But, Bill, before that freight arrives Ye'd better take a pick 'Nd pry that cellar window loose, So we can git out quick. ED. BLAIR.
A. WOMAN.
(Dedicated to Mrs. Carry Nation.)
When Kansas joints are open wide To ruin men on every side, What power can stem their lawless tide?
A woman.
When many mother's hearts have bled And floods of sorrow's tears are shed, Who strikes the serpent on the head?
A woman.
When boys are ruined every day And older ones are led astray, Who boldly strikes and wins the fray?
A. woman.
When drunkenness broods o'er the home, Forbidding pleasure there to come, Whose hatchet spills the jointist's rum?
A woman.
When rum's slain victims fall around, And vice and poverty abound, Who cuts this up as to the ground?
A woman.
When those who should enforce the law Are useless as are men of straw, What force can make saloons withdraw?
A woman.
When public sentiment runs low, And no one dares to make them go, Whose hatchet lays their fixtures low?
A woman.
Who sways this mighty rising tide That daily grows more deep and wide, Until no rum shall it outride?
A woman.
Who then can raise her fearless band And say 'twas "Home Defender's" band Who drove this monster from the land!
A woman.
--DR. T. J. MERRYMAN.
THAT LITTLE HATCHET.
The world reveres brave Joan of Arc, Whose faith inspired her fellowman To crush invading columns dark.
So, modern woman's firmer will To conquer crime's unholy clan, Crowns her man's moral leader still.
A century was fading fast, When o'er its closing decade passed A matron's figure, chaste, yet bold, Who held within her girdle's fold A bran' new hatchet.
The jointists smiled within their bars, 'Mid bottles, mirrors and cigars--
The woman passed behind each screen, And soon ocurred a "literal" scene--
Rum, ruin, racket!
At first she "moral suasion" tried, But lawless men mere "talk" deride:--
'Twas then she seized her household ax And for enforcing law by acts, Found nought to match it.
The work thus wrought with zeal discreet, Has saved that town from rum complete;
Proving that woman's moral force Like man's, is held, as last resource, By sword or hatchet.
And following up that dauntless raid, The nation welcomes her crusade;
All o'er the land, pure women charmed, Are eager forming, each one armed With glittering hatchets.
Talk of "defenders of the nation!"
Woman's slight arm sends consternation 'Mong its worst foes, on social fields, Worse than the "Mauser," when she wields The "smashing" hatchet.
Mahommed sought by arts refined, To raise his standard o'er mankind;
But found success for aye denied, Until at length he boldly tried The battle-hatchet.
When soon his power imperial, shone O'er countless tribes, in widening zone;
And wine was banished from the board Of Moslem millions, by the sword And victor's hatchet.
So may it be with this great nation, When woman tests her high vocation;
Persuasion proves a futile power To quell the joints, but quick they cower At the whirling hatchets.
True chivalry must come again, And men, more noble, but less vain, Responding to its modern sense, Guard woman, while in self-defense She plies her hatchet.
When honor bright appeals to men "The weak confounds the mighty," then Side doors and slot-machines must close And such games hide, when women pose With sharpened hatchets.
'Else are men brutes, and all their pride And gallant valor, they must hide In coward shirking. This shameful end They must accept, or else defend The "home-guard" hatchet.
'Tis woman's crucial, fateful hour, Her fine soul's test, 'gainst man's coarse power.
In war, she can not be man's peer, But for home's weal, all men sincere Bow to her hatchet.
Man's "Vigilance" is oft condoned, When Vice and Crime has been enthroned.
Shall women then, be more to blame, When she In Virtue's sacred name Raises her hatchet?
'Tis she must grasp the nation's prize--
A pure, proud home, earth's paradise.
The joints must go, but, never till Woman exerts her potent will And holy hatchet.
As men, once slaves, their freedom gained By force, and power at length attained;
So, cultured brains and force combined, Shall mark the sphere of womankind And surely reach it.
In valor, more Joan d'Arc's are needed, Woman's high social power's conceded, But she herself, must blaze the path To public morals, by her own worth And "Little Hatchet."
--C. BUTLER-ANDREWS.
Dr. Howard Russell told in his address at Kokomo, Sunday, March 24, how when Mrs. Nation was on her way from Topeka to Peoria recently, a passenger on the same train came into the car where she was and sang a song of his own composition. He was evidently a farmer with a large stock of mother-wit. He was lame, and limped into the car, and hopped up and down while he sang. A great deal of merry enthusiasm was aroused, and the car, packed full of people, expressed their appreciation by round after round of applause. It is evident that Mrs. Nation is quite popular in that part of the country.
The song is as follows:
Hurrah, Samantha, Mrs. Nation is in town!
So get on your bonnet and your Sunday-meeting gown.
Oh, I am so blamed excited I am hopping up and down, Hurrah, Samantha, Carrie Nation is in town!
Get you ready, we are going to the city, Where the "Home Defenders" are all feeling gay, And the mothers all exclaiming, "Its a pity That Carrie Nation does not come here every day."
I want to hear that mirror-smashing music, And to look in Mrs. Nation's blessed face, And to see the saloon men all cavorting With that hatchet bringing sadness to their face.
Hurrah, Samantha, Mrs. Nation is in town!
So wear your brightest bonnet and your alapaca gown.
Oh, I am so jubilated I'm a-hopping up and down, Hurrah! hurrah! Samantha, Mrs. Nation is in town.
OUTCAST.
(Found in manuscript among the personal effects of a prostitute, 22 years of age, who died in the Commercial Hospital, Cincinnati, O.)
Once I was pure as the snow, but I fell, Fell like the snowflakes from heaven to hell;
Fell to be trampled as filth on the street Fell to be scoffed, to be spit on and beat;
