M6. 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 Chap. Jr >? Copyriglit No. 
 
 Shelf 3142 5 lYlC 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
Moody Days 
 
 y" 
 
 BY 
 MARGARET T}" DEAVER 
 
 ^ 
 
 chattanooga 
 
 Press of MacGowan & Cooke Co. 
 
 1900 
 
 <i 
 
23834 
 
 T5 
 
 |L.ior«ry of CoiK4rt:jr,.^ 
 
 ) "^'wo Copies Receivf.o 
 ; ,UL 23 1900 
 
 SECOND COPY. 
 
 06<iver<xi to 
 
 OROER 01 VISION,. 
 
 JUL 23 1900 
 
 66161 
 
 Copyright, 1899 by 
 MARGARET T. DEAVER 
 
In CQemoi^y 
 
 OF THE TIME WHEN WE WALKED TOGETHER 
 HAND IN HAND; I DEDICATE TO YOU DEAR 
 
 ZTellte (Sraij, 
 
 THIS SMALL VOLUME. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Introduction 7 
 
 Echoes 11 
 
 Past— Future 14 
 
 Smiles and Tears 16 
 
 Discontent 18 
 
 Life's Rainy Days 20 
 
 Mother— Love 22 
 
 Love — Satisfying, or ? 24 
 
 Memorial 27 
 
 On the Verge 30 
 
 Distinctive Lines 33 
 
 The Tongue — Governed and Ungoverned 37 
 
 Home 41 
 
 Rewards of Fame 44 
 
 Faces Reflected 48 
 
 Pride 51 
 
 Time's Onward Flight 55 
 
 Minor Chords 57 
 
 Friendship 60 
 
 Oh, for a Glance ! 63 
 
 Memory 63 
 
 From Cloud to Sunshine 68 
 
 Conclusion 70 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The critical eye of the public may never peruse 
 these lines. 
 
 I am in this way simply striving to lighten the 
 burden of my own mind, which, at times, seems 
 more than I can endure. 
 
 Have you ever stood upon a mountain and 
 watched the beautiful banks of soft white clouds, 
 as they swiftly floated across the heavens ? Or, on 
 a cloudless day, lounged in an easy chair, the air 
 laden with the sweet fragrance of summer, and 
 lifted your eyes to the sky above you, then allow 
 your gaze to wander to the hill-side, from whence 
 the cow-bells' musical chime is wafted to you, as 
 the grazing herd lazily nip the tender green? 
 
 Old Brindle eats her fill, then, standing in the 
 shade of the wide-spreading oak, her tail lazily 
 brushing away the festive fly, while, now and then, 
 her head is thrown around to her side, to relieve 
 the unpleasant sting of an unusually severe bite, 
 and, finally, she wanders off to the babbling brook, 
 that seems to be singing its own song of praise to 
 the beauties of Nature. She will plunge into the 
 
 7 
 
rippling waters, forming a pretty picture for the 
 eye. A scene of absolute idleness — idle comfort, — 
 while enjoying the cool shade. 
 
 Or, again, you hear the low mutterings in the 
 distance, that herald the approach of the storm 
 king ! you flee madly from the house, feeling that 
 you will suifocate if you remain within a moment 
 longer. You fling your arms madly about, in al- 
 most a frenzy of ecstasy, and eagerly stretch forth 
 your hands to the breeze, watching with a thrill of 
 joy ; as the storm gathers force and onward comes, 
 bending the stately trees in dignified salutation, 
 until you feel lifted from this dull earth, mingling 
 with the storm spirits of the air — with feelings 
 both of pleasure, and of pain. 
 
 They embrace you with their phantom arms, 
 then hurriedly fling you from them, and flit on 
 and on, laughingly looking back, with wildly flow- 
 ing locks, and draperies of fluttering white. 
 
 Listen ! — some one is calling ! Awake ! The 
 King of Day is bursting forth in all his radiant 
 glory ! You bound from your couch, hastily push 
 aside the hangings of your window, and look out 
 upon a perfect spring day. Again you hurry forth, 
 with bounding step, to commune with Nature — 
 happy, joyous, and gay, longing for the wings of a 
 dove, that you might hasten whence fancy willed. 
 Turn to the trees and flowers ! Ponder ! How 
 Spring is lightly touching with her magic wand. 
 These beautiful gifts for man's enjoyment, which 
 
 8 
 
only this dainty touch can imbue with new life and 
 beauty. 
 
 I often wonder when Spring comes gliding in, 
 why we are so joyous and gay. And yet there is an 
 unutterable longing for something we can not name. 
 Indeed, the lives of all, are spring-like in this re- 
 spect. 
 
 So it is, we are alike unto nature,— the beauti- 
 ful but ever-changing ! Joy, gladness— sorrow, de- 
 spair ! 
 
 Moody days — days of brightness — days of 
 shadow ! 
 
 Reader, you will not find the contents of this 
 little volume connected. I am only laying bare 
 my heart— sometimes calm, again bounding in hot 
 anger and indignation ; then throbbing in a perfect 
 hell of despair. 
 
 So, in moody days only, will I endeavor to give 
 you a pen picture of the restless mind of 
 
 Margaret Theodora Deaver. 
 
ECHOES. 
 
 " Rippling waters, flowing onward, 
 Onward, to the ocean wide, 
 
 Gliding over silvery pebbles, 
 Joining with the endless tide. 
 
 Laughing waters, rippling waters. 
 Flowing on to join the tide. 
 
 From the distant past the echoes 
 Sounding in my heart today. 
 
 Blend together past and present, 
 Shaping life from sheer decay. 
 
 Echoes blending past and present, 
 Springing life from real decay." 
 
 -R. 
 
 Echoes ! echoes from the long ago ! 
 
 Echoes sound o'er the dark, stagnant pool. 
 The sluggish waters hide many secrets, drawing 
 forever a curtain over the bodies of despairing 
 creatures who, in their anguish, sought this lonely 
 place, hoping here to find rest down in the depths 
 of the dark waters, away from the strife of the 
 world. 
 
 Echoes sound through the mountain pass, 
 echoing and re-echoing from precipice to precipice, 
 bearing on and on the organized wail of the un- 
 
 11 
 
fortunate traveler, who, losing his footing, is sud- 
 denly hurled down, down, into the chasm below, 
 and in an instant he treads the narrow foot path 
 which leads to eternity's brink. 
 
 Echoes, resound o'er the peaceful farm-house 
 in the valley, catching the plantive note of the 
 turtle-dove ; until it seems that myriad spirits are 
 flitting around this calm, quiet spot. The house- 
 dog lying in the cool shade, catches the sweet, ye4; 
 lonely sound, and the plantive melody penetrating 
 even the canine nature, he raises his hoarse and 
 grating voice, causing the quiet valley to reverber- 
 ate with his melancholy howling. 
 
 Echoes, re-echoing the tread of countless foot- 
 steps — footsteps of a vast city's population — sound- 
 ing the tread of weary feet, that press the oft-trod 
 pathways of life. 
 
 Echoes of the footsteps of indifference. 
 
 Echoes of the firm tread of determination. 
 
 Echoes of joyous footsteps — footseps of child- 
 hood ! Who but the child is ever truly happy? 
 Alas ! how quickly the light footsteps become slow 
 and dragging, and the echo of joy is transformed to 
 the echo of a hollow groan. 
 
 Echoes ! forming link after link, composing a 
 ponderous chain, spaning the universe. 
 
 Echoes, that waft the quiet breathing of my 
 babyhood among the tossing boughs — reechoing my 
 gleeful laugh of early childhood, forming the golden 
 links in the endless chain of life. 
 
 12 
 
Echoes of the schoolroom, sounding the mirth 
 of mischievous schoolmates. 
 
 Echoes ! forming the links in the chain of ex- 
 istence, as in maidenhood the herculean blacksmith 
 forges with many telling blows the iron band to en- 
 circle my heart. 
 
 Echoes of the past, present, and future come to 
 my ears, as, in the twilight, I watch my bright Star 
 of Hope, setting in the boundless expanse of 
 darkness. 
 
 13 
 
PAST— FUTURE. 
 
 I am standing beside the funeral bier, that will 
 soon bear the cold still form of eighteen hundred 
 and ninety-eight into the great beyond ! He will 
 not " approach his tomb like a quarry-slave at 
 night, scourged to his dungeon," but may he for 
 all " approach his grave like one who wraps the 
 drapery of his couch about him, and lies down to 
 pleasant dreams." While I watch his labored 
 efforts as he draws his fluttering breath, his eyes all 
 but closed in that last long sleep, I take his hand 
 in a loving clasp — for, has he not brought great joy 
 during his reign? And, though some sorrow, has 
 he not in a kingly manner given the balm of hap- 
 piness to lessen the sting? As I raise my bowed 
 head, I see I do not weep alone, for King Winter 
 mourns with me. And, if not here, in the cold 
 northern land, where he holds mighty sway, he has 
 brought as a gift to the dying year, a winding sheet 
 of snow. 
 
 The moments are passing. . As the clock hands 
 upon the shelf point heavenward, our great and 
 good friend breathes his last. 
 
 I turn to King Winter for sympathy in this 
 great sorrow. Lo ! his countenance is radiant and 
 
 14 
 
smiling;, and his raiment of white seems changed to 
 wedding garments. He returns my glance of sor- 
 row with a smile of hope and good cheer, exclaim- 
 ing, " weep not ; for see, the young king in all his 
 glory is approaching ! " 
 
 Looking toward the east, I see the first rays of 
 the dawn ; that give warning that the new king of 
 eighteen hundred and ninety-nine taketh up his 
 sceptre. 
 
 May joy and gladness crown his reign ! 
 
 15 
 
SMILES AND TEARS. 
 
 Oh, happy laughter of childhood ! 
 
 "Night with sable pinions " has glided in and 
 silently folded the busy world in restful darkness. 
 As I sit in the gathering gloom, while the shadows 
 deepen, the music of the merry laughter of little 
 children is wafted to my ear upon the evening 
 zephyrs. And from a distant cloister, the more 
 matured, but still joyous laughter of the older boys 
 and girls, just now stepping into the shadowy realm 
 of young manhood and womanhood. 
 
 Have you ever stopped to note the change of 
 the quality of mirth, as time advances year by 
 year? First, the cooing laugh of babyhood, that 
 causes one to think of the white-winged dove of 
 peace — this baby laugh of innocence that fancy 
 parallels with the lyric music of the angels of 
 heaven. Surely it is the sublime chord in that 
 grand orchestra of Jehovah, sent to brighten this 
 sin-cursed earth ! 
 
 Then the mirth of childhood, as in almost an 
 ecstasy of enthusiasm they spend the happiest 
 years of their varied life. The white dove struts 
 proudly upon the graveled walk, and spreading its 
 graceful wings, flits to the moss-covered eaves, coo- 
 
 16 
 
ing softly to its mate, nestles its head caressingly 
 upon the downy wing, and so we leave them slum- 
 bering in peace. 
 
 Another step, and we are treading the shadowy 
 land, where sweet childhood is gliding swiftly into 
 the past, while flitting moods of graver thoughts 
 are mingled with the joyous laughter of maiden- 
 hood. 
 
 We bound eagerly forward. And that which 
 yesterday seemed an avenue strewn with fragrant 
 roses, is today a rough and narrow path bordered 
 with thorns, which causes us to lose forever the 
 mirthful chord of earlier years. We begin now to 
 realize the stern trials of life, and alas, our days of 
 sunshine now have their hours of gloom. 
 
 The white winged dove that once soared so 
 high, is now in the dust of the highway, the proud 
 head, once so erect droops low, and the wings of 
 snowy white flutter in agonized despair. 
 
 Yes, there is one step more that comes, aye, 
 comes, all too fast ! 
 
 Time has furrowed the brow, and left his 
 snows upon the now thin locks— the step is uncer- 
 tain, the wrinkled hand is palsied, the sight is 
 dimned, the form tottering and wasted, and the 
 light musical laugh has died from the pale and 
 faded lips. And drifting on and on, clothed in 
 robes of deepest melancholy, the feet are at last 
 bathed in the dark stream that marks the boundary 
 line of earth's fitful journey. 
 
 17 
 
DISCONTENT. 
 
 "There is a day of sunny rest 
 
 For every dark and troubled night; 
 And grief may bide an evening guest, 
 But Joy shall come with early light. 
 
 " For God hath marked each sorrowing day 
 And numbered every secret tear, 
 And Heaven's long age of bliss shall pay 
 For all His children suffer here." 
 From— "Blessed Are They That Mourn." 
 
 By William Cullen Bryant. 
 
 Oh the dreary, dreary days ! When even 
 Nature herself seems to withhold her sympathy. 
 Days when the sky is leaden, and my life is dark 
 and dreary. Will it ever be thus? Will there 
 never come the sunny days, with dancing sunbeams, 
 along this monotonous life-path — days so joyous 
 and peaceful — peace of mind that will abide with 
 me for at least a little space? Oh, for the rest and 
 happiness my tortured heart craves ! I do not 
 wish for the hollow joys of the world — to see the 
 admiration of the countless throng, ever seeking 
 for something new and amusing. What is it I 
 wish? Ah, my heart questioneth, but my mind 
 answereth not ! 
 
 If I could but clasp the hands of loved ones, 
 and say, '' Come with me to the sunny land of hap- 
 
 18 
 
piness, where is freedom from the cares and petty 
 trials of this world. Come to that glorious clime, 
 where the rosy dawn and brilliant sunset call from 
 our hearts thanksgiving and praise to the great 
 Jehovah — there, in one complete and congenial 
 circle, we can glory in the blessings and beauty of 
 the sun, swinging in majesty across the delicately 
 tinted heavens ; and setting in all grandeur behind 
 deep purpled hills." And, when his bright, smiling 
 face disappears behind the distant mountains, we 
 watch the golden rays pass into the mysterious 
 depths of the unknown, leaving lingering promises 
 of a sure return. 
 
 This happiness is unbroken ; our hearts o'er- 
 flow, and our souls are stirred to the very depths of 
 admiration of the exquisite beauties of Nature. 
 
 We watch in blissful peace while the mellow 
 light deepens into darker tones. Then awaking 
 from this blissful reverie behold the fair "Queen of 
 Night." Ascending her throne in the dome of the 
 the deep blue heavens, she daintily adjusts her 
 dress of silver gauze, moves majestically across the 
 great expanse, wielding her sceptre o'er her bound- 
 less domain. Her countless attendants — the in- 
 numerable retinue of silver stars — hold their breath 
 and tremble in the intensity of admiration, as, with 
 sparkling eyes, they behold their Queen, moving in 
 all her splendor and queenly beauty. 
 
 Peace, happiness, rest, from this vain and 
 ceaseless discontent ! 
 
 19 
 
LIFE'S RAINY DAYS. 
 
 ** When in the night we wake and hear the rain." 
 
 This sweet, yet dreary thought, has repeatedly 
 presented itself to my mind. 
 
 It is the title of a beautiful poem I read some- 
 time ago. 
 
 Perhaps the thought is suggested by the op- 
 pressive gloom of today. All through the waking 
 hours the crystal drops have pattered upon the 
 roof ; now softly, now with a terrific violence, and 
 as I listen, I say to myself : ''How like a rainy day 
 is life ! " 
 
 Awaking in the morning, I hear the falling 
 rain drops. I turn upon my pillow and courting 
 slumber, try to forget the day. So our lives are 
 like unto rainy days. I face my existence. 
 
 The rains are descending upon the great canopy 
 of my life. In anguish I ask of the winds, " Will 
 all my days be rainy? " The low muttering of the 
 thunder draws nearer. Louder now it sounds, and 
 more angry, until, rolling throiigh the frowning 
 heavens, its roar becomes as the din of battle. 
 Now and then come dazzling flashes of lightning, 
 that cause me to start and shrink in terror. The 
 
 20 
 
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 5^^'#?%vt^: ^ 
 
 
 
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gloom is penetrated with a bright light, but its 
 passing is so rapid that nothing is discernible. The 
 rain drops fall faster and still faster. Myriad feet 
 now dance upon the roof ; now with a lighter tread, 
 like unto a tender caress. Out of the distance 
 softly break faint gleams of light — now broadening, 
 becoming brighter — until, with splendor the glorious 
 sun sends forth his blinding rays and proudly he 
 waves from his presence the awe-stricken clouds, 
 and they reverently retreat, and all is brightness. 
 
 So in all our lives, the pattering fall of rain 
 drops, symbolize the weary monotonous days. 
 
 The insignificant troubles cause the frown up- 
 on our faces to become habitual. 
 
 The great trials of life, cause us to start and 
 shrink. The agony is so great for a time that our 
 senses are benumbed. But Time (at once the dis- 
 troyer, and the healer,) soothes our aching heads 
 and hearts, and our sufferings are alleviated. 
 
 Heaven-born waves of happiness now break up- 
 on our tortured hearts, and passing, carry with 
 them the last twinges of pain and sorrow. And as 
 the white-capped waves break upon the shores of 
 time we are left standing with uplifted hands, and 
 lips o'erflowing with praise — in God's own sunshine. 
 
 21 
 
MOTH ER= LOVE. 
 
 I have been thinking of that most precious of 
 gifts, a mother's love. 
 
 The vast ocean has been sounded, and its 
 depths ascertained ; the earth spanned, and its 
 circumference measured ; the lightning has been 
 plucked from the clouds, and is in strict obedience 
 to man's wish. Edison has given to us the possi- 
 bility of hearing our own voices, in oratory and 
 song ; he entrances nations by flashing his living 
 pictures before their delighted eyes. By the aid of 
 wonderfully constructed mechanism the eye can 
 penetrate solid substance ; peer into the human 
 body, and gaze upon the great center of life, as it 
 marks the passing moments. 
 
 In fact, man's wonderful brain and ingenuity 
 have fathomed almost all the mysteries of land and 
 sea ! 
 
 But who has yet discovered the height, the 
 depth, the length, the breadth of a mother's love? 
 
 Friends may despise you, brothers avoid, and 
 fathers forsake you ; but though all else shall fail, 
 mother will cling to her child in loving sympathy, 
 and will shield you with her life, until at last, her 
 waxen hands are folded upon her stilled heart, and 
 
 22 
 
the tired and faded eyes, that in time past flashed 
 defiance at the countless fingers pointed in scorn at 
 the child of her bosom, are closed in that last long 
 sleep. 
 
 It was mother who hushed the feeble cries of 
 infancy; it was mother who straightened the 
 cramped limbs, and soothed the burning brow. It 
 was mother who burned the midnight oil and bowed 
 in speechless agony over the tiny sufferer's couch ; 
 and when the weary eyes unclosed, the little one 
 found comfort only upon mother's breast. Mother, 
 mother! Is there a sweeter name on earth? Is 
 there a word that recalls so vividly the sacred mem- 
 ories of the dearest friend of childhood days? 
 
 When we arrive at young manhood and wom- 
 anhood we may look back upon those early days, 
 and this despairing wail arises from the suffering 
 heart : "Oh, mother, mother ! would to God that 
 your love and wisdom could have pierced the com- 
 ing years, and as you bathed my fevered brow, 
 your prayer had been that " the peace of the grave 
 might be mine ! " 
 
 If we but could look beyond—beyond 
 
 23 
 
LOVE— SATISFYING OR- 
 
 " Faith, Hope and Love were questioned what they thought 
 Of future glory, which Religion taught. 
 Now, Faith believed it firmly to be true. 
 And Hope expected so to find it too ; 
 Love answered, smiling, with a conscious glow. 
 Believe? Expect? I know it to be so." 
 
 By John Byron. 
 
 We all have our spectacles, and whether we 
 will it or not, they settle themselves upon our noses 
 and compel us to look through them and see the de- 
 fects of the human race. I say '" compeV^ \ But 
 shall I acknowledge the truth for us all? Yes, it 
 takes but very little persuasion, for we are all too 
 ready to look through these glasses to criticise and 
 ridicule everything that comes within the range 
 of our vision. 
 
 Last evening as I sat alone, this thought arose 
 within me : " Strange it is, when we love no one, 
 the world is a vast, dreary desert, where the sun of 
 discontent beats mercilessly down upon us while 
 trudging along through its burning sands. 
 
 But then, when we do love we are miserable ! 
 So there is but little choice ! 
 
 When we do not love, we move as one treading 
 24 
 
5;fe,. 
 
unfamiliar paths, fearing lest we miss our footing, 
 looking out upon the world with sad and heavy 
 eyes. 
 
 Monotony ! Monotony ! Monotony ! The heart 
 cries out: "I would rather sink into the very 
 depths of misery, than suffer this calm endurance !" 
 
 We love ! The dark curtain that fluttered so 
 gently in the breezes is drawn aside by a generous 
 hand, and catching a glimpse of the rosy-hued 
 dawn, the pain at our heart is tempted by its ex- 
 quisite beauty. Eagerly we watch with fascinated 
 eyes this enchanting glow. 
 
 Lost in joy and admiration, we watch the vari- 
 colored picture (Love) as it deepens into richer 
 tints, until it becomes one seething burning mass of 
 rich red flames (Jealousy), that scorch us with 
 their fiery breath , and we are so tortured that we 
 would gladly exchange this burning heart for the 
 cold and untouched heart that beat w^ithin us in 
 times past. 
 
 Another picture ! Here are two that love 
 dearly, yet in the presence of others they utterly 
 ignore one another, each apparently perfectly in- 
 different as to what may be the feelings of the 
 other. It is surely peculiar how we endeavor to 
 deceive one another, and even ourselves, in this re- 
 spect ; but certain it is, we do deceive. 
 
 So on we go, wearily treading the same life 
 path that thousands have trod before— until finally 
 we discover that the cup of sorrow is filled to the 
 
 25 
 
brim, and we must drink the very dre^s of de- 
 spair ! Looking back at the long, winding road we 
 have just traversed, we hastily turn away, as Mem- 
 ory, that mischievous sprite, dances upon the verge 
 of the land where happiness, sorrow and disap- 
 pointment are one tangled mass. 
 
 Our weary eyes revert to the scene before us. 
 With the dauntless and reckless courage of the 
 human mind, we eagerly press onward. With 
 throbbing heart, we stretch forth our hands and 
 grasp at the closely drawn curtain of the Future, 
 and vainly endeavor to fling it aside, that we may 
 see that which lies beyond. But at last human au- 
 dacity must acknowledge its defeat. Overwhelmed 
 with the realization of our insignificance, retreat 
 and submission are the only alternative. 
 
 26 
 
MEMORIAL. 
 
 "Can storied urn or animated bust 
 
 Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 
 Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 
 
 Or flattery soothe the duU cold ear of death? " 
 
 From— "Eulogy Written in a Country Churchyard." 
 
 Thomas Gray. 
 
 'Tis the dawn of the Nation's Memorial Day, 
 and eager, interested crowds hurry on to that beau- 
 tiful, but ever awe-inspiring city of the dead. They 
 surge on, laughing, jesting gaily. Tresently they 
 assume (or it may be real) a solemn aspect. 
 Quietly, and with tender hands they strew flowers 
 o'er the graves of the silent sleepers who have 
 gone — gone — where ? 
 
 Few and short are the years that have passed 
 since the dwellers of this silent city were effulgent 
 with the light of youth and animated life. Today 
 the green sward is the roof of their dwelling-place, 
 upon which will beat the storms of ages, and as 
 Time rolls on, this house of clay will sink and be 
 obliterated, and the memory even of the tomb will 
 fade away. 
 
 So your grave and mine will some day be for- 
 gotten, and our resting place may be a path over 
 which thousands of feet may tread, knowing not of 
 
 27 
 
the ashes that repose there ; or the busy part of a 
 great city may be our unknowing monument ; and 
 as the light of many days has passed into the dark- 
 ness of night — night which witnessed in its passing 
 the joys and sorrows of man — those who trod the 
 pathway o'er our graves will also come and rest 
 upon the same common couch and sleep the dream- 
 less sleep of Death. 
 
 We pass through the crowds that throng the 
 graveyard. Their faces are a study as they move 
 from tomb to tomb. We read the quaint epitaphs 
 and every word contains a tear. We note the faces 
 of those whose grief inspired those same words, 
 and on those faces we read "forgetfulness." They 
 have forgotten their dead : they forget that they, 
 too, must die ! 
 
 They see not the grim detective who is 
 shadowing their footsteps. He laughs as he listens 
 to these deluded ones who speak of the far distant 
 day when they, too, will be laid away, and have for 
 their covering the mound of clay and its springing 
 grass, and for a winding sheet the soft, white snow ; 
 when they, too, shall sleep the sleep that knows no 
 waking ; where this body shall moulder and be for- 
 gotten by all save the worms of the earth that shall 
 claim it as their rightful food. And so shall they 
 take their departure across the dark river, and few 
 will stand upon the banks of life and shed pitying 
 tears. Then comes forgetfulness. What an awful 
 yet blessed gift ! 
 
 28 
 
You and I have stood by the casket, and with 
 sorrowing eyes watched the impassive face of the 
 undertaker as he lifted the lid and allowed us to 
 look for the last time upon the beloved face. Can 
 anyone truly think otherwise, as they stand beside 
 this dear body, than that the loved one has forever 
 laid down the mortal life and taken up the im- 
 mortal? 
 
 If I had no other assurance than my own feel- 
 ings, when I stand beside the dead, I would be sat- 
 isfied that death does not end all, but that it is 
 simply a step into the dividing shadow of life — put- 
 ting off of the old, and taking up of the new. And 
 only when your feet touch the waters of the dark 
 river will you be able to comprehend ! 
 
 No messenger brings back the glad or sad 
 tidings to those behind. 
 
 29 
 
ON THE VERGE. 
 
 'Alas! for the rarity 
 Of Christian charity 
 
 Under the sun! 
 Oh, it was pitiful! 
 Near a whole city full, 
 
 Home she had none.' 
 
 -Thomas Hood. 
 
 Truly, their seems to be a certain degree of 
 pleasure in dancing upon the verge! 
 
 Daily I see young girls, fair of face and form, 
 dancing with light-hearted indifference upon the 
 verge which divides the two life-paths — where one 
 more step will carry them past the diverging point, 
 and they ponder not, nor question, which the path 
 that leads to happiness, or which to misery and de- 
 struction. 
 
 And yet they dance, laughing gayly, coyly 
 tossing unrestrained curls over bewitchingly 
 dangerous eyes, that they may conceal what other- 
 wise they could not escape seeing. Why will the 
 young womanhood of today tread this broad path 
 which is hedged along with so many pitfalls — that 
 ever presents the rose to the enchanted traveler, 
 
 30 
 
but secretes the thorn that will pierce the hearts 
 of the deluded creatures? 
 
 Soon they will encounter great, high cliffs, 
 which they must scale, and each upward step 
 brings to the fair face a wrinkle, and each stumb- 
 ling stone encountered detracts from the perfect 
 symmetry that once was a magnificent crown to 
 their beauty. The shoulders, once so erect, are 
 stooping ; the beautiful head that was so proudly 
 held, crowned with nature's own clustering curls, 
 is bowed in woe upon the heaving breast ; and the 
 once brilliant eyes are faded and dimmed by tears 
 of bitter sorrow, and the blanched cheek shows no 
 trace of the former peach-bloom of youth. They 
 have made their choice and know that there is no 
 turning back. 
 
 They scale the topmost obstacle, and tread the 
 plain, leaving the road where '^Blue-eyed Hope," 
 with encouraging words, endeavored to guide them 
 into the path of happiness. But, here, where the 
 rebellious feet of these despoilers of their own 
 souls, press the beaten ways, Hope, with her blue 
 eyes o'erflowing with pityins: tears, cries out in 
 anguish : " Farewell ! I leave you ! I dare not 
 pass into this barren land, where the wolf of sorrow 
 and despair guards the portals— where pain, misery, 
 sorrow and remorse endure forever; where the 
 the human heart has gone to the very depths of 
 despair." 
 
 And these sad wrecks, as they realize their 
 
 31 
 
own folly, that can never be recalled from the 
 grim keeper of the past, turn with despairing 
 horror upon their hardened faces, and watch Hope, 
 as her flitting form fades in the distance, until she 
 is swallowed up in space. 
 
 Golden opportunity gone ; approaching is — 
 Death— Eternal. 
 
 32 
 
DISTINCTIVE LINES. 
 
 " Lives of great men all remind us 
 We can make our lives sublime, 
 And, departing, leave behind us 
 Footprints on the sands of time." 
 
 From— "A Psalm of Life." 
 
 By Henry W. Longfellow. 
 
 Did it ever occur to you that there are six dis- 
 tinct classes of people? 
 
 First — those who know nothing, and do not care 
 to know. They are only animals, that in the spring 
 time greedily devour the tender grass that nature 
 brings forth. 
 
 True, these animals possess a soul! But from 
 their own deliberate choosing, strangle it, in the 
 first years of existence. There is little to be done 
 for such creatures, unless, before the last stage sets 
 in, and they become utter brutes, some grand 
 workman of life will set to work with his chisel of 
 endurance and hammer of good will ; then he 
 might, in time, with perseverance, produce a beau- 
 tiful piece of work, that would send forth its light 
 to penetrate into the souls of others, and warm into 
 the living fountains the ice-bound hearts and start 
 the ebb and flow of the life-blood of those who 
 had been dead in trespasses and sin. 
 
 33 
 
Then there is the ordinary man of today. He 
 is not bothered with ambition. If he gets a few- 
 clothes, enough to eat, and a little of what he calls 
 enjoyment, he, as a rule, is well contented, and 
 will probably make an average husband — for one 
 who is not very choice. Do not misunderstand me 
 and say that I infer he has no soul. But yon must 
 acknowledge, it is not largely developed. 
 
 After this plodding pilgrim comes the wise (?) 
 man. He goes about with a nonchalant air. He 
 really does possess 56>me knowledge ; but in trying 
 to flaunt his wisdom, displays his ignorance—igno- 
 rance of the one great talent of life. He set^-- him- 
 self upon a pedestal, and with blase expression 
 upon Ihis speaking ( ?) countenance, wearily looks 
 down upon the stream of humanity. If you at- 
 tempt to enter into conversation with this most 
 interesting ( ?) individual, he will yawn, discuss the 
 weather, inquire after the health of the family and 
 by the time he has finished these interesting sub- 
 jects, he is perfectly exhausted, and his reproachful 
 eyes look upon you, and, from their depths (if you 
 are quick at reading), you can trace these thoughts : 
 " Do you not see how I have exerted myself to be 
 pleasant, I could discuss deep subjects, but you 
 would not understand, and, therefore, could not ap- 
 preciate them. 
 
 We look impatiently past this character, wish- 
 ing to forget he ever existed, and watch with inter- 
 ested eyes the one coming down the life path, and 
 
 34 
 
exclaim : "Here is a truly great man !" He walks 
 slowly for one of his years, but with a firm and 
 resolute step. Pausing, he touches lightly with his 
 cane a toad that is basking in the sunshine, and 
 watches with a dreamy yet thoughtful light in his 
 deep set eyes, and a quizzical smile upon his lips as 
 the ungraceful little creature hastily scrambles out 
 of his reach. Resuming his walk, he nods in a 
 friendly manner to some laborers, as they look up 
 from their work ; he quickens his step and it can be 
 seen from the expression in his noble eyes, that the 
 recollection of some important duty causes him to 
 hasten. But urgent business does not prevent him 
 from lending a helping hand to a little street urchin, 
 who has unfortunately come to grief in a foot race 
 with his playmates. He lifts up the little fallen 
 one, assures him he is not badly hurt, speaks a few 
 gentle words, and after tenderly patting the head 
 of matted curls, he resumes his hasty walk, leaving 
 this little creature staring in astonished admiration 
 upon his rescuer, as he passes from his sight. The 
 youngster, starting at full speed to join his com- 
 panions ejaculates "Holy smoke, but wasn't he a 
 good 'un !" This man does not hold himself aloof, 
 but mingles with, and listens attentively to all who 
 address him, willing to learn of all. He does not 
 converse upon trifles, but, with unconscious grace, 
 pays the commonest people the compliment of talk- 
 ing with them as he would with the wisest of men. 
 This man will laugh heartily at a humorous story 
 
 35 
 
and can keep pace with anyone in talking nonsense, 
 and not only talk it but enjoy the pastime. He, 
 indeed, is a great man — one at whose feet all 
 students of life, who are willing to learn, should 
 count a blessing to p-it, and hear the words of 
 wisdom, sparkling jewels, as they fall from his lips, 
 and become imbued with his spirit, and model their 
 own acts after his high standard. 
 
 Then there is the impulsive man, usually of 
 upright intentions ; but alas, easily influenced for 
 good or for evil. This man would make a fair 
 flower to bloom in the garden of Jehovah, and 
 would be capable of grand things, provided, he had 
 a strong arm to lean upon, and a firm will to guide 
 him into the right path. And so his fate rests up- 
 on the treacherous wave of circumstances. 
 
 Off with your hats, and cry "All hail ! " as the 
 true Christian comes calmly down the path. Why 
 calmly? Because he leaneth not upon his own 
 strength, but prays for the guiding arm of the 
 Father, who is ever ready to help those who ask 
 this blessing. 
 
 Search thyself ! 
 
 To which class do yoif^ belong? 
 
 36 
 
THE TONGUE— GOVERNED AND UNGOVERNED. 
 
 The tongue, governed, is a wonderful factor for 
 good, peace and happiness. 
 
 The same member, ungoverned, is equall}^ as 
 great a factor in the opposite direction. 
 
 Is there anything, good or evil that has not 
 been accomplished by this small member ? Nations 
 have been thrown into great enthusiasm by a few 
 well chosen words of fiery eloquence. So words 
 spoken, have traveled from lip to lip, until thou- 
 sands upon thousands of men have stood ready to 
 lay down their lives in defense of these words. 
 
 Again, in uttering a few kind words to wife, 
 sweetheart, friend, sister, brother — words that will 
 cause the brightest sunshine in our homes, though 
 the King of Day may have hidden his light in a 
 tempest of fury. 
 
 A few such words will cause the wife's worn 
 face to beam again with the brightness of girlhood. 
 See the wrinkles that lie at the corners of her still 
 beautiful eyes, and the lines of pain that hover 
 around the sad and drooping mouth, which a few 
 short years ago, would curl and dimple chin and 
 cheek, in bewildering beauty. Speak kind and 
 loving words, and this sad face — the shadow of 
 
 37 
 
former days — will brighten again into youth and 
 beauty. 
 
 Unconsciously the drooping shoulders will be 
 held erect, and the weary step will change into the 
 springing blitheness of girlhood. So, the husband, 
 as he seats himself at the dinner table will look 
 admiringly upon his wife's radiant face and say: 
 " Why, Mary, you look as young and pretty as you 
 did when first we met ! come lass, and give me a 
 kiss." 
 
 He is unconscious that a few words from him 
 have proven the great tonic of life. 
 
 And the wife finishes her work, stepping with 
 girlish lightness, with a joyous and smiling counte- 
 nance, thinking, "How happy and thankful I should 
 be for all the blessings heaped upon me." From 
 her overflowing heart their will rise to her lips a 
 triumphant song, that she sang in early days, before 
 she knew care or sorrow. 
 
 As the young girl passes from maidenhood to 
 womanhood she does not realize that she possesses 
 the power of uplifting and ennobling, or of crush- 
 ing and destroying. 
 
 When the man who loves her whispers to her 
 his hopes, the drooping lids are raised and the 
 beautiful eyes look into his pleading face. We 
 look into their depths and see that the fancies of 
 girlhood have forever vanished, and the dawning 
 knowledge of womanhood has taken possession. 
 
 The wicked are fallen, but who shall say there 
 38 
 
is no salvation? A kind word spoken by the 
 Christian whose daily life is his passport, may be 
 the means of uplifting even the most degraded, and 
 making of them markers along life's pathway — 
 markers to guide the pilgrim's footsteps into paths 
 of peace and right. 
 
 We are enchanted as these kaleidoscopic views 
 pass before us, and watch with eagerness for the 
 changing scenes. 
 
 But evil pictures darken the canvas, and we 
 behold what misery the tongue can cause. We 
 watch in sorrow as the people who profess to be 
 kind hasten to secure the crumbs that the great 
 wave of gossip strews upon the banks of scandal. 
 This tiny piece is rolled from tongue to tongue till 
 it assumes enormous proportions. 
 
 The heated words will scorch and burn what 
 was once pleasing to behold, untill at last it will be 
 tossed aside, as blackened beyond the taste even of 
 the most fastidious scandal monger. 
 
 It is far more kind to murder the bodj^ than to 
 damn the soul ! 
 
 Take a character that is pure and white. Some 
 malicious tongue is set to work with the intention 
 of degrading this one. 
 
 The gossip begins modestly, and with each time 
 it is repeated, grows until even friends will begin 
 to look darkly upon the object of the attack ; ac- 
 quaintances will cease to bow to this unfortunate 
 one upon the street. And, although the heart is 
 
 39 
 
wrung, the head is held proudly erect, in defiance 
 of gossip. At last it reaches brothers and sisters, 
 and thep are highly indignant. Then, as time rolls 
 on, they, too, will cast suspicious glances upon you. 
 And, seeing this you give up the struggle in despair, 
 and lose all hope. Then, if you have not a strong 
 sustaining will, you will helplessly drift down the 
 stream, (which seems resistless), until at last you 
 are a total wreck. And as far as the better world 
 is concerned your soul is utterly dead, and the 
 tongue of gossip is your destroyer. 
 
 The fiend that murdered this innocent charac- 
 ter will walk, it may be, along paths of roses and be 
 admired and flattered. But the sword of the 
 Avenger is rapidly descending, to forever cut down 
 the deliberate and unrepentant destroyer of human 
 character. 
 
 40 
 
HOME. 
 
 " Those evening bells! those evening bells! 
 How many a tale their music tells 
 Of youth, of home, and that sweet time 
 When last I heard their soothing chime ! 
 
 Those joyous hours are passed away; 
 And many a heart that then was gay 
 Within the tomb now darkly dwells. 
 And hears no more those evening bells. 
 
 And so 'twill be when I am gone— 
 That tuneful peal will still ring on ; 
 While other bards shall walk these dells. 
 And sing your praise, sweet evening bells." 
 ''Those Evening Bells." 
 
 — By Thomas Moore. 
 
 Home ! What a feeling of peace and rest 
 steals like a gentle zephyr over the heart, as we 
 speak that sweet word, "Home ! '- 
 
 Home, where one may bar the doors against 
 those who would intrude upon one's time and mat- 
 ters belonging exclusively to one's self or the home 
 circle — where can be found a place of refuge m 
 time of trouble, and be alone to give vent to pent 
 up anguish. 
 
 Home, where we pour out our griefs and woes, 
 our joys and ecstasies ; whether grief or joy, they 
 fall upon sympathetic ears — and are fully appreci- 
 ated only by our loved ones at "Home." Oh, what 
 greater blessing could be desired than a happy 
 
 41 
 
home-circle, where there is no vacant chair to sad- 
 den the gay laughter, or cloud the smiling face? 
 
 "Home, sweet home." As I repeat the words, 
 they blend in heavenly harmony. The music be- 
 comes more distinct, and in my ears now ring angel 
 voices in the last strains of that sweet old song : 
 
 ** Be it ever so humble, there is no place like home." 
 
 Oft in childhood when the willful playmate 
 vexed you, you would hastily gather together the 
 toys of which you were so proud, and with form 
 drawn up to the fullest height in righteous indigna- 
 tion, you would announce in haughty tones these 
 crushing words — "I am going home," and with all 
 the pride you could command, walk proudly away. 
 
 Home ! even as children, though not realizing 
 all the blessings of a home, yet, there is where our 
 troubles were carried. When the little ripples 
 widened and roughened the peaceful and quiet 
 waters of childhood, instinctively you would turn 
 your thoughts and face homeward. 
 
 Then as age begins to overtake us, when we 
 have battled with the waves of Circumstance, 
 finally our frail bark strikes upon the shoals of Dis- 
 couragement, and the first thought is, "I am going 
 home ! " 
 
 Home ! when the day's toil is ended, the fond 
 husband takes up his dinner bucket and hurries 
 home to mingle with wife and children, and enjoy 
 the warmth and cheerfulness of his own fireside — 
 
 42 
 
forgetting shop and outside world, totally wrapped 
 up in family and "Home." 
 
 What does it matter if his home is only a little 
 vine-wreathed cottage upon the hillside? 
 
 What care he for the great world ? His world 
 is there in that small dwelling. 
 
 The patter of tiny feet is heard, as the little 
 ones hurry to greet him. The childish prattle, and 
 the joyous chiming laughter is the sweetest music 
 to his ears. 
 
 Could one ask a greater blessing than a home, 
 a happy home? 
 
 43 
 
REWARDS OF FAflE. 
 
 Fame ! the great King, whom all aspirants to 
 his favor hold in awe. And well they may. For 
 the happiness of this tyrant's life consists in tortur- 
 ing those who, with fear and trembling, sue for his 
 approval. 
 
 And as they bow before him offering upon 
 golden salvers precious gifts, they are fully cog- 
 nizant that the gems they offer, are precious jewels 
 of rare quality. 
 
 Why do they tremble, as if, instead of real 
 jewels, they proffered worthless imitation? Be- 
 cause they know he is a capricious sovereign ; that 
 their magnificent offerings, may bring forth only a 
 sarcastic refusal. 
 
 Today he spurns the gift which, if presented 
 tomorrow, may cause the blandest smile to play 
 upon his cynical lips, and he may then accept the 
 gifts, and bestow upon the givers their just praises. 
 
 Let us look upon the awe-stricken donor ! 
 
 What means the refusal to him, who, year by 
 year, has laboriously dug from the mine of mind, 
 these jewels? Jealously has he guarded them by 
 day and by night. He assumes a courage he is far 
 
 44 
 
from possessing ; and striving to gain control of him- 
 self, humbly proffers the casket to his sovereign. 
 And for his effort, receives from the haughty 
 monarch a mocking smile as he is calmly waved 
 from The presence. 
 
 The poor, grief-striken subject who has humbly 
 pleaded for favor, with the realization of his fail- 
 ure weighing him down, crushing his every hope, 
 creeps from the dread presence. 
 
 He returns to the poor, poverty-stricken room 
 he calls home, where he can give vent to the pent 
 up anguish, free from inquiring eyes, and away 
 from the public sneer. 
 
 With a stilled groan, he bows his head upon his 
 hands and sobs in bitter realization that, to him, 
 life is a failure. 
 
 Do not judge him wrongly! He mourns not 
 for the loss of the favors, which the acceptance of 
 his gifts would have brought him, but sighs (and 
 without egotism), for "the loss the world has sus- 
 tained." 
 
 And so the casket is thrust in a dark corner, 
 where Time may furnish a friendly covering of 
 dust. 
 
 Wearily the owner of the casket plods along 
 until at last he reaches the end of what was to him 
 a long and painful journey. Gladly he welcomes 
 the rest, e'en though it be in a potter's field. 
 
 Years have rolled by. King Fame still reigns. 
 The years have left no trace upon the locks that 
 
 45 
 
caress the broad brow ; and in his bland and smil- 
 ing face are found no furrows. 
 
 The monarch impulsively turns to his attend- 
 ants and orders that the poor subject of years ago 
 be brought immediately before him. 
 
 In astonishment they gaze upon him, until, 
 seeing the smile has faded, and a thunderous frown 
 darkens his brow, hasten in confusion to do his bid- 
 ding. The search is a long, weary one. 
 
 At last their patience is rewarded, and they 
 find the object of their search is resting upon the 
 common couch — Death — where even their king is 
 powerless to bid him wake. 
 
 Hurrying to their master, they disclose the suc- 
 cess and failure of the search. 
 
 He impatiently listens, and gives hurried 
 orders for them to "search for the casket." 
 
 Again they hurry forth to do the King's bid- 
 ding. 
 
 After days of searching, the casket is found. 
 It is tarnished, but not the jewels it contains. 
 
 With jubilant hearts they carry it to the king, 
 and humbly lay it at his feet. 
 
 Opening the casket in haste, he examines the 
 contents. And now does the monarch decree that 
 the name of the owner, (who had labored to gather 
 together these treasures), be proclaimed from end 
 to end of his kingdom, and heaps praises upon the 
 gems. 
 
 Too late ! The ears are dulled, the tongue is 
 46 
 
dumb and the cold heart responds not to the call of 
 Fame. 
 
 He is gone, gone where "Fame" is a trifle un- 
 worthy of consideration. 
 
 And such today, is the reward of "Fame ! " 
 
 Fame sought seems almost unattainable. 
 
 Fame possessed is as chaff before the winds. 
 
 47 
 
FACES REFLECTED. 
 
 Lookout Mountain is one of the most pictur- 
 esque spots on earth, and one of the most pictur- 
 esque spots upon its historic heights is the beauti- 
 ful Lula Lake and mad Little Lula Falls, which 
 sends its dashing sprays over the sharp stones in 
 wild confusion and splendor. 
 
 As I stand and look from cliff to cliff", o'er 
 grown with Nature's sweetest flowers, I turn my 
 eyes upon the rippling waters of the lake below, 
 and say in my mind, how insignificant is the hand 
 of man, compared with the Mighty One that guides 
 the brush which ever moves rapidly over earth's 
 great canvas ! 
 
 As 1 listen to the falling waters the words of 
 Wilson recur to my mind, as the music of the 
 water, 
 
 ** Too softly sung for grief, too grave for mirth." 
 
 In fancy I see beautiful faces and forms in the 
 fleecy sprays. 
 
 One sprite seems to toss the sparkling drops 
 and her ringing laugh re-echoes from cliff' to cliff. 
 She pauses in wonder, gazing upon the sad and 
 
 48 
 
thoughtful face bent above her, crying in shrill 
 tones, that are flung back from the rocks in many 
 echoes : " Why stand ye there in sadness, and al- 
 most in tears ! Why stand ye looking down upon 
 my happiness, with reproachful eyes? Laugh, be 
 happy and gay ! Take life lightly ! Ha ! ha ! 
 What care we what lies beyond. Now is the time 
 to enjoy life ! If you want to be truly happy, do 
 not stop to think of the future, for that only brings 
 sorrowing thoughts." 
 
 With a bright smile, she turns, waving her 
 tiny hand that, seems to say : "Be happy, regard- 
 less of the future and its consequence." 
 
 My eyes follow her as she floats on, her 
 tangled golden locks looking like a parting cun- 
 beam. 
 
 I stand mute considering her advice, a smile 
 upon my lips. 
 
 With a sudden impulse I bend forward, gazing 
 with hushed breath upon the wonderful vision be- 
 low me. 
 
 Another face appears. 
 
 I look, my heart beating fast in sympathy with 
 the dark sorrowful features beneath, where scorn of 
 the false, thoughtless and wicked lay pictured ; the 
 brow is noble and lofty ; one only need glance upon 
 it to know that all infinite knowledge lay therein, 
 strengthened by noble resolution. The eyes are 
 large and soft, but capable of seeing through all 
 falseness and sin ; and yet, with a glittering vail of 
 
 49 
 
unshed tears lying in their depths — tears for the 
 weak and sinful. 
 
 She cries in thrilling tones : '' Oh, foolish one ! 
 Why stand ye there, following with anxious eyes 
 the tempter ! Would ye, in folly, listen to her ad- 
 vice and be happy (if such the meaning of the 
 word) for only a brief space, and then suffer for 
 cycles upon cycles of ages — and the bitterest suf- 
 fering of all the realization of your own weakness?" 
 
 Then raising her arms imploringly she cries : 
 " Do not listen to the fair-voiced temptress ! 
 What right have you to be so thoughtlessly happy, 
 when He suffered and died for you? Go, thought- 
 less one, do noble deeds ; suffer and lift men up ; 
 instead of helping the careless throng that is ever 
 dragging them down ! Ah, me ! all to willing cap- 
 tives. Go ! and in ages to come, you will look up- 
 on the mortal life you have laid aside forever, and 
 with everlasting happiness as a crown upon your 
 immortal brow, will blush at the petty thoughts of 
 today !" 
 
 Her sad yet angelic smile grows dimmer, the 
 blue waters close over her, and I stand — alone ! 
 
 50 
 
PRIDE. 
 
 *' Oh ! why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? 
 Like a swift- fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, 
 A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, 
 Man passe th from life to his rest in the grave. 
 
 ***** 
 
 For we are the same our fathers have been ; 
 We see the same sights our fathers have seen ; 
 We drink the same stream and view the same sun, 
 And run the same course our fathers have done." 
 From "Oh! why Should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud? " 
 
 By William Knox. 
 
 A limited amount of pride is one of the re- 
 quisites. 
 
 To be prideless, is contemptible. 
 
 To be too proud is a fault. 
 
 Pride ! The pride that blesses is that which 
 will keep a man from uttering a false word that 
 will create in him a preference for death, rather 
 than to defame a character, or be guilty of an act 
 unworthy of a gentlemen ; that will cause him to 
 seek for friends among men who are possessed of 
 brains, and are ever striving for mastery over their 
 evil tendencies ; who strive to live so that when the 
 fleeting years have passed, and they are laid away ; 
 
 51 
 
they will be spoken of by thoughtful men as "noble 
 characters." The man with this kind of pride, when 
 seeking friends, cares not if his coat is old and 
 worn, so it is honestly bought and neatly kept. He 
 is not looking for an up-to-date suit, regardless of 
 the heart which beats behind the fashionable shirt 
 bosom. No, no ! He looks for friends among con- 
 scientious men ; who will prove gentlemen upon all 
 occasions. Those who have a will of their own, but 
 are ever ready, and willing, to acknowledge a higher 
 power than man's. A man having such pride, will 
 prove a blessing to all with whom he comes in con- 
 tact. Such a man will ever prove a true friend. 
 
 To be prideless — what a repulsive picture 
 stands boldly forth in the mind's eye ! What food 
 for thought ! With unwilling eyes we gaze upon 
 the scene. A room where poverty reigns supreme, 
 and languishes in the filth of carelessness. 
 
 Do not understand me to say poverty is lack of 
 pride. Thank heaven, poverty of itself is no dis- 
 grace ! It is only when bared of all things that 
 make it worth while to strive to keep body and 
 soul together, which the proud but poverty stricken 
 man labors to do. When the body is stripped of its 
 covering and stands before the public, nude and 
 unshamed, then does poverty become a disgrace. 
 However, the painful fact remains that many, 
 many of the so-called intellectual and wealthy 
 people look upon poverty as disgraceful. 
 
 Poverty, yoked with an evil mind and a lack of 
 52 
 
will to resist the brute nature that is dominant — 
 poverty so surrounded is a disgrace. 
 
 So is wealth even more disgraceful on account 
 of enlarged facilities for evil doing. Poverty and 
 riches alike must be sustained by pride. An over- 
 abundance of pride, either in poverty or riches is 
 almost as fatal as the entire lack of it. 
 
 Too much pride will usurp the throne of every 
 noble thought, and with an iron hand crush the 
 kind impulses. 
 
 As children, there is not much danger to be ap- 
 prehended, of the little ones possessing the fatal 
 fault — false pride. In their innocent realms do the 
 rich and poor share alike, and the off-spring of 
 poverty is as much an object of love as the child of 
 fortune. Watch the children grow into boyhood 
 and girlhood ! Then do we see that the world's 
 heartless teaching and the efforts of ambitious 
 parents are taking deep root in the fertile brain- 
 soil of the impressionable youth and maiden, and 
 we behold in sorrow, as the beautiful buds unfold 
 their leaves, and the rose that was thought would 
 bloom in beauty, and gladden the hearts of all by 
 its fragrance, has become an object of disgust, and 
 a stench to the nostrils of all noble, intellectual, 
 and kind-hearted people. 
 
 You and I have watched the oft-repeated 
 dramas of life ; as the maiden will break the ties of 
 love which once bound the hearts of the child of 
 poverty, and the prospective heiress, she will wound 
 
 53 
 
the loving heart of perhaps the best friend she will 
 ever possess. False pride is her master. Oh, young 
 woman of fortune, why will you scorn the poor 
 maiden, who probably posesses far more beauty and 
 talents than yourself, and whose lofty character 
 may totally eclipse your own, and shut out the glit- 
 tering splendor of your millions of gold ! 
 
 Young man, forget not the friend of your 
 youth ; his jeans may turn to broadcloth. 
 
 Young woman, spurn not your child friend in 
 the calico frock ; you may need her helping hand 
 to lift you out of the depths. 
 
 54 
 
TIME'S ONWARD FLIGHT. 
 
 " Backward, turn backward oh, Time, in your flight! " \ 
 
 What a trick Time has of rolling on. Time, the 
 
 great monarch of humanity, comes stealing quietly ] 
 
 along, like the first rays of the golden dawn ; like the | 
 
 faint fragrance of a sweet flower, wafted on the j 
 
 gentle breeze. On, on, and yet onward, ever with j 
 
 soft caress and alluring smile. Ah, he is by our j 
 
 side ! We smile cheerfully and think, "after all, | 
 
 what does it matter, though he has overtaken us ! " j 
 
 We feel assured he will prove a pleasant compan- ] 
 
 ion. He is gifted in making us forget ; and, alas ! i 
 he alone possesses that great gift. He controls the 
 
 ebb and flow of the fabled Lethe's waters. But i 
 sometimes, it seems, he is partial ; and, like all 
 
 other monarchs, has his favorites, to whom he gives ; 
 
 freely; and to others he gives (if at all) with a j 
 
 grudge that leaves an after-taste of bitterness. I 
 
 Yes, Time now walks by our side and pours in- i 
 to our ears beautiful, eloquent words. Our steps 
 
 are arrested. We are oblivious to all else in our ' 
 eagerness to catch everything that falls from his 
 
 lips. Soon we see that time is quickening his pace, j 
 
 and we hurry to keep near him ; oh, the startling j 
 realization ! His strides are lengthening, and the 
 
 55 ^ 
 
sound of his voice is becoming fainter and fainter. 
 Our voices are raised in entreaty ; the beseeching 
 appeal expands into a frightened cry, then dies in 
 a moan of despair ! 
 
 He is gone ! Lost in the distance, and. in the 
 faint echo of his voice we catch the words : 
 " Time and Tide wait for no man ! " 
 
 All that seems left for us is to bemoan our fate. 
 
 Time is in the forefront ; opportunity is behind 
 us. 
 
 Our footsteps lack fleetness, and there is no 
 turning back. 
 
 The Minutes come dancing by — faithful serv- 
 ants of the great monarch. Casting one glance of 
 contempt upon these poor, foolish, unfortunate be- 
 ings they cry out : " Touch not the garments of the 
 foolish, for see ! E'en though the Old Year mon- 
 arch, Time, has passed, and the foolish profited not 
 by his passing, they idly sit and pine, unmindful 
 that the glass is turned, and the grains of sand are 
 slowly measuring the growth of the New. 
 
 A sympathetic minute calls to his companion, 
 who is just a step in advance, saying : " Stay ! can 
 not we stop to give comfort to the careless way- 
 farer?" 
 
 The indignant answer comes rolling back : 
 " Be not traitors to King Time I Away ! away ! 
 Faithful servants all ! " 
 
 ^'Aye, aye ! the King hath need of me ! Watch 
 lest he again should pass you by ! " 
 
 56 
 

MINOR CHORDS. 
 
 * * * The moon ! she is the source of sighs, 
 
 The very face to make us sad ; 
 If but to think in other times 
 
 The same calm quiet look she had, 
 As if the world held nothing base. 
 
 Of vile and mean, of fierce and bad; 
 The same fair light that shown in streams, 
 
 The fairy lamp that charmed the lad ; 
 For so it is, with spent delights 
 
 She taunts men's brains and makes them mad. 
 From Thomas Hood's "Ode to Melancholy." 
 
 My window is open wide, and in silence I gaze 
 upon the heaven, where the Queen of night shines 
 in all her loveliness. She is superb in her pearly 
 splendor and seems in a happy mood, while, with 
 smiling face, she scatters a silvery brightness over 
 land and sea. The breezes murmur of her loveli- 
 ness, kissing her rounded cheeks, rushing swiftly 
 on to tell the monarch of the forest of her exquisite 
 beauty. 
 
 The oak listens, and with unbounded enthusi- 
 asm, the breezes pour into his ears, their praise of 
 the lovely creature ; yet he stands erect, wuth un- 
 smiling face, nor does he, by look or jesture, <?ive 
 any sign of his pleasure or displeasure. 
 
 His innumerable subjects, regardless of his 
 57 
 
smiles or frowns, whisper softly to one another, 
 fluttering with excitement as they listen to the 
 ardent praise of the enthusiastic admirers. They, 
 too, since the coming of the visitors, long to behold 
 the face of the Queen ! In the desire for this 
 pleasure, they forget the loyalty due their King, 
 and recklessly throw to the winds their faint 
 scruples (as the subjects of every King have done), 
 and plunge into space, when, too late, they realize 
 the fate that awaits them — that of a grave among 
 countless fellow creatures who had previously gone 
 that way — where, in a short time, their bodies will 
 decay, and return to earth (the fate of all). Then 
 may the light falling from the glorious eyes of the 
 Queen shed a faint ray of light upon the lonely 
 place where these daring ones rest, touching with 
 splendor for a moment the forgotten graves, as with 
 smiling face she moves majestically onward. 
 
 " For so it is with spent delights," when the 
 reckless ones have given all to grasp pleasure, 
 thinking they have captured the resistless creature, 
 and will ever hold her in thraldom, then do they 
 find she is only a phantom form. 
 
 Realizing this, pleasure turns to folly before 
 their eyes, and brings unutterable disgust. 
 
 So, while admiring the face of the moon, sad 
 thoughts will flit, as moving pictures, before our 
 eyes ; sadness, which affects the fountain of life, 
 reflecting therein our complete unworthiness, and 
 what weak, sinful creatures we are. 
 
 58 
 
V"<<^^ 
 
 1/ 
 
While I look upon the majestic loveliness of the 
 night Queen, a sadness steals over me — a sadness 
 dotted with thrills of joy, broidered with deep 
 borders of sorrow — as in half-dazed thought and 
 fascinated eyes' I gaze upon her face. 
 
 We can rejoice in the thought that, though 
 separated from our loved ones by many, many 
 miles, yet can we look upon the same beautiful ob- 
 ject, knowing that, as the moon swings across the 
 dome of heaven, she sheds her radiance over all. 
 Whether in distant lands, or upon ocean's waves, 
 they, too, can feast their eyes upon the moon's love- 
 liness, and thank the Creator for this moving light, 
 which sheds its pearly splendor upon millions of 
 heads — and among those millions, there rests the 
 heads of loved ones. 
 
 What does it matter, if, in looking upon her 
 face, she touches with gentle finger the chord of 
 melancholy ? 
 
 The measure of happiness is out of harmony 
 without the minor note of melancholy. 
 
 59 
 
FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 There is a phantom which frequently flits be- 
 fore the mind's eye, and from shadowy outlines 
 takes the form of this tormenting question : Is 
 there such a virtue as true friendship in this busy, 
 selfish world, or, is it another one of life's sweet 
 illusions? 
 
 There is a venerable old gentleman who roams 
 the world over. What happiness he brings to every 
 home ! And yet some people object to their little 
 ones being taught of his existence. The name of 
 this wanderer, is Santa Glaus. 
 
 He is loved by all children, and their fondest 
 hope is that they may be visited by him. Sad is 
 the home where no Santa Glaus stops at Ghristmas- 
 tide. True, we older folks know he is only a myth, 
 and were forced, all too soon, to realize we were de- 
 luded creatures. Yet when we think of the happi- 
 ness this grand old man brings to the little ones, as 
 they anticipate his visits, we say, "let them, in their 
 innocence enjoy these moments of unalloyed bliss, 
 while they romp gleefully through this short and 
 narrow vale of childhood ! " 
 
 In a few years, which will pass on fleet wings, 
 these little creatures will come to the one whom in 
 
 60 
 
childhood they thought the wisest of beings, and 
 with great sorrow written upon their faces, will 
 startle her with the declaration : ''Mamma, there 
 is no Santa Glaus," and lifting their tear-dimmed 
 eyes to mamma's, will ask : "Is there really no 
 Santa Glaus?" Then will she turn from them in 
 sorrow, knowing not how to answer, realizing the 
 startling truth that the baby is a being of the past. 
 I truly think that this is the greatest sorrow of 
 early years, when we find there is no Santa Glaus. 
 
 Then, when older "children," we become per- 
 plexed with serious questions, we have not the advan- 
 tages, we had in childhood when we could turn to 
 mother, who, when answering yes or no, would 
 place us in position to defy the world if necessary, 
 because mother said so. 
 
 Years pass by. We arrive at the age, when 
 the mere fact of others answering in the affirma- 
 tive does not satisfy us. We must satisfactorily 
 answer these puzzling questions for ourselves. 
 
 I often think how abused is the word "friend," 
 as in every day walks of life I find men and women 
 will meet strangers, and almost in a day's time^ 
 will label them "friends." Watching them I think 
 of these lines : 
 
 "Friendship is no plant of hasty growth; tho' planted 
 in esteem's deep fixed soil, the gradual culture of kind inter- 
 course must bring to it perfection." 
 
 Shakespeare says, in speaking of friendship : 
 
 " So we grow together, like a double cherry, seeming 
 61 
 
parted, but yet a union in partition — two lovely berries mold- 
 ed on the same stem; so with two seeming bodies, but one 
 heart." 
 
 How sweet would be friendship, if we could go 
 to those we have chosen to be our friends, and in 
 our hours of gladness pour into their listening ears, 
 the happiness that mastered us. Or, again, in 
 hours of sadness, when we long for sympathy, and 
 some one to advise us, we could go to these friendly 
 ones and tell them of our sorrow, knowing we will 
 there find loving sympathy. 
 
 A friend is a congenial soul — one of whom you 
 could make a confidante, without fear of being be- 
 trayed ; one who would gladly lay down life to 
 serve you, and save you pain. 
 
 Such is true friendship! 
 
 62 
 
OH, FOR A GLANCE! 
 
 I often wonder if other girls look upon life as I 
 do? Life, the incomprehensible enigma, which 
 thousands have tried in vain to solve. 
 
 Ever since my early childhood I have looked 
 upon this question seriously, and as I grew into 
 young maidenhood, it has become more and more 
 puzzling to me. This thought is ever beating pain- 
 fully in my brain : " How shall I face life ; what 
 am I to do?" If I ever prayed earnestly, this 
 prayer is truly from the heart, " Oh, God, help me 
 to do the right." 
 
 Sometimes I pace restlessly back and forth, my 
 soul perplexed with tormenting thoughts. 
 
 What is before me? 
 
 Oh, for power to raise the curtain of future 
 years and to take one sweeping glance ! Would I 
 shrink back in terror at the appaDing sight? 
 
 Ah ! it is far better unknown ! 
 
 " Could I recall the by- gone years, 
 
 Would they not be improved? 
 Would they be spent in smiles or tears — 
 
 My heart from sin removed? 
 Would joy, or grief, attend my way? 
 Would all be Night, or all be Day? " 
 
 Sometimes I think I shall be severely punished 
 
 63 
 
for this discontent; and if I am, I shall know it is 
 just. But I do shrink from the approaching years 
 — I have not the courage to face the future. This 
 is my confession ! 
 
 I have arrived at the conclusion, if we have 
 any desire to be happy, and enjoy life, we should 
 never be serious. 
 
 This bears a resemblance to "ideals." 
 
 I have given that question much serious 
 thought, and have decided that "ideals" are but 
 phantoms, after which we chase, and when we 
 grasp at them, we find they are but creatures of the 
 imagination, that bring only discontent and long- 
 ing for something that cannot be realized. 
 
 I have read somewhere that — 
 
 "The past and future are nothing, 
 In the face of stern today! " 
 
 I like this — it soothes me in my hours of rest- 
 lessness and is a balm for my morbid spirit. It 
 calls forth the thought that "We can only live a 
 day at a time," and here am I, trying to amass the 
 future years (that ever roll swiftly by), trying, as I 
 say, to arrange them in one day, so I could live 
 them and bid life, it might be, after all this discon- 
 tent with it, a sad farewell — 
 
 64 
 
n EMORY. 
 
 The dawn is breaking. 
 
 The violet rays broadening, turn to the dantiest 
 of rose hues, that the fair maiden in beauty's bower 
 might justly envy. 
 
 Now, the clouds assume a golden splendor, and, 
 as the sun beams forth, scattering blinding darts of 
 flame along the pathway, which is strewn with 
 roses of every hue. This golden light, as it falls 
 upon leaf and tinted petal, reveals the sparkling 
 drops of heavenly dew, which fancy converts into 
 tears that have fallen from Melancholy's saddened 
 eyes, as, in the friendly darkness of night, she wept 
 alone. 
 
 It is indeed a scene of bewildering beauty. 
 
 Through this bewitching scene. Memory walks 
 with drooping head. 
 
 'Tis a face that reflects as a mirrow, every 
 passing thought, and with the swiftness of the 
 lightning it shows forth indignation, sadness, calm- 
 ness — and these, in a moment's time, are replaced 
 by the expression of merriment — the eyes and lips 
 all laughter and mirth. And so Memory is ever a 
 mischievous sprite, who, in moments of sadness 
 flings darts of ridiculous humor across our path, 
 
 65 
 
which, for a time, causes the sorrowful face to lose 
 the pained expression, and a smile to lighten the 
 eyes and touch the sad lips into sudden beauty. 
 
 xlnd again, for our gayer hours, when happi- 
 ness, like a breath of summer, is wafting us on and 
 on — she has then, her moments of saddened 
 thoughts to cast along our path ; which cause us to 
 shrink as if a hand had roughly seized the heart 
 strings which were attuned to happiness. 
 
 So, through life, this sprite we choose to call 
 '' Memory," who sings in sweetest strains heaven's 
 melodies, and as we are lost in rapturous admiration 
 and thrilled with exquisite joy, will coldly tread 
 upon the heart, regarding not the pain she causes, ^ 
 and when in anguish we plead for mercy, she turns o^ 
 her regal head and allows her pitying eyes to rest P 
 upon us, her lips parting in a saddened smile, as 
 she exclaims : 
 
 "Why dost thou appeal to me? for here am I, 
 destined to wander in this vast, and dreary land, 
 flitting among the wrecks which strew the banks 
 of past time ! Blame me not if I sometimes smile, 
 or again sadden as I stand beside the funeral bier 
 of dark deeds, and view in horror the sickening and 
 decaying bodies ; when, in haste, I pass this horror- 
 inspiring and repulsive picture, do not reproach me, 
 as, in my hurried flight, I pass on to wrecks which 
 have been washed high upon Memory's shore, and 
 see there ridiculous pictures which cause me to 
 laugh heartily. These flitting moods are my birth- 
 
 66 
 
right— and as countless ages roll on and find a 
 shadowy tomb in the realms of Memory, yet will I 
 remain the same ; bringing sometimes sorrow, some- 
 times joy, until the world shall cease to wheel 
 through space ! 
 
 67 
 
FROM CLOUD TO SUNSHINE. 
 
 Clouds ! 
 
 Clouds everywhere. 
 
 Clouds being whirled along with the rapidity 
 of a cyclone ; now such masses of dense darkness 
 that one almost ceases to breath, with only a sen- 
 sation of flying through space on eagle wings, wild- 
 ly flinging the hands to grasp — empty air, seeing no 
 ray of light, only feeling within the heart a force 
 that fills you with a terrible thrill of horror, carry- 
 ing you on and on — where? 
 
 Suddenly there is a blinding flash of light, that 
 makes the senses reel. 
 
 With starting eyes I see rolling tongues of 
 flames, that are hissing and seething, but no clouds 
 of ashes. 
 
 Hist ! that was surely a cry ! 
 
 It cannot be the storm spirits, for with that 
 sound I hear not the frenzied shrieks of joy and 
 ecstasy that you catch from those madly flying 
 phantoms. Surely they are the shrieks of miserable 
 souls, tortured, it would seem, almost beyond en- 
 durance. 
 
 Why does my heart grow faint, and almost 
 cease to beat, then throb with such fear and pity? 
 
 Ah, joy, joy! I am being carried on ! I gather 
 68 
 
courage and cast a backward glance, seeing spirit 
 hands beckoning, and imploringly flung out. 
 
 Can this be myself? I laugh madly and cry, 
 "What have I to do with thee, oh, sin and punish- 
 ment ! " 
 
 Lo ! the scene is changed ! 
 
 Am I awake? Surely, I dream ! What is this 
 I see — a couch where innocence and sin together 
 rest? A scene of beauty so pale and fair, with 
 flowing draperies and locks of tangled gold. 
 
 Half of a dainty foot peeping from under the 
 folds of soft garments ; one can clearly trace the 
 beautiful limbs so gracefully curved. But with 
 this vision of seeming youth and innocence, the 
 round sinuous body of a jetty reptile appears lying 
 across the snowy ankle ; along the edge of the 
 couch, with graceful bend the neck is turned and 
 the hideous head of this monster reposes upon the 
 gentle breast, where the tangled locks form a mesh 
 of gold, and the lovely shoulder peeps forth in all 
 its delicate beauty. I catch a glimpse of another 
 horrible black head. 
 
 I am spellbound, facinated. Creeping nearer 
 and nearer, I stand, at last, beside this couch. 
 
 I bend closer, with gasping breath, and unbe- 
 lieving eye. 
 
 " I look upon the sleeping form — 
 Nor stir, lest I the slumber break! 
 But lo! it is th' eternal sleep— 
 The sleep from which none ever wake! " 
 
 — R. 
 69 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 " Go, you may call it madness, folly, — 
 You shall not chase my gloom away; 
 There's such a charm in melancholy, 
 I would not, if I could, be gay." 
 
 —Rogers. 
 
 Great waves of sadness roll over me, and yet I 
 know not why my soul is so tempest-tossed, or 
 why, today, I feel myself sinking, sinking beneath 
 a sea of misery ; or why, tomorrow, I may stand 
 with folded arms, looking back on the restless 
 creature of today, with a cynical smile, prone to be- 
 lieve that the calm soul of the present was, but a 
 few hours ago, lost in despair ! 
 
 In my despairing moments come the words of 
 the saviour, "My God, my God, why hast Thou for- 
 saken me?" Then, when "Peace like a river at- 
 tendeth my way," I look to Him with grateful heart 
 and say, "Father, I thank Thee ; may I never again 
 suffer the sad pangs of the past." 
 
 **0, Father, guide me to my journey's end — 
 
 Light Thou my way; 
 May darkness be dispelled— my soul ascend 
 To Heaven's day." 
 
 — R. 
 70