The above estimate may be somewhat ex
aggerated, but it still remains an undisputed
fact that more work is performed on Sun
day, in France, than in any other civilized
country, and there is a great deal of force
in Macaulay's observation that " Man, the ma
chine of machines, requires repairing and
winding up once a week, so that he may re
turn to his labors on Monday with clearer
intellect, with livelier spirits and with re
newed corporeal vigor."
The low pay received by the working
classes of Hungary, and the long hours of
service, day in and clay out, exacted from the
working classes of France, may be one reason
why the American workmen, with shorter
hours and better, can so easily compete
with them.
" Wherever you find high rates of wages,
you are almost certain to find the low costs
of production, so far as labor is concerned."
This may be in part accounted for by the
contrast between our own condition and that
of foreign countries. An Austrian manufac
turer once said : " Our operatives cannot do
the work performed in American factories,
because they do not eat enough to admit of
the sustained exertion."
Man must, like all other pieces of mechan
ism, be supplied with enough of fuel, in order
to perform work in a satisfactory manner.
So, too, in the matter of hours of labor,
when the human machine becomes exhausted
a satisfactory performance of work cannot be
expected ; and the tendency in this country
toward lessening the hours of daily labor,
with the increased one of machinery, is one
which is certain in time to accomplish the
result of adding to the productiveness of our
working-men, and at the same time, giving
them larger opportunities for the enjoyment
of life.
Dutch has been using myrtle green writing
paper of late.
E LANCE.
THE FRE
Then I listen to the stream,
Making noises that would seem
But the moment of a dream
Within my pensive mind.
All the sounds of love and fear,
All the voices—far and near,
Falling on my deafened ear,
Fail to penetrate the region of m
O'er my memory sweeps a gale,
Breathing some mysterious tale,
Till I feel my lips grow pale
And find relief in sighs,
O'er my thoughts are brightly cast
Tints of color from the past,
Glories that are fading fast
As the sunset's glory fades befor
As I stroll o'er fenceless fields,
Seeking joys that nature yields,
Such ns every flower conceals
From men with evil hearts—
Then I muse upon the bee,
Poised on vibrant wings is he,
O'er the flowers of the lea,
Seeking treasures sweet, conceal
After toil of day is done,
Cares depart me one by one,
But I: know not whither gone—
My wishes fill their void.
This soft hour at the close of day,
Clad in livery golden gray
Draws me by its grand display
Of sweet music-making voices n
Parent birds now cense to sing,
Vesper bells begin to ring
Gentle breezes with them bring,
A chorus from abroad.
Peaceful moves this caravan,
Through the land where sinful mm
Grasps whatever wealth he can,
Caring little what his duty is to
AT SUNSET
JOIN SMITH
When the sun is sinking low
And I see the evening glow
Lightly resting—soon to flow
Off from the distant hill ;
Then I linger in delight,
Musing o'er this natural sight,
Parting day will kiss " goodnight,'
And the blush upon the mountait