
ably. But George, the youngest, was of a differ¬ 
ent disposition. He was averse to going into 
trade, bo his father decided upon a profession tor 
him, and will he, nlll he, the young man must fol¬ 
low It, or incur tho parental displeasure. As a 
matter of course, tho parental displeasure was In¬ 
curred, and a stormy time they had of It at home, 
until, as a compromise, George was packed off to 
a scientific school, nere he found himself his own 
man, for the old gontleinau was so disgusted that 
the only advice offered at parting was to “ keep out 
of mischief and study something, whether useful 
or not. 
" And you are really determined to go to farm 
lng ?” asked the old gentleman at length, laying 
down his paper. 
“ I think I could make an honest living at It.” 
“And how much money am I expected to furn¬ 
ish?” 
“ About two thousand doll-” 
“ What, ? Two thousand dollars In addition to 
your aunt's legacy I" 
“ That makes but little more than six thousand 
in all.” 
“ Six thousand dollars to sink in a farm ?” Mr. 
Ashton whistled a bar of “ Napoleon crossing the 
Alps,” and added; “must he a mighty fine farm at 
that rigger.” 
“ Would you have me buy a place wholly run 
down, for half the money ?” 
“ Couldn't you run It up again and put the odds 
In your pocket ? If the land Is there you ought to 
be able to put enough of the science you got at 
college into It to more than make up the dif¬ 
ference.” 
“ Bringing up worn out-land covered with dilap¬ 
idated buildings and tumble-down walls or broken 
fences, may do for a pastime, but I prefer to put 
my money Into It all at once, and make a fair start 
from the beginning. It is the cheapest way In 
the long run, and I didn’t learn that at college.” 
“Umph!” Another silence. 
“ Can you let me have tho money ?” the young 
man asked after a reasonable pause. 
“ I’ll think about It, but where’s your farm ?” 
“ The old Ascott homesteud—” 
“Theold Harry!” 
“ And In the spring I Intend to get mar-” 
“ What ?” Mr. Ashton turned squarely round 
In his chair, dropping his paper upon the floor. 
“ It’s a natural thing for a man to do. My father 
did it before me.” 
“And I suppose after you get the homestead, 
you’ll expect old John Aacott’s pauper daughter 
to keep house for you.” 
“ Father!” exclaimed the young man with aston¬ 
ishment, “May Ascott Is a lady if fortune has 
dealt hardly with her.” 
*• Eh! I’ve hit the nail on the head, have I ?” 
“ I have asked May Ascot t to be my wife, so 
there is no going back upon that now.” 
*• And you are asking me to help buy old Ascott’s 
land to give It back to the daughter he left penni¬ 
less.” 
“ I asked you for two thousand dollars to help 
buy me a farm. That Is not a third of the amount 
you gave Will when he went Into business, and 
you know what Charlie has had.” 
“ I know what you asked, but hark ye! I made 
up my mind once to have you study law and be¬ 
come an honest, respected member of society, you 
thwarted me In it, and went to a college where 
they taught ‘ science ’ Instead of common-sense. I 
decided to have you go into your Uncle william’s 
pork-packing house. You refused because you 
felt too nice for the business, and I let you follow 
your own course until you railed in it. x proposed 
to get you a clerkship in Washington, but some¬ 
body told you it unfitted a man lor anything else 
and you fooled me again. Now that 1 forbid your 
marrying John Ascott’s daughter, I suppose you’ll 
do as you please about this also. But bear In 
mind, not one cent or my money croes into afai-m 
if the Ascott gal becomes an Ashton; and not one 
cent of my money do you ever get If you disregard 
my wishes further.” 
“ What are your objections to the girl ?” 
“She’s an Ascott, and that’s enough for me— 
but no more parleying, I won’t hear It;” and 
Elbrldge Ashton beat a hasty retreat, leaving his 
son in a most unenviable state of chagrin, disap¬ 
pointment and anger. He stood in thought a 
moment, leaning against the marble mantle, his 
eyes fixed upon a figure In the carpet, his brows 
knit and teeth set; then he looked toward the 
open door through which his father had vanished, 
and muttering to himself, "unreasonable and 
unforgiving," strode out of the house 
CHAPTER II. 
THE ASCOTT HOMESTEAD. 
George Ashton could not remember when he 
first saw the stately old house; but It must have 
been In his earliest childhood, for his sweetest 
boyish recollections were associated with the old 
place. Prospect road was a famous drive from 
the city, and commanded a stretch of landscape, 
for miles, only broken on the extreme right by dis¬ 
tant hills-the beginning Of a mountain chain- 
while the intervening country was checkered with 
fields and meadows, forest and intervale. Upon 
the left, lu charming contrast, lay the quiet city, 
nestling amid great elms and almost hidden by 
their heavy toUage: Just beyond, the blue waters 
of the bay sparkled In the sunshine, a dark line 
against the horizon Indicating the distant ocean. 
Thu house occupied the highest point of Pros¬ 
pect hill, and as the visitor turned from the road, 
and paused between the huge stone posts that 
Hanked the carriage-way, he only saw before him 
a smooth, hard drive way, winding through a 
grove of maples, that wholly shut out the sur¬ 
rounding landscape. In a couple of hundred yards 
however, It turned sharply around a clump of 
evergreens, uud the house appeared but a dozen 
rods distant. It was a pleasing picture, with Us 
wide old fashioned doorway protected oy a portico 
as solid and substantial as the grea f block of 
gram to that served as Its floor, with Its high 
gabled root and projecting eaves, where the wasps 
loved to build their papery nests, and with Its 
quaint dormer windows. 
In those happy days It was known as Maple¬ 
wood ; and the Ascotts, who had been its occu¬ 
pants for several generations, were as plain and 
substantial us the old homestead Itself. John 
Ascott was a well-to-do farmer, who, combining a 
proportionate amount of theoretical knowledge 
with the hard, practical common-sense, Inherited 
with the land, from his father, had brought, the 
farm, though not a large one, to the highest state 
of tUlage, and himself to prosperity. At this time 
the immediate family consisted only of Mr. 
Ascott and his Uttle daughter May, who alone 
was left, to remind her father of the sweet mamma 
that had passed to the spirit land In the child’s 
Infancy. 
John Jr., and William, older children by a former 
marriage, had grown to manhood, and had gone 
forth Into the world. John, his father’s idol, was 
In the West, making a name for himself; hut wil- 
Uam. Indulged and petted In his youth, wild and 
ungovernable In his later years, had gone to New 
York, and the family seldom heard from him, and 
only then when he needed money to makegood the 
losses of reckless speculation—which It was more 
than once surmised were gambling debts. At, this 
time George’s father owned a country scat, Ash¬ 
ton Villa as he called it, adiotnmg Maplewood. 
Here George spent his ehUdhood, with sweet 
May Ascott, his nearest neighbor, and playfellow, 
roaming the old place over In childish fancy, 
filled only with the simple Joys of boyhood, and 
happy In nls Ignorance of the great earnest Ufe 
that opens to all when childhood’s hours have 
passed away. How memory pictures to him now 
the sheltered sunny slope when through the long 
summer days, they played house together, ar¬ 
ranging bits of broken china and old-fashioned 
blue crockery upon dressers of pine shingles, as 
proudly as though their “ play pretend” were all 
reality, and the fragments the richest products of 
the Orient. Tt Is a picture of boyhood tha t the 
man will never forget; and It seems to him but 
yesterday tbat she came and laying her little 
flaxen head upon Ms knee, her face radiant with 
the new suggestion, whispered; “ Georgia, let's 
play I’m your wife and this Is our little house." 
Oh, happy, careless childhood, filled with inno¬ 
cence and trustful confiding lover Oh, joyous 
springtime! Would your sweet flowers might 
bloom perennial In the heart, and exhaling their 
soft fragrance, brighten life's pathway with more 
than memories of happy hours I 
All this was many years ago, and time wrought 
sad changes for them all. Need I dwell long upon 
the dark news that told John Ascott, one spring 
morning that his favorite son had been killed by 
an aecldent—only a brief mouth before he was 
expected to visit home; how William had become 
entangled tu “speculation” with hints at darker 
doings, that had swept away Maplewood almost 
In an hour; how tho brokun-hearted father bowed 
his gray hairs in shame and anguish, and ere the 
spring-time came again, had passed away, leaving 
his little daughter, a sad-faced child of ten years, 
alone in the world. The childish friendship which 
had existed for many happy years, was broken; 
May was offered a home In the family of a distant 
relative In another State, and her early friend and 
playfellow saw her no more. In those darkest 
days of honest John Ascott’s Ufe Mr. Ashton 
loaned him money—which the man was never able 
to return—through no fault of Ms. Those were 
sad days, Indeed, for a few months after Mr. 
Ascott's death George's mother called him to her 
bedside, and, giving him her blessing and a 
mother’s parting kiss, fell asleep ; and one fair 
June morning they laid her beneath the violets, 
and George, too, felt himself alone. Never his 
father's favorite, his mother had always been to 
him the dearest friend he had known upon earth. 
In disposition, and In many ot his tastes he was 
like her, and between the mother and the son there 
existed a sympathy which admitted ol no mlsun- 
derstandlng, and which drew forth all the gentle¬ 
ness of his nature. 
After his mother’s death, the father assumed to 
be George’s guide and teacher, with what success 
may readily be Imagined. George felt that never 
was boy so cruelly misjudged and misunderstood, 
while the father openly averred that never was 
boy 30 obstinate and perverse. So he passed his 
youth, his mind filled with half-iormed fancies, 
his thoughts occupied with plans with which he 
knew his father had no sympathy, and to which 
he would not listen; and at the age of eighteen, 
he found himself drifting, with no fixed purpose 
tn Ufe, unless It were to thwart the lU-advlsed 
schemes of his father concerning him. Then he 
went to college, entering a course of Instruction 
at first dictated by fancy, but afterwards pursued 
for the keen enjoyment it afforded him, trusting 
In the hope that It might, some day be useful to 
him in fighting life’s battle. 
It was near the close of his college course, and 
of his minority, that an Incident occurred which 
perhaps, changed the whole course of his after- 
Ufe; at least It formed a most important Unk In 
this truthful narrative.—[To be continued.] 
-- 
HA WEIS ON VIOLINS. 
Lecture by a popular London preacher at the 
the Royal laatitutlou—Stradiuarlus and the 
Amatl—a fashionable amusement. 
The foUowlng article taken from the New Y'ork 
Herald, is published by request. No doubt It will 
be Interesting to many readers. 
A most Interesting and original lecture on violins 
has been deUvered by the famous and Reverend 
Mr. Hawels, in the theatre of the Royal Institu¬ 
tion, In the course of which the Duke of Edin¬ 
burgh’s Stradiuarlus violin, dated 1 : 2 s, and an¬ 
other, which is the property of the Russian im¬ 
perial family, were exhibited; also a Caspar dl 
Salo boss, found In Tarlslo’s bedroom with his 
corpse, and mauy specimens of great value and 
rarity irom the South Kensington Museum. The 
lecturer said:-”I deal tonight with tho con¬ 
struction, the history and the sound ol the violin. 
To begin with the wood. At Brescia makers used 
pear, lemon and ash; at Cremona, mapie, syca¬ 
more and, of course, pine. The wood carno into 
the markets of Mantua, Brescia. Cremona, V enice, 
Milan, irom the Swiss Southern Tyrol, unlimited 
in supply, orten mighty timbers of great uge— 
plentiful then, scarcer now. The makers had 
their pick; they lotted it for intensity and 
quality. Cut strips of wood and strike them ; you 
will see how they will vary lu musical sound. 
When a good acoustic beam was round the maker 
keptlt for his best work. In Joseph Guarnarlus 
and Stradiuarlus the same pine tree crops up at 
intervals of years. A good maker will patch and 
join and Inlay to retain every particle of tried 
timber. Old wood is oddly vocal. As I sat in my 
room, surrounded by these Instruments, I could 
not cough or move without ghostly voices answer¬ 
ing me from the sixteenth, seventeenth and eigh¬ 
teenth centuries, and even the old-seasoned backs 
and bellies of unstrung vleUns are Mil of echoes. 
The supreme Interest of the violin la not far to 
seek. It lies not only In its simplicity, beauty, 
strength, subtlety and Indestructibility, which fit 
it for the cabinet of the collector, but It is the king 
of instruments tn the hands of (he player. It 
combines acoent with modification of sustained 
tone. The organ has sustained tone without ac¬ 
cent, the piano accent without sustained tone, the 
violin accent and sustained tone modified at will. 
Within Its limits It Is scientifically perfect; It has 
all the sensibility and more than the compass, ex. 
edition and variety of the human voice. The 
violin is not an Invention, it Is a growth; it ha 3 
come together; it Is the survival of the fittest.” 
ANCESTRY OF THE VIOLIN. 
On the screens were hung a variety of queer 
looking old Instruments, whose endless shape and 
style, as the lecturer pointed out, showed the In¬ 
exhaustible fascination exercised by the viol tribe 
over tho human mind. Out of the rebek, the 
crowth, the rotta and guitar came forth the mod¬ 
ern, or comparatively modem, violin—the most- 
perfect Of musical Instruments. “ About the elev¬ 
enth century an Instrument of the viol tribe 
emerged with frets, but 150 years were required to 
get rid of these marplots before even a step 
toward the true viol could be made. Before 
the end of the fourteenth century viols were 
made in great profusion, of every size and 
shape-the knee vloL, the bass viol, the viol de 
Gamba, of which certain South Kensington speci¬ 
mens are before you. But the rise of the true 
violin tribe begins with the rise of modern music. 
About the time when Carisslml and Monteverde— 
1585-1672—discovered the true octave and the per¬ 
fect cadence, part singing received a new im¬ 
pulse; the human voice was discovered to tall 
naturally into soprano, contralto, tenor and bass 
and viol Instruments being adapted to these four 
divisions, the violin, tenor, bas3 and later contra- 
basso. before me, gradually separated themselves 
from the confused neb'Ucc ot viols behind me and 
shone out clearly as the true planetary Bystem ot 
the musical firmament B The lectnrer then spoke 
of the violin makers of Brescia and Cremona, Gas 
per dl Salo, Magglnl, Andreas Amatl and Nicholas 
Amatl, the last named being the master of the 
great Antontus Stradluralus himself. “ For thirty 
years,” explained Mr. Hawels, “ this extraordina¬ 
ry man was content to work under the acknowl¬ 
edged influence of N. Amatl. in less he sets up 
lor himself, but copies Nicholas till 16S6; from 
1686-94 his form fluctuates, but Inclines to the 
earlier Brcsoian model (not In the corners), grows 
flatter, corners bold and full of character, in 16ST 
he makes the long or rather narrow model, which 
he did not adhere to. in 1 700-3 he enters on his 
golden period alter countless experiments. The 
last trace of the Amatl scoop had disappeared. 
Some of the finest violins of the 1 grand’ pattern 
were made 1720-5. They have all the grace and 
boldness of a Greek frieze drawn by a master's 
hand. The arch of the belly, not too flat nor too 
much raised, Is the true natural curve ot beauty ; 
on each side the undulating lines, as from the 
bosom of a wave, flow down and seem to eddy up 
into the four cornere, where they are caught and 
refined away Into these inimitable angles. The 
scroll Is strong and elegant, the sound holes ex¬ 
quisitely cut. The varnish 13 not hard and silicate, 
but mellow as amber or sunlit water. There Is a 
violin of 1736, bearing date and name; It was 
made in the master's ninety-second year. He 
made down to the last, but latterly seldom signed 
his work. Alas! that, has been since done for him 
by thousands who would be at pains to make even 
a respectable tub.” Finally, the lecturer brought 
one of the ablest and most interesting lectures 
which has ever been delivered in London to a 
close by playing on several violins, one after 
another, by way of Illustrating their different tone 
quality, it Is not often that the sober-minded 
English have an opportunity ot seeing a clergy¬ 
man fiddle In public, but now that a royal duke 
and a parson—the Church as well as the State- 
have handled the bow before an audience the love 
lor the fiddle must become popular. It would not 
surprise me to hear that the latest fashionable 
accomplishment lor ladles instead of lawn tennis 
la to cultivate what Addison terms “ the only 
sensual gratification which ma nkind may indulge 
In to excess without Injury to |1 ilr moral or reli¬ 
gious feelings.” 
• — ♦ • »- 
MAGAZINES FOR MAY. 
Scribner for May is full ot Interesting material 
on subjeots ol general or timely interest. In addi¬ 
tion to the book notices, Literary Criticism Is rep¬ 
resented by M. E. C. Stedman’s study of Edgar A. 
Poe. Art Criticism Is represented by a paper ou 
“The Younger Painters of America,” the first of 
three by Mr. Wm. C. Brownell. The other papers 
will follow soon, and will include the most vital 
work of the " new men.” Modern Progress 13 rep¬ 
resented by the second ot Mr. Theo. Do VTnne'a 
papers on “TUc Growth of Wood-cut Printing.” 
History is attractively represented by Schuyler a 
“Peter the Great.” which Is being studiously 
read all over the country. Out-of-door Life la 
recorded in Burroughs “ Notes of a Walker.” in 
which he replies to criticisms on his recent enum¬ 
eration of some Inaccuracies of American poets 
In dealing with nature. Timely Topics are repre¬ 
sented by a paper on “Economic Defects In 
Christian Missions," which will Interest tho Ala 
missionary meetings; by a paper on “ congress 
and International Copyright," Fiction Is repre¬ 
sented by Mm. Burnett's •• Louisiana ” here con- 
concluded ; by Air. Cable's •• Grandlslmes,” whoso 
story ot Bras-Coupe In the April Installment 
has been compared in dramatic strength to 
victor Hugo and Manzonl; and by Mre. Rebecca 
