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An Advent Thonglit.
What if my Lord should call for me to
night,
If he should say,
Come out, O soul, into the solemn
night
Along the spirit way;
Come out unsandaled, for the holy
place
Is near the bound that mortal eye can
trace;
Come, and unshrinking meet me face
to face.
What if my Lord should stand and
. question me;
If he should say,
Where is the talent I intrusted thee
One distant day?
How blooms the plot of fallow ground
I lent?
How hast t'hou used the sun and rain I
sent?
How were the golden hours of spring
time spent?
What if my Lord should sternly speak
to me;
If he should say,
Bring back to-night mine own with
usury
Since that far day,
And show what fruit clings to the ten
der stem;
Thine erring brothers whom all
tongues condemn,
What hast thou done in Christly love
for them?
Ah, if my Lord should stand with pa
tient eyes
And question me,
Outside the flaming gates of Paradise,
With bended knee,
With lips upon his nail-bruised feet
close pressed,
I could but moan, ‘‘l love Thee most
and best,
I think that I have failed in all the
rest,
Oh, pity me.”
—Selected.
We have not seen, of late, anything
that has pleased us more than the
description given below of “an old
fashioned elder.” It is from the Inte
rior, and we presume describes a real
man. Change the word “elder” to
deacon, and it would describe admira
bly a good deacon. Or, for that mat
ter, it simply describes church mem
bers —as they ought to be. No one
can estimate the mighty power of
such a life in any community, and
blesed, indeed, is the church which
can claim such a member, and the pas
ter who can have him for counselor
mid friend. Such a man preaches,
preaches with a power that even the
wickedest men cannot gainsay. He is
a living epistle and will be known and
read of all men. They are witnesses
whose testimony carries wonderful
weight, and every church member has
it in his power to be such a man in
character, if not in mental attain
ments, and none should be satisfied
until their influence in their commun
ity is such as was this “old-fashioned
elder’s.
How can I become such? some one
may ask. Had he been asked how to
become such he could doubtless have
answered: “By the grace of God J
an what I am,” anl that grace is fret
to us all in just such measure as we
want it.
He was an old-fashioned elder, but
the people loved him and followed
him with reverence to his honored
grave. He was the peer of his pastor
in his knowledge of the Word of God,
and although he seldom spoke of it he
knew his Greek New Testament, as
some ministers have not mastered it.
But far more than this, he respected
the position to which his brethren in
the church had called him. He was
not simply above reproach, he was
himself, as he expected a pastor to be,
“above suspicion.” He did not ask
“Is this thing lawful?” He preferred
to ask “Is it best?” He had no fine
spun theory about the “line” between
the church and the world, but he was
always upon the safe side of the line
so far that no one could doubt his
right to be where he was and do what
he did. He never disciplined a youth
ful member for a cotillion or a waltz
even, but he was emphatically not a
dancing man. He had no hard and
fast law in regard to the amusements
which are proper for an elder or a
layman or a minister, but he had not
'himself mastered the mysteries of
“high five,” and he never entered
into a contest for the “prizes” in a
progressive euchre party. He never
talked bitterly about Christians who
frequented the theatre —the better
class of plays it is to be hoped they
patronized—but at the same time he
never went. Over and above all ques
tions of right and wrong he knew
there existed questions of consistency
and propriety, and he respected both.
What he would not desire in his pas
tor he would not tolerate in himself,
and his pastor found him in conse
quence as ihelpful in example as in
word. The youngest child in the Sun
day-school did not feel his presence to
be a cloud, while the oldest pupil in
the Bible-class recognized his exam
ple to be a living epistle. He is gone
now; but we have, according to the
last minutes, 27,024 elders left. We
wonder how many we have like this
brother whose prayer and walk were
equal benedictions to the pastor and
the flock, and whose memory will long
continue as that of a veritable man of
God. It is worth a great deal to be an
elder of that kind. Is it worth while,
to be any other?
Force* to Be Controlled.
Outside of actual quarreling, there
are several other foes of domestic
life much to be deplored. There is
fault-finding, for instance—so very
easy that the most unintelligent mem
ber of the household can master it
without an effort, and so dear to the
irresponsible and the indolent. The
person who does not go to market al
ways expects, of course, all the deli
cacies of the season out of a limited
allowance; the daughter who has
never trained a servant cannot un
derstand why the wheels of house
hold service should not always run on
velvet; the son cannot see why the
family income should not supply all
his special desires as to education or
amusement; until the wearied mana
gers of the home think regretfully of
some long-ago sojourn in a hotel or
boarding-house, before family cares
were assumed, and are not so enthu
siastic over John Howard Payne’s im
mortal verses as they might be.
Then there is self-indulgence—also
easily learned by anybody, but seldom
called by its right name. There is the
THE CHRISTIAN INDEX: THURSDAY. JANUARY 21,184-7
member of the family who is always
late for meals, for example, and keeps
the whole house in an uproar of ex
citement when he or sho wants to
catch a train (with only five minutes
to do it in), and has to have every
one, consequently, hurrying here and
there at the last moment. Who does
not possess at least one such self-in
dulgent relative? Yet the epithet
would be resented. Even “unpunc
tual” is considered too strong, for
there is always a special reason for
being late on every occasion. Meals
may be delayed—servants demoraliz
ed—every one annoyed—yet the lazy,
selfish person goes on placidly manu
facturing excuses, and upsetting
household harmony. Another form of
the failing is shown in appropriating
the best of everything—the most
sunny and pleasant room, the softest
chair, the daintiest morsels, the light
est duties—under the pleas, generally,
of nerves, dyspepsia and other obscure
and not apparent ailments. Remon
strance is treated as brutal, and once
established the quasi-invalid is sel
dom driven from his or her fortifica
tions —they are too strong.
Then there is another melancholy
member of the family, whose blues
overshadow the entire domicile, while
they last; and the too expansive mem
ber, who lets out all the family secrets
to the most casual visitor; and the un
tidy member, who mislays, loses and
disorders every article, leaving a trail
of confusion in his or her wake con
fusion in his or her wake con
tinually. The list, indeed, is as long
as 'human individuality. We all have
“family failings;” know yours, and
the writer confesses to a guilty knowl
edge concerning certain ones that
have been mentioned herein. Knowing
them, the great point is to wrestle
with them whenever they threaten to
interrupt the harmony of the home
circle, and to bear with like faults in
our nearest and dearest, as we hope to
be borne with by them.
Mutual forbearance truly is the key
stone of the home; it is the remedy
for almost any family disagreement,
however painful or dangerous. It is a
soothing draught that has no reaction,
except a beneficial one. And even
where there is, alas! no mutuality in
the forbearance, at least we can bear
our part in the harmony, sing’ng as
true and sweet as we can, and trust
ing that the other voices will join ours
sooner or later, when they become
tired of their own discord. The hap
piest place in all the world is home
where love is sincere and unfeigned
among all the members of it—where
good qualities are lovingly appre
ciated, and faults cheerfully and mu
tually striven against, and where a
more perfect understanding and
a sweeter confidence are established
day by day. It is worth a great deal
of determined effort, a great deal of
self-sacrifice, a great deal of patient
sympathy and tact to be privileged to
create in any measure the atmosphere
of such a home; yet great as it is,
such a privilege belongs to almost
every individual in tfiis wide world.
Are we living up, each of us, to the
measure of our opportunity? or are we
doing our best to destroy, by petty
quarrels, by daily self-indulgences and
by unreasonable demands, the sweet
ness and the joy of family life?
—lnterior.
Remember to Live.
“Therefore, when the Lord takes
his beloved to himself, it is not becom
ing a Christian to let the pall of the
funeral fall upon his whole life, noi
let the gloom of death darken thence
forth his home, his place of business
and all the glories of the earth, nor
sit down nerveless in despondency.
Life remains for the living. Goethe
tells of a tombstone on which, instead
of the inscription which was formerly
so usual, ‘Memento Mori,’ (remem
ber that you must die), was the in
scription, ‘Remember that you must
live.’
“The inscription has a Christian
significance. We honor our departed
friends most, and we honor Christ
most when we grasp by faith the
Christian conception of life and of
death; when in that faith and for
Christ’s sake we apply ourselves anew,
though with bleeding hearts, to the
work of life; when we cheerfully ful
fill its allotted duties; when we
thankfully enjoy the blessings which
Christ leaves to cheer our way; when,
softened by affliction, we labor with
new tenderness and assiduity to
soothe the sorrowing and to help the
needy; when our affection for the de
parted flows like a new life-blood into
our affection for all who remain in
the circle of our Immediate interest
and breathes a new warmth of tender
ness, a new energy of beneficence into
our love for mankind; when, in a
word, beholding the love of Christ to
us and to the departed saints we
‘Endure as seeing him who is invisi
ble.’” —Selected.
Howto Have a “Good” M< tlier.
“Johnny’s mamma never scolds and
never frets, and is always just as good
as she can be,” said little Frank. “I
wish my mamma was like that.”
“What kind of a boy is Johnny?”
asked his aunt, to whom he was talk
ing.
“Oh, he is a good, kind little boy.
Nora says he is the best boy to
‘mind’ she ever saw. Nora used to
work at his house, you know. Why,
auntie, he likes to have other folks
have a good time better than to have
a good time himself.”
“Pertiaps that is the secret of his
mamma’s never scolding,” said
Frank’s aunt. "Good boys make hap
py, good mothers.” —Charlotte Whit
comb.
Positive and Negative.
“My aunt was always saying to me,
’Don’t talk so loud; your voice gets
shriller every day!’” said a pleasant
voiced friend. “ I became so nervous
and irritated under this chronic re
buke that my voice was more uneven
and harsh than ever, and I hardly
dared speak at home. At last I vis
ited my cousins in L (they are not-
ed for their sweet voices; you know),
and then suddenly I noticed the wide
difference, which I had never under
stood before, between a rough voice
and a well-modulated one, and set my
self, so to speak, to catch the trick
of their intonations and their tones.
In a month’s time, really, I talked like
a different girl. And when I came
home my aunt said, ‘Well, I am glad
to see that at last my reproofs have
made an impression upon you, Clara!
But they hadn’t, you know —the only
impression she made was to make me
unhappy and nervous. I have never
forgotten the lesson; and when I want
my children to improve in any way I
give them an opportunity to hear and
see the right thing before I reprove
them for not following it.” —From
Harper’s Bazaar.
The greatest natural wonder in Java
is the “Gheko Kamdka Gumko,” or
“Home of the Hot Devils,” known to
the world as the “Island of Fire.” This
geological singularity is really a lake
of boiling mud, situated in about the
center of the plains of Grobogana, and
is called an island because the great
emerald sea of vegetation which sur
rounds it gives it that appearance.
The "island” is about two miles In cir
cumference, and is situated at a dis
tance of almost exactly fifty miles
from Solo. Near the center of this
geological freak immense columns of
soft, hot mud may be seen contin
ually rising and falling like great tim
bers thrust through the boiling sub
stratum by giant hands ami then
again quickly withdrawn. Besides the
phenomenon of the boiling mud col
umns, there are scores of gigantic
bubbles of hot slime that fill up like
huge balloons and keep up a series of
constant explosions, the intensity of
the detonations varying with the size
of the bubbles. In times past, so the
Javanese authorities say, there was a
tall, spiral-like column of black mud
on the west side of the lake which
constantly 'belched a pure stream of
cold water, but this has long been ob
literated, and everything is now a
seething mass of bubbling mud and
slime, a marvel to the visitors who
come from great distances to see it.
‘I lie Old Musician.
Charles Francis Gounod, whose loss
the musical world so deeply
mourns, possessed a kind heart as
well as the genius of a great composer.
The following story of him has the
merit of being strictly true in every
detail:
On Christmas evening, 1837, an old
man with a stout stick, walked slowly
through the most fashionable quarter
of Paris. His right arm pressed to
his side an oblong object wrapped in
a checkered cotton handkerchief. He
was thinly clad, shivering, and ema
ciated. He was buffeted about by the
skurrying crowds, apparently at a loss
which way to turn. He untied the
checkered handkerchief and disclosed
a violin and bow. He raised the in
strument and started to play a senti
mental strain, but the result was only
harsh and inharmonious sounds. The
street gamins chaffed him. With a
sob he sank down upon the steps,
resting the instrument upon his knees.
“My God!” he cried, “I can no longer
play!”
Three young men came down the
street singing a tune then popular
among the students of the Conserva
toire de Musique. One of them acci
dentally knocked off his hat, and a
second stumbled against his leg. The
bareheaded old violinist rose proudly
to his feet.
“Pardon, monsieur,” said the third
man.- “I hope we did not hurt you.”
The speaker picked up the old man's
hat.
“No,” was the bitter answer.
The young men saw the violin.
“You are a musician?”
"I was one.” Two great tears
trickled down the old man’s cheeks.
“What is the matter? Are you ill?”
The old man faltered for a moment;
then he held out his hat to them.
“Give me a trifle for the love of
God. I can not longer earn anything
by my art. My fingers are stiff, and
my daughter is dying of consumption
and want.”
Down in his pockets went each one
of the trio. They were but poor stu
dents, and the result was only sixteen
sous. This was the combined capital
of the two. The third had inly a cake
of resin. 1
"This won’t do,” declMßl the one
who had apologized
“We want more Ilian relieve
,i:i; fellow artist. A h.-r
do il. You. Adolphe, violin
and accompany I go
round with the hat.” wr
A ringing laugh was the answer.
They pulled their hats over their
faces and turned up their coat-collars
in order to avoid recognition. Adolphe
took the violin from the 'old man's
trembling hands. Gustave straight
ened out his shoulders. In another
moment the first notes of the “Carni
val de Venice” were floating out upon
the night air. Such masterful music
did not customarily come from the
instruments of street players. Win
dows of the palatial houses flew up,
and heads were thrust out of the open
ings. Strollers coming down the
street stopped, and those who had
gone on retraced their steps. Soon a
good-sized crowd had gathered. Gus
tave sang the favorite cavatina from
“La Dame Blanche” in a manner that
held the audience spellbound. It
“rained money” when the song was
finished.
“One more tune,” whispered the
treasurer of the enterprise. “Bring
out those bass notes of yours, Adolphe.
I’ll help you out with the baritone part
Gustave, my brave tenor. We'll finish
up with the trio from ‘Guillaume Tell.’
And, mind, now, we’re singing for the
honor of the Conservatoire as well as
for the sake of a brother artist.”
The three young men played and
sang probably as they never played
and sang in their after life. The most
critical of audiences was enthralled.
Life came back to the old man. He
grasped his stick, and, adapting it as
a baton, used it with the air of one
having authority. He stood transfixed
when they had done; his face lighted
up, his eyes glistened.
The proceeds of the entertainment
netted five hundred francs. Many of
the wealthy listeners had thrown gold
pieces into the old battered hat.
Then they gave him back his hat
and its contents, and wrapped up the
instrument in the old checkered hand
kerchief.
“Your names, your names,” the old
man gasped. "Give me your names
that I may bless them on my death
bed.”
“My name is Faith,” said the first.
“And mine Hope,” said the second.
"And mine Charity,” said the treas
urer of the enterprise.
“You do not even know mine,” con
tinued the old man, regaining his
voice. “Ah! I might have been an im
postor, but I am not. My name is
Chapuce. For ten years I directed the
orchestra of the opera at Stras
burg. It was I who led in
‘Guillaume Tell.’ Since I left
my native Alsace misfortune has
followed me. With this money my
daughter and I can go to the country
where she will recover her health, and
I shall find a place to teach when she
can no longer perform. You —all of
you—will be truly great.”
“Amen!” was the hearty response
of the students, as they shook the
good man’s hand.
Despite their attempt at disguising,
the young men had been recognized
by one who afterwards told the tale.
They were known to fame in later
years as Gustave Roger, the great ten
or; Adolphe Herman, the great viol
inist, and Charles Gounod, the great
composer.
So the old man’s prophecy was ful
filled.
Irritation of the Throat and
Hoarsdness are immediately relieved
by “Brown’s Bronchial Troches.” Have
them always ready.
©hildrnfe ©urnrr.
FOUR BEDTIMES.
“Cluck, cluck, cluck,” said the hen,
“ 'Tin time this little chick went to bed,
Or you’ll live to be a fowl
Which in the night will prowl
And be taken for an owl,” she said.
Then without a single peep
The chick went off to sleep,
Soft tucked in its warm feather bed.
“Purr, purr, purr,” said the cat,
“ 'Tis time this little kit went to bed,
Or you’ll grow to be a cat
Which cannot catch a rat —
And you wouldn’t much like that,” she
said.
Then the kitten in a trice
Slept, and dreamed of catching mice,
Wrapped in fur in her basket bed.
“Bow-wow-wow,” said the dog,
“ 'Tis time tills little puppy went to
bed.
For playing in the dark,
Will take away your bark,
And you’ll never make your mark,”
she said.
Then the puppy stopped his play,
And went to bed straightway,
Curled up on his clean straw bed.
"Come, come, come,” said mamma,
“ 'Tis time this little boy went to bed,
To sleep throughout the night,
And with the morning light
To awaken fresh and bright,” she said.
But that boy did tease and tease —
“Let me sit up this once; please,”
And at last was carried pouting off to
bed.
—Youth’s Companion.
Precious Children: I believe it was
Talmage who said, “God gives no more
duties to woman than she has the time
and ability to fulfill,” and since my
time is so scant and my ability to say
anything lifting so poor, it almost
makes me cry. I wonder sometimes if
it can be my duty to write anything at
all; still, the sweet, kind words you
have crammed into your little letters
for me overwhelm me with gratitude,
and one of my New Year resolutions
was that my first letter should be to
you.
Girls and boys, this dear Corner has
opened a new world to you, which, I
can see, is enlarging, improving and
enriching your minds and hearts. And
I trust none of you will wrap your
splendid talents in a napkin. There
are so many letters I have enjoyed
with all my might, and whose writers
have found their way into my elastic
heart, I would like much to waft a
personal message to their writers, but if
I should begin that, this column could
not hold my letter. But I must say
that Earnest Willie’s last letter about
his deeply satisfying, glorious, victo
rious western tour was the very best
one he has given the Index for a long
while. Hasn't he the most tremendous
influence of any boy you know? No
matter where he goes an admiring mul
titude surrounds him. His lectures, his
letters, his book, sparkle with many a
sweet thought.
Aunt Laura, I clipped your words to
me and laid them among my treasures.
I could not help it; they were inex
pressibly cheering, coming as they did
from so rare a soul.
Children, I trust you have all spent
Christmas in away that he whose
birthday you celebrated approved. If
I have judged correctly you are too
wise to expect that you can “sow friv
olity and evil when young and expect to
reap earnestness and morality when
old.”
This Christmas time brought me a
visit from a dear cousin whom I had
not seen for nearly a quarter of a cen
tury, and I assure you every moment
of his stay was precious.
You are all so devoted to your Sun
day-schools, allow me to send you a
little boy’s essay on the benefits of
Sunday-schools. I think you’ll enjoy it.
God grant us each and all for the
New Year
“A heart to feel thy mercies more,
A soul to know Thee and adore.”
GRAY-HAIRED MOTHER.
ESSAY OX SUNDAY-SCHOOLS.
Sunday-schools are a great benefit to
children’s fathers and mothers. It
gives ’em peace and happyness. Every
Sunday mornin’ my pa and ma gets up
late, coz pa is always tired Sundays.
After breakfast pa always says, "Come,
hussel ’round, children, and go to Sun
day-school, for pa is tired and wants a
little peace and rest Sundays.” Then pa
goes and lays down on the sofy and
smokes and reads papers all the fore
noon.
Ma she sees to gettin’ dinner, for pa
says he must have a good dinner on
Sunday any way. Ma has to take care
of the’baby, too,for the hired gal is a
cathalick and says she won’t stay home
from church fer nobody, and ma being
a protestan has to mind her.
Benney fit 2. Sunday-schools save
children’s pas and mas from going to
church. One day the minister was up
to our house and he told pa and m.i
they ort to go to church, and pa says
“Oh, I always send all my children to
Sunday-school and guess that will have
to do.” And so ma and pa don’t go to
church, but ma says she would like to.
Benney fit 3. Sunday-schools saves
children’s payrents a great deal of mon
ey. When the minister told pa he
ought to help pay the church expenses
pa said, oh I give my children a penny
a piece every Sunday morning to take
to Sunday-school. And the minister
said, yes, hut the children gets it all
back in cards and books and picnics
and Krismas trees, and pa said well
’tis all I can afford.
Benney fit 4. Sunday-school saves
the big boys and girls from going to
church. When the boys get big enuf to
smoke and to not mind their pas then
they stop going to Sunday-school. Only
they go to church some nights when the
girls go along, and then they all sit on
back seats and chew gum. My pa told
Jim, my big brother, that he ort to go
to church reglar, but Jim said there
aint no need of my going more’n there
is of your going. I have as much rite
to stay at home as you have, but pa
said he was tired on Sundays. Pa
keeps a store, but evry day he says
times is so hard he don’t sell much and
don’t have much to do.
Benney fit 5. Sunday-schools do a
great deal of good to children. If it
warnt for them they wouldn’t know
nothing; fer their pay rents haint got
no time to teach em. Children learn
songs and verses and things; if they
go reglar and don’t miss, they get big
pay for learning to be good. But when
I am a little bigger I am going to do as
pa does and stay home on Sundays and
smoke and read papers, and have some
of ma’s big dinners. Ma gets awful
tired, too, all the time and would like
to have a little rest. But then ma is a
woman and pa says it is her duty to be
tired. lam glad I ain’t a woman.
Bennefit 6. There is a great many
more benney fits to Sunday-schools,
but I don’t know any more.
AUBURN.—Dear Index: Good morn
ing, cousins. Oh, what a beautiful
morning this is. We should be thank
ful for such a day. Cousins, do you
really think we are thankful enough for
the blessings we have? I am afraid we
are not. We have so many great bless
ings that we almost forget ourselves,
and go on through life not realizing
what great ones we do have, I guess
most of us have health, and that surely
is one of the greatest blessings we have
on earth. Still it seems that we are
careless, and do not think what »
blessing it is until we get sick.
Then there are so many things with
which we are blessed; yet I am afraid
we are not thankful enough for these
great blessings we have every day.
Cousins, did you ever think of how
much Jesus has done for us, and how
little we do for him?
Every one of us can cheer some poor
soul. We can tell a great many people
in our town or neighborhood of Jesus,
who are still in sin. Perhaps we can
turn them from their sinful ways, and
get them to talk for Jesus. For he has
given us his life that we might live,
and oh, how faithfully we should work.
Did you ever see any who seem
ed to be Christians for a while then
commence and do worse than they did
before they professed to be Christians?
This is not the way to do, as we all
know. We should be Christians all the
while. Let’s all go to work and work
for Jesus. Be such Christians that the
world will know us by our fruits.
We must remember that the old peo
ple are passing over the "river of
death” and that the children will have
to take their places in churches,
schools, and in fact everything. So we
should be Christians. We should do
better than our parents and older peo
ple have done, for we have had better
chances. There are more schools,
churches, and this is an advanced age.
Now let’s be true Christians, and not
forget to be thankful for the blessings
we have each and every day.
I will close by saying I appreciated G.
M. B.'s words. I enjoy reading your
letters very much. You ought to come
oftener. As I have already stayed too
long I will not answer any questions.
Your loving friend,
DORA CAIN.
BETHANY.—Dear Index: I have
been waiting to see if somebody would
not ask me to write again. But not
anyone seems inclined to invite me, and
being very timid, I was “waiting, only
waiting.” And I expect I would have
waited in vain if one of my sure-enough
cousins hadn’t taken pity on me and
suggested that I write again. And I
know what is ths matter with my cous
in She is one of the—well, targets, I
suppose I might say, at which 1 shoot
my tiresome epistles. And she wants
to turn my attention in another direc
tion! How did you young folks enjoy
the snow we had just a little while
back? We had fine times eating it. I
like it best fixed up with cream and
sugar, and then flavor it with vanilla,
and ’tis almost as good as ice cream.
Indeed, I have heard it called “poor
folks’ ice cream.” We are somewhat
disappointed because it didn t freeze
over. I was so in hopes that it would.
I even got my sled and looked it over to
see if it was all right. When we have
a snow that freezes over then we have
fine times!
Aunt M— and I say that when we get
rich, very rich, you know (a thing that
we never expect to happen), we will
spend the winter in Canada. Then we
can play in the snow just as much as
we please, and get some toboggans and
slide just as much as we please. Your
COUNTRY FRIEND.
STELLA VILLE.—Dear Index: I am
a little girl nine years old. My papa
takes the Index and, oh! how I love to
read the nice little letters from the
cousins.
We have a good Sunday-school. My
papa is the superintendent, and we
have such a nice Sunbeam Society.
Cousin Mamie Pilcher is our president.
She makes it very interesting and we
all love her so much. Rev. J. A. Scar
boro is pastor of our church—Ways
church—and I think everybody that
hears him preach loves him.
My papa and mamma are members of
Wavs church. They were both bap
tized by Dr. W.L. Kilpatrick, who died
last summer. I heard papa say that he
preached at Ways church twenty-six
years. That seems a long time to a lit
tle girl like me.
Well I must stop now or my letter
will be too long and I do want to see
it in the Index. With much love,
Your little cousin,
BESSIE SMITH.
McHENRY— As you have been kind
enough to publish my letters before, I
will try to write again. We have been
without a pastor at Salem-Gordon for
some time, but we have called Bro. A.
J. Morgan, of Acworth. He made us
his first visit the first Sunday in this
month. To know him is to love him.
Last Sunday’s sermon was food for the
hungry and we were almost starved for
a good sermon. His text can be found
in Matt. 5:15, about having our lights
under a bushel. I wish the cousins
would all read the whole chapter. Our
Sunday-school is still alive. We average
about thirty-five. There is no bright
and shining light in drinking or smok
ing cigarettes. I guess my letter is
long enough, so I will close with best
wishes for the Index and the Children s
Corner. Yours truly,
CARL AYCOCK.
BRANTLEY.—Dear Index: As I
have not seen any letters from this
community I will write one. I am a
little girl eight years old and do enjoy
reading the Children’s Corner so much.
I am staying awhile with my uncle
and aunt, who take the Index. Papa
and mamma are not members of the
Baptist church. We have a good
church. Rev. W. P. Allison is the pas
tor and has been a long time. The as
sociation meets with our church next
October. We have no Sunday-school
now. I like to go to Sunday-school
very much. I have two sisters and two
brothers. I will close with best wishes
to the Index. Your friend,
ANNA GREEN.
EMBRY.—Dear Index: lam a little
boy ten years of age. I am a member
of the Baptist church at Concord. Rev.
T. R. Morgan is my pastor. I love him
very much. I enjoy reading the Chris
tian Index.
I have read the Life and Works of
Rev. C. H. Spurgeon, Robinson Crusoe
and other good books. I was so sorry
to hear that Gen. Maceo was killed. I
hope that Cuba will yet be free and the
Christian religion will prevail there.
Let all of the cousins pray for Cuba.
EGBERT H. S. BEALL.
MACON.—Dear Index: As I have not
ever written before I will write. I am
nine years old. lam in the third class
at school. My teacher is Miss Marie A.
Wilcox. Igo to Sunday-school. My
Sunday-school teacher is Miss Mattie
Holmes. I love all of my teachers very
much. My papa takes the Christian
Index. I love to read the Children’s
Corner.
WILLIE BLANCHE ELLIS.
GEORGETOWN.—Dear Index: I
have never written any to the Index, so
I thought I would write a little. Major
Reeves is our pastor at Georgetown. We
have not much of a Sunday-school, but
I hope it will improve. I love to go to
church, and I go to every meeting, if it
is convenient. I have never seen any
letters written from this part of the
State, so I will not write a long letter. L
will close by wishing you a happy year.
I will write again.
Yours truly,
A. L. MASHBURN.
VIENNA. —Dear Index: lam a little
girl twelve years old, and hope you will
’admit me into your corner. I enjoy the
letters from the cousins very much. We
have a fine Sunday-school and preach
ing twice a month by our beloved pas
tor, Rev. J. M. Kelly, who is also prin
cipal of the Vienna High School.
My mother is blind and has been ever
since June four years ago. Well, I
will close for this time for fear I have
used too much space already. I will
write better next time. God bless the
Index and all its readers, especially the
Children’s Corner.
With much love,
GEORGIA EVA PENNY.
TIFTON. —Dear Index: I wrote a
letter for our Corner once before, but
will write again. Rev. P. A. Jessup is
pastor of the Baptist church here. We
have a very nice Sunday-school. Mr.
Briggs Carson is our superintendent.
Our Junior Union meets every Sunday
afternoon. Mrs. George H. Padrick is
president and Juddie Warman secre
tary. We have about fifty names on
the roll. The meetings are very inter
esting. The fall term of the Tifton In
stitute closed last Friday, after four
months’ hard work. Prof. J. H.
O'Quinn is the principal. We hope to
begin the spring term with renewed
energy and accomplish much by its
close. lam glad that the children have,
taken such an interest in the Corner.
With best wishes for the Index,
I remain your friend,
JOHN G. NORRIS, JR.
PHOENIX ClTY.—Dear Index: I
have been thinking for a long time that
I would write again, but put it off in
the hope of “Humming Bird” joining
me in my feeble song. Jackie Carswell,
you do write such interesting letters.
Where did you acquire the art?
I hope all of you will continue to
write as well as you do now. As for
myself, I almost give up in despair. Oh,
Earnest Willie! your letter to our Cor
ner was appreciated so much. Will
you not give us another soon?
Our little church in this city does
well. The pastor’s name is Rev. Ar
nold Smith. He has done duty here
only a few months and is comparatively
new to his field; but we are all devoted
to him.
The churches of Phoenix are all do
ing their best for prohibition.
We hoped that this would be a prohi
bition town, but were sorely disap
pointed in the failure of our best cit
izens to rid the place of whiskey.
I am requested to ask if any of the
readers of the Index will inform one
through the Children’s Corner of the
whereabouts of Luther Benson, the re
formed drunkard. Lovingly,
MOCKING BIRD.
CONCORD. —Dear Index: Bright
summer and autumn have vanished
away and winter has peeped down upon
us with its white frost and chilly
winds, seeming to tell us that the
morning joys of this life have passed
and the chill of eve has dawned upon
us. But we have a bright place in the
interesting Corner that our kind ed
itor has reserved for us. O, how proud
and thankful we ought to be for It, for
we are scattered and cannot hear one
another’s voices, and here we can shake
hands in Christian love and exchange
our youthful ideas.
I have been silent all this time, but I
know now that I can truly say that I
am proud of this grand opportunity to
join this happy band. For I have of
ten felt like the Christian Index has ac
complished much for our Master, who
is waiting for us on high.
Remember, dear boys and girls, if we
want to become Christians like some of
the readers of this paper, we must
think purely, speak kindly and be great
in Christian love, and have faith in our
heavenly Father. By this we can
brighten the dark shadows that fall
upon our path in life and make them
as golden sunbeams. I was certainly
glad to see Earnest Willie come again.
I think that his pieces cannot be ex
celled. I will close and hope when the
boys and girls fold their burdens and
cares of this life away in death that we
will join hands in heaven.
Your devoted friend,
LUCY CARREKER.
Barnesville. —I know I feel grate
ful to you for your kind recognition of
my efforts, and the many words of en
couragement from so many friends.
These dear friends are perfectly fa
miliar with my condition, having no
dear mamma to direct and advise, at
my tender age, when character is form
ing; and sad indeed it will be with me
if I disappoint them. I hope my life
will be such, that they can say, in the
daystocome, “Well done.” Oh! that
the ruling passion of my life may be
good, and if I can't do great good,
may Ido no harm. And oh! how
I should deport myself in walk and con
versation. When I look around me at
these precious little brothers and sis
ter who are my juniors. I am com
forted in the thought that there are
so many who often remember me in
their devotions at the throne of God.
Our pastor, Dr. Brittain, commenced
a protracted meeting Sunday morning,
November 22d. That great and good
man, Dr. Nelson, preached the intro
ductory at 11 o’clock to a large and
refined and cultivated audience. We
had three services each day, Dr. Nelson
conducting every one, until the follow
ing Friday night. Saturday morning we
reluctantly bid him good-bye, as he had
work at home, in Macon, for the Lord.
I cannot say the attendance was large
at any time except Sunday, but great
good was done, the membership
strengthened, and the love of Christ
shed abroad in our town; our good
pastor kept up the good work for sever
al days and then closed. We have had
four added to the church by experience,
and you know I am happy to tell you,
two of these are my little brothers;
I am so happy to see them give their
young hearts and lives to the Lord, and
as they grow older may they grow
stronger in his service and ever be on
the Lord’s side.
Now dear Index, I cannot close this
already too lengthy—whatever you
may call it —without making an effort
to set ourselves aright as to our sex: my
name is Jackie Carswell, but I am not a
boy, and (mirabel dictu) thou art not a
female, so I claim to be even with you
and I hope we will know each other
better in the future: and may the good
Lord bless you and the dear old Index,
and all the little cousins, is my prayer,
for Christ’s sake.
Jackie Carswell.
P. S. —Miss Cain, Thank you for the
compliment, but remember I am a girl.
J. C.
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