I know an advocate of the Woman's Christian Temperance Union, who often
dances all night, most _gracefully_, and in the morning she turneth up
her little nose, just as _gracefully_ as the elephant turneth up his
snout when Peck's bad boy has thrown him a piece of tobacco, _at the
awful drinking saloon and saloon keepers_. The private parlor dance is
the beginning, the first depot on the great air-line route from this
world to the city of destruction; here the boys and men are drawn into
the coaches by the general passenger agents: the MOTHERS, WIVES,
DAUGHTERS, SISTERS and SWEETHEARTS. This line is advertised as the
finest and best equipped road beneath the sun. Fine sleepers; all the
way through, without change. Special guarantee against accidents. This
road is laid with smooth, glass rails, and the wheels are made of India
rubber. Drinking saloons, beer gardens, and some other places I'll not
mention, are the wood yards and tanks, where fuel and water is procured
which gets up the steam that draws the train with increasing velocity
down to the great city of destruction. When the train stops for wood and
water, all the passengers are expected to take part in the very
interesting and social performance. But here are same boys who beg to be
excused.
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