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For Woman’s Work.
DISAPPOINTED.
We walked abroad one pleasant morn,
(My heart and I),
And stood amid the tasseled corn
That (rew so high
We ecaree could touch the topmost blades
Os polished green
Mid pumpkin’s gold our footsteps strayed,
The curling vines between,
That grew and lengthened in the summer sun.
Then on through fields of bearded wheat
I'hat, wave on wave,
In circles swept around our feet;
Where each breeee gave
New impetus to seas of green
Whose abb and swell
Seemed changing to a golden sheen,
Where sunshine fell,
We walked with new and strange delight.
No workmen ploughed among the corn
That summer’s day,
And social grew the blades of corn
And full of play.
No reaper wrought in barley seas
With sickle keen,
Or from the wheat about his knees
Sought sheaves to glean.
’Twas nature's holiday, yet all things grew.
Earth was a goodly sight to see:
No noxious weed
Or worthless tares had mingled with
The winnowed seed
That grew, and promised soon to show
Fresh stores of grain
In well filled sheaves, set row on row
Across the plain
To wait the swing and fall of flail.
All nature blended happily.
O’er full of song,
My heart and 1 sang merrily
The whole day long.
We sought the dell whose minstrelsy
Was all our own.
There set Love’s promise tenderly
Upon a throne,
And shrined it as a sacred thing.
The days sped on. The thirsty fields
Sent up a cry. , ,
The tun beat down, the clouds were sealed,
Ihe streams grew dry.
The corn stood smitten in the field,
The waving wheat,
Its vigor sapped, shrunk grain by grain
In drought and heat,
Till naught was left of green or gold to glean.
And we, oh heart, who walked that morn
So joyously.
Have lost our songs, although we scorn
Less royally
To wear our grief. No sackcloth gown
To curious stare
Betrays where disappointment's frown
And fierce despair
Enwreathes the altar of dead Love.
Ourselves and nature seem to be
In harmony.
No tears, oh heart, for thee and me,
Tho’ bitterly
We seek their blessed rain to cool
The pent up fires.
As from the stream and thirsty pool
All life expires,
So love lies dead, and hope lies low.
Matilda J. Meader Smith.
For Woman's V ork.
I2STIG-O._
An Extravaganza in Prose.
BY B. A. RONZONE.
IN FOUR CHAPTERS.
CHAPTER I.
N the winter of the year 18—, in the
latter part of the month of Febru
-1 ary, early in the morning, I called
A upon a friend of mine at his studio.
I shall call him Inigo.
He was a man of about sixty years of
age. His hair was almost all white and
contrasted remarkably, though with pleas
ing effect, with his dark, bright eyes. The
movements of his well proportioned body,
however, were quick and sure, like those
of a man in the spring-time of life. His
features, as is the case with most persons
whose profession requires an uncommon
amount of brain work, bore a striking ex
pression of thoughtfulness, verging on
sadness.
Inigo was a thorough decorative artist.
The principles of geometry, architecture
and perspective were as well known to
him as the letters of the alphabet; color
and drawing might be said to be a part of
his very nature, while music and literature
were the principal subjects of his recrea
tions.
He was born with a deep, quenchless
love for the art which he followed, and
his life was devoted to its unlimited
studies.
To Inigo the art of painting was a re
ligion ; its mission wastodo good, to bene
fit, to elevate mankind by the purity of its
suggestiveness. With him it was not a
matter of school or mode, it was entirely a
matter of object in view.
Home decoration was to his mind the
most important branch of painting, for
upon it largely depended the formation of
a nation’s taste; it was the model from
which the budding generation was to
draw, and which would have the power of
influencing its very morality for good or
for evil, according to its aspects. You
could no more make him admit that a
composition which did not at once express
refined simplicity, purity, propriety and
unity, was correct, than I could make
you believe, my dear reader, that the sun
rises in the west. One of his frequent
utterances was: “I would follow the
graceful lines of beautiful woman, en
riched with delicate tinted flowers, and
the soft hues of the summer morning skies
for the ornamentation of the home.”
I entered my friend’s studio just at the
moment when he was giving the last
touches to a design intended for the draw
ing room of a very costly mansion.
‘■Ah, my dear friend,” said Inigo, ris
ing and coming to meet me with his
hand extended, “you are welcome. I have
just completed that design for Mrs. .
This,” he continued, as still holding my
hand, he led me to the drawing table
upon which was the design mentioned,
“will give us work enough to take us into
the busy season, and out of our misery.
What do you think of it ?” he added as
he took it up and handed it to me.
The design represented a spacious draw
ing room, reduced in perfect scale, com
plete in all its appointments, and finished
with such skill as to render it a
perfect miniature painting. Who that
has any soul can look upon such a work,
the outgrowth of many years of patient
study—a work in which the individuality
of a refined man is observable in every
detail—and restrain himself from giving
utterance to his admiration ? Who that
has any appreciation at all for the
beauties of nature, can help showing his
pleasure as his eyes feast upon perfect
curves and graceful coutours ; upon color
ing stolen from rainbow hues; upon mel
low tinted flowers and soft golden lights
of various tones, all blending in a dreamy
harmony ?
“Good! Excellent!” I exclaimed as I
held the design from me in an eyen more
advantageous light. “My dear friend, this
is indeed a master-piece. I congratulate
you with all my heart.”
“I am glad you think so well of it,’
said Inigo, losing some of the timidity
which had displayed itself in his voice
when he first handed me his design—-a
timidity which is natural with a true
artist, and which generally shows itself
when his work is completed.
No man enters into an undertaking
with more boldness, and with less thought
of the many obstacles to be overcome than
the artist. No man after having accom
plished his undertakings, after having suc
ceeded in conquering any number of ap
parently unsurmountable difficulties, is
the victim of timidity more than he. The
reason of this is that his art is one of con
stant progression. No sooner has he ac
complished his work, and his enthusiasm,
sometimes amounting to a passion spring
ing from his love of art, has cooled, than
he beholds but too plainly and with sink
ing heart, how much improvement it is
susceptible of undergoing.
“Believe me,” I added as I took one
more look at it, “I shall deem it an honor
to be permitted to assist you in execut
ing it.”
“Thanks,” he answered, his eyes now
beaming with pleasure, “your words re
assure me; for, now that the moment has
arrived for me to execute it, my courage
has almost forsaken me. You see,” he
continued, his natural enthusiasm return
ing by degrees, “my aim in this instance
has been to produce a combination of sim
plicity and refinement; a blending of
tints suggestive of a summer morning’s
sky. I have shut my eyes to the many
beauties of ancient and modern foreign
styles of decoration, and have depended
entirely on the beauties of our own land
and sky from which to draw my in
spirations.
“I will confess that I have followed
somewhat the same principles of the best
period of Greek art, so far as lines of
beauty and repetition of ornament are
concerned, but, as you see, I have chosen
our charming wild rose, a native of our
own soil, as the model for all my orna
mentation. And* what,” he continued,
full of animation, “could be more in accord
with the spirit of our civilization ? What
could be more adapted for the embellish
ment of our simple homes ? What could
symbolize purity and beautiful simplicity
with more force ? What could be better
calculated for imbuing the minds of our
children with a just appreciation for the
loveliness of their own land? I know
that there are many who, despite the fact
that they are natives of this great country,
see no beauty but in things whose
meaning they cannot understand; who
have no smiles but smiles of derision for
the art productions of their own country;
who are willing to embrace, to adorn them
selves with the vulgarisms of other lands,
while turning their backs to .what is pure
and noble and in harmony with the spirit
of their own. I know but too well, alas!
WOMAN’S WORK.
that many of our own much misunderstood
profession will look with contempt upon
the man who will dare to lift his voice in
behalf of a style of ornamentation truly
characteristic of the spirit of our republic; I
know also that there are those who will con
tend that he who will attempt any such in
novation will be ridiculed into oblivion for
his pains;but even the knowledge of all this,
my dear friend, will not deter me from
making the attempt.
“Believe me, there is an art spirit lying
dormant in the bosom of this great coun
try—a spirit full of patriotic ardor, full of
common sense—which only needs to be
aroused to make it sweep from our land
all the trash which false pretenders, under
the name of art, plaster upon canvas, ceil
ing and wall, and on almost all that enters
our homes I A spirit which at no far dis
tant day will give to the world a model of
ornamentation emblematic of what is truly
pure and noble—an ornamentation which
will have the power, at least, of making
the genuine American heart beat with
pleasure wherever met with —”
Just at this moment my friend’s flow of
patriotism was, much to my regret, sud
denly interrupted by the opening of the
studio door and the entrance of a man of
about thirty years of age, who, nodding
his head to us unceremoniously, took off
his hat and overcoat, and throwing them
on a chair near by, turned his back to the
stove and looked up to the ceiling with an
expression of countenance which indicated
great excitement*of mind.
The new comer was Joe. He was
what may be called a utility man. He
was not an artist. He was not even a
thorough decorative painter—that is, one
who can execute an artist’s composition,
without being able to create one himself.
He could, however, put his hand at almost
everything connected with the art of
painting. He was not born with any love
for art. He followed it only on account
of the wages which it yielded him. His
ambition soared no higher than to be a
mere helper while with Inigo. He had,
however, aspirations of another sort. He
looked forward with great expectations to
the day when he would be his own boss;
when he would be able to show his card
bearing his name as a decorative artist.
He used to boast that he would not stay
pent up in his studio, racking his brain to
get up ideas with which to please the “big
bugs.”
Not he, indeed ; he would employ others
to do his work; he would just go around
and superintend, and live on the “fat of
the land.”
“You will make a fine artist!” I heard
Inigo say to him one day, when talking of
this subject. You who have never studied
drawing; who know comparatively noth
ing about the principles of decorative art,
and very little about the laws of color I”
But Joe brought up such a great num
ber of men, who even knew less than him
self (according to his own estimation)
whose names could be found in directories
and on signs as decorative artists, who had
managed to amass snug little fortunes by
just getting good contracts for decorating,
and then sub-letting them at very low
figures to needy painters, that Inigo was
quite nonplussed. If the word “honesty”
can be narrowed down to mean simply not
to take with your hand what does not be
long to you, Joe was honest. You could
trust him with anything. The most ex
pensive designs, colors and brushes were
just as safe in his keeping as under lock
and key.
But if the word honesty has a broader
sense—if it means that when a man makes
a mistake he should at once own up to it
and thus prevent the blame from being
placed upon some one else; if it means
that a man should work just as faithfully
when alone as when his “Joss” is with
him, and if—not to mention many other
things—it means that a man should not
permit his tongue to give out as facts con
cerning men and things, what he has
created in his own brain, then I am not of
the opinion that Joe was an honest man.
The moment that Inigo looked at Joe
on the day I mention, he saw that some
thing unusual affected him.
“What is the matter, Joe, do you feel
unwell?” he asked, almost tenderly.
Joe did not answer; he simply ground
his teeth as if in anger, and turned his
dark projecting eyes from right to left and
up to the ceiling. Notwithstanding the
fact that I was well aware of Joe’s eccen
tricity of character, I felt that in this in
stance he was not wholly shamming.
“Come, come,” said Inigo with a little
impatience in his voice, “what has hap
pened ?”
“Happened ? Why our job is gone!”
“What?” “What?” almost shouted
Inigo and I in unison.
Joe did not answer at once.
“Nonsense, man,” I said, “you must
have been wrongly informed.”
“The work has been going on for two
weeks,” said Joe, seemingly very much
put out at our want of faith in his infor
mation.
“You are out of your senses I You
have surely made one of your usual
blunders!” cried Inigo, his impatience
giving way to anger.
“Oh, yes," snapped out Joe, “I always
make blunders ! Maybe 1 did not speak
to the men who are working there ; may
be you cannot see the scaffolding from the
street I” Inigo and I could only look at
one another; the information was so sur
prising!
“No, no,” said my friend after a mo
ment of silence, “it cannot be true —I can
not believe it 1”
“But I tell you it is true!” exclaimed
Joe in a very positive tone of voice, “and
if you will go up to the house, you can
see for yourself I”
Joe’s last words seemed, indeed, to
spring from genuine conviction. I began
to feel, in spite of myself, that there must
be some truth in Joe’s startling informa
tion. I arose and, taking my hat, said to
my friend: “I will go, with your permis
sion, and try to ascertain just how things
are—”
“No,” said Inigo,—he spoke slowly and
dejectedly—“you do me the favor, my
friend, to remain here. I will go myself,
and if what Joe has told us is true —well”—
he did not say what was on his mind, but
he gave vent to a long drawn sigh which
must have come from, the very depths of
his heart.
CHAPTER 11.
As soon as my friend had departed, my
feelings underwent a sad change. I had
endeavored for his sake to appear calm,
and to put no faith in Joe’s words, but now
that he was gone my mind became crowd
ed with thoughts and I could not disguise
the anguish which they caused me. No
painter, surely, could be more in need of
money than 1 was at that "time. Never
had art seen a duller season. I had relied
on my friend’s work as the means of get
ting me out of my pecuniary troubles, just
as much as he had relied upon it to get
him out of his own. The work, however,
was gone, and the future seemed hopeless
indeed.
But, thanks to fortune, I was not one to
take things very deeply to heart; so, after
a few moments' of intense dejection and
bitter vexation, my mind broke through
the ominous clouds that enveloped it, and
let in the sunshine. This power of con
quering feelings arising from adversity,
had developed itself all the more in me
owing to a habit I had fallen into of com
paring things. That is to say, whenever
anything of a disagreeable nature hap
pened to me, no matter how important,
instead of looking up and comparing my
unhappy state with that of apparently
very happy people, I looked down to
those who appeared to be much more un
fortunate than myself and thanked my
Maker that I was so much better off than
they.
So, after a few moments I turned to Joe,
who seemed to be completely discouraged
at the turn of affairs, and I said to him:
“Come, Joe, don’t be so cast down ; things
might be a good deal worse than they are.
A broken leg or a broken arm would be
much more unfortunate for any of us than
the mere loss of a job. Besides, the winter
is nearly over and we will soon be busy
enough to get us out of all our present
difficulties. Let us be thankful that we
are single men and have only ourselves to
provide for. Just think if anyone of us
had a wife and five or six children to sup
port!” And as I uttered these last words
I could not help sighing deeply, painfully,
for the sweet face of a dear, loving girl,
who was all I had on this earth to live
for; she whom I hoped to make my own
some day, came into my mind.
“Oh, it is not for the work I care,” said
Joe, “I do not care that much—” snapping
his fingers—“for the job. lam afraid the
boss is losing his reason.”
“Losing his reason ?” I asked in sur
prise, forgetting all else for the moment.
“Why not ? Look at all the disappoint
ments he has had ; see all the misery he
has suffered in the past few years. He is
no more the man he used to be. He flies
into a passion for the least cause, and 1
tell you I can hardly stand it—”
I could only stare at the speaker in as
tonishment, wondering if he himself was
not losing his senses ! I had never placed
much faith in Joe’s opinion of men and
things, for I had found, to my cost, on dif
ferent occasions that his descriptive faculty
could not be depended upon for accuracy.
“Inigo losing his reason ?” I repeated.
“You are talking nonsense! Inigo, the
foremost man in the profession, jvith a
mind solely actuated by the soundest of
common sense, —losing his reason !—”
‘ Oh I know what I am talking about,”
cried Joe, rolling his eyes and* assuming a