Newspaper Page Text
10
Good friend —sweet friend —too soon
gone hence
From life’s diversified events,
Into the presence of thy Lord
And thy eternal great reward.
In vain I seek to praise in part
Thy patience, cheer, and warmth of
heart:
AGAIN I am glad to come with an
arm full of beautiful tributes to
oar dear Mother Meb.
Arthur Goodenough, we are espec
ially glad to have your tender words
for she loved your poems and rarely
ever came to the office without saying
some appreciative th ng about you
speak’ng of you always as “the House
hold genius cr poet.”
And “Beth,” I remember quite well
a little talk about you one day in
which her motherly heart went on a
flying trip to Oklahoma and her arms
of loving sympathy enc.rcled you with
such reality that I wondered if you
did not feel their soothing touch as
you grappled with the western prob
lems of which she told me.
Ah, but its sweet to feel that some
where in the world there is a kindred
spirit who knows and understands us
isn t it?
And you are about to make me be
lieve more strongly in telepathy,
“Beth,” fcr just about the time you
were writing your letter I was plan
ning to have a lithographed engraving
of our dear “Lady Bryan,” my own pet
name fcr her, made l : ke the picture
on front page, and n cely framed in
gilt, as a present to every Household
er, cr any one else, as for that, who
would l.ke to have t, who would send
their renewal or subscription to the
paper with n the next thirty days. I
also, felt that there were few who had
loved her in all these years who would
not like to have those inspiring eyes
looking at them from over their writ
ing desk, buoying them on w.th their
intense gaze, to do their best.
The artist rightly caught the spirit
of her untiring nature when he hid the
open inkstand behind the laurel
wreath and trailed the falling pen over
the unfinished pages of manuscript
For verily, although on bed for six
weeks and suffering untold pain for
twelve or eighteen months, net until
the opiates that were necessary to rest
her from the unbearable agony, ren
dered the willing hand helpless did
her pen fall from its grasp.
Clipped from “Random Sketches,”
written years ago, is the following
bright, cherry fishing article so like her
in its unselfish sympathy for those
youthful law breakers:
THE HOUSEHOLD
A DEPARTMENT OF EXPRESSION FOR THOSE WHO FEEL AN D THINK
Department of MRS. MARY E. BRYAN.
A SINGLE BRANCH OF PALM
(In Memory of Mrs. Mary E’. Bryan.)
By ARTHUR GOODENOUGH.
CHAT
THE GOLDEN AGE FOR JULY 3, 1913
ji
FISHING EXPERIENCES.
“The blue skies were mottled with
whi.e soft clouds, the woods were full
of fr grance, the azalia flaunted her
p nk and white and scarlet and orange
colored banners everywhere, and the
newly-married birds were singing
honey-moon lyr.es in every bush. I
wandered on in a dream of lost days,
when each spring came to me as Eden
to Eve —a revelation of pure bliss and
beauty—,unmarred by a serpent trail.
Presently I heard a shout—“l’ve got a
bite!” “Sh, sh,” was the response,
,‘you’ve scared my fish.” I parted the
bushes and saw a mill-pond, and near
its edge a trio of slr’rt-sleeved bare
foot boys fishing.
They looked around and answered
my greeting in a guilty, shame.faced
way. It was Sunday, and they ex
pected a moral lecture. How could I
give it when the sight of those crooked
sapling poles and hand twisted lines
and the forked twig w.th two or three
little yellow breasted perch and min
nows strung upon it had caused such a
rush of bitter-sweet memories, and
brought before me wild Ocklockonee
river, with its leaf-colored current and
the shady, trout-haunted nooks I knew
so well; and James’ Island, off the
coast of Flor’da, with its central pond,
piolific of fish of every conceivable
variety, but guarded by dragons in the
shape of aligators, one of which had
abstracted my string of fish on a sum
mer’s day, and could well have whisk
ed me into the water with h’s great
tail ere he slipped down the muddy
bank and sank with a mocking gurgle
to enjoy the stolen prey. For I had
followed him to the -water's edge belab
oring h : m with my fishing pole in my
indignation at being deprived of my
morning’s work. Fishing was a temp
tation not to be resisted; and, on a
bright, soft day it came easy to forget
that it was Sunday and to start in
surpr’se when, on coming in sun-flush
ed and tangle-haired, fish string in
hand the query:
“What, been fishing on Sunday?” fell
sternly upon my ears!
“Sunday oughtn’t to be like other
days. Folks can’t tell it, or they will
forget,” had been my own lame excuse.
I couldn’t read the boys a lecture,
though my heart said I ought. I sat
So many virtues make me mute —
I stand abashed —irresolute!
Fain would I tel Ito sky and earth
And all the winds of heaven thy worth,
But oh, how vain the words we say!
Upon thy quiet grave today
A single branch of palm I lay.
down and told them a string of fish
ing experiences: it is sometimes best
you know to take away a temptation
by putting something else in the life.
They had never fished in, never seen
any waters deeper than the mill pond,
and they opened their eyes wide to
hear of catching black bass as big
as babies in the bright-blue, rolling
Gulf waters; or of dragging by lines
like a cable enormous catfish and “buf
falo” as big as themselves out of Red
and Mississippi rivers; of seeing the
Gulf creeks stopped with seines
stretched across, and fish caught by
the dozen barrels; of fishing for mul
let in Ocklocknee bay without hook,
line, net or other assistance than a
beat, a dark n’ght, and a bright pine
torch to dazzlr the giddy sinners and
make them leap up on all sides till
the bottom of the boat was covered
with fiutterers. Once indeed, without
so much as boat or torch, we had
done some successful impromptu fish
ing of a novel kind. It was an Oc
tober day in Louis ; ana; the dreamy
blue air was filled with flocks of white
grcebecks feasting on the fish in the
bayous and the lakes that nestled
among rush grass and pecan trees in
the swamp. On the banks of one of
these we stopped and dismounted to
watch the birds at their work. When
they succeeded in capturing a fish and
land’ng him on the grassy bank, they
would wait until h’s struggles subsid
ed before preceding to devour him.
That waiting moment was our opportu
nity. We stepped up and claimed the
prey a regular le xtalionis, a proceeding
wh’ch the groebecks protested against
with harsh screams, but presently
went back resignedly to their fishing.
During an overflow of Red river one
may see the great buffalo and catfish
floundering between the corn and cot
ton rows, and being gagged, speared
and killed with hoes by bands of naked
little darkies. M. E. B.
A LEAF ON THE BIER OF OUR
HOUSEHOLD QUEEN.
Dear Little Mother: To me nothing
could be more in accord with the heart
throbs of the Household band in The
Golden Age than your word painting
of the character of Mrs. Mary E’.
Bryan. Like soft music from deft fin
gers, it touches the cords of hearts
that vibrate with pain as the message
came “She is just away.”
And so the pen that for so many
years was used to lift others into
realms of higher thought lies idle upon
her desk. I find myseh wondering
if on “the other shore” she is not
carrying on to greater perfection the
work laid down here. She was my
first I'terary love, whom when in my
teens, I met through the columns of the
“Sunny South,” and later at a press
convention in Gainesville, Ga., where
she was queen of the assembly. Each,
editor, viei’ng with the other in their
homeage to their gifted sister.
I caught a new vision of the help
fulness of this kindly life two years
ago when we exchanged several letters
in reference to some literary work she
was criticising for me.
To her was entrusted a mind that
could paint the most beautiful pen
pictures and dream the rarest dreams
all ;f which had their fruition in the
lives she touched through her golden
pen. And thus were less fortunate
those lives who were never shared in
her gifts.
F. D. BROWN.
Dear "‘Little Mother How my
heart ached when I opened the Golden
Age and found our dear “Mother Meb”
had gone from this world. Oh, how
much she has meant to me the last
ten years. None but our Heavenly
Father knows. While only a few per
osnal missions came to me, yet they
came at a time when I had just about
reached the abyss of human despair.
No sweetheart’s missive ever thrilled
the heart as did hers, as they winged
their way to hundreds and, yea thou
sands, from the most humble tent or
western cabin to the gilded halls of
city’s fashion. God bless and give
her sweet soul peace.
How can we go on without her in
the South and West? Yes, give us
the book with her chats, some letters
or sketches from the best of the old
Sunny South Household. She always
wished for such a book. Then a good
bust portrait or a pin with her dear
face upon it. Each of these would be
eagerly sought after. I did not know
she was ill for the reason that we
changed route carriers this spring and
I missed so many copies of the paper.
Mother Meb wrote me personally three
years ago in behalf of The Golden Age
and while very poor, I have never
regretted subscribing for it, and hope
to continue it. She has finished her toil
for others here. God bless her and
those she loved. She knew me as
BETH.
A SHUT-IN’ S TRIBUTE.
Barnesville, Ga., June 23, 1913.
Dear Little Mother:
I was grieved to see from the pa
per that Mrs. Bryan was so very ill.
My heart was made still sadder to
learn of her death. Indeed, a good
woman is gone. We have certainly
lost a friend. I am sure it can be said
“she hath done what she could.” She
‘s not dead, for those that live in
the Lord will never die. I first learned
to know and love her through the
Sunny South, and when she took the
Household page in The Golden Age
it brought her nearer to me. She was
(Continued on page 16.)