Newspaper Page Text
''Build a Monument to the Women of the Confederacy’’—Page 8
?z , ' IH E> -.-' f< > \
HI |Elk&
@|
VOL UHL THREE
nU.H »ER TWENTY-ONE
WHAT WE THINK OF WHAT WE SEE
Don’t you know it is trying upon any woman’s
temper to realize that the paragraphers are about
through saying bright little things about the Merry
Widow hat? Fashions just have to change right
often.
*
Mr. Chas. A. Towne is still predicting that Mr.
Bryan will be elected President of the United
States. How happy we would be to give some of
. these prophets a raise in salary if they would only
make good one time I
*
A gentleman in Cincinnati who has for some
years smoked one hundred cigarettes per day, is
dying. The physicians say that the cigarettes are
entitled to some of the credit for his demise. We
always did believe that a man should not smoke
more than sixty or seventy cigarettes per day.
This is Mark Twain’s latest as related recently:
Just before Miss Clara Clemens, Twain’s daughter,
sailed for Europe she attended a reception at which
she met one of the friends of her Hartford child
hood who had been a very small boy, but had grown
to be an unusually tall man. Thinking that her
father might not remember the friend, she said to
him:
“You remember Tom Jones, father?”
“I remember part of him,” was the reply, as Mr.
Twain peered up at Jones, “but it seems to me it
would take a week to remember all of him.’’
The following news item from the Savannah
Courier gives us encouraging reason to believe that,
they have had a good meeting in that town:
“Yes, the meeting has been a little hard on gos
sips, guzzlers, fumers, chawers, cussers, kick
ers, croakers, liars, cheats, idlers, growlers,
dudes, dudines, pretenders, back-biters, pew-warm
ers, bench-mongers, muck-wallowers, tipplers, boot-
We want our Agents to make a better record during the summer months than they have ever done
heretofore. We will do all we can at our end of the line to aid them in their work. We can furnish club
subscriptions with almost any magazines that may be desired at surprisingly low rates. We have prem
iums with paid subscriptions that are attractive. The “Prohibition Souvenir” which we give with each
paid subscription should be in every Georgia home. We give you choice of one of two books: “Sam
Jones’ Own Book” and “Quit Your Meanness” with each new subscription or each old subscription paid
one year in advance. Write to us.
THE GOLDEN AGE, 510 Lowndes Bldg., Atlanta.
ATLANTA, GA., JULY 9, 1908.
Sy A. E. RAMS AUK, Managins, Editor,
leggers, home-wreckers, vulgarity-dispensers, hope
killers, and general mischief makers; but it is to be
hoped that there are so few left that their deeds
will be swept to the corners and burned as rub
bish.”
Prophet Elijah Dowie, who said before he died
that he would return to this earth in one thousand
years, left an estate of only $1,200. Really, it
won’t be worth while coming back for that little,
will it?
The little child of the tenements was enjoying her
first visit to the country and was enthusiastic in
her admiration of the farmyard.
“Just look at the chickings!” she exclaimed in
ecstasy. “They’re all running around raw!”
Mr. J. W. Foley relates a little story about “Out
Calling with Willie.” We have all known Willie
and he always did just about what he is accused of
doing in this little story.
“I just called to return the spoons I borrowed,
Mrs. Brown—(Willie, don’t swing on the gate,
dear.) I should have returned them before, but I’ve
neglected it —(Willie, don’t throw stones at the
birds, dear —remember, it’s not your yard now.)
No, thank you, I won’t come in—(Willie, leave the
cat alone —don’t chase it up the tree.) Well, just
for a minute then —I’m on the way downtown—
(Willie, wipe your feet on the mat, dear.) Good
ness, how close and oppressive it is— (Wlilie, take
off your hat, dear.) 1 was saying this morning—
(Willie, sit down quietly, like a nice, boy) —that I
haven’t noticed the heat so much till this year —
(Willie, don’t rock, sit still in your chair.) I sup
pose we do notice it as we grow
don’t kick your feet against the rockers.) I re
member seven years ago this summer we had some
such weather —(Willie, be careful, you’ll rock
against the music-cabinet.) That was the year Wil-
lie was born, and it seemed to me the poor child
did suffer so with the heat —(Willie, leave those
goldfish alone and go back to your chair.) The
poor little dear broke out with a heat rash that
kept him in continual misery—(Willie, come away
from the piano, dear.) He was such a frail child
and so sensitive —(Willie, come to mother, dear, and
stand by her chair.) He’s not strong now, for that
matter —(Willie, did you hear me tell you to come
to mother?) I’m so afraid sometimes when he gets
out and plays so hard —(Willie, you’re not hungry,
for you had two cookies just before you left home.)
No, Mrs. Brown, I’ll not hear of your getting a
thing for him because it’s all imagination. It seems
to me a child must keep a continual stream going
down its throat to be happy—(Willie, if you cry
you’ll have to go home and can’t go downtown with
mamma.) Well, just a cookie, then —nothing more
than that, for he doesn’t really want it, Mrs.
Brown —(Willie, don’t get crumbs on the floor, dear
—you’d better wait till you get outside before you
eat it.) I suppose they get nervous when they’re
out —(Willie, dear, don't lay it on the chair —some
one might sit on it.) How pretty your yard is—
so green and the trees are in such full leaf —(Willie,
bring it to mother, dear, and she’ll keep it until you
want it —I’m afraid mamma’s boy will get it on the
rug.) I suppose you have heard of the wedding—
(Willie, don’t feed it to the goldfish, dear —it makes
them sick.) No? How surprising. Elsie Howard
and Fred Wade? I was sure you must have heard
of it —(Willie, come away from the goldfish and sit
down by mamma.) Well, it’s a long story —(Wil-
lie, did you hear mamma tell you to keep away from
the goldfish—there! You’ve done it now. Over
turned the bowl!) Oh, Mrs. Brown, I’m so sorry
—so sorry. Such a thing to do! William, you put
on your hat and march straight home with me.
Don’t cry, sir, for when I get you home you’ll get
something to cry for! Now tell Mrs. Brown how
sorry you are and come along with me. Good-after
noon, Mrs. Brown, and I’m so sorry —so sorry!”
TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
LIVE CENTS A COPY.
