Newspaper Page Text
ED hair is a sign of genius. There’s
no doubt about it. I have been
making a study of the matter, and
I find almost all the leaders who
have made marks along the high
ways of progress had hair on
which the linger of sunset had cast
its hue. Napoleon’s hair was red;
Queen Elizabeth’s hair was titian;
R
Washington was known as “reddy” at the
primary school; the hair found on the mum
mies of the most renowned of the Pharoahs is
reddish brown. And I would not pass up that
fiery, sometimes mistaken but unquestioned
genius of the pen, Tom Watson, of Georgia,
whose hair (when I saw him last) reminded me
of a sundawn on the Atlantic, though what the
witches and soothsayers and other thorns in
his brilliant flesh may have done to him since
I last saw him, may have frosted his head to
a hoary white.
I would not dare mention the brave, daunt
less Editor of The Golden Age among these
political and military celebrities, but he’s mili
tant and red-haired, all right and, in the esti
mation of so many people in the South that he
conld be nominated for Vice-President, is the
sanitary leaven of right living to many thou
sands of homes.
But the red-headed hero of whom I am think
ing is a doughty Irishman, a government em
ploye here in the city of foam and fustian,
whose name is Reilly. He is known as “Har
ry” to the most of the Elks and other clubmen
about town, and he is perhaps the most popular
young man socially in Wisconsin. And he is
square—a Roman Catholic in faith, but loyal
to civic duty and absolutely fearless.
And here is how he helped me preach a ser
mon in Milwaukee that stirred up the animals:
Seek and ye shall find.—Eccles. 12:13.
Asleep, awake, by night or day,
The friends I seek are seeking me.
No wind can drive my bark astray,
Nor change the tide of destiny,
The waters know their own and draw
The brook that springs on yonder
heights,
So flows the good in equal law
Unto the soul of pure delights.
—John Burroughs.
# # *
The law of seeking in order to find is
in harmony with the rule of life in every
department of effort. If a man wants
money, he must seek it; if he wants learn-
THE CHOIR VISIBLE.
Beyond the spheres we can not hear the praise
That daily goes to Thee;
The glories of that chorus, garbed in white,
A vast, melodious sea,
That, we can not know.
But this we hear: the song of every stream,
Hid in the woods, the murmur of the trees,
The song of every birdling in the branch.
It daily reaches Thee!
Os this we know.
4. 4. 4.
Write for our proposition to
students. Fascinating vaca
tion work. The Golden Age,
814 Austell Building.
RED HAIR SIGN OF GENIUS
A Striking Story From Milwaukee by Our Special Correspondent.
The Royal Pathway
The Golden Age for June 27, 1912.
ARTHUR TALMADGE ABERNETHY.
You good Baptists down in Georgia have de
pleted North Carolina to fill your pulpits and
your ecclesiastical lightning has struck all
around the vicinity of my native home, but it
has consistently missed me, and that, too, not
withstanding the fact that the great ambition
of my life is to settle in some Georgia town
•—the State I love best —and preach the gos
pel.
But to my story:
Some months ago, when I first landed in Mil
waukee, the city was in the fever of political
excitement, and I was asked by a prominent
Eastern publication to contribute an article on
Socialism. This was done, and in the routine
of my investigations I unearthed some start
ling facts about the red light district and traf
fic in human souls. I also contributed several
articles to local papers, but I had no idea any
thing would ever come of it.
I had not taken the red-headed genius into
account.
The articles appeared,, in one of which I de
scribed, the pathetic circumstances of a young
girl held in white slavery within a stone’s
throw of the mayor’s office, just as I had heard
the story from her own lips when, accompanied
by a judicial official, I visted the place for an
investigation. Reilly saw the article, and he
took it over to the Elks’ Club and read it to
some business men. In it I had mentioned the
economic shame, to say nothing of the moral
shame, of a great water harbor city surrender
ing its best shipping district on the river front
to bawds and hovels of infamy, while the in
dustrial builders of this great city have to re
pair to back streets and inconvenient locations.
And that caught them.
Yes, bless your soul, if you want to get a
good, big handful of the average “eminently
ing, he must pay its price in hard study.
Ignorance he may have without effort.
Toil is evermore the standard of value.
Cost and worth are ever close neighbors.
Only by the rugged paths of toil do men
reach the heights of great attainments;
only by paying the price of heroic effort
do they write their names high in the
temple of fame. There is no road to
heaven, but that of sacrifice, that of cross
bearing. We must go on in this narrow
■way or not at all. You must not expect
to become a Christian by accident. That
blessed experience must be the result of
deliberate determination, of intelligent
seeking, and of faithful endurance.
—ROBERT STUART MacARTHUR.
SHE SAW HER DIAMONDS.
A pretty story is told of Eugenie, a Lutheran
princess of Sweden. She was very much in
terested in the builcfing of a hospital, and when
it was found that it would take a good deal
more money to finish it than was expected, she
sold her diamonds in order that she might give
the money that was needed to complete the
building.
One day after the hospital had been built, the
princess went to visit the patients who were be
ing treated in the different wards. As she
stood beside the bedside of one of the patients,
tears of gratitude filled the eyes of the sick
man as he thought of the kindness of the prin
cess who stood before him.
Suddenly the princess exclaimed, as she saw
his tears, “Oh! now I see my diamonds again!”
respectable” citizen’s ear, just show him where
he can increase the jingle in his jeans, and
when you show him that, he’s “on,” whether
he is from Missouri or Milwaukee.
Reilly rubbed that phase of it in pretty
strong,, and then somebody got busy. The
business men got hold of the district attorney,
and asked him if the statements were correct.
He hemmed and hawed around for awhile, and
then said he guessed they were, but he had
been too much engrossed in other work to in
vestigate.
“Well, you get busy pretty quick,” the emi
nently respectable financiers told him, intimat
ing a glance at the top of their political boot.
That was six months ago.
Last night the city editor of The Milwaukee
Sentinel and I walked down along the river
front, and there was not a red light to be seen
along the reservation. The vans were busy
all day hauling out the gilded effects and fur
nishings, and the trains to Chicago, Kansas
City, Minneapolis and other outside cities were
burdened with human freight that had been
given a peremptory notice to clear out of Mil
waukee by June 15 or go to the county jail for
an indeterminate period.
So, you see, when it comes to a combat be
tween righteousness and revelry the red-head
always routs the red light, bless the Lord.
I am bald-headed, as the Editor knows, but
I want to register an explanation of it right
here and now; I could have had as much hair
as Samson or a Kansas Populist if I had been
willing to take some other kind, but when I
couldn’t get red, I refused to have any at all.
4* 4*
MY HEART.
“Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither
have entered into the heart of man, the things
which God hath prepared for them that love
him.” (I Cor. 2:9.)
This life holds much that is dear to me;
There are friendships sweet and fancies free. —
For the world of dreams in which I live,
And a kingdom real I would not give.
Yet thou, poor heart, will make thy moan,
Tho’ soft it be as an elfin’s tone,
For thou art ever alone,
Forever and ever alone I
There are little hands and bright blue eyes,
Soft brown eyes, too, and childish cries;
Prattle of tongue, soft tread of feet
That fill ? each day with music sweet.
As I fondly dream of their future bright,
Poor fragile self is lost to sight.
Still ever anon thy voice is heard.
Like the plantive notes of a wounded bird,
For thou art ever alone,
Forever and ever alone!
I’ve a Saviour’s love and boundless peace;
For the waves of regret have beat their sur
cease
Os sorrow and pain. They lie placid and still
As a child asleep ’neath His masterful will.
But peace is not fullness and faith is not sight,
And my long waiting heart is lonely tonight,
Forever and ever alone,
Yes, ever and ever alone.
I’ve a precious promise hidden away
In my thoughts’ retreat, and, day by day,
It softly sings, in a minor key,
Os the wondrous life that is yet to be,
When my tired feet, at last, shall come
Into the rest of my Father’s home.
There the silent notes that have long been still
Shall thy lonely pulse with rapture thrill,
And thou shalt be never alone,
“Never, no never, alone.”
—S, BURTON LUCAS.
5