Democratic Sentinel, Volume 3, Number 21, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 4 July 1879 — HOME INTERESTS. [ARTICLE]

HOME INTERESTS.

My LMt Day ot School. The clock ha* struck four, the scholars hare left iue, And over the hilltops so far, far away, I watch the last rays of sunlight receding, And wonder whether this was a well-spent day. Moments, and hours, and days have departed, I wake to remember that this is the last; The lessons.are done, the pieces recited, And now my “ first term " is a thing of the past. Just four months ago I came to this district, Joyous and cheerful, without one thought or care Of the cares that lay like mountains before me; For all disappointments I tried to prepare. Fresh from the High School, I did not consider That study and teaching were different things; But alas, I’ve found to my satisfaction, The care and tbs trouble that school-teaching brings. Ah! the thoughts of girlhood will never leave me; ’Mong the bright sides of life they Will have a share; ’Twas a merry school-girl that grew to a woman, And assumed a teacher’s trouble and care. What will I do with the girl that will whisper, Is one of the puar.les that bother my brain; And sometimes I think their troublesome questions And bothersome queries will drive me insane. And yet when I think of those sunny faces, And pause to remember I’ll see you no more; The smileß and the kisses you lavish so freely. The footsteps that cease to resound on tne floor, I stop to drive back the tears that are coming, And try to believe it is foolish to cry; Wondef if now they are thinking of “ teacher," Wonder if they're sorry the term is past by. Oh, my heart is heavy, my soul is sadder Than e’er it has been in the years that have flown, To think my darlings have all departed, And left me to mourn their absence all alone, Good-by, dear school room, alas! I must leave you; Good-by, my dear scholars, I, too. must go home; God grant that some time I’ll reap a bright harvest In the field of knowledge for the seeds I’ve sown. I would like to propose an improvement for the tidy to be Made of bleached muslin. ’Tie this: After having made the circles as before described, take bright-yellow zephyr, cut in strips about six inches long, double until the strips are a little less than one inch, sew ly in the center of each circle, cut and trim center, and you have a perfect daisy white border and yellow center; sew the circles together and crochet loops of white cotton all around these loops of yellow, then another row of white finish, with tassels of white, with one thread of yellow, and you now have the daisy tidy complete. „ Jassamine, The School-Teacher. The Wand of Beaaon. I beheld a maiden young and fair, stepping forth in the world; going to Father Reason. She entreated him to allow her to take his magic wand to help her discern that which was right. He placed it in her hand, warning her at the same time never to let it leave her side. I thought I would follow closely and see how the world used her. I beheld her surrounded by friends, and she the center of attraction, a model many an artist might covet. Drawn back from that noble forehead were those' tresses of gold; but gradually she is letting slip from her grasp the wand that Father Reason had Intrusted to her care. Again I see her, but for a moment i she stands at the altar pledging her life to one scarcely worthy of so fair a charge. Years roll on; once more I am allowed tne privilege of beholding her. When I last saw her she was young and fair, lines of care now mark that once beautiful face. Fortune has turned; in place of the luxury and ease that has surrounded her since childhood, I find pevetty sfaring her In the face, and this question arises in my mind' What is the cause of all this? and, as if to answer mo, she puts on her faded shawl, scarcely enough to shelter her from the storm that is raging without. Stepping from the door, she draws her tattered wrapping more closely around her shivering form and hastens down the stree noiselessly. I again follow; on she goes until she arrives ftt some of the lowest places of vice. I look and exclaim, Can this be possible? For here I behold human beings, that would bo called men Those who, by their might and will could put down these dens of misery, fathers, brothers, and husbands, all are found here; those that have been reared in luxury, as well as those who have always known poverty; all, all are there. My eyes rapidly go from face to face to see if one is there, the one who, when I first beheld him, stood at the altar pledging to sustain and love the woman at his side while life doth last. But not Until she stepped to his side could I recognise that haggard face. Earnestly did she plead with him, but all to no purpose. She returned alone. True to her promise she had kept close to his side, even when scarcely better than a dumb animal. As 1 passed away from this place, I asked, Can this be a dream ? Can it be possible that such places of vice exist? No, it is no dream! What I have just seen oceurs everywhere; our large cities are thronged with just such places; aud yet justice winks at them. Again I see the form I have been watehmg for years. Come with me while we gaze on that once-loVely form; ho less lovely now to my eyes, because it has been the love that woman only is capable of possessing that has kept her so close to her murderer. Yes, it is the last time we shall see her, for she is dead! lying cold and still in a little attic room of a crowded tenement house. The room is bare of any furniture; the bed she lies on is a pile of straw; no one to minister to her in her last moments of suffering! God help all such poor creatures who cast aside the wand of reason! Ivt. Hinsdale, 111. Pockets. Dear Ladies of the “Home:” Did it ever occur to you, when called upon to “put a few stitches in that pocket,” how many different things different pockets contain ? I mean things that are of no earthly use to anyone, and the mystery to me is why men and boys carry them. Men have from eight to twelve pockets, all full; while women never have more than one, and it is often empty! The contents of men’s pockets often determine their occupation without any further evidence. The pocket containing a handful of shingle-nails, two or three stubby lead pencils, a piece of chalk, a bit of paper bearing these mystic figures: “Studs, 14 2x6,18 ft. long; joists, 30 3x5,12 ft long,” you may know belongs to a carpenter! If you turn a pocket inside out and scatter wheat all over the carpet, drop a few grains of corn, a broken harness buckle, a bit of leather strap, four or five inches of twine and a horse-shoe nail, be very sure the owner is a farmer. The grocery man carries crumbs of crackers, peanut hulls, a few cinnamon drops, and maybe a dried apple or raisin or two. The “ man about town, who has no particular avocation, carries in his pockets his hands generally, and jingles a bunch of keys that unlock nothing. A match-box rattles with two or three dice, a poke:-check and two or three buttons in one pocket, while another contains cloves and cardamon seeds. I speak of the trifles carried around daily by our male protectors—not of pocket-books, pearlhandled kDives, ladies’ photos, bundles of letters and various other valuables, for men’s pockets are the receptacle of many useful and valuable articles, as well as loads of things neither useful nor ornamental Some men carry everything in their pockets, from a watchkey to an iron wedge! And, boys! Here language fails! A quire of papdr would not suffice to enumerate half the contents of their pockets. As for our own meager share in the contents of pockets, I reserve that subject for

another letter. Alamo, Ind.

M. F. B.