Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

4 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 /// A-' / 7 (A - * # tSrS.ii SYmM •»