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But all the blooms in this garden rare,
To this white rose can ne’er compare.
She rules as queen in this quiet place,
With her satin robe and her royal face,
And the beams that dart from the moon's pale
bar
Are held in her heart by a shining star.
And whether we waken or if we dream;
Or float in a maze down a sunlit stream,
No flower in dream-land’s paradise,
With their petals soft and starry eyes,
Can give to the sweet south wind that blows,
The fresh, faint odor of this pale rose.
When the long, dear days of summer went by,
Like Fancy’s ships in a cloudless sky,
When the moon sailed white in the sea above,
When the world lay in dreams and the dreams
were love.
This rose so fair gave a dear delight
For Woman’s Work.
THE VOICES.
universe is one grand chorus,
each voice masterfully attuned
to its distinctive key, so that,
whether rising and swelling into
one great and glorious “crash of mel
ody,” or softly crooning some gentle,
soothing lay, the “potent charming power”
of harmony is felt, and mightily influ
ences our lives and destinies. The voices
of Nature are hers alone; no harsh guttural
sounds are there to mar the beauty, and
“One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man—
Os moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.”
The summer morning, in all its freshness,
is resonant with voices : the song of the
early bird, as he greets the coming dawn;
the dew tipped grass, sparkling as myriad
diamonds ; the flowers, giving forth their
most delicate fragrance, greet the senses of
the honest toiler plodding along to his
daily task, and—hushing the thoughts of
envy and discontent that rise in his heart
as he passes his rich neighbor’s door—
whisper to him of higher, holier things; so
that he watches with pleasure the little
brook he now meets —winding its way
merrily over pebbles, through sands, carry
ing life and strength to the violets and
ferns; then merges itself into the turbid
stream, that turns the mill where he earns
bread for his little ones. With his open
face brightened by the morning’s voices,
we leave him, that we may follow the
stream and list to its voices, as
“It sings to the rushes an old, old song,
’Tis a song of gladness and rest and hope,
Os a t ighter life and a wider scope ;
Os narrowing channels and wide rocks past
And the broad old ocean and peace at last.”
The ocean ! Ip its very name we hear
its voices. The little child, in its far away
mountain home, stands with parted lips
and dancing eyes, as he holds the conch
shell to his ear, and listens to the music of
the sea ; but he only sips of a pleasure
which one more fortunate fully quaffs, as he
plays on the golden beach among the treas
ures of the deep—with which every wave
that rolls to his feet is laden. Anon
this child on the sea-shore, stands
with gaze startled and fascinated
by the great change that has come over
the placid play-fellow--the wave? are beat-
For Woman’s Work.
A WHITE ROSE.
CARRIE BELLE GABLE.
A pale, white rose in my garden grew;
Its petals glimmered in the star-lit dew ;
Its shell like leaves ope’d to the light,
And its fragrance poured on the dewy night.
The breath of love fanned my rose so fair,
As she bent her head to the balmy air.
Full well she knew that the earth's warm breast
Had a waked to life from her winter's rest,
No flower so fair in this garden of bliss
E’er woo’d the wind with a sweeter kiss.
There were lilies and pinks and the violet blue
That had ope d their cups, to the silvery dew.
O, the air was sweet, as the soft winds sent
Their fragrance rare, in this garden blent:
Where the hyacinth white and the hyacinth blue
Seemed to borrow their light from the heaven’s
hue,
While the dahlia proud and the sunflower tall.
Deemed their bloom the fairest, sweetest of all.
But none of these blooms in the garden’s recess
Could vie with my rose in its loveliness.
It appealed to my heart with a love so intense,
With its pure white bloom in its innocence.
We may cherish the “lily of the vale,”
With its tiny bells so passion pale,
And the velvet rose with its glowing breast,
That closed its heart at love’s behest,
And the lily chaste, with its silver cup—
To the sun's warm kiss she seals it up;
To my yearning heart, thro’ the long, lone night,
And its scented leaves in my hands now lie
Like snow on the flowers, when the sun is high ;
Beauty and love were its own sweet dower,
And a fragrance rare bathed this pale flower-
When the soft winds kissed its petals free,
It glimmered and shone like sails at sea.
But when winter came with its icy breath.
Her head lay low like a bride in death.
I gathered the leaves; my heart was full!
It had bloomed and died—my beautiful!
And whenever I hear in the midnight air
The sighing breeze thro’ the branches bare,
I think of the rose—its beauty and bloom.
Os the spring time fair—and a lone, lone tomb
Where its petals fell like flakes of snow
On a new made grave where soft winds blow.
And this I ask: when my life shall close, —
On my pulseless heart lay a pure white rose.
ing on the shore in the wildest fury, their
drear and desolate roar seeming to echo
and re-echo the shrieks and groans of the
perishing crew,who, having struggled with
their last bit of strength, have gone to their
great watery grave —their cries for help
heard by no ear save that of their destroy
er, who now'seems lashing himself in his
remorse. As the rolling and the surging
ceases, the sun sets in a “flood of golden
glory,” the shadows lengthen,and there des
cends upon the world that mystic hour—twi
light—luring all to Fancy’s revel. The
young aspirant for fame’seesall his darling
hopes realized, the intervening steps of
hard and patient labor are forgotten; he is
on the topmost round, and with a superior
smile, ‘ looks down on the hate of those be
low dread disillusion ! But the voices of
the Twilight have not spoken without ef
fect, for with the firm resolve that the
dream shall one day be a reality, one step
is taken.
The old patriarch, also succumbs to the
spell: he sees the cottage of his birth—the
meadow in front, with the brook where he
played in the long, long ago ; be sees the
smile of love and sympathy from his young
parents —he is a boy again ! A little,, arm
steals around his neck, and a sweet baby
voice lisps “Grandpa;” the spell is broken;
he starts, and—with a sigh—tells his grand
children a story of some boyish prank, the
thought of which was borne to him by the
twilight voices. “Ebon-sceptered Night
assumes her sway; the world is wrapped in
slumber, but not even now are The Voices
silenced—they are murmuring on in a dif
ferent world, a fairy like realm. Untram
meled, the soul is transported by strains of
angelic music: lovely flowers and delicate
perfumes please the senses: sparkling
fountains gush from emerald knolls—we
are in Elysium.
“Alas that dreams are only dreams,
That fancy cannot give
A lasting beauty, to those forms
Which scarce a moment live!”
From the grand organ of the Universe
History—come innumerable tones and
voices, telling each of its own era. They
tell us of Egypt—that great cradle of civil
ization ; of the intellect and activity of
that grand old Nation that gave the first
impetus to the cultivation of the arts and
sciences. With reverent thanks, weturn
that vre may listen to the ancient Greeks,
ip their intense sympathy with Nature;
attributing to her, consciousness and feel
ing like their own—thus seeing in all her
different phases a personal agency. To
them,that subtle and mighty power, the air,
was a mighty Titan; Hermes, son of the
great Jupiter, lying one day in his cradle—
a babe—the next ‘ tearing up mountains in
his rage;”- throwing the spectators into
abject fear—then soothing them into tran
quility by trains of Heavenly music.
Later, we hear them discussing those
questions which have perplexed the great
thinkers of all ages: the stentorian voice
of old Pythagoras, descants on his theory :
“From harmony—from Heavenly harmony—
This Universal Frame began;
From harmony to harmony,
Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The disapason closing full in man.”
Down through the passage of the ages
comes the voice of the old Saxon, crying
out against Norman oppression—and the
war-cry of the noble Harold rings in our
ears, as he goes to battle for his rights.
Further on, the notes are loud and
piercing, and form themselves into the
shrieks of the terrified -young French
queen, as the mob rush into her apartment,
and, rending the silken hangings, demand
her husband. Louder grow the voices,
and are merged into the cannon’s roar,
which tells of “battle’s magnificently stern
array;” louder and yet louder, as the tide
of battle surges, until, at evening, one
great shout of victory, from hearty En
glish lungs, tells of the over-throw of the
Great Emperor:
“The desolater desolate I
The victor overthrown!
The arbiter of others’ fate,
A suppliant for his own 1”
As “through the ages one eternal pur
pose runs,” and, “the thoughts of men are
widened with the progress of the suns,” we
now turn from clash of arms on blood
stained fields, to listen—our hearts thrilling
with pleasure—to the voice of our great
Patriot-Father, as, before returning to
the modest seclusion of Mount Vernon,
he bids his soldiers farewell, having led
them to Victory, Independence and Peace.
Now let us turn from History’s voices,
so distinct and oft repeated, to listen to
that concord of the voices of imagination
and passion, with their beauty enhanced
by rythmical melody—Poetry.
By its name we are carried back, in im
agination, to the luxurious homes of the
Ancients : we wend our way to the ban
queting hall—how gorgeous the scene !
With what oriential grace they recline on
the rich couches! How soft is the tempered
light! how heavy the air with perfume!
But listen! As with languor they discuss
the tempting dishes, there floats upon the
air the sound of music! Voices commingle
—rich, full voices—that tell in rythmic ca
dences, of the loves and the hates of the
“Undying Gods,” and their happy life on
Mount Olympus. With senses dulled,
even by the sight of all this enervating
luxury, we seek the open air: seeing a
crowd we join it; our attention is riveted;
a venerable man is speaking—and what is
his theme, that thus enthralls his auditors?
’Tis that story which, banded down for
ages by the bards, is now and always
will be read with delight—the story of the
theft of the lovely Helen, and the conse
quent strifes: the valor of the glorious Hec
tor ; the wrath and vengeance of the stern
Achilles.
These bards! What a debt of gratitude
does the world owe them I How our heart
should go out in thankfulness to the Skalds,
Gleemen, Troubadours, who embalmed the
glories of the olden heroes in their immor
tal songs, until the inventive genius of a
later age gave them a material shape; and
we fortunate people of to-day, can gather
the wisdom, poetry and philosophy of the
world, in the limits of a moderate library,
and hearken to the voices of departed
saints, sages and singers, as they tell us
such stories as that of
“Man’s first disobedience, and the fruit
Os that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste
Brought death into the world, and all our woe.”
Charmed by its weirdness, we may lis
ten to the story of Deloraine’s midnight
ride to the shrine of St. Mary. We may
hear of the mighty deeds of Douglass and
Fitz James. Indeed ’tis hard, in such a
wilderness of beauty as poetry presents,
with flowers varying from the little “moun
tain daisy” to the stately lily and rich ex
otic, to choose what we love best—because
we are bewildered with the excess of loveli
ness. We cannot neglect the humblest, for
“The meanest flower that blows, can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.”
With heartfelt thanks for the other
voices, we turn to the contemplation of
that “Still small voice,” —the ruling power
of our destiny. We do not dream of
understanding what has puzzled the
greatest philosophers—that mysterious
faculty Conscience —but we do hear its ut
terances, and, women of America, can we,
in this age of vocations, have a higher one
than the keeping in perfect tune this God
given Voice and so adding one note of mel
ody to the world’s chorus? B. L. H.
For Woman’s Work.
THE FEMALE EMPLOYEE.
PAUL CARSON.
In a recently published interview with
a “Busy business man” he is quoted as say
ing: “I do not intend to employ any more
women in my office. They take offense if
men who come in on business are not al
ways polite; they object to tobacco smoke;
they are entirely too sensitive—one young
woman bursting into tears, when, after re
peated errors, I told her rather sharply
that legal papers must be copied correctly.
Then they do fancy work in idle hours, in
stead of trying to utilize the titne for the
benefit of the firm, and. their ridiculous
lunches annoy me; cake, pickles and the
like.”
Well, there are some things to be said on
both sides of this question. In the first
place, woman was not created to go out in
the world and labor alongside of her lord
and master. But, as the aforesaid lords
have, in many instances, declined to feed
and clothe their vassals, rather than starve,
woman has invaded man’s domain, with
more or less success, and feeds and clothes
herself. If a woman goes 'among men to
do a man’s work, expecting a man’s wages
(which she seldom gets) she must expect to
be treated, in a measure, as men treat each
other. If she doesn’t like tobacco smoke,
she must endure it,and not make a martyr,
of herself either, for not one man in a thou
sand will give up his cigar for the woman
he loves; emphatically not for the woman
he employs. If men are discourteous, so
long as their discourtesy is not manifested
because of her womanhood,’she must bear
it philosophically, remembering that men
in business are not always courteous to
each other. To be sure, a gentleman re
members always to be civil to a woman,
but a woman in business will meet many
men who are not gentlemen ; it is one of the
incidentals in a business life.
Os course she should not “burst into,
tears” when her work'is criticised—striving
to do work beyond criticism—still if she
does, her employer should remember that
a woman cries when a man would swear,
and that a man who employs women must
make the best of constitutional differences
in temperament.
The fancy work should be left at home.
As to her lunch, that is none of the
employer’s business, and he must endure
that, as she endures his cigar. Men are, in
a great measure, responsible for the fact
that an army of business women occupies
the land. If they prefer the women in
Tennyson’s Idyls, they should give the
world such men as King Arthur’s Knights.
No amount of talking will make a woman
manly. Men who employ them should re
member this, and the question—whether
woman’s emancipation has brought her
more happiness than domestic life—is still
open for discussion.
For Woman’s Work.
x UNIQUE PHOTO FRAMES.
Some of the silver filigree frames are
marvels of beauty and delicate workman
ship. One represents a window draped
with lace lambrequin curtains. The lam
brequin is apparently fastened by a row
of rhinestones, and the curtains, sloping
away on each side, are caught near the bot
tom by a loop of the same gems. No prettier
frame for a beautiful face can be imagined.
There is one of oxidized silver mount
ed on plush; the color of the plush is sup
plied to suit the buyer.
The advance made in the art of picture
framing, within the past decade, has brought
about most delightful results. The osten
tatious gilt frame and heavy black walnut
frames and mouldings are relegated to that
mysterious realm where outlived fashions
await resurrection. We are content
now, with simple frames that do
not take from, but rather add to,
the picture. In many cases the
painting is continued on the frame, or the
idea carried out in some way. For in
stance —a little marine view is framed in
delicately tinted sea shells in bas relief.
A plain varnished pine frame, the corners
decorated with long sprays of sea mosses,
makes an admirable surrounding for
marine sketches.
An exquisite painting of La France
roses, was framed in plain pine, decorated
with long stems of the seed vessels of the
rose, bronzed and fastened to the frame
with tiny beads, which were also bronzed.
Another frame had clusters of poppy seeds
in the corner, bronzed and silver.
Plush, India silk, Japanese wall paper,
or any soft drapery material is now used
for covering frames. It is put on plain in
some cases, in overlapping folds in others,
while very handsome ones are only gathered
in the corners. One’s individual fancy de
cides the matter.
CarrLe Belle Gable.
Moderation is a silken thread that runs
through the pearly chain of all virtue.