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w = ess ~ I I jfflr y ri'll/iii-lkhkvilllki am Swi - MIOgW■ WtIiIWWIIVNI'M Eaft = g T. L. MITCHELL, Proprietor. Vol. 2.— No. 5.] For Woman’s Work. EASTER. From out the shadow of the cross, Bursting death’s dark and gloomy prison— Trimphant over pain and loss, Behold! the Christ has risen. First fruits of them that slept, And herald sure of their awaking, A glad presage o’er all earth’s graves— The Easter morn is breaking. Blest morn to those who hold The dead, in fond remembrance dear, Each dawn, doth as a bud enfold The hope, the lost will reappear. Nearer the city of palm trees— The city with foundations fair, The sunny tents, the mansions bright, Where our beloved, and banished are. Emelie Harris. For Woman’s Work. AS LEAVES IN VAL OMBROSA. In one of the fairest spots in Italy, where, in the Spring time, verdant foliage clusters in living beauty, is embowered the Benedictine convent of Valombrosa. In autumn time, the sun seems to bestow as a parting gift to the leaves • of the chestnutJ?e“.c4i|and fir, a wealth of golden tints, that are garnered, like precious memories, from the radiant summer hours now gone. Lad.en with the incense that na ture bestows as the most perfect touch from her wand of beauty, they fall from the boughs where they have fluttered and quivered and whispered, during their short, joyous life, to th& earth—and death. Milton has added to the immortality cf this favor ed spot, in his famous sim ile of the innumerable le gions of Angelic forms: “Who lay entranced, Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks In Valombrosa, where the Etrurian shades High, fiver-arch’d embower.” In every expression of Nature she seems to give to her clyldren a true and living lesson, repeated with varying beauty with each revolution of the earth, and offering repeat edly a simile to the con stant rdjfnds of human ex istence. In the' spring-time of life, youth loots with trust ful eyes to the many hopes that cluster about the fu ture—as fresh and replete with living beauty as the leaves that shadow the brooks in Valombrosa. How sweet, how en trancing i s life viewed through rose-colored glasses! Will it always he as a fanciful dream— with no chilling touch of blight? Will the breath of existence always seem as gentle as the soft breathing of the South wind among the fragrant flowers and leafy trees; as true a« the blue of the bending skies ? Love warms and cheers as the mellow sun shine; in the veins pulse full life, and “ life is love, and love is truth.” Through the summer time of life that thrills with warmth and vitality, the hopes of youth flutter and tremble with ecstacy at coming fruition, and whisper promises true and sweet; so flutter, and tremble and whisper with exhilarant life, as the leaves that shadow the brooks in Valombrosa. When the autumn-time of life draws on the young, hopes begin to take the golden tint of near realization. How radiant and glorious the future seems! The wine of happiness is surely close to eager lips. Long have they waited in anxious expectancy for the exhilarating draught. Ah, hope! But for thy voice, ever whispering that on the morrow will the door of happiness be open ed for our entrance, thiJwere a bitter world indeed. We go back to the days of innocent childhood—brightest of all the fields thro’ / ’ffSHSKwWHMnKMWMBRmiWCTfc' / 'f jMt -- WF<x —WiVv^ o -- . —- 1 J m ' M I, • zZ Listen! dear love, the young trees are growing! Dost hear the sap in their tendrils green ? Soon will the earth with verdure be glowing, The glorious spring-time has come, my queen! which we’ve journeyed—e’en brighter than the oasis which now invites us on. But they are passed forever. Had we but real ized what precious privileges were then around us, we would not have turned with longing gaze to the unknown land before us. Hope beckoned us to cast aside our childishness, and come to the enchanting abode of youth. Ere we could know the OUR GREATEST HAPPINESS COMES FROM HELPING OTHERS. ATHENS, GEORGIA, APRIL, 1889. Nature awakens! With life she is teeming, Beauty and fragrance spring forth at her feet, Hill-side and valley with flowers are gleaming, This is the spring-time of life, my sweet! charm of dwelling there, anticipation hade us find a broader sphere in the strength of full grown manhood. Oh, restless spirit that urges on! At last, I see a new and joyo.us future. Life’s summer sun has gilded the pathway ahead; touched the flowers with fairest tints; turned the fruit to lusciousness. But often, when hopes are brightest; when cherished dreams of future richness seem turning into pure gold, we reach forth with eager hand topluck the glittering treasurers, and find, alas! ’tis the searing breath of decay and death that has turned the freshness into withered age; and sorrows fall arcsnd Out in the meadows the grass is up-springing, Out in the meadows the violets hide, Birds to their mates are cheerily singing—■. List to their music echoing wide! us ‘-Thick as autumnal* 5 leaves that strew the brooks in Valombrosa.” Alas ! that ’tie so often true, and we are so slow to realize that the fault is our own. Hope but invites us to a higher develop ment of the good within us. If we heed aright, we will be able in the spring, sum mer, autumn or winter of life to say, “Stay, stay, thou art so fair.” [SO Cts. per Year. For Woman’s Work. A STRANGER’S GRAVE. Dead ! in the stranger’s quarters— Far from his friends and home : Hardly attained to man’s estate, Yet.suff’ring and dying alone! Far away, o’er the ocean wide; A mother’s eyes are dim, A sister’s voitie is faint with tears— Weeping and praying for him. A father’s heart is saddened, A sweetheart is desolate, And all are watching and praying for him, Who is dead in a far-off State. . Bury him deep in the meadow, * l ’ Drop on his grave a tear, And sigh as you read the inscription— “ A stranger is buried here!” m. m. e. m. For Woman’s Work. r . “BUT.” Chateaubriand says there is something in the misfortune of a man’s best friend, which yields him pleasure. The saying is as true as any the Frenchman ever uttered. We listen to elogiums upon some re nowned haV long and loudly been . drummed upon the calf- ’ skin of fame; we hear that this demi-god was, with all his greatness, the slave of some petty human weakness. We, of course, weep that a stain should sully so pure an eschiitch eoh ? Not a bitof.it; we inwardly rejoice that after> all we are not so greatly his inferiors as we feared. We chdckle as we repeat in heart “He was a glor ious, genial fellow, but what a pity he- filled a drunkard’s grave ?” Does our own particular friend by some ill luck lose his fortune, there is a pleasure (we may not, from very shame, acknowl » edge it even to ourselves) thiy, he whom we envied, is reduced to our own level or perhaps below it, in rank or station. “It is too bad! How sorry I am, but really it is no more than could be expected, with his extrava gance and pride etc., etc. Os course it is to be re gretted, but after all it is no more than he deserved.” We have an acquaint ance whose misplaced gen erosity has made us greatly his debtor; we extol him to the skies, but we cannot resist a qualifying rap at him. “He is a fine fellow, but ’tis a pity he—no matter; he has his eccentricities, like every body else.” So many "buts" do per sons use in their best enco miums upon their dear (?) friends, that one may be pardoned for thinking their praise ironical. There is no word in our mother tongue which has so many sins to answer for as that mischievous ''but." Reputations have been crushed by a whispered, "But, have you heard that scandal?” Some day those who know so well the use of this fiendish little word, may go to dwell with his Satanic majesty, and when greeted with, “What brought thee here?’’ the answer will be. “ Words, whose vague inflection, ruined lives as with deadly .poison.” KATE GARLAND, Editress.