We passed, the other day, in an Arizona town, a saloon with the following seductive sign over its door: I thought of the young men who had entered its doors with no thirst for its beverages of death, but rather a positive dislike; of how they had been lured to taste its milder liquids, till the very thirst of hell had intertwined steel tendons in every fiber of appetite. "A thirst-killer," indeed! but the victim dies with the thirst. "A life-saving station!" And I saw rise up before me the great army of the myriads of young men, of erect form, strong-limbed, smooth-skinned, clear-eyed, the hopes of home and nation; and I saw them emerging from its living hell of mocking of all things good, a straggling horde of bowed and crippled forms, of tottering limbs, blotched and empurpled skin, blear-eyed—wrecks of humanity, fruition of blasted hopes, wending their wavering way through almshouse, jail, and penitentiary, through pits of degradation and shame to the drunkard's grave and perdition. How all the demons of the bottomless pit must have chuckled in sardonic glee as the fearful lie was painted, letter by letter, on that saloon! Name it what you will, yet it is the door of hopelessness and despair to all who enter and yield to the insatiate thirst of the beverages brewed and concocted in the laboratories of the bottomless pit.