Baltimore Evening Sun (14 March 1912): 6.


Why do the newspapers waste space announcing that the Prominent Baltimoreans are with the Republican organization? Certainly a fact so obvious might be left to the intelligence of the reader.

Once a person would have rather been a saloonkeeper than a stuffer, but now it looks more safer to be a stuffer.

Open letter to the Hon. Willim A. Larkin, Superintendent of Street Cleaning:

Dear Chief--The cigars are yours! When the first detachment of your navvies arrived in Booth street yesterday morning, my Moorish neighbors turned out with their banjoes and psalteries, and until the last load of ashes and dead cats departed there was music in the air. Booth street today is cleaner than it has ever been since the year 1883. I am yours to command--and you get the (two) cigars at sight. H. L. M.

Extracts from circulars addressed to the school teachers of Baltimore by the president of the Public School Teachers’ Association:

Your Committee * * * needs further instructions * * * They have therefore directed me * * Come and make your own nominations and brings your friends and help you out. We ask again, therefore, that * * everybody be present and bring their friends. On Saturday, another matter, equally beneficial, and equally as worthy of your aid, will be presented. We are greatful and happy * * * Success is assured, but we must hasten our labors lest it be too late in the cases of some who we may yet save. Mr. Baker engages in this work with great personal sacrifice.

Proposed motto for a banner to be carried before H. M. the super-Mahon whenever he goes upon a progress through his realm:


A good day to try them ex-sheriffs would be the day they open that tunnel under Canton Hollow.

Pathetic corpses in the charnel house of militant morality:

The crusade against Sunday novel reading. The Blue Law crusade. The crusade against Sunday selling at Back River. The vice crusade. The crusade against the kicking lady at the EmPire Theatre. The crusade against moving-picture shows. The theatre censorship. The super-Mahonic crusade against decent newspapers. The crusade against free lunch. The crusade against the sale of liquor in disorderly houses.

Less than three weeks more of flubdub at Annapolis! Then back to the land--and the laborious tickling of the unyielding soil!

Public outcry of the Right Hon. Jacobus Hook, tickler and beneficiary of H. M. the super-Mahon:

It is a crying shame to allow such a person as Mr. Anderson to go about blackening the character of men like myself.

To which every lover of the true, the good and the beautiful will say amen. If our wise men and great men, our Savonarolas and Lincolns, our Hooks and super-Mahons are to be made the common butts of such blasphemers as Anderson, then virtue becomes a hissing and a mocking, and civilization is ashes in the mouth!

Twenty-five thousand dollars for the Harry campaign fund, but not a darn cent for typhoid!

My bill suspending the law against public liquoring during the sessions of the Democratic National Convention will be introduced in the House of Delegates today and at once referred to the Committee on Charitable Institutions, which will report it favorably next Monday night. My Annapolis agent tells me that its passage by the House is assured and that it will have a clear majority of 10 votes when it reaches the Senate. Even a number of the local option members, he says, are in favor of the measure, for though they object to the liquor habit on principle, they realize that the demands of hospitality rise superior to their prejudices.

Incidentally, I get news that the famous Major Otis J. Beasley, of Yaparoo, Ark., one of the greatest alcoholic athletes of modern times, will be a visitor to Baltimore during convention week. Major Beasley was born in Ozark county, Arkansas, in the year 1869, and began drinking corn whisky at the age of 8 years. When a mere lad of 16 he was already sufficiently accomplished to enter the annual saufenfest at Eureka Springs, where he surprised the talent by taking second prize. Five years later he won the Richard K. Fox diamond belt at Vicksburg, Miss., by drinking two quarts of strained mint julep and then walking a chalk line 30 yards long. This feat led to his nomination for Congress, but he withdrew before the election in order to devote his whole time to his art.

Major Beasley has received countless offers of vaudeville engagements, but he has spurned them all. He makes it a point, however, to attend all Democratic National Conventions. He is always accompanied by his old body-servant, Uncle Claude Johnson, who has charge of his drinking utensils and measures his liquor. Uncle Claude is the author of the Ozark cocktail, a drink scarcely known in the East, but one held in great esteem in the Mississippi bottoms. Its basis is moonshine corn whisky. The other ingredients are camomile, nux vomica and raspberry vinegar.

In 1887 Major Beasley was challenged by Dr. Herman Schultz, champion of Bavaria, but the match fell through, for it was found impossible to work out a fair ratio between the beer drunk by Dr. Schultz and the whisky drunk by Major Beasley. The latter’s seconds proposed that the alcoholic content of the two beverages be deterinned by chemical analysis and that the ratio thus established be accepted, but the Bavarian committee objected on the ground that something should be allowed for the greater bulk of the beer. Two years of negotiation failed to bring about an agreement, and so the proposed bout was abandoned.

Remark of Dr. W. W. Ford, of the diabolic Johns Hopkins, as reported in the Evening Sunpaper:

There are practically no cases of typhoid in * * * Hamburg, Frankfort, Berlin. Munich and Vienna * * * except those taken into them from beyond their borders, and these are promptly taken care of in hospitals, and the disease is not permitted to spread.

What despotism! What tyranny! What an outrageous invasion of medical “freedom,” that god-given boon! Here in Baltimore we guard our liberties more jealousy. Here it is the inalienable right of every citizen to have typhoid in his home, comfortably and hoggishly, and to transmit it without let or hindrance, to his relatives and neighbors.