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and domestic work generally is so well adapted to
young women. The girls in this section engage in
home occupations with much zeal and seem healthy
and contented. I hope it will be a long time before
all the nice girls quit raising chickens and flowers
and “garden sass” and hie themselves to towns to
stand behind counters and wait on tedious custo
mers, or sit at a type machine in a hot office from
morn until dewy eve. I don’t want to put one little
block in the way of the great wheels of progress, but
progiess does not confine itself to cities and their
ways. It is extending to the country where rural de
livery, good schools, and traveling libraries are a
few of the signs of its presence. B. J. IVY.
DON’T WORRY.
(This is not intended for poetry, but just the ex
pression of experience with a negro neighbor. The
negro, however, fixed up the fence and made him
self a nice garden. I prefer his doing that to keep
ing horses and goats.)
If a horse breaks in your corn —
Don’t worry.
Go straight and fix up the fence —
Don’t hurry.
Take plenty of time to nail it well;
Plant a strong post,
Put a new rail,
Clench a strip on the outside,
Then don’t worry.
If someone trespass on your rights—
Don’t worry.
Do that friend a goodly turn —
Don’t hurry.
Meet him with a kindly smile,
Ask if all are well at home,
Be sorry if his dear one’s sick,
Then don’t worry.
MATTIE HOWARD.
THE PASSING OF A HERO.
Dear Household Friends: I know it was with deep
sorrow, as true sons and daughters of Dixie, that the
members of the Household read of General Stephen
D. Lee’s death. Another link in the slender chain
IHALF A CENTURY 1
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of gray is broken and another heroic soul has an
swered “present” to the roll-call on the Plains of
Peace.
It is unnecessary for me to give an account of this
brave man’s life. Many, abler than I, have already
told the story of his patriotism and nobility in glow
ing words, but I feel that we of the Household should
place a flower of appreciation and tender sorrow upon
the mound which holds the mortal remains of one of
the South’s immortal sons.
Stephen D. Lee, in common with other leaders of
the Southern Confederacy, was cast in heroic mold,
one who, on the tented field, dared all for the cause
his heart declared as right, standing abreast with
other heroes of Dixie and showing “one equal tem
per of heroic hearts, made weak by time and fate,
but strong in will, to strive, to seek, to find and not
to yield.”
Often has it been said, “Peace hath her victories,
as well as war,” and this life exemplifies the truism.
Coming home to a land laid waste and darkened with
the shadow of death, he was one who valiantly up
held the South and aided in her restoration, till the
Howers and fruits of peace grew in the clefts made
by war.
Ever loving, and holding in fond remembrance his
comrades of the bloody Sixties, he kept in touch with
them and was given the highest honor in the Reun
ions. This year, only a few days after his death, a
vast audience listened to the reading of the last
words his fingers had penned to his comrades—the
address he intended to deliver at the Reunion in
Birmingham and many remarked that its close was
prophetic, for he spoke with tender feeling of the
gathering home of the veterans and their welcome
greeting by those of the Old Guard who have gone
before, who question, “Do they love us still in Dixie?”
Yea. truly, can he answer them yes, tell them of a
devotion undying to the heroes in gray, and of a land
smiling once more beneath a summer sky. And we
know all is well with Stephen D. Dee, who has passed
to where “beyond these voices there is peace.” where
no more for him.
“The blast of war’s great trumpet shakes the skies,
But beautiful as songs of the Immortals,
The holy melodies of love arise.”
Humboldt, Tenn. “VIOLET!”
The Golden Age for July 2, 1908.
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For further information and sleeping car accommodation, consult
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EMMW-Me——— I HI 11l
“CONFEDERATE REUNION.”
O, hear the bugle calling
To the scattered ranks of gray,
And see they quickly gather
As on a former day,
When the trumpet call of duty
Sounded all the South along,
And the heroes gladly gathered,
With loyal hearts and strong.
They lost in man’s opinion,
But God who sees the heart,
Knows well how grandly noble,
They chose the better part.
True to their state and fireside,
True to their inward light;
They suffered, bled and perished
For a cause, they felt was right.
Now they're few and quickly passing,
To their reward beyond;
Never do they meet together,
But some comrade brave is gone.
Crown them with the hero’s laurel;
Make their pathway fair and bright,
For the crown of thorns they’ve suffered,
And their hardships were not light.
And, methinks, I see their chieftain,
He, the gallant and the brave,
Standing in the ranks of glory,
On the other side the grave.
And as one by one they gather,
Where in peace and rest they’ll be;
The first to meet and greet them,
Will be the peerless Robert Lee.
And as they’re passing from us,
They leave a lesson grand,
Os fortitude and courage,
Throughout the fair Southland.
Oh, let us heed it ever,
And loyal be and true!
That with the old South’s virtues,
Again shall thrill the new.
“VIOLET.”
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