Conversation that is real implies give and take. We do not t

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HOLD UP YOUR HEADS, GIRLS!

HELPS FOR GIRLS, IN SCHOOL AND OUT.

BY ANNIE H RYDER.

"'Handsome is that handsome does,--hold up your heads, girls!' was

the language of Primrose in the play when addressing her daughters."

WHITTIER

COPYRIGHT, 1886, BY D. LOTHROP & Co.

To My Girls Everywhere.

CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION

I. HOW TO TALK

II. HOW TO GET ACQUAINTED WITH NATURE

III. HOW TO MAKE THE MOST OF WORK

IV. WHAT CAN I DO?

V. WHAT TO STUDY

VI. ENGLISH LITERATURE AND OTHER STUDIES

VII. THE COMMONPLACE

VIII. MOODS

IX. WOMANLINESS

X. GIRLS AND THEIR FRIENDS

XI. YOUTHS AND MAIDENS

HOLD UP YOUR HEADS, GIRLS!

INTRODUCTION.

When we make an object with our hands, we frequently notice that the

most care is needed as we near its completion. A false stroke of the

brush will change an angel into a demon, a misguided blow of the mallet

will shiver the statue into fragments: so, in the work which attempts

to form a noble womanhood, all the efforts of years of training will

be marred or rendered ineffectual, if the right influence, proper

occupation, and wholesome encouragement are not given to a girl in

the period which borders on womanhood. We wait for the rose to open;

but if we allow the atmosphere to become impure, or otherwise prevent

its development, its life will stagnate, it will refuse to give out

odor, and the world will lose that beauty it might have enjoyed.

Susceptible as girls are, vigorous, affectionate, cheerful and aspiring,

if they are deprived suddenly of good influence and encouragement,

the very conditions of their growth will be removed, and they, like

the rose, will shut their lives within their lives.

There is no time in a girl's life so neglected, and yet so dependent

upon sympathy, as that when she is first thrown upon her own efforts.

Too old to be any longer led, she is not old enough to be left without

guidance. This time usually comes when she has finished the ordinary

school course and finds herself, all at once, waiting, either for an

entrance into what is called society, or for an opportunity to earn

her living.

There is a certain lightness of heart, carelessness, _abandon_,

maybe, about girls while they are still in school, which is both

delightful and natural, however provoking to teachers. Every thing

is very bright now; and if the girl learns her lessons, is obedient,

and tries to think, she believes that somehow things will all come

around right with time. All at once she is confounded. She awakes in

the morning, and finds that school does not keep to-day,--no, nor

to-morrow! What is to be done? Going and coming, which get to be more

going and coming; dish-washing, which daily increases into dish-washing;

or _ennui_, which degenerates into melancholy, ensue. Life is not what

the school-girl supposed. Six months of it make her older than a whole

school-year.

Girls look upon graduation day as a grand portal through which they

are to enter into a palace glistening with splendor; but, lo! when

they reach that portal, they see only a very low gate-way, while a

hedge, thorny and high, shuts out the palace. How to get through?

Rather, how are their elders to make them see that, with the patience

and energy of the prince in the story, they can cause the hedge to turn

to roses, and open wide before them?

A girl needs, first of all, encouragement. She should not be told what

things are to oppose her, if she has ambition to excel in a certain

direction, but what things are to help her to attain her purpose. She

wants praise, but not flattery. A girl knows when she is flattered

sooner than a boy. If conceit is engendered from praise, that will

do no harm. Time will destroy conceit, if a girl has much to do with

sensible people and sensible books.

A girl needs to be trusted. Nothing will be more efficacious than making

her feel of certain importance and usefulness to others. It is evident

she wants sympathy in her endeavors and disappointments. I do not mean

that she should be indulged, or that she should not be made to work

out her own salvation; but that she should realize that, if she tries,

some one will know and bless her, and if she stumbles, some one will

help her up again. Just as truly should she know that, if she is

careless of endeavor or negligent of her days, she will meet with

disparagement and punishment.

It is most necessary for a girl to have a motive placed before her,

that she may bring out whatever undeveloped faculties may be latent

within her. This motive may be a comparatively slight one,--no more

than the training of a window-garden, the collecting of newspaper slips,

or the making of bread; but, if she does her particular work better

than others, she will attain a certain degree of superiority, and her

time has, for her, been as profitably filled as that which another

person devotes to a larger work. By motive, let me repeat, I mean

something given a girl to do which shall be especially her work: not

always an ambitious one,--a desire to shine in society, letters, or the

arts,--but something just for herself, with its own rewards.

How much more numerous the motives which can be given an American girl

than one who lives on foreign soil! Look at the German girl, for

example. Her country arbitrarily divides its people into high and low.

The peasant maiden has so long stayed one side of the barrier, she

thinks she always must; so, with her scanty loaf of black bread near

her on the ground, she leans against a tree, knits her stocking, and

tends the flock. When night comes she goes home to her rude stone

cottage, lifts a prayer to the Virgin, if she is an Austrian, and one

for the king. Her mind never strays beyond the village gate. The more

fortunate girls in towns and cities receive the allotted years of study

in the schools, and when these end at fifteen, about the time of

confirmation, the girls are put into families away from home to get a

year's experience in domestic matters. Then they marry, and obediently

follow the commands of their husbands.

It may be thought that a society girl needs no incentives to a right

use of time and privileges, but she most certainly does. Her

responsibility is great: she will either sway a circle or a household.

Her influence will as surely affect her associates as did the influence

of those celebrated French women whose _salons_ were the places where

battles were fought and decisive moments gained. Society is in great

need of women: it always will be. Now this period of young womanhood is

precisely the time for cultivating those principles which will later be

most helpful to society.

Surely, for those who are to bear more heavily the weight of life,

who are to work as they wish not; in fact, in a way against which all

but principle struggles,--certainly, for these, there is every need

of motive. This class increases daily, and the discouragement and

distrust of its members grow with sad rapidity.

Girls, girls everywhere,--my girls,--do not think I mean to flatter

you! Do not think I mean to praise you more highly than I ought! I

simply want you to know your own capabilities, and to realize that

much, very much, depends upon every one of you. How much there is for

you to do! You are frank and honest now, or ought to be; you have not

learned to imitate the falseness of so-called proprieties. It is fully

possible to keep young, genuine, girlish even, and at the same time

to be womanly. The world is not sunshiny enough; there are too many

November days in the year: bring fairer weather and fresh June mornings.

You are not awkward, even if you have not learned just how to be

graceful; you are not useless, though you have not yet acquired all

the knowledge of the kitchen, laundry, and sewing-room; nor are you

unprofitable because you do not now earn the so many dollars a week

you will sometime gain. There is large hope of you, even when you forget

yourselves in the use of fashionable slang, because your minds and

hearts are open to receive kind warnings, and to learn to despise such

terms as mar the beauty of easy, delicate speech.

You want courage and physical strength outside of your lively

affections. You want wisdom and long training in the use of books.

You need to be occupied, to be active in brain and heart and hand;

busied even with more than the duties assigned you; occupied in times

of rest as well as in times of labor.

You should see more and feel no less. Indeed, the power of observation

is most cultivating and most easily developed.

You ought to be more familiar with Nature,--the sky, and trees, and

fields; not always to have a scientific knowledge of it, but a certain

familiarity, so that you may ever be surrounded by a glorious company

of friends. You need to know the value of literature, and to adorn

yourselves with the graces of conversation.

Those qualities which contribute most to womanhood and character you

should be most eager to make your own.

May I talk with you about such subjects as may suggest ways of educating

your minds, of benefiting your bodies, and of helping, in some little

measure, towards that growth of soul which should be the aim of all

instruction?

I.

HOW TO TALK.

I saw a group of girls the other day bidding one another good-by after

a year together at boarding-school. It was the merriest, most sparkling,

set of people!--girls in every sense!--bobbing about, kissing, tuning

their voices in all sorts of keys, with apparently not one care nor

the shadow of an unpleasant memory! How I longed to get right in among

them, and be hugged with the rest! though the hugging came along with

armfuls of umbrellas, bags, hats, rackets, and whatever else would

not go into the last inch of trunk. Pretty dresses, jaunty hats, tidy

gloves and boots they wore; but better than these were their bright,

honest faces, and the hearty words they spoke, Cheerfulness seemed

to gush out in the wildest hilarity. How they talked with their tongues,

and their eyes, and their hands! Enthusiasm sent their words racing

after each other into sentences which had no beginning and no end.

Though you might never guess it, from the confusion of their language,

these girls were practising some of the first principles in the art

of conversation, without, indeed, being conscious of it. They were

sincere and in earnest.

A girl is born to be a readier talker than a boy. She is usually less

positive; and, as she has more animation, more spontaneity, more

feeling, she talks much more. But somehow these natural gifts for

talking are not cultivated by her as they should be: sometimes they

are wholly disregarded. In a few years those very girls, who talked

so fluently and engrossingly, will be sitting in corners trying to

patch sentences together into what is called conversation.

Now, my dear girls, the importance of this art of talking is so great

that. I should almost say any other art you may acquire cannot be

compared with it; in fact, it is something so necessary to us that

persons who are lacking in it stand in great danger of being

metaphorically swallowed by the words of such individuals as know the

cunning uses of language. Loosen some persons' tongues, and, no matter

what sacrifices of character, of friendship, of good training, they

have to make, they will reach the goal of their endeavor, and drive

every one else into a corner. The power of eloquence and persuasion

is mightier than any two-edged sword, and cuts down enemies like the

sickle before the harvest. Go never so determined to remain unconvinced

by certain talkers, and, before their eloquence ceases, you are enemies

to yourselves, and wonder you never thought their way before.

Do not let me misguide you, however. Though you may be deceived by

words, finding yourselves utterly incapable of replying to argument,

still the joys you receive from the talks of certain well-minded persons

are far greater than any danger I have implied.

What is it which makes some persons using very simple words say them

so they drop like manna into hungry minds and hearts, or electrify

with grand ideas and moving suggestions? Some will answer that it is

brightness of intellect, and a keenness of insight added to profound

thoughtfulness. I believe this in a large measure, though, if it were

always true, we should oftener be able to understand certain

full-mouthed speakers, deep thinkers, and philosophers. They do any

thing but electrify, and suggest little more than sleep and weariness.

Others will reply that successful talking is the effect of personal

magnetism. That may be true to a slight degree. When certain strangers

enter the room, we sometimes realize at once that it will be extremely

difficult to say any more than yes or no to them; while others,

previously unknown to us, may come in and draw out thoughts from us in

rapid succession,--thoughts we hardly knew we were capable of

expressing. But I would define a large part of the personal magnetism

used in talking as an honest compound of heartiness, thoughtfulness, and

sympathy.

Conversation does not demand that we should always be vivacious,

sparkling, witty, fanciful, or even that we should use beautiful

language; but good talk does ask for heart and interest. Put your heart

into what you have to say: put your interest into it, and your

conscience will be awakened, your zeal will be aroused; then you will

compel attention, and set others thinking also. De Quincy writes, "From

the heart, from an interest of love or hatred, of hope or care, springs

all permanent eloquence; and the elastic spring of conversation is

gone if the talker is a mere showy man of talent, pulling at an oar

which he detests."

These things being true, it seems to me that character is the first

requirement in the art of conversation. I take it for granted that

every girl can, with perseverance, acquire a fluent use of words; for

this depends mainly on practice: so I shall try to indicate those

qualities which lie back of the words, and which give life to them. Even

the nature of a talk will have its source in character, and to character

it will return. Whatever chance or circumstance brings about a

conversation, it will generally lead to such expressions of ideas as

will show the dispositions of the conversers.

Just here, girls, let me remark, that, if by any slang or catch words

you thoughtlessly express yourselves, the danger is, your character

will be misunderstood, and your pure hearts but merry minds will be

censured for what is not in them. Depend upon it, your own personality

will be inferred from what you say, hence the value of utter sincerity

in what you talk.

Naturally, we are led to think about courtesy and good manners as

requirements in the art of talking. Have you not met certain men and

women who, when they opened their mouths to speak to you, conferred

a favor on you? and, when they spoke, have you not felt the benediction

descending on your heads? I have. They were not always scholars, nor

were they great people, nor rich people, but _mannered_ people. Such

persons used their words as if they expected words from you, for

which they would be grateful. They did not monopolize conversation,

neither did they frequently interrupt; but when they had a suggestion

to offer, opportunity being afforded, they spoke honestly, though

politely, their good sound thoughts,--ideas which frequently destroyed

the evil of gossip or impatiently uttered remarks.

Conversation does not depend upon rapidity of speech, as certain

impulsive persons seem to think. I acknowledge that much of the

interruption in conversation, and much of the monopoly, and a large

number of the quick, almost angry words, result from eagerness rather

than conceit or selfishness. If one cannot be animated without rapid

speech, let him talk fast. It is a bad practice, however, even in the

ablest talkers.

One can have opinions, and yet not use them to knock down one's

opponents who have had no chance to arm against one. Do not be

ungenerous, girls, selfish, in talking. Allow that some one else may

have ideas as good as yours. George Eliot says, in "Daniel Deronda,"

"I cannot bear people to keep their minds bottled up for the sake of

letting them off with a pop." That is not conversation: it is a selfish

display of a few treasured maxims or witticisms or opinions.

If courtesy, deference, patience, and generosity are needed to talk

well, then certainly sympathy is necessary. A woman who has no

comfortable word for her sister woman had better talk to the wall.

But I need not reproach girls for lack of sympathy, nor for lack of

interest in the girls they meet. Their confidence in new friends is

so absolute; their desire to receive sympathy, as well as to give it,

is so great, that they frequently impart their whole lists of secrets

to the bosoms of others whom they have not known a month. Now a more

careful use of sympathy and confidence will induce not only good manners

but good talk. It will tell you how to avoid such subjects as would

give rise to unpleasant, even quarrelsome, talk. It will show you when

you have talked too long with one person in a mixed company, and when

you are wounding the feelings of another by paying no regard to her.

Impartial treatment of those we meet in society is certainly very

charming. We say it is a great accomplishment to be able to speak a

pleasant word to the neighbor on the right, and a different, though

equally expressive, one to the friend on the left. Mary likes books,

Sallie prefers society, Ruth enjoys housekeeping, Margaret is fond

of music. Then why not ask Mary if she has noticed the beautiful

woodcuts in the last Harper's, or seen the new edition of Hawthorne?

Why not inquire of Sallie about the last matinee and the last hop?

Why not ask Ruth how she made those delicious rolls, and how she

prepared the coffee, or how she manages to make her room look so

cheerful and cosey? And why not make Margaret give you her

opinion of Wagner or of Beethoven?

I cannot dwell too long on the necessity of that adaptability to others

which a kind and sympathetic heart will always strive for in

conversation. Suppose you do not know the group amidst which you are

seated in a drawing-room, and it is expected you will all become

acquainted? Well, if it must be, say something to Miss Brown about

yesterday's storm or today's sunshine; something to Miss Eliot about

the kindness of your hostess, who is entertaining her friends in her

usual hospitable manner, with a word to each just suited to the

individual addressed; and something to Mrs. Hammerton about the pleasant

surroundings,--a picture near you, a book, a vase of exquisite form.

But suppose you are to talk with a gentleman? Why, begin with just

such remarks as you would use to a sensible girl; and, if he does not

seem to care for them, turn his attention to the world of his own

affairs,--to the street and the office. A man often takes pleasure

in giving information about matters of great public interest of which

so many girls are ignorant. After you have passed a few remarks about

the last election, or the new town-hall, you will probably find out

what he prefers to discuss, and then you can easily entertain him,

and be entertained in return. I think that most men are quite as fond

of general topics in conversation as women are; and I fail to see the

necessity of introducing different subjects for gentlemen than for

ladies,--I mean when both young men and young women appreciate what

it is to be gentlemen and ladies.

Girls, why do so many of you indulge in so much smaller talk with men

than with women? Because it is expected of you? Only by a few, and

they make themselves very absurd by always trying to say nonsensical

things to you. Men of this sort appear to have an impression that you

are still children amused with a Jack-in-the-box which springs up in

a very conceited hobgoblin way. Everybody likes a joke, and at times

feels a childlike pleasure in speaking nonsense; but, believe me, sense

is much more attractive in conversation.

Discretion in conversation really implies a peculiar tact of woman,

a kind of cleverness, not so frequently found in men, and very seldom

met with in boys. When a woman sees her guests are led by a monopolizer

along unsafe channels of thought, she can easily, by that happy faculty

of hers, bring them back again where all will run smoothly. She can

change the subject by some little remark irrelevant to it. Perhaps

adaptability comes from discretion. When you are talking with

Englishmen,--well, do not talk quite as Englishmen do, though they

may be perfectly sincere; but talk as Americans talk. Say _a_

the way they do in Boston, or wherever else you may belong: stick to

your own town's forms of speech so long as they are reasonable. Above

all things, do not ape the peculiar pronunciations of certain

individuals. Affectation, imitation in talk, is ruinous. Be yourselves!

Girls and boys are not themselves as much as they ought to be.

Being honest, still adapt yourselves to new people as you would to

new scenes: talk with the Englishman on such subjects as he prefers.

When you are speaking with honest country people about the beauty of

their fields, do not talk about "Flora spreading her fragrant mantle

on the superficies of the earth, and bespangling the verdant grass

with her beauteous adornments." Use baby talk to babies; kind and simple

words to the aged; a good, round, cheerful word to the girls, almost

slang,--though no, not quite that! Make the grocer feel you have an

interest in groceries; the seamstress an interest in sewing, as of

course you have; and the doctor an interest in sickness. In fact, make

each one with whom you come in contact realize that you care for him

and what he specially does. Just put yourselves into the places of

others, and the words will take care of themselves.

The intellect is not such a supreme factor in conversation as the points

of character I have so far named. Mr. Mathews, in his "Great

Conversers," writes, "The character has as much to do with the

colloquial power as has the intellect; the temperament, feelings, and

animal spirits even more, perhaps, than the mental gifts." I add this

remark from De Quincy: "More will be done for the benefit of

conversation by the simple magic of good manners (that is, chiefly

by a system of forbearance) applied to the besetting vices of social

intercourse than ever _was_ or _can_ be done by all varieties of

intellectual power assembled upon the same arena."

But there are certain things the mind must do in connection with the

disposition. Concentrating the thoughts is one of these things,--very

hard for young or old to acquire. Persons resort to very queer methods

to obtain it,--some scratch their heads, others rub their chins. I

have seen a public speaker try to wreak thoughts out of a watch-chain.

Another jerked at the rear pockets of his swallow-tailed coat to pick

out a thought there. You know the story Walter Scott tells about the

head boy? He always fumbled over a particular button when he recited;

so, one day, the button being furtively removed by Walter, the boy

became abstracted, and Scott passed above him. Madame De Stael, as

she talked, twisted a bit of paper, or rolled a leaf between her

fingers. (Some have attributed this to her vanity, as she had very

beautiful hands.) I believe friends came to note her necessity, and

supplied her with leaves. Well, do what you will that is harmless, if it

but serve to pin your attention right down to the matter before you.

The great conversers of literature are wrongly called so. Set topics

do not often lead to genuine conversation, and those who occupy the

time by delivering their ideas on given subjects are really lecturers.

Johnson as well as Coleridge talked right on while all the rest sat

and listened.

Conversation that is real implies give and take. We do not talk to

illuminate the minds of others only, but to get their ideas also. And,

don't you see, we never quite know what our own thoughts are till we

come to try to make them clear to others? "Intercourse is, after all,

man's best teacher. 'Know thyself is an excellent maxim; but even self-

knowledge cannot be perfected in closets and cloisters." [Footnote:

Mathews.] Three or four expressing ideas on the same subject give one

a larger range of thoughts, make one more liberal and less obstinate.

If you care for a girl's opinion because it is just like yours, maybe

it is her sympathy you are after and not her opinion. An interchange

of ideas sometimes leads to discussion, and that is admirable for the

growth of mind, provided it does not degenerate into dispute.

It is not necessary that conversation should roll around a given point.

I think that is the most entertaining, restful, and real talk which

is the most roving. You may begin in Portland and end in San Francisco.

You may start talking about preserving peaches, and halt on the latest

sensation. It is often very amusing to trace the line of such converse:

it moves in a zigzag course, and terminates many miles out of the

original direction. By this discursiveness I do not mean gossip. Of

course talk of that kind has no good part in conversation: it is the

slave of ignorance and bad character. I might, however, differ from

some as to what gossip is,--whether there may not be certain kinds

of talk miscalled gossip. I am quite sure that criticising the

misfortunes of others, and watching a chance for dilating upon their

lot, with your neighbors on the next doorstep, would come under the head

of worse than gossip. It might be well to distinguish between gossip and

scandal: the one is goodness adulterated; the other is evil unmixed.

Good conversation is the mark of highest culture. That is why, in spite

of shabby dresses, unbanged hair, tremendous mouths, and large noses,

some persons are purely delightful. We have seen that this is so, yet

have not added that something lies in the voice as well as in the

manners and words of such people. From nervousness, and other causes

which I have not been able to trace, girls are apt to pitch their voices

too high, as though they thought to be better able to speak distinctly.

A gruff, mannish voice is worse than a piping, shrill tone in a woman;

but fulness of tone prevents no melody, and this comes from a medium

pitch. In the very modulations of the voice are detected excellence

and refinement. The human voice, in its sounds and accents, is a record

of character: trust it as the key-board of the human being.

May I remind you here, girls, of the harm arising from loud talk in

public places? How many times do we suffer annoyance from the noisy

voice in the car, the station, or on the street! How bold and immodest

such tones are! Some persons seem to think the public is not to be

regarded, and that it has no right to criticism. They appear to believe

that a train is no different than an open field, where the voice needs

no restraint, and where manners are not the most refined. They treat

the passengers with as little care as they do the cars; for, while

they make a waste-basket of the latter, they regard the former as so

many brazen images to be stared at _ad libitum_. Passengers have

ears, though they themselves be removed from the talkers by the distance

of a seat or two.

Now about the words you use, girls. I fully realize the expressiveness

of slang and the convenience of exaggeration. But if a peach pie is

almost "divine," and the Hudson River "awfully lovely," what can be

said of the New Testament and Niagara Falls? What is to become of the

poor innocent words in the English language which mean only delicious

and beautiful? By a girl's words know her; but, oh! never by the slang

she uses. This use of slang is really a serious matter. Honest words

are so misconstrued, and propriety in the employment of them so

injured,--phrases are capable of so many interpretations,--that even

serious people use slang in a very pathetic way without ever knowing the

words are slang. Girls not only hurt themselves, but go to work to

defame the very English language and the people who speak English.

When a young woman, who makes much pretension to fine manners and an

elegant education, takes the steam-car for a rostrum, and exclaims

about her French teacher as "awfully funny but awfully horrid, don't

you know; awfully lovely sometimes, but awfully awful at others!" we

wonder why she gives so much attention to French when her English

vocabulary seems to have reduced itself to the scanty proportions of

one word. Oh, I know how pertinent certain kinds of slang are! I

acknowledge that a few peculiar expressions convey ideas more

emphatically than whole pages of classical English.

The dangers from the habitual use of slang cannot be too strongly

presented. Imagine a girl of the period versed in the loose expressions

of the day. She goes away; but, after an absence of five years in a

country where she hears little except in a foreign tongue, she returns,

and with her comes her slang. How common, how witless, her talk appears!

Her slang has long since gone out of fashion. The best of English never

changes its style.

Girls, especially very young girls, must have their secret signs, their

language of nods and becks and shrugs; but young ladies who have

outgrown "eni, meni, moni, mi; husca, lina, bona, stri," ought to

outgrow signs which are suggestive of coarse, rude acts, and which,

with the slang expressions that accompany them, have often originated

in some theatre of questionable character.

The responsibility rests with you, girls, to stop this increasing use

of slang, and of words of double meaning. I say you can prevent it

because you are so much regarded. Your influence is wide, wider than

you suppose. If you do not cease speaking slang, your younger sisters

will not, your friends and acquaintances may not. More than this: if

you use coarse words, or those which may be interpreted in various

ways, then coarse manners will soon follow coarse tones, and a general

swaggering and lawlessness. My dear girls, I am only prophesying what

will be if no prevention is employed. Surely you will give no cause

for censure, if you seriously think about this matter.

It is a part of youthful exuberance to exaggerate. Children always

want a thing as long as "from here to Jerusalem," and stretch their

tiny arms out till they nearly fall backwards, trying to make an inch

as long as a mile. But, _cave canem_! the fault of exaggerating

once powerful over you, not only the bounds of the English language

are leapt, but truth is unconsciously set at nought. We always allow

for the words of some persons, for with them a scratch is a wound;

a wind, a hurricane; one dollar, a thousand; and all they do in life,

a big, big bluster. The only way to bring back English to a state of

purity--for it has been outraged by slang, imitation, technical

expressions, a straining after long words, and a regular system of

exaggeration--is to speak simple words, using all necessary force and

emphasis in the voice instead of in the number of syllables, saying

what you mean by just the words that will convey the meaning. Of course

the dictionary must be frequently used. There is no help so sure as

that which it affords to one who would use language properly.

Do not be troubled if you hesitate in conversation, and cannot

immediately find the proper word. Search in your mind till you get

the expression, then next time it will come more rapidly. One of the

best ways to increase fluency of speech is to avoid repetition of words

as much as possible. Turn the name of an object or of an idea into

a phrase, or substitute a synonym, and in this way you add variety

and words to your vocabulary. Do not use foreign words when English

will do as well. There are times when it will not, though it is a very

copious language. Never think English inferior. Hear its music in

Tennyson and Longfellow, De Quincey and Ruskin. See its beauty in the

pages of Hawthorne and Irving. Do not use technical terms with those

unacquainted with science or art. It shows a lack of good sense.

I want once more to insist on the value of good conversation, more

particularly because of its suggestiveness. I believe there are few

things really great and good which have not this power of suggestion.

The picture is not wonderful that can be appreciated at a glance, the

book is not remarkable which will not bear a second reading, music

is not good unless it awakes harmonies, a thought is not valuable unless

it suggests another thought.

The graces of conversation none can wear as well as woman. They are

most becoming to you, my dear girls,--even brighter and richer and

dearer than any jewels with which you may adorn yourselves. They consist

mostly of pleasant, well-chosen words, sympathetic, hearty tones,

sprightliness, and certain winsome modulations of voice.

When every other accomplishment fails to entertain, there is always

left the resource of good talk, pleasing to old and young. We cannot

sit at Luther's table, and hear him utter life-giving words, "If a

man could make a single rose, we should give him an empire; yet roses,

and flowers no less beautiful, are scattered in profusion over the

world, and no one regards them." We cannot listen to Coleridge, "with

his head among the clouds." We, alas! cannot even catch the energetic

flash of Margaret Fuller's words. But every one of us can improve her

conversation by persevering effort in the ways indicated, and can listen

still to the best of talk.

Somewhere Emerson writes, "Wise, cultivated, genial conversation is

the last flower of civilization, and the best result which life has

to offer us,--a cup for the gods, which has no repentance."

II.

HOW TO GET ACQUAINTED WITH NATURE.

My dear girls, I want to talk to you to-day about one of your very

best friends,--one so altogether lovely, from first to last, that we

can never exhaust her attractions.

Nature is, indeed, among the most loving and constant friends a girl

can have, and not by any means the imaginary acquaintance so many

suppose she is. She lives and breathes, and has a form and spirit. Are

you looking about to see where she is? No need of that. Come right here,

and sit down beside me under this great pine-tree. How strong and

comfortable its back feels against yours! Do you see all those soft

green points looking down on you while the tasselled branches gently

sway? Just look at the deep blue patches of sky away up and up among

the green arches. How cool and smooth and restful! how unending the

color is in which the leaves lie! How hardy and brave the branches

look! See the lines of beauty in them,--long, aspiring, slightly curving

lines,--which meet and terminate in cathedral spires. What grace in

the motion of every spray of greenness! what a healing odor in the

breath of the tree! And, hark! a little breeze has touched it, and

tuned its language into a plaintive song,--a sound like the surf washing

upon a distant shore. Do you know why the pine is so sad a tree? Let

me tell you her story. No; she will sing it herself, if you will listen

to the nocturn: "Long, long ago I had my home on an island of the ocean,

and my branches swayed and sang to the waves that kissed my feet with

the fondness of a betrothed lover. The winds were envious of our sweet

union, and blew away from me the germs of life. My seeds sprang up

again, but on foreign soil; and the new trees, my offspring, are the

same in form and color, but their souls are all sad from my recounted

memories of departed joy." When the slightest breeze comes near, and

ventures to softly touch the branches, a sound like sobbing follows;

but when, with rougher grasp, the east wind approaches, a wailing like

the utterances of a storm-tossed sea is heard. Listen! do you not

hear it now? It is the imprisoned spirit of the pine, longing for the

waves, moaning out a vain desire for the embrace of the sea.

How am I sure the tree is alive and friendly? Doesn't it bow to you

when you pass, and curve and sweep before you? Doesn't it offer you

rest and refreshment in its shade? Doesn't it entertain you by showing

you beautiful pictures and forms, and doesn't it furnish you with music?

See what an instructor it is! Away up there among the branches are

lessons involving the very first principles of architecture, sculpture,

and painting,--signs that show the laws of harmony and hint at morality

itself. Its trunk and limbs look honest and courageous, firm and trusty,

while all its lofty, tapering height points Godward.

It is your confidant; and the more you tell it, the more you will find

to say. While it is very modest and retiring, requiring time to get

acquainted with you, still, the more it talks to you, the more you

will want to hear. The pine is your school-master, and you are the

royal pupil,--Roger Ascham and Queen Elizabeth. It is no longer an

ordinary tree, but something born with a spirit in it; and it has

birthdays. Thoreau, the man who loved Nature so much that the birds

and the fishes took care of him and were never afraid of their master,

used to visit certain trees on certain days in the year. The pine has

a birthday worth celebrating in December, the maple in October, and

the birch in May. You think this is all fancy, and believe persons

must be very imaginative to find such friends in Nature? Oh, no; along

with fancy Nature tucks very real things into our thoughts about her.

You only need an introduction to her, and you will see for yourselves.

The most practical among you will find that even fancy is a most useful

quality, because it leads men to think out great truths.

Some of the most remarkable ideas in literature, philosophy, science,

and, religion have come from just this snug little acquaintance with

Nature. Probably the most original poet in the last hundred years was

Wordsworth. However much he lacked in some respects, he has done most

towards shaping the minds of other poets, and towards advancing new

and beautiful theories. His honest ideas, his simple truths, were told

him by the field-flowers--the celandine and daisy and daffodil--as

well as by the common trees and the common sky. I suppose most of the

principles of natural philosophy, and of many of the sciences, must

have been derived from an acquaintance with Nature in her ordinary

aspects. Oh, do not think it necessary to behold Nature in her great

stretches of sublimity in order to appreciate her. You will come to

know her far more easily, and much more helpfully, in a little woodside

walk, or right here underneath these branches, than you will in Niagara

Falls, or in looking at her in the great ocean. She comes down more

to the level of your understanding here in this meadow. Comes down

to your comprehension? Yes; I mean that, and yet I would not for a

moment imply that in her most commonplace guise you can exhaust her

beauty. Do you know what Mr. Ruskin says about such an apparently

insignificant thing as a blade of grass? "Gather a single blade of

grass, and examine for a minute, quietly, its narrow, sword-shaped

strip of fluted green. Nothing it seems there, of notable goodness

or beauty. A very little strength and a very little tallness, and a

few delicate long lines meeting in a point.... And yet, think of it

well, and judge whether of all the gorgeous flowers that beam in summer

air, and of all strong and goodly trees, pleasant to the eyes and good

for food,--stately palm and pine, strong ash and oak, scented citron,

burdened vine,--there be any so deeply loved, by God so highly graced,

as that narrow point of feeble green."

But _how_ to get acquainted with Nature is the question. By

observation,--by simply opening your eyes and seeing. If no one yet

knows all about a blade of grass, surely no one has so far beheld all

the beauty there is in a single sun-rise. You cannot see every thing

at a glance. When you first let your eyes rest upon the horizon, you

may see only a piece of sky in the east: not very remarkable, you think,

except that here and there are things that look like streaks of red

and yellow. Later, you find something unobserved before,--clouds shaped

like islands and balanced in mid-air, or lying like rafts which float

along the edge of the sky. Then the color seems to deepen, and to spread

out in great bars of light which lift and remove the remnants of the

night. They are floating barges,--gondolas richly decked with crimson

and gold, and burning with jewels of light. A coolness seems to come

in the air, an exhilaration in your feeling. Energy, enterprise, are

inspired with the dawn. When the sun is really up in the heavens, you

feel an expansion of spirits, and great light is within you. You, too,

will make a path through the day, as the sun makes his path through

the heavens. By and by you will be able to say with the bardic

philosopher, "I see the spectacle of morning from the hill-top over

against my house from daybreak to sunrise, with emotions which an angel

might share ... I seem to partake its rapid transformations. The active

enchantment reaches my dust, and I dilate and conspire with the morning

wind ... Give me health and a day, and I will make the pomp of emperors

ridiculous." And, at length, you will rise above the earthly, and

exclaim with the psalmist, "Lift up your heads, O ye gates; and be ye

lift up, ye everlasting doors; and the King of glory shall come in."

Observe the humblest flower that grows, and first you may notice only

its color, or form, or fragrance. Look again, and some added beauty

appears. Observe more closely, handle it, and you are made a little

thoughtful, because, all unconsciously to yourself, it may be, the

flower is doing something to your mind and heart and soul. Perhaps

its velvety softness and its lowliness speak to you of humility and

gentleness; or perhaps its fragrance breathes sweetness into your life

and feeling,--only a little, to be sure, but that little means

something. The spirit of the flower speaks to your spirit; and you

wonder what relation it bears to you, and if you are not both connected

with the spirit of God.

There is something more than sentiment in attributing character to

flowers, something better than fancy in saying, "Pansies for thoughts."

Growing things all mean real things; so do the stones in the stone-wall,

and the gravel on the road, and the very breeze that blows in our

faces,--all and each have a significance which does not at once meet

the outward eye.

It would be very delightful, and certainly very useful, if, besides

this friendliness in Nature, you could learn some of the special values

of Nature, as shown by science. A botanist has fuller joy in flowers

and ferns and grasses than a mere observer of them, and a geologist

has more pleasure in rocks than he who remarks them for their beauty's

sake. Still, this friendship and this general observation had to come

before the scientific knowledge was possible. I have great sympathy

for those who, while ignorant of technicalities, love objects for just

simply the things themselves.

When you begin to get acquainted with the externals of Nature, then,

of course, you will ask how they are made; and the lessons of science

will attract you. Looking at the smoothness of the rounded stones,

you will be led to examine their ancient homes beneath the waves;

noticing the long straight lines on the rocks, you will wander back to

the period when ice covered the land, and the earth was wrapped in

chaotic gloom. Observe, only observe! and curiosity will press for you

the very secrets out of the woods, the streams, the skies. Look around

you! There is such an infinite number of objects to consider right about

your own porch-door,--the lichens on the door-stone, the apple-tree

shading the path, the striped pebble that you kick aside, the plant

pressing up between the boards, the dew shimmering on the weed.

Investigate all your surroundings, especially the small, neglected

places, and try to have an opinion about what you observe. A busy man, a

merchant, noticed, some time ago, a thistle growing by the wayside. He

was journeying in the steam-cars at the time; and, although the next

stopping-place was somewhat far, he walked back to find the strange

flower. The prize he gained was a rare plant, a beautiful thistle of

which he had only heard before.

Oh, Nature is so modest! But once set her talking, she will forget

your presence, and babble like the brook. How much she has told the

poets, and the men of science! How much she will tell you, too, if

you but heed her!

Ah, girls, what slight attention we have, in reality, shown to Nature!

We treat her more like a servant than a friend and companion. The desire

for excitement has turned our minds to vainer subjects. The struggles

which our elders have made for money and position have deprived them

of chances for regarding natural objects. However deplorable this may

be, it is a still more lamentable fact, that you, dear girls, give

so little heed to Nature,--you who have time and to spare. It lies

with you to cultivate this love for the natural world, that future

generations may be more mindful of it.

When we refuse the gladness that Nature offers us, we dismiss a large

share of the happiness God intended for us. I ought to be a little

more lenient in my criticism on the lack of appreciating Nature,

perhaps; for not a few of us may find lingering in our minds some

autumnal glory which lights up our memories with colors of crimson and

gold. We should remember, however, that not only the glow of autumn and

the flush of summer are beautiful, but that every season, every climate,

every aspect in the shifting panorama of Nature, has a beauty as real.

Our own region, be it arid with parching suns, or wet with frequent

rains; be it always winter there, or always summer, is full of beauty.

There is sunset on the desert, moonrise on mid-ocean, gorgeous coloring

and crowding life in the tropics, dazzling starlight over ice-bound

lands. Neither is one day so much better than another for beholding

Nature. Yesterday we let the mild sunshine redden the blood beneath the

skin; to-day we are drawn from our study of the perfect harmony of grays

in the clouds and trees to watch, within the house, the bright light

which gleams from the coals,--Nature brought up out of the earth.

Regard even one day of our worst weather, as we say,--worst for our

health or convenience we must always mean. Think of a bleak and sleety

March day. As the storm whirls against the house with strong blasts

of rain and snow, our excitement increases by watching the swaying

trees, and by listening to the shaking windows, while the lawless winds

howl and rage around the corner. When the winds settle from

boisterousness into low complaints, and now and then fall into quiet

utterances, musical murmurings, the rain pauses, the sky softens, and

our minds grow calm and gentle. But when, again, the clouds gather

darkness, and make strength for a new onslaught, we become sober with

fear and doubt. Tell me, if, as we view these changes, and hear these

stirring or weird sounds, we do not indeed behold battle scenes, and

listen to music from which even Wagner might have learned.

But the storm is the exceptional aspect, and we ought to care more

for ordinary views. Winter is common enough, but it has its perfections.

Its colors, though less gorgeous than those of autumn, are the most

restful and quiet in their tone and feeling. Those grays and browns,

huddling together in silent lines side by side, are full of peaceful

beauty as they rest upon the white snow or up against uncertain skies.

I like a gray atmosphere relieved by silver birches, just enough

sombreness set off by cheerfulness. It is wisdom and patience ornamented

with gray locks.

Spring, early spring, in New England, we call more disagreeable than

winter. Ah, but it is the budding time! When you meet spring, before

the trees come out in full dress, when all that fluttering, fluffy

greenness, and that crimson flowering etch, with innumerable branchlets,

the embroidery of Nature against the sky, you meet, even though the

east sea winds blow, a season incomparable.