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THE PROMISE OP JOY
Arthur Goodenough.
'And God shall wipe away all tears.”-
—Bible.
The way is long; the way is steep:
I climb, and as I climb I weep;
For all the future seems so gray,
But God will wipe all tears away.
The night is dark; the stars forget
To shine, and I am all regret,
Such sorrow wrings my quivering
clay—
But God will wipe my tears away.
The world is stern, the world is hard,
And filled with scorn and disregard;
It fills with bitterness my stay—
But God will wipe my tears away.
CHAT.
Always strength has been adored
by men. It was deified by the Greeks
and Romans in the person of Hercules.
The heroes were all strong and phys
ically brave. Now our ideals are
changing. It is moral strength that
seems most heroic. It is men of
strong and steadfast purpose who
stand forth as the world’s models.
Moral strength has nothing to do
with physical nerve. Every day the
papers are filled with accounts of the
suicide of physically strong men who
could not face grief, disappointment or
change of fortune. It is divine grace
that gives the noblest strength. Wo
man is called the weaker vessel, yet
often she faces life’s responsibilities
with stronger courage than men seem
able to summon; and often she gives
of her strength to men who would fail
but for her upholding hand. Every
man who has succeeded in some great
and noble work owes his success, in a
measure, to some woman —mother,
wife, sister, friend or sweetheart —
who has inspired and encouraged him,
standing by him and believing in .him
when the way was darkest and most
difficult. Many a man who has fallen
by the way, who has been deserted by
fortune and friends, has been raised,
strengthened and saved by the en
couragement, the prayers and the sus
taining love of a mother or a wife,
whose soul had been made strong to
help, through her faith in God.
Kipling has pictured the terrible
“vampire woman,’’ beautiful, alluring —
a fiend in angel’s form, whose baleful
influence saps the moral vitality of
man and leaves him wrecked and
ruined. She was the woman who did
not even “understand’’ the better na
ture of a man. Th reverse of this
picture —the woman who did under
stand, the woman who saved where
the other destroyed, the woman who
knew how to love in the way described
by St. Paul —has been glorified in a
recent poem. True love is service and
sacrifice. How little modern wives
and husbands seem to understand
this! True love is for worse as well
as for better —for cloud and storm as
well as for sunshine. A woman who
truly loves a man can help him out
of the “Slough of Despond” and the
mire of sin, and inspire in him a de
sire for better living. Thomas Moore,
the Irish poet, has told us in impas
sioned verse his ideal of woman’s love
—a love that stretches out a helping
hand to wrecked manhood, resolved
to
''Shield him and save him or perish
there, too/’
THE HOUSEHOLD
A Department of ’Expression For Those Who Feel and Think.
S 3) S 3)
Men are indifferent. My cares,
My lesser griefs are none of theirs;
To comfort me they cannot stay—
But God will wipe my tears away.
Men doubt its truth —so I have heard;
But written in His deathless Word
The words of gold I see which say,
That God will wipe my tears away.
Gray Sorrow shares with me my
bread;
She scatters nettles in my bed;
And Hate and Malice seek to slay—
But God will wipe my tears away.
Brattleboro, Vermont.
But a modern poet has written still
more nobly of this devoted and saving
love. I wish the writer of this poem
had been a woman, but he is a man,
and all women should render him a
vote of thanks for his interpretation
of woman —the builder up—the sav
ior. This is the poem:
As the tide went out she found him
Lashed to a spar of Despair,
The wreck of his Ship around him —
The wreck of his Dreams in the air;
Found him and loved him and gath
ered
The soul of him close to her heart —
The soul that had sailed an unchart
ed sea,
The soul that had sought to win and
be free—
The soul of which she was part!
And there in the dusk she cried to
the man:
“Win your battle —you can, you can!”
Broken by Fate, unrelenting,
Scarred by the lashings of Chance;
Bitter his heart —unrepenting—
Hardened by Circumstance;
Shadowed by Failure ever,
Cursing, he would have died,
But the touch of her hand, her warm,
strong hand,
And her love of his soul took full
command,
Just at the turn of the tide!
Standing beside him, filled with trust,
“Win!” she whispered, “you must, you
must!”
Helping and loving and guiding,
Urging, when that were best,
Holding her fears in hiding
Deep in her quiet breast;
This is the woman who kept him
True to his standards lost,
When tossed in the storm and stress
of strife,
He thought himself through with the
game of life
And ready to pay the cost.
Watching and guarding, whispering
still,
“Win! You can- and you will, you
will! ”
This is the story of ages,
This is the woman’s way;
Wiser than seers or sages,
Lifting us, day by day;
Facing all things with a courage
Nothing can daunt or dim,
Treading Life’s path, wherever it
leads—
Lined with flowers or choked with
weeds —
Rut ever with him —with him!
Guidon —comrade —golden spur—
The men who win are helped by her!
The Golden Age for September 22, 1910.
A Happy Maiden’s prompt response
and generous proposition in regard to
Mattie Beverage’s pathetic letter will
no doubt meet a cordial reception from
a number of the Household readers.
I place myself on the list as giving a
dollar to aid in realizing the hope
that has come to this gifted, unfortu
nate young sister. Smaller amounts —
as small as ten cents—--will be accept
able, and I earnestly hope the neces
sary amount —twenty dollars—may
find its way to the crippled girl, at
Dabney, Arkansas, and enable her to
leave her home for the first time in
her life of twenty-two years, and find
her way to the expert physician who
has promised to help her free of
charge.
Replying to the inquiry concerning
the novel, “When Yellow Jasmine
Blooms”, the author, Miss Alice Cal
houn, of Jefferson, Alabama, says the
price of the book is $1.50, and it can
be had of her, postage free, or of her
agent—the lovely shut-in girl—Annie
Peavey, of Roanoke, Alabama. It is
a lovely story, and to buy it of sweet
Annie Peavey will be helping that val
ued member of our Household.
With Our Correspondents
EXTEND THE HELPING HAND.
Dear Householders: —I come to you
today with an urgent request, and feel
that from your liberal and charitable
hearts you will grant it. I’m a gradu
ate nurse, and all suffering appeals to
me. Especially am I interested in
Mattie Beverage, of Dabney, Ark., al
though I only know her through her
letters to the Household; but her cour
age and dauntless spirit have won my
heart. Her sweet but pathetic letter
to the Household last week brought
tears to my eyes, also a ray of hope
within; and oh! wouldn’t it be glorious
if she can be cured by the specialist
who so nobly offered his services free
of charge! The money for transporta
tion —twenty dollars —is just a small
amount, and my request is that we
contribute this. I’ll give one dollar
and feel sure our large family will do
nate as much or more, and send it im
mediately, with our prayers that the
specialist’s experiment be not in vain.
Would like to write more and tell
each member how much I enjoy his
letters. They are so helpful and en
tertaining. Am so sorry Julia Coman
Tait continues ill. Wasn’t her recent
letter just beautiful? Mrs. Tait, I,
too, fear I would not be a patient suf
ferer, for I have a horror of physical
pain. Do hope you are well by this
time.
Have written before, but if you have
forgotten me, please do not forget this,
an earnest appeal to each of you.
Most sincerely,
HAPPY MAIDEN.
IN A STATION WAITING ROOM.
A True Incident.
Quite a crowd of listless, weary
looking travelers occupied the benches
of a station sitting-room, waiting the
arrival of the north-bound train.
Presently a young girl, seemingly
about fourteen years old, entered the
room, leading by the hand an old man
with gray, wavy locks and sightless
eyes. She held a little pewter cup,
and, leading the old man —doubtless
her grandfather—she went around to
each occupant of the seats and silent
ly held out the cup. Very few coins
were dropped into it, and these —pen-
nies and nickels —seemed to be given
grudgingly, Others shook their heads
with a faint sneer- that said, “These
are imposters, most likely, and not in
need. After the pair had made the
tour of the room, the girl led her com
panion to a seat in the corner, and
the two began to sing. The first notes
of the hymn produced a profound
silence. The girl’s voice was wonder
fully clear and sweet for a c/lld.
Her soprano accorded well with the
rich baritone of her grandfather. The
hymn was the old, ever beautiful
“Nearer, my God, to Thee”. Often I
had heard it rendered by a full choir
and accompanied by the grand strains
of an organ, but I had never listened
to it with so much interest or been so
impressed by its noble spirit as when
I heard it sung that day in the hot
station waiting-room. There was a
plaint in the child’s voice, a quiver in
the tones of the old man, that went
straight to the heart.
They sang low and sost —a flute-like
strain —the eyes of the girl bent on
the floor, the sightless orbs of the old
man lifted heavenward, and a rapt ex
pression coming into his aged face.
They had reached the last verse. The
blind man was singing bravely, a deep
fervor in his tones as they gave the
refrain:
“Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee” —
when suddenly his voice broke as the
string of a violin snaps, and the child
sang the lines through, the last word
breaking off into a cry, as she looked
and saw that her grandfather’s head
had dropped on his breast and his
body had lurched forward. Half a
dozen men ran to him and lifted him
up, but he was quite dead. Around
his mouth lingered the rapt expres
sion that had come into his face as
he sang that thrilling appeal, “Nearer,
my God, to Thee”.
•6
A NOVEL SHOWER.
Innumerable showers have been
given for the prospective bride which
have left her in possession of kitchen
ware, china or articles of wearing
apparel, but a chicken shower is cer
tainly a novelty. Such a shower was
recently given a Nebraska young
woman, and she says it was the best
of all showers. She was supplied
with a fine lot of poultry to start her
poultry yard and enough in addition
to eat during the honeymoon in the
new home. A city woman with a fam
ily to provide for will envy the Ne
braska bride her chicken shower, since
in these days of high prices the de
licious chicken, like the proverbial,
old-time goose, “hangs high”.
*
A MESSAGE FROM MEMPHIS.
Since my last letter to the House
hold I have been a victim of the “wan
derlust” to some extent, and this
morning find myself in Memphis, “dear
old Memphis”, the home of one of our
most gifted contributors, Julia Coman
Tait. I have read her book reviews
and articles in the Household until
I believe almost I would know her if
I should meet her on the street; and
if I meet some one who looks like I
think Julia Coman Tait looks, I am
going to say “Good morning”, no mat
ter what happens to me. So look out,
Julia Coman Tait; I am looking for
you.
Memphis is a real nice town in some
respects. It has some gqod libraries,
which are literally packed with books
on any and every subject imaginable,
all of which are free.
Sure does look like “state-wide pro
hibition” up here, with all the saloons
wide open, Would like to see Will D-
