The Use and Need of the Life of Carry A. Nation Part 24

But when a beer drinker gets into trouble it seems almost as if you have to recreate the man before you can do anything for him. I have talked this for years, and have had abundance of living and dead instances around me to support my opinions."

WRONGS WE CAN NEVER UNDO.

(By Delle M. Mason.)

I have come home to you, mother. Father, your wayward son Has come to himself at last, and knows the harm he has done.

I have bleached your hair out, father, more than the frosts of years; I have dimmed your kind eyes, mother, by many tears.

Since I left you, father, to work the farm alone, And bought a stock of liquors with what I called my own, I've been ashamed to see you; I knew it broke you down, To think you had brought up a boy to harm his native town.

I've given it all up, mother; I'll never sell it more.

I've smashed the casks and barrels, I've shut and locked the door.

I've signed the temperance pledge--the women stood and sang, The clergymen gave three hearty cheers, and all the church bells rang.

But one thing seemed to haunt me, as I came home to you; Of all the wrongs that I have done not one can I undo.

There's old Judge White, just dropping into a drunkard's grave; I've pushed him down with every drop of brandy that I gave.

And there's young Tom Eliot--was such a trusty lad, I made him drink the first hot gla.s.s of rum he ever had.

Since then, he drinks night after night, and acts a ruffian's part, He has maimed his little sister, and broke his mother's heart.

And there is Harry Warner, who married Bessie Hyde, He struck and killed their baby when it was sick, and cried, And I poured out the poison, that made him strike the blow, And Bessie raved and cursed me, she is crazy now, you know.

I tried to act indifferent, when I saw the women come, There was Ryan's wife, whose children s.h.i.+vered and starved at home, He'd paid me, that same morning, his last ten cents for drink, And when I saw her poor, pale face, it made me start and shrink.

There was Tom Eliot's mother, wrapped in her widow's veil, And the wife of Brown, the merchant, my whiskey made him fail; And my old playmate, Mary, she stood amid the band, Her white cheek bore a livid mark, made by her husband's hand.

It all just overcome me; I yielded then and there, And Elder Sharpe, he raised his hand, and offered up a prayer.

I know that he forgave me, I couldn't help but think Of his own boy, his only son, whom I had taught to drink.

So I have come back, father, to the home that gave me birth, And I will plow and sow and reap the gifts of mother earth.

Yet, if I prove a good son now, and worthy of you two, My heart is heavy with the wrongs I never can undo.

SHE'S COMING ON THE FREIGHT.

Or, The joint Keeper's Dilemma.

Say, Billy, git ten two-by-four 'Nd twenty six-by-eight, 'Nd order from the hardware store Ten sheets of boiler plate, 'Nd 'phone the carpenter to come Most mighty quick--don't wait, For there's a story on the streets She's coming on the freight.

O, many years I've carried on My business in this town; I've helped elect its officers From mayor Dram clear down; I've let policemen, fer a wink, Get jags here every day; Say, Billy, get a move on, fer She's headed right this way.

I don't mind temp'rance meetin's When they simply resolute, Fer after all their efforts bring But mighty little fruit; But when crowbars and hatchets 'Nd hand axes fill the air-- Say, Billy, git that boiler iron Across the window there!

It beats the nation--no, I think The Nation's beatin' me, When I can pay a license here And still not sell it free; Fer I must keep my customers Outside 'nd make 'em wait, Because the story's got around She's comin' on the freight.

There, Billy, now we've got her-- Six-eights across the door, 'Nd solid half-inch boiler iron Where plate gla.s.s showed before; 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 "smas.h.i.+ng" 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.