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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