The Family Circle

New Zealand Tablet, 12 February 1920, Page 45

The Family Circle

“CHILDHOOD.”

Children’s laughter on the air, What a healing balm for care! Lives there one who ne’er rejoices At the shrill pipes of their voices? Lives there one who cannot feel Radiant memories o’er him steal ? Listening to that music sweet Silvern tongues and twinkling feet. Not one tendril of regret, Twines about their pleasures yet; Each to-day and each to-morrow Are immune to pain and sorrow. See that merry little fellow, Rolling in the wild-flow’rs mellow Could you ever spy a boy With a heart more full of joy ? See those dimpling little girls, With the fair and chestnut curls, O’er the emerald meadow strolling, Happily some part-song trolling, Whilst another group of youngsters. Parted from the wand’ring songsters, Make the twilight welkin ring With the mirthful shouts they fling. There’s a lot more playing games With peculiar-sounding names. One’s familiar—’tis “Red Rover” — And another, “Kiss Your Lover!” What a cauldron of delight, Bubbles ever in their sight, As they throw their hearts and souls Into what sweet life unrolls. These are gifts which nought can spoil— Childhood's joys for childhood’s toil Flowers culled by tiny fingers, Where the dew of Heaven lingers. Only once they come in life, Y hen no doubts or fears are rife— Grant, () God in Thy Hereafter, Childish joys and childish laughter! —N.C.M.

OUR LACK OF SENTIMENT.

Sometimes as I sit in the evening, when the shadows have slipped into night. I close my eyes, and memory comes to mo with whispers soft, and with it comes tlio fragrance of flowers—tlio flowers which grew, blossomed, and faded in the old homo garden. I walk onco more in the sweet scented paths, and I hear the silver laughter which floated from lips long since silent, and girlish forms flit here and there before me among the old-fashioned flowers. I forget the present, and the changes which time has brought. This vision passes, and I am back again amid the noise and bustle of this great and growing metropolis. Before me comes the vision of stately mansions, all oyer our city, its boulevards and suburbs with their spacious grounds ornamented with rare plants and trees, the work of the landscape gardener. Money has done all this, but it all lacks the touch of hands which loved to make homo beautiful. Somehow, the home-making spirit is not there. You will find it only in the few old home gardens which are tucked away modestly in some quiet road or street. We old people are greatly blessed in these precious memories which belong to a life of long ago, and I know there will be many who read this whose hearts will ache a little, and whose eyes will fill with tears as I pay tribute to the old home garden. They will remember the roses and honeysuckle which climbed over the porch at the front door— which bloomed monthly and which were planted by mother when she was a bride. Then the garden with its wealth of flowering plants, each with a little history or sentiment attached, where the bees loved to linger, and the birds nested, and.sang their sweetest songs. There was' the old summer-house, with seats on all sides. Many lovers whispered their vows there and the love was pure gold; no dross of any unworthy thought spoiled the sanctity of the hour. The sun seemed to shine more brightly, and the moon’s silvery beams seemed to linger longer on this dear old garden. People of to-day laugh at sentiment and ridicule it, and it has gone out of fashion, as .have' so many other beautiful. traits which made the world a better place to live in. ■ Sentiment keeps the people of this old universe

better, it softens the heart, it begets courtesy and refinement, and is indeed a support to religion and good citizenslnp. I often look at the, youth and children of to-day and pity them, for in after years they will have few, if any, memories such as we enjoy. And why? Because they know no home life real home ■ life. Apartments, a few rooms, no place to play, but the street, where their minds too often receive evil impressions which leave their marks indelibly stamped on the soul. If is the fault of our modern civilisation that the true home, with its sweet, pure influences; is so fast passing from view. I believe most firmly that the evil social conditions existing to-day, the scandals and marital _ unhappiness which is tearing apart the fabric of which our great nation is made comes from the decay of sentiment which kept alive domestic love, the home life, and made possible the old home garden. This was enclosed. It was private. Its paling fence, or wall, or of boards, made it a kingdom over which ruled mother and father, in unison, and there the children were content to play. There they learned lessons which were to fit them for the world. The influence of home and its serene domestic perfection was to be a safeguard through life, and the memory of the old home garden-would come to bless and cheer them when days were dark and discouragement almost crushing with its weight. This all may seem nonsense to many, but to mo in my declining years the memory of the old homo gardens is one of my greatest comforts, as I know it will bo to many who read this tribute. Mrs. Blake L. Woodson, in an American exchange.

MOTHERHOOD.

“I miss the little laughing baby faces. The loving eyes that always turned .to mo; I miss the roguish ways and elfish graces Of little forms that clustered at my knee; Of rosy lips that left such happy kisses Upon my over-willing cheek and brow; And oh! the thousand nameless joys and blisses That onco I had, but only dream of now ! And yet I know full well if Time could bear me Back to the days of proud young motherhood, I’d miss the gentle presence ever near me Of those who as my grown-up babies stood.

THE HOUR OF FATE.

What is the hour of fate in a young man’s life? I should say 7 p.m. That hour is the springboard from which most men leap to success or fall off to failure.

I am also convinced that 7 p.m. is the fork in the roads, one of which leads to character and the other to the lack of it.

There are 23 other hours in a day, but there is no hour so potent as this 7 p.m. Why? This is the answer: a man’s waking hours are divided between industry and leisure. To a majority of mankind, 7 in the .evening marks the end of work and the beginning of leisure. It is the hour when a man makes a choice of the kind of leisure he is to have. If he turns to the leisure that means improvement to his mind, his body and his soul, he wins; if he turns to the pleasurefeeding frivolities, he loses. It is a cold-blooded proposition, but it is true. Genius is 99 per cent, hard work and the best of leisure is a shift from one kind of work to another kind of work. Ninety-nine out of every hundred men who win in this world use the time, when they are not at work, in activities which look like work to the loafer. —Victor Murdock, in Association Men.

MORAL COURAGE.

If there is any one quality of the mind in which the really great have conspired, as it were, to surpass other men it is moral courage. In private life what daily deceit would be avoided, what evils would be remedied if we did but possess more moral courage—not that false image of it which proceeds from a blind and inconsiderate rashness, from an absence both of forethought and imagination; but that calm reliance on the decisions of reason, that carelessness of the undeserved applause of our neighbors which will induce the great man to act according to his own informed judgment and not according to the opinions of those who will not know and who could never appreciate his motives.

A STIRRING TIME.

, It is in time of war that the virtue of military obedience finds, naturally, its highest exemplification; but it is occasionally shown to a striking degree in time of peace. A recent writer on popular science, among a group of anecdotes concerning work in the laboratory, tells one

of .Michael Faraday and a trusted assistant who had formerly belonged to the army. Sergeant Anderson had little learning and understood nothing of science; he had not the faintest idea as to the meaning of- the experiments in which ho helped his distinguished employer. Nevertheless, Faraday set a high value upon his services, and rightly so. Absolute faithfulness is precious indeed. One day Faraday directed*’the ex-sergeant to stir a potful of. chemicals over a fire, and by no means to stop until he was told that, he might do so. “I am going upstairs to tea,” said the scientist; "but directly after, I shall come down as usual to work in the laboratory this evening.” But unforeseen circumstances arose to keep him upstairs. He had several visitors in succession whose conversation so distracted his mind that he quite forgot the pot on the fire and the watcher beside it, faithfully swishing circles with a long ladle in the bubbling contents. He bade the last departing caller good-night and went serenely to bed, still unremembering. When he came down the next morning, Sergeant Anderson, weary but indomitable, was still bonding over the pot, still swishing the long ladle patiently round and round in all of the mixture that had not boiled away during the night. At Faraday’s exclamation he looked up hopefully, but without ceasing to ply the ladle. “I carried out your orders, sir,” he said simply. "You told me to keep on stirrin’ it.”

NOT URGENT.

A Scotch minister was walking through a street in the village one misty evening when he fell into a deep hole. There was no ladder by which he could make his escape, and he began to shout for help. A passing laborer heard his cries, and, looking down, asked who lie was. The minister told him, whereupon the laborer remarked :

“Wcel, weel, ye needna kick up sic a noise. You’ll no. be needed afore Sawbath, an’ this is only Wednesday nicht.”

SMILE RAISERS.

Backblock Mayor; “Honorarium! Wot’s the use o’ that to ’im? ’He couldn't play it. Lot’s give him a tenner.”

Teacher (during natural history exam.); “What animal is satisfied with the least amount of nourishment?’

“The moth!” shouted Jimmy Jones. “It cats nothing but holes.”- •■■igyfr-Ui

“Well, Tommy, how’s your little sister?” “Oh, she’s awful bad; been in bed tor lour days.” “I’m sorry to hear that. What’s the matter?” “Well, we were playing at which could lean farthest out of the window. She won.”

“I say! Will you dine with us to-morrow?” invited Air. Brown, famed more for solid cash than for schooling. “I’d have liked to,” said Air. White, “but unfortunately I’m going to see Hamlet.”

“That doesn’t matter,” was the hospitable rejoinder “voir just bring him along too.”

Little Sarah Brown, on her way to school, fell into a pool of water, with the result that she had to turn homewards again, all dripping wet. The, next day her mother sent the following note to the teacher;“Please excuse Sarah, as she fell in the mud. By doing same you will greatly oblige.”

A railway official tells a story of the tourist in Ireland who left the train at every station and went ahead to the luggage van to ask if his trunk was safe. After the sixth time the exasperated guard replied; “Begorra, I wish the Lord had made ye an elephant instead of an ass, an’ then you’d always have mm tinnk

in front of you.”