| OUR RECORD. |
| We built us grand, gorgeous towers Out toward the western sea, And said in a dream of the summer hours, Thus fair should our record be. We would strike the bravest chords That ever rebuked the wrong; And through them should tremble all loving words That would make the weary strong. There entered not into our thought The dangers the way led through, We saw but the gifts of the good we sought, And the good we would strive to do. Here trace we a hurried line, There blush or a blotted leaf; And tears, vain tears, on the eyelids shine, That the record is so brief. |
The Widow’s Christmas
Mrs. Mulford was a woman who doted on ruins. Nothing in the present was as beautiful as she had enjoyed in the past; and it seemed utterly impossible for her to imagine that there was anything in the future that could compensate her for the trials she had endured.
In her girlhood Mrs. Mulford had been surrounded with the luxuries of life; and after her marriage her surroundings were but a trifle less magnificent. In such an air of luxury and ease, her children were being reared when suddenly a great change came.
Mr. Mulford was a rash speculator, and on that memorable "Black Friday," the idol he had worshiped, the god of gold, proved itself to be nothing but clay, and was as dust in his hands. He could not rally from the shock; pride, ambition, courage, were all annihilated; and Mrs. Mulford, to whom beggary seemed worse than death, could only mingle her tears with his in speechless agony.
Arthur, the eldest child, a boy of fourteen, endeavored to comfort his grief-stricken parents.