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6 THE GUIDING HAND Worth Woman’s While. The Privilege of Hospitality. RE we not in danger in the strenuous ness which threatens to absorb many of the privileges of quieter living; of losing altogether that dearest one of hospitality? The sort of hospitality that Job knew when he built his house square, with a door at each side, and kept every door open that the traveler coming from whichever way might find welcome. Or which prompted the rude swamp dweller in our own country to urge upon his unex pected guest the only dish his board afforded. “Stranger,” he said, “have a tater.” Then, again, “Stranger, have another tater!” And as the glow of hospitality warmed his generous breast still fur ther, he insisted, “Stranger, take nigh all the ta ters! ’ ’ The hospitality that bids us give, and joy in giving. We were reading the other day of a Japanese mother who, looking out from her little house, saw coming along the white sunny road, the cruel heat beating fiercely upon her, a young woman carrying a heavy child, and almost dropping with weariness and fatigue. Running out upon her tiny porch the mother waved to her eagerly as she drew nearer. “Come in, come in,” she cried, “and rest your self!” And as the tired creature sank down, the child beside her, the mother-heart was moved to pity and impulse of loving ministration. Water was brought for the poor feet that had traveled so far, and refreshment that from sheer exhaustion, could not be taken. “Oh, you are worn and spent,” she sympathized. “You must rest and sleep!” And placing the wo man kindly upon the mats she took the little boy away to bathe and soothe with her own tender hands. The heat of the summer’s afternoon lay so heavy upon the land that all life was wrapped in drowse and languor, scarce a stir was anywhere, yet forgetful of her own comfort and of her house hold duties yet to be done, she tended the child and waited; and when her guest had rested, and at lasr ■waked, it was to the sweet sight of her little boy seated upon his tiny heels before this kind new friend, his mouth opened bird-like, and she smiling ly feeding him, bit by bit. And when the sun was lower, and the two refreshed and strengthened gone on their way, and the mother set about preparations for the evening meal, her hands and heart were light as her thoughts were of the stranger she had taken in. That was hospitality. The trouble with us is we are unable or unwilling to give of ourselves—our time, our thought, our interest away from other things. Unable because of the multiplicity of inter ests which claim us; and unwilling—are we not un willing? Is it not the habit of unhospitality grow ing upon us? Are not we allowing these other things to strangle ami crowd out the duty and priv ilege to which St. Paul recommends us? Whenever did we feel that we had time to look without our doors and hail in and give succor to the fainting stranger? And have we counted the cost? When we weigh the matter, the loss is found to exceed the gain, for in this, as in other things, it is the giving that enriches. For the time that we give from the same ness of routine duty we receive in exchange the cheerful impetus of contact with friendly and sym pathetic hearts; the rest from dullness which un interrupted application inevitably entails; the con sciousness of having tried to contribute to others’ pleasure; and afterwards the memory which is like By FLORENCE TUCKER The Golden Age for March 29, 1906. a sweet fragrant aftermath. Contact with broad minds and lofty characters is a privilege to be sought and esteemed, and the presence of men and women of culture and nobility around the hearth stone or gathered about the family board, an in fluence incalculable in its reaching. The conversa tion of such is a wholesome uplift and encourage ment and aspiration. We all know the triviality that marks the table talk in many houses, and reading Dr. James Stalk er we see it is an opportunity lost. He calls atten tion to the fact that our Lord made use of the time when at dinner in the house of a friend, or supping with his disciples, to utter some of the profound est of his teachings. Words containing the lesssons of life, and which have been engraved on Time’s imperishable tablets, fell from his lips as table talk addressed to his host or fellow-guests. Though there is no doubt that he made it an opportunity. And this is where we fail to emulate him, or to have with us those who will. Dr. Stalker says, “It is a rare gift to lift conversation out of the ditch and lead it to manly and profitable themes”—which is some explanation of our shortcoming, perhaps, and possibly some measure of excuse; though it is a question whether many of us give the matter real consideration—even where there are children and young people to be impressed. When we were young and impressionable, alert to every personality and keen to feel in our self the reflex, we were once staying in a house where came as a guest an aged kinsman of Dr. James H. Carlisle. A venerable man with the dignity of long and large life, his presence was a benediction, and his conversation of the sort that leads a whole fam ily unconsciously to a high plane. Never was a guest more appreciated by his entertainers; and when he came to depart and said good-bye, and descending the steps, turned, and lifting his hand to Heaven while we all waited, invoked in reverent tones the blessing of God upon that hous.e, the effect on us all was one which could never be lost, and hospi tality evermore was to have a deeper and richer meaning. For hospitality to be itself, must mean something. If it has not as its object, the securing of our guest’s comfort, or the making of our friend’s pleasure; if it is not extended spontaneously with the de sire to serve, the willingness to put aside for the time being our own concerns for those of some body else, then whatsoever we have done has meant nothing—it was not hospitality. We must give not only of meat and drink and shelter, but of good will and sympathy and interest. A hospitable Ger man neighbor we had, was wont to say, “It is not what I set before my friend to eat, but the good cheer that makes him enjoy the meal— it’s the good cheer.” And that reminds us of the story we heard the other day of another woman whose idea of hos pitality had its requirements. One of them was the good cheer, certainly, but—there were others. It was some years ago, when the South had not grown away from its old ways of entertaining, but still clung to a sort of lavishness that has gradually come to be considered unnecessary; and this par ticular woman was famed as a hostess. She lived in a neighboring city where hospitality was general and her own house noted for generous entertain ment. But, alas! her son married and brought down from the other side of the line a wife with whom came advanced ideas for entertaining, as develop ments have since proven. This lady in time an nounced a reception in the establishment which she set up, and her mother-in-law was invited to receive with her. Which she did. At least until the refresh ments came on, when all at once, she was missing, and seen no more that evening. Speaking of it af terward, she cried in abject humiliation “Sand wiches and tea! When I saw what the refreshments were I simply couldn’t stand it! Why, everybody in N knows me! I just couldn’t face those people!” And sure enough she had fled to the at tic, there to hide herself and her outraged sense of hospitality. .So, differently do we look at the same things, each in his own way, and each sincere. But when our best efforts for our friends are all too short for what the situation seems to demand, let us take care there is no self-consciousness mixed with re gret. Emerson says: “Hospitality must be for ser vice and not for show, or it pulls down the host. The brave soul rates itself too high to value itself by the splendor of its table and draperies. It gives what it hath, and all it hath, but its own majesty can lend a better grace to bannocks and fair water than belong to city feasts.” This question of whether we can afford it ought never to enter in—whether we can give the guest as good as he has given us, or as much, perhaps, as some other would. It deprives us of the joy there is in a friend’s presence, and is unkind to him if he perceive by so much as the faintest shadow that there is anxiety on his account. A certain pride is as proper as the prompting to kindly entertain ment, but any apparent concern or disquietude were more to be deplored than the isolation which shuts us off from this most blessed opportunity. It is a pity we cannot so order our ways as to get the best—a pity that in the rush after what we fancy we must have, we must close the doors to our hearts and our houses, and so seldom permit ourselves the enjoyment and the privilege of hospi tality. Let Something Good Be Said. When over the fair fame of friend or foe The shadow of disgrace shall fall; instead Or words of blame, or proof of thus or so, Let something good be said. Forget not that no fellow-being yet May fall so low but love may lift his head; Even the cheek of shame with tears is wet, If something good be said. No generous heart may vainly turn aside In ways of sympathy; no soul so dead But may awaken strong and glorified If something good be said. And so I charge ye, by the thorny crown, And by the cross on which the 'Savior bled, And by your own souls’ hope of fair renown, Let something good be said! —James Whitcomb Riley. Queen Alexandra, of England, is a good woman, generous and pitiful. Her recent efforts to relieve the poor of London are familiar to all, and in the light of statistics appear truly heroic. The census shows that out of every 1,000 citizens of that city, twenty-eight are paupers. What could even England do with a situation like that! Yet when her heart is so sore for her people the good queen must throw herself into the stream and breast the tide even when at its flood. Her sympathy with the poor is most beautiful. A short time ago she was asked to act as godmother to the child of poor parents; and after the christening, taking her diamond ring she wrote on the window-pane, 11 God’s blessing on this house and all who live in it.” His work is never hard to do, Who thinks all day of some one; He labors well whose heart is true And- fondly true to some one; Men strive for wealth—men bravely go Where danger is for fame, but, oh, The sweetest joy a man may know Is just to toil for some one! —Selected.