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For Woman’s Work.
THE THREE ANSWERS.
“Little maiden, winsome maiden,”
Called the blue-bells o’er tne way;
“Sweet the air with perfume laden,
Come with us and spend the day.
Zephyrs soft on fairy wing,
Waft to us the song you sing.”
“Thank you, thank you pretty flowers,
In your grassy bed so cool,
If I waste the morning hours,
I will surely miss at school,
While I learn my lessons well
How I love you none can tell.”
“Lovely maiden, youthful maiden,”
Sang the birds in merrv glee;
“In the meadows and tne woodland,
AU day long we’ll sing for thee.
Where the silvery waters play,
Come, O come with us away! ”
“O ye happy woodland songsters,
Sing again your songs to me;
With the waning of the summer,
Some one conies from o’er the sea.
Tis a secret, do not tell,
Since I love you all, farewell.”
a
“Come with us, O weary woman,”
Sighed the waters soft and low,
“We will rock thee on our bosom,
In the moonlight’s mellow glow.
Life has been a weary day,
Come and dream thy cares away.”
“Lure me not, O singing waters,
With your restful songs to-day;
I am waiting for the Master.
He is coming soon this way.
Tho’ your waves I dearly love.
Some one waits for me above.”
S. Minerva Boyce.
Waitsfield Vt.
«
For Woman’s Work.
NIAGARA SPRAY.
GENIE ORCHARD.
Looking on Niagara for the first time, I
felt as if the presence of Deity surrounded
me. The voice of the waters thundered
and roared, as if proclaiming the majesty
of Heaven.
I stood in silent awe, and as I looked, I
could but wonder that all the world did
not come and bow in adoration to such a
revelation of power and might, as the
“poor, untutored Indian has done for more
than a hundred years.”
It is from Table Rock that the tremen
dous majesty of the waters can be seen
best. There I saw oceans of billows lashed
into foam that writhed, and plunged, and
roared like angry beasts, when with gath
ered strength they leapt wildly over the
cliff o( rpgk into the current below. Again
heaving WI lows, and with a
rush like the sweep of destiny hurled on
to the endless waters beyond. Columns of
mist arose, like smoke after battle—clouds
of silver spray that foamed into domesand
wreaths of snow, and caught a million
rainbow glories ot ruby and emerald, with
all the empurpled rays that sunshine lends
to diamond showers. As I stood and
looked, my enthusiasm caused me to forget
all else but the scene before me. Princes,
powers and dominions, seemed as atoms
when held in Comparison beside this terri
ble avalanche. The jewels that deck the
browand crown of kings, seemed but paste
and clay beside the million stars of light
that dazzled amid the spray. Just as I
reached the summit of my raptures, I was
suddenly brought low by a voice that
grated harshly upon me: “You had better
keep off that edge. You are on mighty
dangerous ground. The water is a bit
deep you know, and ybur eyes look strange.
I guess you ain’t crazy, is ye?” I looked,
and there, beside me, stood a tall, gaunt
woman, who roughly clutched my arm
with her hard, horny band. A Meg Mer
rilies she looked, I thought, as I turned and
saw her deep-set eyes looking down upon
me. So I was brought cruelly from my
enthusiastic dreams to the rugged sphere
of life. I think we always are so brought.
We all have a Meg Menilies ever at our
side to bring us down when we soar too
near the rainbow’s a: ch :s, just as the wierd,
dark woman re-calh d me from my enthu
siastic wanderings. As I turned, I saw
near me an old man quietly smoking and
basking in thp sunshine. He smiled good
naturedly, as I watched the woman with
her faggots pass on her way. My compan
ions had left me in search for new sights,
and I sat on the log beside the old man,
who was inclined to be communicative, and
he interested me by his quaint, honest
talk. He had lived in sight of the falls for
more than fifty years, and said that he did
not believe he could happily exist without
the roar and noise of the waters ever sound
ing near him. He told me that the falls
were first seen by a French Jesuit mission
ary when on an expedition of discovery in
the year 1(178, and I have seen that state
ment since verified by historical facts re
garding Niagara. He also told me some
legends. One about the inevitable lover
who was lost in the current, and the fate of
the infatuated girl who plunged and fol
lowed him. He told me that when th"
moon was bright, the form of the girl could
be seen like a faint shadow in the mist, as
if searching for her lost love. I assured
the old man that I would, that very night,
watch for his filmy heroine; but, as the
moon did not rise, I suppose she remained
in her cavernous home, for I failed to see
her.
At the foot of Luna and Goat Islands is
situated the “ Cave of the Winds.” This
has been formed by the action of the water
on the soft substratum of the precipice,
which has been washed away, and the rock
left arching overhead thirty feet. Here we
put on waterproofs and obtained a guide,
who is ever near at hand. It was a wierd,
strange experience, one I acknowledge
that I did not wish to continue long. The
great brown walls towering a hundred- and
thirty feet above, looked like a mildewed
vault, a fit home for the witches to congre
gate in and plan their deeds of dark
ness. In front of us the falls formed
a transparent curtain that the sunshine
ever weaves in its crystal folds; arches of
sea-shell tints that glimmer and tremble
with every change of along the floor
of the cavern. The spray is hurled with
such violence that it curls upward on the
roof like mammoth, fleecy plumes.
Charles Dickens, when he«-was in Amer
ica, pronounced the view from Goat Island
the most sublime that he had ever
witnessed. Here, beyond the heaving,
boiling waters, can be seen Navy Island,
celebrated in the history of border war
fare, the site of old Fort Seholasser on
the American side, the town of Chippewa
on the Canadian side. But it is as useless
to attempt to enumerate the beauties and
objects of interest that surround this place
as it would be to try and count the bright
est stars in heaven. Everywhere we saw
groups of Indians scattered, with their
merchandise of fancy beads, birch bark
baskets, etc. I was particularly impressed
by a slender girl, my ideal girl of the red
race, I thought, as she stood amid a cloud
of mist on a projecting ledge of rock. A
fearless, wild, beautiful creature, with flash
ing eyes and jet black hair, bound with
strands of glittering beads. She saw us,
and with a spring as graceful as that of a
gazelle, she bounded to us, holding out her
pretty, gaudy wares, and prayed of us to
buy. This we did. She gave us a grateful,
bright look and darted away as quickly as
she had appeared.
A fascination charmed me to the spot
with irresistable power and my heart went
out in sympathy and admiration for Ab
bott, th« hermit of the falls, the man who
left this world of wealth and fashion, and
took up his residence on Goat Island, in a
deserted, hut, an ere lived in adoration
until he was losH while bathing in the
river below the falls. His body was found
and those who knew how he worshipped
the beauty of the spot buried him close to
the roaring falls be loved so well.
As I stood and looked, my thoughts re
ceded more than a hundred years ago,
when the great, still waters and the majesty
of those racing torrents was the home of
the red man. It seemed I could see the
dusky warrior with his snow-white canoe
weighted with the chieftain’s fairbst daugh
ters. as a sacrificial offering to the spirits
of the deep. I could see it plunged and
hurled onward in the seething billows, and
hear the wild whoop ascend, as the canoe
with its offering would be lost
of waters. But alas, that'
worship is gone, and it is a
legend of the past. To-day only a irag
ment of the race, a scattered few, wander
around soliciting a mite for their simple
toys, where once they ruled supreme, and
worshipped in their simple, savage way at
the shrine of the mightiest masterpiece
from God’s own hand.
It has been said “that Niagara will
ever remain unpainted and unsung,” but
Church, the celebrated painter, has given
a satisfactory picture of this headlong rush
of waters, and he has immortalized him
self by it, and this picture with his name
will go down into history as the greatest
landscape painter of the nineteenth cen
tury.
There is always a spot in our sunshine;
it is the shadow of ourselves.
Troubles spring from idleness, and griev
ous toils from needless ease.
How much better is the love that is ready
to die than the zeal that is ready to kill.
A calamity is always the better borne for
not being previously dwelt upon.
It isn’t so much what a man has, that
makes him happy, as it is what he doesn’t
want.
Politeness is the most efficient aid in the
world to strengthen a good name or to sup
ply the want of one.
One of the greatest causes of trouble in
this world is the habit people have of talk
ing faster than they think.
The old Romans worshipped their stand
ard—the Roman standard was an eagle.
The American standard is a dollar—the one
tenth of an eagle; but they make things
even by loving it with tenfold adoration.
For Woman’s Work.
STORED SUNSHINE.
Some writer has given us this thought.
In the seasoned firewood put away for win
ter use, is stored our sunshine for the dark
days that are coming. When sombre clouds
hide the sunlight of heaven from us, and
the cold winds sweep a landscape that is
drear and naked, it is to our firesides we
turn for warmth and light. During the
glorious Summer time we should not forget
the dark days that are coining, n<>r neglect
to provide for use, “stored sunshine,” in
dry and seasoned firewood.
When our lives and prosper
ous, let us sometimes think of the dark
days that must come, and in the storehouse
of memory treasure some of the sunshine
that now surrounds, to cheer the days that
are without its warmth. Thoughts of the
happy past with its love and pleasure, will
drive the gloom from hours that otherwise
will be dark, for, “The memory of things
precious keepeth warm the heart that once
did hold them.” When
“ The melancholy days are come.
The saddest of all the year,”
and all is gray and dismal out of doors, let
the home sunshine be brightest, and the
contrast between the inner and the outer
world as pleasing as possible. Let the
“stored sunshine” of our firewood, that
leaps cheerfully up the chimney, be aug
mented by that which is stored in our
hearts out of the superabundance that has
been given us in the summer-time of life.
Though the days may be dark, either from
leaden clouds or the shadow of sorrow, we
may dispel the gloom by stored sunshine,
if we are as wise as Nature.
.For Woman’s Work.
AFFECTATION.
Affectation is to manner what rouge or
paint is to the face. Both are put on to
cover defects and produce a false impres
sion. They both fail ignominiously. Not
only is the fact that they are put on evi
dent, but our imagination draws the ill
conceived defects even more glaring than
they are in reality. So they fail to deceive,
for when we wish to form a true estimate
of either beauty or character, the cosmetics
are not taken into consideration. If those
who indulge in these weaknesses knew how
apparent was the sham and how far short
ij? came of producing the desired Effect,
they would certainly eschew the practice
for all future time.
Nothing is so refreshing as perfect nat
uralness, and like most things that are
prized and precious, it is rare. What a
delightful restfulness does the society of an
entirely unaffected person give to us. It is
like going from a scented, over-heated
room to the sweet air that comes to us
across a meadow of green grasses and wild
flowers, to exchange for the airs and as
sumed graces of an affected woman, one
who is a child of nature and truth. Be
lieve me, these two are inseparable—nature
and truth. When we deviate from one
we lose the other, and aside from a moral
view of the question, we also sacrifice
what is beautiful in our nature. Can any
thing be beautiful, in the highest sense of
the word, that is not true ? Certainly not
a woman.
If some of the girls who are beginning
to form their manners after the fashion of
a most accomplished society woman, would
like to be something that is almost new
under the sun, let her drop her cosmetic of
manner and appear as perfectly natural as
the air that she breathes will admit. Let
her not think of the effect of every word
and look but just be, without qualification,
her true self. When she says anything, let it
be something that she really thinks, and
try not to appear either less or more
than she is. Let her not assume charac
teristics that she has not. nor deny those
which she possesses. When she is known
as a woman who is just what she seems as
regards both complexion and manner, she
will surely have a charm that is rare and
that will be appreciated. Her value
will be as diamonds of the’ first water
compared to pa«te—not only more beauti
ful in luster, but of real worth.
Will not some of our young friends
prove that the nineteenth century, so noted
for its discoveries and progress, can pro
duce something that is altogether without
sham and deceit, and is true to the very
heart ? Let it be a true type of womanhood.
Discard all affectation of every kind,
and so you will “grow as beautiful as God
meant you to be when he thought of you
first.” Honor Bright.
In the troublous times of our lives, if
after prayer and due consideration we have
done what we thought best, we have ex
pressed the will of God in these circum
stances; since, had it been otherwise, more
and different light would have been given;
and with the will of God done by ourselves
as by Himself, let us be content.
For Woman’s Work.
A LITTLE CHAT ON AUTHORS.
•
MAUDE MEREDITH.
I have just been reading a book which
has made an unusual impression on my
mind, and I feel like coming into the circle
of sisters and chatting about it. .1 can
never half enjoy a book if I cannot talk it
over with some one, and I often wonder it
others feel the same way.
Perhaps because this book is a picture of
Southern life, I have felt like inflicting the
readers of our “ very bright little paper,”
as a triend to whom I had sent a copy of
Woman’s Work, termed it; but, be that
as it may, I want to talk to you about
Opie Reed’s new book, “ Len Gansett.’’ I
have known, of course, that Mr. Reed was
the editor of the Arkansas Traveler, and,
through a friend who had met him, I had
learned that he was “ one of N ature’s noble
men,” but I had no idea that he was a
novelist, and here I take up this new book
and find the insight of a deep student of
human nature, the perfection of mechan
ical finish, and character study that is,
also, simply perfect.
The story contains none of the sad or
pathetic, and for that reason may not make
as lasting an impression on the mind as
such characters as Little Nell or Paul
Dombey in Dickens, but for inimitable
humor and quick flashes of wit, I do not
know a book its equal. This, we are told,
is Mr. Reed’s first novel. I have looked
for the journeyman’s touch—there certainly
must be some rough edg< s, some lack of
finish in miter or moulding but I can find
none, and only as I read the author’s heart
“between the lines” could I guess he had
not made novel writing his vocation for a
lifetime. But, do I find the author him
self there? Certainly. Not in any of the
characters, not on the lines, but between
them; and, I think the reader can often so
find the writer in his first novel. Just why
this is so I cannot say, but the fact remains.
We shall look longingly for more books
from this gifted author.
James Whitcomb Riley’s first effort at
versifying was a four-line valentine, writ
ten when he was barely tall enough to
reach the table on which his paper lay.
“Out of generosity to myself,” he says, “I
have forgotten those lines.” Therein Mr.
Riley showed his wisdom. Lord Byron
had a very cross old nurse who lived in a
place called Swine's Green in Nottingham,
and his-ifrst poetic effort was to immortal
ize her in these lines:
“ There is an did woman who lives on Swine’s
Green,
She’s the crustiest old woman that ever was seen ;
And when she does die—which I hope will be
soon —
She firmly believes that she’ll go to the moon!”
Byron was foolish enough to remember
these lines, and often quoted them among
his jovial companions.
* » *
■X - *
Mark Twain wrote “Innocents Abroad”
in his boarding-house in Washington while
he was a Washington correspondent. He
worked in a little back room that was
warmed with a sheet-iron stove, and always
littered with papers, notes and bitsot man
uscript. The “Innocents” brought him
money enough to furnish himself with
much better quarters.
* * *
e e *
Now that “realism” is so much talked
of it may be of interest to know that Geo.
Sand was the first among the French
writers to catch the growing spirit of
modern realism that has so rapidly in
creased since her time. Like Gericault and
Delacroix in art, she was the first to break
away from traditional classicism. To her
the world owes its first glimpse of the deep
sentiment and noble poetry to be found in
the rural, every-day life among the French
peasantry. From her charming descrip
tions and word-pictures these hitherto de
spised subjects soon became popular with
both poet and painter, and the fanciful and
absurdly unreal gayly-costumed shepherd
and shepherdess of Arcadia, with the clas
sic crook, making love in impossible land
scapes of Boucher, Lancret, Watteau, and
other artists of the past century, gave place
to real men and women, alive with all the
interests of daily lite and amid natural
surroundings.
There is a proverb, that “he who will
eat the nut must crack it.” But there is
a wider usage, that not fie who cracks the
nut always eats it.
It is a happy thing for us that this is
really all we have to concern ourselves
about—what to do next. No man can do
the second thing. He can do the first.
“No man’s character is formed,” says
Howells, “ until he has been tried by the
woman he loves.” That is sometimes apt
to be worse than being tried by any judge.
A person who is too nice an observer of
the business of the crowd, like one who is
too curious in observing the labor of the
bees, will often be stung for his curiosity