Do you wonder that we demure and timid maidens venture to avail ourselves of some of its privileges? . . . At length silvery tones and soft musical laughter chimed like tinkling bells upon the moonlit veranda . . . From every sprig of evergreen, over the pictures and mirrors, the unwary one found themselves entangled in the meshes of cobwebs — tiny white threads, as filmy and well nigh as invisible as the web of the spider so famed in story, enticingly luring, “Will you walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly?”

If the boys remember as little about what we wear as we do about them, surely a vast deal of finery, feathers and flowers, ribbons and silks are wasted on the desert air . . . Mr. Lee Smith was tenderly and carefully watched over by Miss Lynda Lee of Talbotton.

P.S. — Let me whisper a little secret — but don’t tell anybody; they do say that some rings were exchanged that night . . . some of the boys were very coquettish and flirted recklessly. Most of the boys, however, behaved in a very ladylike manner.

There’s the home of Cousin Lynda (Mrs. Bryan) still teaching at LeVert College — that dear old building is soon before us reminding us so forcibly of the happy days we spent there — so happily, so free from toil and pain. Mrs. Bryan still retains her sweet magnetic disposition, the trials of life seeming only to have sweetened the fragrance of her busy life.

Talbotton has become one of the livest of all the Georgia towns, since the completion of the Straus-LeVert Memorial Hall, made possible by the generosity of the Straus Brothers of New York, members of the firm of Macy and Company.

Located at the intersection of three streets and two highways, state and federal, the historic remains of old LeVert College, one of the first chartered female institutions in the state — perhaps the world, along with Wesleyan — the Colonial Building stands as a monument to the past glories of one of the best known towns in Georgia.

The spacious auditorium has a stage of ample dimensions. On the walls are two splendid portraits of the great Lazarus Straus and his son, Isadore, who heroically went down with the Titanic. The Straus-LeVert Memorial Hall is a shrine to Talbottonians; they gather within its walls in delighted celebration of sacred and secular affairs, always remembering gratefully the Strauses from whom this blessing came.

Only a pair of wings surmounting a girlish hat — nothing more.

Only a pair of wings — yet a man had risked his life for so small a trophy. Two little wings as soft and gray as a twilight sky, burnished with the shimmering tints of violet and green. He had come from a far-away state, and been ensnared by the bonnie eyes and bright charms of a fair Southern maid. He was a hunter bold, and loved the wild marshes, the woods, the glens of the Southland.

The train dashed onward, leaving the poor dog bleeding behind. “Thank God!” the men exclaimed, after they realized their imminent peril. She now wears a pair of wings on her hat and the love of a devoted man in her heart.

From the borders of the Atlantic to the rushing waters of the Mississippi, the loyal daughters of Wesleyan read with interest any line in the daily papers concerning their loved alma mater, Wesleyan. The word Wesleyan seems to stand forth in golden letters, illuminating the page. And yet, a shadow has fallen into the hearts of many who love their alma mater of alma maters.

The dear old mother of female colleges now needs the tenderness, the love and help of her young daughters. In her old age she trembles and totters, whose arm is it that should be reached out tenderly, lovingly, to sustain this mother who has ever been devoted, kind and true?

Never for one moment can we think of Wesleyan college anywhere but Macon, the Central City of Georgia. So why not contribute our mite to the great trend, and inaugurate a movement that shall be called the Wesleyan Club? There is not a city, a village or a hamlet in Georgia where some Wesleyan girl is not found.

Work on, hope ever till the golden shekels pour into the coffers, and we hear the triumphant shout of victory, “Wesleyan is saved!” She lives on the soil of her birth, and lights her torch on the hill where her youth was gloriously spent. No “curfew bell” will e’er ring its solemn notes o’er Wesleyan’s defeat, if the proper enthusiasm is exercised in her behalf.

“And while loyalty dwells in woman’s responsive breast,
Wesleyan shall live — the matchless and the blest!”

Forty years have passed since our vanquished heroes came marching home, leaving behind them many a lonely grave, unmarked and unknown. Forty years have passed and eyes have been dimmed by oft shed tears, hearts have been wrung by the anguish of cruel separation. Forty years, too, in which many have “crossed over the river and are resting under the shade.” But on this 12 of November, will come a melancholy pleasure, a sacred joy in rearing affection’s monument to the dear departed, of recounting noble deeds and valorous scenes. An unspeakable happiness is bequeathing a future generation this beautiful tribute to knightly valor and true Southern chivalry.

It was night. The town corralled its forces into a fold of rest. The moon shone. The stars gleamed, an atmosphere of perfect peace wrapped the earth in its mystic influence. Suddenly the air seemed alive with demons! Hoarse cries, shrill shouts and firing pistols made weird the beautiful scene.

One of the Colonial homes was burning. The winds swelled to a weird chant, the dancing flames leaped higher and higher, chasing, leaping, winding like a nest of warmed snakes, twisting and crowding, then growing wicked and wildly writhing, the huge beams and pillars tottered and with convulsive efforts fell. Thus within an hour the proud mansion of the Leonards yielded to the greedy monster and dropped silently into ashes.

A holocaust of fond hopes and life’s cherished treasures.

The afternoon was one of remembrance. It was spent at Bryan Homestead. The family group of two generations lingered long at the spot where they first knew what life and love and home were. Many were the changes, but memory, with her tender touch, brought to mind the “light of other days” and they saw the glorified pictures of the past. By twos and threes, with gentle eyes and hushed voices, they went through the familiar haunts, here a tree, there a nook, the brook where many and oft they had waded; the sacred cemetery where those dear loved ones are sleeping. All these pictures, that are painted on the hearts and can never be effaced.

Christmas is over; the yule log has burned to ashes; Santa has journeyed to a far country. The great festival season has passed. In our heart’s echo the angel’s message sweetly clear: “Peace on earth, good will to men.”

The clouds of war are lifted; the radiance of dawn encircles us round about. How happy the man who seeks good in everything, his friends, neighbors, town and country! Let us resolve to meet this buoyant New Year with “ready hearts and hands swift and willing.” To think more, talk more and work more for our town’s progress.

And now a happy New Year and many of them to you all.

The Bryan descendents met at the old homestead in Houston County near Kathleen, Saturday. The colonial house has stood the storms of nearly a century. In it gardens, a few old fashioned flowers reminds us of the past. The hands, that planted them, are beckoning from the heavenly home.

Some of the servants of the Long Ago were present. A typical southern feast was served. The afternoon was devoted to story telling and song. Anecdotes of the dear departed and their favorite hymns made the hours sweet with hallowed associations and merry with love’s cheeriest recollections. Sentiment was in full flower.

The occasion was a happy blending of today and yesterday, that it seemed e’en almost as if no Bridge of Sighs spanned the years.

A Valentine we send to you,
Our dear old soldiers brave and true,
No glowing line, nor thought divine
can half express from heart of mine
All we would say in language fine,
For you in one brief Valentine.

Then soldier rest! Thy warfare o’er
Dream of battle fields no more
Dream of days when you were young,
Of moonlight skies and songs then sung
Of sweethearts fair and Love Divine
Who walked with you where roses twine
Your first true love — Your Valentine.

Mrs. Lynda Lee Bryan, for several years associate editor of the New Era, has retired. It is announced that she will go to Covington, the home of her parents, where she will be associate editor of the Covington News. Mrs. Bryan is a gifted writer and it is gratifying to know that she will continue to be identified with the Georgia press.

How vividly, how beautifully did the joys of other years return, as we read The Jackson Progress-Argus under date of May 27. Like a musical echo, sweet and tuneful; a flower fair and fragrant; a thought, tender and true, it was wafted to us in our sanctum “over here,” in Covington.

In the silent halls of fond recollection, as in days long ended, the friends are just the same, each remembered face, undimmed, unchanged; each voice vibrant with gracious feeling.

Lingering lovingly over each name printed there our eyes are misty with unshed tears, our hearts filled with unspeakable sadness.

“Some have gone to lands far distant,
And with strangers made their home;
Some upon the world of waters
All their lives are forced to roam;
Some are gone from us forever,
Longer here they might not stay
They have reached a fairer region
Far away, far away.”

Now, we too have come home. Home where the heart has ever been, Home no brush can paint, nor pen depict. The home we always yearned to write about, to portray in all its charm and beauty — our love for Talbotton, where shadows lie only in delicate tracery over the years.

Home, where fond recollections linger tenderly on the oft repeated kindnesses of friends and loved ones. Yes, we’ve come home, where up street, down the street, and, over the way, north, south, east and west, soft voices with gentle words, hands swift and willing, bring to us a welcome, thrice welcome.

She is a lady living in Talbotton,
Who is a friend to everyone,
For half a century and more
She has written pages galore.
In her columns of lines,
She has rolled back the pages of time.

How many lads and lassies,
From Ga. to the Pacific Shore,
Will join with me in saying,
That we all should love her more.

Our own Mrs. Lynda Lee Bryan.

At the age of 13 she participated in a theme contest in connection with the Cotton States Exposition and her effort appeared in print. From that time she has been associated with the press in one way or another. Leo Aikman an Atlanta Journal columnist, discovered the fact that she has been writing longer continuously than any newspaper woman. Part of the time she has used the name Ruby Ray and Linda Lee. She was twice editor of her home town paper and has been connected with various Georgia dailies including the Jackson Argus, Butler Herald and Covington News.

She is Society Editor of the Talbotton New Era, historian of Talbotton Woman’s Club, librarian of the town, chaplain of the Gov. G. W. Towns Chapter, NSDAR, member of the UDC and Georgia Press Association; and of course of the National League of American Pen Women. She serves as reporter for many of the organizations she belongs to and gets as much zest out of it as when she was 18.

A Pen Woman salute to Lynda Bryan, 86 years young.

Presented to Mrs. Lynda Bryan — journalist — teacher — nation’s oldest active reporter. In token of the Love and Esteem of the people of Talbotton and Talbot County.

For 72 years, Mrs. John A. Bryan, known to her readers as “Miss Lynda,” has “written up the news” in Talbot County with one rule to guide her: “I try to put in what’s important to people without writing anything bad about them.”

To show their appreciation, her readers are staging a county-wide “Lynda Lee Bryan Day” here next Friday with a “speaking” under the trees back of the community house and a picnic dinner.

“This is like the old maid’s proposal — just SO sudden!” And then, more thoughtfully, the dark-eyed little woman, who still tours the town by foot, collecting her “dots” and writes them down in longhand, added: “It’s really too good to be true. This has always been a wonderful place. The people have always been so lovely and gracious. It’s like they want to put a rainbow around my shoulders!”

“I never wrote a poem in my life. I love beauty and when I see something beautiful I try to write about it. It’s just prose but if I can make somebody else see a flower or a tree the way it looked in a certain light, I feel that I’m sharing.”

“I don’t take any credit for working. My work and my friends have been pure pleasure. I’ve had wonderful joy in what piddling I do.”

“Nothing naughty gets in the newspaper. But I do gossip a little.”

Georgia’s oldest active newspaper reporter, Mrs. Lynda Lee Bryan, 91, writes now with an Atlanta dateline. This remarkable woman was born June 15, 1872, in Newton County. At age 7 months she became a Talbot County resident and she proudly maintained that residency until October this year when she came to Atlanta to make her home with her son-in-law and daughter.

She has written for newspapers since — Jackson Argus, Butler Herald, Macon Telegraph, West Georgia News, Atlanta Journal, Atlanta Constitution and especially the Talbotton New Era. The New Era and Talbot County showed their appreciation Oct. 21, 1960 with a Lynda Lee Bryan Day. The Lynda Lee Bryan column, hometown names, hometown reminiscences, still appears weekly in the Talbotton newspaper, lefthand column, front page. Mrs. Bryan writes it in longhand, without glasses, and mails it from Atlanta. Her great regret is that she “never attempted typing in any form.” Even in longhand, a 78-year career in journalism is noteworthy. In fact, it’s a record which becomes more formidable each week.

Beginning at the age of 14, Lynda Lee Bryan was a writer for the Talbotton New Era for 81 years — one of the longest-serving newspaper reporters in Georgia history.