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By the Stile. A'l 8 *.y eat! ” said I. The sun droppedlow And fd led the water with passing splen dor, An and lingered as if loth lo go, Blessing the hill with kisses tender, Too sweet she was 1 Flowers hung their heads, As it to do the maiden honor; The little Triolets from their beds With timid bine eyes gazed upon her. So fair, with an ethereal grace, With eyes like stars at midnight horning, The pefect beauty of her face Had tilled niv heart with seeret yearning. I loved her. yet I dared not tell, As by the stile we stood belated; Iter words would make my heaven or hell. What wonder that I longed and waited? Oao little star peeped from the sky And winked at us with visage wrinkled, As it to sav," No w! On the sly! ” And at my hesitation twinkled. She leaned across the stile How could the heart of inan resist her ? I paused a very little while. Anti then. 1 ended all, and—kissed her! WILD STRAWBERRIES. “More strawberries ?” said Mrs. Wilde, with a preplexed contraction on her brows. “Yes,” said old Phillis, the cook. “I’ve made two shortcakes and a pie and dar ain’t nigb enough left to till the big glass dish for tea.” “Dear me,” said Mrs. Wilde, “what shall wo do ? Lisette is dressing, and Maud never could endure the sun. Barbara”—lo a slender young girl who was curled up in one of the deep window seats reading—“you’ll have to go.” Barbara Wilde roused herself out of an Arcadian dream of Dickens’ Little Nell, and fixed a pair of big blue eyes upon her mother’s troubled face. “Go where, mamma V” “Go down to the south pasture lot for wild strawberries: The ground is crimson with them there and—” Barbara Wilde scrambled down out of her high perch. “Mamma,” said she, “what a nui eanoe all this is! I don’t believe Capt. Kllwood Severn is worth all this trouble. I don’t believe be will fall in love with either Maud or Les ette. And I think preserved goose berries are uuite-pod enough lor “Hold your tongue, child,” said Mrs. Wilde, sharply. “Take the , basket and go for the strawberries at , once.” “But it iB bo hot mamma ’’ i ‘‘Put on your broad brimmed straw hat.” “And I haven’t finished my nov- 1 el,” pleaded Barbara, with her mind reverting longingly to Little Nell.” i “Nonsense,” said Mrs. Wilde, “you , read too many novels, a deal, for a child of your age.” And Barbara disappeared, unwil lingly enough, iuto the apple orch- | ard, across which a sinuous path, bordered with buttercups and red clover, led direct to the velvet slopes of the south pasture, where the rip ened fruit of the wild strawberry shone like tiny rubies along the course of a musical little brock, all fringed with reeds and alders and tall growing ferns. “Strawberries indeed,” said Barba ra to herself. “It’s dreadful to be the youngest of a family of girls, and have to pick strawberries for one’s sisters’ be3ux.” And she pushed the yellow curls out of her eyes, and went to work in lugubrious earnest, popping the larg ,e%t and sweetest into her little rose bud pf a mouth, staining her dress as slje knelt down to seek the sly treas-. nrcs under the clustering green leaves, and crimsoning her hands with the haste she made. t ‘ I wonder" which of them he’ll mar ry t” said Barbara to.herself as she. paused a minute to listen to the song of a robin, which, perched on the boughs of a feathery elm, beyond the brook, trilled out Lis barcarelle of music. “Lesette is the prettiest, of course, and he can’t know what a temper sue has got. But Maud is lit erary and has read all the new books, and can talk so well. 1 wish,” —with a sigh—“that I was intellectual, gen entlemen like intellectual ladies.” And onr little maid fell to work at the strawberries again for full five minutes. And then she shook her basket and gazed down into the depths with eyes of azure despair. “Not half full,” said she to herself, “not a quarter full. Oh, dear me! bow I do wish someone would come and help nte t And there is someone stretched provokingly in tho shade under Squire Dallas’ big oak by the •tone wall where the sweet-briers grow. People have no bnsm ess to ’ lie in the shade when other people have to be working hard in the sun ! and Ido believe itr is Squire Dallas’ . new hired man, and he ought to be at work in the hay field instead of ly ing under the trees with a book. And,” Barbara added, surveying the distant faineant with resolute blue eyes from beneath her uplifted hand, •‘he shall work, he shall help me!’’ j “Young inan,” she called out. The robin trilled on, the brook made a cool, tumultuous splashing over the mossy stones that formed its bed, and no answer came back to Barbara save the flutter of the leaves in the the hazel copse under the hill.” •‘Young man, I say,” she called out again, this time with a certain accent of the imperious in her tone. The recumbent figure under the oak tree straightened itself up at once, and made haste toward * the stone wall that separated Siuire Dallas’ do mains from Deacon Wilde’s south pasture lot, “I beg your pardon,” said he, “but —did you call V” “Of course I called,” said Barbara, thinking within herself how tall and straight and darkly handsome, Squire Dallas’ new hired man was. “Don’t you think young mau that you ought to be at work ?” “At work y” asked tho Spanish browed strauger. “Well, perhaps 1 ought.” “Theri’g no perhaps about it,” said Barbara brusquely. ‘Of course you ought,•‘—And since you don’t choose to work for your master, you may as well be working for me.” “My—master ?” “Squire Dallas, of course," said Barbara. “Dear me how stupid you are.” “And how, may I ask, did you know who I was,” he questioned in an amused sort of way. “Oh, it didn’t require any great ex ercise of brilliancy for that,” respond ed Barbara, with a wise little nod of the head. “I know Squire Dallas has got anew hired man, and if you are not he, who are you!” “That is the question. said the •‘But we must not stand talking here,” went on Barbara, in a buaines-i sort of way. Take the basket and go to picking strawberries just as fast as ever you can, because we’re to have company at our house—l’m Barbara Wilde you know, young man —and I must get back with the ber ries as quickly as possible.” “All right, I’m tolerably quick at this sort of thing, I believe,” said the stranger. •‘I hope you are,” said Barbara, in tent upon extricating a tiny rose pricker from the point of her stained thumb—“and at other things too. Because, if you are not Squire Dallas won’t keep you.” “He won’t eh ?” Barbara shook her head. “The last man went away fcecaiißO he couldn’t endure the Squire’s driveling ways. Oh, I was so sorry. He was nice 1 He used to lend me books and things over the fence, and he taught district school in the Winters. I used often to eomo here and talk to him over the fence, because, you see, it is lone some up at the house, if I do have tv. T o grown s’sters. Lisette is cross with me if I ask to borrow any of her books —she has a dreadful tem per has, has our Lisette —and Maud is too intellectual to trouble heiself about a slip of a girl like me. Grown sisters are dreadful,” with a solemn shake of the head. “And I suppose yon are not grown,” said Squire Dallas’ hired man with a curious gleam of amuse ment around the corners . of bis mouth.” “No,” said Barbara, “I am only six teen arid hav n’t, got trains to my dresses yet. But perhaps when the girls get, married and of them is sure to marry this Captain Severn—Oh. take care, you’re tipping all the ber ries out upon the grass! Squire Dal las won’t keep you a week if you are as clumsy as that.” “But the hired man luckily suc ceeded in righting the basket befot e its crimson contents were irretrieva bly lost. “It’s all right,” said he. “See how rapidly it is filling up. But suppose this Captain—l forget what you said his name was ?” “Yon must not forget things Squire Dallas will never be suited with that. lie is a very particular old gentle man. I mention these things, you know”—with an air of mild patron- THE FLORIDA AGRICULTURIST. , . * V ,J • ' * age—“because you seem like a nice respectable young man, and I should like you to keep your place.” “I am much obliged to you said the stranger hurriedly putting a strawberry into his mouth. “Now you arc eating the strawber ries,” said Barbara severely. “You shouldn’t do that. “One or two is of no consequence,” apologized Squire Dallas’ hired man. “But I was going to 6ay, suppose this company gentleman —" “Captain Severn, his name is,” in terposed Barbara. "Yes—suppose that Captain Sev ern should not fall in love with one of. your grown sisters ?” “Then he’d be a very great disap pointment," cried Barbara, “because Lisette is six-nml-tweuty, and Maud says she will cut her throat sooner than be an old maid.” “He might i fall in love with you,” suggested the young man, regarding his pretty companion with a sidelong glance from oeneath his long lashes. “With me!” repeated Barbara. “Me ! a little girl that wears dresses without trains, and isn’t out of her scales yet. That is a likely thing, isn’t it V Now I’ll tell you what young inan, you aro talking a great deal too much, and working a great deal too litilq? Perhaps a you are very smart with the berries, ITi bring you one of Phillis’ tans and put it in tho atom; fence to-night. Phillis’ does make the deliojousest strawberry tarts 1” “That' would be delignti'ul,” said the stranger promptly. Barbara gave a scrutinizing glance into the basket. 4 1 begin to think wo have got al most enough,” said Barbara. “Not yet," pleaded her compan ion. “Yes,"nodded Barbara. “Ana mam ma will be in a hurry, and Maud will scold dreadfully if I am not there in time to do her back hair.” 4 lt strikes me,’’ said the stranger with a nail senile, “that you are a good deal ilka Cinderella in the sto ry booki.” 1 Barbara considered the matter a second or < ’* ♦•*•' i ••Ko J ehe, “I never thought about it before; but I do be lieve I am a little like Cinderella. But, dear me, there’s no glass slipper lor me. As for you young man,” re lapsing all at once into the severe Mentor again, “you had best get back to your work as fast as possi ble, and don’t let Squire Dallas catch you loitering again, if you have any regard for your place.” The stranger stood with doffed cap and attitude of chivalrons atten tion. “But you’il not forget the straw berry tart,” said he. “Certainly not; if once I can get old Phillis’ back turned long enough to steal it out of tho milk room,” said Barbara. And off she tripped with rosy stained lips, golden hair floating reck lessly in the wind, and light elastic feet bowing down the buttercups and red clover as she went. “Dear me, chile,” said Phillis, as she came into the kitchen rosy and breathless with the haste she had made, “what a time you’a been 1” “Not half an hour,” cried Barbara, flinging away her hat and splashing her face with cool water from the bucket. “Has lie come, Phillis ?” “De company young man, miss ?” said Phillis. “Nohe.ain.t. An’Miss Lisette, she's a scolding because you ain’t been io arrange de roses for de big bokay in de middle ob de table; ami Miss Maud, she done can’t fix her hair to suit her; an— dar’s the mis sus’ callin’ now. Run Miss Barby, run.” “There, mamma,T told you fo !” said Mias Maud Wilde, the “intellec tual” member of tho family. “It will be an inconvenient crowd, if Barbara comes to tiie table,” “Let her wait,” said Lisette, se renely. “But I wont,” flashed out Barbara, her blue eyes glittering with indigna tion. “I will come to tho first table. Alter arranging the roses and gather ing the wild strawberries. Mamma is it right to keep me in the back kitchen, all my days.” "My dear! my dear!” remonstra ted Mrs. Wilde, “you are forgetting yourself.’’ “And I do so want to see Captain Severn I” added Barbara, resolutely chocking down the big sob, that rose in her throat. “What nonsense!” said Lisette, the dove eyed beauty „ with tho rip- plinghair and the complexion of pink and snow. “As if Captain Severn would ever look at yon !” “But I may look at him, I eup pose ?” cried indignant Barbara. ‘‘And I’m sixteen years old and you have no right to treat me like a baby.” “Children, children ! don't get to quarreling," said Mrs. Wilde. “And Barbara can just sit here behind the tea urn. and I dare say we shall have plenty of room ” “There,” said Barbara, with a tri umphant grimace at her sisters. “Horrid little spoiled child!” said; Maud. * “Barbara always gets her own ! way,” commented Lisette. “Hush !” said Mrs. Wyilde author itively. “Here comes your papa up the laural walk with Captain Se vern.” Lisette peeped irom behind the folds of the fluted Swiss curtains, Maud ran to the Venetian blinds of the bay window, and Barbara climbed with sixteen year old agility into a ••hair to peep over her sisters shoul der.” “O, good gracious!” cried she drop ing from her aerial perch with start ling suddenness. “What is it ?” sai<l Maud. “It’s Squire Dallas’ hired matt,” gasped Barbara. “What V” said Lisette. “I—l don’t mind about the first ta ble,” said Barbara, turning pink and white, like a York and Lancaster rose; “I’d rather eat in the kitchen with Phillis.” And away she darted like a scared young doe. before any one could stop her. “Go away!” cried Barbara iudig nantly. She had cried till her cyelaslieswcre all glittering and her cheeks stained with tears, to say nothing of the crumpled state of her sash ribbon and white dress, and now she sat crouch ed under the shadow of the great flowering almond bush, as it she tain would retreat utterly out of the world of Btfghjt. ami hearing. Captain Severn stood before her with folded arms and questioning Spanish eyes. “i shali not go away,’’said he, “un til you have pardoned me.’’ “How can 1 ever pardon yon,” flashed Barbara. “You have impos ed upon n.e, you have practiced on my credulity.” “You asked me to help you gather strawberries—and I helped you.” “You al'ovved me to suppose that you were Squire Dallas’ hired man.” “I claimed no identity either one way or the other,” pleaded Captain Severn. “Was trying to find my way by a short cut across the fields to your fathei’s house, and sat under the oak tree to rest. And when you calk and me I came like a true knight of old. Now if you can convict me of*any offense in all this, I stand ready to abide the consequences." “You never never will be able to forgive me,” sobbed Barbara, again retiring behind the end of her blue sash. “Little Barbara,” said Captain Se vern, falling upon his knees, as if it were the most natural and convention £ 1 tiling in the world, will you for give me V” And what could Barbara do but say “yes.” Captain Severn insisted upon his strawberry, tart that evening, accord ing to agreement, and he mid Barba ra ate it together like two school children, out on the lawn while Maud yawned behind a book; and Lisette acidly wondered, what on earth Captain Severn could find to amuse him in the chatter of a child like Bar bara.” And when the red leaves of late October choked up the little stream beside which tin y had gathered wild strawberries, there was a wedding at the Wilde homestead, and the bride was not Maud, the intellectual, nor the lovely Lisette, but little Barbara. “Bar’s no account in’ for true love,” said old Phillis as she stirred the wedding cake. —A political orator, speaking of a eerta.n general whom lie professed to admire, said that on iho field of bat tle he was always found where the Indie.* weru thickest. “Where was that?” asked one id his auditors. In tlie amniuiiiiion wagon," yelled tuotbe RECIPES. Scotch Broth. —Take four pounds of mutton (part of the leg is best,) add one gallon of water, one tcacupful of pearl barley, two carrots sliced, two turnips sliced, two onions cut small, three carrots grated, the white part of a large cabbage, chopped very small and a small quantity of parsley. Season with pepper and salt. Let this boil very genj.lv for three hours and a half, and at the dinner table it will most likely, by all those who are | fond of soups, be pronounced exeel | lent. Veal For Breakfast. Take a round earthen dish and put in it a layer of bread crumbs. Over thesi put spots of butter; then a layer of ininced cold veal, with salt and pep per; then crumbs, butter, veal, salt and pepper. When the dish is full, with a layer of crumbs for the top. pour over it an egg, beaten well, and mixed in half a cup of milk. If you have gravy it is better than milk Bake until brown. Cream Muffins. —One quart of rich milk, or if you can get it, half cream and half milk ; one quart of flour, six eggs, one tablcspoonful of butter, one of lard, softened together. Beat whites and yolks, separately, very light ; then add flour and shortening and a scant teaspoonful of salt, and stir in the flour the last thing, as lightly as possible, and have the bat ter freo from lumps. Half fill your well battered muffin tings, and bake immediately in a hot oven, or your muffins will riot be good. Send to the table the moment they are done. Almond Custwrd Cake. —One lb. of sugar, one half pound of butter nibbed to a cream ; five eggs, beaten very light, one cup of sweet milk, ono pound of flour,' with two tea spoon fids of anti-dyspeptic baking powder sifted with it; flavor with lemon : bake in three jelly pans. The custard.—one cupful thick sour cream, two cupfuls granulated sugar, one pound sweet almonds blanched and chopped fine; flavor with vanilla; mix all well together and spread between the layers of cake. Confederate Pudding. —Rub thor oughly into four te&oups of si tied flour one teacupful of suet, sh reded and chopped fine, one teacup of rais • ins, seeded and chopped, the same quantity of currants, washed and dried the day previous, and one tea spoonful of cinnamon ; stir into this one tcacupful of molasses and the same quantity of sweet milk. Poor into a pudding bag, well floured, or, belter still, a pudding mould and steam for two hours. Eat hot, with sauce. If there is any left, it may bo heated well through, and will bo found just as good as when fresh. Bread Ball. —Break the bread in small pieces, and moisten with milk or a little warm water, season with salt, pepper and nutmeg, adding a little fine sage or parsley and a small piece of butter, mix and form into small cakes or balls; roast with beef dr chickens, or fry after meat in a skillet. '• . I Ginger Beer. —White sugar, five pounds; lemon juice, one gill; honey, one-fourth pound; ginger, bruised, five oz: water, four and one-half gal lons. Boil the ginger half an hour in three quarts of water, then add all the others and strain. When cold, add the white of an egg well beaten aim one tcaspoonful of extract of lemon. Let stand four or five days and bottle. It will keep for months. Rosin. —lu caso a knife or fork handle gets loose, set the handle up on end, fill the cavity with pulveris ed rosin, then warm the small part of the knife or fork and insert it slowly, crowd it down firmly, and bold it iu right positiou until the rosin cool* enough to set.