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THEY SANG A LIE
I went to -church last Sunday and heard the congregation screw up its voice to the Highest pitch and sing: ' Take my silver and my golct'; Not a mite would I withhold,1' and then when the service was over I saw a poor crippled beggar go through the crowd and try to get ten cents to buy a snack to eat, and he didn't get it. But I saw several of those consecrated singers go home smoking ten cent cigars. it Not a mite would I withhold" aw, shut up! Such a display of brazen-faced hypocrisy makes me boil with indignation. They didn't mean a word of it, and if an angel had appeared on the scene and tried to separate them from their money, he would have had the most dickens of a scuffle that ever you saw. They would have pulled all his wing feathers out and sent him hopping back to heaven on crutches. A DIRTY DEVIL. In the course of its daily opera tions among the. floundering fools of creation The Fool-Killer is called upon to apply the red-hot branding-iron to one of the lowest and meanest specimens of the hu man devil that is allowed to live outside of the sweltering hot place. Whew! It's a nasty job, but I musf sail into it. I shall not defile these columns with the name of the human beast, but if he sees this he will no doubt recognize his photograph. In a certain town in North Car olina there lives an aged mother and her invalid daughter. The invalid daughter has the misfor tune of being the wife of the nameless nothing-patch who is the text of this sermon. Several months ago the shameless scallo wag hoboed his way into. the town where the widow and daughter lived. The daughter was not an invalid then she was in average health. So this human beast met the daughter and began to make love. The poor woman was cap tured by his devilish tongue, and because there seemed to be a man needed about the place, she mar ried him on short acquaintance. She ought to have had more sense, but she did just what thousands of other girls have done married a total stranger. ' Well, it was only a few months after the marriage that the young wife got down sick and became a chronic invalid. Don't ask me why she got sick., . You know as much about that as I do. And any wo man who has a beast for a husband very likely knows more than either of US. But let, that. rms The point is,- she became an invalid. And what did this great big little seed-tick of a husband do then? Why, bless your soul, he boarded with his wife and her mother until the provisions were all eaten up and the necessity of providing for the family stared him in the face. Then he packed his worldly goods in a snuff-box and faded into the landscape. He simply vamoosed the ranch. In other words, he skiddooed, leaving his helpless wife to the mercies of the world. A - ' il "1 1 js soon as tne airty oog was gone, the deserted family received word that he had treated another woman the same way not long be fore. He had married her in health, and then left her because she got down sick. Married again, and left his second wife for the same reason, bo there are two poor helpless women living not many miles apart, both bearing the name of this nameless wretch, while he is out in the world trying to rope in another victim. Heavens alive! Was there ever a meaner man? Why, his infernal heart is so black that the charred cinders of a nigger rape-fiend taken front the furnaces of hell would mafre a white mark on it. He ought to be chased into the penitentiary with a brace of blood hounds, and there compelled to live on dirt and red-worms and work sixteen hours a day making white oak paddles to be worn out over his western hemisphere. COCA-COLA. Thunder and blazes! But don't some of these great- "reform" journals get there with both feet? Well, 1 should smile! For instance, here is the Woman's World, of Chicago, a magazine which claims the largest circulation of any pub lication on earth. It pretends to stand for the moral uplift of its readers, and it" has been simply tearing its shirt off in its mad campaign against the "white slave" evil. It claims the honor of starting the present war against the inhuman traffic in girls a war which Rocky D. Oilyfeller, Jr., has gone into with his sleeves rolled up. All of which is good so. far as it goes, l give Tun credit to the Woman's World for all the good it has done. But I want you-to turn with me to the outside back cover page of the June number of this great bulwark of moral and civic righteousness, and see what we will find. Printed in two colors, with a great, glaring red border around it, is a full page advertisement of the daddv of dones Coca-Cola. Now isn't that a sight for angels and men? The Coca-Cola com pany, of Atlanta, Ga., has made millions out of the dope business. It advertises its great belly-wash as "delicious, refreshing and harmless," but a bigger lie was never printed. We all know that Coca-Cola is a dope, and that a dope is dangerous. Like all the other "soft drinks,''' it contains enough of the fatal drugs to make an appetite grow, and the more the appetites grow the more the business grows. If these popular drinks were not doped they would not sell, and nobody knows this any better than the "people who make them. Every soda-fountain in the United States is a dope-mill, and if it wasn't it couldn't run. The dope evil in the United States is just as great a national crime as the white slave evil, if not greater. And yet our great moral aDd religious magazines will cuss out one evil and sell their space to the other. They will paint theUiorrors of white slavery in the most lurid colors and then in a full-page advertisement they will tell you how extremely nice and altogether lovely it would be to become a dope-slave. If you want me to tell you what makes the difference, I can tell you in a jiffy. The white slave traders do not buy full-page advertising space in the magazines at $10,000 a, page. The Coca-Cola grafters do. That is the difference and the onlydifference. SHE BURNT HIS LEG. . Michael Kinsel, of Wilkesbarre, Pa. , was the proud possessor of a wooden leg. It was a birthday present from his wife. Now Mich ael loved that wooden leg almost as well as a baby loves Castoria". The only thing that he loved bet ter than that wooden leg was old corn likker. When Michael had his leg and his likker he was hap py. His love for the leg was per haps due, in large measure, to the fact that the leg was useful in getting to the saloon. In fact, Michael and the leg marched off to the booze joint many a time when the good wife thought they ought to stay at home. And when Michael pulled the latch string in the early morning hours a wooden leg or no leg at all was all the same to him. He was in that heaven of a drunkard's glory where legs are only in the. way. The good wife of .his bosom stood it as long as she could. Then one night when Michael -happened to be at home in the bed, she very quietly picked up that wooden leg and placed it on the fire. It was" soon reduced to ashes. Then the trouble began. Mich- eal indicted his wife for burning his wooden leg, and she told the court that she was. determined to . eep him away from the saloon if she had to burn both legs. "I admire your pluck, Mrs. Kinsel," said the judge, "but I'll lave to bind you over to keep the peace.- . "Keep the piece?" yelled Mich ael. "Why, there wasn't enough of it left to make a toothpick!" HE ISN'T A GOD. As much as I admire Theodore Roosevelt, I am not blind to his faults. I am not a hero-worshiper, and I don't believe in setting any mortal man up as a god. That seems to be what we're trying to do with Roosevelt. We are about to forget that he is human, and in our blind enthusiasm we are try ing to transform him into a deity. Strange how people will lose their heads. Roosevelt is indeed the greatest personality that has flashed across our horizon in a century or more, but that is no excuse for us to get down on our r c on4 mo to ing fools of ourselves. Let us ad mire the man for his many-sided genius, and let ns be proud of him as the representative of our national spirit. But let us hold up our heads and show to the world that we, too, are men, and not fawning idiots. Let Europe recognize Roosevelt as a typical American and not as a lonesome giant who sprang from a race of dwarfs. It will be a pretty pass if the outside world gets the idea that Roosevelt is the only great man among us. And it is liable to get that idea if we don't quit acting the fool. Let Europe crawl in the dust and indulge her propensity for hero-worship all she wants to, but we can't afford to do it. Every time we exalt one of our number to dizzy heights7 we lower the standard of the average. If you magnify the contrast between the hero and the average man, the latter's hope of ever being a hero is-lessened by just that much, and his ambition getsa set-back. So we had better be careful how we lionize the distinguished Lion Hunter. Too, much of it may not be good for him, and it certainly will not be good for us. Let us be glad that we have produced such a man, but instead of spend ing all our time dancing around him like wild Indians, let us set ourselves sanely to the task of producing other men just as great. We can do it if we try.