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A SAFE INVESTMENT
Sy Sarah A. Heinzerling.
HE proprietor of a large milling plant
stood in his office doorway looking to
ward the big brick mill building on
the opposite corner. It was a busy
place. He could hear the low rumble
of machinery, that kept steadily turn
ing—turning—and see dusty-backed
men scurrying hither and thither in
the performance of various duties.
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Wagons and drays were coming and going, some
bringing grain to be ground, others taking away
great loads of the finished product. On the siding
a car was being loaded for shipment with hundreds
of barrels of the firm’s choicest flour. It was this
particular part of the business that was interest
ing the proprietor just then, and to such an extent
that he failed to notice a group of school children
loitering near, until a poorly-clad little girl walked
up and addressed him: “Mr. Wright, you never
do get hungry, do you?” she said, looking timidly
into his face.
Now, it was a common thing for children to stop
there, waiting for trains to pass, and they often
showed a lively curiosity in milling matters in
general, but this was the first time one had asked
such a personal question, and it surprised him a lit
tle. However, he answered promptly and pleas
antly :
“Oh, yes —every day!”
“Sure enough?” she exclaimed, look and tone
betraying astonishment and unbelief.
“Certainly—every day!” he repeated emphat
ically. Then, seeing that she was still unconvinced,
he added, with a kindly smile: “'I am just like
other people you know —I get hungry every day,
between meals; then go to the table at meal time,
and eat until I get enough. Isn’t that the way
you do?”
“Not exactly,” was the artless answer. “I get
hungry an’ I go to the table, but,” with a wistful
sigh, “I mostly have to quit eatin’ before I get
enough.”
“Too bad,” he said, sympathetically; “mamma
makes you stop, I guess?”
“No, she don’t,” indignantly. “It just isn’t
there to eat.” Then in shame-faced apology,
“you see, we haven’t got lots of nice flour like
you have to make plenty of good bread.”
“Why, that is worse still,” he remarked, ob
serving her keenly; “but your father can buy
some, can’t he?”
“Father’s dead,” was the sad answer, adding
quickly and proudly: “He did use to buy great
big sacks full, like them over yonder,” pointing
to the half-filled ear, “but mother can’t. She
has to get little teensy ones, that don’t last no
time, no matter how we skimp. “I guess,” with
an uneasy laugh, “if we were to eat as much as
we wanted once or twice, we’d have to do without
a while to make up for it!”
The mill man’s nonchalant attitude changed to
alert attention, his voice lost its tone of amused
toleration, and expressed the keenest interest as
he asked, pointedly:
“Have you ever done without a meal?”
“Not quite,” was the hesitating admission;
“but we’ve come mighty nigh to it lots of times
since father died. Mother says it’s all she can do,
now, to get victuals enough to keep body an’ soul
together.”
“I shouldn’t .wonder if it was,” he said, more
to himself than to her. He understood, at last,
why the child, in her poverty, had thought it
strange that the owner of so much bread stuff
should ever get hungry. “Whose little girl are
you, anyway?” he asked, as she turned to go.
“Mrs. Brown’s,” she replied, and ran after her
companions, who were calling impatiently.
For a moment he stood looking intently toward
the mill, but between him and the great building
flashed the vision of a scantily furnished table,
around which little fatherless children were seated,
and the noise he heard was not the clatter of ma
chinery, but the hum of hungry voices, eagerly
The Golden Age for April 11, 1907.
begging for more. Then he turned abruptly and
entered the office.
The next delivery wagon that left the mill car
ried a big, bulging sack of flour, the firm’s best
brand, marked: “Mrs. Brown; paid.” There was
no hint of the donor, but when the child mentioned
the conversation with the mill-owner, the widow
knew who had remembered them so kindly.
The following morning, while he was holding a
conference with the head miller, a flushed and ra
diantly happy little girl entered the office and ex
claimed, fervently:
“Thank you, sir—thank you so much!”
“For what?” he asked, evasively, pretending
not to understand.
“For the sack of flour,” she answered, with
confident tone and manner. “Mother was so sur
prised an’ so glad when it come, that she just set
down an’ cried. We were plum out, an’ she didn’t
have a cent to buy more with!”
“Why, it got there in the very nick of time,”
he remarked in ia queer voice. “Did you have
some of it for supper?”
“Yes, sir; mother cooked great stacks of nice,
puffy biscuits, an’ killed a chicken she meant io
sell, an’ fried it, an’ made a big bowl of gravy!
You’d ought to have seen us eat!”
“Did you eat enough?” he asked, with a mean
ing smile.
“Every bite I could hold!” was the gleeful re
ply.
Then they laughed in concert, she, because she
was so happy she couldn’t help it; he, because he
had made her so.
As she ran out, the head miller quoted, softly:
“ ‘He that givetli to the poor lendeth to the
Lord.’ ”
“You’ve made what I call a mighty safe in
vestment, sir; a mighty safe investment.”
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The Lady Mysterious.
By Margaret A. Richards.
When I was a wee, wee girl, my dear,
The lady framed in the picture there,
(The lady, see! with the soft brown eyes,
And parted hair that so smoothly lies
On her forehead low) appeared to me
<A creature of wonderful mystery.
When I had been naughty, she knew it well.
As I by her beautiful eyes could tell,
They followed me so reproachingly,
As though in her heart she said: “Ah, me!
I wish my little girlie would not be bad—
It makes me feel so sorry and sad!”
And sometimes from her I hid, my dear —
For her searching look made me feel queer,
And if, grown curious, I would stir
From my hiding place to peep at her,
No matter how careful I might be,
I’d always find her watching for me.
I thought that others might come and go,
And the pictured lady would never know;
But once a little girl, visiting me,
Whispered: “That lady up there, just, see!
Watches and watches each thing that I do —
I wish she would stop it awhile, and watch you!”
I paused in my play, in groat surprise,
Declaring at once that the lady’s eyes
Were fixed on me, and Annabelle knew
She had spoken a thing that was not true,
For how could the lady, I asked her, see
Her at the moment that she saw me?
And we quarreled a little before we learned,
It seemed the beautiful lady turned
Her eyes to follow the eyes of all
Who looked on her in her frame on the wall;
But I know not if, as was true of me,
She seemed to all others a mystery!
Among the Workers.
Dr. J. T. Wardlaw, pastor of the First Metho
dist church, Americus, Ga., is assisting Rev. 0. B.
Chester in a great meeting at Dawson.
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Capt. J. D. Taylor, the “sailor evangelist,” is
helping Dr. Sam J. Parrish in meetings at Glenn
Street Baptist church, Atlanta.
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Rev. “Bud” Roberson, of Texas, has just closed
a meeting of great power at the Methodist church
at Moultrie, Ga. There were twenty-five accessions
to the church, and three young ladies volunteered to
carry the light to the foreign field.
“It would be a great thing for some people to
speak with other tongues. That would be a great
relief to some churches —for the old tongues have
given lots of trouble.” —Gypsy Smith.
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Rev. W. L. Walker, Superintendent of the Tab
ernacle Bible (School, Atlanta, is engaged in a
meeting with Pastor Ross More, Pine Bluff, Ark.
Mr. Rad Bell, a gifted and consecrated young man,
who has given himself to the Gospel, will conduct
the music. The labors of this “combination’’
have been greatly blessed in some wonderful meet
ings.
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“Sometimes we put a man in a high office in
the church because he lives in a big house —because
it. will give social prestige in the community.”—
Gypsy Smith.
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The annual conference of the Sunday 'School In
stitute of the Episcopal church in Atlanta, began
Monday at All Saints church.
The feature of the conference will be an address
by Dr. A. A. Butler, a recognized authority on
Sunday school work and an interesting speaker.
Dr. But! er will be in Atlanta ten days, during
which time ho will lecture to parents, children and
teachers on different subjects relating to Sunday
school work.
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The annual conference of the Woman’s Home
Mission Society of the North Georgia Conference
of the Southern Methodist church, convened with
the First church at Griffin, Ga., with Mrs. W B.
Higginbotham, of Atlanta, presiding.
The other officers of the society are: First
Vice-presidenit, Mrs. George Muse, Atlanta; Sec
ond Vice-president, Mrs. Sam P. Jones, Carters
ville; Third Vice-president, Mrs. L. C. Baldwin,
Marietta; Corresponding Secretary, Mrs. L. S. Ar
rington, Augusta; Treasurer, Mrs. Rufus Brown,
Augusta; Superintendent Literature and Press,
Mrs. AV. F. Tenary, Marietta; Superinten
dent of Supplies, Mrs. A. B. Cunyus, Cartersville;
Editor, Mrs. R. T. Connally, Atlanta.
“From your icily isolated intellectual pedestal
you look down on certain consecrated people and
say: ‘Good people, but eccentric.’ Ah, brother,
sister, if the Spirit of God had complete control o-f
you, you would be eccentric, too.” —Gypsy Smith.
Rev. Robert L. Motley, of Atlanta, closed, last
week a splendid meeting at Rodman, Fla. During
these meetings Mr. H. S. Cummings, the great
hearted Christian president of the Rodman Lum
ber Company, shut down the mill every day so
his employes, both white and colored, could at
tend the services.
Rev. J. D. Winchester, of Lindale, Ga., is as
sisting Pastor Motley in a meeting at the Central
Baptist church, Atlanta. This congregation wor
ships in the beautiful brick temple formerly used
by Ihe Jewish people as a synagogue. Mr. Win
chester did a great work in Atlanta as pastor of
the Third Baptist church before Dr. L. G. Brough
ton was called as pastor. Rev. A. A. Williamson,
the gifted “Scotch singer,” is conducting the
music.
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