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For Woman's Work.
SONG OF THE MOUNTAINEER.
O, the gorgeous sight that greets my eyes
From the mountain’s rugged crest;
As the weary sun, when the day is done,
Sinks low In the amber west.
Like a mantle of peace, night’s curtain falls,
And a shade in the vale is seen;
But the mountains height in the dying light,
Is wrapped in golden sheen.
It fades away, and the afterglow
Like a summer twilight comes;
To hie the bear and the timid hare
Away to their mountain homes.
The “boys” come in from the timber lands,
The guides and the muleteer:
And the cabin rings as the leader sings
A rollicking song of cheer.
Then he sings of the “Isles of the sweet South
west,”
With their orange groves and palm:
Where the air is tilled with the dews distilled,
From mint, and myrrh, and balm,
Where the dusky maid and her stalwart brave
Hold tryst through the livelong day;
And fondly dream, by the firefly’s gleam,
The evening hours away.
And my thoughts go back, at the tale of love,
To my home in the distant East;
And a happy time in youth’s glad prime,
When I sat at love’s nectarea feast.
And I long sot a glimpse of a spiritual face,
With blue eyes true and clear,
That looked into mine with a light divine,
In a far-off happy year.
I would hear once more that tender voice,
That thrilled my heart tn its core,
As she said, “good night, dear love, good night”
At the old red farmhouse door.
That face is hid ’neath the coffin-lid,
The voice I shall nevermore hear ;
But I know she'll wait at Heaven’s gate,
Till my lingering steps draw near.
She will be the first to welcome me home
To that radiant shining shore,
Where the loved who meet hold communion
sweet
Forever, ever more.
I have wandered far from my native land
In quest of that fabled stream,
Whose waters quaffed, it is said, will waft
Life’s sorrows away, like a dream.
Ah, delusion fair, that Lethean Spring
Flows not from mount or plain,
Whose sparkling tide true grief can hide,
To come not back again.
I love my home on the mountains height,
Yet my eyes are dim with tears,
For my heart will yearn—to my old home turn,
And the love of my early years.
Essie M. Howell.
For Woman’s Work.
THE STORY OF A VOICE.
DAISY RHODES CAMPBELL.
OU cannot believe it, mother mine !
Just listen to my news I Prepare
for a shock— listen! Herr Henschel
Y
has just told me something—so
great it makes my brain whirl. Instead of
teaching this fall and winter, he wants me
to go as leading soprano, on a concert tour
through the country. And oh mother, he
promises me four thousand dollars and my
expenses. Try to grasp what such a
fortune will do! It will keep Herbert at
college, and Erma can go on with her
drawing, and the rent will be paid, and,
and—Herr Henschel himself is to be
pianist and conductor, and Miss Kearny
contralto, and—what do you think ? Mari
ni will be violinist. Herr Henschel says
it is sure to succeed; but fancy my being
soprano! I never dreamed that Herr
Henschel thought my voice more than
passable, and was clear down in the depths;
when he poured out so much praise in the
midst of the lesson to-day, I only
stared, I was so surprised. Why mother,
he thinks I can do it!'*
The speaker Annis Dale stopped,
quite breathless. And as the daughter’s
eyes grew brighter,and her cheeks more rosy,
her mothqr turned quite pale. “Don’t you
like it? Are’nt you pleased?” asked the
girl, in a disappointed voice.
“It is a great honor, dear,” her mother
answered, quickly, “but it is sudden, and
it is only young people who like thunder
claps.” She smiled as she looked into the
glowing face before her.
“When must you go ?” she asked.
“In three weeks to the day,” said Annis.
Mrs. Dale looked thoughtfully out of
the window. “That is a short time to get
two women ready,” she said, looking
around.
“Two!” Annis echoed; then, “Why
mother Dale, you’re not going with me—
you’re just a dear.” And Annis ran to
ner mother and gave her an impulsive
squeeze.
“I don’t believe in young girls going
about the country without their mothers,”
said Mrs. Dale, “and Olive can keep house
and see to the children.”
And so to the quiet, ordinary American
household in New York, came an unex
pected change—which altered their plans
and future.
They were all greatly exercised about
it. They had never thought Annis at all
remarkable before; but now—why, she was
going to be famous and they were all to
have money.
It was in this way that Annis Dale
found herself, ten weeks later, in a small
town in the West. It was unusual for the
company to stop anywhere but the larger
cities, but Camaen was on their way, and,
it being a college town, had offered special
inducements to secure such a treat; so
Herr Henschel had decided that they
might condescend this time; remarking,
in answer to Miss Kearny’s scornful shrug
of the shoulders’, “Even Jupiter, he nods
sometimes.” “What a bore—to stop over
night in such a place,” said Adeline
Kearny to Annis. She tried to look cross,
but her fat, good-humored face would not
wrinkle with all her efforts.
“I’m not sorry,” said Annis, gayly. “I
like to think that we can give them a treat
for once,” and she waltzed about the room,
singing.
“I don’t believe anything makes you
blue, or cross, or sad,” said Miss Kearny,
looking admiringly at her friend, yet with
a half wistful expression.
“Why should I? think how much I
have I” said Annis, stopping a moment in
her waltz, and glancing out the window as.
she did so. They were at the Camden
hotel, and it was afternoon. “Here comes
a boy—into this very place, too. It seems
so sleepy and still, I’m glad to see a pair of
such brisk legs,” Annis announced with
interest.
A moment later, there was a knock at
the door. “A note for Miss Dale,” said
the bell-boy.
Wondering greatly, Annis opened the
missive and read as follows:
“Miss Annis Dale:
I am a perfect stranger to you, but my
patient is a young German girl who is
dying of consumption. She has heard of
you, and thinks if she could but hear you
sing she would die content. She is passion
ately fond of music. If you see fit to ig
nore this; 1, of course cannot blame you;
but I shall come to the cross street, one
square from the hotel, east, and will, if you
are there, conduct you to the house two
squares north, where the girl—Alberta
Karl—lives, and you will receive the bless
ing and thanks of poor but grateful hearts.
Respectfully yours,
Paul Gerhardt, M. D.”
Annis read it aloud to her friend. As
soon as she finished, Miss Kearny burst
forth: “Oh you must not go, Annis. It
may be nothing but some dreadful plot.
And besides, it looks as if it might rain
any moment, and the dampness will ruin
your voice, and Herr Henschel will”—but
Annis was already on the way to her room.
Always impulsive, she felt that she could
hardly wait to give this girl the treat she
longecl for. She would not consult her
mother, for she was' lying down, with a
severe headache. She put on her overshoes,
jacket and turban, caught up a gossamer
and umbrella, and, to avoid answering
awkward questions from any of the troupe
she might run across, she went out of the
side entrance. Her whole mind was set
on giving this girl the desire of her heart,
and she felt a throb of pleasure to think
that she had so much to give. As she
came to the place indicated by the note,
Annis paused, and looked up and down
the streets, but no one was in sight. She
pictured the M. D., an elderly, fatherly
man, with a direct, simple manner.
‘■l can find the house myself, it is north,”
she said to herself, and walked swiftly on.
She was so absorbed in her thoughts that
she did not notice a young gentleman ap
pear on the scene, until he stopped beside
her and said, at once with a respectful yet
Serfectly self-possessed manner, “Is this
liss Dale?” Annis bowed, gravely,
though with inward amusement over her
fatherly doctor; for this was a young man,
with no hint of venerable protection in his
aspect.
“I am Dr. Gerhardt, at your service,”
the gentleman went on. “It is so kind of
you to come, Miss Dale. I felt that it was
asking a great deal of a total stranger; but
Alberta has had so little to brighten her
short, sad life, that I wanted her to have
this pleasure, if possible.”
“Indeed it is a pleasure to me,” Annis
said, with so much cordiality in her voice
that it was impossible to doubt her sincer
ity
Dr. Gerhardt stopped before a low gate
which opened the way to a shabby brown
cottage. A moment later, Annis found
herself in a bare but spotlessly neat room,
by the bedside of a young girl, probably
three years her junior. Her fair hair was
unbound and tied with a blue ribbon. Her
flushed cheeks, delicate transparent skin,
and great deep blue eyes, made such a
lovely and pathetic picture to Annis in
her strength and health, that she bent over
her and kissed her.
“It is too good you are to my Alberta,”
said the sensible-looking German woman,
standing near the bed. “So grateful are
we.” Alberta echoed “so grateful” in her
faint voice, and after a few cheerful words,
Annis, in the simplest possible manner,
sang. The first was “The flower of the
heath” in German; then “There is a green
hill far away,” Robin Adair, Auld Robin
Gray and Annie Laurie. t
She chose her simplest songs, and, with a
few earnest words hurried away. It had
grown suddenly dark, and Dr. Gerhardt
attended her to the hotel.
On the way, Paul Gerhardt told her
about Alberta—the simple story of not a
few village girls;—of her working so hard
to help her widowed mother, of her health
failing suddenly from the desertion of a
lover, far her inferior in every way; of the
girl’s patience and efforts to get well.
When Annis reached her room, so full
was her heart of the scene she had left,
that, much to her mother’s dismay, she
threw herself down on the little horsehair
sofa, and cried as she had not done for
years.
“Oh, the pity of it all—why should one
girl have everything and another nothing?
Why do I have so much before me, and
that poor Alberta have to leave it all ?”
she sobbed. And when she became calm,
she told her mother of Alberta Karl.
“You foolish girl,” whispered Adeline
to her, at the tea-table, “I do believe
you went after all, and have cried”—
looking at her closely—“oh, well, I ought
to be glad, for I shall sing better than you
this night; just because it is a mean little
town where I don’t care a straw.”
But Annis sang very well. She always
tried her best, which Herr Henschel said
he liked about her—“ Such a conscientious,
true artist is Miss Dale,” he observed
severely to Adeline, who, with her fine,
powerful will, was neither hardworking nor
conscientious.
Wherever Annis appeared, people de
clared she was “refreshing.” She certain
ly had the charm of modesty, and a lovely,
youthful beauty, besides her voice. She
seemed so young and slight, that people
were always surprised at the latter. • It
was not so powerful as it was fine and
clear. Her expression was good, and her
high notes wonderfully true. She sang
from the heart, and yet with unusual
technique—the result of her careful training.
Herr Henschel was delighted with his
favorite pupil’s success, yet he often scold
ed her, for fear she might “backslide and
grow careless,” he said.
To-night, as Annis was singing Pre aux
clercs with Herr Henschel at the piano,
and Marini, with his exquisite violin obliga
to, she saw among the audience, the young
physician.
“Germans are always so fond of music,”
thought Annis, yet the young man’s ex
pression was such that she did not look
that way again.
Later, when she was preparing to go
home, a card was handed her—-Dr. Paul
Gerhardt’s.
She met him eagerly : “How is Alber
ta?” she asked.
“Better, and I thought you might like
to know, you seemed so interested. She
seems to think of nothing but your visit.”
“I never shall forget her,” said Annis
eagerly. “Is there no hope of her re
covery ?”
“None at all,” said the young physician,
gravely. He was looking at Annis with
a restrained eagerness. “I came to tell
you of Alberta Karl, Miss Dale, and also
I felt that I must thank you for the music
of to-night. I have been hard at work for
years, and I have not had such a treat
since I was a young fellow in Germany.
Music is food and drink to us Germans.
This will help me a long time.”
Before Annis could reply, a thunderous
bass voice called out, “Paul Gerhardt I is it
possible that you I see pefore mine eyes ?”
And to Annis’ amazement, the young
doctor and Herr Henschel embraced with
the ardor of lovers. And then in the ex
citement of the moment, the two spoke
rapidly in their native tongue, with many
gestures and excited exclamations, until—at
last—Paul turned quickly to Annis: “Par
don me, Miss Dale, but Herr Henschel
was my elder brother’s dearest friend, and
the families are very intimate in Stuttgart.
We forgot all else in seeing each other.”
When Dr. Gerhardt left—after meeting
Mrs. Dale, and the rest of the little group
—Herr Henschel accompanied him to his
rooms.
“How delightful!” Annis exclaimed,
to her mother, after the gentlemen’s de
parture. “How- much they will have to
talk about! Men are not so different from
women as they pretend to be!”
When Herr Henschel again saw Annis,
he could talk of nothing but Paul, and
the Gerhardts in the fatherland. He
poured it all out in his vehement, hind
side-before style. And Annis listened
with an interest that surprised herself.
“Poor fellow I” said the professor, shak
ing his head, “himself did make von
peeg fool about a girl at home—she so—
vat you say?—so airy and so vain, she
tink de whole world to her pelongs. He
Lives her yet—poor silly fellow!” Then
Herr rushed oil abruptly to see the new
tenor —Mr. Elsinore.
They were on the train bound for St
Louis. Annis’ eyes saw the stretch of flat
country spread out before her, but her
mind pictured the quaint German city, and
a pretty, coquettish German girl ? with her
round doll-like face, and china-t>lue eyes,
raised to the fine face before her.
“ What a pity that such men spoil their
lives over just such silly girls!” she
thought, with all the wisdom of her twenty
one years.
And then she speculated about the young
German—his past, his future; how well
he spoke English, how intelligent he
seemed I And so kind-hearted—she could
not forget his skill and sympathy for the
young sick girl. What a shame that he
must be a poor country doctor! She be
lieved he might do anything, with that
head and mouth. And here Annis reined
in her thoughts suddenly, took out Marion
Crawford’s latest novel from her pocket,
and was soon deep in its pages.
The time went on, as time does go on—
so swiftly and relentlessly—and, as far as
Annis was concerned, happily. • Herr
Henschel’s face beamed with the growing
success of his venture. Mrs. Dale, mother
like, gave up the congenial home-life, and
was knocked about at hotels and on
sleepers—with none of the glory that fell to
the lot of the others, as recompense. Staid
and practical Olive, kept house ’in a far
prettier home than of old, and, thanks to
Annis’ earnings, the Dales’ prospects were
very bright.
Mrs. Dale watched her daughter anxious
ly, for any suspicion of vanity or conceit.
She was a plain, sensible woman, with old
fashioned ideas about the ways of young
people. But she had to confess that Annis
bore her success remarkably well. It
seemed -natural to the girl to think of
others.
Thus three years passed. The last year
had been unusually brilliant, and Herr
Henschel, with triumph in his voice, said
to Annis: “We must go abroad next year
—Marini is full of the idea.” For it was
Marini who had declared that the concert
plan would prove a failure.
Annis had seen Paul Gerhardt twice in
all this time. She couldmot but think that
he bore his trouble remarkably well, al
though, at their last meeting, there was a
tinge of—you could not call it melancholy
or even sadness, but—something undefina
ble in unguarded moments, that struck
Annis, although the next moment it was
gone; and Paul Gerhardt was an unusu
ally good talker.
Mr. Elsinore, the tenor, was madly in
love with Annis. Miss Kearny laughed,
in a not too delicate fashion, over the love
sick tenor, and called Annis a “bold
trifler.” It was just before they were to
appear before a large and unusually criti
cal audience. Annis did not like the re
marks—some of Adeline’s little slips grated
upon her—but she always forgot all vexa
tions when she sang. She was looking
unusually well in a new and very beauti
ful white silk, with the only jewelry she
ever allowed herself—a diamond star to
fasten the lace in the heart-shaped neck of
her dress. Never had she forgotten her
self so entirely as she did in her song.
She stirred even this coldly critical mass
of heads and opera-glasses, and they
encored her with enthusiasm.
The next and last on the program
was the quintette— Souvenir de Strauss.
As Annis began the second solo, she
thought that she was losing her senses.
She could not hear herself at all, and, when
Miss Kearny sang by her side, she could
not hear her. And yet she could see that
she was singing; and with the bass it was
the same. She looked at Marini in silent
agony : Could it be that he too was play
ing? ■
The bow was moving in the hands of
the magic player, but for the first time,
Annis could not hear the wonderful strains.
How she finished her part, and reached
the dressing-room, she did not know. The
faithful mother sat there waiting. The
girl flung herself down beside her.
“Oh mother, mother, I cannot hear.
What does it mean ?” she cried.
It would take pages to tell in detail the
mother’s sorrow, Herr Henschel’s horror,
and the keen sympathy of the entire troupe.
The little tenor urged his suit with a
manliness which made Annis come nearer
to returning his ardor, than she ever
dreamed possible. Annis was quite
deaf. The finest aurists in the country
were consulted. They all said that there
had been a few similar cases on record,
but they were uncommon. But one gave
Annis hope, that in time, and with great
care, her hearing might be restored to her.
As for Annis herself, she felt, for a time,
as if she were to be buried alive, henceforth.
She was to live, and yet not be one of the
people about her. Worst of all, it de
stroyed all hopes of her brilliant career.
She loved her profession with unusual and
single-hearted devotion. The mainspring
of her life seemed destroyed.
But as Time, that wonderful healer,
passed, the girl’s naturally happy and brave
nature, arose within her. She would not
be crushed, even by this terrible affliction.
Many others lived through similar trials,
and had far less blessings than she had.
But she must certainly get to work at
something. Fortuna’ely, Herbert would
graduate in June. So it was, that Annis
decided to accept her cousin Kate titanton’*