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TROUBLE.
The world is full of trouble,
But we magnify our cares;
By worrying make them double
And enlarge them by our fears.
The world is full of troubles,
But when they’re bravely faced,
They vanish like the bubbles
From an ocean wave erased.
And trouble’s root; what is it,
When to its source ’tis traced?
’Tis sin, our hearts confess it,
Sin “hated, then embraced.”
Life will be filled with troubles
Each day and every hour,
Till Right its force redoubles
And conquers Evil’s power.
Ivy, Ala. B. R. IVY.
CHAT.
The Lenten season is with us. Fashion takes a
little respite from pleasures that have paled her
cheek, and dutifully attends service, prayer book in
hand. Fish and eggs figure more largely on the
menu for home meals and quiet lunches. Mrs.
Curtis, in today’s Household, speaks convincingly
in praise of eggs. Indeed, the egg is worthy of
praise. To begin with, it is beautiful. If you ever
found a hen's nest when a child, either unexpectedly
while you were hunting for wild violets in the mead
ow back of the house, or after a long search, baf
fled by the cunning of her henship, you will remem
ber how pretty the white and cream-colored eggs
looked in the brown nest. Then, when the eggs,
after biddy had for three weeks patiently cherished
them undei* her soft breast, turned into downy
chicks, delicately colored blue, yellow, variegated,
■white and brown, like an apronful of blossoms —how
lovely they were! It almost seems a pity to eat
eggs that may be transformed into such pretty,
happy creatures. But the egg is indispensable as
food. It forms the basis of innumerable puddings,
pies, cakes and other delicious sweets, but eaten
by itself it is eminently satisfying when rightly
cooked —delicately poached, or dropped for a few
minutes into cold water (to be put into boiling water
makes the white tough) and taken out just at the
auspicious instant, to be eaten with toast and crisp
water cress. More nutriment is packed into its
pearly case than can be obtained from platesful of
meat or vegetables. One egg a day—you remember —■
nourished the fugitive Christian in early days, who
had hidden from his persecutors in a barn where a
hen came every day and deposited an egg in a nest
in the very corner where the fugitive lay. The hen
must have been disheartened at the daily disappear
ance of her egg, but no doubt she was divinely led,
as was the raven that brought food to Elijah. And
the hen was sustained in her disappointment by a
sense of duty performed. Hens are accustomed to
being robbed by featherless bipeds, and I was taught
by my old black nurse that they voiced their mild
resentment of man’s ingratitude in their cackle,
which being interpreted is,
“I lay an egg here, and I lay an egg there,
And still I go bare footed, b-a-r-e f-o-o-t-e-d,
b-a-r-e f-o-o-t-e-d.”
I well remember asking my mother to get the hens
some shoes, or at least, stockings, to keep their feet
warm, and stop their complaints.
I hope the mothers among our Household readers
will respond to Pippa's graphic account of her
■wilful little boarder tot, by suggesting methods of
dealing with the child who is born with a determina
tion to have its own ’way. Usually it is a bright,
child, apt to achieve success in some form, but what
a trial it is to the parents.
“The Violet’s Mission,” by Alice Calhoun, author
of “When Yellow Jessamine Blooms,” would prob
ably have taken a prize from the “Gentle Woman”
magazine, which asks for short stories of human
life influenced in some way by flowers. “Unknown”
tells us of three men who had been given good
gifts, which they failed to use, through having their
aspirations and their energies destroyed by evil
habits. Many a great genius has gone early into
eclipse because of dissipation, leaving those who
loved and looked up to them, to say, as did the wife
of a gifted statesman,
THE HOUSEHOLD
A Department of Expression For Those Who Feel and Think,
The Golden Age for March 19, 1908.
“Ah me! I little thought that thou,
The strong of mind and limb
Wouldst bow thy haughty manhood down,
And make its glories dim.”
Miss Lula Summey’s “Big Paper” is indeed a giant
newspaper. When I last went to see her in her
beautiful little home at Stone Mountain, she spread
the time-yellowed sheet on the floor, and I got down
before it on my knees and looked at the pictures,
which are very good, and read the interesting text,
noting the clearness of the print, which excels the
modern type machine printed newspapers. I wonder
if The Constellation was a monthly, or a quarterly
paper, or was it issued only now and then? I hope
we shall hear whether any of our other friends have
preserved a copy. Mr. Ivy’s verses express a fine phi
losophy, if only we could shape ourselves to its teach
ings, but alas for the weakness of our poor human
nature! When the waves of trouble go over us
they are apt to drown hope and cheerfulness. Dr.
Nat’s musical and inspiring lyric, “The Way of Ho
lines,” is the more impressive that it was written
while in bodily pain weakness. The good and
variously gifted doctor has been stricken with a mal
ady that fetters his active limbs but leaves his mind
free and bright. Sincerely do we wish that health may
soon visit him again, and his many friends and his
noble wife be relieved from their grief because of
his affliction.
M. E. B.
Wtb Out Correspondents
A ROYAL PRINCESS.
“Don't call me Princess Golden Hair! I’m red-head
ed!” Her tone of voice indicated her opinion that
red hair is more to be proud of than either gold or
royalty. And indeed her hair was gloriously bright
and ruddy. There was a glint of the same fire in
her blue eyes, and the color was suggested again in
the salmon spots beneath the eyes. She was a fine
specimen of the mettle and beauty of Ireland.
“All right,” said I. “As you please. It makes no
difference to me, if your hair were as red as poppies.
That isn't what lam talking about. The point I wish
to impress on you, Princess, is that I don’t like you
to dig these holes in my back yard.”
She looked up at me with one eye squinted. “I
think you are a mean old maid! You don’t want me
to play with the books, and you don’t want me to
pull the flowers, and you don’t want me to pull the
kitten’s tail. You don’t want me to do a thing in the
world! ”
“It’s because you always want to do something bad,
Princess. If you must dig, why don't you go out there
and dig up those bitter weeds? That would be a good
work.”
Her lip pouted. She was insulted at the mention
of work. Without another word or glance at me, she
resumed her digging in the great unsightly hole that
she had scooped out before the door. If I had been
her mother, I should probably have used more tact
and persuasion to turn the mischief-maker’s energies
in another direction. Most mothers, however, would
have let her go on and dig the hole. Some would
have filled it up themselves afterward; others would
have left it to fill with trash and rainwater. But 1
was a teacher —not a mother. I broke a twig off the
peachtree overhead, and applied it to the calves of
her dainty legs. The effect was more than I had
hoped for. Sh • tb-ew down the hoe and ran into
the house, with a suriek that ended in a prolonged
“Mamma!”
1 was disgusted. “Her mother will be offended, of
course,” I thought, “and there will be a coolness. I
hate these little tiffs.” But I was independent. If
they don't like my licking the kid, they might find an
other boarding place, if they could. I was not in the
boarding house business, anyway. I resolved that
boarders are a nuisance (forgetting that I had been
one most of my life), and so returned to the kitchen
and my interrupted baking. I had worked for three
minutes, perhaps, without any more distractions,
when I saw the Princess come out of her mother’s
room and walk with imperious dignity down the
hall, coming straight to the kitchen.
“Miss Ma-wy,” she said enticingly, “What you
makin’?”
“Tea-cakes.”
“Tea-cakes! Oh goody-goody-goody!” She came
dragging a chair over the floor, so that she could climb
up and sit. on the table. I did not like her to do
this, for she also sat upon the dirt, and I had caught
a glimpse, as she bent over digging, of garments that
were by no means spotless. But we had already had
one fight, and I was willing to concede something for
the sake of peace.
“Miss Ma-wy, make me a little bitty cake.” This
was inevitable. I made a cake the size of a half
dollar. She was delighted, but not satisfied. “Now
make me another’n —a leetle t-nint-sy one!” She
clasped her hands and shut her eyes and swayed to
and fro, to make me understand how very small she
wished it to be. I had my thimble in my pocket,
and with this 1 cut out a cake. She shouted for glee.
“Now make me another’n —littler.”
“See here, Princess, I am not playing! I am mak
ing these cakes for people, not for dolls. And I’ve
no time for foolishness.” I once more began making
ordinary prosaic cakes, with the lid of a baking-pow
der can.
Her eyes opened wide, as if she were somewhat
astonished at my behavior. “Well,” she said, “if you
ain’t got no time for foolishness —if you ain’t goin’
to make me any more little bitty cakes —I’ll just go
right out there and dig another hole in the yard!”
“If you do, I’ll whip you.”
“You’d better not. I’ll tell Judge, and he'll whip
you. Judge gave me that little hoe, and he told me
I could dig all I wanted to. And now I just dare
you to whip me!”
She turned over on her stomach and began sliding
down off the table, preparatory to carrying out her
threat.
“Wait a moment, Princess!” I exclaimed. Let
me show you something.” With a few skillful strokes
of my knife, I cut the figure of a man in the pastry.
She scrambled back on the table, feet and all, and
stood over the bread board, gazing rapturously at my
handiwork.
“That’s good!” she cried. “Now make a woman!”
That evening our tea-table presented a cannibal
istic aspect. We ate men, women and children for
supper, not to speak of the animals that we had, from
elephants to tadpoles.
But the little up-to-date girlie had had her way.
Householders, what would you have done? Where
the case is mother and child is it best to switch or
to temporize or to yield the point? If I were a
mother, I’d begin very early to enforce obedience be
fore the tiny mite had shed long clothes, for a very
tiny mite has often a pretty big will of her own.
PIPPA.
THE VIOLET’S MISSION.
A violet grew on the shaded bank of a stream
that ran through a lonely wood. Very isolated was
the wood. No sound disturbed its solitude, save the
monotonous song of the brook and the moan of the
wood dove that loves a deep forest. “I am very
lonely here,” sighed the violet. “No one sees me;
no one cares for me. The softer winds, the south
wind and the west wind, seldom find their way into
this forest. My beauty and my fragrance are of no
use. I am nothing in the great scheme of the world.
Why was I not born in a garden where I might give
pleasure to many, or down there in the sunny meadow
where there are wild roses and daisies that would
be my friends? Ah me!”
While the violet sighed, there came into the deep
shadows of the wood a man young in years, but old
in sin and sorrow, an ex-convict, who had served his
term in prison for a crime he did not commit. He
could not prove his innocence, and being known as
wild and reckless, a companion of bad men, he was
convicted and sent to prison. The sense of wrong
burned in him, and today when he walked out of
the prison walls, a free man, but branded as a felon,
with no reputation, no friends, no hope, he had but
one thought, that of revenge on the ones who had
helped to convict him. He had fled from the town
end the eyes of men who would look on him with
contempt and distrust, but when he had entered into
the forest the spell of its silence and shadows cooled
his fevered soul and he said to himself: “Os what
use is revenge? Can it bring back lost happiness,
lost innocence? Nothing can restore these. There
is no hope but in death. The weapon I bought to
avenge my wrongs shall be turned upon myself.”
He went on deeper into the heart of the wood
whence the voice of the stream seemed to call to him.
He flung himself down on its grassy banks and quench-
