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My toast shall be, “To the sisters,”
To the girls, both wise and good,
Who make us wiser and better
Because of their womanhood.
Because of the smiles they give us,
Because of the praise we prize,
And the needful truths they tell us,
When men tell only lies.
My toast shall be to the sisters,
To the maids both good and wise,
With maybe the mouth of the mother,
And maybe the father's eyes;
They cheer us in morbid moments,
As only sisters can,
And help us with words of wisdom,
CHAT.
I have found such a cool place this
hot afternoon, where I can sit and read
a new magazine. It is in the woods on
the hank of a little brook—“branch,”
we Southerners say —and at the foot of
a glorious poplar tree —or, let us call
it by its true name, liriodendron—
which sounds grand and suitable and
is descriptive as well, since it means
lily-bearing —and the beautiful strange,
pale green and yellow blossoms of
this stately tree—are lily shaped, as
you know. The liriodendron, which
we mistakenly call the white poplar,
should be our representative Ameri
can tree —since it is indigenous only
to our country —and it is the only
grand tree that grows nowhere else
indigenously but in our Southern
woods.
This tree, against whose trunk I am
leaning as I write, is very large. I
could not begin to clasp its trunk near
the ground with my arms. The lirio
dendron always grows large when its
long roots can find their way to water.
Have you heard of or read that won
derful true story of a big poplar tree
that grew on a creek in Lumpkin
county many years ago? It was cut
down because its immense hollow was
the shelter for “coons”; and part of
its trunk was left lying on the creek.
One day a murder was committed in
the neighborhood and a young man —a
widow’s only son, was convicted of the
crime. There was no jail in that
peaceful section, and nobody wanted
a criminal in their home. So some
body suggested the hollow in the big
poplar trunk lying by the creek. One
end of this was then tightly fastened
up and to the other end a strong door
was made. The prisoner was put in
side the tree, the door locked, and left
until next day, when he would be
hanged to a tree.
But the prisoner was innocent and
he had one friend who believed in his
innocence. It was his old mother —an
humble Christian, and she besieged
heaven all that night, while the rain
fell in torrents, to save her boy. While
the rain still poured, though the dawn
was near, there came a knock on the
door. The widow wondering who it
could be, rose from her knees and
unlocking the door opened it. There
stood a man, raindrenched, with his
wet hair over his face. She did not
know him at first —then a voice she
had feared never to hear again said,
“Mother,” and her boy had his arms
around her and was clasped to her
heart. He told his story, when he sat
in warm dry clothes by the fire. The
torrents of rain had caused the creek
THE HOUSEHOLD
A Department of Expression Tor Those Who Teel and Think .
OUR SISTERS
A Toast Drunk in "God’s Wine” —Spring Water.
ARTHUR GOODLNOUQH.
To bear the lot of a man.
My toast shall be for the sisters,
For the girls both good and leal,
Who share our triumphs with us,
And all our failures feel.
Who are proud of us when we conquer
And console us in our defeat,
Who brighten the world and bless it
And render it more complete.
They all of them have our blessings,
They —all of them —have our pray
ers,
Thank God in the hate and heartache
For loyal love like theirs!
Brattleboro, Vt.
to rise rapidly and float off the hollow
tree with the prisoner inside —that lay
on its bank. The fierce current dash
ed the tree against the rocky bank and
shattered the door in the end, so that
the prisoner could crawl out. He had
escaped but he was still under sen
tence of death. The widow’s prayer
was not yet fully answered. But in
the morning the complete answer was
at hand. A man had been caught in
the storm and a tree had blown down
on him, crushing both his legs. In his
dying remorse and terror, he confess
ed that he had committed the crime
for which the widow’s boy was that
day to have been hanged. Sarge Plun
kett, who retold the story, which de
serves re-telling, says there are relia
ble persons now living in Lumpkin
county who will testify that it is true.
Is it not a wonderful instance of the
power of prayer and of the over-ruling
Providence of God? It was a tree that
helped to save the prisoner and a tree
that was the instrument of punishing
the guilty man.
There is nothing, not human, that I
love as I love a tree. I admire the
young trees as I do young fresh faces,
but it is old trees, like old faces, that
stir the deepest interest. They are
written all over their gnarled trunks
and great far-reaching arms with his
tories —of summers full of sunshine
and rain and nesting birds of autumns
that brought storms with which to
wrestle and lightnings *o dare, of long
winters of snow, and north winds,
when their gay green garments gone
and their birds they sheltered flown
from them, they stand alone lifting
their hare branches to the stars. Still
standing and still lifting brave heads
to heaven as the human tree may do
when youth has dropped from him
like the gay green leaves, and pleas
ure has flown like the birds. How
ruthlessly is the axe laid to the roots
of these grand old trees, and the mag
nificent growth of many years—the
building of Nature with her dews, her
sunshine, her rains and her frosts —the
home of birds, the joy of dancing
breeze and r»in—is laid low in a few
minutes. The crashing fall of a great
tree always sends a pang to my heart.
I hope every reader of the House
hold will plant at least one tree this
fall. Tt is doing that much good for
the world. The other day I heard a
group of persons talking about a man
who was one of those ne’er-do-wells —
that seem never to get along. “When
he dies,” said one, I think it can be
said of him that he did no harm and
he did no good. He left the world as
he found it.” A boy spoke up. “He
The Golden Age for September 8, 1910.
did some good. He always carried his
pockets full of seeds and he planted
them along the road and everywhere
—peach seed and plums and cherries.
Lots of the fruit trees he planted were
loaded down this year and people were
glad to get the peaches and plums. He
used to plant acorns, too. Some of
those pretty young white oaks in Mr.
Jones’ old pasture come from acorns
he planted. Mr. Jones told me so.”
So the poor good-for-nothing did
something to benefit the world.
TDCUtb ©ur Corresponbents
A RAY OF HOPE.
Dear readers of The Golden Age and
friends of the Houeshold, suppose one
of you had been confined in a prison
for many years and could see no
chance to get out, nothing but thick
walls and a bolted door. Then sud
denly, as if in answer to your agonized
prayers and tears, you saw an open
ing in the wall high up, letting in a
ray of blessed sunshine and a glimpse
of blue sky, would you not be —oh,
just wild to get to that opening?
Wouldn’t you long and pray through
weary hours and sleepless nights for
a ladder to reach that aperture of es
cape? Yes, you say, I would indeed. I
know you would. Well, it is what I
am doing now. I am a girl with a
warm heart and an active brain, and
all my life, since I was a little baby, I
have been helpless, with drawn limbs,
the sequel of a terrible fever. Our
country doctors have tried to help
me, but they say, “We are not experts.
To us your case seems hopeless, but
some specialist may relieve you.” As
I had no money to employ a specialist,
whose charges, as you know, are very
high. I gave myself up, and have been
trying hard to be resigned. But re
cently a message came to me from a
distinguished specialist (if it is per
mitted, I will give his name and ad
dress, but I have' been told this would
be “free advertising”), the message be
ing to the effect that he would treat
me free of cost if I would come to him,
and that he could cure me if my joints
were not entirely stiff. Well, my
joints are not entirely stiff. I think it
is mostly my leaders and sinews that
are contracted, and he thinks this may
be remedied. Oh, the blessed joy of
a hope! It is like a ray of light to blind
eyes. My heart beat rapturously for
hours, then dear old grandmother
(with whom I live alone) said; “Child,
how will you get to him?” and it was
as though a black cloud had suddenly
blotted out my hope. It will take
twenty dollars, so we figured out —
twenty dollars at the very least—and
we have nothing we could sell to bring
the money, and my father, who lives
near us is so very poor, he can hardly
feed the rest of his large family. I
have thought it possible, just possible,
that some paper or publication, would
buy what I might be able to write. Os
course, I am not. educated. I never
went to school a day or had a teacher,
but 1 have taught myself to read and
to write, and I have many thoughts
and fancies, and write many little sto
ries and verses. Oh, if I could sell
them? Friends, I live away out in the
backwoods and I don’t know anything
about writers and editors. Mrs. Bryan
has been my only friend and helper
in this respect. But she does not know
of any one y£,ho will give me a. little
money for writing. Do any of you
know? I will try to write anything
you wish. Mrs. Bryan published some
of my short stories and one serial in
The Sunny South, five years ago, when
I was only sixteen. I can do better
now. Do let me hear from you, kind
friends. You can never know how J
long to be able to climb up to that
ray of hope, that opening of escape
from a nineteen years’ prison.
MATTIE BEVERAGE.
Dabney, Ark.
*
A BOY HOUSEKEEPER.
I have long been a silent reader of
the Household and will endeavor to
tell you what my life is like on a sub
urban farm. I will first tell you that
I am an elderly gentleman of nine
teen years. I keep house for my fa
ther, and two brothers do everything
about the house, make bread, churn
the butter, and a few months ago the
dusky lady that did our washing got
too independent and I decided to do
it myself and, having a natural turn
for this sort of work, succeeded nice
ly. I have lots of chickens, a cow,
pigs and a pet kitten. I owe much of
my knowledge in household matters
to my mother who died six years ago.
If any of the Household girls or Mrs.
Bryan care to come, I will set before
them a meal that will melt in their
mouths. Some of the men around
here teasingly call me
“FRANKIE.”
Florida.
WHAT BECOMES OF THE MIND?
Just before the demise of the dear
old Sunny South, there was a letter
in it from a grief-stricken daughter,
who had lost her father. For some
days or weeks before his death, his
brilliant mind gave way. He became
imbecile and remained so until his
death. This was a sad bewildering
problem* to the girl. Her father had
been noted for his fine intellect and
to see his mind a complete wreck be
fore death had claimed his body was
heartrending to her. “What became
of his mind?” she asked. “Was it an
nihilated? Are mind and soul one or
separate?” I do not believe the fa
ther’s mind was destroyed. It simply
could not act through his enfeebled
brain. No, I can not think the mind
and the soul are the same. Job re
peats again and again that death de
stroys the mind, the thought as it is
given in here, but he does not say the
soul is destroyed. We are command
ed to love God, that is what is spirit
ually good with all our soul, mind and
strength. Would the two words mind
and soul have been used if these
meant the samel But there is a very
close connection between them. In
fact, as we now are, mind, soul and
body are so intermingled that it seems
impossible they could be separated.
But it is like fruit and seed. The
peach with its seed close-clasped by
the flesh seems one fruit, but the flesh
can be eaten or can not, while the
seed survives. What comes to us af
ter death is an utter mystery. Only
faith can pierce the darkness. St.
Paul says, “Here we see as through a
glass darkly.” The great apostle be
lieved, however, in the resurrection;
he illustrated it by a grain of wheat.
The grain contains the germ of life.
Our bodies have the ge r m of life in
them. The Lord prepares a body or
stalk for the grain of wheat, or rather
from the grain of wheat a stalk grows.
So the Lord prepares us a body after
death or separation of soul and body.
But all problems were not so plain or
simple to the Divine writer, because
he says: “It doth not yet appear what
we shall be, but we know we shall be
like him, for we shall see him (our
Saviour) as he is.” So I would say to
