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SORROWFUL TALE OF A HIRED GIRL.—John Quill. Mary Ann was a hired girl.
She was called "hired," chiefly because she always objected to having her wages lowered.
Mary Ann was of foreign extraction, and she said she was descended from a line of kings. But nobody ever saw her descend, although they admitted that there must have been a great descent from a king to Mary Ann.
And Mary Ann never had any father and mother. As far as it could be ascertained, she was spontaneously boru in an intelligence office.
It was called an intelligence office because there was no intelligence about it, excepting an intelligent way they had of chiseling you out of two-dollar bills.
The early youth of Mary Ann was passed in advertising for a place, and in sitting on a hard bench, dressed in a bonnet and speckled shawl and three-ply carpeting, sucking the end of her parasol.
Her nose began well, and had evidently been conceived in an artistic spirit, but there seemed not to have been stuff enough, as it was left half-finished, and knocked upwards at the end.
She said she would never live anywhere where they didn't have Brussels carpet in the kitchen, and a family that would take her to the sea-shore in summer. And as she knew absolutely nothing, she said she must have five dollars a week as a slight compensation for having to take the trouble to learn.
Mary Ann was eccentric, and she would often boil her stockings in the tea-kettle, and wipe the dishes with her calico frock.
Her brother was a bricklayer, and he used to send her letters sealed up with a dab of mortar, and it was thus, perhaps, she conceived the idea that hair was a good thing to mix in to hold things together, and so she always introduced some of her own into the biscuit.
But Mary Ann was fond—yes, passionately fond—of work. So much did she love it that she dilly-dallied with it, and seemed to hate to get it done. She was often very much absorbed in her work. In fact, she was an absorbing per
TWILL NOT BE LONG.
Twill not be long—this wearying commotion
That marks its passage in the human breast
That ever rock the cradle of unrest,
When bliss, not pain, shall have its rich increase; E'en unto Thee the dove may now be steering
With gracious message. W ait, and hold thy peace Twill not be long!
The lamps go out; the stars give np their shining;
The world is lost in darkness for awhile; And foolish hearts give way to sad repining,
And feel as though they ne'er again could smile. Why murmur thus, the needful lesson scorning?
Oh, read thy Teacher and His word .aright I
If'twere not for the darkness of the night;
Twill not be long; the strife will soon be ended;
The doubts, the fears, the agony, the pain, Will seem but as the clouds that low descended
To yield their pleasure to the parched plain.
Of bitter grief and agonizing cry;
Will bring a blissful harvest by-and-by—
Twill not be long; the eye of faith, discerning
The wondrous glory that shall be revealed, Instructs the soul, that every day is learning
The better wisdom which the world concealed. And soon, aye, soon, there'll be an end of teaching.
When mortal vision finds immortal sight,
Beholds the glory of the Infinite,—
"Twill not be long!" the heart goes on repeating;
It is the burden of the mourner's song; The work of grace in us he is completing,
Who thus assures us—" It will not be long." His rod and staff our fainting steps sustaining,
Our hope and comfort every day will be;
As He who leads us unto Calvary;