The Use and Need of the Life of Carry A. Nation Part 25

When soon his power imperial, shone O'er countless tribes, in widening zone; And wine was banished from the board Of Moslem millions, by the sword And victor's hatchet.

So may it be with this great nation, When woman tests her high vocation; Persuasion proves a futile power To quell the joints, but quick they cower At the whirling hatchets.

True chivalry must come again, And men, more n.o.ble, but less vain, Responding to its modern sense, Guard woman, while in self-defense She plies her hatchet.

When honor bright appeals to men "The weak confounds the mighty," then Side doors and slot-machines must close And such games hide, when women pose With sharpened hatchets.

'Else are men brutes, and all their pride And gallant valor, they must hide In coward shirking. This shameful end They must accept, or else defend The "home-guard" hatchet.

'Tis woman's crucial, fateful hour, Her fine soul's test, 'gainst man's coa.r.s.e power.

In war, she can not be man's peer, But for home's weal, all men sincere Bow to her hatchet.

Man's "Vigilance" is oft condoned, When Vice and Crime has been enthroned.

Shall women then, be more to blame, When she In Virtue's sacred name Raises her hatchet?

'Tis she must grasp the nation's prize-- A pure, proud home, earth's paradise.

The joints must go, but, never till Woman exerts her potent will And holy hatchet.

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 pa.s.senger 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 ma.n.u.script among the personal effects of a prost.i.tute, 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 h.e.l.l; 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 G.o.d, 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, G.o.d 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.

How strange it should be that this beautiful snow Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go!

How strange it should be when the night comes again, If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain.

Fainting,--freezing,--dying alone, Too wicked for prayer, too weak for a moan, To be heard in the streets of the crazy town, Gone mad in the joy of the snow coming down; To be and to die in my terrible woe, With a bed and shroud of the beautiful snow.

Helpless and foul as the trampled snow Sinner, despair not! Christ stoopeth low To rescue the soul that is lost in sin, And raise it to life and enjoyment again.

Groaning--bleeding--dying for thee The crucified hung on the cursed tree, His accent of mercy fell soft on thine ear, "Is there mercy for me? Will He heed my weak prayer?"

O, G.o.d! in the stream that for sinners did flow, Wash me and I shall be whiter than snow.

THE LIPS THAT TOUCH LIQUOR MUST NEVER TOUCH MINE.

You are coming to woo me, but not as of yore, For I hastened to welcome your ring at the door, For I trusted that he, who stood waiting for me then, Was the brightest, the n.o.blest, the truest of men.

Your lips on my own when they printed "Farewell,"

Had never been soiled by the "Beverage of h.e.l.l,"

But they come to me now with the baccha.n.a.l sign, And the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.

I think of that night, in the garden alone, When whispering you told me your heart was my own, That your love in the future should faithfully be, Unshared by another, kept only for me.

Oh sweet to my soul is the memory still, Of the lips that met mine when they murmured "I will,"

But now to their pleasure no more I incline, For the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.

O, John! How it crushed me when first in your face, The pen of the "Rum Fiend" had written "Disgrace,"

And turned me in silence and tears from that breath, All poisoned and foul from the chalice of death.

It shattered the hopes I had cherished to last, It darkened the future and clouded the past, It shattered my Idol and ruined the shrine, For the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.

I loved you, O! dearer than language can tell, And you saw it, you proved it, you knew it too well; But the man of my love was far other than he Who now from the "tap room" came reeling to me.

In manhood and honor, so n.o.ble and right, His heart was so true and his genius so bright, And his Soul was unstained, unpolluted by wine, But the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.

You promised reform; but I trusted in vain; Your pledge was but made to be broken again, And the lover so false to his promises now, Will not as a husband be true to his vow.

The word must be spoken that bids you depart, Though the effort to speak it would shatter my heart, Though in silence with blighted affections I pine, Yet the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.

If one spark in your bosom of virtue remain, Go fan it with prayer, till it kindle again, Resolved, "G.o.d helping," in future to be From wine and its follies unshackled and free.

And when you have conquered this foe of your Soul, In manhood and honor beyond its control, This heart will again beat responsive to thine, And the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.

--Unknown.

WAR AMONG THE POETS.

From the Royal Arch News, the warhorse of the booze hoodlums, the snapdragon of the jungle, the siren of Hades.

"The Lips that Touch Liquor Shall Never Touch Mine," so sings-- Miss Cora Vere, who writes jingle for the Anti-Saloon press, and this is the reply that the R. A. News would make: