488 
FH£ RURAL fSEW-YORKEK. 
JULY 48 
■ftliscetlaneimjL 
CATALOGUES. ETC., RECEIVED. 
B. & J. W. Belcher, Chicopee Falls, Mass. 
—Catalogue of the Madgett Hay Tedder, show¬ 
ing, by cuts and description, wherein it is 
among the very best of tedders made. The 
forks on this machine are so attached to their 
handles, that if they come in contact with any 
obstruction, no matter how large, they will 
readily pass over it, and at once come back to 
their places without breabiug. We have used 
a hay tedder many years, and can hardly un¬ 
derstand why such a useful implement should 
be so little employed. 
H, Topping, Marion, Wayne Co., N. Y.— 
Illustrated circular of H. Topping's improved 
portable fruit evaporator. This is a handy 
drier, and is made in four sizes capable of dry¬ 
ing from three to 30 bushels of apples per day. 
Send for the circular. 
fox lUcitUfTl. 
CONDUCTED BY MISt RAY CLARK. 
THE FARMS THAT PAY. 
Passing through the country near the harvest days, 
Seeing ripened cherries, noting farmers’ ways, 
Taking Inventory of the rural life. 
Noting how the farmer 11 ves and how he treats his 
wife. 
How he rides to market, how he keeps his yard, 
I am full of wonder why farming is so hard! 
Why is it so much dreaded, and boys leave home so 
soon. 
Strolling off to cities before their boyhood’s noon? 
why amid the dainties of cream and Trull and 
flowers. 
With roomy lawns and shade-trees, they ever envy 
ours? 
I pass a row of dwellings to match a poet’s dream. 
And wonder if the farmer knows his life is sweet as 
cream. 
And on and on I’m driving, past fields of waving 
grain 
With clover red and cattle white and trees green 
after rain. 
The high hills form the background, the swiftly run¬ 
ning brook 
Completes the rural picture, of home—as home 
should look. 
Across on yonder corner I see what seems a farm, 
But weeds and stones and broken rails will do Its 
value harm, 
T’wlU drive away its owner; his boys will seek the 
town: 
There’s nothing round the place to love—the house 
is dullish brown. 
The farmer wears his hair too long; his carriages 
and teams 
Are dingy, dull and careless kept, and show not 
comfort's gleam. 
The wife works wearily Inside; the daughters poorly 
dress’d: 
The hearts that would the home enjoy are heavily 
oppressed. 
Ah, yes! there are the Ideal homes, there are the 
Ideal lives! 
There are some lovely rural scenes, some happy 
farmers’ wives. 
But mauy pass their golden prime In briers, thorns 
and weeds, 
And leave broad fields In written wills, In tax re¬ 
ceipts aud deeds. 
When will the farmer love his lot and live while live 
he may, 
ADd hold bis home, his stock, his life from prema¬ 
ture decay? 
How long before bis boys and girls shall take a 
higher stand 
And lead a happier, joyful llfe-a life they could 
command? 
I’m dreaming of a far off day—another harvest day, 
When roads and lawns are shaded, and boys rliluk 
farms will pay. j. w. ponovan. 
“AM I MY BROTHER’S KEEPER!” 
While thinking over this question it sug¬ 
gested something which may prove a timely 
suggestion to those of our readers, who are in¬ 
terested in the discussion of novel reading. 
While we deplore the fact, that so many of 
our youog people (and old ones too) seem to 
prefer trashy literature to good or solid read¬ 
ing, how many of us have asked ourselves the 
question how far “Am I my brother’s keeper?” 
Many of us are in some measure responsible for 
the lack of interest and appreciation of the 
good, shown by novel readers, as a class; per¬ 
haps a great deal more so than we have ever 
imagined. If we would have our children 
aDd associates read the good and reject the 
bad, we should do something to awaken an in¬ 
terest in, and endeavor to create a taste for a 
more retiued and instructive course of read¬ 
ing. In my opinion there is no better way to 
reach them than to put into their hands good 
as well as interesting books aud magazines. 
This can be done by inviting them into our li¬ 
braries, and by so doing, not only furnish 
wholesome food for thought and amusement 
during many an hour that might otherwise be 
spent in idleness, or reading trashy novels, but 
perchance drop a good seed in fertile soil, 
which will germinate and produce golden 
fruit in the future. 
Parents are more to blame for depraved 
taste than their children, for, before a child 
is old enough to choose for himself, the soil is 
most fertile, and latent seed are there ready 
to spring up unbidden, and unless great care 
is taken to eradicate them one by one as they 
appear, and to supplant them with good, we 
shall find in future years ouly weeds where 
we could have had flowers. Besides we must 
not expect young people to appreciate a thing 
of which they know comparatively nothing. 
Human nature is prone to wander in forbid- 
deu paths, and unless we as parents, guardians 
or friends, make some effort to lead the young 
into the right path, or at least to a point where 
they will be able to distinguish the really good 
from the really bad, we are responsible ac¬ 
cording to our means of helping, and in this 
sense we are “our brother’s keeper.” Bring 
together two young people. One who has 
been allowed all or any kiud of literature he 
may choose for himself; while the reading of 
the other has been chosen by wise parents. 
The result will invariably be that the latter 
will chose the good, while the other will reject 
it as worthless simply because bis brain is so 
dwarfed that he is not able to appreciate it. 
Yet there are many who are starving for men¬ 
tal food, which for lack of means they cannot 
obtain. Some of us could be a help by giving 
them access to our libraries. I am well aware 
that this suggestion will not meet with ap¬ 
proval from all, for I hear you say, “I do not 
like to have my books soiled by frequent or 
careless handling.” But should that prevent 
us from doing good? Better to have our books 
worn and dirty by much handling, than to let 
a soul mentally and spiritually starve for that 
which we have the means of giving. Venders 
of trashy literature spare no pains to put it 
into the hands of oar children. If we would 
set them free from its baneful influence we 
must supplant it with the good. 
MARY L. HINDS. 
DON’T FRET. 
Now what is the use in fretting? Suppose the 
outlook is not so bright as it is some years, and 
things look discouraging, there is no mortal 
use in fretting and worrying all the time. It 
does not make things any easier, nor will it 
make one jot of difference in the plans of the 
Almighty. We shall have a harvest time just 
as sure as we had a seed time; that promise 
never fails. The bugs and worms won't eat 
up everything. The locusts have not got here 
yet, and perhaps they will not come at all. 
Fretting won’t keep them off as well as a good 
dose of sulphur, when you see them coming. 
I remember once when I was a girl, my father 
had a nice field of wheat. One of the neigh¬ 
bors told him the locusts had come on his 
farm and were making a clean sweep of his 
wheat aud oats. Father’s farm run along side 
of his, so we knew they would come there 
next, just as soon as they had eaten hi3 fields 
all bare, so father thought he would be all 
ready for them; he went to the store and 
bought half a dozen pounds of sulphur, and 
he kept clear watch; and when they got 
through Mr Grey’s fields, he had us children 
go and scatter that sulphur the whole length 
of onr wheat field, and he set fire to the sul¬ 
phur, and you never saw such a shower of 
locusts, and notone ever touched our grain; 
and the turkeys made a good living out of these 
dead insects. Now if he had fretted and 
stewed, he would have lost his grain; but he 
did not believe in fretting auy more than I 
do. I never could see that it did any good. 
The potato beetle is not doing auj’ more mis¬ 
chief than it has done Id years past. It is bad 
enough, I know; but we shall have potatoes 
enough this year, so don’t worry. Well, I 
know the price of butter is low iu market, but 
I have made tons of butter that was sold for 
a York shilling a pound, and thought it was 
a good, fair price, and I honestly believe there 
was never a pound of butter made, that 
was worth over 12}*£ cents a pound to the 
consumer, and you get 18 cents or about that, 
I suppose, aud you are now fretting so be¬ 
cause it is so much less than you used to get. 
Butter that costs 50 cents a pound, is an ex 
travagance; it is not worth it nor ever was. 
But because you got that last year you always 
want it. Your butter is just as good this 
Bummer as It was last, but you cannot get the 
same prica Money is not as plenty and fol ks 
cannot pay as high for it, so what is the use of 
fretting about it? I tell you it is time there 
was a change in the order of things. Our 
country is getting extravagant. Economy is 
not thought of; but the more a thing costs, 
the better it is. People have got to retrench in 
everything; dress, living and style. Farm¬ 
ers cannot make the money off of their farms 
that they used to. I suppose the land is kind 
of run out, it is according to nature that it 
should, but folks do not farm it as they used 
to, by a long sight. They have got lute of ne w 
fangled wayB that I for one do not believe lu. 
No; 1 ain not going to fret about the newfan¬ 
gled ways, I do not believe all of them are im¬ 
provements, but one thing is very evident; 
people do uot get rich now days, off of their 
farms, as they used to do in my y oung days. I 
suppose there are a good many reasous for the 
difference. Yes! I think farmers and farmers! 
wives work fully as hard as they ever did, but 
their work is different, the women folks es¬ 
pecially; for they do lots of uuuecessary work 
just to gratify the eye. Their labor does not 
pay, it is just for the sake of the fashion, to 
keep up thestyle. Why a girl was of no account, 
that could not fit her own dresses, yes, and 
make them too. No, 1 am not fretting, 
only statiug facta. A persou could fret till 
dooms-day and it would not change the order 
of things, so I learned years ago to accept the 
inevitable, and make no fuss about it. Times 
are changing, aud folks see through different 
eyes from what they did when I was a girl, 
but there is no use of fretting about any 
thing, because it does no good. 
GRANDMOTHER. 
“A MORNING’S REVERIE.” 
I have just been reading “A thought or 
two,” by Eva Ames in the Rural of April IS, 
and I have some to offer on the subject. She 
has wisely said, “if it be true, that in our life to 
come we look back on this life as a dark hour, 
hardly remembered.” It seems that what¬ 
ever kindness we had done while here.the faint¬ 
ing hearts that we had helped to turn from the 
wrong and pointed to a better home, would 
only be strengthening the endless link that 
binds the great heart of God to us His crea¬ 
tures. 
I was reading this morning in an old volume 
of Scribner’s Magazine, that after listening to 
a very thrilling sermon, rendered by a wo¬ 
man, an old man remarked, ‘ I'll tell ye what 
that sermon’s like, its just like one great rain¬ 
bow all round ye and before, ’n behind ’u 
everywhere ’u the end reaches way to the 
Throne.” 
What a beautiful thought it presents! that 
the unboundiDg, unchanging, unfathomable 
love of God is as a rainbow linking us, tbo’ 
mere worms of the dust, to the great throne 
and heart of God. 
As the sweet morning air wafts to me the re¬ 
freshing breath of spring it is but an evidence 
of His mighty love; as the notes of many 
voiced warblers are borne to me on the breeze 
it is a manifestation of HiB loving voice 
speaking to the weary; and the sweet fra¬ 
grance of the apple-blossoms coming gently 
floating into ray room, is to me as a breath 
from our Father’s Heavenly garden. 
And why do we pass opportunities of thank¬ 
ing God for his goodness in sending us so 
many blessings! Why do we hasten on and 
on, hoping in the dim, uncertain future for 
things that are never realized, unmindful of 
the sunshine, which is daily strewn in our 
paths. 
When we consider the question of true hap¬ 
piness, does it not consist of unselfish endeav¬ 
ors to make others happy? Were we to live for 
self alone in this life, we would be like the 
poor miser Eva Ames tells of. 
I often think how much good might be done 
if we would "do to others as we would that 
they should do to us,” instead of waiting for 
others to do to us as we would like to be done 
by; and could every one understand and fully 
realize that “With what measure ye mete, it 
shall be measured to you again,” the band of 
wealth would grasp the hand of poverty in 
one long, hearty thanksgiving, aud the horny 
hand of toil rejoice in the “Harvest home.” 
But morning is passed, noon approaches, 
and the summons for dinner have gone forth, 
so will bid you good morning, thanking you 
dear Rural for the many helps that have 
come from your valuable columns. 
“aunt flora.” 
Domestic Ccotiomi) 
CONDUCTED BY EMILY MAPLE. 
HOUSEKEEPING ON PUGET SOUND. 
MARY WAGER-FISHER. 
in. 
During our season of “lighthousekeeping” 
we became much attached to our Scotch 
neighbors, particularly the wife and mother. 
She found her greatest delight in cooking, and 
was exceedingly accomplished in the art. She 
told me that when she was a girl iu Scotland, 
she served an apprenticeship in a hotel kitch¬ 
en, giving her time aud work in return for the 
privilege of learning how to cook. What a 
contrast to the average girl whom we hire for 
our kitchens, whos^ ignorance is bliss, and 
who uublushingly asks to be roundly paid for 
the exercise of it. This canny Scotch woman 
had an enormou»cook stove, for which she had 
paid $80. and she burnt ouly wood iu it, be¬ 
cause coal was uot clean enough. Once every 
week she would bring us, before breakfast, a 
plate of raised biscuits, hot from the oven, 
which wore so delicious that in spite of the 
unwholesomeness of freRb bread, we ate, aud 
quieted our consciences as best we could. Her 
bread was equally nice, uncommonly nice, and 
I asked her bow she made it. 
“It is all in the yeast” she began, “Grate 
three raw potatoes, on which pour two quarts 
of boiling water; add two tablespoons of 
white sugar, one of salt; steep a pinch of 
hops, strain and add; then boil all together 
ten minutes; when luke warm add a pint of 
baker’s 3 r east; after it lias risen up like snow, 
put it in a stone jar. Always keep a cupful of 
it, to make the uext batch of yeast. 1 use a 
pint and a half for eight or uiue loaves of 
bread. I sift my flour always, and I think 
water is better to mix up the bread with than 
milk. 1 knead it up at night, rub with butter 
on the topsoas to keep it soft. For biscuits I 
work in some butter for shortening, roll out 
the dough, cut into squares and butter the 
edges to keep them from sticking. You know 
how early I get my bread baked in the morn¬ 
ing!” she concluded with a laugh. “For corn 
bread,”she weut on, “I use two cups of corn 
meal, one small cup of wheat flour; a large 
tableapoonful of butter, two eggs, aud add 
sweet milk until I thiuk the right consistency 
is obtained. I don’t go much by measures.” 
Her kitchen, like all the house, had no room 
over it, and above the stove was a square 
hole, two feet in diameter, with a covering 
like a sky light arrangement, which carried 
off the odors of cooking. It was a capital 
arrangmeut, very easily compassed, and aside 
from freeing the house from cookery smells, 
perfectly ventilated her kitchen and kept it at 
an equable temperature. For thickening 
gravies and sauces she used corn-starch instead 
of flour. Everything she cooked was good 
ami possessed that peculiar home made flavor 
which lives in the memory of boys, as the 
“way mother’s things tasted,”—a remark I 
always like to hear. She used often to say 
that her husband was getting along in years 
and he needed good food to keep him in good 
health. She cooked for seven—some family 
friends cotring in for their meals—and she 
kept no servaut. She employed an old man 
to do errands for her, and a woman to come 
in to wash the flannels and clean up, while all 
the rest of the washing went to a Chinese 
laundry. She said that the Chinese did not 
wash flannels to suit her—a complaint I often 
beard made of their washing. My neighbor's 
sister told me that one Chinaman had done 
her washing for Hi years and iu all that time 
she had lost nothing through his carelessness. 
In keeping house on this coast the hard 
work of washing and ironing is at once solved 
by tbe Chinese. Some Indian women also do 
Pi$cfUaw*ou$ ^dxrertisittg. 
It is safe to assert 
that nine families out 
of ten lose one hun¬ 
dred dollars’ worth of 
apparel every year by 
the use of poor soap. 
Prof. Silliman, of Yale 
College, says: “ 1 am 
“surprised to find a 
“laundry soap of such 
“remarkable parity as 
the ‘Ivory.’” Hold 
fast to that which is 
good. 
Free of charge. A full size cake of Ivory Soap 
will be sent to any one who can not gel it <>f their 
grocer, if six two-cent stamps, to pay postage, are 
sent to Procter & Gamble, Cincinnati, l’lcaso 
mention this paper. 
