THE ILLUSTRATED WEST SHORE.
23!)
THE ROOM BV THE SEA.
0, room so full of sunlight,
Of sound and scent of seal
No other room in all the world
Could be so dear to me.
0, room that looks to southland
That looks to east and wesll
Thy four calm walls have held for me
Life's truest, purest, best.
0, room so full of flowers,
Of sound, of wind and sea!
The fairest room in castle grand
Is poor compared to thee.
And, room, when 1 have left thee,
And stranger eyes peer in,
Be true to me, nor ever speak
Of dreams that dwelt herein.
Kor, room, I love thee fondly,
And hold thee in my heart;
But 1 have learned with all we love
There comes a time to part.
In the valley of Life there is a mountain, steep and rugged, named Suc
cess. There is no path leading up its precipitous side, and he who would
ascend must prepare his own way before him, hewing down trees, pressing
aside brambles, and rolling huge boulders out of his road, or crushing 'them
into the earth and treading upon them with triumphant, but bleeding, feet.
Qne came to the foot of this mountain one fair, summer day, and looked
upward to its dome towering into the skies, and he said : " Tomorrow will I
climb it "and he fell to chasing golden butterflies through the scented air.
And the morrow came, but he only looked upward, and said again : " Next
week will I climb it "for who could work when the primroses were yellow
on the river's bank? And when a week had passed, he looked upward, and
said once more : " Next year will I climb it "for, hear ! how glad the wild
birds were in the meadows ! Surely, this was no time for work. And when
a year had passed, lo ! he looked upward, shaking his head. " I am so
happy here," he said, " with only the birds and the flowers and the beautiful
dreams that steal out of starlight and abide with me. I shall never climb (
for he who climbs must leave love behind." But he waved a Cod speed to
the ones who had set out in youth's morning and were climbing away, wearily,
in the heat and thirst of the noon. Another came, with flashing eyes, and set
out boldly for the mountain top i he climbed swiftly and vigorously, and
always, when he had forced a boulder out of his own way, he rolled it into
the path of a brother struggling below, and said, between closed teeth : " Let
them work as I have," and went on his way. But, as his hand was against
every man, and in his heart were only hate and envy, it came to pass that he
lost all interest m the valley of Life and in the mountain of Success t and he
lay down, weak and bitter-hearted, in the shadow of the rock named Scorn
for he had not strength or hope to roll it out of his path j and he hated the
people who patiently climbed past him, and flung thorns and stones in their
way, that their poor feet must bleed, for being too bitter and too narrow
minded to climb higher, he would have kept all others bound down to his
level. And, lo I one came, with upturned eyes, to the mountain, and set out
in the early morning for the summit. He climbed slowly, patiently, faithfully i
he put aside the thorns with torn fingers, and pressed bleeding feet where the
rocks had lain s his eyes were turned ever upward, and he looked neither to
the right nor to the left Pleasure beckoned to him from glades of flowers
and music, reaching out soft, bare arms to tempt him, and haunting him with
her beautiful eyes i Rest begged him to stay his feet in a dark bower where
cool breezes fanned, and lay his tired, burning head upon her bosom and let
her tender fingers press pain from his beating temples Love, star-eyed and
pure-breasted, stood in his path and gave him one look that set his veins to
swelling with passionate delight But he pressed his lips firmly together, and
shook his head, and passed on but one sob burst from him, although he
would not look back lest his courage falter. And at sunset, weary, hungry,
thirsty, he reached the summit and stood upright in the clear air of Success i
his figure towered against the sky, and his name fell, echoing, down to the
listening valley below j then his dulled, sun-worn eyes turned backward, and
he saw, with a cry of anguish, lives that he had blackened in passing, and
bleeding hearts that he had trampled one heart he saw which, he knew now,
had loved him truly i and he would haw given the whole mountain of Success
could he have gone back to it. Sad of soul, he looked to see what lay before
him on the other side and, behold ! it was only the lone, pale valley men
name Death.
A keen, bracing, spring atmosphere, a blue sky, a sunlight sufficiently
yellow to bring out freckles, a road that has neither mud nor dust, but runs
like a white ribbon between greening fields and leafing trees, a horse champ
ing his bit, with swelling nostrils and flashing eyes, eager to be off give her
these and you see a happy woman. Bend downward, extending your strong
hand, you to whom this happy woman belongs for, you know, they tell us
happy women always belong to someone and in a second a dainty foot will
press lightly upon it, in the next she will be settled in her saddle, her reins
gathered up with a steady hand, and she will be off like the wind, caring for
nothing and for nobody no, sir, not even you, little as you may relish that
part of it until she comes back, hours after, with starry eyes and glowing
cheeks, but with a little weariness nestling at the comers of her mouth, and
slips down into your arms and says : I've had such a lovely time and I'm
so tired and I wish you had been with us "us meaning her and the horse
" and you're such an angel," all in one breath, until your poor head is
quite turned, and you wish you could give her fifty horses, since one can make
her so happy. Now is the time of all times to ride i and the woman who
loves this best of all exercises may have a stylish, correct habit of plain Mel
ton cloth, with silk face, short and tight one of the new, long bodices, with
a high seam on the hips and pocket flaps, a striped or checked waistcoat, a
notched collar, turned back to display a linen chemisette, with her limbs
encased in habit tights instead of heavy trousers, and dainty riding boots but
she will not be one whit happier, and she may not be half so graceful and
bold a rider as the farmer's daughter, who leaps upon a bare-back horse and
goes scampering along dangerous country roads at a pace that would frighten
the life out of a town-bred miss in her tan gauntlets and high beaver, I wish
every woman could, and would, ride. Horses are expensive, but, believe me,
they will more than repay for economies in other directions. If you ride, you
will be strong enough to do your own housework, and save the expense of
" help." If I had to take my choice between one gown a year with a horse
and two doien gowns without a horse, I should choose the former, even if I
had to mend it and patch it until it resembled Joseph's famous coat, and
receive my guests in a room darkened down to such a languid dimness that
they could not discover the patches,
I heard a gentleman say the other day of a lovely young lady who is an
artist, and who suprts not only herself but her mother and sister as well, by
her brush : " Oh, yes, she can paint, but her health is too delicate "the
word was a sneer" for her lo cook or do housework. She is delightful to
talk to, but she would not be of much use in a home." Well, 1 thought that
one of the most unreasonable things 1 had ever heanl. If you said of a man
which I know you wouldn't, by the way : " Oh, yes, he can paint, but he
is too delicate to chop wood or carry up coat," would he not instantly reply,
with withering scorn, that he could afford to hire that work done? 1 have
observed that when Cod bestows upon a woman an unusual gift, she is ex
pected to cultivate not it alone, but a doien others besides. She must lie no
less the born housekeeper because she is the bom artist.
It is with considerable consternation that I lind I wrote recently in these
pages of " hillsides grt(H with daisies and dandelions." I insist that the
printer must have worn green glasses while " setting up " the lines i and he
insists that I accidentally died my pen In green ink, or was smitten with
sudden color blindness when I looked out my window and wrote. Which
ever it was, you will be disappointed if you search for green dandelions on
Fuget sound.
How many, many thousands of people play daily with fire i and are sur
prised and reproachful when the Aames turn and bum them.
Thy conscience is thy best counselor, thy purest coniunion, and thy
most noble friend.