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ly f WOlAy iMYO] tIW fH 11 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 O 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 fe" , 1 r 4 ■ '■. L | . X .MB. I W ggSL-x _ -- - T.j ■ : ■ iH RWMSWi «u ; . . 'V " h-1 --'S .• U flit - I wJ ■ aWI 40 Mil wMlllilSi w®# eM .^'•■•■ A*’-: -- i r w ,„, „ „ _ .„,,,,. ww —-arfcr-ilßfet ■»' “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.