WONDER how many girls tell their mothers everything? Not those "young ladies" who, going to and from school, smile, bow, and exchange notes and cartes de visite with young men, who are perfect strangers to them. I grant this may all be done thoughtlessly and innocently, for "fun," and without any wrong intention; but surely—surely—such young girls should be told that not in this spirit will it be received; and that to hold themselves in so cheap estimation, is certainly to invite insult, how disguised soever it may be in the form of compliment and flattery. Imagine a knot of young men making fun of you and your "picture;" speaking of you in a way that would make your cheeks burn with shame, could you hear it. All this, most credulous and romantic young ladies, they will do, although they gaze at your fresh young face admiringly, and send or give you charming verses and bouquets. No matter what "other girls do;" don't you do it. No matter how "ridiculous" it is that you have "never had an offer, although you were fifteen last spring;" there is time enough, and to spare, yet. Girls who, falling in love, insist on getting married when they are babies, will find that studying after marriage is tedious work. A premature, faded, vacant old age!—you surely cannot desire that. When is your mind to be informed, or to grow, if you place it in a hot-house, that only the flower of Love be forced into early bloom, to the dwarfing of every other faculty? And even should such a foolish school flirtation end in early marriage, how long, think you, before your husband would weary of a wife who only knew enough to talk about dress or dancing? How painful for you to be silent, through ignorance, should you chance to have intelligent guests at your house. How painful, when your only charm, youth and its prettiness, has faded, to find your husband gradually losing sight of you, as his mind expanded, and yours grew still narrower, with the inevitable cares, that only the brain of a sensible woman can keep from overwhelming her. How painful, as time passes on, and your children grow up about you, to hear them talk intelligently on subjects of which you scarcely know the names.

And this, remember, is taking the most favorable view of the result of school-girl flirtations. They may end far more disastrously, as many a foolish, wretched young girl could tell you.

But let us not talk of this. Your yearning for some one to love you, and you only, is natural and right; it is a great need of every woman's heart. But there is a time for everything; and it is wisdom before seeking this to wait. Your choice at fifteen would be very different from your choice at twenty. A man who would quite suit you then, would only disgust and weary you when you grew older. Till school-days are over, therefore, you can well afford to let love rest. Don't let the bloom and freshness of your heart be brushed off in silly flirtations. Study all you can and keep your health. Render yourself truly intelligent. And, above all, tell your mother everything. "Fun" in your dictionary would sometimes be indiscretion in hers. It will do you no harm to look and see. Never be ashamed to tell her, who should be your best friend and confidant, all you think and feel. She was once a girl herself; she had her dreams, and can understand it. Not having been always as wise as she is now, she can spare you many a pang of humiliation and regret if you will profit by her advice.

It is very sad that so many young girls will tell every person before "mother," that which is most important she should know. It is very sad that indifferent persons should know more about her own fair young daughter than she herself. Don't you think so? You find it quite easy to tell your mother that you want a new dress, or hat, or shawl; but you would be quite ashamed to say—Mother, I wish I had a lover. Why not? It is nothing at all to be ashamed of. It is a perfectly natural wish; and your mother was given you to tell you just that, and a great many other things, which would convince you, if you would listen to her, that it was best for you not to hurry into life's cares and responsibilities till your soul and body were fitted to carry you patiently, and hopefully through them.

Another thing I want to speak to you about: It is very common, at the present day, for young ladies to accept presents from gentlemen not related to them, or likely to become so—in fact, mere acquaintances. It was not so in my day; and with no partiality for old customs, merely because they are old customs, I confess an admiration for that feminine delicacy which shrinks from accepting favors from chance acquaintances of the day or hour. That all young men have not the true feelings of gentlemen, our young ladies need not be told; nor, that those most lavish with their presents, are often as little able to afford it, as they are able to refrain from boasting that these presents have been accepted when among their young male companions. The cheek of many an innocent but unguarded young girl, would crimson with mortification could she hear the remarks often made on this subject among young men. Don't do it, girls; don't accept any presents from a gentleman unless he is an accepted suitor, a relative, or some old, well-known friend of the family, who has proved his claim to be good for such a proof of your faith in him. This may be "old-fashioned" advice, and yet—you may live to thank me for it.

There is one point, my dears, upon which I pine for information. Many an anxious hour have I pondered on it. I never studied medicine, else I might not now be in the dark. I find no precedent for it in young people of past ages. It was not so with me, or any of my young female companions, most of whom, by the way, were boys. I cannot conjecture what sort of parents, the curiously-constituted young person to whom I refer, must have had. What time she cut her first tooth, or whether she cut it at all. Not to harass you with farther conjecture, I will come at once to the point. I allude to "the fair young creature of some seventeen summers," of whom we so often read. In mercy tell me,—does she—like the bear—suck her claws in some dark retreat in winter; or, having "no winter in her year," is her lamp of life suddenly and mercilessly blown out, not to be rekindled till it comes time for another of her "summers." I beg the philanthropist—I entreat the humanitarian, to make some inquiry into the circumstances of this abridged young creature, so long defrauded by unprincipled story and novel writers, of her inalienable woman's rights to winter in our midst.

Do you ever go home pondering over chance conversation heard in the street? "Don't you wish something would happen?" I heard a young girl say, yawning to her companion, as I passed her. My dear, thought I, rather bless Providence when nothing happens. However, she had many years yet to see, before she could take that adult view of things; the bread and butter period was beginning to get insipid, that was all; that passed, she fancied all would be blue sky and roses beyond. What "happens" to one's neighbor is too apt to be no concern of ours, 'tis true; but one must walk with closed eyes through the streets of a great city not to see constant "happenings." Yonder poor woman, followed by a shouting crew of boys, and struggling in the grasp of a policeman, her lips white with fear, what can have happened to her? And so surely as that knot of crape flutters from yonder door, there has "happened" in, over that threshold, a strange, unbidden guest, who would take no denial. And there is a true woman, her eyes bent earthward with unmerited shame, guiding home the staggering steps of him on whom she should have leaned. And farther on, a house-painter sits swinging aloft, brush in hand, humming daily at his work; a treacherous step, and he lies a mangled heap upon the pavement. Ah, who has the courage to tell the busy little wife at home what has "happened" to him? And yonder is a tearful mother kissing her soldier lad; you and she both know what has and may "happen" there, and as you look, your heart joins hers in that sorrowful blessing. And at yonder pier they are busy over a "body." That is all they know of him whose blue lips keep their own secret well. And peering through the bars of that locked cart, jolting over the stones, are eyes that looked innocently into the faces of fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters, before this "happened." And so, thinking of all these things as I listened to that young girl, I said, Blessed is that day, when nothing "happens."

Often I get letters from young girls who are perfect strangers to me. The other day, one wrote me saying, "Fanny, suppose you give us a chapter on working all one's life, just for the sake of working; working all the time, just to keep soul and body together; without one friend; one sympathizing word;—honest hard work, I mean, and no thanks." This was my reply to her: perhaps some of you may feel like asking the same question, so you can consider it written also to you.

Well, my dear child, there are thousands who are compelled to do this, as there are thousands more who will do it, in time to come. This view of the case may not make you more contented with your lot, but I think our sufferings are sometimes intensified by imagining that nobody in the world ever had to endure the peculiar hardships which afflict our individual selves. You must remember that to this initiatory school of self-conquest the world owes many of its best and most gifted children. To learn to wait, to be willing to endure, is indeed the hardest of all earthly lessons. To wait athirst for sympathy; to wait for the tardy lifting of the iron hand of toil, which seems crushing out everything but the grinding care for daily bread is hard. I say seems crushing, for often it is only seeming. The seed that seems buried is only for a time hidden; some day when we least expect it, it gives to our gladdened sight verdure, blossom and fruitage. Persistent discontent is the rust of the soul. They have half won the battle who can work while they wait. Having measured one's capacities; having satisfied oneself that at present nothing better can be achieved; it is wise to do cheerfully with our might what our hands find to do, though with listening ear for the day of future deliverance. And it will surely come to such, though not, perhaps, just in the manner, or at the moment, their shortsightedness had marked out. A bird that ceaselessly beats its delicate wings against the bars of its cage must soon lie helpless. Better to nibble and sing, keeping a bright eye for a chance opening of the door out into the green fields and blue sky beyond. But this achieved, remember that the sky will not always be blue, nor the wind gentle; then, when the storm comes, comes again a struggle to get above the clouds, into another atmosphere.

Like the child who essays to walk—many a fall, many a bump, many a disappointment in grasping far-off objects that seemed near, or finding their shining but dimness when gained, must be ours; till, like it, we come, gladly, at last, weary with effort, to rest peacefully on the bosom of Love. So—when to Him who appointeth our lot, we can say trustingly, "Do what seemeth good in Thy sight;"—so, when the mad beating of our wings against the bars of a present necessity shall cease, and the lesson of self-conquest shall be achieved, then—is freedom and victory in sight!