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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 ” I 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 I ' , liiFiMß 1 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 • j -- VUG 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.’* 3