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I 'lll' I I M L I I f'l I TV CoßdaeW by
1 JL IJU X1 v/ vJ O I^ j 11 V_>/ I jLX Ada Louise Ury an
A Department of 'Expression Tor Those Who Teel and Think.
T\NO BURDEN BEARERS.
One walked gladly, though his burden
Was not light;
Though he had to bear it onward
Till the night.
And he met, as thus he journeyed,
One he knew,
Who instead of bearing one load,
Carried two.
And this man who bore two burdens
Made complaint,
Saying: “I have grown already
Sick and faint.
“’Tis no wonder you walk blithely,
Glad of heart;
I could sing, too, if with one load
I might part.”
And his friend thus answered kindly,
With a smile,
His soft eyes aglow with pity
All the while:
“God puts on us but the burden
Os today;
Bidding us to bear it bravely
On life’s way.
“If we shoulder, too, tomorrow’s,
’Tis not wise;
Men have sunk beneath it often
Ne’er to rise.”
Then they parted, these two, going
Their two ways;
One with groaning on his lips,
One with praise.
Columbia, S. C. MARGARET A. RICHARD.
*
CHAT.
We have a bright, sensible message this morning
from the neighborhood of Mrs. Johnson. While Mrs.
Johnson was giving that boy of hers a sound scolding
and boxing, and trying to run old Nick out of her
peaceful abode, her neighbor, Mrs. Smith, was stand
ing calmly by the fence absorbing the whole situ
ation. Mrs. Smith tells us what Mrs. Johnson said
and you know every word of it must be true.
Mrs. Johnson said she didn’t believe in being
afraid of your temper, that she had no time to in
dulge in temper or tears. There were no dark cor
ners in her house where old aHrry could hide him
self. She always hustled him out in a hurry with
that broom stick of hers. What a wonderful old
soul she is—that same Mrs. Johnson. Don’t you
think her philosophy is wholesome, and suited for
our everyday life? All of us have our grievances,
whether these come in the form of distasteful work
or in other shapes. If we sit down and nurse them
up to our hearts and brood over each trouble in
turn, what mountains of sorrow we build up for our
feet to climb! Each of us thinks his or her trouble
is the biggest one out, when half the time our
neighbor across the way is bearing a burden as
heavy again as ours. No matter how distasteful
our work may be let us go at it with energy, per
form it faithfully and get as much pleasure and
profit out of it as possible. Let us try to like our
work. Often it is an effectual cure for physical
diseases and mental maladies, particularly when a
little play is sandwiched with it —to keep Jack from
being “a dull boy.”
Margaret Richard’s poem, “The Two Burden Bear
ers,” like all she writes, is lovely as a poem and ex
cellent as a lesson. It gives in effective symbol, the
saying of the Master, “Sufficient unto the day is the
evil thereof” and again he told us, “Take no thought
(or worry) about the morrow.” If dear Margaret’s
philosophy combined with Mrs. Johnson’s were put
into daily use what a cheery world this would be!
I’m thinking we would have fewer wrinkles on our
foreheads and our hearts.
Little White Girl is an ex-member of the Sunny
South Household, hailing from Salubrious, Long
Beach. She utters a sigh for the bright writers of
the Sunny’s palmy days; would we could gather them
all into the fold of The Golden Age Household to
brighten and benefit our readers. Next week Little
White Girl wil| give us an account of the unveiling
The Golden Age for July 11, 1907.
of the bust of a poet all too little known in his own
country. Queen Russell, whose memory his state —
Mississippi—has at last honored. Little White Girl
asks in her forthcoming letter to be told of any
other author of note, who was a native of Mississippi,
saying she cannot call another one to mind at the
moment. Mississippi has given birth to wonderfully
few authors of prominence. I can recall the names
of not more than half a dozen. These are Mrs. Sarah
Dorsey, bom in 1829 and who died in 1879; Rosa
Vertner Johnson, whose lovely poems were less beau
tiful than herself. She too is dead, I think. Os her
poems the best known is “Hasheesh Visions.” Pren
tiss Ingraham, novelist, dramatist, poet and free
lance fighter in many foreign lands. I think he is
still living. He was born in 1843. Caroline" T.
Walter, born in 1846; Bernard Shipp, and most gifted
of all —most gifted, say many Southern critics, of
any Southern writer —Katherine Warfield, author of
the wonderful novel, “The Household of Benverie,”
and of many others scarcely less fine —“Beasain-
court,” “Miriam Montfort,” etc. —and of a volume
of poems, of which “The Indian Chamber” and “The
Foe’s Return” are unsurpassed in power of imagina
tion and fineness of expression. Mississippi should
certainly be proud of this great woman. Dear Little
White Girl, can you not tell us something about the
family of Mrs. Warfield? She died in 1877, and left
several children. I have always had the greatest de
sire io know more about her. If she had written
nothing but “The Indian Chamber” she would de
serve immortality.
And speaking of poems, isn’t May McMillan’s
“Gates of Pearl” a little gem—a pearl itself? I think
she has written nothing prettier.
But there! I must stop right short off —I am taking
up too much valuable space, and there are others
with us whom I wished to mention; but I can only
tell them they are most welcome.
ADA LOUISE BRYAN.
With ®ur Correspondents
IS AMBITION PURELY SELFISH?
Ambition is a god that has many worshipers. It
often takes possession of the individual to the ex
clusion of all other aims and affections. I once had
a friend who was a slave to his ambition. He be
came neglectful of his home people. His sisters de
plored his forgetfulness. The feelings of his friends
were often wounded by his indifference. And then,
the life of another was blighted. Realizing he had
won her heart, he put her aside, telling her gently
but firmly, that he considered woman a hindrance
to man’s success. Do you think he stopped to re
member? Had he looked into the lives of all truly
great men he would have found that it was their
wives who had helped them to success. Hawthorne
gratefully acknowledged that it was his wife’s de
votion in assuming all the care and responsibility of
the household that gave him —sensitive and delicate
spirit that he was —time and leisure to embody in
words the scenes and characters of his imagination.
It was the same way with Carlyle and with Edwin
Arnold. With Dickens it was a woman, but not his
wife. In our own eager ambitions how often we
forget our duties to our friends and relatives. If
we can only climb sufficiently high to hold up the
hands of those who love us, to bring comfort and
cheer into their lives and make modest provision
for their future, should we not be content? The
encouragement, the appreciation and the approba
tion of those we love should be sufficient reward for
our toils. LOUISE.
R
SHE HAD NO TIME FOR TEMPER OR TEARS.
“I don’t believe in bein’ afraid of your temper,”
said Mrs. Johnson, energetically. “I say fight it
out and conquer it. If old Harry comes into my fam
ily I want to meet him right off. The other night
my boy came home ugly as sin. He was tired out.
Somebody had been sassy to him, and he had been
nursing the devil all day long, preparin’ an over
powerin’ reply. I went up to his room. Now, he
is never cross to me, but that night he growled
out: ‘Mother, I wish you would go diwnstairs and
mind your business.’ I sat down and took hold of
his hands and boxed his ears a little. I wanted him
to realize my presence before I began wasting my
breath- Then I scolded him for an hour apd a
half, and when I got through I could wind him around
my little finger. ‘Mother,’ he said, ‘I suppose I am
sorter hot-headed.’ ‘Hot-headed!’ says I; ‘you’re
just like busted pepper.’ Folks ask me why I don’t
get mad. I tell ’em I ain’t rich enough. It’s as
disablin’ as a fit of sickness. When I keep my own
carriage I’m goin’ to stir up as many rows as my
neighbors; but as long as I keep boarders for a
livin’ I hain’t no time for temper or tears.”
MRS. JOHNSON’S NEIGHBOR.
R
A CALL FOR THE BRIGHT WRITERS OF THE
BYGONE.
I had a place in Sunny South Household, and half
way intended to try for a little corner in “The
Open House,” as Uncle Remus calls it. But dear
me, when Mother Meb took those folks and went
back to “contract,” they pulled off a lot besides
their hoopskirts. But don’t you tell them I said
so. Let this be just “between you and me and
the gate-post” (though just what the gate-post has
to do with that saying I never did know). But
frankly now, don’t you think so, too? About that
“contracting” business, I mean, and as I want to
get in with all my ruffles and frills and flounces
unmashed and untumbled, and have plenty of room
and place and time to say my say, I am coming to
you, who have room a plenty, and I hardly think
I shall ever even try to peep into that (un) “open
house.”
Yesterday I was gladdened by the coming of
the spring-time number of the dear old Bohemian.
As I turned the pages and saw the familiar names
and memory carried me back to the dear old days
when all that happy gifted crowd wrote for the
Sunny South, when Alonzo Rice edited the “Poet’s
Corner,” when “Earnest Willie” sent us splendid
letters from his travels and lectures, when “Eugene
Edwards” played so many jokes on “Ma” and
“Sally,” when “Bonnie Sweet Bessie” entertained
so lovingly in her lovely home in Chattanooga,—
when such bright stars as Marian Mobley Durham,
Mrs. Mark Morrison, Will Allen Dromgoole, Martha
Shepherd Lippincott, Will D. Muse, Mary Philips
Tabro, Minnie Lee Arnold, Idyl Wylde, John T. How
ells, Old Maid, Golden Gossip,—dear me! how fast
the dear names come to me! How they made the
pages of the Sunny South fairly scintillate with
brightness and glow with beauty. How gladly I wel
comed the names in The Bohemian yesterday and
how sincerely I hope they will all come trooping
into our “Earnest Willie” Golden Age Household
—may I give our new editress a welcome? and say
how glad I am that —if we can’t have Mrs. Bryan—
we can have her own gifted girlie to guide us
through the editorial department and make us all
presentable for public notice. May her finishing
touches to our literary toilets be as gentle, as tact
ful, as tasteful and stylish as were the touches
of Mrs. Bryan—so forceful and brilliant, so kind,
patient and gentle, yet always educating, broad
ening and inspiring. So many older and more prom
inent members have entered ahead of me. I love to
feel that Mr. Wheeler and Mr. Clark are firmly es
tablished, they are sure and ready Household friends.
Mr. Clark sent me a copy of “The Blue and the Gray”
when it first came out. I like it and I can say truly
I have never known a finer negro character in fiction
than the old man in that novel, he uses so many big
words it seems to me his tongue would get tied into
all sorts of untieable knots. I am eager to see a copy
of Mr. Clark’s new book. As this is my first knock for
admission into our new “golden” home will not tres
pass on Miss Bryan’s kindness. Wishing Earnest,
Willie all success and hoping to see all our dear old
friends and many new ones rally to our new editress
and help her in this new work I am, with all good
wishes. “LITTLE WHITE GIRL.”
Long Beach, Miss.
R
THE SMALL INTEREST TAKEN IN IT.
I have been taking a great interest in Sunday
school work, and I note with anxiety the lack of
real interest taken in the Sunday school by both
teachers and pupils. Their ignorance of the Bible
is distressing. It has become a problem of the
day how to promote interest in the Sunday school.
Our preachers are puzzled by the question. Recently
I was requested to teach a class of girls ranging
from fourteen to twenty. Our lesson that morning
was the Passover, and to my astonishment not one
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