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For Woman’s Work
They are passing, passing—our beloved—
Out of our plaints and tears;
In our sad eyes they smile Jove and praise
And we see them no more in the busy ways,
Rippling the sea of years.
We know not to whither they are passing,
The way is veiled in mist,
But we see glints of light on their hair,
The way must be serene and fair—
By beams of glory kissed.
For Woman’s Work.
T WAS again June. Alan,
brown as a berry and dress
ed in a suit of homespun
' material, was dusting the well
i worn cushions of the old family
1 r
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carriage preparatory to starting for church.
A spirit of religion brooded o’er the land.
The morning sun rose like a resplendent
high priest and bathed the woods and fields
with fragrant incense. The birds sang an
exultant “Te deum” to the muffled drone
of the bees. The barn-yard fowls plumed
themselves in the grateful morning sun.
An abiding sense of contentment filled
Alan’s heart with peace. After his father’s
death he had assumed control of the farm
until the estate was settled. Then, as he
had promised, he purchased the old home
stead just as it was left. He now found
himself much interested in its cultivation.
His aunt and cousin remained at the head
of the household affairs. Along with his
peace of mind Alan found new strength of
body. The daily exercise of an active
outdoor life had made him feel like a new
man. His present life so occupied his
attentions that, had it not been for the rent
remittance and other business connected
with his extensive investments in the East,
he could have forgotten, almost entirely,
those unhappy years when he was one of
the most successful stockbrokers in the
street. His superior intelligence and busi
ness ability soon made him the recognized
leader of the community. There was not
a more generous man in the country. At
the very first he erected a commodious
brick school building and paid from his
own private fortune a superior corps of
teachers to instruct the children of the
district. This, with numerous minor acts
of philanthropy, marked the first year of
Alan’s stay in the country. His neigh
bors nodded to him pleasantly, as they
passed along the road on their way to
church.
In a few moments the hired man led
“Jack”, the carriage horse, from the stable,
and after giving him a drink at the trough
under the locust, hitched him to the vehi
cle. In the meantime Alan had gone to
the house to change his clothes. Shortly
afterward he, together with his aunt and
cousin, emerged through the little front
gate, after locking the door and placing
the key under the mat, and entered the
carriage which had been drawn up under
the trees in front of the house.
A drive of a couple of hours brought
them to the little white church in the
grove. The silver-toned bell was sending
forth its message of peace and goodwill
o’er meadow, hill and dale. They turned
into the shady grove, and, after helping
his aunt and cousin from the carriage,
Alan led Jack to a post in the shade of an
old oak, where he hitched him to dream
away the hour of service.
The little churchyard, with its roses and
myrtle and well-kept graves, lay just at
the edge sos the grove. Alan, seeing it
yet lacked a few minutes of service, enter
ed through the little gate and stepped to
the grass covered mounds where rested his
loved parents. He plucked a few weeds
from the graves and loosened the earth
around a young rosebush which was just
beginning to bloom. The spring before
he had planted it on his mother’s grave.
He stood with bowed head in this sacred
spot, in deep and solemn meditation, till
the simple notes of the opening hymn an
nounced the beginning of the service. He
walked up the aisle of the “men’s” side to
the pew next the middle window, which
he had often occupied when a child.
As he sat here on this particular morn
ing, with the odor of locust and sweet
scented clover coining in through the open
window, his thoughts wandered back to
his youth. The clear, honest voices pour
ing forth their praise to God in soothing,
simple melody united the present to the
past. In imagination he could hear again
the sweet singing of his mother as she
mingled her voice in the long metre of this,
her favorite hymn. He pictured his father
once more by his side, while many other
familiar faces, now sleeping in the little
OUR BELOVED,
£ss ALAN McCOY.
BY SIGEL ROI’SH,
CHAPTER 111.
We think of them oft’nest when skies burn red
Where naked boughs are tossed,
When the partridge calls from the stubble of corn,
When we shiver and turn from gardens forlorn
And roses black with frost.
We think of them fondly as landmarks lost.
While we go on in fear.
And words they spake that we gave no heed,
Their tender thoughts of us in our need,
In angel guise appear.
Sophie Fox Sea,
white city by the grove, re-peopled again
the cool, sweet-smelling church.*! He seem
ed to hear again their words of mutual en
couragement and exhortation.
At the close of the hymn he awakened
from his day-dream. The minister—for
this was preaching Sunday—arose from the
chair back of the pulpit and proceeded to
read the morning lesson. It was Alan’s
•favorite Psalm. As the tall, white-bearded
man of God stood before his congregation
and read these incomparable words: “The
Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pas
tures: He leadeth me beside the still
waters,” there, in the midst of God’s own
handiwork, with birds chirping in the
grove, with bees humming in the flower
ing locust, and the brook babbling at the
foot of the hill, Alan’s soul went out in
sweet communion with the indescribable
peace and solemnity of the sacred words.
“He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in
the paths of righteousness for His name’s
sake,” fell from the trembling lips of the
venerable preacher, and Alan thought of
that summer day long ago, in thejoyous
month of June, when he had given his
heart to God—when, arising from the very
seat he now sat in, he walked boldly for
ward and held out bis hand to this self
same preacher, who, in the solemn pause
that followed the first verse of the invita
tion hymn, announced the accession to
the Church with unfeigned joy.
He also recalled the preacher’s words of
consolation and commendation and how
happy he had felt in this public ac
knowledgment of his great Leader and
King. Then he remembered the rites of
baptism administered after the services,
and the ineffable joy, the sublime peace
that came like a sweet calm with the con
sciousness that he had confessed his Saviour
and had consecrated his life to Christ.
This, like a shadowy dream, all came
back to him, as he sat there amid the
scenes of his early conversion. “Yea,
though I walk through the valley of the
shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for
Thou art with me,” and with these words,
the thought of the dark, sin-stained years
of his life wrought a frown on Alan’s brow,
and a twinge of bitterness filled his soul.
Indeed, it had been a valley of death to
him; spiritual, certainly, and well-nigh
physical.
Up to the present time Alan had at
tended these services simply because it
was agreeable. The earnest sincerity of
the worshippers, and the simple, unos
tentatious service, was refreshing to him
and helped him to forget his past unhap
piness. It also, in a measure, comforted
him. Yet he had long ago ceased to make
any pretensions to religious feelings, and
previous to his return was seldom seen at
any place of worship. Early in his busi
ness career he saw the bigotry and hypoc
risy of fashionable churches. He found
the usurer, the swindler, the corruptionist
and the impostor occupying the softest
pews and holding the most responsible
positions. This was sufficient to make him
a skeptic and a scoffer. He realized now
how far he had wandered from his early
religious convictions, and how long he had
been a stranger to that peace and comfort
that only an abiding religious faith can
give.
After finishing this exquisite psalm, the
congregation joined in another hymn of
praise—the familiar tune of those immor
tal words, “Rock of Ages Cleft for Me, let
me Hide Myself in Thee,” and the words
burned deep into Alan’s soul. At the
conclusion of this hymn the minister again
arose and announced his final text. “He
Restoreth my soul,” was the particular
sentence from the psalm just read, upon
which he spoke.
It was not a fashionable sermon. He
used no notes. His words seemed the
natural outpouring of a fervent heart. His
illustrations and figures came from the
fields, the groves, the birds, the beasts, and
other sources familiar to his rural congre
gation. He referred with much earnest
ness and warmth to the story of the prodi
WOMAN’S WORK.
gal son and to the love and forgiving spirit
of the lowly Christ. He dwelt upon those
scenes in the life of the Saviour which
came nearest home to these sincere and
trusting people.
At the conclusion of his touching ser
mon many were moved to tears. Alan
himself felt his eyes moisten and his lips
tremble. He longed for that old feeling
of divine repose he had not known for so
many years. When the closing hymn
was announced he experienced a vague
sense of unrest, an unsatisfied longing, an
unframed wish that the services might
not yet close. The minister seemed to be
aware of this disquietude that filled Alan’s
breast—the half-formed resolution to re
unite himself to the church—for at the
close of the hymn, instead of pronouncing
the benediction, as was customary, he step
ped down in front of the pulpit and con
tinued the service with an exhortation full
of earnest solicitude for any who were not
at peace with their Creator. He dwelt
upon the beauties of religion, and the
blessed boon of the ever constant comfort
which Christ alone could give. With
marked emotion, he recounted many touch
ing scenes that had come under his notice
during his long term of service as pastor
of the church. He referred to the uncer
tainty of life, and with tearful eyes recalled
the loved faces of many who had listened
to his words of counsel and admonition,
but who now were sleeping quietly in the
little churchyard by the grove. The men
tion of these names touched many a sad
dened heart to whom they were bound by
the nearest and dearest ties.
The aged pastor spoke feelingly of the
inestimable Christian traits of Alan’s saint
ed mother and the sterling worth of his
dead father. He graphically described
that immortal reunion where parting and
sorrow would be no more, and urged, with
that calm eloquence born of long convic
tion, that ail be prepared forthe last solemn
summons. He closed this zealous exhorta
tion with a pressing invitation to any in
the congregation who were not at peace
with God, to seek reconciliation. No
sooner had the invitation been given than
Alan arose and, walking forward, again
grasped the hand of the visibly affected
preacher, who, with unmistakable joy,
immediately asked the congregation to
join him in singing “Praise God from
whom all blessings flow,” at the conclu
sion of which he welcomed once again the
wanderer back to the fold. Then, ’mid
many an audible sob, he pronounced the
benediction.
At peace with God and man, Alan, as
he drove home from church, felt, as never
before, the efficacy of the concluding verse
of the morning lesson—“ Surely goodness
and mercy shall follow me all the days of
my life, and I will dwell in the house of
the Lord forever.” To Alan these pre
cious words bore a truth, an inexpressible
comfort that surpasseth all understand
ing-
During the next year Adan devoted
much time and money to charity and
religion. The faithful old minister, who
had twice been the instrument of leading
him into the light and peace of a religious
life, was the first to be provided for. In
the farther end of the grove, where the
wild honeysuckle and May flowers grew
in profusion, there sprung up as if by
magic a cosy rural cottage surrounded by
flowers and rustic benches. The pic
turesque structure looked like an abode
for fairies and wood-nymphs, nestling there
beneath the sheltering boughs of the giant
oaks, with their great, brawny arms inter
locked above in silent protection from
sultry rays and wintry winds. Within
this delightful little bower were placed,
among other things, a library filled with
all those books which Alan knew the
venerable man of God loved to read. . Be
sides these the postman at the station
monthly brought forth a bundle of papers
and magazines from the great presses
throughout the country, and spread them
out on the heavy oak table in this cozy
reading room. Here, indeed, was a haven
of rest in which the faithful old minister
could pass his fading years in peace of
mind and tranquillity of spirit, surrounded
by those with whom he had labored and
who loved him with that great, unselfish
love which is only possible with great, un
selfish hearts and souls.
It was Alan’s chiefest joy to sit in the
library or under the little vine-clad veran
da and hold communion with this venera
ble teacher, with the love of nature and
nature’s God in his soul, and the soothing
drone of the leafy grove in his ears. From
underneath the sheltering oaks the vista
included distant fields and hills, the gradual
fading of the day changed the silver sun
light to gold and then to varying shades of
purple, as the sun sank beneath the hills,
and never failed to fascinate and charm
the beholder.
To Alan, this hour of twilight was ever
fruitful of pleasant day-dreams. Then he
again those halcyon days when by
his mother’s side he sat under the shelter
ing leaves of that old-fashioned rose-bush
which wove its fragrant arms lovingly
above the portal of his happy childhood
home. Sweet visions of other days crowded
his memory, as the stars one by one began
to twinkle in the vast blue vault above,
while the intermittent light of the fitful
firefly studded the meadow with slow-mov
ing miniature will-o’-the-wisps. On these
occasions but few words were spoken.
Only now and then was the soothing
silence broken by human speech. As
Alan sat one evening thinking of his early
associates and calling back to memory the
missing ones, he broke the silence by
timidly asking of his early sweetheart.
“The Strong family—they have gone.
What has become of them?” he said hesi
tatingly.
The old preacher, a man of over seventy,
had spent forty years of his life as pastor
of this particular congregation, and during
that period had known everybody in the
community. Alan had often wondered
where they had gone and had as often
been on the point of inquiring about them,
but each time he put it off. While he
waited for a reply, his heart beat percepti
bly faster.
Many times he had thought of Effie
Strong, since his return to the farm. On
several occasions he had sought out the
old beech tree on which still remained her
half obliterated name, and speculated as
to her manner of life. He had carved it
there when both were young and hopes
ran high. He remembered his youthful
dream of love when he should be the proud
owner of a city mansion and Effie its
beautiful mistress. Alas! how time laughs
at our early vagaries! He often recalled
those youthful fancies—sometimes with
childish joy, more often with bitterness at
the irony of fate—and wondered whereon
the great sea of life had drifted the object
of his boyish affections. On this droning
summer night Alan’s heart was filled with
these tender memories. His desire to
know the history of his first love at length
overcame his timidity, and so he asked the
question.
“Strong? Strong? Ben Strong, who
lived on the old Anderson farm?” said the
pastor, cudgeling bis brain.
“Yes, the one with the pretty daughter.
Effie was her name, I believe,” said Alan,
ill concealing his interest.
“Ah, yes, I remember now. They left
many years ago for the west; was unfortu
nate in his money affairs, I believe, and
was compelled to sell his farm to pay his
debts. I don’t know what has become of
him, but I heard he got along poorly after
selling the farm. It was the year of the
failure of crops in the west, and he, with
many others, who had not yet become
established, doubtless were hard put to it
in order to live.”
“The girl, Effie, do you remember
her?”
“Ah, very well. She was a lovely
young woman. Only the Sunday before
they left, I received her into the church.
I have never seen her since.”
Filled with many pleasant dreams of other
days, when he gathered wild flowers for
Effie and helped her over the little bab
bling brook on their way from school,
Alan slowly sauntered through the per
fumed evening air to the old home among
the flowering locusts and dark green
maples.
CHAPTER IV.
T WAS during that interact between
seed-time and harvest on the rural
. stage, that the annual Sunday School
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picnic was given. The crops had
been tilled and left to mature, and the
farmers were enjoying, ere the harvest
came on, a few weeks of well-earned rest.
This was the season for mid-summer di
versions. It was the time when the old
rifle was taken down from its accustomed
place above the door, and cleaned up for a
few days’ hunting, or the cobwebbed fish
ing tackle dragged from out the rubbish of
the smoke-house loft and gotten in order
for half a week’s service along the neigh
boring streams. It was also the time for
out-door gatherings, such as family reun
ions, camp-meetings and picnics.
It had long been the custom for all the
churches in the neighborhood to annually
give a combined, non-sectarian Sunday
School celebration. These gatherings
brought together in some suitable grove
the majority of the county’s population,
and were accounted the most important of
the summer’s outdoor festivities. No one
could afford to miss the Sunday School
picnic. The thrifty housewives were busy
planning their “spreads” for no less than a
week beforehand, for a sort of good-natured
rivalry existed among the excellent cooks
as to who could display on these occasions
the most tempting meal. Alan well re
membered these early picnics when, after
exploring the remote corners of the groye.
FEBRUARY, 1896.