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,