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A MEMORY OF BOYHOOD.
Dedicated to Rev. Charles L. Pattillo on the occa
sion of the “Superannuating” service tendered him by
his friends at Battle Hill before his going to his last
North Georgia conference as an active member, and
then to Florida to rest. Written by Will D. Upshaw
whose boyhood was blessed by the faithful preacher’s
ministry.
When the years of youth were singing
And the skies were wondrous blue,
Then I knew in old Cobb county,
A preacher faithful, brave, and true.
It was at the dear old “Campground”
Near the crystal Powder Springs,
Where I met him, heard him, loved him,
While he talked of heavenly things.
And as he walked across my pathway
With his life so pure and white,
I felt anew my mother’s teaching
And my Father’s love of Right!
He and Vaughan were boon companions
As they fought the haunts of sin,
And to lives of Christian beauty
Bade their “members” enter in.
One for Wesley held the banner,
One a Baptist deep and strong,
But I heard above their “fences”
Their united “glory song”!
Thus I watched them work for sinners—
Heard them tell the “story old,”
Leading out of sin and darkness
To the Light within God’s fold!
And when I trusted the Redeemer
Pattillo came in tearful joy.
Joining Pastor Vaughan in saying:
“Heaven bless you, now, my boy!”
Through the years since happy boyhood
That have vanished one by one,
Charles Pattillo has held my conscience
As few men have ever done.
Now he comes in life’s sweet evening
Bearing sheaves of golden grain,
Just to say: “Dear fields, I leave you
For the rest that doth remain.”
In the fragrant “Land of Flowers”—
’Mid her groves and lakes and streams
May he find DeLeon’s fountain—
Quaffing youth and hopes and dreams!
How we’ll miss him —none can tell it —
But through the mellowed mist of tears
We will watch and wrap him daily
In our clinging love and prayers!
And tho the years be few or many,
It will always bring a thrill
Just to think of Charles Pattillo
And his work at Battle Hill.
*
CHAT.
Cold, crisp and bright is this January morning
of the young year. In spite of the thin coating of
ice at the edges of the brook, the sun is shining
so brilliantly that the birds are chirping among the
reeds and laurels as though they scented spring in
the air A walk in winter woods has its compensa
tions. True, the trees have lost their gay green
dress, but the loss permits one to admire the sym
metrical beauty and intricacy of the branches as
traced against the blue sky. Then there are always
heart-leaves to be found under the leaves, with the
faint, sweet odor that recalls one’s childhood, and
by the brook there are clusters of beautiful ferns
and velvet cushions of moss. And always there are
birds —even if only the ever cheery and active spar
rows. But this morning for the first time in two
months I heard the call of that dear bird, that says
“Rozeeta, Rozeeta,” almost as plainly as I can speak
it. What is the name of the bird? Can you tell
me, friends? I love it for its sweet note, and for
the name it calls so clearly, associated with a love
ly, dark eyed creole girl I knew in Louisiana, a child
of the woods and bayous, who loved not wisely
and found rest for her young heart in death
THE HOUSEHOLD
A Department of Expression Tor Those Who Teel and Think.
The Golden Age for January 16, 1908.
This morning was the first walk I have had in
more than two weeks, during which time I have
been shut in with an unwelcome visitor, La Grippe.
Do you know him? If not I trust you will never
make his acquaintance. He grips you as the Old
Man of the Sea gripped Sindbad and when he seems
to relax his hold, it is only that he may gather
strength for another clutch. I tell my friends I not
only have felt the grippe, but I have seen it, with
my dreaming eyes. One night, when I was feeling
well, though a little tired, I dreamed I was walking
along a narrow terrace, with a sheer descent on one
side and a high green bank on the other. My goal
was an apple tree, which I could see ahead —a pyr
amid of pink and white blooms. I reached it, plucked
a blossomy branch and started to retrace my steps,
when there suddenly appeared before me a black
apparition as tall as I, but in the form of a great
bat with long, black, skinny wings, small, pointed
ears, malignant, beady, black eyes and sharp teeth.
The creature sprang upon me, wrapped its wings
about me and dragged me down the descent, biting
me sharply on the temple and throat. Next morn
ing I had grippe. And so I say, I have not only felt
the clutch of the imp, but I have seen him in pro
pria persona.
We have the pleasure of meeting some new
friends today, and some who were pleasant visitors
to the old Sunny South Household. F. L. Arton, al
ways reflective, but with an undertone of poetry in
all he writes, is cordially welcome. Tennesseean, 1
would not have objected to being your comrade in
that tramp, notwithstanding the fraud of the “short
cut,” concerning which I am sure your tramp guide
laughed in his sleeve. Vannie, that was a remarka
ble Christmas message that you received, and you
interpreted it in a brave, sweet way that makes me
marvel at the trust and courage of you dear shut
ins. Mizpah strikes a true note when she says
that we do not sufficiently appreciate the blessings
that come of civilization and of skilled service. Sin
cerity’s letter contains food for thought and discus
sion, and so does dear Mattie Howard’s, who always
finds suggestions for right-living in the everyday
things about her. Arthur Goodenough’s fine poem
is appropriate to the new year. Annice’s little “cud
dle” verse bids one remember the old song, “Make
me a child again, just for tonight.” Mary Ligon
Miller’s sorrow-steeped lines will find an echo in the
heart of many a stricken mother. Self reproach is
inevitable in such cases, where the mother heart is
deep and tender, and yet it is not just that the
mother should feel remorse. It is not at all like the
instances of cold, careless neglect with which some
mothers treat their children. Our dear poet friend
should not let the recollection of one little thought
less act add to the heavy burden of bereavement.
We hope to hear from many of our old friends
as wed as from many new ones in this, the auspicious
beginning of the new year. M. E. B.
With ®ur Correspondents
A NEW YEAR’S WEDDING.
We are busy preparing for a wedding, an unusual
event in our quiet country home. The bride is my
cousin Ellen who has always lived with us, being
an orphan. Her love story is romantic. She and the
young man were school fellows and sweethearts ear
ly in life. When they were grown they became en
gaged but at this juncture a rich aunt of Ellen’s on
her father’s side came to see us. Ellen was her
name-child and prospective heiress. She disapproved
of the marriage and wanted Ellen to accept a young
pet of hers whom she had brought with her —a dudish
fellow with nothing manly about him. The aunt was
so insulting to Ellen’s lover that he went away in
anger, leaving thq field to his rival. There seemed
every likelihood that the two would wear out the
poor girl’s patience and her power to resist, when
the young dude suddenly fell in love with a neigh
bor’s pretty daughter and ran away with her. Ellen
was well pleased at this denouement. She quietly
went about her business, making home cheerful and
her friends happy. And so the years went on. This
fall, her old lover came back to the neighborhood.
He went straight to see her. He had made some
money and had a little home to take her to. Thi
wedding is arranged for the day after new year. She
is to marry in the church, which is close by and come
home to a big, old fashioned dinner. She has bloom,
ed into a new youth and beauty and she will make a
lovely bride. NARCISSA.
WHAT IS SUCCESS?
Success is accomplishing what we aim to do. If
we try to do small things and do these things well
then we succeed. If our aims are for great things
and we have accomplished them then we have suc
ceeded.
Our aims should not be beyond possibility, but
great things are often possible to small beings. The
smallest insects prove this truth.
Knowing how to do is more than great physical
strength. The mind of a weak mortal can control
muscular mortals.
The weak and insignificant often suggest ideas to
those who can carry them out. Wasps taught paper
making, bees taught wonderful skill, spiders were the
first spinners and ants set the example of fore
thought. MATTIE HOWARD.
*
A CHRISTMAS TRAMP AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
Imagine a middle aged man and a fair haired youth,
setting out on a short journey into the mountain
wilds, hunting for information of all kinds, and curi
ous to learn everything about mountains and moun
tain people, and you have my nephew and myself
as we were on a day, just before Christmas.
We traveled by rail some fifty miles, when we came
to a station where we had to change cars in order to
reach our destination some thirteen miles away. We
hastened to procure our tickets for fear of being left
behind, and were told we must pay on the train and
that we would have to wait four hours for it. After
trying to discover some means of diversion and
finding nothing more inviting than a cold watiing
room or a dirty postoffice surrounded by mud, we
decided to take crosstie passage and walk until we
got tired and then wait for the “through limited” at
some way station.
We found this much more enjoyable with all its
attendant experiences than a tedious wait and when
we had traveled some two miles we were overtaken
by a green looking country Rube who seemed to like
our company and the boy of our party began to
question him in reference to the surrounding coun
try; he seemed glad to tell him the difference be
tween mountains and the nearby knobs; pointing out
“Buzzard Roost,” “Fox Cave,” “’Possum” and other
prominent ones to the boy’s delight and edification;
he became quite confidential and told us that, by
quitting the cross-tie road and going only
two miles through the passes between the
knobs, we would strike the railroad again and save
eleven miles by the “short cut.” Os course we
were only too glad to do so and meekly followed
his lead. He did his best to entertain the “strang
ers within his gates,” even going so far as to show
us the exact place where he saw an Indian from
Oklahoma dig up a “bean pot” full of gold dust and
take it away with him after distributing some of
it among the people.
He also told how he had been hand-cuffed by the
sheriff and taken before the grand jury two weeks
before that they might question him about those who
had been manufacturing “Mountain Dew” and selling
it. He seemed glad to be out of jail again. We
sympathized with him and gave him a share of our
Christmas sweets that we had with us, for which
I should like to say, he looked grateful, and thanked
us, but my truth loving nature forbids such a de
gression.
We tramped through thawing mud for two miles
with cur Rube, when he left us after telling us of
another “short cut” to the railroad station. After
tramping over knobs and along creek bottoms that
wound about through the hills for two more miles
we did come to the station and were told by the
loungers there, who could not be content until they
found out our reason for being in the knobs, that
the very shortest way to the store and sttaion was.
“Right down the track from where you-uns left it.”
It would seem that our Reuben saw a chance to
get off a Christmas joke on us and at the same
time keep our company to his home. We had a
kind of ugly desire that the confections we gave him
might make him sick. We were now ravenously hun
gry and after looking over the display of food stuff
