Orphans’ Friend.
Price, $1 a year.)
OXFORD, N. a, SEPTEMBER 29,1883.
(VOL. IX. NO 19.
AFTER VAOATIOIT.
Again they muster Trom the far-off
hillside,
From country farm-house and
' ' from sea-girt^shore ;
I’h^ir t. amping fe^t resound along
ihei highways,
Their gleeful shouts ring on Llie
air once more.
A merry band, ^o iull of youth’s
f eP^ir,^ ■ ^
How can,their restless spirits e’er
essay
The' ta8k8’H.haP wait their pati nt,
Steady labdr
After .j^he ]^ng brighji summer
h liday?
Not how, 0 eifildren, in the sunny
' mekdows
Ye cull the flowers, or by brooklet
. -• Stk*.^'
But in the fields of knowledge, tliick
Togather Weets for a far'future
day: ■
Here too .you roam a land of lairret
. prpmi^et,
Waffered' by^many a stream of
l%pt^ Bpe '
Where weary travellers find a sweet
f^reshineiit
And garner richest stores of old
aiid new.
We bi^rthp^y^eU'iome to tlip homes
•"that' mi'ssfid thee,' ' ■
To th^.^^eVed school rbo op. n
do6r. '
The h»^n’^ i^pper^qn ijipp, keep
'■ torf^nght
ThmS'h^tn^^'iHnore than goR
denstpre^.
—The Kingdom of Home.
r.l«w York'«hsdrV£?» .
TEE™gS-^i!fAl)^.
‘Whidh' roa^*dp we take,
grandpaf ji^qnited' Harry, as
gra^^j’^ . jittlp blapk mare
and.&rry^sp^'tty little pony,
si^ by side^
upU«i^iid itlia roads:
‘Wfelcheyerroad ypu wpuld.,
like tb© .b©$:t,’ replied grapd^
pay carelessly.
Harry -turned And looked at'
graidcjpa, it was sucb; an odd
reply, |buj grapdpa’s face gave -
no more drdprmation than hia
answer had done.
^Y6u are joking, grandpa, I
knbw' you"'' atef ■ said Harry,
laughing. ,
‘Joking! I am very serious,’
repfedigwndpa..’ .
‘But, grandpa, we want to
go-^^^^wifV,-,
, dV ' Your' co'usm.s '
wiU'. bp^plpased. ,tp„se,e you,
Harry.^
Hariy fo'utid ■tbatgrandpa
said no,
so he .waiteduntil
they came to .the point where
the question must beideo ded.
G^n^a 'pp tofei^s
and quife-/sto'^ed his'liftfo
mare, and- Sarry wondered
very iidaSi ■: 'diat. grandpa
meant to .do, coming ,to a.tuU
stopjuSt Afe'the point :whero
thO :tWo" roads" passed ^ each
other.
which road
to takO^grandpaf
‘iSJo Jin^eed 11. have' trdtfed
over tfa^m both ' too often to
forgeii theru.^,
‘Then, which,shall we take,
grahdphi/ !:
‘I'he' One lifce;hesfc,hoy:
fiarry : ■ was ' perplexed.
Grab:dpa’y,soehi;ed
in say ing; siit^: a silly. thing.,:
I'dOt?t care;which road wo F^ reason.
like the appearance of best;
one you notice is much
smoother and easier traveled
tljan the other.^
‘Grandpa,. I am sure they
cannot both go to Cresson.’
‘Oh, no, nobody said they
did, boy; but what does that
matter?’
Harry was greatly disturb"
ed; he thought something
must be the matter with
grandpa, or that he was very
provoking.
‘We cannot get to Cresson,
grandpa, if we take the wrong
road,’ lie replied, a scrap im
patiently; ‘how can it matter
about my liking the road?’
‘It matters a great deal.
One road is up, hill and down
all the way for. miles, and
leads over a stream which we
would be obliged to ford; the
Other is smoother, easier;
which do you think you
would prefer?’
‘But, grandpa, we will have
to take the right one, no mat
ter what kind of a one it is.’
. ‘Why, my dear boy, your
Words are contrary to the ac-
tionj ot the greater part of the
people of the world ; how do
you happen to speak so uri^-
reasonably?’
; ‘Harry’s little Midge; was
gjetting a sci-ap fussy, and
Wanted to go: Harry looked
).wplexed as he tried to make
Midge stand still.
' j ‘I do not know, grandpa;
but do let us go;’ ho pleaded.
‘Yes, it is hard to stand
still; ponies, horses, boys,men,
•women—tiine, all like to go,
and do go, but the great point
to decide is- where to go, and
hoW to get there/
‘Grandpa, you are too fun
ny for anything,■' said Harry
inore and more bewrldered;
Vo decided to go to Ciresson,
and now the thing to do is to
go isn^t it?’
YoSjdbiiPbow?—that is the
question.^
‘By the road which leads
there,’grandpa, for you know
yourself if we take the wrong
road we will never, never
reach Cresson, if we even ride
for. a year.- ;
‘Do you leally mean that,
boy?’ inquired grandpa, soF
emnly; ‘do you mean to say
tljat it is so important about
tile road?’
Harry did not like to laugh
at grrandpa, but he did do it;
how could he-help it?
Why, grandpa;'’ said he, as
he patted little Midge, and
tried to make him stand as
still as Jet was doing; ‘why,
grandpa, it is just as import
b;ant to get on the light road
as it is to start at all, don’t
you think so?’
To be sure I do,’ said grand -
pa, with a sudden earnest
ness; ‘I see that you agree
with me, so we, will .not cou'
sider which road is the easi
est, .or. most agreeable,.but
take' the one- to Gh’esspn,
wbi/F is.this to the right. But
stay a minute; Midge must
wait/ Did you think your
grandpa had lost his senses?'
‘Nov graddpaijnotjnst that,^
said Harry, pat)4?ig Midge,
and feeling relieved that they
had, succeed in;so far coming
take, y'^B'dp’iiionly I: want to
go/tb’G^^^jDn/
‘You-want to go to Cres;-
soil,'oteiifse; but i't'is'Strange
vou do aotdecide which ^ou
^ .'A .Mol.'O
said. .grandpa, .hold
ing' Midge’s bridle to make
him stand quite siill and just
where b6. could look in' Har
ry’s puzzled eyes; ‘you are
standing at tm cross-roads in-,
stead of one. Do you know
what I mean?’
‘No, grandpa, I cannot
think.’
; ‘These roads lead to the
north, south, east, and west;
the eye can see them; the otli-.
er cross-roads lead to Gcd,
and away from him; there are
only two of them.’
Harry was a little puzzled
yet.
‘If I should ask you which
you would choose, the good
or evil road—the road to God
or aw^ay from him—I. know
what you would answer mo;
you would not wait to conSid
er a minute, you would choose
tbo good, and that would I.e
well as far as it went; lut thou
sands liave chosen the good
and: have come out rt the
evil end. Thousands have
they choose to travel toward
God, but have found tliem'-
selves, Jafterward, with their
backs to him, at the verv end
of the-wrongroad. They nev
er started toward God, or
w (Iked on the good way at
all. The reason was that they
never stopped at the cross
roads, and considered proper
ly which road to take. Their
mouth said; ‘I wish ta gp on
the good road which leads to-
warl God,’ but they did not
stop and question, and find
put how to get on the good
road. They were content witli
thinking that they wanted to
go toward God, but did not
begin to go. If you are going
to Cresson, you must take the
ro?d to Cresson, and keep on
it, no matter how rough,steep,
slippery, crooked, or vexa
tiousin every way it may be.
If you want. to go toward
God, you must take the roa,l
leading toward God, no mat
ter how hard^ disagreeable,
trying, it may prove to be ’
‘I never thought about ils
being like two roads,’ said
Harry, forgetting how funny
it was of grandpa to stop
Midge and Jet in the middle
of the road to talk in such a
puzzlingdashion.
'Boy, you are young ; that
means you ar,^ coming to the
cross-roads. Look out, do not
say ‘I want to go to Cresson,’
and set your face toward
Munford. Decide for God or
against him, and get on the'
right road. Get on it; keepon
it; stay on it; walk over it—up
hill, or down hill.’
‘Grandpa, you puzzled mo
very much at first/
‘Yes, boy,’ said grandpa,
dropping Midge’s, bridle and.
letting both him and Jet start
at an easy pace. ‘I suppose
so, but I want you to get these
cross-roads, aud the impor
tance of deciding about theni,
fixed in your mind, so that
you will never forget them,
that they may always come
back as though they were be
fore your eyes, reminding you
of those other cross-roads of
wiiich I have ^spoken. When
you think of going to Cresson
remember the importance of
deciding about the road, aud
of keeping on it. When you
think of these cross-road, re-
membe.r too those other cross
roads of good and evil; for,
hoy, you can no more reach
heaven by the wrong road
tha» you can get to Cresson
by going toward Munford/
Geo. Klingle.
POLITICAL CORRUPTION.
A gentleman from England
who was lately d iving
through one of our Atlantic
seaboard cities, noticed a
stately dwelling-house, with
gardens, conservatories, etc.,
standing in the midst of a dis
trict full^of whiskey-shops and
the squalid poverty which
dwells around such dens of
polution.
‘Tiiat is a strange place for
ix- gentlemans dwelling,’ he
said.
His companion laughed
.“Oh, it is not a gentleman
who lives there; it is a Boss.
It is Mc-Munn, ‘King of the
Toppers,’ and he must live
fimong bis constitnency to
maintain his influence over
them. They are very proud
of ‘the King’s’ fine house, I
believe, aud of his wife’s di"
amonds.’
''But I don’t understand,’
hesitated the Englishman
‘This, 1 infer, is an educated
gentleman who uses these
poor creatures to keep him
self in office?’
‘Not at all. He is one of
themselves. McMunn kept a
drinkinjf house in this neigh
borhood, and had shrewdness
enough to control the-‘boy8;’
that is, the drunkards, ruffians
and thieves who frequented
his houses.
‘At a primary election he
was nominated by them for
city Councilman and elected
His backing soon gave him
power. A man who could-
bfiug the mobs of bis ward to
the polls, with as man}-
roughs from he next city as •
w'ore needed to control an
election, was sure of office.
He has risen step by step un
til he is County Sheriff/
■ ‘And his fortune?’
‘Ah, iVe no doubt he robs
tlie county of thousands of
dollars a year.’
‘And the people know it?’
‘Yes; but what can you do?
All of the municiple officers
are his confederates. No de
cent man will hold office with
them. Honest men will bav©
nothing to do with electing
them. New York has gone
through the same experience,
and Philadelphia. The Boss
es are sharp, dishonest men
who know how to control the
dangerous classes of voters.’
‘But the educated, honest
men surely outnumber theso
ruffians and drunkards?’
‘Yes,’
‘Yet they allow themselves
to be cheated in their elec
tions and robbed afterwards?’
The American shrugged
his sholders- ‘We are a more
good-humored, forbearing
people than you English, I
fancy.’
I dont call it good-humor
ed,^ said the Briton.
But he had a very clear idea
of the shametul way in which
political power is o’otainel in
our large cities, ofthe charac
ter of the men who hold mu
nicipal officer, and of the
danger to the country from
these slimy sources of politi
cal corruption. If the honest,
educated, and selff'i’estrained
voters of the nation do not
soon rouse themselves to meet
this danger, the evil will be»
come gigantic and beyond
control.
WIT Ap ELOaUENCE; _
Where the traveller now '^n
counters one beggar in Ireland
fifty years ago he would raetl
with fifty. The. towns and vil
lages swarmed with them. A.
tourist in those days was altcr-
.nately moved to tears by sights
of misery, and to laughter by
bursts of genuine wit. ‘ ‘
•, The wit was mixed with blar
ney, which BO delicately flattered
that offence was out of the ques
tion. Mr..S. C. Hall iJlustmtes
the perfection with which an
Irish beggar used what we Amcr-
ic; ns call “soft-sawder,” by an
incident that happened while ho
was visitihg Maria Edgewortlj,
the popular Irish writer. ■
He was driving with her one'
day, and the carriage, as soon ns
it stoppel, was surrounded , bj
“You know I never give you
anythii g/* she said to one, who
wa^ pleading for a gifi. As quick
as a flash came the answer,—
“Oh, the Lbrd forgive ye, Miss
Edgeworth! that^s the first lie yo
iver told.^^
“Good luck to your. ladyshipj
happy face this morning,/’.said',
another of the grqup, i‘Si;re
you’ll lave the light heart in me
bosom before you go?’’ '
“Oh, then look at the’pobr who
can’t look at ■ you, zhy -iady,
pleaded a blind man; “the dcf'rk
man that can’t see if your beauty
is like your swjQet Yoice.”,.
“Gh, the blessing ol the widdy
and five small children, that’s
waiting for your honor's bounty,
be wid ybu on the road!” called'
out a mother, to Mr. Hall, as
she led forth her fatherless Chil
dren.
Dh, help the poor craythur
that’s got. no. children to show
yer honor!’’ shouted another wo
man; “they’re down in the sick
ness, and the man than owns
them kt sea/’
“WoU’t your ladyship buy a
dying woman’s prayers—chape?”
moaned a sick female.
“They’re keepingj me back
from the penny you’re going to
give me, lady, dear,” wailed an
other on the outskirts of tlio
crowd; “f ecause I’m wake inmy-
self, and my heart’s broke witli
the hunger.” ...
Can the reader parallel the el
oquence of those touching ap
peals, outside of Ireland?
OVERWORKED WOMEN.
The London “Medical Record”
lately gave the case of a lady,
the mother of eight children,who
was seized with acute mania.
The husband when asked for
the cause, replied that there was
no possible reason. “She was a
most devoted mother, was al
ways doing somethiUg for U ',
was always at home; never went
out of the house, even on Sun
days; never went gadding about
to the neighbors, gossiping and
talking; was the best of wives;,
had no ideas outside of her
home.”
“This husband,’’ says the su
perintendent of the insane asy
lum, “has furnished a graphic list
of the causes of his wife’s mad
ness” -
Dr. Holrues somewhere, com-:
ments on the amount of misery
and melancholy which escapes
through the fingers of women on
tho keys of a piano. We hear
them jangling ,on tho streets of
every villflge'; a torture add diij;’
oprd to. hko ears ■ of i the passei^'
lly,,. b)jt what, a comfort and out-
Ict.is in that poor music.,-for the
•(^iscontented syuls who,, try to
tepeak through it! . ^
• I ‘Miss Yonge, who is a shreWd
jofiSbrver of an ordinary course of
■tfottien’s lives,'tells' us that her
favorite heroine, after a long atid'
ct-uelgrief,. kept a novel in her
ilork-basket “for repairs.’' .
I Women:aretoo apt whenprosr
ti*ated by sorrow or worn out by
•l(^ng mental strains to keep close
.tb the damaging grief or work;*
to'try tbfit themselves for i^very-
da)^ duties by hug-^ing the thorii
nearer to'their breast, arid by
pt.iyer. They find to theirtdis-
npay that they grow weaker arid-
'mor^irritable; th.eir j.ray,er^.are
not, answerejd consolatijoq.; and
'strength do hot come.
, : This is' us’ially'the^^case . with
young girls Who are'braving y first
heavy 'disappointment, and who’
have no imperative labor to drive
them from the contompiatiou of
-it. The fact is, it is the physical
brain Ahat needs relief, .which
fcbn be given to it only by total
change.pf thought and occoup^-
|tion, getting aw'ay frOmthe'
ekfeitihg trouble'. ''
Women,young and o!d,8hould
plan a “recess” for every day, a
vacation for every year oi’: their |
lives, ,whGu for a brief space they.
could.return to. their individual,
natural tastes, ULinfiuedeed by
Ihoughteof husband' aiid children.
They will b& all the stronger td '
(help huband and children when
they take up the routine of life
again.
■ EVERYBODY B-'^TISFlEp.
This sexton, wlioso pen an*
ink portrait bjgets a smile, -
made a sad though . joking
comment upon the life of some
one whose grave he bad
digging. He was a singiir^y
grave ihan, even for a'sexldii.
For neatly half a century lie
had been a ipublic functionary
'—had perlormed the conspic
uous duties.of ase^tqn; yebhO
man had ever seen him smile.
Occa'sionaliy he-joked, but
he diditin siich a funeral mahi
per that'no one could accuse ‘
him of levity.
One day he was standing '
on the church step, wiping.
his nielanclioly eyes with a
red haudkercliiei.
A hearse stood near and'
three'or‘four caraiages we’re
drawn • up behind it. . The
notes of the organ floated out
pf the window; with solemn
effect. A stranger came along
and said,—
*^Funeral?' '
‘ Aud the old sexton gravely
bowed his head--it was
‘Who'’adead?,’..
The old man again wiped
his brow and gave the name
of the deceased
■ ‘Whatcom[.Iaint?’asked’tbe
inquisitive stranger. ' '
yolebmly placing his ban- ;
danna in his hat and covering
his bald head, the old sexton
made answer,—
There is no complaint; 0v>
ery.body is entirely satisfied.’
“Irritable piety,” eveu ,thougli
Sydney .Smith .father the phrase, .
is a misnomer, -. .'e may find, in*
deed, irritability iu pious men, but
so tar as they ai*e pious they are
not irritable, and so far as they
are, irritable they are uot pious.