Various - "Literary and Philosophical Essays"

Charles M. Sheldon - "In His Steps"

John Kendrick Bangs - "A Rebellious Heroine"

Emile Zola - "The Three Cities Trilogy: Lourdes, Vol. 2"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: The Lights and Shadows of Real Life

T >> T.S. Arthur >> The Lights and Shadows of Real Life




"What else besides, Henry?" he repeated.

"Henry Logan," replied the child, looking for a moment into the face
of Mr. Crawford, and then turning to gaze at the picture on the
wall. Every nerve quivered in the frame of that man of iron will.
The falling of a bolt from a sunny sky could not have startled and
surprised him more. He saw in the face of the child, the moment be
looked at him, something strangely familiar and attractive. What it
was, he did not, until this instant, comprehend. But it was no
longer a mystery.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked, in a subdued voice, after he had
recovered, to some extent, his feelings.

The child looked again into his face, but longer and more earnestly.
Then, without answering, he turned and looked at the portrait on the
wall.

"Do you know who I am, dear?" repeated Mr. Crawford.

"No, sir," replied the child; and then again turned to gaze upon the
picture.

"Who is that?" and Mr. Crawford pointed to the object that so fixed
the little boy's attention.

"My mother." And as he said these words, he laid his head down upon
the bosom of his unknown relative, and shrunk close to him, as if
half afraid because of the mystery that, in his infantile mind, hung
around the picture on the wall.

Moved by an impulse that he could not restrain, Mr. Crawford drew
his arms around the child and hugged him to his bosom. Pride gave
way; the iron will was bent; the sternly uttered vow was forgotten.
There is power for good in the presence of a little child. Its
sphere of innocence subdues and renders impotent the evil spirits
that rule in the hearts of selfish men. It was so in this case. Mr.
Crawford might have withstood the moving appeal of even his
daughter's presence, changed by grief, labor, and suffering, as she
was. But his anger, upon which he had suffered the sun to go down,
fled before her artless, confiding, innocent child. He thought not
of Fanny--as the wilful woman, acting from the dictate of her own
passions or feelings; but as a little child, lying upon his
bosom--as a little child, singing and dancing around him--as a
little child, with, to him, the face of a cherub; and the sainted
mother of that innocent one by her side.

When the Friend came for the little boy; Mr. Crawford said to him,
in a low voice--made low to hide his emotion--

"I will keep the child."

"From its mother?"

"No. Bring the mother, and the other child. I have room for them
all."

A sunny smile passed over the benevolent countenance of the Friend
as he hastily left the room.

Mrs. Logan, worn down by exhausting labor, had at last been forced
to give up. When she did give up, every long strained nerve of mind
and body instantly relaxed; and she became almost as weak and
helpless as an infant. While in this state, she was accidentally
discovered by the kind-hearted old Friend, who, without her being
aware of what he was going to do, made his successful attack upon
her father's feelings. He trusted to nature and a good cause, and
did not trust in vain.

"Come, Mrs. Logan," said the kind woman, with whom Fariny was still
boarding, an hour or so after little Henry had been dressed up to
take a walk--where, (sic) the the mother did not know or
think,--"the good Friend, who was here this morning, says you must
ride out. He has brought a carriage for you, It will do you good, I
know. He is very kind. Come, get yourself ready."

Mrs. Logan was lying upon her bed.

"I do not feel able to get up," she replied. "I do not wish to ride
out."

"Oh, yes, you must go. The pure, fresh air, and the change, will do
you more good than medicine. Come, Mrs. Logan; I will dress little
Julia for you. She needs the change as much as you do."

"Where is Henry?" asked the mother.

"He has not returned yet. But, come! The carriage is waiting at the
door."

"Won't you go with me?"

"I would with pleasure--but I cannot leave home. I have so much to
do."

After a good deal of persuasion, Fanny at length made the effort to
get herself ready to go out. She was so weak, that she tottered
about the floor like one intoxicated. But the woman with whom she
lived, assisted and encouraged her, until she was at length ready to
go. Then the Quaker came up to her room, and with the tenderness and
care of a father, supported her down stairs, and when she had taken
her place in the vehicle, entered, with her youngest child in his
arms, and sat by her side, speaking to her, as he did so, kind and
encouraging words.

The carriage was driven slowly, for a few squares, and then stopped.
Scarcely had the motion ceased, when the door was suddenly opened,
and Mr. Crawford stood before his daughter.

"My poor child!" he said, in a tender, broken voice, as Fanny,
overcome by his unexpected appearance, sunk forward into his arms.

When the suffering young creature opened her eyes again, she was
upon her own bed, in her own room, in her old home. Her father sat
by her side, and held one of her hands tightly. There were tears in
his eyes, and he tried to speak; but, though his lips moved, there
came from them no articulate sound.

"Do you forgive me, father? Do you love me, father?" said Fanny, in
a tremulous whisper, half rising from her pillow, and looking
eagerly, almost agonizingly, into her father's face.

"I have nothing to forgive," murmured the father, as he drew his
daughter towards him, so that her head could lie against his bosom.

"But do you love me, father? Do you love me as of old?" said the
daughter.

He bent down and kissed her; and now the tears fell from his eyes
and lay warm and glistening upon her face.

"As of old," he murmured, laying his cheek down upon that of his
child, and clasping her more tightly in his arms. The long pent up
waters of affection were rushing over his soul and obliterating the
marks of pride, anger, and the iron will that sustained them in
their cruel dominion. He was no longer a strong man, stern and rigid
in his purpose; but a child, with a loving and tender heart.

There was light again in his dwelling; not the bright light of other
times; for now the rays were mellowed. But it was light. And there
was music again; not so joyful; but it was music, and its spell over
his heart was deeper and its influence more elevating.

The man with the iron will and stern purpose was subdued, and the
power that subdued him, was the presence of a little child.






A CURE FOR LOW SPIRITS.

A HOUSEHOLD SKETCH.





FROM some cause, real or imaginary, I felt low spirited. There was a
cloud upon my feelings, and I could not smile as usual, nor speak in
a tone of cheerfulness. As a natural result, the light of my
countenance being gone, all things around me were in shadow. My
husband was sober, and had little to say; the children would look
strangely at me when I answered, their questions, or spoke to them
for any purpose, and my domestics moved about in a quiet manner, and
when they addressed me, did so in a tone more subdued than usual.

This re-action upon my state, only made darker the clouds that
veiled my spirits. I was conscious of this, and was conscious that
the original cause of my depression was entirely inadequate, in
itself, to produce the result which had followed. Under this
feeling, I made an effort to rally myself, but in vain; and sank
lower from the very struggle to rise above the gloom that
overshadowed me.

When my husband came home at dinner time, I tried to meet him with a
smile; but I felt that the light upon my countenance was feeble, and
of brief duration. He looked at me earnestly, and, in his kind and
gentle way, inquired if I felt no better, affecting to believe that
my ailment was one of the body instead of the mind. But I scarcely
answered him, and I could see that he felt hurt. How much more
wretched did I become at this. Could I have then retired to my
chamber, and, alone, give my full heart vent in a passion of tears,
I might have obtained relief to my feelings. But, I could not do
this.

While I sat at the table, forcing a little food into my mouth for
appearance sake, my husband said--

"You remember the fine lad who has been for some time in our store?"

I nodded my head, but the question did not awaken in my mind the
slightest interest.

"He has not made his appearance for several days; and I learned this
morning, on sending to the house of his mother, that he was very
ill."

"Ah!" was my indifferent response. Had I spoken what was in my mind,
I would have said--"I'm sorry, but I can't help it." I did not, at
the moment, feel the smallest interest in the lad.

"Yes," added my husband, "and the person who called to let me know
about it, expressed his fears that Edward would not get up again."

"What ails him?" I inquired.

"I did not clearly understand. But he has fever of some kind. You
remember his mother very well?"

"Oh, yes. You know she has worked for me. Edward is her only child,
I believe."

"Yes. And his loss to her will be almost every thing."

"Is he so dangerous?" I inquired, a feeling of interest beginning to
stir in my heart.

"He is not expected to live."

"Poor woman! How distressed she must be? I wonder what her
circumstances are just at this time. She seemed very poor when she
worked for me."

"And she is very poor still, I doubt not. She has herself been sick,
and during the time it is more than probable, that Edward's wages
were all her income. I am afraid she has suffered, and that she has
not, now, the means of procuring for her sick boy things necessary
for his comfort. Could you not go around there this afternoon, and
see how they are?"

I shook my head instantly, at this proposition, for sympathy for
others was not yet strong enough to expel my selfish despondency of
mind.

"Then I must step around," replied my husband, "before I go back to
the store, although we are very busy today, and I am much wanted
there. It would not be right to neglect the lad and his mother under
present circumstances."

I felt rebuked at these words; and, with a forced effort, said--

"I will go."

"It will be much better for you to see them than for me," returned
my husband, "for you can understand their wants better, and minister
to them more effectually. If they need any comforts, I would like
you to see them supplied."

It still cost me an effort to get ready; but as I had promised that
I would do as my husband wished, the effort. had to be made. By the
time I was prepared to go out, I felt something better. The exertion
I was required to make, tended to disperse slightly the clouds that
hung over me, and, as they began gradually to move, my thoughts
turned, with an awakening interest, toward the object of my
husband's solicitude.

All was silent within the humble abode to which my errand led me. I
knocked lightly, and in a few moments the mother of Edward opened
the door. She looked pale and anxious.

"How is your son, Mrs. Ellis?" I inquired, as I stepped in.

"He is very low, ma'am," she replied.

"Not dangerous, I hope?"

"The fever has left him, but he is as weak as an infant. All his
strength is gone."

"But proper nourishment will restore him, if the disease is broken."

"So the doctor says. But I'm afraid it is too late. He seems to be
sinking every hour. Will you walk up and see him, ma'am?"

I followed Mrs. Ellis up stairs, and into the chamber where the sick
boy lay. I was not surprised at the fear she had expressed, when I
saw Edward's pale, sunken face, and hollow, almost expressionless
eyes. He scarcely noticed my entrance.

"Poor boy!" sighed his mother. "He has had a very sick spell." My
liveliest interest was at once awakened.

"He has been sick indeed!" I replied, as I laid my hand upon his
white forehead. I found that his skin was, cold and damp. The fever
had nearly burned out the vital energies of his system. "Do you give
him much nourishment?"

"He takes a little barley water."

"Has not the doctor ordered wine?"

"Yes, ma'am," replied Mr. Ellis, but she spoke with an air of
hesitation. "He says a spoonful of good wine, three or four times a
day, would be very good for him."

"And you have not given him any?"

"No ma'am,"

"We have some very pure wine, that we always keep for sickness. If
you will step over to our house, and tell Alice to give you a bottle
of it, I will stay with Edward until you return."

How brightly glowed that woman's face, as my words fell upon her
ears!

"Oh, ma'am you are very kind!" said she. "But it will be asking too
much of you to stay here!"

"You did'nt ask it, Mrs. Ellis," I smilingly replied. "I have
offered to stay; so do you go for the wine as quickly as you can,
for Edward needs it very much."

I was not required to say more. In a few minutes I was alone with
the sick boy, who lay almost as still as if death were resting upon
his half closed eye-lids. To some extent, in the half hour I
remained thus in that hushed chamber, did I realize the condition
and feelings of the poor mother whose only son lay gasping at the
very door of death, and all my sympathies were, in consequence,
awakened.

As soon as Mrs. Ellis returned with the wine, about a tea spoonful
of it was diluted, and the glass containing it placed to the sick
lad's lips. The moment its flavor touched his palate, a thrill
seemed to pass through his frame, and he swallowed eagerly.

"It does him good!" said I, speaking warmly, and from an impulse of
pleasure that made my heart glow.

We sat, and looked with silent interest upon the boy's face, and we
did not look in vain, for something like warmth came upon his wan
cheeks, and when I placed my hand again upon his forehead, the
coldness and dampness was gone. The wine had quickened his languid
pulses. I staid an hour longer, and then another spoonful of the
generous wine was given. Its effect was as marked as at first. I
then withdrew from the humble home of the widow and her only child,
promising to see them again in the morning.

When I regained the street and my thoughts, for a moment, reverted
to myself, how did I find all changed. The clouds had been
dispersed--the heavy hand raised from my bosom, I walked with a
freer step. Sympathy for others, and active efforts to do others
good, had expelled the evil spirits from my heart; and now serene
peace had there again her quiet habitation. There was light in every
part of my dwelling when I re-entered it, and I sung cheerfully, as
I prepared, with my own hands, a basket of provisions for the poor
widow.

When my husband returned in the evening, he found me at work,
cheerfully, in my family, and all bright and smiling again. The
effort to do good to others had driven away the darkness from my
spirit, and the sunshine was again upon my countenance, and
reflected from every member of my household.--_Lady's Wreath._






THREE HUNDRED A YEAR.

THE CALL.





"HOW much salary do they offer?" asked Mrs. Carroll of her husband,
who was sitting near her with a letter in his hand. He had just
communicated the fact that a Parish was tendered him in the Village
of Y--, distant a little over a hundred and fifty miles.

"The money is your first thought, Edith," said Mr. Carroll, half
chidingly, yet with an affectionate smile.

This remark caused a slight flush to pass over the face of Mrs.
Carroll. She replied, glancing, as she did so, towards a bed on
which lay three children.

"Is it wrong to think of the little ones whom God has given to us?"

"Oh, no! But we must believe that God who calls us to labor in his
vineyard, will feed both us and our children."

"How are we to know that HE calls us, Edward?" inquired Mrs.
Carroll.

"I hold the evidence in my hand. This letter from the vestry of
Y--Parish contains the call."

"It may be only the call of man."

"Edith!--Edith!--Your faith is weak; weak almost as the expiring
flame."

"What do they say in that letter? Will you read it to me."

"Oh, yes." And Mr. Carroll read--

"REV. AND DEAR SIR:--Our Parish has been for some months without a
minister. On the recommendation of Bishop--, we have been led to
make you an offer of the vacant place. The members of the church,
generally, are in moderate circumstances, and we cannot, therefore,
offer anything more than a moderate living. There is a neat little
parsonage, to which is attached a small garden, for the use of the
minister. The salary is three hundred dollars. You will find the
people kind and intelligent, and likewise prepossessed in your
favor. The Bishop has spoken of you warmly. We should like to hear
from you as early as convenient.

"Very affectionately, &c. &c."

"Three hundred dollars!" said Mrs. Carroll in a disappointed tone.

"And the parsonage," added Mr. Carroll, quickly.

"Equivalent to sixty or seventy more."

"Equivalent to a hundred dollars more, at least."

"We are doing much better here, Edward."

"True! But are we to look to worldly advantage alone?"

"We have a duty to discharge to our children, which, it seems to me,
comes before all other duties."

"God will take care of these tender lambs, Edith, do not fear. He
has called me to preach his everlasting Gospel, and I have heard and
answered. Now He points to the field of labor, and shall I hold back
because the wages seem small? I have not so learned my duty. Though
lions stood in the way, I would walk in it with a fearless heart. Be
not afraid. The salvation of souls is a precious work, and they who
are called to the labor will not lack for bread."

"But Edward," said the wife, in a serious voice, "will it be right
for us to enter any path of life blindfold, as it were? God has
given us reason for a guide; and should we not be governed by its
plain dictate?"

"We must walk by faith, Edith, and not by sight," replied Mr.
Carroll, in a tone that indicated some small measure of impatience.

"A true faith, dear husband!" said Mrs. Carroll tenderly, while a
slight suffusion appeared about her eyes.

"A true faith is ever enlightened and guided by reason. When reason
plainly points the way, faith bids us walk on with unfaltering
steps."

"And does not reason now point the way?" asked Mr. Carroll."

"I think not. From our school we receive nearly seven hundred
dollars; and we have not found that sum too large for our support. I
know that I work very hard, and that I find it as much as I can do
to keep all things comfortable."

"But remember that we have rent to pay."

"I know. Still a little over five hundred dollars remain. And the
present offer is only three hundred. Edward, we cannot live upon
this sum. Think of our three children. And my health, you know, is
not good. I am not so strong as I was, and cannot go through as
much."

The wife's voice trembled.

"Poor, weak doubter!" said Mr. Carroll, in a tender, yet reproving
voice. "Does not He who calls us to this labor know our wants? And
is not He able to supply them? Have you forgotten that the earth is
the Lord's and the fullness thereof? Whose are the cattle upon a
thousand hills? Did not God feed Elijah by ravens? Did the widow's
oil fail? Be not doubtful but believing, Edith! And what if we do
have to meet a few hardships, and endure many privations? Are these
to be counted against the salvation of even one precious soul? The
harvest is great, hut the laborers are few."

Mrs. Carroll knew her husband well enough to be assured that if he
believed it to be his duty to accept a call from Lapland or the
Indian Ocean, he would go. Yet, so strongly did both reason and
feeling oppose the contemplated change, that she could not help
speaking out what was in her mind.

"The day of miracles is past," she replied.

"We must not expect God to send us bread from heaven if we go into a
wilderness, nor water from the rock, if we wander away to some
barren desert. This Parish of Y--cannot afford living to any but a
single man, and, therefore, it seems to me that none but a single
man should accept their call. Wait longer, Edward. We have every
comfort for our children, and you are engaged in a highly useful
employment. When the right field for ministerial labor offers, God
will call you in a manner so clear that you need not feel a doubt on
the subject."

"I feel no doubt now," said Mr. Carroll. "I recognise the voice of
my Master, and must obey. And I will obey without fear. Our bread
will be given and our water sure. Ah! Edith. If you could only see
with me, eye to eye. If you could only take up your cross hopefully,
and walk I by my side, how light would seem all the burden I have to
bear?"

Mrs. Carroll felt the words of her husband, as a rebuke. This
silenced all opposition.

"I know that I am weak and fearful," she murmured, leaning her head
upon her husband, and concealing her face. "But I will try to have
courage. If you feel it to be your duty to accept this call, I will
go with you; and, come what may, will not vex your ears by a
complaining word. It was only for our little ones that I felt
troubled."

"The Lord will provide, Edith. He never sends any one upon a journey
at his own cost. Fear not: we have the God of harvest on our side."

The will of Mr. Carroll decided in this, as in almost every thing
else. He saw reason to accept the call, and did not therefore,
perceive any force in his wife's objections.

The school, from which a comfortable living had been obtained, was
given up; an old home and old friends abandoned. Prompt as Mr.
Carroll had been to accept the call to Y--, the process of
breaking up did not take place without some natural feelings coming
in to disturb him. How he was to support his wife and children on
three hundred dollars, did not exactly appear. It had cost him,
annually, the sum of five hundred, exclusive of rent; and no one
could affirm that he had lived extravagantly. But he dismissed such
unpleasant thoughts by saying, mentally--

"Away with these sinful doubts! I will not be faithless, but
believing."

As for Mrs. Carroll, who felt, in view of the coming trials and
labor, that she had but little strength; the parting from the old
place where she had known so many happy hours, gave her deeper pain
than she had ever experienced. Strive as she would, she could not
keep up her spirits. She could not feel any assurance for the
future,--could not put her entire trust in Heaven. To her the
hopeful spirit of her husband seemed a blind confidence, and not a
rational faith. But, even while she felt thus, she condemned herself
for the feeling; and strove--with how little effect!--to walk
sustainingly by the side of her husband.






THE CHANGE.





Six months have elapsed since Mr Carroll accepted the call to Y--.
He has preached faithfully and labored diligently. That was his
part. And he has received, quarterly, on the day it became due, his
salary. That was according to the contract on the other side. His
conscience is clear on the score of duty; and his parishioners are
quite as well satisfied that they have done all that is required of
them. They offered him three hundred a year and the parsonage. He
accepted the offer; and, by that act, declared the living to be
adequate to his wants. If he was satisfied they were.

"I don't know how he gets along on three hundred dollars," some one,
more thoughtful about such matters, would occasionally say. "It
costs me double that sum, and my family is no larger than his."

"They get a great many presents," would, in all probability, be
replied to this. "Mr. A--, I know, sent them a load of wood some
time ago; a Mr. B--told me that he had sent them a quarter of lamb
and a bushel of apples. And I have, two or three times, furnished
one little matter and another. I'm sure what is given to them will
amount to half as much as Mr. Carroll's salary."

"This makes a difference, of course," is the satisfied answer. And
yet, all told, the presents received by the whole family, in useful
articles, has not reached the value of twenty-five dollars during
six months. And this has been more than abstracted from them by the
kind ladies of the parish, who must needs visit and take tea with
the minister as often as convenient.

Six months had passed since the Rev. Mr. Carroll removed to Y--.
It was mid-winter; and a stormy day closed in with as stormy a
night. The rays which came through the minister's little
study-window grew faint in the pervading shadows, and he could no
longer see with sufficient clearness to continue writing. So he went
down stairs to the room in which were his wife and children. The
oldest child was a daughter, six years of age, named Edith from her
mother. Edward, between three and four years old, and Aggy the baby,
made up the number of Mr. Carroll's household treasures. They were
all just of an age to require their mother's attention in every
thing. As her husband entered the room, Mrs. Carroll said--

"I'm glad you've come down, dear. I can't get Aggy out of my arms a
minute. It's nearly supper time, and I havn't been able even to put
the kettle on the fire. She's very fretful."

Mr. Carroll took the baby. His wife threw a shawl over her head, and
taking an empty bucket from the dresser, was passing to the door,
when her husband said--