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TTEARST'S SUNDAY AMERICAN. ATLANTA, OA., SUNDAY, I)!'(T.M KLM 2R. 1*1?.. 3 E Atlanta Veterans Conquer Old Age With the Weapons of Peace Tor the Joy of the Do ing’ They’re Alway? Busy Making Canes and Lingerie, With No Thought of Pay, but Just to Keep Sane. By TARLETON COLLIER. T HERE are times when the big woods around the Old Soldiers' Home to the south of Atlanta is the most lonesome place you could imagine, and when the old "men sit here and there on rustic benches, or who walk, stick-supported, up and down the long, gentlo slopes, are weary of peopling the place with ghosts of Cobb's Legion and For rest’s Cavalry and Stonewall Jackson’s flying army. And they are apt to become a bit morbid and a bit childish, with nothing to do hut sit and talk over the old days and tell the old stories that are worn threadbare with the tell ing. Day after day, and weeks and months it. Is so, until— Oh, you just must find something to do. It doesn't matterwhat. the occupation is. Your hands and your brain must be busy, or you will find yourself dreaming too much or maybe talking aloud to nobody, and you will know then that you are nearing the end of the journey. The men who followed Lee and Jackson very naturally would be fit and capable and sensible persons, even to-day, and they realize this need. Consequently, to keep themselves fit and rational, they turn their hands and brains to the nearest work at hand, and fall sometimes into the quaintest occupations Imaginable. There Is Frank Glazier, who knits and crochets as well as any woman in Atlanta. He weaves baskets, too, of marvelously intricate design, and raises canary birds for sale. A rather adaptable person. And old man Yopp, who with his 86 years is jealous of his title as the oldest man in the Home. He is another who can sew with any woman in these parts. Rather sheepishly he will show yon a filmy lacs garment, run through with blue ribbon, that he made the other day. It is a woman's garment, to be worn far re moved from public gaze. And Mr. Yopp a bachelor! George Keith plies the needle, as well. At a recent bazaar of the Daughters of the Confed eracy. one of the show pieces was a girl's lace dress lhat he made. There is nothing of effeminacy about the dainty avocations of these old soldiers. In fact, sewing and knitting and basket weaving with them become rather virile feats, consecrated work, tasks done for the mere pleasure of working, and with no more hope of reward than perfection. "Uncle" George Mills finds his work out of doors. With a stout knife and a little belt saw ! b>f-shions bows out of hickory saplings and arrows out of reeds. Then ho makes whistles, and popguns, and many's the boy in Atlanta who knows “Uncle" George As a heroic figure. Imbued with all the romance «f woodcraft and the outdoors. If there is one of these quaint craftinen who always has work to do and a market for hiB wares it is “Uncle" George. It is really a prodigious something to control the output of bows and arrows and popguns and whistles. However, now, if you consider those who are always busy, you must glance at the person of .!. W. King—Captain J. Vi. King, rather, for he commanded Company D, Third Battalion, Georgia sharpshooters, and you are likely to be charged with an unpardonable sin if you refer to a captain without his title. Captain King is always busy. He mends shoes. A soldier and a skilled mechanic all his life, he found that his accurate fingers could master the crude cobbler's art with no trouble whatever. So he made him a last out of an oak log. and has kept young ever since, and '* fit to defend his captain's title. That's the secret of the workers: pleasure in l heir work. It keeps them young. Even crochet ing Is a regular fountain of youth, if sufficient enthusiasm is put in the work. There's Mr. Yopp, for instance, the oldest one of them when it comes to years, but one of the livest of the 3 gray-haired little army. He is the artist of the corset-cover. And there's Mr. Glazier, who knits and sews and makes baskets. He really impresses you as being a juvenile spirit. 'Sure, mv work has kept me young,” he said the other day. “That's why I took to sewing and weaving. 1 never thought I'd do it in the old days, but when I came here I found the need of something to do was very great. Else I would have dried up and blown away, I reckon. "None of us do these things particularly for the money that’s in them, althought that’s an important part. But we take our time, and turn out work that is really good, and we like the work Itself. In fact, we live on It. "Naturally, when a fellow likes his work he does It well, and he keeps his Interest in every thing fresh. Poor work Is the most enervating thing in the world. A shiftless man is a de caying man, and an idle man Is as good as dead.” He was a florist in the old days, when he was not a soldier. The desire to deal with pretty, dainty things, instilled when he was working with flowers, remained with him, and it was natural that he should turn to lace work and embroidering, and then to basket weav ing. Some of his designs are more Intricate than you would believe human brain could con ceive. One of the exhibits that aroused star tled gasps during the recent bazaar was a pair of lace arm-length gloves he made from flue thread. His baskets, of vari-colored straws in terwoven after the Indian fashion, are pattern marvels. Yellow star? and moons and flowers are formed against red and green and blue fields. Altogether the baskets are really pro ductions of an artist. Another basket weaver is F. E. Childress, who was wounded July 10, 1863. That was a sad day, and he has it marked well In his mem ory, for then he was deprived of the free use of his legs, and since has walked on crutches. Weaving baskets has kept him fresh, too, al though probably not so much as has his fiddle. Here is a marvelous thing. A Confederate soldiers’ home without a corps of fiddlers. There is only one or two In all the Atlanta home, and Mr. Childress is one of the most assiduous. 'Most any time you can hear his “Money Musk” and “Virginia Reel, ” and “Turkey in the Straw” sounding out. That is, when he is not making baskets. Basket weaving has become quite a popular pastime with the inspiration furnished by Mr. Glazier’s really superb creations, and with the instruction that Mrs. Wlmbish, the matron, gifces the old men. But there Is one industry that is practically controlled by H. W. Baggett, who Is one of the very cheeriest of all. He makes walking sticks. Almost any day you can see Mr. Baggett out in the woods with his big knife, looking every where for young trees that grow straight up into the air, with just the proper right-angular crook of their roots where they enter the ground. The root is fashioned into the handle of the walking stick. The artful Mr. Baggett carves It Into the shape of a dog’s head or of an alligator head, or a snake’s maybe. There are ears and eyes and mouth and teeth and everything carved Into the handle of that walk ing stick, and sales are always heavy for the Baggett walking stick concern. There is nobody quite so proud of his work as Mr. Baggett. He has made several hundred dog’s-head canes, probably, but with each one there is a fresh Interest. He holds a finished stick before your eyes, and turns it slowly for your inspection. “Yes, it's a big job," he tells you. Then he smiles. You mustn’t show that you see him smiling. That will spoil the Joke. Merely list en to him, and nod your head wonderingly, as he goes on: “Yes, It’s pretty hard to find these sticks with the dog's head on them, and with the right kind of ears and eyes. But If you look long enough, and know where to look, you’ll find them, heads, mouths, ears, eyes and all.” It all comes of the effort to keep occupied and Interested and alert. This crocheting and sewing and carving is the creative work. There is recreative work as well. For instance, in tiie library you will see a perennial group. Four old men are there always, morning, noon and night, no matter what the season or the weather. They are playing setback. Three games an hour, ten hours or more a day, six days a week, for months »nd years. Altogether, the four have played, they calcu late, more than 100,000 games of setback. J. L. Little, quite a swagger figure with his well- kept derby, has for his partner Reuben Saf- fold. a cheery old man with a skullcap and n stubby beard. Athwart this pair of partners Is a long-bearded couple, Mr. Wood, with his big slouch hat that smacks plainly of the style of 1863, and Mr. Bankston, another who Is attached to his sknllcup. The rivalry among this party of card players Is as keen as Lee’s and Meade’s. All day long, as serious as If the nation’s fate depended on Mr. Saffold’s making or losing the three he has bid on spades, or on Mr. Little’s "setting” Mr. Bankston, they play cards. Some times they talk, but usually they play with a silent, venge ful determination. And consequently they re tain their Interest in life. Certain bands of religious workers seek to interest the old men by frequent services in the home. But usually the attendance on these services, except when there is a substantial sermon, is meager. It seems that songs and prayers are not the wholesome incentive that work is. And, besides, you will find that an old man is generally a little bit bored at yonr attempts to convert him. Just as one of the veterans said the other day, while the services were being conducted: “You're not going to see many of us con verted out here. We’re old men, and are sorter set in our ways. That’s why you don’t see many there In the chapel. But those of us who find something to do, we keep out of mischief, and good enough, I reckon.’ / And so this story may be considered ae hav ing a moral. Mr. Glazier pointed that moral, when he told how his work has kept him young and how he has seen men among his com rades grow feebler and more childish day by day, as they sat around Idle. It is all too few of these old soldiers who have the spice of interest In life to keep them sound in mind and body. Most of the others you can find any time dawdling about the big wooded lawn in front of the home, or in their rooms, or on the wide front porch within a few steps of their beds and rocking chairsi You can tell the workers. Their eyes are brighter and their smile is quicker. Certainly, there is a moral to this story. Aunt Tish, a Jewel of a Negro Mammy, Comes ‘Home’ for Christmas r HIS is just the story of a negro mammy, who loves her white folks, and whose white folks love her. To some extent i-cr life and service and evolution and faiths typical, although Aunt Tish. the folks say, i -Hi unusual person, even for a mammy. It was fi verv merry Christmas that Aunt Tish spent, not'at all like the bleak indoor Christmases that she has seen for the last *■'For one r reason, she is home again after eight years of exile in New York. And you can say what VOU please, but New York is no place, leirticiilarlv at Christmastime, for a negro mammv of the old school, who was born in Georgia, reared in Georgia, and who has nursed children in Georgia’s first families ever since ""•Fish*Vs back home in Atlanta, where most of her white folks live. For eight years now the lias tried each Christmas to persuade the Fraziers, for whom she “nurses” in New York, to let her go back to lier own white folks In Georgia. Each year she has Informed them flatly, with all the delightful Imperiousness of the real negro mammy, that she was going back. But the Fraziers, being persons of acute perception and appreciation, and knowing that a Southern mammy Is a priceless jewel, merely raise her salary each time she threatens to return to Georgia and demand, In reciprocity, that she stay. But this year she had to come. Tish is a frugal person, and has saved her money. Sev eral years ago she purchased a lot in Athens, on which she will make her home as soon as the blessed day comes when she can leave the North. On each side of Tisli’s lot the land was sold recently, and In the transaction a strip of three feet were lopped off the negro woman’s domain. And down she came from New York to protect her rights. She came down with the stamp of the me tropolis on her person. There is style and savior faire In the hearing of Aunt Tish. But the moment she saw her white folks In Athens, and opened her arms to them and spoke out of her heart to them, it was plain that she is the same old tender mammy after all, Just as plain as If she still wore the turtian and the starched skirts and apron Instead of the new bonnet and store clothes. There were many Joyful reunions upon Tisli’s arrival. In all, she has nursed 36 chil dren in the most prominent families of Geor gia. In Athens she has been in the families of Mrs. Asbury Hodgson. Judge Andrew Cobb, Henry Wells, Stephen Thomas, E. I. Smith, and for twelve years she “nursed” for Judge Tan ner in Atlanta. The 35 children, most of them now grown, she proudly hails as her own “chillun.” And to their children she is a devoted and adoring grandmother. There is one young Athens man, for instance. Now he is married, with a child of his own, but he was a baby in her arms. When he was married, several years ago, one of the most valued presents was a massive piece of silver of which was inscribed, just ns Tish dictated, “To Mister Ed’s young bride, from hts old nurse Tish.” I alter on, the stork came to his home. Aunt TLsh, far away In New Y'ork, heard of the event. You can be sure that she keeps up with her "chillun,” for down, post haste, came a bundle of beautifully wrought baby clothes from Tish. She Is gravely suspected of having been at work on them for some time. When Tish came back to Athens, she struck the town on the baby’s birthday. As If It had all been so arranged, she bore another bundle of clothes, this time of larger size and shorter dresses, as liefits a youngster of one year. Aunt Tish has really lived a life of worthy labor. She was born I>etltla Jordan—hence the "Tish”—on the plantation of Dr. John Jordan, in Wilkes County, near Washington, on Christ mas Day, 1854. Tish, as a little girl, was body- servant to Mrs. Benjamin Jordan, wife of Dr. Jordan’s son. During the war the little negro helped knit socks for the soldiers of the Confed eracy, although she was hardly large enough for that duty. Each of the negro children of sufficient age was required to knit two pairs of sox a week, and hem shirts and fell seams. Each Saturday, she remembers, they drove over to Washington, to send provisions and clothing to the soldiers. Her principal duty, however, was to help nurse the little quarter babies that is, the negro children of the slaves’ quarter. Out in the back yard was a room about forty feet long, n big open brick fireplace at each end. and four or five cradles around each fireplace. Here the youngest babies were kept while their mothers were in the field. Two old mammies. Granny and Betsy, eared for them, and the negro girls too little to work otherwise, kept the cradles rocking, according to the old Idea of child nnr ture, which was that an Infant must be rockei and rocked and rooked from morning till nigh and then until morning again. And so the germ of the art of nursing wa planted in the little negress anil thus you ma; know the evolution of most of the mammie; of to-day. For several years after the war sbi had little opportunity to follow that bent Fo four years she planted, hoed, plowed, and picket cotton. Then she moved to Woodville. Ga., ti work for a Mr. Cheney, married Tom Paine and lived there sixteen years. It was then sb tiegan her remarkable career as a nurse, whirl has brought her to n station where she Is prob ably one of the most generally beloved am best known mammies in Georgia. And she had a great Christmas with he white folks in Athens. She hopes she won’ Is* obliged to stay much longer In New Yorl, iV-eause here in the South is her home, aqtj her arc her folks. She is coming right back.