68

There's Work to be Done.

But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

THERE'S WORK TO BE DONE.
ELLA WHEELER.

'IS the song of the morning,

'TIS

The words of the sun,

As he swings o'er the mountains:
"There's work to be done :
I must wake up the sleepers,
And banish the night;
I must paint up the heavens,
Tuck the stars out of sight;

"Dry the dew on the meadows,
Put warmth in the air,
Chase the fog from the lowlands,
Stay gloom everywhere.
No pausing, no resting,

There's work to be done.
It is upward and onward,
Still on," says the sun.

'Tis the song of our soldiers
Who bravely march on :
"There are souls to be gathered,

There's work to be done:
We must wake up the sleepers,
And teach them to think;
We must paint in full horrors
The breakers of drink;

"Dry the tears of the mourners,
Put the cups out of sight,
And, eastward and westward,

Proclaim, There is light.'

'Tis the Marseillaise of Progress

There's work to be done,"

The song of our soldiers,

The song of the sun.

WHE

Curing a Cold.

CURING A COLD.

MARK TWAIN.

69

HEN the White House was burned in Virginia, I lost my home, my happiness, my constitution, and my trunk. The loss of the two first-named articles was a matter of no great consequence, since a home is easily obtained. And I cared nothing for the loss of my happiness, because, not being a poet, it could not be possible that melancholy would abide with me long.

But to lose a good constitution and a better trunk were serious misfortunes.

On the day of the fire my constitution succumbed to a severe cold caused by undue exertion in getting ready to do something. I suffered to no purpose, too, because the plan I was figuring at for the extinguishment of the fire was so elaborate that I never got it completed until the middle of the following week.

The first time I began to sneeze, a friend told me to bathe my feet in hot water, and go to bed. I did so. Shortly afterwards, another friend advised me to get up and take a cold shower-bath. I did that also. Within the hour, another friend assured me that it was policy to "feed a cold and starve a fever."

He

In a case of this kind, I seldom do things by halves; I ate pretty heartily; I conferred my custom upon a stranger who had just opened his restaurant that morning; he waited near me in respectful silence until I had finished feeding my cold, when he inquired if the people about Virginia were much afflicted with colds? I told him I thought they were. then went out and took in his sign. I started down towards the office, and on the way encountered another bosom friend, who told me that a quart of salt water, taken warm, would come as near curing a cold as anything in the world. I hardly thought I had room for it, but I tried it anyhow. The result was surprising. It may be a good enough remedy, but I think it is too severe. If I had another cold in the head, and there was no course left but to take either an earthquake

or a quart of warm salt water, I would take my chances on the earthquake.

After the storm which had been raging in my stomach had subsided, and no more good Samaritans happening along, I went on borrowing handkerchiefs again and blowing them to atoms, as had been my custom in the early stages of my cold, until I came across a lady who had just arrived from over the plains, and who said she had lived in a part of the country where doctors were scarce, and had from necessity acquired considerable skill in the treatment of simple "family complaints." She mixed a decoction composed of molasses, aquafortis, turpentine, and various other drugs, and instructed me to take a wine-glass full of it every fifteen minutes. I never took but one dose; that was enough. At the end of two days I was ready to go to doctoring again. I took a few more unfailing remedies, and finally drove my cold from my head to my lungs.

I got to coughing incessantly, and my voice fell below zero; I conversed in a thundering bass, two octaves below my natural tone. My case grew more and more serious every day. I found I had to travel for my health. But my disease continued to grow worse.

A sheet-bath was recommended. I had never refused a remedy yet, and it seemed poor policy to commence then"; therefore I determined to take a sheet-bath, notwithstanding I had no idea what sort of arrangement it was.

It was administered at midnight, and the weather was very frosty. My breast and back were bared, and a sheet (there appeared to be a thousand yards) soaked in ice-water was wound around me.

It is a cruel expedient. When the chilly rag touches one's warm flesh it makes him start with sudden violence and gasp for breath, just as men do in the death agony. It froze the marrow in my bones and stopped the beating of my heart. I thought my time had come.

I went to Steamboat Springs, and beside the steam baths, I took a lot of the vilest medicines that were ever

concocted. They would have cured me, but I had to go back to Virginia, where, notwithstanding the variety of new remedies 1 absorbed every day, I managed to aggravate my disease by carelessness and undue exposure.

Now, with the kindest motives in the world, I offer for the consideration of consumptive patients the variegated course of treatment I have lately gone through. Let them try it; if it don't cure, it can't more than kill them.

MY SISTER.

P many flights of crazy stairs,

UP

Where oft one's head knocks unawares,

With a rickety table, and without chairs,

And only a stool to kneel to prayers,

Dwells my sister.

There is no carpet upon the floor;

The wind whistles in through the crack of the door,
One might reckon her miseries by the score,

But who feels interest in one so poor?

Yet she is my sister.

She was blooming, and fresh, and young, and fair,
With bright blue eyes, and auburn hair;

But the rose is eaten with canker care,

And her visage is marked with a grim despair;

Such is my sister.

When at early morning, to rest her head
She throws herself on her weary bed,
Longing to sleep the sleep of the dead,
Yet fearing, from all she has heard and read;

Pity my sister.

But the bright sun shines on her and on me,
And on mine and hers, and on thine and thee,
Whatever our lot in life may be,
Whether of high or low degree,

Still, she's our sister,
Weep for our sister,
Pray for our sister,
Succour our sister.

Household Words.

.72

IN

The Wife's Answer.

STAINLESS AND SWEET.

BRYANT.

NNOCENT child and snow-white flower!
Well are ye paired in your opening hour.
Thus should the pure and lovely meet,
Stainless with stainless, and sweet with sweet.

White as those leaves just blown apart,
Are the opening folds of thy own young heart;
Guilty passion and cankering care

Never have left their traces there.

Artless one! though thou gazest now

O'er the white blossom with earnest brow,
Soon will it tire thy childish eye;

Fair as it is, thou wilt throw it by.

Throw it aside in thy weary hour,

Throw to the ground the fair white flower;
Yet as thy tender years depart,
Keep that white and innocent heart.

I'VE

THE WIFE'S ANSWER.

[SEE "THE PITMAN TO HIS WIFE," PAGE 26.]

DORA GREENWELL.

"VE listened, Geordie, to all thou's said, and now that thou's had thy say,

I can but tell thee it's far the best of my hearing this many a day;

Though many a look thou's given to me, and many a word thou's said,

I was pleased enough to get and to hear both before and since we were wed.

Thou wast never much of a one for talk, and I reckon

there's little need

Of a vast of words between two folks that are always well agreed;