THE RURAL (NEW-YORKER. 
don’t change the name of the Merrimac, into 
which the Mosquasset falls. It was along in 
the twenties when Sam Rand, old Bijah 
Rand’s Oldest boy, was about twenty-three 
years old. But maybe you’d rather go shop- 
pin’, now you’ve all got your good clothes on, 
than hear me yarn about somethin' you aiu’t 
so much consumed in as I am.” 
“We will none of us move, Aunt Tildy,” 
was the almost simultaneous reply of the girls, 
“until we’ve heard the story.” 
“Well, well, if so I’ll go on, for I’d jest as 
soon be talkin’ as rockin’ or kuittin’, all alone. 
As I was sayin'. plain Sam Rand was about 
twenty-three, and he was powerful in love 
with Sumauthy Doolittle, who was only a year 
or two younger, an’ the prettiest girl in the 
valley. Sam an’ Man thy had alius been 
friendly an’ intimate au’ alius called oue 
auothcr ‘cousin,’ ’eozold Bijah Rand had mar¬ 
ried Mouthy’s aunt Mercy, for his second wife 
an’ Sam an’ Manthy wa'n’t no blood relations 
at all, Rut for all Sam’s goodness Manthy 
didn't seem ever to fancy him in the marryin’ 
way : an’ when Markis Rellins Pugsley come 
home from college an' sfcudyiu' law to stay a 
spell 'fore he set up au offis in Mauch’ster, an’ 
bein’ a real good-lookin’ feller with no end of 
smooth talk, he just walked into Manthy’s af¬ 
fections, an’ the first thing the town kuowed 
they was engaged to bo married.” 
“The Doolittles was delighted, for old man 
Pugsley was a member of the legislator an’ 
great things was prophesied of Mark. An' I 
guess the Pugsleys wa'n’t much put out, for 
Manthy’s father was the richest man iu the 
volley, kept store, was postmaster, au' had a 
mortgage on the Pugsley farm itself.” 
■•So things run on an Sam never let On that 
anythin’ was the matter with him, for he was 
allowed to be the pluckiest an’ best hearted 
young feller iu them parts. But he took it to 
heart au’ grew quiet-like, an' worked eighteen 
hours a day to engage his attention an' keep his- 
seJf from broodin’- Well, the weddin’ day 
was set for sometime in May ’24, an’, in early 
April. Mark Pugsley come over from Man- 
ch'ster, to do his final courtin’ an' get things 
proper for marryin’.” 
“Manthy bad been over to Jenksville, that 
was named for my dead husband’s grand¬ 
father. on the northside of the Mosquasset, to 
take her girl’s leave of some cousins au 1 school¬ 
mates, au’ was expected home on the foilenin’ 
Sunday. The river was ruutiin’ pretty high 
with the Spring freshet, but nothin’ more'n 
usual was thought about it till Sunday mom. 
in’ when the banks was dreadful full an’ some 
ice coinin’ down, and the rioketty old bridge 
bel<>w r the mill was sufferin' from the shocks, 
au’ Sam hand suggested some one should go 
over an’ stop teams cornin’ across luto the vil¬ 
lage. though two or three early teams had al¬ 
ready crossed to church. But nobody caught 
the idea that Sam was afraid of Manthy’s 
coinin' an bein’ in danger on the old bridge. 
As for Sam be thought some one else should 
do the lookin’ out for Manthy, au’ reckoned 
it would be counted interferin’ if he went 
over, au’ so he went to church. The minister 
was just givin’ out the last hymn, and the 
people all on ’em ready for their dinners 
when Abram Stickney’s boy ran iu an’ shout¬ 
ed, 'The old bridge's gone an’ Bill Doolittle an’ 
bis sister’s drowned.’ That last hymn was 
never sung.” 
“Iu luss’u two miuutes the hull congrega¬ 
tion was on the river hank, an’ the situation 
of affairs was thrillm, 1 Down stream about 
a hundred yards was a rock about as big as a 
house, flat, an' ordiuurily about six feet out of 
water, but now not more'n two. Agin’ it was 
the wagou an’ the two hosses, but slowly 
edgin' around to foller the current. Young 
Doolittle had crawled onto the rock, an’ was 
tryin' to pull up Manthy, a good lump of a 
girl, from the bottom of the wagou, in front 
of the seat, where she had faiuted. But it 
could easily be seen it wa’n’t no use of bis 
striviu’." 
“Mark Pugsley allers let on that he was 
the best swimmer an’ runner an’ bail-player 
in the valley, havin’ as he said, been boss of 
the college iu them departments of lamin’ 
but they didn’t seem to hold him in stead that 
Sunday momiu’, for he stood shiverin’ an’ 
blubberin' on the bank, implorin’ some one to 
save his Manthy, It takes times like that to 
show what's iu a man. Sam Hand didn’t say 
a word to nobody, but jest quietly run up the 
bank a hundred steps or so, an’ throwed off 
his coat an' vest au’ hat, au' jerked off liis 
boots, and slipped into the water. It was 
a tough work, nut Saiu Kami was a stroug au’ 
hardy young feller, an’ Ids heart au’ muscles 
was both at work on that occasion. He 
swum caterin’ across the stream, sometimes 
swirled around by the current au’sometimes 
swept down by a chunk of ice, but though in 
deadly peril, his curly head an’ broad shoul¬ 
ders would lift above the water agin, and the 
folks on the shore, some shouted au’ some 
prayed as they saw him grasp the tailboard 
of the wagou an’pull himself iu. The hosses 
were out in the stream an' the wagon just 
tremblin’ on the extreme corner when Sam 
raised Manthy, throwed her over one shoul¬ 
der an’ flipped out on the inshore side, jest as 
the wagon au’ team fetched loose from the 
rock an 1 disappeared. It was 10 good min¬ 
utes, though it seemed an hour, afore a 
thousand williu’ hands, at the point on the 
turn of the river about 60 rods below, was 
reached out to take the two Thill od aud drip- 
pin' beiu’s to land. Without say iu’a word, 
Sam started on a run agin’ up the bank, re¬ 
fusin' the proffered hands of everybody till he 
came to where he had first gone into the 
water, where stood his good old father with a 
tearful eye an’ outstretched arms.” 
“ Manthy had come to, an’ was cryiu - in the 
embrace of her mother an’ sisters, when Mark 
Pugsley came up, smilin’ as wide as a bullfrog 
fakin' in a fly. ‘ Thank Rod.' he says. 1 you 
are saved, my Manthy.’ An’ he offered to 
take her away from her mother, But old 
Mr. Doolittle’s blood was up, an’ he stepped 
between eni, with au ugly look on his uotover 
handsome face, an’ lie says, * Rot so fast, Mr. 
Pugsley: things has taken a different turn, 
an’if we can’t do Manthy’s pettin’ and carin’ for 
hereafter we’ll send for the man that has the 
uext best right to us,’ he says. 
.“Bijah Band wan't a drinkiu’ man, but 
when he saw Sam go into the ice-cold water 
he was jest, thoughtful enough to step right 
across the road to Bill Wevmiss’tavern au 
fetched out a bottle of licker without sayin’ a 
word or offerin' pay; an’ when Sam had come 
back, as the old man knew he would, to where 
his clothes was, the bottle was pin ted right at 
him. He didn’t offer to take it, ‘ No father,’ 
he says, ‘the boy is on the rock, au'it’ll be 
under water in loss’ll fifteen minutes, an’ I 
won’t take any of that stuff till I’ve brought 
him ashore,’” 
“That startled his father. ‘Don’t you go 
agin’, my sou,' he says, Ins voice ull broke an’ 
husky. ‘You’ve done your duty like a man, 
an' all a man could be expected to do. Take 
a drop of licker, pick up your clothes an’ come 
home to your bed.’” 
“Saui ouly shook his father’s hand, pushed 
the proffered bottle aside, an’ before the old 
man could stop him, was in the stream again, 
now runuiu’ harder an’ fa-ster'n ever, an’ fair¬ 
ly ri-in' by jumps. The people held their 
breaths, au' stood like statures, an' ag’in a 
cheer went up. an' thanks to Providence, as 
Sain drew himself onto the rock, which was 
only a loot out of water, to rest a spell, an’ 
young Doolittle was seeu to put his arms 
about Sam’s neck an’ kiss his rough, brown 
cheek. There was mighty few dry eyes on 
the river bank.” 
“Then Sam slipped into the water, made 
some motions to the boy, who let go the rock 
an’ put his hands on Sam’s shoulders, an' with 
half-a-dozen of them brave, stroug strokes 
they was out in the parted river an’ dartin’ 
down stream. Just as everythin’seemed to 
be goin’ well, an’ hearts on shore was begiu- 
nin’ to beat ag’in. the ery came from the 
abutment of the ruined bridge. ‘The Whit¬ 
ney dam lias broke!’ In an instant the water 
rose full five feet an’ went roarin' along a 
merciless torrent. The mass of water struck 
Sam Rand an’ he an’ the boy disappeared. 
But only for a minuit. Up they came an’ 
close to shore; so close that the current didn’t 
seem to affect 'em much, when all of a sudden 
a great, heavy, black timber fairly leaped 
out of the water, an’ iu failin’ it carried young 
Doolittle down the stream, and Sain Rand, 
throwing up his bauds, was seen no more.” 
“There was mournin’ in that village then 
for a good long year. Everybody found 
words of praise for the brave an' hearty boy 
that was gone, an’ the folks wouldn’t let the 
Ruud family put up a gravestone for Sam, but 
the public raised a big lump of money an’ they 
erected a monument on the town square, 
which wns inscribed to his memory an’ had 
the motto ‘May all New Hampshire’s sons 
emmylate bis example wheu danger lowers or 
humanity calls.’” 
“In the Spring of ’27, old Mr. and Mrs. Doo¬ 
little died, an’ Manthy went over to Bijah 
Ruud’s to live, for him au’ Mercy said she 
would m some sort take the place of the boy 
they had lost, it now seemed like au age ago, 
an’ things was till settled down in the valley. 
There hadn’t been no Tliuuksgiviu’ in the 
Rand family since Sam was drowned. They 
said they wa’n’t u goin’ to My in the face of 
Providence, but it didn’t seem, yet, as though 
they hud anythin’ to be thankful for. Mark 
Pugsley lmd soon found out how his neigh- 
hoi's regarded him, an’ he had goue to Mun- 
ch’ster, uu’ then to the bad through drink, an’ 
some say disnpp >iul meld. But I don’t believe 
he ever had heart enough to be disappointed. 
However, iuthe Fall of ’27, the Rands made 
up their minds they would have a i'huuks 
giviu\ an’ all things was fitly prepared, an’ 
wheu the day came round, there was about 
20 collected at old Bijah’s. There had been 
some cryin’done, as one after another dropped 
in, but along about three o’clock, an’ it 
was a beautiful November day, bright an’ sun¬ 
shiny an’ cold, the atmosphere in the house 
was about as clear as it was out doors, an’ din¬ 
ner was announced by one of the Woymiss 
girls, who had come iu to help at table, bein’ 
used to it in her father’s tavern." 
“Sally Woymiss kuowed Sam Rand well, 
an' had had hopes, so the neighbors said, but 
maybe only liked him m a friendly way, an’ 
grieved some at his loss, hut bein’ no relation 
had got over it, an’ almost forgotten him. be¬ 
in’ engaged to a Jeuks from Jeuksville. Well! 
she said, ‘dinner is ready,’ and went out of the 
settin’ room into the hall, when she screamed 
out, loud enough to hear over to the church 
aud back, ‘A ghost,’an’ went down, bang, onto 
the floor in a faint. Everybody rushed out, 
an’ then stopped rushin’, for there stood Sam 
Rand iu the open door.” 
“Bijah Rand was white as a sheet, but he 
walked out as steady as on trainin’-day an’ 
said: ‘It is rny son: come back from death or 
still alive, here is where he belongs.’ ” 
“ ‘Not dead, father, but till jest six weeksago 
I most wished 1 was,’ an’ then the stroug men’s 
arms were about each other, an’ tlie sobs that 
rose in their breasts were not of sorrow' 
neither. It wasn’t the return of a Prodigal 
Son, for Sam was always a good boy and 
thoughtful, an’, quite properly, his father’s 
pride.” 
“The news spread like wild-fire, an’ that 
evenin' they had to open the church where 
Sam. an’ his proud old father, au’ Mercy Rand 
an’ Manthy had a regular w r hat you call now- 
a-days a grand reception.” 
“He wasn’t drowned then? Of course he 
wasn't, but poor young Doolittle was. The 
timber that killed the boy saved Ham, for as 
it was a passiu’ him, he grabbed it an' got 
astride a bit after it had swept around the 
turn, au' rode it clean down to the Merrimac 
River, a good 12 miles. Wheu he was taken 
ashore, he started right back for home, but 
hadn’t got more’n a mile when he thought to 
himself ‘Well, now, I’ve saved Manthy for 
Mark Pugsley's wife, an’ there’s nothin’ left 
there for me. They won’t expect me to come 
back after bein’ struck by that timber, an”ll 
think me dead. They’ve got to mourn for me 
sometime, I suppose, an’ it don’t make much 
difference if they do it now, as well as then', 
an’ so he turned his face to the southward. 
In the three years he was goue, he come here 
to York, au' bein’ steady uu’ clever, fortune 
favored him; au’ what with inventin’ some 
new fixin’ about a wagon, an' a way to make 
bone buttons, au a sell in’ of a part interest. 
Sain was a good deal batter off'n if he had 
come home from his first navigatin’ experi¬ 
ence.” 
“ As he said, about six weeks before he was 
down on one of the wharves when a vessel 
came ioto York from Portsmouth an’ along 
shore, an' the first man Sam sees was Hiram 
Pendergrast Doolittle, mate, an' Mautby’s sec¬ 
ond cousin on her father’s side. They didn’t 
chat very long afore Sam knew bow the land 
layup in New Hampshire an’had found out 
there was room iu bis father’s house an' Man¬ 
thy’s heart for him.” 
“ Of course, you know the rest. Next 
Thanksgivin' Day Sam and Manthy was mar¬ 
ried, an’ tbe next l was born. Yes! I’m the 
oldest an’ only child of Sam an’ Mauthy, an’ 
seem to feel that them three Thanksgivin* 
Days has made a sorb of claim on me to be up 
at the old Rand place in Mosquasset Valley on 
Thanksgivin’ Day as long I’m alive.” 
SOME WAYS AND THINGS AT THE 
RURAL GROUNDS. 
ALICE BROWN. 
The readers of the Rural are already fa¬ 
miliar with many things concerning this quiet 
country place. They know of its trees and 
shrubs, its flowers, and fruits, the experiments 
carried on within it.slimit-s.and they have read, 
year after year, the writings of its owner. 
More interesting than these because control! 
ing and originating them, are the family, and 
their thought, study aud work. The same ques¬ 
tions that come to hundreds of other homes, 
come here to be answered, and are met fear¬ 
lessly if not always successfully. Let what 
may of blunders and mistakes be found m n 
home, if it is full of affection aud a spirit of 
earnest striving after what is noblest and 
best, it will be a true home. 
The members of the household here are Mr. 
and Mrs, Carman who are already known to 
the Rural readers; Cerise is the only daugh¬ 
ter, a bright, thoughtful, blue-eyed girl, not 
quite thirteen. Travers is the only son. and 
very proud to have passed his seventh birth¬ 
day, he has under his tangle of light-brown 
curls a mind full of awakening thoughts, and 
a child’s eager, wondering questions. 
The children study at home aud are my pu¬ 
pils. The house is small to contain, as It does, 
the little school, an office for editorial work, 
and during the Winter the work and workers 
incident to the preparation of the Free Seed 
Distribution. There are two parlors, a hall, 
dining-room, kitchen and wash-room on the 
first floor. Three bed-rooms, the office, aud 
a hall with a little room at each end. on the 
second floor. The cellar extends under the 
whole house. The grounds immediately around 
the house are about two acres in extent. In 
their midst is a little lake full of living springs. 
Around the margin of the Ink- are grouped 
and clustered trees and shrubs that droop their 
branches toward the water as though they 
love it. and in their shade grow some of the 
delicate native flowers and ferns. 
A rowboat aud a Canoe float upon the sur¬ 
face of the lakelet and at its inlet a rustic 
bridge spans the water, and forms part of the 
carriage drive. West of the lake arc the baru 
and poultry yards, sheltered by old apple 
trees, and beyond and beside them lie the veg- 
table garden, the grape-vines, the blackberry, 
raspberry, currant and gooseberry bushes aud 
the strawberry beds. Around tbe house, 
which is east of the lake, are most of the rare 
trees and plants that have been selected from 
the thousands that (luring past years have been 
tested here. Rustic seat s in shady retreats and 
vine-covered arbors offer pleasant resting 
places, but a plain, red, wooden chair aud a 
little low bench under the Yellow-wood tree in 
front of the house attract Mr. and Mrs. Car¬ 
man often est. 
This is a real country home, one mile from a 
railroad station aud post office, less than 20 
miles from New York, aud as free from city 
conventionalities ns from city noise and con¬ 
fusion. It is not a place of summer residence 
and winter neglect, but a home all the year 
and all its members love the country and na¬ 
ture, in all their changes and seasons. 
Having given a glimpse of the surroundings 
of the home aud its inmates, something of its 
life may bo interesting when Mr. Cm man puts 
aside editorial work to talk of other subjects, 
and Mrs, Carman, after collecting recipes, pre¬ 
paring “copy,” studying, attending to the lit¬ 
tle boy’s wants, and setting ull the household 
in order, finds time to entertain us with music, 
or to join in the walks and the games that are 
a part of the pleasure of country life. 
Domestic C&cfftunraj 
CONDUCTED BY MILS. AGNES E. M. CARMAN. 
Be thankful those of you who have been 
spared troubles during the past year, and let 
those who have suffered be thankful that things 
were no worse. 
-»-«-•- 
THANKSGIVING DINNERS. 
There is not much variety id Thanksgiving 
and Christmas menus. So long as there is an 
abundance of the time-honored dishes, well- 
cooked, both hostess and guests are satisfied. 
The orthodox soup is oyster, although a bisque 
of clams or a thin tomato soup is appropri¬ 
ate. 
A very nice oyster soup that may be new to 
some of the readers of the Rural, is made as 
follows: Cut the blanched parts of a bunch 
of celery into dice, aud cook until tender, but 
not watery, iu u pint, of slightly salted water; 
take out the celery with n strainer, add the 
liquor from a quart of oysters, and skim until 
clear. Put. iu the oysters, and us soon as the 
beards begin to open pour into the tureen into 
which you have previously put a pint of boil¬ 
ing milk, and butter the size of an egg. The 
seasoning should be added just before the oys¬ 
ters nro put iu. The celery may be served 
with a white sauce ms a vegetable. 
The turkey, which “some like baked, and 
some like boiled.” is essentially au American 
institution It is one ■ *f the things that we do 
not owe to our “mother country.” I was 
much amused recently at a conversation at the 
hotel table between mi Australian Englishman 
and an American. The former was greatly 
surprised to find that Americans knew of such 
a dish as roost turkey,and was completely para¬ 
lyzed when told by the latter that the turkey 
was a native of this country, and that Benja 
min Franklin wanted it for the national em¬ 
blem, instead of the eagle, because of its na¬ 
tivity. 
For the highest, gastronomic effects, it must 
be a young hen turkey, killed after a fast of 
24 hours, aud if the weather is cold, allowed to 
hung four or live days before cooking. It just 
before the sacrifice you givu the victim a 
6pOoulul cf the best viuegnr, it, will “die 
gamer,” that is the meat will be whiter, ten¬ 
derer and sweeter. Of course, you know how 
to clean aud truss the bird—at least you do if 
you read the Rural last November—so we 
will proceed at once to the dressing. To half 
a pound of the sweetest, bread crumbs, add 
half a pound of boiled mashed potatoes, a quar¬ 
ter of a pound of the best butter, sweet mar¬ 
joram, summer savory and salt, pepper and a 
little grated nutmeg byway of seasoning; a 
small portion of ttie best sausage meat, 
chopped mushrooms (if you can get them, 
