Keepapitchinin, the Mormon History blog
 


Children’s Friend, July 1912

By: Ardis E. Parshall - November 11, 2014

A rare surviving cover —

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They Had More Questions, 1903

By: Ardis E. Parshall - November 11, 2014

From the pages of the Juvenile Instructor 1903. I’m not sure I’ve seen a set of questions and answers that shows greater differences between “then” and “now.”

Question: What is “Higher Criticism”?

Answer: The words “higher criticism are used with reference to another kind of criticism which is the lesser or inferior criticism. As for example, the criticism of the use of words by Shakespeare, his illustrations, or his philosophy belongs to the lower criticism. Whether Shakespeare wrote the books attributed to him, or whether it was Bacon, would be classed as higher criticism. One has to do rather with interpretation and literary laws; the other, a higher criticism, has to do with the source or authorship.

Higher criticism used with reference to the Bible discards Moses as the author of the books attributed to him, and it denies that John wrote the “Gospel according to St. John.” Higher criticism assumes to deal with the Bible the same as with any literary production, and thus eliminate the authority in which the book has been so long held among the Christian world. Among the advocates of this new cult the book is regarded in an entirely new light. With them the old time reverence for the book is gone. In some measure the book is to be used as a code of morals, nothing more.

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And All Eternity

By: Ardis E. Parshall - November 10, 2014

From the Relief Society Magazine, April 1949 –

And All Eternity

By Carol Read Flake

The sharp trill of the telephone brought Kathy Gordon stumbling from bed, her sleep-drugged mind groping to identify a heavy feeling of depression. The girl shivered in the chill, autumn air as she felt her way into the dining room. It was something – some dreadful thing that lay ahead of her.

“Hello.” Her voice was low and husky with sleepiness.

“Is this 402M?”

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“I Take Up My Pen”: ZCMI, 1940

By: Ardis E. Parshall - November 10, 2014

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A Tithepayer’s Secret Record

By: Ardis E. Parshall - November 10, 2014

When it became clear that my aunt – the Sister Missionary of this series – would not recover sufficiently from her stroke to live independently again, a cousin and I cleared out her house in preparation to sell it and its contents to support our aunt in whatever time she had left. I learned a lot about this woman I had known all my life, through sorting through her belongings – that she watched late-night television and bought too many useless wonders from pitchmen; that she had cared enough about her multitudinous church service missions to save the certificates, but not enough to keep them neatly in one place; that although she did have a vast collection of margarine tubs, she had done better than many elderly people and had not hoarded plastic bags or string or rubber bands.

I flipped through her recipe box to see if it was something I wanted to save, and indeed did find recipe cards in my grandmother’s hand, and some in my aunt’s hand, well splattered from long-ago baking sessions. And in the same box, I found a stack of cards that had nothing to do with baking.

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The Cellar

By: Ardis E. Parshall - November 07, 2014

From the Relief Society Magazine, April 1961 –

The Cellar

Jerry Barlow

Mary planted a kiss amidst the tousled curls as she lifted two-year-old Roby into bed. Tenderly, she pulled the blanket up to his chin and tucked its warmth about his body. As she closed the bedroom door behind her, the gong of the living room clock became a persistent reminder of the approaching lunch hour.

Ten – at noon Mark would be in from the fields, ravenous from the work of the long morning hours.

Mary grabbed an empty bucket from the kitchen floor and hurried to the back porch. Mark kept a supply of potatoes there so that his petite wife might be spared the chore of fetching them. He knew, too, that she was afraid.

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Come to London, eh?

By: Ardis E. Parshall - November 07, 2014

From the Millennial Star, 14 August 1941 —

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Mormonism Comes to Ireland

By: Ardis E. Parshall - November 07, 2014

… and the locals were none too impressed, if the words of the Belfast newspaper are any indication.

Freeman’s Journal and Daily Commercial Advertiser (Dublin, Ireland)
11 November 1850

The Mormonites in Belfast

An elder appointed by the twelve apostles of these “latter-day” fanatics has established a mission in this town, and has made a dilapidated little chapel in King-street, his head-quarters.

On last Sunday night he harangued about thirty individuals on the glories of the “new revelation.” All the churches in Christendom, he said, were in Babylon; all of them had departed from the faith; and no one could be now saved unless he consented to be dipped in the Lagan and held belief in the book of Mormon (a book which, by the way, is now known to have been slightly altered from the manuscript of an American novel).

The elder maintained that the thief on the cross was not saved, unless he had previously, at some period of his life, been baptised. The thief did not go into Paradise on that day, because even the spirit of our Saviour could not enter till the day of the ascension of his body. He concluded a host of equally strange and awful assertions by saying that every body should come to him to be baptised, inasmuch as no other in Belfast had the authority of Heaven.

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My Brother’s and Sister’s Grave

By: Ardis E. Parshall - November 06, 2014

My Brother’s and Sister’s Grave

By Celia Hall

In a quiet recess of the old orchard – there
Where the branches sway softly o’erhead –
Breathing low sounds like the words of a prayer,
Or a friend’s subdued sobs for the dead –

A low mound of earth and a simple white stone
Mark the spot where long, long years ago
Two beautiful children, their pure spirits flown,
Were laid ’neath the drear winter’s snow.

My Brother, my Sister, yet unknown to me,
For my life has been given since then;
And only that little grave under the tree
Is left to remind me of them.

I sit there as night’s dusky shadows close round
And low music comes from the hills;
’Tis the mourning dove singing her nocturne, the sound
My soul with a deep solitude fills.

And then, like the notes of the dove’s evening hymn,
Emotions sweep over my soul,
And thoughts of the unfathomed future arise,
When the righteous shall all reach their goal,

When the grave at my feet shall open its door,
Unlocked by the Archangel’s key,
And ties so long severed be bound evermore,
My brother and sister to me!

(1900)

Good Books!

By: Ardis E. Parshall - November 06, 2014

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