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VOLUME TWO.
HUHVLI TWENTY-IIVE
WHAT WE THINK OF WHAT WE SEE
Mr. William Jennings Bryan, who may or may
not be our next President, has a small but select
stock of stories which he uses when occasion de
mands. His latest is one of an incident occurring
at a certain funeral in his state. The minister who
had been asked to deliver the funeral oration was
a stranger in town and didn’t know the departed
sister very well. So after he had said all he knew
to say, which wasn’t much, he sat down, sug
gesting that any one who could add a few appro
priate remarks would be heard gladly. In response
three or four arose and paid tribute to the memory
of the departed. Then there was a pause. Finally
one old brother arose and said:
“Well, if we are through speaking about the de
parted sister, I will now make a few brief remarks
on the tariff.” *
•5 M
We find in the editorial section of The Southern
Presbyterian, which is always sound in sense as
well as editorially, the following: “In ‘Leslie’s
Weekly’ we read that Rev. Joseph A. Serena, of
the Central Church of Christ, Disciples, at Syra
cuse, New York, has announced that a Soda foun
tain would be placed in the lobby of his church, and
that refreshing soft drinks would be served to the
people in the pews. The foolishness of this is ob
vious. The one motive to which Christians may ap
peal for the discharge of duty is love to Christ.
The soda fountain attraction will prove distracting
to serious thought.” We should say so. If it is
fitted with mirrors there will be the female members
of the congregation —and where they are, there will
also be gathered together the members of the op
posite sex. The only way to give them the drinks
and the gospel at the same time would be to have
a combination soda-jerker and pastor all in one,
and let him preach across the marble slab.
We do not believe that literary persons are as
ignorant of the details of rural life as they are
reputed to be, but a story is being told of a Hoosier
State novelist who became, at about the customary
time of life, possessed with a mad yearning for a
free and beautiful life in the country, and the activ
ities of a chicken ranch. The hen farm was start
ed and the natives found much to interest them as
the plan progressed. Soon after the first crop of
chickens was hatched the amateur farmer discov
ered that all the little chickens, which he kept
closely confined in coops, were showing unmistaka
ble signs of lassitude and a general lack of in
terest in what was going on around them. This dis
turbed their owner, and he immediately went to
consult his chicken literature, hoping to find a
recipe for some kind of tonic that would brace them
up. Nothing seemed to apply to the case in hand,
so he consulted a neighbor. He gave an account of
the situation to the neighbor and asked him what
ATLANTA, GA., AUGUST 15, 1907.
A. E. RAMS A UR. Managing Editor.
was probably the trouble. Neighbor replied, “Well,
I dunno. What do you feed ’em?”
“Feed them!” exclaimed the amateur. “Why,
I don’t feed them anything.”
“Then how’d you s’pose they was a-goin’ to
live 1 ?”
“I presumed,” was the answer, “that the old
hens had milk enough for them now.”
Now and then we see indications that the young
people growing up in our midst are becoming im
bued with a> spirit of levity, and we deplore the
seeming tendency, but there are times when the
seriousness of the offense is in part atoned for by
reason of the evidence given that brightness as
well as wisdom may come out of the mouths of
babes and sucklings. An instance in point is to be
found in the story being circulated of an occur
rence in a certain minister’s family. It was a cus
tom in his household that each of his children re
peat a Bible verse at the beginning of every meal
in place of having grace by the head of the family
as is the more general custom.
One day one of his little girls had been found
out in some small offense and was sentenced to eat
a much curtailed dinner spread on a small table in
a corner quite by herself, so that her contaminat
ing presence would be as far removed as possible
from the other children. When the family was
seated around the dining table the usual ceremonial
was performed, and when her brothers and sisters
had each repeated a text her father called upon
her, sitting solitary at her table, to give a text.
At first she refused on the ground that being driv
en from the family circle she saw no reason for
joining the family devotions. Her father insisted;
so after a moment’s thought she spoke out clearly:
“Thou prepares! a table before me in the presence
of mine enemies.”
On the tombstone of a Kansas woman will be en
graved by her bereaved husband the following trib
ute: “She always kept the salt and pepper shak
ers filled and plenty of soap in the bathroom.” This
is a homely tribute; there is practically no poetry
concealed about it anywhere; but it covers in a
word the whole framework upon which depends a
happy home life. We wish it could be blazoned in
letters of imperishable fire upon the broad arch
of the sky so that every one might read and profit
thereby. That wife may not have been a ch
woman; she might have fainted if she had been
confronted with the necessity of praying in pub
lic; she may not have known one little thing about
the duties of a chairman, and she may have gore
through her placid existence without sending a sin
gle handstitched thing to the heathen in faraway
lands; in fact she may not, in her heart of hearts,
have cared one little Continental Dame about the
heathen; but we are serenely satisfied upon one
point, and that is that she had a happy home; that
her husband was content and faithful, that his*
socks were darned, that the children’s clothes had
the buttons on, that they got to school on time and
with clean faces, and that they all grew up to be
good citizens. May her memory and her example
live long to bless the world.
n m
There has been much agitation in this State over
the prevalent custom of carrying chickens with their
heads downward. We read all that was contained
in the papers about it and our interest was aroused.
The more we reflected upon the sensations of the
chicken while in this position, the more our indig
nation increased. Being of a practical turn of
mind we sought to discover a means whereby th?
chicken could be transported from place to place
in such a manner as to insure a maximum of com
fort to the chicken and of safety to the carrier.
We speculated upon ways and means and even
through these columns begged suggestions. B
this is a callous world. It is a commercial age.
People have not taken much interest in it. Maybe
it is because they have not allowed themselves to
reflect how it feels to be carried head downward for
a long distance. Maybe they have been engaged in
the prohibition campaign or they may even be dis
tracted by the problems as to the length of the bed
sheet in our hotels. But leaving that aside for the
nonce, we confess that many difficulties presented
themselves when a practical method was sought.
At last we have found the way and we are happy
to announce it. As we went homeward yestreen
pondering this very problem, there in the open
street appeared a solution. How true it is that
“the poem hangs on the berry bush when comes the
poet’s eye”! If our heart and mind had not been
engaged in seeking a means of protecting the chick
en, we might have allowed the obvious solution to
escape us. What we saw was this: A gentleman,
well broken, apparently, to matrimonial harness,
going home with the groceries for the morrow’s
consumption. He had a large basket. In it, neatly
arranged upon the bottom, were the following arti
cles of commerce: Two cans of tomatoes. A can
of baking pcwdei. Some corn in the shuck. Two
small cantaloupes. A moist package in butcher’s
paper, evidently containing meat. A bar of soap
An ice-pick. A coil of picture-frame wire. A loaf
of bread. A. pound of butter. A can of condensed
milk. A bag of Saratoga chips. And in the midst,
reclining quietly and comfortably, and well crated
in by the foregoing, two nice hens. That man was
considerate. He was tender hearted. He is a de
sirable citizen. Os course, owing to the size of his
basket, he was obliged to walk out in the street,
but what a quiet conscience he must have!
TWO DOLLARS A YEAH.
FIVE CENTS A COPY.