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FREE TO THE
RUPTURED
A New Home Cure that Anyone Can Use
Without Operation, Danger or
Loss of Time
Mark on the diagram the location of the rupture
answer the questions and mail this to me, and
begin your cure at once.
(I Dr. W. S. RICE,
/ I 939 Main Street.
/ I Adams, N. Y.
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I Cause cf Rupture?
RIGHT || LEFT I
Kame.....................................................................
Addre55.....................................................................
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the handsomest catalogue ever issued.
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J. J. H. Gregory & Son, Marblehead. Mass.
E 'X. Here you are
I MR, FARMER
ffiLLyTii when you buy & machine for
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O I/ Masters
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B »x 717 Augusta. Ga.
FRANK J. STORY, Manager.
Mfl M Ms M icF you'pay a
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VOICES OF YOUTH
CONDUCTED BY THE EDITOR.
GOOD-BYE, VACATION.
Dear old “vacation” is almost done,
And school is about to start.
This summer we’ve had just lots of
fun,
So we hate with it to part.
As much fun’s been had in the towns
As on any country plantation;
Some with smiles, some with frets afid
frowns;
All hate to say—“ Good-bye vaca
tion.”
“What’s the use of a school, anyway?”
Some naughty fellow now cries.
Why you see we should learn every
day,
Our lessons we all should prize.
And learn them well, the good ones
say,
“The word school is an aggrava
tion!”
The naughty one says, not in play,
“Don’t want to say—‘good-bye, va
cation.’ ”
All of us needed a rest from school,
We studied hard through the term.
It’s good that we study while it’s cool,
’Twere hot you’d act like a worm.
You couldn’t keep still all the day
With such a taxing occupation,
Getting cool, so now we can say—
“ Good-bye, to you, dear old vaca
tion.”
’Tis true, yes, ’tis as true as can be,
We love vacation and play.
But we want to be learned, you see,
So we give up our play today.
The thoughts of going and learning,
And getting an education,
Set our hearts to longing, yearning,
And we say—“ Good-bye, vacation.”
Happy ones and sad ones, let’s all
laugh.
Our school should be a pleasure;
It’s not bad, oh, no! not half
Like you measure it with your meas
ure
Os sad, sorrowing thoughts. Be gay,
To nature’s laws, grief’s violation.
Study hard in life’s school, bless the
day
That will be eternal vacation.
ANNIE KATE SLAPPEY.
Atlanta, Ga. (Aged 15 years.)
CHAT.
OUR old year that stood by us,
boys and girls, for three hundred
and sixty-five days so valiantly
has gone, and what did it bring to you?
What has it taken from you? Some of
us hardly note the changes of the past
twelve months. Some have had them
graven upon their souls as with hot
iron—never, never to be forgotten.
If you will look carefully into the
mother’s or father’s face you will find
more furrows there —more gray hairs
mingled with the darker locks than
a year ago. Into your own heart has
come perhaps an ache which must
not be told —a little secret folded
away from eyes that might not un
derstand, for I can remember very
distinctly how early in the life the
“little hurts” came, that I hid away,
and wen off by myself to nurse, because
there was “no one to understand.”
How much better it would be if
mothers would take time to enter into
the hearts and lives of their children
with an appreciative interest.
In the old year that has just left
us there have been births, deaths
and marriages innumerable —lives be
gun, ended and blended that the other
years had left untouched. The little
life that makes a home happy was
not, last New Year’s day. That face
The Golden Age for January 6, 1910.
that greeted us with smiles, smiles
no longer; that hand that clasped
ours so warmly a few months ago,
greets us now no more. We can not
but in dreams follow where it has
flown, until the dusky boatman calls
for us, and we in our turn cross the
mystic river. Then there are happier
changes. You have gained friends,
perhaps, and if friendship is true, it
is a great thing; and you have had
successes, in the different struggles
of your young life —and so ’will be
until time is no more, but what has
the year meant to you? Have you
grown better or worse? And what
will you do with the pure, white book
of 1910 that our Father has just
handed you in the hand of the tiny
New Year?
Keep it pure, boys and girls. I
know there must necessarily be some
blots of error on the pages, but let
us, all of us, study to be able to hand
back to God at the end of 1910 the
purest book we have ever held in our
keeping.
Now, I must tell you two things.
First, sickness and death in the family
of one of our judges in the story con
tes has made its impossible to give you
our decision, but it will certainly come
to you next week.
The second is that your “Little
Mother” has been ordered
Florida by her physician for as
needed rest, of perhaps several.-
And this is what the Old Year) ■
to me, but I shall try to do j usfy
would tell you to do underafl
circumstances —feel that
there is a wise purpose in it all. And
if possible, I shall write you from my
place of rest, but whether that can be or
not, remember you can help the days
to be brighter by filling our depart
ment with bright, newsy letters each
week.
Your interested,
LITTLE MOTHER.
A LOST LETTER.
Dear Little Mother and “Voices”:
Here I come with the part of my letter
that got lost last week. I am giving it
now because it expressed just what
I felt, and I want each of you who
have cheered my lonely hours to know
it.
I was talking to Lola Cain, telling
her how much I appreciated her cards
and also that I was a girl instead of
being a boy, as she thought—when,
there —the last page of my letter got
lost; but the lost is found, and I am
wishing you a happy New Yeai’ as I
give it to you.
“My friends, one and all, both seen
and unseen, let me assure you that
your efforts to cheer and brighten my
invalid life have not been in vain, for
your tokens of loving thoughtfulness
have helped me far more than you
can realize, and you have added many
bright pictures to memory’s wall to
lighten the burdens of my solitary
moments.
“From the depths of a very grateful
heart I thank each of you for your
kindness to me.
“Wonder if ‘Brother Willie’ and ‘Sis
ter Margaret’ have forgotten their
‘younger brothers and sisters?’ No,
not forgotten; just too busy to write
I guess. But these ‘younger brothers
and sisters’ are getting anxious to
hear from their ‘big brother’ and ‘sis
ter,’ so send us a letter soon.
“With best Christmas wishes to all
from,
“HARLOW MEADOW.”
Colbert, Georgia,
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A BOY’S WHISTLE.
He was an odd-looking little figure
as he came whistling down the street
the morning after the big snow. His
nose was red, his hands were bare, his
feet were in shoes several times too
large and his hat was held in place by
a roll of paper under the inner-band;
but he piped away like a steam whis
tle and carried the big snow shovel
much as a marching soldier carries
his rifle.
“How much?” came from an impos
ing looking man, who was asked if he
wanted his walks cleaned.
“Ten cents.”
“A nickel’s enough.”
“It would be if I couldn’t do any
better; but I’ve got to do the best I
can, and business is rushing. Good
morning.” And the merry whistle fill
ed the air as the boy started away.
“Go ahead and clean ’em!” shouted
the man, whose admiration and better
nature had been aroused.
“Just see that little rascal make the
snow fly!” he laughed to his wife, who
stood at the window with him.
he’s a regular snow plow, and RcYloes
it well, too.” /
“What a little mite ajtid how comi
cal! I wonder if J angry.”
She called him in iWioon as he had
finished, but he wouljd not take time
for more than a cup of coffee.
“Too busy,” he said.
“What are you going to do with the
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