SEPT. 25 
645 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER 
Ptmtrjr Hfetrllaitg. 
BY THE STREAM. 
Sweet tangled banks, where ox-eyed daisies grow. 
And scarlet poppies gleam ; 
Sweet changing lights, that ever come and go 
Upon the quiet stream! 
Once more I see the flush, of splendid wings, 
As dragon-flies flit by; 
Once more for me the small sedge-warblor sings 
Beneath a sapphire sky. 
Once more I feel the simple fresh content 
I found in stream and soil, 
When golden Summers slowly came and went 
And mine was their spoil. 
I find amid the honeysuckle flowers. 
And shy forget-me-not. 
Old boyish memories of lonely hours 
Passed in this silent spot. 
Oh, God of nature, how thy kindness keeps 
Some changeless things on earth ! 
And he who roaiHB far off, ami toils and weeps, 
Comes home to learn their worth. 
Gay visions vanish, worldly schemes may fail, 
Hope proves an idle dream, 
But still the blossoms flourish, red and pale, 
Beneath my native atroam. 
—Sunday Magazine. 
-- 
INMATES OF LESTER HALL, 
CHAPTER IY. 
(Continued from page 630.) 
IN TTIH COCNTINfl-tJOtTSE. 
“Is Mr. Lester In his ofllco, Mr. Jason?” 
“ No, sir. Mr. Lester has not yet arrived.” 
" v\ hen he comes, request him to corne to me at 
once.” 
So saying, and without waiting for the clerk’s 
“yes, sir,” Mr. Baton passed on into his own office, 
a handsomely fitted-up room, with a rich Turkey 
carpet, elbow-chairs, a writing-table with all 
kinds of elaborate arrangements, and a capacious 
waste-paper basket. 
It was nearly eleven o'clock on a gray March 
morning in the thtrd year of Rex Lester's residence 
in London. It was Monday morning, a busy morn¬ 
ing with most people; the clerk'8 In Mr. Baton’s 
large establishment had been busily at work since 
nine o’clock, and several letters and telegrams 
were awaiting the head of the firm, plied upon the 
desk. Glancing at the little heap as he entered, 
Mr. Baton passed on to the mantelpiece, and 
stood there for a minute or two lost tn thought; 
and Judging from the expression of his race, the 
subject of his meditation was anything but a 
pleasant one. 
Things had prospered with him; hard work, 
perseverance, and indomitable energy, had raised 
his fortune to its present hlght, and In the mer¬ 
cantile world no name ranked higher, no credit 
was more deservedly good than his. in his private 
life he had seen great trouble: he had married a 
young and beautiful woman to whom he had been 
engaged some years; they had passed together 
twelve bright, cloudless months, at the end of 
which she had borne him a son, who survived hla 
birth twenty-four hours, and the young mother 
had never gotten over the shock, she lingered a 
few days and then died with her hand In her hus¬ 
band ’9 and her head upon his breast, smiling into 
his eyes, and whispering with her last dying 
breath of her love for him and of the happiness of 
their married life. 
Henry Daton did not marry again, and people 
said that he had never recovered the great double 
loss ho had sustained, and that he had been graver 
and colder In manner from that day; but. he said 
nothing about It, never touched upon his loss, but 
devoted himself to his business wttn Increased ac¬ 
tivity. Some thought him cold aud indifferent, 
and said that ho had no heart,, no thought, save 
amassing wealth and becoming rich; but these 
people did not know that iu a secret drawer of his 
writing-table there was a long curl cut from a 
dying head, and a little tiny bit of soft yellow 
hair which the young mother’s feeble fingers had 
cut from her baby’s head ere it was laid In the 
little satin-lined coffin. What would those good 
people have said If they could have known that 
the bit of tissue paper m which these were folded 
held what was dearer to the merchant than his 
wealth and power l 
“Notcome yet.”muttered hero himself, as he 
turned away from the mantelpiece with a gesture 
of extreme annoyance. “After all 1 said to him 
last week. It ts loo much 1” 
He crossed over to bla writing-table, and seat¬ 
ing himself, began to open ills letters with a pre¬ 
occupied manner, and It evidently required some 
effort to bring his mind to bear upon his business. 
But, in a few moments he shook off his preoccupa¬ 
tion and. having finished hla correspondence, he 
took up each letter one after the other, wrote a 
tew words on each, the substance of the reply to 
be written by the clerk, and placing them In heaps 
of five or six letters separately, ho touched an 
electric bell, which was answered almost Immedi¬ 
ately by Mr. Jason, the head clerk, who had been 
in Mr. Baton's employment for many years. 
“ Distribute these, If you please," said the mer¬ 
chant, handing him some letters. “ Has there 
been any message from Carter and Anderson.” 
“No, Bir; but a clerk from Julian and Sons’ has 
been here this morning about that Invoice; the 
mistake was theirs.” 
“ Ah 11 thought so. Mr. Lester has not come 
yet, I suppose?” continued Mr. Baton, with an 
assumotna of carelessness, as he turned to his 
desk again. 
" No, air.” 
“Very well. That will do. By the way, Mr. 
Jason,” arresting tne man’s steps as he turned to 
the door, “ when Mrs. Brlant comes to-day tell 
her that she ts to have an annuity; that she can 
send her eldest son here to-morrow. See what 
you can do with him,” 
“Yes, sir; thank you sir,” said Mr. Jason, with 
a glance of respectful admiration at hts employer; 
and as he left the room he thought how few mer¬ 
chants, however wealthy and Influential, took the 
trouble to look after the widows of their deceased 
under-clerks and provided tor their wants. 
Left alone, Mr. Daton wrote one or two letters, 
glanced occasionally at the clock, and he had 
just taken from one of the drawers or his writing- 
table a small account book, which he was examin¬ 
ing with an expression of ann oyance, when there 
came a knock at the door. 
Mr. Baton lifted his head abruptly, closed the 
book, but did not replace It, and said: 
“ Como In.” 
Upon this the door opened and admitted Regi¬ 
nald Lester, who came Into the room with an air 
of easy nonchalance, and wished his uncle “good 
morning.” 
The three years which Uad elapsed had made 
a considerable alteration In Reginald Lester; the 
handsome, fresh-colored youth had grown Into a 
man, tall and slender, pale aud worn-looking. He 
was handsome still, but In a very different style; 
his face was thin and pale; the hazel eye 9 , so like 
Cecil's, were dim and weary, as ir with late vigils 
Into the night; the mouth was almost hidden by a 
long, silken, fair moustache, evidently an object of 
great care. He was dressed In the hlght of the 
fashion, and wore delicately-tinted kid gloves, 
which he was leisurely removing as he entered the 
room: ho had a camellia in his button-hole and a 
superb diamond ring on the little finger of his 
slender, white right hand. Ha was a very differ¬ 
ent Rex Lester from the one whom we met at 
Lester nail three years ago, and the alteration in 
him was one which could not have pleased those 
who were really Interested In him. 
“ Good morning, Uncle Henry, I am a little late, 
I believe,” said Rex, In a languid tone. 
“ Good morning—a little late ?—yes; it Is on the 
stroke of two,” said his uncle, coldly. 
“la it possible? I'm awfully sorry; but I came 
straight hero, sir,” said Reginald, looking a little 
ashamed. 
“You keep late hours,” said Mr. Daton, in the 
same cold tone of voice; while Rex, still a little 
silent and ashamed, went over to the fire and 
stooped to warm hla hands. 
“Where did you spend your evening?” said his 
uncle, abruptly, after a pause. 
“ I dined with Carew and some other fellows.,” 
“ The old story.” said Mr. Vicars, suddenly rising 
and pushing aside his papers impatiently. I 
saw you, and I wondered how you, Reginald Les¬ 
ter, could find pleasure In such society." 
“ AH young men do, sir,” said Rex, rather aul- 
lenly. 
“ Young men who are idlers and thrown upon 
their own resources, which amount to nothing, 
perhaps. Not young men like you who work, or 
ought to work, for their dally bread.” 
Reginald’s pale face flushed and his eyes flashed; 
for a moment he seemed about to speak, but be 
refrained, and tn a moment Mr. Daton continued. 
“ This is not the first time that I have bad occa¬ 
sion to find fault with your conduct,” he said: 
“ but my remonstrances do not seem to have had 
mucU effect. Your conduct has been for many 
months extremely displeasing to mo. You have 
neglected your business -you have entirely disre¬ 
garded my wishes. You have been extravagant, 
careiesH, dissipated, and have associated with 
those whoso companionship is neither beneficial 
nor desirable, l have excused you more than once 
on the grounds or your inexperience and of the 
greatness of such temptations fts those into which 
you have ration to some natures; but surely such 
pleasures must begin to pall upon you now I I be¬ 
lieve those of your race have always beeu more 
liable to them than many others; but I had hoped 
much from the Influence of your mother’s memory 
and of your sister’s goodness. 1 had hoped much, 
but my hopes have fallen to the ground.” 
His voice was mournful as he concluded, and 
Reginald stammered some words or apology and 
regret. 
“ Cards, dice, horses, and bad company, these 
are the rocks on which you strike, even as your 
ancestors did. You care nothing for high and 
noble alms—for goodness, purity and truth; such 
words are words only lu the oars of the youth of 
the day, the things they express have no real 
existence. Have you no higher desires than to be 
an empty-headed gambler, a dissipated young 
tellow? Looking back at the records of tho past 
four months, tt would 3Com so In very truth." 
“ You are bitter, sir 1” said Reginald, In a low, 
sullen tone. “ I am not worse than most men or 
my day and generation." 
“Not worse? No; I pray Heaven you are not 
half so bad as many! But is your life a worthy 
one—answer mo that, If you please ?” said Mr. 
Daton, rising from hla seat and confronting his 
nephew sternly. 
“You do not make allowances, sir, said Reg- 
maid. 
“ Allowances for what?” said his uncle, sharply. 
For your youth, perhaps? I have been young 
myself. For your position ? its novelty Is over; 
you must have gotten accustomed to It now. Oh ! 
I have been lenient—you cannot say otherwise! 
Seel" Ho turned to the table, and took up the 
hook he had been examining—" I have been look¬ 
ing over this book, and I find that I have paid 
heavy debts for you in the last eleven months, 
and though the Bum may not seem excessive to 
you. It represents by no means the whole amount 
of your expenditure. You will remember that al¬ 
though l was desirous of finding a son In you, I 
gave you no hint as to the future disposition of 
my property. Had my son lived [ would not have 
behaved to him more liberally than l have behaved 
to you, but I would have forgiven him less 1” 
HU voice shook a little as he concluded. Regi¬ 
nald’s face cleared slightly ; but he looked re¬ 
morseful and ashamed. 
“ To what does It all lead ?” said Mr. Daton, In 
a moment. “To what can It lead, Rex? To ruin! 
You must break from these companions; you 
must give up the society of those who are leading 
you astray, it will require but one effort—a 
strong one, perhaps, but you are man enough to 
mako that, surely: Make it, and I win forgive the 
past folly and extravagance t” 
“ I will try—upon my honor I win try, sir!” 
said Reginald, with a sudden outburst of earnest 
ness and compunction. 
“I hope so,” said his uncle, all the sternness 
gone from his face and manner, now could ho 
be stern when Rex looked at him with those hazel 
eyes, bo like those of his dead sister, the lad's 
mother, whom he had loved so dearly | “ I wtll 
believe you, Rex; and as a first step on the new 
road,”he added with a slight smile, “we must 
clear off all outstanding debts, and start with a 
clean bill of health !” 
“You are very good, Uncle Henry," said Regi¬ 
nald, confusedly. 
The color flashed out Into his race for a moment 
and he turned again to the tire, bending over It, 
with a 9liiver and a sharp, hacking cough, which 
called up an expression of anxiety on hl 9 uncle’s 
face as It was bent, over his check-book. 
“You have not gotten rid of your cough. lad,” 
he said, as he dipped his pen In the Ink. 
“No; I have had no chancel” was the careless 
answer. “The weather ts against It.” 
“But yon must be careful. Here yon are, lad. 
And Rex,” continued Mr. Daton, lmpresslyely, “ I 
want one promise from you.” 
“What is that, sir?” said Reginald, as he took 
the check, which his uncle handed him. 
“That yon give up gambling,” said the mer¬ 
chant, sternly. 
Reginald hesitated a moment. 
“If you wish It, sir—yes!” he said, quietly. 
“Very well, I trust you, Rex, Now you can go, 
as I am busy. There 1s some work for you on 
your table, and see that those debts are paid, 
remember!” 
"Yes; thank you, sir!” said Reginald, as he left 
the room, and went to the office appropriated to 
young Mr. lister, who was looked upon by most 
people, Including himself, as Mr. Baton’s heir, and 
treated with consideration accordingly. 
Reginald's office was a much smaller room than 
that occupied by his uncle, but it was equally 
comfortable, and much more ornate m style. A 
blazing are burnt on the hearth, ana a cushioned 
arm-chair was drawn up beside It, Into which Rex 
sank In an attitude of careless, easy comfort, and 
sat there for some t-lme with the check still held 
between his Angers, and an expression of absorbed 
Interest and meditation on his face. 
Looking back, he saw that he had given hla 
uncle a promise he was not at all likely to keep. 
How could he? Every man In hts set played 
more or less high; It was impossible for him not 
to do so. And If he had lost a good deal lately, 
the run or luck would turn, and he would win. 
Uncle nenry could not expect him to keep that 
promise; still, ir It pleased the old fellow, said 
Rex to hlrnaelf, carelessly, he would let dim Ima¬ 
gine that he had given It up. 
Reginald’s sense of honor was apparently blunt¬ 
ed, or he would not have found tt so easy to excuse 
himself for breaking his word.—To be continued. 
NEW ZEALAND. 
Line In New Zealand naturally divides Itself into 
different modes—as. Indeed, is the case In other 
parts of the world; and it Is spoken of as a whole, 
these distinctions foroo one Into a more detailed 
consideration of the subject. Few things can be 
more unlike than Ufe In the count ry and life in tho 
town—or. again, than life on a station aud life on 
a farm; and these differ widely from the lives of 
diggers and miners and t hose of lonely shepherds 
and lumberers. Like revolving circles, which 
touch but never mingle, those different existences 
cross and recross each other; so that It is impossi¬ 
ble to give a fair account of our colonial life with¬ 
out touching, more or less, on all of them. 
In Now Zealand tho inhabitants are neither 
enormously rich, none abjectly poor. The neces¬ 
saries and most of the luxuries of life are common 
to all who are moderately Industrious and pru¬ 
dent. The luxuries and ;esthetic pleasures of 
wealth—art, sciences literature, the charms of 
elegant leisure and of really good society—are un- 
attainable by any. Life Is reduced to simpler 
elements than would be possible under an older, 
wealthier, aud more elaborate civilization. Yet 
this simplicity, which ts to many minds the great¬ 
est charm of a colonial life, is leaving us year by 
year. As tho land is opened out, and the popula¬ 
tion becomes larger and more settled, new wants 
arise, and the luxuries of former years are the 
necessaries of these. 
Probably the first thing which strikes a trav. 
eler on visiting our towns—and here I speak 
chiefly of Dunedin, Christchurch, and Wellington, 
the great commercial centres-ls their resem¬ 
blance to the smaller cities at home, t he centres 
of provincial Industry; but after a long residence, 
and under a closer scrutiny, it is the difference 
which impresses Itself most rorelbly; and as time 
goes on, and one’s knowledge of the place in¬ 
creases, t his difference becomes more and more 
apparent, and the nrst fancied resemblance fades 
entirely away. We miss the old time-honored 
buildings, with perhaps a cathedral or abbey 
church dominating all, below It a quaint town 
hall or market place, and streets or warm red¬ 
brick houses, where generations of men have been 
born, lived, died, not without Impressing their 
personality on the brick and timber, the rooms 
and staircases—houses that were homes where 
the heart-strings clung even round the shabby 
old furniture for the sake of the “ bad been" which 
made every nook and corner sacred. Memories 
of this kind And no place in our antipodean cities. 
Here all is new or hopelessly squalid and so 
shabby that the greatest lover of antiquities 
would condemn it on the instant. Many of the 
Dunedin firms have erected splendid warehouses 
which would reflect no discredit on the banks of 
the Thames or tho Mersey; but the streets of 
ordinary shops and dwelling-houses, built chic fly 
or entirely of wood, and seldom more than hair 
finished, may indeed be dwelling-places, but can 
never be homes. Another feature of our town 
life is tho restlessness of the population. Rarely 
do you find a family occupying the same house for 
several years In succession. Business men change 
their offices as they would change their gloves. 
This restlessness and love of change la a notable 
feature of colonial society, onward, not upward. 
Is the universal cry. Make money—honestly if 
you can, but anyhow make It, and a natural out¬ 
come of all thLs Is a contempt for things poor and 
old. 
A society whore nothing Is venerated for the 
tender memories of those who are gone, loved be¬ 
cause they loved It, prized because they prized it; 
a society where we do not honor our parenrs irre¬ 
spective of their individual merits, where we 
laugh to scorn the apostolic injunction, “ Fear 
God, honor the King,” Is not. a satisfactory state 
of society, as all will acknowledge who have ever 
experienced anything better. Of the boys and 
girls growing up in our midst it Is not too much to 
say that they are mere savages tn regard to what 
you call culture, and to those polished graces of 
mind and manner which are the outcome of high 
civilization. Shall l my that they also escape 
many ot its attendant weaknesses; that they 
are stronger In mind and body, more robust, more 
energetic, more self-reliant? in justice I must 
admit It, and add that their helpfulness, Industry 
and fertility of resource are worthy of all praise. 
Still they shine more conspicuously in the kitchen 
and In the rarmyard than In the drawing-room. 
A liberty which approaches to license prevails in 
their social relations, and makes one bitterly re¬ 
gret the absence ot self-control, based on self- 
respect, which forms so Important a part of the 
old home training. 
Town life and the society of towns naturally 
intermingle, tn the country, of society properly 
so called, there Is none. We may have neighbors, 
half a dozen families within a radius of ten miles, 
or perhaps half tho number at double the distance, 
nowever tUa6 may be, we must take them as we 
dud them, and make the best of them. We must 
“he to their faults a little blind, and to their vir¬ 
tues ever kind,” if we would escape becoming 
hermits on our farm or station, our oountry 
neighbors we cannot criticise; we take them as 
they are, and are thankful to them for breaking the 
drear monotony of our Lives. But in towns It Is 
otherwise; there you may to a certain extent 
choose your own surroundings, and there the pe¬ 
culiar detects ot colonial society are most glaring¬ 
ly visible. 
The squatters and managers have tn general an 
easy time of It, no undue pressure being exerted 
on mind or body. As a rule, they have very little 
to do, though, of course, there are busy seasons 
when head and hand are fully engaged, either in 
actual work, or In overseeing the work ot others. 
On some stations, whero a large amount of stock 
is kept, the eattle are occasionally mustered, either 
for sale, or to take the tally, and brand the young 
beasts. Few things tn tho world can be more de¬ 
lightful than a rapid ride arter stock I n the fresh, 
bright, moral ug air. which braces the nerves and 
muscles to their highest tension and sends the 
blood tingling through every vein. Sheep mus¬ 
tering Is by no means so exciting. Sheep are 
stupid animals, and almost as obstinate as the 
tradition .11 Irish pig. Merinos are fleet-footed, 
and, If they choose to scatter, would be very diffi¬ 
cult Indeed to handle. Fortunately they are gre¬ 
garious, and keep together In herds or mobs, and 
so they are easily worked by means ot dogs. With 
the shearing itself the masters and the regular 
station hands have nothing to do. It is under the 
control of professional shearers, who go from sta¬ 
tion to station, beginning at tho north and work¬ 
ing steadily southward. These men are paid per 
hundred for sheep they shear. 
On the whole few things are more enjoyable than 
station life at Ha best—the free pure air, the out¬ 
door life, so much of which is spent on horseback, 
the freedom from conventional restraints, and 
above ail the absence of small cares and worries 
which beset the business man and the farmer. 
True, tor tho run holder as for others, there are 
bad times, when the sheep are diseased and wool 
is low, but these evils are wholesale and fatal In 
their effects, and call tor extreme powers ot en¬ 
durance, and for extreme remedies; but we all 
know and acknowledge that it is the small troub¬ 
les, the petty daily cares which take the pleasure 
out ot life, and reduce It to mere existence. 
1 do not think that ladles generally care much 
ror station life. There is little to occupy and 
amuse them, save the mere drudgery of house 
work, feeding fowls and pigs, rearing chickens 
and ducklings, malting butter, Ac., no opportunity 
tor social intercourse. Society, as I before said, is 
out of the question—people are too scattered, and 
too busy. Sometimes, in the summer, an excur¬ 
sion or a few days to a neighboring station or the 
nearest city, may be planned and carried into 
effect; but these expeditions are few and far be¬ 
tween, and unless ladies possess many resources 
and accomplishments—being able to play and 
sing, sketch in pencil or water-color, ride, drive, 
and climb -and above all, unless they have a true' 
love for the country, they must find this life ex¬ 
ceedingly dull. 
All along the seaboard, m the neighborhood of 
railways and near towns, the land Is becoming far 
too valuable to permit ot Its remaining In an un¬ 
productive state; It is worth money, and must he 
made to yield money, in the back districts, where 
the land is less fertile and less accessible, a tew 
large runs are still intact, and wiu probably re- 
main so Tor many years; but they yield only a 
moderate percentage on the money Invested In 
them, and station life. In Its best and brightest 
aspect, must soon become a.thing of the past. 
CobrbspondkntT’ 
