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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.)