the jealousy of the terrible heathen god.  When he chose a wife from the lovely maidens of Prescott, then the vengeful Sphinx laid its sinister plans for his undoing, for it is in the nature of cats, small or great, to be exceedingly jealous.  The furious idol remembered the people of a long forgotten race, its loyal subjects, who had reared and worshiped it, inconceivably long ago, when the Grand Canyon of Arizona was but a tiny ravine and before icy avalanches had ground the rocks at the Dells into boulders.  It remembered the descendants of its subjects, the Aztec Indians.  It remembered how the Spaniards had cruelly broken the Aztec nation.  Through the subtle influence of psychic forces, it stirred up a passion of hate for Spain in the hearts of the people of the United States, and it fostered the awful spirit of strife, and at the right moment it let loose the dogs of war.  One convulsive touch of its rocky claws on the hidden currents coursing in earth’s veins and an evil spark fired the fatal mine under the battleship Maine, in the harbor of Havana.

“Is this possible; can this be true?” If not, why is it that at the call to arms, even before the nation rallied from the shock of the cowardly deed which sacrificed the lives of inoffensive sailors—­why is it, I say, that from under the very paws of the Sphinx, so far away in Arizona—­and at the call of Captain O’Neill, the noble mayor of Prescott, there arose the first contingent of fighting volunteers in our war with Spain?  The inexorable Sphinx had resolved to grant to our beloved and honored friend its last and most exalted gift, a hero’s death on the field of battle.  It has graven the name of Prescott, the city of the Sphinx, on scrolls of everlasting fame, as the town which rallied first to the call of the President and as the only town which gave the life of its mayor, its first, its most honored citizen, to the nation.

On the isle of Cuba, in the battle of San Juan Hill, fell the gallant Captain William Owen O’Neill of the regiment of Rough Riders.  Peace to his ashes!

I have been told the circumstances surrounding his death by friends, who were soldiers of his company.  They were lying under cover behind every available shelter to dodge a hailstorm of Mauser bullets, awaiting the order to advance.  Captain O’Neill exposed himself and was instantly killed.  How could he avoid it?  How could it have been otherwise?  What can keep an Irishman down in the ditch when bullets are flying in air, “murmuring dirges” and “shells are shrieking requiems?” You may readily imagine an Irishman on the firing line, poking his head above the ground, exclaiming:  “Did yez see that?  And where did that Dago pill come from now?  Shure it spoke Spanish, but it did not hit me at all, at all, Begorra!”