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THE HOUSEHOLD
All communications for this department should be
addressed to Miss Ada Louise Bryan, Clarkston, Ga.
* i
A SUNNY LAND. /
Give me a land —a sunny land, g ’
Where blue lakes mock the sky,
Where Nature to the busy hands 4
Pours out her rich supply. 4
Give me a land —a sunny land,
Where hearts beat strong and true, •£
Where fair brows are by zephyrs fanned y i
And eyes are clear as dew. ;
Give me a land —a sunny land,
Where plains are rich and green,
Whose snow-crowned mountains proudly stand
With smiling vales between.
Heaven bless the South —our sunny land,
May her fair gifts increase; i
May she be showered by Plenty’s hand,
And crowned by Love and Peace.
Ivy, Ala. B. P. IVY.
It
CHAT.
Trueheart, here’s a cordial handshake. I knew
and admired you in the Sunny South Household,
Where you had been, however, a lost pleiad for some
time. Thank you for brightening us with a little
fun. I am truly glad to welcome Alwyn—also one of
the favorites of the S. S. H. Yes, it does seem as
though it were unfashionable in these latter days,
for married persons to love each other devotedly,
but I hope that our Southern people will never be
up to date in this respect. Beautiful to me is the
mutual love of two who were wedded in youth, and also
have kept warm hold of each other’s hand, as they
traveled life’s path of thorns and flowers. Old Wo
man, who wrote such quaint stories for the Sunny
South, is with us today and tells in her own inimita
ble way the story of the “Magic Fiddle.” I have
fallen heir to another good story of her’s —“How I
Came to Marry.” I hope we shall hear from her often.
Brown Eyed School Ma’am, glad to renew your ac
quaintance. Give us some of your methods of train
ing those exuberant boys and girls of the western
wilds —the great West that is giving us such splen
did examples of young energy and pluck, and the
victories these achieve. Dear Annie Peavey, I sin
cerely hope that in this new “Golden Home,” which
this paper has thrown open for the sorrowing ones
who were dispossessed of an abiding place by the
loss of the Sunny South, you will find comfort and
compensation. Yes, a good many of your old friends
are here, and I hope to welcome many more. I can
well understand how you prize the friends you have
made and whose devotion you have proved. Shakes
peare tells us of such tried friends, “Grapple them to
your heart with hooks of steel.” I trust, dear Annie,
that you will give the new thought methods of deal
ing with disease, a trial at least. I have heard per
sons tell of being helped by these methods in a re
markable degree, though I know nothing about them
personally. Ancient Relic, I should say the “full egg
basket” was the great desideratum in poultry rais
ing. This year, I have seen an unusual thing—chick
ens raised in a little vegetable garden—right in the
midst of beans, peas, lettuce, beets, potatoes, cu
cumbers, cantaloupes, etc. It was the queer idea of
M. E. 8., the former editor of the Sunny South
House hold, and though I shook my head over it at
first, it has really succeeded beautifully. Vegeta
bles and chickens have flourished right along to
gether. The other day when there was company,
and half a dozen different vegetables graced the ta
ble, M. E. B. said to a friend from the city, “Let me
help ou to the finest vegetable that has grown in
my garden,” and she helped her guest from a dish
of fried chicken. You will be sure to enjoy Arthur
Goodenough’s fine poem. His beauty of thought well
matches .the grace of his expression. B. P. Ivy’s
tribute to his native Southern land is as eloquent
as it is patriotic. Several articles, left over from
last week are —or should be —in this issue. To the
writer of these I extend a hearty welcome; also to
those friends who have come too late for admission
this week.
I cannot fittingly tell you the pleasure it gives me
to welcome so many old friends and to have such a
goodly number knocking for admission to our House
hold. I hope the members will continue to grow
and that We will have a large interesting and mutu
ally helpful family every week. ADA BRYAN.
A Department of Expression Tor Those Who Teel and Think.
7 The Golden Age for July 4, 1907.
With ®ur Corresponbents
ME AND MY JEEMSEE.
“Married life has a heap of ups and downs,” said
Mrs. Nancy Stokes to the group of neighbor girls
to whom she had been giving flowers from her front
yard to help dress the church for a wedding. “There's
me and my Jeemsee, now. The tribulations we has
had! It was about at the off start of the Oncivil
War that me and Jeems tuck a fool notion to get
married. He had been er courtin me, off an on, fer
some leetle time an anybody could a seed, with one
eye shet, that Jeems thought I was the onliest gal
in the world. He was pow’ful afeard that es he’d
have to go off to the war, an leave me erthout blong
in’ to him, I might take a notion to some er them
good-looking blue-coated yankees. Well, I thought
of the ole sayin, ‘Jest as well to pleasure a fool as
to be plagued with him,’ so he sot off for the squire,
and a pair o' licenses, an we had nothin to do but
git married. Soon afterwards he had ter jine the
war, and as I was a packin up his clothes, and a
darnin up his socks, the briny tears kep a drippin
tlil I was afeared his clothes ud jist be kivered in mil
dew. I hadn’t said much, an I wouldn’t let Jeems see
me er cryin, but I sot a powerful store by him. Seem
ed lack the sun riz and sot in Jeemses big gray eyes.
Well, as I said er while ergo, Jeems went off to the
war, an fit and bled (when he fell over the fence
a runnin from the yankees) and come home fust
chance he got. I tried ter git him ter settle down
somewhares, like folks orter, but he was jest zackly
what some folks calls a Tolin stone.’ We jist
been er movin er round and round ever since. Some
times we would git whar we could make truck
enough ter keep the wolf outen the door, and then
ergin we would git whar it was too pore ter’ sprout
peas. One time, we landed in ‘Ole Kentuck,’ an of
all the ‘high faintin’ folks I ever seed, I seed em
thar. Why, the hossses was nachally so high-step
pin an proud that they ’ud prance erlong with their
heads so high, like they was too fine ter tech the
ground. We soon found out that country didn’t suit
us, so we started traipsin ergin, and landed in er
mongst the old red hills of Georgia to rest awhile
till we ketch our breath, and then we will go traip
sin ergin till we git ter the end of the road.”
Marietta, Ga. “TRUEHEART.”
*
THE MAGIC FIDDLE—A FOLK LORE STORY.
One stormy night, many years ago, the host of a
village inn and a number of his guests were seated
around a cozy fire cracking jokes. Suddenly, there
was a loud ring at the door. The landlord rose,
opened the door and admitted a weather beaten
man, whose only luggage was a curious looking box.
The man bowed to the little assembly, then said
to the landlord: “I have but little money, but all I
ask is a bite of food and a shelter from the storm.”
The landlord was in a genial humor, “My friend”
he said, “You look like one who has traveled and
had adventures. Tell us a good story, when you
have w’armed and dried yourself and eaten a hot
supper, and I shall consider your bill paid.”
“I thank you heartily, and agree to the condi
tions,” said the wayfarer, and he carefully deposited
his box in a corner of the office and followed the
landlord to the supper room, where he partook of a
hearty Tepast. Returning to the office, he was given
a cozy corner by the cheery fire. “And now for your
story,” said one of his companions, while another
remarked, “I am curious to know what you have in
that odd-looking box. “I have my best friend in
there,” said the stranger, smiling—“the friend who
has given me all I have in the world —a nice home
and a good wife. Not to make a mystery of it,” he
added, seeing them stare, “I have an old violin in
that box that has befriended me in every emergency.
I was a poor orphan boy, harshly treated and cuffed
and cussed until I took courage to run away. But I
did not know where to go or what to do. I walked
until I was very tired, then threw myself on the
grass and prayed to die. Instead of dying, I fell
into a deep sleep, from which I was at last awaked
by the sound of music. I sat up and looked around.
An old man, seated on a log near me, was playing
the fiddle. When he saw I was awake, he said,
‘Hello, sonny! what is your trouble? I see the
marks of tears on your cheeks.’ His kind voice
drew from me an account of my life. He said: ‘I
knew your story and all about you, my boy. I
Conducted by
Ada Louise Bryan
wished to see if you would tell a straight tale, which
you have done. I am here to help you get along
in the world. I am going to give you a friend—this
old fiddle; take it and play whenever you are
asked.’ He put the violin into my hand and plunged
into the wood, leaving me full of wonder and amaze
ment. After a while, I went on my way, hugging
my new possession in my arms. I came up with a
party of merrymakers who asked me to play for
them, and as soon as I began to play they fell to
dancing with all their might and danced until tired
out, they paid me a fair sum to stop playing and
let them rest. I joyfully pocketed the money—the
first I had ever possessed and took the road with a
lighter heart. ,
“Everywwhere I went people asked me to play, and
no sooner did my bow scrape the strings than they
set in to dancing, and when they had danced them
selves out of breath, they gave me money to stop
playing. Soon I had enough money to buy a nice
little home, but I did not stay in it long before the
roving spirit set me to wandering again with the
fiddle as my companion. I wandered into a wild
mountainous country, where the people were igno
rant and superstitious. I came upon a company of
them who were about to burn a gentle motherly
looking woman because, as they declared, she was a
witch. They had bound her to a stake, and were
bringing wood and heaping it about her, when I
came up. A young girl, her daughter, stood by
her and implored them not to do the wicked act.
‘My mother is no witch,’ she cried. ‘She has put no
evil eye on your children or your cattle. It is diph
theria that is killing your children; your cattle are
dying with dry murrain; God’s curse will fall on
you if you injure my mother.’ At once I fell in love
with that beautiful, brave girl and I threw my fiddle
to my shoulder and began to play my gayest tune.
In a trice I had them all dancing, and I kept them at
it in spite of their offers of money, until they had
promised to let the woman go free and not trouble
her again. I had them to untie her while they
danced and saw her get out of thoir sight before I
would stop playing. I then quickly overtook the
woman and her daughter, and saw them safely in
side their home, while I kept watch outside. I mar
ried the lovely girl, and took her and her mother to
my home, where I live happily and work contentedly
and well, but every now and then the wandering
fit takes me and I set forth with my fiddle. I make
more money by causing people to dance than I do
by working, and I have lots of fun.”
The company agreed that this was a very good
story, but they would not believe it until the traveler
took out his magic fiddle and played. After they
had danced themselves down and had paid him to
stop playing, they were satisfied and drank his
health in the landlord’s best ale.
Red Oak, Ga. OLD WOMAN.
*
THAT UNFASHIONABLE MAN.
An eastern man, whose wife died more than a
month ago, has only recently been induced to have
her buried. Day and night he kept watch beside
her embalmed body, now and then talking to her —
pouring into her unheeding ear his words of devoted
love. Insane, declared the newspapers. Well, yes,
it is enough to condemn a man to Bellevue when it
is found that he did anything so unusual as to love
his wife with a devotion that defied death. No
doubt this man’s family were unfashionable. They
had never got into the newspapers; there was no
scandal about them; they had never been in a
divorce court; the town had never been filled with
spicy stories about them; the wife did not care for
the other man; the husband cared for no other wo
man. How commonplace! How humdrum! In these
latter days we hear a great deal about how little
sanctity is attached to the marriage vow, how light
ly men and women enter upon a life partnership—
as lightly as they go in to dinner at a fashionable
dining. “Mr. Williams,” says the hostess, “will you
take in Miss Jones?” Many years ago—maybe in
the stone age—men and women married through
the attraction of mutual love; now they marry
through many other motives. They marry for
money, for convenience, for a fine home and jewels,
for position, for the notoriety and eclat of a wed
ding, though dread of being an old maid or old bach
elor. Also there are men who marry in order to
get a good cook, a housekeeper without paying
wages, while others marry for “professional rea
sons,” and sometimes persons marry just to be do-
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