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10
CONFIDENCE.
By Hattie M. Atwater.
As a bird in its sheltered nest
Fears not the wind and rain;
As a child on its mother’s breast,
Lulled to a dreamless rest,
Forgets its passion or pain.
We, safe in the mighty arms,
That open wide for us all,
Find shelter and rest and peace
Though a thousand ills befall.
And sleeping, or waking,
We rest in the Lord,
Close to the merciful heart of God.
There is comfort for all our cares,
And a blessing for every loss,
And never we need despair;
Did not the Sinless bear
For us the shame of the cross?
We have only to love, to trust,
With a faith no fate can move,
The Father’s infinite power,
The depth of His wondrous love.
And sleeping or waking,
We rest in the Lord,
Close to the merciful heart of God.
S’
CHAT.
TRAGEDY and comedy how
closely they are allied in the
daily drama of our lives I I never
realized this move vividly than one
evening last week.
It was the opening night of the wide
ly heralded automobile contest in At
lanta. The city was alive with people
and garlanded with electric lights.
The fluttering of hundreds of flags and
bright-colored decorations, the glitter
of lights, the sound of laughter and
lively music and the whir of beflagged
motors, rushing past with their smil
ing occupants, made up a scene of
animated gaiety.
I had a friend with me, who is
subject to fits of depression. To en
liven her, I took her in to see a merry
vaudeville performance. After it was
over, we walked along the brightly
lighted streets to her rooms, just
across from St. Joseph’s Infirmary. It
was past midnight. I stood on the
balcony, looking out on the soft, balmy
night, its quiet punctuated by an oc
casional strain of music and the dis
tant roll of vehicles, when suddenly
there dashed around the corner, one
of the hospital ambulances, in that
mad haste that tells of a life and
death emergency. The ambulance
stopped before the Infirmary, and an
apparently lifeless form was lifted out
and carried in. Later we knew that it
was the body of a prominent young
business man, who had been killed in
the street, under the wheels of two
of those gayly whirling autos, which
we had seen but a little while before.
To add to the horror of the occur
rence, one of those life crushing motor
cars that passed over the man—almost
in front of his home —was occupied by
his young wife, who was returning
from the automobile show, and who,
alighting from the car, telephoned to
the authorities that a man lay man
gled in the street, not knowing that
the man was her own husband. I
have known few more tragic occur
rences.
But it is always so in life. Laugh
ter and tears lie close together. In
New York, I have seen a funeral pro
cession and a wedding cortege issue
at the same time from the same apart
ment house. Many a one whom we
meet and shake hands with, unknow
ingly, carries both the sad and the
sunny-seeming element of life’s drama
THE HOUSEHOLD
A department of Expression Tor Those Who Feei and Think,
in his person, his smile masking a
sad and anxious heart.
There is constant call for sympathy
and love in the world, and it is well
that love and sympathy are more plen
tiful, or at least more active, than
ever before. Friendly kindness is ever
ready to help the fallen and pour
balm upon the wounded. As the world
progresses Spiritually, there will be
one day a realization of St. Paul's say
ing that “Love is the fulfillment of the
law.’’ With enough love in the world,
there would be no need of. any law,
for not one of the ten commandments
would, or could be violated.
Have you noticed what a perfect
Indian summer we have had? The
early frost gave us all the gorgeous
glories of autumn, and the days and
weeks of mellow sunshine that fol
lowed, called back the birds and the
bloom of the wild flowers and their
sisters of the garden. My roses and
annuals are lovelier this tenth day of
November, than they were in June,
though I look every night for the fata!
kiss of the Frost King to blight them.
There is so much pleasure and
solace in flowers. And it is such inex
pensive pleasure. Every one can have
a cheery little company of annuals
about his door. They are the sweet
est of flower friends, for they give
us so much beauty for so little care.
A correspondent, who says: “I am
a faithful and fond reader of the
Household,” asks: “What do you think
of the novel’s place in literature? Who
writes the best novels, men or women?
I am the head of a large family, and
my boys and girls will read novels.
Do you think it injures them?” An
exclusive diet of novels is certainly
injurious. Try to interest your young
folks in travels and biography. Some
books of travel, and some biographies
of men and women are more entertain
ing than the average novel.
The province of the novel in litera
ture is to give us true and therefore
instructive pictures of every day life.
The novel of today is like the kineto
scope; it gives us a succession of bril
liant photographs of contemporary
life. There is no justice in claiming
that a good novel gives unreal pic
tures. The occurrences depicted in
them are not nearty as improbable
as those you may read in any daily
newspaper. There are delightful and
helpful novels, such as “The Lady of
the Decoration,” and there are pic
tures of unhealthy, fashionable life,
such as “The House of Mirth.” A
father and mother should know that
the novels read by their children are
the .right kind. No mistakes can be
made by letting them read the charm
ing and spirit-sweetening novels of
E. P. Roe, and the fine, manly stories
of Charles Kingsley, with their lov
able heroines and clean, manly he-’oes
Men are the best writers of the
novel of incident and sensation, be
cause they see more of various sides
of life, meet characters of more viril
ity, and have larger opportunities of
observing human affairs. But woman
is the born story teller of humanity
and she can depict the finer shades of
character and the scenes of every day
life with more skill than can the male
artist.
We are glad to have a number of
old friends with us in the Household
today. They tell us stories full of
interest. Annice’s little sketch “A
Suit Gained by a Song,” is an instance
of touching a chord that vibrates in
every breast. Judge Sevier (who you
know, was Annice’s beloved and din-
The Golden Age for November 18, 1909.
tinguished brother), had the magnetic
sympathy that enabled him to know
his fellow men and touch them to
fine issues. Julia Coman’s sketch, “At
Baby’s Grave,” is a shaded but beau
tiful, pathetic pictuie. Muriel’s ac
count of how her townswomen raised
the money needed ’or church repairs
is interesting and timely. The acting
of these simple, humorous little plays,
particularly when they are as true
to life as “The Old District Sfliool,”
is a kind of innocent diversion that
might be more often brought into use
to enliven our vi'lages and country
neighborhood.
MATER.
With Our Correspondents
“THE DEESTRICK SKULE.”
My home is in a rural community.
The people are mostly farmers not
wealthy, but “good livers.” Some of
them are descendants of the best fami
lies, refined but their opportunities to
keep up with the times have been limi
ted.
The Methodist Church, which is the
only one here, was badly in need of
repair. Its members will contribute
very generously toward the pastor’s
salary. Not so, however, when it
comes to “church repair.” So the wo
men of the neighborhood decided to
raise the desired amount by “hook or
crook.” Ice cream socials, church sup
pers, etc., had been overdone. It was
suggested that they get up a play. And
the “Old Deestrick Skule” of fifty years
ago was selected. They tried to get
enough older people to take the dif
ferent parts, but lacked some —these
were given to young people. They had
about twenty-five in the school. It
was surprising what an interest they
all took in it —they never missed a
rehearsal. One old lady of sixty-five
was the most delighted of all and re
cited, “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” as
she did some fifty odd years ago. After
rehearsing about three weeks, meeting
once or twice a week, they gave their
public performance. The house was
crowded and the play very much en
joyed; so much so, that they were
invited to repeat it at several nearby
towns. They realized quite a nice lit
tle sum for their church. Besides
they got lots of enjoyment and diver
sion out of it themselves.
What impressed me most was the
eagerness of people living in the coun
try for amusement. The lack of this
is one thing that causes so many of
the young people to go to the cities
to live.
MURIEL.
6?
ONE YEAR OF MY LIFE.
important Bill For Congress.
It has been my custom for some
years now to write you an annual let
ter, and inform you how I spent the
past year. This is done at the earnest
request of many of you who are kind
enough to take an interest in my un
fortunate self; so if my letter is rather
personal, I trust you will pardon me.
The summer was quite a severe one
on me. The heat was intense, and I
suffered much, but with the help of
God I managed to pull through, and am
here once more with an invitation p or
you to attend my Christmas le’.er
party. I made a mistake last year in
saying I had been down in ted for
twenty-three years. It win not be
twenty-three until next Christmas I
went to bed on that day twent; • three
years ago, and I haven’t been able to
so much as turn out of one position
since; However, one year more or less
makes very little difference to me. I
know it sems like a century since I
could walk. In fact, it doesn’t seem
as if I ever could, though I was sixteen
years old when I was taken down. As
most of you know about my deplorable
condition, I won’t describe it here. I
believe in looking on the sunny side
of life, and talking about cheerful
things.
I was fortunate in getting out the
past summer. I went to church three
times, one ball game, two shows, and
was invited out to dine several times.
I am still boy enough to enjoy a circus,
and have had many a good, hearty
laugh at those crazy clowns. In fact,
one of them was so ridiculous that I
had to stop looking at him to prevent
laughing myself sick. Not having sUU
feited on the pleasures of the world, 1
can enjoy these little diversions with a
keener relish than well people. After
being denied all the pleasures of life,
it takes very little to make one happy;
Being a helpless one and hopeless
ly shut in myself, I have a great sym
pathy for this unfortunate class, and
have been doing everything in my
power to get the people interested in
a pension bill for them. I have select
ed Hon. Champ Clark, M. C., as the
man to introduce the bill ,and earnest
ly request all shut-in’s to write Mr-
Clark when Congress meets in Decem
ber and implore his help in this mat
ter, His address at that time will be
in Washington, IT C. There are doubt
less one hundred thousand helpless
ones in the United States, and out of
this number fully one-half are unable
to support themselves, and are being
cared for by poor and unwilling rela
tives and friends, or else living in the
poor houses. Surely, none are more
deserving, and our rich and powerful
government should see that they are
cared for. I wrote Mr. Clark about
this plan, and he promised me he
would study on it, and see what could
be done. He also said that England
was trying to get up something similar
for her cripples, though on a much
larger scale.
Now, let’s put all our shoulders to
the wheel, and see if we can not ac
complish something along this line. I
am not hoping for personal benefit.
This bill is to be for those who can
not earn their own living and I thank
God that through my pen, I have been
able to be self-supporting for the past
eight years, and I hope to continue to
be until I am called to my Father’s
home. However, I realize fully that
without the help and encouragement
of my friends, I could do nothing in
my helpless condition. Still, when
my best friend, my mother, died, I
did not give up and whine that I was
beaten without making an effort. I
did my best when I wrote my books,,
and then left the result with God. My
friends have certainly stood by me
nobly. I appreciate their kindness with
all my heart and hereby tender my pro
found thanks to each and every one
of you. May God bless you. Speaking
of my books, reminds me to say that
if you desire to make my Christmas a
happy one, kindly enclose the price of
one of my books, oi' of all four of
them, as they cost so little. “Twenty
three Years on a Mattress Grave”;
price twenty cents, is the true story
of my life, and of the encroachments
of the strange disease that rendered
me unable to move a limb. You may
imagine it is gloomy story, but it
