452 
JULY 7 
very rich, but delicious; they may be eaten 
either warm or cold. 
A WORD TO YOUNG MEN. 
s. c. 
Most of you are familiar with the funny 
writing* of Bob Burdette, but perhaps few of 
you know any except the funny side of that 
witty writer. Those who know the great sor¬ 
row of his life can scarcely understand how 
he can always write so merrily, unless they 
have had a glimpse of the great soul of this 
prince of humorists. Years ago I knew of an 
invalid wife whom he cared for with all the 
tenderness of a mother, and on whom he lav¬ 
ished such a measure of devotion as few men 
are capable of, but I did not know until I 
read the paragraph given below that this sor¬ 
row had given place to a greater. It is taken 
from one of his syndicate letters, which al¬ 
though widely known, may have escaped some 
readers of the Rural, and I felt that it might 
be a power for good among the young men in 
the thousands of families to which the Rural 
finds its way. Think of it, boys, get it well 
into your hearts so that you may begin at once 
to practice it. You may not have wives at 
present, but try it with your mothers and 
sisters, and those about you. “We should 
always hold the hearts that love us nearer to 
us than the petty annoyances and little ills of 
this life.” Follow that advice ,boys, and Bob 
Burdette will not have written in vain. 
Through the cloud which has da kened his 
own life, will burst the sunshine that will 
gladden many hearts and brighten many 
lives. 
ADVICE TO A VOUNG MAN. 
I turn over the leaves of an old note-book, 
the pages of which I filled half a score of years 
ago. On one page I find this note: 
My books are all wrinkled and filled with 
crumbs of maple and sumach leaves, with 
here and there a forgotten forest leaf clinging 
to the printed one Ah well! some time I 
may kiss the wrinkled pages of my choicest 
book while I think of the dear, white hands 
that laid the maple leaves in history or lexicon, 
and thank God that the page is wrinkled and 
the engraving discolored. 
And now, whenever I turn to that page in 
the note book, do you know, my boy, how 
glad 1 am that I wrote about the leaves as I 
did? There was no shadow of fear or dread 
over my little home then. There was no 
reason why I should feel so tenderly toward 
the leaves and stems that stained and wrinkled 
my books, and even kept me from using them 
for a week at a time, was there? Ah! indeed 
there was. Indeed there was. Because love 
is better than books, my boy. Because your 
books, my son, though you crowd the literary 
treasures of the world upon your shelves, can 
never creep into your heart as your wife will, 
some day, when you find the girl whom the 
gods have decreed shall crown your home. 
Because we should always hold the hearts that 
love us nearer to us than the petty annoyances 
and little ills of this life. Because the quick, 
hasty word you speak in ill-temper or ungen¬ 
tleness to-day. my boy, leaves a sting in your 
heart to rankle half a century away. Be¬ 
cause to-day, if I could, I would burn up 
every book there is in all this world just to 
feel the little hands that laid those leaves in 
the pages where I said they must not go, clasp 
themselves about my neck for one hour. Hold 
your tongue and your pen, my boy. Every 
time you are tempted to say an ungentle 
word, or write an unkind line, or say a mean, 
ungracious thing about anybody, just stop; 
look ahead 25 years, and think how iff ma} r 
come back to you then. 
THE WINTER WOODS. 
LOUIS. 
A country walk in mid-winter does not 
sound very alluring except to a poet, who is 
supposed by the multitudes to turn all the 
sombre side of life into verse, and subsequent 
lucre. But the beauty and interest of country 
scenes in summer or winter, depend solely on 
the mind, and perception of the observer. 
The most conventional Cockney—how shall I 
translate that into American ?—the most 
thorough Philistine would say “How pretty!” 
when watching the wary cherwink lying in 
ambush in a clump of adiantum, but we never 
knew how lovely a sight it was until Mr. 
Gibson put it on paper, telling us all about 
the cherwink and his domestic affairs. 
Those who have read “ Shandon Bells” will 
remember how the Scotch artist, Ross, gave a 
little lecture on colors with no more lofty 
text than the contrast between a row of cab¬ 
bages and a decayed picket fence. It is that 
keen perception and trained eye we must take 
with us on our country walk ; like Burroughs 
we must 
“See hidden In the thing the thought 
That animates Its being.” 
Pqr landscape, during the coldest jgpjjfhSj 
THE (RURAL W1W-Y0MER. 
should meet with favor from Bunthorne and 
that ilk. There are few glaring colors to of¬ 
fend : soft grays and olives, or velvety browns 
predominate. But down in the swamp there 
is still a scattering bit of color, made by the 
berries of the swamp holly, shriveled, but 
tenacious. Benzoin odoriferum the botanist 
calls it ; to the unlearned in such lore it is 
Fevei-bush, or Benjamin-bush, or Wild All¬ 
spice, as well as Swamp Holly. The last name 
is due to its red berries. In early spring, when 
the maple appears in its crimson fringed suit, 
the benzoin is a mass of small, yellow flowers, 
while it is still destitute of leaves. It is cred¬ 
ited with some medicinal virtues, whence its 
local name of Fever-bush. 
The title of Benjamin-bush is probably ap¬ 
propriated through association, for it really 
belongs to the Sumatran gum, Styrax 
benzoin, which produces the gum benzoin 
used in perfumery. However, our plant 
delights in malarial localities, and as ben¬ 
eficent nature rarely produces a disease without 
offering an adjacent remedy, we infer that its 
curative qualities are founded on fact, and so 
call it Fever-bush in familiar converse. 
If our woodland observations are chiefly 
botanical, we shall find most to interest us 
among cryptogamous plants. Cryptogam- 
ous is a powerful adjective, but it does not 
mean anything disparaging; it is applied to 
all plants destitute of true flowers, producing, 
in place of seeds, minute bodies called spores, 
in which there is no embryo previous to ger¬ 
mination. This class comprises all ferns and 
mosses; much of the legendary lore of the 
former class is due to this absence of blossom. 
The stately Osmunda and fairy adiantum 
left us months ago, as far as outward mani¬ 
festations are concerned, but the dead-looking 
leaf mould and peat hide away a vast possi¬ 
bility of spring-time glories: it is like the oft- 
quoted parrot, which did not talk much, but 
did a power of thinking. 
But scrape away the autumn debris of de¬ 
caying leaves in some shaded nook, and you 
will lay bare the shining fronds of the ever¬ 
green Aspidium acrostichoides—Christmas 
Shield-fern. It is much used by street-vend¬ 
ers in their bouquets, and at Christmas-time it 
finds its way into many decorations. Hidden 
under the same leaves you may also find the 
sonsy little Partridge-berry, its tiny, round 
leaves as bright as in mid summer, while its 
chubby, rosy-cheeked berries seem to blush at 
its own loveliness. A few sprays of Part¬ 
ridge-berry, with a back ground of aspidium 
make a lovely winter bunch, only it seems a 
shame to drag the little Mitchella from its 
snug divan of green mosses, just because we 
have fallen in love with its rustic prettiness. 
In fact, a study of scientific botany makes 
it a serious question of conscience whether we 
have a right to gather any plant or flower, 
and the vegetarian who declines to eat flesh 
on humanitarian grounds, destroys hundreds 
of innocent lives with every dish of lentils 
and cresses. This thought is distinctly un¬ 
pleasant, but a study of plant physiology will 
soon show its truth. Fortunately for us 
our much-abused plants seem destitute of any 
organs of speech, or they might criticize 
their growers from a vegetable standpoint, in 
a manner both painful aud surprising. 
The winter season gives us a good opportun¬ 
ity to study mosses and the like, chiefly be¬ 
cause our attention is not distracted by more 
florid vegetation. And though these tiny 
cryptogams aresmall,tbey are not insignificant 
botauically. Mr. Mudd, sometime Curator of 
the Cambridge Botanic Gardens, in England, 
says of the genus Cladouia, that they are 
cephaloid aud internally lacunose, with the 
thalamium superimposed upon a carnose hyp- 
othecium; the thallus horizontal, foliaceo- 
squamulose or squamuloso-subcrustaceous. 
He also informs us that the podetia is cartila¬ 
ginous and fruticulose, with scyphiform ex¬ 
tremities. After this lucid description, we 
may all be sure of recognizing a Cladonia, no 
matter where we meet it. Mr. Mudd uses some 
unnecessary big words, but I have omitted 
these for the purpose of simplifying his des¬ 
criptions. 
But to come down to unscientific facts: 
many of our readers aie familiar with a moss 
common enough in dry pine woods, where it 
grows on sandy ground. It is light greenish- 
gray in hue, branching like miniature coral dry, 
and brittle, aud sometimes carpets the ground 
in large masses. This may be taken as one 
representative of the family my English 
authority describes; it is Cladouia rangiferina 
in its origiual state, though it passes through 
a dozen variations each of which requires the 
addition of another descriptive specific name, 
heavy enough to crush the whole genus at 
one fell swoop. 
There is always a sort of uncertainty with 
these lesser cryptogams, whether we should 
call them mosses or lichens. Strictly speak¬ 
ing, a moss has a distinpt stem, leaves, aud 
roots, while a lichen consists of scaly, expan 
M frpprts jvithpyt sijplj fljs|,jpptipns, Tr^ 
lichens, for the most part, grow on trees or 
rocks; mosses are usually terrestrial in habit. 
There are some exceptions; perhaps the most 
remarkable are the aquatic mosses, of which 
we have but two authentic genera in this 
country, the Marsilea, which declines to grow 
anywhere save in a few scattered spots, and 
the little azolla, which will form a bright 
green mat on the surface of the water. 
The variety of moss and lichen we may dis¬ 
cover in a short winter walk is really surpris¬ 
ing, though no one, save an expert lichenolo- 
gist, would venture to call each one by its 
proper name. The titles of Mr. Pasteur’s pet 
bacteria sink into extreme insignificance when 
compared with those of their class. I have in 
mind a clever monograph on this subject, in 
which the technical descriptions would cause 
William M. Evarts to hide his diminished head. 
So, our winter walk is not without its 
interest, and even an unromantic botanist 
may enjoy rural scenes, when 
—“From their frozen urns, mute springs 
Pour out, the rivers’ gradual tide, 
While shrill the skater’s Iron rings, 
Aud voices fill the wood land side,” 
GOLDEN GRAINS. 
There is not time in life to do everything, 
but we should take care that the right thing 
does not get crowded out. The over-trimmed 
garden left no time to write the friendly let¬ 
ter or pay the neighborly visit. The useless 
bit of brie &-brac, now all the rage, but soon 
to be out of fashion, made it impossible to 
take the magazine or newspaper that would be 
a pleasure and refreshment through the whole 
year. 
This is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true; 
This is life’s trial, as old earth smiles and knows; 
If you loved only what were worth your love, 
Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you; 
Make the low nature better by your throes! 
Give earth yourself, go up for gain above! 
— Browning. 
■ Lord Herbert says he that cannot forgive 
others breaks the bridge over which he must 
pass himself; for every man has need to be 
forgiven... 
Colton says conversation is the music of 
the mind; an intellectual orchestra, where all 
the instruments should bear a part, but where 
none should play together. 
The Independent says a wasted existence, 
alike for this world and the next, is an awful 
catastrophe. It utterly fails to realize any 
of the moral purposes for which it was given. 
Of him who thus wastes his life it may be tru¬ 
ly said: “Good were it for that man if he had 
never been born.”. 
Ruskin says make yourselves nests of pleas¬ 
ant thoughts. None of us yet know, for none 
of us has been taught in early youth, what 
fairy palaces we may build of beautiful 
thoughts, proof against all adversity—bright 
fancies, satisfied memories, noble histories, 
faithful sayings, treasure-houses of precious 
and restful thoughts, which care cannot dis¬ 
turb, nor pain make gloomy, nor poverty take 
away from us—houses built without hands, for 
our souls to live in. 
Gladstone says that men are apt to mistake 
the streugtb of their feeling for the strength 
of their argument. The heated mind resents 
the chill touch and relentless scrutiny of logic. 
If one only wished to be happy, this could 
be readily accomplished; but we wish to be 
happier than other people, and this is almost 
always difficult, for we believe others to be 
happier than they are. 
CONDUCTED BY MRS. AGNES E. M. CARMAN. 
KITCHEN TALK. 
ANNIE L. JACK. 
What a help the carpet-sweeper is. We 
have not many carpets, as the floors are all 
of hard wood in the living-rooms ; but for 
cleaning carpets when there are any* and for 
taking the lint from rugs the carpet sweeper 
is valuable. I like floors that can be washed 
and oiled occasionally, to bring out the grain 
and deepen the colors, aud that do away with 
the sound of the scrubbing-brush, which 1 
never could endure. Some way I do not 
care for carpets in a kitchen—the odors of 
the cooking will linger about anything that 
is woolen, aud though we may not notice it if 
steadily in-doors, any one coming in from 
the fresh outside air can detect it, and 
no one can doubt the moral influence of 
a well-aired, pure smelling house over one 
where the ventilation is bad and all sorts of 
odors cling to everything. 
The Amateur Cook tried some brown 
bread. It was simple, but had to be put on 
early in the day as it needed steaming four 
hours. One cup of molasses, ope teaspoonful 
of soda beaten in the molasses, two cups of 
Grphfiiti flour, three cups of yello\y Indian 
meal, four cups of sweet milk. The children 
are very fond of it for tea, and it is better 
for them than wheaten-bread. 
DEBT THE CAUSE. 
The prime cause of the dark side of farm 
life in my opinion is debt. I cannot conceive 
of a dark side where a farmer and his wife 
are of the same mind, owners of a good farm, 
fully equipped and entirely out of debt. Why 
they cannot-live a life of happiness and con¬ 
tentment, with much ease and some luxuries, 
is beyond my conception There can be no 
more free and independent life than farm 
life if one can pay his way, and surely if he 
owns a farm well stocked, and does not make 
it pay, the fault must rest with him, or his 
wife or both. A large proportion of farms 
all over our country are mortgaged. In my 
own county there are 1,200 mortgages owned 
by residents of the county on file in the office 
of the Register of Deeds, and with regard to 
how many there are where the mortgagees 
are non residents Madame Rumor is mum. 
No doubt most of the mortgagees have debts 
outside of the mortgages. Debt obliges the 
farmer to pay interest, often exorbitant too 
and causes him to deny his wife and family 
many comforts and conveniences. I am not 
disposed to believe that farmers, as a class, 
are more willing to see their wives over bur¬ 
dened with work, or that they have less affec¬ 
tion for them than men in other walks of life. 
Debt governs the man; he dares not use his 
money to place comforts in his home or afford 
pleasure to his family: for are not his credi¬ 
tors alert and he may lose his home. The in¬ 
terest must be paid, let other things “wag as 
they will.” The good house-wife understands 
it all. She is her husband’s confidant (or should 
be) and often his adviser. Think you sbe is 
not as anxious to use her strength and ability 
to help save the home as her husbaud is will¬ 
ing to let her? It seems to be the opinion of 
some that because a mau is a farmer he is 
necessarily devoid of all feeling for his wife, 
and is transformed into a savage. The bard 
lot of some farmers’ wives does not always 
preceed from ill-treatment on the part of 
the farmer; but from their own carelessness, 
extravagance and neglect. Lack of know¬ 
ledge, willfulness and extravagance on the 
part of the wife, have placed a mortgage on 
more than one farm, I trow. 
It is an easy matter to coutract debt, but 
a hard one to free one’s-self from it. So 
many and various are the tools necessary 
now to do farm work in an economical way; 
and though the man is minus cash, it matters 
not, there are plenty of agents ready to sell 
him any tool or machine he may need, and 
take his note, with a lien on the maehiue, 
payable in a year. Reallv it does seem as if 
the machine would more than save its price 
in that time! So he buys it. At the end of 
the year, either from drought, wet weather 
or some other cause, his crop gives only a 
partial yield, and, much to his disappointment, 
he finds he cannot meet the payment. The 
interest on the mortgage (of course his farm is 
mortgaged) must be paid, his family must be 
provided for, his stock fed, and so he fixes 
up with the ageat, by paying the iuterest, aud 
giving additional security, so that the agent 
agrees to carry him over till another year. 
In this way, he buys many things; for how 
can he run his farm without them? All seem 
equally necessary, and as interest accumulates 
closer economy both in doors and out' must be 
practiced, for the interest must be met. Home 
comforts are reduced, extra help is discharged, 
Christmas and birthday presents are dis¬ 
pensed with, old garments are made to do 
double duty—for where is the money to buy 
new ones? And still the burden of debt grows 
heavier. The farmer toils early and late, the 
wife does likewise. Neighbors looking on 
from outside the ring, say, “Farmer Jones 
grows cross and morose as he grows old, he 
does not provide for his family as well as 
formerly, makes a perfect drudge of his wife; 
don’t give her any pocket money any more, and 
when she goes to the store, she dares buy only 
the merest necessaries. It is a shame”, they 
cry, “who would have thought it of Jones ten 
years ago!” 
Alas, could they look into his heart and see 
there the bitter regret, the distress it causes 
him—kind husband aud father that he nafcpr- 
ally is—to see his family thus deprived of com- 
When Bauy was sick, we gave her Caator/a. 
When she was a Child, she cried for Castoria, 
When she became Miss, she clung to Castoria, 
Wftpfl sha bad Cfolldrsfl, g^yp tjiero pastoria, 
