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TH E— Gw) '<gf£RG^ / ' 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. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR. LIVE CENTS A COPY.