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The Chilhowee echo. [volume] (Knoxville, Tenn.) 1899-19??, March 24, 1900, Image 1

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'VOL. -2. ... , KNOXV1LLE, TENNISE, MARCH 24, 1900. , NO. 9.
V'
-
pife
BY DR. H.
CHAPTER V.-Centinued.
BHE was very small, very slight,
very delicate, with sunny hair
whose abundance and rebel
lious nature caused it to es
cape from confinement of comb and
band and wander in golden ringlets
around her face and neck. Her eyes
were large and of a pure, deep violet
blue, whose intensity was increased by
the continually changing pupil that
varied with every emotion. , Her com
plexion was as pale and clear as purest
alabaster, utterly devoid of color, ex
cept a slight ivory tinge, but her lips
were pink with health, and her small
mouth, as she spoke, disclosed regular,
pearly teeth and a faultless expression.
Her hand was rather long, very thin
and delicate, but not bony; and was so
gracefully carried that it was in itself a
charm. She was clad in some light,
gauzy material that harmonized with
an appearance so ethereal that Roscoe
felt as though the steps she measured
i in approaching him were entirely uiv
necessary, when she could so easily
have floated through the air. She did
not look a day over twenty, and he could
hardly credit his senses when his stal
wart young friend introduced him to
her with the phrase: "This is Mr,
Owen, mother." Such a contrast be
tween mother and son he had never
before seen. One tall, dark, athletic,
clad in back; the other petite, sunny,
spiritual, pure white. After they were
seated and had talked upon general sub
jects long enough to feel acquainted,
Roscoe turned to Charley Moore and
said:
"Pardon such a personal question, but
by what right do you call this young
lady 'mother?' "
'"Curious, isn't it?" said Charley
ore, laughingly. "I sometimes insist
Visitiifnuai'UKe uuout 11, or uan was
nurse, or something or oth-
Kg. Wj-W ijgMw K JLftUBjJ
"They ;all you by a beautiful pet
name at Mr. Hardison's," said Roscoe,
"but I can't comprehend why they
should say Fairy Grandma."
"I'll tell you," said Charley Moore,
evidently delighted with ah opportun
ity to make her his subject, "she's the
greatest lover of babies you ever saw,
and is godmother to ever so many of
them, and grandma is easier to say than
the other, so she is known all over north
Mississippi as Fairy Grandma."
"And so you have concluded to cast
your lot among us, Mr. Owen?" she
said. "You will be sure to like us, for
either by your merits or good fortune
you have made a favorable impression
on the people with whom you have be
come acquainted, and consequently you
see nothing of that reserve that makes
us so hateful to those we do not like; so
as we are determined to like you, you
can not help liking us."
"Your conclusion is unavoidable," he
answered. "I have already conceived
a greater liking for my new friends than
I ever expected to feel for any one."
She looked at him a moment, the
pupils of her eyes contracted and a mus
ing expression on her face.
"Your parents are not living," she
asserted rather than inquired.
"No, madam; they died when I was
too young to retain any distinct remem
brance of them," he answered.
"Yes," she said, "I thought so. You
have no brothers or sisters? Excuse
the inquisitiveness of an old woman
who wants to be well acquainted with
you."
"No. I am alone, excepting an uncle
and a cousin."
"I see. You will be certain to re
main with us." Then, after a pause:
'"How do you like the Hardisons?"
"I like them so much that I have no
words to express the liking."
"That's right," said she; "they de
serve it. Miss Clara is very pleasant,
ii she not?" and she scanned his face
narrowly.
"I find her so,", he said, "and she
seems to have a very affectionate na
ture. Her love for her father is very
evident and very beautiful."
The little lady sat musing a moment
ere she spoke again; then she asked:
"How do you like Miss Constance Har
dlson?" Roscoe had been prepared for such a
question by those that had preceded it,
but be felt that his pulse beat a little
quicker as he answered simply: "She
is very beautiful."
"Yes," said the lady, after looking at
him a moment, "she is very beautiful.''
"Now", mother," said her son, "you
know that she is something better than
Of -Fate
A. MOODY.
merely beautiful; she's one of the best
girls in the world."
"Is she as good as Clara?" she asked,
with a meaning smile.
Charley Moore's face flushed a little,
out ne qmciciy answered: "I was not
making any comparison between them.
They are both perfect, but each in her
own way."
"Your lines have fallen in a pleasant
place, Mr. Owen," she said, "for Pop
lar Ridge is noted for its hospitality and
enterprise. They get up dinners and
entertainments and picnics out there
that we of X have never been able to
equal. You will be charmed with the
country, and I hope you will find it to
your interest to settle there psrmanent-
ly. Now, if you young gentlemen will
excuse me, I will attend a little to my
household."
She rose, and with a slight bow float
ed gracefully from the room. Her son
hastened to open the door for her, and,
as she passed him, she smiled in his face
with all the glory of a proud mother's
love beaming from her blue eyes.
"What a pleasant home," thought
Roscoe. "How often have I been the
guest of those who considered them.
selves perfect in good manners, yet
where did I ever before see such grace.
ful courtesy blended with such warm
affection?" Then speaking aloud, he
said:
"I do not blame you for loving so ten.
derly your beautiful mother."
Charley Moore seated himself on an
ottoman and answered, seriously:
"No, Mr. Owen, I could not help it if
I wished to; but I don't wish it. Thank
the Lord, I'm not one of those over
manly men who is ashamed of loving
his mother." ,
Mrs. Moore soon returned, and the
time flew pleasantly by as they convers
ed unreservedly until the supper hour.
Around me Doaru tney assembled, a
Ijrieasapt groun.jyju.. tooreka3.
short blessing over the repast, which
was a neat and nutritious meal, but far
less bountiful than nightly loaded the
Hardisonian table.
"We don't set out such a spread as
Hardison," said Charley Moore, laugh
ingly, "for the house servants would
have to call in help to eat it if we did;
but we won't starve you."
"How long can you stay with us, Mr.
Owen?" inquired Mr. Moore.
There it was again; that expression
indicating that it was considered a fa
vor to be allowed to dispense this lib
eral hospitality. Roscoe replied to the
effect that he had thought of staying
two or three days, as he wished to get
ready for the opening of his school.
They so evidently took it for granted
that he was to remain with them dur
ing his stay, that he could not object.
The next day he spent in the town
looking for the articles he desired
to purchase, but he failed to find them,
and concluded to go to Memphis on the
next morning's train. The town of X
seemed to him the dullest place he had
ever seen. There appeared io be noth
ing to be seen and nothing to be done.
There were no libraries, no museums,
no parks, no drives, no book-stores,
nothing but billiards and whisky for
amusement. In all the twenty-odd
stores he did not meet half a dozen cus
tomers, and the citizens seemed to oc
cupy their time in lounging in front of
their doors, smoking, reading the pa
pers and whittling. Charley Moore told
him that on Fridays and Saturdays the
stores were all crowded and everybody
was busy; but that now it was cotton-
picking time, and everybody was in the
field. He went to Memphis, purchased
books and clothing and returned to
X-.
The last evening he spent with the
Moores was exceedingly pleasant. Mrs.
Moore was very kipd and motherly to
him, and it had begun even now to
seem perfectly right that he should
consult with her and ask her advice, al
though they had so lately met and she
seemed so absurdly young.
Just before he left the next morning,
she said to him:
"Mr. Moore left word for you to con
sidered this your home whenever you
are in X, and I also hope you will
come h9re." She gave him two
notes to deliver; one for "Mrs. Hardi
son" and one for "Miss Constance Har
dison." An uneventful drive brought him to
Poplar Ridge, where he remained until
late in the evening, making arrange
ments for board and the. opening of his
school. He was determined to remove
himself as much as possible, from the
Influence of that infatuation which he
: found himself so unable to resist. It
was after dark when he rode up to the
gate and entered the house. All the
inmates were at supper. He entered
his room, performed a hasty toilet and
went to the supper-room. It warmed
his very heart to hear the chorus of
welcome that greeted him.
"I knew you'd be back to-night,"
said Mr. Hardison, as soon as he could
make himself heard, "and herd's your
place all ready for you.'"
As they were all nearly through sup
per, the gentlemen soon rose, according
to their curious custom, leaving Roscoe
to finish his meal as best he could, with
only the ladies for company. He did
not at all object to this arrangement,
but sipped his coffee and ate his biscuit
very leisurely as he answered the run
ning fire of questions directed at him.
"I hope you had a real nice time, Mr.
Owen." said Mrs. Belmont. "I don't
expect you missed us a bit, did you?"
"That's not fair, Aunt Louise," inter
posed Clara. "We mustn't make Mr.
Owen tell stories."
"I suppose you stayed with the
Moores?" said Mr. Hardison. This re
minded Roscoe of his notes, and he at
once delivered them.
Oh! Mr. Owen; isn't Fairy Grand
ma splendid?" exclaimed Clara.
"I have no words to express my ad
miration of her appearance and charac
ter," he answered; "and her son 13
scarcely her inferior."
"There, Clara!" exclaimed Mrs. Bel
mont; "you ought to say much obliged
for such a. compliment to Charley
Moore"
"It was no compliment," replied
Clara; "it's every word true;" but the
fair face was a little flushed and there
was a slight shade of vexation on the
sunny brow.
Meanwhile Mrs. Hardison and Con
stance had read their notes, which
seemed to be brief.
"What does she say, mamma?" in
quired Clara.
"If Mr. Owen will promise not to feel
very much flattered, I'll read it aloud.
It's entirely about him," said she, smil
ing.
Burp awa ptfirewne "SOUll
that I am safe for the future," he
laughed.
"Well, here's what she says," said
Mrs. Hardison:
Dear Mrs. Hardison We have en
joyed very much the visit of Mr. Owen.
I write to congratulate you upon the ac
quisition of such a desirable member to
your community. If I am any judge of
human nature, he is a true chevalier
and ought to have been a Southerner.
We must do our best to make him one
by marrying him to some nice South
ern girl. Take good care of him. I
hope you are coming to X soon. My
love to Mr. Hardison and the girls and
dear Miss Johnson.
"That's all," said Mrs. Hardison.
There was a general laugh around the
table, in which all but Mrs. Belmont
and Constance joined heartily. Mrs.
Belmont seemed annoyed at something,
probably at being carefully ignored in
the note. Constance, although she
smiled a little, suffered the smile to
vanish immediately, and her look was
unusually serious.
"Is your note about Mr. Owen, too?"
inquired Clara, thoughtlessly; read it
aloud, do!".
"My note is of such a nature as to be
interesting only to myself," said she;
and her quiet face plainly showed that
importunity would fail to persuade her
to read it.
They arose from the table and Roscoe
joined the gentlemen.
Soon, they all re-assembled in the
parldr, and music and pleasant talk
wiled the hours away rapidly. Roscoe
had but little conversation with Maj.
Carney, though he was very kind and
cordial. His attention seemed gener
ally bestowed, although when speaking
to Constance there was a grave earn
estness in his manner that was not so
intense at other times. Later in the
evening Roscoe, who had not approach
ed Constance, thought he detected a
look of surprise in her glance that once
or twice met his own. Despising his
own folly, he finally took a seat that
chanced to be vacant by her side. After
taking it he knew not what to say. , No
appropriate subject suggested itself,
and for full a minute he sat silently
listening to a dashing fantasia that
Mrs. Belmont was playing. Her exe
cution was brilliant and correct, but
there was nothing in her music that
stirred or moved him. It was all me
chanical. '
"I hope the dark spirit is not upon
you to-night, Mr. Owen," said Con
stance, in a low, clear voice.
"No," he replied; "it's only the spirit
of stupidity. I want to thank you for
exercising it the last evening I was
here, but I don't know how."
' TO BE CONTINUED. .
. THE HISTORY OF LIFE.
HARRY CORNWALL. J
Day dawned. Within a curtained room,
Filled to falntness with perfume.
A lady lay at point of doom
Day closed. A child bad seen the light ;
But for the lady fair and bright,
She rested lu uudreaming night I
Spring came. The lady's grave was green,
And near it oftentimes was seen,
A gentle boy, with thoughtful mien.
Years fled. He wore a manly face.
And struggled In the world's rough race,
And won at last a lofty place. ,
And then he died I Behold before ye.
Humanity's brief sum and story,
Life, death and all that is of Glory.
BE THYSELF.
BELLE BEARDEN BARRY.
How important and' how very appli
cable to all is the wise old saying,
tnow thyself." However, let us con
sider for a time another which may
piove equally as important, "Be thy-
sej." It is really our duty, not only to
oujselves, but also to our fellowmen,
toKnow what we are, after which it
will then be an easy thing to be, to act,
atid to live what w,e are.
Borne minds, like some bodies, have
naturally a slower growth than others,
consequently it is later in life with some
persons than with others, when the
qiikkening comes, when the mind be
glAto unfold, and desires to dissemi
na I some of the information which it
ha acquired during the previous per
ioral when only the desire for learning
an labsorbing seemed to exist.
' ' were are different methods and con
di; ons by which we may-learn to know
ou selves and to be ourselves, and there
art likewise different channels through
wl ch, and into which, we may cast our
in) aence.' For instance, when a woman
be' Dtnes a member of a society, or any
or Etnization, how prone she is to feel
th; I it is enough for her to do, to give
he name and furnish her dues, and
th' I sit back in idleness, and watch
soifeDoay else ao an tne wortc. The
a lady write schooled
ctivity by reasoning with
in her soliloquy she said,
'Ifjl am eligible to this society I am
sur ly capable of thinking, talking and
acting in my own individuality, which
I h ive the right to do just as much as
anj member of this society.
ity opinions may or may not be so
good as the opinions of another, but I
e the right and privilege to give
theta expression," and I will certainly do
so,, whether they become accepted or
icted, and by so doing I shall be
come better acquainted with myself;
others will know me better, and I shall
develop individuality by which it shall
be known that I have at last learned to
thibk and speak for myself, the out
growth of which may be a successful
ent -ance into the different avenues of
life thus proving to the world that I am
no onger a nonenity.
A conversation was overheard the
othjir day which served to intensify this
same idea. One lady said to another,
"I cesire to unite with a certain society,
beiijig willing to attend the meetings
and: pay my dues, but I want the officers
to Understand that I do not want to
reaiS, sing, pray, or talk publicly." The
lady to whom this was addressed said
to h er, "You may feel this way during
the early days of your membership, be
cause it is very natural, but when you
hav i been a member for several months
or a year.I prediot you will change as I
havjs changed, and not be satisfied and
happy unless you are as an individual,
actively pursuing your part of the
work, which may be as only the
throwing on of a little coal, but
should we all throw on our little
how great the fire would become,
ho) , bright and far reaching
i
the Radiance, around which many per-
son
might collect to partake of its
war
ally
all
ity
nth, some physically, some mor-
and others spiritually perhaps, but
n a way to promote growth, activ-
and lasting benefit. From little
thin
great things grow, and when we
casulilly drop little seeds of kindness
and (usefulness, need we be surprised on
somJb future day to find that the seed
had j fallen in good soil,' which warmed
and nourished it, until it had developed
intofla rank bush, which would soon be-
com
! a tree of utility and power, under
h humanity may sit when wearied
whiJ.
by
hun
live
ife's toils, and of whose fruit the
;ry and famished may partake and
Left
us be ourselves by yielding to
that
something which tells us to be up
and
loing. The work may seem small
to u
i. ana we may not see me resuu
ours
Ives, but the effect will be seen
and
felt by others, who may be greatly
helplod in their life work by its far
reacldng influence.
SOUTHERN LITERATURE.
MRS. J. FOSTER SCOTT.
HE absence of literature in the
South, during a period so full
of intellectual energy of a dif
ferent kind, which has mark
ed the century closing, must have a
cause. Great names of famous men
come down to us, in science, in theol
ogy, in law. Statesmen whose far
reaching thought, saved and shaped
this broad commonwealth, for the free
dom and progression of its life today.
The Alexanders, Maury, Audubon, Jef
ferson and Henry, with many others,
protect us from the charge of mental
poverty. The South really possessed
the "Culture of the classics, the most
fertilizing of all intellectual forces,"
and held recognized supremacy, in bat
tles of statecraft, and tilts in the forum.
A predominating cause of our lack of
literature was the agricultural life and
employment of the people and conse
quent separated homes. Literary life
largely grows and lives with mental
friction and association as sparks of fire
ignite and glow against each other.
The isolated homestead and few town
ships afforded no centering birthplace
for undeveloped talent, nor sheltering
arms for smothered genius.
Our standard of literature was form
ed by the finish and purity of English
writers, which true criterion justly
made home effort more timerous.
Again, State preferment and political
distinction was the goal to which all
mental energy was directed, as afford
ing the widest range, and largest possi
bilities.
Our Southern women were long fa
miliar with letters, being fluent and
graceful in expression, both with pen
and tongue. Many an unpublished
manuscript, delicately inscribed, yel
lowed with age, an "in memoriam" es
say, poem, or perhaps a letter, comes to
memory, the work of a grandmother or
a great grandmother. How reverently
we open its worn foldings, saying,
"There is more life and truth in one
page here thar betwe4n,JiCo;
our bSst modern Magazines." Wc
eotersjf
lagazines." woman s
life was not "herself?" with aims and
missions, with the world thrown open
to her professional step, to a literary
career, or to the many opening doors
which advanced civilization has grant
ed her.
The Southern woman's life was in and
through, her father, brother, son and
husband. Their fame was her fame.
Their State and political questions be
came vital home questions to her.
Their fall or degradation was only suf
fering and misfortune to both, provok
ing her tenderest help and sympathy.
Such were the mothers that gave us
the "soldier in gray with the heart of
gold." The hero who coming home
to desolation, drove the ploughshare
through fields in September, that were
moistened with blood in April. Such
were the mothers who handed us their
faith In God, pure as it came to them,
a "covert from the tempest" as it was
to them, unstained by an "ism,'' as it
now is ours. God grant we may send
its blessing on till time shall end! Such
were the mothers that gave us the
women who stood the storm of the six
ties, brave, cheering, broken hearted
and resolute. Turning from the graves
of the men they worshipped, gathering
the old and helpless to the shsds that
were left for homes, they faced the
question of bread, balancing their pos
sibilities and capacities, how many, and
how sure, for how much bread. Hun
dreds became teachers, hundreds tried
authorship. Most of the hundreds
wrought successfully in the school room,
and there is no mead of honor to be
withheld, because most of the hundreds
failed with the pen. The failure of a
noble effort means only an experience
to the wise, and often proves a stepping
stone to the real place of work.
Carlyle sayS, "Literature is the
thought of thinking souls," and in this
day of inexorable demand for the best,
that mind, body or soul, can give,
thought must be given, clear, direct
and simple, if it is to seize and hold the
public. Life Is so fast and full, and days
so crowded we ask a finely pulverized
mental food, easy to catch and to ab
sorb. We no longer think of trailing
through long elaborate detail, and our
popular writers recognizing this, greet
us simply and directly.
Of the older and more assured min
strels, Mrs. Preston remains, bringing
the harvestings of the old era, to be
gathered with the unripened fields of
the new. She wrote because she
"thought in numbers, and the numbers
came," neither spurred by popular ap
plause, ntr harried by pinching neces
sity. Her style is clear, pure, lofty In
thought, and graceful in expression,
We have all felt the spiritual uplifting
that breathes in her poems. Beechen
brook, one of several of ber collective
poems, was published in 1865. Her
poems of the war have an added note of
sadness that only heaven can cure.
Mrs. Jefferson Davis and daughter
were for years acceptable co-workers in
periodical literature. The January num
ber of the Arena contains an able paper
by Mrs. Davis on "Why we do not need
the Phillipines." Her study and un
derstanding of State rights and govern
ment is evidenced in her Memoir of her
husband, and every Southern woman
feels a warm personal interest in all her
efforts and successes.
Marion Harland became a household
name almost half a century ago, when
all school girls, and many of the read
ing public of that day, bent eagerly
over her books ; "Alone," "Th Hidden
Path," and others following on, without
break ; pure, wholesome stories, until
1900. And now we will have her new
book, "Of More Colonial Homesteads,"
their histories, portraits and home life,
making a volume of pleasing remin
iscence for their living generations,
and a lasting monument to the indus
try of a woman of seventy years.
Mary Noilles Murfree brings with
her a first introduction to Tennessee
mountain dialect and people, She
makes fresh, living pictures with deli
cate finish, touching their characters
as diamonds in the rough.
In a cottage upon a crag, near Beer
sheba, in the Tennessee mountains,
looking down and far away to the fall
ing foot-hills, now dim in darkening
shadows, now crimson in the glowing
sun-set, or silvery with the opening
day, she caught the inspiration which
gave us the "Prophet of the Great
Smokies."
Her powers of description seem vast
as the changing mountains, the lights
and shadows and glints of which, we
have so often watched, and which she
has so beautifully voiced. "In the Ten
nesse Mountains," "In the Clouds,"
and other books, maintain the reputa
tion she so nviickly gained.
In the sanl The, is Will Allen J
cool e. in
smooth, fair sku-iung, m thT fine
honor of her herd, so gently pressed,
leaves with you the sense of clear, run
ning water. "The Heart of Old Hick
ory," "Hero. Chums," and later "Rare
Old Chums," are some of her other
works.
Grace King, in her short story, "Mon
sieur Motte," gives in true pathos, the
faith and love of the old black mammy
to the babe, the young mistress sud
denly orphaned and thrown helpless in
her arms. Miss King interprets with
a hne understanding, that peculiar
adoring love, which existed only in the
Southern civilization of that day. The
vividness of her pen pictures, makes
real the beautiful girl graduate look
ing for that unknown uncle only a
merciful fiction of old mammy's, to
take her home, and the agony, shame,
and hiding of the loving old nurse,
that now her darling would know her
secret and "die of shame," that she
had been cared for only by a 'niggar."
Miss King gives a glow of beauty to
the faithful old heart that becomes a
memorial to us of some such love that
enveloped our childhood. To a series
of books called "Makers of America,"
contributed by our best authors, Miss
King has added one, a history of the
early settlement of Louisana by the
French Canadians. Their courage, per
sistence and ultimate success is told in
an attractive, forcible way, and with
careful exactness. Her place in South
ern literature is assured.
Ruth McEnery Stuart, like Miss
King, is a Louisanian by birth. Mrs.
Stuart is true and natural in dialect
writing. First living in Louisiana, and
later, on a plantation in Arkaribas, she
was thoroughly acquainted with negro
customs, habits and superstitions, Her
ear seemed to catch some rythin in the
negro tongue; her conception and her
imagination, finding apt expression in
their peculiar idiom. She carried in
terest and sympathy to the lowly, mea
gre lives of these simple folks. When
in "Uncle Moses' Christmas," he finds
the dime in the little sack of buck
wheat, as "old mist is' used to fix it,"
his burst of tears and joy, that his old
mistis' is found at last, we know i
real.
Sarah Barnwell Elliott's romance of
the Cumberland mountains begins, as
does her book Jerry, upon a "train of
deep emotional force," nor lessens its
firm hold and continued pressure of
interest until the stbry ends. The
high, free spirit and lofty ideals of the
heroine, the leaden life of ignorance
made to glow with patient strength, is
wonderfully woven together, in line
firm, symetric and charming. ,
Mary Johnson is publishing in the
Continued on Second Page.
I

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