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for sale at the store we concluded that our only
hope lay in sardines and shop-worn crackers, and
for drink our choice seemed to be either paregoric,
bay rum, ten cents the bottle, or Castoria. After
consulting the boy we became satisfied that “Chil
dren did not really cry for it’’ after all so we took
spring water straight, out of a dipper. All good
and enjoyable times must end sooner or later, and
we were ready, very, to welcome the flying express
when it was flagged for us by the accommodating
merchant. We were made to feel very important,
when we were ushered into a private car and left
alone to enjoy the distinction heaped upon us by giv
ing us a special. We hardly knew how to act under
the circumstances, not being used to such favors, but
by moving from seat to seat and thus doing our best
to occupy the whole car, we passed the time away,
as we were whirled around the numerous curves,
some of which were so short that one could almost
see the headlight of the locomotive as he looked
through the glass door in the rear of the car.
Were it not for the fear of being accused of rom
ancing we might tell how we managed to get home
again, but we want to assure you we do not indulge
in any flights of fancy. TENNESSEEAN.
n
MY CHRISTMAS MESSAGE.
I enter your pleasant circle to relate a little inci
dent that seemed a kind of special message to me.
I am an invalid, and seldom able to leave home.
In the winter visitors are usually shown into my
room, because of the fire and the cheerful sense of
occupancy there, but occasionally I go into the par
lor and settle myself on the sofa, or in a deep chair,
to think awhile all by myself. Last Christmas morn
ing was pleasant, as you know. I was impressed to go
into the parlor and when I was in the room, some
thing seemed to urge me to look into the heater,
which has not had a fire in it for two years. What
could there be in the heater? But yielding to the
feeling, I lifted the lid and looked in. Emptiness and
darkness, just as I had supposed. I was about to re
place the lid again, but I was not fully satisfied. L
went and got a lamp and flashed the light into the
heater. On the bottom sat a beautiful blue bird. How
or when it got there was a mystery. I thought at first
it was dead, as it did not move, but I detected a
tremor of the feathers, and putting my hand under it
very gently, I lifted it out. In a little while, it flut
tered for freedom. How glad I was to open the door
and set it at liberty. But it had brought me a mes
sage which it was easy to interpret. Those of us who
Esther Eerr all 9 s Experiment.
(Continued from Page Two.)
crisis. When she fasts at breakfast it means that
the storm-clouds are lowering over Ferrall Hall,
and that the mistress is reefing her sails to meet
it. She says that is why she never fails, Lane,
because she does not trust in her own strength.
Economy, of the Benjamin Franklin type, and the
cotton crop were generally our methods of war
fare; but unless you see the mater with the winds
blowing from all points of the compass, you can
not guess how heroic she really is.”
Lane Ferrall lifted his hat.
“Let us hope that the Ferrall house-boat is
headed for fairer seas. I have seen enough, and
heard more from old Uncle Ezra. I think that he
worships the ground mother walks on. But com
mon sense and judgment sometimes eclipse heroism.
And I think that it would be much the wiser
course for us to pursue —to sell off half the estate
and lift that mortgage. What do you think of it?”
“Why, it would be best, of course,” Esther an
swered, with a note of excitement in her voice, “if
you could do it; but who on earth has the money
to buy tw’o thousand acres?”
Lane laughed.
“You talk like we lived in the wilds of Haber
sham. I have been approached already by a rep
resentative of the new railroad, a certain silver
tongued Mr. Ward. He asserted that he lived in
an adjoining county, and that he simply desires to
buy the land and change his place of residence.”
“Surely, Lane,” Esther exclaimed in a tone of
deep reproach, “you do not think of selling Fer
rall Hall?”
“No, little sister, I am a progressive young
man—l hope—but lam not one of those disgusting
The Golden Age for January 16, 1908.
are walled and imprisoned by disease often brood
despondently in the darkness, feeling that we are
forgotten in the great scheme of the world. But God
does not forget. He has a wise purpose in all things,
as we will know some day. In his own good time, he
will send his angel to set us free. In the meantime,
we may find comfort and content if we will trust
him and bear our trials with patience. As I freed
the lovely blue bird, and saw him fly away under
the clear Christmas sky, there came to me vividly
the words of the Master, “Not a sparrow falleth to
the grcund without his knowledge—and are ye not
of more value than many sparrows?”
Raleigh, N. C. VANNIE.
R
ARE WE APPRECIATIVE?
“I was so thankful after I had passed over that
piece of perilous railway that I just had to go around
to the engineer and shake hands with him and thank
him,” said a traveler. “And what did the engineer
do?” asked someone. “Why, he seemed astonished
and delighted, good fellow; said nobody ever thought
of showing appreciation of the engineer for doing
his duty; yet how many of us do our full duty
in our work? And just think of the responsibility that
rests on the man whose hand is on the throttle!
Were he to forget us for one moment he might be
the instrument of sending us into eternity.”
Very few persons are sufficiently appreciative of
the blessings and privileges they receive through
being members of a civilized community. There
is the doctor —he is the patient, skillful attendant
in a bad and lingering case of illness. Night and
day, good and bad weather, find him faithful in his
visits. His skill and care and the confidence he in
spires help the patient through the trial of a nearly
fatal disease. Yet who thinks of being grateful to
him? His bill is grumbled over, and its payment
put off as long as possible. But the doctor is not a
mere machine. He has a heart, and though he needs
the money he has earned, he is glad to have the ap
preciative word, the smile of thanks and friend
ship.
Many times w’e receive little favors from neighbors
which we are apt to take as a matter of course and
forget that these kind offices have helped us greatly
and that perhaps they meant sacrifice on the part of
the neighbor. Many put off showing gratitude often
until it is too late.
Now, while life is full and one needs so many lit
tle helps, show appreciation. Give the kind thought
utterance, give the smile and freindly word even
male creatures of the nineteenth century to whom
nothing is sacred, neither the Imines, honor nor
graves of their ancestors. The commercial cad who
worships money and takes scant pains to conceal
it; who is without high ideals, himself, and can
not comprehend them in others; the modern pa
gan, who does not fear God, nor regard man, who
stands boastfully on the small eminence of a dis
honorably gained fortune, while he patronizes the
balance of humanity —
“But to come back to saner things,” Lane went
on, while the passion slowly died out of the dark
brown eyes, and his voice took on its usual mel
low tone. “Mr. Ward wants two thousand acres,
and the house occupied by our late overseer.”
“What is he willing to give?”
“Five thousand.”
“That is not enough; do you think so?”
“No; I have already told him it is eight thou
sand or nothing.”
Esther laid one small hand suddenly on her
brother’s arm. “Lane, how dare you let such a
chance slip ?’ ’
“Because, I would be nothing but a dunce to ac
cept it.”
“But the interest, Lane, how can you ever meet
it?”
“I have already paid it,” he said calmly.
11 You! Impossible! How ?’ ’
“With ethics and mules, Essie,’* her brother re
turned with a musical laugh.
“Explain,” she said with a bright, half-incredu
lous look.
“Well, I wrote an essay on a moral problem and
sent it to a Northern magazine. I received .$350
for it, and for the balance, I sacrificed the finest
pair of mules on the place.”
“What will you do next spring to replace them?
though the favor done be of the slightest benefit, I
remember a tiny newsboy who used to watch for
one particular man in order to sell him a paper.
When asked once why he did this, he replied, “That
gent thanks me just like he took me for a big boy
and I’d done him a favor.”
I knew a wealthy man in this town who after being
saved from drowning actually offered the man who
rescued him twenty-five cents. Had I been his pre
server, 1 would have told the man he could retain
the value of his own life and spend it on his person.
Nashville, Tenn. MIZPAH.
R
WHAT CURE FOR THIS SORROW?
Here lies my little boy who, yesterday,
Came to my side while I was weeping o’er
The story of a mother, all bereaved.
He put his little arms about my neck
And said: “Don’t cry, mamma,” and stroked my
cheek,
All wet with tears, with his soft, dimpled hand.
“Go play, my dear, don’t interrupt mamma,
For she is reading now.” He crept away,
Nor came again. The story finished, then
I sought my child. Upon a rug he lay,
A doll clasped in his arms. “Why don’t you play
With these nice toys that good old Santa brought?”
He said: “I did try, mamma, but I hurts.”
“Fie, fie!” I said. “Santa will come no more
To little boys who care not for his gifts.”
“I hurts, mamma,” he said again, and placed
His little hand upon his throat, and then
My heart stood still!
All through that day and through the endless night,
With love and skill combined we fought with death.
Alas, the enemy had entered there
And taken strong position ere we knew.
And when the sun rose on the snow clad earth.
The little spirit winged its flight to God.
O, Father, had I put aside the book
Wherein a mimic-mother voiced her woe,
And taken my sweet child upon my knee —
My child, whom I’d have gladly died to save —
I would not now be bowed with anguish fierce,
For, though we might have failed his life to save,
It is the memory of that lonely hour
He spent in suffering and with no one near
To soothe the hurt I gave his baby heart;
Neglected and alone when death approached.
This is the wound nor heaven itself can cure.
Trenton, S. C. MARY LIGON MILLER.
Except Dixie, I know that there is nothing superfine
in our stables.”
“Write two more essays,” he said, with imper
turbable dignity, as he touched up Dixie into a gal
lop, which he enjoyed controlling, and which soon
brought them in sight of the great gates at Fer
rall Hall.
Esther’s stay at home was all too brief. After
her experiences in the city, she was glad for the
program to be changed from rushing to rest.
She realized, too, that every moment was replete
with the priceless things that no money can pur
chase. Her mother’s and her brother’s love was
constantly but delicately in evidence, and every
time the old hall clock would strike, she would say
to her own heart: “Another hour of the precious
time gone.”
(To be Continued.)
r H
Tfy Soul.
My Soul stood bared to the sight of men,
My Soul stood firm: it knew no fear,
For the blame of man could not be just,
The mind of man could not understand.
My Soul stood bare in the sight of a child,
It stood condemned: for it stood perceived,
For the blame of a child is the blame of
Truth,
Tho’ the heart of a child may not under
stand.
My Soul stood bare in the sight of God,
And my Soul rejoiced in its helplessness,
For the blame of God was forgiveness,
The Mercy of God could understand.
—Edward P, Gilchrist, in Harper’s Weekly.
11
