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For Woman’s Wokk.
A DREAM.
VELMA CALDWELL-MELVILLE.
A woman sat by her humble fireside,
Rocking her boy with eyes of blue;
Llst’ing a well known step on the gravel
Waiting her husband leal and true.
She crooned a tune—but she was not happy,
Her heart was filled with vague unrest,
She felt no joy at the thought of his coming,
She was weary of holding the babe on her breast.
The day had been full of a house-wife’s trials,
Not a moment for rest since early sun,
And now as evening shades drew round her
She felt her tasks were scarce begun.
She thought, with a sigh, of her next door neigh
bor,
Whose life like a wave of pleasure rolled; .
Who held in her hand the talisman mystic,
The “ open sesame ” known as gold.
Is she mad, or only dreaming f
Oh, how swift must years have flown !
For she sits a childless widow
In a mansion of her own.
Costly fabrics sweep rich carpets,
Diamonds blaze on fingers white,
Rarest flowers breathe their perfume
Through the ruby tinted light.
Is she happy ? List! she’s moaning,
Jewels flash as hands are pressed
To the head in anguish fallen
On the weary heaving breast.
“ God in Heaven, where’s my husband?
O! Give back my darling child,
What care I for base and pleasure—”
“ Wife! ” breaks in a voice so mild.
“ I’ve been dreaming, dear,” she falters,
Stooping low her tears to hide,
And her husband smiles down fondly
As he lingers by her side.
Poynette, il’fs.
HOME CHAT.
BY MONNIE MOORE.
One year ago I wrote my first “ Chat ”
for Woman’s Work. One year, with its
many changes, its bridal bloom and its
paleness of death; its joy and woe, its sun-
shine By the past we must
judge the future. Will another year add
as much luster to the brightness and
lame of this home magazine, as has the
past? Yea, verily, for the link that binds
it to our hearts has been joined and welded
fast. So many sacred ties of friendship
have been formed, and each month we turn
the leaves eagerly in search of the names
that have grown dear as familiar faces, the
breathing, palpitating, realities in the flesh,
to whom these names belong, we may
never know face to lace in this life. But
we have looked into each other’s hearts,
and through unity of souls have clasped
hands in spirit. Ah! the mighty, mighty
little pen 1 How many times have the
best, the finer parts of human lives, treas
ured and hidden away from the world
about them, throbbed from this tiny point
of steel, to find recognition and an appre
ciative response, to strengthen and encour
age for the battle of time. It may be that
this appreciation lies nearer to us than we
know. Yet, so prone are we to shrink
away into ourselves, as it were, and through
very shamefacedness hide our dearest aspi
rations and sweetest thoughts, that in the
doing of this we often miss the pearl by
not seeking to break the shell lying in the
sand at our feet. Is it not so?
An art student, sketch book in hand, sits
dejectedly upon an ocean shore, gaz
ing with hungry eyes acspss to where
the rising waves seem to meet the sky.
But he knows that beyond the reach of his
searching eyes, is the land made glorious
by the highest perfection of art. So he sits
and dreams of this seemingly unattainable
land, while his pencil is not even sharpen
ed, and his canvass bears not one trace of
the beauty that surrounds him upon every
side.
“Ah !” he murmurs,” if I only had the
chance, what might I not make of my
self?”
And the waves toss and foam at his feet,
creeping, creeping nearer and higher, but
the dreamer heeds them not. He sees not
that the narrow path of dry land upon
which his feet have brought him hither, is
covered by the restless waves, uniil he
“comes back to the present, and a realiza
tion of being drenched by a sudden dash of
spray. Too late, he finds that the land he
has so lately despised, is very, very desira
ble; that to find himself safe upon that
brown turf not so far away, would be bliss
beyond the fulfillment of his fondest artis
tic dreams. And so we find humanity
everywhere. How sweet a thing is human
• sympathy 1 How small a thing to the one
who gives it, but how precious to the heart
that craves it.
Our little ones come to us to heal their
i
childlish hearts with our sympathy and
mother love. Who of us does not know
how far a kiss upon the hurt place goes
toward a cure. In a little while, ah ! how
soon, they will be men and women, these
babes of ours. The sons tall, bearded and
bronzed, grave and quiet, perhaps, because
of business cares. The daughters, with
little faces looking into theirs for sunshine,
and prattling tongues calling upon mother
for love and sympathy. And shall we for
get that these earnest, strong lives still
look to us for praise, and the tender love
and sympathy that mother alone can give?
Because they do not ask it, is no sign that
’tis less dear.
Happy the man or woman who has a
grey-haired mother to love, and to love
them, for, tho’ all else in life may fail,
Mother’s heart still beats the same.
Mother’s voice, tho’ she may sometimes
chide, will never entirely condemn. I
speak of the true mother. Occasionally a
monstrosity, in female guise, is allowed
the privilege of maternity, who does not
seem to have one throb of affection for the
help’ess souls that nature has placedin her
charge. With such mothers we have
nothing to do, but of their children we say,
“God pity them I”
Mothers, shall we not make our children
loyal to us by being loyal to them ? Shall
we send them away to school, glad to be
rid of them for the day, and without a
thought as to bow their lives are growing
there? My first aim, at thebeginning of
each school year, is to make a friend of my
boys’ teacher. Mother, do you stop to
think that the formation of your child’s
character has gone partly, and a great part,
too, out of your hands when he starts to
school ? If you have not, think it over, and
then call around and make the acquaint- ;
ance of his teacher. Do not wait for the
teacher to make the first advance. I have
taught school and am prepared to give sub
stantial proof that teachers are made of
flesh, bone, blood, muscle and sinew, just
as are other people, and I’ve noticed, too,
that wheie parents do not co-operate with
the teacher, a good deal more of the mus
cle and sinew are needed than when the
work is done on the co-operative plan, and
the child is quite certain to show an aver
age several degrees below “excellent.’’
Mothers, you cannot afford to be an en
emy to your children’s teacher. If you are
your children are the losers. Don’t you
see? You gain nothing. Your children
gain nothing, and the teacher still has her
diploma, so she loses nothing. Bottle your
wrath, if you think you have a grievance;
and upon your peril, do not let your child
see the bottle, much less its contents.
For Woman’s Work.
LOOK FOR THE SUNSHINE.
I was under a cloud, this morning,—a
double cloud—for the sky was dreary; and
I had met an obstacle to success that
must be conquered I felt so weary, so un
equal to the task, I began to repine— a
thing not common with me. I was think
ing: How much of sorrow this life holds
for even the brightest and most favored of
human kind; how every cup has its dregs,
and every life its shadows; how empty and
unsatisfactory are the highest goals to
which we may climb in the worlds opin
ion ; how the favors for which we labor so
hard, with a single turn of fortune’s wheel
may be snatched from us. And I thought;
is Heaven a sufficient recompense lor all
we miss here? Will the heart that finds
no restful peace in fame, or honor,
or even love, find a peace beneath the
throne, that will endure through an end
less eternity ?
I had begun to doubt, when quickly
came the thought, “ Look for the sunshine, ’
and with the thought, the sun burst through
the clouds, and shone through the window
upon the paper on which I wrote. The
glass paper-weight caught its rays and
reflected them in a halo of colors as fairly
resplendent as a jeweled crown. I rested
from my work, and basked in its light.
Look for the sunshine, and it will come.
The clouds are transient, as things of earth ;•
the sun is always behind them, and some
times when we least expect it the glorious
light will shine through. When I took
up my task with courage renewed, and
sniled to see that the mellow rays shone
over my right shoulder, warming the hand
that held the pen. “Perhaps ’tis a good
omen, and the day may hold something
lair for me.” I said aloud.
‘‘What is fair mamma, not me?” and
two dimpled arms were around my neck,
warm rosy lips reached my cheek, —tho’
their owner must tip-toe to the highest ex
tent, and rougish big black eyes smiled in
to mine.
“No, gypsy, your skin is not fair, but
| your five years of life have surely held
much that is fair for yourself, and for me.”
The answer was here. The sun was
shining and I had only to look and see.
Monnie Moore.
For Woman’s Work*
A WHITE SIN.
GENIE M. SMITH.
It seems nonsensical, in a world where
real sin and evil run riot, to spend one’s
breath over a little matter that is not a sin,
and could scarcely be called a folly, yet I
think there is no one thing in the home lives
of those about me, that so exasperates me as
the practice that I have dubbed “a white
sin,” and of which I will make my little
preach; I refer to the family habit of caring
for others. Now you will be wondering
what manner of mortal I am, that I
should cry out against this virture of un
selfish love, so I will try to argue my case
by'giving instances.
John Jones has to make a li tie
business trip to the next town five
miles away, and asks his wife to accom
pany him. It is an evening in early spring
and the wind is blowing up rather cold.
When ten or twenty rods from the house
John notices that his wife “hutches” her
shoulders up as though she felt cold.
“You did not bring a shawl orsome thing,
Jennie?” he asks anxiously.
“ No, oh-no, I’m not cold.”
“But you will be”
“N-o —I guess not,” with another shrug.
“Oh, you certainly will, the wind is rising
and it will be late before we get home.”
“Well, I might have taken a wrap, but
I felt warm.”
“I had better get you something?”
“No, no, you must not go to all that
trouble. Drive on, I think I’ll be all right.”
“No, you won’t be all right and I won’t
drive on, I’ll go and get you something.”
“Oh, don’t be to all the trouble of turning
round”—
“I won’t turn. Just hold the lines, I’ll
run back.”
And back he goes. At the house the
children are all shouted up to come and
search for mamma’s shawl, and a general
skurry ensues, during which every place in
the house except the right one, is looked in
to, and at last John is obliged to take an old
wool shawl, as he cannot wait any longer.
“This is all I could find,” he pants as he
reaches the wagon.
“Oh John 1” then in her kindness, not
wishing to hurt his feelings the wife adds
“well that will do well enough, it is grow,
ing so dark no one will be able to see what
I have on. But my broche was right in
the second drawer of my bureau,” and
John tucks in the lap robe and drives off.
Very kind, thoughtful, and loving, all
round, you say. Yes, but would it not have
been infinitely betterif Mrs. John had.taken
her broche shawl on her arm as she left her
room? She did not forget her hat or gloves,
then why forget a wrap? Why inconve
nience her husband, and in consequence all
of the family; delay their trip, consume val
uable time in senselessaugument.whenthere
was no excuse for doing any of these things.
It was simply because they had gotton in
to a habit of “waiting on” each other.
A week later John sat on the wooden
settee on the porch after the days work was
over. A neighbor dropped in and they fell
into a long pleasant chat. Mrs. John had
received her paper and this was the first
opportunity she had had to glance at it,
(for you may be assured in this family where
each one watches over and cares for the
others, there is very little time for reading).
But Mrs. John feels uneasey. The
younger children have been put to bed, and
the three older ones are practicing a Sab
bath-school hymn on the organ in the par
lor. Surely the weary mother ought to be
care-free for a few moments, but she starts
up, and finally peers out onto the. porch.
“Oh, John, you are sitting there without
your coat. ”
“I’m warm. Been pretty hot day, has’nt
it ?” This last to the neighbor.
“But the wind is blowing up cool and
strong? ’
No answer from John. He is listening to
a remark of the neighbor.
“I’ll get your dressing-gown ?”
“Oh, never mind.”
“Yes, 11l get it if you’ll put it on.”
“No, don’t trouble yourself; sit down,
Jennie, you are tired.”
“You’ll put it on if I get it—? ”
“Mo, no, you sit still. Might get it my
self. ”
“But you’ll wear it to please me? lam
afraid you will take cold. ”
Neighbor highly edified by the entertain
ing conversation. Mrs. John disappears
and at the end of five minutes returns,
flushed and breathless, with the gown on
her arm. She helps John into it.
“Thank you, dear,” sniff, sniff’. I be
lieve I was taking cold, sniff, sniff.” I’m
sure I don’t know what would become of
me if I hadn’t such a thoughtful little wife
to look after me.”
“Perhaps you’d learn to take care of
yourself, simpleton,” thinks the neighbor,
but he only says “It has blown up rather
cool in the last half hour.”
“1 had such a time to find it,” says Mrs.
John. “Some one had hung it.in my closet,
instead of putting it in your wardrobe
where it belongs.”
“Well, .thank you. I ought to have
got it myself.”
And now it is time that the neighbor
should start for home, and the subject un
der consideration cannot be taken up again
on this visit.
When the fall days come on, some of the
children will run a quarter ofamile, to
take an over-coat to their father who is
driving off without one; or the mother has
a long, dreary attack of rheumatism because
her husband was not there to hand her her
rubbers; or the children forget their school
books or dinner-basket, or—well, any and
all of the ills resulting from exposure and
loss of time, just because they have, one
and all. formed a habit of being eared for.
But worse than colds in the head;
worse even than tardy marks, is the result,
because of which, I have named the habit a
sin—and that is the entire loss of individual
self communion. The chance of using one’s
brain for good solid undisturbed thought,
for a time, no matter how little that time
might be. The inventor who could never
■ be free to bend his thought to the matter in
hand, or the author whose mind must al
ways be filled with cares, could not be ex
pected t®do much. In fact no one could
make either an author or an inventor under
such circumstances; then what are we to ex
pect in the way of mental growth in the
family,where each member must be forever
on the alert to see the surroundings of every
other member, and keep a constant watch
over them. Besides, such watching must of
necessity become officiousness now and
then, as no person can know exactly the
needs of another at all times.
I call this foolish habit.a sin, in as much
as it wastes time,fosters carelessness, makes
extra trouble, and entirely precludes the
possibility of that prime necessity for men
tal growth, a time for deep undisturbed
thought.
For Woman’s Work.
A PROTEST.
This age of civilization is not without
its false gods and their worshippers. There
is one shrine at which almost every one
bows with a devotion scarcely excelled by
paganism; it is at the shrine of Fashion,
ho evil of the nineteenth century is more
universal, and none whose results are more
surely injurious. If the weak followers of
the fickle goddess could see the ultimate
effect of thdir practice, they would be
appalled. Daily are young lives sacrificed
on her altars; daily are young souls marred,
or wholly ruined, by the polluting effect of
various social evils. The tide is strong
which would carry us on to ruin. Our
national freedom—our national purity—
must die unless we change our course.
Where, then, are our heroes of to-day?
We reverence that heroism which enables
man to face death ,at the cannon’s moqth;
but superior to this is the courage which
can face the sharpshooting derision of
companions in sin whilst we are turning
to the better way. There is daily work fori
our brothers to do requiring heroic sacri
fice; yet not to them alone does the work
of reformation belong. Woman's work, in
its fullness, embraces everything pertaining
to the weal or woe of mankind. In moth
erhood, wifehood and sisterhood, we wield
a power that determines the destiny of
nations. While we give the best of our
time, as well as our greatest strength, to
false customs—habits which disregard the
laws of health—we cannot know what
power for good may be ours if we walk in
the narrow way of truth and right. When
women are heard to exclaim, “I do not
believe it is right to do this, that and the
other; but as others do it so must I,” and,
“Ido not like the social customs for my
precious daughters, but I cannot make
I them do differently from their compan
| ions”—we certainly must recognize the
I fact that we know our Master’s will, but
do it not. Heroic courage must form an
important element in woman’s reformatory
work. We dare not point our brothers to
heroic action while we sit enslaved under
Fashion’s despotism. We must break our.
own fetters, and then in the spirit which
characterizes this day, proclaim ourselves
enlisted in the battle for independence. •
With works and prayers let us go forth,
equipped for combat with human frailties.
Then in future ages, when woman’s work
has proved a wondrous power in our
redemption; when.the soul of man, freed
from the bondage of sin, rises from its
present sphere into higher and broader
realms of spiritual excellence, may we sing
with the poet—
“ All honor, then, to that brave heart,
Though poor, or rich she be,
Who struggles with her baser part,
Who struggles, and is free.
She may not wear a hero crown,
Or fill a hero-grave,
But truth will place her name among
The bravest of the brave."
Mrs. Cy Morlan.
Indulge in humor just as much as you
please, so it isn’t ill-humor.