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THE YOUNG SOUTHERNER
Deep in the heart of a forest dim
A violet grows on the brooklet’s rim
iWhere the waters sleep
And the sun rays peep,
But never a sound of voice is heard
Save that of the wind or woodland bird.
Far to the North, on the barren beach,
Which only the lapping waves can reach,
Lies a broken oar,
To the lonely shore,
Comes never a barque with gleaming sail
Bravely spread to the shrieking gale.
More desolate far than bloom or oar,
Is one who finds not an open door
In the city wide,
With its ceaseless tide
Os work and woe, and of mirth and songs,
As he wends his way through surging throngs.
—L. T. H.
I wish to have a confidential talk with the young
readers of this page this week—a real “heart to
heart” talk. lam writing this letter to you, young
friends, and I request each one of you who reads it
to write me a letter. Won’t you do it?
Remember, I don’t mean some other boy or girl—.
somebody that you may think can write better than
you can; no, I mean you who are this moment read
ing this letter. Now, I will tell you what I want you
to write in your letter to me. I want you to tell me
just what you would like best to see in the Young
I wish to make this page pleasing to you, and in
order to do that I must know what you like to read.
Now, won’t each one of you get a pen or pencil and
a sheet of paper, sit right down and tell me in your
own words just what you wish to read about? Do
y®u want more letters from the young people? If
so, what do you want them to write about? Do
you want them to tell what they are trying to do?
Every boy and girl ought to try to do some good
in the world, don’t you think so? Do you want to
hear of the deeds of great and good men and wo
men; do you want poetry, and stories about birds,
insects and animals? Do you want to read about
the progress the world is making in science; about
new discoveries and industries; about travels in
foreign countries and the natural curiosities to be
found in our own country? Os course, different
persons have different tastes; we do not all like the
same things; that is why I want each one of you to
tell me what you like.
While we don’t all like the same things, we will
agree that we wish to do some good in the world.
None of us would like to live our whole life and
feel that we had never done any good to anybody.
How would you like to form yourselves into a
“band,” or “league,” to co-operate with one an
other in doing good and getting good? You know
we ought to get all the real good out of life that we
can for ourselves as well as do good to others. In
union there is strength, and there is also pleasure
in sociability and co-operation. But I don’t mean
to talk to you now about the league or order that I
have been thinking about and planning for you; I
will write to you another time about that. In this
letter I want simply to ask you to write and tell
me what interests you most, and what you want
written about on our page. Will you do it ?
—L. T. 11.
I wonder if any of your readers have been to
Wrightsville Beach. I have been here about a
week, and I have enjoyed it very much. This is the
first time I have ever been to the seashore. I love
to watch the great waves as they come rolling and
Conducted by Lo’uise Threete Hodges.
tumbling on to the beach. I was afraid at first to
go in the surf, but now I like it very much. We
go in late in the afternoons. I started to go in
one morning, but the tide was going out, and the
undertow was strong, and mother thought it would
be dangerous, so I did not go. But the sea was beau
tiful that morning. The sun had just risen and
the water looked like snow. It looks so different
at different times. I think there is nothing so
grand as the ocean. (Sometimes when I sit and watch
it I think that if ever I could write poetry it would
There are a good many people here and they all
seem to enjoy themselves.
We walk on the beach every evening. The sand
is very thick and deep and hard to walk in ex
cept when it is damp.
There is a pretty little bay right back of the
hotel and cottages and people fish a good deal there.
We have been over to Wilmington several times
just for the ride.
I shall be sorry when the time comes for us to
leave here. Your friend,
I am visiting my grandmother up here among the
mountains and I thought perhaps you might like
to have a letter from a mountain girl.
My grandmother’s home is a beautiful place.
There is a broad veranda in front and on two sides,
where we sit in the afternoons, and there is a large
yard with many shade trees. There is a fine swing
fastended to a large limb of a tall oak tree, and we,
my two brothers and myself, have a fine time
swinging. There is a row of beautiful cedars ex
tending across the front of the yard and there is
a hammock fastened between two of them. I like
to lie there and read when I get tired from swing
ing and running about the barn-yard finding the
chickens and ducks.
A pretty little branch runs across one corner of
the horse “lot” where the horses and mules go
to drink. My brothers often ride the horses down
to the branch from the stables, and I would like to
do it, too, but have been afraid to try.
My uncle says there is a large pond about two
miles away, and we are all going there in a few
days to spend the day and fish. Some of grand
mother’s neighbors are going with us. We are
going in a large wagon and take our dinners.
There is a mocking-bird that sings ?n a tree near
the house almost every night. I think he must sing
all night, because every time I wake I hear him.
His song is very sweet.
I know my letter is long enough, so I will close.
My friend, Charlie, and I took a long walk in
the country the other day, and I thought I would
write and tell you of some of the things we saw
After we got a little way in the woods, we found
a path running along by the side of a small stream,
and we concluded we would follow it and see where
it would lead us. We had our guns along, but we
did not see anything worth shooting except a big
water moccasin lying on the bank of the branch,
and he slipped into the water before we could shoot.
We did not find out what had made the path.
It didn’t seem to lead anywhere, but after winding
along with the stream for about a quarter of a
mile it grew less and less plain, and at last was
We heard what sounded like hundreds of birds,
but we could not see very many. They were hidden
by the leaves of the trees.
We were in hopes that we would find some owls,
The Golden Age for July 5, 1906.
as the woods in some places were thick and dark,
but we did not see any. I suppose if there were any
they were crouching so close to the body and limbs
of the trees, and were so near their color that we
could not see them.
We found a lot of fine, large bulrushes in a marshy
place at the edge of an old field, and we gathered
a good many to take home to my cousin’s sister,
who likes such things. As we crossed the old field
we found a great many blackberries, but they were
While we were sitting down resting and eating
our lunch, we heard a low roar, and we both started
to jump up and run, as it seemed rather scary to
hear it away out in the still, dark woods by our
selves. But we stopped and listended, and directly
we heard it again; then we both laughed, for it was
only distant thunder. Yours truly,
A philanthropic person heard of a negro family
that was reported in destitute circumstances and,
calling at their home, he found the report true. The
family consisted of a mother, a son nearing man
hood’s estate, and two young children. The benev
olent old gentlemen, after hearing the mother’s
story, gave her oldest son $1 to get a chicken for
the Thanksgiving dinner, and took his departure.
No sooner was he gone than the negress said to
“Sambo, you done gib me dat dollah and go get
dat chicken in de natchral way.”—Philadelphia
“Why do bears sleep through the winter?” asked
the boy who is studying natural history.
“Because,” ansewered his father, “the President
does not go hunting then. They’ve got to sleep
sometime. ’ ’ —Washington Times.
Little David had always been regarded by his
father and mother as being particularly smart and
clever for a child of tender years. One day while
he was playing in front of his home a rough-looking
tramp appeared, and asked David very sharply
where his father kept his money. He replied that
it was all in his vest in the kitchen.
A few minutes later the tramp came through the
doorway in a hurry, very much battered up and
looking sad, muttering:
“Smart kid, that. Never said a word about his
old man being in the vest.”—Philadelphia Ledger.
The back yard had taken on a highly military
aspect. There were soldiers with broomsticks, an
officer with a wooden sword, and a “band” with a
gaily painted drum, which he was beating furiously.
Only little Robbie sat forlorn on the steps and
looked on. A treacherous bit of glass had disabled
his foot and he could not keep up with the army.
“I can’t do nothin’ ” he said, disconsolately.
“Yes, you can,” answered Captain Fred; “you
can hurrah when the rest go by.”
So the little fellow kept his post, watching
through all the marching and counter-marching,
often left quite alone while the troop traveled in
another direction, but he never failed to swing his
small cap and raise his shrill cheer when they ap
Robbie was the real hero. It is not easy to hur
rah for those who can go ahead where we must
stop; to forget our own disappointment and cheer
for those who are doing what we would like to do
and yet cannot do; to rejoice in the success of those
who have the place which we wanted to fill. It
takes a great heart to stand aside and “pfieer when
the rest go by.’’—Lutheran World.