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? k —<- the ——— drfMRB —•“- the stato» 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. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR. FIVE CENTS A COPY.