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THE SUNNY SOUTH.
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Woman’s Page and Work of the Household Continued.
crutches—will hurt me all my life, and
*'•11 understand how that has tied my
hands somewhat. Now that she is im
proving I have time to renew old inter
ests, hut mirth comes with scarcely the
old zest. However, this trial has taught
me much, and I am glad of the depths in
my nature which have responded to the
need. Then came the time when “from
the weary rounds of a busy life I was
shaken out of my place" from illness, and
this taught me another lesson. But aside
from that it gave me time for a little re
creation. a mental relaxation of which I
was sorely in need. Just think of it! I
read a book through, something I have
not been able to do for months, and you
never could guess what it was. What in
deed but “Vanity Fair." Never mind
wondering "where I've lived all my life,”
I had never read it. and now I am almost
sorry I did. Not but that the literary
style is excellent. Inimitable, unlike any
thing one finds in any other classic, but
somehow it made me sorry for human
nature. I hate to believe that there are
people as brutally scheming as Becky
Sharpe, as blindly inane as Amelia, or as
weakly selfish as George. I shocked my
self by admiring Becky more than I did
Amelia with her weak, goody goody ways
and her stupid devotion to a shadow,
while she slighted the love of the one
worthy man of her acquaintance. Poor
old Dobbin! I shed oceans of tears over
his troubles—a. great, true heart like that
to waste itself so! But there is waste
love in life and always will be, I suppose,
grieve over it as we may. Probably
there is not a character in the book but
has its counterpart in real life, and that’s
the pity of it—that's just what made me
sorry. We are all of us so weakly hu
man, and yet there are moments when
each may rise to heights of sublimity. If
we could only stay there long enough to
get acquainted, to homestead it, as it
wore.
But one joy the winter has brought me
unmixed with any regret—a better ac
quaintance with Emerson and an intro
duction to the great word painter. Bus
kin. I had known Emerson slightly be
fore, but through a friend I grew to know
and appreciate him to the fullest. Rus-
kin's “Crown of Wild Olives" has opened
a new world to me, and I stand on the
threshold exalted and wondering. To be
sure, he has a tantalizing habit of start
ing out with what we consider a false
premise and reasoning so logically that
we find ourselves unconsciously agreeing
with him. But then he is so earnest and
withal so true that he charms me as few
other writers have done. I am very
much interested in following the doings
of the Book club, and the only balm to
my regret that I am not a member is the
sweet fact that I was invited to become
one. If only my time were not so lim
ited! But I am glad the little mother has
devoted space to it so that I may have
the pleasure of reading the criticisms. Of
the books so far discussed, I have read
“Marcella" and “A Bow of Orange Rib
bon.” “Marcella” I care less about than
any other of Mrs. Ward's books I have
read. I like her earnestness, her inten
tions, but somehow she never seems to
arrive anywhere. She starts out so well,
she presents evils to us in so sympathetic
a manner that we are fired with anxiety
to correct them, to throw off the yoke of
injustice fastened upon us by society, but
she never shows us how to do it, and our
last state is nearly as bad as the first.
“A Bow of Orange Ribbon” was interest
ing, but it didn't impress itself on my
mind as did that other book of Mrs.
Barr’s, "Jan Vedder's Wife.” That has
something in it to remember, a gauge by
which to measure self, and I think aH
wives especially should read it.
How good the little mother is to us to
give us so much space, and aren't we
having just the nicest times all to our
selves lately! It seems so cosy in our
household that no wonder they all came
back—the Kitsie we had missed so long,
the Golden Gossip we had thought we
lost, the Maggie Richard and Earnest
Willie we can't get along without. Oh,
and our spicy Musa Dunn, our dreamy
Dolores, sunshiny Samoth and that
naughty boy, Eugene. By the way. Eu
gene, what are you doing with Maude
Estelle’s heart? Don't you know that
little, boys shouldn’t have anything unless
they ask for it real pretty? And so val
uable a plaything as a heart she had al
ways fancied should remain quietly in its
hiding place until some would-be posses
sor earnestly pleaded that it be trans
ferred to his keeping in exchange for the
pure gold of his own. What have you to
say for yourself, Eugene? May Phillips
Tatro, I am so glad you are getting bet
ter and that you come to us so often. I
see your name in other periodicals often,
and immediately I feel a sense of sweet
proprietorship in that magazine, for do
you not belong to us by right of love?
And Minnie Eee Arnold is hack again, not
to stay away so long again I hope.
And now I am going after having tired
you all out. But you see, my long silence
demanded a long letter. If I make my
future silence in proportion to the length
of this letter you will hear from me again
about next Christmas or later. Goodbye,
MAUDE ESTELLE SMITH.
Pontiac, Mich.
A TRIP TO CANADA.
A Householder Writes Interestingly of Her Trip Into
the Queen’s Domains and Beautiful Toronto.
Dear Household: In fulfilling my prom
ise to you, to tell of some of my rambles,
I also make good a promise, in this ar
ticle, made to other friends. But I have
hesitated about putting my thoughts be
fore The Sunny readers, for I shall try
to tell you of things that the most bril
liant pens of two continents have beg
gared language in describing.
In my simple way, will give you my im
pressions of this visit across the states.
It was clear across, too, and the longest
way there, for I live in one of the gulf
states. When a Canadian or one from an
extreme northern state, found out that I
was from a gulf- state, there was the
liveliest interest manifested and many
questions put to me. And I, so proud of
our noble Southland, could almost feel
myself grow taller, as I told them of the
incomparable south.
The City of Toronto.
In Toronto my party was delightfully
domiciled on Jarvis, one of the prettiest
streets in the city. When our hostess, an
elegant English woman, learned that we
were from the states, she said: “O, yes,
you are Yankees!”
This did not ruffle me, however, as I
knew- she was “innocently guilty.” Then
I explained the difference to her. * * *
We all fell in love with the people of
Toronto. They are charming and did
everything in their power to make our
stay among them one of continued pleas
ure. They are so courteous and thought
ful and not at all like the usual English
man.
Wish I could describe Toronto to those
who haven't seen it. so they could get at
least a good idea of it. I have visited
about half of the largest cities in the
states, but with the exception of Wash
ington. have never seen any half so
beautiful as Toronto. In the first place,
it looks like one vast flower garden. Then
the grass is so green and the streets are
so clean, is it any wonder the people are
joyous and happy?
The principal streets are solidly paved
with asphalt, and are cleaned with elec
tric sweepers twice a day. The pavements
are elevated six inches and broad enough
for four to walk abreast. One could go
out walking or driving and come back
fresh and clean as far as any flying dust
was concerned. There wasn’t any.
It did seem to me that I never saw a
city so chock full of places of vivid inter
est. Our cities are pretty much alike;
but Toronto is essentially English, and
being so different from ours, made the in
terest greater. I had seen the three larg
est museums in the states, but when I
had rambled through the one at Toronto,
I realized that I had been in a museum in
every way worthy of the name. It is per
fectly marvelous the millions of curious
things that are collected in that huge
building, and some of them must date
back to the year 1. Instead of a month
in Toronto, one should have a month for
the museum.
Then there is that magnificent library,
and the many public buildings that are
built on so grand a scale. But the parks
and the horticultural gardens filled my
soul with rapture. Yet I can not say that
these are one bit prettier than the ones
at Washington, D. C.
Of all my trip across the states, I be
lieve I enjoyed most the skim over Lake
Ontario on one jf those splendid steel
clad steamers made especially for the
lake trade. There are three of these
steamers. Our party took passage on the
Corona, licensed to carry 3,000 passengers.
My desire to see and learn carried me
pretty well all over the steamer. I knew,
too, that the best way to avoid sea-sick
ness was to keep on my feet and be in
the stirring air as much as possible.
I had not forgotten what a cousin of
Everyone knows the ex
pense and annoyance of lamp-
chimneys breaking.
Macbeth’s don’t break; and
they make more light.
Write Macbeth Pittsburgh Pa
mine said of herself when she crossed the
Gulf of Mexico, and mal-de-mer attacked
her. At first she was afraid she was go
ing to die; then, as she became sicker,
didn’t care if she did die, and finally she
prayed to die.
I am most grateful that it was my priv
ilege to enjoy this skim across the lake,
both going and returning. Coming back,
tve had a tiny squall. This was interest
ing! A friend and I (mbea to thj up
permost deck and then it was more inter
esting! I thought several times we would
be swept from our feet. Ah! but it was
grand!
Niagara Falls.
Now, indeed, I hesitate. Ever since my
first geography, when I saw a picture in
that little book, of Niagara Falls, I have
longed to see it in reality. That dream
was realized on the Canadian trip. My
first hour at these Falls was disappoint
ing. It was simply too immense to be
taken in quickly. But as the beauty and
grandeur of this mighty wonder, grew
upon me. it became all and more than my
fancy had pictured. The rush of the
mighty waters never grows tiresome,
either to eye or ear, and as 1 stood there
that first day, there was a wish in my
heart that I might live within the sound
of those waters as long as I was on this
sphere. It had a soothing effect upon me;
and yet—when I gazed upon the mighty
force of those waters, wondering when it
came, and to what it was tending, a wild
longing to understand it all made me turn
nervously away and close my eyes.
Its very indeserihableness puzzled me.
There is no pen—there are no words—
that can give a true picture of this great
waterfall, that Canada and the states
both claim.
The royal gorge of the Niagara was as
grand in its way, as the Falls. An elec
tric car line runs from Hotel Imperial—
our stopping place—to the wharf at Lew
iston, where one takes steamer down the
river and across Lake Ontario. A road
bed has been cut out of the rock so high
it is impossible to see the ton from ob
servation cars. The river is very turbu
lent all the way till just before Lewiston
is reached.
This route is considered one of the wild
est and most picturesque views on the
globe. What is known as “Whirlpool
Rapids" begins not far from the Imperial,
and is the wildest thing I ever saw in the
shape of water.
Now listen, friends, and try to see it as
I saw it, As the waters rush over the
rock bed of the river, they seem to come
from opposite directions. As they rush
together, the force is so great that the
water is dashed into the air, falling back
as spray. The Whirlpool proper is a great
circular basin and the waters are highest
in the middle. This, of course, is caused
by the fierce rocks beneath. The waters
rush cross ways to the opposite bank,
which, by the way, is 350 feet high. Here
there is a parting of currents. One great
eddy sweeps backward while another
turns in another direction, which is, itself
divided, a portion of the water going one
way, and the other turning hack, form
ing another eddy; and thus it goes on for
ever. It makes you dizzy to watch it, yet
the picture is so fascinating, that you
don't want to take your eyes away. The
conductor had the car to stop a few
times, that we might the better see. O,
it was grand!
But I'm not satisfied with my visit to
Niagara Falls. “Some sweet day I will
wander back again,” and that “some day”
shall be in winter. I want to see that
mighty wonder done up in ice. Then I
will be satisfied. ITALIE.
P. S.—Shall I come hack some time and
tell you my impressions of Mammoth
Cave?
Say! Householders, how am I ever to
let you know how much I love that little
blue-eyed Hubbard of ours? Every time
I say anything nice about her. she puts
her pencil through it. That isn’t fair,
is it?
Did you all see what Italic said on edi
torial page of March 11—about The Sun
ny’s silver anniversary? I wish you would
tell me if you think it a good idea. Think
seriously about It, now. I do hope the
idea will grow Into a grand success.
ITALIE.
WITH THE POETS.
AN OLD-FASHIONED SHIVOREE.
To James Whitcomb Riley, In apprecia
tion of Child Rhymes, presented Jan-
uard 14, 1899.
If your hearing sense appreciates a mu
sic nice and sweet,
That enraptures all your being from your
head down to your feet.
That awakens your heart’s slow throbbing
like the tingle of old wine.
With pulsations wild and thrilling that
are more than half divine,
You will say my estimation’s good, and
suits you to a T,
When I speak about a regular old-fash
ioned “shivoree.”
With these words of explanation and the
stream of fancy loosed.
It seems that I am back again, and once
more introduced
To the days of old affection when my life
was gay and young.
When I was active as a cat and very
glib of tongue;
The days were golden apples then in sil
ver pictures sweet.
And all my anxieties were Just to sleep
and eat;
But I forgot my subject, as these feel
ings come to me.
What was it? Yes; a regular old-fash
ioned “shivoree.”
My memory slips the halter, and my wife
she often ties
A string around my finger when she sends
for her supplies
For the kitchen; hut it seems tonight, my
eyes no longer dim
Can see the stars of years ago, the new
moon fine and slim.
That shone on Wagsley’s meadow that
October night when we
Went trudging for a regular old-fashion
ed “shivoree.”
There was hint of winter in the breezes
blowing chill.
And all the world it seemed was wrapped
in slumber deep and still.
Except, when with regretful sobs, the
autumn wind went by.
Or when in distant woods the owl awoke
his boding cry;
We struck across the country, in a sort
of Indian-file,
We skirted by the thicket and then cross
ed the broken stile;
No explorers climbed the mountains, nev
er sailors stemmed the sea,
With the spirit of our regular old-fash
ioned “shivoree.”
Lafe Someby had a gallon can, a “rosom-
ed” string fixed to it.
For any idea of the sound you'd have to
hear him do it;
But when his dusty glove would slip
along that sticky string.
The sleeping hills for miles around with
echoes sharp would ring!
Nate Larkins had a- cow-bell fastened to
a leather strap,
And every time he'd give a step the
string would likely wrap
Around his leg! Such sounds and sights,
I never hear nor see.
As when we took a regular old-fashioned
“shivoree.”
Horee Sidles? W»!l, T reckon-so! ar.5
when the boys played,
It seemed the mules for miles around in
highest key had brayed;
And pans and guns and sleigh bells, but
there never was a mouse
That crept along more softly than we did
up to the house;
It makes me seem a boy again, way back
there, Ge-mi-nee!
The racket of a regular old-fashioned
“shivoree.”
Lafe Someby gave his “rosomed” string
a pull, and some one shot
A horse-pistol, how it cracked! and then
the entire lot
Of bells and bugles, conch shells and rat
tle traps, such a noise!
All joined in the chorus of “Now give
it to them, boys.”
It is Harve Hankins’ wedding that is
specially in mind;
A fellow with a fainter heart would be a
task to find.
He'd courted for full fifteen years, and
mustered courage then
To lay his ease before her; this we cele
brated when
We marched across the turnip patch,
around the house, and he
Looked out upon our regular old-fashion
ed "shivoree.”
The door was swung wide open, and each
fellow found a seat;
The old man said, “The wind is sharp, so
boys here's a treat.”
There was cider in a pitcher, there were
applies smooth of skin
That he passed with the injunction, “Ev
ery fellow now pitch in.”
And pockets! Hank had not enough to
hide his hands away,
He just backed up against the wall with
out a thing to say!
And Bethy in the corner sat and held
one of the girls
Was musing kindly sober with her rib
bons and her curls.
And trying to look dignified, but some
how smiles v. ould creep
Around her mouth, when she would look,
where eh.v as any sheep
Now stood her lord and master who was
still her loving beau
With face like a transgressor in the
stocks of long ago!
We cracked some hickory nuts, and had
some taffy! Such a time
Would baffle eloquence to tell, and any
how my rhyme
Is getting something like my step, and
plods along quite slow.
They both had music in them in the day
whose fading glow
Is shining in the heavens as a prelude
to the night.
Where soon eternal stars will rise to greet
my longing sight;
But I know when I shall waken to the
angels' Jubilee,
I shall recall our regular old-fashioned
“shivoree!”
—ALONZO L. RICE.
A LATER LUCILE.
born to nurse
And to soothe, and to solace, to help and
to heal
The sick world that leans on her. This
was Lucile.”
—MEREDITH.
I have read on the page of Lucile
Of a woman's devotion and worth.
But I never had hope yet to feel
I would meet one Just like her on earth
She was pure in her worth as the snow
On the top of the mountain, or yet
As the flower but yesterday blown.
And by kisses of dewdrops still wet.
’Mid perplexities keeping her course.
With a trust that was wont to endure,
Not alone by a meaningless force,
But demeanor so lovely and pure.
And so when the world would oppose
And a shade on her pathway was cast,
She would bend like the delicate rose
To arise when the tempest was past.
Or resembling the lily, her heart
Was too full of the burden and heat,
And must wither, its grace to impart.
Or be crushed by the merciless feet.
And moreover resembling the flower
That is rifled and nipped by the frost,
With its odor surviving the hour,
Notwithstanding its beauty is lost.
So her grace and her beauty still lives,
Where no shadow can cross nor conceal,
And a new inspiration it gives
To a later and fairer Lucile.
And so may your life as a stream
In the sunlight of heaven still flow.
And rejoice undisturbed in the dream
Which the present has blessed you to
know.
As the moon to the star at her side
An existence devotes on all nights,
Will you give (to be taken with pride)
A remembrance to him who thus writes?
—ALONZO L. RICE.
THE SPOILER.
(Af.’civ *>/? manner of Rudyard -V.ipling.)
'“A* tv **,f jq' mere was and she wrote for
the press
(As you or I might do).
She told how to cut and fit a dress.
And how to make many a savory mess,
But she never had done it herself, I
guess,
(Which none of her readers knew).
O the hour we spent and the flour we
used.
And the sugar we wasted like sand.
At the hest of a woman who never had
cooked,
(And now we know that she never could
cook).
And did not understand
A woman there was, and she wrote right
fair,
(As you or I might do).
How out of a barrel to make a chair,
To he covered with chintz and stuffed
with hair,
’Twould adorn any parlor, and give it an
air!
(And we thought the tale was true).
O the days we worked and the ways we
worked.
To hammer and saw and hack.
In making a chair in which no one would
. sit.
A chair in which no one could possibly
sit
Without a crick in his back.
A woman -there was, and she had her fun,
(Better than you and I);
She wrote out receipts, and never tried
one.
She wrote about children—of course she
had none—
She told us to do what she never had
done,
(And never intended to try).
And it isn’t to toil and it isn’t to spoil
That brims the cup of disgrace—
It’s to follow a woman who didn’t know
beans,
(A woman who never had cooked any
beans).
But wrote and was paid to fill space.
A BETROUSERED BIPED.
BY FERNANDEZ JACKSON.
If there is any one creature on the face
of this fair earth that is utterly and hope
lessly despicable, It is the betrousered
biped that thinks itself irresistible.
I make no mistake in the pronoun. Pray
let it stand. The best authorities sanction
such usage in speaking of all small and
puny creatures; and surely among these
we must class this flabby lump of ego
tistical contemptibility, which is beyond
question the puniest of the puny and the
smallest of the small.
It seems to be the current belief that
vanity and self-conceit are the natural
concomitant of beauty. This is true only
in part. The betrousered biped which
fancies itself irresistible is as a rule only
passably good looking, and often it is
positively ugly. Indeed Its attractions are
frequently so few and of a character so
feeble that one Is driven to the conclusion
that the puny organism must be afflicted
with a mild form of lunacy.
Behold it seated by the side of some
bright, pretty girl, its face wreathed in
vacuous smiles, its whole being aglow
with idiotic self- adulatio!n Can I ever
forget a scene of this kind I witnessed
one sunny April morning on the cars at
Wilmington? The girl—a perfect picture
of blooming youth, sparkling intelligence
and winsome beauty—was leaving the
city, and the biped had come down to see
her off. It had been simpering to her of
its many conquests in the domain of Eros,
and like Marianna in the moated grange
the young lady seemed a-weary.
I did not wonder at it. I myself felt as
if I were living in an atmosphere of
ipecac. The fatuous, beaming toad held
for me a certain sickening fascination.
In my misery I kept glancing back at it,
wondering by what sorry mischance it
had found a place among the sons of
men.
While I still wondered the young lady’s
forbearance seemed to have reached its
limit. With a smile of ironic sweetness,
she looked up at the biped, saying:
“Really, Mr. Jotaes. you should be la
belled dangerous. Some provision ought
to be made to protect ^he hearts of too
susceptible maids from such gallants as
you.”
“Aw—so? Why, may I ahsk?” fondling
the shadow of a mustache, and grinning
inanely.
"Why. don’t you realize that you are
daily committing a species of murder?
Have you no conscience—no pity for those
poor girls whose lives you are making
very nightmares of misery?”
“Aw, but how can I he’p it? It s not
my fault, don’tcherknow.” choking with
an agony of nauseating delight.
“Not your fault?” repeated the girl with
lifted brows. “Have you not been just
telling me that you made them all believe
you were in love with them and so suc
ceeded in winning their hearts?”
The fatuous grin broadened. The biped
rolled its eyes around the car as if good-
humoredly demanding of the passengers
the attention and admiration it felt was
Us due.
“Naw,” it said, "I didn’t say that. Miss
Glenn. I don't make love to the young
ladies. They—they—weally, you mustn’t
blame me for what I cahn’t he’p—Indeed,
you mustn't. Miss Glenn.”
“What!” exclaimed the girl. "Do you
mean to say that all those young ladies
gave you their love unsought?”
At this the toad's delight reached the
hysterical stage. Its grin expanded to
its ears. Its great colorless eyes swam In
moisture. It choked and swelled and
gurgled so alarmingly away down In its
throat that really I began to think we
should presently have an explosion.
“Aw,” it stuttered, “but you oughtn’t
to ahsk that, don’tcherknow. Only I
wouldn't make love to any girl unless I
meant to marry her. No, indeed. Miss
Glenn. I don't mean to be ewuel—I
wouldn’t cause pain if I could he'p it.
That would be ewuel, don’tcherknow.’’
I saw the girl’s face change. She look
ed sick—deathly sick No wretched lands
man in mid-ocean ever appeared more
utterly miserable, and I knew that vanity-
bloated toad was the cause.
“Will you get me a glass of water?"
she said faintly, adding, however, in a
stronger voice before he could rise: “No,
pray do not trouble yourself. I will get
it myself.”
With this she rose and left it.
Still grinning and twirling its little spec
tre of a mustache, it sat there awaiting
her return. Presently, however, it seem
ed to dawn upon it that she was linger
ing at the cooler an extraordinarily long
time. It turned and saw her standing
on the car platform, gazing intently into
space. The biped stared and began to
fidget. It hummed very softly an air from
a comic opera, and carefully arranged its
altitudinous collar and inflammatory four-
in-hand. Finally, as it seemed on the
point of rising and making for the door,
the girl came hurrying back.
“We are about to start, Mr. Jones.” she
said—as a matter of fact we were not
to leave under fifteen minutes—“and I
will not detain you longer. I am going to
take a seat on the other side of the car.
Thanks for coming down to see me off.
Good-bye.”
She spoke very courteously and bent
her young head with sweetest grace, but
the look of unspeakable contempt in her
glowing eves penetrated even the rhin-
ocerous hide of the creature before her.
It actually changed color and shrank from
her. It watched her take up her little
gripsack and move away to the further
end of the car, and its lips were dumb.
It cast a furtive look at the other passen
gers, and then slowly got upon its weak
ly spindle legs and turned toward the
door. Not once did it glance toward the
girl away down yonder near the opposite
entrance, but went sneaking out of the
crowded car. looking for once In its poor,
little, grovelling life as if it felt almost as
cheap as it really was.
And I—Lord forgive me!—I just wanted
to bite that little darling. I believe that
dainty peach-bloom cheek of hers would
have tasted delicious. I would have giv
en a small fortune if I could have only
made her understand how wildly, madly
happy she had made me.
As that was out of the question, how
ever, I had to content myself with sitting
there grinning Insanely, and occasionally
hugging myself in an access of unholy
glee.
ANY PERSON
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you should address. Write today.
TAX-DODGERSJN HAWAII.
Here are a few names taken at randon
from the delinquent tax list of Hawaii for
1S9S, as printed In one of the Honolulu
papers; Alapaki, Bila Alapai, Ah Kui,
Ah You, C. J. Ah Fat. Boo Sau Tong,
Bow Din, Doi, Ak Goo, lopeka. Ellen Ka-
haunaela, Lukia Kaholoholo, Liehulu
Keokalole, Kahakumakalanl, Not At and
B. So. The 'Ks'” take up three columns
of space, being three times as numerous
as the delinquents under any other letter.
A TALENTED WOMAN.
Press Opinions of a Daughter of the
South Who Gives Dialect
Readings.
That gifted Alabamian, Mrs. Henry
Gielow, who, as dialect reader and lec
turer, Is awakening the warmest enthu
siasm both north and south, has recently
given us that charming book, “Mammy's
Reminiscences.” In this volume of mono
logues. she interprets the plantation folk
lore, as it really was, and not as repre
sented by the minstrels of today. She re
produces the negro cabin speech, its mel
ody, its quaintness, its grotesqueness, its
underlying tone of pathos, its naturalness
—in short, she touches the dreamy old
plantation twilight with the wand of
genius.
The south can but feel proud of its tal
ented daughter, and Atlanta will give her
a cordial welcome the latter part of April.
Of her lectures and readings the northern
papers have many pleasant things to say,
as seen below:
The Troy (N. Y.) Chronicle says;
Mrs. Gielow is one of the rare enter
tainers who leave a feeling of genuine
regret when they have finished. She is
refined, and to the charm attributive of
the true southern woman has added the
happy faculty of talking the dialect of
the negro as it is spoken in the land of
which she knows. Her plantation lulla-
bys, song of the cotton pickers and camp
meeting songs were crooned in a way
that ought to shame the singer of the
average comic negro composition. She
can also tell a story well, never losing the
point, yet never pressing it. She credits
the audience with having wit enough to
find the joke without the aid of a chart
and compass. Would there were more
like her!
Plainfield (N. J.) Chronicle.
Of Mrs. Gielnw's impersonation it may
be said that the Monday Afternoon club
never had a pleasanter reminder of their
anniversaries. She combines with her art
all the traditional dignity and sweetness
of the southern woman native, and wins
her hearers easily. In the year past she
has brought her art, which is original
with her, to perfection, which has come
to be recognized by a long list of emi
nent divines and others of note in New
York and Brooklyn.
New York Herald, March 14, 1S97:
Mrs. Henry J. Gielow gave one of her
most successful readings Tuesday after
noon. when she delighted a large and
fashionable audience on the Heights with
her original dialect monologues. She was
received in most flattering fashion, and
when her first recitation. “Mam’s Little
Baby,” was rendered, the plaintive negro
dialect completely captured her audience.
Her other recitations were of the same
character-dialect monologues, which are
said to fully equal in their delicate humor
and pathos anything written by Thomas
Nelson Page or Harris, and, of course,
have the great merit of originality, as
they are all, as yet, unpublished, and used
by Mrs. Gielow solely for her reading.
Brooklyn Standard-Union :
The dramatic dialect reading given by
Mrs. Henry Gielow at Mrs. Russell's
Tuesday afternon was of exceptional in
terest and a crowning success to the un
dertakings of this gifted little southern
woman. The monologues and poems read
on the occasion were of her original com
position. and the accuracy of her dialect
and description of the darky character
simply perfect. The entire program was
most enjoyable, and her rendition of her
“Mammy's Reminiscences” and "Evening
on the Plantation” was inimitable.
New York Tribune, June 25, 1896:
Mrs. Gielow is one of the most promi
nent members of the Southern society of
Brooklyn, and her recitations and negro
dialect are perfect.
CRITICISM.
This practice is much more common
than is imagined. In the picture gallery
and the museum, in the library and the
lecture-room, in the church and the the
atre, we continually hear the worthless
criticism of people who do not under
stand what they are talking about. Be
cause a man can read he feels at liberty
to criticize each author he takes up.
however dense may be his ignorance of
the subject treated. The invalid's friends
often criticise the methods of the physi
cian without having the least comprehen
sion of them. In the same way the par
ent often criticises the teacher, age criti
cises youth, friends criticise each other,
without any adequate knowledge of each
other's motives, abilities, character or cir
cumstances.
CONFIDENCE
HELPS TO
CURE
O NE reason Mrs. Pinkham’s treatment helps women so
promptly is that they have confidence in her.
Through some of the many thousands of Mrs. Pink-
ham’s friends an ailing woman will be led to write to Mrs.
Pinkham at her home in Lynn,
Mass., and will tell her symptoms.
The reply, made without charge of
any kind, will bear such evidence
of knowledge of the trouble that
belief in her advice at once inspires
hope.
This of itself is a great help.
Then the knowledge that women only see the letters asking
for advice and women only assist Mrs. Pinkham in replying
makes it easy to be explicit about the little things that define
the disease.
Mrs. Eliza Thomas, of 634 Pine St., Easton, Pa., writes:
“ Dear Mrs. Pinkham—I doctored with two of the best
doctors in the city for two
years and had no relief until I
began the use of your remedies.
My trouble was ulceration of
the womb. I suffered
something terrible, could
not sleep nights and
thought sometimes that
death would be such a
relief. To-day I am a w^ll
j woman, able to do my
own work, and have not
a pain. I used four bottles
of Lydia E. Pinkham’s
Vegetable Compound and
three packages of Sana
tive Wash and cannot
thank you enough for the
good it did me. ”
Mrs. M. Stoddard,
Box 268, Springfield, Minn.,
writes:
“Dear Mrs. Pinkham—For
about four years I was a great sufferer from female troubles. I
had backache all of thetime, no appetite, pains in stomach, faint
ing spells, was weak and my system was completely run down.
I also had falling of womb so bad that I could scarcely walk
across the floor. After taking two bottles of your Vegetable
Compound and one box of Lozengers, can say I am cured- ”