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THE RURAL NEW-YORKER 
711 
The Affairs of Lyddy. 
Part II. 
Jim Budd had been down among his 
brother’s early apnle-trees, and was 
leisurely returning, when, as he rounded 
the barn and gazed wistfully toward 
Farmer Barnard’s house, he saw a wo¬ 
man run through the chip-yard, and 
climb, with entire absence of grace, 
over the six-rail fence that bordered the 
lane. Lyddy surely, but in her Sunday 
clothes, and hat with poppies on it. Be¬ 
fore they met he was hurling impatient 
questions at her, and she, breathless, 
was answering almost before they were 
framed. 
“I’m all ready, Jim, and we must 
hurry ! Don't ask me why, or any¬ 
thing; only come to town before I 
give out. I’ve run away! No, don’t 
stop to hitch up,” as he made a move¬ 
ment toward the barn. “She’ll find me 
gone, and maybe come after me. I’ve 
got some biscuits and half a pie in this 
paper, and I’ll tell you about it as we 
go along. Hurry! hurry!” 
Jim was untutored and poor, but he 
loved Lyddy with the tenderness men 
hoard up for a first love which is late 
in coming. For nearly five years he 
had courted her in seeming hopeless¬ 
ness, for though she admitted her love 
she never dreamed of any opposition to 
Mrs. Barnard’s wishes, which were al¬ 
ways set firmly away from Jim, since 
Lyddy was so much better off single. 
Lately Jim, discouraged, had talked of 
the Philippines (or enlistment, which 
they regarded as the same thing), and 
poor Lyddy had been filled with de¬ 
spair. When she overheard Mrs. Bar¬ 
nard’s admission to Eliza Monniesmith 
there dawned in her heart the belief 
that here was a way out, and then upon 
that rapturous thought followed the 
dreadful realization that haste was 
needed. Jim had said he was going to 
war; what if he had already gone! And 
the excited woman had acted promptly, 
partly lor fear of Jim’s departure and 
partly for fear her mistress and friend 
might in some way retract her words. 
Jim, after one deprecating glance at 
his working clothes, led the way toward 
the road; but Lyddy seized his arm and 
drew him by a foot-path through the 
pasture till they were out of sight of the 
farmhouse. 
Meanwhile, in the cool best room, the 
two women rocked and gossiped. Pres¬ 
ently Miss Eliza cleared her throat and 
held up a closely written sheet. Her 
hostess, not being interested in verse- 
making, rose hastily. 
“I believe 1 smell something getting 
too hot,” she said, and left the room 
with what celerity her dignity would 
admit of. Stepping into the broad kit¬ 
chen she noted with satisfaction the or¬ 
derly table, but made haste to lift the 
squash and apple-sauce from the stove, 
and to set the oven door ajar before she 
called Lyddy and rang the dinner-bell. 
“Come out to dinner, Eliza,” she said, 
as she set the victuals on. “I don’t 
know what’s got Lyddy that she ain’t 
around; but we won’t wait on her.” 
“I was just thinking what rhymed 
with Budd,” said Miss Eliza, absently, 
as she thrust her note-book into her 
pocket and snitted eagerly at the savory 
incense that rose above the table, “and 
to save me I can’t find anything but 
thud. Maybe Lyddy went up to her 
room.” 
“That’s so; maybe she’s took sick.” 
And the good lady went puffing up the 
steep stairs. 
“Oh!” they heard her cry out. “Oh— 
Father—Eliza—she’s gone! Lyddy’s 
gone!” Mr. Barnard, who had just come 
in, went up-stairs at that, and present¬ 
ly they came down, she leaning on his 
arm, much agitated. 
“It’s all my fault!” cried che poor 
woman. “She heard me tell Eliza Mon¬ 
niesmith I wouldn’t care if she run off, 
and she’s done it!” 
“Well, I’ll swan!” said the farmer, 
breaking into a laugh. “Lyddy’s get- 
tin’ gay in her old age! Why, Eliza’ll 
be runnin’ off next!” 
The lady of rhymes simpered sweet¬ 
ly. “But what does Lyddy say in her 
note?” she asked. 
Mrs. Barnard opened the stove door 
and thrust the note into the glowing 
fire before she answered, curtly, “Noth¬ 
ing much; come to dinner.” 
“Of all the ungrateful minxes, Lyddy’s 
the worst, said Miss Monniesmith, as 
she took a second helping of pot-pie. 
The farmer only looked up oddly; but 
his wife excla:med: 
“No such thing! I won’t have a word 
said agin Lyddy. I guess when people 
get to her age they have a right to get 
married if they want to.” 
“Oh, certainly,” murmured Miss Eliza, 
quite unabashed, and passed her plate 
for more squash. 
The afternoon wore very slowly away. 
The two women washed up the dishes 
and returned to the parlor and their 
chat; but the conversation was carefully 
kept away from the affair of Lyddy, and 
though Miss Eliza was eager to find out 
what they meant to do about it, she 
learned nothing. After an early tea 
Jule, the hired man, drove her home in 
the buggy, in the early dusk, her head 
abuzz wuh unmated rhymes. The Bar¬ 
nards, left to themselves on the little 
kitchen porch, talked of Lyddy. 
“I guess Jim’ll be good to her,” said 
the farmer, comfortably patting his 
wife’s plump hand. “Jim ain’t very 
forehanded, but he sets a good deal of 
store by Lyddy, and I need another hand 
anyhow. I reckon we can give ’em that 
last litter of pigs and the spotted 
heifer.” 
“Lyddy don’t know it,” sighed his 
wife, tremulously, “but I’ve had linen 
saved up for her for three years.” 
“Why, that’s queer, if you never 
meant she should get married!” laughed 
he. 'By crickety, here they be now!” 
Up the worn little path they came in 
the twilight, Lyddy first, radiant hap¬ 
piness glowing in her face and evident 
in her bearing. 
“Aunt Sarah,” she cried, using the 
name reserved for seasons of special in¬ 
timacy and fondness, “Aunt Sarah, is it 
all right?” 
“Why, yes, it’s all right,” said the 
farmer, heartily. “Is that you, Jim? 
Pretty cute, wasn’t you, Lyddy?” 
But Mrs. Barnard only put her arm 
around Lyddy in silence, as she sat at 
her feet on tne door-stone. Presently 
she said, rather shakily, “We’ll put in 
the day to-morrow fixing up the shed- 
kitchen for you and Jim, Lyddy. You 
can have the new rag carpet; Miss Skin¬ 
ner’ll send it home to-morrow.” 
“It’ll be pretty,” saia Lyddy, with the 
rich intonation of excessive joy. “It’s 
got all them Turkey-red calicoes in it, 
and green chain.” 
The four sat in silence, save for a few 
desultory remarks on the weather, while 
the twilight deepened and the birds 
twittered and cooed from their nests in 
the locusts. The sky still bore a faint 
glow where had been a gorgeous sun¬ 
set. 
“It’ll be fair to-morrow,” said Jim, 
rising. “Well, good-night, Lyddy; I’ll 
be over bright and early in the morn¬ 
ing.” 
“Good-night, Jim,” said Lyddy, and 
with a sudden shyness she got up and 
went into the kitchen, from whence she, 
unseen, could watch him as he went 
down the path bordered with the frag¬ 
rant shadows of heliotrope and rose. 
“I knew you’d want me to make up 
the sponge to-night,” she said, happily, 
as she lighted a candle at the dying 
fire. “And early in the morning I’ll get 
at that currant jell.” 
Upon tne porch the two old people sat 
hand in hand. A great peace rested over 
the farm, and the farmer and his wife 
MOTHERS.—Be sure to use“Mrs.Wins- 
low’s Soothing Syrup” for your children 
while Teething. It is the Best.— Adv. 
felt it, and were content, while from 
within floated Lyddy’s happy voice as 
she sang, “I’v reached the land of corn 
and wine.”—Woman’s Home Compan¬ 
ion. 
Catering for Fifty. 
In arranging for church suppers and 
similar festivities without a caterer’s 
help it is often a puzzling question to 
know how much to provide, says a 
writer in the New York Tribune, espe¬ 
cially as the organizers of such feasts 
are often young women, upon whom the 
responsibility oi provisioning has here¬ 
tofore fallen lightly. The following fig¬ 
ures are given by a woman who has 
served long and faithfully at such func¬ 
tions: For 50 guests she states that 
generous portions of chicken salad can 
be given if five medium sized chickens 
and 12 heads of celery are allowed; 100 
sandwiches, 1 ^ pound of coffee and 
three pints of cream, two gallons of ice 
cream, two moulds of jelly and five 
loaves of cake will be needed. If escal- 
loped oysters are on the menu, one gal¬ 
lon of oysters, two pounds of crackers 
and one pound of butter will be wanted 
for "them. With sandwiches five dozen 
biscuits and 2 y 2 pounds of butter will 
be sufficient; eight pounds of boiled ham 
with two pounds of butter will be an 
ample allowance for 100 minced ham 
sandwiches. 
Holes in the Bread. 
A reader of the American Kitchen 
Magazine asks that practical publication 
what causes the large holes that some¬ 
times appear in bread. Is it necessarily 
because the bread has risen too much? 
She is informed that the large holes are 
not always caused by long rising. It 
may be lack of thorough mixing, or im¬ 
perfect kneading, or too hot an oven at 
first, or too rapid rising. If the yeast 
is not mixed first with the other liquid, 
but is merely turned into the flour, and 
the kneading is carelessly done, the 
bread is liable to be of an uneven tex¬ 
ture. If the loaf rises quickly and a lit¬ 
tle too long, and large bubbJ.s appear 
near the top, it is well to prick them 
just as you put the loaf in the oven, and 
thus avoid tne large holes which are 
sometimes founu directly under the 
crust. 
Then again, if the oven is too hot at 
first and forms a thick crust, the gas 
does not escape from the loaf and makes 
large holes near the crust and if on the 
other hand the bread has risen as much 
as it ought and then is put irto a too 
slow oven, the loai goes on rising until 
the glutinous walls of the air ceils in 
the dough n ve stretched beyond their 
full limit, and then they break, making 
large holes in tne center, the heat not 
being great enough to harden them. The 
smaller the loaf (that is smaller in 
diameter, the length does not matter) 
the longer it suould rise in the pan and 
the hotter should be the oven, and vice 
versa. Then there is a generally coarse 
texture, different from either of these 
just mentioned which may he due to 
poor flour, poor yeast, uneven tempera¬ 
ture in rising, and carelessness in some 
part of the process. 
Knowledge and timber shouldn’t be 
much used till they are seasoned.—Oli¬ 
ver Wendell Holmes. 
Every man’s task is his life preserv¬ 
er. The conviction that his work is 
dear to God, and cannot be spared, de¬ 
fends him.—Emerson. 
The primary defect in the popular 
ideal of goodness is that it is almost 
wholly negative. It consists in not do¬ 
ing things.—Fra Elbertus. 
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FARMERS 
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Write for our Farmers’ Circular, tell¬ 
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Box 1410 Scranton, Pa. 
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