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THE HOUSEHOLD
A Department of Expression For Those Who Feel and Think.
SANCTUARY.
On my cherished plant I see
Some sad thief has been,
Nibbling here and there a leaf —
What a shameful sin!
Here he was, and here again,
Feeding as he went;
Not until I’ve captured him
Shall I be content.
And when I have found him here,
As ’twere, in the act,
I shall be all pitiless—
That’s a settled fact.
Here’s a leaf supinely bent —
Cradle upside down;
It may be he's hidden here —
Ah, my foe is found!
But a worm no longer now—
Wonderful is this!
Sleeping undisturbed I find
Here a chrysalis.
Could I crush the life of such?
Nay! Dear little thing,
Sleep on safely for the sake
Os your folded wing.
—MARGARET A RICHARD.
CHAT.
E extend the hand of fellow
ship to several new members
today, among them, Miss S. L.
w
Richardson, who tells us of one of
the world’s untrumpeted heroes —a
man, who keeps brave, bright and
busy, in spite of being heavily handi
capped by an affliction that cut him
down in the splendid flo'wer of his
manhood. It vexes me to hear one
say, “We have no heroism among us
today.” Never was the world so full
of the noblest heroism —the most sub
lime sacrifices, not for fame or selfish
glory, but for the good of humanity.
Is there anything more thrilling than
to read of the devoted w’orkers in
the city slums —“Members of the great
‘Soul Trust,’ ” who freely spend their
time and money in the efforts to lift
fallen men and women up out of the
slough of vice and despair into clean
and useful lives?
It takes a great deal of courage,
moral and physical, to become a mis
sion worker. It takes the divine love
that calls nothing common or unclean
and the fine sympathy that puts one’s
self in another’s place and realizes
that these degraded men and women
are not creatures of an alien species,
but just w’hat any of us might be
come with their inherited taint and
slum environment.
Often mission workers risk their
lives w’hen in the blind alleys and
dives of the city’s under-w r orld. In
stances are common where mission
aries, who had cultivated muscular
as well as moral force —have been
“held up” by men desperate through
hunger and liquor thrist —whom they
have succeeded in overpowering by
atnletic force and have afterwards
conquered spiritually by kindness, in
viting their tough assailant into the
mission, where he was given a bath
and clean clothes, and then prayed
with until his darkened soul opened
to the light that led up to a new and
better life. In this way, David Ran
ney, once a drunkard and a convict,
was regenerated and induced to be
come one of the most zealous and
successful missionary workers in New
York. Ranney is a militant Christian
and sometimes, when he snatches his
“patients” from the gutter, he has
fairly to batter them into sanity and
force them into a decent life. An
other muscular Christian, after a hard
tussle with a burglar, succeeded in
getting him down and sitting on his
chest. “Let me up, and call the cops,”
panted the young criminal. “I’m not
going to call the cops; I’m going to
pray with you,” replied his captor;
and still gripping his conquered assail
ant, he began to talk to him kindly,
earnestly and finding there was good
in the young house-breaker, he tola
him when he wished to go, “No, you’ve
got to stay right with me for two
months. You’re out of work, you say;
I’ll give you clean clothes and a good
job as janitor at my mission If you
stick it out for eight weeks, I’ll never
blow on you.”
The young burglar has stuck it out
for eighteen months.
The founder of the New York mis
sions was the famous Jerry McAuley,
W’ho, born on Water street with its
poverty stricken tenements and crowd
ed saloons, became one of tue worst
of the River pirates. While serving
out a sentence in Sing-Sing, h,e was
converted by a visiting missionary. He
and his wife started their mission
among the bums and thugs of that
neighborhood, whom they gathered m
their little room. This was long ago
in 1872, but the mission is still an
active factor for saving the fallen,
and is in charge of John Wyburn, who
himself was once a degraded drunk
ard and thief and who owes his resto
ration to clean and useful manhood to
having stumbled one bitter night into
Jerry McAuley’s mission.
These mission workers frequently
fail. Many attend the missions only
for food, but as one of the workers
has said, “One life renewed is worth
a whole life’s endeavor,” and the fact
remains that thousands of wrecked
human beings have been made over
anew into good citizens and whole
some, happy men and women through
the efforts of these heroes of the
slums.
Dear old woman, you did right to
let the weeds stay for the sake of the
morning glories that canopied them
with beauty. There are many morn
ings yet, before the coming of Jack
Frost, when your eye and heart will
be gladdened by the sight of those
delicate blue and white pavilions
spread out over the weeds as refresh
ment stations for the wandering bee
and butterfly.
Place a spray in your belt, or a rose
on your stand,
When you set yourself down to the
commonest seam;
It’s beauty will brighten the work in
your hand,
It’s fragrance will sweeten each
dream.
The cool, crisp breezes of thase lat
ter summer days are fraught with in
vigorating power. Summer has veiled
her too intense smile in soft haze and
purple mist. The golden rod is abloom,
as Eunice tells us in her dainty poem.
Her whilom guest, Mizpah, asks the
opinion of the Household, concerning
the negro problem. You may remem
ber that not long ago, Carl Holliday—
Professor of English in the South
western Presbyterian University—gave
this question to his class of young
men to write upon, “What is to be
come of the American Negro?” In
his class were forty-eight Southerners,
representing Mississippi, Tennessee,
Louisiana, Virginia, Georgia and Flor
ida —Mississippi having by far the
majority of representatives—the pu
pils ages ranged from eighteen to
thirty-seven. The replies to the ques
tion were most interesting, though
they clashed with the views of Pro-
The Golden Age for September 16, 19U9.
fessor Holliday. If you do not chance
to remember these significant answers,
I will briefly review them in some
future chat.
Mttb Our aorresponbents
KEEPER OF THE TOLL GATE.
“Bravest of the Brave.”
Thia was the encomium bestowed
by Napoleon on his favorite general,
the dauntless Marshal Ney, and dur
ing the war of the States it was ap
plied to Stonewall Jackson and to the
intrepid “Jeb” Stuart and daring Pel
ham, the “boy cannoner.” But it takes
greater courage to live under some
circumstances than to risk life in the
excitement of battle. The heroes of
peace are called upon to exercise
.greater courage and fortitude than
those of war. Let me tell you the
story of one of these heroes, Normant
Benford, a young Virginian, well born,
of fine physique and well educated,
had everything to hope from life when
he entered upon manhood. He and
his twin brotner, the two exactly alike
and devoted to each other, obtained
positions with a wealthy New York
manufacturer. They were to travel
the southern states, dividing the ter
ritory between them. They were suc
cessful from the start. Sometimes by
appointment they met on middle
ground to Sunday together. The writ
er is informed that ob such occasions
porters and clerks about the hotel
looked on in amazement at seeing two
grown-up men hugging and kissing
like girls. These were happy days for
those devoted brothers so alike that
it was hard to tell “’tother from
which.”
At the end of eighteen months our
hero was forced to return home; he
had been stricken with a severe case
of rheumatism. He grew worse as
time passed and his devoted grandfa
ther, for whom he was named, al
though at the advanced age of eighty
two, took him to several of the min
eral springs, for which Virginia is
noted and there, I am told, they chum
med it together in a beautiful way,
but there was no cure for the boy and
he became resigned to his fate; it is
his perfect resignation to the chasten
ing hand of God that has challenged
the admiration of all who Know him.
If he is ever out of the roller chair
it is either when he is tenderly lifted
out by loving hands or falls out in
attempting to do more than he is able
to do. “I must w’ork,” he says; “it
keeps me in good spirits.” He is col
lector of toll at a gate on one of the
turnpikes leading into Richmond. Tn
his little office he carries a small stock
of goods and says to his customers,
“You will have to wait on yourselves;
you see I trust you more fully than
th© average merchant does.” His faith
ful and devoted grandfather died three
years ago. A short time before his
death he went one Sabbath to worship
at a church other than his own and
was greatly surprised to hear the
minister refer to his invalid grandson
in these words: “My friends, it often
happens that in coming to you with a
message of love I feel that I must
first seek inspiration; I was feeling
the need of inspiration before begin
ning this sermon, so I hooked up my
horse, got into the buggy and drove
out on the turnpike where I usually
go for my spiritual uplift. So I looked
into the bright face and listened to
the sweet words of faith and hope
that my crippled friend uttered, and
came away with what I had sought.
The young man is a living sermon;
some of you may know him; I refer
to Normant Beuford.”
The grandfather went forward at the
close of services; made himself known
and thanked the preacner.
The grandfather was on his death
bed when the following letter written
by his crippled boy was received. I
give it verbatim:
“December 18, 1905.
“My Dear Grand ‘Dad’:
“I had planned to come up to see
you yesterday, but could not on ac
count of the ice, so will have to write.
If I could get about I would spend
many an hour in your room and try
to repay you for your help to me. Since
I’ve been unable to do for myself, I
often think of our trip to Buffalo and
Chase City. You surely did look out
for your boy. I hope it is needless to
assure you, dear grandpa, of my love
to you. You have indeed been a fa
ther as well as grandfather to us (the
Beuford boys), and I don’t believe
there is a set of grandchildren to be
found that loves their grandfather bet
ter than we love you. Your just and
Christian life has been a great help to
me. The Christianity you have lived
day by day is the sort I would like to
have. May your faith in your God
grow brighter as the days go by, and
may our Heavenly Father be very near
and dear to you. May He lead you
into green pastures and by the still
waters.
“Now we see through a glass darkly
but then face to face; now we know
in part but then shall I know even
also as I am known.”
“Your loving boy,
. “NORMIE.”
THE FLORIDA HOUSEHOLD
RE-UNION.
Dear Mater and Household Family:
Here I am back from my Alabama
visit, and once more in my little home
in old Georgia. Home is the dearest
place on earth. Though mine has
been made desolate, it is still dear
to me. It looked desolate enough
when I first returned to it after an
absence of two months. Tne yard had
grown up in weeds. They had invaded
the walks and the very door step.
“I shall have a time making things
look presentable,” I thought. But
next morning, when I opened my door
and looked out, I was filled with sur
prise and pleasure. Everywhere the
tall weeds were overtopped and over
spread with morning glory vines—in
full, dewy bloom. Such a riot of color,
blue, violet, pink, purple and white.
I was so charmed with the sight that
I decided to let the weeds remain for
the sake of the flowers, wherever they
would not interfere with getting about
in the yard. So the glories will stay
until Jack F’rost bids them fold their
pretty tents. I dearly love wild flow
ers, just as they come from the Mas
ter’s hand. I take more delight in
these than in cultivated flowers.
My health improved greatly during
my stay in Alabama, but my nerves
are still a little shaky and any ex
citement makes my hands tremble. I
hope soon to be myself again. I was
broken down with anxiety and long
continued attendance at the sick bed
of my dear one. Thank you, dear
Mattie Howard, for your sympathy and
your kind words. Thanks to the Mater
also, and to all who have sent me
a friendly thought. IdQ so appreciate
