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ON FINDING A DEAD BIRD
By F. W. Hassler, M.D., Ph.D.
Still are thy wings and gone thy voice,
Thou little wanderer of the air;
No more shalt thou in spring rejoice,
Nor to thy loving mate draw near.
Swift as an arrow from a bow,
From tree to tree on ready wing,
A thing of beauty thou didst go,
Or on a branch didst sit and sing.
And often did thy liquid note
Rise up n gladness through the air;
Heavenward it ever seemed to float,
Bearing aloft thy gentle prayer.
But how unfortunate the hour
Thy rapid flight led thee astray,
And no one knew or had the power
To help thee on thy air-borne way.
And when from room to room thy
flight
Led from the open air afar,
The window glass with treacherous
light
Seemed now thy prison to unbar;
But death was in the faithless glass,
MY LYNX-EYED MONSTER.
I was timid! Let me repeat —I was
VERY timid. And yet my impulses
were all toward sociability, if I only
had known how to “unlimber.” In the
presence of strangers I was a chump
of one cylinder capacity, or to put it
in plain United States, I talked only
in monosyllables extracted a-la-cork
screw fashion, while the wheels in my
mental laboratory were doing a St.
Vitus dance in purusit of bright ideas
that will-o-the-wisped about up there,
too tantalizingly original to die still
born and yet too elusive to be put
into actual words,
At home, in bed, raging with futile
fury at myself for being such a cad,
I could reel off yards of conserva
tion fairly scintillating with brilliant
sallies, humorous repartee, and witti
cisms, or in soberer mood I felt myself
master of themes as profound as phil
osophy or platonic friendship.
It was maddening. It was tragic.
Believe me, it was all that and more.
It was pathetic. For deep down in
my soul I knew I could overcome that
tim'idity, and with the conquest of
timidity would come liberation from
that soul-choking loneliness, if some
body, somewhere, would only help me
out of myself.
Yes, at last. Little by little I crept
out of my shell as I went deeper into
the joy that my work and its compen
sating sense of independence, brought
me. I nerved myself to meet the
rather motley stream of business ac
quaintances with a show of self pos
session and praise that would pass
muster, but “as pants the part of the
water brooks,” so panted my ambitious
soul of the linquest liberty.
Lonely for Mother’s Apron Strings.
I am afraid some girls think it
“sissy” to be tied to mother's apron
strings. I have known some mothers,
God forgive them, who made their
bondage tyrannical, but I, who lost a
mother’s love at the tender age of
eleven, yearned with inexpressible
heart-hunger for mother love and con
fidence. How I envied girls who fared
fourth to the daily testings stimu-
THE HOUSEHOLD
A DEPARTMENT OF EXPRESSION FOR THOSE WHO FEEL AND THINK.
CHAT
THE GOLDEN AGE FOR AUGUST 7, 1913
In vain thou didst against it fly,
And in thine efforts it to pass
Thy head was hurt and thou didst
die.
Alas, that there should interpose
Between thee and the open air
That crystal source of all thy woes,
And thou knew’st not that it was
there.
But man oft does as thou didst do,
When from the right he goes astray,
And tries his pathway to pursue
When he should turn the backward
way.
Like you, he often thinks the glass
Will help him through the world of
care;
But from its sparkling rim doth pass
The liquid death that dwelleth there.
—Pardon, O little bird! the pun
That on thy cause of death I made;
A lesson it does teach and one
I fain would hope might never fade.
lated not alone by the strong pull of
the proverbial apron strings of pru
dence, but steadied and held straight
to the course by mother’s heart strings.
Mother’s don’t forget that you were
once a girl. Try to recall those days
of mingled rose dreams and unrest.
Be a girl with your girl. Let her
know that your arms are about her,
and please God, you will be spared
and your girl will be spared the awful
agony which Herbert Kaufman pic
tures in “Somebody's Daughter,” writ
ten for the Woman’s Home Compan
ion.
Cultivate your daughter's confidence.
Teach her to appreciate the real
values of life, and how to spurn the
spurious. Ignorance is no cure for
anything, and though your child may
be timid, remember that she is charg
ed to the finger tips with all the in
stincts of womanhood, and her safety
is not in seclusion, but in preparation.
SOMEBODY’S DAUGHTER.
By Herbert Kaufman.
I do not know her name; perhaps
you do. I have never seen her face;
maybe her picture hangs on your bed
room wall.
By some strange chance her head
might some day have rested on your
shoulders. She’s somebody’s daughter,
pray God, not yours.
Tonight the claws of the city are
ripping at her soul. Loneliness and
hunger have sapped her will and false
pride has blinded her.
She is not a bad girl, just tired,
numb. The dice were loaded. The
game was crooked. The odds were
too great for her wisdom and strength.
The road was strange and the guide
posts lied.
Back home life was a drab thing
and sober-faced. The petty tyrannies
of the little town, the eternal same
ness of the years, starved her imagina
tion.
Romance was hungry within her
and cried for beauty and mystery and
adventure. And out of deprivation
sprang reckless yearning.
You did not understand, mother-of-
hers, wherever you are . You could
not see with her eyes. Your own
were filled with pictures of family
wash and cooking and mending and
brooms and dust cloths.
Fate has paid you in stingy and bit
ter pence.
But that is just what she saw, that
and the thankless yoke under which
the wives of poor men struggle and
strain and surrender.
The wings of her fancy kept beat
ing across the miles and carried her
into a dreamland of joy and gayety
where work would be as child’s play,
with real money all her own, to spend
as she chose —to buy what she wish
ed.
Five dollars a week (six, seven if
you insist) —just enough to give shel
ter and sustenance.
At first she was straight—it was
in her blood —in her traditions. The
■ women of your family never contem
plated the easier way.
But young g'rls who live alone can
seldom protect themselves. Few have
the 'ntuiticn to comprehend until it
is too late —some are too weak to
fight it out —and some are too weary.
And now she has paid the price—
she has crossed the dead line.
The city has dropped its mack and
she sits staring into its brutal, re
lentless, inexorable face. At last she
realizes all that she has lost —all that
might have been —the happiness that
patience could have won.
She sees “the man back home’’ who
one day would have brought his love
and the children that love would have
brought * * *
The robins are singing in the or
chard. Spring has kissed the trees in
to blossom. The honest fragrance of
fresh plowed loam rises from the
lower meadow. Soon the wild roses
will bare their hearts, field violets will
purple the slopes and the sunlight will
robe the hills with gowns of gold.
But never again for her.
“When we know not the price to
be paid, we dare.”
FORGIVENESS.
Nothing is harder than to forgive
a malicious wrong, a harm done us,
in a matter where we know we were
right.
Sir Eardley Wilmot was an English
baronet, widely known as a leader in
social life, and a man of great per
sonal dignity and force of character.
Having been a dist’nguished chief jus
tice of the Court of Common Pleas,
he was often consulted by friends as
to perplexing social questions.
On one occasion a stateman came to
him in great excitement over an in
jury just inflicted on him. He told
the story with warmth, and used
strong epithets in describing the mal-
“Is not my indignation righteous?”
ice which had inflicted the wrong,
ha asked impetuously. “Will it not
be manly to resent such an injury?”
“Yes,” was the calm reply. “It will
be manly to sent it, but it will be
God-like to forgive it.”
The answer was so unexpected and
so convincing that the statesman had
not another word to say. He after
ward confessed to a friend that these
words caused his anger to suddenly
depart, leaving him a different and a
better man.
UNSELFISH WORKER “SINGS THE
DOXOLOGY”
Dear Readers of The Golden Age:
I do praise God for the privilege of
once more acknowledging his good
ness through the columns of this ex
cellent paper and proclaiming to its
readers the excellent goodness of God.
Praise his name! He is wonderfully
good. His ways are past judging out.
It’s just like him to do exceedingly
abundantly above all that we are able
to ask or to think. Praise, adoration
and thanksgiving to his matchless,
name forever.
A little more than thirteen months
ago God led me to Elhanger. These
have been blessed months to me.
God's hand is certainly on the work
here and on the life of every one
vitally linked to it.
Some people don’t see what good
Elhanan is doing and to what advan
tage the funds amounting to from
S2,OW to $15,000 annually are being
expended. They ask what is the use
ot' workers who could be getting good
salaries wasting out their lives in ser
vice here? “Whats the use?” they
ask. Where are the results?
As a matter of fact, there are many
visible results. The ten or eleven stu
dents who represent Elhanan on the
various mission fields and the number
of Christian workers in the home land
who got their start here are index
fingers of the good that has been ac
complished. We thank him for what,
has been done and praise him for
what he is going to do in the future.
We are expecting fereat things of
him in the near future. The past
blessings are merely earnests of fu
ture outpourings, both materially and
spiritually.
In answer to the numerous ques
tions like this: Does it pay to give up
salary, home and income and link
your life to a work of this kind?
First, I would say emphatically that
it does.
It has been my custom for some
years to keep an account in my diary
of income and expenditures, properly
balanced.
I find that this year’s material pros
perity more than doubles that of the
best year I ever taught on a salary.
My only bank account is in heaven.
My only check, “All your needs shall
be supplied according to his riches in
glory by Christ Jesus.”
God is faithful. Praise him. This
promise and many others have been
verified in my life this year.
If you want real, genuine joy, peace,,
rest, happiness, just give your life in
service to others without stint for
his sake.
Yours in glad loving service to oth
ers for his sake.
LILLIE B. MADDOX.
Elhanan Home School,
North Carolina.
GET RELIEF FROM BODILY DISCOM
FORTS.
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irritation of the skin, swelling and burn
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while continued use soon removes the
cause and affects a complete cure. Inval
uable as a douche, enema or spray for
cleansing and disinfecting purposes. Get
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mail) and if not pleased with its action,
return the empty box and get your money
back. J. S. Tyree, Chemist, Washington,
D. C. Mr. Tyree will mail a liberal sam
ple of his powder with full directions,
free, to any one who writes mentioning
this paper.
