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For Woman’s Work.
ONE YEAR AGO!
One year ago, my darling went away;
And yet, I will not weep for him to-’day—
I will not think of him as lying low
home where breezes blow
On scented petals of fair flowers there
At eventide, or, in the noonday’s glare.
One year ago, my darling journeyed far
Into the shadowy vale—his guiding star
Led safely on. So radiant grew his face
To “enter in’’ the Heavenly gate, no trace
Os pain, or grief thereon. How sweet the smile
That lingered there, my sorrow to beguile!
One year ago 1 God pity me, I cry,
As I look upward to the star-lit sky.
And yet, I will not weep for him to-day,
But, in humility, submissive say,
“ 'Tis better so; ’—and patient, bide the time
To meet my darling in the realm sublime.
Rose Heath.
Mayfield, Ky.
For Woman’s Work.
THE DIARY OF A POOR PHI-
LOSOPHER.
B. 11. STEWAKT.
FTER all, my lot is not an un
happy one. My livine is a ques
tion of my own exertions, and
[ my occupation keeps my mind
a
from stagnating and my ideas
from becoming torpid. The literati have
the chance of more variety and broader
scope to their lives than those not of the
profession may understand. His life is a
commingling of other lives; he may create
happiness for himself and benefit others,
provided he be conscientious and honest
in his method and purpose.
Your real poet and philosopher presents
things so simply, yet so forcibly to the
view, that others may behold them in a
similar light to that in which they appear
to him. The pleasure and pains of man
kind are near to his heart and interest—
he appreciates the happiness of the sim
plest pleasures. Nor is he ashamed to
show the sympathy with which they imbue
him.
I feel much happier always for the
sight of a happy face; and I sometimes
wonder why people are ever sombre or
gloomy, anyway. Still, there are times
when I am.
This morning I saw a happy pair. I
have a bachelor’s habit of strolling under
the shady trees, in the quiet walks of the
beautiful park at the end of the city. One
sees there “all sorts and conditions of
men,” and from the innocence of infancy
to the “despondency of decrepitude.” has
as broad a study as the university in
which he learns can possibly command.
Tired from my rather long walk, I sat
under a generous, sweet fir tree to rest;
in a short while the reveries which the
serene landscape awoke within me, were
broken by the sounds of voices. I looked
up and beheld two young people—lovers—
I knew it I The flush of early happiness
was bright upon their faces.
The face of the maiden was brilliant
with the quick emotions of her mind, and
the light in her eyes, the happiness of her
heart in its affections, fairly glorified her.
Her lover was of more serious countenance,
but not the less happy for the thoughtful
ness of his appearance There was the
steady, true expression in the earnest
brown eyes, which made me inwardly
prophecy for them the happy future to
ward which they turned. I could hear
but fragments of their conversation, and
it proved their hearts as true as they
seemed.
“0, love,” I heard the young man say,
“what need have we to wait for time to
prove our love ? My heart is never at
peace when you are away from my side.
I long for the moment when I may hold
you in my arms, hear your dear voice,
feel and see the tender sympathy of your
face. My darling, when 1 think that
time may bring us vicissitudes which we
neither can nor would care to imagine,
I wonder if Fate would not be kinder to
let us die now in the very noontide of our
happiness. The thought of that pure
brow growing care-crossed, and the dear,
bright eyes dimmed by sorrow’s tears, al
most drives me mad. My love, my love,
I look about then on the fair world; I see
the trees, the flowers, the sky, in all
the fulness of God’s loye, beautiful be
yond expression, and the assurance comes
that the Creator of a thing so fair must do
all for the best; and if it is for the best
that we must have sorrows, oh, darling,
shall they not bind us the more closely
if we suffer and endure them together?”
“So they should, dearest, so they shall.
I am unhappy sometimes when I think
you withhold from me those disappoint
ments and troubles you have, which it is
my right and my happy privilege to share.
Dearest,” she said with sudden emphasis,
“I want you to think of me as one who
loves you enough to help you; not as one
who cares for you because of the easy path
on which you lead her; not as one too
much above the earth and its interests to
feel your tribulations. If you regard me,
dear, as one whose nature is too sensitive
to bear sorrow er reverses, you must feel
something lacking which in time you
would sorely miss, and turn to others to
find. In all yeur heart-interests I would
be first, and whether they be tinged with
fair or sombre colors, believe me, my dear
love, that in my own they will be reflected
and borne.”
He did not see me, who sat in the shade,
under a broad limb; with a reverent ca
ress, he touched her lips and her hand, and
they moved slowly away and left me to
my reflections.
lam not a pessimist. I have such a
sincere belief in the better principles of
life, that lam loth to pick out the flaws,
or look too suddenly upon the shadows
cast.
I would, were I a prophet, prophesy a
bright and happy future for those two.
They looked not indifferently upon the
question of life; the convictions that trou
ble must come, in the course of years, has
prepared them for it. I, somehow, never
felt much sympathy for the love which is
afraid to speak of such a possibility;
living in the belief that love mus'. make
all the way smooth for the disciples of
Eve to travel. Pshaw I To such the
awakening must be very bitter; they have
not anticipated the differences of a few
years; these come suddenly, are recog
nized with amazement, and often are
the source of bitter and cruel dissensions;
a careless word, a quick reply, a wreck
of the young ideas ot life.
Now, were I a marrying man, I should
strive to base my life upon the tenderness
and consideration due, first of all, to her
who had been the sharer of my weal or
woe. I, tho’ a bachelor, cannot see to
whom more honor is due than to those
dear partners of youth and age. Yet,
how many, when the charms of youth are
past or waning, seek in younger, fresher
hearts and countenances, the vanished
beauty and comeliness! What a pity,
that 1 am not a marrying man ! 1 would
make some girl so happy!
For Woman’s Work.
SATURDAY NIGHT THOUGHTS.
The “fountain of youth” myth has long
been repudiated, but a fountain of love in
your heart, spraying its Heaven-balmed
drops of affection over home and friends,
approaches nearer a realization of De
Sotoan ambitions than anything else with
in reach of mortal beings. It alone can
infuse youth into tbe age-worn body of
man or woman. Nothing else gives truer
pleasure in life, or more hallowed glory in
death. Better be deprived of money,
health and every other moral pleasure,than
love in your heart; for a life without love
has encountered the saddest of earthly
misfortunes.
Note the declining years of a woman
who has loved and been loved. Is not
her expression one of beauty and Christian
resignation ? Then compare it to that
grim, stony visage of one who has scoffed
through life, despising and despised. Ah!
you can readily make a choice; but if you
would have a fountain of love rippling its
bliss through your earth-work perpetually,
choose in the morning moments of Time.
* * *
Do you always remember past favors as
you should? Most undeniably, no! They
are received with courtesy and seeming
appreciation, but recorded with that you
have-done-no-more-than-you-should-have-
done feeling. You do not store them
away in the sweet chest of gratitude, em
bedded with balmy kindness or ambrosial
love. You have forgotten that friend
who, in days of depression, assisted you.
Now that you are beyond the necessity of
his help, you will refuse him a favor, and
bestow it on one who has never done you
an act of generosity. This is strange, yet
true of life.
I have known many incidents, and my
immediate thought of interrogation is:
“Where can their conscience be?”
No doubt selfishness has stretched her
canopy of delusion around these hearts,
making their inward attractions so en
trancing, that all without is forgotten.
“Man’s inhumanity to man,” I fear will
nevei cease to “make countless thousands
mourn.”
# * •
Dear mothers I Where are your boys ?
The blush «f guilt is overspreading many
of your faces. It is of little avail for one
mother to keep her children under in
spection, unless others do the same. The
boys who are turned loose every day in
the streets to idle at will, smoke cigarettes,
hurl profanity, and fight with the warring
WOMAN’S WORK.
inclination of a Tuscaro, are sure to ob
trude upon manly, peaceable boys, for
they are rarely, if ever, known to attack
one of their class. At good boys, bad
boys invariably thrus; their spears of
poisonous evil; upon good boys’ shoulders
the blows of hurt impetuously fall.
It is an old saying among you that
“boys will be boys,” and many have con
tended in my hearing that it is best to let
them fight and settle their own disputes.
Right here is a sad mistake. This does
not appease the wrath of God. I believe
we shall be held to account, not for the
misdemeanors of our children, but for
neglecting to try to lead them with a
righteous hand, into paths of moral beauty.
-» * *
It is a fact, yet one to be greatly de
plored, that so many brilliant minds are
engaged in that fascinating vice, story
writing. Think, ye magnates of genius,
the influence which your pen of romance
is wielding! Y»u cannot but admit that
you are whetting the scythe with which to
cut down the plant of contented happiness
which naturally unfolds, in each young
and fertile heart. I speak from experi
ence, and sorrowfully declare thatmy own
young life tasted many bitter disappoint
ments occasioned by reading trashy
novels. Had I not been possessed of a
strong will-power, guided by the oppor
tune advice of a pious mother, I shrink to
imagine into what steps of fallacy I might
have been ensnared.
“They are interesting,” you say. Yes;
but only while you read them. They fill
you with an unnatural hunger that makes
you want to devour them at one sitting.
As soon as they are finished, what have
you lett?
That beautiful landscape with its bliss
ful scenes suddenly vanishes, and you
have nothing but a cloud of miserable
feelings lowering around your soul.
You become unhappy, and scarcely know
why. luu sigh for impossibilities, despise
realities, and forget that the Voice of Jus
tice is speaking to you from above, calling
you back from the chasm of ruin.
Parents, begin early with your children,
and strive to keep them beyond this irre-
Iragible evil. Cultivate their tastes for
solid reading, and as they climb the pre
cipitous heights of maturity, they will not
be enticed by the poisonous fragrance of
romantic efflorescence.
* * *
Spend your evenings with your chil
dren, and teach them to kiss you “good
night.” The most painfully sad sight to
me is to see children put off to bed by
uncouth servants, while mother is im
bibing the latest fiction or berobing her
self for a fashionable “church-social;” and
father, perhaps, is making his way out
for two hours repose (?) in the club-rooms,
or three of hilarity in the variety theater.
Are you not aware of the unkind words
and tales ot fright to which servants often
resort in order to force the little ones to
sleep? Is it no pleasure to warble the
quaint cradle-songs and watch the plead
ing eyes droop in restful repose on your
bosom ?
How my heart stretches out its wings of
sympathy to children deprived of this
parental care and devotion ! Surely, no
sweeter or more sacred duty was ever con
signed to husband and wife than that of
undressing, gowning and tenderly kissing
each guileless one good-night. Cheer
them with pleasant thoughts and keep
dangerous fears and ideas from their
minds. It will be sowing seeds of purest
impressions which will, in after years, un
fold into treasured flowers for remem
brance.
O joy-blessed hearthstone where father
and mother are found each evening, joint
ly guiding the lispings of prayer, and
bestowing the good-night kiss ! To you
who know not, it is the nectared cup of
life savored with the chastity of Heaven.
Zula B. Cook.
The plea is that quoting often implies
sterility and bad taste. Then Shakes
peare and his contemporaries were want
ing in wit and fine rhetoric. Hear how
Montaigne justifies his practice: “Let
nobody insist upon the matter I write;
but my method in writing. Let them ob
serve in what I borrow, if I have known
how to choose what is proper to raise or
relieve invention, which is always my
own ; for I make others say for me what,
either for want of language, or want of
sense, I cannot myself well express.
1 do not number my borrowings, I weigh
them. And had I designed to raise their
estimate by their number, I had made
twice as many.”
Money never yet made a real friend,
and its value consists in what it can buy.
Love is out of its reach, and so are all the
moral and intellectual attributes.
For Woman’s Work.
THE KINGDOM OF HOME.
PAUL CARSON.
So, some of the wives and mothers, a
number of the sisters, and a good many
daughters think a woman was made for
something better than housework ; some
thing nobler than mending stockings and
sewing on buttons—a grander sphere than
one bounded by the walls of home! I
heard one say: “It is such a sordid life;
your hands in the dish water, your face
over the cook stove, your thoughts with
to-day’s dinner or to-morrow’s breakfast,
while other women in the world's broad
field of battle are making a name for
themselves, are of some use in the world;
themselves climbing, and helping others
to something higher, better than this eter
nal round of ministry to the wants of the
body.”
Another said: “The deadly monotony
of it! Yesterday, to-day, and forever, the
same old story. Beds to make, floors to
sweep, clothes to wash, to make, to mend,
and always, always, food to cook ; it’s a
wonder all housekeepers are not insane.”
1 listened and pondered. It seems to
me that as a nation we are not so happy
as we were fifty years ago. As the Yan
kees say, we are a good deal “smarter.”
We are ricner, but too often ambition on
the one hand and discontent on the other,
rob our lives of much, if not all of the
pleasure of existence. False ideas of
life render many women miserable.
Lack of system in the househ >ld doubles
the work. Ignorance as to the inner life,
many times as to the outer life, of the wo
man out in the world, makes her the ob
ject of the housekeeper’s envy.
Talk of the monotony of housework I
Go ask the women who work in telegraph
offices nine or ten hours a day if they ever
weary of the ceaseless racket, tbe cramped
position, the endless sound of telegrams so
much alike in nature that one wonders if
the minds of all men are cast in the same
mold. Ask the girls at the telephone ex
changes if they get tired of the monoto
nous “Hello! What number?” Ask the
typewriter if the rattle of the machine
grows tiresome, and the exactions of her
employer ditto, after years. Ask the liter
ary woman, the successful author whose
work the public demands, if she ever feels
the strain upon heart and brain. Ask the
popular lecturer if she grows tired of see
ing the crowd laugh at the same piace,
cry at the same place and applaud
at the same place, in her carefully
prepared lecture, after she has de
livered it a score of times. No need to
ask the factory girls, the plain sewers, the
women in hundreds of humble avocations,
if life is sordid and monotonous. To them,
a house to keep and means to keep it in a
very modest way, amounts to Paradise on
earth.
Discontent is the bane of our existence.
Women need an education first of all that
shall give them a contented spirit. Every
one who has studied the subject in the
least, knows that housework properly con
ducted is the most healthful of all wo
manly occupations. But aside from all
other considerations, the housewife should
be happy and contented in her home—be
cause it is, or should be, the one bit of
Eden left on earth.
There are the children, the future rulers
of the earth. They are troublesome some
times, but they are innnocent, and the
wise mother who rules herself first, will
have little difficulty with her children.
Home from the turmoil of a business life
comes the father to rest. Is it a “sordid”
occupation to prepare for him a dainty
meal that shall soothe his tired brain,
stimulate his exhausted nerves, and give
him strength for the morrow ? Right here
let me say that if every woman in the
world could help to make one man better,
the reformation of the world would be ac
complished with surprising suddenness.
As I have said before, there is no kingdom
like home, and no sovereign so happy, so
honored as the queen thereof. Love and
contentment make her forget the monot
ony of her work; or, if she remembers it
at all it is to accept it as one of the laws of
life. The rising and setting of the sun
doubtless would grow monotonous if we
stopped to think about it.
The busy, contented housewife, doing
“the duty that lies nearest,” occupies a
sphere whose opportunities for doing good
are limitless, and it is wrong to call that
sphere “narrow” or the work therein
“sordid.”
“You would have one thousand
girls and ladies working for that
premium watch, if it could be gen
erally seen.” So one of the most
prominent men of Georgia re
cently said.
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