JULY IS 
474 
far t\)t Baling. 
Eight cream-colored ponies were selected 
to draw the Queen’s carriage iu the jubilee pro¬ 
cession. They were very bright, little fellows 
and made a pretty display. There was a great 
sham about them . though, so I am told. As 
they marched along in the procession they 
seemed to have very long and beautiful tails. 
Here is where the sham came in. Their own 
tails were short and scrubby as an old brush. 
They actually carried false tails. Some long 
flaxen stuff had been tied onto them' T guess 
the Queen knew nothing about it. It’s a 
small matter to bother the Queen about, and 
yet if one of these ponies bad switched his 
tail off it. would have been a large matter. 
WHEN a boy gets to be 14 or 15 years old 
he is very anxious to raise a beard or a mous¬ 
tache, 1 know 1 was and I guess nil boys are 
about like me in this respect. Boys at tbnt 
age are eager to be men. They get an idea 
that it is manly to have hair growing on the 
face. There is a good deal besides hair that 
goes to make up a man, hut for all that, the 
popular idea is that u l»oy should raise a heal'd 
as scon ns he can. I knew a foolish boy once 
who was in such a hurry to raise a beard that 
he answered an advertisement which offered 
a preparation to make a beard grow. lJe used 
some of the stuff according to directions and 
his skin turned black—just as though he had 
rubbed ink over it. That stain didn’t leave 
his face for over a week. The first time a 
boy tries to shave himself is n pretty danger¬ 
ous time of his life. lie is about half liable to 
cut his throat, or slice off the end of his nose. 
My advice to these beard-growers would be to 
let the face alone and give the heard a chance 
to grow. Don’t put any patent stuff on your 
faces and don't try to shave while your face is 
so tender that you will shave half the skin off. 
I went all through this great, anxiety once. 
Now, 1 find it such a bother to shave that I 
wish somebody would invent an ointment 
that would atop hair from growing. 
I hope our boys and girls will try hard to 
exhibit something at the fair this year. I 
believe iu that, kind of work. Our New 
York State Cousins have a very good chance 
to get prizes. At. the State foil', to be held at 
Rochester, a number of special prizes for 
children have heeu offered. There will also 
be a “Children’s Day” on purpose for people 
of our way of thinking. Uncle Mark expects 
to be at Rochester and be wants to see as 
many of his boys and girls as he can. He 
wants to show them that there really is such 
a per.sou as Uncle Mark. 
My opinion is that every boy and girl 
should learn how to swim. We ure all liable 
to meet with accidents on the water. Learn¬ 
ing to swim costs nothing and is a very 
healthful exercise. It requires a great deal 
of patience. After you once learn you never 
forget how to do it. You never know just 
how you learn You strike out uud kick 
about in the water aud all at once after sink¬ 
ing many times aud getting your mouth, nose 
aud ears full of water you find you van keep 
yourself up. All those who live near a pond, 
lake or river, should by all means learn to 
swim. You will never regret the time spent 
iu learning. 
When I was a boy I lived for a time in a 
place whore I was unfortunate enough to be the 
only small hoy in the neighborhood. This is 
not a desirable position to fill. Io the first 
place, you don’t have anybody to play with, 
and life without some play is pretty dull for a 
boy. Then, again, everybody iu the neigh¬ 
borhood wants to borrow “the boy” when the 
‘'odd jobs” that are a little too disagreeable 
for a man to do come around. 1 used to pick 
up bones, cut brush, stow away buy. pick cher¬ 
ries, and do other work for all the neighbors. 
Most of them were old people who had never 
had any children of their own, or who had for¬ 
gotten how their children acted. 1 bad plenty 
of good advice, and not a few whippings. 
One job 1 was always booked for, was that of 
riding the horse to cultivate. As 1 remember 
it, most, of the horses in the neighborhood were 
great blockheads, it would seem as though a 
horse of average intelligence ought to have 
sense enough to walk between the rows. Some 
of them would go tramping along, right on 
the row of potatoes or corn, dragging the 
cultivator after them. I got so that I knew 
all the horses In the neighborhood. Most of 
them were lean old fellows with sharp backs 
and hard ribs. The man who had the most 
cultivating to do, bad the worst horse 
to ride. That man wouldn’t let me 
have any blanket to sit on. Ho said it 
would never do to make me comfortable for 
then I would think I was playing and forget 
to guide the horse. Teat old horse had oue 
stiff leg and about the only comfortable place 
that I could find on him was on his neck. He 
would go stumbling and blundering along 
putting bis great feet on the plants whenever 
he could and biting out of a mouthful! of 
corn iu spite of all I could do to hold his head 
up. It did no good to scold him aud sol had 
to stand it. Sometimes the old man would 
take me down and make me lead the horse. 
Then I was always so afraid that he would 
put his hoof on my bare feet that I never 
could lead him straight. That cultivating 
was a bad job. I was always sorry to see 
the old man coming to “borrow the boy.” T 
know now that a horse can be trained to do 
this cultivating alone. Every farm horse 
should know how to do it. A sensible horse 
will soon learn to walk straight and to re¬ 
spect useful plants. Some boys like to ride 
the horse, aud in cultivating in the garden they 
can often help a great deal, but in field cul¬ 
ture the horse ought to be made to do the 
work. 
A NUMBER of Ital inns iu this city make good 
livings at selling what they call “ Iloky 
Poky.” It appears to be a bard white or red 
substance wrapped up in paper and carried 
about in an ice-cream freezer. The boys on 
the streets eat lots of It. It, costs two cents u 
package. I was curious enough to find out 
what it was made of. It seems to lie an imi¬ 
tation of frozen custard. It is made of glue 
or gelatine and sugar and a little flavoring. 
It strikes me it would give one the dyspepsia 
iu a very short time. 
- H I 
LETTERS FROM THE COUSINS. 
Dear Uncle Mark: (If I may still call 
you so)—I used to be one of “the Cousins, 
years ago, and sometimes write to you; hut 
Time, with its changes, has earned me past 
my childhood ; still, I never tire of the Rural 
and reading the letters from the Cousins, and 
now beg the privilege of occasionally writing 
to you, too, even if I am “grown up.” There 
is one thing which I’d like to tell my little 
Cousins: Children, try to be brave—to he self- 
reliant. Do not give way to timidity. Bo 
little men aud women. Meet the trials which 
naturally come to boys and girls with as 
brave a spirit as you can command, and it 
will, iu a great measure, prepare you for the 
battles you will have to face as you grow 
older. Would you care to have me tell you a 
little story of my childhood! 
1 was one of a large family of boys and 
girls. Fond of play, as most children are, 
yet anxious to be of some use in the world— 
that is, always dreaming of what l was going 
to do some day. But there was one thing 
which always kept me from doing anything— 
I was a little coward. If one of the children 
fell, instead of going to the rescue. I'd fly to 
some place beyond the reach of the sound of 
his voice and hide, shaking and shivering, 
until at. last, when 1 imagined all was quiet, 
I’d venture forth again. The sight of a drop 
of blood took all the life out of me. Yes, I 
really think that 1 was a coward. 
When I was about 11 years old my Mamma 
was taken very ill and we hud hut little hope 
of her recovery. We only kept one servant 
girl then, and most of her time was, of course, 
spent in the sick chamber. Poor mel 1 had 
to stay home from school and mind the baby 
(who was about two and a hull' years old) all 
day long. One day Kate, the girl, told tne to 
keep the younger children quiet, and do vari¬ 
ous other things, among which was to uttend 
to the kitchen lire and keep it from going out. 
I was only It, remember. The sun shone, 
the sky was clear, the grass green. The temp 
tation to huve a frolic was very great, so off I 
went, dragging the baby by the hand. 
I never once thought of the fire until T saw 
the men coming over the hill. My goodness! 
I could scarcely believe it was so late. Pick¬ 
ing up the baby', I run ut full speed to the 
bouse. Sure enough, the fire was out. Oh, 
dear! 1 didn’t know what to do. If Kate 
came down and found it was out, I knew 
she’d puuish me, and 1 couldn’t go to Mamma 
and tell her, either. Well, I tried to make it 
hut it wouldn’t go. There was too much 
paper, too much wood, or too much draft, or 
else not enough of any of these. Anyhow it 
wouldn't go. 
After struggling with it for some time aud 
failing still, an idea struck me—I’d use kero 
sene? But what would I do with Dick? He 
was at my heels, trying to help me. I knew 
that I was about to do something very wrong, 
and as he tried to imitate everything he saw, 
I was afraid if he saw me put oil on the fire 
he might attempt it. when no one was by. 
“Dick,” said J, “Can’t, you go down the cel¬ 
lar aud bring up some chips for sister?” 
He didn’t, want to go at all, but 1 coaxed 
him so hard that he finally started, i can see 
him yet as he walked across the floor in his 
little red dress, shaking himself an I shrugging 
his shoulders. “Have to he goiu’ down thel- 
lar all time,” he lisped in a discontented fash¬ 
ion as he went. 
I watched him to the cellar door, grasped 
the can, and was about to pour the oil in the 
stove when, Thump! thump! thump! I hoard 
him going down the Steps. One scream, then 
all was quiet. Now, what do you suppose I 
did? Why, I dropped the can, tore out the 
back door a ml never stopped till I reached the 
stable, which was quite a distance from the 
house. What should I do! I couldn't go back 
to the house, I was afraid! I didn’t hear any 
cries, perhaps lie was dead! Oh, what should 
1 do! 1 suffered untold agonies in those few 
seconds. 
Suddenly I seemed to he possessed with su¬ 
perhuman strength. I walked boldly into the 
house; as I neared the cellar door my courage 
almost forsook me, but, 1 grasped the door jam 
to steady myself and looked down the cellar. 
There In* lay in a little red heap at the foot 
of the stairs, still as death. Trembling like an 
aspen, I crawled down. Ho was Stunned by 
the fall. I turned him over. Oh, Heavens! 
one eye lay out on his cheek! The corner of 
the step had struck him just under the eye 
and forced it out of the socket There it hung, 
with the nerves, like white strings, exposed. 
That was the awfulast moment, I ever experi¬ 
enced. The sight appalled me! 
I grasped him in my arms and held him 
with his face upward. I pressed the eye back 
iuto its place with my hand and held it. there. 
What to do, I did not know. Just then one of 
the other boys came in, and l sent him off for 
the doctor, who, fortunately, was just coming 
to the house. 
1 was still crouching on the steps with my 
baud over the poor baby's e,y e, wondering how 
I should ever tell Mamma, when the doctor 
came. I explained as clearly as I could. 
“Lift your hand up,” said he. 
“Oh, I can’t” I cried, "his eye is out!” 
“But you must," he replied firmly, and tak¬ 
ing me by the wrist, li'ted my hand. 
I dosed my eyes for an instant. On look¬ 
ing, i found to my' surprise, that the eye ap¬ 
peared to l*e all right. After examining it 
Carefully the doctor proceeded to restore the 
little fellow to consciousness. Dick opened 
his big black eyes and stared at, us, 
“Its all right,” said the doctor, “and you 
are a brave, little soldier. If you hadn’t 
pressed the eye back iuto its place, and he had 
moved or tossed about, he would, evidently, 
have broken the nerves and tendons, and your 
poor little brother would have lost, an eye.” 
Then patting me on the bock, he took the 
child iu his arms and carried him up stairs. 
I never look into my dear little brother’s 
eyes without breathing a prayer of thankful¬ 
ness—thankfulness that I had courage given 
me to he brave and return to my jiost. instead 
of fleeing like a coward. It was a lesson to 
me, and oue by which 1 profited, trio. Many, 
many times since, when about to succumb to 
fear, 1 remember the incident which I have 
just related, and with a prayer for strength, 
“ braced vp! ” 1 trust that some of my read¬ 
ers may also learn a lesson from this little 
sketch. “dolinda mix.” 
Philadelphia, Pa. 
theria. I planted two oepper plants in 
my' little garden last spring and ma<le five 
pods. We had very little fruit last summer, 
but I dried some apples. We made nearly a 
barrel full of popcorn: some of the ears are 
1)4 inches long. Your Niece, 
Farmville, Va. sallie l. daniel. 
Dear UNCLE Mark: I have not written to 
you for a long time, and perhaps you have 
taken my name from the list of Cousins. I 
send my thanks to Uncle Mark for the sweet 
peas, and was well rewarded for my trouble 
hy the beautiful flowers which T had. I had a 
small garden last summer, iu which -I raised 
onions, peppers, and cabbage. I sold my gar¬ 
den crop to my father for #1.25. I tried to 
raise turkeys lust summer, but did uot have 
very good luck with them. Will try' again 
this summer. I was 14 years old April 23. 
When is Uncle Mark’s birthday, or does he 
not like to tell ? We live six miles from Little 
Fulls, which was once the home of the Indian 
Chief Bryant, who once ruled over the six 
great nations. We made some maple syrup 
this spring, but not as pictured in t he Rural 
last spring. From Your Nephew, 
Herkimer Co., N. Y. rush lewis. 
Uncle Mark’s birthday conies on April 21. 
Dear Unclf. Mark: I thought, I would 
write you a letter. We live on the farm. 
We have our potatoes planted aud ore plow, 
hlg for corn. I have got two little Nieces. 
The oldest one is pretty near four years old I 
am four feet and one inch tall aud I am 
growing like a bean pole. I expect they 
will use me for one some day. I will be 12 
years old in August. I weigh 43 pounds. We 
have 11 chickens. CHARLES h. cox. 
Schoolcraft, Michigan. 
11 hope you will find some better work to do 
than that of acting ns a. lieau pole. You are 
going to he a large man and yon should 
make up your mind to do a large man’s work. 
—u. M.] 
Dear Uncle Mark : I am 10 years old. 
We live on a farm of MX) acres. We had 
nine little ducks but one died. We have four 
cats, one broke his leg in the bear trap. I 
have a pet colt ; I thought I would name her 
Tony or Julia. Which do you like best ? 
Clinton, Mich. kdna iiatrum. 
I Julia suits me best.—u. m.J 
PteccUancou** 
Purify the Blood. 
We do not claim thnt Hood's Sarsaparilla Is the 
only medicino deserving public confidence, but 
wu believe that 1o purify the blood, to restore and 
renovate the whole system. H Is absolutely 
unequalled. The lulluonco of the blood upou 
tho health can not l>« over-eil boated. If ft be¬ 
comes contaminated, the train of consequences 
by which the health L undennined is immeasur- 
sblo. loss of Appetite. Low Spirits. Ileudnche, 
Dyspepsia, Debility, Nervousness and other 
*• little (?) ailments" are tho premonitions of 
moro serious and often fatal results. Try 
Dear Uncle Mark: When our Rural 
New-Yorker came the other day and I read 
the children’s letters, 1 made up my mind to 
write one too. 1 should like to correspond 
with some boy about my age (which is 13), 
who lives in some of the Gulf or Western 
States. 1 live iu South Bryou, New York. I 
do not go to school now but study at home. 
We have about 50 hens and get about 30 eggs 
every afternoon. I would like to have some 
ono toll nie what is good for hen cholera. We 
have had several fowls die of that disease. I 
raised a brood of tame chickens last summer 
without any mother, so I culled them orphans. 
The roosters will crow in the house when in 
my arms, and some of the pullets sit on my 
head and talk while I am doing my work. 
We have seven horses and one colt, 12 cows, 
three yearlings, and are raising three calves. 
Eight of our cattle are mooleys, and we like 
them very much. We ha ve 23 little pigs and 
three big ones. My father has a farm of 140 
acres and we make a great, deal of maple 
syrup every spring. This year we tapped 
350 trees. Your Nepbew, 
irvie c. h. cook. 
Hood’s Sarsaparilla 
Sold by all druggists. SI ; six for #5. Made 
only by C. 1. HOOD & CO., Lowell, Mass. 
IOO Doses One Dollar 
me milk. 
1880 . 
Delivery 
Cities 
mid Towns. 
A LONG-NEEDED WANT 
AT LAST SUPPLIED. 
A. V. WHITEMAN, 
Murray St,, SEW YORK. 
TAND4RD 
GALVANIZED WIRE NETTING. 
For Poultry Fencing. 
I 7-8 OK (INK CKNT KuH ‘l INCH Ml >11 NO. 19 WIUK. 
EVERYTHIN!) FOR THE POULTRY YARD. 
Illafclicr* and Brooders. 
Send for Circular ltrockner & Evans, 
as VKSRY STREET. N. V. CITY. 
Dear Uncle Mark: I will tell you about 
a visit I made last summer. Mamma, Katie 
and I went to spend the day with a lady who 
lives about a m»le from here. A lady was 
therefrom Farmville and her little daughter 
was there. We little folks played out in the 
pretty shady yard a while and then went to 
the spring. The lady we were visiting has a 
sou who is very kind to little girls, and he 
gave us a bout to sail in the water of a pond 
he had made. We enjoyed ourselves very 
much. Iu the evening, after we were tired, 
we went to the house again and played domi¬ 
noes on the porch, Late in the evening we 
came home. The next day my throat was 
sore and I was siqk six weeks with diph- 
ACME 
PULVERIZIN’ Gr HARROW, 
CLOD CRUSHER and LEVELER. 
The Heat Tool In tho world for preparing Wheat 
Ground nnd for Summer Fallow*. 
DXJANE K. MASK. Sole Manufacturer. 
Millington, Jlvyr Jnsiry. 
Brunei, onW: A 40 South Clark St.. Chicago. 
N B. "Tili»(t* i* Manure’.’»od other *«»*y» .cnllree 
to parti*, who name Ihi. paper. * v r 
.11.LSI ) l(M), I'OlrAMMIIINA, 
i lii'.U'r Mliilr, Hr i ksline A York¬ 
shire Pig*. SoUllidow D| totswold 
find Oxford Down Sheep and Lambs 
Scotch Colley Shepherd ling* and 
Fancy Poultry. Bend for CaUlofQt 
W.ATLKK Bl’llPEK AC0*PfallA*P* 
