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rw ? J foil W r \rnli Alar Ksk s'? ) / z\>A' W® I / I Tir < V<Ow7l / VMr i ixf" liRsSW «s\ wlk fix % wM S - v \ -y y<- «k\ i '-j •"$> a ea 41 \ a 'll wwW * vw» VlLl S-kAI ■ > >'«? - i9B& ,v' w 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.