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THE SUNNY SOUTH.
Dream of His Youth.
Now as the night-wind round me plays,
Out from some floral garden sent,
It seems an echo of the days
In which the dream of youth was spent.
And I, again, on memory’s tide,
Drift back amid the scenes of yore;
Across the flood of years so wide,
The past enchants as ne’er before;
And in the volume of my life,
I read a tale of love and hate,
And I'that tale of love and strife
In bitterness of heart i^late:—
Then, we were comrades, Alf and I,
His grief was mine, my pain his tears;
And as the bright days glided by,
Our friendship lengthened into years.
We climbed together childhood’s stairs,
Our hearts with juvenile fire aflame,
Sharing each other’s bliss and cares,
Our hopes were one, our thoughts the same.
But as the calm years rolled away,
Into the shadow of the grave,
The chord of friendship snapped one day,
And hate for love, to me he gave.
We loved a maiden known as Ruth—
A creature fair as lilies white;
She was the dream of Alfred’s youth,
And of my life the purest light.
He wooed and lost, I wooed and won,
And Ruth with all her charms was mine!
His heart was crushed, his life undone,
His star of hope refused to shine.
And in the madness of despair,
Revenge became his soul’s desire;
Within his aching breast its glare
Did tremble like a liquid fire.
One eve, beneath September skies,
Sweet Ruth and I, poor Alfred met;
A dangerous light shone in his eyes—
His hands were clinched, his teeth were set.
For floating on the evening air
Came chimings of a wedding bell,
And to him in his mad despair,
They seemed loud echoes of a hell!
He saw the bright dream of his pride
From his existence fade and die;
He saw fair Ruth another’s bride,
And tears of sorrow dimmed his eye
A scornful challenge was the end
Of all his bitterness and woe;
We piet, but not as friend with friend,
But as a deadly foe with foe.
be fell, 1 won again!
My comrade’s life-tide ebbed away.
Twas by my hand poor Alf was slain,*
And it was honor’s deed they say.
But if it is an honor bright
To hand another to his grave,
Then right is wrong and wrong is right;
And would I such an honor have ?
Ah! no, if I must others slay,
To save my life from bitter shame,
I’ll in oblivion hide away
And ever wear an unknown name.
Oft’ to the spot where Alfred lies,
I with a heart depress’d repair;
And as my fancy backward flies,
I rue the day 1 laid him there.
For fair Ruth was his boyhood’s dream,
The brightest star in his life’s sky;
And of his hope the fairest beam,
For such a love he dared to die.
But had he won, and had I lost
The love of her now by my side,
His life need not have paid the cost,.
And Oh! my friend need not have died.
J. P. English.
A New Star in the Constilation.
Hoping some day to become noted among
the many able writers of the “Sunny South,”
I hereby announce my hopes that by the aid
of our dear Mother Hubbard, I will be recog
nized even as a silent admirer.
I have enjoyed the many beautiful, sad,
brillant and lively letters from its many
members, and have by unfailing diligence be
come fully acquainted with their names.
I hope I will not very seriously excite any
of our Household “out of the backdoor,” by
myfstrange actions and poler expressions.
So Eugene, stand still and listen to this
plain assertion.
“A wise man often changes his opinion.
Now, provided you may be fortunate enough
to wear long pants and a stand-up collar, I
warn you to beware! lest some bewitching
little maiden ensnare your heart, and thus
you have to give up that a girl can’t win
whomsoever she chooses.
You are, of course, speaking” from a boy’s
point of view, and not from authority,” and
as a natural consequence may yet have that
brittle thread of your imagination tangled
with some “Southern beauty’s smiles.”
Gem, you have propounded a question,
but as I’m somewhat of a stranger I feel a
little delicate in expressing my sentiments
before the public, fearful I might be too
closely criticized.
So, I will wait until some one else hurls
forth an opinion.
But I do not think it is the chief object of
all women to marry, or there would not be
so many “auld maids.”
Ike, how I do sympathize with that poor
cat. I can see your “sarcastic grin” and
hear you say “just like all old maids.”
I must not close without some kind thought
of “our dear little mother” who so cheer
fully presides over this page and join with
her in wishing Amicus and his bride a pleas
ant journey through life; such a novel ac
quaintance ripening into such a warm affec
tion.
Having only the most feeble hope that
printers’ ink will ever be wasted on this
scarcely illuminated production, I’ll be the
North Star.
Alas! Who so Unfortunate as I ?
From a remote corner of our immortalized
Southland, where sunshine and flowers hold
sweet communion, I seek for an admission
into the circle of contributors to the clean and
well-preserved sheet of the “Sunny South”
whose contents are a source of great comfort
and amelioration to all its readers.
In the year 1873 my existence began shaded
by an apalling fact which threw its shadows
adown the dark and mystic labyrinths of the
future, like the foreshadows of a cloud an
nouncing the approach of a storm.
Since my advent into this bright and beau
tiful world, the sun has never shone brightly
to me for I was born with that deficiency of
sight which relegates me to that class of un
fortunate beings who pass through life with
out seeing and being charmed and fascinated
by the beauty and grandeur of the world in
which they li^e. With this inevitable curse
depressing my life, is it to be expected that I
should be happy? Not quite, though, at in
tervals, a gleam of happiness flashes like a
meteor through my benighted existence, but
its light is as brief and uncertain as that of
the falling star which fades with the first
moment of its appearance, but if I am ad
mitted into the bright and congenial circle of
friends of the dear “Sunny South,” my life
would be considerably brigtenea.
With best wishes for the success * of your
paper, I am the new arrival,
J. P. English.
BaldWyn, Miss.
Books and Unrequited Affection.
“Midnight hours give wisdom to the
brain.”
Perhaps this is why owls are called wise,
I know no other reason. Anyway, my brain
seems clearer during the still, solemn hours
of midnight. When I have a hard lesson to
learn or a three-cornered radical, affected
quadrative, algebraical problem to solve, I
can always have more success in the still
night. I’ve sadness in my heart to-night, a
sadness which I can not dispel. I have been
reading Gem’s letter about his sweethearts;
and it brings sad memories to my mind.
Like Gem, I am a “Florida Cracker though,
perhaps, Gem does not call himself a cracker.
Born and brought up near where the beautiful
Silver Spring pours its w-aters into the wind
ing current of the far famous Ocklawaha
River.
And again, like Gem, I have had many
sweethearts. I will not take up time and
space to tell about them all. I will only men
tion the last and loveliest. She is of High
land descent—her forefathers were brave
cavaliers who fought for the banner of the
House of Stuart. I told her I loved her
dearly, passionately, madly. She was sorry,
and all that, but did not love me. I carry her
beautiful, snow-white magnolia blossoms,
with their emblem. I carry her choice fruits
and chocolate caromels, but it is the same.
She accepts the magnolias with smiles and
thanks, and hides the fruits and candy behind
those dainty, tempting lips. Oh, can’t some
of the Householders send balm to heal my
poor, broken, bleeding heart?
Unlike Gem, I am not looking in the future;
my happiness is all in the past. Nor do I wish
to read my future through Gypsy’s horoscope ;
for I am afraid it would bear too close a rela
tion to my ill-starred namesake. “The dark
est hour is just before day.” I often wonder
if day will ever break.
I went to the Democratic State Conven
tion, held at Ocala; there I learned my true
vocation—yelling. I’ve always been a master-
hand, or mouth, at yelling—even in my infant
days ; and at school my voice could be heard
far above the other noises, when playing
“King’s Base or Baseball.” I went up to
Ocala Wednesday morning and left there at
half past three Thursday morning, as the first
faint streaks of dawn appeared on the eastern
horizon—still yelling. Some man would
accidentally or intentiously mention “silver,”
and at this magic word one half of the dele
gates would spring to their feet, and as if
always aspiring higher, would mount the
seat’s, and wave their hats, handkerchiefs,
and newspapers, and yell as all posessed, for
fully five minutes. Then another, man, after
a time, would mention “gold,” and the other
half of the convention would go through the
same antics. All the sleep I got was while I
was swinging onto the plow-handles next
day—plowing sugar cane.
I have not read “South Africa Farm.” I
would ask Tiber if he has read “Foul Play,”
by Chas. Reade, or “Night and Morning,”
by Sir E. Bulwer-Lytton. I think that the
authors display so much force of character
in the way they plan out these works. But
my favorite is “Dawn,” by H. Rider Hag
gard. “Dawn” is just splendid. I like the
way it ends. “And Mildred lay there, before
the stone symbol of inexorable judgment,
and sobbed till the darkness covered her, and
her heart broke in the silence.” It is so sad
to think of lost love and yet I like to read
about it and think, for it is so sweet. Why
is it that some have all the joys, while others
go through life with a sad heart?
“Nobody could tell for nobody knew,
Why love was made to gladden a few;
While hearts that would forever be true,
Go lone and sad the whole world through.”
Bonnie Prince Charlie.
Am I Welcome ?
Dear Boys and Girls: As my mamma is a
reader of the dear, old Sunny South, I have
noticed the correspondence being carried on
between the boys and girls, and I wish to
join you. Will some of you welcome me?
My home is in Texas, and I am proud to
say that I live in a country that was once
known as the Lone Star Republic.
My mamma lived in Georgia and Florida
when she was a little girl, and she tells me
many interesting things about those dear old
States.
Boys and girls, how is it with you ? Do
you like to go to school? I do, and history
is my favorite study; I am very anxious for
school to begin.
I have already told you that I lived in
Texas, perhaps you would like to know what
city. I live in Sulphur Springs.
Well, I will close by asking you all to
remember your little friend
Texas Girl.
ANTOINETTE.
(Here is a real nice letter from sweet An
toinette, and it was addressed to the Boys and
Girls’ page, but I think she intended it for
the Household. We would call her atten
tion to the difference between the two, and
also, to the fact that as soon as politics and
the hot weather will “let up” a little, we
will have a live page for the Boys and Girls
and they must all write for it.—Editor.)
V
If it could possibly be any warmer, Eugene,
where you are, than out here, near Jackson,
1 don’t see how. It has been so intolerably
warm that, if I hadn’t felt sure that I was
either sugar or salt, or somebody’s darling,
I would have melted and turned to a great
big, round, greasy spot.
Owing to the intense heat all the morning,
I wandered restlessly about, unable to con
centrate what little energy I have left, on
any one thing.
Just about noon, the Sunny South came,
and, seizing it, I sought out the coolest place
1 could find ,and at once proceeded to look
for our page—the Boys and Girl’s page.
Ike, you can certainly beat the world writ
ing baby stories. How in the name of all
that is wonderful, did you ever think to
compare a baby’s eyes to two big muscadines?
And the very idea of an old cradle looking
like s barn on rockers! I have laughed until
I am almost sick over your “New Baby.”
How you ever found out so much about the
soft, little, red darlings, must, I suppose,
remain one of the unsolved mysteries.
I think I will have to send you all one of
my short stories of romance that my Memphis
critics praise so highly.
By the bye, I am a Memphis girl by adop
tion, though a Mississippian by birth. And
I shouldn’t wonder if my Southern home was
net real near our Louisiana girl’s.
Since I have been out here in the country,
I have certainly seen several things I never
saw before. One of those things was a bran
dance underneath magnificent oak trees—
those solitary monarchs of fallen forests,
their branches interlacing so as to form a per
fect canopy of emerald green above us, shut
ting out the piercing rays of the sun, but
still allowing us lovely glimpses of the sap
phire skies above us.
I don’t know why it is, but everybody
seems to enjoy dancing more in the country
than in the city. It must be on account of
their perfect self-abandon; 1 never could see
any other reason. I rather like quadrilles
*3
We print below the correct answers to the
two problems which we published in the
Sunny South not long since.
The answer to the “Whale Problem” is
forty-eight feet, and the names of the first ten
persons sending in correct answers are given
below:
C. P. Barrett, Jr., Spartanburg, S. C.
A. Gertrude Mixson, Allendale, S. C.
Ada. V. Friday, 401 N. Church St., Char
lotte, N. C.
Paul Russell, care of Cleveland National
Bank, Cleveland, Tenn.
Kate Henderson, Troy, Ala.
Jesse H. Lambert, Room 21, Masonic
Temple, New Orleans, La.
Sue Fitzpatrick, Garlandville, Miss.
W. M. Rust, Jr., Sequin, Texas.
J. H. Davis, Okolona, Miss.
J. A. Clark, Newton, Miss.
The answer to the “Hundred Silver Dollars
Problem” is 10,100 yards, and the following
persons were the ones to get in answers first:
Roy Paris, Box 7, Gainesville, Ga.
R. J. Croskeys, 502 Highland Ave., Green
ville, S. C.
Leland Leatherman, Muffeesboro, Tenn.
Albert Tinsley, Box 263, Spartanburg, S. C.
Ora Stamps, 31 Cooper St., Atlanta, Ga.
Early Moorman, Marshall, Texas.
W. M. Rust, Jr., Sequin, Texas.
Vascoe Aharez, Starke, Fla.
Rosa B. Wilkinson, Jackson, Miss., 200 N.
State St.
Ray Bonner, Forrest City, Ark.
The prizes have been sent to each of the
successful contestants, and we congratulate
them upon having been among the first to
get in correct answers, as we only give prizes
to the first ten correct answers sent in.
better than the round dances now, because
they seem to suit this warm weather better.
I am sure Eugene Edwards will think so.
I wish I could tell the Household what I
think about a girl being able to marry whom
she chooses. But I suppose I must not tread
on forbidden ground.
, Antoinette.
Jackson, Tenn.
True religon is sweet- reasonableness and
sanctified common sense.—Reuen Thomas.
THE YOUNG MAN’S LIFE WORK.
What he Does Not do Heartily he Never
Quite Does.
“Any man is unfortunate who devotes
himself to an occupation that is vetoed by his
own tastes and preferences,” writes the Rev.
Charles H. Parkhurst, D. D., discussing
“Selecting a Career,” in a paper addressed
to young men in August Ladies 5 Home
Journal. “The Scriptural injunction, ‘What
soever ye do, do it heartily,’ is one to be re
spected quite independently of the moral con
sideration that was weighed- by Saint Paul
when he wrote it. What a man does not do
heartily he never quite does, which is to say,
what a man does not do with his heart he never
quite does. There are touches of excellence
to which an effort does not attain except as it
is the outcome of a certain amount of en
thusiasm. Work is doing a thing because
we have to. Play is doing a thing because
we like to; and there is a great deal more of
one’s true self in what he does because he
likes to. Only a part, and that the aryest
part, of any workman is enlisted till his en
deavors emanate from a spot deeper down
than the level at which he keeps his intelli
gence and his skill, and begin to flow out
form the fresher and juicier regions of the
heart. So that, in settling this question of a
vocation, it is a matter of prime importance
for a young man to decide what that particu
lar business or profession is, into which he
can go without a remainder, into which he
can throw himself in unreserved investment.”