They were holding an inquest upon poor Sandy McHarris, whose body had
been taken from the Thames. Eleven of the jury were for returning a
verdict of suicide, but the twelfth, a brither Scot demurred.
“Hoo could it be suicide?” he asked. “Ah’m for a vairdict o’ ‘Accidental
death,’ maisel. Ye’ll notice that the puir laddie had a bottle of whisky
on him, and it was nearly full.”
Verdict in accordance with the evidence.
* * * * *
“Say, Gus,” asked a neighbor, “I heard that the foreman has had a fever.
How’s his temperature today?” Our hired man scratched his head and
decided not to commit himself. “Taint for me to say,” he replied. “He
died last night.”
_Smokehouse Poetry_
_In the November issue Smokehouse Poetry will bring back to memory that
Civil War classic, “Your Letter, Lady, Came Too Late.” This beautiful
and touching poem was written by an officer of the Confederate Army to
the most beautiful and brilliant belle of Savannah, the fiancee of the
officer’s companion in prison. The woman had written a cold, heartless
letter, but her fiance had died before the letter was received and the
poem was in answer to it._
_Tonight your home may shine with lights,_
_And ring with merry songs,_
_And you be smiling as though your soul_
_Had done no deathly wrong._
_Your hands so fair, none would think_
_Had penned these words of pain,_
_Your skin so white, would God, your heart,_
_Were half so free from stain._
_In addition to this noted classic, Whiz Bang will reproduce “Down In the
Lehigh Valley,” which is well known by name among Smokehouse fans. And,
in parting, folks, don’t forget that the Winter Annual will contain the
greatest assortment of Smokehouse poetry ever put into print. Send your
dollar in before you are too late._
* * * * *