THE MISNOMER.

It sounds rather queer, I must freely confess, To hear a man ask kind heaven to bless Himself and his neighbor, when over the way His drinking saloon stands open all day. You may call it a "drug store," but doesn't God know? Can you hide from His eye the sorrow and woe— The pain and the anguish, the grief and the shame That comes from the house with a high-sounding name? Such ill gotten wealth will surely take wing And leave naught behind but the deadliest sting; And oh, the account must be settled some day, For the drug store saloon kept over the way. Can you face the just Judge and the souls you have wrecked? Oh, pause ere too late and note the effect. Do you know you're destroying both body and soul Of the men whose honor and manhood you've stole? Does the hard accusation arouse you to fright? Have you never looked at yourself in the light Of a thief, nay, worse, a murderer, too? God brands you as such, and you know it is true! They're the deadliest poisons you have for sale— The liquors you keep—yet you always fail To mark them as such, and the men who drink Can have what they want if they bring you the "chink." Don't call such a place a drug store, pray; But "drinking saloon," and you'd better say On the sign o'er the door in letters clear, "Ye abandon all hope who enter here!"