The Golden age. [volume], February 18, 1909, Page 10, Image 10

About The Golden age. [volume] (Atlanta, Ga.) 1906-1920

Image provided by: Digital Library of Georgia, a project of GALILEO located at the University of Georgia Libraries

                
10
THE GARDEN OF GOD.
Far back in the ages, in a spot
Where never man had trod —
When the Earth was young and full
of joy,
Grew the garden of our God.
The bowers were gay with the glanc
ing wings
Os the birds of Paradise,
And music pulsed with a thousand
tones,
Everywhere under the skies;
And the cups of myriad flowers poured
out,
Their fragrance on the breeze;
And happy creatures flew and ran.
And climbed in the evergreen trees.
Over all like a rosy mist there hung
Sweet peace, unbroken, calm.
And God's hidden presence was ever
felt—
A deep, joy-giving balm.
Oh, why came man in this holy scene;
Man with his restless heart?
Why did his shadow ever fall.
The sunny walks athwart?
For in his steps came crimson Sin,
Close followed by pallid Death;
The happy creatures, the birds, khe
flowers,
barank at his blighting breath.
Oh! will the garden beam once more
As of old in the smile of God ?
Will man, ennobled and purified.
By suffering’s chastening rod,
Come back to the garden of trhe
blessed
And rest content in its bowers.
And bathe his soul in the holy calm,
Through the long and happy hours?
ANNfCE LYBARGER.
Kingston, Tenn.
CHAT.
This bright, crisp day, while I am
chatting with you a host of big officials
and lots of the “common people’’ are
celebrating the hundredth anniversary
of Abranam Lincoln's birth on the lit
tle Kentucky farm, where he spent
the first eight years of his life. By
the way, it is a rather singular co-in
cidence that he and Jefferson Davis
should both have been born in Ken
tucky—their birthdays coming close
together, though Mr. Davis was born a
year before Lincoln.
Just about this hour, President
Roosevelt is making his address be
fore laying the cornerstone of the
many pillared memorial building
which is to be erected over the spot
where stood the rough one-roomed
log cabin in which Lincoln was born
and where his overworked, sad-faced
mother taught him his letters in the
old blue backed spelling book, which
was a relic of her own school girl
days. The sterile little farm on
which Lincoln’s father barely made
bread for his family, is now being
transformed into a memorial park
having been bought three years ago
by the owner of Collier’s Weekly, and
given to the people through the Lin
coln Memorial Association, who con
tributed funds to beautify the park.
It would be well if our Southern peo-
THE HOUSEHOLD
A Department of ’Expression Tor Those Who Teel and Think.
pie could thus beautify and preserve
the home of our ever-remembered
Confederate President.
The buying of the Lincoln birth
place, Rock Spring Farm, was at
tended by a curious circumstance. It
might never have been purchased as
a memorial park but for wh-’s’'"
When the agent of Collier’s Weekly
arrived at night in the town near
which the auction sale of the farm
would take place, he found several
would-be buyers there ready to out
bid him in the morning. The most to
be dreaded of these were the agents
of two large liquor distillery firms
who wanted the historic place for ad
vertising purposes, and would prob
ably have over bid Collier’s man had
they not sat up so late in the hotel
bar room the previous night, imbibing
whisky that they failed to get up and
arrive at the scene of the sale in time
to be present at the bidding of the
farm. It had been bought by Collier’s
agent for $3,500 and when the dis
tillery man promptly offered him ten
thousand for his bargain, he refused
it.
While the big officials are cele
brating Lincoln’s Centenary in Ken
tucky today, the young girls of Peters
burg, Illinois and the country about
it are unveiling a slender shaft erect
ed by them over the grave of Anne
Rutledge Lincoln’s early love.
Twenty years ago, her remains were
transferred from the lonely country
graveyard that had been Lincoln's
Gethsemane —to the cemetery at Pe
tersburg—a town Lincoln had sur
veyed and laid off —but only a large,
rough granite boulder inscribed with
her name —marked the spot, until
these young girls erected the shaft
of snowy Carrara marble, which
is to be unveiled today.
We are favored today with the com
pany of some new members (Teri of
Nashville —strikes a note that should
find a response in every breast) —as
well as several of our dear old Sunny
South friends. Fineta replies to Jack
Wirick interestingly, and also touches
on the subject of psychic healing,
which. is now engaging the attention
of scholars and divines. Mattie How
ard. there are many who will agree
with you as to the unprofitableness of
gruesome, intense, fanciful stories
like some of Poe’s. They are said to
illustrate high, imaginative art, but
they are unsatisfactory, not to say,
unpleasant to most readers. They “be
long to the French school of fifty
years ago.
We home keeping women want
something sweeter, more wholesome
and cheering for every day reading.
Mention of cheer, reminds me to
ask you to write comfortingly to cur
dear “Old Woman,” who tells us to
day that she is left alone by the death
of the husband who has been her
friend and partner for so many years.
He was an invalid a long time, and
our dear friend has the consoling re
flection that she helped to give,
brightness and comfort to his life, and
that he has now left suffering and
weariness behind forever. She has
also the hope that, she will be re
united to him in a better and broader
life than this.
Did you, old Sunny South friends,
know that the creator and owner
of that good old paper, so en
deared to us all —Colonel John Seals
The Golden Age for February 11, 1909.
has lately died? It was a sad end
ing—away from relatives and old
friends in the Milledgeville Hospital,
but he was a Christian and an hum
ble, earnest believer in the mercy
and love of God. If he had done noth
ing good in his life other than the
creation and the carrying on through
many disheartening difficulties of a
paper so beneficent —so illustrative
of Southern character, work and aims
as the Sunny South—-it would be suf
ficient to keep him in reverent re
membrance by all Southern people
*
MY OLD SWEETHEART.
I can see the pink sunbonnet and the
little checkered dress
She wore when first I kissed her and
she answered the caress
With the w r ritten declaration that “as
surely as the vine
Grew round the stump” she loved me
—that old sweetheart of mine.
Again I feel the pressure of her slen
der little hand,
As we used to talk together of the
future we had planned.
When I should be a poet with nothing
else to do,
But write the tender verses she set
the music to;
When we should live together in a
cozy little cot
Hid in a nest of roses with a fairy
garden spot,
Where the vines were ever fruited,
and the weather ever fine
And the birds were ever singing for
that old sweetheart of mine.
J. WHITCOMB RILEY.
• *
A VALENTINE TO M. E. B.
The flowers are dead,
Their beauty all departed;
But in my soul there is no drb’ad.
Why should we be sad-hearted?
More flowers will bloom again,
And in them we shall find
New life and hope and joy.
MATTIE HOWARD.
February, 1909.
With ©ur Correspondents
DOES INTEREST END WITH MAR
RIAGE?
Dear Mother Meb: I can heartily
agree with you in appreciating Fred
erica Bremer's charming Swedish
stories of domestic life, but I hesitate
to recommend them to Mr. Wirick,
when T recall that my own pater fa
in ilias groans, not only in spirit, but
quite audibly when he sees me get
down the well worn volume to read a
chapter aloud. I fear Miss Bremer
doesn’t appeal to the masculine taste.
However, so far as stories leaving
off at the marriage altar is concerned,
haven’t writers found a precedent for
that in real-life stories of love, court
ship and marriage—where the interest
of the public (in place of the Gentle
Reader) leaves off at the marriage?
Recently, I have heard of three ro
mantic weddings, each like a chapter
of fiction in picturesque details. The
first, of a beautiful young society
“bud,” whose mother entertains the
old-fashioned idea that the elder sis
ter must marry first. But the “Baby
Chile” did net listen to maternal plead
ings after the appearance upon the
scene of a handsome travelling sales
man, with greater powers of persua
sion. With him, she went to the altar
after a very brief acquaintance —and a
host of youthful admirers were left la
menting. A band of crepe upon their
hats would really have excited less
comment than the mournful counte
nances they wore for a couple of days
thereafter. Well, that pair safely mar
ried. the deserted suitors deeply sym
pathized with, and the youthfulness of
the bride and groom, the brevity of
their acquaintance, and so forth, all
discussed in the various pros and cons
—public interest lagged at the altar;
to be centered the following week
upon a very different couple. These
two had known each other all their
lives, in fact, had been brought up
almost as brother and sister. You
would have supposed there could be
no objection—and there wasn’t, after
they were married. All interest, for
and against, ceased as soon as the all
important question. “Would they mar
ry?” was answered in the affirmative.
This second pair of lovers disposed
of, public interest was immediately
transferred to another romance, the
chief actors, this time, being a wid
ower —who, after a few weeks in the
infirmary, having his eyes treated,
married his pretty young trained
nurse —just abcut half his own age.
I cite these instances merely to
prove that when the hero and heroine,
of the real-life love story have reach
ed me altar, and joined the great
ranks of our commonplace married ac
quaintance, the glamor of romance
fades, so far as the public views the
matter —and would it not be so in the
story book? Would we not just na
turally close the volume as the wed
ding bells were ringing? Unless, of
course we were treated to all the
hardships that the author afflicted
upon “John Halifax, Gentleman.”
Some of the modern yyriters, I am
told, do not treat of married life "in
away to be helpful.” An interesting
little volume, that takes wedded fe
licity for granted (and isn't that bet
ter than tearing it to tatters?) is
“The Garden of a Commuter’s Wife,”
—if you are interested in gardening!
Did you ever think of the moral re
sponsibility involved in the simple act
of recommending a book to another
reader? It is something of a responsi
bility to read a book yourself—but to
"pass it on” to another! At the same
time, it might be your duty to pass it
on. What do the Householders think
of the Louisiana text-book difficulties?
FINETA.
Athens, Ala. „
STORIES THAT SHOULD NOT
HAVE BEEN WRITTEN.
Dear Friends: This has been h
busy time with me —so many little
home duties, but I do not forget you
all. The Golden Age comes each week
with beautiful words of cheer. I love
to read them, so think maybe I had
best be silent, but we must utter our
thoughts sometimes to let others
know we still live.
I enjoy "slices of the old writers” —
really haven’t time to sit and read
them all. Yesterday I felt that com-
5*