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VOL UJI E TWO .
'NUMBER FOUR.
WHAT WE THINK OF WHAT WE SEE
John Alexander Dowie, “Elijah IL,” the found'
er of Zion City near Chicago, and a top-liner as a
grafter, is dead and presumably has journeyed to
the real Zion City. When he meets the real Eli
jah there will probably be something stirring.
A gentleman has written a pamphlet with the ti
tle: “The Necessity for Keeping Roosevelt in Pub
lic Office Until He Settles the Panama Canal Prob'
lem.” This is an evidence that some people al
ready think our president immortal.
£s=
The Illinois legislature is trying to pass a bill
making chicken-stealing a penitentiary offence.
This is another evidence of the deadly race preju
dice that exists in that section of the West. What
ever may be said, the South is the negro s best
friend.
A man out in Nebraska committed suicide and
left a note stating as his reason for the rash deed
that his mother-in-law didn’t love him. Boor man,
poor man. He must have been mistaken. It mav
be that he took up this notion because she would
not come and make her home with him. But if.
as a matter of fact she was harsh and unkind t->
him, we have no word of condemnation for his go
ing to a better world. This one is cold and unfeel
ing enough even when mother-in-law is in th<
house. When she persistently stays away, desj ;
is natural and inevitable.
There is a story going around to the effect that
Mr. Rockefeller visited Shurtleff College incog., and
that the president of the institution couldn't find
time to show him around the plant. Later Mr.
Rockefeller couldn’t possibly find time to write a
.ffieck for Shurtleff. Since that time, the trustees
♦if certain institutions have issued orders to their
presidents to station an able-bodied man in the col
lege grounds with orders to bring in every man who
is seen prowling jaround even if he appears to be a
tramp; and provision is made for giving each one
a bath, hair-cut, shave, shine, meal, cigar, a kind
word and an illumined copy of that beautiful poem
“Entertaining Angels Unawares.” But the light
nin°’ never strikes twice in the same place.
Sir Alexander Swettenham, the former governor
of Jamaica, don’t y’know, has retired from his post
on account of age. Sir Alexander has served his gov
ernment for a number of years in many important
positions. His tact, finesse and his most affablq
and charming personality endeared him to all
who could get within endearing distance of him.
His masterful diplomatic qualities, his sound com
mon sense and his clear insight into the relations
existing between friendly nations, have attracted
the attention and commanded the remarks of the
entire civilized world. His service in the capacity
of representative of his government at Ceylon ad-
ATLANTA, GA., MARCH 14, 1907.
Sy A. E. RAMSAUR, Managing Editor.
mirably fitted Sir Alexander for the position at.
Jamaica, and when the earthquake came, he was
there prepared to meet every crisis as it arose, lie
was steadfast, calm, imperturbable; in fact he was
■so. calm that he was taking his usual siesta at the
time of the arrival of Admiral Davis of the United
States Navy. But as soon as his siesta was over
he arose, promptly dressed and went almost im
mediately over to the hotel office where he secured
stationery and •wrote a note to Admiral Davis.
From that time on his handling of the situation has
passed into history. By sheer force of wonderful
ability coupled with unusual training he furnished
new precedents in the rules on the intercourse ot
nations.
It is a sad thing that good then must, soon or
late, grow old and retire from posts of crushing
responsibility. Just about nine days after the
earthquake Sir Alexander felt a twinge of age.
His severe sense of duty caused him to at once ap
ply to his government for retirement. We learn
from an official statement in the House of Com
mons that the government shuddered at the thought
of moving on without Sir Alexander, and that it
begged him for the sake of the Hag, to wrestle with
his infirmity. But Sir Alex, was firm. He had
had a twinge and he knew what it meant. And
besides, to confirm his determination, just aftm
reading his mail on that very morning, Sir Ale- .
had another twinge. So his resignation was ac
cepted. And now Sir Alexander Swettenham has
entered into those soothing shades of retirement
where he will have ample leisure to reflect upon a
record of which lie is justly proud. Old age has
no terrors for a mind like that one of Sir Alex s.
It moves on serenely, unafraid of being penetrated
even in the slightest degree by anything.
Now we know what ailed little George Washing
ton ’when he cut the cherry tree. There was no
fruit on it; there was no ’possum in it; there was
apparently no reason for his act. But history has
seemed content to pass over this feature; it has
stressed the remark made by him which has always
caused us grave doubts as to the veracity of young
George. Latterday science lias discovered an affec
tion of the human mind known as “Ibrain-storm.”
That is what ailed young George. He was all right
when he first entered the garden with his hatchetir,
he was all right ever after; just that one fatal pe
riod of about five minutes he was laboring in the
clutches of the dread disorder. Think of the num
ber of people who died years ago of appendicitis
and didn’t know what killed them! And the sur
viving relatives and friends had some other and
more homely name for the cause of death. Now,
it won’t be long until the herb-doctors and others
■will grapple with this new menace and we will soon
see advertised remedies that will cure “ brain
storm” along with nervousness, debility, insom
nia, rheumatism, falling hair and tendency to for
get financial obligations.
Fame conies to people in various ways. Some
times it happens, sometimes it is thrust, and now
a goose has brought it to Mr. William Yours Strong,
who is a, native of New Jersey. Mr. Strong has a
goose which he swears is seventy-two years • old.
This is what he says:
“William Yours, the man I was named after,
gave me this goose in 1871,” said Strong yesterday.
‘ ‘ Yours was going back to the old country, and he
said, ‘Bill, I’ve owned this goose for thirty-six
years. I would take her with me, but I fear she
can not stand the voyage. So I give her to you.
Cherish her, Bill; be kind to her in her old age, for
she is almost like a sister to me.’
“Yours kissed the goose good-bye,” Mr. Strong
added.
There was another goose once, quite a while ago,
that laid golden eggs, but she was dissected by the
owner who wished to learn the process, and he could
not put her back together. This goose is not as
remarkable as that one; but we mention it simply
for the purpose of saying, if a goose could live
seventy-two years in New Jersey, it could live in
Georgia almost until the Canal is built.
We are again forced to deplore the tdhdency
which is evident on all sides, to raise objections
to our poets who are now gone and can not defend
their works. This time, it is the poetry of Long
fellow which is assailed. No one has yet ques
tioned the fact that Longfellow wrote Longfellow’s
poems; as soon would the point be made that Whit
man didn’t write his poetry; it is the quality of it
that is unkindly spoken of. One Mr. Greenhill,
an English gentleman, can’t abide the statements
made in the following:
“Strong of arm was Hiawatha;
He could shoot ten arrows upward
And the tenth had left the bow-string
Ere the first to earth had fallen.
(Swift of foot was Hiawatha;
He could shoot an arrow from him
And run forward with such swiftness
That the arrow fell behind him.”
Air. Greenhill has made careful calculations and
finds that in order to beat an arrow to the spot
Hiawatha would have had to run about seventy
two miles per hour. He is firm in believing. that
this feat was impossible. He leaves nothing to
the imagination. How much better the world
would be if the people in it would allow some lit
tle margin for poetic fancy! Suppose the gro
cer had fancy enough to believe that the bill
would be paid on the coming tenth, and wouldn’t
life be one sweet June day if the tailor was a poet
and could by a slight effort conjure up a mental
vision of us paying for our Spring suit about the
middle of June? Alas, the age of poetry has
faded and gone. We are poets ourselves; our only
trouble is that we can’t visualize our dreams for
the eyes of the ordinary hard-headed business man.
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