in the dark or go with me? Better go with me; you might get cremated here. Bring that bucket of water and keep cool!"



"When we got to the foot of the old stairs a light was shining through the cracks in Smith's ware room and a man was running from the open door toward the street. The old Captain blazed away and never touched a hair."



"He ought to had a shot gun," put in Wilbur.



"Did you get the fire out," asked Effie.



"O, yes. I slapped the pail of water onto it, and it was out in a jiffy. We held the fort a while, and I pulled out for the burning mills, so that is all."



(To be continued.)



Has He The Pass?



The following clipping is from the New York Pres of Sunday, June 9, 1901:



We joy to announce that the Hon. Caroline Nation has put us down on her free list, and now sends on her powerful organ, the Smasher's Mail, in a self-addressed wrapper. We can't say that we like the paper. It don't say anything except mean things about all in sight, and we thank heaven that we ourselves are not given that way, but try to look on the good side of everything. As soon as we find such a side on any of our esteemed fellow villagers we will announce the fact.



We fear that Caroline's method is crude. On the first page of her able moulder of what goes in Kansas for public opinion we see this paragraph:



"The only railroad that has offered me a free pass is the --. Have an idea they are a tip top road. Accept my compliments." Caroline, we have made it an iron-clad rule in our editorial sanctum never to accept a pass, and so far we have not been tempted. But we would not be so clumsy about it if we wanted one. The way we would do is this: We would write a dignified letter to the railroad telling them that we wouldn't take a pass under any circumstances, and it would be a pretty slow railroad that wouldn't see the point. In connection with this, and to prove that we didn't get a pass, we might mention that recently we got an entirely unsolicited letter from Squire Fullerton of the Long Island Railroad, saying after a lot of praise of the Bronco, that our modesty makes us refrain from printing:



"I inclose you a lot of assorted passes. Your truly.
	H. B. FULLERTON.



"P. S. If you do not find the passes in-closed, it is because I have forgotten to put them in."



We seem to have a recollection that he forgot it as he feared.



Squire Fullerton has been a-photographing Long Island again and embodying the result in one of his railroad books. He guarantees the scenary on the island to be fully as represented and states that he is only sorry that he can't photograph the health giving winds that blow all over the place free of charge. We always hang our out-of-town sign on the door when we see the squire come because he was a strong belief that next to photography and the cotton gin the Long Island railroad is the greates invention of civilized man. We believe we mentioned that we did not have a pass.



The Way It Works.



A few days ago a large, fierce-looking woman stepped into a saloon in Tyler by mistake to inquire the location of a local dentist. Some one yelled "Mrs. Nation," and without stopping to parley, the barkeeper leaped the counter, made a Maud S. dash for the rear door, closely follwed by the negro porter, and both disappeared over the back fence. The old lady gazed in dismay at the fleeting men. and then walked out and asked an outsider if they were crazy. -Ex.



"Poetic Gems."



A "Disjointed" Rhyme.



Written for Smasher's Mail.
Sing a song of six joints, 
	With bottles "full of rye"-
Four and twenty beer kegs, 
	Stacked up on the sly;
When the kegs were opened, 
	The beer began to sing:
"Hurrah for Carrie Nation!
	Her pluck beats everything!"

"We tho't that we were destined, 
	To create discord, strife;
But Kindly she permits us 
	To sing away our life.
And ere our voices falter, 
	A blessing we implore, 
On this brave Carrie Nation,
	Who spilled us on the floor!"
(Or who makes the jointists roar.)



The bottles of "Maderia,"
	Of "Muscatel," "Cognac,"
It mattered nothing what they were, 
	She hit them all "ker-whack;"
And as the "ardent spirits,"
	Went trickling to the floor,
'Twas: "God bless Carrie Nation,
	Go smash the joints some more!"



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 know a mother. 
Ne'er had learned to kneel and pray,