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12
wi
mail. Write your name
ami address plainly. Write for a cata
logue. If you find watch not as repre
sented. return watch, we will return your
50c. THE STANDARD JEWELRY CO.,
407 Main Street, Winston-Salem, N. C.
Beware of Imitators.
The Combination Oil Cure for Can
cer and Tumor has its imitators. The
Original Oil Cure may be had of the
Originator.—Dr. Bye, 316 N. Illinois
St., Indianapolis, Ind. Free books upon
request.
WE FURNISH first-class help of all
kinds in and out of the city on
short notice. If you need a pc sition,
call or write us, enclosing stamp for
reply. The Wide-Awake Employment
Co., Hustlers for the People, 720 Aus
tell Bldg., Standard ’Phone 2335, At
lanta, Ga. Mention The Golden Age
when writing to advertisers.
AGENTS WANTED
for VITALOGY, an Encyclopedia
of health and home remedies. Best
seller on the market today. It pays
for itself. Everybody wants and
needs a copy. Rare opportunity for
hustlers. Exclusive territory. Write
today. D’Anson Isely, Mgr., 12
Trinity Ave., Atlanta, Ga.
WANTED— Experienced men and
women agents to represent us in towns
of 1,000 to 10,000 population, to sell
our products, used in every home,
Hotel, Case in the country. S2O week
ly made. Write at once. Address,
LENTA, CO.,
7 1-2 W. Mitchell St, Atlanta, Ga.
White Wyandotte Eggs
For Sale
From Dusten strain. Eggs $2 for 15, $3
for 30. Stock for sale at all times. Agent
Prairie State Incubator and Brooder. H.
L. Flanagan, East Point, Ga. Atlanta
Phone 284.
TELEGRAPHY
Best equipped school seuth. Expert
management. Main line wires. Great
demand for Operators. Positions guar
anteed. Write for Catalogue.
AMERICAN TELEGRAPH SCHOOL
Box 745. Milledgeville, Ga.
ATLANTA SCHOOL OF
TELEGRAPHY
o Letter received from a large Railroad today says:
“How many operators can you furnish us in
March? ” Enter now while demand is heavy.
Catalog free. A. C. BRISCOE, Prest., L. W.
ARNOLD. V.-P., Atlanta, Ga. F. P. JOHNSON.
Manager.
Free Bo&rd, Free Tuition
while securing the
BEST BUSINESS TRAINING
Write immediately for Catalogue R. P.
THIS is the opportunity of your life
GEORGIA-ALABAMA BUSINESS COLLEGE,
MACON, GA.
Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup
Has been used for over SIXTY-FIVE YEARS hv
MILLIONS of MOTHERS L r tbrir CHILDREN
WHILE TEErni.'.G, wi. Ii PERFECT SUCCESS. It
SOO THUS til* CHI LD. SOFTENS the GUMS, ALLA Y\-
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tiim’ilv for DI I RJ.’fREA Bol<t i>v-Druvtri'-tsin everv
.own Rnothinur Syrup.” and no other kmd
Twenty five cents a bottle. Guaranteed under the
Jfo6<l and Drmrs Act, June 80th Serial Nnmbei
AN OIJ) AND WELL TRIED REMEDY
Why pay $15.00 to
$20.00 for a gold watch
when you can buy one
at wholesale for $12.50.
This watch is solid
gold. Cut out this ad
and return with 50c.
Watch will be sent by
express C. O. D.; ex
amine at office; if you
think it a bargain pay
the agent sl2 and
charges, watch will be
yours. If you don’t
live near express office
send cash with order
and 25c for registered
VOICES OF YOUTH
• AFTER THE DECORATION.
In the dusk of a Decoration Day,
When shadows were creeping around
To enfold the gay memorials
That brightened the burial ground,
There came a sound of footsteps—
Haltin, and stumbling, and slow;
As beneath the flower-decked entrance,
Outlined by the twilight’s glow,
Stood a poor old ragged veteran;
(No beggar —he was too proud to
beg;
Though his face looked pinched and
starved,
And a crutch filled the place of a
leg).
He’d been here today with the many—
Had joined each clarion hurrah!
Yelled over the sleeping heroes,
Who had fought and died in the war.
He’d squared his poor old shoulders
As plaudite rang o’er the dead;
But somehow he felt kinder jealous,
And thought with a shake of his
head,
“It don’t seem quite right to a fellow
Who fought through the whole long
war,.
That ‘the dead’ alone are remembered
In flower, and speech and hurrah;
We’re passed with a nod: ‘he’s a vete
ran’ ;
But because we survived every shot,
Neither flowers nor favors are ours;
In a word, ‘the live soldier's’ for
got.”
Now, that the crowd had departed,
And the flowers, the night and the
stars
Were hovering around the dead
heroes,
The veteran came back with his
scars.
He came like a burglar creeping,
Just to steal one tiny bouquet,
To pin on his ragged old jacket,
That might have been blue once,
or gray.
A bunch of velvet-eyed pansies
Had rolled in the grass-grown aisle,
(From the grave of a eulogized cap
tain),
And he took up the flowers with a
smile;
Then tossing his head up grandly,
Pinned the bunch on his wretched
old coat,
(While a sense of bitter injustice
Brought a sob from his wrinkled
old throat).
As he walked out the gate in the
gloaming,
He repeated, “It can’t be quite
right!”
Then the crutch and the ragged old
soldier
Were lost in the dark of the night.
FANNIE LOU DART.
MEMORIAL DAY IN ATLANTA.
My Dear Young People:
There is a pathetic lesson for us
all in this pretty poem of Fannie Lou
Dart’s, that applies not alone to the
old soldier, but almost universally to
our daily dealings with those whom
God sends across our pathway, even
to the loved ones of our own house
hold; for so oft —
“We give our own tne bitter tone
Though we love our own the best.”
We are all so much more prone to
see the worthy traits of character, and
to value the faithfulness of those
about us, when we have lost them
forever, together with the opportuni
ty of proving our own true worth.
Our kind words of praise, our flow
ers, can not touch and lift the burden
from tired, aching hearts when the
cold arms of death, more merciful
The Golden Age for May 7, 1908.
Conducted by the Editor
than we, have at last folded them
away into a silent rest, that criticism
and indifference can not penetrate.
’Tis sweeter, far, to scatter flowers
in the life than on the grave of any
one.; yet there is a commendable
yearning within us all to do some
thing that will live when we have
ceased to fight our battle of life;
something that will call forth the flow
ers. But if this neglected old soldier
with his crutch and rags had been in
Atlanta on April twenty-seventh, he
would have seen that “The live sol
dier was not forgotten.” For it was
a splendid tribute of love, both to the
living and the dead, that “The Daugh
ters of the Confederacy” and thou
sands besides, brought to a beautiful
completion that day as they crowned
the “living old soldiers,” scarred and
gray, with loving enthusiasm, while
they covered the graves of their dead
with flowers.
Remember, young people, tribute to
the dead is beautiful, but flowers of
love, sympathy and kindness planted
in the heart of the living, take root
there to bud and bloom in eternity,
wafting their fragrance, not only back
to us when we meet at the Savior's
feet, but floating on and on, the sweet
aroma gathering richness throughout
the ages of eternity, rhe beautiful
flowers on the graves of the dead
wither and die, but in the words of
the dear little song:
“Kind words never die.”
BROTHER WILLIE.
RUTH MASON’S DRESS.
By Jennie Porter Arnold.
(Concluded from last week.)
During my four-mile walk home that
night my mind was filled with thoughts
of Ruth. All my happy exultation of
the morning was gone; even the pre
cious twelve dollars in my pocket were
almost forgotten, for the sorrow of
poor Ruth was uppermost in my mind.
On reaching home I told the story
to mother.
“Possibly they treat Ruth in that
way because they are jealous,” she
said. “You are not quite wise, dear,
to praise her so freely and openly.”
“But how can I help praising and
loving her when she is so bright and
lovable, and the others are so stupid
and vain?”
“I know, dear, but try and not make
the contrast quite so sharp between
them.”
I returned to my school on Monday
morning with new resolutions.
“I will be discreet in future and
give them no occasion to ill-treat
Ruth,” I said to mother at parting.
“But I will praise and pet her all the
more when we are alone, for the dear
child seems so sad and friendless.”
Ruth met me at the school house
door with her smile of welcome, and
with the usual bunch of flowers. Both
Mrs. Mason and Ruth were great lov
ers of flowers, and their yard was like
a little garden through the summer
months.
As the day wore on I saw that
Ruth seemed eithei’ very much de
pressed or languid, and, for the first
time since she had been my pupil, she
missed in one of her lessons.
It was one of those very warm days
of early summer which come upon us
when we are wholly unprepared for
summer heat, and I attributed the
change in Ruth to the weather.
The next day and again on Wednes
day she was not at school. I won
dered at this, and felt some anxiety,
too, for she had never been absent be
fore. After the close of school, I
went by her house. Her mother met
met me at the door with a grave face.
“Ruth is very sick,” she said in an
swer to my inquiries. “She has spok
en of you several times, and will be
so glad to see you.”
I found my little pupil wan and
wasted by even so short an illness. A
quick, happy look flashed over her
face as she recognized me, and both
hands were stretched out in welcome.
“It’s so good of you to come, Miss
Graham!” she said softly, as I bent
to kiss her.
She was so weak that even this lit
tle attempt at conversation seemed to
exhaust her, so I sat beside her hold
ing her feverish hand in one of mine,
while I passed my other hand over
her forehead and beautiful brown hair,
thinking of the great things I had
hoped from her.
“I fear she has studied too hard,”
Mrs. Mason said, while the look of
anxiety deepened in the careworn
face, “but she is so fond of her books,
and especially since you came, she
can not bear to lose a single lesson.
If it were not so
“Please don’t, mother!” Ruth inter
rupted gently, and her mother was
silent.
What was it? Had the girls been
tormenting her again, I wondered, but
did not like to ask.
The next night I called again, but
Ruth was delirious and no longer
recognized me. She lay with closed
eyes and flushed face; her head and
hands in constant, restless motion,
talking incoherently to herself. Sud
denly her eyes opened; she shrank
back upon her pillow, while her hands
were outstretched entreatingly.
“I can’t go, mother!” she cried pit
eously. ”Or, I can’t go; the girls talk
so about my old dress and my sun
bonnet and shoes, and it hurts me so!
Please let me stay at home.” Then
her voice fell to a plaintive moan.
“Oh, no, I must go! I mustn’t mind
them. Oh, Miss Graham,” in an
agony of entreaty which W’rung my
heart, “don’t let them! Please, don’t
let them! It hurts me so!”
“Oh, Ruthie, dear, they shall never
do it again!” I cried, dropping on my
knees beside her bed, while the tears
streamed down my face. I took the
fever-hot hands in mine and kissed
the little flushed face, but she did not
heed me; for a moment, only, she re
mained quiet, then began her piteous
ravings.
“•She has been so all day,” her
mother said, with a groan. “She came
home Monday night and cried herself
to sleep, because the girls were so
unkind t(5 her. They were vexed over
your reproof Friday and then they got
her alone on Monday and talked to
her worse than ever. They seemed to
nave a spite against her because you
took her part. She was almost heart
broken over it, and was too sick to
leave her bed by morning. I think
the . heat and so much study have
weakened her; but she would have
come out all right only for the girls—•
they have killed her.”
“I ’will bring Anna and Mattie here
tomorrow and let them see the effect
of their cruelty,” I said indignantly
through my falling tears. “I hope it
may teach them a lesson.”
The next day I told the girls of
Ruth’s dangerous illness and asked
them to go with me to her home. They
were reluctant at first, but, without
giving my reasons for desiring their
company, I so wrought upon their
feelings that at last they went with
me.
There was no change in the poor
little sufferer’s condition. She lay the
same as yesterday, with head and
hands in constant motion, scarcely for
a monent ceasing her low, incoherent
moans. I bent over her and spoke her
