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GOD IS LOVE.
“God is love,” on skies of splendor
I have seen the sentence traced;
Publishing to earth the tender
Truth that may not be effaced.
God is love, the sign of glory
On the crimsoning clouds I scan;
Telling once again the story,
Beautiful to every man.
God is love, the rainbow shining,
Speaks the eastern heaven above,
Unto every tribe and nation
Still declaring “God is love.”
God is love, proclaims the planets,
Burning in the midnight sky;
God is love, the bird and blossom
Softly say to you and I.
God is love, the sun in heaven
Utters to the earth below;
God is love, the winds are chanting,
And the rivers as they flow.
God is love, affirm the roses,
God is love, the lilies say;
And so whisper the light grasses
On the tender breast of May.
So the changeless hills are saying,
So the mighty seas exclaim;
Anu the ether-cleansing tempest
And the lightning’s tongue of flame,
God is love; in countless symbols,
Far and near, below, above,
May be read the heavenly message,
The assurance, God is love.
—ARTHUR GOODENOUGH.
Brattleboro, Vermont.
CHAT.
Heartily glad are we to welcome as members of
our Household Ethel See, of San Antonio, Texas, and
John Andy Smith, of Georgia. Miss See asks one of
the momentous questions of the day: Are women
becoming indifferent to marriage? There is no doubt
that one type of women has been evolved by our
modern complex civilization who find their truest
pleasure in work and finance. To these marriage
makes little appeal. Marriage would hamper the
exercise of their talents; it would deprive them of
the joy of feeling independent and self-supporting,
and cut them off from the jolly comradeship of men
and women of like tastes with themselves. Two of
the most attractive girls I know belong to this class.
They are well bred, well educated, they early en
tered business life and, being fond of work and
steady at it, they have now respectable bank accounts
and make small investments in real estate. They are
bisters, tall, fine looking girls, merry and social and
have many friends among girls and women, and also
a few men friends, whose respectful regard and good
business counsel they value. They are types of a
class of women which the exigencies of modern life
have called into existence. They are useful and ad
mirable. They will be happy and respected citizens
even if they do not marry, which is probable, as they
seem made more for friendship than for the passion,
which prompts the ordinary man to offer the boon
of his heart and hand.
But there are plenty of more feminine' women —
born to be wives and mothers and content wth the —
“Safe, sweet corner by the household fire.
Behind the heads of children.”
Always there will be women to whom marriage
and motherhood will appeal and these women, it
is very curious to note, are extremely interesting to
the other, the non-marrying class, who, if literary or
if club women, are always showing solicitude about:
mothers and wives, pointing out to them in the press
and on the platform how best they may fulfill their
duties to home, husband and children, and how they
may keep their health and conserve their strength
and retain their good looks. All the advice on this
line, and the beauty recipes are for the benefit of the
women whom men love and marry. It is as if these
bachelor girls (it would never do to call them old
maids, they are girls until over fifty) are saying to
the marrying women and matrons: “It is all right for
you to marry; we glory in your sweetness and beauty,
and we want you to keep these and to be strong and
THE HOUSEHOLD
A Department of 'Expression Tor Those Who Teel and Think*
The Golden Age for July 23, 1908.
healthy that your children may be splendid speci
mens of up-to-date youth. All we can do to help you
in your responsibilities you may count upon.” It is
the neuter gender working bee to the queen bee, isn’t
it? It is a curious phase of humanity and it is emi
nently modern. I noted it particularly in New York.
It is mostly in the centers of civilisation that it is
evolving. 1 had some dear comrades among this type
of bachelor girls in the metropolis. One, who lived
with me, was the cheeriest, brightest little journalist
that ever was, and the deftest little housekeeper. It
was my praise of her housewifely qualities that lost
her to me. A young man, intent on a charming com
panion and housekeeper in one, pricked up his ears
when he heard me boasting of my “treasure” and
never rested until he had won her. “Honest now, do
you love him, Bob?” I asked (having named her Bob
White, because she was as trim as a partridge and
dressed always in brown). She bent her head and
considered. “’I have a real, strong material affection
foi’ him,” she admitted. “He doesn’t seem able to look
after himself very w r ell, and he has no mother or
sister. I don’t think he eats the right kind of food.
He is dreadfully thin.”
When I saw them more than a year later, I noted,
with a little resentment, that he had grown much
fatter and my dear little partridge had lost a good
deal of her plumpness. But, then, she had perhaps
given it to her fat baby, and really she looked quite
happy. So you are right, dear Ethel. See, even
the thoroughbred business woman will marry nearly
always should the right man come along, but it is
a fact that the affection she feels for him is largely
maternal in its nature.
Mattie Howard gives us a talk about bulbs. Always
her talks are pleasant and informing, and she can
not say too much in praise of bulbs. Such a brave,
bright show for a little bit of trouble as the tulip,the
hyacinth and the narcissus beds give us, hot to
mention the great tribe of lilies—white, blue, crim
son and variegated. Mattie, have you ever tried to
transplant the wild tiger lily? A short walk brings
me to a large group of these splendid flowers on
the banks of a little stream. They are more graceful
and effective than their garden cousins, because of
the free branching of their flower-bearing stems at
the top, reminding one of a branching chandelier,
each prong tipped with flame.
The signature “Sue Albritton” to one of our
gifted member’s village sketches was incidentently
left off, as was the signature to one of George
Wheeler’s letters. Are you not proud of our House
hold poets? A well known editor said to me the
other day, “Arthur Goodenough is a born poet.
Beauty of thought and melody of verse are his. He
should have a national reputation.” The same is
true of Margaret Richard. Dear Margaret, sweet
maid Margaret, would you think her graceful little
society verse was written from a bed of suf
fering? Once I saw a lady throw a cloth over the
cage of her canary bird. “Why do you shut out the
light from the little bird?” I asked. “He sings better
when his cage is darkened,” was the answer. Does
fate think this of Maid Margaret, that she often
shuts out the light from that sweet one’s life?
Annice sends a tribute to Uncle Remus, a lament
that will find an echo in the hearts of all who read
it, for the shadow of sorrow fell over the whole world
when its best-loved and sweetest-hearted writer
dropped the pen forever. There is, as Annice says,
none to fill his place. There is plenty of intellect,
but brains in which a tender heart throbs are rare.
The mind of a philosopher and the heart of a child
do not often appear in the ranks of humanity.
tSitb ®ur Govresponbents
LIFE IN THE COUNTRY AND IN THE TOWNS.
As I write this morning I can look at the sun
that has arisen and it seems to be playing peek-a-boo
through a network of silvery clouds.
It rained last night and every blade of grass, every
flower, every plant has its tip, its petal, its leaves,
adorned with a pearly dewdrop. In our front yard
a little shrub is in full bloom, with large clusters
of pink flowers, and the bees are singing their busy
work-a day song as they gather the honey from them.
Nearer the bee hives is a lily plant and it is covered
with large white blossoms.
When I look out across a field of waving, grow-
Ing corn it is a wonder to me that everybody doesn’t
live in the country. And what is more beautiful than
a field of growing cotton? Every night the little
plants close their leaves and go to sleep. Then
ill the mofning, when the sun rises and begins to
climb the stairway of heaven, they gradually open
up, rubbing their eyes, as it w r ere, to receive God’s
blessed sunshine. At midday each leaf is spread
out to receive all the sunlight possible. Peaches
and apples are ripe now and the poorest country
child lives like a king, for what is better or more
luscious than a ripe, juicy peach? And fruit is free
to everybody.
“Bill Arp” used to say that everything was adapted
and so it must be. The country people are adapted
to the country and the city people to the city. We
must have both and we do have both.
When we look at all the things the good Lord made,
it seems as though it were a great mechanism of
balances and checks. He must have left it perfectly
balanced. We see insects destroying our growing
crops and think they ought not to have been made.
But there are the little birds who eat the insects.
People, some people, like to kill birds. They do not
know they are killing our best friends.
Then there are the beautiful trees, the homes of
the birds. Sometimes we forget ourselves and cut
these down without much reason. We are destroying
the homes of our friends. If we thought, we wouldn’t
do that, Would we?
Don’t you think the good Lord made everything
in the universe to fun according to laws? If So
then, if we violate those laws we will suffer. If we
violate the laws of the soul, we will be punished. If
we violate the laws of nature that govern our every
day happiness and welfare, we will suffer. “Igno
rance of the law excuses no one.” “Be ' sute yout
sin will find yon out” is a true dictum. If’ a child
innocently put his hand to the fire he will be burned
just as badly as if he knew. If a man step over a
precipice in the dark we will as surely fall as if he
had known. Then, if we destroy the birds, the trees
and other things God has placed here for our benefit,
somebody wall surely suffer. “I will visit the sins
of the fathers to the third and fourth generation” is
a truth applicable to every phase of life. So if we
disturb the balance in which our Father left all
things, our children must suffer while they are re
adjusting themselves.
Lest I weary you with too long a letter, I will say
good-bye. JOHN ANDY SMITH.
Bowman, Ga., July 8, 1908.
*
SOME BEAUTIFUL BULBS AND SHRUBS—THE
STORIES ABOUT THEM.
I have arranged my study just as though I w’ere
going to paint. My vase of flowers is before me, but
I have no colors, no brush, no easel —nothing but
pen, ink, and paper; so we will just have an imagi
nary talk. The flowers in the vase are gladioli and
oleanders. The singular of gladioli is gladiolus. This
is one of our summer bulbs and belongs to the iris
family. You children are doubtless familiar with
the white and purple iris, or flag lily, as it is some
times called. The leaves of the gladiolus are similar
in their sword-like growth to the iris. There are
many varieties of the flower before us. The stem
bearing the curiously shaped blossom is long. The
lower flowers bloom first and before the entire stem
has finished blooming the lower flowers have wilted
and died. To keep them in vases several days the
lower flowers may be broken off, the stem shortened,
fresh water poured into the vase and in this way
one will last until every flower has bloomed. This
flower is sometimes called corn-flag and sometimes
Jacob's ladder. The crocus belongs to this family of
flowers and several other kinds of lilies also.
The oleander belongs to the Dogbane family be
cause of its poisonous sap or juice, which flows when
a stem is severed; therefore beware if a sore or
scratch is on the hand. These flowers grow on a
bush or shrub. In their native climate they grow
to great size. Here we have them protected from
the north wind and with a southeast exposure, and
they reach the top of the veranda and bloom in a
mass of snow-white beauty for two months and in
clusters about on the bushes through the summer.
We have two large bushes. We rooted them from
tiny slips in water, then transplanted them, first to a
pot, where they were protected the first winter ’in
