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“Please, mamma, lift me out of bed
And let me kneel and say:
‘Now I lay me down to sleep’,
Just as I used to pray.”
All gently then they raised from bed
The little wasted frame,
And held him as he knelt and spoke
The Holy Father’s name.
Then murmured, “Now I lay me —, ’
But the weak voice could no more,
It faltered while his lifted eyes
Seemed heaven strength to implore.
They placed him tenderly once more
On the bed, where long he’d lain;
His closed eyes opened feebly,
A MODEL STORE.
A lady coming from Wisconsin told
me about one of her neighbors in
Prairie Farm, who is now in the
state legislature. He is a humanita
rian, rather than a politician, it seems.
He does things to help people, regard
less as to whether or not the things
benefit himself. He is a lover of his
kind. Though only in moderate cir
cumstances, he has been a great fac
tor in improving his native town. For
one thing he established the Home
Store, as it is called. As many of his
customers are farmers, and drive or
walk in from the country, the Home
Store has a special rest-room for wo
men. It is fitted with running water,
plenty of towels, couches, easy chairs,
magazines and books. For the men
there is provided the “meeting room,”
which has a long table and chairs,
papers and magazines. Back of the
store is a big stable into which, in
stormy weather, customers may drive,
thus protecting both team and load.
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Some of his friends ask this large
minded man if a store run on such
lines, is a paying business, and he an
swers that it not only pays him in
money, but it has paid in the satis
faction which always comes to a man
who gives to his neighbors and cus
tomers the best he has. He adds that
the secret of succeeding in business is
the secret of making friends, and the
way to make friends is to help people.
Give folks the best you have in you
and they will in self-defence he forced
to give you the best they have in
them. He says he even finds it pays
him to loan money to some of his
former clerks that they may start in
business for themselves in the little
prairie town. When he is told that
it is foolish to assist competitors, he
answers: “We are all neighbors here,
and there is business enough for us
all. Besides, I like the boys, and 1
want them to like me.”
A Vision and a Verse.
Our good and gifted poet, Arthur
Goodenough (how well his name suits
him) has written, begging me to tell
the Household the strange vision that
came to me when I had been given
by the doctor a full dose of the (to
me) new anodyne medicine —Jelsy-
nium (is that the way to spell it?) ex
tracted from the root of our beautiful
wild yellow Jessamine. The medi
cine was given to me in my illness
last November to relieve pain, as I
would not consent to take morphine.
It certainly laid a soothing finger on
the nerve of pain, but also it seemed"’
THE HOUSEHOLD
A Department of Expression For Those Who Feel and Think
A Child*s Faith
By ANNICE LYBARGER.
CHA T
“Mamma,” he said again,
“I couldn’t say it, but God knows.”
And then, like some tired flower,
The eyelids closed, the sweet young
soul
Passed in that quiet hour.
With spirit strangely moved I read
This story sad and true,
And I repeat it that it may
. Sink in the heart of you,
And paint its simple picture there,
Colored with faith and love,
Faith of a child, precious to Christ,
Who welcomed him above.
Kingston, Tennessee.
to lay a finger on the pulse of life —
and gradually, gently, loosen the sil
ver cord. I felt vitality ebbing from
me, but I was indifferent to what ap
peared to be the receding of the shores
of life. Only I did not want to die with
out having seen the wonderful old Ori
ent —the temples, the pyramids, Jeru
salem, and the ruins of Greece —par-
ticularly the beautiful temples and
tombs of Paestum —the remains of the
dead city of unknown antiquity, on
the seashore of Greece. I kept re
peating to myself, “I shall never see
Paestum.”
It was mid-night, and my nurse was
asleep on the lounge. Outside was
cold, beautiful moonlight; everything
was still; the lamp was turned low;
the fire had burned down to glowing
coals veiled with white ashes. Every
thing seemed dreamlike and unreal,
i was neither asleep nor awake, but
seemed drifting very near the great
• sea of the beyond. All at once, the
door seemed to open and a tall figure
in white with a face of ineffable ma
jesty came in, and saying: ‘‘So you
wish to see Paestum?” took me up as
though I had been an infant, wrapped
me in a white fur robe from head to
foot, and bore me to the edge of the
back piazza, where an aeroplane stood.
Laying me on the soft, white furs
that covered the seat, my stately con
ductor entered the airship and sent
it up and out into space.
Out across still moonlit plains, hills,
cities, rivers—snow-capped mountains,
until I saw below me the rolling
waves of the ocean, sparkling in the
moonlight. Across the sea and the sea
islands, and more land and cities and
plains, swift and silent as though we
glided, until at length the flying ves
sel dropped softly near the shore of
a blue sea, beside which rose the
white glory of temples and tombs—all
wrapped in moonlight and silence. 1
felt that this was Paestum, and looked
rapturously at the marble beauty of
the ruins, while the aeroplane hovered
over them like a great white bird
over its nest.
I saw only one living being—a man
young but emaciated, pale as the fall
en marble on which his head rested.
“He is ill,” I thought. “He has been
smitten with a fatal malady, and he
has come hero to die. It would be
easier to him to die here than in his
home. He is thinking now of this and
of the loved ones in his distant home,
as he lies here in the moonlight.” The
thought came to me impressively, and
I kept gazing at him, while his figure
The Golden Age for February 15, 1912.
grew fainter and the outlines of the
perfect temples melted into gray haze.
“It is time for another dose of your
medicine,” said the voice of my nurse
at the bedside. I put out my hand
against the bottle, “No more for me.”
I said; “no more Pelsynium —now or
ever. But please give me a pencil
and that small note book. I can’t
sleep; I will try to write just a little.”
After serious protest, she gave me
the pencil and I wrote what I had
seemed to see in the mind of the pale
young man lying among the broken
marbles of ancient Paestum.
Waiting.
If you could come tonight
Across the snowy field about your
home,
Across the ocean white with winter
foam,
Here where the grass is sweet,
Where warm sea-pulses beat,
And Paestum marbles melt in soft
moonlight,
You might not think it strange, dear
love, that I
Should wait on this far shore for
Fate’s reply
To the scarce-hoping question—“live
or die?”
Here all is dead —long dead —
Gods, rulers, people. All around are
tombs
And spectral white the perfect tem
ple looms
—tßeauty, whose soul has fled! —
’Twould not be hard to yield one’s lit
tle breath
Here, where all things are calmed and
hushed by death.
But back, across the blue
Are throbbing hopes and fears and
anxious love
And clinging arms and lips that fond
prayers move,
There ’twould be hard for you—
For me to wait Fate’s sybilline decree,
Better that in this land of mystery
And calm and silence should the wait
ing be.
Do What You Can.
A medical writer, commenting on
the prevalence of nervous prostration
among women of the leisure class,
says that better than a rest cure for
this trouble is a work cure —work for
others —social service. There is plen
ty of such work for willing hands.
There is no community large or small,
no town or village where a woman
of intelligence, energy and patience —
above all of sympathy and tact —can
not find endless opportunity to do
good—to do the things that need to
be done. It is given to very few wo
men to be a Florence Nightingale or a
Jane Addams, but every woman, if
she seeks diligently, can find some
thing to be done —something near at
hand. The work demands unselfish
ness, a willingness to take pains,
and the ability to co-operate with oth
ers —and to enlist others into service
TOttb ©ur Gorresponfcents
HOW I OBTAIN COMFORT.
Though I have been silent in the.
Household, yet every week I have
read the editorials and letters, and
have been entertained, instructed and
encouraged by them. This has been a
terrible winter, and I have had so
much pain to endure that I feel al
most willing to subject myself once
more to the surgeon’s knife. I have
felt I could bear the suspense, the
agony, the risk in order to insure a
* partial cessation of the ever gnawing
pain. An operation would call for
the removal of a portion of obstructed
intestine, and I fear I could not stand
the shock of an operation, even if I had
plenty of money to pay for it.
These gloomy, cold days I have
found much comfort in prayer. I rise
from my “little talk with Jesus” quiet
ed and strengthened in spirit. I have
taken pleasure in putting my prayer
into verse. Perhaps the publication
of the simple appeal to our divine
Brother, Christ, may be of some ser
vice to a sister or brother whose
heavy heart needs the solace of
prayer, and perhaps it may serve to
make others more thankful for health
and the ability to enjoy life.
The Soul’s Cry.
In Thy holy presence, Lord,
At Thy feet I humbly bow,
Pleading Thy forgiveness, Lord,
Grant me mercy Saviour —now.
For my faults I sadly grieve,
I confess them all to Thee,
And pray my burdened conscience
Thou
Wilt with pardoning word relieve.
To Thee, Lord, I make my plea,
Draw me nearer to Thy side,
That I may not, can not, stray,
But may close to Thee abide.
Os Thy love, dear Father, Lord,
Do I sweet assurance seek;
Grant me patience to endure,
Grant me strength who am so weak.
Grant that I lose sight of self,
And to others give such aid
As a willing spirit can.
Help me to be undismayed
By the fear of pain and death,
Facing life with courage high,
And upheld by Thy dear hand,
Strong to live, and calm to die.
ANNIE PEAVY.
Roanoke, Va., Route 5.
BOOKS, BABIES AND OTHER
THINGS.
Well, here we are in the second
month of the New Year. I trust that
the pages of our 1912 year books, so
far, are fairly clean, and in future
let us try to have each page record
some good thought or act —some help
ful service for another.
I was truly sorry to learn of the
accident that befell our shut-in broth
er, Tom Lockhart, that caused him
to suffer so severely. He is so brave
and patient, he keeps cheerful in such
a wonderful way that every one must
admire him and desire to help him
by buying his inexpensive but inter
esting books.
Our Mater’s chat about the children
of the slums made my heart ache for
those poor little ones, growing up in
such unwholesome surroundings. I
wish every one of God’s poor could
have comfortable homes on little
farms in the country, where the chil
dren could enjoy the sunshine and
the fresh air, and see woods and fields
and flowers, and work among these.
There would be fewer child-criminals
and less need of reformatories.
I was with our Meb, too, in her
talk with the mothers regarding the
duty of every mother who is able to
nurse her baby from her own breast.
There are excellent patent baby foods,
no doubt, and there is the milk of
cows, but none of these are true sub
stitutes for mother’s milk. God in
tended that every mother should sus
tain to her child this close and sweet
relationship, and the mother who re
fuses to do this when she is physic
ally able, commits a sin against her
child and against her God.
I was away from home during the
trying time of snow and sleet, and
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