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EDITORIAL BEA THUDES
Tupelo—The Home of the Genii.
It is a great thing for a community to give
to the world a son or a daughter of recognized
genius and worthy fame.
If he be an orator the returning tides of his
eloquence and his fame leave an alluvial deposit
of inspiration in the thought and heart of as
piring youth—until the very tastes and ideals
of the community will shape themselves into
the shining symmetry of beautiful expression
and grow into pyramids and periods of mag
netic oratory.
Sow an orator and reap scions of elo
quence on every side!
If that son of fame be a man of wealth
'‘Young America” will think in dollar marks,
build his castles out of ducats, weigh men and
measures by Pounds Sterling and dream his
dreams and plan his plans in the “yellow glare
of gold.”
If a poet be real enough and great enough
to wreathe his own brow and the brow of his
community and make it famous and immortal
because he was there —because his Ayreshire
became to him “a living page” or his Copse
Hill was a throne of Dreams and a home of
Song, then the generation that now is, and
those that are to be, must breathe in the mar
velous minstrelsy of nature and catch alway
the poems, that spring and leap and sing in
the fancy of every lover, in the petals of every
rose, in the song of every bird, in the ripple
and rhythm of every rill and the beam and
gleam of every star! And if a book has been
written in a community—a really great book,
a book whose philosophy illumines the thought
of the world or whose characters are as cur
rent and as real as David Copperfield, John
Halifax, St. Elmo, Pole Baker, Annie Walton,
Shirley Bryan and Barry Moore, how inspir
ing to that community and to all who visit it
through all generations, to drink in the atmos
phere which the author breathed, to walk in
the footprints which the great writer made,
and to look with inspiring contemplation on
the spot where the brain-child of genius and
fame was born.
And if that celebrity be a “daughter of mus
ic” girls and boys will carol her name, the
birds of the air will sing her fame, and each
woman that croons and each baby that cries
will mingle her music with the stars of the
skies.
Well, what of it all? These thoughts came
to me as I began to think of my recent visit
to the beautiful progressive town of Tupelo,
Miss.
The first time, I think, I ever heard the
name of Tupelo I heard of it as the home of
“Private John” Allen, and one morning away
back in ’94 when I was making my first trip to
Texas I opened my sleepy eyes about the
break of day and looked out of the train on
Tupelo, the home of the unique and genial
congressman whose brilliant stories, in addi
tion to his able representation of his district,
have made his name famous all over America.
And when I lectured in Tupelo, I counted
it a privilege indeed to shake hands with “Pri
vate John” Allen and have him as a sort of
“mental flint” in my magnificent audience that
night.
Willie Fain Marmon—“A Daughter of The
Hills.”
And then, what an inspiration to be guest in
the home of a remarkably gifted woman, Mrs.
Brooks Marmon who, as Willie Fain Marmon,
has published charming short stories in a
number of magazines and whose first book “A
Daughter of the Hills” issued only a few
months ago proves her to be a positive genius
in story building and in the creation and delin
eation of characters. Coming herself from the
hill country of Mississippi and dreaming, her
self, until she is reaching on earth Riley’s
—“Lands where pur dreams come true”, she
The Golden Age for August 5, 1909.
has written a story of rural life, in the Missis
sippi hills, a story as high in thought as her
native mountains and as pure in purpose as her
leaping streams—a story that ought to give
Willie Fain Marmon a place at once beside
Will N. Harben and Charles Egbert Crad
dock.
I know one thing—l had planned some im
portant editorial work on the train the day I
left Tupelo for Atlanta, but I thought I would
dip into one or two chapters of my new book
just to see how it started off, and I became so
fascinated that I actually held that “Daughter
of the Hills” in my hands all that evening—all
the way from Mississippi to Georgia. I just
dare you to send $1.50 to the author for a co
and see if it don’t grip and charm you in the
same way.
Unlike many brilliant literary women, Mrs.
Willie Fain Marmon is an ideal home-keeper,
and from this sweet home atmosphere which
she creates for herself and dear ones, she
keeps her heart close to the point of her pen
in giving her wholesome, inspiring stories to
the world. And these delightful stories will
have a new meaning for me since I have been
a fortunate guest beneath the roof-tree from
whence these literary flowers spring.
Tupelo’s Phoebe Carey.
And there is Fannie Kimzey, another daugh
ter of genius who has written some of the
most exquisite gems of genuine poetry that
I have ever read. She makes one think of a
woodland violet in the modest, retiring sweet
ness of her manner and the gentle fragrance of
her gifted life. It was an unique experience
when I lectured to that fine crowd at the
Court House in Tupelo to have the opening
address made by Hon. George Mitchell, the
eloquent Prince Charming of “Hilda” the fair
young Virginian who used to write for the old
Sunny South Household; and then Col. Mitch
ell in graceful words presented Fannie Kirn
bey, who in turn presented the! lecturer of the
evening in a beautiful, original poem which
fairly took the Georgian’s breath. If it were
not such an outright offense to modesty I
would incorporate that poem of introduction
in this 'Tupelo sketch. I also had the great
privilege of being guest in the home of Fan
nie Kimzey. of meeting the dear old mother
so long an invalid, and the sisters leal and
true, all of whom made the hour for the way
faring man a restful inspiration that shall
never be forgotten. Fannie Kimzey’s poems
and personality keep you thinking of Phoebe
Carey.
And there are other memories of Tupelo
that live but to bless.
There’s the “true-hearted, whole-hearted”
Preston, pastor of the Baptist Church, who
knew how to wake up the town and let the
people know that the man from Georgia was
coming to town for a big Union service at the
Methodist Church. And his faithful wife.
(Heaven bless these preacher’s wives! They
entertain more strangers and do more unself
ish things than any other women on earth !)
She and the fair young Prestons were tireless
in their efforts to make the hours golden !
The school reception was a dream of cor
diality. Prof. Newell, who was then the cul
tured superintendent, and Prof. Langston, who
has succeeded him, and whose heart is as large
as his body and as warm as his perennial
smile, gave me a glorious welcome to their
several hundred boys and girls.
An Exiled Georgian.
And speaking of welcomes, it is simply great
to see and experience how one exiled Geor
gian can give the glad hand to a fellow Geor
gian who is wandering up and down through
the earth.
I saw in Tupelo a big sign: “Reaves Gro
cery C 0.,” and found that the president of
that wholesale business was a Georgian from
Meriwether county, who is making a rousing
success in the semi-west. “Must come and
take a meal with me,” said my tall, auburn
haired Georgia friend. “Breakfast is my only
chance,” I answered.” “Good! be ready early.”
And next morning the buggy was there al
most before I got up. And that smiling Geor
gia wife and the litle “Reaveses” gave a sure
enough Georgia welcome.
And my, my! how a traveling man can
discover the footprints of a big-hearted man!
Suppose, when I entered his store the morn
ing after my lecture he had said: “Well, I
have more papers than I can read now,” it
would have been all over in that store. But
instead hear the greeting: “Certainly! send
me The Golden Age every week. I want to
raise my boys on a paper like that.” And ev
ery man in the office, plus the fair young lady
stenographer, subscribed on the spot. They
seemed to thoroughly enjoy the privilege and
I left blessing in my heart and thoughts the
flowery footprints of a big-hearted man. Wish
there were more of them in this selfish old
world. Big-hearted folks make life worth liv
ing.
With the Teachers at Sherman.
And I recently met another big-hearted man
not far from Tupelo. His name is Tucker.
Don’t know whether he is akin to the far
famed “Dan Tucker” of bibulous proclivities
and who made the chunks fly on a certain
“hot time” occasion, but he is all right—very
all right. He loves his community—this plain,
honest, enterprising citizen, and is willing to
make a personal sacrifice, if necessary, to lift
his people upward. And so he invited me
there for two lectures to the students of the
Summer Normal. Much to my delight I found
the Normal presided over by my royal friend
—everybody’s friend—John Donalson, who
has led the educational forces of historic Pon
totoc to the vision and victory of larger life.
\\ ith Donalson were a full half dozen of other
North Mississippi teachers who treated me so
royally at their own schools. Instead of two
times the teachers proved their endurance by
listening four times—and they yet live. Teach
ers are the most inspiring listeners in the
world, for they are gathering seeds to scatter
in the meadow land of childhood and the
morning time of youth.
WILL D. UPSHAW.
"The Women of Today. ”
Rev. William J. Holtzclaw (Baptist Book
Concern, Publishers) has just launched on the
flood-tide of literature a charming little book
bearing the above attractive title. In dealing
with women in retrospect, the author handles
the subject so skillfully that tedious historical
data becomes as fascinating as romance.
His suggestions and criticisms of the women
of today are both wholesome and helpful and
destined to purify the moral atmosphere of
America from the fumes of divorce popularity,
the tendency to dissolve the homes and their
saving influences, and the insidious and perni
cious effects of extravagant dress.
Quoting from one striking paragraph in the
book, Mr. Holtzclaw says: “The struggle to
get dress, or rather the struggle to escape the
imaginary disgrace of not having dress, often
leads to a still worse disgrace. The thefts and
embezzlements, which are many, are usually
the result of a desire to keep up appearances.
The man who is foolish enough to mortgage
his home in order to buy an automobile will
soon find that the other fellow owns his home.”
“In the battle against the evils, which make
the perils of the times, women have more at
stake than men. Their name, their standing in
society, their position as wives and mothers*
their homes and the’r loved ones, are all in--
volved in the success of Christian principles.
May the day speedily come when their con
quests shall be crowned to victory.”
The book sells for $1 and can be ordered
from the publishers, Louisville. Ky,
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