And there's young Tom Eliot--was such a trusty lad, I made him drink the first hot glass of rum he ever had. Since then, he drinks night after night, and acts a ruffian's part, He has maimed his little sister, and broke his mother's heart. And there is Harry Warner, who married Bessie Hyde, He struck and killed their baby when it was sick, and cried, And I poured out the poison, that made him strike the blow, And Bessie raved and cursed me, she is crazy now, you know. I tried to act indifferent, when I saw the women come, There was Ryan's wife, whose children shivered and starved at home, He'd paid me, that same morning, his last ten cents for drink, And when I saw her poor, pale face, it made me start and shrink. There was Tom Eliot's mother, wrapped in her widow's veil, And the wife of Brown, the merchant, my whiskey made him fail; And my old playmate, Mary, she stood amid the band, Her white cheek bore a livid mark, made by her husband's hand. It all just overcome me; I yielded then and there, And Elder Sharpe, he raised his hand, and offered up a prayer. I know that he forgave me, I couldn't help but think Of his own boy, his only son, whom I had taught to drink. So I have come back, father, to the home that gave me birth, And I will plow and sow and reap the gifts of mother earth. Yet, if I prove a good son now, and worthy of you two, My heart is heavy with the wrongs I never can undo. SHE'S COMING ON THE FREIGHT. Or, The joint Keeper's Dilemma. Say, Billy, git ten two-by-four 'Nd twenty six-by-eight, 'Nd order from the hardware store Ten sheets of boiler plate, 'Nd 'phone the carpenter to come Most mighty quick--don't wait, For there's a story on the streets She's coming on the freight. 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.)