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THE SUNNY SOUTH.
7
The Difference.
When love comes to our lives,
It comes to stav.
Wealth it hath wings, and it
May fly away.
Bat when love comes, it comes to 6tay.
Passion hath wings: it will
Take to flight.
For passion cometh only
For a night.
Bat when love comes, it never leaves our sight.
Love is a passion too, so strong and true.
And never changeth from the old to new;
And so dear heart, I love, I love but you.
How shall we know the false from the true love?
How know the stars from the great sun above?
sun it shineth on from day to day,
And when the winter comes, it’s nearer then alway;
And when love comes, it comes to stay.
The stars they shine on, mayhap for a night,
Some are not fixed and oft are lost to sight,
Or drop or fail or fall. ’Tis thus with passion ever;
.Love, like the son, shines on and on forever.
Passion thinks oft of self and often will,
But love, it never worketh any ill
To that dear one, on whom such love is lavished.
Passion oft worketh ill, hath often ravished.
Love never, never worketh any ill,
This has been truest proof and is true still;
ait tf ^°° ^ ov ?—*B that your heart can give,—
"B that your life bestow as long as you shall live
vyill seem but trivial need for that dear one,
For whom you live and move, your life's great sun.
When love comes to our lives it comes to stay;
Fierce, swift-winged passion fleeth fast away,
But love, true love, it liveth on alway:
Through all the changes of the changing years,
Through whitening locks and all life’s scalding tears,
1 hrough rending heartaches, pathways dark and dim—
Love lives and liveth—for it comes from him.
Rose Seelye Miller.
SOCIAL PROBLEMS.
Discussions bu The “Householders” o!
Questions Pertaining to Love, Mar
riage, Divorces, Dancing, Etc.
MA AND THE NEW WOMAN.
It was a Sabbath morning and ma had got
ten the last kid off to Sunday-school. Ma is
a great believer in such institutions, for she
thinks it relieves her of the responsibility of
inculcating religious truths into the minds
and hearts of her offspring.
She was busy all the morning washing and
dressing the little urchins, while Samantha
remained in the kitchen to wash and dry the
dishes. And, by way of parenthesis, I want
to say that Samantha is very much opposed to
such menial labor. She doesn’t mind going
down-town and spending the day behind the
counters of some business house, or manipu-
a tpyewriter for some attorney, but
when it comes to dipping her hands into a
dishpan of water, she begs to be excused.
That’s Samantha, and you will find the world
full of Samanthas.
Samantha doesn’t realize that she is over
looking one of the factors that constitutes the
chief end of a woman’s life, as set forth by
our Creator when he made woman to be a
helper of man. Samantha doesn’t realize that
when she goes into the business world she
fills a position (that some man could possibly
fill better) for about one-half the pay that a
man could get, and that about five years of
such a life will put her in the cold sod. But
then Samantha is a strong-minded girl and
has more will power than sense. She will
learn better—when it is too late. Samantha
would be far happier and would live much
longer if she would be content to wash the
dishes and let some man fill the position be
hind the counter, and earn enough in ad
vance of the salary she would receive to sup
port the two of them. But no, she must be
independent of cruel, wicked men. The little
simpleton! as “Wild Bill” would say,
“ain’t she a sight.”
But back to ma. Well, as I said afore, the
children were all gone, and ma and me were
back in the side room—ma working the but
ter and me peeling potatoes for dinner. We
hadn’t said a word for several minutes, and
not feeling qualified to discuss the latest
question, I ventured to ask ma what is the
chief end of woman.
“Well,” said ma, “I think the chief end
of some women is their tongue.” *
“But I don’t mean it that way,” I replied.
“What I want to know is, ‘Is marriage and
the making of a home the chief end of a
woman’s life.” ’
“Well, I should say yes. Hasn’t it been
the chief end of mine ? If she doesn’t marry
what is she to do ? Go work in the stores,
wink and flirt with the men, wear bloomers
and ride bicycles, dance and be hugged and
become so familiar with men that they
wouldn’t marry her even if she were willing
and most of ’em are willing when it is too
late. No, Genie, too many of our girls are
running after false idols. They are trying to
keep pace with men; and they delight in let
ting men know that they are wiser than their
modest old mothers. They are bold and even
reckless and many seem sexless. That sort
of girls will not make good wives, and they
will refuse to be mothers. The motherly in-
, .j nc t has been usurped by reckless indul-
J. . ,
When I was a girl, modesty was a woman s
cli.ef charm. And men were always chival
rous to modest women. Yes, a woman’s chief
end in life should be to marry and make a
home that would prove a blessing to her hus
band, her children and the world.”
“Well, ma, do you think a college course
in higher educational training a detriment or
a help to her in the fulfillment of those
duties?”
“Very much depends upon the woman. I
think higher educational training will be a
help to most of them, if in no other way, at
least, by the law of transmitting her own
powers to the boy who may be her son. So
far as her individual responsibility goes, I
think she will be better equipped for meeting
and performing those duties. The higher
the education the better she will be able to
discern the inclination and genius of her
children, and the more competent she will
be for directing them. She will understand
better the responsibilities of life and her duty
to her husband and friends. Of course higher
education makes big fools of some, but they
were usually little fools to begin with.”
With this ma ceased, and try as I might, I
couldn’t get her to express herself again. I
have given you her thoughts in my language
and not in her own. I don’t much like to
agree with her, but, in the main, I suppose
she is right.
Eugene Edwards.
DID SIMON WILL IT?
Gem, I can’t write the sequel of sister’s
love story just yet. What would become of
your humble servant if sister should marry?
What would she do for somebody to keep her
straight and scold her when she doesn’t
“toe the mark?” Sister has a great deil
more sense than I. I guess that is why
Thomas fell in love with her. She and
Thomas will marry sometime, I feel sure,
but can’t say when—don’t show her the paper
this is printed in if you please—that is if you
have any regard for my peace of mind. I
will tell you about my sweetheart No. 2. He
is just the opposite of the other one. Ai;e the
men who fancy me, always to be such as I
can’t fancy? Is this the perversity of fate?
Sister says it isn’t that, it is my perversity
that 1 am too hard to please, but I don’t think
so. Tell me please, could you fancy a bean
pole, a liberty staff, or something of that
sort ? Now, I hold that when a person grows
to be over six feet three and a half inches
high he is getting altogether too much
longevity. It makes me rather nervous to
look at him, which I seldom do. Don't think
I am inclined to make sport of masculinity,
I can admire tall fellows as much as any one,
but everything is liable to run to extremes,
and this, I think, is precisely what Simon has
done. Yes, his name is Simon—Simon
Greene. Fancy a person with some ideas as
to the fitness of things bearing such a name.
Now, if it were any other—Brown, for in
stance, or Black, or White, or Gray—but
Greene—just think of it, I can not.
Of course, it is a nice enough name for
those who fancy it. Simon is very well off
in this world’s goods and my neighbors,
chiefly Mrs. Mulligan, give me a great deal
of unasked for commiseration upon what they
term my lack of sense. All this is said be
hind my back, but I get every word of it,
which doesn’t tend to keep me cool these
warm days. Mrs. Mulligan told Mrs. Porter,
who told Mrs. Brown, who told her daughter
Maria, who told me, that if I would look at
Miss Betsy Spoons, a maiden of sixty-five,
or thereabouts, with a firm set jaw and a
flash-light eye, I would see what I would be
like in time. This has a tendency to depress
my spirits. You would not expect me to
look cheerful and happy after hearing that,
would you ?
To cap the climax of my misery, ma and
sister throw out hints. Sister told me the
other day that I ought to look at a man’s
heart. When I retorted that I hadn’t an X-
ray, she said I would probably never get
another such chance, and when I said I did
not think I should, either, she began dis
coursing upon Simon Greene’s broad acres,
his two mules, black horse and top buggy,till
I became so exasperated I put on my bonnet,
went down to the spring-house and drank my
fill of buttermilk, but there was no use trying
to drown trouble in that way. Finding that
1 felt no better after drinking the milk, I
called Billy, my little dog—Billy is a great
comfort to me—went over to the watermelon
patch and afer eating half a Bradford I felt
some better. Then filling my apron with
luscious peaches I went up the hill to my
favorite seat upon the fence under the big
white oak. After eating the peaches, I again
felt at peace with all the world. I knew,
though, that this calm would give way to
stronger feelings the next time sister began
throwing out hints.
I hold Simon Greene responsible for one
of the most miserable evenings I have passed
since the time ma used to send me to bed
when company came in and I wanted to stay
up.
Sister says I am most unreasonable, that
Simon had nothing to do with it. I feel
sure that he did, though I am at a loss to
explain exactly how.
Simon is captain of the Pea Ridge Rifles, of
Kelton. Sister says he has quite a military
bearing—a distinguished appearance—that
he will probably be a great general some day,
if a war should happen to break out, and I
would have cause to feel proud of him. I told
her he presented quite an extinguished ap
pearance by the time you get to it. I don’t
want to be obliged to dislocate the joints of
my neck in order that I may see what a man’s
countenance is like.
The trouble I am going to speak of, took
place about three weeks ago. Mrs. Adams
had invited us to a “musicale” at her home.
I am a great lover of music and had dreamed
of that event by night and thought of it by
day since the hour I had been invited. I had
worked myself up to such a state of anticipa
tion that I actually counted the hours. When
at length the eventful evening did arrive, I
arrayed myself in my blue organdie and
lapped my hair over my ears in a way that
made me look quite demure and sweet—so I
thought. Sister uses crimping pins to keep
her hair in order, but I am not obliged to do
this. My hair waves quite naturally. There
are two little curls growing just below my
ears that look very well, I think. Simon had
little enough tact to ask me for one of them.
Until I had caught my breath (for I confess
it was fairly taken away with astonishment)
I am afraid I wanted to do murder, I was so
deeply offended. Of course, politeness for
bade my giving expression to my feelings
and I had to answer sweetly enough that I
could not spare any of my locks.
Of course, I would not, under any circum
stances, have done Simon a personal injury,
but it did give me bad feelings for a little
while. Unless a man wishes to bring down
indignation and wrath upon his head it
would be well for him to use caution in mak
ing such requests. This proves how selfish a.
person may be. Tell me, pray, how would
I look with a curl on one side of my neck
and none on the other? There would be
about as much sense and reason in asking a
man to cut off one-half his moustache.
In arranging my toilet that evening, I had
given my face just a touch of sister’s com
plexion powder—this is a form of dissipation
I don’t indulge in, but broke the rule because
I wanted to look exceptionally well.
Simon had been over several days before
hand to know if he could have the pleasure
of my company. Now, many a woman might
havetfelt proud of riding behind a fiery, black
steed, An r a new top buggy beside a tall, dis
tinguished-looking man; but I didn’t. The
thought of it nearly drove me wild, so I told
him I would probably not go with anyone,
meaning that I would not go with any man,
and I did not. Simon said if I was not going
he believed he would stay at home too. This
vexed me more than I can tell. I can’t see
why he should persist in worrying the life
out of me, and spoiling all my pleasure. It
isn’t my fault that I can’t fancy him.
Thomas and sister were going to walk and
I went with them. I hadn’t gone far before I
discovered that two is company and three is
a crowd, so I stepped several paces to the rear
walking by myself, communing with nature
and admiring the beauties of the summer
evening, with the moon sailing peacefully
over head, the Katydids singing in the trees
and the crickets chirping merrily in the
grass.. I was enjoying myself very well.
When we came to the creek, Thomas helped
sister across leaving me to get over as best
I could. The foot-log, which was nothing
but a fence rail, broke in the middle, leaving
me no way of escape. It was a great fall, a
most disastrous fall, and as I plunged into
the depths of despair and cold water, I felt
that my expectations had likewise taken a
tumble.
(Before proceeding, I would like to ask
some of you deep thinkers why the rail broke ?
Could Simon Greene have “willed” that rail
to break, thus bringing this great calamity
upon me because I would not ride with him?
Sister says pride goes before a fall, but I
wasn’t feeling proud; on the contrary was
quite contented and humble, as I meandered
in the gloaming. Of course, I was glad I
wasn’t riding with Simon, but there was
nothing haughty connected with that feeling.)
With a wild shriek I went down and the
waters closed over me. It wasn’t very deep,
but deep enough, as you will perceive, to take
the starch out of me, even dampening and
spoiling the blue streamers I had let loose at
my throat to enhance my personal appearance.
I imagine I must have felt something after
the manner of the cow in the mire and the
horse in the burning building, for I lost all
hope and just sat there in the creek. Thomas
finally, after I had gurgled a time or two that
I was drowning, jumped into the water and
tried to prevail upon me to rise, but as one of
whom all hope is bereft, I refused to stir. I
told him I should probably sit there all night.
And why not? when my best frock was a
hopeless muck and disappointment like great
billows had overwhelmed me?
The big owl in the sycamore some paces
away, tuwhooed dismally and the little frogs
A MOTHER’S DUTY.
Your daughters are the most p»
cious legacy possible in this life.
The responsibility for them, ant
their future, is largely with you.
The mysterious change that develops
the thoughtful woman from the
thoughtless girl, should find you on
the watch day and night.
As you care for their physical well
being, so will the woman
be, and so will her children
be also.
Lydia E. Pink ham’s
“Vegetable
Compound ” is the sure reliance in this
hour of trial. Thousands have found
it the never-failing power to correct
all irregularities and start the woman
on .the 6ea of life with that physical
health all should have.
Womb difficulties, displacements and
the horrors cannot exist in company
with Lydia EL Pinkham’s Vegetable
Compound.
along the bank kept wailing “I’m sorry” in a
way that was pathetic in the extreme. It was
better to have their sympathy than nobody’s.
I felt that I was getting none from sister and
Thomas. I was sorry, too; I felt like crying,
which I did, copiously, mingling my tears
with the cool limpid water as it swished and
gurgled along on its way to the sea.
Meanwhile, Thomas was wading disconso
lately around in the creek. I felt that he was
swearing at me to himself. I was even
wicked enough to hope that sister might
lose her temper there before him, but she
was sweet as peaches, even calling me dearie,
a thing she had never been known to do be
fore nor since. Finally, I heard a buggy
coming, and fearing it might be Simon and
that he might discover my plight and offer to
carry me home, I rose hurriedly to my feet
and clambered up the bank, leaving Thomas
to follow in my wake.
This creek has been ditched and the banks
are quite high and steep. I am considered
rather an expert at doing difficult things, but
I found it no easy matter to get up that bank.
And Thomas, though unencumbered by
clinging skirts, had more trouble than I.
Once, when a bottom-wood bush gave way
and precipitated him back in the water, I
thought I heard him say something under his
breath. I won’t be positive, though; it might
have been a groan.
After the buggy (which wasn’t Simon’s)
had passed, I told sister and Thomas to go on
to the party, that I could go home by myself
—it wasn’t more than a quarter of a mile.
But Thomas declared he would go nowhere
in such a plight. So we slowly turned our
footsteps homeward; sister exerting herself to
be cheerful and comforting, especially to
Thomas, who had fallen into a profound
melancholy.
As I laboriously wended my way up the
hill, the thought struck ire that I might help
Thomas out of his trouble. I remembered
that we had a pair of brother’s trousers at
home. Jl told Thomas if he would wear them,
he and sister could go to the entertainment
after all, which seemed to revive his sinking
spirits a bit. When we reached home I ex
plained matters to ma, who turned him loose
in brother’s room, telling him he was wel
come to anything he needed.
He and sister went off very happy indeed,
while I went to bed and dampened my pillow
with tears of disappointment.
Mary E. T.
Laurens, S. C.
When we strive to do the best we can, we
are sure to find that our best is beyond any
thing we had dared to .hope for.
The Tree of Knowledge.
A trial was recently made in Austria to
decide in how short a space of time living
trees could be converted into newspapers. At
Elsenthal, on April 17, at 7:35 in the morn
ing, three trees were sawn down. At 9:34
the wood, having been stripped of bark, cut
up and converted into pulp, became paper and
passed from the factory to the press, from
whence the first printed and folded copy was
issued at 10 o’clock. So that in one hundred
and forty-five minutes the tree had become
newspapers. The age of miracles is not past.
—Westminster Gazette.