474 
THE RUBAI KEW-YORKER. 
JULY Kt 
for t !)t Boim0. 
TWO SONGS. 
A woman sang before a breathless crowd. 
Her voice swept like an angel’s anthem past. 
A thousand voices shouted long and loud 
Iu wild npplnuBe when hushed the song at last. 
She sang again: beside her baby’s bed 
A simple tender lullaby—and low, 
Till slowly drooped the dainty, golden head 
To dreamland on the music’s gentle flow. 
None heard her save the dreaming babe alone. 
There came no shouting voice, no wild recall. 
And yet the angels listening at the throne. 
Smiled at the song, and called It best of all. 
--- • » ——-- 
The weather is hot. Last week there were 
several “roasters.” People w'ent about with 
their hats off, mopping their heads with their 
handkerchiefs. The poor people in the lower 
parts of the city suffer greatly this hot weath¬ 
er. They are crowded into close rooms, 
where there is hardly a breath of air stirring. 
The sun just hakes the bricks and iron all day 
long, and at night enough heat is left to make 
the rooms like ovens. Think of little children 
being brought up in oveusl About the coolest 
place these poor people can find is far up on 
the Brooklyn Bridge. There is always a cool 
breeze there. Lots of people go there iu the 
evening to get a mouthful of fresh air. Par 
up over the city, out of the noise and dust, 
they can get a little rest. 
Thousands of city people went out to the 
country to spend thp Fourth. I saw crowds 
of them at the stations and on the trains. 
They were excited enough. It was good for 
them to get a chance to run about a little. 
They came back Tuesday with lame joints 
and noses and bands as red as roses. Thoughts 
less city folks are apt t-o say that country peo¬ 
ple are awkward and behind the timek If 
they could only see themselves as they apjiear 
in the country, they would have nothing more 
to say. They are often ridiculous in their 
manners and talk, and the funny part of it is 
that they think all the time they are making 
people think they are regular farmers. It 
pays to be natural Don’t try to be something 
that you are not. You will deceive nobody 
and only make yourself ridiculous. 
Take care of yourself this hot weather. 
Don’t drink too much cold water while you 
are heated. The proper way to drink ice- 
water is to swallow it slowly. Pouring it 
down the throat as we would pour it into a jug 
is a kind of intemperance that I oppose. Bathe 
just as often as you can, hut don’t jump into 
cold water while your body is like a furnace. 
If you go in swimming wet your head at once. 
Don’t sit on the hank iu the sun with your 
hat off. It is a good plan to “duck under” as 
soon as you get into the water. Put some 
leaves into your hat while you are working in 
the harvest field, and pour water on your 
wrists. Don’t eat too much meat this weather. 
The horses on the horse cars have a hard 
time in these baking days. There is very little 
shade for them and the sun scorches the pave¬ 
ments. They are glad enough wheu they get 
around to the end of the trip where the}’ can 
get iv a ter. I saw one the other day at the 
watering trough, and those who think a horse 
can’t talk and reason ought to have seen him. 
The driver sponged the horse’s head off with 
cold water and rubbed his shoulders and legs 
with a damp cloth. It was worth u dinner to 
sec how the horse enjoyed his bath. He rub¬ 
bed his damp head against the driver’s shoul¬ 
der, with as plain a “thank you” as I ever saw, 
When he started off again he went as though 
he had determined to pay in extra work for 
his treat. How foolish some people are iu sup¬ 
posing that horses do not appreciate good 
treatment. They do, and they pay for it too. 
I begin to think that raspberries are about 
the best of all small fruits. I like them better 
than I do strawberries, and 1 feel sorry 
enough for any family that has to go without 
them. A great deal has been said about p©o- 
ple who liave no fruit, but 1 don't think we 
can say too much. When we have farms of 
our own, we will have fruit enough. Let 
there be a raspberry patch by all means. 
I suppose the gil ls are goiug to have lots of 
canned fruits for next Winter. That’s right. 
I would like to see the canal’s well lined with 
jars of preserves. I would like to call around 
and help eat them too. Home-made food is so 
much nicer than that we get at the stores, 
that it always seemed to me that the “women 
folks” must feel themselves well paid for their 
trouble wheu they see how glad the “men 
folks” are to eat the food. I have no place for 
men or boys who never say that their food 
tastes good. I like to see them get up from a 
hearty meal and say, “I liked that; it was 
good.” It don’t hurt them any to say so, and 
it does the “women folks” lots of good. 
Whenever I see a boy who insists that bis 
mother is the best cook in the world, I know 
that boy will never run away from home, and 
that he will be apt to make a strong, good 
man. I want all our girls to make first class 
cooks. The more good food we have in the 
country, the better off we shall be. When the 
boys have good food I want them to admit it, 
and praise the cooking. You had better show 
this to father, too. He may uot thiuk so much 
of what I say, but it won’t do him auy harm to 
think about it. 
Many farmers do their work by the “signs.” 
Sometimes it is a black cat, or the way a 
rooster crows, or the way the dog barks, that 
tells them what is goiug to happen. Such 
signs are very ridiculous. Cats and dogs never 
know what is going to happen to us, and the 
man who thinks they do, shows that he has 
neglected his mind. There are certain signs 
about the crops, though, that are pretty sure. 
Crops generally grow in about the same way 
every year. By watching them carefully you 
can tell pretty nearly how they will come out. 
Watch the potatoes. If the ground is cracked 
over the hills, just as if the growth had Spilt 
the surface, you may safely make up your 
mind that there will be a fine yield. Look out 
that the crack is not made by a mole, though. 
THE STORY OF A DISTRICT SCHOOL. 
A COLLEGE BOY’S DIARY. 
( Continued ,) 
Bear Creek, as I had been given to under¬ 
stand, was some five miles from the little town 
of Newbank. We changed cai-s at 12 o’clock 
at night, and 1 spent the tedious wait in walk¬ 
ing about the little station, mentally review¬ 
ing iny studies preparatory to passing that 
dreaded examination. It seemed strange, but 
the more I thought of the probable questions, 
the more they seemed to mix in my head; yet 
I foolishly went on reviewing and repeating 
my knowledge to myself. This work never 
pays. It is better to drop all thought of the 
examination, so that the mind may be fresh 
when the trial comes. 
The station agent was a gruff man, with a 
grizzled board and a shabby coat. He glared at 
me from his little window as 1 paced up and 
down the room. 1 never knew what he had 
against me; perhaps some thoughtless college 
hoy had played a trick on him. He came out 
of his office at last and spoke to me. 
“ Yer frum the college, aint ye?” 
I nodded. 
“ Gonter teach deestrict school, I ’spose?” 
“Yes, sir.” 
“Well, I hope they’ll throw ye out. Ye 
hear? I hope they’ll pound the sand with ye. 
I’d like fer ter live in the deestrict where I 
cud help dog ye. I dun’no who ye be, but I 
jedge ye by yer class. You fellers set up thar 
to that college jest like bumps ou a log, an’ 
we farmers support ye. Then ye come out to 
show them that’s raised ye how to farm it. I 
was puttin’ in some tile onct, an’ thar come 
along a book-agent. He done his best to sell 
me a liook I didn’t want at all, an’ wheu he 
found he couldn’t do nothin’, he turns round 
and says, ‘ Why don’t ye put that tile in right? 
That aint the way we does it up to the Agri¬ 
cultural College, by no means.’ I sez, sez I: 
‘I ownes that tile, an’ I puts it in ter suit me. 
When ye git over yer smartness enough ter 
own somethin’ of yer own, ye kin work yer 
own rules.’ I want all these smart fellers ter 
git ketched up, an’ they aint uo better place 
fer it than a good rough deestrict school; an’ 
I hope ye’ll git it.” 
We should have had a long argument, lam 
certain, if the train had not canned me out of 
reach of his harsh voice. The last words I re¬ 
member hearing hirnsay were; “I hope they’ll 
mop the floor with ye, an’ dust the starch 
outer yer jacket.” These words repeated them¬ 
selves over and over iu my head, in time with 
the clanking of the wheels, until 1 fell asleep. 
We reached Newbank iu due time. It was 
a small country town, with one long street 
leading up from the depot to lose itself at the 
top of a low hill just back of the town. The 
stores and offices were arranged along the 
street, while back of them on either side 
stretched the dwellings, the spaces and yards 
about them growing wider and wider as the 
distance increased, so that the dividing line 
between town and country was difficult to de¬ 
termine, A saloon stood ou the most promi¬ 
nent corner, and gave the town a very had 
black eye. The roads were deep with mud 
that seemed to have climbed up over the steps 
and platforms uito the stores. J found u little 
hotel about half way up the street, where 
breakfast was waiting. The landlord was a 
fat man who hud very little to say. He sat 
in his little office and regarded me with sleepy 
eyes when I came to pay lay bill. In answer 
to my question as to the distance to Bear 
Creek, he turned in his chair and silently 
pointed across the street. Follow! ug the di¬ 
rection of his linger, 1 noted a man leaning 
against a post in front of the store, A farm 
wagon with two red horses attached to it 
stood near by. I waited patiently for the host 
to explain this gesture, hut no explanation was 
forthcoming. He settled back in his chair 
and half closed his eyes as though he wanted 
to go to sleep. Even a compliment to the 
breakfast I had just eaten, dressed up in the 
strongest language 1 could think of, failed to 
bring out anything but a species of grunt, so 
I picked my way through the inud of the 
street, determined to investigate for myself. 
The man marked out by the landlord’s 
sleepy gesture regarded me curiously as I 
scraped the inud off my hoots upon the steps 
of the platform. He was an old man. His 
head was thrust forward and his shoulders 
bowed with hard work. A thin tuft of gray 
hair thrust itself into view from under his 
chin. His upper lip was covered with a short, 
gray stubble that seemed to start augrily out 
to defend his great mouth. I remember think- 
iug how useless this defense was. Nothing 
worth fighting about would have cared to 
enter that mouth through the black stumps of 
teeth that showed through the lips. His eyes 
were small and cunning. They seemed to be 
trying all the time to make themselves still 
smaller. Iu this effort they had pulled the 
face into a mass of wrinkles and hard lines, 
and pushed the nose to one side. I notice 
that people with small eyes are almost always 
selfish. 
The man wore a torn fur cap, the visor of 
which, in its frantic efforts to teaf itself 
away, had twisted the whole cap about so 
that it hung over one ear. An old blue army 
coat covered the rest of his clothes, with the 
exception of a pair of great boots which, 
guiltless of blacking, thrust themselves into 
view. 
(To be continued.) 
LETTERS FROM THE COUSINS. 
Dear Uncle Mark ; I am a boy 13 years of 
age. 1 would like to join the Y. H. C., if you 
will let me. 1 have four brothers and two 
sisters. I have been helping ou the farm this 
Spring. My father has been a subscriber for 
the Rural New-Yorker for over 30 years 
and is taking it now. My mother is very fond 
of flowers and has many different kinds. I 
live on the largest of the Thousand Islands, 
within three miles of the City of Kingston. 
BURWELL J. COOK. 
Wolfe Island, Ont. 
Uncle Mark: I have been reading the let¬ 
ters from the Cousins iu the Rural and I en¬ 
joyed reading them. I have got the mumps 
and can’t go out doors to play, so I thought I 
would write a letter. I am 11 years old and 
live ou a farm one mile from the St. Law¬ 
rence River. I go fishing iu the Summer aud 
sometimes catch a lot of fish. I have one 
brother and three sisters. We have 33 head 
of cattle, six horses, 20 pigs and lip hens. I 
have a pair of ducks and a dog. Her name 
is Tip. I love flowers and I help my mother 
make her garden. I also have a small garden 
of my own. erwin p. allkn, 
St. Lawrence Co., N. Y. 
[I am glad you did not go out and thus 
make the mumps worse. I hope you are 
cooler up where you live than we are.—u. m.] 
Dear Uncle Mark; I am going to try for 
one of the ten dollar prizes, I will tell the 
Cousins that are bothered with gophers a good 
way to cak'h them. Take a fish line 12 feet 
long, make a running noose iu one end. When 
you see a gopher go in his hole, put the noose 
over the hole, then go to the other end and 
wait till you see him put out his head; give 
the string a jerk, and you have him. From 
your loving nephew, john c. Thompson. 
Ireton, Iowa. 
[I fear the gophers are gettiug lazy. Those 
I saw years ago were too smart for that.— 
u. M.] _ 
Dear Uncle Mark: T am 111, but I do not 
go to school. Fa died last January, and my 
brother and I have the chores to do. We have 
four cows, throe pigs, and two horses; oue of 
them is 2(5 years old. We have about30 chick¬ 
ens. I am learning dross-making, and I am 
making two crazy quills aud a charm quilt. 
The cal’s came to Antioch last March for the 
first time, and they fired the cannon and the 
band played. How many of the Cousins ean 
make lace? I can crochet some, called the 
pine-apple. dora M. Barnard. 
Fox Lake, Ill. 
[Dress-making is a good trade. How much 
more independent we feel with a good trade 
back of us!—u. M.] 
Uncle Mark: lam a little gir] 12 years 
old. I go k> school aud study reading, writ¬ 
ing, spelling, geography and language. I 
have only one j>et, a canary bird. He is yel¬ 
low, aud sings very prettily; his name is 
Jimmie Mason. I have over 100 kinds of 
house plants. I wonder if auy of the Cousins 
can beat that. My Grandma took the Rural 
when Mamma was a little girl, and has been 
takiug it ever since, till just a few years ago; 
since then Papa has been taking it, so I have 
been with the Rural all my life. I have one 
sister, seven years old, whom 1 love. Last 
Summer I had some ground and T raised some 
very pretty flowers. I wash dishes, sweep, 
cook, anil lots of other things. Well, I am 
afraid you will scold if l make my letter 
much longer, but there is a question which I 
would like to ask; it is this. May I join the 
Y. H. C. i Please don’t throw this into the 
waste basket. I will close for this time, hut 
will write again. aletta m. upson. 
Noble County, Ind. 
[Yes, indeed, you may join. What a lot of 
good housekeepers we have. You are a reg¬ 
ular Rural girl.— u. m.] 
Dear Uncle Mark: 1 am one of your girls 
that does uot chew gum. I think it is a filthy 
habit. I am learning to do all kinds of house¬ 
work. I can bake pies nicely. I get up al¬ 
most every morning to get. breakfast by six 
o’clock. Last Winter I had a pet. lamb; raised 
it by hand. I am 10 yea’rs old. 
Mahoning Co., Ohio. lizzie b. lynn. 
[I am glad to know you are not a gum 
ehewer. It is a bad habit.—u. m.] 
Dear Uncle Mark: I can’t say “R” yet, 
aud my Papa said I’d better wait till I did 
before I’d write auy more letters, but I’m 
’f’aiil you’ll forget that little Sallie Palmer 
D’imes’longs to the Club. T’ma big girl now; 
I am four years old. I’m going to help in 
Mamma’s garden this year, for we are going 
to have “our house” aud I’m going to waise a 
great deal, because Too Too is not hut two 
years old, and she’s so fat, and little Benjie 
can just sit up ou the floor. My little hoe got 
broke, but I hope my Papa will mend it, and 
not say again that it had better stay broke, 
for I need it to make a good crop. 
Your little niece, 
SALLIE PALMER GRIMES. 
Dear Uncle Mark; Would you line to 
hear from a little boy from Easton? I am 
eight years old, and have dot started to school 
yet, but I cau read in the second reader, and 
you can see how I write in this letter. We 
live two miles from town, on 11H acres of land. 
There is a large apple orchard on the farm. 
Papa has three-quarters of au acre of straw¬ 
berries, aud raised 100 bushels off of it last 
year. My brother raises peanuts. I have a 
little gardeu. Last, year I raised a citron that 
weighed 15 pounds. I am going to try aud 
raise a larger one this year. Papa is going to 
build a house and barn this Summer. 
Yours truly, 
Talbot Co., Md. Ralph e. swartz. 
Dear Uncle Mark.: We have five horses 
aud two colts, three pigs, 20 cows and one 
calf. We own a farm of 98 acres. We live 
oue mile from thu main street. Pa sells milk 
in the village, I like to live on a farm, for 
then I can run in the woods and gather wild 
flowers and catch fish in the creeks. We have 
lots of bluek walnuts and butter-nuts aud 
hickory-nuts. I <lo not go to school now, so 
that I have lots of fun. We have lots of 
chickens, so that, we sell eggs. 
We have a big black dog named Jack. I 
am 11 years old, and I would like to be a 
Cousin tOO. J. G. CAMPBELL. 
Dansvillc, N. Y. 
Dear Uncle Mark: My Papa has taken 
the Rural ever since I can remember. I 
would like to join your Club aud be one of 
Die Cousins. 1 am a girl eight years old and 
have two sisters, Lizzie aud Alice. I enjoy 
reading the children’s letters. We have 11 
pigs, one hog, four horses, 40 cows, 23 hens, 
oue dog, two cats, and 1 liave one Bantam, 
(and she lias four chickens), nine calves and 
48 hives of bees. If you would come here and 
see us I would give you all the honey you 
could eat. Yours truly, 
Edmoston, N. Y. charlotte dknison. 
[I shall remember your promise wheu I 
come near you.— u. M.] 
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