Newspaper Page Text
10
THE HOL’S EH OLD
MY FIRST LOVE.
(Dedicated to my mother, Mrs. Sheldonie C. Poole.)
I had a love in olden days
Who is my sweetheart now
Tho’ time has left some finger prints
Upon my mother’s brow.
She still to me is beautiful,
And young and fresh and fair,
Tho’ many silvered threads are seen
Among my mother’s hair.
The far off look in her dear eyes,
I feel I understand,
I ween they look with faith and hope
Toward the spirit land,
Where loved ones wait in blissfulness
The coming of another;
A wife on earth, a faithful friend,
A dear, devoted mother.
Her step is not so quick and light
As when she was a bride;
Or when she taught us little ones
Who crept close to her side,
To kneel and pray at close of day
To Him, dear Lord above,
• To cleanse her lambs and keep them pure
And shield them in His love.
Altho' her step begins to break,
The heavy cross she bears
Will soon be carried far enough
Adown the lane of years;
And then methinks an angel’s hand
Will place the crown she’s won
Upon her head and one will say,
“Servant of God, well done!”
Neeses, S. C. , MRS. G. O. CORBETT.
CHAT.
I feel impelled to follow the example of a back
woods youth who recently called on his sweetheart
and spent the entire evening discussing the weather.
My reasons for talking weather may not be as good
as those of the backwoods lover, however, as I
really have many other things which I should like
to talk to you about. But the torrid tempera
ture forbids any mental gymnastics. A palm leaf
fan, a hammock swung under a big oak and a maga
zine of light and breezy fiction is about the most
ideal condition I can think of, unless it is a berth
on M’’. Walter Wellman’s mighty airship that is now
making for the land of perpetual ice, in the hope of
discovering that North pole, which is almost as elu
sive as the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
A wonderful thing, indeed, is that airship—lß4 feet
long, 52 feet in diameter at its thickest part, for
the steel car that swings under the mighty bag of
gas is shaped like a cigar—and carrying dogs for
travel, sleds, tons of provisions, two great motor
machines and an enormous tank of oil to feed them.
Well, I believe I’d rather stick to the earth, even
if it does burn through my slippers, than take pas
sage on that cool and breezy, but risky, monster
airship. Our little steam cars are pretty conveni
ent after all, and I find them comfortable enough in
the early morning when I am borne along from my
quiet village home to the busy city.
The other day, I enjoyed a triangular pleasure in
the office of The Golden Age. There I met three de
lightful promoters of our paper—the editor, Mr. Up
shaw, looking as bright and fresh as if he had not
been lecturing and talking prohibition this hot weath
er, without rest; the brilliant managing editor, Mr.
Ramsaur, and the traveling agent and interesting
correspondent, Mr. Bryan, whom we of the House
hold know as Eugene Edwards. But Mr. Bryan was
a little different from Eugene Edwards, of whom I
had formed a mental picture, but none the less pleas
ing. I was delighted to meet him, and we sat down
at once and tried to scrape up kinship. But, after an
effort at tracing family records, we gave up the
task. He has promised to let us hear from him often,
and I have half way persuaded him into giving
us his picture. He is a little timid, however, and if
he finds himself too bashful to be ushered into your
presence, I’ll get even with him by painting a pen
picture of him in full for the Household page.
It gives me great pleasure to welcome among us
Mary Ligon Miller, whom many of us know already
through her lovely poems, sketches and stories. She
A Department of Expression Tor Those Who Teel and Think.
The Golden Age for August 1, 1907.
tells us of a character that impressed itself unpleas
antly upon her childish mind —a whiskey crank, such
a one is the terror of many a village and neighbor
hood. I sincerely hope that Mrs. Miller will often
favor us with her company.
All the way from Kalamazoo, Mich., comes a new
and welcome member to tell us about the kind of
woman that men seek, which, as he frankly owns 4
is not the kind of woman which would be sought
by any means. Men praise the modest, plainly
dressed, sensible, domestic girl, and hold her up as
a model, then straightway are caught in the meshes
of the frivolous woman, whose sole aim in life is
to dress fashionably and have a good time.
A dear little shut-in girl from far off Indian Ter
ritory, brings a message of comfort and sympathy
to her afflicted brothers and sisters. What a power
of noble patience and fortitude she possesses, thus
to be able to rise above pain and mental depression,
and make for herself and others an atmosphere of
cheerfulness! She will find in another one of our
shut-in members —Rebecca Whitfield —one who can
respond to her and who will gladly receive her mes
sage of friendly fellowship, and pass it on to these
two friends and fellow sufferers to whom she brings
your kindly attention.
Many of you will enjoy seeing your sentiments,
as regards our silent friends of the library, embodied
in Arthur Goodenough’s fine poem, “The Sweet Com
panionship of Books.” Books are, indeed, our
truest friends, who never desert or betray us, and
■whose gentle ministrations drive away blues and
comfort us in sorrow. ADA L. BRYAN.
With ®nr Correspondents
CHEERFUL WORDS FROM A SHUT-IN.
Will you kindly open the door of your pleasant
Household to admit another shut-in? I should be
so glad to come occasionally, not with a long face
or a wail of sorrow, for that would cast a shadow
over the bright faces and cheerful hearts of those
who linger around the Household hearth, but I wish
to try, in my feeble way, to speak a word of com
fort or cheer to my sisters and brothers in afflic
tion. Those of you who possess health, strength and
countless other blessings should, indeed, be grateful.
And, now for a warm handshake and a loving
“God bless you” for dear Mollie Willis, Rebecca Whit
field and our beloved Annie Peavy. Dear sisters, let
us take courage and bear our lot in life with a brave
glad heart, and in our own little way, let us try to
be a blessing to those around us. With kindly wishes
to the editors and each member of the Household, I
am, yours in Christian love,
(MISS) SALLIE B. LACKEY.
Hartshorne, I. T.
A FESTIVE WHISKEY CRANK.
There never was a time when a drunken man was
not a terror to me. When only a tot, playing on the
pavement in front of my home with a younger sis
ter as companion, if I chanced to see a man ap
proaching whose gait was a little peculiar, or who
failed to walk as straight as my zealous eyes de
manded, I would seize the unfortunate little sister by
the hair, if that happened to be most convenient, and
drag her away to hide with me under the bed, in the
farthest and darkest corner, and stay there, trem
bling, until some member of the family chanced
to find and drag the “little fool” forth to the light.
When a school girl, this terror one old reprobate in
spired, not alone in me, but in all the children who
lived on our side of town. He came in from the
country almost every day and never, never failed
to get drunk. The walk home from school became
a terror to us, lest old W. should see and chase us,
as he sometimes did. He rode a large sorrel horse
that he called “Cap" —short, I suppose, for “Cap
tain” —and to hear him shout: “Show your blood,
Cap!” as he swept on at our flying heels, sounded
in our quivering ears more awful than the crack of
doom. Once, a number of us went flying up the car
riage drive at Dr. Calhoun’s with old W. yelling at
our heels. I suppose, now, that he never really
meant to hurt us; that he was only having his
drunken “fun,” but the situation then seemed rather
awful. This same festive gentleman, attracted by
the music, stopped at Dr. Reese’s home, where a
number of young ladies were practicing their songs
for a concert. He dismounted and went onto the
Conducted by
Ada Louise “Bryan
piazza, and when the girls barricaded doors and
windows, threatened to break in if they didn't sing
for him. He demanded more music, and yet more,
and the girls sang on and on and on, no doubt, in.
quavers, semi-quavers and demi-semi-quavers, until
the good doctor came home and raised the siege.
I don’t think I could have been more than eight or
nine years old when I joined the Temperance So
ciety. “Uncle” Dabney Jones was, at that time, doing
a great work along temperance lines. It was his
life-work, and I know, though he has been for many
years in heaven, it makes him happier, even there,
to know that the great temperance army is “march
ing on.” And may it march on, growing in strength
and numbers, routing the whiskey traffic from strong
hold after stronghold, until the monstrous evil is
swept forever from our land.
Trenton, S. C. MARY LIGON MILLER.
THE SWEET COMPANIONSHIP OF BOOKS.
I love the blue and bending sky,
I love the clouds serene and bright,
That ride above the summer earth
On pomp of crimson, gold and white.
I love the grasses of the fields,
I leva the blossoms by the brooks,
I love them all! but more I love
The sweet companionship of books.
I love ixie greenness of the Spring,
The Anti mil’s ruddy glow I love;
The sleeping valleys, calm below,
Die mountains towering high above.
I love the flowers sweet and shy,
That open in secluded nooks,
1 love them well, but more I prize
The sweet companionship of books.
I love the music of the birds —
The thousand voices of the bees;
I love the sweetness drifting out
From the emblossomed apple trees;
I love the cowslip’s amber cup,
The mosses bordering the brooks,
But best of all, and most of all,
The sweet companionship of books.
For power and place let those contend
Who rate them higher than do I,
As I began so I will end
And neither flinch nor question why;
And so, tho’ fame and fortune pass
Bestowing nothing but sour looks;
One comfort on me, Lord, bestow
The sweet companionship of books.
Battleboro Vt. ARTHUR GOODENOUGH.
•6
THE KIND OF WOMEN WHO ARE SOUGHT
AFTER.
I beg your pardon for what may seem intrusion
by a Northerner. In my morning mail I received a
copy of The Golden Age; and in the Household de
partment I find that some dear brother, who signs
himself “Gwinnett County Farmer,” is “After the
women again,” and I feel that I would like to say
something in their behalf, because, as brother to
two and son of one of that large army of good wo
men, I am somewhat interested in them. Our good
brother, in bringing his epistle to a close, says that
the man who is good, who is thoughtful of, and who
tries to please, the ladies, is not the man who is
sought after. I will not contradict our friend, but
will suggest that all womankind be not judged by
the class he mentions. I really believe that our
brother knows that “the man who is good and who
is thoughtful of the feminine sex” will please them;
and that his motive in being good to, and thought
ful for the well being of, any living creature, should
not be to be numbered among those who are “sought
after.” The woman who is good and who is thought
ful —who is truly Christian, not simply “churchy”—
will be sought for by men from the ranks of those
who are good and thoughtful. That is the only kind
of woman that appeals to me from my range of
vision. Between the sexes, woman is the one who
should be sought, not the man; and the last men
tioned kind will be.
Then, too, it somehow seems to me that we men
are somewhat at fault if some women have gotten,
a wrong idea of what should be done to become
“sought after.” To so many of us, the girl who is
