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I sat alone at dark midnight,
From all the world apart,
With searching eyes to look into
Deep secrets of my heart.
With sudden startling power I seem*
ed
Somehow the truth to ken,
That now far less than in times past
I loved my fellowmen.
Was it because unto my soul
The few had grown so dear,
That now the masses were not held
As formerly so near?
Or did I love the many still
As I had loved of yore,
But only seemed to love them less
Through loving some the more?
I wished the last I might know true,
And yet I seemed to feel
A sense of loss unspeakable
My heart, oftimes by gladness thrilled
Upon my spirit steal.
By pain was sore oppressed,
Weighed down by thought of that now
lost
By which I once was blessed.
I bowed my head upon my hands,
Nor could restrain a tear
That wet my lashes while I prayed
The earnest, heart-felt prayer:
SOME NEW BOOKS—A REPLY TO
A YOUNG POET.
I am at home once more after an
absence of two months. I looked care
fully over my accumulated Golden
Ages so I find what our household
friends were doing. Our Mother’s in
teresting sketches I greatly enjoyed,
but I missed her personal mention of
members of her family. A friend told
me she had been very ill indeed and
for many weeks. I sincerely hope
she has recovered. It makes me sad
to know she has been so sick and
none of her household children knew
anything of it. She kept up her de
partment interestingly, but we all
miss her personal chats.
My stay at home will not be for
long. My brother is still quite ill
and I want soon to return to him.
The twins, Ethel and Elbert, are grow
ing finely and are bright, lovely
babies. I have read a great many
good books during the last two months.
I have read “The Long Roll,” and
“Cease Firing,” by that splendid nov
elist, our Southern Mary Johnson. Her
mind picture of the civil war brought
back to me the trials and horrors of
our four years’ heroic struggle. I al
most lived them over again. Also
I read a novel, Red Rock, picturing
the reconstruction period in Virginia.
It was awful. I thought that period
was hard enough with us Georgians,
but it was nothing to what the Vir
ginians had to endure. Another book
I read was Golden Keith, by Nel-
THE HOUSEHOLD
A DEPARTMENT OF EXPRESSION FOR THOSE WHO FEEL AND THINK.
EDITED BY MRS. MARY E. BRYAN.
THE SOURCE OF ALTRUISTIC LOVE
Margaret A. Richard.
CHAT
“O Lord, I pray thee, help me now
The lost again to find;
Teach me again the joy I knew
When I loved all mankind.”
While still I prayed ,one answered me
So sweetly and so low —
Cin voice so kind and tender-wise —
’Twas Christ, I could but know;
‘‘Thou lovest not, for thou hast failed
To serve thy fellowmen;
When souls forget thus to be kind,
Love grows beyond their ken.
“If thou wouldst learn again to love,
Go, serve men day by day;
Go, share their daily tasks with them,
Go, join them in their play.
Go, laugh with them when their blithe
hearts
Are full of light and cheer;
Go, weep with them when they are
bowed
In sorrow and despair.”
’Twas but a dream —ah, yes, I know —
That truth could none gainsay;
And yet the voice that spoke in it
I dared not disobey.
I rose, and to the world went forth,
The wondrous truth to prove
That service done for others leads
Hearts to new heights of love.
son Page. It is a fine, wholesome
story, particularly fitted for boys. 1
wish every boy could read it, and
would try to model his life after Gor
don Keith, who was a real character,
I believe., He was eighteen when
the war ended. His father, a good
man, tried unsuccessfully to farm with
free negroes, so he sold his grand old
house and farm to a Northern man,
who then employed Mr. Keith to look
after it. Gordon taught school in the
mountains. He worked hard, made
constant sacrifices and saved his
money with a view to buying back the
old home. He made profitable invest
ments and in time became rich and
was able to buy back his ancestral
home. Two girls, who figure in the
story, are noble and lovable.
I see that Brother Rogers wishes
some one’s opinion concerning the effi
cacy of prayer. I believe we should
pray with faith that God will answer
our prayers in the way that is best
for us. If a wayward son is our heart
burden, we should have sufficient faith
in God’s promises to believe that he
will sooner or later answer our pray
ers in the way that is best. His way
is not always our way, but he knows
and we do not.
Dear Mater, I send you some verses
written by my little grandson, eleven
years old. I send them just as he
wrote them. Are they poetry? The
piece is called “My Playmate.”
The pines were dark on Ramoth Hill;
Their songs were sad and low;
The Golden Age for March 27, 1913
The blossoms in the sweet May winds
Were falling like the snow.
Their petals drifted to our feet,
The orchard birds sang clear,
The sweetest, saddest day it seemed
To me of all the years.
For more to me than birds or flowers
My playmate left her home,
She carried with her languishing
spring,
it’s music and its bloom.
I would like to know if the boy
possesses any poetic talent.
The verses .show true poetic feeling
and the knowledge of rhythem and
meter that come to the born poet
instinctively, as music comes natural
ly to the born musician.
M. E. B.
A QUIET TIME IN THE COUNTRY.
Dearest Mary:
You write that you wish to make
your plans for the summer and ask
my advice about going into the coun
try where you can read and write
in quietude. Quietude is a fascinat
ing word, Mary dear, but believe me,
it is sometimes found in other places
than the country.
A few summers ago I packed up my
books and typewriter and went out
to the country. I had many plans
of how I would read and write far
into the starry night. The glamour
of June was over the world and ev
erything was robed in summer love
liness. I had a large room with a
window that opened to the east, ».nd
always there was some beautiful vista
of clouds, woods or landscape on which
I could rest my eyes. The first few
days passed calmly away, and I took
out my favorite books and put them
with my typewriter on the table near
the window, looking out occasionally
to drink in the pure air or to view the
fleet of clouds that swept across the
morning sky.
By the fourth evening I had every
thing arranged to my satisfaction, and
I settled down comfortably to read
again some of the beautiful, mystic
thoughts in Maeterlinck’s “Treasures
of the Humble.” Soon I was deep in
the spirit of “Invisible Goodness” and
had forgotten the outside world. Sud
denly and without the slightest warn
ing there was a wild call of voices
up the hall, and wondering what had
happened I dropped my book and hur
ried in the direction of the voices. In
the kitchen I found two members of
the family assisting Miss Kate back
to her room. They were much excit
ed for Miss Kate, who had been suf
fering with tooth-ache had gone from
her bedroom to the kitchen to get a
hot water bottle, and while there had
cried out that a pain had struck her
heart, and that she was dying. We
got her back to bed, and, remember
ing all my psychological training about
restoring people to consciousness, con
trolling heart action, etc., I put my
thoughts to work, and in about two
hours the patient was normal and
sleeping quietly. But whether this was
the effect of applied psychology or
the result of the three mustard plas
ters the old doctor insisted upon ap-
plying I am not going to say. I know
I returned to my room feeling very
limpand and solemnly picked up my
book and put it on the table.
It was now nearly midnight and the
glorious stars were shining in the sky,
and as I leaned from the open win
dow and wondered why people make
such a fuss about dying, the soft
wind swept upward sweet with the
fragrance of the dreaming roses. “I
will finish the book tomorrow,” I
thought as I turned away.
Miss Kate came in to breakfast in
fine spirits next morning and an
nounced that she was going into the
city. I was a little disgusted. I
thought that she might have managed
to look a little pale after giving peo
ple such a fright only a few hours
before. As I ate my egg and toast,
I mentally resolved that if any one
else in the house declared that he or
she w r as dying I would just help the
old doctor apply his mustard, or any
other material remedy, and then quiet
ly ask the patient if all earthly af
fairs were arranged.
After breakfast I strolled away
among the shadows of the pines, where
I spent a blissful hour listening to the
whisper of the west wind and recall
ing all the prose and poetry I had
read about these stately trees. I re
turned to the house and after finishing
the book prepared to do my writing.
It was about mid-afternoon when I re
alized that the “chiggers” had come
to the house with me from the shadow
of the pines. Everything and every
body was quiet —a great peace brood
ed everywhere, but O, the “chiggers.”
May dear, do you know anything of
these horrid little creatures? In the
midst of my trouble I heard the sound
of wheels on the drive-way. And hark!
What was that? There was a clat
tering noise and then a voice calling.
“Whoa! Whoa!”
Forgetting my own troubles, II rush
ed to investigate. Miss Kate was just
ahead of me. “Oh, I am afraid Jaze
bel will kill him!” she wailed. And
Jazebel was in an awful mood, but the*
hatless, old doctor swung onto the
bridle although she had almost jerked
the life out of him. Miss Kate and
I flew to the rescue, but he waved
us back. “Go back. Jezabel hates,
women —she is afraid of them.” He
stormed. So we could only look on
while Jezabel stood on her hind feet
and danced about at a most exciting:
pace. I was afraid the mule would
trample the old doctor to death, but
finally she got tired and grew quiet.
I forgot to tell you that Jezabel was
a black mule and was so named for
her undignified behavior. The doctor
had got her out and driven her to town
in spite of the warning words of the
family. He sometimes forgets that he
is 82 years young, which is a good
habit unless he is going to try to han
dle a wild mule.
He sold Jezabel after the last danc
ing spell she had, and from all ac
counts she carried her dispostion along
with her.
After this exciting experience things
went smoothly for a day or two. I.