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10
THE HOUSEHOLD
A Department of Expression Tor Those Who Teel and Think.
[Read at the Union Thanksgiving
Service in the Baptist Church at
Clarkston, Gil.]
“Give thanks! Give thanks!” the
church bells peal.
But her heart is hard as steel.
“Why should I give thanks?” she said.
“My friend is false; my loved one
dead.”
She is wrapped in costly furs,
Wealth and luxury are hers;
As her carriage softly rolls
She hears the call to Christian souls,
Hears it and her lips reply
But with bitter speech and sigh,
“Why should I give thanks, who’ve
lost
All I loved and trusted most?”
Breath of rarest hot house bloom
Fills the carriage with perfume.
Flowers destined for a tomb —
She will give their grace and glow,
To the marble’s funeral snow,
Homeward, weeping, then will go.
The coachman stops his horses fleet.
“Woman dropped down in the street!”
“Bring her here,” the lady says,
And her word the man obeys.
Brings the frail, half-frozen form,
Lays it on the cushions warm—
Fragile, thinly-clad and old,
Shivering with the bitter cold.
But reviving soon, her eyes
Open and she tries to rise.
“I’ll be late for church,” she sighs.
“Too late first with them to pray
On this blest Thanksgiving Day.”
“What, you give thanks,” the lady
cries,
CHAT.
Christmas is in the air. The crowd
ed sidewalks and brilliant show win
dows of the city proclaim it. In the
country the stores are filled with
Christmas goods—toys galore and ev
erywhere dolls. A little girl—daugh
ter of poor parents, has picked out a
special blonde doll (she is a brunette)
and is paying for her “on install
ments.” What she can make from
selling the hickory nuts she picks up
after her daily task of cotton picking
is over. She pays a few pennies at a
time; the merchant keeping the doll.
Two little girls—six and eight years
o ld —living near me, are earning mon
ey for their winter clothes by picking
cotton. The little eight-year-old pick
ed 100 pounds a day—several times—
a few weeks ago. These little ones
go out cheerfully to work in the crisp
sunshiny mornings and the chill
windy ones, when their tiny fingeis
are red as cherries with Jack Frost,
kisses. It is better than factory work,
and they tell you: “Yes, we’s goin’
to school soon as we can have some
clothes and shoes.” “And we’s goin
to have a doll,” adds the smallest
tot, smiling in glad anticipation.
Nothing is so dear to the heart of
the miniature woman as a doll,
and I know of one bright, handsome
girl of eighteen, who has a doll for
which she makes pretty clothes and
hats as fashions change. “She shant
have a hobble skirt though,” she de
clared. Well, a doll is the only thing
in human semblance that could wear
a hobble skirt without a lowering of
dignity and self-respect,
TWO WOMEN
Mary E. Bryan.
Surprise and pity in her eyes,
“Why should you give thanks to God?
You seem to have felt His heaviest
rod.
Where are your children?” “They are
gone—
Some dead, some far off, I'm alone,
Save for one little nameless one
Left on my hearth.” “And you are
poor.
The wolf, I fear, is at your door.
Life’s thorniest path your feet have
trod.
Poor soul; for what should you thank
God?”
“For what?” A light conies to her eyes.
They flash reproachful, sad surprise.
“I thank Him for the life He gave,
The soul His Son has died to save;
For strength to worK and power to aid
One of His little ones,” she said.
“Thank Him for love that He has
given;
For dear ones He has called to
Heaven;
Thank Him for hope to find them
there,
Safe in my Savior’s tender care.
I thank Him every rising sun.
Ah! There’s my church, that little one,
And will you, lady, put me down?
I thank you for your kindness.” “Stay.
I will go with you; we will pray
Together this Thanksgiving Day.”
In broken tones the lady said,
And low wa: bent her haughty head.
But never sweeter peace she felt
Than when with contrite heart she
knelt
Beside the woman, poor and old,
Who yet nad riches more than gold.
I went out into the country one
bright day recently and enjoyed a real
country dinner at the home of a small
farmer —a renter. The dinner —cos
fee excepted—consisted entirely of
products of the little six-acre farm.
The one daughter of the house was
as charming to look at as any city
belle —yet she works in the field and
has helped make and pick two bales
of cotton on the tiny farm, not to
speak of potatoes and vegetables and
the fruit she has dried and preserved.
She works out doors in soft cotton
gloves she has knit with her own
hands, and a sunbonnet that wards off
the too ardent kisses of old Sol. She
and her mother showed me their
quilts. The broad shelves of a closet
were piled with those that had been
quilted, and there were nine others re
cently pieced up, of small scraps in
pretty designs and yet to be quilted.
Then there were piles of cushions, soft
and inviting, made of silk and woolen
scraps joined with embroidery. These
and some of the quilts were for sale.
“But how do you find time to do all
this, and your house work and field
work besides?” I asked the mother
and daughter. “Oh, we do most of it
in these long evenings,” was the an
swer. “We all sit around the table
before the fire and my brothers take
turns reading aloud to us while we
sew.”
Is not this a lesson to some other
households, where there is no such
pleasant and affectionate reunion
about the fireside in the winter even
ings? The practice of reading aloud
around the fireside is an old, ante
The Golden Age for December 8, 1910.
bellum custom that ought never to
have been discontinued. I remember
in my childhood how I looked forward
to the winter evenings, reading of
Stephens’s travels, Captain Cooks’ voy
ages, Miss Sherwood’s delightful stor
ies, and the novels of Dickens and
Cooper. Many of the latter day novels
are not edifying to read aloud in the
family circle, but there are others as
wholesome and profitable as they are
entertaining. The reading of young
people should be chosen for them by
some one of experience and judgment.
A bad novel —or worse than the out
rightbbaa novel that distills a sub
tle insidious moral poison all along
a fascinating garland of narrative and
plot—will leave its evil impress on the
young mind for life. A good novel
that portrays wholesome phases of
of life, depicts lovable people and
shows the grosser passions to be dan
gerous and miserable in their results
—will give the inexperienced reader a
true idea of the life with which he is
to be brought in contact, will enlight
en sentiment and cultivate the imag
ination —that divine quality which has
saved many a man and woman from
sin—by enabling them to realize the
consequences of yielding to tempta
tion. Also the wholesome novel ele
vates our ideals by setting before us
object lessons of kindness, unselfish
ness and refinement.
The story must be interesting, how
ever. The modern young mind will
not tolerate homilies and “dry” com
ments. The good lessons must be
brought out by the story itself.
I wish my dear Householders would
send me some Christmas and New
Year letters —short ones, as the time
before the holidays is short. I have
received a beautiful picture of dear
Margaret Fester who used to delight
us with letters from her home by a
romantic river in north Georgia, and
by sketches of the mountain people—
particularly a pair of twin girls whose
home was a little log cabin. Margaret
Foster lives now in Rome, Ga., and
the change of homes seems to have
agreed with her. Her picture shows
a remarkably handsome, gracious wo
man, in splendid health.
Since I began to write this little chat
to our members, I have received from
Margaret Foster a photograph of the
twin mountain girls. They are tall
and well shaped with sweet and pretty
faces almost exactly alike. They are
called Martha and Mary. I think Mrs.
Foster named them after the two sis
ters of Bethany, whom Jesus loved.
She writes: “The little girls are now
eleven years old —very bright and in
dustrious. Their plucky little mother
is farming with their help. They hoe
corn and cotton in summer, pick cot
ton in the fall and go to school in
winter. They have not known their
father since they were mere infants.”
If I mistake not, this father deserted
his family. Mrs. Foster says she lives
in town only in the winter; when the
trees bud and the birds begin to sing,
she goes back to her romantic country
home.
Annie Peavy—our talented shut-in
Householder, has sent me the best pho
tograph of herself I have seen yet. The
lovely face with its rounded outlines
shows no sign of ill health and the
broad brow under neath abundant
dark hair is smooth as a child’s. Dear
Annie, I can but believe that you will
yet be restored to health.
Tom Lockhart’s interesting letter ap
pears today, unless crowded out. Let
us try to give him the Christmas let
ter party he looks forward to so hope
fully—cards and letters and orders
for his three books, that are so well
worth reading —each one contains
many a smile and lots of sweet up
lifting thoughts, and their price is so
trifling—only 25 cents for the story of
his most remarkable life. The same
price for his charming book, “Plain
Talks and Tales,” and fifty cents for
his latest book, “Cheerful Chats.”
Our Household will after this have
an added attraction. The state presi
dent and organizer of the International
Sunshine Society—Mrs. Duane A. Rus
sell —will have a letter in almost every
issue giving an account of the won
derful progress and beautiful work of
this great society which in its fourteen
years of existence has extended over
the Christian world and numbers near
ly a million and a half of members.
Mrs. Russell is a magnetic writer —
making the reader catch the cheery
enthusiasm and her true sympathy
that breathes in every word.
Wtb Out Correspondents
FASCINATING—BUT A MODERATE
DRINKER.
I have recently received a letter
from a young woman whom I knew
■well before her marriage. She was a
lovely, lovable girl of excellent family.
She had several suitors, one particu
larly who was almost a model man,
but she chose as a life mate a man
who she knew drank moderately all
the time and occasionally indulged in
“sprees.” Against the counsel of
friends she chose this man, who was
handsome, witty and fascinating in
manner. She believed she could in
fluence him to stop drinking. He read
ily promised her never to touch a drop
of liquor after they ■were married.
Well, of course, he broke his promise;
he drank as before for a while, then
he became somewhat worried in his
business affairs, and he drank more
deeply. He made a public exhibition
of his weakness several times and
this helped to make him reckless and
disregardful of his reputation. He is
now, as his wife writes me, a confirm
ed drunkard, and she begs me as an
old friend, and her former Sunday
school teacher to tell her whether she
should not leave him and get a divorce.
If she had children who were being
ruined in their youth by growing up
in an unhappy home with the ex
ample of a drunken, profane father,
I would say to the "wife: Leave the
man, you have no right to ruin your
children’s lives. But this lady has
no children and there is no likelihood
that she will have, and I think it is
her duty to stand by the man whom
she married with her eyes open—tak
ing him for better or for worse. It is
something no man would do —marry
a woman who drank and who had
been intoxicated in public. A woman
should have equal self-respect. She
should shun a man with such a record.
The idea of marrying him to reform
him is absurdly sentimental. If a
man is not strong willed enough to
quit drink, with the lovely sweet girl
and the hope of marrying her, as an
incentive, he will not reform after
she has been so weak as to take him
on his promise. I append the opinion
of a great and gifted writer as to
marrying a man of immoral charac
ter:
“As to purity among men, I believe
