36 



THE IRRIGATION AGE. 



fields below call for its waters, emblem of 

 a wasted life. 



It was in 1897, when patriot blood 

 flowed like water, the sun was low in the 

 western sky, and the shadows of the palms 

 grew long, as a band of Spanish guerillas. 

 armed to the teeth, spied a Cuban farmer 

 at work in his field near San Antonia. His 

 wife, near by in the palm-thatched hut, 

 prepared the evening meal as she waited 

 for his coming. Both were arrested, and, 

 suspected of being patriots, were driven 

 like dumb cattle to the public prison, with 

 threats, abuse, and deadly blows. They 

 reached it as the stars came out, more 

 dead than alive, the husband dying before 

 morning from the effects of the cruel 

 blows. His poor widow was turned loose 

 to care for herself, their little home having 

 been burned. 



Three years pass. The strong hand of 

 the United States has aided the weak arm 

 of the Cuban patriots. The yoke of the 

 oppressor is lifted. His vast armies have 

 sailed away from shores they had desolated. 



We visit the same cit3 r . Lo. what a 

 change! The river flows to its plunge into 

 the dark cave, the air in midwinter is fra- 

 grant with roses and orange blossoms, but 

 the people are free. Patriots rule; no 

 more reconcentraiion of the weak, no mid- 

 night assassination of defenseless youth. 

 The arms of Spain are stripped from over 

 the prison door. A Cuban keeper is in 

 charge of the jail where men languished 

 until death curtained their staring eyes. 



The lone star flag waves over the spa- 

 cious barracks where pitiless Spanish war- 

 riors drilled under the red-and-yellow flag. 

 The rural guard, mounted and armed, 

 shout "Viva Cuba Libre ! " as they gallop 

 through the streets. The very birds seem 

 to sing song of liberty. 



Convinced are we that these changes are 

 to go on until the history of San Antonio 

 has been repeated in all of the cities and 

 villages of Cuba, land of beauty and of 

 promise, "Gem of the Western Seas."- 

 Rov. E. P. Herrick. 



AN ORDINARY LIFE. 



BY SARAH E. FISHER. 

 An ordinary woman, 

 An ordinary wife, 

 An ordinary mother. 



An ordinary life. 

 Ordinary methods for things both great 



and small, 



Why should such a woman be ever missed 

 at all? 



An ordinary husband, 

 An ordinary home, 

 Ordinary children. 



Yet she never cared to roam 

 From all the petty duties of the plain and 



common day, 



In living out a common life in the ordinary 

 way. 



Ordinary longings. 

 Ordinary fears. 

 Ordinary heartbreaks, 



Ordinary tears; 

 Ordinary wrinkles and the thin hair 



touched with snow, 



Showed the ordinary troubles of the form 

 now bending low. 



An ordinary illness, 



Death's ordinary call; 

 The ordinary mourners, 



And the ordinary pall. 

 The ordinary grieving o'er the mother's 



vacant place, 



And the ordinary longing for her ordinary 

 face. 



An ordinary story 



On this ordinary earth. 

 But the ordinary spirit 



Heard in its celestial birth, 

 As the heavenly portals opened, the wel- 

 come of the Son: 



"Dear ordinary mortal, thy work has been 

 well done ! " 



A SPELL OF REST. 

 My wife she's been a-urgin' me t' take a 

 month o' rest, 



