Mrs. C. D. Spencer, at present a resident of Greenville, Mich., was born at Naples, Ontario Co., New York, in 1839. Her maiden name was Lovica Inerham. Mrs. Spencer has for many years contributed short stories and poems to the best periodicals and magazines of the country. She takes special delight in entertaining the young in her short stories, and has brightened many homes and faces by them. For the past eight years her husband, Rev. C. D. Spencer, has been an invalid, and the support of herself, husband and six interesting children has devolved wholly upon herself.
HEN the bustle all was over,
And the last hood snugly tied,
And the eager, dancing children,
Fearful lest they lose their ride,
Rushed away to join their playmates
In the sleigh now running o'er
With its freightage, to be emptied
Safely at the schoolroom door,
Then I turned, and looked around me
At the work that must be done
Ere these children, tired and hungry,
Should at last come trooping home.
And the task seemed but a burden
I had little heart to bear;
And, with thoughts despondent, bitter,
Sank into an easy chair.
And it seemed to me my children
Ne'er so careless were before;
Even husband's coat and slippers
Had been left upon the floor.
And they would expect that mother
All these things would put to rights,
And have smiles and supper ready
When they should return at night.
And with hands all idly folded
Thus my bitter thoughts ran o'er:
All the duties of my household
Which had blessings seemed before,
Duties which as wife and mother
Daily, hourly, I must do.
Time must not be idly wasted,
If to these trusts I prove true.
I must keep my house so "homelike"
That to all these precious ones
There would be no place so pleasant,
None where they so loved to come.
There must be the constant watching
Lest the evil enter there,
Earnest, loving, prayerful shielding
From the wily tempter's snare.
I must reprimand when wayward;
I must praise when they do well;
I must heal each head and heart ache;
Hear each tale they have to tell;
I must teach them to be helpful;
Guide their feet and hands aright;
I must help them weave their life web,
With no respite day or night.
I must tread the daily routine
Of my housework o'er and o'er,
For the Father had not given
To me much of earthly store;
So the planning and the working
My own head and hands must do,
Even though those hands grow weary,
And my head and heart ache too.
And not even with my home work-
Still my bitter thoughts ran on—
Can I stop, for other duties
Press my mind and time upon;
Sabbath school, and mission circle,
Temperance lodge and Christmas tree,
Concert, meeting and church social-
Everything must call on me.
Why need I help do the planning,
Urge the pressing need of work,
Spend my time and strength in doing,
And I seemed to hear him saying, "I will give my life for thee,
I am bearing this great burden,
Canst not thou bear aught for me?
I have given thee home and husband,
And these precious children, too;
Given thee church and Sabbath priv❜lege,
Given thee this work to do."
Still my hands lay idly folded,
But the bitter thoughts were gone;
And I turned, subdued and thankful,
To the duties of my home.
Would I give unto another
My place in my husband's heart,
Desecrate the name of Mother,
By not bearing well my part!
Would I give up the dear church home
Where I love so well to meet
With the followers of my Saviour,
Worshiping at his dear feet?
And would I have any other
Bear my cross and wear my crown,
And not hear the voice of Jesus
Say to me, "Thou hast well done"?
Of the struggle and the victory
None but Jesus ever knew;
But I gained new strength and courage
My life duties to renew.
And all day my hands were busy
Putting all the things to rights,
And, with smiles and supper ready,
Greeted the loved ones at night.
Elizabeth Hamilton, a Scotch writer, author of "The Cottagers of Glenburnie," and several other sensible and interesting works. She died, unmarried, about fifty years ago, nearly sixty years old. These lines were written in such very broad Scotch, that we have taken the liberty to render them in English, making no changes, except a few slight variations, which the necessities of rhyme required.
S that Old Age, who's knocking at the gate?
I trow it is. He sha'n't be asked to wait.
You're kindly welcome, friend! Nay, do not fear
To show yourself! You'll cause no trouble here.
I know there 're some who tremble at your name,
As though you brought with you reproach or shame;
And who of thousand lies would bear the sin,
Rather than own you for their kith and kin.
But far from shirking you as a disgrace,
Thankful I am to live to see your face.
Nor will I e'er disown you, or take pride
To think how long I might your visit hide.
I'll do my best to make you well respected,
And fear not for your sake to be neglected.
Now you have come, and, through all kinds of weather
We're doomed from this time forth to jog together,
I'd fain make compact with you, firm and strong,
On terms of give and take, to hold out long.
If you'll be civil, I will liberal be;
Witness the list of what I'll give to thee.
First then, I here make o'er, for good and aye,
All youthful fancies, whether bright or gay.
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