Then, after a slight pause: 

    “God save the United States and this honorable court!”

    The justices seat themselves; the attorneys at the bar and visitors
    do likewise.  The Supreme Court of the United States, generally held
    to be the most powerful tribunal on earth, is in session.

    (2)

    (Collier’s Weekly)

    JAMES WHITCOMB BROUGHER, A PREACHER TO THE PROCESSION

    BY PETER CLARK MACFARLANE

Imagine the Hippodrome—­the largest playhouse of New York and of the New World!  Imagine it filled with people from foot-lights to the last row in the topmost gallery—­orchestra, dress circle, and balconies—­a huge uprising, semicircular bowl, lined with human beings.  Imagine it thus, and then strip the stage; take away the Indians and the soldiers, the elephants and the camels; take away the careening stage coaches and the thundering hoofs of horses, and all the strange conglomeration of dramatic activities with which these inventive stage managers are accustomed to panoply their productions.  Instead of all this, people the stage with a chorus choir in white smocks, and in front of the choir put a lean, upstanding, shock-headed preacher; but leave the audience—­a regular Hippodrome audience on the biggest Saturday night.  Imagine all of this, I say, and what you have is not the Hippodrome, not the greatest play in the New World, nor any playhouse at all, but the Temple Baptist Church of Los Angeles, California, with James Whitcomb Brougher, D.D., in the pulpit.

    (3)

    (The Independent)

    THE LITTLE RED SCHOOLHOUSE A “FAKE”

    What the Country Schoolhouse Really Is, and Why

    BY EDNA M. HILL

The schoolhouse squats dour and silent in its acre of weeds.  A little to the rear stand two wretched outbuildings.  Upon its gray clapboarded sides, window blinds hang loose and window sashes sag away from their frames.  Groaning upon one hinge the vestibule door turns away from lopsided steps, while a broken drain pipe sways perilously from the east corner of the roof.

Within and beyond the vestibule is the schoolroom, a monotony of grimy walls and smoky ceiling.  Cross lights from the six windows shine upon rows of desks of varying sizes and in varying stages of destruction.  A kitchen table faces the door.  Squarely in the middle of the rough pine floor stands a jacketed stove.  A much torn dictionary and a dented water pail stand side by side on the shelf below the one blackboard.

    And this is the “little red schoolhouse” to which I looked forward
    so eagerly during the summer—­nothing but a tumbledown shack set in
    the heart of a prosperous farming district.

    (4)

    (New York Tribune)

    THE ONE WOMAN OFFICIAL AT PLATTSBURG