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VOICES
MABEL’S MARKETING.
When Mabel went to market
She looked so young and trim,
So innocent and trusting.
Beneath her hat's wide brim,
That all the market sellers
Smiled cunningly, and thought
That everything they offered
By Mabel would be bought.
But Mabel tried the butter,
To And if it were sweet,
She carefully examined
The fibre of the meat;
The beans she chose were tender,
The radishes were young;
And Mabel’s wondrous wisdom was
The theme of every tongue.
And now they know that Mabel
Will not buy meat that’s tougl*
Stale eggs, nor fruit that’s moldy,
Nor wilted garden stuff.
She captures a good dinner
Whenever she goes out;
For Mabel went to cooking school,
And knows what she’s about.
EDITH COMMANDER.
*
My Dear Girls and Boys: I have a lot of “good
things” for you this week, you will agree with me
when you read them. First of all, I want you to enjoy
“The Modern Knight” sent in by Bertha Wiggs. Ber
tha, this is excellent. You need to be congratu
lated on your judgment in selecting your subject.
In showing us that moral, not physical, courage
characterizes the modern knight, you have struck
the keynote of Christian civilization of today.
Ola Johnson, your essay was finely and clearly
written, but it was rather long, as it would have
almost taken up our entire page. I fear it would
have been impossible to shorten it. Come again
in our next contest, Ola, and be a little more brief.
And so our little Inez would like to join the House
hold too. Dear, we should hate to lose you but per
haps if you knocked at the door of the Household and
proved yourself as interesting there as you do with
us Miss Bryan would be glad to have you as a
little star to brighten her circle. You are right
in your views about country life. Many years of
my life have been happily spent in the country.
Miss Augusta peeps in the door for a minute talk.
Come again, Augusta, and pay us a longer visit.
I am glad you liked your pin. And your picture
—well, why didn’t you send a larger one? It is
charming, sunshine glows all over your face, when
I get a pretty thing I like to share its beauty with
others, and I fear this picture is too small to be
reproduced.
I am sure you boys and girls will like the story
which Mrs. Stephens has kindly sent us. Do you
remember your first teacher and your first lesson?
And Mrs. Corbett tells us about some more of those
capers which Boy has been cutting. What a wonder
ful little rascal he must be! W. D. U.
IKHitb ®ur Correspondents
THE MODERN KNIGHT.
The modern knight
Goes out to fight
A battle, brave and true;
And that same hand,
■Which guides this man,
Is outstretched now to you.
Knighthood is by no means a new thing. It is
almost as ancient as history itself. Roman history
gives us a knight in Horatius, that brave hero who
was willing to lay down his life for his country.
Persian history gives us that beautiful story of the
knight, Lohrab, who spent his life in search of his
father, and who died so bravely when he received
the death blow from his father’s own hand. En
glish history is filled with the deeds of its valiant
knights. Sir Gareth and Sir Galahad are types of
early English times while you might call Nelson
and Wellington the knightly stars of a later period.
But you ask, “Who is the twentieth century knight?”
The twentieth century—it is hoped and prophesied—
will be a century of peace, therefore the knights
need carry no weapon of bloody warfare, but none
the less will they need moral shield and spear, and
The Golden Age for July 11, 1907.
OF YOUTH
courage and endurance of the nobler kind. The
modern knight will not always have the aura of
high pedigree or wealth about his brow. He will
sometimes be clad in humblest garb and come from
the ranks of common people, and sometimes he
live and die and the world never know him. Lowell,
in his “Vision of Sir Launfal,” gives an effective
contrast between the ancient and modern knights.
Sir Launfal, young, and handsome, started out in
search for the Holy Grail on a lovely day in June.
As he passed out of his castle his attention was
turned from the loveliness of the day to a leper,
who cried for an alms, and the sight was so horri
ble that he turned away with a feeling of disgust
as he tossed the leper a coin. Years came and went
and still the knight wandered over the earth in a
fruitless search. At last, weary and careworn, he
returned home; as he stood before his castle in the
snow he heard a voice asking an alms. He turned
and saw the leper, and though he had no money, he
shared with the man his crust and cup of water.
To his surprise he found that he held the Holy Grail
in his hand. The leper no longer crouched by his
side, but was transformed into Christ, who said:
“Who bestows himself with his alms feeds three —
Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me.”
Sir Launfal was much touched with these words
and his last days were spent serving Christ. This
last service was that of the modern knight. And
sp you see that the modern knight does not need
an armor like the knight of old. His armor is
faith, hope and love. His service is not to wander
over the world in search of some great adventure,
but to do the little deeds that await him at his
door. In serving his fellow man he most serves his
King. And I think I can hear his king say, when
the work is done and the time for reward has come,
“Well done, thou good and faithful servant.”
Raleigh, N. C. BERTHA WIGGS.
R
INEZ’S VIEWS ON COUNTRY LIFE.
I am just a little girl,* but I enjoy reading The
Household as well as our own page. I have been
wanting to write ever since I saw Mrs. Uldham’s let
ter. I’d like to tell some of the pleasures of farm
life, as Mrs. Uudham seemed to look on the dark side
altogether, but I’m afraid I am too small to write to
The Household, so I will write to the Voices of
Youth. You who have never lived in the country
need not think it a dull place, for we have bushels
of fun. It is not so gloomy as Mrs. Uldham pict
ures it. People who dislike farm life just don’t
manage it right. We who live in the country do
most of our work, but that isn’t so bad after all,
for when you are interested in your home, and
feel well you get real pleasure out of the work.
You can’t dress up every evening and go down
town to show off your pretty clothes, but you can
get out in your every day garments and make as
much noise as you like, and you needn’t be afraid
of disturbing your neighbor, either. After supper
have a family meeting out on the porch, that’s better
than all of the clubs. When you want to take a
walk, go to the woods, or to the field, see the waving
corn, and pretty green cotton, or stroll through the
flower yard and meadow, study the beauties of na
ture and learn something of God’s handiwork. A
pretty, comfortable country home with cows, hogs,
horses, chickens, watermelons, a garden and plenty
of good, fresh eggs, milk and butter, good books and
papers to read, with the telephone and R. F. D. serv
ice, is my idea of a model home. What you think
about it? INEZ BALKCOM.
R
MY FIRST LESSON.
Abby Punderson —yes that was the name of my
first school mistress. She was one of the stiffest,
nicest and most thoroughly prim old maids that ever
took care of other people’s children. I see her now,
sitting very upright in her high backed chair —sol-
emnly opening the blue paper covers of our speller,
and calling me by name —I see the sharp pointed scis
sors lifted from the chain at her side; I hear the rap,
rap, of her thimble against the home made table,
and the sharp rap of hei’ pencil on the roughly
made desk. Yes I feel myself dropping that bash
ful courtesy and blushing under those solemn gray
eyes, as she points down the long row of Roman
capitals and tells me to read. The school house stood
on the bank of a small stream which turned a saw
mill just above. Some forty feet of meadow lay
between the windows and the bank, and a noble pear
tree full of golden fruit, flung its shadow over the
school house. Those great bell pears were cruelly
tantalizing as they grew and ripened amid the green
leaves, but when they came rushing down from the.
boughs and fell in the grass directly under us and
lay there plump and mellow, it was really too much
for human nature. But Miss Punderson was strict;
she read the golden rule every day, and kneeling
beside her high backed chair, she prayed for us every
morning and afternoon. Her control was so perfect
that we hardly ventured to look at the pears when
they fell. But one thing troubled us; just as the
fruit grew ripest, Miss Punderson began to take
her dinner basket and hymn book and cross the
meadow back of the school house, where she would
disappear down the hemlock bank and stay some
times the entire noon hour. One day, I was startled
at my lesson by a splendid pear that came rushing
from the topmost bough of the tree, and rolled to
ward the mill stream. Dan Haines, who was sitting
close by, whispered from behind his spelling book,
that the mistress would be after that ’ere pear about
noon time. Mary Bell looked wise and nodded her
head. Was it possible? Could it be that this could
be why the mistress went off over the hemlock bank
every day at noon —that it was to pick up a fine pear
or two and eat them —all to herself —greedy old thing!
When recess came, we were on the watch. Just as
usual, the mistress took her dinner basket, and went
toward the hemlock bank. Once she stooped to tie
her shoe. “See! see!” whispered Dan, “she mak
ing believe to tie her shoe —I told you so!” Dan
went before, treading very softly. Once he stopped,
made a dart at a tuft of clover, and up again. I
caught a glimpse of something yellow which he was
pushing hurriedly into his pocket, that swelled out
enormously afterwards. But Dan looked straight for
ward into the hemlocks and began to whistle, which
frightened us half out of our wits, and we threatened
to run back miles he stopped. Dan flared up at this,
and went back in high dudgeon, trying to cover his
pocket with one hand. At that moment we heard a
voice from the hemlock bank. “Come,” whispered
Mary Bell, “let’s see if she really has got it.” We
crept forward softly and looked over into the stream.
Upon a stone near the bank sat our school mistress,
with her hymnbook open, singing. Her voice was
soft and clear, and joined in with the murmurs of the
stream. She finished her little hymn, closed the book,
and, casting a timid glance up and down, to be sure
she was alone, knelt down by the mossy stone and
began to pray—to pray for us, her pupils, that she
might be able to train us aright. We crept away,
crying softly, ashamed to look each other in the
face. Dan Haines was sitting in the crook of the
fence eating something very greedily, but we avoid
ed him and went into the school house, heart-broken
at having thought evil of our dear mistress. We were
still and serious all the afternoon. Once or twice I
saw the mistress’ beautiful blue-gray eyes looking at
me wistfully over her spelling book. At last the
classes were all heard. The mistress looked around
at the little benches, arose, laid her hand on the
high backed chair, and sank to her knees. The chil
dren stood up, as usual. I looked at Mary Bell;
she was trembling a little; the color came and went
in her face. My heart beat quick, I felt a glow on
my cheek, something soft and fervent stirring at
my heart. We both rose hand in hand, walked through
the scholars up to that high backed chair, and
knelt down by the mistress. She opened her eyes,
and instantly they filled with tears; her lips trem
bled, and then came a burst of thanksgiving to God
for having answered her prayer. She laid her hand
first upon one head and then upon the other. ,
MRS. A. S. STEPHENS.
R
A WORD FROM TUNNEL HILL.
Dear Brother Willie: The pin which I "won some
time ago has been received and I must tell you
how much I appreciate it. My friends all think it
quite as pretty as I do. I am sure you could not
have selected a more appropriate present nor a
handsomer one than a gold pin with the letters of
our American Order of The Golden Age engraved
on it. Os course you remember Ethel Nichols?
Her father is pastor of our church at Dogwood; and
there could never be a better or nobler man than
Mr. Nichols. And Ethel —I wish you could know
her personally, Sister Annie, she is such a dear good
girl. I am sure she would have enjoyed those pink
roses. Sister Anne, your letters are always interest
ing, I wish we could hear from you every week.
Wishing Brother Willie, Miss Bryan and all the cous
ins the very best if success, I am,
Tunnel Hill, Ga. AUGUSTA CALLAWAY.
