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You will find the aged pilgrim
Wheresoe’er you chance to go.
Oft with faces sad and lonely
And a step that’s growing slow;
While the world is oft so thoughtless
Os the weary care-worn heart,
You can brighten up their pathway
With a little magic art.
Oft perchance their hearts are hungry
For some loving word or deed;
Take a little time to cheer them
Learning of their care or need.
Listen to the old-time story
Oft so full of ancient lore,
Gather up its store of wisdom
’Ere it pass forevermore.
What a beautiful Thanksgiving Day
we had! The leaden skies of Wed
nesday broke into a shower of snow
flakes light and lovely as cherry blos
soms, and the bright Thanksgiving
sun gleamed over a spotless world.
Cottage and mansion were alike
“roofed with carrara” and every tree
wore “ermine too dear for an earl.”
The blended snow and sunshine
were a delight to the youngsters, and
their frolics were a joy to see. My
arbor vitae trees drooped gracefully
under the feathery burden, but it
seemed too bad to know that the
“beautiful snow” was the winding
sheet of the chrysanthemums. Many
of the big clusters were fresh and
bright the day before, and I carried
to our Circle Thanksgiving (Wednes
day) dinner a basket of fruit inter
spersed with pink and mauve chrys
anthemums.
Our Circle has not yet removed to
its new home, about the building of
which I have told you. It has had a
busy as well as pleasant career, so
far —has helped to clothe and shelter
the poor and furnish medicine and
attendance to the sick, beside having
no end of fun all along with spelling
bees, rummage sales, bazars, suppers
and all the ingenious ways by which
clever feminine brains continue to
raise money for carrying out their
plans.
The library which will be installed
in the new club house will be free to
all. If generally used, it will be a
great source of pleasure and devel
opment. What a blessing it is to have
books and periodicals, a bright fire, a
clear lamp and a pile of new maga
zines and papers—isn’t this the acme
of winter evening enjoyment! And
how comfortable to have a good fam
ily paper that comes promptly every
week, and offers a program of enter
taining, instructing and inspiring
things.
The daily paper is indispensable in
these days of momently-occuring
events and happenings, but to every
home at the close of the week there
should come the friendly visit of the
family paper, with a message for pa
rents and children —with words of
cheer and news of all the good and
grand things that are being done in
the world —a paper with individuality
and purpose, the purpose to inspire
and uplift, as well as to entertain.
Such a spirit and purpose belong to
this paper —The Golden Age. It was
born of noble motives, high incentive
—-to fight the evil that corrupts society
Sunshine For the Aged
MRS. MARY B. WINGATE, in The Watchman.
THE HOUSEHOLD
A Department of Expression For Those Who Feel and Think
When the ear is dull of hearing
And the eye is growing dim,
Read to them our Father’s message,
Sing some tender, old-time hymn.
Write them oft a card or letter,
Speak a gentle, cheery word,
You will find their lives are brighter
For the memories you have stirred.
Bear to them the lovely blossoms,
Royal purple; purest white;
Let them read the silent message,
“Purity and age unite.”
Sympathize with hearth grown lonely,
For their loved ones passed away,
Render them the truest service
“In His name,” while yet you may.
CHA T
and government, and to uphold the
standard of honor, purity and fellow
ship. It has made a brave record in
the face of adverse conditions. Its
editors have at heart the good of the
people, rather than worldly success.
After bravely weathering many storms
it has come at length to smoother wa
ters. It is now within the power of
those at its helm to make a yet
stronger showing. They intend to im
prove the paper, to increase its va
riety, to make it the vehicle of infor
mation concerning all that is being
done to better humanity—to have it
echo the footsteps of progress in
every field—industrial, social, educa
tional, religious.
The literary feature of the paper
will be strengthened, and the House
hold must not be behind. It must
brighten up. Our old friends must
return to us, and we are ready always
to welcome new ones. We want to
hear of their homes, their work, their
thoughts and opinions about current
matters, for instance, about the new
plant of parents co-operating with
teachers in methods for understand
ing and training the child. We want
to hear from the young people con
cerning their ideas and hopes—even
their grievances, for these may be
helped by sympathy and advice.
Yes, The Golden Age is going to
forge right ahead, and I hope you—
all of you—will do something to help
its progress. Instead of ill-naturedly
comparing onr Southern periodicals
with Northern ones, we ought in com
mon patriotism and policy to uphold
and patronize our own, thus giving
them a chance to compete with the
best in the land.
Muriel, I want you to tell the
Household and poultry raisers how
to induce their hens to lay a few eggs
for Christmas cake. Complaints come
in on every hand, “The hens all seem
to be on a strike.” Says one, “Out of
seventy-odd hens, only one lone bid
die —the homeliest of the lot —-has con
descended to lay an egg in ten days.
And they have no excuse. They are
through moulting, and have nice new
winter suits.”
Perhaps Annice is more fortunate
with her hens. Our New York jour
nalist Householder says she has
“most persuading ways.” I thought
of her turkeys on Thanksgiving Day
—and looked at a photograph of her
in her poultry yard, surrounded by
her turkey family, with her white
Collie looking up into her cute Bun
bonnetted face.
The Golden Age for December 5, 1912.
“Has Julia <IOOI3O 'Tait deserted
us?” asks a corresponded at. “Tell her
to come back to the Household and
advise us what to rea d these cosy
winter evenings. We ’.have only the
old books now. Our girlie went on a
trip to St. Louis and ’.took with her
the new novels we had set aside for
reading aloud. So we are going to
re-read either DisraeUFts ‘Coningsby’
or Bulwer’s ‘What Will' He Do With
it.’ I wish you would) (sometime give
us a little sketch about these two
novelists. I have never read anything
personal about them.”
Next week I will tell you some in
teresting personal thing s about them,
as told by a young (English woman,
afterwards a well-known figure in lit
erature, who saw them when she was
a girl. No, I don’t believe our Julia
has deserted the TLousehold. She
must be too busy—and happy to visit
us. A year ago she wrote me a won
derful letter, so full ol! peace and joy.
Her husband had been, almost miracu
lously cured, she herself had become
a new being—buoyant, hopeful, in
spired and gloriously well in heart,
brain and body. She 'Said it was due
(through Providence) to two of our
young women of this and the Sunny
South Households —June Rose of Flor
ida, and Mary Pettus Thomas, of the
faculty of Baylor College, Texas.
They—the one by letters, rhe other
by personal talks —had lifted her out
of the slough of despond and given
her a new enlightening and life
quickening ideas of the power of
prayer and faith to heal the body and
inspire the mind with vigor and. en
ergy. “I am happier and more hope
ful than I ever was before,” she said.
“I have been too preoccupied adjust
ing my life on this new basis to read
many books, but I have a nice pile of
them before me, and I hope soon to
send you something about their con
tents.”
We are waiting for the fulfillment
of this promise.
Speaking of books reminds me to
tell you that Arthur Goodenough, our
own poet (for though his home is in
the cold North, he is Southern by vir
tue of his warm heart and glowing
imagination ( has published a collec
tion of his best verse in a neat vol
ume called “My Lady’s Shoes and
Other Poems.” For years this true
poet’s verse has adorned the columns
first of the Sunny South, then of The
Golden Age, and I am sure the many
friends he has' made in the South will
be glad to get the choicest of these
poems in the convenient form of this
finely printed, inexpensive little book.
The volume contains several stories
told in verse. “My Lady’s Shoes,” a
quaint, weird tale, is fascinatingly
told. “The Witch of Salem” is a story
as terribly realistic and pathetic as
Oscar Wylde’s “Ballad of Reeding
Goal.” “The Coming of the Tiger” is
a vivid picture with the tropic night
for its setting—one of the most imag
inative poems in the collection. Two
grand lyric poems are “Jerusalem”
and “Alcyone.” They are full of high,
sustained power. Hardly less poetic
is “The Fallen Shadow,” which carries
out Byron’s idea of brotherhood. “The
Electric Chain Wherewith We Are
Darkly Bound.”
The volume is tenderly inscribed
“To the faithful friend, the sincere
sweetheart and the loyal wife, who
has fared with me on the highway of
life, through dark places and sunny
ones, and shared in turn my tribula*
tlons and triumphs.”
A GLEAM IN THE NIGHT.
People clamor for a story with “a
heart interest.” The novelist wins who
can produce one. Here is a tale of
that sort, taken “ready made from
the short and simple annals of the
poor.” The facts were recorded in a
recent issue of the New York Herald.
Down in East Twelfth street, Man
hattan, in a section known as “Porgie
Row,” said to house more poverty
than any other part of town, a woman
whose husband died a little while ago
was supporting herself and a baby
three months old by going out to do
washing and house work for other
people. In her absence the children of
the neighborhood took turns in car
ing for the little one, and grew to
love him very much.
But the ill-nurtured, pale-faced baby
of the slums could notwithstand the
city’s heat, and early one morning he
gave up the struggle, and closed his
eyes in death. Then the sorrow was
very deep in every heart. The little
fathers and mothers filed through the
squalid rooms of the desocate woman
whose baby was hushed in final si
lence, speaking words of sympathy
while the tears streamed from their
own eyes.
When it was learned that it would
cost eight dollars at the lowest figure
to bury the child and that the grief
stricken ’ mother had but a ten-cent
piece in ner possession, the neighbors
started a subscription. But they could
raise only five dollars and eighty
cents, though dozens of them walked
to and from their work to save car
fare. Then the children set to work
to secure the balance. They made
fans and trinkets out of colored paper,
and sold them for trifling sums. Some
of them disposed of their toys at great
sacrifice. One boy, Abraham Yuni,
swelled the fund three cents by mak
ing and selling three box kites. But
there still remained a deficit of nine
ty-eight cents.
It was now the day appointed for
the funeral, and Abraham, who was
nine years of age, hurried to the roof
of the tenement to make more kites
so that the service could be held at
two o’clock in the afternoon as had
been arranged. While trying one of
his kites he ran to the side of the
roof, slipped and fell five stories be
low. He was instantly killed and
“Porgie’s Row” was doubly bereaved.
In the light of this story of the
slums one reads Lowell’s lines with
the feeling that, whatever could be
said of their theology, nothing can be
urged against their essential truth
fulness:
All that hath been majestical
In life or death, since time began,
Is native in the simple heart of all,
The angel heart of man.
Think of the treasures of sweet un
selfishness that lie hidden down yon
der in darkness and squalor. Who
is he that dares to think meanly of
humanity? No wonder Jesus Christ
thought it worth while “to seek and
to save that which was lost.” —Chris-
tian Advocate.
First Aid to the Skin.
In all cases of skin diseases use Tetterine.
Nothing else is required. Don’t bother about
naming the disease, simply use Tetterine and
it will disappear. Rev. A. C. Turner, Lake
land, Fla., states that Tetterine cured him of
Eczema of 20 years’ standing and says: “i
shall ever remember the makers et thia val
uable remedy with gratitude.”
Tetterine, 50 cents at druggists or by mail
<ma fhvtriae Oe„ Savaaaah, «a. 7
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