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Farewell, my friend, if thou must go,
The Fates have ever had it so,
That from the home of mortal man
•The spirit must traverse the span.
That leads to where?—no man can
tell.
At the first strokes of funeral bell
Where soul for which it tolls now lies,
In depths of Gloom or Paradise,
But I may hope, O, friena of mine,
Yes, hope—the life of all mankind —
That ’neath the shade of olive trees,
Where flowers perfume gentlest
breeze,
Thou walk’st with loved ones once
again.
Who long since left the ranks of men,
To go beyond—they knew not where —
Yet hoped a place of joy to share.
And now up there where skies are
bright,
CHAT.
Still, ' a house-prisoner, but with
fair prospects of getting out into the
fresh air and sunshine before long.
Now, I realize the pathetic plaint of
our shut-ins when their mail falls
short, and how genuinely they re
joice over letters and cards. Letters
have been a rich entertainment and a
sweet comfort to me during these last
three weeks, though some of these
messages have saddened me as well.
A letter came from Lomacita —that
brilliant, energetic member of the old
Sunny South coterie of excellent writ
ers. Lomacita, as many of you know,
lives in Texas, near the picturesque
San Marcos River, whose waters are
iridescent as opals. She once helped
promote a railroad, now she and her
partners —two broad-minded men—
have projected an “Ideal City” and are
looking about for land, fertile and well
watered, on which to found it. It is to
be a “City Beautiful” with parks, ex
tensive gardens, cottages and bunga
lows built for beauty and convenience,
schools, kindergartens, libraries, elec
tric lights and bountiful water supply.
Lomacita promises to tell us all about
the Ideal City—its plans and pros
pects as soon as its building is fairly
on the way. Os course, it will be an
intellectual centre —and, perhaps, an
industrial one also, after the plan of
the “Garden Cities" in England and
in this country.
and cards come from our
Annice—the little lady who, amid her
multiform duties, as head of her old
ancestral home, still finds time to
write heart-warm verses and send
bright letters and pretty and useful
things to her friends and to our shut
in family. Today came a box con
taining some of this lovely handiwork,
a dainty apron, an embroidered veil,
a unique tidy, a wreath of soft red,
many-petaled roses, and green leaves
and sprays, crocheted in a beautiful
stitch —new to me. I think the rose
wreath would be lovely appliqued on
a brown velveteen cushion. I shall
prize the contents of this little box for
their prettiness, but yet more because
they were made by Annice and em
bodied her loving thought of her
friend.
A letter from gifted Fineta, of Ala
bama, whose books, “The Princess of
Glendale,” and “Meda's Heritage,”
many of you have read. Her letters
are always interesting, and 1 am
THE HOUSEHOLD
A Department of Expression For Those Who Feel and Think ,
A CONJECTURE
Kathleen fl aid Ivin.
ss§3
And all around is golden light
Thou wilt forget me, friend of mine,
Who lately clasped my hand in thine.
'Tis better so. I wish thee not
Disparadised with one sad tho’t
Os those left here. But rather bend
Thy mind to things beyond thy ken
Which dimly seen will clear to light,
And all now blurred will then be
bright
It may be days, it may be years
Os joy, of grief, of woe and tears
Before I leave the walks of men,
But I shall see thee once again,
I know not how, I know not where,
It may be here, it may be there,—
But in our souls the tie that binds
Will draw us close, remove the
blinds
And we shall know as we are known
Before the grandeur of His Throne.
tempted to extract a page of this
one. She asks:
“Have you read ‘Memories of Old
Cahaba,’ by Anna M. Gayle Fry? In
speaking of this early Alabama cap
ital, the author says: ‘There is no
place richer in history, and tradition
and none more worthy the pen of the
most gifted writer.’ As far back as
1713, the locality at the mouth of Ca
haba River was the site selected by
a rich French merchant, Crozart, of
Paris, as a fortress for his officers
and a military trading post.”
Crozart, having been granted by
King Lewis a large tract of land, was
known as “The Prince of Louisiana.”
Would not that be a fine title for a
book? And what more inspiring ro
mance than is furnished by the history
of Alabama, could a writer desire?
Where would he find elsewhere ia
state that has been under five flags—
French, British, Spanish, United States
and Confederate. The capital build
ing, surmounted by an imposing dome,
was similar in construction to that
of St. Augustine, Florida, which was
erected the same year; and Capital
Avenue was one of the fashionable
residence streets in aristrocratic old
Cahaba —then ihe center of fashion
and of a brilliant, intellectual social
life.
There was found the charm and ro
mance of the old South, with its feudal
institutions, its pride and purity of
social and domestic life, and its genial
and unbounded hospitality.
Thousands of cotton bales went from
Cahaba, then the chief shipping point
of Alabama river. Money was plenti
ful and the Southrons spent it lavish
ly. The homes with their sweeping,
massive-pillared verandas and many
rooms (some had twenty-six apart
ments) —were like the baronial castles
—and their owners had as many re
tainers as the baron of old. Hundreds
of guests were entertained in these
noble homes, and their generous boun
ty overflowed to all who were less for
tunate.
My sister says, “Tell Mrs. Bryan to
write a romance of the days of old
Cahaba.”
1 think no one is better fitted to
write this romance than the creator
of “The Princess of Glenndale.” With
her, it would be a task full of patriotic
enthusiasm. She might well give the
story the title "The Prince of Louis
iana,”
The Golden Age for November 17, 1910.
Mary Pettus Thomas—Fineta’s cou
sin—poet and pedagogue—has return
ed from her journey over Europe in
company with the congenial friends
she gathered together as a traveling
party and has resumed her work in
Baylor College, Belton, Texas. She
has sent me a vivid and interesting ac
count of the Passion Play at Oberam
mergau, which she had the great priv
ilege of seeing, together with many
thousands of spectators from other
countries, who seek the little Ger
man village every ten years to behold
the wonderful sacred drama, perform
ed by the villagers in a manner so ral
istic in its noble simplicity that it is
the wonder of the most cultured dra
matic artists.
A letter from our Lucy Gray, of
Tucson, Arizona, and a full length
photograph of her one wee lamb —a
little figure in a pose of almost state
ly grace—with a face of grave sweet
ness, such as we sometimes, though
rarely, see in children.
Old Woman, in her Household letter,
asks about Tom Lockhart. Yes, that
courageous soul is still living and hope
ful, though looking forward to a hard,
hard winter, his only means of liv
ing being the sale of his books, ’’Plain
Talks and Tales,” “Cheerful Chats”
and the story of his life —each one
worth in real interest the very small
price asked —fifty and twenty-five
cents.
A number of other interesting let
ters from our Household friends have
cheered me during the last few weeks.
Among contributors, Mr. Ivy has sent
his story of Christian Science work
ers. Dear Muda Hetnur has sent one
of her always interesting sketches.
Praises of her entertaining and in
structive work come to me often from
Correspondents. I wish it were pos
sible for our good editors to give us
more space, that the Household might
contain a greater variety and more of
the letters might get into print. Some
excellent ones have been waiting for
several weeks.
UEUtb ©ur Corresponbents
A WEEK OF WONDERS.
On Tuesday, October fourth, my cou
sin, Dr. Postelle, took us to the Fair
in bis automobile. On arriving on the
grounds, he hired a roller chair, and
put me in it. Then he, himself rolled
rue slowly all over the scene of w r on
der and beauty—grandmother and
Sister May accompanying us. I never,
never can describe all the grand and
wonderful things 1 saw —automobiles
speeding through the air, tall build
ings, the great wheel, the merry-go
l-Qunds, the whirring machinery, the
immense swing, the display of pic
tures and beautiful furniture. I saw
Gypsies and Indians in their pictur
esque native dress. I saw people mak
ing biscuits and candy by electricity,
saw them freezing ice; saw the fine
poultry and cattle and the lovely
white rabbits; also I witnessed a splen
did horse race. I cannot tell you one
tenth of all I saw. They made pic
tures in my mind and I shall enjoy
thinking about them as long as I live.
At noon, my cousin brought us a
nice lunch, and afterward we had
ice cream. We spent the entire day
on the Fair grounds. Daylight was
fading in the west when we came
away. I was tired, but, oh, 1 had had
the grandest day of my life!
We spent one day in my cousin's
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home with his pleasant family. He
took us there in the morning, and
we remained until after dark, that we
might have an opportunity to see the
city all lighted up with electricity. It
was a dazzling sight. I had never
imagined any earthly scene could be
so brilliant.
One day my cousin took us to the
park and to the zoo, where we saw
the bears, walrus and deer, but could
not get near enough in the automo
bile to see other animals. On Satur
day afternoon, Dr. Postelle brought a
wheel chair and took me all over the
business part of the city and into all
the principal stores. It was all new
and deeply interesting to me.
My friends took me to see the mov
ing pictures. How life-like and natural
they are! It seemed impossible the
people should not be living. T saw all
the city and was told of its magical
growth. It Is seven miles long, the
streets nicely paved and lined with
beautiful houses—many of them lofty
skyscrapers. It has seventy-five thou
sand population. . The streets are sure
ly a busy scene —all kinds of people
and vehicles -everybody seemed eager
and interested. My friends thought
the noise and excitement would be
wilder me, but no; I enjoyed it —the
bustle and excitement thrilled me with
new life. It was the same way with
dear grandmother. She seemed ten
years younger. How she did enjoy our
trip? She needed such a change so
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