We hope that the aristocracy of this country will never get to valuing a dog higher than it does a human being.  When it gets so that a rich person would not permit a poodle to do the work in a tobacco factory that a poor girl does to support a sick mother, hell had better be opened for summer boarders.  When girls work ten hours a day stripping nasty tobacco, and find at the end of the week that the fines for speaking are larger than the wages, and the fines go for the conviction of thieves who steal the girl’s master’s dog, no one need come around here lecturing at a dollar a head and telling us there is no hell.

When a poor girl, who has gone creeping to her work at daylight, looks out of the window at noon to see her master’s carriage go by, in which there is a five hundred dollar dog with a hundred dollar blanket on, and a collar set with diamonds, lolling on satin cushions, and the girl is fined ten cents for looking out of, the window, you don’t want to fool away any time trying to get us to go to a heaven where such heartless employers are expected.

It is seldom the Sun gets on its ear, but it can say with great fervency, “Damn a man that will work poor girls like slaves, and pay them next to nothing, and spend ten thousand dollars to catch a dog-thief!” If these sentiments are sinful, and for expressing them we are a candidate for fire and brimstone, it is all right, and the devil can stoke up and make up our bunk when he hears that we are on the through train.

It seems now—­though we may change our mind the first day at the fire—­as though we had rather be in hades with a hundred million people who have always done the square thing, than to be in any heaven that will pass a man in who has starved the poor and paid ten thousand dollars to catch a dog-thief.  We could have a confounded sight better time, even if we had our ulster all burned off.  It would be worth the price of admission to stand with our back to the fire, and as we began to smell woolen burning near the pistol pocket, to make up faces at the ten-thousand-dollar-dog millionaires that were putting on style at the other place.

AN ODOROUS BOHEMIAN.

A Bohemian on the train last night had some cheese in his vest pocket that was too ripe, and the conductor had to disinfect the car, and order the Bohemian to be quarantined before the train would be allowed to enter the city.  Cheese is all right in its place, but it don’t want to be allowed to lay above ground too long after it has departed this life.  If farmers will pay a little attention to cheese in its different stages, much trouble can be avoided.  In union there is strength.  So there is in a smoking car.

TRAGEDY ON THE STAGE.