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/< ?; i ■■ i >■'-«:' B ?5 --f f«A ® W Faw S9 M If,r iWt i l ■ 111 Hhr Wt n ■« lb fl '1 fWR fllh ihl IJ® ft ft Ba Bl gl|g<a- wall ifls Hf ffi fp ISR » Jia. £WF> Jflfc fIH s<% fifi VftH. A fgapEiig MHI S 3 |n ® ® fl| Vsff fll H|l CSbl W- M S| fte a &w* S*s kHI W If fill ■ w wb® mIM Mi M CT JH SBB W W twsl iBWI — ’ sgg< 13= gfc s : yf. WWWWk.. W1 ?&’ vW® w W®Wa^ r igaWfe? •afb A,.y >. VMOMk X -_-a ; -abfeßSMM«ra tffli yF ?z " ; 3p / ilwfeiy ' v ; \ 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 | ; ! . . ... | ..-111 • <•••» • • ‘ : I j» . • . f , ..1,., • 1 ■' .Z ■ ■ ■■ JL- ■wrvwmMi 'A.W -r ’ gpWMg 7* i •<*. B R | ■ , jig: ' ft! i l||: -J l HI ; y<_, '-At •W.\ SlkwSiWwßßjqW-4 ;> • Mk-J'-'a ■ r ~ 1 JA 1 J'i'' '■' .. •*'■ 4 gv ■ .** -... SMIBi 11 Ji ' *V 'V; ■ o IV* -T’CL'' 1 ’ dR/af i \ •*'*'w3P > * >^iili| i’' 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.