Volume 103 — AN AUTUMN AFTERNOON

O wealthy and world-weary triflers, O idle and opulent folk, For whom time is a foe to be slain, and life's self but a bore or a joke, Take yourselves, and your hearts, and your purses to Nazareth House and behold The brave service of well-bestowed time, the brave uses of well-applied gold! Where is Nazareth House, then, and what? 'Tis in Hammersmith, Madam, a place That you probably seldom illume with the light of your beautiful face. But what? That's a far larger question, full answer to which would take time. Far better go see for yourself. If there's aught of the moral sublime In these gold-grubbing days, 'tis in scenes where love-service unbought and unpaid— A vastly unbusiness-like thing in the eyes of the vassals of Trade!— Is devoted in silence unseen to the outcast, the old, and the poor. Five hundred such waifs are here housed, and they yearn to find refuge for more! That's the pith of the matter, dear Madam! And as for the rest, I've returned From a visit, and fancy your heart, like my own, would have lightened and burned! Had you walked through the wards, as I walked, with a Sister as frank and unfeigned As sweet Charity's servant should be. There was nothing o'er piously strained In this unrigid Refuge for helplessness. Cheeriness, confidence, mirth Seemed to reign in these child-crowded rooms—in these wards where the aged, whose birth Dated well-nigh a century back, whether sewing, or smoking, or prone On the pallet of sickness, all smiled, and no soul seemed forlorn or alone. How they sang, those close clustering toddlers, their curly heads tier above tier, With never a trace of restraint, and unknowing the shadow of fear! Here timidity checks not the young, and here weariness haunts not the old. There is laughter on age-shrivelled lips, and the eyes of mere babies are bold With the confidence born but of love. Even imbeciles, helpless and blind, Shut out at each sense from full life, yet can feel unseen tendance is kind, And sit silently placid, or burst into song of a heart-searching sort— Muffled speech from unplumbed spirit-depths, yet inspired by the impulse of sport. Have a chat, my dear Madam—shrink not, they are women!—with age-wrinkled dames, Who are busily bed-quilting here, while the Autumn sun ruddily flames On the walls from the liberal windows. Bestow but a smile and a jest, They'll respond with a jest and a smile, for there's life in each age-burdened breast, And confidence, comfort, and cheer. Here again clustered close round the fire Are a number of grizzle-look'd men, every one is a true "hoary sire," Bowed, time-beaten, grey, yet alert and responsive to kindness of speech; And see how old eyes can light up if you promise a pipe-charge a-piece. For the comforting weed KINGSLEY eulogised is not taboo in this place, Where the whiff aromatic brings not cold reproval to Charity's face. Ah! the tale is o'erlong for full telling; but never a bright afternoon In London's chill leaf-strewn October was better bestowed. 'Tis a boon To be able to speak on behalf of Samaritan kindness so schemed, In a way in which lovers of man, not of mummeries, ever have dreamed. On such wise, wide, benevolent lines, with no bondage of class or of creed. But the helpless Five Hundred still swell, and the Sisterhood feel sorest need Of enlarging their borders and branches. The children especially swarm, And for every poor, pale, helpless mite, who can here find a pallet and form, Home, food, clothing, schooling, life-settlement, love, there are hundreds for whom And their piteous appeal the response must unwillingly come, "No more room!", Room, not in their hearts but their wards is this unselfish Sisterhood's lack; There you, my dear Madam, can help, if your purse-strings a little you'll slack. The Home for Poor Age, Helpless Childhood, Incurable Sickness, depends Not on fees or on wealthy endowments, but alms and free service of friends. Gifts, not only of money, but garments and furniture, beds, tables, chairs, The Nazareth ladies will welcome—Come! Is there a Christian who cares For God's poor and the Christ-welcomed children, who will not respond in some way To the modest appeal of these ladies, who care for the Waif and the Stray?

The time is come, beware of "us," There's thunder in the air; Your future's in the care of "us;" Beware of "us"—beware! We'll cease to coax and "Cozen" you By fascinating smiles, And gaily now impose on you By dynamitic wiles.