885 
MY HARVEST TIME. 
BY DK FORREST P. GUMMERSON. 
The clay was dead; the moon with silver light 
HuDg cold and cheerless : and the night 
Was drear indeed to me 
Who never more at rest could be. 
And while the tears stole idly down my cheek 
There was none other soul to whom my soul could 
speak: 
I ’neath tlio moonlight stood alone 
The friends I loved, all. all were gone. 
No one but the good Uou to see my grief 
And bring unto iuy soul that halm, relief, 
And dry my fulling tears, 
And calm away ruy fears. 
He came! and stilled my every fear 
With words like these: “ Wait only one more year, 
And then shall come a rest— 
No pain within thy breast.'’ 
I waited patiently until the year went by 
And then 1 found a rainbow In the sky 
Such fruit to me bud como 
By waiting for the “ Harvest-home.” 
$ur $torg-S^llqr. 
THE TEACHER’S CHOICE, 
BY J. C. S. 
SHE sat there alone, her face pressed against 
the window-pane, looking out. Patience 
STUART was her name; not hers alone by birth¬ 
right and baptismal water, but by the life that 
gave it to her. If you had not known It, she 
would have shadowed i( forth to you In her 
face. The name and the lace—a great thing If 
the one, indeed, verifies t lie other. Yet she was 
not a remarkable girl, except to close observ¬ 
ers. Most men would have given a glance 
“Pretty hair-too pale! Pity she hasn’t more 
life I"—but to those who knew her well, Pa¬ 
tience Stuart was, more than any other, an 
Inspiration. Her hair, thrown buck In curls of 
that golden auburn painters love, shaded a 
pale, clear-cut face. Deep, grey,sad eyes - eyes 
with an intense pathos in them-looked out 
from under a low, wide forehead. Tim mouth 
was closed in almost obstinate firmness, yet 
when it ret ixcd now and then, revealed atrem- 
ulous sweetness that should have been always 
there—that would have been had the world 
been less hard, less cold. 
Though the hopefulness of 
“ Priuce Charlie" was of t he past 
with her, yet she was lucking iu 
no other high-bred grace of the 
StoABT. His unconquerable per¬ 
severance was there, with a t inge 
of the brightness that was so 
animating to hie devoted follow¬ 
ers, and Is even now so deceptive 
to all but its possessor; and 
then her delicate bearing would 
have won from the common peo- 
plo the title of “ my lady," had 
she lived still in the “ Merrie 
England" of her birth. Her life 
had been disappointing. She had 
known weariness and care, and 
patience had stamped Us lesson, 
too. It was as If ahe said“ I 
have suffered. J havo attempted 
and failed. I have groped on in 
darknots*. I have prayed. I am 
waiting still.” 
The father was dead ; and Pa 
THENCE and her mother, with on 
little brother, were the only om 
left. Dr. STtr art had never been 
very rich ; but he had htaprofes¬ 
sion, and his family had ail they 
could desire. He lived in one e 
the largest houses In the maim 
faeturing town of Winston, am! 
was one of the great men then . 
But, like many other physician-, 
his generous, tender heart woui l 
not allow him to tako his du> 
from those poorer tbau hlmsoP, 
and he pressed none of the rich 
who were disinclined to pay. 
With a prodigal carelessness, he 
kept neither bills nor account : 
so, when the accident came and 
he was brought home only f.t 
murmur his love and clasp tree [j (\vy \y « 
bling hands in parting, his widow ^ 
and children w ore left very poor, 
Not quite penniless, however; 
for the sale of the house and su- \' 
perfluous furniture bought them V' 
a smaller one, and there was a 
little over to keep the wolf from | 
the door. 
Patience was seventeen theu, 
and she had taught school ever 
since—sis long years. It was no I 
child's play, cither, to teach a 
public school in Massachusetts. 
It was hard, drudging work for I 
six hours every day and riot quite ' 
the right sort for a delicate, sen- ' 
sitive girl. The big boys were 
often unruly; the girls pertest 
when she was most tired and P 
then the larger half were so stu¬ 
pid. “ 1 wouldn’t care, mother,” - 
ahe used to say, “ if they tried 
not to he; but the ignorant once are so lazy, I 
talk till I’m hoarse trying to persuade them to 
study, and then they’ll Just open their books, 
plant their elbows on the desk and sit watch¬ 
ing me nr looking out of the window or catch¬ 
ing files in their mouths. Work t wice as hard 
would not tire me so if I saw success even in 
the distance. But day after day It is just the 
same. There are only a few oases In the des¬ 
ert.” 
Patience would not have chosen this work, 
hut it was the first that offered Itself and she 
did nut duro lo scorn it, Tt brought them daily 
bread, and In all the years gone by she could not 
take the time to try what else she might do. 
Yet, it was unsatisfying; It did not call forth 
her highost powers. She felt a want of some¬ 
thing that she was always reaching out eager 
hands to take mid could not, each night, us she 
went slowly round the room, pulling things to 
rights, before going home. The children could 
ouly be carried Just so far In each of the four 
studies taught Just so many pothooks, and 
write just so many pages.—and then they left 
her for the higher department and raw recruits 
came In to fill up the number. 
“1 am going the t read-mill round with them, 
year after year. Is It my true work? Might I 
uot havo been something higher, dono some¬ 
thing better, if T had struggled on Tor a while, 
proving my powers?” “Might have been?" 
Troublesome, restless words I 
" But patience! there may come u time 
When these dull eyes shall see aright. 
****♦♦ «* 
t'ontent thee with one simple strain, 
The lowlier, sure the worthier thee.” 
This was vacation; why Patience could be 
idling -and by the window she still lingered, 
though it was no cheering prospect that she 
watched. The rain was pouring down ou the 
bright flowers with a pitiless force, bending 
their heads till they trailed lu the dust. The 
great, black clouds cast tlmir shadow on the 
earth, and stilled its gladness; and Nature’s 
mood stole Into Patience's heart as she sal. 
there. Sometimes it Is not thus. We are siron;? 
and happy, and deQant of Nature, greet us how 
she will. The buoyancy within is the conquer¬ 
or. Uul Nature bore the palm now, and the 
norvoloss look of the silent figure and the quiet 
Pain in the face troubled Mrs. Stuart more 
than she could tell as she laid her thin hand on 
her child’s head; 
"What is it, dear? Anything now? Have 
the committee been worrying you with the re¬ 
port.-, or don’t they think the last class lias im¬ 
proved enough?" 
“Oh, mother! IPs nothing of that.sort. Don’t, 
bother your dear head about me. This is only 
one of my moods. Volumes of unwritten 
thought have whirled through rny brain, all 
curiously Intertangled, but they have fled at 
your magic touch. Sec! the sun is coming 
back!’’ 
"Yes, my dear, and you moan that you are 
coming back to content; Is that il ? But un¬ 
tangle some of the thoughts for mother, and 
that will banish the mood," said Mrs. Stuart, 
with winning persuasiveness. 
“If I must, mother,” Patience said. "Ouc 
thought was school. 1 Teel such such a dread 
of going back there; I am so utterly weary of 
It. The work seems to loom up like a mourn 
tain before me, and I want - rest. Heat! 
•twould be so sweet and pleasant. Yet 1 don’t 
mean the rest of Inaction, but the rest in the 
work doing something I like. I couldn't live 
and have nothing dellnite before mo, arid I 
couldn’t read all the time. That seems wicked, 
to bo always drawing in other men's high and 
lofty thoughts, agreeing with all they write 
about our life-work and the nubility of labor, 
and yet bo a drone yourself. What do I mean, 
mother ?” 
“Rost Is not quitting the busy career. Rest 
Is the fitting of self to ono’s sphere,” repeated 
Mrs. Stuart, thoughtfully. 
“ Yes, that Is it," and Patience was silent 
a moment. “Then" -ahe hesitated— 11 1 don’t 
know why I. shouldn't say It, mother l was 
thinking what my sphere was, what 1 should 
like, lust uow, and I r<-lt, It would lie a groat 
joy to be loved, to live with one who cured 
more for you than for all the world beside—to 
bavo beautiful things around you iu your homo 
—to have dear liltlo children for your very 
own—to l'eel the exquisite touch of their little 
soft arms round your neck, and to kuowthat 
they loved you, flrst. Home women seem to 
want a mission, a high seat in the world s 
council —to bo greatly admired or very famous. 
But I could be content with a” home mission.” 
1 have stood alone so long, I should bo willing 
to lean uow. Loving and being loved, and 
doing all I could for you, mother dear— that 
would 1>« enough for me. I have lost my old 
aspiring ambition.', 
“Child, 1 do not wonder. You are tired of 
work, and there Is a degree of rest in love that 
the loveless cannot know. Love seems to be 
an eud for our whole being, all besides is but 
secondary moans, through which wo hurry, un¬ 
pausing aud unsatisfied. Whatever bightof in¬ 
tellectual greatness you might reach, the long¬ 
ing of your heart would never bo quite still 
TiiE "W’l-l.A.Irfc'Y' BIRD>WATni^"P.~R 
You would crave a woman’s sweetest portion, 
though all things else lay at your feet. But 
Uud knows best. Wait hie will. You have not 
told me all ?” 
“ No » mother. Somehow, after this, Gordon 
Hastings had a share of my thoughts; the 
young lawyer, you remember, who came here 
Iavo months ago. Ho Is on the V idling Com¬ 
mit Ico, but he comas Into school oftener than 
lie need, and always stays to talk afterward, r 
tell this only to you, mot her. I know he likes 
mo; perhaps It Is only a mere liking, but. 1 was 
wondering ir 1 could marry him, always pro¬ 
viding ho asks me," with a llttloluuah. “Some- 
limes I fool a sort cf repulsion at aoDio things 
'<• snyB, and I ask myself If I should feel that 
If I cured for him very much. Ho is terribly 
aristocratio—was educated at Oxford, and can 
trace his descent hack In an unbroken line to 
-me of tbo noblest houses of England, and i 
know ho thinks a great deal of this, for yester¬ 
day Im said ho wanted his 111 t ie brother and 
sister to como to my school, only ho could not 
hear that they should “ mix with the scum of 
the earth," 
“ My dear, I had forgotten till you mentioned 
his name, the company to-night. We cannot 
talk any more now. for Mrs. Hastings would 
he Sorry not to see you. You don’t look so 
troubled as you uid, and a little amusement 
oomes so seldom it will do you good to go." 
" But I did uot tbiuk of it, mother. My an¬ 
cient dress is hardly presentable.” 
1 , ‘ ttVe no fear that 1 cannot make you look 
nice, dear," said Mrs. S„ with a fond kiss 
That was never a difficult task, and two hours 
l iter, when Patience entered Mrs. Hastings’ 
spacious parlors in her plain black silk, with 
Us exquisite fall oi lace at the neck—a relic of 
grander days—and I he white llhV- t„ |, flr hair 
hor simple loveliness disarmed criticism 
This was an Old-fashioned gathering’ after 
Gordons own plan, homo young people and 
a fovy older ones mot to have a good time ; not 
a pale mutation of a grand party, where the 
guests, nnu»od to their own finery or that of 
t.el,- near neighbors, dragged out iho slow 
hours - i the evening in stiff oomnion-pluce or 
wearisome dancing, without a shadow of „,er- 
r.ment in It, except the muslo. Gordon had 
Insisted that they should not make (he vain 
attempt of adapting city style to the town, but 
that people should bo at their case to be 
amused m their Own away. Old-fashioned 
games, almost child’s play, made the gravest 
forg.t rare and work; and the old contr, 
duiicor, that everybody know and liked, can • 
u xt, lehv.ng Roue of the bashful maidens lY.r 
neglected wall flowers making 
tiie house resound with laugh¬ 
ter, as the staid matrons and un¬ 
bending deacons forgot their 
wondrous decorum iu reviving 
ihe ghosts of their youthful ac¬ 
complishments. Then tiiey part¬ 
ed into little groups, according 
to their taney, for a quiet whist 
table or for a rest before the 
good cheer came; and in this 
way Patience found herself on- 
sconced in the deep bay win¬ 
dow, with her devoted attend¬ 
ant, Gordon. That brought 
back to her hi» last words, and 
socking to penetrate further into 
his thoughts she said, in her di¬ 
rect way, “ l want to ask you 
something, Mr, Hastings. What 
did you mean by the ‘scum of 
the earth,’ yesterday? I trust I 
have none of it In my school. I 
have some very nice children 
there, and your brother and sis¬ 
ter could very well come, if you 
wish it." 
i My dear Miss Stuart, Icould- 
n t. think of our children sitting 
near the tinker’s or the washer¬ 
woman's son, being constantly 
w i t h tradesmen’s daughters ; 
they couldn’t help boiug con¬ 
taminated.” 
“ Indeed! that is your defini¬ 
tion of the scum of the earth ? 
Mine would be the base, Intem¬ 
perate and the immoral, and that 
you cunnot find at iho early age 
of those in my school. Don’t 
you believe that u man is what 
lie makes himself, whatever his 
birth—that by the force of bis 
own intellect many a man of ob¬ 
scure origin has made himself 
reverenced by the world, and 
that that superiority la the only 
true one?” 
“ I grant a part of what you 
Any,” replied GoriDON, slowly. 
*' ^ du will sometimes find Intel¬ 
lect, actual talent, among the 
common people; hut it lathe 
exception, not the rule. ’Tie not 
well to estimate the world by 
i he exceptions. You do uot see 
an liMtiU Burritt in every age. 
As a rule, there is a lack of re- 
finemoaf, something wanting, in 
the children oi the tradespeople 
of all classes, it Is not so with 
the professions. I cannot endure 
that my brother should be * hail 
fellow, well met,' with every rag¬ 
amuffin. The difference of birth 
—..-will always show itself.” 
“ You behove in the arlstocra- 
