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THE POWEH OF IDEALS
N the beginning, when the Garden of
Eden was evolved out of the chaos of
a still born earth, Almighty God created
a man and a woman, and surrounded
them with liberty, happiness and the
necessaries of life. They had experi
enced none of the vicissitudes of fortune,
felt none of the sorrows and disap
pointments of life, and but one injunc-
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tion to obey —follow the Ideal.
This command, in some of its aspects, has been
recognized and obeyed by humanity from the be
ginning. Down through the ages it has remained
unchanged. Laws given by man have come, laws
given by man have gone, but this law goes on
forever.
“Ideals are a self-evolving circle, which, from
a ring imperceptibly smia.il, rushes on all sides out
wards to new T and larger circles and that without
end.”
Realizing this .truth, we know the world was made
for man, and that he has been placed in this world
not merely to consider the material value of nature,
but the meaning of the things around him.
Let man enter the temple through the Gate Beau
tiful. He can see the glories of the rising or
setting sun, or the changing wonders of the ocean,
sometimes so grand in its peaceful tranquility, at
others so majestic in its mighty power. Near by
his side can be seen the flowers for summer, autumn
and spring.
When the least of these fades and passes away,
it sacrifices its existence for the benefit of another,
which in turn fulfills its mission and hastens away
as the hosts that have preceded it have done.
Nature has been the greatest teacher with which
man could commune. He may retreat into the
deepest recesses of the leafy forest, and there, with
the grass for a carpet, the foliage for drapery, the
rock for a couch, and the canopy of azure blue for
a temple, and the gentle murmur of a gurgling
brook and the soft whisper of this magnificent
grandeur, he may become imbued with that high and
true ideal which nature alone can impart.
"The Limit of the Line,”
picture, and a sketch of his life as a leading citizen,
had come out in one of the city papers. Shirley had
clipped both out, transferring the face of her em
ployer to card board, and the sketch of his life to
her scrap-book.
“I wish to see,” she had explained naively to
lherself, in justification, “what the years will make
of him. Whether his face, which I am obliged to
admit, is exceptionally handsome, will grow harder
and colder, with the flight of time, or graver and
nobler and sweeter. Who can tell? And yet I
know,” she continued in a tone of earnest con
viction, ‘ 1 that if his best self is not enthroned soon,
it will be forever too late. His soul will have con
gealed in the frozen currents of selfishness and
worldliness, beyond all hope of redemption.”
Shirley sprang to her feet, and, going to a cabinet
at the back of the room, she removed from it a num
ber of photographs, which she arranged on the man
tel. She studied the high-bred face of Young Ford,
for some time, lingeringly, and then she placed his
picture by the side of Little Nell with a soft sigh.
She kissed her mother’s photograph, impulsively,
lovingly ; and then placed it by the chisled, classic
countenance, of the Man of Iron.
“In some way,” she murmured, in the soft, spec
ulative voice of the Idealist, “my destiny is to
bear the impress of each one of you. How much or
how little, it is not given me to understand, at
present. But this I do know,” she added, with a
bow full of grace and charm, as she looked compre
hensively at the pictures, of Young Ford and Barry
Moore, “Fate has got the throw now, and, as one
of our illustrious Southern statesmen declares,
4 Where am I at?’ ”
In glancing around the room, some daisies in a
crystal bowl on the center table, caught her wan
dering attention, and, taking them for an inspira-
Man no longer will ask the question, Who made
these things'? And what do they mean? Thus he
has parted the curtain of futurity and delved into
the mysteries of heaven, hell and immortality.
Again, the power of Ideals may be seen upon the
progress of the world.
That this is an age of progress goes without say
ing. It is an age characterized by rapid strides
in every department. Whether we penetrate the
realm of science, invention or discovery, we behold
everywhere evidence of advancement. We never
see the skilled blacksmith take the red block of iron
and quickly beat it into a symmetrical hammer,
but that we admire his skill. We never see an
industrious farmer, as he goes merrily whistling
behind the plow anticipating an abundant harvest,
but that we envy his contented sphere.
We never see the learned astronomer as he figures
out the movement and distance of some heavenly
body, a,s he calculates the position of some distant
star, 'but we wish for similar talent. We never see
the silver-tongued orator play upon the heart
strings of his hearers, and persuade the minds
of the multitudes with his majestic eloquence, but
that we long to be an orator.
My friends! These stages are not dreams in a
distant fairy-land. We have them at our very
grasp. Opportunity unfolds the heights of glorious
achievements.
When we realize these opportunities, we shall trod
down the line of mediocrity and avail ourselves of
our second heritage.
“Do thy part
Here in the living day, as did the great
Who made old days immortal! So shall men,
Gazing long back to this far-looming hour,
Say, ‘Then the time when men were truly men.’
Serving the state anew by virtuous lives;
Guarding- their country’s honor as their own,
And their own as their country’s and their sons’;
Defying leagued fraud with single truth;
Not fearing loss; and daring to be pure.
ROBERT LEWIS RENDER.
SO SS3
tion, she selected a full white daisy, and a deep
yellow one. Then she sat down on the rug, in the
flickering fireshine, and commenced to test her fate,
with flower-petals, in the good old way which girls
have done, from time immemorial. The petals of
the yellow daisy came out with stubborn slowness,
and the result was apparently not satisfactory; for
she sighed. But the white daisy, whidh she denuded
with swift impatient fingers, as slm repeated, “He
loves me, loves me not, loves me,” proved more
amenable to the demands of the old, sentimental
game, for the last petal came off, “loves me!”
“Dee-lighted,” Shirley said, as she shook the
petals in a shower from her blue skirt into the
yellow fire, “oh! so c-h-a-r-m-e-d! that one of my
Knights loves me. But, all the same, the flower
evidence strikes me as flimsy, proof, for a practical
working girl like Shirley Bryan, you know. I do
not think that I will delude myself any further to
night. Oh! Ah! Um! Ah! I’ll yawn my little silly
head off in a second.”
“I am coming in, iShirley,” Miss Ethel Ford said,
suddenly, from the open door.
“Goodness! do!” Shirley invited. “I am lone
some as the Sphinx in the desert sands.”
“What? You? Look at all those tell-tale pictures
on the mantel. Oh! I can’t stand it, ’ ’ sighed Miss
Ford, sinking into a lounging chair, with three rain
bow-silk pillows at her back.
“Can’t stand what, Ethel?”
“His not coming.”
“His not coming? Who has failed to show up?”
“The Editor,” Miss Ford confessed. “I am
crazy about him.”
“You don’t look it,” mused Miss Bryan. “Did
he promise to meet you and Mrs. De Peyster Ford
at the musicale, along with that Wall street
broker ? ’ ’
“Not definitely. He said that he did not wish to
shy at the trombone, But I dressed for him. I
The Golden Age for May 6, 1909.
put on peacock blue, which is the limit with me. I
thought to land him, with these golden butterflies
painted on the corsage. Do you like them?”
Shirley studied the painted butterflies, without
envy.
“I wish that he had seen you, Princess Ethel,”
she said clearly. “If I were a man, dear heart,
I’d go dippy about you. Truly, you are startlingly
lovely. ’ ’
“Flatterer,” commented Miss Ford, with a shrug
that set the golden spots on her half-sleeves danc
ing.
“I don’t flatter, honey chile,” imitating Aunt
Dilsey’s voice when she wished to borrow a dime.
“You des know, yu is beautifuller than beautiful;
come res’ yur prescious head on mammy’s breast.”
“I don’t feel beatiful around Gregory Ford,
Shirley,” smiled Miss Ford.
“ He’s dess a clam, honey chile. ’ ’
They shrieked with laughter. Presently, Miss
Ford grew serious.
“I want my beauty to bless others,” she said.
“It will only last a little while, then I will be
‘thrilless’ as Aunt Imogene is, and, shades of Peter
Pan, forty!”
“Forty,” shivered Shirley. “Think of that! Oh,
well, we can’t stop time. But you are a noble type
of woman, Ethel, and I love you some.”
‘ ‘ Thank you, Shirley. ’ ’
They drew breath. They were good fencers, and
they were much in the dark about each other’s love
affairs. Shirley leaned her arm on the mantel,
spreading her fingers out like the sticks of a fan,
and realizing with a faint blush that this was a habit
of Ford’s.
“I don’t understand, Mr. Ford,” she mused.
“Who does, Shirley?”
“You should.”
“I should, but I don’t. I have known him a long
time, and I don’t grip him at all. It was all over
New York once that we were engaged. As a rule
women bore him. He knows the sex, and I fancy
that I have a correct theory of his case.”
“Theory?” Shirley’s eyes grew vivid. Was it
possible to weigh the soul of the master of the game ?
To get a glimpse at the veiled holy of holies? the
inner life of the young millionaire?
“I don’t understand my case very well,” frowned
Miss Ford, whose father had been a great jurist.
“Back in Gregg’s life somewhere, just after he left
Princeton, I think, he had an experience that has
left an indelible scar. The woman in the case was
as beautiful as one of the Langhorne sisters of Vir
ginia. Her hair, was of that Titian red-bronze,
which has driven men to suicide ere this. The skin
beneath this sunset effect was like the petals of a
tea rose. Her eyes were brown, that dog-like brown,
luminous with no great spiritual light, but warm
with passionate human sympathy. She was the type
of woman to never reason deeper than the seeming
Actual. She would choose a soft-voiced office animal,
in preference to a man whom it was hard for her
to classify. She wished one, you know, who caught
the car regular every morning.”
“Heavens!” exclaimed Shirley, “but you are
drawing her picture. I believe that she existed —
also that she was a financial idiot.”
“I imagine,” drawled Miss Ford, “that she had
some money. Possibly, $25,000. And, her ideas of
the world-game were ‘villagy. ’ ”
“Very ‘villagy,’ ” agreed Miss Bryan, her cheeks
flushed a little with excitement.
“Then,” Miss Ford went on, “I presume that she
was of that type of ninnycompoop, who would ted
a man that she had no interest in marriage, and
marry, any kangaroo counter-jumper at $30.00 per
month, on her string.”
“Ethel! Ethel! Your eyes are almost on fire!”
suggested Shirley.
“I don’t care. Who was she? Who was she?
Who was she? Miserable, little red-headed flirt, to
ruin Gregg’s life. I hate her. I despise her.
WHO — oh! get me a glass of water — I’m choking
—I didn’t know the blood of kinship flowed So hot.
She has spoiled him for other women. We are so
miany stone images to him. It is horrible! It is
like shooting peas against Gibraltar. We can’t move
him an iota. He hates the whole petticoat tribe,
because of her.”
(To Be Continued.)
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