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VOICES OF YOUTH
If I Were a Sunbeam.
If I were a sunebam
I know w’hat I would do —
I would seek white lilies
Roaming woodlands through;
I would steal among them,
Softest light I’d shed
Until every lily
Raiesd its drooping head.
If I were a sunbeam
I know where I would go—
Into lowly hovels
Dark with want and woe;
Till sad hearts looked upward
I would shine and shine;
Then they would think of Heaven
Their sweet home and mine.
Are you not a sunbeam, child?
Whose life is glad
With an inner brightness
Sunshine never had?
Oh! as God has blessed you
Scatter light Divine!
For there is no sunbeam
But must die or shine. —Author Unknown.
•5
iWith Our Correspondents.
The young people of our page will feel indebted
I am sure to Hattie D. for her pretty story telling
of “Good Times on Georgia Rocks.” I wish to com
mend her letter as a splendid suggestion for other
writers. Tell us of places you have visited, describe
scenes you have witnessed, and help us to enjoy
the good times that you have had. It will be a real
education to you to tell a natural story of people
you have known, places you have visited and occa
sions that you have enjoyed.
GOOD TIMES ON GEORGIA ROCKS.
Away down in middle Georgia, about fifteen miles
from the pretty little town of Greensboro, there
is a vast space of ro<!k, a hundred or more acres,
so flat that wagons and buggies drive over it; and
in the summer time picnics are held there, and
they dance upon the rock. Doubtless some of the
readers have heard of this rock, and maybe have
visited it. It is called Flat Rock. It is the custom
in that locality to have a picnic on Easter Monday;
and Flat Rock is the favorite picnic ground for all
the surrounding country; they come from far and
near to this famous spot, because there are always
plenty of good things to eat, music, gladness, and
a good time generally to be had. We made one trip
to this lovely spot. As it was fifteen miles to this
famous picnic ground, we had baskets all packed with
good things and ready to start at an early hour in
the morning. Then, with a merry party of young
people we traveled merrily along, over beautiful,
shady country roads. With songs and laughter the
time flew by and we soon drew up at our destination.
We had often heard of Flat Rock, but were very much
surprised to see such a vast expanse of solid rock;
expecting to see probably only an acre or two. Dotted
about over it were small patches of a brilliant red
moss, which looked like immense spots of blood to
our unitiated eye. We could not imagine what these
brilliant spots were until a closer investigation proved
them to a species of very beautiful moss. There
was one small pool of water on this rock, called
“Lovers’ Pool.” I believe the superstition about
it was that if you could go across with dry feet, you
could marry the one you loved. Another charm
about this place was a lovely spot called “Annie’s
Glen,” for here nature had done her best, and down,
down, as if it were trying to hide from the eye
of man, a lovely little stream wound peacefully along.
Those of us who were without a swain to help us
down, and up, this steep ascent, I am afraid did
not enjoy it so much, as it was rather a difficult
climb. But if you had an eye for the beautiful you
could but exclaim “How lovely!” We had to leave
this lovely spot long before we wanted to, and with
much laughter and many songs we again reached
our starting point, after the stars had begun to twin
kle, a very tired but happy crowd, resolved to go
again.
Stone Mountain.
I suppose most of you have seen Stone Mountain.
If not, it is well worth the trip. It is not at all
like Flat Rock, for, instead of being flat it is an
immense pile of rock, situated just sixteen miles from
Th? Golden Age for April 4, 1907.
our beautiful city of Atlanta. It is supposed to be
solid rock, and towers hundreds of feet in the air.
Long years ago a tower crowned its summit, but it
was blown away and has never been rebuilt. We
have on several occasions climbed to the top, and
though the way was steep and difficult to climb,
yet we felt well repaid for our trouble, for the view
from the summit is indeed grand and inspiring. One
side is perpendicular. This cliff side, I am told,
used to have an iron railing, guarding a very nar
row pathway, but, it too, has been torn away. Here
to one side is a pile of rock, forming a rude kind of
pulpit which is called “The Devils Pulpit.” Os late
years, however, this quiet spot has been desecrated
with the sound of pick and chisel, for workmen are
businly engaged converting the granite into build
ing material.
Shaking Rock.
Now just another beautiful spot, I presume, little
known. It is called Shaking Rock, it is in a quiet,
shady grove, an ideal picnic spot; indeed it has been
our pleasure to picnic there. It is near the historic
town of Lexington. There were many other rocks
of similar appearance scattered about the grove; but
this was a huge grey boulder, so perched upon an
other that the slightest touch or a light wind would
start it to shaking; hence its name of Shaking Rock.
I think this place also has been converted into a
stone quarry. These three lovely spots are endeared
to us by many pleasant hours spent in their vi
cinity. HATTIE D.
Atlanta, Ga.
A LETTER TO DAISY DEAN.
Dear “Brother Willie”: —After seeing Daisy’s “ask
ed for letter” in print I will come again. Really,
Daisy, I would like to know you personally. Don’t
you think you could come to see me some time?
I would try not to let you have as lonely a time as
you had in California, although I believe I am a
larger girl than you are. I live in the country one
and a half miles from town, but I enjoy country life
very much; but I think the finest time of all the year
is when we have meeting in August. Dear Brother
Willie you can’t imagine how much pleasure The
Golden Age brings to our home. The other night
I heard sister laughing “big” so I went into see what
was the matter and despite her “giggles,” she read
Daisy’s letter, and mamma had to come in to see
what was the matter with us. I must close for my
lettei’ is growing long. We can sign ourselves as
“Sister” can’t we? Your “sister,”
AUGUSTA CALLAWAY.
P. S. Daisy, don’t think we were making “fun”
of your letter for we were not. Sister was laughing
because you called me Augusta, and every one that
knows me calls me by my “nickname” (I won’t tell
you what is is, though) and I was laughing at her.
WOULD BE A WRITER—AND DON’T LIKE CIGAR
ETTES.
Dear Boys and Girls:
Maybe you will be glad to learn that I am really
getting something out of the Voices of Youth —some-
thing that does me good. I think it is just fine for
us to have a page all to ourselves where we can write
our first letters, make our mistakes and have them
corrected, and also be forgiven for them before we
get out into the great big world. Who knows but
that some of us who are lifting our voices here in
print for the first time, will be heard from after
awhile in papers and magazines where we may really
influence the world for good on great questions that
must be discussed and settled? The truth is, if
you won’t laugh at me (and I am sure you are too
kind to do that) I long some day to be a great writer.
I think that the gift of the orator is a great thing,
but the voice of the orator can reach so few people
compared with the pen of the writer. When the
voice of the speaker is stopped by death the words of
the writer may live on for centuries. Suppose we have
a discusion on this page as to which exerts the
greater influence for good—the speaker or the writ
er? I have already expressed myself, but I know
that there is much argument on the other side, and
I confess that I would love to be a great speaker
also, because I have heard some speeches that have
made me think things and feel things that will help
me to be a better and braver man. I meant to say
something before closing about the shameful habit of
smoking cigarettes. I think it is almost a disgrace
for a boy to be seen on the streets with a cigarette,
a cigar or a pipe in his mouth. I would like also
to hear what the boys and girls think about this.
I greatly enjoyed Hugh Nolen’s stirring temperance
letter and Daisy Dean’s travels in California. The
fact is, I enjoy everything published in Voices of
Youth. HENRY HORTON.
This letter from Henry Horton has a ring about it
that I am sure will do us all good. The Editor
will welcome a discussion on the relative influence
of writers and speakers. And we will all rejoice to
see an “Anti-Cigarette club or Anti-Smoking club”
formed among the boys of the Order of The Golden
Age.
HE LIKES FUNNY THINGS.
Dear Brother Willie:
I will never forget the day you visited our school
and I would like it very much if you would come
back again, because I can never get tired of lis
tening to you. I want you to write to me and tell
me many funny things and tell me the little speech
that your brother said to you when you lay in bed
so long and tell me the other pretty things you
know. Your little friend,
Meridian, Miss. LAMAR CALVERT.
A few weeks ago the Editor greatly enjoyed a visit
to the public schools of Meridian, Miss., where, in
company with the genial and scholarly superintend
ent, Prof. J. C. Fant, the different schools were visit
ed and short talks were made to hundreds of pupils
at each school. Os course we had to have some fun
so as to keep the boys and girls awake, and make
them ready to receive some plain trutths which I
was anxious to leave in every heart. One bright
little fellow Lamar Calvert, writes me a funny let
ter, seeming to have the idea that I could just write
him funny things all day long. I thank him for the
privilege, but I will have to wait until I return to
Meridian to tell all these funny things to the boys
and girls face to face. One request he makes, how
ever, I feel constrained to grant—and that is to give
the little speech made by my little brother-years
ago before God called him Home. I remember well
that one time while I was on bed, my little blued,
golden-haired brother, Glenn, came running to my
bedside, saying in childish delight: “Oh, Brother
Willie! I have found me the prettiest speech, let me
read it to you!” And then began to read the beau
tiful little poem “If I Were a Sunbeam” which is
published here. I can remember so well how Glenn
learned to recite this poem—how his bright eyes
sparkled and his face beamed with the sunshine of
gladness as, in modulated tone and with graceful
gestures, he rendered “If I were a Sunbeam.” I hope
that every boy and girl who reads this poem will
learn it and keep it in their minds and hearts, and
determine by God’s help to make their lives sunbeams
to mother and father and brothers and sisters at
home; to their teachers and playmates at school, and
to everybody everywhere whose lives they touch.
•5 *
One Talent.
A beautiful and unusual landscape meets the eye
from my window; for every tree and shrub and
blade of grass has an icy covering which gives
it a silvery whiteness almost dazzling in the sun
shine, and the thought occurs to me that* were
several writers to undertake to give a full and
-truthful description of the scene in their own words,
no two of their productions would be quite alike.
This is because each one will have put his own
thoughts into his work, thus revealing the gift of
individuality which the Author of our varied minds
has given.
This leads us all to the thought of our own
responsibility, in the gift of life, and that there will
be no excuse to offer because we can not do just
as some one else does, or even just as we want to
do, but rather that we should cultivate to the great
est possible degree our own peculiar gift with full
consecration to the Giver.
To every man God has given his work. In the
parable, the one-talented man was the one con
demned, not because he had but one talent, O,
no, since that was all that was given him, but be
cause of his failure to use and increase that which
he had. —Youth’s Instructor.
.1? M
Why?
Why do widows wear caps?
Because when the Romans were in England they
used to shave their heads as a sign of mourning, and
as a woman could not let herself be seen with a
bald head, she made herself a pretty cap. Though
the necessity for it has long since passed away, the
cap still remains.