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THE HOUSEHOLD &
A Department of Expression Tor Those Who Teel and Think.
Guarded by hills with glimpses be
tween
Os Cumberland mountains afar,
Kissed by the clinch that blends in its
sheen
Tides of Em’ry and Tennessee clear
Lies Kingston, my fair shire town.
Flower breath from her engirdling Ten’mssee.
vales —Annice Lybarger.
Julia T.’s little story of how she
came to leave her parents and her
country home and become one of the
wage earners in the city is not an un
usual one at all. A few evenings ago,
I attended a girls’ club, where all the
members were employed in stores and
offices and almost everyone was an
out-of-town girl, a number of them
coming from homes on the farm. The
club w r as held in the Christian Asso
ciation Building and the secretary of
the Association was present, partly as
chaperone, partly as loved and honor
ed guest. The Association is indeed
the good friend of the girl who comes
—a stranger to the city, feeling home
sick and somewhat forlorn.
I think Julia T. was right in leav
ing the home, and finding a larger out
look and more remunerative employ
ment in the city. To be able to earn
enough money to support herself and
some to send home to help her par
ents is a sweet and ennobling joy to
her. I have a young friend, who is
saddened by the knowledge that she
cannot take this opportunity to better
her own way of living and assist her
parents. She must stay at home and
help her mother cook, wash, iron,
milk, sew and garden—as she is the
only girl and there are four growm
brothers beside her father for whom
she and her mother must make a
home. It is a rented home too —it is
my owm little farm and cottage. The
family are not common. They have
had reverses, and many misfortunes,
and the young men are not educated
in the new and more compensating
ways of farming. It is just as much
as they can do to make living ex
penses. The heaviest burden falls on
the girl. She is extremely pretty —
graceful, Gweet natured and well-man
nered. Her dresses are so neatly
made and the material so tastefully
chosen that you w’ould not think of
them as costing only ten cents a yard.
She is very bright and adaptable, and
could soon fit herself for a well-paying
position, but she can not be spared
from home. She has no time for any
girlish recreation —or for the reading,
which she enjoys. When the long,
bard days’ work is over, there is al
ways sewing and mending to fill the
hour before bed time. She and her
mother make beautiful quilts to sell, —
and lovely cushions enriched with em
broidery; they are skilled in this art.
Also, they make pretty baskets out of
the twigs of the willow trees that
bend over the little brook. The bas
kets —ivory-white and perfectly shap
ed, are of all sizes. By this dainty
handiwork, —done after her nard daily
labor, this lovely girl earns money
enough to pay for her simple clothes
and also helps to pay the rent of the
place. But what future has such a
/fy Shire Tolvn
CHAT-
(A Pen Picture.)
Floats to me sitting here;
The sight of her trees (wild harp of
the gales),
Comes soothingly sweet to my ear.
And the notes of her bells dropping
tenderly down
From Kingston—my dear old shire
town.
girl? She has no lovers. Men, who
are her equals in education and intel
ligence—think it beneath them to pay
attention to a girl who washes and
irons and works in the field, though
her wild-rose complexion —and pretty
hands might be envied by many a
city belle. She is simply a martyr to
circumstances; but she utters no
complaint. She goes right a’ong
cheerfully and busily and does her
duty as she sees it. Muda Hetmur
and Fineta, what do you think this
dear girl should do to better her con
dition?
It is rarely in these days of youth
ful independence and indifference to
natural ties that one finds such filial
devotion. “Honor thy father and
mother,” is a commandment seldom
mentioned even in the pulpit. The
finest examples of loyalty to parents
are furnished by the French. Ameri
can homes can show nothing like the
affection and oneness of the French
family in the provinces. A notable in
stance was furnished by the life of
the French poet—Alfred De Vigny,
who was born at the beginning of the
last century. His recently published
diary—never intended to be read by
other eyes than his own —lays bare
his life of self-sacrifice for the sake
of the beautiful intellectual mother,
who twenty-five years before her death
lost these charms and became a hope
less invalid, irritable and exacting.
But the son’s devotion never wavered.
In his diary, he writes, “I was con
stantly counseled to send my mother
to a sanitarium, but I resisted —I kept
her at home —with an attendant
whom I had great difficulty in per
suading to stay as my dear mother —
maltreated her when she was in one
of her nervous spells. I never once
let her know how hard I worked to
pay the extra expense she caused. Sev
eral times I came near giving up.
Four times I broke down with fever
because of the too severe strain. But
work done for one we love is beauti
ful and noble. It gives a pride and self
confidence that no inheritance can
give. Blessed then be the misfor
tunes of former days since they have
taught me the joy of earning a work
ing man’s salary to bring to a mother
seceretly without her even knowing
whence it came.”
Yet a less loyal and loving son
would have cherished resentment
against a mother who had destroyed
his life’s happiness, by bitterly op
posing his marriage with a girl he
loved and insisting on His wedding a
woman, reputed to be wealthy, a for
eigner, who never learned her hus
band’s language enough to read his
book, and who for over twenty years
was an invalid and a burden on his
hands. A key to Alfred De Vigny’s
beautiful life is found in two entries
The Golden Age for June 9, 1710.
in his diary, “ Honor is but the poetry
of duty,” and “the year is over; I have
not written one line against my con
science, nor one line against any Im
man being.”
Mary Pettus Thomas sends the
Household a little good-bye letter writ
ten on the eve of her setting out with
the congenial party of fellow tourists
she has gathered about her to make
the tour of the Old World. Diversion
and improvement is the object of this
delightful outing, projected by Miss
Thomas and one of her fellow teach
ers in Baylor College. We will wish
her a happy voyage and hope that she
will send us a letter, now and then,
containing a sketch of the happenings
and sight-seeings of her journey.
What is Fineta doing these long
June days? Is she writing stories,
keeping house, enjoying an outing of
trying to brighten the lives and help
the mind development of those chil
dren of the poor in whom she takes
such a practical interest? Let us hear
from her soon. Her friends are wait
ing to hear her always entertaining
talk about new books.
We welcome our dear Old Woman
again. She has been silent because
of her long attendance on her sick
brother, who has now passed away.
We sympathize with her in her grief
for him and in her anxiety about her
daughter, who is also ill. May she
soon be restored to health and ab’e to
give her devoted mother a needed
rest. MATER.
TKllttb Correspoft&ents
BEULAH—ORANGE FLOWERS AND
OTHER GIFTS.
Dear Mater and Household Friends:
I hope you are enjoying this balmy
summer day as much as I am. I am
sitting out on the porch, -where I can
see all the life and beauty of the hap
py out of doors. The sunlight glistens
on the rich green foliage; the flowers
smile in delight and waft their fra
grance to me on the soft wind that
sighs in the branches of the trees. All
around q,re hills and woods and fields,
rejoicing in the sun and the cooling
breeze. How beautiful the world is,
and how kind is God to make it beau
tiful for us’ Who could doubt the
goodness of God, much less His exist
ence? An infidel must be a most un
happy person. When his soul expands
at the sight of the sublime, beautiful
universe (if it ever does expand) he
has no one to thank for the beauty and
grandeur. He has no God. He must
surely be miserable.
I have much to be thankful for to
day beside the privilege of seeing the
beauty of the dear old Earth in her
summer dress. I am deeply grateful
for the kindness of those who have
sent me letters, cards and little gifts.
Every one of these were sweet to me,
and made me feel ashamed that, dur
ing a blue spell last winer, I thought
that my friends had forgotten me and
that people, in their bright, busy lives,
had no time to think about a little
shut-in girl. Oh, I am so thankful to
know there are good, sweet souls in
the world, and that I have had dear
messages from some of these. Only
one thing about it troubled me. I had
very few of my little books, not
enough to supply the orders that came
for them. So I returned the money so
kindly sent, and I do hope no on°
thought hard of me for doing this. It
seemed tbs right thing to do. The
money had been sent with an order
for a book, and the book supply, which
was small from the first, had run out.
I hope I may have anothei' little bopk
published befoie long. I have taken
much pains to write a story, being
able to write only a few pages at a
lime, a id maybe I can get it printed.
Agit that I greatly appreciated was
a box of ormage flowers, sent me by a
sweet Florida girl. I had read of
orange flowers, but I had never seen
one before. They are beautiful and,
oh, so fragrant! It seems to me that
when I go to sleep for the last time I
would like it to be with my head
resting on a pillow of orange blos
soms. Some good and generous
friends sent me, at different times,
three most acceptable presents, the
last one being several of the best pen
cils I ever wrote w.th. I would like to
write to them and thank them person
ally, but in their letters they said, “It
is unnecessary to write,” and I hesi
tated to do so, thinking they might not
like it. But Ido sincerely thank these
k nd and thoughtful ones, and would
thank them by name but for fear of
giving them offense. It is so cheering
to me to look around and see the evi
dence that, though I am a little crip
pled backwoods girl, I have friends
who think of me. The roses on my
wall have this message for me; the
pencil I write with and the paper I
write on and the magazines and books
on my little table tell me of friends.
One of these books was sent me by a
Georgia young lady, and it is “Beu
lah,” the first novel written by our
dear Augusta Evans Wilson, a book
that I enjoyed more than I can tell.
Beulah’s noble character, her high
ideals and her passion for learning
make her adm’rable, and her trials
and sorrows make her dear to the
reader. I am grateful indeed for the
gift of this interesting book. If I
were only able, I would write a letter
to every one who has sent me a card,
letter or little gift, but I write under
great difficulties and do not always
have stamps. But I will try to send a
card to every one. With earnest
wishes fo’’ your happiness, I am
Your loving friend,
MATTIE BEVERAGE.
Dabney, Ark.
AT HOME AND IN BUSINESS.
I belong to the guild of girl workers
away from the home, but it is not
choice but necessity that sent me out
from the dear little nest of home.
There were too many birds in this
nest and not enough to feed them.
Everybody worked —father included —
but wo had, unfortunately, lost our
home, through my good father’s going
security lor an old army friend of his.
The man died, father had the debt to
pay, and it took our home. We are
now renting the farm we once owned,
and it takes all the boys can make to
pay living expenses and the rent.
There were three girls of us, I the
midd’e one. The first one is married,
so there was one of us left at home to
help mother when I went into the
city. stranger, to get a situation. I
went straight to the Young Woman’s
Christian Association, and the good
people got me a place where I could
make just one dollar a week over my
board, and I lodged with another girl
‘n a very small hall-room. After a
while, just by accident, or rather
Prov’dence, for nothing comes by
chance, I got a better place. I was
always good at arithmetic. I loved
this study that so many find hard and
