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For Woman’s Work.
ALONE WITH GOD-
Out in the grand old forest,
Talking with God to-day;
Leaving my daily duties—
Going but little way,
Yet how my life has taken
Unto itself new lease,
Thirsting, my heart has drank in
Wonderful draughts of peace.
Over my head His presence,
Rustling the tinted leaves,
Under my feet the cool grass
Gladly His smile receives,
Round me His hand is swaying
Gently the fruited trees,
Touching my cheek, His soft breath,
Fans me in every breeze-
Ever our present Helper,
Ever our nearest friend,
Giving His bestgifts gladly,
Mercy without an end.
Oft in my care filled kitchen
Busy with daily toil,
Tired of life’s hard labor.
Wearied with its turmoil—
He hath come, speaking kindly,
Cheering my heart with song.
Burdens I could not carry,
Helping me bear along;
Ever, yea ever present,
Inside the narrow sphere,
We are called to fill, He keepeth
Messengers, oh, how dear!
Angels of Faith and Patience,
Angels of Hope and Love,
Leading our faltering footsteps,
Up to the world above.
Voice, that I hear at dawning
Under t he slopi n g eaves,
Smile, that I see when evening
Sunset's last ray receives,
Light, that makes glad my waking,
Softened by roseate beams,
Presence, that gives nighttime
Restful and quiet dreams.
Make my heart purer, better,
For this one holiday,
Help me to gather from it
Strength to pursue my way,
Give me a loving message,
Tender and true and kind.
Help me to take the sunlight,
Here in this nook I find,
Unto the souls that, toiling,
Know little rest or cheer;
Make me to humble comrades,
Kinder for being here.
M. J. Meader Smith.
Unwritten History.
For Woman's Work.
“BABY."
BY PEBBLE.
Hi
I
I
HE was five years old, small
and delicate. Her hair was
like pale yellow silk, covering
her small, finely shaped head
with natural ringlets. She had
a pure, white, clear skin, with the faint
est tint of the rose on cheek and lips. Her
eyes were of the deepest blue, with a look
in them that made one feel sorry for her
without being able to tell why. Baby’s
papa loved strong drink—loved it better
than he did wife or child. And drinking
made him talk ugly to Baby’s mamma, so
she often cried, and it made the child very
sad to see her mamma shed tears. She
loved her dear, kind mamma very dearly.
Sometime, when her papa would come
home, and be very cross and ugly her
mamma would take her by the hand,’and
say, “Come, dear, we will go over to
grandma’s.” Baby was always glad to go,
and down in her heart she wished they
could stay there always. Nobody scolded
or spoke cross, at grandma’s. There were
only aunt Ruth, uncle Otto and grandma.
Grandpapa had died years before Baby
was born. There was a large picture of
him in the sitting room; Baby often stood
before it and wished he could speak to her.
He looked so nice and pleasant; she was
sure he always said kind words. One day
Baby s mamma had a violent coughing
spell and a hemorrhage. The child was
frightened, and ran across the lot, calling,
“Grandma, grandma, come quick ’’
Grandma heard the child calling, in a
frightened voice, and ran quickly, fearing
something dreadful had happened. She
found her own dear daughter very sick.
A physician was hastily called, and after
the hemorrhage was stopped, grandma
took Baby and her mother to her own
home, so she could take care of them.
Baby’s papa drank so much that he could
not be trusted to take care of his wife
when she was sick.
Everything was done that medical skill
and tender nursing could do to restore the
invalid to health. But it availed noth
ing, and they who loved her best had to
stand beside her, and see her slowly slip
ping away from their sight—like a rose
fading before it is full blown. For she was
dying at the early age of twenty
four, and life might have been so
bright and happy for her, bad she
only followed her mother’s ad
vice. But she loved one who was unwor
thy—one steeped in sin. She, innocent
»nd truthful, believed him when he told
her that he only needed the love of a
pure, true woman to reform him. He
told her that her friends painted him
blacker than he really was; when she was
his wife he would be a man, and show the
world what a woman’s love and trust
could do. She would be proud of her
work, when he stood, a man among men.
Without her beside him, he would go
steadily down to ruin, because he would
have nothing to care for; if he went to the
bad she would be the cause. He made
her believe that she was wholly responsi
ble for his future, be it good or bad. And
she— Door, innocent, deceived child—be
lieved him, and wedded him, knowing
that her truest friends trembled for her
future. She left a pure, sweet home to
become the wife of a man unfit for matri
mpny. She, poor, duped child, married
him to reform him.
And now she lay dying, broken hearted,
with the task which she had set for her
self, unfinished—nay. not even begun.
And she was leaving Baby to the care of a
drunken father.
Realizing the awfulness of her child’s
future, if left with no other protection,
she became anxious and troubled. As
she neared the boundary line of life, her
vision cleared, she saw things in their
true colors, and wondered how she could
ever have been made to believe that she
could reform a man’s habits by marrying
him. She saw the fallacy of reforming
evil habits that had been born in the
blood of the child, and yielded to as he
grew to manhood. She marveled at the
illusion that had led her into the quick
sands of failure, disease and death. She
was paying (as many others have) a fear
ful price. What could she do to undo the
sorrowful mistake she had made? She
would soon be beyond its results. But
Baby! She must try to save Baby. She
sent for a lawyer, and told him he must
draw up a will for her. She was going to
will Baby to her mother. “You cannot
do it, my dear child; she does not belong
to you. She is your husband’s property.
If he is willing for her to remain with
your mother, it will be all right. But if
he is stubborn, he can take her where he
pleases.”
‘"I know it,” she answered, with white
lips, “the law will allow him to wreck
my innocent child’s life as he has wrecked
mine. Yes, even more; for if he takes her
from her grandma, her childhood is gone
forever. The flowers of youth will never
bloom for my darling. There will be no
music in her life—onFy discord; and noth
ing can ever compensate for a blighted
childhood. But I am determined to do
what I can. Write the will; I can cl«ie
easier if I leave a protest against Baby’s
removal. A will is something that speaks
for you after you are dead.”
The will was properly written, signed
and witnessed, then Baby’s mother lay
back on the pillows, exhausted. She had
finished her work; she had only to wait,
and the waiting was not long, for the
angel of death tarried not. ‘‘Open the
east window, mother, I want to see the
sun rise. It is my last day here. When
the sun is up I shall go to the land of rest.
I leave you Baby. Take me in your
arms, mother, you were God’s best gilt to
me.”
She was folded close in her mother’s
arms, and as the full rays of the morning
sun flooded the room, she closed her tired
eyes, and said: “I am going. Kiss me
good-bye,” and Baby’s mamma was dead.
The desolate child clung to grandma,
with tearless eyes, and a face so white and
full of pain, that strong men wept as they
looked at the bereaved child. When her
mother was made ready for the grave,
Baby came in with a little bunch of sweet
scented blue violets. “I want to give
them to mamma,” she said, sadly. “She
loved blue flowers.” Grandma lifted the
child up so she could place them in her
mother’s cold, white hand. That was
Baby’s last gift to her mamma. They were
an emblem of never dying love, for, when
the casket was lowered into the grave, the
violets were as fresh and sweet as they
were the day Baby placed them in her
mother’s icy hand. After the funeral,
the will was read, out of respect to its
dead author—for the lawyers said it
amounted to nothing more than a written
quest. A father was the legal guardian
of his child, and could take her where he
pleased. But they advised him to comply
with his dead wife’s request, and leave the
child with her grandmother. Just a few
days later, Baby’s papa came in an old,
rickety wagon, and took her away. Baby
clung to grandma and begged to stay, but
her father said he was boss, that the law
said so, and he would do as he pleased.
Baby would have to live with aunt Jano
and uncle Dick. He intended to keep her
among his own people, and he didn’t want
any of his wife’s relatives to come about
them. Grandma felt very sorry for the
tearful child, for she knew that Jane and
Dick Tempest were rightly named. There
WOMAN’S WORK.
was a perpetual tempest brewing in their
home.
How would poor Baby stand it? Poor
child; what a cruel life it was to her!
Jane Tempest had one child—two years
old—named Betty. Every time Betty
cried, Baby was scolded. If Betty got
hurt, Baby received a cruel slap on the
head. When Betty slept, Baby had to
stand and keep the flies off of her. When
Betty lay in the hammock, Baby had to
swing her; sometimes her poor little arms
ached so much that she cried. Then aunt
Jane would give her a slap that would
make the frail child reel and fall, when
she was told, in a loud voice, to pick her
good-for-nothing self up and swing Betty,
or she would get her head knocked off.
Poor Baby; she would dry her eyes and
swing the hammock, back and forth, until
her head ached and her limbs trembled
under her. She grew sad-eyed, pale and
thin. She was growing old too fast; she
began to have thoughts that hurt her
brain. She tried to solve the reason of
her cruel life; she wondered where grand
ma was; she longed to lay in her arms as
she had so often done.
It seemed years ago since aunt Lucy
had combed and curled her hair. She put
her little hand to her head; it was a mass
of tangled knots, for Baby had been sadly
neglected.
She remembered how she used to run
races with uncle Otto; she always touched
the base first, but she thought he would
win the race now, for her poor little limbs
ached and trembled so, she could scarcely
walk. And she used to laugh out loud;
she wondered how it would sound to hear
herself laugh.
Then uncle Dick came and took Betty
out of the hammock. He did not notice,
or even speak to Baby, but she was glad
to be relieved. She sank down on the
grass, closed her eyes, and lay thinking—
strange, wild thoughts for a child. Some
thing soft touched her hand, and a gentle
purr made her open her eyes. It was the
white kitten, Baby’s only friend. She
hugged it close; ‘‘Oh Kittie, you love me,
don’t you? I love you, Kittie.” The kit
ten answered with loud purring, and nes
tled up close to the desolate child.
Baby looked around; it was getting dark.
A wild thought came into her head; she
would try to find grandma. Her doll lay
on its red mattress in the wood-house; aunt
Jane wouldn’t have it in the house. Come,
Kittie, we will take dolly, and go away, I
wont leave dolly in this cruel place.” Kit
tie seemed to understand, for she stopped
purring, and walked along by Baby to
lhe wood-house. Baby took dolly on one
arm, and taking the corner of the little
red mattress in the other hand, she drag
ged it after her, Kittie quietly following.
She went down the lot, through the tall
weeds, until she reached the back fence.
It was a high, close, board fence. She
placed her hands against the bottom of
one board, and it swung aside; it was
loose at the bottom. Then she climbed
over the lower stringer, dragging the doll’s
mattress after her. She waited until Kit
tie jumped through, then pushed the board
back in place. She stood for a moment,
irresolute, looking up at the stars, won
dering, in her childish heart, if they were
the flowers of heaven; and when they
twinkled, she thought perhaps an angel
had brushed them with his wings in pass
ing. Presently there was a falling star,
and Baby thought an angel had plucked a
flower, and dropped it. “Maybe it was
mamma who dropped it for me; but it fell
so far off, and I am so tired! Kittie, we
must rest a little; come, let us crawl under
that tall bush and rest a while.”
So Baby, dolly and Kittie, crept under
the branches of a large clump of elder
berry bushes. Baby’s head felt so bad,
she lay down with her head on dolly’s
mattress. Dolly was on one arm, and
the other was thrown caressingly over
Kittie. How good it seemed to lie down!
She closed her eyes, and slept.
After a while Baby was missed. Aunt
Jane wondered where that hateful child
could be? It was so much trouble to look
after her! She called again, and again,
but the missing child neither came nor
answered. “Where can the brat be?”
said aunt Jane, as she went to look for
her. “Give her a good thrashing when
you find her,” said uncle Dick, “teach her
to come when you call her.” But aunt
Jane did not find her. uncle Dick got in
terested and joined in the search, but the
child seemed to have suddenly and mys
teriously disappeared.
Her father came in, and said he would
soon find her; she would answer him. But
he was mistaken. There came no answer
to his call, and no trace of the child could
be found. Someone suggested that grand
ma had stolen her. Tnea they all agreed
that it was a reasonable theory. Some of
the neighbors whispered among themselves
that they hoped it was so. Baby’s papa
rushed off to grandma’s, and entered the
parlor without the civil ceremony of
knocking. He demanded, in a loud, angry
voice, that grandma give up his child. But
something in the quiet, firm voice of
grandma, as she told him she had not seen
the child and knew nothing of her where
abouts, convinced him of her truthfulness;
he became greatly excited, and begged
grandma to help him find Baby. Grand
ma went to the home of Dick and Jane
Tempest. She first inquired, “Where
was the child, and what was she doing
when last seen?” When told, she went
directly to the hammock. She stood,
looking in all directions, but no trace of
Baby could she see.
“We must begin a systematic search,”
said grandma. The house was first gone
through. Then the wood-house was vis
ited; on the way to it, grandma inquired if
anything else was missing? “Nothing,”
said Jane. But on entering the wood
house, she suddenly exclaimed, “My
goodness! her doll and its mattress are
gone.” At the same moment grandma’s
quick eye saw something. It was a trail,
as if something had been drag
ged from the wood-house. She said
nothing, but, carefully throwing the light
from the lantern which she carried, she
discovered that something had been drag
ged toward the back of the lot. The trail
was soon lost, for the weeds and grass had
been trampled down, in looking for Baby.
But grandma proposed to go all over the
ground again. The child could not have
gone far, by herself, and it was hardly
probable she had been stolen. In going
around the fence, a red ravel, caught on
the lower stringer, caught grandma’s eye.
She put her hand against the fence, as she
stooped to examine it. The plank her
hand rested on, moved; she shoved it to
one side and looked through. She saw a
bit of red calico caught on a nail, and was
sure it had been torn from the cover of
dolly’s mattress; she stooped, and crept
through. The tall weeds were bent, as if
some light article had been dragged over
them. Grandma parted the elderberry
bushes—and there, Baby, dolly, and Kit
tie, all lay together, on the bare ground.
Baby’s breathing was heavy, her cheeks
were crimson, her tangled curls were wet
with dew. Grandma lifted her tenderly;
she opened her eyes wide, only to close
them with a moan. She was very sick.
‘ Get me a shawl to wrap her in; I am
going to take her home.” There was a
peculiar ring to her voice, that made Jan*
afraid to disobey. So Baby was taken
back to grandma’s pleasant home. She
was put on a clean, cool, white bed, in a
shaded room. She was sponged in tepid
water, then a pretty white gown was put
on her. By the time all this was done,
uncle Otto had brought a physician.
After they had thoroughly examined
the child, her father asked, “Well, Doc
tor, what is the matter with her?”
“She will die,” said the Doctor, bluntly,
“unless she has the best of care.” Then
Baby’s papa went away, and got more
whiskey. He said he must drink to drown
his trouble. While under the influence cf
liquor he seated himself at a card table;
after playing a few games, a dispute arose,
and Baby’s papa called a man a liar. A
flash, a sharp report, and he was dead.
Baby lay sick a long time, but after a
while the disease yielded to medical skill
and tender nursing, and the child came
back to life and health.
When she was quite well, she told
grandma what an ugly dream she had; she
seemed to think her life in the Tempest
family was only a dream.
“An ugly dream, Grandma, that made
me feel so bad.”
Grandma drew the child close to her,
and said, “Never mind, dear, you never
will have such a dream again.” After a
long time, when Baby was strong and
well, she was told that her father was
dead. He had died while she was so sick.
It did not make Baby very sad, for he had
never been a kind father, and she had dear
grandma, aunt Ruth, uncle Otto, and a
new dolly to comfort her.
Deafness Cannot Be Cured ’
by local applications, as they cannot reach the
diseased portion of the ear. There is only one
way to cure Deafness and that is by constitu
tional remedies. Deafness is caused by an in
flamed condition of the mucous lining of the Eus
tachian Tube. When this tube gets inflamed
you have a rumbling sound or imperfect hear
ing, and when it is entirely closed, Deafness is
the result, and unless the inflammation can be
taken out and this tube restored to its normal
condition hearing will be destroyed forever; nine
cases out of ten are caused by catarrh, which
is nothing but an inflamed condition of the mu
cons surfaces.
We will give One Hundred Dollats for any
case of Deafness (caused by catarrh) that cannot
be cured by Hall’s Catarrh Cure. Send for circu
lars, free.
F. J-. CHENEY <fc CO., Toledo, Ohio.
#®*Sold by Druggists, 75 cents.
“A Great Opportunity” offered else
where in this issue.
A Bemedy for Hard Times ! Ladles, w«
oan give you work you will realize $5.00 to 810.00
weekly. No canvassing. This otter good 20 days
only. Stokes & Wood, Box 162, Rushsylvania, O.
OCTOBER, 1894