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10 THE YOUNG SOUTHERNER Loneliness. 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 Southerner. 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. Dear Editor: 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 be then. 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, Mamie L. Dear Editor: 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. Your friend, Mountain Girl. Dear Editor: 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 and heard. 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 lost entirely. 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 not ripe. 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, Marlow Johns. 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 her son: “Sambo, you done gib me dat dollah and go get dat chicken in de natchral way.”—Philadelphia Ledger. “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 peared. 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.