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T. L. MITCHELL, Publisher
Vol. s.— No. B.]
For Woman's Work.
A LIFE.
—————
0, what is this thing which we call life 0
A pulse that beats—an arm that moves—
A warm, brief breath and a heart that loves,
A candle-puff, and the light is gone!
A sigh, a tear—the world moves on.
Clifton S. Wady.
For Woman’s Work.
SUMMER THOUGHTS.
HAVE been sitting by the
open window a long time this
afternoon, gazing at the beau
tiful and varied landscape
that extends far away, until
bounded by a range of bills that bathe
their green crests in the soft blue of the
horizon. Here the wheat fields dotted
with their yellow shocks of grain,
fresh from the hand ol the reaper, like
miniature tents; there the Indian corn,
shimmering and rustling in the breeze
like an “army with banners;” further
on the hay makers, with glistening
blades, are sweeping down the fra
grant clover, and in the next field the
cotton rows run off like green ribbons
on a brown ground; in an oat field
from which the grain has been hauled
away, cattle and sheep are browsing,
or resting under an occasional tree left
standing ; over all the sun rides high
in the heavens, as Summer, in her regal
beauty, crowned with gorgeous flowers
and glistening leaves, steps proudly by.
How I love them, these long, glori
ous summer days! From the time
the sun shakes his fiery mane behind
the eastern hills and sends his faint
crimson beams off as avant-couriers,
then sweeps grandly out on his long
race of fourteen hours, I want to enjoy
every moment—to open every door
and window of my heart and mind,
and let the sunbeams glide in and light
up every corner and crevice until some
sweet thoughts spring up, which, like
other sun-loving plants, will repay his
bounty by blossoming forth in love t >
God and fellow-man, and thanksgiving
for life and light, and capacity to en
joy them.
Did you ever think of it? Did you
ever go on your knees and thank the
Heavenly Father that He had given
you the power to extract pleasure from
little things—the taste to appreciate
the delicate beauty of His works, and
had scattered them so profusely around
that not a day passes, especially in
the glorious summer-time, without some
new avenue of pleasure unveiling
itself before your eyes ?
If not, then, when you watch the
unfolding of your beautiful geraniums
and your lovely roses, and inhale the
sweet breath of the heliotrope, the
mignonette, and the hundreds of other
flowers that are blooming now, bend
softly over them and let your thanks
giving ascend as gently and silently as
their perfume; not for it alone, but f<r
the power of appreciating the beautiful
in nature, (which is so common
around us, it is often passed unnoticed,)
and for the pure and exquisite pleasure
which may be derived from the power of
contemplating it, which power is a gift
within itself.
And when you hear a strain of music,
not the enlivening and exhilarating—
though they too have their places—but
the soul-sufficing, that tells you with a
voice before which human words fall un
heard, that this world, with its care and
sorrow, its struggle for bread, its disap
pointments, its injustice and misrepresen
tations.is not our abiding place, but a great
winnowing floor, where the chaff’ that sur
rounds us must be fanned away, leaving
the pure grain meet for the tearless life to
be wafted there; then thank God that
BY SMILES SHE WINS WHERE SWORDS COULD NEVER CONQUER.
ATHENS, GEORGIA, AUGUST, 1892.
when He gave gifts to His erring children,
He gave the power of awakening these
sweet notes, rare and priceless gifts, to the
few, but the capacity to enjoy them to the
many; open the doors of your heart, and
let them float in until you are exhalted
above the petty trivialities and annoyances
around you.
Oh, how much pleasure and enjoyment
is stored away in the little common-place
objects and occurrences by which we are
surrounded every day, if we only knew it.
But alas! such knowledge too often comes
when the years have lengthened behind
us, and the memory of golden summers
past and gone, drifts by upon the breeze
of the present. So many, especially the
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young, think “happiness” is something to
be boxed up and sent to them ata particu
lar time and place, or to be poured upon
them in refreshing showers at stated
periods, not knowing that it comes like
the imperceptible dew of the evening,
covering both sides of the leaf at once,
and opening and penetrating every pore.
Unless the capacity to enjoy it is cultiva
ted and the minute drops allowed to pene
trate and refresh the soul, the great
showers, or the opportunities for receiving
them, may pass without the watcher
being aware of their approach. The flood
gates of happiness are not opened often in
each mortal life, and if opened now and
then, they may be as suddenly closed by
I the mighty locks with which the currents
of human life are barred. But the little
streams that ripple around us every day
are never shut old, if we permit them to
flow for us.
And girls—dear, rosy cheeked, light
hearted creatures that you now are—open
your bright eyes and look for these little
streams. Do not let your fresh young in
stincts be so smothered by the love of
admiration and thirst for applause as to
lead you on to the life of a fashionable co
quette, and expect to And happiness there
No, she is a coy maiden who shuns all such
haunts, and these will only unfit you for
the calmer and more rational enjoyments
of a life time. Remember, you can culti-
vate happiness as you cultivate a flower;
you have but to look for it to find it, to
nourish it to possess it.
Mbs. K.
Bartow Co., Georgia.
_
I can’t abide to see men throw away
their tools in that way, the minute the
clock begins to strike, as if they took no
pleasure i’ their work, and was afraid o’
doing a strike too much. * * * I hate to
see a man’s arms drop down as if he was
shot, before the clock’s fairly struck,
just as if he'd never a bit o’ pride and
delight in his work. The very grindstone
Till go on turning a bit after you loose it.
—Adam Bede,
KATE GARLAND, Editrcb*
[SO Cts. per Year.
For Woman’s Work.
WHOSE GUILT?
Before one of the most palatial mansions
on New York’s most fashionable avenue,
a physician’s waited. Its owner, a
man past middle age, whose advice was
eagerly sought after, had been admitted
into the house and led into a luxuriant
chamber where a patient awaited him.
The shades were drawn, but there was
sufficient light for the physician to see the
form of a woman, who lay tossing and
moaning upon a bed whose costly lace
coverlet was being torn into shreds by her
nervous fingers.
He studied the case for a brief time and
regarded her carefully. She was a
beautiful woman ; even the severe pain
she was suffering could not efface her
beauty. With a sigh and an almost
imperceptible shrug of his shoulders,
the physician opened the satchel he
carried, took from it a tiny instrument,
and approached the bed with it in his
hand. Taking his patient’s hand in
his own he spoke soothing words to
her, then gently pushing up the sleeve
of her silken robe, he bared the fair,
white arm. With the little instrument
he punctured the delicate skin, then
laid it aside and watched for the results.
Soon the cry of pain came fainter,
the restless tossing ceased, and presently
the spirit of sleep stole into the cham
ber and enwrapped the beautiful woman
in its arms. Then the physician, with
a look of satisfaction, replaced the lit
tle instrument in its case and left the
room with noiseless footsteps.
* * ■»
A woman with traces of beauty yet
in her face, old before her time, with
wild eyes and unkempt locks entered
a drug store late at night. She shivered
and muttered to herself, drawing the
worn shawl closer around her fragile
form. There was the look upon her
face that told her tale to the druggist
before she spoke, and he was prepared
to refuse her request before it was made.
“I want a dime’s worth of mor
phine,” she said.
“I told you the last time you came
that 1 would not sell you any more,
the druggist spoke roughly, and yet he
pitied the poor wreck before him.
The woman gave a sharp cry and
threw her arms above her head with a
gesture of despair. At this movement
the loose sleeves of her gown fell back
and brought into view her arms. Little
red spots and scars literally covered
them, where the punctures had been
made !
“For the love of God, dan t refuse
me. Let me have it this once, only
this once I will <Z’’e if you refuse.”
The man turned to his prescription
case and weighed out a small quantity
of the innocent-looking white powder.
Then, with a grim sense of the irony
of the act, labeled the package “Poison !
Dose to | grain.”
“This is positively the last time I will
let you have it,” he said, handing her the
package. The woman snatched it from
his hand with a cry of joy, clasped it to
her breast and parsed out into the dark
ness of the night.
As she crossed the street the mud from
the wheel of the coupe of a fashionable
physician flew up aid spattered her
garments.
The physician glanced out, the woman
looked up, and for one brief moment their
eyes met. The woman laughed, a laugh
full of bitter scorn, and the physician sank
back trembling and white upon the cush
ions of bis luxurious carriage.
There will be three to arraign before the
great bar of justice.
Whose guilt’ God knows.
S. Valentine.