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HOUSEHOLD.

    For nothing lovelier can be found
    In woman than to study household good.—­Milton.

THE SCHOOL-MARM’S STORY.

    A frosty chill was in the air—­
      How plainly I remember—­
    The bright autumnal fires had paled,
      Save here and there an ember;
    The sky looked hard, the hills were bare,
    And there were tokens everywhere
      That it had come—­November.

    I locked the time-worn school-house door,
      The village seat of learning. 
    Across the smooth, well trodden path
      My homeward footstep turning;
    My heart a troubled question bore,
    And in my mind, as oft before,
      A vexing thought was burning.

    “Why is it up hill all the way?”
      Thus ran my meditations: 
    The lessons had gone wrong that day
      And I had lost my patience. 
    “Is there no way to soften care,
    And make it easier to bear
      Life’s sorrows and vexations?”

    Across my pathway through the wood
      A fallen tree was lying;
    On this there sat two little girls,
      And one of them was crying. 
    I heard her sob:  “And if I could,
    I’d get my lessons awful good,
      But what’s the use of trying?”

    And then the little hooded head
      Sank on the other’s shoulder. 
    The little weeper sought the arms
      That opened to enfold her. 
    Against the young heart, kind and true,
    She nestled close, and neither knew
      That I was a beholder.

    And then I heard—­ah! ne’er was known
      Such judgment without malice,
    Nor queenlier council ever heard
      In senate, house or palace!—­
    “I should have failed there, I am sure,
    Don’t be discouraged; try once more,
      And I will help you, Alice.”

    “And I will help you.”  This is how
      To soften care and grieving;
    Life is made easier to bear
      By helping and by giving. 
    Here was the answer I had sought,
    And I, the teacher, being taught
      The secret of true living.