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_____ I W F }?’- 1 9 W F ■ _. V ’ ■ ■ - ? - V _< '■ ■ v ■ B ■ 'M H v B IB > B’ B IB 18. B<Bf Bl B B B B # v B IB IB m! v ■ v v W ■ ■ SI BhJf Imjlß w» Bl Bl B B fßf B | B I w Bl B B B B B W W B B f B B bhhß I B B B B B B B B B B B Ivlt? »>'.'■>.*,ljSy A MAW 'JB . BL 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