Rensselaer Republican, Volume 18, Number 20, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 21 January 1886 — A Rural Belle. [ARTICLE]

A Rural Belle.

Did you ever see a 'genuine rural belle ? As a study, a vastly animated study of the bonhomie unrestraint of nature in its variable mood, the rural belle occupies a pedestal of her own, and, what is more to the credit of this bird of changeable plumage,she created that self-same pedestal herself. Novelists are in the habit of calling this sort of a creature Hebe. Why they do I cannot say. Hebe of the latter-day order of romance, is something I cannot surround With any degree of satisfaction. I may mention right here that I did try to surround a rural once, but the result was far beyond my utmost anticipations. Other fellows have tried to do likewise. The returns thus far received prove conclusively that it requires something more than cheek and checked pants to attain the proper modicum a ]a circular about this coy though willing belle of the rural parts. The romance-grinder delights to call the festive belle of the meadow unsophisticated. No man was ever more mistaken in all his life than the putativa.chai> of the fashionable walks of life who endeavored to woo the belle from the chrysalis of reluctancy by the allurements of the divine passion, pure and simple. The rural belle isn’t that sort of a bird. She is of different material. She knows more about the requisite amount of red pepper properly added to soft mush for hens than she does of taffy. Still, there is no gainsaying it—when she does drop to taffy, she is quite capable of roasting the supposed-to-be-ensnarer upon the-gridiron of her unmitigated scorn.

A man who falls in love with the rural belle must have the patience of Job, the grip of Tantalus and stoicism of Prometheus. The belle of the rural parts is variable in her temper. One minute she will smother you with her warm caresses, and the next she will want to brain you with a three-legged lacteal tripod. One day she will want to romp on the greensward, and the next day she will tie you down to a dose of L ongfellow’s “Evangeline. ” In the morning she will feed you on milk and honey, and in the evening she will leave you all alone under the wildgrape arbor while she goes riding with the russet-cheeked son of brawn who owns the adjoining farm by right of legacy. Right here I might just as well say a few words about this scion of a hay-making race who owns the adjoining farm by right o.f legacy. He is the acme of manly perfection in the estimation of the rural belle. When he lays down his hand no others need apply. The queen of the dairy is not sordid, but she is a woman; next to reigning supreme over her father’s farm, from boundary line to boundary line, she looks forward with blissful anticipation to the time when she can reign in undisputed glory over a farm of her own. This is the reason why the russet-cheeked son of brawn, who owns a farm by right of legacy, is so often a stumbling block in the path of the city youth who would a wooing go with more cheek than ducats. Still there is a charm about, having your wings singed a la proverbial moth that is utterly irresistible. That is the reason why so many city youngsters come back from the rural parts with chalky complexion and sad eyes. They have been singed. The greater portion of them commit matrimonial suicide and fasten themselves down to a carameldevouring machine in silks and satin, with a pug-dog attachment—simply through pique. Oh, yes; there is no mistaking it. The rural belle carries , a superabundancy of female loveliness, about her. She also has a great amount of the handy knowledge known as tact. She can win a fcan’s heart, and send his peace of mind to the four winds quicker than the most cultured darling of fashion. But, love a rural belle, and be loved in return, and, well nd matter. Immense.— H~ 8. Keller.