JAN 6 
9 
I know that all this seems very prosy and an 
old story to many young girls who are think¬ 
ing of marriage; and it is because so many of 
them who are RURAL readers will be asked in 
marriage this present. Winter that I write ns 
1 do. The young man who has wild oats to 
sow, and sows then), will one day have them 
to harvest. “ What a man sows that shall he 
reap.” There is no more need for a young 
man than for a young woman to “sow wild 
oats.” Youthful joyousness and hounding 
gayety are charming; hut the hilarity that 
corneB from drink, and deeds that sully the 
chastity of one’s life are not the rights of 
youth and are in frightful discord to all its 
bright and lovely impulses. They are dis¬ 
gusting and should make one turn away with 
shuddering. I am not one of those who waste 
pity or sympathy on men who get drunk. I 
think nothing could possibly bo so good 
for such as the whipping post, and I 
never tried but once to reform a young man. 
Anaximander had at one time the guardian¬ 
ship of a young man and his property, in that 
he was adviser of the one and attorney for 
the other, and he was greatly interested in the 
young fellow who was live and twenty. He 
was of excellent parentage aud connections, 
was extremely line-looking, modest and well- 
bred in his manners, and one of the most 
pleasing young men I have ever known. But 
ho had the habit of going oir now and then on 
a “drunken spree,” and had done It so repeat¬ 
edly that ids employer, who loved him in fact 
for his many amiable and excellent qualities, 
finally refused longer to retain him In his em¬ 
ploy, and he was thrown out of business. 
Anaximander felt that maybe if the young 
man were removed from the influences of city 
lifo nnd old associations and placed in a 
family life like ours, he would overcome his 
weakness and regain sufllcient pride of char¬ 
acter to maintain his respectability, aud 
would 1 bo willing he should come aud live 
with us? 1 consented and with great shame- 
fa ednei-s the young man came. He was fresh 
from a spree in which everything available 
had gone to the pawnbroker, watch nnd chain, 
shirt Jewelry aud best clothes. But he soon 
recovered his cheerfulness of temper and 
vowed, as he bnd a hundred times before, that 
his “spreeing times” were over. Ho was a 
thoroughly delightful person to have about, 
there was uothiug about the house or grounds 
that ho couldn't do, aud he was usually busy 
at BOCDotbiug. He loved nature and read the 
best literature in the library. We talked 
freely about his infirmity for drink 1 told 
him what I had heard of his dying mother’s 
solicitude for him, and he understood fully 
that 1 thought he was the greatest fool alive 
to throw away his splendid gifts into the 
slune of druukenuess. 1 could never Bud out 
what induced him to drink, and he always 
said that he himself didn’t know. He never 
intended to drink but always intended not to 
do so. He had no uppetite for liquor and 
never felt a craving for it. He would Himply 
be led somehow to take a drink with u friend, 
and after one driuk came 40 more if he could 
hold that much. 
The young man bad every thing to uppoul 
to his mnuhood the memory of the dead, the 
love of the living, the possibilities of the 
future. He remained witli us for many weeks, 
endearing himself to all, but in the meantime 
he went one day into the city and went off on 
a “spree." He ulways turned up sooner or 
later at Auaximatidor’s olllee with his pawn 
tickets to be redeemed, and lie was again per¬ 
suaded to return to our house. When he 
finally left us it was to re enter business in 
the city. The morning he left he was so 
buoyant, so confident of himself. The new 
position he had obtained was full Of promise 
—he would come and spend his Sundays with 
us, an arrangement. 1 insisted upon, as most 
of his “drunka” had begun on a Saturday 
night. That was a long time ago and I have 
not seen him since. He went off on a “spree” 
before he began a day’s work. After ids val¬ 
uables had becu redeemed that time they 
went into bis attorney’s safe. His career 
since then has boon a succession of “sprees," 
and all the resources he can command go 
Into drink. When not drunk, if well dressed, 
lie Is happy and gay and seems to have no ap¬ 
preciation whatever of his degradation. 
1 have a neighbor who has been the wife of 
a “Hpreoing man” for iifi years—a wife whose 
devotion has beau without limit. Enough 
prayers have been offered up for that man’s 
reformation to melt a mountain. Finally he 
wits “converted" und joined the church and 
all the church cried, “Behold whut the grace 
of God cun do!" That it can do much is not 
to be questioned, but it didn’t do unything 
for that man. If God doesn’t put a moral 
nature in a man when in* creates him, it never 
gets into him afterward. Wife nor mother, 
nor child nor anybody else can put it in him. 
A beast is a beast educate him as you will, 
and any woman who wishes to marry a man 
should be very clearly convinced that he i* a 
man, and that there’s a great deal more of 
him thau his body and bis bodily raiment. If 
he has bad habits that are obnoxious to her 
before marriage, he will have them all the 
same after marriageand probably in increased 
ratio. A habit broken off to please a sweet¬ 
heart is very sure to crop out again. The 
only reform to be relied upon is that v. hieh is 
based on principle and has sufficient character 
to sustain it. 
- 
WORK-POCKET. 
Thk outpide of the pocket is of gold-colored 
satin, with an appliqu6 design of dark blue 
silk; it is lined with pale blue brochd; and is 
bound with dark blue ribbon. The inside is 
fitted w ith pockets for work, cashmere leaves 
for needles, and loops of ribbon for keeping 
scissors, button-hook, etc., etc., in position. 
The center measures seven inches in breadth 
nnd 11 inches in length; the flans are each 
three inches in breadth, and arc cut to the 
length of each side and end. When closed, 
the flaps are folded inside, and the ease doubles 
over in the center. Two satin loopsare sewed 
to the end of one side end one in the center of 
Fig. 10. 
the other, through which a wood or bone cro- 
obet-hook is passed to keep the case closed. 
A handle an inch wide is attached to the top. 
THE OLD YEAR. 
CLEM AULDON. 
Another year has come and gone. It seems 
but yesterday the flowers were blooming, nnd 
the birds were singing, and everything was 
smiling with the gladsome voice of Hpring. 
But the beautiful flowers nnd the laughing 
streams, the bright hopes and fair promises, 
have gone. 
The Bummer sunshine that, floated in through 
the open wind own and flooded the room with 
its mellow, golden light; the atmosphere that 
scattered the aroma of the tinted rose*; the 
evening twilight with its pensive inusirigs, 
have all faded liefore the icy hand of Winter. 
Tiie silent companion of our secret sorrows 
and our joys has gone; gone witli its sunshine 
and itH shadow. Gone with its fleeting fan¬ 
cies. Gone witli Its carts and its anxieties; 
its transitory pleasures und its pnins of on 
durement. Gone to form another of those 
ceaseless waves that are wearing away the 
shores of Time. 
How many vows have been broken, how 
many hopes have lieen blighted! How many 
unkind actions, how many bitter tones, how 
many cruel words we fain would now recall 1 
How many golden opportunities have slipped 
away aud are flouting dow n upon the stream 
of by gone possibilities I How muny fair 
forms have faded from our sight. 1 low muny 
youthful lips have been scaled with the si¬ 
lence of Eternity ! How muny little footsteps, 
how many buby voices are ringing in our ears 
like the chilling knell that strikes upon the 
“ coflln lid of Hope.” 
‘‘There's one more star aloft, they any ¬ 
one Illy I' mh 1 know— 
it shall glimmer on my heart, 
witiie ita pulhUM come uml k'>.” 
Another line has been traced upon the heart, 
another lock of gray has been sprinkh d amidst 
the brown, another link hus been forged in 
that Invisible chain that is blending the pains 
and the pleasures of the Future with the ever 
present memories of the Past. 
And as the solemn bells of midnight toll out 
the requiem whose echo is dying on the frosty 
air, 
“ There's a new foot on the lioor, my friend; 
And a new face at the door, my friend, 
A new face at the door." 
In Thk Hay Lift.— <Iixub. Akt Notes.)—Fio. 11. 
Domestic Camomq 
CONDUCTED ll\ EMILY MAPLE 
HOU'-HK ►EPING EXPERIENCE OF A 
CITY GIRL WHO MARRIED 
A FARMER. 
ANNIE L. JACK. 
I often think nowadays, when brides are 
off to sp^rd the honeymoon at the White 
Mountains or other places, of the time when 
Richard and I came quietly home to the farm¬ 
house with no one to herald our approach but 
a kind sister that was my huahund’s chief 
friend and counselor. 
The old housekeeper jingled the keys next 
day and departed, after bringing into my 
bed-rocra an immense basket of eggs, and a 
jar of honey which she vowed would be stolen 
by the servants if 1 left the pantry door un¬ 
locked. Then she told me the beoH were very 
troublesome and needed watching; that the 
latest heifer calf would not drink her milk; 
that the men were very cross if breakfast was 
not ready exactly at six, and that the speck¬ 
led hen wtlh a very red top had deserted her 
eleven chickens only six days old. It was 
June, and veiy warm; 1 thought I should be 
happy if she would only yo, and after bidding 
her “good bye,” 1 turned to ask Bophie, the 
maid, if dintu r wuh rrndy. 
“Yes, ma’am,” she answered, and led the 
way to tin* kitchen, where the odor of boiling 
poik and cabbage tilled the heated air uutil 
the smell made me quite ill. 
“ Is there nothing else y ou cau coc k?” Her 
face flushed angrily. 
“Isn’t this good enough for you?” she an¬ 
swered boldly. To Ibis 1 made no reply, but 
through my brain there passed a quotation 
from that charming farm idyl, “My Farm at 
Ednewood": “Such success does not tempt the 
young; it gives no promise of a career — Poik 
und cabbage for dinni r and the land left lean " 
The first few days passed quietly enough; 
none of the teirible thii Rs happened that the 
house beeper had foretold. The help was aide 
to cope with the difficulties, and I had no 
thought of to-morrow shin 1 found, one day, 
that the baking of bread was all finished, 
while there was com pany for tea—some far 
off relations of Richard’s that were bent on 
ascertaining my qualifications ns a house 
keeper, quizzical and gossiping witli a faculty 
for spying and criticizing that was hard to 
endure. 
“Can you make biscuits?” I asked Bophie, 
nnd ber reply was, “No, ma’am; they ain’t 
profitable for the men.” Reader, 1 hud never 
made biscuits, or kneaded a piece of dough in 
any way, and I hastened at. once to Marian 
Harlalid's “ Common Sense in the House 
hold” for a recipe, while my visitors were en¬ 
tertained in the parlor by Richard, who had 
left the field* at my request to partuke of our 
early tea. 1 thought I would try a biscuit 
that promised to be fair and easy, and tneas 
ured one quart of flour, two cups of milk, one 
ten spoon I ul of soda and one of cream-of tartar 
—a salt-spoonful of salt. I rubbed the soda and 
cream of tartar into the flour, but in memoir 
ing the former the paper broke and spilled 
some of the contents into the pari. 1 diet not 
know what the consequence would be, but fan¬ 
cied it would rather improve my biscuits to 
add u little extra, and calmly proceeded to 
mix, roll and cut carefully with my new cake 
cutter. But when the oven-door was opened 
the odor was so peculiar that 1 broke one of 
the biscuits to see what was the cause, and 
was dismayed to find it all full of greenish- 
yellow streaks. There was no help for it but 
to take them to the table, for in those day* we 
had not, as now, several lakers near at hand, 
and so, dear reader, what do you think I 
did? I carefully closed the blindp of the 
dining-room, thinking that in the semi-dark¬ 
ness mv guests would not see so plainly the 
color of their biscuits. I have smiled to my¬ 
self many times since over my dilemma, and 
once or twice have told the story to some 
young or embarrassed housekeeper who was 
beginning to apologize for a failure. I re¬ 
member that I did not moke any apology. I 
talked and served, end pressed my guests to 
eat everything else, but X did not once turn 
their attention to the bread, nor do I know, 
from that day to this, what they thought 
about It. 
But it was the morning after this that my 
greatest trial happened, when Sophie came for 
her orders regarding the butter. 
“Shall I churn, ma’am?" How odd it sounded 
to bo “ma’am,” and then, butter! I had never 
seen it in any form but on the table in the 
city in nice little prints. Of course, I knew 
it was by churning it arrived at that consist¬ 
ency, but the process was to me a sealed book. 
The help had often strained the cream, and 
churning was part of her domestic duties, but 
the housekeeper had prided herself on the su¬ 
perior butter made and would not allow any 
one else to handle it, I examined for inform¬ 
ation many columns of dairy matter in the 
columns of on agricultural paper, but could get 
no light on the subject. It must be washed, of 
course, nnd after I had loft Sophie to her task 
I tried to get some Information, but In vain 
my search. Once I went to the cellar, took 
the handle of the churn and turmd for a few 
minutes—but it gave me a pain in my side, 
nnd the girl wars unwilling to let me attempt 
to assist her. She carefully washed down the 
pmall butter with cool water from the well, 
and then told me how site had s< en it. done. I 
put on a clean white apron and rolled up the 
fine shews of my muslin gown, washed my 
hands In scalding water till they were red, 
and cooled them suddenly In chillv well wa¬ 
ter; then plunged into the thick and sour but¬ 
termilk for the butter, lining it out in little 
grasping handfuls with very dainty fingers, 
clap clap, till It Is all in the white wooden 
bowl except the last handful, which was a 
trifle larger than the rest. 1 gave it an « xtra 
pat. *o extract the buttermilk when it slipped 
from my unlucky fingers and went down on 
the sanded floor. 
I rememlier now how carefully and solemnly 
I lifted it, and taking it out of-doors into the 
sunny garden I made a hole with a hoe and 
buried it, as I thought, unnoticed. But 
Richard had been on his way to the cellar to 
see if he could help me, and had watched the 
whole operation, and now and then after¬ 
ward when 1 complained of the hardships of 
dairy work, ho would add mischievously, 
‘ Ohl my wife has planted a butter tree, bo 
we shall soon be aide to do without the cows.’’ 
As I was something of a botanist the neigh¬ 
bors thought it was some new plant that he 
called by that name, but it always silenced 
me on that subject, though uow we ofteu 
laugh together over my first mishap, and 
my novel methf d of hiding it. Before mar¬ 
riage, with a young girl's sentiment and love 
for poetry, I had many times read Whittier’s 
beautiful poem, “Among the Hills,” and felt 
myself ouite able to cope with the difficulties 
that another girl had conquered. With flue 
effect I often read of the wife when 
"fiare-nrmivl, as Juno mtfttit, she came 
White-aproned from the dairy," 
With pride in thinking of Richard, 1 had 
often murmured when I had any scruples: 
"Nor frock nor tan can tilde the uiun 
And see you not, my farmer. 
How weak and ronu a woman wait* 
Behind thin silken armor?" 
But oh! reader mine, the poetry of life goes 
into small compass when one meets the stern 
practical reality of the first butter making. 
At last the rich yellow mass was Halted 
and packed away and I heaved a sigh of 
relief, and determined that whatever might 
come, this hard work should become easy to 
me, and rough places smooth if honest en¬ 
deavor could accomplish it. And I have 
kept my word, for by the aid of hooks and 
magazines and many an experiment 1 have 
succeeded in avoiding many of the shoals and 
quicksands that. I inset, a housekeeper’s weary 
way. After a few weeks, giving us time to 
settle down, I received word that Richard’s 
mother was coming over from the homestead 
to spend the day. As she was a smart, ener¬ 
getic Scotch woman, and proverbial as a 
t horough housekeeper my soul quaked with 
many dire misgivings which, however, I 
must reserve for another chapter. 
DRY BREAD ; FRAGMENTS, 
y lady’s WAYNE. 
We never fret over the accumulation of stale 
bread. We are careful, however, not to let it 
get (he start of us; when there 1 h a plateful 
or less we usu it up. There are ho many wayB 
of doing this that we are never at a loss, and 
as our “crusts” are seldom more than the 
