m 
wrong. And experience with hired men since 
that time has only served to strengthen that 
conviction. It is wrong, not only to the hired 
man, but doubly so to the farmer, his wife 
and his family. It utterly destroys the 
sanctity of the dearest spot on earth, while it 
exposes the whole family to influences, both 
physical and moral, that frequently are bale¬ 
ful in the extreme. 
When all hired men are provided with an 
outhouse where they can sleep and live, one 
which they are required to keep clean and in 
order, the same as soldiers keep their bar¬ 
racks, then the average farmerine will be as 
near the millennium as she is ever likely to get. 
They should be provided with fuel and lights, 
pails, wash-bowls, mirror, comb, etc , etc , so 
they can perform their toilets, put on coats 
and come to meals like gentlemen. The agri¬ 
cultural and other papers taken should be 
sent to them, and they will be certain to read 
them quite largely. The farmer should give 
them to understand by deeds, not words, that 
he is mindful of their health and comfort, and 
he will be well repaid. They should be re¬ 
quired to put their washing out, and their 
bed-clothes should be put out at the same 
time. Neither should, under any circum¬ 
stances, be washed by the farmer’s wife or 
hired girl. The cost of having their sheets 
and pillow-cases washed will be trifling com¬ 
pared with the saving in work and time. 
The daily life of the farmer and his wife 
can be made pleasant, and their labors quite 
as easy as those of other working people, by 
the exercise of a little good common sense and 
wise management. We do not have to be 
slaves and beasts of burden simply because 
we are farmers, handle the earth and work 
out of doors. We are not obliged to work 
from daylignt until dark every day in the 
week and then finish up the odds and ends on 
Sunday,just to make a living. We can be intel¬ 
ligent ladies and gentlemen, even though our 
hands are callused, our faces freckled and 
bronzed, and our clothing loose and comforta¬ 
ble. If we can not make the farm yield a living 
and pay a profit besides, by working 10 hours a 
day. there certainly is something decidedly 
wrong in our management, and we stand in 
urgent need of an instructor. 
MORE ABOUT FARMERS’ HOMES. 
It is to be regretted that Mrs. Mary Wager- 
Fisher could not have seen her way clear to a 
continuation of her western travels and there¬ 
by provided the readers of the Rural with 
further pleasant reminiscences of her travel¬ 
ing experience. It would have been much 
more acceptable reading than the lugubrious 
tales she has concocted concerning the aver¬ 
age American farmer's home in the last few 
issues I would not be ungracious enough to 
attempt to impugn her veracity, but that she 
has any practical knowledge of what she is 
talking about the majority of your farmer 
readers will be exceedingly skeptical. A 
theory based on error and skillfully worked up 
may present an appearance of plausibility that 
will be accepted by those who know little of 
actual facts or who may be prejudiced against 
farming. That she does not like farming is 
tolerably evident, but because of her disrelish 
to it, it need not follow that she should delib¬ 
erately undertake to create au antipathy to it 
among those whose lines of life are cast in that 
direction. The seed of discontent bountifully 
sowu is quite likely to grow a harvest of un¬ 
happiness. 
Under these premises the average American 
farmer is amply justified in resenting her spe¬ 
cious attempt at discord in his household and 
aspersions and animadversions upon his man¬ 
ner of living and the home he has labored to 
build up. Often commencing with little cap¬ 
ital excepting a brave heart and willing hands, 
his necessities demand the first product of his 
labor; luxuries, which bring with them the 
paint and putty and cultivated taste that pro¬ 
vide for the aesthetic life Mrs. Fisher craves, 
must wait until later. 
That his early home is possessed of the plain¬ 
ness which she abhors is one of the evidences 
that his obligations are to be honestly met. 
There may be and probably is a mortgage 
whose yearly cent percentum must be met. 
There may oe little hungry mouths i hat must be 
filled. There may be little backs and larger 
ones which demand to be protected against the 
biting blasts. There may be little waiting 
brains that crave a knowledge of the strange 
things they have involuntarily been thrust 
among. These things make no concessions— 
they are peremptory in their demands. The 
modest income which Mother Earth yearly 
grauts is nearly or quite absorbed in the 
effort to cancel these alone. That being the 
case, should the good man contract doubtful 
debts to enable him to gild over the plainness 
Mrs. Fisher detests? 
It is useless for her to scold on such a sub¬ 
ject—of ninety-nine out of every buudred 
farming households which lack the veneor 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
Mrs. Fisher mourns, it is a financial impossi¬ 
bility for them to be otherwise and be honest. 
But it is enough that we may repudiate her 
sweeping charge—farmers who have a compet¬ 
ence above plain necessities do have pleasant 
homes. There are thousands throughout the 
land whose homes are a delight to the eye and 
simple good taste. In these matters, as in 
nearly all others, what she would deem plain¬ 
ness and perhaps positive ugliness,others might 
consider far from those lack luster qualities. 
When Oscar Wilde came to enlighten be¬ 
nighted New Yorkers as to their lamentable 
poverty of good taste, he trenched painfully 
on hitherto well established convictions of lots 
of wealthy people that the character of their 
environments was faultless. 
There is a suspicion that Oscar was a fraud 
and was simply criticising people who knew 
as much about things as Oscar himself; in fact 
that he was working for Oscar and the shek¬ 
els which his aesthetic ideas might attract to his 
pocket. I would not undertake to imply that 
Mrs. Fisher is possessed of such sordid 
motives in flying at the farming community 
of this country—not at all. By inference I 
should say, however, that her advice to all la¬ 
dies and young girls whose homes are now on 
farms is to break from the hateful bonds at 
the earliest moment and if that is impossi¬ 
ble then be as miserable as possible in mourn¬ 
ing over the fate which had shackled them to 
a farmer’s home. 
Of course, country girls would, under these 
brillant instructions, be wise enough to choose 
future partners in life whose hands were and 
would be unacquainted with the plow or hoe 
—in other words no farm for them—not if 
they knew themselves. I would like to ask if 
the homes of mechanics are the abodes of 
beauty aud harmony? If the homes of factory 
operatives are so much superior to farmers’ 
homes? If the homes of miners exhibit an at¬ 
tractiveness unknown to the dreaded farm 
house? If the homes of thousands of others 
engaged in occupations other than cultivating 
the soil, are patterns of joy and delight, that 
Mrs. Fisher need single out the farmer as the 
typical representative of discomfort and for¬ 
lorn humanity? I am glad to see that others 
have applied ink to their indignation and 
through your columns resented the imputa¬ 
tions cast upon them. To be sure a farmer is 
not a mechanic in the ordinary acceptation of 
the term—neither is he a factory operative, 
nor is he a miner, other than that he digs for 
the crops which Heaven waters for him—but 
he is a co-laborer aud a bread-winner with 
them, and upon his personal existence largely 
depends the measure of his success, the same as 
does the success of those engaged in the other 
industries referred to; therefore it is that if 
Mrs. Fisher may reasonably and justly sit 
heavily upon the farm home, let her extend 
her limits and include also those other homes. 
Exclusiveness we object to. a. t. t. 
GOLDEN GRAINS. 
Phillips Brooks says: “To be at work, to 
do things for the world, to turn the currents of 
the things about us at our will, to make our 
existence a positive element, even though it 
be no bigger than a grain of sand, in this 
great system where we live, that is a new joy 
bf which the idle man knows no more than 
the mole knows of the sunshine, or the ser¬ 
pent of the eagle’s triumphant flight into the 
upper air. The man who knows indeed what 
it is to act, to work, cries out, ‘This, this 
alone is to live!’”. 
His cares are eased with intervals of bliss: 
His little children, climbing for a kiss, 
Welcome their father’s late return at night. 
—Dryden. 
f Dean Stanley says: “Give us a man, 
young or old, high or low, on whom we know 
we can thoroughly depend—who will stand 
firm when others fail—the friend faithful aud 
true, the adviser honest and fearless, the ad¬ 
versary just aud chivalrous; in such a one 
there is a fragment of the Rock of Ages. 
But does not nature for the child prepare 
The parent’s love, the tender nurse’s care? 
Who, for their own forgetful, seek his good, 
Infold his limbs in bands, and till his veins with food. 
—Sir R. Blackmore. 
MacDonald with the peculiar pathos of 
his says: “She hoped as much as she could, 
and when she could not hope, did not stand 
still, but walked on in the dark. I thiuk when 
the sun rises upon them, some people will be 
astonished to find how far they have got in 
the dark.”. 
Richter says: “Let us accept different 
forms of religion among men, as we accept 
different languages, wherein there is still but 
one human nature expressed. Every genius 
has most power in his own language, and 
every heart in its own religion.”. 
It was Locke who said: “If we rightly 
estimate what we call good and evil, we shall 
find that it lies much in comparison.”. 
Frothingham says: “The reprobates are 
useful as guide-boards put upon tbfl Iffoad 
road which leads to perdition. Over every 
unlawful gate Providence sets the bloody 
head of a transgressor—a sorry, but instruc¬ 
tive spectacle. A pitiful way, surely, of help¬ 
ing on mankind, to tell them to become pre¬ 
cisely what one was not himself, but it is an 
efficient way.”. 
The N. Y. Observer says: “It is a pleasing 
thought to the friends of Christ that his 
sufferings are forever past, that He will no 
more travel the rough and thorny paths of 
life, that He shall no more meet with insult 
and abuse from mockiug and wicked men, 
and that the flaming sword of justice shall no 
more be bathed in His precious blood. It is 
pleasant to think that, reaseeuded to His 
native heaven, He now shares the joy for 
which He endured the cross and despised the 
shame. To all eternity shall He more and 
more see of the travail of His soul and be sat¬ 
isfied. ”,. 
CONDUCTED BY MRS. AGNES E. M. CARMAN. 
The culture of flowers is not, strictly speak¬ 
ing, a part of domestic economy. The writ¬ 
er has cared for flowers a considerable part 
of her time for the past 15 years, and there 
is no other occupation that has given her 
more downright pleasure. Our home with¬ 
out flowers xvould scarcely seem like home. 
We fancy that the children would be less con¬ 
tented, and that summer would be deprived 
of an essential charm. The culture of flow- 
ersmay not. be a part of domestic economy 
in a. technical sense, but it promotes domes¬ 
tic joy and contentment—and is not this 
ECONOMY? 
It is positively inhuman to call attention to 
a child’s personal shortcomings. We cannot 
appreciate the heartless pleasure obtained 
from twitting a child about his large feet, his 
coarse, red hands, his freckles, his awkward¬ 
ness and so on. Such references are almost 
sure to intensify the defect, whatever it may 
be, by making the child foolishly sensitive 
over it, causing him to act in an unnatural 
and constrained manner before strangers. The 
writer has never forgotten her feelings when 
a girl of 12, upon being told that her hair was 
coarse, and that coarse hair was an indication 
of a coarse character. 
A CHAT ABOUT COOKING. 
I was almost ready to exclaim with Solo¬ 
mon, “There is no new thing under the sun,” 
referring especially to the matter of cookery 
in my wearied thought, and to the everlasting 
grind, of “What shall we have for breakfast 
—dinner—supper,” when I concluded I would 
try a little fresh air to drive the cobwebs 
from my brain. So I donned bonnet and cloak 
and ran uptown to lunch with a friend who 
is a housekeeping genius. It always irritates 
me somehow to visit her too, everything goes 
so smoothly; there are no hitches or jars of any 
kind. The coffee is always clear, the bread 
light, and she can always find something for 
lunch, no matter if unexpected company does 
come on washday. Her help seems to be no 
better than that of other people, either, for I 
noticed that her one maid-of-all-work was de¬ 
cidedly cross, it being Monday, and Sue laugh¬ 
ingly remarked that Lena never recovered her 
temper uutil the washing was over and the 
ironing well under way. 
We had a most delightful dessert that seemed 
to be bread dipped in some kind of custard and 
fried, aud which Sue called “ice-cream toast!” 
She said that upon searching her ice-box for 
eggs to make F'rench toast,she found that they 
had all been used the day before in making 
cream; but au examination of the freezer dis¬ 
closed a cupful of melted ice-cream. Her 
ready wit suggested that this would make a 
good substitute, and accordingly slices of 
bread were dipped in it, fried in butter, and 
sprinkled with sugar. The result was a delic¬ 
ious and new dessert. Now, of course, it 
would not pay to make a custard as for cream, 
in order to fry a few slices of toast; I merely 
mentioned the fact of my friend’s ingenuity, 
because it is this ability to use odds and ends 
of dishes in happy combinations that gives the 
housekeeper of limited means a variety for 
her table. 
We had also a most delicious dish of fried 
beaus that were quite unlike anything I had 
ever tasted, aud when I begged Sue for the 
recipe, she declared that she had none. Close 
questioning brought out the following inform¬ 
ation. Boil in salted water until tender, a 
quart of red kidney beans, adding a pinch of 
soda to the first water, draining, aud covering 
with boiling water again. Be particular to 
keep them just at the simmering point, or if 
they get boiling too fast, throw in a cupful of 
cold water to reduce the boiling. Let them 
get cold. Put in a frying-pan ft tftbjespoonfu) 
of butter; add a teaspoonful of minced onion, 
and stir in as much dry flour; brown slightly 
and add a large cupful of some good gravy, 
preferably that from roast beef, although 
soup stock will do. Add the beans, aud a 
little lemon-juice, and simmer until thorough¬ 
ly heated through. With this we had slices 
of Boston brown bread, steamed. Cut neat 
slices, aud if you have no steamer, dispose 
them carefully in the colander, set it over a 
kettle of boiling water, cover and steam for 
ten minutes. Th? principal dish of this din¬ 
ner (washday dinner, Sue called it), was a 
preparation of minced ham and poached eggs. 
This is a very nice way to use ham when it 
can no longer be served sliced. Take ham that 
has been either boiled, or baked, or the un¬ 
cooked article. Trim off and mince very fine 
a cupful of the ham, and add au equal quan¬ 
tity of raw potato cut in tiny dice. Put a lit¬ 
tle butter in a frying-pan, and when hot toss 
the ham and potato in it for a few minutes; 
cover with a very little soup stock or water, 
and cook unt il the potatoes are tender. Season 
with pepper and chopped parsley, and turn 
out over buttered toast, adding a poached egg 
for each person. 
I found that my visit had been helpful in¬ 
deed. My mind reverted at once to a scraggy 
ham bone which I did not feel like throwing 
away, and for which I could find no use except 
ham omelets, of which we were tired. I 
modeled my dinner after the above, and was 
rewarded by having Hal, who is such a dear, 
appreciative fellow, say: “ What a swell din¬ 
ner you’ve got to-night, little woman!” 
I hope some other “ little woman ” who 
reads the Rural will be benefited by my 
bints. M. b. 
THE DARK SIDE OF FARM LIFE. 
Mrs. Fisher has told us many truths, but 
she has touched but lightly on what is to me 
the darkest and most irremediable part of 
farm life—its isolation. Yet I have never 
lived even “two miles from a lemon,” and my 
life has been passed in Central New York 
where Dakota blizzards are unknown. 
In summer the living apart from one’s kind 
is not so bad, because there are so many in¬ 
teresting sights and sounds, that people al¬ 
most forget they are lonely. Then our mile- 
distant neighbor does not seem so far off, be¬ 
cause of the pleasant walk or drive that lies 
between us. Still there are lonely hours in 
the farmeriue’s (I detest that word) long day 
when the men folk are afield, that might be 
happily shortened if some near neighbor 
would drop in for a little chat. As it is, our 
visitors because of their distance, generally 
come to stay, and so add to, instead of light¬ 
ening our labors, unless one gives them “pot- 
luck,” as I always do. 
It hardly seems to be a hardship to live dis¬ 
tant even from church, school and the post- 
office in pleasant weather; but when stormy 
days aud bad roads are between us and our 
necessities and luxuries, it is not so agreeable, 
to say the least, and it may become a serious 
trial. A friend told me a little incident which 
will illustrate this truth. 
One winter in her early married life, she 
and her husband lived entirely alone, both 
for economy’s sake and because it was more 
agreeable, especially as he was able to do the 
necessary farm chores. There came a week 
of storm and wind, when roads were drifted 
full of snow, and then a night of rain, and 
again a cold change, encrusting everything 
in ice and making the roads entirely impassa¬ 
ble. At last came a sunny, still morning, and 
the husband said: “The storm is over and I 
think I can get over to father’s by going 
across the fields. Once there I’ll get the boys 
to come over and help us out.” So 'mounting 
Prince, who felt very frisky after his week 
of idleness, he started, watched anxiously by 
the young wife uutil over the ridge and out 
of sight. Then she sat down to wait- 
women have so much waiting to do 
—but hers was not for long, for soon¬ 
er than she expected, back came the 
horse, riderless.with his broken bridle hanging 
from his head. The startled wife rushed up 
stairs aud from the window saw a dark spot 
upon the snow of the farther ridge. She was 
in delicate health, but there was no help near 
and so she started herself, falling often as the 
treacherous crust broke beneath her feet, but 
finally reachiug the dark object she supposed 
her husband. It proved to be the blanket he 
had used for a saddle. Still expecting to find 
When Baby was sick, we gave her Castoria. 
When she was a Child, she cried for Castoria, 
Wlrnn she became Miss, sbe clung to Castoria, 
When she had Children, she gave them Castoria, 
