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About The courier. (Lincoln, Neb.) 1894-1903 | View Entire Issue (May 4, 1895)
THE COURIER. IO MUSINGS. (Written torTHECoCBiKBl "Meditation here may think down hours to moments. Here the heart may give a useful lesson to the head. And Learning wiser grow without his books." Who has not dreamed over and over again of the beautiful faces beautiful to us because of the tender associations and loved scenes of the "long ago'? Who, in his most deeply meditative moments, particularly those of introspection, is not haunted, both in his day and night dreams, by visions of the songs ho used to sing, the books he used to read, the pictures he used to gaze upon, the trees that used to throw their lengthening shadows over his pathway, before the heart had learned the depressing lessons of sorrow and disappointment taught by that ruthless instructor Time? The memorials of the days passed in the careless freedom and unalloyed delights of childhood are not to be buried in oMivion. Indeed, the mind too willingly reverts to those bright hours, and calls up the old abiding joys which are but the warp and woof of present existence the background that gives all the coloring to the landscape of today. The beautiful tints of the many colored rainbow of home, a mother's tender love and Christian influence that filled up all the interstices of the young minds with thoughts which were the seeds and roots of wisdom, but which;., alas, gave no prophetic instinct; the in nocent sports, and wildly extravagant ambitions this rain-bow of peace and joy which spanned the horizon of youth ful vision, never fades away; not even though the sun of hope may occasion ally dispel the lowering clouds whereby we catch glimpses of the clear, blue plains of heaven. cannot, I dare not believe that shadow, darkness and despair come to us of our own seeking 'twere a travesty upon the purity and unexcelled joys of child hood's hallowed influences to entertain the thought Once, all was brightness, and gloom was unknown. Whence are they now? Once, we could freely par take of happiness and claim it as our own; later death lurks even in the sunbeam. Whence this change? f VlflKE OPUft toteE PRANK C. ZEHRTJNG, Manager. r' '5 ' Experience tells many tales of sadness; and unless your pathwaj has wound, and wound yet again, among the jagged rocks and briery byways, you may not know of the thorns that everywhere protrude to pierce and mangle the ten der flesh. No, these paths are not of our conscious choosing, neither are they ours through inheritance but, rather forced upon us by a chain of ap parently unavoidable circumstances, and how can we escape? Then, what must be the state of the soul that may not feel the pain and great weight of sorrow laid upon it by influences entirely outside of itself? COMING ATTRACTIONS:-- WEDNESDAY, MAY 8. v.. How many there are, alas, who live in the past in the time when our morning hopes awoke before us smiling, among the dews and exuberating airs of quiet home; and fancy colored them with every hue of heavenly loveliness. Child hood is the one oasis of life to which the mind may ever turn for refreshing experiences- Deceit, impurity, treachery, unfaithfulness, injured love, lurked not beneath the sacred roof to crush the trembling sensibilities of the trusting soul. For every wound there was a balm, and the sunny days sped as on the wings of the eagle with meteor-like swiftness. Oh, reader, be not so ready to censure the soul that suffers. If you have joys not intermingled with pain, share them with your weeping brother. You may reach him and lift him to a plain where joy is seen in the glistening dew-drop and glowing flowers through love and tenderness, but never through cold, stinging reproof. When you feel a soul cry out in the agony of its despair: "Backward, flow backward, O tide of the '-., years! I am so weary of toils and of tears; Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, Take them, and give me my childhood again. I have grown weary of dust and decay. Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away. Weary of sowing for others to 7eap; Rock me to sleep, mother, rockh- to Bleep; SATURDAY be assured that unsought and untoward v ' winds have riven the little bark from its chosen and loved moorings, and that it floats upon the uncertain ocean of life without helm, tcssed by the restless billows. Mvka E. Olmstead. ( WAR SONG CONCERT Directed by Mrs. !!? V. IM. Raymohdi WEDNESDAY, MAY 15. Bdouard JHtemonyi, THE HUNGARIAN VIOLINIST. ED. A. CHURCH, Manager. COMING ATTRACTIONS:- FRIDAY, MAY 10. "SIDETRACKED" '. r- MAY 11. -IN- ap- But passing out upon life's rugged highway, without a slumtering thought of the pain and anguish that thicken the air, what wonder that the poison shafts that fly hither and yon find sheathing in the unsuspecting heart? And what wonder that the wounds therefrom, incurable, eat and corrode the soul until life is bitter and hard to live? Oh, tell me not that we think somber and melancholy strains because of inheritance! Nay: what occasion for gloomy thoughts when the atmosphere is rife with joy and gladness; not that joy which is everywhere, and at all times to be found in Nature; but that inner gladness of the soul that ever proclaims it in harmony with its sur roundings, and which may be denom inated as our especial and individual belonging? Only when the unarmored soul unarmored through the tender solicitude of the dear ones under child hood's roof -tree engages in the raging battle of life on its own account can it appreciate either pure joy or deep pain. SUGGESS. (Written for The Cocrter.) Success is not the rabble's loud plause, The wreaths and tributes of the clain'rous throng Whose erring judgment is more often wrong Than right, poor playthings of the wind, like straws Blown here and yon. The mediocre draws More noisy comment from the crowds along Life's thoroughfares, that sympathy is strong Twixt things alike is one of nature's laws. To fix a standard that is high and true. Forever straight toward that mark to press, A path o'er every obstacle to hew. To be content with nothing that less, To do the best 'tis given thee to do. This is the very acme of success. Isabel Richey W 14. TUESDAY, MAY EMILY BANCKER -IN- 0iR YiKX. "TRILBr IS She Was an Observer. " AND When deception tricks the guileless one into its fiendish clutches, and injured love is the sacrifice upon the altar oh, who can understand such anguish but the pierced heart? No, I "You have brought new sonshine into my heart," he said, rapturously. "Do you mean that," she said, timidly. "Of course I mean it. Can you doubl me?" "Oh, of course I know you wouldn't intentionally misrepresent. But you know a young man so often thinks a girl has brought sunshine into his life when, in reality, it's only moonshine." pfvssute SttOVl "3 ?V -.2-J