The Death of M’Kinley

     Not the president—only a dog named after him. Both were assassinated—shot by stealthy enemies; both were innocent victims to inferior human beings whose lives were worth less than theirs.
     When the president died a world mourned. When the dog died a few coarse men who hung about the saloon of the man who shot him, haw-hawed. Some little children wept—his friends; for he had a happy home and was one of the family who owned him and were fond of his companionship; they tenderly lifted him from the spot where he was murdered, made a grave near the home and buried him tearfully. It was all over with the dead dog. His young master had loved him ever since he was a little puppy, and he was very sorrowful. He even wanted to avenge the wrong.
     He hated the sinner; he wanted to shoot salt into his legs; he carried a billy up his sleeve and longed to use it on the stupid head; he called him a devil, but finally ended with a hope that he would have delirium tremens, and imagine he was being bitten and chewed, and chased (he was so bloated he could not run) by McKinley himself. That is the kind of thoughts which such cruelty and in- [249][250] justice call out in children and young people, and in adults too many times.
     But the lad’s father said: “We will have the sinner arrested for shooting within the corporation, and fined.” That was done, and the shot cost the assassin $8.00. He will receive that lesson, and will feel the thought waves of hatred and disapproval beating in on his brain. He will meet frowns instead of good will and respect. That will effect his happiness much more than the loss of the $8.00.
     This bad man had, the afternoon before he shot the pet dog, shown his disposition by assailing his wife. He had been so disagreeable she thought she would go to some friends and visit a few days. When she went aboard the trolley car he pulled her off, took her hand-grip and stamped upon it, declaring she should not go.
     Friends, however, helped her aboard and she went. So, being full of ire, and bad whiskey, he wanted to injure something. He saw McKinley passing quietly down the street to his home and shot him. That is the story of the death of a dumb creature which never injured his assassin. The story of an aged dog and a man. Which do you like best?
     What do you think of saloons and the use of intoxicating drinks? Is not anything which deprives a person of the use of reason and good judgment dangerous?
     Is not a person who disregards the rights of animals almost sure to do the same to human beings?