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For Woman's Work.
PANSIES.
A wee sweet maiden full of love,
Ran swiftlv to her home one day
Laden with velvet pansies bright—
A gift— to give away.
“I love them, oh I love them so,
Os all the flowers, I love them best,
I wonder why God made them grow,
The best of all the rest!
O mother look! my pretty flowers,
That 1 did ask, and beg for so.”
The sweet blue eyes were full of tears
The sobbing voice was low.
The tiny hand had clasped too tight
The fragile blossoms that it held.
The loving little palm had proved
The favorite flowers’ death knell.
The tender heart was sorely hurt,
The brimming eyes flowed o’er
And mother’s love was none too much
To sooth the heart so sore.
♦ ♦♦♦♦♦
About that lovely form one day
They scattered pansies sweet,
Not crushed this time by tiny palms
Or faded by the heat.
Cool and glowing and fresh
They lay on the folded hands
But the blue eyes now were closed in death—
She had gone to fairer lands.
For Woman’s Work.
THE COUNTESS NAIDA.
BY EIGGAM RENMAH.
Chapter I.
“THE SONG OF THE SIREN.”
Os all the stately houses that surrounded
imperial Rome, like a jeweled girdle, that
of Count Vichrotf was perhaps the most
magnificent. Built of white marble, with
its grounds stretching away to right and
left, its great iron gates and marble terraces,
it struck a chill 01 awe to the cha.ice way
farer. This awe was not lessened by the
equipage of the owner as it dashed out, be
tween the rampant Honson the gates; with
the silver harness shining on the sleek black
horses, and the Russian coat of arms on its
panel,glittering in the afternoon sun. The
owner of both palace and eqtrpage was a
Russian noble with an ancestry reaching
back to Paul, Peter and Ivan ; whose word
was law on bis estates in Russia and to
whom thousands of serfs bowed as bows
the palm to the sirocco. But the haughty
Count Viehroff a second Agamemnon, had
conquered but to be conquered, and had
become powerless in the soft white hands
ol a woman. One spring three years before,
on a visit to one of his summer palaces, he
had met Naida Zeglarofi, Princess Strom
brech, and, while in the heat of one of
those fierce passions which break through
restrictions and reserve, as a spring flood
through ice,carryingdesolation and destruc
tion in its track, he had made her his wile.
The fervid summer of his love was over;
so entirely over that Naida Viehroff could'
almost have believed it a dream, but
for the fact that the dainty note paper in
her desk bore the Vichroff crest and mon
ogram, and the bowing Lackeys saluted
her as Aladam la Countess; and well, ver
sometimes the fetters would gall just a lit
tle bit for all they were golden, and she
had helped to forge them.
It was late in a day which had been
bright with that radiance which the sun
flings only over Italy. But it was cool, ar
it generally is toward evening; and hence
a fire of fir logs burned on the great marble
hearth of the room, in the Villa Vichrofl.-
where sat the Countess Naida. The air
was fragrant with the scent of roses in
great bowls and the faint aromatic odor o'
the burning fir. In the depths of a gilded
leather chair lay the countess Naida. Her
figure was very slight and in the midst ot
the great room it looked almost childish
Her hair was black and her face color
less, save for the rich red of the lips. Un
der straight, narrow, b'ack brows were set
eyes almost amber in color. The contrast ot
hair and eyes was striking, and lent a piq
uant charm to the small, dark, oval face.
She was gowned in a loose robe of green,
embroidered in silver, and confined at the
waist by a wrought silver girdle; the shape
ly feet upon the footstool had great silver
buckles on their high hee>ed slippers; the
hands that lay in her lap were shapely, and
the loose sleeve of her gown revealed a
smooth round arm ; forthough so slight and
fragile looking, all her limbs were turned
and rounded, with that fineness which peo
ple, for want of a better name, call “ race.”
Upon her lips there hovered a pen
sive smile, a kind of “ vae victis ” expres
sion, which boded no good to the subject
of her thoughts, doubtless, for it was nota
bly true that the musings of the Countess
Naida were by no means conducive to the
peace of mankind in general.
While she sat thus, the door opened and
a young man entered with a quick, elastic
step—a tall, broad-shouldered, blond Eng
lishman.
He was young, not perhaps quite so
young as the Countess Naida, by a year or
two; but his face wore an eager, expectai t
look, that happy anticipant expression,
which is peculiar to youth; and which, in
all her life, had never rested on the Coun
tess Naida’sfac*-; forshe had read the book
of her generati-m. from preface to finis,
before she- had made her presentation
courtesy and there was nothing left for her
to anticipate.
I hardly hoped to find you at home”
he said as he took the low stool at her feet.
Yes. Fedor, has gone to Russia to see
about some of his people who are in trouble
—they always are. He wanted me to go
with him, but I declined. Traveling over
slushy roads, with the chances about equally
balanced between reaching your destina
tion and being frozen, or eaten by wolves,
is not to my taste. I like this better.”
So saying, the Countess nestled down in
her chair, and waved the huge feather
screen she held toward the blazing logs,
and with an almost imperceptible motion,
let it slowly rest on the arm of the man by
her side. It was a little thing, a mere
nothing, save for the glance that accom
panied it; but it was fraught to Lord Chas
taine wiih a subtle significance, which sent
the blood mounting in a flush of pleasure
up to his close-cropped, blond hair.
“Ring for some tea, Algy; I was just
going to when you came.” Lord Cbastaine
did as she bade him. He had been doing
her will ever since he met her two years
ago. Since that time his home has known
him no more.
He had followed the Countess Naida to
and fro on the continent, as it pleased the
whim of her lord to go, always finding
some excuse, for leaving brilliant courts or
crowded cities when she did. And sh»
treated him by turns half playfully, half
contemptuously, and wholly as a boy, de
spite his six feet and two years seniority
to herself.
When Mrs. Grundy said anything about
Lord Chastaine, the Countess Naida would
answer “Oh! yes, Algy’s a nice boy, I’ve
known him ages. I told him the other day
it was time he married, but he’s been so
long on the continent, that he knows very
few Ei glish women, and its partofan En
glishman’s religion tomarryone of his own
country women, if he can.”
As they sipped their tea Lord Algy look
ed up and said, “Go to drive with me to
morrow. I’ve got the new ponies and we
can lunch at a charming lit le cafe', that
reminds one of the days of the Borgias; its
so quiet and mysterious-looking, and the
old proprietor is so quiet and obsequious
Will you come Naida? The ponies are
splendid,and the weather’s too fine to waste
indoors.”
“ Yes, I’ll go foolish boy I You needn’t
bring forward so many inducements.”
ARCADIA.
Next day as they bowled along through
the soft, sunny afternoon air, Countess Nai
da looked up from under the lace of her
parasol at the handsome, eager face beside
1 her, and across her lips there flitted a smile,
halt of amusement, half of contentment.
If a man who had traveled a certain road,
and knew all its piVal s, saw another pil
grim journeying toward a precipice which
he knew not ot, and raised no warning
voice, but simply stepped aside and let him
plunge headlong to his doom, the law
would perhaps hold him guiltless--but in
the exes of a Higher Judge there is blood
upon his hands, just as surely as though he
had pressed home a dagger to the heart ot
his victim.
By this unwritten law of passive acqui
escence, there is blood-guiltiness at ihe
door of many a fair dame whom the very
whisper ot murder, w*uid cause to shudder
under the dainty satin coverlid.
The cafe' wa» a relic of a by-gone day
Quaint, picturesque, ruinous, but beautiful
m its decay. Great open fire-places, fres
coes so darkened by time, that a perpetual
night seemed to have fallen on the scenes,
and the figures appeared as though grop
ing in a mist.
It was a lonely quiet spot, out in the
green campanna country, with a rolling,
flower-dotted expanse, seen from the win
dows on the left; while on the right was a
shady old garden, with here and there,
the remnant ot a marble statue gleaming
out of the shadows; for the garden had
once belonged to a grand old chateau, and
many a night had rung with music and
laughter.
The chateau, the music, and the laughter
bad long since passed away, and all that
remained to tell the story of perished splen
dor, was a ruined fountain, and here and
there a wingless Cupid or a headless
Baccheus. And it was small wonder that
Cupid lost his wings and Baccheus his
head in this degenerate age.
They had lunched and gone out into the
cool quiet of the garden. Lord Algy
walked beside the Countess as she trailed
the white cashmere of her robe over the
soft turf, and thought bitter things of the
man in Russia.
His meditations were interrupted by the
waiter with a tray,two camp chairs and oth
er paraphernalia of a garden tea; for Lord
Algy had ordered tea and fruit to be sent
to them there. These he set forth or. a
little rustic table, and took his leave in ob
sequious silence.
As Countess Naida poured the tea into
the dainty cups, she looked across the table
and said with a smile “ How delightful this
is. I think in remote ages there must
have been gipsy blood in my family and
that it has all come out in me ; I love the
woods so. I remember when a child seeing
a gipsy camp, and becoming so fascinated
with the supreme beatitude of a pot hung
above the fire on three sticks, that on reach
ing home, nothing would content me until
I tried the experiment of cooking in a like
manner. The smoke blew in my face; one
of the sticks on which the pot was hung
burned in two, turning over the pot and
thereby scalding my foot. But, even these
mishaps did not serve to entirely eradicate
my love of the Bohemian. Lateron I found,
however, that Bohemianism and Barbarity
were not by any means synonymous terms,
as I had once thought; and that it was pos
sible to enjoy the pleasures of the one with
out being troubled with the inconveniences
of the other. As for instance just now.”
She ended with a laugh, as she pushed
her cup from her and leaned back in her
garden chair.
The lonely garden, the sun-set hour, the
presence of the one woman he loved, had
silenced Lord Algy’s usually ready tongue,
and instead of replying, he sat gazing
moodily into her face. Seeing there was
no reply forthcoming, she continued: “I
like to get away from the world and society
sometimes. Not that I’ve anythingagainst
society; on general principles, I think it’s
a very fine institution, for the preservation
of law and order.”
“Youthink then society tends to that
end ?” Asked Lord Algy.
They had left the table and strolled
deeper into the wood. The Countess Nai
da was seated on the ground,leaning against
a tree. She was gowned in white cash
mere, with soft falls of lace; her large white
hat with its drooping feathers was pushed
back from her face, which was slightly
flushed The hair round her temples lay
in soft dark rings; in the lace at her breast
nestled a crimson rose, which stirred with
her breathing. Her hands lay in her lap,
and she was looking dreamily down the
vistas of the trees. Her face had for the
moment a half-sad, half-tender expression.
She rested lightly against the trunk of a
great oak, which had doubtless looked down
on many a fair, frail dame, in quilted petti
coat and high-heeled buckled shoes ; and on
many a gallant knight with his §word upon
his thigh and his falcon on his wrist. The
wind stirred the boughs, and the young
leaves whispered to one another the cry ot
many atime-stained cynic. “How like the
world is! Always the same old story!”
Seeing that she had not heard his ques
tion, Lord Algy repeated it; wondering
how long he wou d be able to hold in check
the fierce hot tumult of his heart.
“So you think society and fashion con
ducive to law and order?”.
Well, yes,” she answered slowly, bring
ing her eyes back to his and watching the
dark red flush as it mounted slowly to’his
forehead “ More especially as regards wo
men; and we are generally considered the
disturbing element, 1 believe. The law is
to a woman, a great intangible, incompre
hensible object sometimes useful to protect,
but never to punish her. Tell a woman
that a thing is against the law. and ten to
one. she is deaf to you; but tell her that it
is against ti e decrees of fashion or society,
and you have implicit obedience. Y<u see
we’ve made society a Juggernaut and it’s a
point of honor to punish the victims, even
when it involves a personal sacrifice.”
Lord Algy laughed, and throwing the
stem of a bunch of grapes he had been eat
ing. at a vagrant butterfly, stretched him
self out on the turf at her feet, resting his
head on the folds of her gown that lay
beside her on the grass.
“ You are very idle now-a-days. it seems
to me,” said the Uountess. “you have shown
me nothing that you’ve done, not even
a sketch, all the summer.”
“ What I care to paint I dare not. and I
have before my eyes one vision to the ex
clusion of all else. Have you ever been in
the wood and seen a tree struck by light
ning? It may stand foryears, in all respects
a perfect tree, save for the one little black
streak, only when the spring comes it
buds out no more. lam like the blasted
tree, 1 will never paint another picture.
Do you see that level space of ground to
the left, where there are no trees? Some
of the best blood of two continents has
been spilled there. It is a famous duelling
ground.”
“Is it? Well it dispels another one of
my illusions. I always had an idea that
a duelling ground was a barren strip of
some storm-swept shore, or the depths of
some gloomy, lonely wood. And behold!
here it is more like a croquet ground, and
within twenty rods of a cafe'. Truly this
is the phrase about coffee and pistols illus
trated. Well, as we are the only two about,
and piobably wont need the pistols,we had
better drive home and get the coffee. I
don’t want to stay here for any, I couldn’t
stand those dim frescoes after the duelling
story.” She had risen as she spoke, and as
she did so, one of her gloves, which
she had taken ofl, fell to the ground. Lord
AJgy stooped fnd raised it, saying as he
did so: “1 shall keep this—a souvenir of
my hours in paradise. And if I ever have
to give and take fire at six paces, I will
have a talisman, ot which 1 can say, as did
the ancient warriors of the cross upon their
banners; “ In hoc signo vinces.”
•‘You absurd boy! One would think
you were going to fight a duel to morrow,
and I doubt if you ever had a worse griev
ance than to have a pet pointer killed, or a
greater insult than to be taken for a poet.”
“Yes, I’ve a greater grievance than the
pet pointer, but you won’t believe it,” an
swered Lord Algy. His voice was low, and
his eyes gazed into hers with a sombre bril
liancy.
[concluded next month]
For Woman’s W’ork.
HANDY-HANDINESS.
American boys who are brought up to
labor, are usually distinguished for the
knack of turning their hand to anything.
Handiness expresses a peculiar aptness
in small matters, versatility, and tact. The
children of wealthy parents, and boys who
are set apart for some learned profession,
are seldom expected to deal with anything
but ideas. When they grow up if they
fail in the particular calling to which they
belong, they become helpless, and feebly
strive to get along, with poor success, until
kindly death has compassion on them.
Every boy, no matter to what he aspires,
should be taught while young to use im
plements of the farm, tools of the shop, the
management of animals, etc.
Nothing is more piteous than the too
often seen helplessness of educated and
refined people brought suddenly to poverty!
Education should beget practical facility.
Too often it is a mere exercise of the brain
in which the hands have no participation.
When thrown out of their regular callings,
hundreds of people are as helpless as a ship
on the dry ground. The worst of it is,
that no body can help anyone who cannot
help himself. Imbecility in practical
affairs leave one to bang like a dead weight
around the neck of those who would help
him.
It is foolish for one to say, “My children
will never need manual craft.” In the
ever rolling flood of society in America, no
body’s children are secure against going in
their turn to the bottom.. It they can
neither swim nor wade they must drown.
Boys should be educated to use their eyes
and hands in the expectation that at some
day they may depend wholly on them for
support.
WOMAN.
The woman who does not please is a false
note in the harmony of nature. She may
not have youth or beauty or even manner;
but she must have something in her voice
or expressior, or both, which it makes you
feel better disposed toward your race to
look at or listen to. She knows that as
well as we do; and her first question, after
you have been taking your soul into her
consciousness, is, “Did I please?”
A woman never forgets her sex. She
would rather talk with a man than an
angel any day. Womanly women are very
ki dly critics, except to themselves, and
now and then to their own sex. The less
there is of sex about a woman the more she
is to be dreaded. But take a real woman
at her best moment- well-dressed enough to
be pleased with herself, not so resplendent
as to be a show and a sensation, with the
varied outside influences that set vibrating
the harmonic notes of her nature stirring
in the air above her, and what is social
life to compare with one of those vital in
ter-changes of thought and feeling with her
that make an hour memorable?
What can equal her tact, her delicacy,
her subtlety of expression, her quickness to
feel the changes of temperature, as the
warm and cool currents of thoughts blow
by turns? At one moment she is micro
scopically intellectual, critical, scrupulous
in judgement as an analyst’s balance; and
the next as sympathetic as the open rose,
that sweetens the wind from whatever quar
ter it finds its way to her bosom. It is in
the hospitable soul of woman that a man
forgets he is a stranger, and so becomes
natural and truthful, at the same time that
he is mesmerized by all those divine differ
ences which make her a mystery and be
wilderment.—Oliver Wendell Holmes.
As well, almost, kill a man, as kill a good
book. Many a man lives a burden to the
earth, but a good book is the precious life
blood of a master-spirit, embalmed and
treasured upon purpose, to a life beyond a
life.—AfiZton.