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Amid the cares of married life,
In spite of toil and business strife,
If you value your sweet wife,
Tell her so!
Prove to her you don’t forget
The bend to which the seal is set;
She’s of life’s sweet the sweetest yet—
Tell her so!
When days are dark and deeply blue,
She has her troubles, same as you.
Show her that your love is true —
Tell her so!
There was a time you thought it bliss
Tc. get the favor of one kiss.
A dozen now won’t come amiss—-
Tell her so!
Your love for her is no mistake —
You feel it, dreaming or awake.
CHA T
Dear Friends: I must send you a
word of greeting from this beautiful
quiet resort —Bloomington Springs—in
the heart of the mountain region of
Tennessee.
Bloomington is an old ante-bellum
health resort, -which used to be unique
in its rows of summer log cabins over
shadowed by magnificent oaks and
beeches. The cabins have given place
to cottages, with broad and long
piazzas, and the bubbling, ice-cold
spring has now a classic pavilion over
it; but the restful quiet, coolness and
beauty are here as in the days “befo’
de wah.”
No lovelier headquarters could have
been chosen for the meeting of the
Tennesse Woman’s Press and Author’s
Club and here they are hav
ing their usual summer reunion,
and are being feted and enter
tained most delightfully by mem-
bers of the band who are so fortunate
as to have their homes in this beauti
ful region. The President of the club,
Mrs. Rutledge Smith, has a grand
home in the little city, Cookville, and
a few miles farther, on the Central
road, at Algood, lives the club’s Sec
retary, Clara Cox Epperson, whom all
you new Sunny South Householders
remember for her lovely little poems,
always some fanciful or uplifting
thought set in golden words.
Mrs. Rutledge Smith and Mrs. Ep
person each vied with each other in
making the club folk have the time
of their lives. Mrs. Epperson’s recep
tion, given in her spacious elegant
home, was perfect in all its appoint
ments. Beautiful girls, in white,
among them her own graceful and
variously gifted daughter, moved
about the flower-decked tables, minis
tering to the wants of the guests.
After the luncheon, we were enter
tained with exquisite music from Miss
Emerson, and songs and readings
from some of the other fair girls.
Miss Dodd was a marvel of humorous
mimicry of expression and movement,
with also a perfect imitation of the
negro dialect.
Later, when all were assembled on
the velvety, shaded lawn, the “camera
fiend” caught the group, and the pic
ture well deserves to be reproduced
in The Golden Age, for in the group
THE HOUSEHOLD
A Department of Expression For Those Who Feel and Think
TELL HER SO
Anonymous.
Don’t conceal it; for her sake,
Tell her so!
Don’t act, if she has passed her prime,
As though to please her were a crime.
If ever you loved her, now’s the time —
Tell her so!
She’ll return for each caress
An hundredfold of tenderness!
Hearts like hers were made to bless!
Tell her so!
You are hers, and hers alone;
Well you know she’s all your own.
Don’t wait to “carve it on a stone” —
Tell her so!
Never let her heart grow cold —
Richer beauties will unfold.
She is 'worth her weight in gold—
Tell her so!
were a number of young women who
have won distinction in the world of
letters.
Mrs. Lundy Harris, author of those
two wonderfully successful books,
“The Circuit Rider’s Wife,” was a
graceful, girlish figure in the group.
Mrs. Scharad, a beautiful, sylph-like
woman, whose very clever novel, “The
Annals of Anne,” won such favor when
published by Doubleday that she was
urgently pressed to write a continua
tion of Anne’s history, and has now in
press a final account of Anne, show
ing her as just stepping across the
threshold of womanhood. This book
is called “At the Age of Eve.” When
that fair mother of us all made her
debut at Adam’s garden party, she
was supposedly eighteen years old.
Another young Tennessee woman,
whose recent bcoks have won her
fame and fortune, is Maria Danes,
author of “Salomy Sue” and “The
Road to Providence.” The camera
shows her to have a plump figure and
a good, cheery face. She is the jol
liest, most companionable person pos
sible. She has lately returned from
Europe, where her books had prepared
for her the most cordial reception.
Mrs. Lundy Harris leaves for a
European trip the middle of next
month. She will stay for a month or
more in a quiet retreat among the
Switzerland mountains, writing an
other book.
Other authors appear in the differ
ent camera groups of the Tennessee
Press Women, notably Elizabeth Fry
Page, whose beautiful Memorial Vol
ume of the unique composer, Mc-
Donell, has been much praised for its
fine and subtle interpretation of the
composer’s strange and subtle genius.
Other entertainment which the
Press Club enjoyed was a tea given
by Miss Mary Alice Whitney, at
the beautiful home of her parents;
an artistic dinner of the Lebanon
Daughters of the Revolution, and a
most picturesque al fresco luncheon,
given out on the green terraces slop
ing to the waters of Caney river in
front of the pretty club house of the
Shasta Club, where all disciples of
Izaak Walton can find abundant game
in the cool, shaded nooks of the Caney.
The luncheon which was given us by
this generous club was most abundant
and delicious. It was served on the
carpet of nature —blue grass—and fol
lowed by witty toasts and breezy
The Golden Age for June 15,1911.
spontaneous talks from the members.
I am scribbling this by the tinted
light of sunset, under the trees of
beautiful Bloomington Springs, which
is the most home-like and restful
summer resort I have ever known. It
is beautifully kept by Mr. and Mrs.
Buford, who are genuine types of the
hospitable, courteous Southern gentle
man and lady. In another letter I
want to tell you more about these
bright and charming busy bees of the
Press Club, their work and the liter
ary part of the entertainment in the
heart of the Tennessee mountains,
which is reached by the picturesque
Central road, the scenic railway of
Tennessee.
I would like to tell you more of the
gracious and intellectual people I met,
the picturesque beauty of the country
as seen from the Central railway, and
the gracious courtesy of its attaches,
particularly Mr. Rutledge Smith, the
Industrial Agent of the road, who is
the clever husband of the club’s
charming President.
Wttb ®ur Correspondents
EN ROUTE TO OKLAHOMA.
I am in the big railway station of
Denver, Colorado, waiting for the train
to take me on to my destination —the
magic new State, Oklahoma. While
sitting in the waiting room, I took out
of my traveling bag the last copy of
The Golden Age, which I had received
before leaving my home in Seattle,
Washington. I read Tennessean’s re
ply to Earnest Seeker with much in
terest. I was so pleased with his sen
sible talk that I just have to tell him,
particularly as I too am a Tennessean.
I would like to know him and talk with
him. There are so many things con
nected with the Christian faith and
its exponent, the Bible, that I would
like to hear discussed in a quiet, so
cial way.
Now that I am getting back to the
South —for Oklahoma is a Southwest
ern State —I hope to meet some of the
contributors to The Golden Age House
hold, who write so well and nobly.
A TRAVELER.
MY SUMMER READING.
Dear Household Friends: I am sit
ting on my cool, breezy piazza doing
nothing but listening to a mocking
bird singing in the green tent of a
neighboring tree. He is imitating the
note of every feathered songster of the
woods. I have been reading E. P.
Roe’s book about rural matters —Na-
ture’s Serial it is called, in it the
mocking bird is given a bad name —
he is said to be cruel and to destroy
young birds and birds’ eggs. I never
heard this of our royal singer before
have any of you? I have heard that
the jay bird was guilty of such cruel
deeds, but Mr. Roe praises him as a
good and harmless bird. “Nature’s
Serial” contains a great deal of in
formation about farming, and it would
be of advantage to planters who wish
to know what kind of fertilizers is
adapted to their soil to read this book.
It also has a pretty love story inter
woven in it.
Another book I have read is Rider
Haggard’s “People of the Mist.” It is
an absorbing story—and, like all his
novels, shows his wonderful power of
imagination. It is amazing how he
can conjure up such marvelous scenes
and situations as are portrayed in
“The People of the Mist.” But he
makes his characters human eventual-
ly. However, one can not thoroughly
enjoy his stories; they are so improb
able. I like to read a story in which
real life is represented, with incidents
that might naturally occur. Such a
story, “The Little Lady Cinderella,”
by C. N. Williamson. The style is
fascinating and, while the book is not
great or strong, it is quite charming
in its naturalness.
Don’t be shocked when I tell you
that I have been reading several nov
els by the famous French author,
Maupassant. I had read such praises
of his perfect style and fine literary
art, but I tell you, friends, I wouldn’t
give his works room in my library if
they were bound in Russia leather.
They are not worthy of being read by
any one who reads to improve his
mind or his soul. Particularly are
they injurious for young people. I had
heard him highly spoken of as a writer,
so I tried to find where the excellence
was, but they were all bad —and I stop
ped in disguest.
Dear Mrs. Bryan, your Chats are
fine. I wish I could read the books you
speak of in your editorials. All the
old people of the South could tell won
derful tales concerning the Civil War.
It was an era full of thrilling experi
ences to those of us who passed
through its trying scenes. We have a
great many brilliant authors today,
but, as William Jennings Bryan said,
“Who among them are able to write a
book like the Bible?” If any should
try, it would just be imitation. The
Bible writers were inspired. If any of
our great men were able to w 7 rite a
book equal to it, they would have writ
ten it. Many attempts have been made
to destroy the Bible, and no other
book has existed so, long, despite the
efforts of its enemies to suppress it.
The children of today know far less
about the Bible (in spite of the Sun
day Schools) than did the old-time
children. Also, the modern child has
not the courteous manners of his pre
decessors. When I was a child my
father taught me to thank the serv
ants for any trouble they went to in
order to please me; and I was taught
when presenting a request always to
say, “If you please.” I do this to this
day, but the t’wentieth century child
never thinks of rendering thanks for
a service rendered. It grieves me to
see all the old lovely courtesies and
home and social amenities passing
away. But such is life. Beautiful
things are fading out of it as tints out
of a sunset sky.
With best wishes for our Household
family and its mater, I remain,
Your ever loving,
OLD WOMAN.
Red Oak, Ga.
*
AFTER THE SHOWER.
A refreshing shower has just fallen.
Everything invites me out of doors. I
drop my work, and soon I am wander
ing in wood paths wild. Around me
are grand old trees —the primitive
growth of the earth —oaks, hickories,
maples, pines, and the glorious poplar
or tulip tree. The low sun sends gold
en shafts through the forest aisles and
turns the rain drop pendant from each
leaf into a glittering diamond. The
fragrance of the rain-washed earth and
its vines and flowers comes to me de
liciously as I wander, together with
the happy songs and chirping of the
birds that are uttering melodious
thanks for the cooling shower. The
perfume of laurel blooms comes on
every breeze. The feathery cypress,
the dark green myrtle, and the fes
tooning grape vines, make a delight-
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