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 glass 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.