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K THE HOUSEHOLD
A Department oj 'Expression For Those Who Feel and Think,
A LOST FRIEND.
By John Boyle O'Reilly.
My friend he was; my friend from all
the rest;
With child-like faith he oped to me
his breast.
No door was locked on altar, grave, or
grief;
No weakness veiled, concealed no dis
belief;
The hope, the sorrow, and the wrong
■were bare;
And ah, the shadow only showed the
fair.
I gave him love for love; but deep
within,
I magnified each frailty into sin;
Each hill-topped foible in the sunset
glowed,
Obscuring vales where rivered vir
tues flowed.
Reproof became reproach, till com
mon grew
The captious word at every fault I
knew.
He smiled upon the censorship, and
bore
With patient love the touch that
wounded sore;
Until at length, so had my blindness
grown,
He knew I judged him by his faults
alone.
Alone, of all men, I, ’who knew him
best,
Refused the gold, to take the dross
for test!
At last it came —the day be stood
apart,
When from my eyes he proudly veiled
his heart,
When carping judgment and uncertain
word
A stern resentment in his bosom
stirred;
When in his face I read what I had
been,
And with his vision saw what he had
seen.
CHAT.
And so Mr. Will D. Upshaw, au
thor, lecturer and editor of The Golden
Age is going to be married? The an
nouncement came as a big surprise.
Nobody, it seems, -imagined that “Our
Will” would ever marry. He had
been so long “a brother of girls” that
this seemed his natural and proper
relation to these fair ones. But he
has found one for whom his heart
strings reach out still more tenderly,
and all his friends are glad for him
and breathe sincere wishes and pray
ers for his happiness and that of the
goed and sweet woman he has chosen.
Yet there are some who wonder
whether this new relation will not
handicap his wide usefulness as a
public exponent of all that tends to
noble living. Why should it do this?
Happiness is a great vivifier, love is
a wonderful inspirer. When a man of
fine gifts marries a woman worthy
of him will not her love, her sym
pathy and intelligence strengthen him
in his work? I confidently expect to
see yet finer achievement on the part
of Mr. Upshaw, now that his conllict
worn spirit may recuperate in the
restful sweetness of domestic love.
The greatest preacher and hardest
The Golden Age for March 25, 1909.
student of his age—Jonathan lEcl
wards, of Massachusetts, —acknowl-
edged that he owed much of his power
to his wife, who, though the mother
of a large family and a model house
keeper. to soothe, inspire and second
her gifted husband in his work.
Dear Household friends, when you
read this number of The Golden Age
I shall probably be far down on the
Florida peninsula, on that lovely In
dian river, upon whose palm-bordered
banks I once had my home. Your
letters will reach me, however. I
thank sincerely the new friends and
the members of the dear old Sunny
South clan, who have lately sent me
letters, some of which appear today,
if space permits, among them, Annice,
Julia Tait, Muriel, Mary Pettus,
Thomas and Fineta —all well and fond
ly known to many of our readers.
Fineta, did you know that Mr. Neale,
the New York publisher of so many
Southern books —your novels among
them —has sent out an announcement
of his prospective magazine, which he
says will be Southern in tone and
spirit?
Wttb ©nr Correspondents
a
A SHUT-IN.
Dear Friends of the Golden Age
Household: I am a young girl, fif
teen years old. living in the north
western part of Arkansas, among the
Barton mountains. 1 am the sister
of the young shut-in girl, Mattie Bev
erage, whom the Sunny South House
hold was so kind to. You remember
they built her a little church on some
land father g >ve. She had never been
ins ,: de a church or heard a church
bell, as the nearest church was five
miles from her home. The Household
contributed money to buy the lum
ber and the men neighbors, after
crops were laid by, built the little
church in a grove near our house, to
which we could roll Mattie in her
chair. Then a goed lady gave ten dol
lars to buy a bell. Dear Mattie was
the proudest little girl you ever saw
when that bell rang for service. Mat
tie writes a good deal and has pub
lished a little book about herself ami
her thoughts in her shut-in life. She
has never walked, and, of course, has
never gone to school, but she loves
books and takes naturally to writing.
Mrs. Mary E. Bryan, who published
a story of hers, says she is a
born story writer.
a here is another unfortunate stmt
in whom we know, and 1 think she is
even more to be pitied than mv sister,
because she is a widow with four
small children, and is very, verv
poor, has no comfort and no one to
nurse her. or heln her. but her I'ttJe
children, who are up with her all timeq
in the night, turning and rubbing her.
for she suffers greatly and has been
helpless with rheumatism for seven
teen months. Very few know about
her and her few neighbors are not
able to do much for her. It would be
such a good deed if some of you would
try to brighten the life of this poor
woman. If you would only send her
a cheering letter, or something good
and pleasant to read, she would appre
ciate this greatly, as her only reading
matter is three old papers which she
has read until she almost knows their
contents by heart. Os course, a little
substantial help—dimes, stamps, a
handkerchief, or anything you could
spare, would be gratefully accepted.
Only those who have suffered as she
has, or have near kindred who are
afflicted, can know the trial of being
poor and helpless and a burden to
others, particularly to one’s little chil
dren. Those who are strong and
healthy, or who have the good use of
their limbs, should be very thankful
to God for such blessings. I think
many do not appreciate them as they
ought. I live in the country and have
gone to school whenever I could. I
love to read and to write —would so
love to have some of the Household
and Voices of Youth members to write
to me. I am pretty well grown for
my age, being five feet, five inches
tall, and weighing 125 pounds. My
sister. Mattie, has bad a letter and
also her picture in The Golden Ago.
MAY BEVERAGE.
Dabney, Ark.
It
COMFORT FROM LOWLY FRIENDS.
Dear Old Woman: How beautifully
have you told your own sad story
through the twitter of the sparrow.
This reminds me of a most pathetic
scene that occurred after my dear
brother’s death last September. The
dogs were very fond of him, especially
the big shepherd. I always sent him
to brother’s room to awaken him. The
morning after brother died the dog
went in, as usual, and barked, but
no “good morning” came from the
bed. Finally, “Cupid” put his paws
up and looked in vain for the sleeper,
then he began to howl; and I had to
take him to the open casket. He
looked at the closed eyes, then up at
me. I could stand it no longer, but,
kneeling, wound my arms around the
dear dumb friend. He would never
go back in the room again, till the
funeral services were held, then he
pushed his way in and stood by my
side, and followed me out to the little
cemetery, keeping close by the casket.
Since then he never leaves me long
at any time, seems to be afraid that
I may go away and leave him. 1
ought to know how to pity you, since
I have said “good-bye” to so many
dear faces in the last ten years, for
out of my home have gone, since then,
seven beloved ones. The old house
holds so many empty rooms, yet 1
cannot grieve over much, since they
are only in another room with just a
door between.
Christ.is risen, we chant on Easter
morning, but shall they not, too.
arise, our dears gone before? Most
surelv. for does not the Bible tell us
so? This great truth believing no one
should be sad. —Mr. Grier.
Affectionately yours,
ANNICE LYBARGER.
Kingston, Tenn.
*
HOW BIG IS THE WORLD.
“How big is the world?” I am asked,
“for the woman of average oppor
tunity and ability?” Let me answer
that big question, by giving some
examples, first from the Bible. —best
of all sources. —and then from the
historv of a later time.
“What hast thou, poor widow, in
thy hand?” asked the benignant one in
accents mild. “I have two mites—
my earthly store —to give to Thee my
Lord,” was the answer. Because of
her unstinted generosity, millions
since have poured into the treasury
of her Lord and ours.
“She hath done what she could,”
the highest praise the Master ever
bestowed, was given to her who,
as a pure act of love, broke the
costly treasured alabaster box, and
with the spikenard it contained,
anointed the Holy One. The sweet
smell of that loving sacrifice mounts
up to Heaven everlastingly.
It was only a little sewing needle
Dorcas had, but with it she clad the
shivering poor of Joppa. “This woman
was full of good works and alms deeds
which she did,” the record tells us.
In answer to Peter’s prayer she was
brought back from death’s dark do
main and given alive to her erstwhile
weeping, but ever rejoicing friends,
and —because of that, many believed
in the Lord. Her animating spirit has
never died. It is still manifest in the
thousands of Dorcas bands that, in our
day, make coats and garments for
the needy, and bring cheer to sur
viving sufferers.
Bereft of her husband’s protecting
care by the yellow fevei’ scourge which
desolated Memphis, Tennessee, some
years ago, one widow was compelled
afterwards to take in washing in or
der to earn daily bread for herself and
only child. Many were left in just as
pitiable a condition; but this special
case is mentioned because some of the
far-reaching results of her efforts are
now evident. To her church this poor
washerwoman in her son, first, gave
a president for its leading university,
then a bishop; to the South one of the
most eloquent pulpit orators, and to
the world, a humble follower of the
meek and lowly Nazarene who, both
in America and across the seas, earn
estly and ably defends that faith once
for all delivered to the saints.
Susannah Wesley, cumbered with
many cares, was, as a mother, wise,
firm, loving and patient. Need had
she to be very patient ; for there were
eighteen children, I believe, and John
was. as a little boy, exceedingly dull.
Nineteen times, so the story goes, did
she have to tell him one special thing
before he learned it; but when he did,
at last, know it, she felt that the hours
spent in teaching him had not been
wasted. Who would attempt to meas
ure the influence of that mother—char
acter builder and moulder as she was
—of the great founder of Methodism,
this mighty religious body?
Drop a pebble into a pool, scientists
aver, and the waves started then never
cease their vibrations till the whole
globe is girdled. This natural law is
true in the spiritual world also, if
Owen Meredith be right in asserting:
“No life can be pure in its pur
pose and strong in its strife, and all
life not be purer and stronger there
by.”
“How may the average woman’s
world be enlarged intellectually, so
cially, esthetically and spiritually?”
Has not the influence of the ones just
mentioned reached all classes and con
ditions of men and women—prince
and peasant, millionaire and pauper,
sage and ignoramus, saint and sinner?
Needle, spikenard sweet, mites—just
two —or treasures great, are still, and
ever will be, channels through which
Almighty power will flow whenever
the heart of the giver and user is
filled with Love. Calvary’s bow must
be drawn across a human violin before
