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For Woman’s Work.
MY CHILDHOOD’S HOME.
BY MONNIE MOORE.
I long to see my childhood's home ;
The dear old'house where I was born.
I long through those old rooms to roam ;
Where dawned for me life’s rosy morn.
The long, low house, and porch so wide;
With railing guarded round about;
And gate well-fastened at the side,
To keep us babes from falling out.
Within that porch a stout old swing,
Gave pleasure, exercise and health.
And there we’d laugh, and romp and sing;
Or dream of future fame, or wealth.
Alas ! we’re many miles away,
And all have known much toil and pain.
But mem’ry takes me back to-day,
To that dear home of ours again.
I see the gnarled old apple trees;
The milk house, and the old log barn ;
The holly-hocks which humming bees
From rudely plucking did us warn.
The long, low bars, o’er which the kine
Looked at us with their great soft eyes;
While close beside, the lazy swine
Were dozing idly in their styes.
At milking time, the old black cow
Stood in one corner of the fence ;
With rail across, lest she’d allow
Her foot to send the milk-pail hence.
The meek horses, ’cept Puss and Nig ;
We thought the latter king of all,
With glossy coat, and eyes so big,
His gaze did youthful hearts appall.
The old white dog who used to draw
Our small wagon, the yard around ;
And often, turning quickly, saw
Us youngsters tumbled on the ground.
Our squirrel, “ Bonnie,” fat and sleek,
Who in the dough-pan crept one day.
He ate too much, and in a week,
We laid poor “Bonnie’s” form away.
The “ Union School House,” where we first
Had labored through our A B C’s ;
The gourd from which we slaked our thirst;
Our “ Master,” lank, who loved his ease ;
Who at the “noon-time" went to sleep.
And careful we were, not to wake
Him ; lest we’d hear in voice so deep :
“Silence! ’tis time your books to take.”
The little boy, with bright, blue eyes,
And shining hair of yellow gold';
Who went to dwell up in the skies,
Our little brother, two years old.
The old church, with its graveyard ; where
We laid his baby fcrm to rest.
’Twas hard to part from him, so fair;
But Jesus took him. He knew best.
The yawning fire-place, low and wide,
With tall brass “ dog-irons ” shining bright,
And clean swept hearth, our mother’s pride
Piled high with logs at eve, its light
Filled all the room with ruddy glow. ’
And when we all had gathered ’round
This dear old hearth of home, I know
A happier family ne’er was found.
And yet, methinks, ’tis just as well.
I cannot see that home
For strangers
i o i
To see the dear
For Woman’s Work.
“THE LAST STRAW.”
BY SYLVIA SILVERTHORNE.
Mid-afternoon of a long, warm summer
day, and weary little Mrs. Ronald had
dropped down among the cushions on the
sitting-room couch, to catch, if she might,
just a little “cat-nap,” or, failing of that, to
bring by quiet repose, tranquility to her
throbbing, fevered pulses.
Looking back across the stretch of day,
since she had begun her tasks, at scarce
more than dawn, it seemed like a dream,
almost, I might say, a troubled dream, all
the things she had managed to accomplish
and crowd into the hours; and yet, as she
retrospected, not one of those things could
have been left undone.
It was Monday and wash-day and there
had been the thousand-and-one duties, be
side, that crowd themselves into each day
alike. The little army of must-be-dones,
that speak out their behests, as if they
would say, “In your house we rule, not
thou.”
“Throb! throb! throb!” How could she
hope to sleep, with that unceasing voice of
over-worked nature crying out against
her? But that would soon quiet, perhaps,
and then—but just then she called to mind
that baby and four-year-old Neddie hadn’t
bothered her for some minutes; that must
forebode either mischief or mishap, and she
must go in search of them. Finding them
wornout with play and wrapped in restful
sleep on the tempting grass-plot in the
cooling shade of a spreading maple, she,
again sought her resting-place, after having
drawn lower the shade to shut out the strag
gling beams that, now as the sun was glid
ing horizon-ward, slanted across her pillow.
Down again. Now if she could only just
forget herself for a moment and fall asleep.
But what is she thinking about? There’s
the supper not yet planned. She had been
so busy with a multitude of cares she had
failed to plan her supper, and oh! model
housekeeper! false to your household trusts,
which you ought to hold sacred, how dare
you lose yourself in the unconsciousness of
slumber, till you have given due thought
to this matter ? For, how do you know
but you may, in sleep’s forgetfulness, let
the supper hour arrive and take you una
ware, ere you have predestinated your sup-
per “ bill of fare.” And so, to appease the
wrath of her housekeeper—conscience
which was schooled to cry out for method
—she planned her supper, and then sleep
fell on her lids. Not sweet, restful sleep,
but sleep in which she did over again the
tasks of the day; sleep in which she strug
gled vainly to carry burdens too grievous
to be borne; sleep in which she found her
self attempting to do several things at a
time, thereby failing in all, and breaking
into sobs because she seemed to accomplish
no good; but it was, nevertheless, sleep
that might have subsided into restful slum
ber, but that through it came to her the
sound of her husband’s voice.
“Annie, Annie, where are you? ”
“ Here, George; what is it? ”
“We would like to have supper at five
this evening. At that time we will be
ready to go back to the field for another
load of hay, and as it will be night before
we get through, we’d best have supper be
fore we go."
“ Yes, supper will be ready.”
And while George Ronald returned to
his work (for it was hay-making time,)
without having seen his fatigued wife or
heard a word of complaint, she arose wear
ily and went to the dining-room to ascer
tain the hour.
“ Half past four,” is what the little clock
grinningly responded, and it seemed to
Her, it chuckled an “ aside ” to itself, like
this:
“ Don’t I make her hop to keep up with
me ?”
But usually she and the little clock were
best of friends, and it had a good-natured
smile for her, so she forgave it now and
went to the kitchen.
“ Throb, throb, throb,” cried her pulses
and h.er temples and her whole body. But
she thought “ That will be all over when I
have stirred ’round a while, I know, for
I’ve been just so before.” And then why
didn’t those temples and pulses and tor
tured body cry out as with one voice.
•‘ Haven t you heard us more frequently,
of late.” But even then would she have
heard ? Sometimes it can be said of us
that we would not hear “ even if one came
to us from the dead.”
But soon the tea-kettle was singing, (can
you, in tea-kettle music, distinguish be
tween a dirge and an anthem?) and the
table was being loaded with the things she
had “ planned ” to have for supper, and
nobody knew that weary feet were tread
ing the ways that lie between stove and
pantry and 'dining-room, for she didn’t
mention it, and no one could be expected
J In from school filed the children. There’
was seven-year-old Bess, with cheeks of
roses and tangles of sunny curls. There
was Bert, the black-eyed rogue of nine,
and there was Jimmie, twelve years old,
and becoming, in the eyes of the family, a
boy of considerable promise, and last, but
neither least in person or prominence, was
Dora, a sweet girl of seventeen summers,
and one whose ambition, already awaken
ed, had set her teaching the district school,
some three-fourths of a mile from home.
Thereby she was not only enabled to earn
something for herself, hut, it being so near
her home, she could still be one of the
family circle.
What did you say, you little, tired body,
mother of this group, mother of this girl,
who, being thoroughly American, is follow
ing the lead of her ambition? Did you
say the money which comes in through her
efforts is being paid for out of your vital
ity, on account of the added burden of do
ing her work in addition to your own ?
No? You didn’t say that? I beg your
pardon. Loving little mother, that was
my mistake. lam sure I must have only
beard my own thoughts voicing themselves,
and seeing your lips move, perhaps with a
quiver of weariness, I fancied the sound
proceeded from thence.
Supper is ready. Haymakers are busy
tickling their palates with the “ planned ”
feast of edibles. (Doesn’t that offset all
the discomfort resulting to the tired wo
man, on account of having to break in on
her rest in order to have all things in read
iness ?) Two-year-old baby, and four-year
old Neddie, waked from their grass-plat
sleep when the children came from school,
and Dora has warhed them and kissed
them, and they are ready for supper. So
now she pours the tea, while Mrs. Ronald
pretends to eat, bpt there’s no appetite ; so
she sips her tea, and smiles, while the oth
ers chat, and she pats baby’s fat cheek,
and takes his proffered kiss, even though
in so doing she gets a feast of crumbs from
his infant lips.
After supper, Dora gets ready to wash
the dishes, as is usual for her when nothing
happens to prevent, but too often it is usu
al for something to happen to prevent, as
it is about to do now, more usual methinks
than Dora imagines, for, like the boy in
school of whom the teacher asked his age,
“ Don’t know; never kep’ count,” he re
sponded. So of these times when some
thing interfered with her routine of work,
I fear she “ never kep’ count,” and more
times than she knew she dropped her bur-
den on her mother’s shoulders, and hied
her away to the land of “good-time.”
From some errand out of doors, she came
rushing in with :
“Oh, Mamma! Jennie Bradley is driv
ing out in her new phaeton, and has stopped
for me to go with her. We will return be
fore dark. Say quick, that’s a good mamma.
May I go?” and her dimpled arms were
about her mamma’s neck, and her fair
cheek pressed to the—throbbing temples;
I wonder she didn’t feel or hear them.
Mrs Ronald was just about to say, “ But
the supper work dear, I am so tired. I do
not see how I can get through with it.”
But she paused to await the result of a lit
tle struggle that was going on in her
heart, and in the melee, down went self,
and up to the top came mother-love, and
she said.
“Go on dear, and I hope you may have
a pleasant drive. Don’t stay long.”
And as she saw her trip away, she said
in her heart, (for she held her lips lest they
make moan.) “ I want to make her young
life as happy as I can.”
“ Throb, throb, throb.” Why didn’t she
listen and translate that. In plain English,
it meant to say to her, “ Make her young
life happy, at what cost?”
Jimmie, in work garb is doing chores at
the barn, or “helping father.” Bess and Bert
are feeding the fowls and gathering the
eggs, and Neddie is following after with
Baby in charge, to keep him out of mamma’s
way, while she finishes her work.
The clothes are brought from the line
and folded, ready for Tuesday’s ironing.
Then, and not till then, Mis. Ronald sat
down to try to rest, while in, through the
open doorway, came sounds of childish
sport, that sent a thrill of pleasure through
her heart, for the voices were the voices of
her children and she was glad they were
happy.
Papa and Jimmie are just coming from
the barn. Papa Ronald was so tired he
did not go with the hired men for the load
of hay.
“Mamma,” said Jimmie, “I broke my
suspender to-day. Will you fix it for me?”
“Yes!” And she went in search of
needle, thimble and thread, while he
brought the broken suspender. Did you
ever mend a broken suspender? They are
not so very hard to sew, if you are not
very tired. At least one thing in its favor,
it doesn’t take much time.
Just as she finished it, in came Bert, the
dear little rogue, with the black eyes, with
“Mamma, while you have your needle
threaded won’t you sew the cover on my
ball ? It’s ripped.”
“Yes!” And while sire sewed she heard,
or felt, or realized “ throb, throb, throb.”
None of the others heard or realized any
thing of the kind. How could they know
—and she fainted.
Quickly the strong arms of George
Ronald lifted tenderly that little, supple
form, and laid it on the couch. Quickly
restoratives were used, and she regained,
after a time, consciousness; but as she lay
there looking so wan and weak, they won
dered what could have come over her, that
she was stricken down so suddenly in the
midst of health. They did not know that
the chords ot her strength, stretched to
their utmost tension, had suddenly given
away, almost snapped asunder.
Ah. how often a woman’s foes are “they
of her own household.” Those who love
her best, not that they intend it so, but
they are so accustomed to seeing her go on
day after day, following the dreary round,
uncomplainingly, that they never stop tc
consider, and whose is the fault?
Oh, ambitious mothers! because you eri
in your judgment, because your love makes
you blind, and because you bow in blind
idolatry at the feet of your household gods,
and serve them with works meet for a holiei
cause, you are filling new-raised mounds
in the cemeteries of the world, mounds
kept moist with tears from eyes too youne
to know aught of grief’s overflow.
Promptly as he could be summoned,
came the physician from the little village
lying two miles in the shadowy distance
shadowy now, as the sun had passed the
horizon-hills, and a soft summer twilight
fell in dusky folds about the quiet earth.
Dr. Roberts entered the room in which
the sad-faced family were gathered, with a
cheery “Good-evening” and one or two
playfully-pleasant remarks, which, in spite
of their over-wrought apprehensions,
caused the long-drawn visages to relax into
smiles. Even the white face on the pillow
also smiled in response. How quickly our
candles of hope are lighted at the torch of
our family physician’s promise-beaming
countenance.
•‘Now, my little woman,” he said as he
took a seat at Mrs. Ronald’s bedside
“your family, I apprehend, think you have
been very suddenly stricken down, but
you and I know some things they are not
aware 01, consequently, we know there has
been no suddenness about it. To tell the
truth, I had diagnosed your case before I
saw you, and find I had not erred in my
supposition. I could have foretold this for
you long ago, for I saw what you were
vate nature into another open rebellion.”
And away went the jolly soul who carried
healing in his words, as well as in his medi
cine-bags.
Mrs. Ronald, even with her tonic, and a
careful following of her “absolute rest”
prescription, found that her strength came
slowly, slowly. But nature’s disturbed
forces, by degrees regained their equilib
rium, and ever after, if one would have
thoughtlessly added so much as a feather’s
weight to her burden, which it was deemed
expedient, as well as merciful, to keep as
light as possible, just a reference to the
bringing upon yourself by your over-work
and under-rest.”
“Oh, doctor,” said Mrs. Ronald, “why
didn’t you tell me then, ‘forewarned is
forearmed,’ you know.”
“Ob, if I had told you,” laughed the
doctor, “you would have called me a
‘ prophet of evil,’ and as for ‘ forewarned,
forearmed,’ that is true only in case you
heed the warning. But, though I would
have you know you are in no danger, yet a
voice has spoken now which you will heed
as you would not have heeded mine, and a
hand is laid upon you which will hold you
where you are till you heed the mandate—
‘rest.’ But you have had warnings of
this,” and adroitly he drew from her the
confession of how oft-times her frame had
well nigh rebelled against the burdens re
quired of it, but she held out, hoping to
wear off the feeling, and, led on by his
“drawing-out process,” she related all.
even to the events of the day as already
recorded, finishing her story with the ac
count of the fainting spell while she sewed
the cover on Bert’s ball.
“Yes.” said, or rather mused, the doctor,
“There’s an old familiar phrase which has
it, ‘ It’s the last straw that breaks the cam
el’s back.’ ”
“ Oh!” bursts out Bert, to whom the
ball incident came home with sorrowful
force, and who, together with being loving
and sensitive, was also quick atari applica
tion. “ Did I put on the last straw ? ” and
he wept as if his little heart would break.
“ Come here, Bertie dear,” said Mrs.
Ronald, whose mother-heart still surged
against her fifth rib, and her arms were put
out to receive him.
“ Did I put on de las’ ’taw ? ” chimed in
baby, who was quick to repeat what he
heard, as well as ever ready to “ weep with
those who wept,” for he, too, ran to mam
ma’s couch, with uncontrolled wails, at
which there were smiles on all countenan
ces, and then, though the older ones spoke
no word, in their hearts were whispered
echoes, “ Didn’t I help put on the straw?”
Only the doctor spoke. “ Come here,
Bertie,” he said, “ I want to whisper some
thing aloud to you. Don’t worry about
who put on the last straw. I think camels
should learn to groan when their burden is
sufficient for their strength, and not make
a virtue of endurance when it has passed
the allotted line. And now lam going to
tell you, and I hope the others will all play
eaves-droppers and listen. Your mamma
must have absolute rest. Not only rest
from work—no danger ot her doing much
of that for a few weeks; she ought not for
months—but also rest from care. She must
not even plan for or manage household af
fairs, or I shall not be responsible for con
sequences. Now, who in all the world do
you think can take her place while she
rests ?”
“ Sister Dora,” was the prompt response.
“Yes,” said Dora, coining forward, and
laying her hand lovingly on Mrs. Ronald s
brow, “Mamma, I am going to send my
resignation to the school director to-mor
row morning, in time for him to engage
Mollie Vincent. She needs and will be
glad to get the school, and can do better
than at her day-sewing.”
“But, daughter, I can’t let you make
such a sacrifice. It will spoil all your
plans, and ”
But Dora playfully put her hand on her
mamma’s lips, saying: “I have no plans;
they’ve all dissolved, only one, and that’s
to keep and care for my mother.”
“Then George,” said Mrs. Ronald, as she
pressed her daughter’s hand, “I’ll at last
yield to your advice, so often urged upon
me, and you may go in quest of a girl to
help with the work. Dora must not be
allowed to follow in my footsteps.”
At this the jolly doctor jumped up and
rubbing his hands together briskly, after a
way of his own, said: “I see I’ll* not be
needed around here much. But I will
leave you this tonic, and will call around
occasionally, to see that you do not aggra
“last straw,” would put the thoughtless
one on loving guard again.
Far over the distant hilltops,
The first faint rays of the sun,
Gleam with a tender promise,
Os the beautiful day to come.
See! they are growing brighter,
They touch with a loving hand
The grey old treesand the sad brown fields,
And glory fills the land. —Ruby.
There is a mountain of coal in Wild
Horse Valley, Wyoming, which has been
burning for thirty years. It sends up
dense volumes of smoke.