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THE SUNNY SOUTH.
An August Sprite.
Her eyes are golden bright,
Her hair is waving light —
This sun-born summer sprite;
Her robes are dazzling gleams,
Shot with transient moon beams,
Her crown a wreath of dreams
From the flower of noon.
She waltzes to the tune
Of drowsy insects’ endless croon;
Her magic wand star-tipped,
From cloudless night-skies slipped,
Her month rose-red and odor-lipped.
Wherever she goes, I go—
Her kisses fall like flakes of snow.
Dissolving in the heart’s deep glow.
She loves; I too surrender
To August’s regal splendor;
And even scorn grows tender,
Bathed in the mystic blue;
E’en passion fades its hue,
And wordless lovers sweetly woo.
Golden Gossip.
The question, “Would a marriage with any
of those early sweethearts whom we loved
so fervently, have proved more congenial
than the one contracted in later years?” leads
into a veritable labyrinth.
Poets, philosophers, humorists, have all
had a masterpiece on the subject of youthful
fancies. The poets have idealized first
loves, and have in their poems done what
they seldom do in life, have been true to
those early loves ; philosophers have proved
to their hearts’ content, and left the subject
as they found it, while the humorists have
oftenest made the angel of those early days
a grotesque old woman, and have given
thanks that kind fate severed their tangled
heartstrings.
The brightest gems in the crown of poesy
have been inspired by those early loves, yet
“whom first we love we seldom wed,” has
become a self-evident truth. Still the tender
peace, the glorious halo of those early days,
seldom leave the heart that has once in-
shrined them. A friend sends us a flower,
maybe it came from the garden at home, and
it is an inspiration for a day, perhaps, then
you open a drawer in your desk and carefully
place it among your stamps and stationery.
The beauty fades; as an ornament it is most
decidedly below par, but it seems like in
cense on the altar of memory long after the
leaves have become crisp, unsightly little
specks.
Men and women sneer at those loves of
adolescent days; but, if we could turn a
cathode light upon the “inner chamber,” we
would find cherished memories of dear, dead
days, vtfhen the earth seemed made for love
and lovers. “All the world loves a lover,”
we are told. Why? Isn’t it because the
world has not forgotten that just such heart
episodes have kept it fresh and young? Me
thinks it is that way. And right here, comes
the question concerning the feasibility of
these first loves marrying. There are many
notable examples of happiness resulting fiom
such unions, and there are other minds too
miniature to receive firm impressions of truth
and constancy; this class may never develop
into anything worth mentioning, and it may
be these very creatures that create so much
heart-misery in the world.
Have we lost ourselves in the labyrinth ?
Well, there are many ways of loving, as you
have learned to know.
People, like books, can be divided into
three classes. We have the handsomely
bound people, who are nice figure-heads.
They ornament your parlors, add to the ap
pearance of your dinings and show off your
handsome carriage and horses. But you
would as soon think of going to your bisque
figures on the mantle as to one of this sort
for solace in time of care.
Next, comes the people for the hour, pure
and sweet they may be, but as unsubstantial
as marshmallows. A little of such company
goes a long way.
And now comes the people you can turn to
at any time, and be entertained, comforted,
counseled as your spirits may demand.
Don’t you know such people? It strikes us
that when one of this kind is found unmar
ried, and the world is full of such men and
women, whether it be first sweetheart or
tenth, grapple him, or her, to thy soul with
God’s hooks of steel—the marriage ceremony.
* * * *
From these remarks, don’t infer that all
good looking folks are shallow, all lively,
small-talk chatterers simply for the hour,
or that all “dependable” people are ill-
favored.
Away back yonder, when I read the Sun
day-school literature, the good girl was
always homely and the bad boy invariably got
punished; but times have changed, or those
minds who furnished books for the young,
knew not the true state of affairs, one or the
other, for I know lots of bad children even
unto this day and generation, living and do
ing well. I, also, know scores of women,
faultlessly beautiful in form and features,
that make good wives and mothers.
But I will contend that true culture, sweet
self-forgetfulness, and sympathy for the
world, will not let any one be ugly; no mat
ter what sort of face they claim. The soul,
shining through the palest eyes, will give a
luster that is not to be counterfeited. While
kindliness of heart and gentleness of manner
will make any kind of nose “just right.” At
least, that’s the honest opinion of
Lizzie O. Thomas.
Boasting of Conquests.
Dear Householders: I read Maggie Rich
ards’ “Old (?) Maid’s Musings” with much
interest. I am with her on the “divorce
question,” and can not help thinking that the
increasing number of divorces that are being
granted every year is a menace to the purity
of our nation.
When we stand at the marriage altar and
pledge ourselves to one another “for better or
worse,” we should remember that life can
not be all sunshine, and that by and by, the
storms will be sure to come. Often we may
feel ourselves stricken to the dust by the
great disappointments that come into our
lives, yet, we should place our hand in that
of our Heavenly Father and trust him to
guide us.
The mother who loves her children as she
ought, and honors the name of woman as she
should, will bear much ere she will disgrace
either by dragging them through the mire of
a divorce court. Yet, when I look around me
and see the manner in which many pure and
noble women are treated in their homes, I
almost wonder that there are not more sepa
rations, if not divorces.
Nowhere, is the same standard of purity
granted to woman and man. My brother
may do many things and lower himself in the
estimation of but few, but should I dare to
swerve ever so little from the path of recti
tude, my best friends would turn their backs
upon me, and none offer a hand to help me
back to the height from which I had fallen.
As Maggie Richards says, it must be
humiliating indeed, especially to the woman
who was independent before marriage, to be
compelled to ask for every cent the husband
gives her, and then give an account of how
each one has been spent. Many wives do not
have, in the course of a year, one-tenth the
amount of money that is paid the cook.
Often this is the result of thoughtlessness
on the part of the husband, but he should
learn to be more thoughtful. Surely the work
she does for him and his children, the bright
ness she brings to his home and the sweetness
and purity of the love she gives to him are
worth something. ’Tis true he gives to her,
or ought to do so, his protection and love,
but she deserves a little more, and had it in
her father’s home. .
Now, a word to those who, like myself,
have not yet taken the responsibilities of mar
ried life: I’ve heard girls boast of the love
they had gained. She is not worthy the name
of woman who will deliberately trifle vit
the honest affections of anyone. It is not
possible in every case to return that love; but
you can, at least, be true to yourself and your
womanhood. And the man who will seek a
woman’s love, and then, when he has giined
it, casts her aside, is worse, if possible, than
the woman who does it.
“Love is of man’s life a thing apart,
’Tis a woman’s whole existence.”
“As we sow so shall we reap,” therefore,
a bitter harvest must be in store for those
who seek to gain hearts, but for the pleasure
of casting them aside.
With best wishes for every member of our
Household, I am,
Sincerely,
Caryl Mather.
SMILES.
Dear Mother Hubbard : Like Tennyson’s
brook, “I’ll make a sudden sally,” and ask
permission to spend the few leisure moments
of an old bachelor’s life in gentle company,
for I notice that most of the Household’s
sweeping and dusting is done by the fair sex.
But, just let me in and I will climb up on
the step-ladder while the hubbub is going on
below—watching time fly on rosy pinions,
dropping sands of gold, ah !
Somehow, the alluring smiles of the little
mother, and her children at the reunion last
October, invites me for you know old bache
lors are proverbially timid or is it according
to Mary E. T? Anyhow, I am here, like we
were at the reunion, if not strictly in it, kin
to some one who is, who was, or who will be.
That is why the failure of the Houshold
created such a panic. Why, Wall street has
never experienced'a greater one. Everybody
who didn’t write to the page was related to
some one who did, and so the chain was
forged that bound our only first-class literary
weeky so firmly to the hearts of the Southern
people. Now, that the bonds are once more
afloat, may I invest?
I won’t deny but that I’ve wanted to,before
but, alas, I was afraid there was too much of
me to put in a corner. A few months on the
road has reduced me “cheek” and “jowl,” so
that you can quite conveniently keep me
under your thumb, so to speak.
I enjoy reading the letters, one and all.
There were a few paragraphs in Maggie Hen
derson’s which indicated that she was very
“blue,” or else habitually looks on the wrong
side of life. And it makes me sad when she
says:
“For what are we living? Our work keeps
us tied to it, and the world is no better for
our presence.”
Oh, Maggie, dare you say the world is not
any richer for your presence? Did you ever
think:
“This world’s just as we take it,
And life just as we make it.”
It is a parody on time to say we have not
time to make others happy. Production is the
law of life; therefore, what one produces, be
it ever so small, adds to the world’s growth,
thus, all work is blessed, and blessing.
Think deeper, Maggie, I give you good
cheer, casting rays of sunshine on the lives
of others, leaves a reflection on our own.
There is certainly some one out in the wide
world whom you could make better. An old
bachelor, for instance. As an afterthought,
like the old man, giving advice, I had better
add: “Don’t do as I do, but do as I say.”
By the way, Kitsie, I have fulfilled my
promise. See? Now, don’t bother that
curly head of yours trying to recall all the
promises made you in the last nine months,
or the promises you have made in that time.
Whew! couldn’t do it, could you ? But one,
Kitsie, only one. I enjoyed your story
“Aftermath.” It is made evident in the
course of the story, that cupid hath vagaries
like common folk. Quite soothing to an old
bachelor’s lacerated feelings to think that,
after the battle has been fought and the ene
my conquered, his rival will conveniently die
and leave the coast clear to the heart of his
old love. Better late than never, eh? Just
so, keep quiet, lay low, fate is in hiding
around a bend in the road.
Mary E. T., I like you, but you spoiled it
all by saying you had better taste when you
got older, or something to that effect. Don’t
mind my callous feelings. Oh, no, not for
the world, would I harrow yours.
Maggie Richards seems to think a widow
can marry whoever and whenever she pleases.
Allow me to differ with you. I don’t think
—for example—am I not an old bachelor?
And so, Irene doesn’t believe in massage.
I thought so, sensible. Hello, I thought you
said you had dropped the duster? Wait, I’ll
climb up a step higher and—drop the subject.
I did think I would write something about
the magic city, its summer resorts, mining
Baking Powder
A cream of tartar baking powder. Highest
of all in leavening strength.—patent Un ted
States Gov’t Food Report.
ROYAL BAKING POWDER CO., NEW YORK.
towns, etc., but there was so much in the air
that I only had one idea—to get down and
out, and call another day—when things had
calmed somewhat. But wait, I will leave
my card. I am what brother Will Colon
calls a “Knight of the Grip,” with a sympa
thetic heart and a second story imagination ;
although, at times, it has been drawn on
largely—to meet cases of emergency—and if
the mining towns of Tennessee and Alabama,
are not capable of furnishing emergency cases
with a vengeance, I’ll take my “speriences”
where they will be properly appreciated.
Gem, you have had enough sweethearts,
and to spare, and yet you say you want more.
What’s become of Zirline? I have a broth
erly feeling for him in his wanderings.
Smiles for tears, smiles for disappoint
ments, what can an old bachelor do but smile
his way out, as he smiled his way in, where
smiles are exponents of fraternal love.
Will Tom.
Birmingham, Ala.
Dear Georgia Hills.
Under the blue, sunny skies I find mysel f
reveling in and feasting upon the bright sun
shine, cooling zephyrs, and clear streams
flowing beneath these Georgia hills. Deep
in the labyrinths of human hearts, lies an
unspeakable, unfathomable appreciation of the
beautiful. What hallowed associations cluster
around the mountains
The soul is filled with the divinity of Cal
vary, of Sinai,and Pisgab, and wearied minds
involuntarily seek this refreshing scene, and
commune with nature, near to nature’s G*9»
At morning the silvery light throws a naio
over the flowery vales and the glistening
water at our feet dazzles the sight. We
glance upward to the sun-crowned hills that
catch the first and last reflection of the smile
of God, while the valleys and their sparkling
streams are sleeping in shadow. Ah, all
this glorifies the heart. A view of the
Georgian hills never suggests monotony, but
is artistically diversified by every shade of
green, from the almost invisible to the
richest and most intense. Over this is a
beautiful blue haze, giving a tone of delicacy
to the scene, and just veiling the cliffs banked
up from the water’s edge, and the rare broid
ery of the mountain vine, “in whose bosom
the wild rose slept,” climbed from crag to
crag with a clinging grasp, half hope, half
fear. These flowers of many harmonious
hues filled the air with the dewy freshness of
spring.
The clear, musical streams with the rich
blue of the heavens reflecting on their
bosoms, give rise to the thought, how much
beauty to the appreciative eye; how much
music to the listening ear; how much song
in the voice of nature and what sweet rest
among the rock-cliffed hills, the grassy vales
broidered in blossoming vines and forget-me-
nots, and how many lives are lifted from a
dull lethargy of despair by the clear note of
the morning song-bird. The homesick trav
eler is refreshed by a drink of cool water at
some crystal spring, he finds rest under the
rich foilage of green; his cheerless heart
beats with hope once more and his way seems
not so long and lonely.
Childhood stops in its morning play to
bathe its barefeet, and laughs to the music of
the splashing waters against the narrow shore
realizing nothing but the pleasure of its
innocent play.
Youth in pursuit of the finny tribe, spends
hours on the mossy bank, angling, compar
ing his future to the rapid water’s flow, not
knowing of the rocks ahead. Old age stoops
to bathe his fevered brow and sees his by
gone life mirrored in the reflective waters.
Ah, ’tis but a leaf on the stream and gone !
’Tis here the artist puts his soul into his
work; the poet weaves into song the more
delicate thoughts of purity and gentleness.
The heart of the musician is filled to over
flowing with the sweet vibrations of sound
echoed on the hills; his soul is turned away
from earth’s trivialities, and there seems but
a veil between his vision and the gates of
Paradise.
To appreciate the perfection of nature’s
studio, to be able to discriminate in the