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erable, according to habit. Habit is
a cable. We weave a thread of it
every day, and at last we can not
break it. Boys, while we are young,
let us form good habits. Never take
the first drink, because if you get into
the habit of drinking, after a while
you will be getting drunk.
I would like to go with you, Brother
Willie, to help you fight whiskey.
Can’t you take me along?
With love, and success to the Gol
den Age,
WILLIE BROOKS.
SPRING THOUGHTS.
Spring thoughts! the very words
send a crystal chain of ideas through
my mind. I see, in fancy, a beautiful
white lily, opening its waxen petals
to the sun. It stands without a rival
as an emblem of purity. Holmes
says: “The amen of nature is a flow
er.” What a pretty thought! Yes, they
are the grand amens to the prayers
of the universe which are ascending
silently to the Creator. What is pur
ity, physically, mentally, and spirit
ually?
Physical perfection is rare, but
when it is seen, men worship it. What
is so beautiful as a perfect face? The
face of a young girl, for instance. Is
it weakness to be moved by the ex
quisite curves of a woman’s shoulder,
by the soft, clinging tendrils of hair
that nestle about her face? No more
so than to be wrought upon by sub
lime music which sweeps the harp
strings of the heart with its soul-stir
ring melodies, converting our past
joys into present pain and our pres
ent pain into past joys.
If physical perfection is grand how
much grander the realm of mental
superiority. I would not give my ca
pacity for enjoyment of the best liter
ature and music and art for any
amount of physical beauty. Someone
has said: “The real world is the in
side world.” Within the hidden re
cesses of the mind there are joys un
speakable, pleasures of which the
world knows nothing. What dear com
panions are books! How I love to read
in their depths amid all the good
things they contain. Sometimes they
comfort when human friends can not.
When there is sorrow, they alleviate,
when there are wounds, they heal,
when there are burdens, they lighten.
But grandest of all is spiritual per
fection. Very few attain to that.
Those that do must pass through the
deep waters of suffering, must learn
what self-denial and sacrifice mean,
must grapple successfully with the
stern realities of every-day life, must
see always, though afar, the bright,
shining star of hope, though often
the walls of despair close around
them, then can come the peace that
the world knows not of, which the
world can not give, nor take away.
When the depths of suffering have
been sounded, then one may scale the
heights of joy by ministering to
others. There is no pleasure that
can surpass that of making another
happy. That is what God wants us
to do. Spiritual perfection is not easy
to reach. But always keep your eye
on the cross where hung the bleeding
Christ, and the way will not seem so
hard.
In this spring time of the year an
other thought present s itself —the Eas
ter-life. It means the putting on of
new hope and courage. Now is the
time when we should rise to our bet
ter selves, our higher natures, Which
we so often keep hidden under a false
exterior. But how can one live al
ways the Easter-life, even in the au
tumn of chill despair and the winter
of blighting? By following the Savior
whose resurrection has made this oc
casion sacred.
I have always had the same feeling
in looking at a beautiful sunset that
I have when 1 see the moon rising
upon the waters, or when I stand in a
great forest. A feeling of what? Os
illimitable aspiration. Os the spirit’s
strivings to burst the bars which fet
ter the soul and mount higher and
higher to the plane of the Creator.
Merriman says: “There are some
places in the world where nature
seems to stand in the presence of the
Diety; a sunrise at sea, night on a
snow-clad mountain, mid-day in a vast
forest.”
Then again in the spring there is
such an intense joy in just being alive,
a boundless flow of spirits, a rush of
delight through our inmost souls that
nothing can stop and we feel with
Byron that:
“There is a pleasure in the pathless
woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely
shore,
There is society where none iAtrudes
By the deep sea and music in its
roar:
I love not man the less, but nature
more,
From these our interviews, in which
I steal
From all I may be or have been be
fore,
To mingle with the universe and feel
What I can ne’er express, yet can not
all conceal.”
JULIA IVERSON LANE.
ON THE ALLEN FARM.
Edith Marley is Mildred and Wal
ter’s little country friend. She lives
only a short distance from the Allen
home. Mildred likes to tell Edith of
her home in the city and all about the
parks, but the most interesting of all
to Edith is the large school Mildred
tells of. Edith, in return, tells of the
plain wooden benches, the lame school
master, the long, keen hickory switch,
and best of all, the bright honor
badge Edith won the last term. In
this manner, the three children spend
most of their time when together.
One morning Annie took Mildred,
Walter and Edith to the field to watch
the men load the hay and haul it to
grandpa’s barn. When the last wagon
was loaded, the jolly four climbed up
to the top and had a pleasant ride
through the sweet scented fields.
The place liked better and really
enjoyed most by the children is the
sliding place. On our farm there was
a large hill covered with pine needles
that had fallen thickly enough to en
tirely cover the ground. Two or three
barrel staves fastened together served
as a sled. The sliding place on the
Allen farm was somewhat similar to
the one described. Edith’s sled was
first to take the ride, so Mildred gave
her sled a slight push, and she soon
went rapidly to the bottom. Walter
gave Mildred a push and she .flew
along the slippery surface and reached
the bottom soon after Edith. Walter
was last and just before reaching the
bottom, his sled struck against a rock;
the jolt upset his sled and threw him
head over heels in the large pile of
leaves they had collected while clear
ing the path. This little accident af
forded more pleasure, for each time
Walter reached the bottom, he would
tumble over in the leaves. This de
lightful sport lasted until the sun was
low, and the three happy children re
turned to the home.
Grandma was sitting in the grove, in
her easy chair, knitting Walter some
stockings when they came, chatter
ing like birds late in the afternoon.
“Oh, I must hurry home, mother will
be uneasy about me,” said Edith, as
she noticed how late she remained
away from home. “Why, Edith, you
will stay with us tonight. I was over
to your house and your mother said
you might remain with us tonight, for
Mildred and Walter will have to go
The Golden Age for May 6, 1909.
home soon.” Edith and Mildred re
joiced at this news and scrampered
away to ask Annie for some cookies,
leaving Walter with grandma.
Seven o’clock was not far away, so
Mildred and Edith, after a short
while, went into the library and read
some of “Grandpa’s Bible Stories.”
When suppei* time came, grandpa
handed Mildred a letter. “It’s from
mamma,” she said as she opened it
and read:
—, Ga., Aug. 23, 190 —.
Dear little daughter, you must bid
farewell to your country friends, and
deal - and jolly grandparents, for
school will begin soon. I will come
for you tomorrow a. m. Meet me, 7
o’clock, at the station. Tell Walter
I have bought something nice for him.
Papa can’t come with me, for he will
have to work. Give all my love, and
keep some for yourself.
Lovingly,
MOTHER.
Next morning grandpa, ’ma, Mildred,
Edith and Walter went to the station.
The train was a long time coming,
but finally Mrs. Allen was at the
cheerful old farm house. They re
mained two days, then bade farewell
to the cows, sliding place, pasture and
even the old dirty hogs, who were sa
cred to Mildred and Walter Allen.
They left on the 7 p. m. train, back
to the city to study hard and be truth
ful people, still looking forward to an
other trip to grandpa’s the following
June. MARY BOOKER.
Dear Little Mother: After seeing
my last letter in print, I felt a bit
encouraged, so come 'again Ito ask
admittance into the dear “Voices of
Youth.”
This morning dawned with a down
pouring torrent of rain and quick
flashes of lightning, followed by loud
peals of thunder, and as I watched I
wondered if the thoughts of any my
readers have ever been entertained by
these things as mine. So often when
I look out upon them my thoughts
flash too, as the lightning, to many
things at once. I wonder at the great
controlling hand of it all and why life
is so dear.
Why is that we quake and shudder
so under the lightning’s flash, when
we know that He who holds us in His
hand also controls the storm.
Some men strive so hard to amass
vast fortune; others strive to build
for themselves a name or win fame;
while others are throwing their lives
away, as the lowest type of tramp,
villian, or robber, and in vain do 1
ask, why. What makes the difference?
My thoughts go beyond my capacity.
Then quick as the flash of ligtning,
they change, and I think of the suf
fering humanity at our very doors, and
of the heathen souls that are perish
ing in the far away land, without the
Gospel of Jesus Christ being taught
them. If we can not go to the heathen
land, we can contribute to the mis
sionary workers. We are all but mov
ing in different ways in this life, to
ward the same destiny—eternal life.
But many I fear will fall far short of
their expected “Promised Land," on
account of their sinfulness here on
earth. Life should be dear, that we
might use it to honor God. Let us
strive then to fulfill the teachings of
Christ, live for our fellowman, and
thus build a name that we will be
glad to leave behind, worthy “Foot
prints on the sands of time.”
Kosciusko, Miss. GUY LARD.
Dear Little Mother: The experience
I’ve had while a high school girl, in
the dinner carrier Mission school of
Columbus, may be of help to other
teachers in Mission and Sunday school
work.
I found that the personal and social
touch with the child in their homes
made them become more interested
in their religion and studies, always
engaging the attention of the parents
of the most degraded sort, and fre
quently bringing them into the church.
On one occasion we visited a little
fellow in the home whose father was
very disreputable and profane, and
who once threatened the life of the
mother. By showing an interest and
sympathy with them, through this in
fluence the father was finally brought
into the fold.
Trusting that this one little instance
will inspire others to persevere al
though the way oftentimes seems un
inviting. Sincerely yours,
“BONNIE BESS.”
K
THE BABY THAT LAUGHS.
I know a funny little boy—
The funniest ever born;
His face is like a beam of joy
Although his clothes are torn.
I saw him tumble on his nose,
And waited for a groan—
But how he laughed! Do you suppose
He struck his funny bone?
There’s sunshine in each word he
speaks;
His laugh is something grand;
Its ripples overrun his cheeks
lake waves on snowy sand.
He laughs the moment he awakes,
And till the day is done;
The schoolroom for a joke he takes—
The lessons are but tun.
No matter how the day may go,
You can not make him cry;
He’s worth a dozen boys, I know,
Who pout and mope and sigh.
—Wide Awake.
DELIVERED FROM DEBT.
An Eastern Story.
I will but tell you an Eastern story.
An Eastern merchant of great wealth
employed. a skillful workman in cer
tain works of Oriental skill and ele
gance. His workman by some means
had gradually sunk deeper and deeper
in debt; through extravagance, or loss,
or divers other causes, he had first
fallen into a little debt, and then had
borrowed, and loans and usurious in
terest had heaped up the amount un
til it was beyond hope that he should
discharge it. The man grew daily
more and more depressed and as he
sank in spirit he was smitten with
sickness, and the skill he once showed
in his master’s service began to de
cline. Each product of his hand reveal
ed less art and cunning. The hand of
his art was paralyzed. Meanwhile his
creditor became more exacting, and at
last threatened to sell the poor man’s
children as slaves, according to the
law of the land, unless the debt was
paid. This weighed more heavily
upon the poor man’s sould, and he
wrought less industriously and with
decreasing skill. At last the merchant
enquired of the steward of the work
room, “AH,” said he, “was ever a cun
ning workman and he wrought most
dexterously, how is it that I see now
no masterpieces come from him? His
fabrics are few and in the market
they are lightly esteemed. Our name
suffers in the bazaar. Rival traders
excel me in my works.” “My lord,”
said the steward, “he is daily of a
sorrowful countenance and forgets to
eat bread. He keeps a long and bit
ter fast, for he is drowned in debt to
a cruel creditor; his soul pines like
the heath of the desert, and therefore
his hand is slow as that of an herds
man, and his eye is as dull as that
of the owl in sunlight. Beauty has
forgotten him, and art has fled from
him. He declines like one sick unto
death.” “Send for him, bring him
hither,” said his lord; and he brought
him to his chamber, “What aileth thee,
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