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Y IN
VOLUNL TWO .
NUHfiE R TWO.
WHAT WE THINK OF WHAT WE SEE
“The aeolian harp is so sensitive that the softest
zephyr wakens music among its strings, and there
is no heartache, and no pain, and no cry of the
transgressor, that does not touch the strings of
sensitiveness and sympathy in the mind of God.
For He who beholds His pilgrim band going across
the years, stumbling, wandering, falling, bleeding,
dying, follows each pilgrim heart with exquisite
sympathy, and with infinite solicitude?’
All the papers, funny and otherwise, contained
variations of the cherry-tree joke in their Wash
ington’s birth-day number, but the best one we
have seen, coming so apropos of the line of defense
in a certain criminal trial now engaging the atten
tion of the country, is this: The illustration showed
young George’s father towering in a mighty rage
above his son. The boy was tremblingly attempt
ing to hide his hatchet behind him. The cherry
tree was lying upon the ground near by.
“Who cut my tree?” thundered the old man.
“Father, I can’t tell a lie,” said young George;
“I did it, with my little hatchet; but I was in
sane!”
We learn from an exchange that there is a little
band of people in Denver who style themselves
“Adamites.” The leader is Adam 11., alias James
Sharp, and he is (accompanied by Eve IL, alias
Melissa Sharp, his wife. There are some thirty
others, having no official cognomen, who fill out
the picture. They have all contributed their means
to a common fund, and are all waiting until Adam
11. rests up a little, when he is going to do some
things to Denver. He doesn’t like the city, because
it is a wicked city and he feels it his duty to de
stroy it. His position in the matter is thus stated
by himself: “This here city is mighty wicked and
I am a-going to bring destruction upon it. They
have treated me as the offscourin’ of the earth an
I am a-goin’ to get vengeance. I haven’t yet de
cided how. Maybe I’ll have one of them mountains
move over here and smash out the whole town, but
I don’t know yet.” Adam-11-Sharp has a great
deal of inside information about the location of the
Pole, about modern religions and politics and is
kind and good about telling it to all who will listen;
his followers in the meantime sitting around punc
tfuaiting his talk with groans and amens. All of
which goes to show that this is a wonderful coun
try; that there is a fakir born every minute and
that the vagrancy laws of Denver should be more
strictly enforced.
A news item tells of a birthday party recently
given by a lady of Montclair, N. J., on the occasion
of her 103 d birthday. During the evening her son
John, who is in his eighty-third year, made a joke
that his mother did not approve. Turning to him
sharply she said: “John, if you don t behave
yourself I’ll have to put you to bed.” We heard
of a family once, living in the mountains of North
ATLANTA, GA., FEBRUARY 28, 1907.
fiy A. E. RAMSAUR, Managing Editor.
Carolina, who were blessed with similar longevity.
The anecdote is related by a gentleman who was
advised to seek a mountain atmosphere for his
health. He secured a horse and had penetrated into
the mountainous region in question, when, night
coming on, he decided to ask for lodging at the
first dwelling he reached. He finally arrived at
an ordinary looking cabin, and on the front stoop
was an old man with a venerable gray beard, sob
bing as if his heart would break. The traveler
stopped, proffered his sympathy and inquired the
cause of the mourner’s grief. The old man man
aged to say, between his sobs: “Dad (sob) whip
ped (sob) me!” “What for?” inquired the
stranger. “For—-s assin’ —gran’pa!” was the an
swer. The traveler stopped right there. It was a
healthful locality.
Mr. John Hurley, the Litchfield Gaelic student,
who not long ago announced that Shakespeare was
an Irishman, has continued his investigations, and
now announces that President Roosevelt is Irish.
He has gone back along the Roosevelt family line
and finds that one of Theodore’s ancestors was an
Irishman named Barewall, We don’t attempt to
take up this matter in a disputatious way; we are
going to let every one attend to his own troubles;
but we predict that Mr. Hurley will go on until
he gets into trouble. President Roosevelt may not
mind being burdened with a Patrick Biarewall in
his ancestry; if not, we won’t complain. But
watch; about the next thing, Mr. Hurley will say
George AVashington was Irish. That may pass un
challenged; but getting bolder, he will probably
say that Ben Tillman or Jeff Davis (of Arkansas),
or Bishop Turner are of Irish descent. Won’t he
get his then?
It appears that in Japan children adopt fathers
instead of the reverse proposition. There an as
piring youth can select a man of eminence as his
father, and custom compels the person thus honor
ed to take and care for the foundling. During
Mr. Bryan’s tour of the world he visited Japan,
and while there was seen by a young Japanese
student to whom he looked good. So the student
wrote to Mr. Bryan, giving him formal notice that
he had been adopted as father and that he, the
young student, was sailing at once. In due course
of time there was a ring at the Bryan door-bell.
Mrs. Bryan had just finished breakfast and was
sitting down to the churn. Mr. Bryan was chang
ing into his overalls preparatory to doing some
chores over in the back quarter-section. Mr. Bryan
answered the bell, as the custom is understood to
be in the Bryan household. There stood the young
Jap, who remarked, with simple directness: “I
have come.” The statement was uncontrovertible;
the Jap was indeed obvious and the situation was
a delicate one. But there seemed to be but one
course; to adopt the homeless one, and this Mr.
Bryan did. What a wonderful people are the Jap-
anese! This young boy (for, indeed, he is little
more), showed his fine, large, weli-developed
judgment along with a truly marvelous nerve in
selecting Mr. Bryan. Suppose he had foolishly
chosen Hr. Rockefeller? Probably Cousin Jawn
would have told him that a boy who thought a
person not able to afford oysters could adopt a
child from across the sea, ought to have a soft
poultice. Mr. Carnegie, even, would have shouted
in his impulsive Scottish, way: “Hoot, C'hi€?l,
Hoot! Gang awa’ an’ don’t ye niver come back!”
Suppose he had gone to Uncle Joe Cannon. Uncle
Joe would have told him to go immediately to a
locality entirely removed from Japan. Great is
Mr. Bryan and great are the Japanese.
The Thaw trial has illustrated the fact that ex
perts can be secured on either side of every case.
Alienists will swear that a man on trial is as mad
as a March hare, and other alienists, just as relia
ble, just as expert, will testify that he is absolutely
sound in mind, without a taint of insanity. And
each side will prove the correctness of its own tes
timony. A barrel of money will do the trick. A
story told of an Irishman illustrates the way the
testimony of the experts balances itself, the one
side against the other. Patrick O’Rourke, a famil
iar character about town, had occasion to appear
before the magistrate on the charge of stealing
a hog. After two witnesses had sworn that they
saw Patrick take the hog, the magistrate said:
“Well, Pat, I think you are guilty.”
“ And phwat makes you think that?” asked Pat.
“These two men, who say they saw you take the
hog. ”
“And is that all?” cried Pat, in surprise. “AVhy,
yer Honor, I can bring two hundred men who’ll
swear they didn’t see me take him.”
The theater has always merited the condemna
tion of the pulpit as being immoral —even when
the best and most “moral” plays are presented,
the play-house smacks of worldliness; but the New
York theaters are now striking at the most sacred
traditions of the home and of matrimony. We had
occasion recently to mention the arrangement
whereby one theater in that city provided escorts
for ladies who attended alone; thus destroying an
other argument in favor of matrimony. The latest
news item in this connection, states that a couple
with a baby eighteen months old, having no nurse,
checked it in the cloak-room while they attended
a performance of “Rigoletto.” Soon there won’t
be any of the dear old traditions of the home left
to us. AA 7 hen the theatrical trust goes into the
nursing business, we won’t have any more poems
like “The Hand That Rocks the Cradle is the
Hand That Rules the World”—for there won’t
be any cradle at home; there will simply be a brass
tag hanging above the mantel, calling for “One
Blonde Baby,” when presented at So-and-So’s Op
era House.
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