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HEREAFTER.
BY ASTI.EY H. BALDWIN.
The gold and rose of the respleandent West
Toned into gray : and in the twilight stirred
With whispering sob the birehes ; from the copse
Hong the clear mellow notes of Eve's own bird,
Wakening an echo in my pulse and brain,
V- sweet and favorite music hath the power
1 v.ake the slumbering memories of our souls,
\ud paint our past lives in the present hour.
Vlu.ve the hills uprose a little lamp,
A white thread woven in the black robe of night :
\ nlil star nursed in the bltie lap of heaven,
Whose soft ray shed upon me its pure light.
| Tie-re was n time—not far, yet 'tis an age—
When the Past was my Present; and I dreamed !
W hat now it recks not, yet would dream again, j
N real to me that tender vision seemed.
! Ki.'Ui cut the wreck of these my scattered hopes, ]
Arising upward through a surging sea
ilf midway troubles, that bright "distant star,
| Ami sets a light betwixt Despair and me.
| Tlii yellow sands stretch o'er the curved bay
In broad expanse, what time the spring-tides fall |
| If. low the weed-grown rocks, till the slow sea
Turns from its ebb again, and covereth all.
s. -I'll ad before us lie the things of Earth,
Wherein we catch a glimpse of the sublime :
Aie -a the tide of working-life flows on,
Vnd ail merged in the sea of Time.
|ln •• The Hereafter" shall these things be plain? j
Who knows ? It is not given to us to tell ;
' short-righted that we are, we seek to raise
I !• veil, and conn J -yet it is as well!
—Fraser's Magazine.
Sale.
ONE OF THEMARTYRS.
It was a cold, raw morning - towards the
iml ot April. Masses of dark clouds sktir
! ieil across the heavens before a bleak east
wtinl. But HI tin- Henry mansion comfort
v ;iied .supreme The air was tempered to
il.-liglitful warmth, an excellent breakfast j
rinoked upon the table: from the glittering '
<• "tlei -pot went up a wreath of fragrant in- i
I'eiisi 1 . The master of the house and the
two scions thereof enjoyed the repast with
full appreciation, but anxious cares sliad
wcil the brow of Mrs. Henry.
You'll be sure to send the men up di
rectly after dinner?'' she asked of her liege
lord.
"Certainly, if you wish," he responded,
pausing, egg-spoon in hand. "But hadn't
you better think again? It's a bitter day."
"I know it," said Mrs. Henry, with entire
acquiescence. She was not the woman to
make light of the suffering that lay before
her. "But what can 1 do? Here it is the
very last of April, and the house in such a
state !"
"The house is well enough," declared the
husband, glancing around the neat appoint
ments of the dining room. "Xo need to
dean at all, as far as I can see."
"1 suppose not," said Mrs. Henry, with a
plaintive smile, betokening at once her com
passion for such blindness and her utter
lack of hope that it could ever be enlight
ened "1 don't think, my dear, that you'd
know it if nothing was touched from year's
end to year's end. If your books and news
papers were only conveniently at hand, you
wouldn't mind if they lay six inches deep
in dust; and as long as there was one spot
you c.uld seo through in the windows.
Ami d never dream but it was all right.
Ive h-lt those two weeks that the house
was absolutely not Jit to lire, in, but I've
kept delaying and delaying, in hopes of
better weather, till there is no use in wait-
Hug any longer. I can't go another day
with things in such a condition."
1 lie intense firmness witli which these
list words were spoken brought conviction
to the mind of Mr. Henry, lie offered no
further remonstrance, but finished his meal
and departed, promising to send up the
needed men.
His wife proceeded to her task with skill
•■ml expedition. Every floor in the house
was speedily denuded of its carpets, which
w re stacked in :'ie back kitchen, awaiting
'in- arrival of the masculine force. Some
w man clean in a shilly-shally way, teariug
"p mi room at a time, and sett! ing that
h-bue another is attacked. Mrs. Henry's
"iitmnpt of such doings was inexpressible.
hat I Have the whole corps of caipet
makers come up once a day till she got
'Tmigh! Beautiful management that would '
■ And by the time the last room was
: Ihe tirst would be about ready to .
b ail over again. "No, let us make one
hoi it and got through !"was the fervent
'-juration, and she followed it up witli con
-i*ti-iit works.
Yiiw, Bridget," she said to her liand
nuid, - J want you to go right up stairs
' A nii'l' oil the floors as fast as you can ;
s,,( ' to the front part of the house myself,
■'•"I between us, we'll soon have everything 1
" i Iv to begin to clean."
but what shall I do about dinner,
ma ma ?" inquired Bridget.
' 'b, no matter what. We mustn't be
i aticular in house cleaning. There's some
isn't there V
bist a lump as big as me fist, that's all,
• 1 ">ught it might make a taste of hash for
' '-morrow breakfast."
'■■ at will do very well, and we can have
-t potatoes. You can't stop to pare
J supply of hot water."
' r . W(Jl 'k was before her, and to that all i
■ rgiys were bent Only her own hands
■" 'tress that sacred altar, the front par
'a" s '"' would not delay. Mounted ,
E. O. GOODRICH, Publiisher.
VOLUME XXV.
ou a step ladder, she swept the ceiling and
invaded every inch of side-wall with her
purifying broom.
"Dear, dear!" she exclaimed, discovering
a small cobweb behind a picture frame, "I
should think it was time we were cleaning,
sure enough."
The state of the windows moved her to
yet more harrowing emotions. What
streaks! what cloudiness! How could they
ever have lived with such things in such a
state! She stood shivering over her tub,
scrubbing and rinsing at frame and glass,
while the cold gust rushed in through the
open casement. Twinges of pain shot now
and then through the back of her head, and
dread forboding visited her heart, but she
never faltered. Duty must be done.
Meanwhile, Mr. Henry pursued his ordi
nary avocations. Coming out of the post
office, he encountered his sister-in-law.
"flood morning, Helen ; going to look in
at our house ?"
"No, I think not ; 1 must hurry home.
llow's Margarette?"
"Not a bit too well, I can tell you—and
up to her eyes in cleaning by this time, I
suppose."
"What, in this dismal weather?,' said
Helen, with a little shudder.
"Oh, it coulden't be put off! Of course
there"ll be neuralgia, and all that to pay.
] But who can stop a woman when she has
once made up her mind ? I could sec she
had started out on a regular bender." And
Mr. Henry smiled that smile of coucious
| pride befitting the husband of the most par
! ticular houskeepor "in town." He felt
j about his wife's undertaking as you and I
j felt when we heard that Sherman had begun
j iiis march to the seaboard. He knew it
I was a hard job, but she was die one to put
j it through.
"Send the children over to me," said Ilel
! en. "Clara and Gcorgy will be glad to
; have their company, and they'll be out of
i the way."
"Thank you. I dare say it will be a re
i lief. You've not begun, I suppose?"
"Oh no. I shall do nothing till next
j week, and not then unless it is milder. I
j shall have l'hillis, and take it easily. Give
imy love to Margaretta. God-by."
As Mr. Henry opened the front door on
] his return to dinner, a general odor ofdaiup
j ness and soapsuds saluted him. He passed
j down the bare hall into the bare dining
] room; no sign of any meal was visible.
"Oh, papa," said his little girl, who was
j wandering disconsolately to and fro, "I'm
' so glad you've come ! It's just as lonesome!
! I went into the parlor with mamma, but
] the windows were open and it was cold,
i and she wouldn't talk a bit."
' "She was too busy, dear. You mustn't
; disturb mamma when she's at work. But
where's dinner, I wonder?"
A third figure now appealed on the scene.
It was clad in an old dark calico, faded and
limp; a small shawl, of hue equally sub
dued, was wrapped about it; its head was
tied up in a comforter, rather worse for
; wear. Nothing proclaimed this to be the
same being that had sat down to break
fast, fresh and trim, but the expression of i
the face; that was clearly recognizable; j
the same, but wofully intensified.
"How are you getting along, Margaretta?'
asked her husband.
"Oh, as well as 1 could expect where j
there was so much to do. If you could !
just have seen these parlor windows, John!
I never was so tired in my life! My back !
really feels as if it was broken."
"You must let everything go and lie
down and rest, or you'll be sick, that's cer-1
tain."
"Must 1?" And a faint smile seemed to
say, "It's easy for you to taik." But she ]
made no remark, and only led the way to ]
the kitchen where the tempting bill of fare, j
which we have heard already, was set !
forth. The table stood against the wall, j
one leaf turned up; the cloth, folded double, ]
was spread upon it.
" How I iiate that style of setting a ta- j
ble !" said Mr Henry, with some impatience, i
"Why not have it in the middle of the room j
in good Christian fashion ?"
"It's so in the way out here," explained
his wife, dcprecatingly, "and only you and j
the children will sit down. I'll just take a ;
cup of tea by the sto%-e, and try to get j
warmed up a little ; I couldn't eat amor-1
sel."
"Humph !" said Mr. Ilenry, as he took i
bis seat and surveyed the viands, but he
made no further comment. The potatoes
were brown and wrinkled from over long
tarrying in the oven, the cold meat was
hardly visible to the naked eye, and both
he and "the children were very hungry.—
But this species of semi-fast was a sacrifice
which the well-trained husband was accus-;
tomed to lay before his Penates at the great i
domestic epoch.
" Helen says you'd better send the young
sters over to her," fie presently remarked.
A good sized piece of pie had by this time
appeared, and his heart grew lighter.—
"They haven't torn up vet."
"I didn't suppose they had," said Mrs. t
Henry, in a peculiar tone. "It wouldn't ]
trouble Helen at all if she didn't begin till
June."
"She says she means to have l'hillis."
"I presume so. 1 know some people do
employ her. I don't see how to manage, !
for iny part; I'm sure / can never get mv
cleaning done properly in any such way.'
But every one must suit herself, of course. !
Phillis asks six shillings, too, for every day
she works, and she is mortally slow. I j
don't feel that I can afford it. 1 don't think
I ought to spare my own labor once in j
awhile."
"You never do, at any time," said Mr. '
Henry, admiringly ; and a thrill of pleas
ure at the appreciation vibrated one mo-;
merit under the faded shawl.
"Well, about the children."
"I shall be glad enough to have them go.
Emma was teasing me all the morning
with her questions ; and I was so afraid !
that Johnny would get at the axe out in
the shed and cut his foot, that I hadn't a I
minute's peace thinking of it."
"Pooh! Couldn't cut his foot with that
axe if he tried all day. It's just fit for
womau and children to handle. But" come
Mamma, get the chicks ready,and I'll leave
them at Aunt Helen's ou my way down."
'I he field thus clear, Mrs. Henry addressed
herself once more to duty. The men arm
ing, she superintended the removal of the
carpets to the back yard, and saw the task
l of beating them fairly inaugurated. Shak
ing might do for other people, hat such re
, ceptacles of dust as her carpets could nev
er be made fit for putting down again with
out long application of the stick. She left
the two stout Hibernians vigorously em
ployed, and returned to her own peculiar
providence. "No work in afternoons" was
for her, as for most good housekeepers, the
beginning and end of the law, but at such
: periods she felt that the custom was more
| honored in the breach than the observance.
Site wrought faithfully on till dusk, cheered
through all her aching weariness by thought
ot the progress she was making; conscious,
too, that it would have been almost a mor
al transgression to abide longer in such an
| untidy house.
! At evening drew in, a lire was kindled
jon the sitting-room hearth ; all the stoves
{ were down, and this was the only resort
| for warmth. A slim little blaze curled
j among the sticks laid on a pair of ancient
andirons imported from the garret; all the
pictures were covered with old cloths or
newspapers; the chairs were turned inside
each other, grouped in one corner and cov
ered with a sheet, while their place was
j supplied by an old rush bottom rocker and
I three Windsors, long guiltless of paint.—
Every little article of ornament had been
stowed away in a drawer or closet to keep
!it from the dust, and the bare floor gave
desolate echoes to the lightest tread. To
add to its cheerlessness, a powerful fra
-1 grance of camphor prevailed the appart
meiit.
" Used up, eli, Margaretta'?" said her
husband, finding her extended on the sofa,
her temples bound tightly with a handker
' chief.
" Yes," replied a feeble voice, " my head
aches dreadfully."
" 1 was afraid of it, I thought you were
i overdoing ; and you ate no dinner at all."
" No, but in the course of the afternoon
I grew hungry and took a piece of mince
pie as I worked ; I couldn't stop for a reg
ular meal, .--o it can't be want of food that
has brought it on."
" Perhaps not ; but I wish you would be
; more prudent, dear. Couldn't you manage
| to spare yourself a little ?"
" Oli, John, you don't know anything
| about it ! You mean kindly, but men never
j understand. There's just so much to be
j done, and 1 must do it ; I can't trust au
-1 other creature. Bridget is an excellent
girl, but 1 couldn't think of setting her at
I anything lam particular about. And of
I course I can't have things dragging along
| week after week ; 1 must get through some
time, and if it brings on any of my troub
les, I must just put up with it. Oh dear !"
as a peculiaily knife-like pain went through
the suffering head.
" Can't I do something for you ?" asked
Mr. Henry, in a sympathizing tone.
" No, there's nothing for it but to keep
quiet ; perhaps I shall doze a little by and
' by. You want your tea, don't you? Just
i step into the kitchen and ask Bridget to set
on something ; I know she has the kettle
boiling. The children will have theirs with
; their cousins, probably."
The room was quiet ; huge shadows
played grotesquely OH the wall; the fire
I burned with a tranquil murmur. Marga
j retta's head grew easier ; the pain seemed
i to pass off into the pillow ; the sharp, far
| reaching stabs were stilled. She fell into
a half sleep, inexpressibly soothing, when
| there arose a rush, a tramping in the hall,
and the children burst in.
" Ch dear," she groaned, roused to suffer
ing again, and thinking, a little reproach
fully, that John might have watched for
their coining and taken them in by the back
way.
" Fire in the fireplace !" shouted Johnny.
" Isn't it nice, Emma ?"
" Did you have a pleasant visit ?" asked
the mother.
" Splendid !" answered Emma. "Aunt
Helen had a fire up stairs, and let us make
just as much noise as we wanted to. And
when we got tired we sat down to paint
ing ; I drew a butterfly, and painted it all
pink and yellow—such a beauty ! I've got
it in my pocket ; I brought it home to show
you, mother."
" Never mind, dear, I can't look at it now.
I hope you didn't injure anything playing j
about so hard."
"No, I guess not. Johnny upset his turn- ]
bier of water when we were painting ; 1
was real frightened! But Aunt Helen
wiped it up with a towel, and she said there j
was no harm done."
" I don't see how Helen can bear to have
a parcel of children romping through her
house," thought Mrs. Henry. "It would
set me crazy. But she never was very par-1
ticnlar. Johnny, Johnny," aloud, "can't j
you make a little less noise ? Those heels]
of yours seem to be stamping right into
my head and the young gentleman was
quiet for three-quarters of a minute.
Mr. Henry now came in with a light and
newspaper ; the children who had by this
time exhausted the amusement of the lire,
drew near the table.
" Where's my Riverdale Story Books ?"
asked Johnny. " I want to read about the
young Robinson Crusoe."
" I put them all away up stairs," said his
mother ; " you must take something else." j
But Robinson Crusoe alone would satisfy the :
youthful longings.
" I'll get it, mamma." offered Emma, " If'
you'll tell me where."
"You couldn't child; it's away down I
under ever so many things. Johnny, get !
out your picture-cards ; they're in the ta- j
blc-drawer."
This resource availed five minutes, but'
then the cry arose again.
" I)o find something to keep him quiet,
Emma," said her mother, in despair.
" 1 don't duow what to find ; everything ]
is put away. Oh dear, this isn't much like j
Aunt Helen's," said Enuna, disconsolately, j
" The floor's so cold, and it all looks so bare j
and dismal."
" exclaimed Mrs. Henry, res
olutely, " you must go to bed ; I can't stand
this constant talking any longer ; I feci as j
if 1 should fly. Emma, undress your broth-;
er, and take hiin up stairs." ]
"May not 1 come down again, mamma?' ]
" No, child ; you'll be better off in bed,
and I want the house quiet."
" 1 think mamma's very cross," observed
Johnny to his sister, as he inarched through
the hall.
The same uotion had visited Miss Em-,
ma's mind, but she rebuked the expression
I of it with austerest virtue. "You're a very
naughty boy to talk so, sir," she said,
" when your mother has such a headache."
I And this opportunity of administering dig
: nified reproof, just like a grown up person,
REGARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER.
TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., MAY 18, 1865.
• quite consoled her under the enforced re
tirement.
" Seems to me you were rather hard
the poor children," said Mr. Henry, as the
door closed after them ; " it's early yet."
This was a drop in the overflowing cup.
" If you could just have attended to them
a little," was the reply, " instead of going
on with your newspaper as if you never
heard a word, I nrght have let them stay.
You haven't much idea of how my head
feels !" And the husband in his secret
heart made the same accusation to which
his little son had given voice.
Ido not mean to follow Mrs. Henry in
detail through her labors. Various untold
circumstances arose, as they always will
at such periods. The dining-room carpet
was found to be broken in a hundred places
and to require as many darns. It was a
three ply of admirable constitution, as
three-plys were in the days when they cost
one dollar and nineteen cents per yard, in
stead of three dollars and twenty-five
cents ; but a series of beating every spring
and fall had impaired its pristine virtue,and
it yielded at last before the blind zeal of
the two stout Hibernians. Great was the
lamentation over it, uncousolable almost as
that voice of weeping in Ramah. But Mrs.
Henry found comfort at last in reflecting
that she couldn't be everywhere at once,and
so was not to blame ; and the carpet, since
it was to fall, had fallen in a good cause ;
its numerous darns were so many tongues
testifying for cleanliness. Then the man
•who was to paint and paper the sitting
room kept her waiting a whole week, and
a careless whitewasher dropped live drops
of lime on the lovely bordering in the back
parlor. These were heavy crosses, but
they were borne. Day after day did Mrs.
Henry forsake her pillow witli an aching
frame but an undaunted heart ; day after
day did she wield the broom, and duster,
the scrubbing-brush. One mournful morn,
indeed, beheld her vanquished ; for four
and twenty hours her place knew her not,
and she lay moaning uneasy couch ;
but she rallied speedily, and held her ground
till the last tack was driven, the last stair
rod in its place. Then the tension gave
way ; she yielded, as she known all along
she must do. Neuralgia was king; his
fierce pangs racks every portion of the
feeble form. In the height of his sway a
cold rain set in ; then how the rain suffered
with the suffering body ! What visions of
mud and mire beset it of unclean tracks
through the immaculate hall! Every body
was made to come in at the back door ;
mats, scrapers were in constant requisi
tion, and what peace could visit the pertur
bed spirit, unable itself to oversee these
precautionary measures ?
Her day of triumph came, however. One
bright May morning she was well enough
to dress herself and walk over to her sis
ter-in-law's. What a contrast did it pre
sent to her own well ordered dwelling !
The porch was full of furniture, the case- j
ments of the front bed-room, empty, the
hall and stairs uncarpeted. Thank good
ness, she was through, and could take the
comfort of it.
Helen came forth to meet her in a print
dress and a clean collar, with her hair quite I
; smooth. " Doesn't look much like busi- !
ness!" was Mrs. Henry's inward comment,
"doesn't put her own shoulder to the wheel j
as I should."
" Come into tiie back room, Margaret; |
we haven't interfered with that yet. Take !
this easy chair and rest yourself. You'll |
excuse my keeping at work."
" Certainly ; I wouldn't hinder for the ]
world," and Helen went on dusting and re-;
placing the books.
" You've got Phillis.haven't you?" asked
Mrs. Henry.
" Yes, she is in the back yard, washing
the windows."
"Can you trust her?" spoke Margaretta,
in a voice of horror.
"She does very well, as a general thing,
but I always look over the panes and pol
ish off any that are streakj."
"Shiftless!" thought Mrs. Henry, "I
should rather do it all myself," she said.
"Oh, no," said Helen, calmly. "I find j
this much the easiest way."
Ease, indeed ! The idea of a house-keep-1
er talking of her own ease ! It was hard
to be silent when such heresies were ut- j
tered.
"You are all nicely settled, 1 suppose?"
asked Helen.
" Yes, entirely, more than a week ago."
" That is pleasant. It is a long business,
and one feels quite relieved when it is j
over."
"Oli, I couldn't think of having it around
so late. I don't see how you can bear to
be cleaning in such tine weather."
" I rather enjoy it. The country never
looks so pretty as when I see it through 1
sashlcss windows ; they seem to frame ]
the landscape, somehow, and make it a 1
living picture. Haven't you ever noticed
it ?"
" Not I, indeed ; 1 am too busy."
"It doesn't take mucli time. But I know
how you feel about early cleaning ; it's
very tempting ; I often find it so myself,
till 1 steadily remember how comfortless it
makes the house. And I think, too, we are
liable to take cold with the doors and win
dows open so much before the air is warm."
Margaretta could not combat this theory as
she would have liked to do, for Mr. Henry
had a turn of sore throat which he would
persist in attributing to these causes, but j
she had a feeling that people ought not to j
complain of ailments contracted in the ser- j
vice.
" What do you pay Phillis?" she inquired.
" Seventy-five cents."
" Isn't that high ?"
" 1 believe Mrs. Brown has a little less,
but I had rather give Phillis the extra shil
ling ; she knows what to do and can go on
aloue."
" Why, yes, if you feel easy to let her." i
"Of course I superintend ; she is very
willing to be told. It costs something, but
I think it is economy, on the whole, to have
her. lam not strong, and the hard work
of cleaning is too much for me."
" 1 am not strong myself," observed Mar
garetta, on whom this plea for indolence by
no means imposed.
" I know it," replied Helen, smiling ;
" but I haven't your courage. I cannot
contemplate one of those racking head
aches with any sort of patience. In my
opinion it is the very hardest way of saving
money."
" Oli, it isn't that—though I think we
shouldn't be afraid of our own work. But
J there is the comfort of having things done
right and as you want them."
i " Well, then," said Helen, " it's the very
■ hardest way of taking comfort."
Margaretta's countenance changed, and
the sister felt that she had said too much.
It was foolish, for extra neatness, she was
well aware, is a vice as ineradicable as or
iginal sin, yet she was greatly tempted to
go on and state her full conviction that the
housekeeping is best which confers most
happiness ; that the dreary days when the
mother of a family is ill go far to counter
balance whatever bliss may lie in spotless
floors and windows ; that no slavery to
one's houses, justifies the misery both for
the man and woman of it. She could have
set forth her views with great distinctness
and some eloquence. That she restrained
the rising flow of words is a circumstance
considerably in her favor.
" I don't suppose we shall ever think
alike on this subject, dear," she said, hast
ening to make atonement, " any more
than 1 expect my housekeeping will come
up to yours. George and I always agree
when we take tea with you that no one has
such rooms or such a table. They are a
pattern for anybody, and we are only sorry
that your strength is not equal to your
spirit."
Margaretta's brow cleared, her displeas
ure was appeased. Helen had been her
Mordccai ; she had always withstood her.
She, Margaretta, had always felt that Hel
en's thoughts were not like her thoughts ;
that Helen's great object in life was a diff
erent one from hers. She had a painful sus
picion that she was under-valued and her
gifts held in light esteem. It appeared that
her sister-in-law knew her claims, at all
events, and that humble statement of infe
; riority, in which she concurred with her
whole heart, though her lips were mute,was
a grateful tribute. "No one has things at
all like mine !" she thought. " Well, lam
glad she can see it at any rate."
j She had occasion to feel its truth more
i than once that summer. Mr. Henry came
in one day, quite jovial.
" Great news Margaretta !" he said.—
! " You must do your best. The Mowbrays
] are coming next week. George has just
| had a letter."
" The Mowbrays ! Next week !" she re
] peated, and her face was not indicative of
delight. Mr. Henry was disappointed.
" I thought yon would be pleased," he
j said, with some feeling. " Mrs. Mowbray
| was like a mother to George and me, and
j it would be most ungrateful if we were not
glad to see her, at least. As she is a stran
! ger to you I suppose you owe her nothing."
" I'm sure I feel most kindly, John ; I
want to show her every attention. But I'll
! tell you why I looked perplexed ; just see
i this pile of sewing ! Johnny's waists and
; pants, and Emma's ruffled muslin and her
Swiss Garibaldi to tuck. 1 calculated that
j by steady work I could just finish by the
j end of next week, and you took me by sur
! prise, that's all." Not another word did
I she say of the consternation that filled her
spirit ; she saw that she had already deep
ly sinned in receiving the information with
such coldness. Mr. Henry was quite in
] dined to be severe ; he remembered what
hosts of company they used to have in his
early home, what a fine thing it was con-
I sidered when a whole tribe of cousins made
descent at once. How easily everything
j went on, and his mother was never in the
j least put out, if ever so busy. But then,
j as his wife had often given him to under
; stand, that good mother was by no means
I a shining light in housekeeping ; and her
; health, too, was so excellent. Poor Mar
; garetta ! what a spirit she had, how much
; she accomplished, though she was never
really well. Many a woman would hold
herself excused from all exertion, if so fee
ble. But look at her house and see if she
ever claimed indulgence for herself! It
was wonderful.
Meanwhile Margaretta fairly trembled
as she thought of the approaching guests.
The Mowbrays, living in one of the best
places in Madison Avenue ; the Mowbrays
rich as Jews, with plate and servants, and
every appliance that money could command
coming to visit her with her one girl, and
her plain, rustic house.
" How shall we ever manage ?" she ask
ed of Helen. "John says if you just give
people a cordial welcome it's all they care
for."
" I think it is, provided you accompany
it with tolerable food and shelter—and we
are competent to do that."
" Now, Helen, it's easy to talk ! But
just confess that you feel very anxious
about entertaining friends that are used to
such a different style of living.
" I can't say that I do. I presume they
know about what to expect, and they were
not always so very rich themselves. I dare
say that Mrs. Mowbray at our age lived as
plainly as we do."
" Perhaps ; but people so soon forget
such tilings."
" I don't think from all we have heard of
her that she is that sort of person. She
will come here expecting a quiet visit, and
we shall make her as comfortable as we
cau. I don't see anything to apprehend."
Margaretta was amazed at such obtuse
ness. For herself, she determined to spare
no effort at making a creditable appear
ance in the eyes of these important stran
gers. She.sat.up night after night to finish
the projected sewing * the children must
look their best. A new dress for herself
j and new curtains for the parlor were im
] perative ; so were many little items of
j china and cabinet ware. These cares, with
the general burnishing of the house and
the thousand jam and jelly preparations,
left her so worn out that it was well indeed
that the guests were to make their visit to
Helen.
Mrs. Mowbray's appearance disappoint
ed Margaretta not a little ; a pleasant,
middle aged woman in a gray silk dress ;
not one atom formidable. She hail expect- ]
ed, she didn't quite kuow what; a great ]
deal of style, and elegance, and manner.
Mrs. Mowbray was as an unpretending as i
her own mother ; she called George and
John "the buys," and treated their wives
with the frankest kindness.
" Did you ever see such tt tea set before
company ?" said Margaretta to her husband,
on their return from the first afternoon vis
it at Helen's.
" What ailed it? I had a good biscuit
and a cup of capital Young Hyson."
" These things are of course. But only
one sort of sweetmeats, and but two kinds
of cake in the basket—and one of those
iff Si pei- Annum, 111 Advance.
jelly cake ! I should hardly have called it
a tea if we had been there by ourselves—
and what must the Mowbrays have thought!'
"As to that, they can't expect to find
Fifth Avenue up here in the country."
"It isn't Fifth, its Madison. I shall ex
pect to show them at any rate that I under
stand things a little better when they come
to our house.
" Oh, if you mean that you can set out a
handsomer table than Helen, no one will
think of denying that. No that I know
much about such kickshaw "
His wife was aware of that; it was one
of her trials. With firmest faith in her su
periority he was yet incapable of delicase
distinctions, and consumed her choicest
dainties just as he did dough-nuts and ap
ple sauce. It was to be hoped that the
Mowbrays would show more appreciation.
The time of their visit came at last. The
first day went off well, except that Marga
retta was too tired almost to speak, and
Mrs: Mowbray thought her by no means as
agreeable as her sister-in-law. Conversa
tion. at least in her own house, was not
Mrs. Henry's forte ; she was always too
much burdened with culinary cases. And
she had now a difficult problem to solve ;
how tc> make her single assistant so fill the
places of the whole Mowbray retinue that
no want should be discernible.
The second day was very warm ; one of
those melting, scorching times that often
blaze down upon us towards the end of
June Great preparations were afoot in
the kitchen, and though each door and
window was opened to its • widest, the air
was still, Bridget averred, hot enough to
roast an egg. Mrs. Henry determined to
add ice-cream to an already bountiful des
sert, and as three minute freezers were not
yet invented, she was obliged to bestow
considerable attention on it. .She passed
several times from the burning kitchen to
the cold cellar, stood on the bricks and re
j arranged the salt and ice, without once
I thinking of imprudence. She was remind-
I ed of it by a strange feeling in the chest
j and a familiar one in the head ; a long, ag
| onizing thrill.
The dinner went off beautifully ; Bridget
; had been well drilled and performed her
| part to admiration. No professed waiter
could have moved about more noiselessly
jor answered wants with inure assiduous
i quiet care. The ice-cream was delicious ;
Mr. Mowbray pronounced it better than
i Delmonico's and his wife expatiated on the
excellence of everything in the country.—
Not all the pleasure which this praise
awakened could blind Margarettato her in
creasing illness. The pain in her head was
frightful, and sharp stabs in side and chest
responded to it. At last even her heroism
could endure no longer ; she was obliged to
give up, excuse herself, and fairly take to
bed, leaving the- Mowbrays to entertain
themselves. Helen, who came over on
learning the state of things, wished them
to return with her, but Margaretta would
not hear of it.
" Stay to tea if you can, Helen," she
said— ■" Oh, my side ! I shall be well in tlie
morning, and I can't bear to have them go.
It seems inhospitable."
But when morning came she was in no
state to care about the matter. The attack
proved to be a violent congestion, and she
suffered greatly. Mrs. Mowbray coming
out of her room one day looked very grave.
" I am afraid, my dear," she said to Hel
en, " that your poor sister never will get
over this."
" Oh, do you think so ?" Helen cried, j
alarmed. "But you are not used to seeing
her in illness ; she often has severe paiu,
and her face shows it very soon. 1 can
not but hope you are mistaken."
Events justified Mrs. Mowbray's opinion;
Margaretta rallied indeed from the first at- I
tack, and passed in comfort through the j
early autumn, but as winter came on her
cough increased. She drooped and dwind
led away, and before the last snow had melt-1
ed from the hills lay quiet in the little j
churchyard.
And then —what happened then? Just, j
dear Belinda, what will happen to Mr. j
should yon be " taken away ;" just what in
such a case would happen to my husband
—if 1 had one. Mr. Henry was first ultiiet
ed ; then unutterably lonely ; last of all
consoled. Two years from the date of Mar-!
garetta's death he brought home his sec- j
ond wife. She was a girl of nineteen, !
pretty and amiable ; she was fond of him, ;
and proved kind to the children, spite of a ]
numerous progeny of Irer own. But she j
was not a careful housekeeper. Little j
lingers marked the polish of the bureaus,
little heels dented paint and scraped off ve-'
neering : the best roseblankets trailed 011
dusty floors, and the doorknobs were often '
sticky. Poor Margaretta! she lay still
through it all !
And following close upon her track came
many a matron she had known, eager, it
would seem, to emulate her career. Care- i
fully to hoard her choicest things for a
successor, to rise early, to lie down Itae ; j
to offer strength and health, and finallyjlife
itself in that cause of which she was one
of the martyrs.
How HOLLAND WAS GATHERED.— No des
cription can convey the slightest idea of
the way in which Holland lias been gath
ered, particle by particle, out of the waste
of waters, of the strange aspect of coun
try, and the incessant vigilance and won
drous precautions by which it is preserved.
Holland is, in the fullest extent, an allu
vium of the sea. It consists of mud and
sand rescued from the ocean, and banked ,
upon all sides. Produced by the most dex
terous and indefatigable exertions, it can
be maintained only by artificial means. If
the efforts by which it was redeemed from
the waters were to be relaxed, the ocean
would reassert its rights, and the whole ,
kingdom would be submerged. The slight
est accident might sweep Holland in the i
deep. It was once undermined by an in
sect. Indeed, the necessity of destroying ;
insects is so urgent, that the stork, a great
feeder on them, is actually held in venera
tion, and almost every species of bird is
religiously protected from injury. Birds
nesting was strictly protected by law. The
drift of all this is palpable enough. But it
is curious that the very existence of a
great country depends upon such guaran
tees.
An unfortunate young man is searching
everywhere lor his sweetheart who was re
cently carried away by her feelings.
ABOVE Tfirt Ih'SIN ESS. — It is a serious evil
tli 11 many it youtnr tnan lias fallen into, to
be above bis business. A person learns a
trade, and he must go to shop-keeping, or
street loafing, or turn politician. Fool !
If he cannot make a living at his trade,
we are sure that he Cannot in ahy other
way. And then young men brought up f"
shop-keeping must buy farms, or houses
or some other foolish thing, they km>w
nothing about, and what is the result ?
Head over heels in debt and certain failure.
Multitudes have l*eeu ruined by being
above their business, a id branching out in
to what they know nothing about.
There is no trouble about young men
who do not feel their importance, and are
willing to work at their trades or profes
sions till they get a little before hand. With
a small capital to fall back upon, they can
feel like venturing into other business—
and by this time will have formed habits
that will be likely to keep them straight
Those who succeed best in life are men
who stick to business and make money be
fore the}'buy farms and houses, and com
mence speculating. Look at our success
ful men and you will see where lies the se
cret of success.
You will find they never were above their
business, and never paid for the doing ola
job which they could just as well do them
selves We know a man worth from thir
ty to forty thousand dollars, and no laborer
works harder than he. lie never hesitates
to take off his coat and do any kind of
work about his premises. Such a man is
not above his business ; but we think he
is too far in the other extreme. Of this
we are sure : if all men will be prompt and
punctual, stick to their business and not
be too proud—they will eventually succeed
and become independent.— lJ. C. Colon
ivorth.
CHF.ERFUL.VESS.— Tonics, med
icines ! There is nothing in all the phar
macopoeia half so inspiring as a cheerful
temper. Do not fancy yourself a victim !
Do not go through the world with a face
half a yard long. My dear friend, you are
the only person that is wrong, when you
say that this is a world of trial and trouble!
It is a great deal better to be without an
arm, or leg, than to lack cheerfulness 1
What if the globe does not roll round in
the precise direction you want it to ! Make
the best of it ! Put a pleasant face 011 the
matter, and not go about throwing cold
water on the firesides of all the rest of
mankind. If you are in want of an exam
ple, look at the birds, or dowers, or the
very sunshine on the grass ! Show 110 one
grumbler in all nature's wide domains !
The man who is habitually cheerful has
found the philosopher's stone ; there is no
cloud so dark but he sees the blue sky be
yond : no trouble s 1 calamitous but he finds
some blessing - left him to thank Providenci
for. He may be poor and destitute, but
he walks clad in armor that all the mines
of Golcondo cannot purchase. Snow and
rain cannot penetrate it—scorn and.con
tumely fall harmless from its surface The
storm that sinks a less couiageous craft
can only compel him to trim his sails and
try again. Who would be a mere ther
mometer, to rise and fall in spirits with
every change of life's atmosphere ?
NUMBER 51.
WHAT is A WOMAN ?— Victor Hugo, who
1 has been at immense expense to popularise
! himself as a poet with the female sex, goes
I much farther, because he goes much deep-
I er, than the most malignant saint in the
calendar in his physiology of women. " A
woman," observes tin's amiable heir of the
Provencial bards, "a woman is simply a
highly-improved style of demon." Alexan
der Dumas, the younger, with whom pul
monary consumption is the only female re
lion, has uttered a great many outrageous
impertinences concerning women. " Hea
ven," he exclaims, "in its merciful provi
dence, gave no beard to women, because it
j knew that they could not hold their tongues
j long enough to be shaved." " For the sake
| of women," observed the same individual,
men dishonor themselves—kill themselves;
and, in the midst of this universal carnage
the creature who brings it to pass lias only
one thought in her mind, which is to decide
whether she shall dress herself so as to
look like an umbrella or like a dinner-bell.
THE EFFECTS OF IMPATIENCE. -Nothing mere
incapacitates a man for the lead than im
patience. No constitutionally impatient
man who has indulged his tendency, ever
gets to the bottom of tilings, or knows with
any nicety the standing, disposition and
circumstances of the people among whom
lie is, or has thrown himself amongst. Cer
tain salient points be is possessed of but
not what reconciles and accounts for them.
Something in him—an obtrusive half, or
train of thought, or liking and antipathies
will always come between him and an im
partial judgment, neither does he win con
fidence, for he checks the coy, uncertain
advances which are the precursers to it.
We doubt if a thoroughly impatient man
can read the heart or be a fair critic or 1111-
derstand the rights of any knotty question
or make himself master of any difficult sit
uation. The power of acting, deliberating,
hanging in suspense, is necccssary for all
these, —the power of staving off for consid
erable periods of time merely personal lean
ings—London Sat. Review.
THE BOY'S COMPOSITION ON MOOXLIWHT.—
The following composition is said to have
been read in one of the schools of a neigh
boring village:
'Twas a calm still night : the moon's pah
light shone soft o'er hill and dale. Not a
breeze stirred ; not a leaf stirred ; not a
dog stirred ; not a horse stirred ; not a man
stirred ; not an owl stirred ; not a hog
stirred ; not a cow stirred : not a sheep
stirred ; not a cat stirred ; not a mouse
stirred : not a hen stirred ; not even a gonso
stirred ;
Here the teacher interrupted with the
observation that the composition appeared
to him to relate more to agriculture than
to moonlight !
" Well, my boy," said the Reverend Doc
tor, visiting the house of a friend, to the
young sen of his host, "MI you are fitting
for the Latin school."
"Yes sir," was the reply.
" Have you made yourself familiar with
any historical works ?"
"Oh, yes, sir; I've read Dick Tnrpin,
Three-Fingered Jack, Old Hal Williams,
the Yicksburg Spy, and lots of others, by
first rate authors."
The Reverend Doctor went way satisfied.
Too THICK. — A good anecdote is told of a
house-painter's son, who used to brush dex
terously, but had acquired the habit of put
ting it "on too thick." One day his father,
after having frequently scolded him for his
lavish daubing, and all to no purpose gave
him a severe flagellation.
"There you young rascal," said he, after
performing the painful duty, " how do you
like that?" >
" Well, 1 don't know, dad," whined the
hoy in reply, " but it seems to me that you
put it on a thunderin, sight thicker'n I did.'