440 
JUNE 40 
THE RURAl IfEW-YORKER. 
f or t\)t 1) 001X0. 
AY making time is almost 
here. No doubt some of 
the Cousins have already 
had a (aste of the work. 
We shall all be at it before 
long. Boys Can do far 
more work in the liayfield 
then they could when I 
was a boy. I know boys 
who enn drive the mowing 
machine or the borsc-rake 
just as well as a man can. 
Girls can do the work too. 
It is wonderful, isn’t it, 
how by the aid of machin¬ 
ery, a boy’s muscle be¬ 
comes as powerful as his father’s? It is very 
much the same way with the brain. Home 
people seem to have wheels and level's inside 
their heads, so that every thought is made 
three times as strong as it otherwise would be. 
These wheels and levers come from thinking 
aud study: t hey never can come in any other 
way. 
Years ago,about the only thing a boy could 
do in the hay-field was to spread the swaths 
aud rake the hay into windrows. I had my 
full share of that work. Somehow they used to 
give the l ioy the worst tools on the farm. I 
wonder if that is so now '{ If there was any 
broken pitchfork or rake, why the boy was 
expected to take it. It. would have been well 
enough if it was understood that these poor 
tools meant less and poorer work, but that 
was never thought of. They always looked 
out that the boy had enough to do, auil if he 
didn’t keep up t here was a great commotion. 
The sharp grass used to prick my feet, and 
sometimes they got pretty sore, but of course 
it never would do to wear the “new shoes’’ 
out in the field. It used to seem to me that 
my shoes were always “new” as long as they 
could hold together. When the mowers sat 
under the trees to “cool off” the Doy was al¬ 
ways sent after a jug of water—while he was 
“resting.” One day I had a good rest. The 
mowers cut into a bumble-bee’s nest. The 
bees chased them so hard that they ran and 
hid under the hay-cocks. 1 sat under the trees 
aud waited till they could get to work agaiu. 
Another work that, was always given to the 
boy was “mowing away.” 1 have done all 
kinds of hay work, but to my mind there is 
nothing harder than treading hay in ft hot, 
dusty mow. 1 have known two great, strong 
men to pitch hay at me that they knew I 
never could handle, How they would laugh 
when they had me “buried up.” Instead of 
coming up to help mo- handle the hay, they 
would lean on their pitchforks and tell me I 
wasn’t half as smart as the boy on the next 
farm. They used to bell me that such work 
would make a boy tough. 1 am inclined to 
think it will, but there is such a thing as being 
altogether too tough. If I wanted to make a 
little old man l would treat a boy just in that 
way. A boy that will work right on without 
noticing when a bird flies over the field or a 
rabbit runs into the woods, is not a boy at all, 
and be never will be one. He will just work, 
work until his muscles give out—and then 
what a blank the rest of his life will be. 
Now, boys, I hope none of you are badly 
treated. Sometimes boys think they are hav¬ 
ing a dreadful time, when, in reality, there 
are plenty of people much worse off. All boys 
and girls ought, to work; all who do not do 
something useful are drones. The majority 
of people prefer work to idleness, When work 
is made pleasant aud boys are given to under¬ 
stand that, they amount to Something, they 
will make good farmers and good workmen. 
When they are crowded and driven and made 
to feel that they are nothing but “hoys,” they 
will grow up to hate farm work, and 1 for 
one don’t blame them for doing it. T want 
my boys to stay on the farm and make farm 
life what it ought to be. 1 know well enough, 
though, that one good, satisfied farmer is 
worth a dozen men who have had their youth 
crushed out by hard work und constaht fault 
finding, Don’t get discouraged, boys. Have 
patience. Even if some of you have to work 
bard and fool that you arc badly treated, keep 
COOl, Never lose your idea of what a farm¬ 
er’s life ought to be. You will come out all 
right in the end. 
The lists still come in. Time is up now 
though. 1 will try and get the counting done 
by next week if 1 can. 1 am beginning to feel 
sorry there is no Aunt Mark to help count. 
Lists have been received during the past week 
from Bertha H. Guiding*;; Ethel Drummond; 
Edith Pidd; E. R. Childs; Eda Seymour; 
Hattie Belle Hotchkiss; Anna Weaver; J. E. 
M. Valentine; Kittie E. Turner; David Fal¬ 
coner; KitLe M. Groasmanj Lulu Hudson; 
Eleanor M. Burge; Stella P. Anthony; Lottie 
M."Tew; Maggie Brown; Nina A. Dodge; 
Laura Finda; Lynne C. Greenwood; Una 
Bowker; Johnnie Riglitsell; Ivan C. Rex; 
John Dockstader; W. O. B. C’ribbs. Alice M. 
Kell; L. R. Williams; Li 11 us Cox; Willie R* 
Pick; H. A. Clough; Ella J. Hallock: Henry 
Freyensee; Henry S. Moore Jr.; Mahlon 
Gross; Roscoe Ives: Ilomer L. Orr: Minnie 
Mattingly; Carrie M. Warner; Sarah J. Mil¬ 
ler: Anna Emery; Olivia B. Sell; Edith M. 
Campbell; Katie E. Cook; Fred Douglass: 
Hugh M. Sherwood: Maggie Carter; Maggie 
Booth; Isaac I. Van Wie; Harry Camp; Mary 
M. Davies; Eddie M. Slack;Grace M. Putnam; 
Anna Greene; Alice E. Johns; Bessie Hope; 
<*eorge Lea: Alice McCarty; Bessie M. Snow; 
L. May Miuep; Hattie S. Winship; Frank W. 
Clegg; Wallace H. Tarbell; ArthurL. Wright; 
Eva Hambleton; Abbie G. Burnham: Phoebe 
T. Ives; Edwin S. Parsons; Fannie Heater; 
Minnie C. Ansby; Charlie E. Pearce; Arthur 
Lewis: Mamie E. Laiug; Gertrude Stough; 
Marion Walker; Maggie W. Butler; Warren 
L. Loop; Abbie Ward; Robert Brown; Luther 
Herriumn; Jennie Hunt: Merwin T. Sudler; 
Elizabeth Ottaway; Ossie Sturdevant : Clark 
Gardner, and several that are unsigned. 
—■ — 
NOTES FROM THE COUSINS. 
Dear Uncle Mark: I am 13 years of age. 
My father is proprietor of the Osage City 
Nursery. He lias about 0,000,000 evergreens, 
large and small. We planted about, 100 bush¬ 
els of soft nmple seed this Spring. They are 
most, of them up now. 1 go to the Osage public 
school. I study reading, writing, arithmetic, 
history, grammar and spelling. 
Your nephew, clark uardner. 
Osage, Iowa. 
[I am glad you are planting trees. Too 
many people are cutting them down.— u. m.] 
Dear Uncle Mark: We received the Gar¬ 
den Treasures. We plauted them, and they 
came up nicely. There is one little geranium, 
one hollyhock and some phlox. We think 
very much of them. I have about 50 young 
chickens, I have two pot lions. Lost Summer 
the old hen came off her nest with her chick¬ 
ens before we knew she was sotting, and left 
two eggs in the nest. I took them and wrapped 
them up in a damp cloth. When they hutched 
the old ben was so wild that 1 could not put 
them with her, so I bad to keep them. I would 
let. them out in the yard in the day time. When 
they wore about as large as partridges, they 
would come and fly up in our lap to be put to 
roost. We have three young pole-cats; they 
will stamp their foot at ns sometimes. My 
brother caught them. Well, I guess I will 
close. Your niece, MINNIE mattinuly. 
Muskingum Co., Ohio. 
[That is a new way of hatching chickens. I 
guess they were already hatched, but that the 
egg-shells were too hard aud dry for them to 
break alone. They must have been good pets. 
I think it would lie safer to let those pole-cats 
go.—u. M.] 
Dear Uncle Mark: Thank you. Uncle 
Mark, for printing my sister’s letter. I wish 
you would come and help to eat strawberries 
with us. They arc getting ripe. They are 
the largest I ever saw. Papa bought us a nice 
organ. I can chord some on it. My sister can 
play some on it. We have about 80 little 
chickens. Papa put the fish in the pond. It 
broke out since he put the fish in it. 
Your niece, anna emery. 
Dear Uncle Mark: lama farmer's boy, 
living ou a farm of 110 acres. We are plow¬ 
ing our ground for potatoes now. I am rais¬ 
ing celery to sell. I have about 500 plants 
now of the White Plume and Boston Market. 
The plants are nearly two inches high, and I 
have transplanted them once into shallow 
boxes. 1 ex|>ect to make quite a good deal of 
money out of my celery this fall when I sell it. 
When I gather and sell it I will write you 
again. We have about 40 early lambs, aver¬ 
aging in weight, about 40 pounds each 
Youi-s truly, homer l. orr. 
Uncle Mark: As Homer was so busy help¬ 
ing his father on the farm, he did not 
have much time. So I have helped him some 
about his words and letter. 
homer’s sister. 
[I hope you will make some money; still if 
you miss it, be ready to try again. Write us 
again about the celery.— v. M.] 
HAZE. 
(Concluded.) 
The engine had finished rubbing his tobacco 
by this time. He filled his pipe aud brought 
a coal from the fire place with which to light 
it. He glanced at, me as the visitor asked his 
question. I pretended to be busy over I,be 
press. I will confess that, 1 was anxious to 
learn about the dog. Not a very high ambi¬ 
tion, perhaps, when the world was waiting for 
the paper to be printed, yet high or low there 
was something about the conversation that 
interested me, so I pretended to be busy and 
let the two talk on. 
“I doue killed dat dog dis mornin’. Dey 
wuz a mad dog done bite him, an’ a white 
man say dat my dog ml go mad au’ bite folks. 
So I done kill him do 1 hates mightily to 
do it.” 
The visitor began to show signs of alarm. 
He put his hat firmly on his head aud looked 
nervously about to buut up a line of retreat. 
“Whar you reekin dat mad dog is now?” he 
asked earnestly. “Ef heaintbeeu killed, pears 
like 1 wan tor git home ter once an’ see what 
de prospects is.” He moved towards the door 
as he spoke, but the engine’s next sentence 
gave him considerable comfort. 
“I reekin lie’s dead sho’ nulf. Dey waz a 
white man kill him. I’d like mightily to do it 
myself. Jes arter suu up the mad dog he 
come snuffiu’ roun’suappiu’ jus like he wanted 
ter tar things all to pieces. My little boy lie 
playing out in the yard, an’ fus you know, dat 
mad dog he run an’ snap jes like lie gouter 
tar de boy all ter rags. De boy he yell po’ful, 
but ray dog—old Haze I calls him — he jes 
jump up friim whar he laid by de do’, an’ he 
tackle that mad dog like fo all he’s worf. 
Den dey fite- po’ful an’ old Haze he drive de 
mad dog away. Den after while he pear like 
he mightily shuck up. He come back to de 
do’ an’ 'ay down an' den I see dat he’s bit 
mighty bad. Dey waz a white mau come an’ 
say dat ho go mail jes like de mad dog doue. 
He say dat when folks goes mad dey is terri¬ 
ble. So I kills old Haze an’ we had de buryin’ 
dis evening. ” 
The visitor was all sympathy. He rubbed 
his head as if tryiug to think of some consol¬ 
ing remark. He was forced to resort to the 
common practice of praising the dead. 
“Dat was a po’ful good dog at, wuz. ’Pears 
like he wuz de boss dog ob de hull place. I 
neber see uo dog dat cud whip him. I reck’n 
he’d wear out all the dogs dey is.” 
The engine began to warm up at this praise. 
“You’so mighty right, you is. Ole Haze he 
done beat’em all. A bull-tarrer he wuz; his 
teef dey wuz sharp ez knives. You jes orter 
see him fite. Dey want uo yard full ob dogs 
dat eud make, him ruu. He wuz one of dose 
yer snappiu’ dogs, he wuz. He set down and 
fite, he do. When he git a holt he jes shet his 
eyes an’ say nultlu. De fus time dat 1 eber 
knowod him ter jump up an’ fite wuz dis 
mornin’ when he fit dat mad dog. I reekin 
dat wuz kase de mad dog he gouter bite my 
boy an’ ole Haze he see dat sumfin got ter be 
done mighty quick. He neber hurt nobody 
when dey Jet him alone. He’d jes set by de 
do’ an’ watch like he had a heap ob money in¬ 
side. ’Pears like dey want no dog like him.” 
The visitor screwed his face into a doleful 
expression that doubtless did the engine much 
good. 
“It am po’ful cui us how it is dat do bes an’ 
de braves' has ter be tuck away when deys 
alius a heap ob shucks layiu’ round lose like, 
’Pears to me deys a po’ful line lesson in dis 
yer bery suecumstance. Yer is a heap of 
dogs dat ain’t worf shucks; dey all gits off— 
elar off when dey ain’t no danger sho’ nulf. 
But dis yer dog ob yo's, do bosses ob all de 
boss dogs, jes be kase he stun’ up fo’ de rights 
ob de human family, he done git killed. I 
reekin deys a heap ob men—white men, too, 1 
reekin—dat don’t do no braver act dan yo' dog 
done. He jes gib up his lilt* fo’ his from—dat 
what he doue, an’ I reekin dey ain’t many 
folks daks gonter do mo’ dan dat. ’Pears like 
its jes de same way wid folks. Now here I is, 
an’ dero you is, an’ yers dis mau yer an’ dat 
man yar. Who is guinter be taken an’ shuck 
up wid liar? l)e shucks ail’ de nubbins! Its 
jes as like ez not dat de fus you kumvs you an’ 
I is gouter be ketekod up au’ all dose yer low 
down folks is gouter stay an’ hab de fun.” 
The conversation had drifted so far from 
the original subject that I felt, justified in 
bringing it to a close. The engine was evi¬ 
dently anxious to have it continued, yet at a 
sign from me he took hold of the wheel and 
resumed operation. In the rattle of the press 
the visitor found that the effect of his senten¬ 
ces was lost, lie left us to go aud comfort 
some other sorrowing person. 
The next, day the engine came to me with 
a board which he hud rudely carved iuto 
something of the shape of a gravestone. 
“Boss,” he said, “I reekin I’d like ter git, you 
ter sorter write dat dog’s name on dis yer 
ho’d. ’Fears like I’d like ter know whar he is 
buried at.” 
i wrote the name “llaze" iu large letters on 
the rude board. IVhat though lie was only a 
“nigger’s dog,” he did'not live iu vaiu. He 
gave “his life for his friend.” 
gtti.o'cfUancoujs gtdvfvtisfinfl. 
WHAT SCIENCE XAYS. 
The “Fearful and Wonderful" Mechanism 
of the Human System Graphically Por¬ 
trayed. 
[Iu the {editorial columns of the New York 
Analyst, H. Passing, M. D., editor, writes the 
following beautiful description of the labora¬ 
tories of the human system. We thiuk we 
have never read a finer or more trustworthy 
one. ] 
“Man is the greatest of all chemical labora¬ 
tories. Magnify the smallest cell of the body 
and what, a factory is spread before the eyes— 
countless chambers iu which are globes of air, 
masses of solid matter, globules of dying liquid! 
A flash comes and the whole is consumed aud 
needful beat is carried into every part of the 
system. Electrical forces also gem-rate aud 
are eouveyed to the brain, the muscles aud the 
various nerve centers. 
“In another set of a million chambers we see 
various gases and vapors. By chemical action 
these are changed aud purified in the. lungs 
and the skin. The blood, we often say, is a 
great, living river. Iu its current are masses 
which the air in the lungs did not affect: 
blocks of chalk; slabs ol' tartar; pieces of 
hone-ash; strings of albumen; drops of molas¬ 
ses, and lines of alcohol. How are these waste 
masses disposed of? Begin where you will in 
this great, stream you must, come to t he purify¬ 
ing places of the system. Here all is activity, 
and an invisible force roaches out, into the 
stream, siezos and carries this mass of waste 
into vast tranches, thence iuto u smaller reser¬ 
voir, and finally into a larger reservoir, which 
regularly discharges its contents. 
“This separation of lime, uric acid aud other 
waste material from the blood, without rob¬ 
bing it. of a particle of the life fluid, passes 
humau comprehension. In health this blood- 
purifying process Is carried ou without our 
knowledge. The organs in which it is doue 
are faithful servants whose work is sileut as 
long as health remains. 
“People strangely wait, until pain strikes a 
nerve before they realize that they have any 
trouble. They do not kuow that paiu con¬ 
cerns chiefly the exterior, not the interior, of 
the body. A certain set of nerves connect 
those blood-purifying organs with the brain. 
They may not guaw and bite as does the tooth¬ 
ache or a scratch, but they regularly, silently 
report. When these organs arc failing these 
nerves indicate it, by drawing the blood from 
the face and cheek, leaving the lip and eye 
blanched, by sending uric acid poison into the 
smallest veins, the skin then becoming gray, 
yellow or brown. They also prevent the puri¬ 
fication of the blood iu the lungs and cause 
pulmonary difficulties, weariness and paiu. 
Who enjoys perfect health, especially in this 
land where we burn tin* candle in one mass? 
The athlete breaks down iu t he race; the editor 
falls at his desk; the merchant, succumbs iu his 
counting-room. These events should not have 
been unexpected, for nature, long ago, hung out. 
her “luu terns of alarm.” When the “accident” 
filially comes, its fatal effect, lsseeu in a hun¬ 
dred forms: either as congestion, chronic 
weakness, as wrong act ion, as variable apa¬ 
tite, as head troubles, as palpitation and irreg¬ 
ularities of the heart, as premature decay, as 
dryness and harshness of the skin causing the 
hair to drop out or turn gray, as apoplexy, as 
paralysis, as general debility, blood poison¬ 
ing, etc. 
“Put no faith theu iu the wiseacre who says 
there is uo danger as long as there is no pain. 
Put no faith iu the physician, whoever he 
may be, who says it is u mere cold or a slight 
indisposition. He knows little, if any, more 
than you do about it. He can neither see nor 
examine these organs, and depends entirely 
upon experimental tests, that you can make 
as well as he. 
“If the output is discolored or muddy; if it 
contains albumen, lymph, crystals, sweet or 
morbid matter; is red with escaped blood, or 
roily with gravel, mucus and froth, something 
is wrong und disease and death are not far 
away. 
“These organs, which we have described 
thus at length, because they are really the 
most important oues in the human system, the 
ones in which a large majority of human ail¬ 
ments originate and are sustained, are the kid¬ 
neys. They have not been much discussed iu 
public liecause it is conceded that, the profes¬ 
sion has little known jiower over them. What 
is wanted for such organs Is a simple medicine 
which can do no barm to the most delicate, but 
must be of the greatest benefit, to the afflicted. 
Much a remedy, tried and proved by mauy 
thousands all over the world, is Warner’s safe 
cure. With those iu whom disease is deep 
seated it is the only specific. For those iu 
whom the seeds are sowuuud the beginning of 
illness started it is an unfailing reliance. It may 
be recommended to the well to prevent sick¬ 
ness and the sick to prevent death. With its 
aid the great filtering engines of the system 
keep on in their silent work without interrup¬ 
tion; without it they get, out of gear and then 
disease and death open the door and cross the 
threshold.” 
Such writing ought- not only to please but to 
carry conviction that what Editor Passing, 
M. b.—so high au authority—says is true, 
aud that his counsel is worthy the attention 
aud heed of all prudent, right-minded people, 
