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Self-Sufficing.
1 know a lake among the hills,
Serene and bright and full and free,
Unfed by any mountain rills,
And with no outlet to the sea.
And yet I marvel if there be
Frond any where through all the land;
bo gold-and-jewel rinun’d a cup,
As Nature with her Hebe hand
Here brims, and kneeling, offers up.
Its molten surface gives the sky
In softest sapphire beauty back;
And when the storm comes scudding by,
Dark with its stress of thunder-rack—
Although its blue be tinged with black,
The tempest has no power to dash
Tire ciearny swell against the shore,
Nor with defiant onset, lush
The ripple to a sullen roar.
From seoret sources stored away
Beneath its own sweet water, flows
The unseen strength, that day by day
Keeps it in such supreme repose
As never shallow current shows:
Its edges flash with tender green,
That lures from far the hungry herds,
And in ils stooping copse are .-een
The nests of thousand brooding birds.
Oh* for a nature like the lako’s,
A-gleam amid our summer hills !
That gives, ungrudged its own, nor takes;
That ever keeps its calm, and stills
Its heart, self-centred, even when ills
Impend with drift of tempest-foam;
That woos the weary, and above
All other, weaves a nested home
For every wandering wing of love !
^Margaret F. Preston , in Woman’s Journal.
A LITTLE SURPRISE.
It was a chilly November night
when the train got into Hampden.
Hampden was one of those new, un¬
finished places which required the
brightest of sunlight, the greenest
frame of quivering leaves, to make
them at all presentable. And in the
gray, uncompromising medium of the
November dusk, Hampden looked
dreary enough, with the dark chim¬
neys of the new silk mill rising out of
the hemlock woods, the staring Queen
Anne depot, the church, which bore a
strong family resemblance to a child’s
wooden toy, and the stone quarry to
the left, which reminded the thought¬
ful looker-on of a gigantic fortifica¬
tion in an unfinished state.
“Humph!” said Mrs. Nedley, as she
looked around her. “A queer place!”
Her niece, Phebe, was there to meet
her, with a box-wagon and a white¬
nosed old horse.
“Folks can’t always choose where
they’re to live,” said Phebe, who was
always in a state of antagonism to
Mrs. Nedley. “And Hampden is good
enough for me!”
“How is Philip?” said Mrs. Nedley.
“Philip is well,” said Phebe, as she
helped the depot-boy to hoist Aunt
Nedley’s trunk into the wagon.
Philip Barrow was Mrs. Nedley’s
favorite nephew. She had paid his
bills at school, superintended his for¬
tunes, and finally purchased for him a
share in the new silk mills.
“He’s all I’ve got,” said Mrs. Ned¬
ley, “except Phebe, and Phebe and I
never did hitch horses together. And
I want him to succeed in the world.”
But within a few days a new claim¬
ant had arisen to Aunt Nedley’s pro¬
tection and tender consideration.
“To-be-sure she is no relation to
me,” said Mrs. Nedley. “But her
mother was my clearest friend, and I
think I will adopt her ‘for my own. f H
And it was scarcely an hour from
the time in which she learned that
Silvia Grey was an orphan, that she
wrote a kind letter to the girl, invit¬
ing her to come to the East for a visit.
“If you like it, my dear, there need
be no occasion for your ever going
back,” she wrote. “We are both alone.
Let us be companions to one another.”
She had waited and waited, and no
reply had arrived; and while she wait¬
ed, a plan had developed itself in her
mind.
“If she is her mother’s daughter,
she can’t help being pretty,” said Mrs,
Nedley. “Phil is a handsome lad.
She shall marry Phil!”
And this explains Mr3. Nedley’s
presence at Hampden.
“I suppose you are still, keeping
house for Philip?” said she to Phebe,
as they drove along in the chill twi¬
light.
“No,” said Phebe, skillfully guiding
the old horse down a steep place in the
road.
“He boards, eh?” said Mrs. Nedley.
“No, he don’t board,” answered
Phebe. “His wife keeps house for
him.”
“What?” said Mrs. Nedley.
“He is married,” announced Phebe,
very much in the tone in which she
might have said “It is a cold evening,”
or “The train is late.”
“Philip married!” repeated the old
lady—“married! Stop, Phebe—don’t
drive a step further ! Turn around at
once. Take me to the station, I’ll
return to Concord.”
“Ain't you going to see Philip?”
asked Phebe.
“Not if he is married,” answered
Mrs. Nedley, in a choked voice.
“He’s got a proper nice wife,”
pleaded Phebe. “You’ll like her.”
“No, I shan’t!” said Mrs. Nedley.
“Philip—married ! Phebe, if you don’t
turn around, I’ll get out and walk !”
Mrs. Nedley’s will was like adamant,
and Phebe Barrow was forced to suc¬
cumb to it.
And so it happened that Phebe and
the -white-nosed pony arrived, solitary
and alone, at the little cottage of the
mill superintendent half an hour after
ward.
Phil came out into the porch, carry¬
ing a lamp in his hand.
Mrs. Phil ran after him with a pink
apron tied around her trim waist, and
her brown fringe of hair blowing back
from her forehead.
“Where’s my aunt ?” said Phil, as
Phebe jumped out. “Didn’t she
come?”
“She came,” said Phebe, curtly; “but
she’s gone back again.”
“Gone back again?”
“Yes. She didn’t like it because
you’ve got married, so she’s gone back
by the eight-six train.”
“Oh, Phil I” cried Mrs. Barrow, who
was a round, cherry-checked little
woman, with soft, hazel eyes and a
mouth like a red rosebud, “what shall
we do? Why didn’t you consult her
before you married me?”
Phil Barrow broke into a great
laugh.
“My dear,” said he, “it wasn’t her
consent I wanted; it was yours.”
“Oh! But, Phil, she has done so
much for you.”
“She’s a good soul, but she’s eccent¬
ric,” said the mill superintendent.
“Go in, Phebe, and get your tea.”
“I’m sure I can’t eat a mouthful,”
said Mrs. Phil, despairingly. “And
the biscuits I mixed myself; and the
fried chicken; and the White Moun¬
tain cake— Oh, Phil! oh, Phil I”
“Don’t fret, dear !” said Phil “My
Aunt Nedley has missed a very good
supper; that I can tell her !”
“But I’ve blighted your future !”
said Mrs. Banow, tragically seizing
the sugar-tongs.
“We’ll go to Concord to-morrow,
and see the old lady,” soothed PhiL
“She must surrender if she sees you,
wifey 1”
Phebe chuckled grimly.
“That’s all very well,” said she;
“but you forget that an old lady and a
young man don’t look at a girl with
the same eyes.”
“Hold your tongue, Phebe!” said
the mill superintendent, “Where’s
the use of always croaking?”
And then Mrs. Phil began to laugh,
and Phebe, who, after her crabbed
fashion, was fond of iier pretty young
sister-in-law, laughed also, And,
after all, the dainty little supper was
eaten and enjoyed, even though Aunt
Nedley’s face was steadfastly turned
toward Concord.
Her own fireside had never seemed
so solitary and dreary as it did upon
that November night.
The maids, gossiping in the kitchen,
were called up to re-kindle the dead
fire. The tea, smoky and half-cold,
was served, and Mrs. Nedley was just
resolving to go to bed. when Betsey
brought a letter.
“Postman, mum, he left it a week
ago,” said she. “It had fell down
back of the letter-box.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Nedley, fitting on
her spectacles and scrutinizing the
seal and directions, “from Silvia Grey.
Now I shall have some one to love in
Philip’s place !”
But she had not read three lines
before she flung the letter indignantly
on the sulking fire.
“Married!” she exclaimed. “That
child! Is everybody crazy to get
married, I wonder? And she hopes
I’ll excuse her, but her husband
thinks— Folly and nonsense! What
is her husband to me ? Betsey, my
chamber candle!”
“Bless me, ma’am!” said Betsey.
“What has happened?”
“Everything!” exclaimed Mrs. Ned¬
ley. “Don’t let me be called before
eight o’clock to-morrow morning, I
almost wish that I could go to sleep
and sleep forever!”
And Mrs. Nedley, in the silence and
solitude of her own room, fell to think¬
ing to what institution she could
leave her money.
She was sitting at her luncheon the
next day, with the cockatoo on one
side of her and the poodle on the
other, when Betsey opened the door.
“Please, ma’am,” said Betsey, “com¬
pany—”
“Betsey,” said Mrs. Nedley, severe¬
ly, “I told you I was not at home to
anybody to-day!”
“Please, ma’am,” giggled Betsey,
“he would come in !”
“Who would come in?” said Mrs.
Nedley.
“It's me, Aunt Nedley,” said Philip
Barrow, “and my wife, Don’t be
vexed!”
The tall young mill superintendent
came in, with his pretty wife leaning
on his arm.
“Won’t you kiss me, Aunt Nedley,”
said Mrs. Phil, putting up the rose¬
bud lips—“for my mother’s sake?”
“Eh?” said Mrs. Nedley.
“Didn’t you get my letter?” said
Philip’s wife.
“Letter!”
Mrs. Nedley was more convinced
than ever that she was asleep and
dreaming.
“I wrote you all about it,” said Mrs.
Phil. “Don’t you know ? I am Silvia
Grey. I met Philip when he came out
to Denver to look at the new mill-ma¬
chinery, and he would be married im¬
mediately. He said he was sure you
would forgive him. Will you forgive
him, Aunt Nedley ?”
“Yes, my dear, I will,” said Mrs.
Nedley, her face brightening up like
tho fall moon peeping through mist
wreaths, “But why didn’t they tell
me you were Silvia Grey?”
“Philip wanted to surprise you,”
said Silvia, hanging her head.
“Well* he has surprised ine,” said
Mrs. Ned ley.
She wont back to Hampden with the
mill superintendent and his wife, and
slept in the pretty pink-and-white bed¬
room which Silvia had prepared for
her with so much pains; and she prais¬
ed Silvia’o chicken-salad and prune
pies, and she even condescended to ap¬
prove of Phebe’s half-completed silk
counterpane; for life was ali couleur
de rose for L»er now.
It is a great thing for a woman of
Mrs. Ned ley’s age to have her own
way !—Helen Forrest Graves .
Reading Everything.
“He has rer»d everything” is a fre¬
quent remark made when a scholarly
man is under discussion. How ab¬
surd such a statement is will appear
when the fact in mentioned that in the
Congressional Library at Washington
there are over 600,000 volumes. If
they were placed side by side they
would fill a shell fifty miles long. If
a man started to read this collection at
the rate of one volume a day, it would
take him 1650 years to get through,
and while the malt would be at work
on this vast library the printers would
be turning out more than 15,000 new
books a year. From these figures it
will be seen that it is idle to think of
reading everything, or even to read all
the best books. The greatest readers
among our distinguished men have
had their favorite books, which they
read and reread. Certain books in
our language are called classics. They
are models of style and full of ideas and
illustrations. Modern writers go to
these old authors and get lumps of
solid gold which they proceed to beat
out very thin. Why should we take
the gold leaf article when we can go
to the original mines and get solid nug¬
gets? The old novels are the best.
The old poet3 have not been equalled.
Too many of our new books are writ¬
ten hastily to sell. They are of an in¬
ferior quality and can not profit us in
any way. A man, therefore, need not
be ashamed to say that he has not read
the last new book. When forty new
books appear every day it is impossible
to read them all .—Atlanta Constitu¬
tion.
Almost an Editor.
The other day the man who draws
ashes away from two or three news¬
paper offices dumped a load on Gar¬
field avenue, beyond the pavement.
In no time at all a score of Polack
women and children were pawing
over the load in search of treasures,
and one child came across a large
piece of old roller composition. He
washed off the ashes in a mud puddle
near by, but had only taken one bite
when along came a Polack laborer and
“held him up” for the stuff. He
broke a bite, smacked his lips and
started for home with the prize
wrapped up in an old coat.
Although press rollers are composed
of nothing worse than glue and molas¬
ses, ft is quite probable that ere this
the Polack has been taken with a
“spell” and sent for a doctor. If the
doctor has been puzzled over the com¬
plaint this will give him an eye-open¬
er, and if the Polack has bemoaned
his greenness in picking up taffy he
may be consoled by the thought that
“the path of the roller leads to the
editorial sanctum ,”—Detroit Free
Press.