®K<e isojlies 'Floral fiafiinet an.3 3Piciorial 3HE 
OHie tSomjmniGii. 
What will it matter, by and by, 
Whether my path below was bright. 
Whether it wound through dark or light, 
Under a gray or a golden sky, 
When I look back on it, by and by? 
What will it matter, by and by, 
Whether, unhelped,"X toiled alone, 
Dashing my foot against a stone, 
Missing the love of a dear one nigh , 
Yet thinking, still thinking, of hopes by and by? 
What will it matter, by and by, 
Whether with grief or joy I went 
Down through the years with a glad content, 
Ever believing—yes, yes, I— 
Joy would be" sweeter, by and by ? 
What will it matter, by and by, 
Whether with cheek to cheek I've lain 
Close by the pallid angel—Pain, 
Soothing "myself through sob and sigh? 
All will be elsewise, by and by. 
What will it matter? Naught T if I 
Only am sure the way I’ve trod, 
Gloomy or gladdened, leads to God; 
Mentioning not of the how, the why. 
If I but reach Him, by and by. 
What the sorrow, grief, or unheard sigh, 
If, in my fear of slip or fall, 
Closely I’ve clung to Christ through all, 
Mindless how rough the path might lie, 
Since He will smooth it, by and by ? 
Oh! it will matter, by and by— 
Nothing but this: That joy or pain 
Lifted me skyward; helped to gain, 
Whether through rack, or smile, or sigh, 
Heaven! Home! Love! all—by and by. 
OUR HOMES. 
How gloomy are some places called home; not a 
plant in the window ; but instead a torn paper window 
blind, looking as sorry and sad as the inmates them¬ 
selves. Did I say torn window blinds? Yes, only 
look! They are not half tacked up, as they should 
be, and the children not being trained that there is a 
place for everything (as Carrie Lee says, and she is 
exactly fight, too), have been shooting holes through 
the blinds, instead of playing out doors with their 
bows and arrows. “There, now! Charlie, 1 told you 
to take that garden-rake out of the house; now that 
makes two panes of glass you have broke to-day. 
Here! stick your pa’s best hat in there; he wont want 
it to-day, as I know of. Children, what have you 
done with the cradle pillow. Here it is, ma ; I stuck 
it in the window, to keep out the rain.” At this same 
home (if you can give it that name), I’ll defy you to 
get into the house without stepping on bits of paper, 
which should have been put into the rag bag; scraps 
of calico and muslin, which would ha ve made a lovely 
quilt; carpet rags, barrel hoops, waiting to strike you 
in the face, if trampled upon ; old bucket bales to hook 
fast in your dress-skirt, to say nothing of the old 
brooms, mop, empty fruit cans, dish-pan, and buckets, 
&c., &e., lying around all over the yard and porch. 
The wife of such a home is always to be found with a 
frizzly head, torn dress, and her apron would almost 
stand alone with dirt, instead of starch ; I don’t wish 
to visit such places, but I do say it is enough to drive 
a husband to hunt another hoarding place. 
This won’t do. I did not take up my pen to write 
on the subject of dirt, but to tell our kind editor, as 
well as the readers of the Cabinet, that I wish you 
could all see my Cabinet pictures. I have “Prim¬ 
rose Gatherers” framed and hung in the parlor; in a 
group, in my sitting-room, I have “Gems of the 
Flower Garden,” “ Good Night,” “Good Morning,” 
“ My Window Garden,” and “ The Morning Song.” 
The two last named I happened to have old frames 
for, and I covered the frame with candle-wick, and 
crystalized it with alum, for the lovely song-bird. I 
thought to add to the beauty of “ My Window Gar¬ 
den.” I’d put a strip of white paper around it, about 
an inch and a half wide, for a margin; and I suc¬ 
ceeded in it, to he sure I did. I then covered the old- 
fashioned frame with raw cotton aud crystalized it, and 
I feel proud of them ; they are beauties. 
Aunt Leisurely, could you visit Aunt Jemima, I 
would introduce you to my old man, made of corn¬ 
stalks ; but he is not so good-looking as William 
Penn. He has a corn-cob pipe in his mouth, filled 
with the “ weed ;” but I never have caught him smok¬ 
ing yet; and he has a gun, ready to fire at the big 
stuffed owl, wild pigeon, or grey squirrel, by which ho 
is surrounded. The wild pigeon has been sitting on a 
nest of eggs for five or six years—I guess she’ll never 
hatch—and the squirrel sits up with a hickory nut in 
his mouth. Isn’t it strange that these folks can all 
live in one douryard? Well, they do, and live in peace. 
Their dooryard is a hoard, a little over a foot wide, 
and about four feet long. This is fastened up to the 
wall with strong cord (wool twine), and I trimmed the 
cord with shrubbery. I begged a pasteboard box of 
our clever storekeeper; cut out a window, and pasted 
white curtains inside; made a door, and sewed it fast, 
and left it standing half open, with a white button 
sewed on for a doorknob ; put carpet on the floor, gave 
the roof a high slope, and covered it and the dooryard, 
also, with moss. I have a fence all around the yard 
cut out of pasteboard, and a gate, too; and a graveled 
walk to the house from the gate. I also have an old- 
fashioned log cabin, made of cornstalks. Success to 
the Cabinet. Aunt Jemima. 
A NEW ENGLAND THANKSGIVING. 
“ Thanksgiving Day !” what magic do those two 
simple words contain. Well we remember how our 
youthful hearts swelled with gladness as the time drew 
nigh. Yes! we were going to the old homestead to 
spend Thanksgiving; eagerly we counted the days 
until at last the Wednesday evening came; our 
dreams all that night were of the good times we were 
to have on the morrow. Early the next morn, long- 
before the great god of day had made his appearance 
over the mountain tops, we were awakened by the 
sleigh-bells. Bounding out and peeping through the 
curtains we saw the big sled drawn up before the door, 
waiting to be filled, aud filled it was in a very short 
time; father, mother, brothers, sisters, uncle, aunt, and 
cousins, all crowded in, with many a laugh aud shout, 
and away we sped over the level road, bound for 
grandpa’s. Many sleighs were passed, brimful of men, 
women and children, who were all brimful of fun. 
Soon we saw the old red farm-house with its weather¬ 
beaten gables and broad chimneys; with one grand 
shout we all landed safe in the sitting-room, where 
grandpa’s and grandma’s cheery voices bade us a 
hearty welcome. We were soon divested of our wrap¬ 
pings, and gathered around the big fireplace which 
was well filled with hickory logs, whose cracking and 
snapping made a merry accompaniment to our happy 
hearts. 
Soon sleigh-bells were heard again, and the well- 
known forms of Jonathan Peabody and bis mother, 
dear old Aunt Sally, came in view. Out in the hall 
we bounded, and after cordial greetings Aunt Sally 
was established in her accustomed place in the chim¬ 
ney corner, Jonathan in his favorite position before the 
fire, his hands stuffed in his pockets and his thin Yan¬ 
kee physiognomy beaming with supreme satisfaction. 
Aunt Debbv was flying back and forth, her bright 
sunny face giving pleasure to all who came near her; 
every time the door leading into the kitchen was 
opened we stretched our necks and peeped about to see 
if we could catch a glimpse of the well-filled tables we I 
knew were there. Soon Aunt Debby’s cheery voice 
announced “ dinner is ready !” What a rush! we all 
knew that on this day there would be no unlucky ones 
whose fate would be to wait, hut we were all seated, 
from dear old grandpa arid grandma, whose heads 
were silvered by the frosts of many winters, to Aunt 
Katie’s little two-year-old Nellie, whose round blue 
eyes gazed in wonder at the scenes around her. 
How could we wait while grace was said? But we 
had been trained by pious parents, aud reverently 
bowed our heads while grandpa with tremulous voice 
asked God’s blessing on all, and thanked Him for the 
bountiful store spread before us. Soon he breathed 
the low “ Amen.” Then began the fun — turkey, 
chickens, and boiled ham; potatoes, turnips, and cab¬ 
bage were piled on our plates; then came mince pie, 
doughnuts, aud, best of all, pumpkin pie—how we 
did eat! No caution; no thought of getting sick, or 
having bad dreams; hut we ate and ate until we could 
hold no more. After dinner the kitchen was soon 
cleared, and we young folks took possession of it. 
We played “Blind Man’s Buff,” “Pussy wants a 
Corner,” and all the games dear to our young hearts. 
As the shadows lengthened, and the kitchen grew 
dark, we piled the broad, old fireplace full of logs, and 
the bright flames cast their ruddy light over the low 
ceiling and whitewashed walls. Nuts, apples, cider, 
and popcorn were brought, and we all gathered close 
around the hearthstone. Stories were proposed, and 
Jonathan was called, who was always ready to spin 
his long yarns. He soon had us spellbound with his 
wondrous ghost stories; some of the more timid glanced 
uneasily toward the dimly lighted corners, and we all 
sat (mouths, eyes, and ears open) as if we half ex¬ 
pected a white, spectral form to step down the wide, 
old chimney. The fire burned low; and, at Aunt 
Debby’s call, we all went in where grandpa was 
seated in his armchair, with the time-worn bible on 
his knee. He read a psalm of thanks, aud offered up 
a fervent prayer that we all might meet on many other 
Thanksgiving Days, and when death called us home, 
we might all he united in that laud where there is oue 
eternal thanksgiving. Good nights were then spoken, 
and we were soon in the land of dreams. 
Stockwell, Ind. Sue 0. Pierce. 
Mexican Beauties. —Ber, Perky Poore writes 
from the City of Mexico : “ It used to he said that the 
Mexican ladies began the day in black, on their knees 
in chapels, and ended their waking hours amid the 
blaze of- dress and jewels in the family box at the 
opera. I think that the matin prayers are rather out 
of fashion, but an opera box is still an indispensable 
necessary of life. Social visiting is not common, hut 
ladies are * ax home’ in their opera boxes, where their 
friends call upon them between the acts. The moment 
the drop-curtain descends there is a crackling of the 
wax matches in use here, cigarettes are lighted, and 
the gentlemen go the rounds of their lady acquaintances, 
who receive them courteously, coquettishly using their 
fans, while their lustrous eyes welcome favorites. A 
gentleman who lias resided here for some time declares 
that if the Mexican ladies are not so variously beauti¬ 
ful as the women of the northern lauds, in whose veins 
the blood of many nations has mingled, they are most 
lovable creatures in spite of the uniformity of their 
national type. There is a degree of exquisite tender¬ 
ness and an expression of affectionate sincerity in the 
faces of the Mexican women which instantly wins not 
only respect hut the confidence of the gazer. The 
toilets we saw at the opera were elegant, hut not in 
any way gaudy. 
ig' 
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