Litchfield enquirer., 1873-07-17

your butter be better than 1t now Is. To i the poor man with one COW and snail
 barn, she is a blessing and life-to his wife
 and children beauty to their eyes and q l joy to their hearts. To the rich man Q 1 joy and d iuxnrY, and to all who want the produce of tife COW, and not the COW her self, she far outstrips all competitors. l l have little experience In cheese mak-
 ing, but judging from what I buy, I can 1 fancy little more Jersey cream and little less Ayrshire gristle would suit the 1 taste quite as we'll have tasted cheese
 made at Lake Mills, where there is some Jersey blood, that seemed to be superl- 1 or article.
 1 The COWS of this breed are always great 1 favorites of the women, their gentle na-
 lures attracting and attaching them to the
 mother and tte children, who save for them many tidbit from the table. Vic
 toria. England's good Queen, the owner of large herds, has always kept at her | country seat Jersey COW for her own
 household family able-so have most of the wives of the heardsmen of famous English and Scottish herds. Daniel Web 1 ster, Americas greatest statesman, who
 was loved and respected but little less in England than in Ameaica, who caused
 his great oxen to be yoked and brought to
 his window as he lay upon his death bed,
 that he might look into their great broad
 honest foreheads, imported at an early
 day some Jerseys and took great pride
 in showing to his city bred guests his
 Alderney milk upon the table of his Marsh | field mansion.
 TWO LETTERS THAT CROSSED. I. HER LETTER.
 How envy you who have no letter to
 write 10 me, nothing that cannot be said
 in words as we are sitting before my little 1 fire, or walking together on the downs This spring-tide has been full of romance | toius two,-the village music mistress and the parish organist; both. most likely, as
 little suspected of it as the white haired,
 lethargic peasant boys and girls who are my pupils and your listeners. We have l climbed the brown hills and breathed the
 first freshness of March under the wide
 blue sky, followed messy tracks that dip- ped into the purple woods, or led to
 wierd old granges, collecting wild flowers, | and watching the birds over their nests;
 or we have walked for miles along the
 shore, till the wintry sun dropped like ruby into the cold gray sea. If it hap | pened that we were too busy for these holiday walks, there was always the early service in our beautiful little church,
 which seems as much part of my life as the voice with which I sing to you or the responses of your own. We might not, perhaps, speak to each other, or even see each others face; but whilst I led my o1, oTY you played, to us, felt drawn to you by a closer sympathy than that of our love for each other, or our passion for nature
 Yes, from the beginning of such inter- course as this, none of my days have been wanting in goodness and sweetness. And when you said, yesterday, that on the morrow you could neither come to me nor attend the service, because you wished to arrange for that months holiday we had projected, long ago, what could I do but smile through my assenting tears like any other happy woman? It was not now till my days work was done, and I had time to think little, that I determined to write this letter.
 Strange, that though you have been my friend of five years and my lover of as many months, cannot guess how you will re- ceive my confession. 1 do not know what good men deem to be unpardonable of- lenses in a woman. Will you be suddenly fierce and angry, and indifferent ever aft CT? I must wait another day to be an- swered.
 The outline of my early history is known to you-how I was reared in the chilling atmosphere of poverty-stricken gentility, the adopted child of my dead fathers sis ters; how was ill-taught, ill-clothed, ill., fed, because my aunts were poor; how l was brought up in idleness. because 1t be- hooved no gentlewoman to work; how at twenty burst the bonds of the slavery, and, unaided and alone, went out into the world to earn my own bread, and lived for and studying music, till our kind old friend, Mrs. Berners, found me out. She had passion for church music, and part ly to gratify that passion, and partly to subserve it to the interests of religion, she built and endowed a church in this little paradise of an island. The poor people were as ignorant of music as of everything else. was engaged as music-mistress at a salary of 95O year, with lodgings.
 "And, put in Mrs. Berners, smiling, ''all the salads and peaches you can eat from the hall garden, my dear; but when you grow old and ugly you must expect me to send you away. will have good-looking people about me-" And true enough, from the lady's-maid down to the stable boy, there was not an ugly face on the premises. When Mr. Berners brought me here, five years ago, was still young, that is to say, had not passed my thir- tieth birthday. My black locks showed no silvery line; my brown cheeks had a glow of red; my brow was smooth. Do you remember how you were deceived by my impersonation of a gypsy minstrel, last Christmas? When the mummers came round and acted long play in the servants hall,-the gay dresses, the dia- logues, the passage-at-arms, the songs, the dance, impelled me by longing that was irresistible, to take part in the per formance Without waiting to reflect, I stole away, and dressed myself in 8 cos tune made up on the spur of the moment, incongruous enough, but not whit more so than the others, and gorgeous in col ors, we'll becoming my dark complexion. Thus disguised I was introduced, and sang, danced, played to the accompani- ment of castanets, in mood that was half sport, half frenzy. I heard Mrs. Berners whisper, ''Like Theodora, only handsom- er," and you smiled assent. When the mum mers had gone, and had declared myself, no one blamed me for what had done Up on yourself the impression had acted like l a spell. The Theodora in disguise had captivat- ed, bewitched, ensnared you. But what will you say when tell you that in assum-
 ing those gypsy lendings, I showed my ] real self? That my acting was no mere
 freak or piece of latent cleyerness, but a revelation of the wild, passionate, reck- less youth of which you had never dream
 ed? I suppose most lives had a hidden tragedy. Mine had been as completely 1 out of sight as the forests that lie under