The west shore., August 30, 1890, Page 38, Image 6

WEST SHORE.
38
It - 1 1
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f J i.
by Ella Higoinson.
sma, SWEET.
Sing. Bweet, liai !
Though out happy daye may be waning ;
For hr and away the beeyena are gray,
and to-morrow it mar be raining
Ho, ling, Bweet, ling !
Ding. Bweet, ling!
Tin inn on Die bill ii dying :
Though fnlletb. tin rain, it it Hill ill in fain
To bt eternally ligljing
Ho, ling, Hweet, ling !
Bing, Hweet, aing !
For, u loog ae hop i lif ing,
There are pleaturei to feel, and eorrowe to heal,
And Ilia bleated Joy of giung-
8o, ling, Bweet, aing !
Birg.Bwett, aing!
Oira tha Jot in your heart an outing,
That othere may bur and take conrage, deer;
for your aong may quiet their doubting
Then, aing, Bweet, aing !
Ding, Sweet, aing !
Tha binla in I he wooda are mating i
Oh, trait and lie pure, and, 1 tall you-eure
Our (iud will bli our waiting
Oh, Hwaet, Hwaat. aing!
Tlit editor of an eastern magazine lit" asked some hall dozen famous
women the i)iiMtlon : " Which ii the happiest hour of a woman'" life."
Now yon are tmillng alreaily and laying to yourself, " As if any woman
would tell ! " But think of it seriously. It seems at first thought as though
you could put your hand out softly and touch the happiest hour of your life.
" Oh," you say, with a tweet color coming. Into your fact and that little
cleft In your throat swelling in and out, " The happiest hour of my life "
and then you draw a brief, fluttering breath, and stop. Dear, I don't be
lieve you can answer that question to your own satisfaction. At soon as
yon think of one hour, another arises, and looks at you with reproachful
eyet, and aayt, " Why, I thought I was the happiest hour you ever knew."
It seems impossible to be true to one dear hour without being faithful to an
other equally dear. The happiest hour of a woman's life must be connected
with love that is If the be a tmt women. Can you not imagine how a
woman who has been separated fir a long time from him the loves with all
the pure, passionate strength of her nature mutt look forward to the hour
when the shall once more reach trembling arms aliout his throat and (eel
hit strong clasp enfold her, and feel, too, tweet tears wet and cool her burn
ing eyet at the thought that all the doubt, all the waiting, all the uncer
tainty are over, and know that he loves her still and 0, when that hour
cornea to her and It her own, it It not her very happiest T Or does she even
then look forward feverishly to an hour that the hopes will be still happier?
For myself, I am in one long, nial race after the hour that will lie my hap
piest, and I believe you are, alto. It hat not come to me yet, nor do I really
think that It ever will; but it swings along In space ahead of me always,
and I have reached out my hands to It an hundred times but It It always
gone. It mutt be a very happy hour when a woman for the first time feelt
Iter weak arms clasp her own child and Ita little, wet lipa resting against
her breast; but not her happiest 0, no, no; for the thought of all that
child has to suffer will surely come to her In that hour. Or when a woman
lias known care and sorrow and doubt; when a trotted hand hat failed her,
or one she loved been untrue to her what an hour it must be (or her when
the knowt, beyond all doubling, that tome heart, tender and true and hon
est, heats for her alone. When I think it all over I am rather Inclined to
the belief that there Is nothing that gives quite to pure and exquisite a hap
piness aa a reconciliation, complete, erfect, between two who love strongly
but Into whose heaits had crept a little doubt, a little distrust, a little cold
ness, one toward the other. To have suffered thus a long time, and then to,
one glad day, look into each other's eyet with the old, tweet love and trust
to Ami all the doubt swept away and all the harriers beaten down to feel
warm hearta throbbing together and glad pulses thrilling one upon the
other, once more-it not then the happiest hour? I believe I shall cast
my vote for that perfect hour. Uut-ah, uiel-even at I write, there it a
little, black, hateful shadow standing at my shoulder, and it speaks to me
In a still whtsiwr, but with Its llpt so close to my ear that I cannot fall to
hear and It aayt : " The happiest hourT-Tlie happiest hour?-The hap
pleat hour!"-o toft, and to lad, and to low that each word drops like the
clear, eoleinn note of a funeral bell.
I fled alway along a dim road, through dense forests, sometimes fright
ened often timid, tired, foot sore, heart-sick, but always mb . restless
TVZli henulsos and an unconquerable deslre to press onward, on-
oX;;
Sy me but that phantom thing that fled before me " I will come back
I yol" i " eye8 !,rained'nt0 th,e f wKwy ST;
"but first I must solve this mystery! I must know what i, this beautiful
thing that flees before me-but I will come back! " So I tped onward.
Often I was compelled to pauee for a moment's span and fling myself in the
arms of the cool ferns to rest; but even then, with love and tenderness all
about me, I felt my brain burning and my whole soul throbbing In a pas
sionate desire to be up and away-like some wild, free thing wtth homed
breath and startled eyes-in hot pursuit of that nameless shape that fled
before me At one curve in the dim road stood a beautiful maiden, who
reached bare, tender arms to me. " I am the Goddess of Love," breathed
she. " Slay ! " A moment I tarried with her and was content j then that
other shadow flitted on, and that soft voice called, and I followed. Gold,
fame, honor-they all wooed me, and tempted me, and I would lean, rest
ing, in their arms for a brief while, but I soon wearried of them-O, I wear
ied'of everything under the sun, save that mad chase after the unseen;
save that rettless throbbing of my heart and that burning flow of my blood
along my veins. But suddenly my strength failed me. In the hot noon
my knees trembled beneath me, and my temples leaped like glowing anvils,
and I sank down, powerless, hopeless, upon the dry grass. " I give it up,"
1 moaned ; " I have fainted and failed. 1 will flee after you no longer. All
loves sve you have I known ! All mysteries save you have I solved 1 All
lips save yours have I kissed-and I have cast all behind me all that I
might flee always after you. But go! I am weary and hopeless; I will
pursue you no longer! " Then-O, bitter irony of life that I sought that
shapeless thing no longer, it turned and came to me through the dim wood,
and I was frightened at its approach. It put cold arm! about me and laid
icy lips upon my lips. " You are so young so young," said a hollow voice,
mournfully. " But you have worn out your heart! You have found all
pleasures empty and soulless, and all griefs bearable, and you have forgot
ten to take heed of little things, in your blind, feverish chase after one
mysterious thing that always eluded you. Now that you have failed in all
things, I take pity on you and come to you Let us go!" Then, with fear
ful eyes, 1 looked into her face, and, at last too late I recogniied her as
that pale, awful thing that men name Death.
Those who possess the gift of good conversation are usually aware of
the lact, but often alas! so blind that they can not see when one is bored
to desperation, and so conceited that they would not believe it if you told
them. A little of the very best thing in the world goes a long way; and
one who has " opinions " and airs them whenever he gets an opportunity
is a deadly bore to those who are too kind-hearted to wound his feelings or
too well bred to yawn in his face. Because one does not talk much is that
an evidence that he has no mind of his own ? He may not care to give his
opinions to you, lest you turn about and proclaim them as your own. The
one who doesn't talk may require enlightenment and he may not j so han
dle him with gloved Angers; the hollyhock is the most unpretentious of
flowers, but you will frequently And a bumble-bee in its heart.
A home for fallen women and unfortunate girls has been established in
Seattle. The sisters in charge state that they will have to begin in a very
modest and limited way at first; so now, if there are any wealthy philan
thropists who really desire to do something for those who, having taken one
falie step-under, often and often, such temptations and trials that no
calmer soul can fathom or comprehend them-realiie that they can never
again find firm foundation for their burning feet, let such philanthropist
come forward and help. Ii you believe in Christ's teachings at all, you
must believe that a woman's reformation Is as precious to Him as a man's.
The sound of the wedding bells in the tower of Westminster Abbey at
the Stanley wedding ceremonies was caught and recorded by phonographs ;
and a phonograph with these records was presented to the bride. Buch
downngh cruelly makes one shiver. Only think how cracked and tuneless
one a wedding chime would sound-after the honeymoon.
Oscar Wilde say. " Men marry because they are tired, women because
St a t'Ur,7lrnd b0'h W "Wototod, Toor Mrs. Oscw Wild