When rum's slain victims fall around,
And vice and poverty abound,
Who cuts this up as to the ground?
A woman.
When those who should enforce the law
Are useless as are men of straw,
What force can make saloons withdraw?
A woman.
When public sentiment runs low,
And no one dares to make them go,
Whose hatchet lays their fixtures low?
A woman.
Who sways this mighty rising tide
That daily grows more deep and wide,
Until no rum shall it outride?
A woman.
Who then can raise her fearless band
And say 'twas "Home Defender's" band
Who drove this monster from the land!
A woman.
--DR. T. J. MERRYMAN.
THAT LITTLE HATCHET.
The world reveres brave Joan of Arc,
Whose faith inspired her fellowman
To crush invading columns dark.
So, modern woman's firmer will
To conquer crime's unholy clan,
Crowns her man's moral leader still.
A century was fading fast,
When o'er its closing decade passed
A matron's figure, chaste, yet bold,
Who held within her girdle's fold
A bran' new hatchet.
The jointists smiled within their bars,
'Mid bottles, mirrors and cigars--
The woman passed behind each screen,
And soon ocurred a "literal" scene--
Rum, ruin, racket!
At first she "moral suasion" tried,
But lawless men mere "talk" deride:--
'Twas then she seized her household ax
And for enforcing law by acts,
Found nought to match it.
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