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idale, a picturesque little town eight miles
" San Marcos. Having lived so long in the
_ prairie region, where the trees (all planted and
cultivated) are small, it was a delightful refreshment
to soul and sense to see the magnificent trees,
mostly pecan and live oak, their wide branches
draped with the graceful long gray moss. I dearly
love the venerable old trees, the growth of cen
turies, such as I played under in my child days in
old Georgia.
I spent one happy day picnicking on the wonderful
San Marcos river. In the afternoon I enjoyed a
delightful drive over the city, built among the hills.
I feasted my eyes on the grand views, obtained from
the tops of the rocky, wooded elevations, reminding
me of Vicksburg, Mississippi, and contrasting so
refreshingly with the outlook of endless prairie,
diversified by occasional clumps of stunted hack
berry trees, to which I had so long been accus
tomed. One who is a lover of nature can under
stand the yearning for wooded slopes and murmur
ing streams after having dwelt long in a level
country.
We drew up before a pretty cottage in a shaded
street. “This is Lomacita's home,” said my mother.
“We will go in for a moment.” Lomacita and I had
known each other only through the Sunny South,
which tad published our letters, sketches and pictures.
I felt quite fluttered at the thought of meeting her
face to face. I hastily shook out the folds of my
crumpled skirt and adjusted my veil, conscious of
a dusty face, but mamma reassured me by declaring
that I looked presentable, and we went in. While
waiting a moment for an answer to our ring, I had
a second glimpse through a parted curtain of a
lender girl hastily gathering up a mass of wavy
damp hair and coiling it in a great roll on the top
of her shapely head. Then she hastened to the door
and affectionately greeted mamma, whom she knew,
and eceived me with gracious cordiality, explaining
that she had been shampooing her hair. She is a
y little creature, weighing, I should say, little
than a hundred pounds, with large, dark,
s eyes and a face that, aside from its pretti
tells of strong character and earnest purpose,
i the delicacy of form and complexion do not
inuicate robust health. She is a most agreeable con
wpytionalist, and she talked with much regretful
ai . on of the old Sunny South days, when we were
the hildren of dear Meb (Mary E. Bryan), and
talking back at each other so merrily and vigorously
at ovr weekly Household reunions. We remember
her splendid dreams and plans, and the ideal paper
she projected and which she still hopes to make a
reality. I left the quiet cottage and our charming
hostess with regret, having had an introduction to and
a short interview with Lomacita’s mother, whom
she has always so tenderly cherished and dutifully
cared for. ELLYS MORRIS.
Hillsboro, Texas.
*
OUR DEAR YOUNG PEOPLE.
Having been, for six months, an interested reader
of The Golden Age, silently enjoying its helpful
articles, I am at last moved to begin the pleasant
task of inditing my first letter to the Household
department of the paper, hoping that the cordial
invitation it gives to writers may be extended to me
and that I may be enrolled as a full-fledged member
of the entertaining circle.
The Golden Age came to our home as a Christmas
present and was doubly appreciated because I am a
native of dear old Georgia and proud to see such a
paper coming from home. I have long had a desire
to meet personally Brother Willie, but shall have to
content myself with the hope that it is not yet too
late to expect it.
I am so glad to be able to introduce myself to you
all as a sinner saved by God’s grace. It is the highest
ambition of my life to live well pleasing before my
Lord. I think surely every Christian must consider
it a sweet privilege permitted us to love the pure
and holy things pertaining to godliness.
I notice that the Household pages are character
ized as a department for “expression foi' those who
feel and think.” I have been much impressed with
this. It has always seemed to me that when my
heart was fullest, why, my tongue and pen were
paralyzed. Also, the name chosen for the paper is
opportune. We are living in a “golden age,” and
'golden are the opportunities given us daily. How many
are taking advantage of them as we should? We
shall surely be held responsible for the abuse of
them. You dear young folks in whom I am gen
uinely interested, let me implore you to make the
best possible use of your God-given time,
The Golden Age for August 6, 1908.
I agree with every writer who endorses the im
portance of education. Perhaps some are not able
to complete a college course but do make the best
of what you are able to attain. I rejoice to see the
young people coming to the front, and with the
assistance of the editor, expressing so clearly and
common-sensibly right views of the important things
of life.
I have known some poor but bright boys and
girls who were deprived of the advantages of school,
often in the first years of their “teens,” but despite
this drawback, they have succeeded in becoming cul
tured and influential citizens. This they did through
the exercise of will and energy (assisted by a Chris
tian spirit), directed to home study and observation
of man and nature. I make no apology for saying
they were helped by the Divine spirit, for unless the
teaching of Christ form its basis, no culture or educa
tion is truly worthy.
Since this is a first article, 1 must not encroach too
much on the space allotted to the Household. If I
am admitted as a member, I shall be delighted to
come again.
Anderson, S. C. MRS. MAE MATTISON.
*
"THE LIGHT THAT LIES IN WOMAN’S EYES.”
“The light that lies in woman’s eyes,”
Sang the sweet poet long ago;
The eyes he loved were shut long since
Beneath a lid of grass or snow,
Yet still the light in woman’s eyes
Shines to inspire—or to betray;
To fill some lives with joy, and some
With grief that turns the sunshine gray.
“The light that lies in woman’s eyes”
Is fairer than the stars above;
When ’tis the reflex of a heart
Loyal to faith and tender love.
“The light that lies in woman’s eyes”
When wrong or hate has lit its fire,
Out flashing like the lightning’s flame,
Consumes hope's funeral pyre.
Ivy, Alabama. B. R. IVY.
UNCLE REMUS.
Was a sad message sent swift through the air
That the bird hushed so sudden his thrilling?
“My heart it is sair: my heart it is sair,”
The winds in the pine trees are thrilling.
Soon knew we the cause of the silence and sighing,
Uncle Remus, the dumb creatures’ friend,
At his home, “The Sign of the Wren’s Nest,” is dying,
And sadly the world waits the end.
The roses are pale on the cheeks of the children,
Who will now tell them stories, so simple yet wise?
Who will make them feel kin to the furry wild crea
tures.
Who will call up sweet laughter and tears to their
eyes?
We’ll miss him! We’ll miss him! each heart is re
peating.
His mantle has fallen on no other one;
His memory shall outlast the ages so fleeting,
For the joy he has given, the good he has done.
Kingston, Tenn. ANNICE.
*
AT A NEIGHBORING “THIMBLES.”
I have often seen in the newspaper society notes
glowing accounts of the bridge parties given by
young girls and matrons. I had never attended one,
being a “country maid,” and I really didn’t know
what “bridge” was until a city cousin enlightened
me. “Why, it’s cards,” she said. “In society, spelled
with a capital S, they play for money, and in the
less swell sets they play for prizes. Often they lose
their tempers and accuse each other of cheating, and
there is usually a good deal of heart burning and
jealousy mixed in with the diversion of a bridge
party.”
“Why, then,” I said, “bridge isn’t as nice as our
thimble parties. I am glad we don’t know how to
bridge and I hope the fad will never drift this
way.” “It will come,” she answered, “It will come
with the automobiles. You are too near the city. It
will supersede thimbles.” But I hope it never will.
You know what a thimble is—just an afternoon
gathering of girls, who bring their fancy work
and thimbles, and chat as they work. A little table
in a corner holds tea cakes and fruit and sometimes
home-made candies. We girls are very expert in
making macaroons and stuffed dates,
Instead of fancy work, we often bring clothes and
stockings to make over for our poor neighbors who
have many children to clothe and are glad of the
little garments we quickly fashion out of linen and
percale skirts, gowns and underskirts that are but
little worn. Sometimes we buy remnants of calico,
gingham, and domestic and make them up into
little garments at the thimble parties.
We are not chatting all the time. Some one, who
has taste and judgment, selects a nice short story in
a new magazine and it is read aloud and commented
upon. At another time we have music. One of the
girls plays an instrumental selection or sings to
the piano accompaniment, the others often joining in
the song. Now this may not be as stylish and exciting
as bridge, but I am sure there is more real pleasure
in it and the afternoon’s social diversion leaves no
sting of self-reproach or jealous bitterness. Instead,
we often go home in a glow of mild happiness, par
ticularly when we have taken little bundles of things
to the humble cottage of Mrs. Brown or Mrs. Twitty
and seen the pleasure with which she received and
inspected the little garments that “come in just
right," as she says. CAROLYN MOORE.
South Carolina.
THE SOUTH AND YOU.
Oh. the southern roses blossom and the southern
breezes blow,
Anti the southern nightingale is loudly singing;
It is summer in the southland, far from drifting
northern snow,
Oh, my soul in scales of joy is upward winging!
Oh. it’s blossom time in Dixie, and the glories climb
and cling,
And the honeysuckles' fingers clasp the palings—
Oh, my soul is bubbling over! Glory be. I’m bound
to sing!
And the Spanish moss in gray festoons is trailing.
Oh, the summer’s breaker’s brimming with the wine
of sparkling days,
And the foamy thunderheads are slowly piling
Snowy bastions to the zenith, and the circling sky
line’s haze,
Like a rippling ribbon girds the prairies smiling.
Oh, I’ve naught on earth to wish sor —I’ve the
sunny south and you,
And my heart keeps running over in its gladness.
Oh, the southland loves her children and you love
me, yes you do.
Let us scatter love and sunshine, routing 'sadness.
Brookshire, Texas. LALLA MAUD LESLIE.
*
DELICIOUS HOT WEATHER DRINKS.
Fruit Punches.
Pineapple punch is made thus: Slice and peel a
large mellow apple, then pour over it a pint of boil
ing sugar syrup and the juice of a lemon. Stir well,
cover closely, and let stand for two hours; strain
through a fine sieve and when ready to serve add
a quart of plain soda water.
Another fruit, punch is made by first boiling with
one quart of water the juice of three lemons. Into
this grate the rind of two oranges. Let it boil sev
eral minutes, then set it aside to cool. Into the
punch bowl put plenty of ice and slice two oranges
very thin, cutting the slices into fourths. Add the
juice of four oranges and several squares of pine
apple. Over this pour the syrup you have made.
A quickly made, cheap, and good fruit punch is
made by taking a cup full of any kind of fruit
syrup, peach, plum, or apple will do, and adding to
it the juice of two oranges and two lemons and half
a can of pineapple shredded fine. Sweeten this to
taste, adding enough cold water to make it the
proper strength. Put into a punch bowl and add a
few cherries if you have them.
AN OPTIMIST.
Dis toof-ache make meh haid mos’ bus’.
But —t ank de Lawd it ain’t no wuss.
Meh rheumatiz, it sho do beat
De ban’ fo’ pain, but —I kin eat.
Meh money's gone, but —den, you see,
De white folks gib good grub ter me.
A match, please, sub. T’ank you fo' it;
I’ll light tneh pipe, en smoke a bit.
MARGARET A, RICHARD.
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