g
winter. The chairman said: "Now, ladies, speak out your minds on this
subject with freedom and promptness."

Mrs. Peterson spoke first--she always did--"For my part I wish we
could study or read something or other that would give us something
to talk about when we meet in sewing society and other places. I'm
tired going to sewing society and sitting perfectly mum by the side
of my next neighbour, because I don't know what under the sun to say.
After we have done up the weather and house cleaning and pickling and
canning, and said what a sight of work it is, and asked whether the
children took the measles and whooping-cough, and so on, I'm clear
run out, for I _won't_ talk about my neighbours, and I don't keep any
help; I've noticed 'hired girls' is a subject that doesn't seem to
run out very soon."

"Let us form a literary society," said one; "prepare essays, and
discuss some subject that will require considerable study in posting
ourselves." This lady was newly married, and "boarded;" therefore
time was one of the things that she possessed in the greatest
abundance.

"That will never do," said a busy little mother, "every lady that was
to prepare an essay would be sure to have a sick baby, or a house
full of company; then the most of us can only give little snatches of
time to this, besides the afternoon or evening that we meet; that
would surely be a failure; we want something that will not end in
smoke after a few weeks."

Mrs. Lewis spoke next. When Mrs. Lewis spoke everybody always paid
attention. She was a large, fine looking lady of seventy or
thereabouts. Old age had crowned her with a halo of soft snowy hair,
while her dark eyes still glowed with almost the brightness of youth.
Her naturally fine mind, enriched by extensive reading, and her deep
religious experience, combined to constitute her almost an oracle in
the little town. In all their gatherings she was the centerpiece, a
very queen for dignity and elegance, in her invariable black silk,
and soft white cap. "Let us study the Bible," said Mrs. Lewis. "I
don't know of any book we are more ignorant of."

"Oh, Mrs. Lewis! You wouldn't make us into a Sabbath-school class, I
hope," said feathery little Mrs. Etheridge. "I thought we did that up
years ago. I am sure I can repeat quantities of it," and she tossed
back her pretty head and looked wise. "The Bible is all well enough
for the Sabbath, but I should dearly love to read the poets. I am
passion