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TIT T7 T T TTCI7TT /A TTA Conducted by
11 11 U O J_> 11 v_y I JL/ Ada Louise "Bryan
A Department of Expression Tor Those Who Teel and Think.
WHEN THE MAPLE LEAVES ARE RED.
I think of a hope that I used to hold;
I think of a flower from my garden fled
When the year that was young is waxing old,
And on the maple the leaves are red.
The sky like an amber arch I see,
And the clouds therein like a royal show,
But something I miss that was dear to me
In the far off time of long ago.
A prayer for kindred and friends I pray,
I pray for the living and not the dead;
For the living are needfuler, far, than they,
When on the maple the leaves are red.
The wind is warm and the air is clear,
And the blythe birds sing as they sang of yore,
But, oh, I listen in vain to hear
A voice that will echo on earth no more!
The days go on as of old they went
When the leaf was green on the spring time
tree.
But the old delight and the old content
Have utterly vanished away from me.
And my eyes grow heavy with unshed tears
As I think of the life like a broken thread;
And I sigh for the future’s vacant years,
When on the maple the leaves are red.
Battieboro, Vt. ARTHUR GOODENOUGH.
n *
CHAT.
I am in sympathy wuth the sentiment expressed by
Little White Girl in her fine essay, “Stick to Terra-
Cotta” as the little boy she instances said, meaning
“terra firma” —good old mother earth. The myths of
the ancient Greeks and Romans always have a sound
kernel of wisdom. You know, they pictured Anteus,
the strong Sandow of that day, as renewing his
strength by stretching himself on the earth, and they
told us of ambitious Icarus, who made wings for him
self to soar to the sun, but got the wings melted
off and had a prodigious fall when he attempted his
sunward flight. People who try to soar too high gen
erally come down pretty flat; and this applies to
literature, as well as to the style of living and specu
lating. It is not the high-flown kind of writing that
pleases, but the kind that is so simple and clear a
child can understand it. Little White Girl also kind
ly gives us a talk about a new book, just the clever,
yet plain and easily understood analysis of a book
that people enjoy reading.
Tennesseean, we are glad to welcome you again in
to The Golden Age Household. I hope you will
tell us about those mountain people. We like read
ing about unvarnished humanity.
Ben Ivy says that he believes that some dreams
are sent us for a purpose, and so do I. Many dreams
are just a jumble of fragments of experiences and
fancies, but now and then a direct, strong impres
sion is made on the mind during sleep, and we feel
at once that this is no idle, meaningless dream, that
it is meant as a message though it may, and general
ly does, come in allegorical form. We lay great
stress on believing the Bible, yet some of us scoff at
dreams, when these were the means of direct divine
communication to the patriarchs and the prophets.
Nearly every chapter of the Old Testament bears tes
timony to this. When we are told that God directs
that such and such movement should be made, the
intention of the divine will was made through the
medium of visions or dreams; and we must not for
get that but for Joseph’s warning dream the infant
Christ would have been killed in Herod’s slaughter
of the innocents, while if Pilate had heeded the
dream of his wife he would never have delivered
Jes is into the hands of the crucifiers.
The first intimations of autumn are in the air and
our poets are quick to catch them. The gentle
melancholy of the coming fall of the leaf, breathes
in the always lovely verse of Arthur Goodenough,
and in the beautiful poem “Love’s Glory Land” by
a new contributor, a journalist and a minister, who
has lately published a volume of verse. We are glad
to have him as a member of our Household band. We
will publish his poem next week. A. L. B.
The Golden Age for September 12, 1907.
With ®ur Correeponbente
HOW A SHUT-IN BUILT A CHURCH.
In a back woods section of Arkansas, sixteen years
ago, there was born to very young parents their
first child —a bright, pretty girl. The parents were
poor; the father, a farmer on a very small scale.
Not far from his little home there were large plant
ations, in the fertile river bottoms, where cotton
grew to look like small trees, loaded with bolls.
Cotton pickers were in great demand, and good
wages were paid. The father and mother of little
Mattie Beverage arranged to go to the river bottoms
and pick cotton for several days in order to help
their scant income. The weather was hot and they
took but little bedding. Os course they carried the
baby—a fine, healthy, beautiful child she was, nearly
a year old. She lay on a quilt under the thick shade
of the swamp trees; while her mother and Sather
worked in the snowy fields. When the day grew
late, the poisonous miasma rose from the river and
the damp, rich ground and chilled the little thinly
clad child on the pallet. Malaria seized on her blood
and nerves and fever burned in her veins. For
1 ’ fc, J
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MISS MATTIE BEVERAGE.
weeks she was racked with disease —convulsed with
pain; utterly unconscious. No one thought she
would live, but the life spark in her was strong. She
lived; the fever left her a wreck. Her limbs were
distorted and stunted, her hands twisted, her fin
gers cramped. Never could the bright active baby
walk or stand; never could she use her hands and
fingers. She was a shut-in for life. She could never
go to school, but her eager mind hungered for knowl
edge, and she learned to read. Then with many per
sistent efforts she learned to form letters with her
cramped fingers and to write a little. She read with
avidity everything she could get in the shape of a
book or a paper. One day a copy of the Sunny
South fell into her hands; she found the Household
pages. She learned that there were other shut-ins,
and that they wrote for the Household and receiv
ed sympathy and helpful suggestions; also they
gained correspondents whose letters came like angel
visits to bless and cheer. Then Mattie wrote her first
letter to the Household; it was very crude, but the
ideas were good, and a little shaping from the edi
torial hand made it readable. She wrote again and
again, improving constantly. She made friends who
wrote to her and sent her books, quilt pieces and oth
er tokens. One day she wrote about a day dream of
hers which she loved to build in fancy, knowing it
could never be realized. This dream was to have
a church near her where she might sit at her window
and listen to the singing of the sweet hymns—and
perhaps be wheeled there in her chair on pleasant
days. She had never seen a church or heard a serv
ice; "she had read of the ringing of church bells and
longed to hear that sweet music, but the nearest
church was over five miles away. When the mem
bers of the Sunny South Household read this artless
dream of the shut-in girl, they determined that it
should be realized. They would build her a church
by their contributions. She was greatly surprised and
thankful when she knew of their kind intent, and she
wrote that her father would donate land for the
church, and he and the neighbors would build it, so
that the lumber and nails would be all the expense.
The dollars came in to the delighted girl with every
mail. Soon there were fifty of these, and the lumber
was bought and work begun. The farmers, well
pleased to have a church in their neighborhood, work
ed upon it on wet days and when the crops were laid
by. The site was an oak grove not far from the
house. Mattie could see the top of the roof, and if the
church could have had a steeple, she could have seen
that, too; but what was the use of having a steeple
when there was no bell? And bells cost money. One
day most unexpectelly a letter came from a good wo
man enclosing a big crisp bank note to buy a bell,
and later ten dollars more were contributed to shingle
the house. The farmer workmen made some rough
benches, erected the steeple and hung the bell. The
house was not ceiled inside, but the weather was
warm and a service was held. The bell rung, loud and
clear, and its music thrilled the girl’s quickly beating
heart, while she was being dressed by kind hands and
taken in her wheel chair to the church —her church,
which she had built. If it could be ceiled inside and a
stove bought, it would be available in winter. It is cool
and pleasant, Mattie says, in summer time, and she
enjoys the service there more than any pleasure that
has come into her life. She is a wonderful little girl
—bright and cheerful, passionately appreciative of the
beautiful, and longing to express the thoughts and
emotions of her being. She has written a little book
—“Jesus, the Shut-in’s Friend,” which has been pub
lished and sells for 12 or 15 cents. Also, she wrote
a very pretty story—a little novelette —for the Sun
ny South, called, “Violet’s Platonic Friend,” showing
how unwise it is for girls to give their hearts un
sought to young men who have only been kind to
them. Violet is an inexperienced country girl Who
finds employment in a city and nearly wrecks her hap
piness and her life by falling deeply in love with a
kindhearted young man of the world who is interested
in her because she is bright and sweet, and brings
her books, magazines and flowers. The home of Mat
tie Beverage is at Dabney, Arkansas. The picture of
her given here is one made very recently. She is
of good family—has a kind father, mother and grand
mother who do all they are able to do for her. She
enjoys receiving letters and little card messages, and
she says, “The coming of the postman is the greatest
pleasure of my life.” M. E. B.
BETTER STICK TO “TERRA-COTTA.”
“Hitch your wagon to a star,” seems to be a fa
vorite subject for poems and essays just now, and
one gets so tired of seeing it and thinking of how
long the “hitch-rein” would have to be, as the stars
are very high and we all know that wagon wheels
are safer on terra firma. (Once a small boy took
his first sail —he seemed to enjoy it highly, but when
he was helped to mother earth he exclaimed with
great earnestness “I tell you, mamma, it feels good
to be on terra-cotta again.”) But speaking of hitch
ing wagons to stars —we will soon be beyond the
wagon era, and some one will be poetizing about hitch
ing your automobile to a star.” In a recent cartoon a
party of fashionables are going to some entertain
ment in an air-ship, and are looking down with
amused indifference on a poor wash-woman chug
ging along in an automobile, carrying the clothes
home. This makes one anticipate the time when
some people will rhyme and orate about “Hitch your
air-ship to a star.” The man who told us in high
sounding words to “Hitch your wagon to a star”
gives us this advice: In order to keep us looking up—
and so many of us follow the advice, we loose the
horse, hitch the rein to a star (?) and stand right
still, looking up, waiting for the star to pull us up—
waiting in blissful ignorance of the things on the
ground needing our attention. When we finally realize
the star never did intend to take us anywhere, and
