“It was my good fortune to meet recently in New Orleans Mr. James Ryder Randall, the author of ‘Maryland, My Maryland.’ He is an old man now, but vigorous in mind and body. He talked freely and without prejudice of the one-time sectional differences. Individually, he had no apologies for the part he played in the great conflict. His sentiments on the basic principles that once divided the South from the North were perhaps mellowed by age, but not materially changed. I could scarcely realize that this mild-mannered old man, with the soft Southern voice, was the same who, nearly half a century ago, lighted and held aloft the wildly flaming torch of Southern patriotism.” Modestly and with quiet dignity Mr. Randall still pursues his editorial work, publishing in New Orleans, _The Morning Star_, a paper of great purity and strong high purpose. Shall we wait, holding silently our alabaster boxes of love and praise till the green sod covers the author of “Maryland, My Maryland,” the song which, Atherton Hastings says, “did more to unite the Confederate States than any other one force?” The state of Maryland is thinking of having a homecoming of her sons and daughters, and will ask James Ryder Randall to be her guest of honor. Why should not the writer of “Maryland, My Maryland” be thus honored by all our Southern states at various reunions? Colonel J. Frank Supplee, of Baltimore, says he has “never found any section of this country in which this noble song is unknown.” We can in no better way instill love of country into the hearts of our young people than through our national songs, and we should see to it that “Maryland, My Maryland” be sung, and that the memory of its author be kept fresh and green in the heart of every child. [Illustration] SOME QUAINT OLD BALLADS By Virginia Chambers Mammy used to sing them to us—those quaint, old ballads. Now, there are mammies and mammies, and our mammy considered herself a “quality lady.” She and all her family had always been house servants, and, as such, looked with utter contempt upon the “field hands.” Mammy tried to live up to her exalted position; and while she had many of the characteristics of her race, she had tried to imitate “Ole Mistis” until her manners were almost ludicrously dignified and prim. As a result of this, the songs with which she entertained us were those she had heard from the grandees of old Virginia, when she was young. I am growing old myself, and Mammy was an old woman when I was a child, so her songs belong to many generations past, being, most of them, evidently from England. I can only give them as I remember them, having never seen one of them in print; and as they are but a child’s recollections of an ignorant old negro’s songs, it is to be presumed that they are very faulty. However, even as we heard them, they seem worth preserving.