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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.