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for WOMAN** Work.
UNAWARES.
The livelong day she stooped to toil;
Her face was seamed with pain and care;
Her hands were brown with labor’s soil,
Yet still with kindly patience rare,
She turned to one who, maimed and scarred,
And helpless, to her presence clung;
Nor asked if grief or sin had marred
The face and form. Her heart was wrung
Alcne by gentle Pity’s throe;
From passers-by she sought to hide
The shrunken shape, yet strove to know
The halting step was by her side.
The day was done. The path declined
Along the slope to deeper shade.
Bhe said: “Our way we’ll surely find,
Oh, trembling one, be not afraid.
“Somewhere, beyond these lowering clouds,
Still lives the Father’s love and grace;
'Tie for our own best good He hides
The light and glory of His face.’’
She felt the weak and palsied hand
Within her own, grow firm and strong;
She turned to see beside her stand
A Shining Form; while bursts of song
From out the clouds above her head,
Bade her receive her just reward;
The Shining One beside her said,
“Oh faithful soul, look on thy Lord.
“No weariness thy footsteps stayed;
In prison thou didst visit me;
Now through the valley and the shade,
My rod and staff shall comfort thee.”
Mabgbet Holmes Bates.
For Woman’s Work.
EPISTOLARY SHORTCOMINGS.
NS WER a letter ? I never could
answer a letter in my life! I have
written many letters in return
1 for letters I have received; but
they were original matter—spurt
ing away I zig here; zag there; as if the
devil that my granny often told me rode
on a Will-o’-Wisp, were looking over my
shoulder.”
So confessed Robert Burns to one of his
correspondents. lam sure a similar con
fession might be made by more modern
and much humbler pens than that of the
erratic Scotch poet. They have an habit
ual tendency to go “spurting away,” dis
daining the civility of answering letters,
and furnishing “original matter*’ that has
no connection with anything that has gone
before. What a rare pleasure it is to re
ceive a real answer to an epistolary effort
—one that responds to thought and inqui
rv in a satisfactory way. You have a par
ticular desire to know if your friend has
read a certain book, and what he thinks of
it; perhaps he has read it, or perhaps he
hastn’t —his next letter does not enlighten
you a bit; your innocent question is ig
nored—maybe he thought you put it in
just !4 to fill up”—not afl nt. tying refisc
Won, for things put in to fill up are always
tiresome; more likely your letter was not
quite fresh in his mind when he essayed
answering it—but then it should have
been. Persons who would not be so dis
courteous as to slight your questions in
conversation, seem to think they may do
so with impunity in a correspondence. It
is only one of the many shortcomings that
mar the pleasure of receiving letters.
Much has been said about the art of let
ter-writing, but it has not yet come to be
a universal accomplishment. After all,
one is lead to believe that it is a natural
gift, and not one acquired; for, let every
rule laid down by instructors in the art, be
followed faithfully, and the result may be
dubious. There is so apt to be the “cut
and dried” effort that is the essence of
boredom; nothing so charms in the famil
iar letter as spontaneity of thought, and
individuality of expression ; any attempt
at “fine writing” dulls the freshness and
brightness that should grace this form of
social intercourse. How disappointing it
is to receive in lieu of a letter a flowery
essay or elegant dissertation on some ab
stract subject! We can find enough of
that kind of thing in current literature;
but in letters from our own dear friends
we want something charseteristic—per
sonal, if you will—a bit of news, a little
harmless gossip, an innocent confidence for
friendly eyes alone—not by any means
what could be mistaken as MS. for an ed
itor’s sanctum. And yet I have received
letters that might with impunity have been
handed to a printer as “copy,” and no
trusts betrayed. Very good exercise in
the rules of rhetoric for the writer, but a
cruel imposition on the recipient, who has
the right to expect in a social letter some
thing to enliven, entertain, and act as a
happy medium between two hearts.
I am almost tempted to say that every
rule laid down by letter-writing authori
ties, may be slighted with little detriment;
there are a few regulations, however, that
the most unconventional correspondent
is wise io remember; one is to observe
courtesy in all things, including, of course,
due attention to the contents of the letter
that is being answered. It is worthy of
note that either prim formality or affecta
tion of style, spoils a letter, and is likely
to be an evidence of bad taste or stupidity.
Still, some bright, companionable people
are indifferent letter writers—they have
not the ease in writing that they have in
conversation; versatility is the life of
both.
And then, there should be sympathy,
cheerfulness, tact. The ordinary letter
which passes between friend and friend,
should, of all things, be a bright and cheer
ing messenger; the very sight of the fa
miliar chirography should cause a thrill of
welcome. Life is full of dark hours and
dreary days at best, and blessings on those
letters that come from friendly pens, and
bring delight unmitigated! They come,
sometimes at the close of a wearing day—
aad how they lift the gloom and brighten
us up! They are warm with love, sweet
with sympathy—and all is indited by a
happy spirit of cheer that would make us
merry and glad. Your dearest friend has
worries and troubles, of course, but if she
is brave and unselfish, she does not dole
out in her letters all those petty trials, the
relating of which will only be additional
weight to another’s burden. If there is
trouble you can help by sharing, she tells
you enough to let you have the pleasure of
sending a comforting response to her who
has so often comforted—but that is all. Os
all epistolary shortcomings, there is none
so distressing as to afflict with doleful let
ters, defenseless friends. Some women
seem to have formed the habit of giving
vent to all their dismal feelings through
letters to people whom they pretend to re
gard with affection! When Maggie Gulli
ver’s “aunt Glegg” was particularly upset,
she retired, in high dudgeon, to her own
apartment, and, as you may recollect, con
soled herself with a diet of gruel and a
perusal of ‘‘Baxter’s Saint’s Rest.” I have
always thought that, compared with some
people, she was exceedingly amiable; she
did not take such opportunities to inflict
her woes upon an inoffensive correspond
ent. >
Do you not know a woman who seems
to delight in retailing all her grievances by
letter? She waits until everything about
her is exasperatingly at odds—and then
she writes! You know what to expect as
soon as you see the letter, and your spirits
begin to fall; the health of the family is
sure to be distressingly bad, and you are
given an account of each ailment: or some
calamity is at hand or threatening. She
is “very unfortunate”—a Mrs. Gummidge,
with whom “everything goes contrary.”
Her letters are always like a wet, cold
blanket, and you wish she would take to
gruel and “Saint’s Rest,” or some other se
cret way of soothing her feelings.
The truth is, some people have been
pitied until they grow selfishly absorbsd in
themselves. They parade all their vexa
tions with virtuous whine and rueful coun
tenance until they become a sore trial,and
our fund of sympathy is exhausted. Cer
tainly,as correspondents,they are failures.
The letters most dearly prized are those
that bring a ripple of mirth, a ray of cheer
—that bring our souls in touch with a
mind and heart generous with sunny
thoughts. Reading them is like sharing
bits of another’s inner life, —glimpses of
the sweet coziness that belongs to the sa
cred precinct of another’s home; now and
then we are given a piquant version of
some little incident, an amusing account of
a certain mischance that may be laughed
over with gay good-humor. And so let
ters may charm and strengthen and make
glad our hearts.
If “blue” days come to us, let us keep
the matter to ourselves; they are, least of
all, the days for letter-writing.
Howard Meriwether Lovett.
Keep the heart pure and the brain active.
Study for the best, and when you have
found it, work and study for something
still better. Never be satisfied with one
good act —nor a hundred—nor a thousand.
But add them together one after the other
till at last you will have a string of pearls
to lift you higher, instead of pebbles to
sink you lower. Hearts, like houses, can
be built out. Minds, like homes, can
be beautified. It is as easy to plant a no
ble ambition as to plant sordid desires
and trees which bear only bitter fruit.
Remember that it is little by little, inch
by inch, but steadily upward. This is the
way the work of the man becomes the
mansion. This is the way the poor boy
becomes the great man. This is the way
the apprentice becomes the master,
and the intelligence of mortals the power
and unknown greatness of those who are
immortal. Build your walls of good ma
terial and they will last. Be kind to the
poor, for every good act is a plant that
will bear blossoms to our credit in the
beautiful beyond.
Heaven’s twin angels, Love and Pity,
whisper in our hearts, remember others.
WOMAN’S WORK.
For Woman’s Work.
DIVORCE.
•irOSEPH COOK, the Boston lecturer,
•••once made the remark that on all rail-
I road trains entering Chicago, the train
boys announced twenty minutes stop
for divorce. While this is not true, the
easy divorce laws of some states are a
curse and blot on the Nation. These
blighted homes; what class of people do
they send out into the world ? It is a ter
rible thing when, after marriage, one or
the other finds out they have made a great
mistake. * Os course, there is the divorce
court, which will free you under some
pretext or other, —whether false or true.
But how much better to look your trouble
straight in the face, fit your burden to
your back, and go your way. Never let
the cold world know your trouble.
“Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
It has trouble enough of its own.”
Think within your heart that probably
the other is not so either,as he or she
had expected to be. Maybe you are a
disappointment to the other in some way.
If you have domestic troubles, never let
the neighbors know, for often they prove
the “little rift within the lute,’’which will,
after a little, make all the music of your
life dumb. Let each one try faithfully to
bear with the other. Endeavor to find out
all the good traits, and foster these; the
bad traits will gradually be lost sight of in
the distance. Believe there is good in
your companion, and make it plain that
you believe so. Show them on what a
high pinnacle you have set them, and they
will gradually climb up to it. Never show
them that you have no confidence in them.
When you cause them to lose their own
self-respect you are playing a losing game.
Several months ago, when travelling on
the train, I saw an illustration of the di
vorce system, which made my heart ache.
A little boy of about six years of age was
sitting straight up, a few seats in front of
me, fast asleep. At every jolt of the train
the little head bobbed about so, it looked
like his neck would break. A strange gen
tleman picked him up and laid him on the
seat. The poor child seemed suspicious of
kindness, raised right up and turned on
the gentleman, as though his childish eyes
saw a deadly enemy before him. He had
been crying, and had rubbed his dirty fists
in his eyes till his face was all streaked
and ringed with dirt.
The gentleman asked the porter (who
was very kind to the child) who'be was,
and where he was going? He told him
the child was going from some part of In
diana to St. Louis. The father and mother
were parted, and as there, were two chil
dren, the father had seat for one. She
(the woman who answered to the name of
Mother); had sent him this one, saying he
could have the other one, too, if he want
ed it. Surely there was saving grace in
the father who wanted his child with him.
But oh, such a mother! Thank God,
such mothers are few, compared to the
great number there are in the world.
Probably if she had endured in silence a
few things, and made the most of good
deeds, theirs would still have been a unit
ed home. I cannot imagine how a moth
er could let her little child go from her, to
know it may be suffering and crying with
cold, hunger or pain, and she not there to
dry its tears. But it is not always the
woman who is to blame. It is often (and
truth compels me to say I believe it to be
more often) the man who is to blame. It
matters not which one is at fault, they
leave in their paths broken hearts and dis
torted lives, for which they will some day
be called to account.
* • *
Scribner’s last Christmas number con
tained a story which had for its text: “A
Word Fitly Spoken is Like Apples of
Gold in Pictures of Silver.”—Proverbs
xxv, ii.
It was of a woman in trouble, who was
storm-blown under the umbrella of a
friend —one who was indeed a friend. He
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saw how terribly agitated she was, and
tried to stem the torrent of agitation with
light talk and laughter. But it was like a
spring-freshet, which sweeps all obstacles
before it. He soon found that the trouble
must be told, and she must have help, so
he listened, first telling her if it was ofher
married life to “tell no one. Fight it
down—put it behind you, do anything but
But the story must be told. She had 1
found, beyond all possible doubt, that her
idol was made of base clay. He was a>.
liar — how the word stung her. It was a
story of her signing over her inherited!
money for him to place in a new and safer
investment. That was what he told her..
What he did with it was to pay off some;
“debts of honor”—gambling debts.
Where once had been love and respect
for him, was love still, but mixed with
such horror as to almost make it loathing.
She must leave him, and take her children
from the taint of his presence.
And then this friend made her to know
and understand that evil tongues were not
yet silenced; that there were always two>
sides to every story. While she and one
or two friends would know her side, he
and the world would have another side.
And, to me, the strongest argument of all
was that, in the after years, their children
might rise up and curse her for forcing on
them an heritage of shame; that, when
they had grown to years of realization,
they might prefer their father’s and moth
er’s unspotted name to all else in the
world.
So by dint of persuasion and truthful ’
argument,he made her realize the dangers.,
and promise that she would go back to her
home and husband, and take up her life :
again. She must not even let him know
she had found out his wrong-doing. For •
“if you destroy your husband’s belief ini
your belief in him, you rob him. of any
thing to live up to in life. When yom
withdraw the cope-stone of his selt-re
spect, you set that of his.ruin.” And af
ter a minute he added, with a half smile:
“I may as well say it. Suppose, to-day,
every loving wife in the world confessed
to her husband the exact estimate at which
she rated his characteristics in the tribunal
of her secret soul, how many homes would
be left standing to-morrow, do youthink?.’
We demand that our women admire us; it,
is an innocent vanity, but I wonder if you*
know how deep its roots are ?”
They reached the steps, and from- higlt
tragedy came down to the plane of com*-
mon life. He left her, with the injunc
tion : “Dry shoes, warm gown, and a cup
of tea,” to take up again the old life in a
new and narrower limit. And as he pass
ed down the steps and away, he muttered
to himself: “No, I shall never forgive
him, never—but you will. It was not
about a woman that he lied to you.”
He could not forgive the man who, lov
ing his wife and knowing that she loved
him, could so deliberately deceive her, and
cause to crumble to ashes all her high .
ideals of love and life; so that, in the fu-...
ture, she must know stern Life as it was,,
and not as it might have been. With her, (
in the future it was to be—“ Renounce ,
yourself; accept the cup given you*, witbia
its honey and gall, as it comes.”
• #
»
So runs the world. It has-beem said
that thq< reason we women love the dbadso
well, is because half of oiy, hearts lie in the
grave of buried hopes. How, good these
words of Lady Henry, Somerset:
“Our life is so straightened down here,
altogether, that I think that all things
which make life’s,pathway easier, and the
dark river brighter, and the beyond clear
er, should h>e passed along like bread at
sacrament.”
“ForUfe is all too short, dear,
Arid sorrow is all too great,
To suffer our slow compassion
That tarries until too late.
And its not the thing you do, dear,
Its the thing you leave undone,
Which gives you the bit of heartache
At the setting of the sun.”
Mrs. Shiloh Payne Langford?