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Page 206 text:
l£s ist ein’ Maid so lieblich,
Dasz ihr’ Schocnhcit wunderbar,
Ist fucr der Menschcn Fassungskraft Unmoeglieh ganz und gar.
Kami man ja wohl begreifen Der Zwielicht Glut so schoen und fern’, Wcnii in der Hoeh’ erst ist gestanden Der leicht blitzende Abcndstern?
Und kennt man doch die Stille In dem Walde tief und kuehl.
Wo schlcicht es scltsam (lurch die Brust Gelieiinnisvoll Gcfuehl ?
Wcr aucli verstcht das Flucstcrn Dcs Ficlitenbaums in der Luft?
Und das Rauschen cines Bacclileins Mischend Ton und Fcuchten Du ft?
Zu jedem Junge kommt sic,
Tief im Herzen nimmt sic Platz,
Fr hat innnerfort dann hcimlich, in der Seel’ cinen suessen Schatz.
Zu starranschen nimmer
Lacsst sic ihn das Glucck gcschen, Augcnblicklich sclnvebt sie vor ilini,
Nur wie Ncbcl zu vergehen.
Ungewiss in seinem Tracumen Kommt zufacllig ihr’ Gestalt Schoen und reizend doch vcrsclnvindcnd Glcich wie Schatten in dem Wald.
Wie ein Gcspenst verfolgt sic
Ihn und Wchmut dringt scin' Brust.
Und sie allein zu linden Hat er jetzt die einz.ig’ Lust.
Allc Macdchcn dann bemerkend Sucht er sic in jedem Ort Wenn er denkt sie ist gefunden Macht sie oft sicli wiedcr fort.
Junge, suchend nach der Traumsmaid,
Malic acht vor deinem Herz Wenn ein’ falsche ist genommen Giebt es dann selir viclen Schmcrz.
Meine. sic sci scliwer zu linden.
Weil nie dcutlich ist geschn,
Und wcr das rechtc liabcn will,
Nach dem Herz. allein muss er gclm.
Meine nur, es sei viel besser,
Finbildung bleibt sic imnicr ein,
Wie ein’ treue, schocne Traumsmaid,
Als ein' kocrpcrlich' Falsche scin.
—IV. C. IIar[ ster, 'o j.
Page 205 text:
But I have begun it, and will finish it later, and hand it to you." A gleam of light suddenly entered Miss Fountainc’s heart, and a worthy admiration of her exemplar pupil illumined her face, as she said: "Dorothy, 1 should be glad to help you while your mother is away. May 1 go home with you?" Dorothy answered, gratefully, "We shall all be delighted to have you with us."
On their way home Dorothy, being full of inspiration from the afternoon’s meeting, could not refrain from telling Miss Fountaine how much she appreciated her summer s plan; and further remarked; "1 never leave the weekly meetings without thinking of the beautiful memory gem you taught us last spring—the one beginning, "The patient child, whose watchful eye." But Dorothy did not, and could not know, the unbounded pleasure which her remark brought to her teacher's heart. "Salary the teacher's compensation," said Miss Fountaine to herself, with contempt. Aloud she said, "By the way, that memory gem would be an excellent basis for a composition on ‘How to Fnrich Character.' I wonder that some of my girls have not thought of it." Dorothy's sympathetic heart interpreted these words as approaching regret in the mind of her teacher, and she longed to convince her that at least one responsive heart had given root to the seed she had sown while in the schoolroom. Her heart already overflowing with emotion which she could not understand. Dorothy could conceal herself no longer. "Miss Fountaine," she said, "I made use of that memory gem in my diary last evening." This remark furnished Miss Fountaine with another gleam of information and served to confirm the suspicion that she already entertained toward Martha. "Dorothy," she said, "please tell me about your diary." Dorothy hesitated a moment, then replied: "No one knows anything about
it. but I feel as if I want to tell you." She explained briefly: "I spend a few minutes
each evening writing about what has appealed to me during the day. Mv diary is my
most intimate friend; it knows all that ! know. I can trust it with what I feel that I can
not talk to others about." Miss Fountaine was puzzled. "I thought I had analyzed Dorothy’s nature into all its beautiful traits," she reflected, "but I see that I have not
yet sounded the depth of her character." She looked at Dorothy and said, in a tone ot
interested curiosity: "You say that you wrote last evening, about your favorite memory
gem; why could you not talk to others about that—was there anything personal in it?"
"No.” was Dorothy’s hesitating reply. Her teacher continued, in a tone of faltering appeal: "My dear, 1 should love to read what you wrote last night." Instant refusal came to Dorothy's mind, but as she looked into her teacher’s pleading face she reflected. “Why should I refuse? There is nothing personal in it. and she deserves to sec that no girls do not forget what she teaches them." Thus resolved, she replied: "1 will show it to you when we get home." Her teacher’s hearty “Thank you" dispelled the slight regret she had felt upon consenting.
Upon their arrival home Miss Fountaine requested "The diary first, please." Dorothy consented, conducted her to the library, and. handing her the diary, excused herself "to look after Arthur."
But a most agreeable surprise awaited Dorothy. On her tour through the house, in search of Arthur, she went to the kitchen, and there found mother and Martha preparing supper. Aunt Lizzie was so much better that mother had returned sooner than expected. Greetings over. Dorothy led the way to the library, where they found Miss Fountaine with the diary in her hand. She greeted Dorothy with a smile, in spite of the tears in her eyes, and approached her with an embrace, saying: "My precious little Builder, this is better than any composition read at the meeting this afternoon: it is worthy of the attention of any reader; and if you arc willing, it shall be printed in "The Builders’ Guide" this week.”
Seeing the look of inquiry on Mrs. Hadley’s face. Miss Fountaine gave vent to her admiration of Dorothy by saying: "Owing to your absence, Dorothy gave up her composition. in order to permit Martha to finish hers. Martha’s composition is good, but read this—it is what Dorothy told her diary, last evening, while Martha was writing her composition.” Mrs. Hadley took the diary and read aloud, to her own joy. to Miss Fountaine’s admiration, to Dorothy’s anxiety, and to Martha's consternation: for m the meantime. Martha's conscience was listening to a still, small voice, unheard by the others. Heeding the admonitions of this Almighty Voice, she was suddcnlv awakened to her cruel fault, and touched with the pathos of her sister’s sacrifices. Between sobs of repentance. she told the whole story, concluding with: “1 have learned that I can not dream myself into a character, but that I must hammer and forge myself one": and Dorothy sealed her sister’s resolution, and renewed her own strength by repeating:
"The nation child, whose watchful eye
Strives for all things pure and high.
Shall take their image by and by."
7 wo hundred one
Page 207 text:
BY LUCILE AMELIA WEHRS
If by some magic stroke there could be reproduced on canvas the pictures of the farm which that word conveys to the minds of its lovers, its haters, and those to whom it is indifferent, what a varied and interesting collection it would be!
Some would by their beauty grace the favorite corner of a king’s drawing room, others be only fit subjects for a comic paper, the home of Happy Hooligan and the Katzcnjammer Kids, while others would represent an excellent advertising scheme for some farm journal. How easily could be read the messages, conveyed by each, written in that ever readily-interpreted picture language. For example, the S. y2 of the N. E. of Sec. 23, the rent of which helps support the family who have moved to town, or perchance defrays the expenses of James and Irene who arc in school, or, a plot of ground divided into corn-fields and wheat-fields, potato-patches and a weedy garden, surrounded by a fence of “ncver-gct-on-in-the-world” and enclosing all the woes and miseries of mankind. Or, perhaps, and may there be many such, a place of peace and quiet where love and happiness walk hand in hand, where each budding branch and bending bough sheds a blessing from the Infinite, as they watch lovingly over that old kitchen door or answer the caress of the great red sun as he says his fond good-night.
And why this difference? It is the same old story of the “Six Blind Men of Hindoostan and How They Saw the Elephant.’’ Like one of these, some think it is a rope, binding all their ambitions, all their happiness, and all their pleasures in its coils, while others—more fortunate—see that side which heaves with the regular breathings of nature, a sign of life, of hope, and therefore happiness.
Is it that monster called “Drudgery and Toil” which blinds some of our critics of the farm, or is it that feeling of solitude and loneliness which hangs as a curtain before the windows of their soul, or perchance, that love of popularity which farm life forbids that produces such a gloomy aspect? Choose what vocation in life you will and in it you will find drudgery and toil. But it is the cloud on the western sky that makes the splendor of a sunset. Oh! those early hours in the morning which farm life demands! Will the farm boy ever forget his father's voice as at the foot of the stairs in that penetrating fatherly voice he calls: “John, John, it is 4:30; time to get up; you have eight cows to milk, remember.” To young growing John that call is like a death-knell, but when he comes downstairs those buckwheat cakes are like a healing plaster, the molasses like a soothing syrup, and his mother’s smile like the rays of that belated sun, which has not even thought of rising.
To a farmer the ploughing of a field is not all drudgery. To him it is an ideal time for meditation. With the turning of the rich black loam into the furrow, he turns the tangled threads of questions that perplex his mind, and
Two hundred three
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