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6 Worth Woman s While “If you have gentle words and looks, my friends, To spare for me—if you have tears to shed That I have suffered—keep them not, I pray, Until I hear not, see not, being dead. For loving looks, though fraught with tenderness And kindly tears, though they fall thick and fast, And words of praise alas! can naught avail To lift the shadows from a life that’s past.” Unfortunate to Know Too Much. A party of friends were sitting together the other •afternoon in the enjoyment of a quiet hour when one, an elderly and cultivated gentleman, inquired casually: “Do you know Mrs. S ? No? She is stay- ing with us at present. A great talker, a woman of considerable wealth, comes of a rich family. She talks all the time—you can’t mention any sub ject that she doesn’t know something about it.” “How tiresome!” exclaimed a woman who doesn’t make any claim to superior knowledge. “People like that make me so tired!” The gentleman smiled quietly, and remarked in a confidential tone, “They do me.” And isn’t it true of us all? People who know so much, whose word is the final one, aren’t they just a little trying company? “No,” they say, “it is thus or so.” And will allow you not so much as an opinion differing from their ultimatum. It is a fine thing to have knowledge, but to what end is knowledge? Surely not that it shall be used to the disconcerting and discomfort of others. For it is disconcerting and discomforting to be forced into the position of one who does not know, whether or not it be true, simply because a dominating spirit will allow you no slightest assertion. It is humili ating, and to a sensitive person, often to the point of tears. Better is a little knowledge and the sweetness which allows to others what would be claimed for self. What is a mind stored full of facts; a mem ory that parrots them forth in order? Learning has done little more than ignorance unless it enters into and makes the person. All that we can acquire is but to the one end, to make us broad and gener ous and high, to make us considerate of others, a helpful but a modest factor in the great universal plan. Calling People By their Given Names. Don’t call people by their given names—it takes ■away from their sense of what they represent to you, and opens the way for familiarity on their part which is not always desirable. Sometimes we condescend with a patronage meant for kindness, but it is not bringing up to our level, it is simply stepping down to theirs. Even our intimate friends cannot but respond to the delicate battery of “a handle” to their names. The Reverend Thomas Brown will feel himself inflate with an added dig nity addressed as Doctor, when just familiar Tom may make him doubt his own greatness. And so with a married woman who flushes with happy pride and consequence at being called by her husband’s name—it feels to her a sort of tribute to her estate of dignity and importance. Young women make the mistake of speaking of their men friends as Jack and Dick and Billy—not just those they have grown up with; it is amazing to see how quickly new acquaintances are admitted to this footing, spoken of and spoken to with the utmost ease of perfect familiarity. And you will hear a woman speak of her husband as “John,” thus seeming to let down the bars to domestic dig nity and sanctity—for there is not sanctity where all the world is admitted. Instinctively when your friend speaks of her husband as “Mr. ” you fell a prompting of respect for him and for her, but “John” inspires nothing more than just “John.” The Golden Age for August 30, 1906. By FLORENCE TUCKER The show of respect is a wonderful promoter of self-respect, especially with young people. Treat ed as irresponsible children they are apt to deport themselves as such, but consideration and courtesy awaken a sense of individuality and involuntary reciprocity—unconsciously they maintain their per sonality, and give as they receive and as is expect ed of them. The attitude servants are taught to assume toward the children of a household has much to do with the opinion young people form of their own place in the family life. How shocking it is to overhear the maid speaking of the young lady of the house by her name unprefaced by the usual title of Miss. Yet if she is accustomed to have the mistress say to her, “Go and tell Mary to come here,” instead of, “Go to Miss Mary and ask her to come here”—isn’t it plain she, observing the difference, will act upon it? In a household we know the servant addresses the young son of fifteen as “Bob” and his elder sister of seventeen as “Annie”; and not only that, but her manner, especially toward the latter, is distinct ly domineering—following the example of the moth er who regards her children as children merely, and by her manner instigates the behavior of the ser vant who is permitted her disrespect until it reaches the point of insolence when she is dis charged and another put in her place, only to go through with the same thing. Such a home of con fusion and turmoil and high-pitched voices and con stant irritating of one by the other! And such awkward, self-conscious, ill-at-ease young people! It is so unfair to them. Hectored at home, and not accustomed to respect, when they go out such an unprepossessing appearance they present. And what uncertain, shiftless sort of characters are be ing built up in them—what a confused thing life already is to them! It seems just a little thing’, this giving of people the appellation of common courtesy, but it means so much in far-reaching effect. We even like our selves better, when we think of it, for being polite to those around us. “A gay, serene spirit is the source of alt that i« good,” said Schiller. Whatever is accomplisTle? of the greatest and the noblest sort flows from such a disposition. Petty, gloomy souls that only mourn the past and dread the future are not capable of seizing on the holiest moments of life. If people would look at worry in all its naked hideousness, as the manifestation of a small, narrow nature, in capable of entertaining large views, or of trusting grandly, they would be ashamed to be counted among its victims. But the chronic worrier prides himself on his “foresight,” on his prudence in tak ing thought for the morrow. The mother who is afraid to let her children go out to play, lest thev fall and hurt themselves, or soil their clothes, and worries from morning till night over the petty cares of the day, thanks her stars that she is not careless like other women.—Ex. Although all cannot live in the country, nor drink water from deep wells, nor live in houses built on hill-tops, all can approximate the conditions on which longevity depends. Water may be made pure by boiling, or, better still, by distillation; air and sunshine are the gifts of heaven; cleanliness and cheerfulness are free to the humblest; plain food and ripe fruit (the latter at least during the sum mer and autumn months) are within the reach of all but the absolutely destitute. But the great secret of all good health is to think good health. One thing in regard to which there is no room for difference of opinion is the daily bath. No mat ter whether you are a dweller in the city or the country, a hand worker or a brain worker, a farmer or a mechanic, tin* daily bath, not alone for cleanli ness, but also for perfect health, is a necessity. To remove harmful excretions, to keep the pores of the skin open and in a condition to act freely, to stim ulate the flow of the blood, to promote a vigorous state of body and a happy state of mind, nothing can take the place of a liberal use of soap and wa ter. A brisk shampooing is necessary to produce that healthful glow which should follow bathing, if it is to produce the best results. A daily cold wa ter bath for those who react readily, is not only a powerful tonic, but also the best known preventive of colds, disease, or illness in any form. A hot. bath, weekly, will prove a renovator of the whole system.—Ex. To the Man Who Fails. Let others sing to the hero who wins in the cease less fray, Who, over the crushed and the fallen, pursueth his upward way; For him let them weave the laurel, to him be their paean song, Whom the kindly Fates have chosen, who are happy their loved among; But mine be a different message, some soul in its stress to reach; To bind, o’er the wound of failure, the balm of pity ing speech; To whisper: “Be up and doing, for courage at last prevails. ’ ’ I sing—who have supped with Failure—l sing to the man who fails. I know how the gray cloud darkens, and mantles the soul in gloom; I know how the spirit harkens to voices of doubt or of doom; I know how the tempter mutters his terrible word, “Despair!” But the heart has its secret chamber, and I know that our God is there. Our years are as moments only; our failures He counts as naught; The stone that the builders rejected, perchance, is the one that He sought. Mayhap, in the ultimate judgment, the effort alone avails, And the laurel of great achievement shall be for the man who fails. We sow in the darkness only; but the Reaper shall reap in the light, And the day of His perfect glory shall tell of the deeds of the night. We gather our gold, and store it, and the whisper is heard, 4 ‘ Success ! ’ ’ But, tell me, ye cold, white sleepers, what were achievement less? We struggle for fame, and win it, and, lo! like a fleeting breath, It is lost in the realm of silence whose ruler and king is Death. Where are the Norseland heroes, the ghosts of a housewife’s tales? I sing—for the Father heeds me—l sing to the man who fails. Oh, men who are labeled “failures,” up, up! again, and do! Somewhere in the world of action is room: I here is room for you. No failure was e’er recorded in the annals of truth ful men, Except of the craven-hearted who f&ils, nor at tempts again. Ihe glory is in the doing, and not in the trophy won; Ihe walls that are laid in darkness may laugh to the kiss of the sun. Oh, weary, and worn, and stricken, oh, child of fate’s cruel gales! I sing—that it haply may cheer him—l sing to the man who fails. Alfred J. Waterhouse,