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For Woman’s Wobk.
SUNDERED.
We two, we two fond hearts
But yesterday!
We two, we two sad hearts
To-day!
And all is past. No more
Can we recall
The happiness that now is turned
To gall.
The memory so sweet, if held,
Will only make
More pitiful the throbbing hearts’
Dull ache.
I loved thee far too well
To quite forget
Just where for the first time
We met.
Nor how the summer days
That followed fast,
With tenderest thoughts of thee
Were passed.
Now all is o’er; “we meet
as strangers meet.”
God grant we turn in different paths
Our feet.
M. J. Meader Smith.
For Woman’s Work.
GLEANINGS FROM i'HE BACK-
WOODS.
BY MARTHA DOGGETT.
T WAS a very unpleasant day in
March! Why it should be called the
. first Spring month, I never could un-
I
derstand; surely on that particular day,
there was nothing to be seen or felt sug
gestive of swelling buds or opening flow
ers, and why of all days I should choose
that one to make a visit to my dear friend,
Mrs. D., whom I had not seen in years, I
can’t imagine, unless it was because of my
new cloak—yes, my handsome brown
cloak was the cause of it. I thought I looked
very fine in it, and, besides, was told that
it was very becoming, which fliled me with
a little womanly vanity. After walking
a mile to the nearest station where I wait
ed perhaps half an hour for the train, it
grew colder and colder and I wished I
had worn my boa and muff, which 1
left quietly reposing in my trunk. The
wind was so piercing, his icy breath seemed
to make even the dead leaves shudder as
they fell at my feet from the tree under
which I stood, so I was glad to be com
fortably seated in the warm car which
soon carried me to the pleasant cottage,
with its gravel walk and tall cedars, where
I was to spend a short time. No sooner
were the usual greetings over, and 1 had
seated myself for a few moments, just for
politeness’ sake, than I said: “Let’s walk
in the garden, please.”
“Certainly,” said my friend, “I see you
still have your fondness for country gar
dens.”
“Yes,” I said, as 1 entered the gate, “I
imagine I can already smell the pinks
and the aromatic sweet basil and balm.”
There was nothing, however, worthy of
notice in the garden on that particular
day of that special year. But the beauti
ful brown earth is always interesting,
concealing beneath its surface much of
loveliness. While I was musing on the
possibilities of the soil, Mrs. D. called my
attention to a small bed of strawberry
plants in one corner of the garden. [ know
they were suffering, for they were the
most unhappy looking things I ever saw;
what few leaves were left on them looked
so rusty and dead. She asked me if I
would like some of the plants to carry
back home with me, and start a bed in my
garden in the backwoods. She said they
were very fine strawberries, but she did
not know the variety. I accepted the
plants with pleasure, but was sorry not to
learn the name. When the morning came
for my return home they were not forgot
ten, but seemed to feel more comfortable
in the pretty box with moist cotton and pa
per close about their roots. I had twenty
plants, and placed them quite near the
garden fence where the early morning sun
could reach them. The soil was extremely
fertile, and as soon as the runners were
sufficiently developed, I cut them off and
started my pet strawberry bed, removing
the original twenty plants, also. The
bed was a narrow one and the length of
the average country garden, and faced the
east. I planted the roots about four inches
apart and the rows were a foot apart. 1
was careful not to plant them where Irish
potatoes had been, as there is some in
gredient in the soil that the strawberry
needs that would be absorbed by the po
tato, and vice versa.
The next season my plants were said to
be as fine as any grown; they were so large
they overlapped each other and concealed
the soil beneath them. I gave them an
immense quantity of work by forking the
earth between the rows, keeping the plants
perfectly free from grass and weeds. The
small weeds I removed with my fingers;
never was a strawberry bed so clean!,
When the plants were in full bloom I
never saw a finer sight. The dark green
leaves were unusually large, and the
snowy blossoms were so dainty, with their
golden hearts, no wonder the insects loved
to light upon them; and when they began
to drop some of the petals, and the tiny
green fruit appeared and grew larger
and whiter day by day until at last it
blushed when kissed by the morning
May sun. The blush deepened until
all the white disappeared and revealed
great clusters of scarlet berries. I was
not surprised in the early morning as
I went to gather them to find that the
snails and birds had made a lovely break
fast. Great mouthfuls had been taken
from them. I worked my plants late in
the afternoons, but never went close to
the plants while in bloom, as there is dan
ger of knocking them off, they are so
delicate. They are certainly not a lazy
fruit, but require almost constant work if
you wish them to be free from weeds, for
weeds, you know, love beautiful things,
like folks do, and cling all the closer to
them.
I gathered sixty-five quarts from my pet
bed the second season. I had nothing in
the woods in which to measure such pretty
berries, so I had to buy a bran new quart
cup, which I did not use for any other
purpose. I most always clipped the ber
ries with my kitchen scissors, and gathered
them with the dew still glistening on their
white petals before the sun became un
comfortably warm. I had my new tin
cup in which to measure them, but what
to serve them in was the next, question.
A few days before they began to ripen, my
little maid and I were enjoying ourselves
hoeing the weeds out, when I heard a
great clatter, as of breaking dishes in the
kitchen, which was near by. I sent her
in to see what was the matter; she came
running back and said she could see noth
ing wrong, but I was so sure something
was wrong I went in and—O, horror! there
was the only berry bowl I had, broken all
to pieces, the graceful, pretty bowl with
the wreath of fern leaves around it. I was
sure that hateful hen, Fanny, did it. She
had once broken a teapot that I had
placed in the southern window. Never
name a pet hen Fanny; it will bring you
bad luck sure.
I never gathered but fifteen quarts of
berries at one time from my bed, and had
there been more ripe ones, I should not
have had the strength to pick them, even
if I was sitting in my dear little split bot
tom chair, which has a history. No mat
ter how much I enjoyed looking at the
white blooms, the tiny green fruit, the
larger berries both green and white, and
the fully ripe ones, all on the same vine; or
how I was enchanted by the song of the
birds or the insects’ hum, with the blue
sky overhead and the beautiful sunlight
all around, overworked nature will get
tired even amid such pleasant surround
ings.
If no market is convenient, this small
fruit can be utilized in preparing delicious
desserts, or made into wine, jam, jelly and
preserves for winter use. The most
delightful jam can be made of the freshly
gathered berries by removing the calices
without washing them, putting a pound
of sugar to one of fruit; mash gently, and
boil thoroughly until all the water is cook
ed out and the mass is tolerably thick.
Having no cans with tightly fitted covers,
I took some glass jars without tops and
simply sealed them with brown paper and
a paste made of flour and cold water with
out cooking. This jam kept for years
without turning to sugar or fermenting in
the least, and was of perfect flavor. The
jars were kept in a dark place, but cer
tainly not in a cool one, which proves that
if perfect fruit is properly prepared and
cooked it will keep an indefinite period.
I never wash my berries if it can be avoid
ed, as it takes away much of the sweetness,
but if absolutely necessary, always wash
them before removing the calices, as the
juice exudes very readily.
May all who have the culture of small
berries, have the pleasure that I derived
from this healthful outdoor exercise, also
the profit that the sale of the fruit from a
pet strawberry bed would give; however
small, it would be something to one who
lives in the backwoods. A fruit so bright
in color, so delicious in taste, in odor so
delightful, cannot fail to attract everyone.
A pretty basket lined with white paper
and filled with the luscious fruit cut from
the generous vines with the long stems
attached, and on top of all a cluster of pale
pink roses, will tempt the most fastidious.
Which is the prettier, the flowers that
please the sense of sight and smell, or the
fruit that pleases a third sense also, that
of the palate?
If you want to make money, read, “For
You,” on 16th page.
The eye of faith can see in the dark.
WOMAN’S WORK.
(Continued from 'page 8.) XT*"
unconsciously hinted in his every ’tone
—the reproaches that awaited him after
the perplexities of a day’s toil and effort.
I have never heard nor seen one of these
family disruptions, and I hope that such
observation may never be my lot. Un
fortunate as it is that any family jars
should occur, I suppose it is well that
most of those hearts that are so weak or
thoughtless or unfeeling as to permit
them, have more pride than to give pub
licity to the home differences. But by
that indefinable proneness of facts to make
themselves known, I have been convinced,
much against my will, that many hearts
are made heavy and many homes made
miserable by these little happenings that
are usually shut out from public view, but
sink deeper and heavier into the lives of
their victims.
A man who does not make every pos
sible effort for the comfort of his family
is to be censured: one who shows indif
ference to their happiness and welfare is
unworthy to be called husband or father.
But a woman who at the marriage altar
pledges her love and trust and help, only
to begin at the first need for her real
assistance to murmur at her husband's
reverses or lack of means, to compare the
pleasures of idleness which she enjoyed in
her father’s home with the responsibilities
and trials which she must endure as a
wife; to fret that all is not ease and abun
dance, and to threaten this or that method
of retaliation if a full quota of servants is
not provided or a full compliance with all
her whims is not speedily inaugurated, is
a travesty on truth, a murderer of peace,
a disgrace to our sex in general and to hei;
own mother in particular.
Oh, how these bickerings must torture
and consume the very heart of endurance,
even as the deadly cancer consumes its
victim! It is hard to believe that a wo
man whose nature may soar so near to
the virtue of angels may also descend so
low into the service of the evil spirit as to
betray and make wretched the heart
which was offered and accepted as her
sacred trust. But such I think was the
inexcusable error of the once happy wife
of whom I write—inexcusable until she
sees her fault and once again brings joy to
the heart that trusted her. Wider and wider-
I fear the chasm yawns between them, as
her reproaches grow more severe and the
incentives for his efforts grow less and less
binding on his conscience.
• « *
It is unpleasant even to imagine that
there are homes in which exist the con
ditions I have described, but it is a pre
cious thing to know of many beautiful
examples on the other, the happy side of
life. lam fond of two bright faces, wrink
led but not unfair, that mirror to the
observer the tranquil harmony that has
blessed their lives through more than
thirty years of journeying together. Sor
rows have doubtless been theirs, disap
pointment has often cast its shadow over
their way, errors have been made and
opportunities have been lost—as they are
in every life—but never an intentional
wrong, never a feeling of indifference.
How do I know? I have seen the ten
derness in those speaking eyes, that still
meet in loving glances, as in youth: I
have listened to their soft accents as they
talked of days agone or things that are,
and their voices seemed to be attuned to
notes of peace. Ido not need to ask that
dear old lady if her lover has been true;
I know full well how faithfully has been
her keeping of the heart entrusted to her.
Such a picture must make the angels hap
pier if they look down on earthly scenes,
and their sweet anthems must be sweeter
still as they sing approval when the
joint record of two such lives is made com
plete.
Don’t snub anyone. Not alone because
they may far outstrip you in the race of
life, but because it is neither kind, nor
right, nor Christ-like.
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FEBRUARY, 1896.