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10
THE EVENIN’ HYMN.
When the hot summer daylight is
dyin’,
And the mist through the valley has
rolled,
And the soft velvet clouds to the
west’ard
Are purple, with trimmin’s of gold,
Then, down the medder-grass, dusky,
dusky,
The crickets chirp out from each
nook,
And the frogs with their voices so
husky,
Jine in from the marsh and the
• brook.
The chorus grows louder and deeper,
An owl sends a hoot from the hill,
The leaves on the elm-trees are
rustlin’,
A whippoorwill calls by the mill,
Where swamp honeysuckles are
bloomin’,
The breeze scatters sweets on the
night,
Like incense the evenin’ perfumin',
With fireflies fer candles alight.
And the noise of the frogs and the
crickets
And the birds and the breeze air to
me
Lots better than high-toned suppran
ers,
Although they don't get to ‘‘high
C.”
And the church, witn its grand painted
skylight,
Seems cramped and forbiddin and
grim,
Side of my old front porch in the twi
light,
When God’s choir sings its “Evenin’
Hymn.”
JOE LINCOLN.
*
CHAT.
Glad am I to have with us today
the inspiring presence of Lula Gibbs.
I always experience a little thrill on
seeing the name of one of the dear old
Sunny South band. It is like coming
face to face with a friend whom we
have lost sight of for years, but have
not forgotten. We ought not so eas
ily to lose hold of our friends. It is
one of the shortcomings that I often
feel remorseful over —not keeping in
touch with friends who have endeared
themselves to me through their let
ters. While pretty post cards are so
plentiful, it seems we might use them
often, just to say, “I do not forget,”
but when the days are filled as mine
are with work; all kinds of work, and
cares and representation, the hours
pass and the pleasant task of saying
“howdy” to absent friends is forgot
ten or postponed. Sometimes our neg-'
ligence brings a bitter pang, when we
hear the friend has passed beyond
earthly greeting.
I am glad Lula has given us a pic
ture of the old-fashioned country
home. Things are changed since the
old days. Even the flowers are dif
ferent. The little jump-up-and-kiss-me
is now a fine broad-faced pansy; the
old maid is a gaudy zinnia, the chrys
anthemum is an imperial blossom, as
big nearly as a dinner plate, and the
rose has gained tremendously in size
and brilliancy, but lost in sweetness.
It is typical of some other things—of
the home itself. It is often a fine
mansion, though with mock modesty
it calls itself a cottage; but the aroma
of old-fashioned hospitality and affec
THE HOUSEHOLD
A Department of Expression For Those Who Feel and Think.
tionate homeliness is fashionably faint
and delicate.
Dear Julia Coman Tait, have you
wondered that your book chat, always
so interesting and eagerly read, has
not been published before? Well, it
was through no lack of appreciation.
I assure you, while I -was away in
Florida, the contribution went astray,
wandered to another publishing office
where it would have been appropri
ated had not the top of the page bore
the words, “For the Golden Age.” Now
that the “shady nook, the hammock
and the girl and book” are at hand. 1
hope we shall hear often from you and
our other friends. If they knew how
fully they were appreciated and looked
for they would not stay away.
With Our Correspondents
SHALL WE MOVE TO THE CITY?
A farmer in my neighborhood has
just decided that he will not move to
the city, which friends in town had
been persuading him to do, telling
him he could put bis boys and girls
to work, earning a little money and
could get good wages himself. I think
he has made a wise decision. He
looked carefully on the other side of
the matter, and recalled how thin and
unhealthy his city friend’s boys were
looking when he saw them last, and
how one of them had got into serious
trouble with the police, and a fine
had to be paid. He remembered how
his friend had to buy all the vege
tables used, and all the eggs and but
ter and fuel needed, and these togeth
er with the many small expenses in
cident on city life took, as he ac
knowledged every cent of his wages.
He remembered that his family would
miss the freedom of the farm and the
pleasure and profit of the garden, the
orchard, the cow, not to speak of the
moral uplift of feeling themselves the
social equal of those they came in con
tact with —a feeling in strong con
trast to the sense of inferiority im
posed by the strong class distinctions
in a city where wealth looks down
upon poverty. They would miss the pic
nics, the barbecues, the sociable basker
dinners at protracted church meetings
which all the family enjoyed together.
The wife and children would miss the
companionship of the husband and
father—save for a tired hour or two
in theevening— aand,nd the family circle
would cease to be affectionately
united.
This farmer, who may be taken as
an average, is not well educated. He
could not hope to earn a salary save
by labor in a city, yet, while he stays
on his farm, few graduates in a city,
who have only their salaries, could
give their families as many comforts
and privileges as he can. The coun
try now gives the people telephones,
free mail delivery, traveling libraries
and excellent schools. True, some Chil
dren of farmers must stop off from
school for two or three months in the
busy season, but this does not seem to
matter.
The children easily “catch up,” and
the attainment of these country chil
dren are often found to be more thor
ough than those of their city cousins,
who find it convenient to visit them
during the summer holiday. To sum
it up, God made the farmer; man and
artificial civilization made the other
trades, and the wife of the man with
the God-made occupation should be the
The Golden Age for May 6, 1909.
happiest woman in the world, ahd I
believe she is.
OLIVE STANLEY.
South Carolina.
A “TRULY” OLD FASHIONED
COUNTRY HOME.
I was to spend the day at “Conway,”
the country home of my friend. Sim
ply dressed and bare headed, behind
“Jim Bryant,” the gentle old family
horse, we began the trip, and most
certainly I am unable to describe the
beauty, grandeur and exhilaration of
an early morning ride along country
roads on an ideal spring day. Surely,
sky was never so blue, nor trees so
green. Was it an especially prepared
program, the birds were singing?
Were the wild flowers simply trying
to outdo themselves in their riotous,
lavish blooms and perfume, or, were
they this way every spring?
In a pine grove, dark with cool
shadows, a hut looked almost toy-like
in comparison. Ahl the odor of those
pines. I smell them yet. By trim lit
tle homes, over the bridge, and up
again, we arrived shortly, and my
first sight of the old home was to me
a picture. For forty years has the
gentle, refined, and cultured mistress
seen from her vine and fig tree the
changes that time brings. The ex
tensive grounds have all the dear old
shrubs, vines and flowers dear to
every heart today—old-fashioned roses,
bridal wreath, narcissus, flag lillies,
spicy pinks, and all those. Over the
long back porch is a wisteria of im
mense growth and at the front, a Vir
ginia creeper.
Those fire places! Many, reading
this, can, in their mind’s eye see them
in a winter season giving out their
cheer and warmth. After dinner I
felt just awful, and had to lie down
and rest, though some say it isn’t
best just after eating—so much.
The eldest daughter of the house
had the dearest little room upstairs,
almost under the eaves. Ivy grew
right up to the windows, and it was
all in white. It was a pity to see the
old furniture painted, but it gave
everything a lighter appearance, and
brighter. You could touch the boughs
of the apple trees, almost, from the
windows.
I looked over the old family pic
tures and heard reminiscences of the
ups and downs during and after the
war. and felt during all the joys and
sorrows that alterate in each life, a
large family was raised and tended
by a tender God-fearing mother, and
today, the little grandchildren beg
to ride on old Jim’s back to the bars,
and there is an air of peace and sweet
ness over all that is like a benedic
tion. I couldn’t help contrasting the
bigness and joy of it all to life in an
uptown two-by-four. It makes, you
want to breath hard and get intoVour
being that pure, sweet life-giving and
sustaining air. All honor to the old
settlers.
LULA GIBBES.
East Point, Ga.
*
A PINEY WOODS ADVENTURE.
I am glad to welcome Will Gunter.
He is a fine writer and also a poet
who touches the heart at times, and at
others makes you laugh with his good
natured humor. He challenges us
Householders to play at telling tales,
and shows he is good at the game.
I’ll take up the bat for a moment to
tel J you how I got lost ifi the woods.
I had taken my wife to visit her moth
er, in Kemper county* and leaving her
there with the three younger Children*
I and ttly boy* Lfeoh* started Off to
Visit my oWii home folks, six miles
away. It was a little used neighbor
hood road, crossed by other roads
and paths, but I had often traversed
it in earlier years, and I took little
note of it now, as I and the boy
tramped merrily along, pointing out
the birds, watching for squirrels and
noting all the woodland beauties and
curiosities. First thing I knew, I was
lost. I was sure of the right direction,
however, so I hurried on, looking
about me for landmarks. The sun
went down and left us there with no
house in sight—nothing but the end
less plney woods. On T went and the
boy trotted along after me. A big
log lay in our way. I saw It and
jumped over it, but Leon made a miss
step, and fell heavily right across the
log. He was stunned at first, and
when he scrambled to his feet he was
gasping for breath. “Are you hurt?”
I asked; but he could not answer, and
his face was convulsed as with a
spasm. For a while it looked serious.
Lost in the lonely wood, a hurt boy
and dark coming on. But the little
fellow rallied and said bravely, “It
knocked the breath out of me; I’m
better now; 1 can go on.” Go on, we
did, and we presently came to the
cabin of a negro whom I knew. He
put us in the right road, and we went
on without further difficulty, but night
had now set in, and we were glad to
see the cheery light of a good neigh
bor of the old time. We spent the
night under his hospitable roof, and
finished our tramp the next morning.
You’ll think this isn’t much •of a
story, but I am telling it so as to
keep up the game. Now it’s somebody
else’s turn at the bat. Where are
you, S. T. P„ Old Woman, Finet.a,
Mizpah, and Miss Mary Pettus Thom
as?
GEORGE WHEELER.
Hattiesburg, Miss.
it
A CHAT ABOUT BOOKS.
Notable among the books of 1908
was The Heart of a Child,” by Frank
Danby (Mrs. Frankan). This book
has all the essentials of greatness in
its making. The keen portrayal of the
life of Sally Snape shows the hand
of a genius. This gift of the author
is shown not so much in what is said,
but what can be read between the
lines. Sally Snape is so vital a char
acter that she takes hold of the read
er’s affections at once and we sor
row with her and rejoice as she sor
rows or rejoices. Though placed in
the worst possible environment Sally
Snape, the little girl of the slum, like
the lily that emerges from the mirt),
came forth unspotted because of her
child-like heart. ,No conditions un
der which she was placed ever
harmed her. Being pure, all things to
her were pure. Because she ignored
evil, evil was not for her. Because
she saw good, good was everywhere.
No riches or fame, to which she at
tained in the end, both so trying to
inferior souls, could make her heart
less childish and true. Among the
hundreds of other dream-women I have
associated with in books during the
past year, the sweet face of Sally,
Lady Kedderminster, stands pre-emi
nent. To me she is vitally human, yet
the very ideal of all dream-women.
Were I a painter I would love to see
the face of Sally Snape as I have R
