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THE SIGN OF THE SPADE.
At the Sign of the Spade is a hostel, I know —
A goodly old inn for the high and the low,
Where no bill is offered, and no charge is made,
Though guests tarry long at the Sign of the Spade.
At the Sign of the Spade, there is quiet and rest,
And chambers, gray-shadowed, for each tired guest;
And stripling, and gray head, and matron and maid,
Are welcomed alike at the Sign of the Spade.
At the Sign of the Spade there are curtains of clay,
That shut the red glare of the noon-tide away,
And all who are weary or sick or afraid,
Are sure to repose at the Sign of the Spade.
At the Sign of the Spade stands the landlord all day,
And says, as we pass: “Come away, come away.
The world may despise you and doubt and degrade,
But we'll take you in at the Sign of the Spade.
“At the Sign of the Spade—do you hear? Do you
heed?
We’ll shelter you safe from earth's grief and its greed,
When visions are vanished and welcome's outstayed,
Sojourn here with me at the Sign of the Spade.”
At the Sign of the Spade there is room for us all,
Through gray days or gay days, whatever befall,
Though Fortune reject us, though Faith may upbraid,
One refuge is left us—the Sign of the Spade.
ARTHUR mOODENOUGH.
Brattleboro, Vermont.
I?
CHAT.
We are glad to have Helene, a remembered Sunny
South Household writer, with us today. She and Ben
Ivy are right about the home girl. She is a lovable
quantity, generally sweetest, healthiest and best, but
it sheuld be taken into consideration that the world
has moved since Longfellow advised his girl friends
not to unfurl their wings, but:
“Stay, stay at home, dear ones, and rest,
Home-keeping hearts are happiest,”
which sounds nicely in verse, but the average home
keeping girl will tell you there is little chance of
much rest to a girl who cooks, or helps cook, the
breakfast, washes the faces of the small fry, puts
up their school luncheon, after helping them at
breakfast, clears up the kitchen, brushes the rooms
and sets them to rights, feeds the chickens, gathers
vegetables for dinner, then sits down to the well
filled mending basket or to the sewing machine until
time to cook dinner. This is the routine of many
girls, and starching and ironing are sometimes added
to the tasks of girls whose mothers are usually oc
cupied with a new baby, or are in delicate health.
Even when the mother is strong, or there is a serv
ant to cook, the duties of the home girl are numer
ous and give her steady occupation, while her
pastimes are few. But these tasks are natural and
feminine, and if properly regulated and sandwiched
with little slices of recreation —walking, reading, vis
iting, etc. —they do not make the roses drop from
girlish cheeks.
Yes, the home-keeping girl is a sweet, useful,
charming creature, but there are too many of her
for the changed conditions of civilization. There
are usually circumstances that push her out of the
home nest. Our civilization is no longer simple, as
of old; it is extremely complex, and it calls for a
great variety of work and talent. To this call there
always exists intuitively the desire to respond. It
is born in the girl of today. There are women and ,
women. Some are made for homes, wives and
mothers —the general destiny before the later change.
Others are born with a talent and inclination for
doing part of the work of the world, and this ten
dency leads them into the current of outside action,
as surely as a duckling’s instinct leads to the stream.
Many women are successful and useful in busi
ness. Among the attaches of The Atlanta .Journal
there is a young woman in the advertising depart
ment whose salary, I think, is two hundred dollars
a month. She began her business career with writ
ing mailing wrappers for the Sunny South, receiving
the tiniest kind of pay. She had natural aptitude,
and she soon “moved on.” She obtained a position
on the advertising staff of The Constitution at a
good salary. Not content with doing satisfactory
work, she performed her tasks so excellently that
a still better position was offered her. Now, she
has built for herself a beautiful home, has traveled
all over the states, and goes every summer for a
tour of the most interesting parts of Europe. She
was born for a business career. There are a good
THE HOUSEHOLD
A Department of 'Expression Tor Those Who Teel and Think.
The Golden Age for July 16, 1908.
many like her, and there are a few rare women who
combine the business and the home-life harmonious
ly. A shining instance of this is Mrs. Gabrielle Mul
liner, one of the most brilliant and successful law
yers in New York City, and also a most charming
home-keeper, and a beloved wife. She keeps her
youth and her great beauty in spite of being one of
the busiest workers in the stirring metropolis, with a
handsomely equipped office and a host of clients.
She opposes divorce, and has reconciled many
couples who came to her to have their marital
bonds broken. She is a complete contradiction of
the belief held by many people that an active busi
ness career detracts from a woman’s charm, for an
aroma of gracious womanhood pervades the atmos
phere of her home life.
Another example of a lovely feminine nature adorn
ing a successful public vocation is Miss Nona Brooks,
of Kentucky, now pastor of a church in Denver, Colo
rado, where she has an extensive following, and is
doing a noble work for humanity. She is one of
tne two ordained women preachers in Denver, ‘‘the
other being Mrs. Milo Tupper, who also does fine
editorial work for the Denver daily papers. These
women preachers have one great charm —a clear,
vibrant voice that has been well cultivated and
trained to send itself to the farthest corner of a
large church without being once raised to an un
natural tone. xiiis voice-training is what is greatly
needed in the rank and file of our men ministers,
who greatly detract from their pulpit efficiency by
raising their voices to a ear-paining pitch, in the
mistaken idea that this loud speaking gives impres
siveness to their remarks.
We are delighted to see with us today Julia Co
man Tait and Tennesseean. Both have been “just
existing through the hot wave.” Tennesseean has
found a lodge (“shack”) in the wilderness, where he
is doing something more than existing, as he is cap
tain of the blackberry troop, and is studying moun
taineer types with a view of reproducing them in
his sketches. I wish I could accept his invitation to
come and be an occupant of the company tent, and
that I could take Julia Tait with me, together with
half a dozen of the best new novels for her to read,
and to tell the Household about. For there are
some good new novels, and among tnem evidently is
Mrs. Frankau’s latest book, “The Heart of a Child,”
the heroine of which has the unromantic name “Sally
Snape,” and is a crude, poorly educated girl who
goes on the vaudeville stage and has a, life full of
vicissitudes and moral perils. The story begins real
istically, and ends in romance. The New York Book
man says of it: Mrs. Frankau has seized the
magic of personality in her heroine and flung it
before us with such poignancy and power that we
feel we are being allowed to probe a woman’s inmost
soul and are stirred to mingled laughter and tears
by the pathos of her picture,” which is high praise
from such a critical source. I have not read the
book, and will wait until Julia tells me it is worth
reading.
1 have gone on chatting, forgetful that space is
precious, and that 1 have not welcomed other old
friends—Lane and Mary Lindsay Hines, who wrote
for the Sunny South Household over a different pen
name. We have the end of the widow’s pretty story
by Sue Albritton, and a sombre, strong poem by
Arthur Goodenough—one that in the peculiar re
signed melancholy of its reflections reminds us of
William Cullen musings on his prospective
grave and his appeal to be buried where the sur
roundings were beautiful, tnat the friends who came
to visit his resting-place “might not haste to go.”
Mr. Wheeler has something farther to tell us about
his assisting in the rebuilding of storm-stricken Pur
vis. In his previous letter his signature was inad
vertently omitted.
UUXttb ®ur Govresponbents
IN A SHACK AMONG THE TENNESSEE
MOUNTAINS.
We are having a delightful outing up in the Ten
nessee mountains. We are housekeeping for the
time in a “shack,” which means a two-roomed house
built of rough boards, put on up and down, and
roofed over with tar paper. For company use, we
have a tent, which is pitched in the yard near the
house. Our neighbors, the much (and sometimes un
justly) written about “mountain people,” are a study.
They are like no people I ever met —perfectly
independent, self-possessed, self-respecting, caring
mighty little for progress or culture or fashion, but
withal hospitable and kind as any people in the
world. But if any one gets them out of humor with
him, they are quick to let it be seen.
We are heartily enjoying our holiday here. The
country is beautiful. The rhododendrons have just
finished blooming here, but farther back in the “Big
Mountains” they are in full and splendid blossom.
Why do we not have this grand flower with its glossy
evergreen foliage to ornament our parks and lawns?
M. E. 8., I wish you would shut up Your Open
House, drop your Golden Age work and come up here
to be with us. What walks we would have over the
hills, and by the brook-side, and wnat talks out in
the sky parlor, in which my better-half is now sitting,
or rather lazily lying in a shaded, softly swaying
hammock! We could make you right comfortable, lit
tle Meb. We get plenty of garden truck, blackber
ries are in their prime. Apples have not won their
rosy cheeks yet, but they are fine for pies, and you
can have all the mountain air and good water that
you want. The Golden Age Household is very en
tertaining. I hope Julia Tait will rap the big pub
lisher, Colonel Walter Neale, for belittling the old
books. The new booKS are quite fascinating, some of
them, but they seldom appeal to one for a second
reading, while the old books do fine as a steady diet.
TENNESSEEAN.
R
* MY RETREAT.
The world is busy with its cares,
Restless and fast its pulses beat;
But I withdraw where nature shares
With me the peace of my retreat.
There flowering vines yield soft perfume,
And shade that with the sunbeams meet;
The mocking bird sings there all day,
A brook runs by with sparkling feet.
Often, when tired of heated strife,
I seek the shade of my retreat;
I feel that I could pass my life
Where Nature’s smile is calm and sweet.
I envy not the rich their wealth,
The gaudy show of the elite;
I ask for only peace and health,
My friends, my books, and my retreat.
LANE.
Palestine, Texas.
•e
THE WIDOW’S VISIT.
(Ended.)
The Widow enjoyed her visit to Mrs. Giddens
very much. Those hospitable country people did all
in tneir power to make her stay pleasant. She was
invited to dine and take tea around in the pleasant
neighborhood. A number of new cottages had been
built and small, neatly-kept farms of cotton, corn,
millet, peas and potatoes gladdened the scene. Then
young pecan trees and flourishing fruit orchards were
seen all along the road. A fish-fry picnic was gotten
up for her enjoyment, and as she rode through the
fields toward the creek she was told, on inquiring,
that the rich hammock lands belonged to Mrs. Gid
dens. Also, as she passed through an extensive for
est of valuable trees she learned that they belonged
to the Giddens estate.
“What a splendid water course this is!” she re
marked of the river-like creek. “It would furnish
water-power to run the machinery and electric plants
of a city. On whose land is it situated?” she asked.
“This is our land,” replied William Jonathan Gid
dens. And the Widow felt her own power, and then
and there determined to turn that water-power into
gold.
The gossips say a marriage will take place early
in the fall, but we shall see. SUE ALBRITTON.
*
THE CONTENTED HOME WOMAN.
Formerly I wrote for the Sunny South Household,
over the pen name “Helene,” and I am glad to find
that many of the S. S. H. members are now enrolled
in the club of The Golden Age. A week ago I read
a very sensible letter in this department signed Ben
Ivy, concerning the partial passing away of the con
tented, modest, charming young house woman, and
her metamorphosis into the slim-waisted, bepowdered,
anxious-looking “business woman,” who has a po
sition as stenographer or saleswoman, telephone girl,
milliner’s assistant, or cashier in a small establish
ment of some kind. Like Mr. Ivy, I deplore the
transformation. I think the home girl was far
more lovable than the “business woman.” Her health
visas better, her refinement more genuine, her heart
and her temper were sweeter. Os course, necessity
