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T. L. MITCHELL, Publisher.
Vol. 13.—N0. 9.
For Woman’s Work.
.The Mann WMn Th© Penu o
Dedicated to Edwin /Vlarl<ham.
the weight of others’ woes, he leans
IO) Upon his hand and gazes on the ground,
The thoughtfulness of years upon his face,
And in his heart the burdens of this age,
Patient and grave, a brother of mankind.
Who carved the lines around that kindly mouth?
Whose was the hand that furrowed deep that brow?
Whose griefs begot the thoughts within that brain?
Is this the type of cultured, lettered ease,
Which holds dominion only with the pen,
Which seeks not selfish ends nor asks for power,
But feels the passion for humanity?
Is this the dream they dream who claim that man
Against his fellow-man is ever set ?
’Neath all the stars of Heaven to Earth’s last stretch
There is no soul more pitying for mankind,
More filled with travail for his brother’s woes;
More fraught with blessings for the universe.
O, brothers, ye who neither grieve nor hope,
If such there be in this our latest hour,
Took up, the day dawns. They who wield the pen,
Wield it oftimes for you; and never yet
Did intellect and grace, refinement, wealth,
And all that once your Masters called their own,
Work for you with such burning, earnest words
As now are poured forth for humanity.
O, brothers, ruled, and rulers, in this land
How does the future gleam with hope and cheer!
How loyal hearts glow, waiting for that hour
When universal brotherhood shall reign.
How will it be with intellects like these
Who plead the cause of the “soul quenched and dumb,”
When rich and poor alike stand before God,
To wait the glories of eternity?
Susanna G. Fisher.
For Woman s Work.
IN a quiet, shaded nook of Mrs. Bland
shaw’s garden—a spot shut oft from
tue gaze of the street by a clump of syr
inga bushes, shaded by a large myrtle
tree, encircled by ever-blooming roses,
and carpeted with fresh green grass—here,
on the balmiest of all balmy June days,
sat Margaret Belan.
Half reclining in an easy garden-chair,
her white dress lay on the gras?, and a
stray breeze played with the loose rings of
her rich brown hair, while on a cheek of
rare fairness, there was a sweep of long
dark lashes. With half-closed eyes—eyes
of the darkest blue—she watched.
•‘A single white cloud from its haven of rest,
On the white wing of peace floating off in the
west.”
On her lap lay an open volume of
poems, and her lips moved slowly as she
softly repeated a line.
On her bosom was pinned a bunch of
sweet white violets with their delicate
green leaves—a type of the lovely face
above them, and a fitting emblem of her
quiet, pure life.
“Just a summer butterfly with never a
care nor a sorrow,” remarked some one.
Ah! no. Looked you at her hands?
They were white and shapely, but bore
marks from both needle and scissors, and
about her mouth there was a blending of
gentleness and strength that was very
pleasing; and from her eyes beamed peace
and contentment —the peace that comes
alter the storm, and the contentment of a
spirit at rest.
Margaret worked for her own living,
H?EMEo
had done so for years; she was only twen
ty, but, owing to the quiet, busy life she
led, she looked younger still.
Her life, like many of ours, had been
checkered by shade and sunshine, with much
of the shade and only fitful gleams of sun
shine.
Os her parents she had very little recol
lection, as they both died in her early
childhood; so she had lived with a maiden
aunt until the death of this aunt, some two
years before this afternoon of which I am
telling you.
Margaret’s aunt—poor, very strict, yet
gentle—taught her all that she herself
knew of books and then pinched and saved
to give the girl a couple of sessions at a
good school. But, better than this, she
taught Margaret her own accomplishment
—fine needle work.
At her aunt’s death—when she was
thrown entirely on her own resources for
her bread—disliking teaching, Margaret
took up sewing; she had never regretted
this, for she liked her work. True it left
her more alone in the world, for Marga
ret’s nature and ways would not “com
radeship” with the general class of sewing
women. She had lived most of her life
without companions, never knew an inti
mate girl friend, and yet she was never
lonely or felt alone, for she made compan
ions of all animate and inanimate things
around her—the clock that ticked on the
mantle, the cat, the dog, or even the few
stray flies that found their way to the sew
ing room and buzzed about her hands and
face.
This life and teaching had not made
TO TURN THEM FROM ALLURING PATHS OF ERROR ONCE EMBRACED.
ATHENS, GEORGIA, SEPTEMBER, 1900.
her selfish or morose. She could, more
truly than anyone, say she loved all man
kind. She felt a gentle pity for those who
were poorer, and who enjoyed less of her
faith and trust and hope; and to those
above her, from a worldly as well as a Chris
tian point of view, she showed a deep re
spect; in the latter case it amounted to
reverence.
She was just a modest, sweet violet, that
grew in the shade under the hedge-row and
raised a pure heart in faith and trust to
heaven.
Mrs. Blandshaw said of her, in her patron
izing way; “Margaret keeps her place and
does not presume upon one. I like her much
better than any other sewing girl 1 have
ever had.” Yes, she “knew her place” and
kept it with a gentle dignity that gives a
charm to the humblest place.
Margaret knew she was only a sewing
girl, engaged for the present by Mrs.
Blandshaw to do up the spring and sum
mer sewing, and the time of our introduc
tion was the hour allowed her every eve
ning for recreation. She was filling every
moment of it with enjoyment, too. She
loved the warm sunshine, the gentle
breeze, the flowers, the song of the birds,
the hum from the busy street, and as for
the book upon her lap—it was a treasure
she was too poor to possess. The kindness of
Mrs. Blandshaw allowed her to take books
from the case, provided they were not fin
ger-marked.
Margaret loved to read; she was espe
cially fond of poems, most of which, after
one or two readings, she could repeat word
for word, which she often did as she back
stitched long, straight seams. These mo
ments of intense enjoyment she would not
allow to be c’ouded by even a thought of
those purple flowers and red berries that
Mrs. Blandshaw would have her to put on
a green ground.
It was not her nature to borrow trouble
or lose the sun’s bright gleams to-day by
anticipating brighter sunshine to-morrow.
She lived entirely in the present moment—
whether of joy or sorrow it was to the glo
ry of the Father. Yesterday’s cares and
to-morrow’s pleasures were left in His
hands, with her prayers for strength for
the day. Thus she lived in spirit very
close to her God, and her uneventful life
flowed on with the soft lul-lul of the
mountain rill.
Only a sewing girl, Margaret Delan
was fair and lovely in face and form,
plain and unaffected'in her manner, gentle
and affectionate in her disposition, yet she
was a brave little woman, as I shall tell
you.
Suddenly, into the dreamland of her
book there came a merry burst of childish
laughter, and, glancing up, she saw a girl
of some tour or five summers, scrambling
through the palings where one bad fallen
off, and then skipping right up to Marga
ret’s side. She knew it was their neigh
bor’s, (the Caruthers’) little daughter, for
she had seen the child playing in the next
yard.
“See, lady, I’ve brought you the magic
rose to break the spell and set you free.
Take it.” She held out a lovely, bright
red rose, and Margaret smiled as she took
it.
“What must I do with it?” she asked.
“You must wear it. The Knight sent
it. Ha-ha-ha! Brother and me have been
playing that you were a lady bound by a
spell here in au enchanted garden. We
called the old lady the ogre. He is the
knight, 1 am the fairy, and this is the
magic rose that’s to break the spell.”
“ Well,” said Margaret, “I am truly
glad, good Eairy. Here, I will send the
knight my violets, and 1 will wear his
rose.” The veritable fairy gathered the
violets in her hands, and, with a toss of
her yellow hair, skipped oft the way she
had come, alter first pressing her lips to
Margaret’s cheek with a quick, childish
impulse.
Margaret was still smilingly examining
her rose when she heard again the same
childisn laugh, and, looking up, she saw her
standing at an open second story window
KATE GARLAND, Editress.
50 Gts. per Year.
talking to a gentleman. He held her violets
and they were looking down directly at her.
“Was it the gentleman the child called
brother?” In Margaret’s mind the word
had been associated with a boy not much
larger than the little girl. There was no
lack of color in Margaret’s face now—it
was crimson.
“What have I done?” she exclaimed as
she arose quickly and went into the house,
without a backward glance. She laid the
rose on the mantel, and stitched away very
hard at her work, but her cheeks did not
cool down for sometime.
The Caruthers had just moved into this
house a few weeks before, and their
coming had been hailed with delight by
Mrs. Blandshaw and her circle as being a
social success for them.
“The Caruthers,” Mrs. Blandshaw said,
“are of the best set of the city. They are
enormously rich, and I have often read of
the grand dinners and entertainments
they give. Mrs. Caruthers is a widow, and
Dr. Caruthers is her s'ep-son.”
Mrs. Blandshaw’s set were very much
aggrieved, on calling, to be received by
the Doctor only, and told that Mrs. Ca
ruthers was an invalid and did not see vis
itors at all. She had only moved down to
this quiet street on the shore to get the
lake breeze.
Margaret thought it all over after her
cheeks had somewhat cooled off, and de
cided she had been a little simpleton to get
so flustrated about it. They certainly
would not remember her awkward blun
der five minutes, and the way she had
acted may have looked like a display of
temper.
Then she thought how sweet the little
girl was, —with such lovely golden hair.
She wondered if the mother was like the
little one. Perhaps Mrs. Caruthers might
give her some plain sewing to do; but, no,
no—one so very wealthy wouldn’t think
of employing just a common sewing girl
like little Margaret Dalan!
The next day she went quietly back to
her seat in the garden; ®he had almost for
gotten the occurrence of the day previous,
or only thought of it as a blunder that
would not be remembered by the other
party. Margaret’s book was veryinterest
iag; soon her every sense was buried in it,
and she knew nothing that was taking
Elace in the outside world. But a little
mgh startled her and brought her back
to things present.
Yes, there was her fairy coming through
the palings again, but—a gentleman lean
ed over tue fence and raised his hat to her.
She felt her cheeks grow warm, but her
natural quietness of manner did not de
sert her.
“I beg your pardon, Ma’am, for disturb
ing you. My step-mother is a shut-in
from the world in general, but she has
taken a fancy to see you, and you can give
her great pleasure if you will.” He spoke
in a pleasing manner, and with as much
deference as if addressing a queen.
“Cornel O, cornel” cried the child, clasp
ing Margaret’s hand with both of her own
and drawing her to her feet. “I’ve told
Mummy all about the beautiful lady bound
here in this enchanted garden by a spell,
and guarded by an ogre. Come, come.
Me and the knight have come to rescue
you.”
“Yes, I will come,” Margaret answered
at once, “but 1 must go through the house
to get my hat. and then I will enter
through the gate.”
“No, no—this way, this way,” persisted
the child. “You can get through, I know,
and the ogre will gei. you and keep you if
you don’t come. Be quick.” The young man
smiled and held out his hand to assist her.
Through the fence went one small foot,
and then Margaret was standing on the
other side.
“’Tis very kind of you to humor an in
valid who doesn’t see very much of pleas
ure now,” he said as he led the way.
“’Tis a small kindness. One could not
do less, and I hope it is in my power to do
more.” The young man gave a smile and
a bow of thanks, doubtless more for the
sweet, quiet tones and manner than for her