Newspaper Page Text
SIXTH <PAGE
. J SUNNY SOUTH
AUGUST 30, 1902
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Woman’s Realm
Edited by Mrs
Thoug'ht and Home
Mary E Bryan
Talks on Timely Topics
FTEN we read that environ
ment has much to do with
the happiness of the hu
man being; but facts do
not aTways bear out this
‘theory. With the most
dreary and depressing sur
roundings, the Eskimo
race are the cheeriest of
people. The men are jolly
fellows, always ready to
talk in their own lan
guage oi in any other of
which they have picked up
three or four words. The women are
invariably kind, cheerful and good tem
pered. In the Philippine islands, on the
contrary, where nature smiles forever,
the faces of men and women are stamped
with sadness. The women are slender,
graceful and with inscrutable depths of
melancholy in their dark eyes.
WOMEN IN SCIENCE—ERMINNIE
SMITH.
One of the most brilliant successes in
Mexican archeological research has been
made by an American woman, Mrs. Zelia
Nuttall. She brought to light an ancient
Aztoc manuscript which had escaped the
k^en eyes of generations of leqrned li
brarians. These manuscripts, or picto-
graphs, are extremely rare. There are
only six others in existence.
This newly discovered one Is the best
preserved pictograph extant. It is paint
ed in many colors on a long, finely pre
pared strip of deer skin folded forty-two
times. There are thus eighty-four pages.
The picture writing, which modern arche
ologists are now able to decipher, de
scribes the warlike exploits of an Aztec
chieftain. What enhances its value is
that it was written before the conquest
of Mexico by the Spaniards. It was
probably one of the gifts of the cruelly
■wronged Emperor Montezuma to his con
queror. Cortez, and from Cortez it
reached Charles V of Spain.
Mrs. Erminnie Smith, late of New York
city, one of the most learned, great-
souled, lovable and lamented of women,
was the only woman ever appointed an
officer in the American Association for
the Advancement of Science. STie was
secretary of the section of anthropology
at the time of her death. She was also
the first woman elected “fellow” of the
New York Academy of Sciences. She
was deeply learned in ethnology, arche
ology and anthropology and had com
piled the only full Indian dictionary. She
was appointed by congress as a scien
tific explorer (with a large salary) for
the Smithsonian institution at Washing
ton and detailed to study the traits.
As in the days of used-to-be, where
memory' loves to range.
Oh, friends of now, you ne’er were known
had it not been for change.
—WILL WARD MITCHELL.
HOW JIM TOOK TO POETRY.
I've worked pretty dog-goned hard to
give my boys a start.
And the way they’re fixed in life is the
pride of my old heart.
Will, he’s a-tendin’ store; got reg’lar
business cares.
An’ Ebon's doin’ mighty good, a-farmin*
out on shares.
Hank's got a blacksmith shop—busy day
and night,
And John he stays at home and helps me
Jest all right.
But Jim! Oh, Lord, I’m shamed of that
there son.
I mistrusted he was cranky soon after
school begun.
He’d set there in the orchid alongside of
the brook,
Jes’ scribblin’ stuff, he called it verse,
and said ’twas for a book.
He writ about the summer time an’ writ
about lie spring.
And writ about the old oak tree and how
the thrushes sing.
And then about the babbling brook that
babbles on forever,
As If a brook was goln* to stop till it got
to the river!
He writ about the old saw mill, that “oft
lulled him to sleep,”
But to my thlnkin’ saw mill noise Is
’nough to make you creep.
He writ about the muley cow with “coat
as soft as silk,”
But Jim was nowhere round that cow
when it come time to milk.
Well, last year Jim he went to town jes’
fore it got right cold.
And (Jest to show you how them city
folks git sold)
That boy got all them verses printed in
a book.
An’ them city fools they bought ’em, an*,
as Jim says, “It jes took.”
An’ if that stuff could take, just think,
twould been immense
If he had writ on raisin’ hogs, or some
thin’ that had sense;
But you never could advise Jim sence
that idee he first got
To write what he calls poetry, but what
I says is rot.
—JOHN HAGARD.
HAVE WE A POET LAUREATE?
We have a host of minnesingers,
and not a few poets of deeper note, bi\t
is there one of these to whom the i»co-
ple all over this broad land accord recog
nition as their chief of singers? Have
we a poet of the nation, laureled by the
sovereign people instead of by the royal
court as in Mother England?
Recently (as a result of a New York
With the Household &
EAR Friends: I think our how much can be done, if you try aright.
habits and peculiarities of the Indian • newspaper contest for a prize awarded
tribes in the far west. She made her
home among these, and not only learned
their languages, but acquired a kindly
mastery over them. They loved and re
vered her and she taught them many en
nobling things.
“So much learning” did not make this
woman “mad” or pedantic. She was sim
ple and unconscious as a child In her
manners, and love and charity were the
rule of her sweet life. Being a sister
member of the New York club. Sorosis.
I knew her well, and saw Her in her
home among her boys, with whom she
had traveled abroad and studied science
In the German universities—little mother
and tall, manly sons in the same classes.
On the first anniversary of her death.
Lea & Shepard, of Boston, published a
beautiful memorial volume, to which a
number of her author-friends contributed.
As this is a poetical number of our
woman's page, I will be pardoned for
giving an extract from my own contri
bution to the memory of this great wom
an. of whom one has written: “Wher
ever her grand spirit dwells it is in full
regality of nature, crowned with power,
clothed with purity and girt with grace:”
*‘A soul like thine we know must be eter
nal.
Strong to inspire and quick to thrill
and warm;
It still must live, whether on shores su
pernal
Or reincarnate in some noble form
*‘We cannot know. Our souls thrill with
emotion
And yearnings high: *‘ct He we on
Time’s shore.
Shut in this mortal shell, while the great
ocean
Of mystery pulses round us evermore.
But even here thy spIHt is immortal;
It echoes like sweet music through our
days;
It beckons to' us from some mystic por
tal.
Through which stream on us clearer,
purer rays.
•‘It still sounds for us the keynote of thy
spirit—
Love for all things—love, strong to help
and save;
Love even for the sad races that inherit
Defeat and shame far by the -western
wave.
•’Oh! deathless soul of love and fire and
beauty.
Who faded from our sight one day in
spring.
As that sad day rolls round our loving
duty
Bids us dear memories and fresh flow
ers to bring.
•‘Votive to you! the thought of you
comes to us
Sweet as a breath of perfume mixed
with song
Blown from some tropic island where a
chorus
Of song and sweetness breathes the
whole year long.
And all life’s little cares fade In a vision
Of vast, wide splendor, safe from all
eclipse.
Where bright we see thy face in light
elvsian
And catch the smile of thy sweet, ten
der lips.”
A CHANGING WORLD.
The world, now it is changing! All the
faces that we knew
In the blue-eyed spring of . childhood,
where can they have vanished to?
But a passing space we left them; ere
the heralds of the dawn
Mounted half the hills of morning we re
turned to find them gone.
How the world is changing! You and I
are changing, too.
But the roses are as red today, the heart
of love as true
to the one who should send in the most
approved list of distinguished Ameri-
| cans) it was decided that Edward Mark
ham was the greatest American poet.
The people will hardly accept this ver
dict. Edward Markham, though he has
written better things, is known to the
public chiefly as the author of “The Man
With the Hoe”—that repulsive picture of
a field laborer, which is not great nor
even poetic, because It has no touch of
the ideal—no gleam of beauty to light up
its repulsiveness.
The “man” portrayed by Markham Is
a mere beast of burden, with not a hint
of the image of God about him. The
true poet would have found the hint or
turned from the object. The poet does
not show us the ulcers of humanity; he
does not pull down reeking structures to
show you how rotten they are. He
leaves this to the reformer. The poet,
too, is a reformer, but he does not do his
work by pulling down and making ugly
debris. He builds a fair ideal and calls
on us to conform our real to this.
But as to an American poet laureate.
We have none. If the question. “W^io is
our greatest poet?” were put to vote
there would be the widest diversity of
opinion. We never could agree upon a
national flower much less a national poet*
The south would wish to crown Frank
Stanton, whose lark-like songs are loved
by her people. He has sweetened with
his hopefulness, his mirth and his fancy
many a cup of daily toil. He is capable
of stronger and more sustained notes
than any he has yet given us, if only he
would take time to sound the depths of
his poetic power. He has brought up
more than one rare gem from deep mines,
but he scatters his prismatic crystals so
lavishly that there is danger of the
Jewels being lost In their bright profu
sion.
James Whitcomb Riley would perhaps
be the winning favorite in a vote as to
the most popular poet of this country,
but he would be close run by Ella Wheeler
Wilcox, who has the very warmest place
in the hearts of thousands of women and
many men in the union. She has won this
place fairly by taking pains to make the
most of her gift. Her broad, abounding
sympathies, the musical rhymth of her
verse and her faculty of clothing even
every day hackneyed truths in fair sing
ing robes that make them seem new—
compensates in great measure for her
lack of imagination and dramatic power.
But we have one living poet who has
sounded the gamut of poetic art from its
lowest to almost its highest chords, who
has written trifles light as air and poems
of imagination all compact. This is Joa-
j quin Miller, the singer of the Sierrus,
who, independent of cliques and critics,
scornful of time serving and social lion
izing. lives out his half-hermit life under
the blue skies of California and too rare
ly stops working in his vineyards and or
chards to thrill us with a song that Is
still full of strength and sweetness.
Joaquin Miller is purely American, al
most aboriginal. His magnificently dra
matic “Sioux Chief's Daughter” might
have been conceived by a red Indian with
a poet sJlil in him who had never looked
into a book. Yet, though Joaquin Miller
wrote “The Mothers of Men,” he Is not
popular with women and is little known
to the masses. He would never be chosen
as the American laureate, though one
fancies he might have fulfilled Lowell’*
semi-ooetlcal reunion (If
all goes well with it) will
be a success. Wc have a
variety of verse, and of
very good quality, I think,
don’t you? I would like to
particularize, but won’t.
Some of our readers may
not find so much verse in
teresting. There are per
sons who declare frankly
that they “can’t bear poet
ry,” just as there are per
sons who dislike music. You know what
Shakespeare said of the latter; shall we
apply it to those who dislike music's
filter art—poetry?
Certainly, there are persons who can
not comprehend the poetic form; cannot
understand measure and rhythm and
hardly rhyme. Yet these same persons
often love poetry just as some love mu
sic who can never learn it, having no
“bumps" of time and tune.
Poetry was my first love, rather my
second love; mv mother was the first.
But I loved poetry from the cradle, and
would listen to my mother read Mrs.
Hemars with thrills going through me
before I knew my A B C’s. I had read
Byron and Shelley when I ought to have
been absorbing only the second reader,
and I committed to memory every scrap
of magazine verse I could get hold of In
those days, when magazines were not
over plentiful in Florida country homes.
Some of these waifs and fragments still
float in my brain, and I wonder if any
°f you who have a scrap book may not
be able to “place" some of these derelicts?
Here is one that has in it the toll of old
monastery bells or the surge of waves
rolling up on a shore at midnight:
“Come swifter. Night, wild northern
Night,
Whose lcet the Arctic islands know,
Wbero stiffening breakers, wild and
white,
Gird the complaining shores of snow.
“Send all thy winds to sweep the wold,
And howl in mountain passes far,
And hang thy banners, red and cold,
Against the shield of every star.
“My spirit walks a wintry shore,
Withe ill a star to light its track.
Life s darkened orb shall wheel no more
To Love’s rejoicing summer back.”
Grand, isn’t it? I haven’t an idea where
the fragment belongs.
How many of you think, with me, that
Helen Hunt Jackson was our truest
(American) woman poet and that her last
poem, written two nights before she
died, in her prime in the lonely western
mountali.s, worn out by her noble efforts
to help the Indians, is the most touching
poem in the English language?
Exquisitely, subtly imaginative is her
poem, “At the King’s Gate”—particular
ly fine as a recitation.
X. P. Willis is a poet we ought never
to fergot (though hi- sister, “Fanny
Fern," called him a band box poet) for
he has written so many beautiful things
about women—portraits of them in every
phase. And yet he said of them that un
less they were Christians their charm
was evanescent.
“Oh, what is woman, what her smile.
Her lip of love, her eye of light?
What is she if those lips revile
The lowly Jesus? Love may write
His name upon her marble brow,
And linger in her curls of jet;
The light spring flower may’ scarcely
bow
Beneath her tread: and yet. and yet.
Without that meeker grace she’ll be
A lighter thing than vanity.”
There is another—an almost perfect
poem—wrlttei by N. P. Willis, which 1
would like to call to your remembrance,
because it bears so aptly upon a subject
being earnestly talked about in the House
hold—that of the unjust difference be
tween the treatment of erring women and
men equally sinful. The poem is only a
paragraph, called:
But you must first get right with God.
Get your soul full of love to Him and all
His creatures. Then you can see life, the
world and your particular corner of it
in right relations. I find that all I have
to do is to keep myself right. Then every
thing else rights itself.
I believe in prayer too, yes, with all my
soul. Many are the prayers I have had
direct answers to. Whenever I pray for
a spiritual blessing the answer comes
swift and sure. Is your life all In a
tangle? Are you perplexed, troubled,
afflicted? Then do turn to your Father
in child-like simplicity and faith and ask
Him for what you need. The Holy Spirit
Is yours for. comfort and guidance, if you
will ask for it.
I wish everybody could read “In Tune
With the Infinite,” by Ralph Waldo Trine.
I have found it to be an exceedingly help
ful book. John B. Alden, New York,
furnishes it for 95 cents. I think “Brother
Tom” would enjoy reading that book. He
has my sincere sympathy. I think he is
the greatest hero I ever heard of. A man
who can write as he does, afflicted as ho
Is, is every inch a hero. And he must
have compensations in his own soul.
Yes, and I want to tell the “Old Man”
that I believe in telepathy, too. I think I
have good reason for that belief. But I
war drama have passed over the divide.
Some who are still here may be able to
tell the true story. No harm can come
of it now. We will never again seek to
glorify ourselves with such a crown of
gems as were those splendid victories.
But a grander victory the south is win
ning, and will achieve, provided she does
not again cross the stream—the stream
of nature and blood that divides the
Anglo-Saxon from the dusky races. In
all that pertains to government and to
social life let the Anglo-Saxon permit no
affiliation with those of darker blood.
ONLY A PRIVATE.
Miami, Fla.
My Ladye’s Handkerchief.
You snow drift of muslin and lace fili
gree,
Joy, such as ’mong feminine things you
may see;
You are dainty and charming to a de
gree.
Coyly held in the pink palmtof my ladye.
So delicately white.
So airily light.
You are Just right
For so winsome a sprite!
Smelling of violets, fragrant and blue.
Freshly empearled with the crystalline
dew.
In a way that is charming as charming
can be,
You reveal the fine taste of my dainty
Ladye.
Women and the Home
Dear Lord. I ask not wealth or fame; cotta, burlap or cartridge paper or kal
MARTHA RUSSELL COLLIER,
A Virginia Beauty.
CONTINUED ON SEVENTH PAGE.
ON BROADWAY.
The shadows lay along Broadway,
'Twas near the twilight tide,
And slowly there a lady fair
Was walking in ner pride.
Alone walked she, but viewlessly
Walked spirits at her side.
Peace charmed the street beneath her
reet.
And honor charmed the air.
And all astir looked kind on her
And called her good as fair.
For all God ever gave to her
She kept with chary care.
She kept with care her beauties rare
From lovers warm and true,
For her heart was cold to all but gold
And the rlcn came not to woo.
Ah! honored well are charms to sell
When priests tne selling do.
Now. walking there was one more fair,
A slight girl, illy pale,
And she had unseen company
To make the spirit quail;
'Twlxt doubt and scorn, she walked for
lorn
And nothing could avail.
No mercy now can clear ner brow
For this world's peace to pray;
For, as love's wild prayer dissolved In
air
Her woman's heart gave way.
And the sin torgiven by Christ in heaven
Is cursed on earth alway. ,
Read my query In "Timely Talks:”
"Have we a poet laureate?" and tell us
what living American poet you would
give tne laurel to.
I have Just finished reading "A Speck
led Bird.” Mrs. Wilson's last book—a
record breaker In the matter of sales.
Next week 1 will tell you wha* I think
of It.
M. E. B.
Wo Make Our Own Fate.
It has been only a week since my last
call but again I feel moved to step In
among the Household for a chat on con-
gonial subjects.
I want to say, first, that I am a firm be
liever In the "new thought,” though I
don't like that name for it. It sounds "fad
dish" and It Is not adequately expressive.
The power of thought has been recog
nized by the illuminated ones of all ages.
"As a man thlnketh so is he.” say the
Scriptures, and from the immortal W il-
11am we have the following:
"There Is nothing either good or bad
But thinking makes It so."
It is not too much to say that our
thoughts make our lives. The expression.
"Thoughts are things," Is very truth. Be
careful how you live in your thought-
world. for that will determine your ex
ternal world. Would that every worn and
discouraged soul could realize this.
Are you out of harmony with your
environment? First, see to It that the
fault is not entirely in you. Get your
self right first. Then set about changing
your environment so far as it can be
done, and you will be surprised to And
must not get off on this subject, or my
letter will grow too long. Let me give
only this quotation from Tennyson, and
I'll wait and say he rest some other
time.
"Star to star vibrates light, may not
soul to soul
Strike then a finer element of her own?”
Julia Neely Finch’s letters are worth
reading. Won’t she please tell us where
to send for the book entitled "Magic
Seven?” I should like to read It.
EMMA RIDDLE.
Love—What Is It?
(Written by Request of Miss J. P. O.)
Of all the definitions
Of Love that books convey—
The fruitful ebullitions
Of minds both grave and gay—
Some style it all a fiction.
Some say 'tis an alP.icuon
And some, a benediction
To cheer us on our way.
The wit says, “An affection
Of the sentimental brain.
With chronic resurrection
In the case of every swain;
A spelling and a sinking
Of his heart and (I'm thinking)
A corresponding shrinking
Of his pocket book, amain.”
The cynic's mind suspects It
An empty name—no more—
A sprite that makes Its exit
AA’hen Want knocks at the door.
Friend of the great and wealthy,
The strong, the proud, the healthy.
That shuns, with step most stealthy.
The helpless and the poor.
The thinker and the poet.
And man of sterling worth.
Proclaim It as they know it,
The greatest thing on Earth;
Truo comfort fof the fearing,
Til grief a cup of cheering,
The tl.- that’s most endearing
And a r.ew ano better birth.
Is Love, then, merely pleasure,
As some essay to prove?
Or gift of priceless treasure
To man from realms above?
Is it as wits would frame It?
As poets would proclaim it?
Or as the Scriptures name it.
That God, Himself, Is Love?
Dear Friend. If you would !eam ft—
The what, and when, and where—
’Tis easy to discern It
By Just a little care:
'Tis of our own election;
With careful Introspection
Seek vutir own heart's reflection
And find the answer there. <
X-RAT.
A Soldier’s Question.
A war veteran may be pardoned for
asking the intelligent members of this
Household one question, which has often
troubled his brain. My experience in the
war between the states began with the
retreat from Yorktown and ended with
the surrender at Greensboro, X. C., thus
Including all the battles and marches
made by the army of northern Virginia,
save one, the first fight at Manassas.
T'p to the time when our army crossed
the Potomac It had been Invincible. Vic
tory crowned our standard on every field.
The battles In the Shenandoah valley
and those around Richmond were a scries
of splendid victories. Our foe was dis
mayed. his currency far below par.
federal soldiers could not be induced to
above
All else still grant me home folks, friends
and love.
WILL WARD MITCHELL.
What I Shall Do? ,
If no one ever marries me.
And I don’t see why they should;
For nurse says I’m not pretty.
And I’m seldom very good;
But if no one ever marries me,
I shan't mind very much;
I shall buy some cute white bunnies,
And have a rabbit hutch.
I’ll have a cottage In the woods,
And a pony all my own.
And a little lamb quite nice and tame.
That I can take to town;
And when I’m getting really old—
At twenty-eight or nine—
I'll buy a little orphan girl.
And raise her up as mine.
LILY DRAPER. 11 Years Old.
During the Honeymoon.
He—“And so my little wlfey cooked this
all herself. What do you call it, dearie?"
She—"Well, precious, I Intended It for
bread, but after it came out of the oven
I concluded I'd better put sauce on it
and call It pudding."
The Girl and Her Mother.
A girl should associate her mother In
her social pleasures and enlist her Inter
est in them by describing the eeenes and
the persons she sees, being t little confi
dential, since she is sure of a discreet
confidant. Having made the acquaint
ance of a young man whom she likes,
she should take the first opportunity to
present him to her mother. When she
Some of the young lady Householders | has young men visitoi s she should feel
who are such admirers of the "Doctor” and show a pleasure u* n Her mother
comes In the parlor, and Immedi
ately try to bring her Into the conversa
tion. appealing to her for an opinion or
suggestion.
■I have seen girls look sullen and scorn
ful the Instant the mother dropped Into
the room for a few minutes when they
were entertaining their beaus. Be sure,
the young man notices this and if he is
a gentleman he mentally marks it down
against the girl. A man who Is worth
anything puts a higher estimate on the
girl who Is frankly affectionate in her
home and considerate of her mother.
If the mother has—as She should have
—an afternoon every weTk on which to
receive her friends, the daughter should
assist her in welcoming and entertaining
the visitors. She should dispense the
tea. either In the room where all are
seated, or In the dining room adjoining.
Here seated at a daintily but inexpen
sively spread table, she may hold a little
court of her own and divide With her
mother the responsibility of looking af
ter the callers.
So spotlessly neat.
So flower-Ilke sweet.
You are Just meet
For my Ladye petite!
TOPAZ.
The Doctor and His Dog Bows.
| may envy me when I tell them that I,
j too. live In the town of OKra, Ind. T„
I and that I have the pleasure every Sun-
] day afternoon of seeing the Doctor In
’ his buggy behind his handsome iron-
gravs driving along the banks of the
| Cadian river, and no doubt wondering
! (for he Is an agnostic) concerning the
great Being who made all this beauty
about him.
Some people accuse him • of being an
atheist, but he is not. for he believes In
a supreme first cause. He Is devoted to
! science and to the theory of evolution
(which nxiny Christians now believe in),
j but he is tender of heart, as was proved
j to me by his devotion to the memory of
his old dog. Bows. He recently burled
Bows with honors and a tear (In more
than the "left eye"), and since that time
he cannot speak of his faithful dumb
friend without his voice getting husky.
AA’hen he burled Bows he said:
"Here lies Bows—to sleep, 'perchance
to dream.' until the judgment day. He
was more human than many a man I
have known, and it may be that he will
surprise Gabriel hv rising from his grave
with a cheerful bark when the last trump
sounds."
The Doctor was educated for the minis
try. but was too conscientious to fill his
pulpit after unorthodox doubts had crept
Into his mind. Perhaps he may yet
possess the fullness of faith. PLUKY
Okra. Ind. T.
Is It Well?
AA’e each have had some early life
romance,
Tinging all future time with memories
sweet.
Such things wax fainter as the years ad
vance.
Cooling thje pulses down from fever
heat.
But yet athwart the disc of longing soul
A shadow flits throughout the chang
ing years.
We stretch out hands. Impatient of the
goal.
To grasp the far-off Interest of tears.
When we have mingled In the eager strife
Of varied passions—after Fate has wove
More than one broken thread Into our
life.
And filled with care Its deepening
groove.
AA’e cast about us with a vague unrest.
Fearing the years that threaten dearth
of love.
And take unto our hearts—perhaps 'tis
best—
One who shall their stern prophesy dis
prove.
Then, as the days go on. a peace shall
come,
A recompense for that lost, tender
dream.
As wife and children nestle in our home.
And life no longer sad and bleak shali
seem.
And so a calm content succeeds the
“might have been"—
That dear, sweet hope beyond recall—
Which sometimes we may think of with
out sin.
Yes; it Is better thus. God Judge us all.
H. E. SHIPLEY.
Rescue Work.
I wish to Join my thanks with those
of “Hope” to "Tennesseean" for his
brave advocacy of the same standard of
moral purity for men as for women. The
order of the AA’hlte Cross is dear to my
heart. Tennessee Is my native state,
and if "Tennesseean" will send me his ad
dress I will mall him a little booklet bear
ing on this subject.
I am greatly encouraged to find so
many of the Householders Interested In
reform on this line, and the rescue work
In which women may do so much good
All have not the same tact, but each one
can extend a helping hand and say some
saving word. I have one j-oung woman
friend, who has stood bravely by a com
panion. who incurred social ostracism
through imprudence. I am glad to say
that my friend has lost nothing by the
stand she has taken.
Mrs. Brvan says she believes reform In
this respect will come, though It will
"move slowly.” I trust It may come be
fore my locks, already threaded with
silver, shall know the snows of age.
"Quien Sabe." In far away Texas, keep
the stone rolling. Tessa Hoddey, tell me
A Stolen Visit.
This is her dainty room.
Where youth and beauty found their per
fect bloo»i;
This Is her cosy chair;
How oft her form has nestled softly
there!
Here is her looking glass.
In which her graceful form Is seen to
pass.
There are her favorite books.
The pages longing for her loving looks.
Here Is her snow-white bed.
The pillow where she nightly rests her
head.
She comes: Her step I know!
Blessyou, sweet room! Alas! that ]
must go.
A Cosy Study.
A subscriber says: ”1 wish to arrange,
a small study or library; to have It look
cosy and inviting, yet not to cost much."
Have the walls finished eTOier In terra
somining. Have as curtains madras with
a cream ground an4 design In red or
brown. Carry out the red and wood color
scheme in the rug on the floor. A boo'*
case In dark polished oak and a lounge
covered In tan and red cretonne, also a
deep window seat, made to open box-
fashion, and be the repository of maga
zines and papers, cushioned In cretonne
and furnished with a deep, plain valance
and large, nice cushions. A few plain
chairs and one or two handsome ones
and some brackets, holding plaster busts,
photographs, etc., wilt be sufficient fur
nishing for a modest study.
Okra Fritters.
The drought has spared only one vege
table In most localities. Where dwarf
okra was planted it has done well. Every
animal Is fond of boiled okra, from the
cow to the cat. When you have grown
tired of cooking okra in other fashions,
try it In fritters; It Is nice. Having cut
off both ends and boiled In salted water
until tender, drain and beat the pods
Into a mass with a little butter and pep
per to taste. AVhen it is cool add a beat
en egg and two tablespoonfuls of milk
and as much flour as you will need to
give them the requisite consistency. Fry
in hot lard. Squash fritters may be made
the same way.
Breakfast Waffles.
Two teacupfuls of boiled hominy, table
spoonful of butter, two eggs, pinch of
salt, a pint of milk. Sift In flour enough
to make the batter the consistency of
buckwheat cakes and bake in nicely
cleaned and greased oast Iron wafflf
molds.
A Reliable Sliver Wash.
_ One ounce of nitric acid, one 19-cent
piece and one ounce of quicksilver. Put
In an open glass vessel and let it stand
until dissolved. Then add a pint of water
and it is ready for use. You can make it
into a powder by adding whiting—and use
It In resilvering German silver or brass or
pewter articles.
To Cure Thirst for Drink.
A correspondent has requested to have
Captain Vine Hall's remedy for the liquor
habit published. It Is this: Sulphate of
iron 5 grains, peppermint water 11 drams,
spirit of nutmeg l dram. To be taken
twice a day in doses of a wineglass full
with or without water. Said to be effica
cious.
An Excellent Onion Dish.
Select onions of uniform size, peel them
and partly cook them In plenty of boiling
salted water; then drain and put In a
buttered baking dish. Now heat one pint
of milk to boiling point, mix a teaspoon
ful of com starch with a little cold milk
and stir Into the boiling milk. Add a
tablespoonful of butter, and salt and pep
per to taste; beat two eggs light and turn
the hot milk mixture over them. Pour
this into the baking dish with the onions
and bake in a moderate oven until- the
onions are clone and the custard set.
SJerve from the samp dish In which they
were cooked. This is a wholesome, sav
ory dish and the onions cooked in this
way will not taint the breath.
Dry Cleaning.
The so-called “dry cleaning” which ts
done by experts in the shops is effected
by immersing the articles to be cleaned
in benzol, benzine or gasoline, which dis
solves the grease and liberates the dust.
Laces are sometimes cleaned by rubbing
through corn meal that has been damp
ened in a mixture of ammonia, alcohol
and water. The same method will clean
velvet and furs. To wash woolen goods
first beat and shake out the dust; then
wash In strong hot soap suds, without
rubbing. Rinse in warm water and
squeeze out—not wring—and dry quickly.
enlist as fast as they deserted. ThT ; what r° UT Suim >*. South book club is *
whole north was restless irf suspense as Being a new member, I am Wot posted.
to what the confederates would do and
threatened to break out into armed re
sistance to the Lincoln party.
This was the situation when our army
crossed into Maryland. That crossing was
I enjoyed your poem, “The Angel of
Wishes ” Yes, love Is what Is most
needed In human associations—love in the
home, the neighborhood, the church, the
clubs—love that bears ever the broad
the fatal step; It proved the Waterloo of j mantle of charity. As regards love be-
our cause. Though a mere boy, I realized , tween the sexes, I think in its truest form
this. I was among the first in the com- ; It comes to us but once. True, it may
mand to sound the crystal depths of the be that “Beautiful lives are lived after
Potomac, but as I marched across I said j all seems darkness,” but God help those
to my comrades: “This is all wrong;
this will whip us sure.”
For forty years I have wanted to ask
wh>v did we commit that fatal blunder?
Nearly all the chief actors in the great
TTJ^O Permanently cared. No flta or nervoua
I llu nesa alter fimday’auae of Dr. Kline's
Great Nerve Restorer. Send for FREE §*2,00 trial
bottle and treatise. Dr. R. H. Klxxk, L UL, Ml Arch
St., Philadelphia Pa.
to whom this “only love” comes too late
for happiness, when—
“Far down in the depths of the spirit
Out of the sight of man.
Lies a buried Herculaneum
Whose secrets none may scan.”
And so, I keep my secret ever:
"As a thing from mv life apart.
Under the lava and ashes,
Down in the depths of my heart.”
Sybil Selkirk, when I come again I will
give you some queer epitaphs from this
place. “X-Ray,” most fully do I agree
with you in Insisting that printers should
understand that we are southerners and
confederates, with a big S and C. and are
United Daughters (a»d Sons) of the Con
federacy. proud of wearing the badge,
•itowing our right of membership.
8 OAK.
Raleigh. N. C.
The Dead Gods.
As I swung In my grape vine swing in
the twilight and listened to the warbling
of a neighborly mocking bird, my
thoughts drifted into the realm of phan
tasy. I seemed to stand on the banks
the mystic Nile, and watch a slow pro
cession of shadowy shapes glide mist-
like down the stream. They were the
ghosts of the gods of the world—once
powerful—now only names—shadows of
dreams.
Asleep In the tomb of the Past,
Lie the worshiped gods of yore.
Their memory only lives
In the pages of ancient lore.
Over India's ruined temples.
The wild vines long have run;
On the altars where priests sacrificed.
The snake basks in the sun.
Vishnu, the stem and somber,
Whose frown filled souls with dread.
Lies with his countless victims,
In the wlerd Land of the Dead.
Siva—awful “Destroyer,”
Immersed in seas of blood.
And Kali—the treacherous goddess,
Sleep where their altars stood.
Draupadi—the snowv-armed One,
And Chrishna fcing have gone;
Time’s fingers have scarcely spared us
Their image in crumbling stone.
On the banks of Egypt’s river,
Osiris sleeps in peace.
Iris no longer is weeping.
As she seeks his hiding placq.
No more is the restless ocean
Ruled by deities dread;
Thyphons, with Neptune and Tritons
Lie under the blue waves, dead.
“Odin” gave life and spirit.
But with “Vili” and “Ve” a?id
“Yimour,”
He has taken the wings of darkness
And soared to oblivion’s shore.
No more do Jove’* dread thunders
The clouds of Olympus rend,
Or Juno, Venus and Pallas, !J
For beauty’s prize contend.
Gone is the power and the prestige.
Of bold and bloody Mars,
Though to make his name eternal \
They wrote it among the Stars.
One by one these gods have vanished;
Their myths have disappeared;
Their anger and cruel vengeance
Are now no longer feared.
i
The sacred fires of the Aztecs
No longer soothe or blast;
They and their gods are burled
’Neath the ashes of the past.
Hushed are the thunders of Sinai;
Her prophets lie ’neath the clay.
But they wait for a resurrection;
They wait for a Coming Day.
Jehovah’s foes are vanquished.
And wherever man has trod,
Knees to Him are bending.
Is He the true, last God?
DOCTOR.
Okra, Ind. T.
Cordial Words to Many Friends.
Greetings to you, Liftie Mater, and
Householders. And so my Little Mater
does believe In love, beffutlful and up
lifting. based on judgment and reason,
for “love is only a fire of straw, flar
ing and falling away In a moment, unless
Its soul is some generous aim, some noble
inspiration." Forgive mS. X knew that
you did and I only wished you to tell u*
so plainly.
Here, In the soft rose light where the
words “judgment” and “reason” sound
almost harsh, let me say I do, too. That
is the principal reason why I think ex- f
tremely early marriages should not bey^
made. Of course, some of these marriage^
are most happy and congenial, but the
average boy and girl s ideal Is far differ
ent from the man and woman’s ideal.
Writing that reminds me of “Old Bach
elor’s" letter. Your experience is differ
ent from that of a certain bachelor I
know. Not long ago he was talking of a
severe heart affair he had in his school
boy days. The “charming one” has been
married for several years, but he sees
her now and then. “WTly,” he said to
me, “I wonder now what I saw about her
to cause me to think that I was desper
ately in love with her. She looks like
an Irish biddy,” and he smiled; then the
smile passed away, leaving the dark eyes
deep and earnest looking as ever. As I
and only seen her pictured face—a sweet,
girlish face—T could not say whether I
thought she looked like ah Trish biddy or
not, but X asked him if he <TTfl not sup
pose that she, too, had changed her
opinion of him. “Really, I suspect so,”
he answered. And then I knew that she
had married a blue-eyed man.
This same man says that he is not a
bachelor. He says the meaning of the
word "bachelor” is babbler, tattler. A
married man is supposed to be wiser (hen-
CONTINUED ON SEVENTH PAG*.