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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.