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T. L. MITCHELL, Publisher.
Vol, 9.—No. 2.
For Woman’s Work.
RFTEE THE TOLL,
By SHILOH BAYNE LANGFORD.
“After the ball is over, after the break of morn—
After the dancers’ leaving, after the stars are gone;
Many a heart is aching, if you could read them all;
Many the hopes that have vanquished, after the ball.’’
NE EVENING the public heard this song for the first time,
i The next morning its composer awoke to find himself fa
mous, and his song on everybody’s lips. “Annie Rooney”
was a thing of the past. The organ grinder gave her the
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dead shake, and ground out “After the Ball” by the yard, and by the
hour. It was sung in the parlor, and hummed in the kitchen. Now
it has vanished, a newer song has taken its place. But it has left
its trail behind it; its sweet, sad strains still linger in the hearts of its
hearers.
One day while traveling on a railroad train, when this song had
first started on its race across the continent, I chanced to overhear a
conversation which interested me strangely. Seated across the aisle
from me were two ladies. Ido not remember anything about one; but
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“WITH her own hand to serve her LOVED ONES.”
ATHENS, GEORGIA, FEBRUARY, 1896.
the other was stout, had bold, black eyes, and was dressed in widow’s
weeds. I was attracted to them by hearing the black-eyed one singing
over and over softly, the chorus quoted above. The other inquired
what it was, and she answered that it was the new song and the old
story. Then she went on to describe the song. How the “old man”
told the “little maiden” a tale of two who were sweethearts once. And
of how at a ball he went to get her a drink of water, and when he re
turned with it he found her in the arms of another man.
“Down went the glass, pet, broken, that’s all.
Just as my heart was, after the ball.’’
The after years brought an explanation, but it was too late. She
was in her grave. And as this woman described the song, singing
snatches of it now and then, the hard look left her sac hard
look which told plainer than words that life had brought her many
hard lessons to learn. And the bold, black eyes grew misty with un
shed tears as she went on:
“I’ve seen just such things many a time myself. In fact, I’ve been
one of the actors. Do you remember Jack Grey?”
And then the lips closed tightly, as though some forbidden thing
had slipped through them. There was silence for a little time as she
gazed straight out of the window, with eyes that saw not the land
scape. And looking with her, the landscape faded away and we were
in the ball room.
“Bright lights were flashing in the grand ball-room.’’
There was the hum of many voices. The glittering of jewels on
the breasts of beautiful women, who, like gay-plumaged birds,
were flitting here and there. From the outside came the roar of
the city life; but over and through it all were the sad, sweet
strains of that never-to-be-forgotten waltz. And the figure before
me, was it as now, stout, and with eyes overbold? Ah! no, it was
young, slender and graceful. F'ace like a rose-petal, and eyes
luminous with love-light. Eden was a reality to her that night, as
she went round and round to the strains of that waltz (which still
rings in her heart) in the arms of Jack Grey. And he, shall we
picture him? Was he the dead husband, oroneof the might-have
been’s? Did he have eyes blue as forget-me-nots, and yellow hair?
Who is it tells woman never to trust such a man? That it is im
possible for him to be true to any woman.
“Ah, but the days brought changes after,
Clouds in happier skies.
Care on the lips that curved with laughter,
Tears in the radiant eyes!
Parted asunder, worn with grieving,
Wearily each one prays,
Oh, for the days beyond recalling!
Oh, for the golden days!”
Nothing left but Dead Sea Apples. Just then she began to
hum the chorus again, and the brakeman called out my station.
In the hurry and bustle I forgot her for awhile. But I have often
wondered since, was my vision correct, and what of Jack, was he
dead husband, or living lover?
For Woman’s Work.
A PICTURE.
A PICTURE was framed in my window one night. It was late twilight,
almost dark, in fact. It was a cloudy evening, and although the
valley that occupied the foregrounds was quite in shadow, the long slopes
of the mountains, that rose beyond—near enough to fill the view almost half
way to the zenith, and very near to the top of the window which framed my
1 picture—were catching enough light to make visible their rugged sides,
i Long canons cleft down into the mountain side, black deeps of gloom;
smaller hollows divided the swelling ridges, and the sickly light that was
. slowly fading out of the western sky shone across the spurs and slopes that
i ribbed the great upheaved hills, throwing them out from the shadows in
soft brown masses. The picture was in sombre tones, brown and dun, with
greys, shading to black, and soft grey in the clouds that showed a watery
yellow towards where the sun had set.
Down in the extreme right hand corner of this picture, there gleamed
amid the blackness the clustering lights of a village which shone out clearly
against the darkness of the night that had already settled over the valley,
and made the only bit of real bright light in all that vast space.
And looking out over the valley and mountains and sky, I thought like
many lives that picture was; dull and dark, rough and rugged, sombre-hued;
deep valleys of darkness to traverse and great steeps to climb, attaining a
dimly lighted, higher space, only to plunge again into the depths where no
light falls, and climbing upwards in darkness, with stumbling uncertainty
to another dim space, where they may not linger, but must go down once
more into the gloom and shadow. And in all the long, wearisome journey
but one bit of clustering brightness to cheer them in the gloom, to recom
pense for all the shadow.
If any of us make, or help to make, that light in any toilsome life, let
us be careful |o keep it bright.
Imogene E. Johnson,
KATE’GARLAND. Editress.
50 Cts. per Year.