And though hidden deep in the ocean's breast, It never, no never'll be quite at rest,

And the shore is sad, of its smile bereft.

And echoing still, that moan of pain

Is ever heard by the patient shore,

That surf-beaten, storm-lashed, or still and lone Listens for one low murmuring tone,

And waits the return of the wave evermore.

TO-DAY.

Now is the fullness of the perfect season!
This is the day holding all days in one.
The present hour enfolds both faith and reason
In its embrace, claiming a victory won.

The ache of hearts to-day is spent in healing;
The joys of life increase as it holds sway;
The times which hitherto seemed void of feeling
Are throbbing as a human pulse to-day.

The life which wraps the earth, a crimson ocean,
With ebb and flow, laps it on every side,
And surges with its ever-restless motion,
Claiming its own, with its own to abide.

Each noble deed to-day bears on its bosom
Was yesterday a yearning in some breast,
Responding to that longing for the fusion

Of good with good, throughout all life possessed.

To-day has clouds, but who would miss the wonder?

The sunshine colors them with rosy light. To-day has storms; the snow-flake, or the thunder, Awakens us to visions of God's might.

That hearts have ached, must ache, e'er reason teaches

Its lessons of the best, the highest skill
To-day has learned, and in its turn it preaches
A quick submission to a Mighty Will.

To-day, to-day a gladdening earth rejoices

And Life drinks deeper of the crimson flood; While what seemed ill in yesterday, all voices Within its soul to-day declare was good.

The glorious Past sends all its beams to brighten The radiant splendor of this peerless shine; And the fair Sun of Righteousness shall lighten The East and West with Reason's rays divine."

A

ESTHER T. HOUSH.

mong the many women-workers for temperance and humanity there is none more devoted or earnest in the strife than Mrs. Housh. Although she has written for many years, yet it was about 1877, the date of her connection with “Woman at Work," published in Louisville, Ky., that Mrs. Housh first became known to the public at large. Five years later the publication was removed to Brattleboro, Vt., and re-christened "The Woman's Magazine," and in 1891 was suspended, Mrs. Housh taking an editorial position on the "Household" of Boston. While in Brattleboro, editing "The Woman's Magazine," she was called to the superintendency of the National Press Work for the Woman's Christian Temperance Union, a position she filled most acceptably for five years. For several years she was president of the Vermont Woman's Christian Temperance Union, having previously served as recording secretary for the same organization. Mrs. Housh's writings are acceptable to both old and young readers, but it is Isaid of her that she loves most to please the children. She is a native of Ross county, Ohio, and was married to Mr. Housh at her grandfather's home, near Champaign, Ill., more than thirty years ago. Her son, Frank, has been associated with her in her work, having been the publisher of "Woman at Work." H. M.

WOMAN'S GOLDEN HOUR.

LISTEN to the echoes stealing Through the years! Echoes evermore revealing

All the fears

Of the first brave-hearted woman, Loving, earnest, tender, human, At the gate,

Where the rusty lock a-creaking, And the voice of man a-speaking, Bid her wait.

Wait! outside the door of learning; Wait! her plea forever spurning;

Wait alway!

Wait, because she was a woman, Loving, earnest, tender, human,

Till the day

When the chains should all be broken, For the Lord himself had spoken:

"Bond nor free,"

But "one in Christ" the world shall be.

Higher than Alpine crags the echoes of that song
Moved on and on until they reached a human ear.
Or did an angel, listening, swiftly bear the need
To Him who hears our lowliest cry of faith and
trust?

Ah, who may know? but answering shouts rolled down and down,

Until the hymn, so like a wailing prayer begun,
Rose like a mighty chorus to the sky again.

How cruel seemed thy fate, O flower of Alpine vale,

To find a barren rock whereon to rest!

And yet thy blue-fringed petals wept glad tears of joy

When, folded to a loving mother's breast,

The mission of thy life was told, that saved her boy.
And like a precious treasure to this day
In sacred Bible lid thou'rt hid away!

BUILDING THE YEARS.

IN the solemn hush of the midnight hour,
Just twelve months ago, with pride and power,
The New Year stood where the old had passed
'Neath the quiet stars, to his rest at last.
And the earth was so white and so still! Ah, me!
What would the days of the New Year be?

Then I heard a rustle and a whir of wings,
And the air was full of curious things;
Wee little maidens with bundles of keys,
Humming like hives of summer-time bees;
With brushes and easels, and soft waving plumes,
And caskets that hint of sweetest perfumes.

"We're building the years: each one as they go,
We cover with mantles of silvery snow;
But we stop not to mourn, as you, o'er the tomb,
For the old must go, and the new must come."
And the spirits were off on their mission away,
Ere the first faint flush of the new born day.

But the rose-light told of their trailing through,
For every night with its deeper blue
Brought earlier morn, till the tinkling keys
Of the raindrops came with the southern breeze.
These mischievous elves had their work begun,
Where the unlocked brooks to the rivers run.

For a sound of looms and weavers was heard,
And the sleepy earth with joy was stirred,
As a carpet green wove over its brown,
With its tendril tacks to hold it down;
And an unseen hand dashed gold in the face
Of the buttercup smiling with innocent grace.