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;
     Pleading—­cursing—­dreading to die,
 Selling my soul to whoever would buy,
     Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread,
 Hating the living and fearing the dead. 
     Merciful God, have I fallen so low? 
 And yet I was once like the beautiful snow.

 Once I was fair as the beautiful snow,
     With an eye like a crystal, a heart like its glow,
 Once I was loved for my innocent grace—­
     Flattered and sought for the charms of my face! 
     Fathers,—­mothers,—­sisters,—­all,
 God and myself have I lost by my fall;
     The veriest wretch that goes shivering by,
 Will make a wide sweep lest I wander too nigh;
 For all that in on or above me I know,
 There is nothing so pure as the beautiful snow.