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THE MEN OF YESTERDAY
ARTHUR GOODENOUGH.
Where are the men of yesterday?
Syria’s star has set long since;
In the gray disguise of the dust she
lies
And wakes no more at the call of
Prince.
Where are the men of yesterday?
Egypt’s scepter has fallen now:
Her temples crumble —her tombs
decay—
And ruin and death have sealed her
brow!
Where are the men of yesterday?
Babel’s beauty and pomp have gone;
In her holy of holies the darkness
broods
And the sun is dim where it brightly
shone!
*
Where are the men of yesterday?
Rome that was queen is queen no
more,
On her ruined walls the shadow 7 falls,
And ruin broods by the Tiber’s
shore!
CHA T
In the cool, breezy evenings at
Bloomington there was always music
and pleasant talk. One evening we
gathered in the wide reception room
and told ghost stories with the lights
turned low 7 , Mrs. Lundy Harris “tak
ing the cake” by her realistic account
of the strange sights and sounds she
saw and heard in a reputedly haunted
house in a Georgia town which she
lived in for several months.
Miss Maria Daviess, author of
“Miss Selima Lue” and “The Road to
Providence,” is also a clever recon
teur and a poet as well. At the pic
nic supper given the Press and
Authors’ Club by the Current Topics
Club, Miss Daviess read a charming
verse-greeting, “From the Lowlands
to the Highlands,” which she had
written on the train. The Current
Topics Club is a group of clever and
cultured girls, whose club work is
directed by Mrs. Rutledge Smith.
The Sebow r isha Hunting and Fishing
Club threw open to the picnickers its
picturesque club house, perched on a
cliff among immense beech trees, its
veranda commanding a wide view of
the mountains, valleys and woods of
the surrounding country. The beauty
and salubrity of this region inspired
the women writers with the idea of
building here a club house which
should be permanent headquarters of
their future reunions, and also a rest
home when any of them needed to re
cuperate. With characteristic en
ergy, they made plans for financing
the scheme of erecting an artistic
bungalow built of native woods and
stone, trimmed with the roseate near
marble of Putnam county.
It is inevitable that this section, so
rich in natural resources, should
quickly be settled by people of intelli
gence and means, and it seems fitting
It should be the seat of some great ,
educational institute, illustrating thef.
practical modern methods of indus n
trial and scientific culture. Accord
ingly, such a broad-scale college hafg
been planned by Professor W. B ■
Boyd, and the main building is now"
THE HOUSEHOLD
A Department of Expression For Those Who Feel and Think
Cities they reared in the desert sand, —
Gods 1 they fashioned of sand and
clay,—
But the Lord of the Earth stretched
forth His hand —
And where are the men of yesterday?
Realms they conquered and rivers
spanned,—
Glory and pomp and power had they,
But the Lord of the Earth stretched
forth His hand —
And where are the men of yesterday?
Boldly they battled with time and
death, —
Fought with fate and defied dismay;
But the Lord of the Earth breathed
out His breath,—-
And where are the men of yesterday?
Where are the men of yesterday?
Sovereign or slave that plied his
task?
Where is the wind of yesterday?
Ask of the dust and the shadow —
ask!
in process of erection on an elevated
plateau near Ceoksville, in the midst
of extensive grounds. It’s name, The
Dixie University, will appeal to South
ern people, as will the broad, practi
cal and eminently progressive lines
on which it is planned.
“Tell me how some of the authors
and press folks you met at the Ten
nessee Press Convention looked —and
how they dressed,” asked a young
girl neighbor who is full of wonder
and admiration for women who write
and who hopes one day to be a suc
cessful scribe herself. She added:
“You know I have heard that literary
folks care nothing about clothes and
their dress is often shabby.”
That was in old times I told her
when it was thought necessary that
writers should be unconventional and
Bohemian in dress and manners, and
the frowsier you looked and the more
absent-minded and tactless you were
in company, the greater you were sun
posed to be. I remember in my youth
ful days being awe stricken by the
sight of a live author, who had writ
ten an emotional novel called “The
Heart of Madelene.” He was leaning
against a lamp post with his arms cross
ed on his breast and his gaze resting
on vacancy. His coat was covered
with dust and had a rent in the elbow,
his shoes were untied and his neck
was not clean. “How gifted he must
be!” was my thought, as T looked
at him. Doubtless he was posing as
a genius absorbed in the grand crea
tions of his fancy.
It is quite different now, I told my
lit f le neighbor. Writing for publica
tion is no longer an unusual and abnor
mal thing. but a regular business as
svstemat.ic and orderly as
ing. Writers no longer wear soiled
collars and have their finger nails in
mourning. They wear pretty and styl
ish clothes, patronize soap and water
and are delightfully neat and fresh
, looking. The authors and .Tour-
I met at the Blooming
in ton Springs and Cookeville re-
were remarkably well dress-
BI Q d and looked fresh as a bed of
U"oses newly washed in dew. None of
Igpnem were absent-minded or self ab
sorbed. They were jolly and gracious,
The Golden Age for June 22. 1911.
considerate and sympathetic. Not a
tiny flash of the green-eyed monster
envy did I spy. They were delighted’
at each other’s success and when the
names of the winners of prizes for
best Stories and essays in the literary
contest were called you should have
heard the rounds of congratulatory
applause. The prize for the best news
paper article was won by Miss Libby
Morrow, the efficient, industrious And
universally loved editor of the Wo
man’s Department in the Nashville
Banner. Her article described a long
interesting interview with the wife of
Senator Dickinson after the return of
herself and husband from a tour nearly
around the world. A piquant, half-hum
orous, half pathetic love Story with its
scene on Lookout Mountain by that
dainty looking, yet strong-brained and
energetic Miss Zella Armstrong, who
is editor and proprietress of “The
Lookout,” a beautiful and entertaining
weekly paper published in Chatta
nooga. y. |
TOttb Our Correspondents
sunny people.
Mrs. Bryan, I am so glad you
have a cheery nature; I don’t love peo
ple who are aggressive and fault-find
ing, though they may be conscientious
ly trying to better the world. Glum
folks are my abomination. Oiie look
at their sour faces curdles all the
sweet cream Os my temperament.
There ought to be a growlery to shut
such people in, so they might inflict
their complaints and grumblings upon
nobody but themselves. What a nice
place that growlery would be though!
Worse than the bear’s den at a zoo.
Don’t imagine that I want people to
be always gay and laughing. This
would be an exhibition of frivolity,
and betray a shallow nature. I would
not have a personality that had no
grave and even melancholy phase—
no shade to the picture, “shining on,
shining on by no shadow made tender.”
No, I would have the shading of
tenderness and sympathy, but sun
shine should predominate. Voice and
smile and look should reflect hopeful
ness and content. It seems to me
that there are very few really bad
people in the world, and there are
so many good ones, and others that are
“near” good, I like the old song which
says: “This world is quite a pleas
ant world and pleasant people in it.”
Cara.
Adams, Tennessee.
OCTOGENARIANS AT A RECEP
TION.
Interesting and lovely was the group
of venerable ladies assembled at the
beautiful home' of Mrs. Fannie Gibbs,
of Social Circle, on the seventy-sixth
birthday (6th of June) of the youngest
of the group—Mrs. Volumnia Gibbs —
mother of the hostess. The other old
ladies who were respectively sister
and sister-in-law of Mrs. Gibbs, were
Mrs. Emily Childs, of Clarkston, aged
eighty and Mrs. Miranda Henderson,
of Monticello, who had passed her
eighty-second birthday. The faces of
the dear old ladies as they greeted
each other and were surrounded by
old friends and relatives —were radiant
with joy. Their eyes shone with the
brightness of youth. The entire lower
floor of the house was thrown open so
that the aged guests of honor could
walk from room to room and admire
the profusion of flowers that decorated
each.
Music and songs by some of the
young company were greatly enjoyed.
On the back porch fruit punch was
served and in the handsome dining
room, the older ladies’ guests sat
about a central table, whose decora
tion consisted of crystal vases of flow
ers and a large embossed cake in the
center, on which burned three wax
candles, one white, emblematic of the
past, one green, representing the pres
ent, and the other golden—prophetic
of the future.
Cakes, ices and fruits were served
at the different flower-decorated tables
about which were seated a number of
the socially prominent ladies, with sev
eral out-of-town guests —from Clark
ston, Madison and Manchester.
Through all the pleasant afternoon
the venerable ladies were the life of
the company, thoroughly enjoying the
lively talk and showing little signs of
fatigue.
i p ' -- MAUD.
A LILY MAID. AN IDEAL LOVER.
Last night I went to see a fair bevy
of girl graduates receive their diplo
mas. What beautiful girls they were!
Nearly every one was tall and finely
developed. It seems to me that the
beauty of the girls of today is of a
higher type than it was a century ago,
yet I remember some lovely girls who
were in my graduating class. One in
deed, was supremely lovely. A ten
der and pathetic romance hangs over
her memory. She was my rdom-matd
at dear old Wesleyan College in Ma
con, Georgia—the oldest female col
lege in the United States. She was
not quite seventeen but she had
known “Love’s young dream.” She
often received letters, sd we inquisitive
girls discovered —that were not from
the home folks. They were addressed in
a firm, clear masculine writing. After
we had been kept in the dark for
months, her secret came out. She
was engaged—with her parents’ con
sent —else she would not have been al
lowed to receive the letters of her af
fianced. He was a young minister,
gifted and earnest. She sometimes
read to us paragraphs of his beautiful
letters.
What an important little personage
she became in our eyes! But school
girl like we teased our sweet friend, we
poked a little fun at her “preacher”
sweetheart. She bore it all with her
sweet dignity, and pursued the even
tenor of her way. She read her Bible
every night. She read the books he
sent her—and she studied —oh so hard!
When “honors” were read out she re
ceived one of the highest. We all lov
ed her, and we gladly accorded her
congratulations.
The commencement would be in
June. We were full of preparations for
that important event. The little bride
to-be chose for the theme of her es
say, “Old things have passed away; all
things have become new.” Alas! it
was prophetic!
Two weeks before commencement,
she had a chill, followed by fever. “I will
be all right tomorrow 7 ; I will be down
to breakfast,” she told us. But tomor
row found her worse. “Only a little
bilious attack,” the physician said.
But the fever kept its hold, and the
moan that escaped her parched lips
was for “mother.”
At length the mother was summon
ed. She came anxious but hopeful,
bringing the beautiful graduating
dress—all snowy muslin, soft frills and
lace. But the sweet one was too ill to
do more than wearily smile. “I must
take her home; it will do her good tq
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