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venture that there is not a Christian parent in this country that would rejoice to see his daughter enter the stage. If we feel this way about our daughters, what right have we, as Christian peo ple, to encourage the daughters of other fathers and mothers in the same damnable career? The Dance. We leave now the theatre and speak of the dance. There is only one distinct charge that I will pre sent against the dance. Its chief charm is licen tiousness. I know this seems extravagant to some people, that is, they pretend to think so, but it is extravagant only to the man who has had no ex perience; who does not believe in the testimony of others; or is so morally depraved that he can not appreciate danger. Let us see what we have in support of the charge. First, the institution of the round dance had its birth in a low and disreputable house in Paris. You know very well why it was inaugurated. You can see the evil purpose in the minds of those that started it, and from their standpoint it was a suc cess and has been ever since. There may be those who pass through the round dance without harm, just as it is possible to play with the germs of yellow fever and not be hurt, but sensible people will advise against the risk. Second, men do not dance with men, and women do not dance with women. This is a part of Satan’s plan, and it is for the carrying out of the original design. The round dance is no more attractive than the square dance unless men and women are paired together. Third, it is always most successful when conduct ed at a late hour in the night. The average dance passes on beyond the midnight hour. Hence, as under many other circumstances, men love dark ness rather than light because their deeds are evil. Fourth, the dress of the round dance in itself is enough to argue the impurity in it. Let any woman who is fond of the round dance give to the world one sensible answer for the form of her dress in the ball room, and I will take back everything I have to say about the dance. It can not be to show the dress off unless a pile of clothes lying on the floor would be the same thing, for the most con spicuous thing about the ball room dress is not that which gracefully adorns the figure, but that which sweeps the floor. The figure, as a matter of fact, is very little adorned. There is where the trouble lies. Fifth, the position of the dance comes in, in support of the charge of impurity. Why the po sition of the waltz? I defy anybody to explain away this fact. If it is wrong without music, it is wrong with it. Sixth, the drink at the dance. Everbody who is at all acquainted with ball rooms knows that it is accompanied by drink. Men and women drink and dance, and dance and drink. There is never in this community a great ball that there is not drunken ness among men and women. I am aware that these are awful charges, but I submit that there is not one of them that is unrea sonable. I ask, therefore, for a verdict by the chuches. What position ought the church to take with reference to this form of amusement? The Card Table. We now come to the card table. We have not time to say very much about it, but since it belongs in this trinity of popular social evils, we must say a word. The card table among certain elements of people —the high fliers in social life on the one hand, and the negro erap shooters on the other—is one of the most damnable institutions of the day. In the first place, it is a silly form of amusement. The card game was invented for the amusement of an old idiot king, and they have been amusing the idiots ever since, and in Atlanta there are a great many of them to amuse. Think of a lot of sensible wom en sitting down and wasting a whole afternoon out of every week shuffling cards! Again,they are linked with a bad institution. Cards are inseparable from gambling. A great gam- The Golden Age for September 6, 1906. bier has said that ninety per cent of all the money won in gambling, leaving out cotton futures, is won with cards. Another great gambler has said that the major ity of gamblers get their taste for it by playing cards with women in innocent sport. Now I submit that this is too awful to be charged up to women, and yet I believe they deserve it. If the w’omen of this country would stop this card playing business it would do more to check the rapid spread of gamb ling than anything else. The card playing of our day is largely carried on by women and almost in variably is associated with gambling. There is no need of questioning the fact that playing for prizes is gambling. Everybody knows that. For one to argue otherwise makes him silly and ridiculous. Again, no card player can maintain a spiritual life. I defy the world to produce one habitual card player, man or woman, who is noted for any spir ituality whatever. It can not be otherwise. The thing is linked up with Satan and tends to destroy humanity. What position ought the church to take with regard to card playing? Just the same as regard to these other evils. The man or the woman who persistently continues to be linked up with such institutions has no business in the church. “Oh,” but you say, “we can not see it that way!” Bring your theatre, ball room and card table to the Lord Jesus and ask him to enlighten you. At Ocean Grove, N. J., there used to be a build ing with a skylight so arranged as to take in the entire horizon and focus it upon a pool in the cen ter of the building. Everything that came within the horizon was reproduced in this pool. For ex ample: If a ship should come along, it was repro duced. If a bird should sail through the air, it was reproduced. Anything that came within the horizon of that place was made real in this pool. So the Christian ought to live beneath the sky light of the Spirit of Jesus Christ. Everything that comes to his mind and heart ought to be focused through his spirit, and then we shall see as he sees. Among Thinkers and Writers of Dixie. (Continued from page 3.) nents with his inimitable tales, and made him self immortal as a raconteur. In a paper such as this,it is- utterly impossible to make any analysis of his numerous works; but a brief pen-picture of old Uncle Remus will answer the present purpose; for he stands as the full frui tion of the author’s consummate skill. He is not a creature of an idle brain, but a throbbing, breath ing soul. Mr. Harris first met him back in his boy hood, out on the old plantation. Perhaps he went by another name in the hut on the Turner place; but his quaint personality has remained just the same in spite of the drifting of the years. In his younger days, he was known far and near as the principal figure of the quarters, the tallest, the boldest, the strongest, and the swiftest—the envy of the whole plantation; and even in the evening of his life, he still occupies a conspicuous place; for although many winters have wasted his strength and his eyes are waxing dim, yet he moves with the bounding step of the hoy, and prattles with the garrulous tongue of a girl. With the fire burning brightly on his humble hearth and the sweet potatoes roasting in the coals, he sits in his corner and tells his simple tales to the little white boy from the mansion of the master. The actors in all his adventures are the silent folk of the forest; and old Brer Rabbit is his hero in almost all of his stories. In spite of their absurd situa tions, their clash with reason, and their frequent contradictions, he tells them all with the faith of a child, and believes them as firmly as does the lit tle boy. To the minds of many, these meaningless tales are little more than the echoes of the nur sery; but a moment of reflection will convince the majority of fair-minded critics that the stories of Uncle Remus are simply the Iliad and the Nibe lungenlied of the great child race of the world. These unique sketches of Southern folk-lore first appeared in the pages of The Constitution, but were later gathered into a volume of their own, entitled Uncle Remus, his Songs and Sayings. This collec tion of stories had a marvelous sale throughout every quarter of the nation; and from the date of its initial edition, Mr. Harris has enjoyed a reputation second to no other writer in the South. In his volumes of a more conventional type, he has failed to elicit such general applause; yet even his pictures of Georgia life have met with a hearty welcome. Among his numerous books may be mentioned Uncle Remus, his Songs and Sayings; Nights with Uncle Remus; Mingo and Other Sketches; Free Joe and Other Sketches; On the Old Plantation; Little Mr. Thimble Finger; and Stories of Home Folks in Peace and War. These are only a part of the titles; but perhaps they embrace the best; still nothing unworthy of a literateur has come from his fascinating pen. For four or five years, Mr. Harris has devoted the whole of his time to literature, having severed his connection with the Constitution in 1901-2. He shrinks from publicity as much as possible, and pass es his sweetest hours in the heart of his family in his beautiful home in the western suburbs of Atlanta. One of his favorite occupations is caring for the culture of his roses; and a glance at his garden is sufficient to show that he never grows too busy to look to their needs. His home is simple yet ele gant, the expression of the soul of the man; and his doors are wide open to the favored few; but the curious lion-hunters and inquisitive interviewers are seldom received with a hospitable smile; for the modest celebrity has no desire to pose as a pop ular idol. His pen is still busy; for his copy is in demand among all literary journals; and almost any publish ing house in the Nation would gladly welcome a story from his quill. Perhaps he has written his masterpiece; perhaps it may yet appear; whatever the case may be, however, he will always tower among the authors of the South; and his delight ful legends will remain forever in the literary treas ure-house of his land. Reminded Me of You. By LILIAN BELL. The silver moon was slipping Adown the distant West, The Eastern sky was glowing With sunbeams in her crest; The town was still asleeping Though day was drawing nigh As swiftly from the village We sped—my horse and I. A nexy light brightly burning Down in this heart of mine Gave to an old, oldpicture,. A beauteous tint divine. To the hills mine eyes were lifted; I heard them calling me— “o come! for in the stillness Sweet peace awaiteth thee.” And there upon the hilltops Those hills, rock-ribbed and grand, I saw a glorious country. The heaven’s border-land. A snowy mist all mellowed By the sun’s awakening ray, Hung like a halo over The portals of the day. The zephyrs in the treetops, The sunlight on the hill, The bird notes from the woodland— The murmuring of the rill, The flowers hy the wayside— Their faces bright with dew, In language sweet and olden Reminded me of you ! “Failure is the final test of persistence and of an iron will; it either crushes a life, or solidi fies it.” 5