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Fob Woman’s Work.
A CHURCH YARD REVERIE.
BY M. M. E. M.
How sad to wander through a church yard lonely,
And o’er the names upon the tomb stones pore—
Recalling memories of the long dead only,
Whose forms are seen upon the earth no more!
Here at my feet a statesman once was burled,
In him were placed a nation’s faith and trust,
What is he now ? A heap of “ mouldering ashes ”
With all his pride long humbled to the dust.
A beauty slumbers here, now long forgotten,
Who once was honored as a kingdom’s toast;
To win a smile from this high favored maiden
Was reckoned as a triumph and a boast. —
She lies here now, with those who once admired
her,
Her beauty and her lovers both forgot,
And only this frail marble tablet rises,
To mark from other graves her resting spot.
Os what avail are worth and matchless beauty?
They fade from memory with the form’s decay,
And wandering through these sad and lonely
church y<rds
We read how all things mortal pass away!
For Woman’s Work.
“GRANNY SCOTT.”
An Easter Story.
VELMA CALDWELL MELVILLE.
She was a very thin wrinkled old wo
man, who tarried last in the long cold
apartment known as the women’s sleeping
room of the Brown County poor-house, one
stormy Easter Sabbath morning. Every
one else was crowding and hurrying down
into the scarcely less cheerless general
living room below.
“Granny Scott, ye’d better hurry er ye’ll
stan’ no chance fer the warm corner,” said
a deformed girl limping past her, as the
stiff old fingers fumbled with her shoe-fast
enings.
“Never mind, there’s plenty needs it
worse no doubt. Here Mary, you hain’t
half enough on you, use this shawl till it
warms up a bit,” was the cherry reply, as
the old woman held out a faded woolen
shawl. The girl stared wonderingly at her.
“Yer don’t mean it ?”
“Os course, I do, why child, this aint
such a hard world as ye seem to think.”
“Don’t know much bout the world, but
the poor ’ouse is hard nufand hugging the
shawl about her unsightly shoulders, she
hobbled off without so much as a “thank
you,” but more surprised than she had ever
been before in her life.
“Poor child!” murmured the old wo
man, and then wrapping a shawl about
her own bent form she knelt by her bed
side.
Poor old Granny Scott, a friendless men
dicant, yet the daughter of a King, coming
gladly into her Father’s presence on this
Easter morning.
When she arose, the room was deserted
by all save a bed-ridden woman, and a
young girl in delicate health. Tenderly
she inquired of the former if there was
aught she could do for her. “No-o-o,”
wailed the poor creature; “but I’m dread
ful cold, and I haint slept a wink since one
o’clock.”
“I’m sorry, sister; but mebby if I’d fetch
my beddin over we could fix you more
comfortable fer a while” and suiting the
action to the word the shivering old body
went for her own covers and pillow; and
soon had the satisfaction of seeing her
neighbor more comfortable.
“Granny, ye’ll freeze up here,” said the
bed-ridden woman, “and for the life of me
I don’t see how ye kin be so cheerful on
sech a mornin.”
“Why this is Easter, don’t you know? I
am glad in my heart, and the words keep
risging in my ears: ‘Christ is risen’.”
“Oh !” said the other wonderingly, while
the girl in the bed a little way off, raised
her head to look at such a strange being.
Granny immediately crossed over to her;
but merely pausing to drop a kiss on the
white forehead, passed on, and down the
narrow, dirty stairs. The last was a pain
ful task for one so infirm.
About ten o’clock on the same forenoon
any one peeping into the “general living
room” would have beheld a large uncarpet
ed room, with patched, discolored walls
and ceiling, dirty,curtainless windows, and
furnished with two long home made tables,
covered with oil-cloth, a heterogeneous
collection of old chairs,and a small rusty box
stove. Beside the latter was a pile of wet,
green wood, while from within came sounds
of simmering and dead snapping that were
most doleful. From twelve to twenty per
sons of all ages and in all stages of decrepi
tude were huddled about, while at the
furthest window a young girl sat, her
hands toying idly with some coarse towels
she had been given to hem.
“What a miserable fire,” growled an old
woman near the outside of the circle, “when
I kept house I never used green wood.”
“Ah yes, Granny Dodge, every un knows
ez it wuz yer extravegenee that put ye in
the poor ’ouse,” cried another old crone
spitefully.
“Hey, there,” put in a one-legged old
soldier, rousing from a nap, and scenting a
skirmish, “Rhoda Mapes, can’t ye let no un
spend their pinion, or hev their say thought
you put in ?”
“Whose doin the putten in, I’d like ter
know, Tobey White,” cried Rhoda with
dignity.
“Sakes alive—” began Granny Dodge
when one of the children, balancing her
self on a wet stick of wood, fell, and bump
ed her head on the stove-leg. It was
Granny Scott who now came forward, and
leading the child to a tin basin on a dry
goods box, bathed her head and soothed
her to silence.
Margaret, sitting by the window, had
seen and heard all; but as peace was re
stored she turned from the dismal scene
within to the one without. Easter, that
year, came on the second day of April.
Rain and snow had alternately fallen all
the morning. The ground outside was
brown and muddy save for patchesof dirty
white here and there. There was a dismal
drip,drip, drip off the eaves and an occasion
al splash against the window-panes.
Away in the village she heard a church
bell, and she knew it was calling the people
to the Easter service, and vaguely she pict
ured them—happy, innocent, and well
dressed, flocking toward the house of God.
Only last year she had mingled with just
such a company of worshippers and raised
her voice with others in the beautiful Easter
anthems; but that was all past, so very
far in the past. She could never go to
church again, never sing or even pray; no,
for her, Mercy’s door was forever closed.
“Hadn’t you better sit nearer the fire,
dear?” The voice and a gentle touch on
her shoulder interrupted the painful train
of thought, and the young girl turned her
white face up to meet the kindly one that
had bent over her in the morning. Some
of the hardness died out of her own as she
saw who it was.
“You are not strong yet, and ought not
to get cold,” the motherly voice wenton.
“It is no matter, Grandmother Scott,”
the girl answered bitterly, “I do not care
to live, I’d much rather be lying over
there on the hfllside under that pile of
snow, than sitting here.”
“Don’t talk that way child, God has
something for you to do, or he would have
taken you out of the world ere this.”
“God ! —something for me to do— Ido
not understand. Surely you must know
that God cares nothing for me; that I am
despised and abandoned even by my qwn
mother.” I
“ ‘When thy father and mother forsake
thee, then the Lord will take thee up’. ”
“But it don’t mean such as I. There is
neither mercy nor hope for a woman when
once she has sinned.”
“What will you do when you get strong
enough to leave here?” the gentle voice
inquired without making reference to the
last remark.
“Oh, Mrs. Dow says she can find me a
place to sew; but I shall only stay around
here until I can save enough to go where I
am not known. I can not bear to be despised
by creatures whom one year ago I would
have spurned. I hate every one here, but
you grandmother.”
“Dear, dear child, you must not speak
and feel thus. You may have sinned; but
to such sinners our Lord said: “Go in
peace and sin no more.” Let me advise
you to put the old life behind you, and go
forth strong to suffer if need be. but de
termined to conquer everything. You may
still enjoy much of earth and all of Heaven.”
Thus the two talked on in low earnest
tones, forgetful of the curious group across
the room,who, drawn together by their own
pettiness, talked in low tones too, wonder
ing how Granny Scott could uphold such
a girl, piously parading their own virtuous
lives.
Later came the scant dinner, made into
quite a feast, however, by the luxury of an
egg apiece, because it was Easter you know.
All were surprised to see Granny Scott
leave hers untouched. “Don’t ye like eggs?”
inquired her near neighbors. “Oh yes, but
I like something else better, something
that I will do with it after dinner,” she
said. They did not ask anything more,
in fact,they were a little in awe of the old wo
man who was almost a stranger in their
midst,having come to the poor-house but a
few weeks previously. They noticed that
after dinner she took a little basin of water
and wrapping the coveted egg in a piece of
gay colored cloth, dropped it in.
“Going to color it,” was the universal
comment, “well tfthat don’t beat all.”
When it was done she presented the gay
colored egg to a little boy whose lower
limbs were paralyzed, and who sat in a
sort of box all the year round, save at
night when some one carried him to a
lounge out in the kitchen.
The little fellow’s joy was unbounded over
his treasure, and even' Rhoda Mapes and
Toby White smiled approvingly at each
other; but such an atmosphere could not
last long there, and some one presently,
with a great assumption of righteousness,
remarked that “them was curious doings
fer the Sunday.” Granny Scott, smiling
her sunshiney smile, replied : “It is lawful
to do good on the Sabbath day; ” and then
made the toilsome ascent of the stairs to
sit for an hour, as had been her wont ever
since she came, by the bed-ridden one’s
side. Margaret and two or three others
soon followed, listening in silence to the
sweet quivering voice as it read of the
Savior’s death and resurrection. “We
ought to sing something,” she said at the
close. Margaret, dear, won’t you sing for
us?” “Oh, I can't, Granny.” cried the
girl bursting into tears. “Never mind,”
and the quivering voice rose in the famil
iar air of Coronation, while one by one the
other cracked voices joined in ; and before
the end Margaret’s full sweet tones mingled
with the rest. There was silence in the
room below until the end, when Rhoda
Mapes wondered if the “old un had clean
gone aloft to be singing at her age.” A
wordy war followed under command of
Toby ably assisted by Mary, the deformed
girl, who still reveled in the warmth af
forded by Granny’s shawl.
There was no happier woman in hut or
mansion that night than Granrty Scott as
she knelt by her poor bed-side to once
more render thanks for a risen Lord, for
“she had done what she could.” “Some day I
shall go from this poor house, right straight
to a home in the Heavens—to a mansion
not made with hands; and it won’t be a
bit further I’ll have to go than if I’d gone
from the beautiful home I once owned
here, not a bit, and mebby I’ll be even
gladder to get there,” she had said to the
bed-ridden woman that day, when the lat
ter spoke bitterly of being compelled to
live and die in a poor-house.
Dear patient Granny, she was nearer to
taking the journey than she knew.
“Nearer her Father’s House
Where the many mansions be;
Nearer the great white throne,
Nearer the crystal sea.
Nearer the bound of life
Where we lay our burdens down
Nearer leaving the cross;
Nearer gaining the crown.”
Some where about midnight the inmates
of the County House were startled by the
cry of “fire,” and a panic ensued. All
who were able to escape fled from the
building with what ever articles of apparel
or bedding they could lay hands on ; all, we
say, but not all, for Granny Scott and Mar
garet were left vainly trying to assist the
poor bed-ridden creature to a place of
safety; but their strength was small and
the woman heavy and helpless.
Some one appeared at a window bidcjing
them come that way, as the stairs were
burning.
“Don’t leave me, oh don't,” pleaded the
woman clinging to Granny.
“Go Margaret, child, save yourself,” said
the latter, “I am old and useless, I will
stay.” “No, no! Granny, let me stay, I
am an outcast, no one will miss me.”
“Margaret, I tell thee go, and from hence
forth lead a noble, God-fearing life. Go.”
The man was already beside them and
pushing the girl toward the window; but
she was in a dead faint e’er they reached
it. Taking her in his arms he essayed
to descend when the ladder broke, and
before another could be found the roof had
fallen in, forever silencing the frantic
screams of the helpless victim, and the
prayer of her heroic friend.
What way more fitting for the trans
mission of a King’s daughter than by a
chariot of fire ?
Who shall doubt that, to quote her own
words, she went “right straight from the
poor-house to a home in Heaven ?” or that
her robe will not be as white, and her crown
as bright as that of a Luther, Wesley or
Beecher ?
When a man has the toothache, his wife
is generally the one who suffers.
Till a child is awake, how tell his mood ?
Until a woman is awaked, how tell her na
ture?— George Mac Donald.
One is forced step by step, to get experi
ence in the world; but the learning is so
disagreeable.— Charlotte Bronte.
Literature cannot be the business of a
woman’s life, and ought not to be. The
more she is engaged in her proper duties,
the less leisure will she have for it, even as
an accomplishment and as a recreation.—
Southey*
The first of our duties to woman—no
thoughtful persons now doubt this—is to
secure for her such physical training and
exercise as may confirm her health, and
perfect her beauty—the highest refinement
of that beauty being unattainable without
splendor of activity, and of delicate strength.
To perfect her beauty, 1 say, and increase
its power; it cannot be too powerful, nor
shed its sacred light too far; only remem
ber that all physical freedom is vain to
produce beauty without a corresponding
freedom of heart.— Ruskin
For Woman’s Work.
A POTPOURRI.
Fancy, Fashion, Fact and Fiction.
“This gray old earth has borrowed its
mirth,” once more, from the glad spring
time,and laughs again in the fullness of its
new life. One wonders sometimes that this
weary old world has the heart to smile her
smile of eternal youth, with each recurring
spring, when she has watched so many of
her children die, in winter’s cold embrace.
But the pain of the parting seems to be
forgotten in the birth of a new season.
The grieving mother rends her gray gar
ment of sackcloth, and lo! from beneath
creeps out the green of her coming corona
tion robes ; decked with the royal gold and
purple of the crocus and bordered with the
ermine of the snow drop. Every slender
wand of peach, by the wayside, blushes
with the consciousness of its own upstream
ing life; and stands a cloud of rosy color
against the gray back ground of fence or
hillside. Yes the world is old—the world
is wise—and perchance the world is weary,
who knows ?—but it is spring, and behold,
she looks as if the book of Genesis was but a
tale of yesterday.
Spring brings joy to every heart, but to
none more than to the milliner, tor the
Easter bonnet is quite an item in the sum
total of existence; though as for that “all
seasons are thine oh! Fashion.”
In a short while the little invitation to
the milliner’s openings—which remind one
so much of the “spider to the fly,” will
come round and the all too willing fly will
duly respond.
The bonnets worn this season vary but
little from those worn hitherto. The hats
are broad brimmed, low crowned affairs, for
the most part trimmed with long, falling
sprays of flowers. The fashion of massing
several kinds of flowers on one hat seems
to have given place to the much prettier
mode of using sprays of one flower only;
with its own leaves and buds.
A good deal of gold and silver thread is
now used in toilettes, and judiciously ap
plied, it heightens the effect. More especial
ly is it permissible in the large figured an
tique brocades and tapestry goods, that
are now being revived.
A young girl seen some days ago in a
directoire gown, of that indescribable lav
ender gray, peculiar to the dove’s breast,
had outlined the pattern—which was a bold
design of wild roses—in gold thread.
This she pridefully confessed was the
work of her own fingers, and it was certain
ly a success. As she stood near a window,
in this gown that had some how a sixteenth
century air about it, a large hat with droop
ing feathers shading a half pensive face,
and the light of the westerly sun catching
alike the gleam of her hair and the gold of
her gown, she looked like some fair, pictu ed
beauty of the long ago, who had but left
her walnut frame to sigh over the degen
eracy of modern times.
A great deal more attention is being
given to neck wear this season than for
some time, and one especially pretty feat
ure is the black lace scarf, reaching from
the neck to the hem of the dress so grace
fully that it lends a charm to any toilette.
Happily for those whose purses are slen
der—and their name is legion—the fashions
do not change so rapidly and so entirely as
they did some years ago, when the anecdote
did not seem so far fetched, of the man who
was riding home at a furious pace,and being
accosted by a friend flung back the reply,
as he rushed on, that he had bought a hat
for his wife and wanted to take it to her
before it got out of style.
The bells are already atilt with the
Easter chimes; and the Easter cards seem
to contradict the assertion that there is
nothing new under the sun.
This is distinctly the age of books,and of
the making of them there seems to be
no end.
Where there are so many well deserving
of praise, it is hard to discriminate. Albe
it, it is safe to say that there has been no
daintier little volume published for many
a day than Charles Egbert Craddock’s—
“Despot of Broomsedge Cove.” It is as
sweet, pure and sparkling as a" mountain
rill, and withal such a perfectly natural
little romance that it thrills with that hid
den vein of pathos which runs through all
humanity.
For the most part it is written in Ten
nessee dialect, which lends another charm
to its witchery; for when “you’uns and
we’uns” fall in love,there is a freshness and
piquancy about it, that cannot be claimed
for the romancing of plain “You and I.”
Thos. Nelson Page’s little book entitled
“Two Little Confederates” is a charming
story for the children, more especially for
the boys, and will be read and enjoyed by
the youth on both sides.
But enough of books. The rank and file
is full and crowded, yet the presses roll on,
resistlessly turning out, alike wheat and
chaff to await the winnowing of public
opinion : and the cry is, “still'they come.”
Eiuuam Rknmah.