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For Woman’s Work.
LINES TO
Ah! I weep with thee, and though
In youth we never strayed
In woodland green, or flowery dell,
Nor by the brooklet played—
Yet, a tenderness hath crept
Within my heart for thee,
And though but friends of yesterday
None else may truer be.
In earlier years, thy hands ne’er pluck’d
For me the lilies fair—
Other friends were ’round thee then;
For me the roses rare
Were culled by other hands than thine.
Alas, how time hath sped 1
The friend—where are they now ? The flowers?
They too , are faded—dead!
’Tis ever thus; the changeful scenes
Os Life should never mar
The joyful Present; what doth seem
To-day thy guiding star
To-morrow wanes, a cloud doth hide
From thee the light that fell
Into thy life; though dark to-day,
The Future, none may tell.
’T were better meekly to accept
The changes Time doth bring,
Than tearfully lament our fate,
And to the Past still cling;
And though of gladness shorn to-day—
Thy cup be filled with sorrow—
Fair Hope doth whisper that the draught
May sweeter be to-morrow.
Rose Heath.
Unwritten History.
For Woman's Work.
A CONTRAST.
WENT with Cleo to call on a lady
who was visiting at “Red Hill.” Both
of us had known her some years ago
when she lived in the country; she
9
now resided in a small town, where the
baker’s wagon stops at the door every day,
and where there is a street car drawn by
mules with bells on! Is it surprising that
she should have grown metropolitan ? At
least she thought she was metropolitan—an
other adjective might have occurred to us.
We found her conversation quite enter
taining, of course; such an insight she gave
our rural minds into the charming ways
of town life. We learned that her mar
ket afforded the all desirable Chicago
beef, that she knew a thing or two about
“fads” and slang, and that the very best
people in town visited her, etc.
Once upon a time she had done her own
work; now she had a treasure, a factotum
as cook, housemaid and nurse. She told
us with such a luxurious air, that now she
didn’t even bathe her own baby! It seem
ed that her troubles in life were done.
Just then the factotum brought her the
baby for the one maternal attention she
had not yet been able to dispense with.
As she received the infant, she exclaimed
with mild enthusiasm: “There ain’t any
flies on this baby!”
That we were startled by such an ex
pression, only shows how old fogy country
people will get to be. Os course, we were
“not in it;” there was no use in pretend
ing to worldly ways of which we were in
nocent. Still, not to be entirely outdone,
I made an effort to show that innocence is
not always ignorance, and mentioned a
new book I had lately read. The town
lady gave me a contemptuous look and
said, with that sweet drawl that she had
been cultivating for several months: “I
don’t read; my life is too full for reading ”
That was unanswerable, and I decided to
be subdued. What could any one have
done but sit and look at her, and wonder?
When Cleo had turned the old horse’s
head homeward, I was still wondering
“Poor thing!” said Cleo, sadly, “her
head isn’t too full, is it ?” J
Then we looked at each other and
laughed. It was some relief after the
strain we had undergone.
“To think,” said I, ruefully, “of the ex
ecrations I have lavished upon the woman
who says she hasn’t time to read, and in
this exhausted state of my vocabulary to
find one whose 'life is too full to read ’ It
is too much! I feel as if I ehould go on
my knees to the ‘haven’t time woman’
To be sure, she has always been my pet
abhorrence, but she isn’t quite so-so—
shameless—she does offer her old moss
grown excuse. Too full, indeed; I won
der what it is full of?”
“You forget, my dear,” said Cleo with
her usual magnanimity, “you forget or
perhaps I should say you cannot under
stand, the many diversions of town life
To be sure there is the factotum to relieve
her ofaH responsibility as housewife and
mother; why she says she doesn’t even
know when the baby isn’t well, the facto
turn is so considerate; and that her hus
band takes entire charge of the baby at
night, so she really has no care. But then
you forget the calls of society!”
“Oh, society of course,” said I with a
sigh, for the unknown pleasures of Vanitv
Fair. “But, Cleo I happened to K
enough of her small borough to know that
he most prolific pen given to gush and
adjectives could not get up a “society col
umn” in a month in honor of its social
functions. Os course, she may have some
company, but she hasn’t even an at home
day, and doesn’t entertain.”
“Well, I’ll give it up,’’ said Cleo, “unless
it is full of—emptiness.”
“That is about as near as we will get to
it,” replied I, laughing at the apt paradox.
“But Cleo,” I continued after a moment's
silence, “you do not realize the shock it is
to me. You have heard what a brilliant
creature is our typical modern woman—
full of grace, force—man’s equal mentally
—and all that; you have heard of her mar
vellous development and achievements —
how she is a formidable rival in every in
dustry and art—and so forth. Os course I
wouldn’t deny that all this is true, but not
having the pleasure of meeting one of these
grand typical women face to face, I have
become conscious that there is a large
class who do not share this glory. In my
opinion, the woman who says she hasn’t
time to read is a laggard in our civiliza
tion—being left behind, intellectually and
socially; dear, benighted creatures who
seem to think housekeeping the end and
aim of life. In my humble way, I have
tried to show that they really have time—
that every twenty-four hours is enough
for their routine of work and some mental
culture, too. They have the time, they
must just believe it—a kind of faith-cure,
you know. And now,” with a sigh,
“there comes to my knowledge another,
farther behind than the ‘haven’t time sis
terhood.’ The woman who will not read
and yet thinks she is—‘in if.’ ”
“ Is this the last decaie of cur glorious
nineteenth century—sublimo with inven
tion and progress and reform and the
World’s Fair I Or am I dreaming?”
“Ah, Helen, you dream, and there are
more things in heaven and earth than are
dreamt of in your philosophy,” declared
Cleo. “Now, let me tell you something,”
she went on, impressively, “no matter how
civilized we may get, and all that—there
are women and women— and always will
be; all of them won’t embrace the standard
set up for them just at once; some of them
won’t want to yet awhile. The boundary
to their world is an imaginary line, just
within the corporate limits of some small
town. Yes, they are very exasperating to
reasonably enlightened people, but you
can’t put souls into moths; they may be
dingy-colored, clumsy things, and like
most things that are not ornamental, we
think they should be useful, yet they emu
late a certain class of women in being
neither, so far as we can see. As I say,
there will always be women and women.
The laggards and nonentities are deplored
by our intelligence, but they have their
contrasts. Let me tell you of the other
kind.” Cleo pauses a moment and her
face is very thoughtful.
“I am sure,” she said reflectively, “if
any woman’s life was ever full, hers was.
Her husband was poor, and there were six
children to be educated. She was what
might be called an intellectual woman;
she was well educated and had paid for it
by teaching school, and she taught her
own children until they were ready for
college. She found it necessary at the
same time to teach a public school to help
meet expenses. She was the most patient
woman I ever knew, and so gentle. Be
sides teaching, she did all the milking and
butter making for the family, and sold a
few pounds of butter every week. The
money made this way went toward defray
ing family expenses. I can recall but one
personal use she ever put it to—and that
was to subscibe for her favorite periodical.
Time to read ? I never saw her sit down
and do nothing but read in my life, except
on Sunday. She was never idle a moment;
she sewed and knit while she taught school,
and she read while she churned! That
was her reading hour and what a good use
she made of it! I don’t think I know a
woman better informed than she was. It
was a custom to read aloud in the family
at night; she listened while she sewed.
Oh, yes, I have known women who
do not accomplish half of what she
did—say they do not have time to
read. It depends altogether on the kind
of woman. This one taught school, milk
ed, churned and did a thousand other
things. She did not have a factotum ; she
was a mother to her babies. She, and she
alone, cared for her children in sickness
and health. I never saw her idle a mo
ment, and I never heard her say she did
not have time to read—she read, books
were a part of her life, a comfort and help
to her in a life full of many duties and
cares.” Cleo paused, and then added soft
ly, “and she lived it so well and patiently.”
“What a strong and lovely woman she
must have been,” said I. “Who was she
dear?”
I looked at Cleo; her eyes were full of
tears and her lips tremulous as she said :
“My mother, and my inspiration.”
Helen C. Molloy.
WOMAN’S WORK.
For Woman’s Work.
A PERSONAL REMINISCENCE.
fl W to get started,” remarked a
fading periodical contributor to
a chum, “was the great bug-bear
of my life. As I look back upon
it, the only wonder to me now is that I
ever did get started at all. I find that this
is frequently the case, and that writers of
acknowledged merit to-day, owe their
success to mere necessity, which compelled
them to brave the real or fancied perils
of that first voyage on the sea of journal
ism.
“You ask for a little personal reminis
cence on that point. Very well, although
I am not accustomed to giving to the pub
lic, incidents in which I am forced to ap
pear at a disadvantage, I will, for the
benefit of those who, like myself, are en
dowed with an over-sensitive disposition,
and stand in need of practical help, make
an exception in this case.
“In the spring of ’71,1 found myself, at
the age of eighteen, either compelled to
leave the small college of C , where
I had spent a pleasant fall and winter
and had almost completed my Freshman
year, or find some means by which I
might be able to add something to my in
come, and, at the same time, pursue my
studies. Having, as I thought, something
of a literary turn, my ideas naturally ran
first in this channel, and I determined to
make a trial.
“But here my excessive timidity began
to assert itself, and I was confronted on
the or e side by the wolf of dire necessity,
and on the other by the monsters of my
own imagination. I call them creatures
of my own, not because others are not
visited by similar ones, but because each
has his own individuality pictured before
his mind’s eye in this way.
“To go back a little, it might be well to
say that, as a youth, I had inherited an
intense love of books and had been an ex
cessive reader—a veritable book worm. As
a natural sequence, I had neglected, to a
great extent, those outdoor sports so popu
lar with most boys of my age. About
this time I entered a country newspaper
office, where I was allowed to learn the
mysteries of the ‘art preservative’ as
compensation for ‘inking the forms,’
‘sorting, pi’ and sundry and divers other
similar jobs. Here I added practical ex
perience, if not material wealth, to my
stock, and it was here I resolved to hoard
my earnings and invest them in what is
sometimes denominated a dangerous thing,
that is a little learning. While here, my
observation thoroughly convinced me
that not all aspirants for literary honors
were destined for success. Poetical effu
sions had been almost daily dumped into
the waste basket, while piles of contribu
ted articles had suffered the same fate.
Even the cherished country correspondent
had his wings clipped and his eloquence
curtailed by the relentless blue pencil, and
his glowing pages were ofttimes reduced
to very commonplace items. So, when
I had determined to try my pencil, my cour
age well nigh failed me at memory of
all these things, and could I have foreseen
what was in store, I am quite sure it
would have completely deserted me.
“Like most beginners, I made the fatal
mistake of attempting to write on the
most difficult subjects. After a period of
sleepless nights and troubled waking
hours, I wrote a prosy article on ‘The
Philosophy of Life,’ using all the big
words and Latin derivatives, suffixes and
prefixes at my command. It was truly,
‘wonderfully and fearfully’ made, if such a
composition could be called wonderful.
Having determined where to send it,
with breathless anxiety I awaited a re
sponse from the editor of the periodical to
whom I had consigned my precious manu
script. . A week passed. Then another.
The third brought with it the magazine,
which I eagerly purchased of the newsdeal
er, and scanned its pages—in vain. At the
close of the fourth week I received my
poor manuscript, ‘declined with thanks.’
“Other and smaller publications were
tried, with like results. And so with other
productions, which I maintained the cour
age to write, but my star was not in the
ascendant.
“As a last resort, I went to a friend of
mine, who held a position as reporter on
one of the dailies of a neighboring city
He smiled a little when I had told my ex
perience, but said very little; only invited
f° go with him the next day to witness
a May-day picnic, where I soon forgot my
disappointments, in his evident keen appre
ciation of the scenes which he pointed out
to me. It seemed to me that he put new
life into everything; he saw little incidents,
little acts of kindness, which to an ordina
ry observer would not have appeared wor
thy of notice. I did enjoy that day as I
have few others, either before or since.
“At night, when we had returned to his
room, he had received a special assignment
which would necessarily keep him out late,
possibly until time his “copy” must be
sent to the managing editor. He turned
to me and said in his frank, straightfor
ward manner: ‘Trent, you will have to
write up the picnic.’ I took up his work
with a will, partly because I knew that he
had lost time in making me enjoy myself,
and partly because I felt I had something
to say that would interest somebody, if on
ly those crowds of happy children and their
proud papas and mammas. My pencil
fairly flew over the paper, and my friend’s
parting injunction, not to write over six
hundred words, but to make every word
mean something, made it necessary for me "
to revise my manuscript again and again,
to keep it within bounds. When at last it
was finished, I placed the copy where
Harold would easily find it on his return,
and retired for a good night’s rest. In the
morning, my article was in the great daily,
just as I had left it, and I had the satisfac
tion of knowing that I had written some
thing for the press that was acceptable;
and, what was better, I had words of en
couragement from my friend, who
went over the whole ground with me,
pointed out where I had made mistakes,
and told me how to avoid them.
“It ended by his securing for me a
chance to become a contributor of local
matter from the village of C . I
sent letters daily, with more or less suc
cess in having them accepted. When
commencement time came, I was entrust
ed with the work of writing up the per
formances, with which I acquitted myself
creditably.
“And so began my career in writing for
the press. Though I have written much
sii.ce that time, nothing has ever given
half the satisfaction that my first success
ful contribution gave.”
Percy Trent.
For Woman’s Work.
MISSIONS.
Much has been said and written in regard
to the Divine command: “Go ye into all the
world and preach the gospel to every
creature.” Since these words fell from
the lips of Him who spake as never
man spoke, men and women have been
going to the uttermost parts of the earth,
carrying with them the glad tidings of
great joy.
And, though many encounter perils by
land and by sea, and ofttimes suffer death
at the unhallowed hands of those whom
they would gladly assist in saving from
Eternal death, it does not deter others from
qnlisting in the great cause of the advance
ment of the word of God, to take up the
cross, denying themselves the pleasures
of home and friends. Spending years of
toil among heathen who despitefully use
them, requires that degree of fortitude and
entire self-abnegation that cometh only
from above. We are told that self pres
ervation is Nature’s first law, yet, when
the people of God feel the call to go work
in His vineyard, they fear no evil; they
know that He will be with them. Through
the instrumentality of our devoted mission
aries, much good has been accomplished;
many lives have been spared that other
wise would have been sacrificed to heathen
gods. Many an innocent child has been
saved from perishing beneath the ponder
ous wheels of Juggernaut, and is now be
ing taught, not only to search the scrip
tures, but is rendering much assistance to
our devoted missionaries, in teaching oth
ers to flee the wrath to come. In Burmah,
India, there are more than three hundred
churches, and nine-tenths of the work of
evangelization is in the hands of native
teachers. Is it not written, “How beauti
ful, upon the mountains, are the feet of
him that bringeth good tidings, that pub
lished peace I” Who will go next?
, Rose Heath.
It is only when we are willing to be
useful and faithful in little things that We
can accomplish that which is truly great.
’/I
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