-----
A good electric washing machine: -
Oh, yes, it washes clothes quite clean;
It works for those who understand,
But it needs the touch of a woman's hand.
Likewise our cook stove, good as new
That broiled and baked as few stoves do;
It cooked the dishes I like best,
But it must go like all the rest
Of useful things that can't do much
Without a woman's magic touch.
The rugs we bought, with thoughtful care
And pride, must go - I know not where.
The chair in which she used to rock
Must go upon the auction block.
Her bed - her dresser - tiny chair,
In which she sat and combed her hair;
Pictures - gadgets - souvenirs
Of our contented, happy years: -
They become as wood or stone,
When the spirit dear has flown.
FLORENCE B. TAYLOR
Not For Sale - date published unknown While she, with admonition sweet, From babyhood to manhood frail - My memories: her kindly eyes; Her message - ere she fell asleep: FLORENCE B. TAYLOR, Cleveland, Ohio
A church spire, pointing the way toward God, Fresh curtains of white in a tenement drear. The song of a mother at her work. Clear eyes, bespeaking inward grace; FLORENCE B. TAYLOR - Cleveland, Ohio
This poem was written for my beloved Sunday School Class in 1935. Published in Saltsburg Press.
Palm Sunday brings to mind that day Florence B. Taylor
Dear friends: This Sabbath afternoon my thoughts turn in happy retrospect to my visit in Saltsburg, where live, my husband's people say, the friendliest and most hospitable people they have ever met. Of course I quite agree with them, and swell with pride, for aren't Saltsburg people my people, and increasingly dear to my heart as the years go by? I had a beautiful time up there - the best vacation I have had since I left Saltsburg for Cleveland, twenty years ago. A sojourn like that - amongst staunch old friends, who have so much character, puts new starch in your spine and faith in your soul. Like the ministers, I am exceedingly fond of chicken (and Guinea and everything else that's good to eat) and did the boys and I revel in the delicious meals! I believe they also agree with me that the best cooks also live at or near Saltsburg. The boys in their city home have memories of green fields, grand haymows, horses to ride, creeks to wade in, trees to climb and the older boy even learned to milk! Cities were never meant for little boys. Through Mr. Walker's kind intercession, I have a pass to the Exposition again this year, but didn't really make use of it until we returned from Pennsylvania. Last year I stated, with enthusiasm, that the Expo was well worth the price of admission. Some people didn't agree with me. This year I'll do no boasting, but just tell you frankly, our impressions of it. Mrs. Nannie Nowry and I spent some time there on July 22, but the day was so hot we couldn't enjoy it to the full. The thought of "Winterland," a skating spectacle, enticed us. I was sure that would be one cool spot. But no! It was so hot up where we sat that it was hard to believe there was real ice on the stage below us. At any rate there are real skaters there - some of the finest in the country - besides a skating ballet and two comedians. The boys and I saw it last Monday - a cool day - and enjoyed it thoroughly.
Nannie and I were naturally attracted to a clever young salesman of "musical disks." I don't know what else to call them. You can imitate almost any reed or string instrument with them. But the man's clever imitations and clowning proved highly entertaining, and usually a large crowd is gathered 'round him. He is reaping a fortune. The boys and I went to see Tony Sarg's Marionettes. They are grand entertainment for children; and, judging from the full house for each show we attended, adults get a great kick out of them, too. We saw "Alice in Wonderland" and "Rip Van Winkle."
It is time for the last mail - so I must close abruptly. More next week. In the meantime, if any of you come to Cleveland and are looking for a real home to stay in rather than the hotels, I can direct you to the home of a friend of ours, who lives near here.
Sincerely yours, Florence B. Taylor.
Florence B. Taylor
2/1/39 - Former Saltsburger Writes a Letter My Dear Saltsburg Friends: This is my third attempt at a letter for you. Surely the third time will be the charm. There is so much to say, one doesn't know where to begin. I was full of ideas for the New Year ... and just got a nice start, when the accumulation of household duties snowed me under. I am just now emerging from the drift. I wonder if the groundhog will emerge tomorrow, and if so, will he see his shadow? Oh, I hope not. Sometimes we think we have moved into Saskatchewan, instead of an eastern suburb of Cleveland - it is so cold here. We are high - and very much in the open. I spent the first half of the winter stuffing up cracks, nailing on strips here and there. Now we are quite comfortable - and in love with Lyndhurst. We are about fourteen miles from Cleveland's Public Square; one hundred yards from the bus line (vacant land between); within two short blocks of the post office and stores; within three blocks of the beautiful town hall, which houses a most satisfying Public Library. The little park surrounding the town hall is beautifully landscaped and contains a baseball diamond, tennis courts, swings, etc., for children. The community skating rink (an outdoor artificial pond) is right beside the post office. About three blocks to the north of us is the coasting hill, where our boys disappear, with sled and skis immediately after school. In order to keep up the illusion that I am a good sport, I have been forced to go with the boys on occasions - and go down alone - on my tummy - which, in the vernacular of youth is called, I believe, "belly-slamming." Oh, does that coasting bring back memories of Saltsburg! And the wild, hair-raising rides on the bob-sled down that hill through the center of town! Oh, where is Claire Snyder, our master pilot? And Raymond Pearce, our brakeman de luxe, who also served as ballast for the rear of the sled?
But to come back to Lyndhurst - which, as Mr. Walker suggests - is a little nearer to Saltsburg than Cleveland: Just to the east of us, bordering our street is a privately owned airport, where Virgil and the children had their first airplane ride several years ago.
The High School - Charles F. Brush High - one mile west of here - is one of the finest in the state, and I do know that Estelle and Virgil, Jr., are very happy there. (Virgil is in Junior High - eighth grade). School busses take the children to and from school. A cozy little bus, financed by the state, takes Charlie to his beloved sight-saving school, where he has two wonderful teachers. Virgil drives to work every day - a half hour drive (except when it is slippery). It will be lovely here in summer.
To complete our happiness, we have a dog. He came to us last November as a tiny pup - part collie, part chow and, judging from his tenacity, a bit of bull. But he is all that two lively boys could wish for, and a great family pet.
The neighbors are very nice - the few that we know. Many of these people have lived out here all their lives, and live, not only in the fear of the Lord, but of what their neighbors would think; a well-behaved community - of about 2500.
We have the rural delivery - a row of mail boxes on a rail, at the end of each street. But the post office is so near that we call for ours there. It is a third-class office, in a tiny white frame building, one half of which is occupied by a lumber company.
The post office proper - excluding the customer's passage way - is certainly not over 5 x 12. But mail order catalogues come in there by the score; and laundry bags from college students; magazines, farm papers, love letters, recriminations, joyful news, sad news, appeals for funds, checks, rejection slips - the same as any other post office. No, not quite the same. Here the postal clerk (a grand woman) rejoices with you in good fortune and commiserates with you over a rejection slip or any other disappointment. I love the villagers' lack of sophistication. Life is real - and vital - and worthwhile out here.
It is now Thursday, the second - and no sun. Hurrah for an early spring! I'll be with you again - perhaps next week. With love and all good wishes to my "home folks", I am,
Faithfully yours, Florence B. Taylor
My dear friends: Mr. Walker has always given space in his paper - freely and gladly - for worthy tributes to worthy citizens, usually after the deserving ones have departed this life. I like to give my flowers to the living. May I pay tribute to my life-long friend, Mr. Daniel Kennedy? He has suffered so long and so acutely - without complaint - that he deserves a choice "bouquet." This letter is not a burst of emotion. I have wanted to write this ever since I visited him last summer. But there is a natural reluctance about "wearing your heart on your sleeve." However, the urge has overcome the feeling of reticence; and I am going to try to pay off a small portion of my long-standing debt. I have always believed in the efficacy of prayer, ever since I prayed - most earnestly - that some children would come to live in the brick house at the crossroads (where Mr. and Mrs. Will Hudson live now). The Hobaugh family, who had been living there for some time, was moving away - much to my relief, for Miss Minnie, my teacher at No. 4 school, "knew" too much. It was such an easy matter for her to slip down the road and tell Aunt Caroline of my latest escapade. I believe she actually came only once; but it was to reveal the latest outrage; to give my status - as the most mischievous, therefore the most troublesome child in the whole school; and to state, oh, but definitely, that my extracurricular activites would have to be curtailed. My beloved foster-mother pondered deeply over reformatory measures, and decided to appeal to my reason. I had always wanted to be a school teacher, and now, at the mature age of eight-and-a-half, that was my definite goal. So, Aunt Caroline took me into solemn conference, and said, "Florence, if you've given Miss Hobaugh trouble, it will all come back to you when you are a teacher." (Pupils of Room No. 4 - 1916-17 please note! No, come to think of it, you'd better not read this at all). I digested this idea of Aunt Caroline's pretty thoroughly, and then replied, "My, but Miss Hobaugh must have been a naughty little girl!" Only maturity can bring full appreciation of her as a fine, conscientious teacher, who put good literature into my hands, and unforgettable songs into my heart. All this seems beside the point, but the foregoing experience will help you understand more fully how grateful I was to Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy for choosing the red brick as their new home, and bringing a whole flock of girls - two of them near my age. It was a great day when Mr. Kennedy brought his team to work in the fields adjoining our yard, and two shy little girls, trailing him, came edging over to our fence. I dare say I met Martha and Eva more than halfway - I was so hungry for youthful companionship. Whenever our problems became too weighty for juvenile minds, Mr. Kennedy was the high tribunal of justice; justice tempered always with kindness. He never let us down. Many things about this family fascinated me. First, the tiny baby - a late comer - whom Eva called "Poil"; then the beautiful white horses, which, when hitched to the family surrey on Sabbath Day, were the last words in elegance. One of these horses had a baby colt every spring. That was an astounding thing to me. None of our horses had baby colts. Then I was impressed by the amazing industry of that household. Everybody - except my playmates and Baby Pearl - worked like beavers. Yet there was never any quarrelling. It was grand team-work; "One for all; and all for one." And oh, the gay times in the evenings! Endless games of Flinch and Pig, and Snap! and the never-failing Hide and Seek. I loved being there, and Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy seemed to delight in all their children's pleasures. They had innate courtesy toward a guest - be that guest a daily pest. Mr. Kennedy always respected the questions and opinions of little children; and in his graciousness to his own family - and to all comers - I consider him a true nobleman. Despite annoyances that proximity of properties, weak fences, unruly cattle, etc., can bring, Mr. Kennedy was considerate and tactful, even in his annoyance. Cousin Ellis regarded him as a fine neighbor and a loyal friend. Whatever may be Mr. Kennedy's faults (I am not aware of any), he has fulfilled the supreme law, "Love the Lord thy God ... and thy neighbor as thyself." He has gone through the refining fire this past year - and has come out, pure gold. God bless him. Sincerely,
Florence B. Taylor
Dear Friends: This is a momentous day: the 150th anniversary of the opening session of our first Congress. The stirring speeches have just been made; and our national hymn and anthem have been sung; and under it all you feel there is a deep undercurrent of patriotism - a new appreciation of our country. Such stability in a changing world! Toppling thrones, fallen empires, internal strife, fickle cabinets; and, worst of all, tyrannous dictatorship. And here, in this impetuous New World, the great Melting Pot, the land of Adventure, where we dare so much, we still cling to the faith of our fathers. Therein lies our security as a nation. It is with a new fervor that we sing "AMERICA." I have just read our Declaration of Independence in Jefferson's own hand writing, in which our forefathers declared: "We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal..." The colonists believed that so strongly, and in their "certain inalienable rights" that they were willing to fight and die for what they believed. Yet the so-called "Daughters" of these brave men have degenerated into a sorority of SNOBS. In their ignorance they would bar Marian Anderson from Constitutional Hall; that consummate artist, to whom the great Sibelius said, "My roof is too low for you." Last summer I secured all necessary information and filled out an application blank, preparatory to joining the D.A.R. But, happily, I didn't send it. To join, I realize now, would be to turn traitor to our brave ancestors' ideals.
The flu has swept through Cleveland, keeping thousands of children out of school, and causing at least one large High School to be closed. The flu has not been malignant - and to some children just a friendly ally that allows them to play "hooky" gracefully. But I am feeling very resentful toward my own "flu bug" that kept me from going to Saltsburg and paying my last respects to a great soul. My little tribute to Mr. Kennedy was entirely inadequate - and too late. But it doesn't matter; for in those last months of his life Mr. Kennedy lived on a spiritual plane far above my poor power to add or detract. May we take this leaf from his book: to do the best we can, and leave the rest to God. His faith was unique. Sincerely,
Florence B. Taylor
This thought came to me last week, as I sat looking out of our north window - upon this vacant land - about 100 feet in width. There is a great deal more, to the south of us. I never realized before that "brown and sere" weeds could be interesting. At every snowfall - of soft and clinging texture - Queen's Lace looks like the cotton boll of the South - except for its brown stem. The burdocks on the south of us - with their burrs, present a problem to our woolly pup. Wanted: One good curry comb.
More next week.
Sincerely,
Florence B. Taylor
1440 Gordon Rd.
The spring thaw has come - and the ground is all wet; Hello, Folks! - How are you all this muddy spring weather? Isn't it grand to wake up to the tune of singing birds! In justice to the boys I must deny part of that poem, for I'm not in despair at all - nor even filled with dismay, except when a very muddy pup wiggles in past someone who enters the front door. Luckily, we have an outside door leading to the basement, where all rubbers are left, and where a wet, dirty dog recovers his respectability. Inadvertently Buster (our dog) did the nesting birds a good turn this spring. A month or so ago, in transforming our feather pillows to new cases, I put the feathers first into a big, loose bag - a pillow-full at a time - and hung it outdoors for an airing. Buster - who had sneaked out - found the swaying bag a grand plaything, and when I discovered him, he was creating his own snowstorm. I was ready to annihilate him - for goose feathers are precious, and now Charles' pillow is considerably "reduced." But the birds are appreciative of the nest material to be found in our back yard.
I believe you would enjoy the inside story connected with this week's poem. I had prepared a short feature story - my first - for a local newspaper, and then decided to add a poem or two in case the story didn't click. I wrote this one - straight from the heart - but it seemed too sentimental to offer to a city editor; so I sat up two or three hours one night, to write what I thought was rather a clever one - sure fire, and all that sort of thing. Well, my hard-boiled editor did accept the story - after having me rewrite it - and then viewed it rather skeptically. The "clever" poem didn't get to first base - or even out of the batter's box; but "A Mothers Plaint" appealed to him at once, because, he said, the old-fashioned virtues and family life and family love have universal appeal. Isn't that gratifying, in this "modern" age, of so-called "individual freedom?"
"Window Shopping," written a year ago, is a true recital of my experience at that time, which made a deep impression on my mind. Happiness is truly a state of mind. This fact was proven by a young matron of our acquaintance. She and her husband were on the same committee of our large Sunday School class, as Virgil and I. We met in the various homes; and her home is a mansion compared to ours; broadloom carpets, oriental rugs, gorgeous drapes, handsome antiques, exquisite china - everything that a woman could wish for - except children. Her husband is a fine, intelligent, gentle soul, who "suffereth long and is kind." She expressed great dissatisfaction with her home, and wished she might have one like a certain millionaire's daughter, in whose home we met some time before. Discontent, like wormwood, embittering her very soul. It's too bad.
Heart-warming letters have come from "home folks" this week, and oh, what an inspiration they are! It is an act of real generosity - to overcome the almost universal distaste for letter writing - to take time out of one's busy life - to write a word of encouragement, and to give a picture of one's daily life. I do appreciate it. ****
Personal Notes:
Why do lovely girls - useful and needed - like Genevieve Elrick - have to be taken?
Thinking over the lives of people like Mr. Kennedy and Homer Buchanan, why are the gentlest, kindest called upon to suffer the most?
Why are Titian and Olive Rose called upon to carry such a heavy cross?
There must be a purpose back of it all.
Best wishes to Rev. Miller in his new pastorate. I know Saltsburg is sorry to lose him.
Congratulations to Mrs. McKelvy of her fine prize. To think of spending one-third of one's time (or there-abouts) on such a luxurious mattress! It's quite a strain - not to covet.
(We'd better skip all this, Mr. Editor. Sorry to have started such foolishness). Best wishes to all.
Sincerely,
Florence B. Taylor
I went downtown to pay the sundry bills, ***
Sincerely,
Florence B. Taylor
My Dear Friends: I hope I am not too late for this week's Press. Saturday and Sunday were completely full days; and now it is Monday morning - the beginning of Holy Week - a week that always makes me sad, not only in contemplation of Jesus' sorrow, humiliation, and supreme sacrifice but because the world seems farther removed than ever from the Kingdom of love and peace that Jesus set up. We are now at the crossroads. Is Europe to be crushed under the heel of two or three dictators? Can man no longer even worship as his heart dictates? What an apathetic world - to allow this tyranny to spread! It isn't enough to pray for peace; action is needed. The concerted action of all nations could stop Hitler tomorrow - and no bloodshed, either.
What of our own inner conquests this Easter week? It isn't enough, is it, to contemplate the wonder of God's love and Jesus on the cross - dying in torture, that we might live. It isn't enough to praise and glorify His name. It is a time to study the architecture of our character; tear down faulty construction, and build anew. Good Friday would be the perfect day to search our own hearts - and let die within us every hate toward a brother, every bit of envy or malice, or unworthy ambition. If you are not on speaking terms with your neighbor, then you are not a Christian. God is Love and it is simply impossible to love God and hate your neighbor. It is not enough to go to church and fulfill, in every detail, the letter of the law. Jesus taught - and proved - that it is the spirit of the law that counts.
On the anniversary of that glorious resurrection morn let us resurrect new ideals for ourselves, fresh courage, new purpose - a deeper faith. By keeping in our minds an awareness of God's presence, we can do much to hasten the Kingdom of God on earth. The Kingdom of Heaven is within you; and if you will, you can let the light of that Kingdom shine all around you.
It is mail time and I must close. Whatever I have said, I take upon myself, too. And may we reconsecrate our lives to the one who died for us.
Faithfully yours, Florence B. Taylor
****
It isn't difficult to obey the injunction, "Love thy neighbor," when you have a neighbor like Lynn. When the door-bell rings, and I can't see anyone through the upper half of the door - which is glass - then I know it's tiny Lynn. Eyes as blue and clear as a summer sky; manner, prim; dress and speech, immaculate; and a wisdom far beyond her brief span of years. I always feel flattered when she comes to our door; for I have so little to offer her - beyond the use of my piano, and access to my cookie jar; but she has so much to give me. When she comes in the door, cyncism and unworthy doubts seem to fly out the window. Little children ... "of such are the Kingdom of Heaven."
This old world may be full of sin and ghastly ignorance, and poverty, and anxiety; but it is certainly not a dull place to live. How can life be boring, with interesting people all around you? No two alike. Having children of various ages, a nice variety of young folks come within the family acquaintance. I get a big kick out of High School students. They are brimming over with life and fun and wit. Then these gangling boys - full of wild energy, and "ego" sprouting out all over. So many arguments have to be settled with a "haymaker" to the chin.
Let me tell you of an incident that occurred last Sunday morning, that will give you an idea of the kind of neighbors Lyndhurst has. We were driving, in our ancient Dodge, to Sunday School - at a very respectable speed. Suddenly a Lyndhurst police car passed, honked and motioned for me to pull over to the curb. My heart skipped a beat! In swift panic - a hangover from my early childhood, when policemen were represented as great ogres - I thought "What have I done? Did I crash a red light? Is a wheel coming off? Is our car such ancient vintage that it is considered a highway menace?" (Hundreds of Cleveland jaloppies have been ordered to the scrap heap). All these foolish thoughts, while my serene husband said, "We haven't done anything wrong," and a smiling, handsome young policeman came to the left side of the car, pointed to the running-board; then reached down and came up with two baseball mitts - our sons' most valuable possessions right now. A gasp and an "Oh, boy!" came from two boyish throats in the rear seat. Virgil, Sr. thanked him cordially; the boys and I were too overwhelmed by the turn of affairs; finally I shouted after his retreating figure, "You're a dear!" For which ardor I have been kidded ever since. Do you wonder that we like Lyndhurst?
Next week I would like to tell you a success story that I think will warm your heart. It is now mail-time the last mail - and I must say au revoir until next week.
Sincerely,
Florence B. Taylor
Lyndhurst, Ohio
My Dear Friends: In my desk is a letter to you - unfinished - dated May 27. I recall that I was quite determined to write on that date, because it was a special milestone in the "Success" story that I mentioned in my last letter. But The sandman came early that night, and the very next day we found this house - and rented it. The home in Lyndhurst - so dear to my heart - had been sold. To accomodate the buyer of our home, we moved out June 1, which meant that all correspondence has been at a standstill. In the meantime Saltsburg has lost its most famous citizen - Miss Lizzie McIlwain. What a wonderful woman she was! What a privilege to know her! It was a liberal education to talk with her. She was endowed with a most remarkable mind. Her memory was a vast storehouse of knowledge - carefully filed away. One of my most precious memories is the afternoon I spent with her, and she told me much about my mother, whom I cannot remember, but who she knew so well. All Saltsburg will mourn Miss McIlwain's passing. A remarkable woman, who has lived through the most remarkable period of the world's history.***
Several interruptions have forced this letter to be very brief. Please think of it as a tiny tribute to Miss McIlwain, a greeting to all my dear friends. I'll be with you next week - Providence willing.
Sincerely,
Florence B. Taylor
The highways of life are the roads to success - And now you will wonder what a poem "Highways and By-ways" has to do with a letter to my home folks. Well, Mr. Walker and I have agreed - for the next six months - to have a "column." I would like to name it "The By-ways." (I hope it can have a regular place - on page four; but that is for Mr. Walker to decide).
I'll confess that I feel all panicky inside - rather shocked at my own temerity. The point is can I write anything important enough to take up space? I assure you it won't be profound wisdom; and it won't be witty entertainment. Somewhere, in between those two, I hope to give you pleasure, and now and then have a thought that will give someone new perspective, and perhaps new courage. A few months ago, in one of our Cleveland papers, appeared this poem by Clara McLean: Divine Spark
My task is this: to lay the wood
 &NBSP With hands that never tire.
Creation of a poem waits
 &NBSP Till Heaven lights the fire.
*** How true it is "that there is nothing new under the sun." I realize that nothing I can say is new. Even the idea of my little poem was given me by a dear friend in southern Ohio, who, upon reading the account of the children's and my motor trip through the Smokies six years ago, wrote, "I see ... that you have gathered some hyacinths for your soul." I loved that expression, and claimed it for my own. Hyacinths are among my favorite flowers; the name connotes beauty and fragrance. St. Paul says, "Whatsoever things are lovely, dwell on these things." To make this a good column, you must help me. Right here I want to make acknowledgment for a most inspiring letter - received months ago - from Paul Lowman of Clarksburg. I can remember how, in Conemaugh Church, his little curly head waggled all over the place; but somehow those wonderful sermons found their way inside that curly head, and are bearing good fruit. I thank him for his letter.
I think it would be fun - say the first week of each month - to head the column "The Mailbag" - and have it made up of excerpts from YOUR letters. You can trust me not to use your name unless you grant permission. We can have so much fun from each other. And let's keep remembering that we get out of life just what we put into it.
Hopefully yours, Florence B. Taylor
4501 Lilac Road, South Euclid, Ohio.
"...But the by-ways of life are the little side paths
Where we gather hyacinths for the soul."
***
This week we must be very practical. We may need hyacinths for the soul; but we also need nourishment for the body. So let's gather - EGGS! Where? At the Seventh World's Poultry Congress and Exposition, to be held in Cleveland July 28 to August 7. I don't know how Cleveland is going to get any sleep - with 12,000 birds cackling, crowing, gobble-gobbling, quack-quacking, etc. They will be worse than the American Legion. Royalty from Norway visited us quite recently, and now we are to have royalty - in chickens - from all over the world. Right now there are hundreds of birds, of fine feathers, on the high seas, rebelling that they must travel steerage, and longing for a promenade on the upper deck, and a chance at the rail - either on it or hanging over it. Here they come! From New Zealand, Egypt, Argentina, Trinidad, even the Fiji Islands. At least sixty countries will participate in this great event. The two largest buildings used in our Great Lakes Exposition have been held over for two years - to house the poultry exhibits. The vast underground exhibition hall of our Public Auditorium will be used to exhibit great incubators, brooders, automatic nests, refrigerators, transparent kitchens - where we will see eggs - eggs - beautiful eggs - and pretty girls doing magic - kitchen magic - with them.
Congress has appropriated $100,000 for this exhibit; so our own little U.S. show ought to be pretty good. The live bird competition will be very keen. Japan is sending a rooster (maybe two) with a tail seventeen feet long. There will be green-legged chickens, geese with marcelled plumage, jungle fowl, the "Adam and Eve of Poultrydom". Some two hundred varieties of pigeons will be on parade. There will be a homing pigeon race, with hundreds of birds released here at the Congress, to speed away to their home cotes. Poultry experts the world over have a choice of four languages (French, English, German, Spanish) in which to tell the other fellow how to raise poultry. Tom Barron, of England, the world's outstanding breeder of Leghorns, is just one of the 180 speakers. Our large Central Armory is being turned over to the young people - Rural Scouts, 4-H Clubs, Future Farmers of America, etc. About 25,000 of them are expected. They will have their own camp at Berea. Canadian Day - Monday, July 31st - should be a gala day, with the Canadian Mounties putting on their musical ride, and the Girls' Kilties Band of Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, the Canadian Ex-Service men in parade, etc. Each day has some outstanding feature. Nationality groups will put on programs each day - dances and music of their home land in native costume. There will be style shows, puppet shows - and even Ko-Ko, the famous clown.
There is one contest that I don't want to miss and that is the carving contest - open only to bridgegrooms of not more than a month's standing. Brave indeed is the bridegroom who enters. My husband has been carving the meat and serving the dinner plates for twenty years; but he still welcomes the aid of his country wife in the carving of a chicken or turkey. Every person that has any possible connection with poultry seems to be coming to this World Congress. Even Indians, and why? How do they rate memberships? Because they wear feathers! The Osage Indians of Pawhuska, Okla., will set up their teepees here, and will cook in the open, inviting Congress and overseas officials to eat with them. Of course they will give their dances several times each day, wearing brilliant feathers in their costumes. Such funny names they have! Chief Bacon Rind; Perry Crazy Bear; Alfred No Ear. I'm afraid I shall want to write of nothing else, when the Poultry Congress comes to town. I wonder if the Congress will bring any of you. I do hope so. If I can be of any help, just let me know. Right now a little of Saltsburg has come to us. Cousin Ina and Marjorie Lemon came up for the fourth. Marjorie took Estelle back home with her, and Ina is staying two weeks with us.
The new "column" had an auspicious beginning, with a cordial letter from Mr. Walker and an encouraging note from Dell McQuiston Harmon. How those messages help! If this letter is dull, blame it on the heat. It's been awful. Better luck next week.
Cordially, Florence B. Taylor
4501 Lilac Road, South Euclid, Ohio.
Today I must gather - hastily - a few hyacinths, before the last mail carries them to Saltsburg. Cousin Ina and I found a whole garden of them - last Sunday evening, as we attended a session of the great Christian Endeavor convention which met in Cleveland last week. Because of the intense heat we didn't go down to the convention until Sunday evening, but in that one session we received enough inspiration to carry us through many days. That inspiration came from the address of a Pittsburgh minister - youthful looking Louis J. Evans, of the Third Presbyterian Church. Dr. Evans took charge of that great audience that was worn and frazzled with the heat and with an interminable address just preceding his - and electrified them with his dynamic enthusiasm about Jesus Christ. There were thousands of young people in that audience, earnestly seeking the Way; Dr. Evans lost no time in proving to them that Christ is the Way, the Truth and the Life.
Other great leaders - Mohammed, and Confucius - prepared creeds, ethics, and statecraft; but they had to die and leave it all. Jesus was the only one who could say, "Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world." The statement that Jesus ascended into Heaven and is sitting at the right hand of God is not to be thought of in a geographic sense, but a wholly spiritual thing - partnership with God, and fellowship with man. Dr. Evans repeated, "Christianity is not a 'movement,' it is a fellowship." Life here is a constant challenge to our Christian faith and devotion to ideals. The appalling statistics were given - that three times as many girls are working in "beer joints," liquor bars, etc., as are to be found in colleges today".
The world is in a turmoil today, but one's own personal life need not be. The rule is simple: just follow the leader. Let Christ be the Captain of your life, and use you to hasten the Kingdom of Heaven on earth. Dr. Evans caught the interest of the young people at the very outset by his opening remarks. There were two experiences in his life that scared him to death: The thought of proposing to the girl of his choice; and getting up to talk to young people. He went on to say that "Courtship is that experience in a young man's life when he pursues the girl of his choice until she finally catches him." In his own romance he found himself completely tongue-tied; but the "girl" - bless her heart - got the meaning. As to young people, he realizes his tremendous responsibility as a speaker - swaying their minds, one way or the other.
Now I must close - all too soon. Never again shall I leave my promised letter until the deadline which is Sunday in this case. Too many unexpected callers and interruptions. Don't forget about our column for first week in August, "The Mailbag." Let us have testimonials on your religious experience this summer; a wonderful convention like this must have been; a trip to Chautauqua; a gem of thought that came your way. "Let your light shine before men."
Faithfully yours, Florence B. Taylor,
4501 Lilac Road, South Euclid, Ohio.
The Pennsylvania Lines are busy this weekend, bearing precious cargo - my childhood friend, Martha Kennedy Robinson, returning from a week's visit here - and my husband coming home after a week's vacation near the beautiful hills of Saltsburg. I almost sent an S.O.S. for him ahead of time. Supposedly sane, white, and slightly past twenty-one, I still need a guardian. But if Martha Robinson tells any tall tales - of how I ran out of gas one evening, parked without lights the next, and reported my car stolen a third night, because I had forgotten which street I had parked on - don't believe a word she says.
Two little Taylor boys (not so little, either) are utterly spoiled. When Cousin Ina was here, she gave them a complete vacation from dish washing, and nearly all other sordid household tasks. Martha was almost as bad and now I loom up as a sort of tyrant. The boys found a kindred soul in Martha, who is a baseball fan. She and I attended a big league game on Ladies' Day - Friday. It really is a great sport. I hope the Cleveland club will soon see their way clear to have a Boys' Day - such as Pittsburgh has. Oh, "wad some power the giftie gie us" - to see what goes on inside a boy's head. The other evening - in a sand lot game, a heavy rubber ball struck little Virgil in the eye - or rather, the rim of his glasses, which fortunately did not break. But the impact was pretty painful, and I wanted to put some ice on the sore spot. "No, no," he pleaded, "I'd like to have a black eye." But Dame Nature was not accommodating.
Nevertheless, she is an exacting tyrant, who demands heavy toll when we break her laws. Right now she makes me feel as if a steam roller had passed over this bit of flesh and bone. When the frailty of old age comes, I pray I may meet the Great Change as serenely as does a precious 81-year-old aunt of mine who writes, "If I am called to occupy the mansion which I trust is prepared for me, I want you to feel it is a happy solution of life's problem." I shall be looking this week for letters for the "Mailbag." Let's make it extra good.
Faithfully,yours,
Florence B. Taylor, 4501 Lilac Road, South Euclid, Ohio.
By Ways Table of Contents
BY-WAYS
8/3/39 - The Mailbag
Let's open it up, and see what's inside. Here is a copy of a Jacksonville (Ill.) daily. Tucked away in a column called "Small Talk," is a gem of poetic prose, followed by a bit of verse - modestly signed "A.D.L." - a phonetic abbreviation of "Adella." The author (have you guessed it?) is our Saltsburg girl, Adella McQuiston Harmon. Here is a truly religious experience - a sense of wonder and awe concerning a tiny spark of God's creation, the FIREFLY: "...Evening after evening I have sat on the terrace, watching these little glowing things. In the very early dusk they rise so quietly from the grass, like sparks from a dying fire - perhaps from the sinking fires of day; as dusk deepens into dark, higher and higher they rise, until the treetops are their playground. Then, they seem to fall again, with the gentleness of snowflakes, like sparks from a chimney. Occasionally one seems different in his ideas - prefers to stay alone under a bit of shrubbery or in the deep grass. As individual personalities do, he fastens my interest - focuses it away from thousands of his fellows floating, flitting, flashing over the many acres of verdure within my vision. Such a one fascinated me the other night, so much so that I forgot the gay, scintillating thousands, to watch his gleam within sight of my window after I had gone to bed. The following lines were my thoughts, lighted by his spark:
Tiny lost child of some star, Queer lights through my casement stream,
In your summer sky of green, Blotting out my twinkling sky.
Are you flashing to your home, Will you be my Evening Star
Hoping to be seen? As in the gloom I lie?
When dewed night and morning meet
Perhaps some wandering star
May see your little glimmer
And tell them where you are.
They will dim you off to sleep,
In a dusk-blue dreaming-room,
Where twinkling things are crescent-rocked
To rest by Mother Moon." - A.D.L.
*****
Now, just to keep the "column" well-balanced (so it won't collapse) and to prove that "The By-Ways" is not just a woman's page, let's quote from a letter received this week from my fellow-member at Conemaugh Church - ages ago - Paul Lowman, of Clarksburg: "In reference to days at Conemaugh, now long gone by, the words of the poet come to me, 'Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight - And make me a child again, just for tonight!' In passing let me pay this tribute to the country church: When the little country church has passed away (God forbid), one of the grandest institutions that God ever gave man has also passed. "...Your reference to things licentious (in your letter about the C.E. Convention) no one knows better than I, running to Chicago, which has no equal, unless it is San Francisco; but I am still old-fashioned enough to believe in the ultimate triumph of right - as my mother used to say 'The wheels of the Lord grind slowly but surely.' (Taken from George Herbert's 'Jacula Prudentum' - 'God's mill grinds slow, but sure.'). While at the funeral of a very dear friend ---, the words of the soldier, poet, and sweet singer of Israel came to me, 'It is better to go into the house of mourning than to the house of feasting.' As I see life as it is being lived today, I can appreciate those words of David."
As the radio announcers say - "Unquote." Now may I pay tribute to the gallantry of this writer, who always speaks (or writes) highly of his wife. To spare her any embarrassment I shall refrain from quoting his letter - but, how refreshing in this unchivalrous age, when some men refer to their wives as "the old battle axe" or "the old woman," to hear a man speak in generous praise of his wife. No, chivalry is not dead. And the surest way to make a woman charming is to keep telling her that she is charming.
A friend, vacationing in Wildwood, New Jersey, who is an accomplished musician and teacher of piano writes, "I hope the boys listen to Alec Templeton every Tuesday night at 9:30 (8:30 our time). I thought his imitation of Walter Damrosch was wonderful." So did Virgil and I. We tried to round up the boys last Tuesday night, to hear his exquisite playing of a Mozart number. His imitations are truly funny - and clever as can be. How he lifts our spirits with his unquenchable gaiety! And to think he walks in darkness! His is a master triumph over an affliction. Some blind people you feel sorry for; but Alec Templeton impels your admiration and makes you more in love with life. I would like for our September "Mailbag," letters that tell of personal encounters with blind people who have overcome their great handicap. Nothing is more inspiring. Yours for a better and better column - with your help.
Sincerely,
Florence B. Taylor, 4501 Lilac Road, South Euclid, Ohio.
By Ways Table of Contents
BY-WAYS
8/10/39 - Poultry Show and Nowrytown
Where shall we go this week - into the by-ways? Let's go back to the poultry show (The Seventh World Poultry Congress) and peek into a few more chicken coops. Our vast and versatile Public Auditorium, which can adjust itself to grand opera, or a circus, must feel that it played host to a very important event, ending last Monday. For never has there been so much crowing as took place July 28 - August 7. The female of the species produced the prize-winning yearly output of eggs - and the gentlemen did the crowing. Has it not been always thus? No wonder the roosters are cocky! Such gorgeous plumage! 'Tisn't fair to the plain little hen, who does all the hard work. Well, like woman, her day of emancipation has come; for she doesn't have to sit for twenty-one days and hatch her brood. Science has taken that job away from her. Now she will have more time to think about her personal appearance. Who knows? The hens may develop their own "beauty parlor." I tried to find the duck (the drake - pardon me) who had a complete marcel, but I couldn't find him. Of course the drake originated this idea of a "permanent," with his one unspoilable curl; but this is the first time I have heard of an all-over permanent wave on a fowl. Did you ever see chickens of pastel shades? Cleveland has them; and they were on exhibition at the poultry show. Smaller than a grown leghorn, they have feathers much like the Marabou feathers of the ostrich - in soft shades of orchid, green, blue, pink, and peach. I know where the owner lives; and sometime I must learn more about the dainty creatures. No doubt the buyer asked the owner if they come from Easter eggs. The woman remarked, "Their feathers must be dyed." But no, they are the real thing. If I learn the secret, I'll tell you. The large national and state exhibits were housed in the two long buildings used in the Great Lakes Expo. - the Automotive Building and the Hall of Science. The boys and I were bent on seeing the Japanese chicken with the seventeen-foot tail. Charlie and I were somewhat "under the weather," but we trekked the weary miles - or so it seemed - over to the Nations and States exhibits, only to find that our Japanese wonder was stuffed. He was perched on a house-top in dramatic display of his flowing white tail. But the live birds were much more interesting. There were pigeons of every variety - one with a feathered "goiter" as big as his body; cooing love birds; gorgeous birds of paradise; beautifully feathered bantam chickens; guinea fowls; every kind of duck and goose. Two tiny bantam cocks were true to type, and put on the best fight they could through a heavy wire partition.
We were glad to slump and rest in front of a large enclosure - a web-footed creature's paradise. This was a pond, surrounded by earth, barnyard style. Two beautiful, lordly white swans acted as if they had dominion over all the other fowls. One swan felt especially belligerent toward a great tan goose, who fled from him in the water; but when he reached shore, he turned, drew himself up to his full height and dignity; and waggled his posterior section in a defiant way that seemed to say, "Come on, you big palooka;" then winked an aside to us, "I'll molder the bum." It was feeding time. The lad scattered the grain - on land and sea. The water was quite shallow, for even the small ducks stood on their heads, and had a grand time. We saw a pair of white chickens, raised in the far north, by Canadian Monks. These chickens have neither comb nor wattles; another evidence of a creature's adaptation to its environment. These chickens were for sale - $150. We had not time to gather scientific information - except by pamphlet. We collected enough literature to start a poultryman's library. This is to be shipped to Pa. - to interested friends. The poultry show was a signal success. Nearly 850,000 admissions were counted. Of course many of these were "repeats," who came day after day. Even so, there must have been nearly half a million people, interested in this phase of the farm industry. No neurotics, nor psychopathic cases in this crowd. Just good wholesome folks - many of them right from "the sticks' of Ohio - and a little behind on the latest style from Paris; but the kind of people I like. I fairly ached to go again and spend a whole day, but I had to clean the home roost, and mix mash for my own chicks.
Mr. Walker kindly relayed to me a message that came from a former resident of Nowrytown, and mother of two of my little pupils in my first school. This message opened the floodgates of memory for me. I had to get out my old album, scan the picture of my Nowrytown flock, and see if I could remember all the names. The rest of this letter is of interest only to those children, whose ages ranged from 4 to 9. And now the youngest is 30! Think of it! Where are they all? I have no list - nothing but this picture, taken on the north side of No. 14 school. Let me try to name them - and may I be pardoned for forgetting the names of two or three of my prize pupils! Everett and Billy (Floyd) Stockdale, Joseph and La Verne Young, John and ? Regnick, Myrtle and Robert Long, Paul and Ila Marts, (Ila - such a precious child - taken by diphtheria), Herbert ?, Sammy Hill, Lillian Kridler and her brother (brown eyed and bright), Violet, Robbie and Allie (Alice) Lawton, Goldie, Minta and Louis ? Johns, also tiny Mabel Johns and a blond sister, Margaret and George Bowman, Leona and Harry Bortz, Harry Johns, Lloyd and Ethel Parsons, Mildred Libengood, Joe Calhoun, Grace and Florence Calhoun, Alberta, Alverta and Anna Swanson, Letha Yeager (her sister is not in the picture), Hazel Steffey (and Frieda, who is missing from the group; my star speller) the Gray girl - why can't I remember her first name? Four bright girls, whose characteristics I can remember so well - but I can't name them. Also two or three boys I cannot place. Where are you all? Please, someone with that picture, help me out with the names.
Reminiscently yours, Florence B. Taylor.
4501 Lilac Road. South Euclid, Ohio.
By Ways Table of Contents
BY-WAYS
8/17/39 - Surveying the Right Road. The Poultry Congress
How are you all this nice, hot weather? There is one creature that seems to revel in hot weather: the locust. There are a good many locusts around our house; and it seems that the hotter the day, the more they speed up their tiny "saw mills." I love that sound - and would like to see how they make it. Nice echoes are coming back from the "By-Ways" column. Here is one which I would have liked to include in the "Mailbag" last week. It's just what I wanted; but the sermon that inspired that letter was not preached until last Sunday. So let's add it as a postscript to last week's column. Rev. David Crawford, of Clarksburg, gave the message; and Charlotte Marshall McCall, one of his appreciative listeners kindly passed it on to me. Let me quote from her letter: "Sunday, our minister, Rev. Crawford, preached a very good sermon, taking for his text Matt. 7:13-14, 'Highways.' He said each one is building a highway. Before a Highway is built it is first surveyed. Are we following our Surveyor. We have the highway to destruction and the Highway to Eternal Life. Which Highway are you following? The Highway of Satan, leading to blind alleys, or the Highway of Christ, leading to life everlasting? If you are on the highway of Satan, take a detour to Christ's Highway. Satan's Highway is broad, the way of least resistance; Christ's Highway is straight and narrow, requiring hard work, boulders to go through, not around, chasms to bridge - not detour the easy way. Be sure you are on the right Highway of life."
If you only knew how letters like Mrs. McCall's help, more of you would write. The well will soon run dry, unless you help keep it filled. The word "well" reminds me of the "Wishing Well" that the boys and I saw yesterday. And where do you suppose we saw it? At the World Poultry Congress. And what could be in that wishing well? Goldfish and fluffy baby chicks, living apparently in sweet harmony at the bottom of the illumined well. It was a clever optical illusion, but we discovered that the fish-tank - only about 2 in. thick - was in between the chick department and the water above. I wish I could begin to tell you about the wonderful things we saw there; the finest in chickendom; the latest in incubators, brooders, feeders; the countless products that contribute to the well-being of poultry. I should like to spend at least two days there; but I had too limit my visit to five hours. As we entered the Public Auditorium, where, only two weeks ago, we heard symphony orchestra music, from the lower level we heard the clear call of the chanticleer. Such majestic fellows! Magnificent plumage, and a proud strut. The first creatures that caught our eyes were Mr. and Mrs. Peacock. I wanted the boys to see a peacock in full display of his gorgeous tail; but the day was hot, and he refused to show off. The giant turkeys were hot and panting. One beautiful bronze turkey weighed 35 pounds. One turkey - dressed for the dinner-table - or rather, the oven, weighed 42 pounds. One of the most interesting sights was the process of incubation - at that interesting point where baby turkeys were emerging from the shell. The baby chicks are so dear. Every breed on display - and all interested in just one thing; getting enough to eat.
Oh, I must tell you more next week. But a surprising amount of company has just made any more writing today impossible. And here it is - the deadline. Good-by 'til next week.
Sincerely,
Florence B. Taylor , 4501 Lilac Road, South Euclid, Ohio.
By Ways Table of Contents
BY-WAYS
8/31/39 - What are "Regular" Mothers made of of?
(From a boy's Viewpoint)
Two ears that are deaf to boys' bellows and clatter, But keen to their call - when there's something the matter;
Two lips that are firm, with two nice upward curves;
Two hands - not too white - that can mend a torn kite,
These parts, all assembled, do - somehow or other - The column is well-named "By-Ways" this week, for I am truly in the by-ways - the dearest in this world - my "home town" and community. It isn't easy, or natural, to go down the by-ways with a pencil in your hand. So just overlook a raggedy column. When I wrote about "light feet," I had in mind taking the children on picnics, and traveling with the family as far as your purse can stand it. But this time I took wings, and deserted my family - for a week, right in the midst of sewing and preparations for school. How could I resist, when there was a winged car going right from our home to Saltsburg? With two very nice men as escorts. The men, as you have guessed, are Cousin Knox and his son, John, from California. Knox, true to type, came into Cleveland twenty-four hours ahead of schedule. But the joke is on him, for we weren't at home, and he had to buy his own supper. Knox has played a good many pranks in his day; but last Saturday was the first time that I became involved in one of them - I mean, on the assisting end. He was determined to see an old chum of his, who had been a great influence for good in his life. This friend, he learned, lives near Steubenville, Ohio. So we charted our course by way of Steubenville. As we drew near the spot of intense interest, Knox began planning his approach - keeping the poor fellow in suspense, etc. Having known his friend in my childhood, I expressed a desire to be in on this momentous meeting. This friend is now a Methodist minister; so Knox conceived the brilliant idea of our going into the minister's home together, ostensibly, to get married. "This is going to be an embarrassing situation," I protested. "That man, if he's as conscientious as he used to be, is going to remind you that you have one foot in the grave, and another on a banana peel." "Well, he might think I'm a rich old man, wanting to leave you my millions." "Not with that '29 Dodge - he won't. You'd better leave it around the corner." "No sir; my Dodge goes where I go. And besides, I have a chauffeur. That ought to impress him."
Another drawback was that, although I was dressed very comfortably for travelling, it was hardly a suitable wedding costume. But I finally mustered courage to go in and play my part. Mr. Blank was not in just then. His lovely wife, mistaking the mischievous sparkle in our eyes for a romantic gleam, assured us that there was another minister in the house - her father. We weren't prepared for that hurdle, and didn't jump it very gracefully. We insisted on having Mr. Blank. We arranged to come back in an hour. In the meantime, three alert, fun-loving children - aged 16, 18, and 20, were trying to figure us out. When we returned Mr. Blank was on guard; and Knox had barely mumbled something about marrying when the light of recognition came into his friend's face. "You old scoundrel!" - and they were off - for two hours of hilarious reminiscing. It was a high spot in John Knox, Jr.'s trip, for the young people took him down to their church, just below the house, where he was allowed to play the pipe organ - a passion with him. As for the lovely wife and mother, she was a Cleveland girl, and we had much in common. Now we are here - in the old, dear, familiar haunts. What a glorious week for us!
Good-bye now. I'll be seein' ya.
Joyously, Florence B. Taylor
By Ways Table of Contents
BY-WAYS
9/13/39 - Niagara Falls with Knox & Family
It is with renewed faith and courage that I begin this weekly letter. Last week no letters came for the Mailbag, and my spirits were lower than a lizard's tail (partly because I missed seeing so many friends on my visit). Then last Wednesday I had to turn, in self-reproach, and say, "Oh, ye of little faith!" For that day a fine letter came, enclosing a splendid poem, that must soon find its way into the Press. Today came another encouraging note, and a fine composition of THE HIGHWAYS OF LIFE AND SOME OF IT'S BY-WAYS. That too, must appear soon. It is interesting to note the different interpretations of Highways and By-Ways. I shan't be too prodigal at first with my newly acquired contributions for I'm going to make sure the Mailbag is full for October and November. To go back a bit - to those letters that came some time ago from old Nowrytown friends: One writer, no longer in Nowrytown, says "We lost everything we had in the 1936 flood; had only a shell of a house left; but we just stuck out our chins - and now we're back on top again." How's that for Spartan courage?
Another dear, delightful letter from one of my very first pupils (a tiny girl - a woman now) contains this cheerful acceptance of life "as is": "Next to going places myself I like to read about people who do. We haven't done much 'going places' this summer. Our Ford isn't what it used to be, and the pocket-book isn't as plump as it could be; so mine has been 'porch-swing traveling.' It does take a little imagination." Speaking of going places cousin Ina, Knox, their daughter and son, respectively, and the Taylor family had the thrill of seeing Niagara Falls a week ago - a new experience for all the young people. Some of them stood in prolonged awe at its grandeur. One couldn't help speculating how much electric power and light could be generated if all that tremendous power could be harnessed. So much of it is lost, just as the vital forces within our own souls are lost, through our own carelessness and neglect. We were quite disappointed in the night illumination that Saturday night. Whether the air and mist were very heavy, or whether the lights were dimmed we cannot say; but the magnificent Horseshoe Falls could be seen only dimly. There was that ominous roar that seemed to portend something dreadful. And, sure enough, two great nations declared war on Germany the next morning. Some of you will think it was wrong to go sightseeing on the Sabbath. In this instance I do not agree with you. Never was I more aware of God's presence and power, nor more moved to solemn contemplation of Him. Truly, as Shakespeare says, there are "books in running brooks, (also in roaring waterfalls) sermons in stones, and good in everything." A certain little girl will never forget this trip to Niagara Falls - for she fell into the river, as she leaned over a flat rock ledge, just a short distance above the falls. My husband and sons were walking along the lower path on Goat Island, right by the water's edge, when they heard a woman's piercing screams - a short distance ahead. They hurried on - and found a man - the rescuer - carrying this child, limp and white, in his arms, and looking for a first aid station. There were conflicting stories, one of which was that the father jumped in to the water and became wedged between two rocks, and that this man had to rescue father and daughter (the latter six or eight years old). The screams were that of the mother, who had two little sons in tow. When Ina and I came along the same path a few minutes later, an excited and quite unnerved group of people stood, discussing the near-tragedy.
Labor Day week-end was the worst possible time to visit the Falls. The vast crowds caused unending delays and sky-high prices. The boys did so want to go into the Cave of the Winds and get drenched in the mist. But they found it meant a long, long wait and a heavy fee; so they contented themselves with watching the Falls from the lower level - the river beach. We were quite annoyed with the Canadian guards on the Peace bridge, who tried to force Canadian money (at a 12-1/2% discount) upon us in change for a pretty high bridge toll. The power-house and all Canadian buildings were closed and guarded, on account of the war. Another time we must take our children for a longer stay - and not on a holiday.
Now, I must close and catch the last mail.
Sincerely,
Florence B. Taylor, 4501 Lilac Road, South Euclid, Ohio.
P.S. - How interesting the last Press is! - with it letters from Maine, Oklahoma and California.
By Ways Table of Contents
BY-WAYS
10/1/39 - Letterwriting
THE MAIL BAG.
THE PENNY POST CARD
This is national letter-writing week; the New Year of our letter-writing resolutions. We have "Clean-Up Week" and "Be-Kind-to-Dumb-Animals-Week", etc. Let this be "Repair Week" - to repair some hurt, unwittingly inflicted upon a loved one, by long neglect in writing; or the silent damage done to an old friendship. Even the best of friendships - of long standing - need new props. A post card is a wonderful prop. My only sister - so far away, in Texas - is an exceedingly busy and useful woman, with very little time for letter writing. The penny postal is our salvation. I was quite amused (with a wee tinge of suspicion) when the friendly postmistress in the little village of Lyndhurst said, "I never saw anyone get so much on a post card as you do, Mrs. Taylor." It's the Scotch in me, I guess.
But now for our Mailbag. In the letter accompanying that fine poem printed last week, Paul Lowman writes, "I dedicate this letter to the Greatest and also the Most Humble Man that ever walked this earth in the flesh." (If only we would dedicate more of our letters and our utterances to Him!). In speaking of war, Paul quotes the poet, Robert Burns, who said, "Man's inhumanity to man makes countless thousands mourn." I delight in this closing expression of Paul's, "Although a Presbyterian now, I am happy that I was 'corn-fed on the Psalms." (So am I).
And now for an inspiring letter from one who walks in darkness - but "sees the light." You remember that for the September Mailbag I suggested letters telling of your contact - if any - with a blind person, who inspired you with his triumph over darkness. To make sure of at least one letter, I wrote to a sightless person who has made a signal success of his life - because he has overcome every handicap. My letter, sent to New York, evidently did not reach him until three or more weeks later. Here is his reply - verbatim:
The Seneca Hotel - Chicago - Sept. 19, 1939
Dear Mrs. Taylor:
Thank you very much for your letter, which has just reached me. I have been in Chicago two weeks now. I am very busy rehearsing for my new program which begins on September 25th, over NBC. It is sponsored by Alka Seltzer and is to be called "Alec Templeton Time." I hope that you will be able to listen in. You ask my philosophy in life. I am afraid I have not given this question very much thought. However, I really feel that if we all tried our best to make ourselves and other people happy by being cheerful and kindly, and doing our utmost to add a little sunshine to other people's lives, we will have accomplished our true objective.
My greatest hobby is people - I like meeting them, and talking to them, and knowing all about them. I especially like elderly people, as they have so much to tell me from their experiences in life. I also love delving into the lives of our great men, and it gives me a great thrill to learn how they conquered their difficulties. Of course I have always had a great deal of love and care showered on me. You say you would like to meet my mother. I also would like you to meet her. She has been an inspiration to me all my life.
Perhaps some day we shall all meet. Until then my very kindest regards and affectionate greetings.
Sincerely yours, (signed) Alec Templeton May you write it on your heart about "being cheerful and kindly and doing our utmost -" etc. God bless the lad! Good-bye now - until next week.
Sincerely,
Florence B. Taylor
P. S. - Mr. Fennell's letter is intensely interesting.
And Mother's gentle little spanks.
Our trudge to school, my hand in hers,
Avoiding Spanish-needles, burrs;
Would guide my erring little feet.
Yes, in that gallery of my mind
A thousand pictures I can find -
And not one picture is for sale.
A sister's faith, divine, to see
The good, the strong, the wise in me.
Her gentle voice, wherein there lies
A Christian steadfastness; her hand
So soft: it said, "I understand."
These are things that I shall keep.
A dainty flower pushing up from the sod.
A rainbow of hope in a misty sky;
The flag of our country, waving high.
The voice of a friend, bringing comfort, cheer.
A baby's eager, innocent face;
The lisp of a toddler, saying grace.
Strong hands of youth that never shirk.
The glistening tear of sympathy;
A children's choir in sweet harmony.
The tender smile of a wrinkled face.
Oh beautiful things are everywhere:
Where beauty is - ah - God is there!
.........when Jesus, King of men
Made His triumphal entry into old
.........Jerusalem:
But not in kingly chariot with splendor
.........did He ride, :
But on a lowly donkey's colt, with
.........children at His side.
Yet many people honored Him, and
.........spread their garments down,
And with palm branches strewed His
.........path - this King without a crown.
"Hosanna! Blessed is the one who
.........cometh in the name
Of God! Hosanna in the highest!" But
.........dear Jesus faced the shame
Of cruel cross - betrayed - denied; then
.........tortured by His foes
But, victor over shame and death, in
.........three days He arose
And still He comes! The Conquerer!
........."Hosanna!" may we sing,
For Christ, our Saviour, is here!
.........Hosanna to our King!
Cleveland, Ohio
- 494 East 125th St., Cleveland, Ohio.
-1440 Gordon Rd., Lyndhurst, O.,
- 1440 Gordon Road, Lyndhurst, Ohio March 4, 1939.
The vacant land around our house Has folded, like a cup,
Is full of divers weeds; To catch soft snowflakes as they fall-
The golden-rod, milk-weed, tall grass - Like cotton, piling up.
Each with its countless seeds. Oh, could our lives be like Queen's Lace,
But - standing taller than the rest, When youthful beauty's fled?
With lovely summer face, - Could we be chalices, to hold
Still standing - staunch - through winter storms, The dainty "weed", Queen's Lace,
Its lacy doily, now turned brown, God's love and grace instead?
The mud oozes up everywhere, -
Two rollicking boys and a young woolly pup
Track in mud, 'till I'm quite in despair.
Just a dash for a drink, or the archery set, -
Or the marbles cached in the buffet;
And dirt paths zig-zag through the house I've just cleaned;
And helpless, I'm filled with dismay.
But hark! weary mother! The years are not long
'Till those boisterous feet will gain poise,
And tread, all love-laden, to some other door;
Then, what of the mud? And the Boys?
Ah, come in, my laddies, and don't mind the tracks, -
My broom and mop-handle are light;
And so is my heart - for we've got you safe home.
Let me tuck you in snug for the night.
******
And, woman-like, experienced all the thrills
Of window-shopping; also all the ache
Of seeing just the dress I want, yet cannot take.
The more I gazed, the more my hunger grew
For lovely things; the fourteen-dollar shoe;
The saucy, tilted hat of gentian blue,
That teased and coaxed, "Oh, take me home with you."
I hurried on, lest I should long too much,
And reached a street that boasted none of such
Enchanting things; the contrast was a shock;
Yet I am glad I ventured down the block.
A sign read, "WHEEL CHAIRS-CRUTCHES-TRUSSES"-all
The aids to crippled folks within its hall. -
Then - gone my dreams, like bubbles in a breeze;
And I thanked God that I need none of these.
>
1440 Gordon Road - Lyndhurst, Ohio - April 3, 1939
Note - These Easter thoughts of Mrs. Taylor reached us too late for publication last week, but the teachings are timely yet lest we forget that glorious resurrection event. - Editor.
We have a certain neighbor And they're her greatest earthly care
Who has the run-in-itis; And joy this side of heaven;
But she's so very charming Allergic to all sorts of ills -
That her comings-in delight us. Like measles, mumps and fever -
Her presence brings out gallantry And when wee Susie gets a cold,
In boys, (and Husband, too) She really cannot leave her.
Who stoop to take her rubbers off, Being whimsical, she picks
Or tie her dainty shoe. Out queer names for her clan,
She loves to play an instrument, Like "Punkin-Wiener" "Freckle-Face"
And favors my Krakauer; And "Jerry Porkupan."
When I am busy, she will sit In spite of her eccentric ways,
And play it by the hour. Our neighbor we adore,
Sometimes her stay is very brief - For these are just her dollies;
For she has children seven, And wee Lynn is only four!
- 4501 Lilac Rd., South Euclid, O.,
BY-WAYS
Achievement - whatever our ultimate goal;
But the by-ways of life are the little side paths,
Where we gather hyacinths for the soul.
***
Isn't that a gem? And isn't it true, in all our tasks? Certainly, in writing, I can only keep on writing - keep on trying - try not to use "dead wood" - and trust to the Creator of suns and stars to put a divine spark to some of my weekly "offerings." Now wouldn't it be just like some of my old pals - for instance, that expert deflationist, Ethel Henderson, my roommate for two years at I.S.N.S. - to write, "Oh, Florence, your column this week was just too, too divine." Yes, you have to have a great sense of humor to get along with some people. Someone will ask - maybe not outloud - but will think, "What's she always writing to Saltsburg for?" Because the seeds of faith were sown back there. It's a long story - and I'll keep it for a "column" by itself.
BY-WAYS
What a foolish thing is fear! Fear is a sort of negative attitude toward life. Lucky for us that love and courage and ambition are strong enough to push fear out of the picture. I started the "column" with fear in my heart; the first letter had barely gone to print, when the thought came, "Why, this isn't my column; it's our column. The world is full of fine, high-minded people, who love to pass along an inspiring thought, and I'll just be a radio station, to carry the message into the zone I love best." Sure enough, here comes two messages from Adella McQuiston Harmon, one of which I'll reserve for the "Mailbag." But she writes, "Have you ever 'looked up' the meaning of hyacinth? I imagine when old Omar Kayam wrote, 'If I had two loaves of bread, I would sell one and buy hyacinths to feed my hungry soul.' He included the sacrifice and grief and blood elements of its legends, as well as beauty in fragrance, early coming, and color." Just that message on a postcard tells me I have so much to learn, and I am grateful to those who lend a hand.
Two adjustable eyes, that grow dim when surveying
A boy with torn shirt, and all dirty from playing;
And eyes that can see his poor marks not at all,
But can follow the line of his clever pitched ball;
An "unsnooty" nose that's not a bit fussy
If the family dog gets all smelly and mussy,
But detects the best spices for cookies and pies,
And daily allows that sweet incense to rise;
A tongue that is not closely hinged to her nerves;
Two arms that know when to surround a small boy;
That shield, but don't smother - nor act as decoy;
Or sew a ripped ball, or relieve a boy's plight;
Two feet - with low heels - that are willing and able
To shuttle, in rhythm, from hot stove to table;
Light feet, not so mired in the tasks of a home
That they are unable to take wings and roam:
Make the nicest kind of a mother.
***
P.S. - Oh, don't forget our Mailbag for next week.<./ALIGN>
Life is short - and time is fleeting - In your work - or play to tell.
Take five minutes for a greeting; "Joe is working; children well."
If there's no time for a letter, Send a card to those who care; I
I suggest here something better Keep your friendships in repair.
Than that deadly silence, causing Greenbacks...stamps...you haven't any?
Fear, concern - by your not pausing Love will carry for a penny.
******