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For Woman’s Work.
STANZAS.
Remember thy Creator now,
In days of early youth—
Be wise to-day—incline thine ear
To words of precious truth ;
Ere evil days shall come, when thou
No pleasure in them see ;
To save mankind, He gave his life,
Who intercedes for thee.
Remember thy Creator, ere
He loose the “silver cord”—
Or break the ‘ golden bowlgive heed
Unto His holy word.
Fear God, and his commandments keep ;
Walk thou in Wisdom’s way,
Then, into paths that lead to death,
Thy feet shall never stray.
Rose Heath.
For Woman’s Work.
A DRIVE IN SOUTHERN CALI-
FORNIA.
DAISY BOYTHORN.
WAS spending a while in Pasadena,
one of the flourishing little cities
of southern California. The signi
fication of the name “ Pasadena ”
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is “ Crown of the Valley”—and it is surely
worthy of this designation. A beautiful
little city, nestled down in the San Gabriel
Valley, one of the richest and most fertile
valleys of southern California.
To the north are the grand old moun
tains, towering aloft, and on the north and
east are also the San Jacinto Mountains.
To what feelings of reverence and awe
the mountains give rise! How sublime
they are; now wrapped in mists and
shadows, now tinted with the burning
rajs of the setting sun, and again, when
the morning sunlight sparklesand glistens
on their snow-capped peaks, how pure and
beautifully grand 1
There is something companionable about
them. I think that the young dawn never
kissed the earth into blushes with her own
rosy lips, butthat I looked up to those monu
ments of God’s goodness, with a feeling of
awe and worshipful reverence. I seemed
nearer God. I have never ceased missing
them; they were friends of mine.
On the west of the “Crown of the Valley”
are the *• Foothills”—beautifully green in
the rainy season, covered with myriads of
tiny wild flowers, and alive with animal life.
This little town, eight or ten years
ago, consisted of only a few small stores
and other buildings, such as comprise the
small towns (?) of the west, in their in
fancy. It is at present quite a little city,
quite widely known, and much frequented
by tourists in the winter. This notoriety
ah
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is due partially to its beautiful and health
ful situation, and partially to the energy
of her “rustling” citizens.
Many of the streets are shaded
by the graceful pepper trees which resem
ble the “ weeping- willow,” in their droop
ing branches, covered with fern-like
foliage, amid which glisten, at the same
time, clusters of white flowers and bright
red berries. I admired these trees very
much indeed, and frequently bedecked my
self with the dark green leaves and adorn
ing berries, notwithstanding the pun
gent and not very pleasant odor.
The city is filled with beautiful and
comfortable homes. One place which I
saw was exceptionally attractive. A
large and handsome house, surrounded on
three sides by broad verandas, filled with
easy chairs of every description. On one
side of the nicely kept lawn an immense
banana tree rustled its broad green
leaves in the breeze. I was sorry to learn
that bananas did not fully ripen here, as
it is not enough of a tropical climate.
Here and there the century plants stood
with their thick, pointed leaves. When
they run up to bloom they send up a stalk
five or six feet high, and away up in air
send out their branches filled with flowers.
One gentleman told me that, by actual
measurement, he had found a century
plant on his place which was running up
for bloom, to grow a quarter of an inch
per hour; however, I have always thought
that he considered me a “ tender-foot.”
Here also were magnolia trees, whose
pink blossoms filled the air with delight
ful fragrance. Descending the terrace by
marble steps, we came out into a beautiful
little park. Here we gave an exclamation
of delight, and stood for an instant quietly
looking about us.
Cement walks winding about, in and
out, amidst the green of the lawn; flowers of
every description, saucy faced pansies, and
pure, graceful callas, palms, and orange
trees, with their waxy, white stars and
yellow oranges.
We walked slowly down to the fountain,
splashing in the great marble basin. The
water flashed and sparkled in the sun
shine, and the little fish in the basin darted
hither and thither after the crumbs scat
tered for them. As we made our way
back, stopping again and again, we took
a peep at the baby alligator in its home;
an ugly baby it was, too.
The majority of yards are not fenced,
and one is at liberty to drive in and look
about them. It was this hospitality ofthe
people which captivated me. You were
at liberty, in passing an orange or apricot
or pear grove, to go in and sample the
fruit, provided you did not abuse the
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privilege. This free open-hand
edness was much like that of
the Southern people.
I drove into one yard to see
the rose trees which were quite
a novelty to me. They were
hot bushes, but little trees on
either side the gravel walk. On
one I counted ten different
varieties of roses, all blooming
at once, and was informed that
these were not nearly all which
were grafted there. Another
place we drove through, and
the little cottage was almost
entirely hidden by the roses
which clambered over it. Great
white roses, and beautiful pink
roses with golden hearts.
N ow we go out in the country
for some miles, through a beau
tiful stretch of country; past
acre on acre of oranere groves
vineyards, fields of waving
wheat, barley and alfalia, until
we come into the little Mexi
can town of San Gabriel. You
feel as though you had stepped
out of the United States into
some foreign country. No one
but Mexicans, with their dark
faces and black hair, a few
negroes, and Chinamen, with
their almond shaped eyes and
long cues—which gracefully
whack their heels as they walk.
This cue is the
delight of John
Chinaman’s heart
and the proper
length is to just
clear the ground;
' ' /s if he wishes to be
WOMAN’S WORK.
extra fine he braids in a blue silk thread.
When about their work they wind it round
and round the head, but at other times it
is left hanging down.
Although Sunday afternoon, the shops
are all open, and people are buying and
selling. A crowd of Mexican boys, with
their dark faces grimy with dirt, and
clothes fit for the rag-man, are rushing
“pell-mell” down the narrow street after a
calf, which appears to be used to such
treatment and quietly lashes the flies oft
its back and gives a plantive “ moo,” as
they gain upon it.
Tne houses are mostly of “adobe,” many
of them containing but one room, through
which chickens, pigs and dogs—if they are
so fortunate (?) as to possess them—roam
at their own sweet will.
The most beautiful face I ever saw was
that of a young Mexican girl in this little
town. She was beautiful beyond descrip
tion, notwithstanding her dark skin. The
beauty of the young Mexican women is a
noted fact, as well as that of the ugliness
of the old women.
These are wrinkled and bent, and well—
ugly. This is probably due, somewhat, to
their bearing the heavier end of domestic
bliss(?) Be that as it may, the fact re
mains the same, as facts have a habit of
doing—whether pleasant or otherwise.
The old San Gabriel Mission, founded in
1771, still stands in this little town, a
monument of the past—of the, time when
the “Fathers” traversed the country on
their missions of love, for such it surely
was with many of them.
Three of the bells still hang in the tower,
all that is left of the “chimes.” It is a
long, rather low structure, over which
vines clamber; out of a crevice in one
side I noticed quite a little tree growing.
Several post holes showed That it had been
of use at some time during the wan,. Un
like most places, the old
fenced in with a paMng fence, outside of
which grew the gracet ul pepper trees, w hose
branches drooped as if for sorrow at com
paring what had been in the old mission
in the past with that of the present.
Services are still held here after a fashion.
An old Mexican woman has charge of
the building and professes to be utterly
ignorant of all your American phrases;
but I am told that she understands well
enough if you say twenty-five cents, even
though she is accustomed to hearing “two
bits.” It was quite a disappointment tome
not to be able to visit the interior of this
old relic of the past.
We come back past “Baldwins’ Ranch.”
For miles we are travelling over his land;
on all sides stretching away in the distance
—thousands of acres—are his great orange
groves, making the air almost intoxicating
with their delightful fragrance, acre on
acre of vineyards, English walnuts, grains,
etc., etc.
After we had passed the large, open
barn, which was built in two parts, with
an open space between, covered with a
roof which connected the two buildings,
we came on over a winding road, skirted
on either side by trees, while gleaming
through the branches, is a lovely little
lake shimmering in the sunlight. The
cottage is a gothic affair and very pretty;
the balcony, with its climbing vines and
easy chairs, looks very cool and inviting.
It is all perfectly enchanting; you are
almost tempted to believe you are in the
land of fairies. It seems so strange to
find such a beautiful place so by its self.
The fountain splashing on the green
grass, the artesian well, the orange grove
stretching away in the distance, the lake
bursting again in view, even more lovely
than before; far back under the trees the
shadows lie cool and darkupon the waters;
the little satin-lined, velvet-cushioned,
awning-covered boat moored at the shore.
It made a beautiful picture, one long to
be remembered.
California, with her fruits and flowers,
to be fully appreciated, must be seen.
For Woman’s Work.
OUR DEAD.
Not the beautiful, lifeless clay, not the
stilled form, lying so paliid and helpless
there, with the waxen bar.ds folded over
the pulseless breast, the fair or dark
tresses banded above the calm white brow,
the bright eyes whose pale lids are sealed
with His sanction, closed forever, the
look of great peace, blended with the smile
frozen upon those rigid features 1
Not that.
The weariness is over. The long suffer
ing gone. A whisper is wafted, that, for
this, there is something better—something
beyond I A more full fruition—a comple
tion of that begun; but “our dead” of
blighted hopes, faithless trusts, and
broken promises; idols we have wor
shipped at the shrine of our heart’s altar.
Ah, how poor the clay!
The ceaseless toil of years, the labor of
love, the dauntless hope, a looking forward
to a single ray of light to lift the gloom !
Weary eyes uplifted to the faint, far
away glimmer of the silver lining of yon
sombre cloud 1 A passing zephjr and the
gleam is hidden. Stifling the moan, it is
again “onward.” Success is attained only
through failures, persistence accomplisheth
much, but again and again do “our dead”
lie before us. and for these there is no
resurgam. Tenderly, aye, reverently, we
lay them away with fold upon fold of
anointed linen, and the ashes of rose leaves
is scattered among, as it were.
Again, and now it is with an apathy
akin to death, that the thorn-pierced feet
press on.
Almost there, almost achieved ; but like
dead sea apples and the ashes of Sodom,
it returns to us. A Barmecide feast! The
labor and faith hath been tor naught.
In sacrilegious awe, the aching heart
crys out: “Oh, Christ, was thy crucifixion
more bitter; thy humiliation deeper?
Have we not shed tears of blood ? Have
not thorn and spear pierced our brow and
side, and have not we drunk to the dregs
the cup of the gall of woe?”
It comes at length, for the indurating
process is a terrible one, and He can but
pity, that one grows a little less than
hardened.
It is thus far and no further. The limit
hath been reached.
Hark! “Into each life some rain must
fall."
Afar, in the interminable, misty dis
tance, where the purple and gold are
commingled, where the haze rises up from
the summer sea, comes the soft murmur as
of kilver bells, whose chords are attuned to
love and joy.
The cadence rises and falls, a rhythmic
chime, soothing the worn-out senses, as
dew upon the parched plant. Ah, it hath
not been all in vain ! The discipline may
have been needful.
Yes, “our dead” forever and ever I A
silent clasping of pale hands, an upward
glance, a suppressed breath, ending in a
sigh. The old impulses quicken, but end
in sublime resignation. Then again,
with myrrh, rue and rose leaves we lay
them away, gazing down with dry, hot
eyes and fevered pulse, and heart ready to
burst its bounds with exquisite torture.
The sweet, subtile fragrance of the “might
have been” mingles with the bitter aroma
of the never to be. And yet the continuous
effort against all environment hath in it
the courage of divinity.
It hath not been in vain, and “sometime,
somewhere and somehow,” we shall know
the “hidden reason of each dark and dreary
hour,” the whys and wherefores of it all.
There “our dead” shall have no resurrec
tion. The fiat hath gone forth, and “we
stand without the gateway as the Peri at
Paradise,” looking with longing eyes for
that we may never have. And ah; we can
not understand.
Mrs. S. C. Hazlett.
It is little to say of a woman, that she
only does not destroy where she passes.
She should revive; the harebells should
bloom, not stoop as she passes. You
think I am going into wild hyperbole?
Pardon me, not a whit—l mean what I
say in calm English, spoken in resolute
truth. You have heard it said—(and I
bedeve there is more than fancy even in
that saying, but let it pass for a fanciful
one) —that flowers only flourish rightly in
the garden of some one who loves them.
I know you would like that to be true;
you would think it a pleasant magic if you
could flush your flowers into brightei
bloom by a kind look upon them; nay,
more, if your look had the power, not only
to cheer, but to guard them—if you could
bid the black blight turn away, and the
knotted caterpillar spare—if you could bid
the dew fall upon them in the draught,
and say to the south wind, in frost—“ Come
thou south, and breathe upon my garden,
that the spices of it may flow out.” This
you would think a great thing? And do
you think it not a greater thing, that all
this (and how much more than this 1) you
can do, for fairer flowers than these—flow
ers that could bless you for having blessed
them; and love you for having loved them ;
—flowers that nave eyes like yours, and
thoughts like yours, and lives like yours;
which, once saved, you save forever ? Is
this only a little power? Far among the
moorlands and the rocks, —far in the dark
ness of the streets—these feeble florists are
lying with all their fresh leaves torn, and
their stems broken—will you never go
down to them, nor set them in order in
their fragrant little beds, nor fence them
in their shuddering from the fierce wind ?
—Ruskin.
“I expect to pass through this world but
once; any good thing that I can do, any
kindness that I can show to any fellow
being, let me do it now. Let me not de
fer or neglect it, for 1 shall not pass thia
wnv agni’i.’*
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