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For Woman’s Work.
AFTER WHILE.
SY MRS. S. C. HAZLETT.
After while when the years are gone,
And Time no more shall be,
When night comes not, nor break of dawn,
Nor wash of waves at sea;
When all is calm; no winds to stir,
No moon, no sun, no stars,
And neither laugh, nor soft murmur,
Is heard ’neath sodden bars,
What will the meaning be to you?
Ah, what will it mean to me?
Will skies anew, be just as blue,
In the vast eternity ?
Eternity! Is it here, or there?
Does it mean forever and aye?
With a day of rest, that reaches where
Is eternal bye and bye ?
Shall we never look back, after while ?
Will memory deadened be ?
Would you have it so, with never a smile,
For a joy that used to be?
If labor is wafted forever away,
Will heaven not slowly pall j
With its beauty, and sweetness in one long day
And make of us drones for all ?
Oh, the misty gray, of this after while,
With what is its meaning fraught,
As we journey along, mile after mile.
With experience dearly bought ?
Does it mean that with love, and perfect trust
And a life that hath no guile,
Brings sure to us, as we’re taught it must,
Great joy in this after while.'
Or shall we gaze blankly, with wide staring eyes,
Knowing no love, nor no hate,
Indifferent to all, no glad sweet surprise
To greet as we stand at the gate,
The loved ones we’ve lost, now found but to lose,
For if they’re the same to us all,
No difference shown, nothing to choose.
’Twill be naught but “wormwood and gall.”
Oh, better by far, if ties be thus riven,
The grave witn its long dreamless sleep ;
For even to me, “unto whom it is given,”
’Twere better, than waken to weep;
The hopes that were cherished, through pain
stricken years
How we’ve watched their bright light’long the
line!
To have them cast down,after suffering and fears—
Then that is no heaven of mine!
can’t think it selfish to love ours the best.
Or out of His order to be;
If heaven is heaven, it will stand the test,
Os our own, through eternity.
I shall keep it alive, this sweet hope in my heart
In the beautiful after while
My darling will come to me, never to part,
Heart to heart, in the light of His smile.
For Woman’s Work.
THE STORY OF A MISGUIDED
LIFE.
MATTIE M’INTOSH.
is very sick this morn
ing and wishes you to come
F I IJL over a few minutes, if you
J please.”
The voice came from a bright, intelligent
looking girl, about ten years old, who had
pushed my door open, as I responded to
her knock by an invitation to come in.
There was a quiver in the child’s tones,
and an anxious expression on her tender
face as she stood timidly grasping the door
knob.
“We are strangers here and don’t know
who to call on,” she continued, “and
mamma said as you are nearest I might
see if you'd come.”
I assured her I was willing to do them
any favor in my power, and I followed
her out the door and across the street to her
home.
They had occupied the cottage across
from us for a month. I saw the husband,
wife and little girl—these three made up
the family—pass in and out, and I asked
my husband one day if he knew who the
new comers were. He said the name was
Farrow; the man was a photographer and
had opened up on Spring street.
Air. Farrov was a tall, light complexion
ed man, thin visaged,with nothing striking
or attractive in form or feature. The wife,
however, was directly opposite. A health
fully rounded form and glowing complex
ion ; fine features and wealth of dark, shin
ing hair that adorned a head of dignified
bearing. Both dress and manner showed
taste and training.
The little girl conducted me to an airy
and tastefully furnished bed room, where
Airs. Farrow lay racked with pain. The
child stooped and affectionately kissed her
mother’s cheek; smoothed the dark hair
back from the white forehead, and, with a
soft handkerchief that lay on the bed,
wiped the moisture from the sufferer’s face.
By request of Airs. Farrow the child left
her in my care, and went in search of some
delicacies her mother desired. As soon as
the door closed on her daughter, Airs. Far
row began by saying she had sent for me
with the hope that I would do her a favor.
I told her 1 would do anything I could.
She requested me to bring a pencil and a
folded letter from an open trunk that stood
in the room, and as I did so she directed
me to date the letter, put it in an envelope
ready addressed, and seal it lor the mail.
“Put it in your pocket,” she said, when
1 had finished. “It is to my father, and I
want you to mail it. I wrote it two or
three weeks ago. I didn’t know then why
I wrote it, but I know now. Aly physi
cian says I have inflammation of the stom
ach and my case is hopeless.”
I tried to persuade her that her physician
might be mistaken in regard to her case,
but she had too much confidence in his
skill forme to shake her belief in the mat
ter, or otherwise had willingly accepted his
decision.
“No, I feel that he is right,” she said
decisively, and then went on: “I have not
heard from my father for some months,
but I hope he is still living, and after I am
buried,! want you to write him a few lines
telling him so, put them, with the letter I
have given you, in another envelope and
forward to him. But be careful,” she add
ed, “and mark it return to you if not called
for, because, if my father fails to get it, I
want you to destroy it,as it was written for
no other living mortal than my father.”
I promised her I would do as she request
ed, at the same time I thought strange that
she would call on a stranger, in preference
to her husband, to attend to her last earthly
wish. Perhaps she surmised that something
of the kind was passing in my mind, for
she reiterated my thoughts by saying :
“No doubt .‘you think strange that I do
not leave the letter with my husband, but
I could not ask him as I have you, without
giving him permission to read it, andas the
letter contains thoughts that would give
him pain, I prefer that you attend to it for
me.
“Aly father.” she continued, “was a good
man in. many respects, but he let his preju
dices run too far. When I was a young
woman I accepted the love and affections
of a young man—a man of promise and one
whom I thought was worthy of me, and time
has revealed that my judgment in the mat
ter was good, for he has established and is
now editor of one of our most prosperous
newspapers. He is noted for his wit and
learning, and the readiness with which he
wields the pen. I gave him my heart; my
whole being was filled with the desire to be
his wife. Aly happiness was centered on
him ; without him I felt that life would be
a barren waste.
“From some cause, I never could learn
why, my father took a dislike to the young
man, and forbade his coming to the house,
but I saw him at other places. I was de
termined in the matter, for I felt that my
earthly happiness depended upon my union
with him.
“When my father saw how things were
going,he used fraud, and even falsehood,to
separate us. I learned it all when it was
too late—he had married another. Aly
heart was dead within me; I never loved
again. No living soul but that one could
ever stir the depths of my stilled heart.
“You may think strange to hear me talk
so, but my husband knows it. I told him
the fact before we were married, and tried
to persuade him that I had best remain
single. He took me without the least
shadow of a hope. He has been kind and
attentive, even loving to me; has willing
ly supplied my every want; has waited on
me in sickness and borne with me in health.
While I—oh, misery! have suffered untold
agony with this great love bound up in my
bursting, bleeding heart.
“Aly daughter knows nothing of my suf
fering. God forbid that she ever should.
But my father—”and the suffering woman,
battling with sorrow and pain, struggled
for composure—“l have forgiven him. I
told him so in the letter. 1 hope he will
repent of his treatment of me when he
learns how I have suffered.”
I tried to soothe her sorrow, and cheer
her by kind, encouraging words, but my
efforts were fruitless.
“No, I cannot live,” she said, and she
shook her head at my words. “I am young,
but I welcome death as a release from a
life of suffering. In the future 1 hope to
meet my heart’s only idol, where I expect
to love him still.
“Aly little girl is the only earthly link
that binds me here. I hope her father will
be a true father to her. She will miss me
for a while, and will grieve at my going,
but her heart is young and tender, and
time will smoothe over the impression that
death will make. Aly husband is a good,
kind man. I have tried to make him a
dutiful wife; if I have failed it has been
through weakness and not intention.”
After taking a spoonful of medicine
from a glass, she turned her face to the
wall and lay perfectly quiet.
She died the next day. Air. Farrow took
her death very hard, and Alarjorie screamed
so with grief that it took me hours to com
fort her, and get her in the least reconciled
to her mother’s death.
AVhen I saw the sad eyes closed, and the
throbbing pulse still,! felt that a suffering
soul had found rest. Itmusthave required
the strength of an iron will to conceal the
depths of such a passionate love.
After the funeral I wrote the note as
Airs. Farrow requested, and sent it with
the sealed letter to her father. It was
never returned to mo, and I suppose it
reached the intended destination and told
the sad story of a misguided life.
For Woman’s Work
HOUSEHOLD PETS.
HELLEN C. MOLLOY.
The household pet! No doubt this brings
to your mind the image of a fairy little
creature, with azure eyes and sunny locks,
who is all smiles and dimples and winning
ways; or perhaps it is a sturdy little
cherub, who already gives fair indications
that, as one of the coming “ Lords of Crea
tion,” he is “to the manner born.” These
are pretty ideals of household pets, but
they are somewhat marred by the reflec
tion that they too often degenerate into
that ban of the present age—spoiled chil
dren. The history of many a crime and
ruined life goes back to the time when the
household pet became a spoilt child.
However we are just now considering
the pets of the homes in which there are
no children. In almost every family there
is some member that claims the “ Lion’s
share” of petting. By reason of some
fancied superiority they insist that they
must be favored above others. This su
premacy is sometimes demanded by the
beauty of the family, or “ the baby ”—six
teen years old—or the girl who has always
been considered “ very smart.” For some
unaccountable reason, such a young person
gets the idea that she is a rather superior
kind of person, and all homage must be
paid her; extra privileges are claimed, and
it is tacitly understood that the usual home
regulations do not apply to her. In short,
she is spoiled, and by her selfish exactions,
is accorded the place of “ household pet.”
Her fond mother says she has a “ peculiar
disposition ” —which, by the by, is evinced
when she is crossed. For various reasons
of expediency, she is humored by the entire
family; it is much more pleasant to yield,
than to have a disagreeable show of temper;
so the young lady gets her way. Her
opinion is timidly deferred to and whatever
ill-breeding she may choose to display, is
passed by unnoticed, for no one has the
courage to reprove her. In her own judg
ment she is always right, and any expres
sion to the contrary only calls forth a cut
ting retort, and an invitation to “mind
your own business;” for this cause her
faults are unmentionable, and the fact must
be ignored that they exist. Flattery acts
like a charm with her, and keeps her in
such a good humor, that from sheer love of
peace, her friends administer it; their con
science in time grows callous, and they
pour it down in unbroken doses; much on
the same principle that some foolish, cow
ardly mothers dose their children with
soothing syrup, to relieve them from their
fretting for the time, forgetful of the inju
rious effect that may be lasting.
This “ household pet” is not over-drawn,
for we have known more than one in real
life. Sometimes it is “ the only boy” that
holds sway; again, mother and children
combine to soothe and keep endurable an
irrascible father, whose unreliable temper
is apt to break out at any time, and whose
selfish exactions demand that his little
whims be humored. He also has what is
charitably called “ a peculiar disposition.”
He mustcontinually be petted and smoothed
down, for his feelings are easily wounded.
He is “sensitive” —another charitable term.
In other words, his self-love must be nour
ished, for any slurs cast thereon, affect
his sensibilities, i. e., his temper. He can
not bear ridicule, and to laugh at any of
his mistakes is something no one has cour
age to attempt. Os course he has the
privilege of ridiculing others. He is
always on the lookout for slights, and woe
to that being “ by whom the offense com
eth.” This is not a fancy picture :we have
seen this kind of household pet more than
once.
Too often do we find these grown-up,
spoiled babies, who must be humored, fed
on sugar plums, coddled and patted on the
head that the feathers of their self-esteem
may be unruffled, and their precious tem
pers cool. They are “a queer kind of fish”
that are hard to keep : at all seasons of the
year exactly the right temperature must be
preserved.
AVe have sometimes wondered what
would be the result, if a number of these
choice spirits solely constituted a house
hold. It would be to each, like entering
a room with mirrors on all sides; each
would see reflected in the others, images
of their own character. The result cannot
be conjectured, but this is a mere flight of
the fancy: one house-roof could not well
shelter two of these “pets” for any length
of time. It has been tried, with “ divorce”
for the consequence.
These persons whom we must pet in
self-defense, occupy quite another place in
our regard from those to whom our allegiance
is involuntary; whose sweet unselfishness
causes us to lavish our affections on them.
Our attentions to them are fully repaid,
for we know they would do as much for
us, and it will not spoil the wholesomeness
of their disposition. They love and draw
hearts to them, and win devotion by devo
tion. We pet them instinctively, and call
down blessings on their warm hearts, for
so brightening our lives. There is still
another kind of household pet that is the
best of all; and we have also seen an in
stance of it. A father who had devoted
the strength of his manhood to the support
and training of his family, in his old age
found the comfort of ministering hands
and loving hearts around him. He was
the “ household pet.” He had been a true
father, and his children felt that they could
not do enough to repay what they owed
him. A well founded pride was the basis
of their affection; they were proud of his
irreproachable honor; proud of the noble
life that had been so •well spent; proud of
the courtly manners of the old gentleman.
Indeed I have seen few like him—with his
snowy hair and beard, his handsome, re
fined features, his broad, intellectual fore
head and his keen blue eyes, that could be
very stern, sparkle with humor or beam
with kindness. His sons and daughters,
now men and women, reverenced him,
and I have never seen a lover lavish more
attentions on the woman whose image was
enshrined in his heart, than was by them
given their father. His comfort was the
first consideration—his wish law; and it
did not need to be expressed, but was
quickly interpreted by a look or a gesture.
The dishes he best liked were prepared for
him—his tastes were observed in all things.
The beauty of it all was, that his charac
ter involuntarily called for these loving
services, and he appreciated them.
Instead of giving all our petting to those
who in their selfishness demand it, why
should it not be for those old people who
have known the sorrows and cares of
life and need all the brightness they can
get to cheer their declining years? It will
not spoil them, and we cannot find a
sweeter, more lovable “household pet,”
than gentle, silver-haired grandmother;
or some dear old maiden aunt, who has de
voted her life to others and has lived down
i so many disappointments and heart-aches.
These little attentions may keep away the
lonely feeling that naturally creeps over a
woman who has grown old without the
sweet ties of husband and children to keep
her heart fresh; the friends of her youth
are gone, or absorbed in other interests,
and she feels
—“ Like one who treads alone
Some banquet hall deserted,
Whose lights are tied,
Whose garlands dead.
And all but her departed.’’
Let us not forget to give tender words
and warm caresses where they fall so
gratefully on tired hearts; remembering
that they are most needed by those who
are done with the bouyant hopes of youth,
and whose evening shadows are falling
around them.
They must borrow sunshine and warmth
from other and younger lives. Shall we
not all give what we can ?
For Woman’s Work.
FORGOTTEN ARTS.
FEATHER-COVERED BOXES.
Our great-grandmothers used to employ
themselves with some very pretty arts,
which have quite slipped out of our catego
ry. The art of making filigree work, and
■ that of drawing on white card board, with
the fine point of a penknife; also that of
making thecharming feather covered boxes
which have come down to us. These were
very simply made, as a description of one
of them will show. It is a common wooden
box and lid, lined both outside and in—
outside with gilt paper, inside with pink
satin—with perfumed cotton between box
and lining, and fitted up for a workbox;
the whole of the outside is covered with
feathers. The center of the top is of pea
cock’s breast feathers, next a ring of white,
then one of grey guineafowl, then one of
the pheasant’s breast, and lastly, going
, right into the four corners a layer of pea
' cock’s breast-feathers. The sides of the
box are in equally good taste, and the effect
of the whole is exceedingly rich and hand
, some. The feathers are nearly flattened
’ and glued firmly onto the wood, and as
. the box just described has been in our
families for more than a century, its dura
, bility cannot be doubted.
Amaranth.
A man is relieved and gay when he has
, put his heart into his work and done Jhis
best; but what he has said or done other
wise, shall give him no peace.
—R. IF. Emerson.
> Tell (if you can) what it is to be wise?
’Tis but to know how little can be known—
To see all others’ faults and feel our own.
; —Pope.
> Every moan of the wind tells of hearts
bruised and broken, awaiting the coming
• of a friend ; and every laughing zephyr
I whispers of peace and joy without end.