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Til T7 XT ITQXT T T T Conducted by
1. X XL X X X_z LJ O XL X X v7 I j X-Z Ada Louise ‘Bryan
A Department of Expression Tor Those Who Teel and Think.
BEYOND.
Beyond the stars’ most distant gleam,
Beyond the moon’s pale, silvery beam,
Beyond the sunset’s radiant glow,
Beyond the winds that come and go,
Is the fair land of lasting peace,
Where souls shall go whose mortal lease
Has ended on this earth and, free,
Thei” spirits seek eternity.
Oh, in that far, mysterious sphere
Shall spirits meet who’ve parted here?
And shall they know each other there,
And kiss away each trace of care
From lips we loved on earth so well?
Ah, would some voice divine might tell!
If in that world of peace and bliss
We failed to meet the loved of this,
Would heaven be heaven; would joy be joy,
Would there not be some cold alloy?
Even though we soared from star to star,
Through gates of heaven all left ajar,
And failed to find the loved of this,
Would heaven be heaven or love be bliss? .
What lies beyond we can not know,
Until we reach that mystic shore
But still we trust that we shall find
God’s plan is best for mortal kind.
Ivy, Ala. —B. R. IVY.
CHAT.
Ben Ivy and Gwinnett Farmer will be apt to
think that “Eve” is a pessimistic young woman and
a hard hitter as well. But she has much truth on
her side of the question. There is no doubt that the
woman who undertakes to make a living in the
country is badly handicapped by the lack of a reg
ular or a convenient market, and the difficulty of
obtaining necessary help. But, Eve, dear, don’t you
think you underestimate that ancient institution, the
barnyard hen? You say she doesn’t pay for her keep.
The newspapers and the financial statistics man
are of a different opinion. Also Elbert Hubbard, the
Sage of Aurora, who chants the praises of the hen
in his latest “Philistine.” He says, “Everybody
knows that a farmer’s best paying asset is his flock
of hens. These are mostly cared for by the women
folk and the children, but when a few extra dollars
are needed, the farmer knows where to make the
raise. Great is the Missouri mule as a mortgage
lifter, but the hen has him distanced. There is never
a glut in the market for eggs and frying-size chick
ens. The world has never yet had enough eggs and
poultry any more than it has had enough fine horses,
—or kindness.” And then Fra Albertus goes on to tell
of a poultry farm, just two miles from his famous
Roycroft printing shop, in East Aurora, where on
268 acres a Mr. Cyphers has seventy thousand chick
ens and twenty-five thousand ducks, one of his hatch
ing houses containing 150 incubators with a capacity
for fifty thousand eggs. Mr. Hubbard says, “I have
seen Cyphers’ people shipping fattened young ducks
to market at the rate of a thousand dollars’ worth a
day. If anybody doubts these figures,” Mr. Hub-
Lard adds, “just let him come to Aurora and see
for himself,”
Well, the point of this seems to be that a number
of our southern country women ought to combine and
co-operate; run a chicken farm on the Cyphers style,
and then it will pay. Have one or more such farms
in each county and feed the public on young duck
and chicken broilers and eggs instead of beef and
pig, the latter being interdicted by the Bible. Even
the vegetarians, Mr. Hubbard says, succumb to fried
chicken.
With us Thanksgiving, Thursday, was a day such
as Solomon likens to a sententious woman, a contin
ued drizzle from gray and gloomy skies. But in
spite of this drawback, neighbors and families met at
each others’ homes and ate a plentiful dinner, and
drew up around a cheery fire, grown-ups, children and
babies, and chatted and told old stories and anec
dotes. I hope every one remembered their blessings,
the less as well as the greater. We are so apt to
forget those minor mercies, as dear May McMillan
says. “Little White Girl,” won’t you reply to Muriel’s
query: “How shall I treat a cynical acquaintance,
whose pessimistic opinions I can not accept?” Dear
Annie Peavey, The Golden Age Household is always
glad to greet you and to extend to you sympathy and
heartfelt wishes for your comfort and happiness. Do
The Golden Age for December 5, 1907.
not think you are forgotten. Many friends give you
loving thoughts in the rush of life’s cares and duties.
Ben Ivy, I do believe that those who in this life
were bound by ties of blood or congeniality of soul,
will meet in the life beyond.
We are glad to welcome our “sunny” poet and es
sayist, F. L. Orton, whose “Pipe Dreams” will be
read with pleasure. “A Delightful Occasion,” and
“The Old Log Cabin” are also by contributors who
were members of the Sunny South Household.
Our dear little invalid editress is convalescing
nicely. Her cheeks are rounding and gathering
a pale blush rose on their curves. She will greet
you herself next week. She desires to thank her
friends for kind letters, messages and flowers.
M. E. B.
With ®ur Correspondents
SOME HARD HITS, BUT LOTS OF TRUTH.
Like S. T. P., I am going to have my say, then
I will be done. Os course it will not do any good
or harm, either, for that matter. Women are like
steam, you can’t keep them down, and men needn’t
try, like Ben Ivy and Gwinnett County Farmer. Ben
Ivy, you are ignorant of the subject you are trying
to give us advice on and if you are going to give
us rhymes please try and find something more edify
ing. I am a farmer’s daughter. I know what I am
talking about. I am a farmer’s wife, too, if you
please. I’ve tried the poultry business and the em
broidery and a little of everything else that a woman
who has very slender capital can try. It is the living
truth, too, that a chicken will consume more than
its value before you can get it large enough to 4ell.
Os course if I had a thousand dollars and could
purchase fertile land, improved machinery and such
things and raise feed cheap and turn it into fine
bred poultry—why, yes, of course. What an ideal
life! but where is the farmer’s daughter who has
that thousand? The farmer’s girl is expected if there
is more than one or two to the family, to take her
place in the field, to do the light jobs like “chopping”
the cotton, dropping the corn, hoeing the garden and
the flower-yard, feeding the chickens and everything
else that men think too small for them. In the
house she must cook, sweep, wash, scrub, iron, sew,
patch and darn. Talk about her sewing for money
in these days of “ready-made garments,” anybody
can see that is all “bosh.” Suppose you bought
the cloth, buttons and thread and worked just as hard
as you could half the day and made a man’s shirt.
If you sold it, which I doubt, you might get fifty
cents for it, and every one you offered it to would
say, “Why, that is the usual price for an ordinary
work shirt like that in the stores.” After you count
ed up the expense you would have the great sum
of ten or fifteen cents. Farmers’ daughters are not
able to keep up with the styles, so all the sewing
they would get would be something very ordinary.
Suppose you buy the material and embroider a shirt
waist, you can hardly sell it at all, because there
are others handsomer than yours that can be bought
for less. As I said, I am a farmer’s wife and my
farmer won’t peddle unless he is forced to. Did
you ever try to sell a chicken or a dozen eggs, Ben
Ivy? Just imagine a bashful, modest woman driving
around to the back doors and offering her goods for
sale and every “hard-faced” man will sneer and try
to get everything for as little as possible. The wom
en are no better. I tell you, it is humiliating. I’d
rather peddle among the negroes, for they are lots
more polite. I reckon Ben won’t approve of that,
though. Os course, it is a good plan to keep a gun
or the hatchet handy. Yes, “I trained the vines,
too,” as he tells us in his little verse. Strawberry
vines, that is a “back-breaking” job, too, especially
adapted for women. Hoe and weed and pick your
vines and get wet to your knees in the dew, for
they should be picked when the dew is on them,
and when your customer views them, she will say,
“Oh, my! You sell them so high, I can get them
in the stores canned for ten cents a quart.” When
you relate your troubles at night to your Farmer
he will say, “I told you so.” You sadly think of all
the little articles you wanted so much and that is
the only way to get them. It is a well-known fact
that farmers’ wives and daughters are the poorest
dressed women in the country, and it is a shame to
the men if they could see it. Thank goodness! “Un
cle Reuben,” Gwinnett Farmer, Ben Ivy and all others
of your stripe, times are changing. You may howl
and rant and cut up all you please. It won’t do any
good. I hope the women folks in your households
will “spunk up” and go ahead just like they have
started out to do. “S. T. P.,” I just love you; “Little
White Girl,” I wish I knew you. Your home is not
very far from mine. George W. Wheeler, I admire
you, too. Say, let’s have a club button or badge.
Can’t somebody suggest something appropriate?
EVE.
n
A DELIGHTFUL OCCASION.
As I sit by my window watching the drifting down
of the russet leaves, I recall the vanished summer
with its pleasures and pastimes, and remember one
occasion that was perfectly enjoyable, without a flaw,
which is more than can be said of most festal times.
The occasion was the annual reunion of Confederate
Veterans, the particular branch of these to be enter
tained was the Mountain Remnant Brigade. The
vote at the previous reunion had given the next
meeting to our town, the date being the last week
in July. The camping ground was under an im
mense pecan tree, a mile from town on the banks
of a small historic river, an abundance of pure, cold
water being furnished by numerous hydrants. At
night the grounds were lighted by gas. Innumerable
catch-penny amusements were to be seen on every
side, with here and there a refreshment stand. To
many country pople the reunion is the main social
event of the year, and every one who can possibly
leave home will attend. Early Tuesday morning ve
hicles began to pass. This was kept up all day
Tuesday and Wednesday. On the morning of the day
on which the reunion began could be seen camps
of every description in every direction. After the
parade and music by the band the welcome address
was given by an “ex-Confed.” Then touching ad
dresses were given by prominent Texas orators, in
terspersed by music by a well-known Texas band.
My, my, how the old veterans enjoyed themselves.
How their dimmed old eyes would sparkle as the
well-known airs of Dixie and The Girl I Left Behind
Me would echo through the summer air, bringing
back recollections of the days of the 60’s, when they
marched many miles to defend the sunny southland.
Thus passed three days of pleasure for these old
heroes, and, indeed for all. The Daughters of the
Confederacy entertained the vast audiences at night
with drills, recitations and songs. One dear little
crippled girl sang the old southern melodies with such
tenderness that I’m sure she will never be forgotten.
The same little girl was chosen as the adopted daugh
ter of the M. R. Brigade in place of Winnie Davis.
Let me tell you one incident and then I’ll go. On
the last day of the reunion an old gray-headed, one
armed soldier came to where I was sitting and
said: “I see you’re a daughter by your badge, so
I feel privileged to address you. Are you a daughter
of H of Co. G? You certainly resemble him.”
I told him I was; then he requested me to find my
father. After a little search I found papa and took
him to where the old gentleman was sitting. I asked
papa if he had ever known him. “No,” said papa,
“I think not.” “Why, Major!” said the old Reb.,
“don’t you remember the time when a few of the
boys went foraging and we came upon a wedding
supper? The merry crowd was all in the parlor,
where the ceremony was being performed and there
was no one in the kitchen. One boy helped another
boy in at the open window. Then the boy inside
handed out turkeys, hams and cakes to the boys
outside, and then all ran as if for life. Well, I was
the boy who helped you in at the window. My, I can
taste that turkey yet, when we hungry soldiers sat
down to such a supper as we’d not had for days.”
Papa remembered, and such a time as they had talk
ing over old times. They are both old and gray
now, but their hearts are as young as they were
when they took active part with the Boys who wore
the Gray. EX-TEACHER.
n
THE OLD LOG SCHOOL HOUSE.
A few days ago, I made a little pilgrimage to see
the old country schoolhouse, in which I was initiated
in the mysteries of “the three R’s,” as the old field
schoolmaster said, “readin’, writin’, and ’rithmetic”
1 his house is a type of the backwoods school of that
day, built of hewn logs of one room with a huge
fireplace one-third the width of the room, about
which we gathered in winter, where a great fire
of logs and pine knots blazed and crackled, in which
we roasted chestnuts and chincapins. The only
mantel-piece was a shelf nailed over the fireplace,