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WAat Sort of a Father Are You?
What sort of a father are you to
your boy;
Do you know if your standing is
good;
Do you ever take stock of yourself
and check up
Your accounts with the boy, as you
should?
Do you ever reflect on your conduct
with him?
Are you all that a father should be?
Do you send him away when you’re
anxious to read
Or let him climb onto your knee?
Is a book more important to you than
his talk;
Do you find that his chatter annoys ?
Would you rather be quiet than have
him about:
Do you send him away with his
toys ?
Have you time to bestow on the boy
when he comes
With his questions—to tell him the
truth?
Or do you neglect him and leave him
alone
To work out the problems of youth?
Do you ever go walking with him,
hand in hand?
Do you plan little outings for him?
Does he ever look forward to romp
ing with you,
Or are you eternally grim?
What memories pleasant of you will
he have
The Mystery of Edwin Drood.
Annice sends me a clipping from a
newspaper, telling that once more
there has been announced a solution of
the secret of Dicken’s last and unfin
ished novel, Edwin Drood. Hundreds
of clever people have tried their wits
in attempting to solve the mystery of
the uncompleted story. Spiritualists
have endeavored to call up the dead
author that he might tell how he
meant that his mystery story should
end. A library of books has been
written about this unfinished story,
and now comes another elaborate ex
planation of the mystery in the shape
of a judicial voume by Sir Wliliam
Robertson Nicoll, who, following a
previous theory of Cumming Walters,
works out a most plausible solution of
the murder-mystery. He endeavors
to show that the mysterious old man,
Datchery with white flowing hair and
black eyebrows, who arrives in the
town after the unaccountable disap
pearance of Edwin Drood, is the dis
guised young girl, Helena Landless,
to whom Edwin Drood was attached,
and Who has returned after an ab
sence. in order to fasten the crime of
murder upon John Jasper, the uncle
and guardian of Edwin Drood. Neville,
the brother of Helena Landless, it
will be remembered, has been suspect
ed of the murder, because of a bitter
quarrel he had with Drood just pre
vious to the latter’s disappearance.
It seems rather far-fetched to have
a young girl successfully disguise her
self as an old man. Indeed, as a mys
tery story, it seems to me, Edwin
Drood is not nearly as ingenious as
some of the tangled story webs of
Conan Doyle, or even of Anna Kather
ine Greene. If the finished novel were
to appear today, as by a new writer,
THE HOUSEHOLD
A Department of Expression For Those Who Feel and Think
In the years that are certain to
come?
Will he look back on youth as a sea
son of joy,
Or an age that was woefully glum?
Come, father, reflect! Does he know
you today
And do you know him as you
should?
Is gold so important to you that
you leave
It to chance that your boy will be
good?
Take stock of yourself and consider
the lad,
Your time and your thought are his
due’
How would you answer your God,
should He ask,
What sort of a father are you?
—Selected.
The foregoing beautiful, heart
searching poem was furnished The
Golden Age by Mr. C. T. Steward,
Field Editor of The Pensacola News.
Mr Steward says: “Here is a strik
ing poem which I clipped from a
newspaper five years ago. It im
pressed me so profoundly that I have
carried it in my pocket for all these
years, occasionally taking it out and
reading it to my own heart, or to
some friend as a soul tonic. I pass
it on through The Golden Age to fath
ers far and wide.”
CHA T
it would not be "one of the best sell
ers” of a certainty.
The fashions in fiction are as change
able as those in dress, and some
times the old fashions come back.
When romance had been announced
as dead beyond resurrection, here
came Rider Haggard and Stevenson,
and immediately became immensely
popular.
A reader of The Golden Age says:
“I can not account for the cause of
my stories persistently coming back
to me—-like the cat in the song. Com
petent critics have pronounced them
excellent. I have spent many months
in studying style and technique, and
the art of weaving plots.” Have you
also studied the magazines closely?
lou will find that a particular kind of
short story has a vogue, runs its
course and disappears. You will
need to be alert and get in the cur
rent before it runs past.
James Lane Allen tell us that after
repeated failures and much study, he
betook himself to studying current fic
tion in the magazines and achieved
success. ‘“Strike while the iron is
hot,” is an adage especially applicable
in current literature. Timeliness
counts. It is only real genius that
can leave beaten ways and open a new
fresh path. Editors are eagerly on
the lookout for fresh, strong, whole
some work. Such work, though fur
nished by a new hand is sure of being
appreciated.
A successful author declares that
what writers need is courage. No
“WOMAN’S COLLEGE SPECIAL OFFER.’’
By kindness of a friend to young women
we are enabled to make a very low rate for
the balance of the session. Half rates to
preachers daughters. For particulars write,
Woman s College, Meridian, Miss. J. W
Beeson, President.
The Golden Age for January 16,1913.
great book was ever written that was
not sincere and fearless. No intellec
tual coward, or hypocrite will succeed.
However, a writer may kill his useful
ness by being coarsely or broadly un
conventional. It is like extremes in
dress. The new form may be more
comfortable and picturesque, but if it
is conspicuously unconventional it
will not be liked.
The Village Gossip.
An engraving of a recently paint
ed picture by a noted artist is before
me. It represents two women in sun
bonnets talking across the back fence
of their homes. A picture with a sim
ilar theme, called “The Gossiping Cen
tre” —represented a sewing circle of
village mission workers. If I should
be called in to furnish the setting for
a picture depicting the gossiping cen
tre of a country town, I would take the
radius of the big blazing fire or glow
ing heater in the popular store —in
cold or wet weather, and the stoop in
front of the same store in the “good
old summer time.” Given plenty of
chewing tobacco, the average country
or village man can spin more spicy
yarns than any woman at a tea party
or a meeting of the Church Aid Socie
ty. Some of the warm stories are
jokes (that do not reflect on himself)
the man will take home to his wife,
who can not be greatly blamed if she
unwinds the ball tp her neighbor
across the way.
And, so it happens that women who
gossip frequently get their cue from
men who are not better at secret
keeping than the much maligned
“weaker sex.”
There is gossip—and gossip—'the
pleasant and harmless and the mali
cious, just as there are wholesome
mushrooms and poisonous ones. Some
women can gossip delightfully—and
harmlessly. They put the com
monplace happenings of the
neighborhood in a brightly colored
dramatic light without a shade
of malignance. These are the wom
en of lively imagination and quick
sympathy, who always tell you of the
good things said about you, and put
every unfortunate domestic happen
ing in the most charitable and hopeful
light. Their names are not legion
by any means. If they should write,
they would produce sunny books, giv
ing the better side of life. Their hu
mor would be wholesome and leave
no bitter taste.
Are We to Blame?
A gifted correspondent tells us she
has been ill and adds: “I am almost
ashamed to confess it. I almost be
lieve with the New Thought and Chris
tian Science people, that it is our own
fault when we get sick.” Germs of
disease are afloat in the air, but we
should be wise and careful enough to
keep out of their way—spiritually
and physically strong enough to resist
them. When sickness comes we
should endure it bravely, but also we
should strive against it. We do not
know our own power of resistance.
We are too ready to succumb.
How the Young Millionaire Amused
Himself.
Among the readers of The Golden
Age, is there not some one who can
tell us the sequel of the following true
account of a young millionaire’s
whims, which was published in “Ev
erybody’s Magazine,” some time ago:
A party of engineers was studying
the country in a Southern State, with
an eye to a future railroad. Accom
panying them was a tired young man
of wealth, who took little interest in
what they were doing and who had
gone with them in search of possible
amusement. He found it. The
party discovered an aged family of
primitive negroes living in a wretched
hovel on the edge of a swamp. The
millionaire was struck by the utter
desolation of the house and its occu
pants. It occurred to him that he
might find it interesting to play the
Aladdin genii to the darkies. He
parted company with the engineers,
and with a single friend gave himself
up to bettering the condition of the
colored family.
Carpenters appeared from New Or
leans. Materials were dragged across
the country behind mules. Decora
tions were shipped from New York.
The tottering shack came down, and
a splendid country bungalow was rear
ed in its place. The interior was fur
nished with a lavish hand and with a
total disregard for expense. White
pillars supported the roof. Old-fash
ioned fireplaces were built into the
walls and plateglass windows were set
into the doors. The floors were pav
ed with concrete, and a handsome
bathroom was fitted up for the amazed
and awe-stricken family.
When he had finished the home, the
young man turned his attention to its
inmates. He bought them clothes —
such clothes as they had never before
dreamed of. He provided them with
toilet articles and trifling luxuries, and
before he went away he supplied the
larder with enough food to last a year.
That negro family is still the talk of
the entire State in which it lives, and
its members regard what has happen
ed as a manifestation from on high.
The young man in search of interest
ing occupation parted from twenty
thousand of his innumerable dollars,
and probably thinks of the whole af
fair with satisfaction.
It would be interesting to hear the
remainder of this story. What hap
pened to the pair of primitive darkies
suddenly surrounded by comfort and
luxury? Did they adapt themselves
to their changed environment?
Her Unloved Husband.
Mrs. M. writes a letter .that troubles
me. She seems to be a good, con
scientious woman, and she has taken
up a very wrong idea of her duty. Af
ter being married for some years to
a man who is “the best of men, the
most devoted of husbands,” as she ac
knowledges, she has found out that
she does not love him as devotedly as
she ought, and she is cherishing
doubts as to her duty to stay with him.
She says:
“As is enjoined by God that a wife
should love her husband devotedly, am
I not committing a sin :n not sepa
rating from a husband whom I do not
love as well as it is in me to love?”
You would commit a far greater sin
to leave a good and affectionate hus
band, the father of your children, be
cause you may not be able to give him
the passionate love you imagine you
are capable of. I don’t remember
where God commands a woman to love
her husband, but He certainly enjoins
her to cleave to him through life and
not leave him save for unfaithfulness.
Lack of loyalty, is one of the sins of
today. Married persons separate for
such little cause. They do not cul
tivate fidelity of heart, patience, tol
erance, forgiveness. Do not let your
self think of separating from your
good husband, dear Mrs. M. Reflect
upon all his fine traits and shut your
it
