and that the above statement is not true; that there was no meeting of the Board of Health on the 29th day of December, 1900 and that the said jail has never been quarantined by the said board of health on the said 29th day of December or at any other time.

     Dated at Wichita, Kansas, January 14, 1901. 
                         W. S. Allen,
                         ray & Keith,
                              Robt.  Brown,
               Attorneys for Carrie Nation, an Inmate of said Jail. 
     Served on O. B. Kirk, 9:20 a. m., Tuesday, January 15, 1901. 
     Harden Ebey, 9:20 a. m., Tuesday, January 15, 1901. 
     Chas. W. Simmons, 9:35 a. m., Tuesday, January 15, 1901.

I could tell of many interesting incidents in jail.

There were five singers, one a graduate of the conservatory of music in Boston, and Mr. Dodd was a fine singer himself; he would often sing with the prisoners and it was a great pleasure to me.  One song he would have the boys sing was:  “My Old Kentucky Home.”  We had a genuine poet there, and I here give you a poem he sent up to me one day, by the trusty: 

Solemn thoughts.

 ’Twas an aged and Christian martyr,
 Sat alone in a prison cell,
 Where the law of state had brought her,
 For wrecking an earthly hell.

 Day by day, and night she dwelt there,
 Singing songs of Christ’s dear love;
 At His cross she pray’d and knelt there,
 As an angel from above.

 In the cells and ’round about her,
 Prisoners stood, deep stained in sin;
 Listening to the prayers she’d offer,
 Looking for her Christ within.

 Some who’d never known a mother,
 Ne’er had learned to kneel and pray,
 Raised their hands, their face to cover,
 Till her words had died away.

 In the silent midnight hours,
 Came a voice in heavenly strain,
 Floating o’er in peaceful showers,
 Bringing sunshine after rain.

 Each one rose from out his slumber,
 Listening to her songs of cheer,
 Then the stillness rent asunder,
 With their praises loud and clear.

 Praise from those whose crimes had led them,
 O’er a dark and stormy sea,
 Where its waves had lashed and tossed them
 Into “hell’s” captivity.

 Wine it was, the drink that led them,
 From the tender Shepherd’s fold,
 Now they hear His voice call them,
 With His precious words of gold.

 Like the sheep that went astray,
 Twice we’ve heard the story told,
 They heard His voice, they saw the way,
 That leads to His pastured fold.

The first time I was put in jail, after everything was quiet, I heard some prisoner down below, swearing, and I called out:  “What do you mean boys by asking God to damn this place?  I think he has done so and we don’t want any more damns here.  Get down on your knees and ask God to bless you.”  And all the rest of time I never heard an oath.  In a week or so I heard them singing hymns; and I called to them:  “How are you boys?”