THE RURAL NEW-YORKER 
Citerarij. 
LETTERS FROM “DAISY FARM.” 
So you think. Will, that “Daisy Farm” is a 
rather romantic name for two elderly people 
to give their home? Well, I assure you there 
is not a bit of romance about the Daisies; thoy 
arc very matter-of-fact, and when we took 
posses non hero, the most formidable objects 
we had to encounter were those “lords of the 
soil.” Our first view of the farm was on a hot, 
dry day in August, when pastures and mead¬ 
ows looked brown, and bare except tho luxu¬ 
riant. patches of the pretty little nuisance, 
called “Daisy”—tho sight of which made Er¬ 
nest shako his head dubiously, and feel any¬ 
thing but political as ho said, in derision, 
“Daisy Furrn 1” After six years of good culti¬ 
vation and timely mowing, the daisies are 
nearly all gone, but the name clings still, as 
nicknames do cling, “will ye, nill ye.” 
We could better change a letter and make 
it “Dairy” now, for on the beautiful fields of 
clover many cattle wax fat. We sell the 
greater part of their milk, only reserving 
enough to furnish us with butter, cream, and 
milk. You know this was a run down farm, 
and Ernest keeps stock, to bring it up to its 
normal condition, as well as to earn our broad. 
We would like to keep sheep, butour proximi¬ 
ty to the village makes it inadvisable, on ac¬ 
count of tho dogs kept there, and which make 
sad work among the sheep in our neighbor- 
horsi. 
For three years—I can bear to speak of 
them now they are past—we struggled through 
many discouragements; it seemed all outgo 
and no income, and much sickness and other 
misfortunes kept our spirit* at a low ebb— 
coming, too, as we did, from tho city, with its 
comforts and luxuries, it is almost a wonder 
our faith and hope held out; but wo wore 
sustained, and now we are seeing the fruition 
of some of our hopes, mid would not go hack 
to all we left behind. Of course it is not au 
Elysium here now, but a pleasant homo is at¬ 
tained, and wo are surrounded with many of 
the comforts of life; and, with improving 
health and prospects, we are, i trust, thank¬ 
ful. 
We miss the pleasant companionship, the 
libraries, concerts and conveniences of our old 
home, and when, as now, 
•* The day t* cold mill durlc and dreary; 
It rttltix, mid (lie Wind Is never weary: 
The vine »I1'I (.'Units to the inoulderiug wall. 
But at every toist the dead loaves fall, 
And the day Js dark and dreary,” 
We are glad that November brings its work as 
well ns its dreary duyr, for work is a panacea 
for many ills, and for dismal forebodings it is 
a cure all. There is a great deal to do on a 
farm this month. All the dumb creatures 
must have food and shelter prepared for 
them, the nooks und crannies that let In cold 
must be filled up, roofs looked to that they do 
not leak, tools housed, and everything made 
suugso one can go to bed at night with a clear 
conscience. In my department as well, al¬ 
though the pickling, preserving and canning 
are finished, winter clothing, bedding, etc., is 
to be seen to and got ready for immediate use, 
and everything is to lie made pleasant and 
comfortable inside the house. You know, 
Will, I always thought beauty and comfort 
went, baud In hand, and acted on that princi¬ 
ple in my house-furuishing, and now all my 
odd moments are occupied with the beautiful 
growing plants iu my south windows, or some 
bit of prettiness to brightcu up things. When 
the days come that stow only white and gray 
out-doors, then tho eye will turn gladly to tho 
color and brightness inside, and I mean to be 
ready for them. T >-day 1 have added to my 
decorations some bunches of bitter-sweet ber¬ 
ries, over the pictures, upon the dark wall¬ 
paper. 
One thing I miss most of all, and six years 
in au isolated farm-house have not reconciled 
me yet—1 want some one to talk to. “Of 
course vou do, being a woman,” you say. 
Well, Earnest Is very good and all that, but 
theu, when he buries himself in his easy chair 
and hi 6 newspaper, about all there is of him 
visible is the top of his head and a pair of slip¬ 
pered feet on the foot-rest. To say tho least, 
he isn't good company; and when he ends up 
his reading with an unmistakable snore, I lake 
up my lamp in disgust and go to bed. If you 
were not a thousand tnil.-saway, 1 would ask 
you to come and keep me company. The next 
best thing for 3 ou to do is to write me a letter 
—letters are always welcome® 
Mary mann. 
-- 
PADDY’S DISPLAY OF HIS LEO. 
Mr. Macilwain, in his memoirs of the late 
Dr. Abernethy, gives the following character¬ 
istic anecdote;—It was on Abernethy'* first 
going through the wards after a visit to Bath, 
that passiug up among the rows of beds with 
an immense crowd of pupils after him—my¬ 
self among the rest—the apparition of a poor 
Irishman, with the scantiest shirt I ever saw, 
jumping out of bed and literally throwing 
himself ou bis knees ut A bo rue thy‘a feet, 
presented itself. For some moments every¬ 
body was bewildered; but the poor fellow, 
with all his country’s eloquence, poured out 
such a torrent of thanks, prayers, and bless¬ 
ings, and made such pantomimic displays of 
his leg, that we were not long left iu doubt- 
“That’s the leg, your honor I Glory be to 
(Hod! Your honor’s the boy to do it! May the 
heavens be yer bed I Long life to yer honor! To 
ould scrat with the spalpeens that said yer 
honor would cut It tiff!” etc. The man had come 
into tho hospital three months before with a 
diseased ankle, and it had been at once con¬ 
demned to amputation. Something, however, 
had induced Abernathy to try what rest aud 
constitutional treatment, would do for it, und 
with (he happiest result. With some difficulty 
the patient was got into bed, and Abernethy 
took the opportunity of giving us a clinical 
lecture about diseases and their constitutional 
treatment. And now commenced tho fun. 
“Every sentence Abernethy uttered Pat con¬ 
firmed. “Thrue, yer honor, gorra a lie in it; 
his honor’s the great doctor iutiroly!" While 
at the slightest allusion to his case, off went, 
the bedclothes and up went the leg, as If he 
were taking aim atthe ceiling with it. “That's 
it, by gorra; and a befcther leg than the vil 
Iain’s that wanted to cut it off.” This was 
soon after I went to London, and I was much 
struck with Abernethy "a manner. Iu the 
midst of the laughter, stooping down to the 
patient, he said, with much earnestness: “ 1 
am glad your log is doing well, but never 
kneel except to your Maker.” 
fox Women, 
CONDUCTED BY MI8C. RAY CLARK. 
GOING TO THE FARMER’S WIFE’S 
CLUB. 
It was half-past one iu tho afternoon, and 
Mrs. Winthrop sat wearily down in her low 
rocker debating to herself whether or not she 
would go to tho Farmer’s Wife's Club that 
day. The spirit, was williug and anxious; but 
the flesh was weak. In the back yard on a 
bench were tho milk cans which carried tho 
milk to tho factory and a row of shining milk 
pails, whh h she had that morning conscien¬ 
tiously washed and scalded, and iu tho dark¬ 
ened dining room the supper table was already 
laid for the evening meal, the whole covered 
with white netting,to keep all secure from stray 
flies, niul in tho kitchen everything was in 
apple pit) order. But the presiding genius who 
had alone accomplished all this found herself 
discussing whether, after all, she had better 
make the effort to get ready, when the lounge 
looked so inviting to her weary limbs. “I am 
booked for on essay or something,” said she, 
“or 1 would not try, and L have been sobusy 
since tho last mooting that L have written 
nothing, and my offering would have to bo a 
speech If I went, and I have hardly settled on 
a subject either, unless it should bo proposing 
to form a society for the punishment of cruelty 
to women iu selling them shoes with high 
heel)* nailed ou with shingle nails, and 
torturing the poor, laboring housewife, who, 
against her will, must Stand for hours ou the 
sharp points of those nails while doing her 
housework. Oh, T wish that those who make 
and sell thoso abomination* were compelled to 
stand on them, as we poor women or e obliged 
td; there would be an end to the manufacture 
of them, I urn sure.” However, our friend 
pr oeeeded to array herself in a neat gingham 
dress and white apron, and just as she had 
put on a collar and turned from the mirror, 
she heard a knock at tho screen door. 
As she opened it a book agent, with his pro¬ 
fessional simper, block satchel in hand, con¬ 
taining the work fur which he was canvass¬ 
ing, stood before her. “1 don’t think you 
need to trouble yourself to come in,”saidshe, 
hastily; “we do not wish to purchase any¬ 
thing to-day.” 
“Oh, I will only detain you a moment, ” 
said he, blandly glancing at the hat and para 
sol that lay on the table; “I wish to show you 
the latest and best work on Ancient and Mod¬ 
ern Antiquities. Every well posted person 
needs such a work. See these cula,’’said he, 
displaying them. “How magnificent they are 
in design and execution, and this is positively 
the last chance the public will have to get one 
of these invaluable works. Bee the names I 
have obtained over on the street north of this. 
Very intelligent people over on that street, 
too. All of them took my book. Give me 
your name, please. Mi’s. W inthrop’s ac¬ 
quaintance with book agents had commenced 
before this time, and she replied firmly; 
“When we purchase books we prefer to select 
what we wish and order them for ourselves. 
We do not patronize traveling agents.” As if 
he did not hear, or at least did not intend to, 
the canvasser still went on. “Good hooks, 
madam, are necessary things in a family. 
People ought to deny themselves other thiugs 
in order to possess them,” and ho looked 
around with a judicial air at the flag-bottomed 
chairs and neat rag curpet, the plain book¬ 
case and centre table, os if ho alone ought to 
decide what, poor, vain wotnou should buy to 
furnish their houses. “Now,” he continued, 
“there is another point about this book: It is 
.profusely illustrated and very entertaining, 
and if a person is poorly educated aud hap¬ 
pens to have company, such a book will sup¬ 
ply all defleienees. I am not selling it for tho 
money that is to be made out of it; but it is of 
a very high character, and I wish to do what 
mission work I can in elevating the literary 
tasto of the people*” 
Just then her husbaud, Joe Winthrop, ap¬ 
peared from tho kitchen. “Helen,” said he, 
1 am going to town for a load of feed, and I 
will put on the spring seat, and you can ride 
up to the social, and it will save you quite a 
walk, and,” said he, looking keuuly at the 
persevering agent, “sir, you are wasting your 
time and eloquence here. Will you just have 
the kindness to move right on, and the next 
time you come this way you need not stop. 
Civility is thrown away ou you traveling 
fellows.” 
So Mrs. Winthrop closed up the house and 
went off happily with her husband, smiling as 
sho saw the irate hook agent, disappear over 
the hill, and thinking that subjects for dis¬ 
cussion at the Club were far from being ex¬ 
hausted. 
The agent nuisance was well ventilated at 
the Club that afternoon, and every woman 
there had a spicy experience of her own to 
relate, and if they could have been compiled 
and Illustrated with portraits of the most 
persevering and impertinent, they would have 
made a more Interesting book than any that 
an agent ever had the fortune to present to tho 
public. DORINDA. 
♦ • • . 
USELESS ENDURANCE. 
BY BETH 8AMPLE. 
allay tho pain, but endures it, aud wonders 
later in the day why she finds herself so cross 
and irritable; toothache and headache are eu 
dured in the same dogged way; no remedies 
are used it, would show a lack of endurance. 
But throwing such endurance to the winds, let 
this famlh^carn Instead to overcome these ills; 
let the roof be mended: the walks, barn-yard, 
and driveway made solid and dry; the gate 
re-hung; cisterns dug for house aud barn; 
screens put up at the doors and windows of 
tho house; a new stove lid, skillet, and tubs 
bought; tin pans mended; und remedies up 
plied to common aches and pains. That will 
take money? Of course it will, and time, and 
thought; but unless your life is utterly aim¬ 
less, you are giving money, time, and thought, 
to something, but it is not put t,o the best pos¬ 
sible use if it. leaves you to endure numberless 
unnecessary evils. 
There is enough of hardship in life that calls 
for patient, strong “ndurance to develop 
sturdy character. There are enough small, 
annoying evils that ought to be overcome, 
that will weaken character if neglected. 
It, is a false pride t hat endures these petty ills 
without making an effort to remove them. If 
endurance docs not strengthen you, nod make 
other trials easier, look at it narrowly and de¬ 
cide whether it is not useless; if there is any 
possible remedy for the ill, then bo sure it is 
useless. We too often accept evils as a pen¬ 
ance, and endure them with no hotter result 
than savage tempers, aching heads, and sore 
hearts. 
If there is any use in it. if any good is 
achieved by our endurance, it sweetens the 
temper with which vve hear what is to bo 
borne, and lifts us intoan unselfish atmosphere 
Every one has glimpses now and then of 
their best, most lovely, and kindest selves. 
Treasure these glimpses; tho oftouer wo real¬ 
ize what we ought to be, the nearer wo come 
to its fulfillment. IT wo can carry our noblest 
hopes constantly before our eyes, they will 
prove a strong, sure ladder tip from selfish, 
useless endurance, towards tho nobler stead¬ 
fastness of unselfish strength. 
Endurance is an essential element of char¬ 
acter in a world of change. Wo learn to en¬ 
dure tho cold and heat of the changing sea¬ 
sons, the storms and burning suns, freshet and 
drouth, aud if they are ac¬ 
cepted cheerfully, our lives 
are little hurt by them, our 
characters are strengthened, 
and prepared to endure greater 
ills. 
But there is an endurance 
that is not praiseworthy and 
unfits tho man for further re¬ 
sistance, because it is useless 
and discouraging. Imagine 
a man exerting his powers of 
endurance against tho tor¬ 
menting annoyance of a per¬ 
sistent fly, when a change of 
locality would banish the an¬ 
noyance ; the man is lai rly sav¬ 
age before he concludes to adopt some means 
of ridding himself of the fly. Is he benefited 
any by such endurance? And yet that is a 
fair sample of much of the every-day endur¬ 
ance. Tho roof leaks, and during every rain¬ 
storm great annoyance Is experienced; ofteu 
there is damage and loss of articles of value; 
the man of the house grumbles if the loss is 
his, hut he very heroically endures tho cause. 
Around his house aud barn tho mud is deep 
ami sticky iu open, wet weather; he scrapes it 
from his loaded boots day after day, and lis¬ 
tens with provoking indifference to words of 
angry impatience from his wife and daugh¬ 
ters os he tracks across the floor, leaving mud 
at every step; he endures it, however. I he 
gate into the highway is .sagging and must he 
dragged around through the mud, but he Is a 
man of great endurance, aud it is done day 
after day. In seasons of drouth the hogshead 
sunk at the corner of his barn becomes dry> 
aud he waters his cattle from the well at the 
house until it too fails; he then drives them 
two miles to a stream. The tubs at tho comers 
of the house being empty of ruin water, the 
family washing is done in as meagre a quanti¬ 
ty of water as will suffice to remove a small 
degree of the dirt from the clothes; floors are 
left unscrubbed, dishes are washed sparingly, 
and the endurance of the drouth is painful to 
the whole family. The same spirit of endur¬ 
ance rules in all the household affairs; the flies 
swarm in every room, the meals are eaten 
with flies so numerous that comfort is impos¬ 
sible; the cooking is done with the same an 
noyanee, making tho work a double burden; 
the stove has but three Inis, aud the tea-kettle 
takes the place of tho fourth, often to its in¬ 
jury by dryiug out and burning; the tubs leak 
and are mended with rags; some of the milk 
pans leak, ami a milking is lost now and then 
because strained into tho wrong pans. The 
housewife burns herself in lifting the skillet 
without a handle, aud she does nothing to 
CONDUCTED BY EMILY MAPLE. 
A Domestic Smash. 
FITHS. 
Croquet isbeiug revived. 
Good aud safe lamps are a luxury that 
country people cannot afford to be without. 
It is not economy for a woman to do house¬ 
work without the necessary conveniences to 
do it with. 
Nothing is gained by goiug without sleep. 
When one Is obliged to drmk water that is 
not thought to lie pure, boll it and let it get 
cold before drinking. 
Dou’t cover the walls of your parlor aud 
sitting room with the photographs of your 
family and of your friends. 
Quiet, smooth manners at home will give 
ease and self-possession iu company. 
Children must have their fun, and if home 
is made dull and gloomy for them, he sure 
they are going to have their jollification else¬ 
where. 
HOME THOUGHTS. 
ANNIE L. JACK. 
I am brought face to face every day with 
the problem that is interesting “Charity 
Sweetheart” and thousands of her sisterhood 
—the knotty question of how a girl is to earn 
her own living if placed in a position where, 
alone and unprotected, she must battle with 
the world, und stand or fall by her own exer¬ 
tions. No girl is safe from Lit in troublesome 
thought if brought up on a farm, giviug her 
young life to help mother and father, or, per¬ 
haps, to supply the place of mother, when 
that tired heart has ceased to beat, and lies 
under the sod. Then a life of care falls on 
the daughter, and she becomes mother and 
sister to the little ones left iu her charge. 
Time goes on (if a second family does not 
supplant the first) until tho boys grow up and 
marry. Father is often obliged to give up the 
