down to be a daughter and a sister in quiet, every-day life, became distasteful to her. She was not exactly unhappy, but restless and dissatisfied; she sighed, hardly knowing for what. She consulted her father about a suitable course of reading. Her father got her books; but she found reading by herself, and acquiring knowledge for itself, was not so agreeable a thing. She had not to be examined in it, she had not to write on it, and so Sara did not relish the course as she expected. As to interesting herself in household affairs, it was dull business. Who would think of admiring - her stitches on papa's shirt, and what eclat was there in baking a sheet of gingerbread? Yes, the first sheet was particularly noted, tasted, eat, commented upon and admired as hers; but the third, fourth, fifth, and so on, they were eat, and nobody thought whether she had a hand in them or not. Sara's want of interest in house matters pained and perplexed her mother. Had she been an own mother, in many things she would have gently corrected; but, wisely or unwisely, she shrank from that which, in a step-mother, could be so readily misrepresented and abused. At last, she became backward about asking Sara's aid, until Sara gradually, as it were, receded from the important empire of home sympathies and duties, and perhaps it may be justly added, affections likewise, to a little world within herself, where she was all in all. In that world, Sara spent many moments; and moments make hours, hankering after something else, an imaginary something, which she conceived would make her very happy. "I want to be somebody," she sighed; "I want to distinguish myself, I want to be known, I cannot sit down and become nobody." If Sara was nobody, it was because she had made herself so; for there was enough for her to do just around her. For the twentieth time she opened her portfolios, and began to look over the compositions, scraps of poetry, and extracts which it contained. She read them over and over; especially two, prepared for the examination, which appeared to her particularly fine" as good as you would "as generally find anywhere," she uttered aloud. How far did -- anywhere extend, to the pulpit, the plea, to Johnson or Addison? Probably it was a large anywhere; for Sara now determined upon what she had long meditated, becoming an author. "To be known and read! how delightful!" she thought. A poem was concluded upon, through which to make her debut into the world of letters. How many hours and days, nay, weeks-how much trying, scribbling, studying, were given to the work! She wrote and re-wrote, copied and re-copied it, until one midnight hour it was completed; and a note was written, commending it to one of the leading monthlies of the day. The next morning, after breakfast, Sara went up for her bonnet and shawl to carry the important document to the post-office. "Sara, my dear," spoke her mother, as she passed through the little side entry. She thrust her head into the sitting-room, with an impatient expression, as much as to say, "Pray, do n't stop me on any account, I am on business of the utmost importance!" แ Ah, you are going out, then?" said her mother, looking around. "It is no matter," although Charley was crying with a cut finger in the kitchen, the breakfast things were waiting to be washed up, Ellen was wishing somebody could show her about her parsing lesson, and Mr. May was hunting up a newspaper, which he had not the least skill in doing; his wife, or some of the children had always to join in the pursuit. Sara's business was of course more important than home comforts or helpfulness, - poetry was about to herald her to the world. She deposited it, post-paid, then bent her steps toward the east side of the river, where she walked and thought, and thought and walked, until late in the forenoon, altogether unmindful of the interests of any one in the wide world but herself; and Sara had now something to ex pect for herself. This important beginning having been made, Sara projected a story, in prose; and for a time her literary projects completely absorbed her, to the exclusion of every home tie. The coming of the children to her chamber annoyed her; her mother's messages, to step down and see company, - and her mother's requests now seldom extended farther, annoyed her. She grudged even the time bestowed upon an afternoon walk with her father. Time passed on, and Sara grew impatient of the long silence which followed the departure of her poem; it created surprise and wonder; the sixth and seventh week, and no news, no appearing of her poem. At last, after hope long, very long deferred, her father came in and tossed a letter into her lap. Sara trembled and withdrew. On reaching her chamber, it was some moments before she could break the seal. Behold its contents: "The poem put aside among the rejected, lost, misplaced," so the letter ran. "Verse is not my forte!" she exclaimed, on recovering from the shock; "it is prose! I can succeed in prose!" and, nothing daunted, Sara began to revise her story, adding here and substracting there, until it suited. Her brother, who was on his first term at school, complained in every letter of Sara's neglect of him. "Why do n't Sara write?" "Tell Sara to please keep her promise." "Tell Sara, I counted a good deal upon what her letters would be." Writing to James! did she not regard it as quite an unimportant and small affair in comparison with her story? A brother's claims before her authorship! The story was sent ; aye, and it came back too—"good deal of such matter on hand -no market," -ran the letter returning it. Vexed, mortified, disappointed, angry, Sara came home. Passing by the nursery-door, which was half open, "O, I'm so lonely," said Fanny, leaning over the bed and looking wistfully into the entry. The pitiful tones of the child's voice caught her ear, and she stopped. Fanny stretched out her hand. "Do stay," said the child, "mother's gone." Fanny's tone and manner touched her heart. She remembered the time when she had no mother, and all the desolation consequent upon having nobody with her. "Where is mother, and the rest of the children?" asked Sara, going in. "Mother has gone to see grand-mother. She's sick, and sent for mother to come down. Ellen has not come home from school; no have n't Dick and Willie. Nancy has gone down to get supper, and so I am all alone." Fanny had sprained her ancle, and was confined to the nursery. Sara went in, swept up the hearth, placed Fanny's chair, put several things away; all her movements were closely watched, Fanny's large blue eyes following her about. "Will you go now?" asked she, seeing her sister stop, as if no more was to be done. "I wish - Fanny hesitated, and looked up timidly. "Wish what, Fanny?" asked Sara; "speak out." "That you would tell me a story. Such beautiful stories as you used to tell when you came home in the vacation. You don't tell us any now." Her. face looked pale with the confinement in doors; her little arms were purple, and her hands thin. Sara laid aside her bonnet and shawl, and sat down on a cricket beside the sick child. Sara thought she did not care much what she did. She did not dream, that she was at that moment doing a nobler and better work than whole weeks before had witnessed. "Which will you have?" asked Sara, taking Fanny's hand. The child chuckled, shoved to and fro her well foot, and asked for Cowper's puss, who went to sleep in the bureau drawer; then about the silver trouts. It was not long before the rest came dropping in ; and as they came, each uttered an expression of delight at finding Sara in the nursery. "Good!" shouted Dick. "It is better than mince pie to have Sara tell us a story." Now Dick was particularly fond of mince pie, and Sara might well take it as one of the biggest compliments she ever had; it was certainly the heartiest. That was a beautiful group gathered around the eldest. Willie knelt before her, his hands on her lap. Fanny nestled under an arm. Dick's head was on her shoulder; his face smelt of mince pie, but somehow or other, Sara did not mind it, while Ellen and Charley sat near, all eyes and ears. "You beat Peter Parley out and out!" cried Willie, when the silver trouts were disposed of. "O! if you would oftener tell us good and beautiful stories," said Fanny. "Why, I do often," spoke Sara. "No! no!" the children all exclaimed at once. "Not now you don't; you used to, but it is a great while since! You say you forgot your stories, when we ask you, or you push us away and say, 'Not now, not now, children.'" Thus a mirror was held up before Sara, and she glanced at herself as others saw her. When the supper bell rang, for once the children were loth to answer to its call. "Rather hear Sara, by half!" cried Dick, grabbing her round the neck, and giving her a hearty kiss with his mince pie mouth. "Dear sister, you won't let so long time be again without telling us one, will you?" pleaded Fanny. Charles and Willie seized her hands, as she and they arose to go. As the young lady looked around upon the delighted group, she forgot her disappointment in the love which shone from their eyes, and it shone into Sara's heart. It had to thaw through a crust of selfishness; but it was very warm, and could do marvellous things. "Then, for the first time, I began to see where I could be somebody," she afterwards said, "because I then saw where the true sphere of my duty and influence lay, it is in doing the duties nearest to us." Ah, yes, Sara was now on the right track. A woman's true empire is at home; and it is a mistake to suppose it narrow or unimportant, especially if there are children in it. Her power is chiefly exercised through her affections, and her sympathies; and, if these are under the guidance of clear judgment and sound sense, her sway is for unspeakable good. If you are ever prompted by a selfish or ambitious spirit to look out upon the great world, and feel that you are doing nothing, unless you can play a more conspicuous part in it, pluck it out and cast it from thee. By a God-fearing and self-forgetful discharge of the duties conferred upon you as a sister, a daughter, a wife, a mother, you are doing your part better toward influencing and elevating society, more toward maturing and perfecting your own character, than in any other way. No convention, however loud or vociferous |