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6 Worth Womans While “He chose the path for thee; No feeble chance, nor hard, relentless fate, But love, His love, hath placed thy footsteps here, He knew thy way was rough and desolate; Knew how thy heart would often sink with fear, Yet tenderly He whispered, ‘Child, I see This path is best for thee.’ ” She Would Not Smile. We had a guest once. On the morning before she was to arrive we fortified our good resolution toward her with these words from our treasured Sage of Concord which we turned to and applied with thorough consecration of all our best inten tions: “Tis good to give a stranger a meal, or a night’s lodging. ’Tis better to be hospitable to his good meaning and thought, and give courage to a companion.” We thought it all out and de liberately put away our own concerns that we might be fully free to devote ourselves to the stranger guest’s pleasures, and went to the station to meet her. She had left us in doubt as to which station, but we got around any possible mischance there by inducing a friend to go to one while we took the risk of the other. And ours was the lucky choice—at least she came into that one. Being a person of some regular and schedule duties we had found it a little difficult to put the thought of them away—habit is a dreadful tyrant—but by the time we had reached the station it was done, and we could imagine that cordial hospi tality fairly beamed from our friendly countenance as Mark Twain says information stews out of him “like the precious ottar of roses out of the ot ter.” We stood by the turnstile and watched for one to approach whom we could imagine was she. Wo men young and women older passed through, and presently came one—we were sure we were mistak en—toward whom we smiling pressed. “Is it Mrs. A—?” we asked, with our engaging manner. She looked at us from her long, cold height and nod ded assent. Not a word, not a smile broke the calm of her impassive countenance. “We think you know who w r e are?” we said, pleasantly, recalling all the letters and dispatches we had received in reference to her coming and the time we had already attempted to meet her and she did not come. Only another nod—no acknowledgment of our cognomen, or of us, except to say: “He told me to wear some white flowers pinned on my dress— but I didn’t do that.” And we remembered that one of the letters had said “he” would direct her to do so. Seeing that she had no intention of smiling we began politely to possess ourselves of her hand baggage. She had a satchel and umbrella and, though the day was sweltering, a wrap, and a great square newspaper package! (If there is any thing makes us cringe inside it is having to carry a newspaper parcel.) But we were high-minded that day, the height to which we had gotten our selves disdained to be offended at such small things as heavy luggage and newspaper packages nearly a yard square. Now, the trouble (we are apologetic for the word) about a friend from out-of-town stopping over for a day or two, is that she always has so many places to go and so many things to do. You cannot get a carriage unless you take it by the hour; you can’t take the cars, for the distances will not per mit—and before you know it you have walked and stood miles. And when all the time you must in sist on carrying for her a heavy satchel and a cum bersome newspaper package, in spite of your ut most kindness and the best resolves it has made, you will find yourself growing weary as the hours drag on. Though, if only she will smile, the bur den will be lighter and the time shorter. The thing about our friend was, she would not smile. She was a good soul, too—we were sure of that. The Golden Age for August 9, 1906. By FLORENCE TUCKER But she had no sense of humor; and having so much of other concern to engage her attention, of course did not have time to consider that we were giving up ourselves, for which insignificant benefit we would feel amply repaid with the smallest mod icum of acknowledgment. Our cleverest sallies fell as flat on her as the sound of her colorless voice on us; and certainly she was not to know that other people had their days full to overflowing, she who could not even take care of her gloves when in boarding the car at last to go home we took in our own hands everything there was except the gloves —and these she lost! Now, to have a whole household in hospitable and gala expectation of a guest whom you are pledged to honor, and dinner the main feature of the day, as of course it must be, it is a little disturbing to realize as the hour draws near that you and the guest are far from home, and to hear over the ’phone that the dessert is spoiling! And other going-away friends to be served that they may take their train. What to do? Serve the dinner for the convenience of these and so ruin all the best effect so carefully planned for the stranger? Alas, alas! how little she knew, and how uncon cerned she was, even when at three o’clock we had her safely in the house—but found it was not so easy to get her from the room to which she was invited to refresh herself, though she knew the family was still gathered at table awaiting us. When finally she did sit down we all began to breathe freely—but just a little too soon! Our friend was a religious enthusiast just from a no table convention, and her mind was too absorbed in the mighty questions of church and creed to be conscious of possible inconvenience to hostess and servant. Thoroughly comfortable now she leaned her elbow on the table and between exhortations for our spiritual welfare and boastings of the greatness of her particular denomination, partook of her din ner at ease and leisure—it did not occur to her that half a dozen people and the domestic arrange ment of a’home were waiting on her. Smiles were directed at her, and all the kindly, friendly things that are said to strangers in the wish to make them feel welcome and at home; lit tle jests were made, and pleasant laughter went round, but she did not understand—she was ab stracted. and serious. And so to the end of that memorable visit—a visit which for us was a failure, for all our attempts were worse than fruitless— and we have always maintained it was because she had no sense of humor, she could not smile. So in tent we were upon being hospitable, we did not mind it so much at the time as after she had gone, when thinking it all over we were positively aggrieved. Our intention had been so good, our resolution little short of heroic (for, remember, it costs something to have your whole habit of every day set aside for a space), and now that it was all over to have not even the recollection of a smile for reward—it was disappointing. But she was a good soul—we wish her all the comfort and ease she can get in that distant place to which she has gone, and send after her a real gratitude for the lesson she has taught us, which is this: To smile when we go a-staying in other people’s houses, to be honestly appreciative and amused if we can, but to smile, whatever we do or do not, to smile! Why Find Fault? Contumely helps nobody; least of all the one who administers it. Pessimistic remarks dampen the enthusiasm of others, discourage honest effort, and react on the grumbler. A gloomy, melancholy dis position is largely a matter of habit. It does not matter if one is unconscious of such habits, they figure in the final result of life work, just the same. Watch your chance remarks. Make them count for hope and encouragement.—Ex, Mother Died Tonight. “Your mother died to-night”—that’s all it said; But, somehow, in that simple line I read The last sad words of love and sympathy, The last heart-blessing that she gave to me, The admonitions that all went amiss, And what God ne’er can give—her farewell kiss; The fadeless picture as she knelt to pray That she might meet me up above—some day, “Your mother died tonight, ’’ is all it said, As on the throbbing wire the tidings sped Prom that old, happy home, from which I came, To strive anew for honor and for fame, To moil with will to win a golden store To lay in solemn suppliance at her door; But shattered are the hopes, unnerved the might, By that sad message, “Mother died tonight,” 0 stars that glide through heaven’s unfathomed sea, May I not meet her in Alcyone? Oh, let me know, as oft in childhood’s harms, That peace found only nestling in her arms! Gone the gray hair, the eyes that wept in vain, Gone the sad smile I ne’er shall see again, Gone the true heart, the soft, love-laden breast, Gone the one mother to her last long rest. —Robert Mackay. Over-Sensitiveness. Many people are kept back, in their efforts Io get along in the world, by over-sensitiveness. They carry about with them, most of the time, a sense of injury which not only makes them unhappy, but also to a great extent mars their efficiency. This failing—for it is a failing, and a very se rious one, too—is an exaggerated form of self consciousness, which, while entirely different from egotism or conceit, causes self to loom up in such large proportions on the mental retina as to over shadow everything else. The victim of it feels that, wherever he goes, whatever he does, he is the center of observation, and that all eyes, all thoughts, are fo cused upon him. He imagines that people are criticising his movements and his person, and mak ing fun at his expense; when, in reality, they are not thinking of him, and perhaps did not see him. This supersensitiveness, so destructive to happi ness and success, and, incidentally, to health—for whatever destroys harmony, destroys health—be trays, in a sense, a lack of self-respect of which no man or woman should voluntarily be guilty. To be a complete man, one must be conscious, but not in an offensive way, of his own worth and dignity. He must feel himself superior to envious criticism or ridicule. When some one told Diogenes that he was derided, he replied: “But I am not derided.” He counted only those ridiculed who feel the ridi cule and are discomposed by it. The surest way to conquer morbid sensitiveness is to mingle with people as freely as possible, and, while appraising your own ability and intelligence at least as impartially as you would those of a friend or acquaintance, to forget yourself. Unless you can become unconscious of self, you will never either appear at your best or do the best of which you are capable. It requires will power and an unbending determination to conquer this arch ene my to success, but what has been done can be done, and many who were held down by it for years have, by their own efforts, outgrown it and risen to commanding positions.—Selected. Halt the people in the world think they could do better and be happier elsewhere than where they happen to be placed. They see only the thorns, the drudgery, and the disagreeable things in their own vocation, and only the flowers and the pleasant experiences in the vocations of others.”