And I said, there is some more of the original Adam. Then I saw him come forth again, washed and dressed in spotless white like a young butterfly fresh from its chrysalis, and when he got a chance, I saw him slip on his tiptoes into the pantry, and there was the clink of glassware as though a mouse was playing there among the jam pots and preserves. There two little dimpled hands made trip after trip to a rose-colored mouth, bearing burdens of mingling sweets that dripped from cheek and chin and skirt and shoes, subduing the snowy white with the amber of the peach and the purple of the raspberry as he ate of the forbidden fruit. Then I saw him glide into the library and soon there was a crash and a thud in there which brought a frightened mother into the room only to find the young rascal catching his breath while streams of cold ink trickled down his drenched bosom. And as he wiped his inky face, which grew blacker with every wipe, the remainder of the ink was pouring from the bottle onto the carpet and making a map of darkest Africa. Then the rear of a small skirt went up over a curly head and the avenging slipper in lightning strokes kept time to the music in the air. And I said, there is Paradise lost! The sympathizing, half angry old nurse bore her weeping, sobbing charge to the nursery and bound up his broken heart, and soothed him to sleep with her old-time lullaby: O, don’t you cry, little baby; don’t you cry no mo’, For it hurts ole mammy’s feelin’s for to hear you weepin’ so! Why do dey bring temptation to de little hands and feet? What makes ’em ’buse de baby, kase de jam and ’zarves am sweet? O, de sorrows, triberlations, dat de joys of mortals break; O, it’s heaven when we slumber, it’s trouble when we wake! O, go to sleep, my darlin’, now close dem little eyes And dream uv de shinin’ angels an’ de blessed Paradise; O, dream uv de blood red roses and de birds on snowy wing, O, dream uv de fallin’ waters and de nebber endin’ spring! O de roses, O de rainbows! O de music’s gentle swell! In de dreamland uv little children whar de blessed spirits dwell. “Dar now, dar now, he’s gone! Bless its little heart! Dey treats it like a dog. Ole black mammy’s de best friend de chile’s got in de world!” And then she tucked him away in the Paradise of his childish slumbers. [_To be continued._] SOUTHERN PLATFORM DEPARTMENT _Devoted to the interest_ _of_ _The Lyceum of The South._ [Illustration] [Illustration: Southern Platform] The Humorous, the Pathetic and the Dramatic. These are the ruling elements of the platform. Around them are built all the successes of the Lyceum, and the lack of them is responsible for all the failures that stand like tombstones, along the route, as we journey with the truly great.