Chapter VII: Part SIX (2)

Mrs. Bell could scarcely sleep that night; there was a strange, deep joy in her heart, that she had not known for years. And yet, she hardly dared to hope. She really could not account for the strange conduct of her husband.

The day came with its beautiful splendor, and just as the morning sun began to bathe the far away mountains with light, Jacob Bell sat down to his morning meal.

After breakfast, he asked: “Have you enough flour to last to-day?”

“We have a little,” was the reply.

The day passed away at last, and just as the sun was setting, Jacob Bell entered the door of his home.

“Here are three dollars, Susan,” he said. “Take the money and use it as you think best. Herbert can bring home whatever you like, for he will not work any longer for Mr. Hill. He is not strong enough to do such work as he has been in the habit of doing there. He will go to school the remainder of the summer.”

Mrs. Bell said not a word. She only hoped and prayed.

Another day passed away and three dollars more were placed in her hands. A whole week went by, and her husband had worked every day, and had not once visited Jim Brown’s saloon.

Then he came home one night with a new suit of clothes.

“These were a present to me,” he said simply, in reply to Susan’s inquiry. “Mr. Grant gave them to me.”

“And why did he do it, Jacob?” asked Susan in a trembling voice.

“If I tell you, then you will know my secret. But I think I will. It was because I signed the pledge.”

“Have you signed the pledge, Jacob?” asked the wife in a voice choked with emotion.

“Yes,” he quietly answered, “and with God’s help, I will keep it. Jim Brown has got the last cent of my money that he will ever get.”

“Why did you take this step?” Susan asked, trying very hard to keep her voice from trembling.

“I can’t really tell you, Susan, but Mr. Grant, I think, was the true cause of it. He has talked so earnestly and kindly to me of late, that I saw myself as I never did before.

“And then about a week ago, I went to Jim Brown’s bar-room and asked him to trust me for a drink. I was owing him a few shillings, and as he was nearly drunk himself, he refused to trust me. I was very angry; and then I made a vow before all present never to drink another drop of liquor, and as I have said before, God helping me, I will never taste that accursed poison again.”

Susan Bell silently thanked God, and earnestly prayed that he would help her husband to keep his vow sacredly.

Five years have passed away with their sunshine and shadow, and still Jacob Bell keeps his vow. The old brown house has been transformed by his skillful hand, and it is the prettiest cottage in the village. Everything about the place betokens thrift and plenty.

Jacob Bell looks much younger than he did five years ago, and for some reason, people do not call him “Old Jake.” The village tavern still stands, but old Jim Brown died long ago with delirium tremens. Another rum seller fills his place, but Jacob Bell has never spoken to him.

Thus did the drunkard keep his vow.

* * * * *

“Who hath woe? who hath sorrow? who hath contentions? who hath babbling? who hath wounds without cause? who hath redness of eyes?--They that tarry long at the wine; they that go to seek mixed wine.

“Look not thou upon the wine when it is red, when it giveth his color in the cup, when it moveth itself aright. At the last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder.”--_Solomon._

“Every man that striveth for the mastery is temperate in all things.”--_Paul._

TESTIMONY OF RELIGIOUS BODIES

“We hold that the proper attitude of Christians toward this [liquor] traffic, is one of uncompromising opposition.”--_General Conference of the Methodist Episcopal Church at Philadelphia, Pa., 1884._

“That curse of our race--alcohol ... the enemy alike of God and man.”--_Methodist Episcopal Church, South, General Conference, 1883._

“The giant evil of the age--the curse of curses.”--_Cumberland Presbyterian Church, General Assembly at Lebanon, Tenn., May, 1878._

“There can be no compromise with this evil [liquor traffic].”--_United Presbyterian Church Assembly, 1885._

“Nearly allied to theft and robbery, and in its consequences far exceeds them in enormity.”--_Free Baptist Church, General Conference, Fairport, N. Y., 1853._

“Opposed to _all traffic_ in intoxicating drinks.”--_Moravian Church, Synod of 1873._

“Utterly inconsistent with the character and profession of members of the church of Christ to encourage in any way the traffic in intoxicating liquors.”--_Reformed Dutch Church, General Synod, at Syracuse, N. Y., June, 1885._

“The enemy of religion, of good morals, and of the best interests of our race.”--_Lutheran Church, General Synod, 1879._

ONLY A GLASS OF BEER

Boys, did you ever stop to think that it is always the first wrong step that leads to misery and disgrace? The first petty theft leads to the penitentiary, and the first glass to the gutter, and finally to the drunkard’s grave.

None who had ever known Robert Morris in his brilliant young manhood, could have dreamed of the awful fate which would finally be his. Robert was uncommonly apt in his studies, kind and courteous in his manners, and gentlemanly in appearance. He had the advantage of having been raised in a home of refinement and temperance.

But in an evil hour, he formed the acquaintance of a young man of bad principles and reckless life. For some time Robert’s high sense of honor triumphed. But he could not endure the ridicule of his friend:--

“What a fool you are, Rob, old boy; come, sir, I didn’t think you were such a coward! ha! ha! afraid of a glass of beer!”

“I’m not afraid, Jack Horton, and I’m no coward.” The next moment, and for the first time in his life, a glass of beer was pressed to his lips.

But it was by no means the last. Little by little a craving was developed for the poison--a burning thirst. His loving friends did everything in their power to rescue him. But his eyes became bloodshot, his hair unkempt, his body bloated, and his once fine intellect, like his body, defaced and ruined. Finally, after a short career of vice and folly, we followed him to an unhonored grave. His aged father groaned in agony; while the fainting form of his gray-haired mother was borne by kind hands away from the last resting place of her son.

My boy, remember that if you do not allow the first glass of liquor to pass your lips, you will never become that horrible thing--that blot on the fair creation of God--a drunkard. Do not forget that at last “it biteth like a serpent,” and that “no drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of God.”

IMPORTANT TESTIMONY

Wine is a mocker.--_Solomon._

A curse.--_Queen Victoria._

A scandal and a shame.--_Wm. E. Gladstone._

A trap for workingmen.--_Earl Cairnes._

Stupefies and besots.--_Bismarck._

The devil in solution.--_Sir Wilfred Lawson._

Liquid fire and distilled damnation.--_Robert Hall._

The mother of want and the nurse of crime.--_Lord Brougham._

Drunkenness is the ripe fruit of moderate drinking.--_Frances E. Willard._

ALCOHOL A CAUSE OF DISEASE

“A foe more dreadful or deadly than the Russian or the plague.”--_Florence Nightingale, from the “Crimea.”_

“Most diseases have their rise in intemperance.”--_Lord Bacon._

“An active and powerful cause of disease.”--_Prof. Youmans._

“The evils of alcohol are wide-spread and countless.”--_C. R. Agnew, M. D._

“Sooner or later proves injurious to the human constitution without any exception.”--_Sir B. Brodie, Sir James Clark, Sir J. Eyre, Dr. Marshall Hall, Dr. A. T. Thompson, Dr. A. Ure, the Queen’s Physicians, and seventy-eight leaders in Medicine and Surgery, of England, 1839._

“Alcohol is neither a food nor a drink suitable for his [man’s] natural demands.”--_B. W. Richardson, M. A., M. D., F. R. S._

“If alcohol were unknown, half the sin and a large part of the poverty and unhappiness would disappear from the world.”--_Edmond W. Parkes, M. D., F. R. S._

“The curse of an army is intoxicating liquors.”--_Parkes._

“Injurious to health, destructive to life.”--_Kant._

“Has inflicted greater calamities than war, pestilence, and famine.”--_Gladstone._

TURNING OVER A NEW LEAF

Tis a shame!” said Mrs. Fogg, as she hurried away after the funeral of Mrs. Grant, escaping from the poor, desolate room, where two children, hardly more than babes, were sleeping, unconscious that they were motherless. “’Tis a shame that nobody’ll take them.”

“Yes--a bitter shame!” replied a neighbor, who was also getting off as fast as she could, so as to shift the responsibility onto some other shoulders.

“There’s Mrs. Grove. She might take them as well as not. But they’ll go to the poorhouse, for all she cares.”

“Well, somebody’ll have to answer for it,” said Mrs. Fogg. “As for me, I’ve got young ones enough of my own.”

“We left Mrs. Cole in the room. She has only one child, and her husband is well to do. I can’t believe she’ll have the heart to turn away from them.”

“She’s got the heart for anything. But we’ll see.”

Mrs. Cole did turn away from the sleeping babes, sighing very loud, that others might hear and give her credit for a sympathy and concern she did not feel.

At last all were gone--all but a man named John Wheaton, and a poor woman, not able to take care of herself.

“What’s to become of these children?” questioned Mr. Wheaton.

“Don’t know. Poorhouse, I s’pose,” answered the woman.

“Poorhouse?”

“Yes, nobody wants them, and there’s no other place for them.”

“Mamma! mamma!” cried a plaintive voice, and a flaxen-haired child, not more than two year old, rose up in the bed and looked piteously about the room. “I want my mamma!”

A great, choking sob came into the man’s throat. Then the other child awoke:--

“Don’t cry, sissy--mamma’s gone away.” At this, the little one began crying bitterly.

“I can’t stand this nohow!” exclaimed the man; and going to the bed, he gathered the two children into his arms, hushing and comforting them with soothing words....

“What on earth have you got there?” exclaimed Mrs. Wheaton as her husband came striding into the room where she sat mending one of his well-worn garments.

“Two babies!” he answered, in a voice so unusual that Mrs. Wheaton dropped her work on the floor and rose up in amazement.

“What?”

“Mrs. Grant’s two babies. I’ve been over to the funeral, and I tell you, Jane, it wasn’t in me to see those two little things carted off to the almshouse. There wasn’t a woman to look after them, no, not one. Every soul sneaked off but Polly Jones, and she’s of no account you know. Just look at their dear little faces!” And John Wheaton held them up in his arms, and let their tender, tearful, half-frightened, half-wondering eyes plead their own cause with his wife, and they did not plead in vain.

Surprised as she was, and with an instant’s protest in her heart, Mrs. Wheaton could not, in the presence of these motherless little ones, utter a word of remonstrance.

She took the youngest one from the arms of her husband and spoke to it tenderly. The child sobbed two or three times, and then laid its head against her bosom.

There was an ocean of mother-love in the heart of this woman, who had never been a mother, the instant her breast felt the pressure of the baby’s head, and the arm that drew it closer with an involuntary impulse, was moved by this new love.

Not many words passed between the husband and wife--at least, not then--though thought was very busy with both of them.

Mrs. Wheaton’s manner toward the children was kind even to tenderness; and this manner won their confidence and drew from them such little expressions of satisfaction as touched her heart and filled it with loving interest.

After nightfall when supper was over and the children asleep, Mr. and Mrs. Wheaton sat down together, each showing a little reserve and embarrassment. Mrs. Wheaton was the first to speak.

“What were you thinking about, John?” she said, almost sharply. “I can’t have these children.”

John Wheaton did not lift his eyes or reply, but there was a certain dogged and resolute air about him that his wife noticed as unusual.

“Somebody else must take them,” she continued.

“The county?” replied her husband, testily.

“Yes. There’s room for them at the almshouse, and no where else that I know of, unless they stay here.

“Unless they stay here,” she repeated. Mrs. Wheaton’s voice rose a little. “It’s easy enough to say that, but who is to care for them?”

“It’s a great undertaking, I know,” answered the husband, meekly, yet with a new quality in his voice that did not escape the quick ear of his wife, “and the burden must fall on you.”

“I wouldn’t mind that so much, but--”

She kept back the sentence that was on her tongue.

“But what?” asked her husband.

“John,” said Mrs. Wheaton, drawing herself up in a resolute manner, and looking steadily in her husband’s face, “as things are going on--”

“Things shall go on differently,” interrupted Wheaton. “I’ve thought it all over.”

“How differently, John?”

“Oh! in every way I’ll turn over a new leaf.”

John Wheaton saw a light flash into his wife’s face.

“First and foremost, I’m not going to lose any more days. Last month I had six days docked from my wages.”

“Why, John!”

“It’s true--more’s the shame for me. That was eighteen dollars, you see, not counting the money I fooled away with idle company--enough to pay for all these babies would eat and wear, twice over.”

“Oh, John!” There was something eager and hopeful in his wife’s face as she leaned toward him.

“I’m in downright earnest, Jane,” he answered. “If you’ll take the babies, I’ll do my part. I’ll turn over a new leaf. There shall be no more lost days; no more foolish wasting of money; no more spending of evenings at McBride’s.”

“Oh, John!” In her surprise and delight she could only repeat the exclamation. As she did so, she rose, and putting her hands on his shoulders, bend and kissed him on the forehead.

“You’ll take the babies?” said he.

“Yes, and twenty more, if you keep to this, and stay so,” answered Jane, laughing through her tears.

“All right, then, it’s a bargain,” and John Wheaton caught his wife’s hand and shook it by way of confirmation.

From that time Mr. Wheaton turned over a new leaf. Neighbors expressed surprise when it was known that John and Jane Wheaton had adopted the two orphan children. Fellow workmen taunted John, calling him a soft-hearted fool, for “taking other men’s brats.”

One said to him, “Are four mouths easier to fill than two?” Another, “You’ll be sick of this before the year’s out.” Another, “I’ll see you sold out by the constable in less than six months.”

But John had little to say in reply, only maintaining an air of quiet good humor and showing more interest in his work.

For three weeks John Wheaton had not lost a day--something very unusual; and not one evening during that time had he spent at McBride’s saloon.

His poor little house, which had come to have a neglected look, was putting on a new appearance. The gate that for months had hobbled on one hinge, now swung smoothly, and the mended latch held it shut. Rank weeds no longer filled the dooryard. The broken steps were mended, and clean panes of glass filled many places in the sash where had been unsightly rags and sheets of paper.

Within, pleasant changes were also apparent. Various new but inexpensive pieces of furniture were to be found. Old things were mended, polished up, and wonderfully improved. With all of this, marvellous to relate, Wheaton’s earnings had not only been equal to the increased expenditures, but there was an actual surplus of ten dollars in hand.

“I never would have believed it,” said John, as he and his wife sat one evening talking over their improved condition, after the babies--loved now almost as if their own--were asleep.

“It’s just as old Brown used to say, ‘Waste takes more than want.’ I declare I’ve got heart in me again. I thought we should have to let the place go; that I’d never be able to pay off the mortgage. But here we are, ten dollars ahead in less than a month; and going on at this rate, we’ll have the home clear in about eighteen months.

“By the way, Jane, have you noticed how that pretty running rose, that we have trained over the doorway,--the one that used to look so forlorn and neglected,--is already beginning to push out its young leaves and buds? It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Oh, I’m so glad we shall be able to keep the old home!”

Next day a fellow workman said to John Wheaton, half in banter, “Didn’t I see the constable down your way yesterday?”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” replied Wheaton, with more gravity of manner than his questioner had expected.

“I thought I saw him looking around after things, and counting his fees on his fingers.”

“Likely as not,” replied Mr. Wheaton. “I know of a good many rents not paid up last quarter. Money gone to McBride’s instead of the landlord--eh?”

The man winced a little.

“How are the babies?” he asked.

“First rate,” Mr. Wheaton answered, with a smile so real that his fellow workman could not continue his banter.

Time went on, and to the surprise of all, John Wheaton’s circumstances kept improving. The babies had brought a blessing to his home. In less than eighteen months, he had paid off the mortgage that for years had rested on his little home; and not only this, he had improved it in various ways, even to putting up a small addition, so as to give them a neat breakfast room.

The children grew finely,--there were three of them now,--for their hearts and home had opened to another orphan baby. The three little ones were carefully trained by Mrs. Wheaton, and had become the light and joy of the household.

* * * * *

Five years have passed away. John Wheaton is a master workman and employs ten men. He has enlarged his house, and made it one of the neatest in the village.

Among his men is the very one who bantered him the most about the children and prophesied that he would soon be sold out by the constable. Poor man! it was not long before the constable had him in charge. He had wasted his money at McBride’s, instead of paying it to the landlord.

Walking home one evening after his work was done, John Wheaton and his journeyman took the same way. They were silent until they came near the former’s pretty dwelling, when the journeyman said, half in jest, yet with undisguised bitterness, “I guess we’ll have to take a baby or two.”

“Why?”

“For good luck,” the other one replied.

“Oh!”

“You’ve had nothing but good luck ever since you took Mrs. Grant’s orphan children.”

“Only such good luck as any one may have, if he will,” answered Wheaton.

“I can’t see it,” returned the other somewhat bitterly. “Your wages were no better than mine. I had one child, and you saddled yourself with two, and not long afterward added a third. And how is it to-day? You have a nice house, and your wife and children are well dressed, while I have never been able to make ends meet, and my boy looks like a ragamuffin half the time.”

“Do you see that house over there--the largest and handsomest in the place?” asked Wheaton.

“Yes.”

“Who owns it?”

“Jimmy McBride.”

“How much did you pay toward the building of it?”

“Me?” in surprise.

“Yes, you. How much did you pay toward the building of it?”

“Why, nothing. Why should I help pay for his house?”

“Sure enough! Why should your hard earnings go to build and furnish an elegant house for a man who would rather sell liquor, and so ruin his neighbors, body and soul, than support himself in a useful calling, as you and I are trying to do?”

“I can’t see what you’re driving at,” replied his companion.

“How much do you spend at McBride’s saloon every week?”

The man stood still with a blank look on his face.

“A dollar a week?” asked Mr. Wheaton.

“Yes.”

“Say a dollar and a half?”

“Well, say as much.”

“Do you know what that amounts to in a year?”

“Never counted it up.”

“Seventy-eight dollars.”

“No!”

“Yes, to a dollar. So, in five years, at this rate, you have contributed nearly four hundred dollars toward McBride’s handsome house, without getting anything but harm in return, and haven’t a shingle over your head that you can call your own.

“Now it’s my advice, in a friendly way, that you stop helping McBride and begin to help yourself. He’s comfortable enough, and can do without your dollar and a half a week. Take a baby, for good luck, as you call it, if you will. You’ll find one over at the poorhouse; it won’t cost you half as much as helping McBride, and I don’t think he needs your aid any longer. But here we are at home, and I see my wife and children waiting for me. Come in, won’t you?”

“No, thank you. I’ll go home and talk to Ellen about taking a baby for good luck.”

And he tried to smile, as he called back, after a few steps:--

“If you see anything of my Jack about your place, just send him home, won’t you?”

Jack was there, dirty, and meanly dressed, and in striking contrast with John Wheaton’s three adopted children, who, with the only mother they knew, gave the happy man a joyful welcome.

“I have turned over a new leaf,” said the journeyman when he came to work the next morning.

“Indeed! I am glad to hear it,” returned Mr. Wheaton.

“Ellen and I talked it over last night. I am done helping saloon keepers build handsome houses. I’m glad you put it to me in that way. I never looked at it so before. But it’s just the hard truth. What fools we are!”

“Going to take a baby?” questioned Mr. Wheaton, smiling.

“Well, we haven’t just settled that; but Ellen heard yesterday of a poor little thing that would have to go to the county house unless some one agrees to take it, and I shouldn’t wonder now if she opened her heart,--for she’s a motherly body.”

“Where is it?” asked Mr. Wheaton.

“Down at the Woodbury mills.”

“Look here, Frank. Take my advice, and put this baby between you and McBride’s saloon.”

Only a little while did the man hesitate. Then he exclaimed:--

“I’ll do it!”

“Do it at once, then,” said Mr. Wheaton. “Put on your coat and go over to the mills and get the baby. It will be an angel in your house, that will help and bless you in every hour of temptation. Go at once. God has opened for you this way of safety, and if you walk therein, all will be well.”

He did walk therein, and all _was_ well. Mr. Wheaton’s prophesy was fulfilled. In less than two years, the journeyman had his own roof over his head, and it covered a happy home.

IN THE HOUSE OF HIS FRIENDS

BY MRS. L. D. AVERY-STUTTLE

Yea, mine own familiar friend, in whom I trusted, ... hath lifted up his heel against me.”

The largest church in Jonesville was well filled that Sabbath, for it was communion day, and the eloquent Mr. Barnes was to fill the pulpit, and officiate with the pastor at the Lord’s table.

The congregation was very select,--in fact, it was mostly composed of the well-to-do residents of the town; and the Master’s words, “The poor ye have always with you,” would hardly have seemed an appropriate text--especially on this particular morning.

But there was one gentle little woman, with a child in her arms and a little girl by her side, who sat in a pew far up in front, toward the right of the altar, in whose dark eyes there lurked a shadow, and in whose heart had entered a terrible fear.

The man who sat beside her was a noble looking fellow, broad of shoulder, strong of limb, stalwart of frame. But to a close observer there still appeared marks of past dissipation and reckless intemperance, which had left there unmistakable tokens on cheek and brow,--tokens which even the charitable hand of time must be many years in effacing altogether.

And it had been only one little year since Burton Holbrook had been plucked even as a brand from the burning; but in all the year, not once had the accursed cup touched his lips.

Burton Holbrook could not remember when he had first learned to love the cup; the terrible heritage had been his from birth,--a heritage bequeathed him by his poor father, whose drunken carousals had made his childhood miserable.

And so the heritage of thirst had been his; and he had fought it manfully, bravely all the years. But the record of the years had been filled with shameful defeat so often that the little woman by his side had been well nigh discouraged many times.

But in the past few months a new hope had been born,--a hope bright with anticipation and big with promise.

For Burton Holbrook had been converted and joined the church.

“You can never conquer in your own strength,” she had said; and her prayers had ascended day and night unceasingly. And one glad day he had come to her, with a new light in his eyes and a new song upon his lips.

Then, almost as if by magic, prosperity seemed to come to them by leaps and bounds; friends multiplied; a position was offered him, lucrative beyond his wildest dreams. Within the year, the humble home had been exchanged for a pleasant cottage on one of the better streets, and from this cottage ascended night and morning, songs and prayers of thanksgiving and praise.

And this Sabbath he was attending communion service for the first time.

Strange that sad thoughts should intrude,--that unwelcome fears, and dim, shadowy forebodings should come trooping into the heart of the little woman by his side,--to-day of _all_ days,--to-day, when her cup of joy was full to the brim!

In the very beginning of the services, she had suddenly remembered that it was communion day,--yes, yes, she had known that, all the time. But now she realized with a dull pain at her heart, that there would be wine. There must be; and it would be the wine that intoxicates!

Ah! too well she knew the demons that forever dogged her husband’s footsteps! Given the slightest opportunity, and they were about him in troops. Was there, then, no spot too sacred for them to invade? Was there to be no safety, even within the sacred courts of the house of the Lord?

In her perfect happiness, she had not given it a thought; but now, she wondered vaguely why she had not remembered. Ah, once before, in those awful days that seemed so long, long ago,--once before, a single taste of red wine had been his undoing!

How helpless she felt, as she sat by his side and glanced timidly up into his handsome face--her noble husband! And she reflected that she had urged him to unite with the church long before he had thought of offering himself. She had told him that this would be such a source of strength to him! And now she shuddered.

Why had no one cared for his soul? Why had no voice been raised in protest? And then she remembered hearing Mrs. Jones, the deaconess, once say that she had protested against this thing; but the pastor had only smiled and treated the matter lightly,--in fact he had gone so far as to insinuate that “it would be casting a reflection upon the respectability” of his eminently respectable congregation, to offer them new wine at communion, when they had always been accustomed to the old!

So it would have been of no use for her to protest. The pastor would have scorned her husband as a weakling--her strong, noble husband.

But see, the red wine has already been uncovered; the blessing has been pronounced,--ah, surely it is only the emblem of the spilled blood of the Man of Sorrows!

Burton Holbrook starts. His face is white as chiseled marble. His breath comes in quick, hard gasps. Already the subtle scent of the red wine is in his nostrils.

The little woman marks with strange distinctness, the white, delicate fingers of the pastor, as he offers the glass to her husband,--for they are in the pew near the altar. The words which the minister had read that morning, ring in her ears: “Yea, mine own familiar friend, in whom I trusted, ... hath lifted up his heel against me.”

She turns her eyes in sickening fear upon the man. His face is gray and drawn, the muscles of his neck are working, and the blue veins are standing out upon his forehead. He turns his eyes in piteous appeal toward his wife, then toward the pastor. Then over his haggard face there flits an expression of mad desire. The fiends of darkness are tapping upon his forehead and beckoning to him insistently.

Even the pastor starts with alarm as Burton Holbrook reaches his trembling fingers toward the glass. A fire like the smouldering fires of the pit leaps into his dark eyes,--and the glass is drained.

There was an uneasy, expectant rustle in the congregation. The minister turned his eyes for a moment. It was enough. Burton Holbrook sprang like a famished tiger and snatched at the pitcher. In a moment more, it was empty.

Then, down the long aisle of horrified, frightened faces, and out into the quiet streets, rushed a frenzied, hatless man.

* * * * *

Over at the saloon on the nearest corner, lingered a few of the former companions of Burton Holbrook, discussing their old comrade, over their cups:--

“Been almost a year, I think, hasn’t it, since Holbrook last favored us with his company?” questioned the bartender sneeringly, as he handed a foaming glass to a young man whose trembling hand and thick speech told a pitiful story of disease and dissipation.

“Considers himself mighty good, I reckon,” was the reply.

“I’ve done everything I could to get him to give up those high and lofty notions of his,” shamelessly admitted another.

“I’m right glad I don’t have to sell _my_ liberty,” blustered Jack Hartwell, “and I told him so the other day; but he had an answer ready, of course. Real, reg’lar parson, Burt’s got to be, since he’s quit us.”

“That makes me think,” stammered an old man from across the room, “Holbrook’s gone and joined the church, so they say,--got clear off the devil’s ground, I s’pose he thinks, now,--but,--” and the old man lowered his voice, while a hateful grin distorted his bloated face, “but we’ll see--we’ll see. He’s no whit better than the rest of us, that he should,--”

“No,” interrupted the bartender, with an oath, “somebody’s likely been preachin’ to him. But if he thinks he’s safe, just because--”

But the bartender never finished his speech. Into the midst of them rushed a man, breathless and hatless, with haggard face and wild, hollow eyes.

“Let me drink, man! let me drink! I’ve sold my soul for it. The demons of hell have got me this time! I have held my own against them for a year,--but they caught me,--caught me in the church,--and--and I _will die_, but I _must_ have my drink!”

* * * * *

Within another month, delirium tremens, with its unspeakable horrors, had claimed its victim.

But I am glad to say that now there is _one_ church in Jonesville, which offers nothing but pure, sweet, new wine at communion.

But still a poor, heartbroken little woman murmurs over and over again, “‘Woe unto him that giveth his neighbor drink!’”

THE SIGN BOARD

Everybody liked Tom Hall, and everybody was sorry for him. It was sad to see such a fine young man a victim of drunkenness, and Tom had fallen into the mocker’s power unwittingly, it seems. A new saloon had been opened close to the foundry at which he worked, and he, along with others, was in the habit of going in for a glass of beer.

When the cold weather set in, he took something stronger, until he began to imagine that spirits agreed with him. Tom went on, and the liking for strong drink increased, until at all hours he might be seen staggering out of the “Rainbow,” _dizzy_ and stupefied with the intoxicating cup.

Tom’s was a very sad case. He belonged to a respectable family, and he had been religiously trained, and until he was drawn into the snare, he was an affectionate son and brother. Friends counseled, and ministers preached, and every means was tried to reclaim him, but all effort seemed lost,--Tom was bound hard and fast with the invisible chains of the “mocker.” His family mourned him as lost, and many a silent tear his sister dropped on his tattered garments as she sat darning and patching them.

“Ah, these rents will not darn again,” said Jennie, as she turned over Tom’s ragged raiment. In Tom’s better days, he had pride, and it was a sad change when he didn’t care who saw him “out at the elbows.”

But somehow Jennie could not find it in her heart to abandon the brother she still loved, and so Tom’s tattered garments were taken up again, and made the most of.

“_Kindness_ may win him back,” said Jennie, and when he came home at the worst, he was met in peace,--if in sorrow.

Just when the trees were beginning to bud with the promise of spring, Tom came home looking quite thoughtful. He was sober after a long run.

In the last rays of the setting sun, his sister was trying to cover some old darns.

Tom stood beside her, and silently watched the patient fingers for some time.

“That’s tiresome work, Jennie,” he said. His sister held up her seam before him.

“Why, that is a bunch of rags,” said Tom.

“Yes, Tom; and a bunch of rags would be the best sign board that a saloon keeper could hang over his door,” said Jennie, sadly.

Tom made no reply. He looked at the rags in silence.

Next morning Tom went back to his work and continued steady for two or three weeks.

He looked toward the “Rainbow,” but didn’t go in.

“Hello! what’s up with Tom Hall?” wondered Sinclair, as he filled up a glass of Tom’s favorite whisky for another customer at the counter.

Sinclair was not the only one who was astonished at the change.

Every day Tom went to his work; every night he came home sober, and after a time he appeared at church on the Sabbath. Then people began to believe that Tom was in earnest, and really meant to reform.

“Has Tom Hall really become a teetotaler?” queried Sinclair, when a whole month had passed without a visit to the “Rainbow.”

Well, it seemed so, for nothing stronger than water had passed his lips since that night on which his sister had shown him the bunch of rags. “I’ll have a talk with Tom and learn how he got off the scent, though,” Sinclair resolved.

An opportunity came sooner than he expected. In the beginning of summer a terrific thunderstorm passed over Airlie, and among the general devastation, Sinclair’s sign board was shivered to atoms.

Tom happened to be passing the “Rainbow” next morning, and stopped to glance up at the old mark.

“Fine work here, the storm’s done for us,” remarked Mr. Sinclair, who was standing in his door, “and I’ll have to get a new sign board.”

“Is it so bad as that?” asked Tom.

“Yes, the ‘Rainbow’ is in shivers.”

“Then you’ll want a new sign board,” suggested Tom.

“Of course; isn’t that what I’m telling you?”

“Is it to be the ‘Rainbow’ again?” asked Tom.

“I suppose so,” answered Mr. Sinclair, “unless you can give a new idea, Tom.”

“I think I can,” returned Tom; “but I must go home first.”

“Don’t forget, though,” said Mr. Sinclair.

“But you’re a stranger now-a-days, by the by, Tom.”

“I won’t be long,” answered Tom, as he hurried toward home.

A better sign board than “The Rainbow” Mr. Sinclair did not expect to get; he was only joking with Tom Hall, and he raised his eyebrows when Tom made his appearance, with a bundle under his arm, and requested him to look at the new sign board.

“I didn’t think you would catch me up; but step in, Tom, and let me see your idea.”

Tom gravely undid his bundle, and held up a bunch of rags before the saloon keeper’s astonished eyes.

“What do you mean, Tom?” asked Mr. Sinclair, feeling confident that Tom had lost his senses.

“You want a new sign board, don’t you?” asked Tom.

“Well, what has a bunch of rags got to do with that?” said Mr. Sinclair.

“Ask yourself, sir, if a bunch of rags is not the best sign board that can hang across your door,” said Tom, and his lips quivered.

“Was it that bunch of rags that made you a teetotaler, Tom?” said Mr. Sinclair, more confused than he liked to confess.

“It was one of the means, sir,” answered Tom, “and, perhaps some poor wretch, seeing in this bunch of rags the future outcome of drink, will bless you for the sign board.”

Tom walked away to his work, and Mr. Sinclair went back to his counter, but all day the bunch of rags troubled him.

It was a busy day, but every new comer seemed more deplorably wretched and worse off than the last served. He was thankful when night came.

The last customer was a woman literally covered with rags. A little infant sat on her arm. It was crying with cold and hunger.

“Go home and put clothes on your child,” said Mr. Sinclair, flinging back the money the woman had laid down.

“I have nothing but rags,” said the woman.

“Tom is right,” said Mr. Sinclair; “the end of drink is misery and rags, and the man who has a taste for that sort of thing may put his name on the _new sign board_.”

DAN NAYLOR’S LEGACY

When Enoch Wilton died, people said that Daniel Naylor was sure to come into possession of a handsome property, since his Uncle Enoch was known to be a man of some means, and Daniel was his favorite nephew.

But when the will was read, they changed their minds, for the only clause it contained which referred to Daniel read as follows:--

“_And to Daniel Naylor, my beloved nephew, I give and bequeath
the framed copy of the temperance pledge to which, under Divine
Providence, I owe salvation from a drunkard’s grave; also to this I
owe all the material prosperity which has gladdened my latter years.
And I recommend that he remove it from its frame, and affix his
signature beneath mine; satisfied that he will find the pledge an
unfailing source of wealth to him, as it has been to me._”

Daniel Naylor resented this, as he was a drinking man, and he indignantly stowed away his uncle’s bequest, among the rubbish in the attic, assuring his wife that, as his uncle had treated him so shabbily, he should not trouble himself further about it; and there, for years, it slumbered, utterly forgotten.

Meanwhile, Daniel Naylor’s affairs went from bad to worse, for his drinking habits had strengthened their hold upon him.

One day, about five years after his uncle’s death, he returned to his now squalid home, to tell his wife that the last cent had gone, and that “Squire Grip,” the village lawyer, would, the next day, foreclose the mortgage on their little place, leaving them homeless.

“Oh Daniel!” exclaimed the poor woman in a tone of despair, “What shall we do? Where can we go?”

“I do not know,” he responded moodily,--“to the poorhouse, perhaps.”

“Don’t say that, Daniel!” pleaded the wife, “you still have two hands left, and if--”

“I cannot get employment,” he interrupted. “I have been to all my employers and to all my friends; I can assure you that I have made every effort possible. But somehow, they don’t act toward me as they used to, in the old days when I was more prosperous. I don’t know what’s the matter, I’m sure. They only shake their heads and say they are sorry, but the times are so hard they cannot give me work. I shall have to give it up.”

“But you must not give it up, there must be employment somewhere.”

“But I tell you, I am unable to find it. I have tried everywhere; there is nothing for me to do.”

“Look here, Daniel, if you will promise me just one thing, I’ll tell you how you can find work,--Oh, if you would only promise, Daniel!” and Mrs. Naylor glanced appealingly at her husband.

Daniel Naylor felt a trifle uncomfortable, for he saw traces of tears in his wife’s eyes, and she had rarely spoken to him so earnestly. But he only stammered brokenly:--

“What are the conditions?”

“Will you promise?”

“I would rather know the conditions first.”

“The conditions are that you quit your drinking habits and sign the temperance pledge.”

Daniel Naylor started.

“What!” he cried, in astonishment. “Do you intend to say that my drinking a little, now and then, interferes with my getting work to do?”

“It certainly does, Daniel,” was the sorrowful reply, “for I have heard at least one of your old employers say as much.”

“Who was it?”

“Mr. Field.”

“What did he say?”

“You recollect the time, about three weeks ago, when you were--were--”

“Drunk.”

“Yes, when you were drunk. You were at work for him then, and when he came after you, and I told him you could not come, he guessed the truth, and I heard him say to his clerk, who was with him, as he drove off:--

“‘Well, this is the second time Dan Naylor has failed me when I needed him most, but I shall be sure he does not do it again.’

“And that, my husband, is the source of almost all our trouble, as I believe you, yourself, will admit when you think the matter over; you can’t imagine how it makes me feel.” And Mrs. Naylor put her apron to her eyes and sobbed hysterically.

It was Daniel Naylor’s turn to reflect now,--and it was not the first time, by any means. This subject had long been troubling him. But it was very hard for him to acknowledge or to realize that his deep poverty and misery had been brought about by his own conduct.

“Well, I believe you are right,” he said, at last. “But what can I do? Our home is gone, and I have lost the confidence of my employers,--so signing the pledge cannot amount to much.”

“Yes, it would amount to a great deal. It would restore your self-respect, and in a great measure you would be able to regain their confidence.”

Then came another period of silence. At last a great purpose entered his heart, and the light of a firm resolve shone in his eyes.

“Bring me a paper, and I _will sign it_, and may God give me strength to keep it!”

“Why not sign Uncle Enoch’s pledge?” his wife inquired. “I saw it lying up in the attic the other day, and if you wish, I will bring it.”

“Certainly; that will save writing another.”

The pledge was soon brought, and Daniel Naylor removed it from the frame and placed it on the table. As he did so, a roll of brown paper fell out of its back and dropped unnoticed at his feet.

After he had signed his name under that of his uncle, he turned to replace the pledge in its frame.

In doing this, his eyes fell upon the small roll of brown paper lying on the floor.

Stooping to pick it up, he uttered a sudden cry of astonishment, as he saw the corner of a bank note protruding; with trembling fingers, he undid the package, to find _seven one thousand dollar notes_, and a scrap of paper on which was written:--

“Is not the pledge a sure road to wealth?”

“God bless good Uncle Enoch!” he exclaimed fervently. “I can now take up the mortgage, and as for the pledge, I will keep that sacred as long as I live.”

And his wife responded with a fervent--

“Amen.”

“DON’T LET HIM HAVE IT”

If they wouldn’t let him have it!” exclaimed Mrs. Leslie, weeping; “Oh! if they wouldn’t sell him the liquor, there’d not be any trouble. He’s one of the best of men when he does not drink. He does not bring liquor into the house; and he tries very hard, I know, to keep sober, but he cannot pass Jenk’s tavern.”

Mrs. Leslie was talking with a sympathizing neighbor, who responded by saying, “It’s a downright shame!”

While this conversation was going on, a little girl, of about six years, sat listening attentively. After a little while she went quietly from the room, and took her way down the road unobserved by the mother.

There was a purpose, great and noble, in her mind; she had started on a mission. “Oh, if they wouldn’t sell him liquor!” Those earnest words of her mother filled her thoughts. If Mr. Jenks wouldn’t sell her father drink, there would be no more trouble. How simple the remedy!

She would go to Mr. Jenks and ask him not to let her father have any more liquor, and all would be well again. Artless, innocent child!

The tavern kept by Jenks--the laziest man in Milanville, stood nearly a quarter of a mile from the tenement occupied by the Leslies. Toward this place, under a hot sun, Lizzie made her way, her mind so filled with its purpose, that she was unconscious of heat or fatigue.

Not long before, a traveler had alighted at the tavern door. After giving directions to have his horse fed, he entered the barroom, where Jenks stood behind the counter.

“Have something to drink?” inquired the landlord.

“I’ll take a glass of water, if you please.”

Jenks could not hide the indifference at once felt toward the stranger. Very deliberately he set a pitcher and glass upon the counter, and then turned partly away. The stranger poured out a full tumbler of water, and drank it with an air of satisfaction.

“Good water, that of yours, landlord,” said he.

“Is it?” was returned somewhat uncourteously.

“I call it good water, don’t you?”

“Never drink water by itself.” As Jenks said this, he winked to one of his customers, who was lounging on the bar. “In fact, it’s so long since I drank any water that I forget how it tastes. Don’t you, Leslie?”

The man to whom this was addressed was not so far lost to shame as Jenks. He blushed and looked confused as he replied:--

“It might be better for some of us if we had not lost our relish for water.”

“A true word spoken, my friend!” said the stranger, turning to the man, whose swollen visage, and patched, threadbare garments, too plainly told the story of his life.

“Water, pure water, bright water! is my motto. Its attendants are health, thrift, and happiness. It takes not away the child’s bread, nor the toiling wife’s garments.”

There were two or three customers at the bar besides Leslie, to whom this was addressed; and all of them, in spite of the landlord’s angry and sneering countenance, treated the stranger with attention and respect. Seeing this, Jenks could not restrain himself; so, advancing to the gentleman’s side, and laying his hand rudely on his shoulder, he said in a peremptory manner:--

“See here, my friend, if you are about to deliver a temperance lecture, you can adjourn to the town hall or the Methodist chapel.”

The stranger moved aside a pace or two, and then said, mildly, “there must be something wrong here, if a man may not speak in praise of water without giving offense.”

“I said you could adjourn your lecture.” The landlord’s face was now a fiery red, and he spoke with insolence and passion.

“Oh, well, as you are president of the meeting, I suppose we must let you exercise an arbitrary power of judgment,” said the stranger; “I didn’t think any one had so strong a dislike of water as to consider its praise an insult.”

At this moment a child stepped into the barroom. She glanced neither to the right nor the left, but walked up to the landlord, lifted her sweet young face, and said in tones that thrilled every heart but his, “Please, Mr. Jenks, don’t sell papa any more liquor!”

“Off home with you, this instant!” exclaimed Jenks. As he spoke, he advanced toward the child with his uplifted hand in a threatening attitude.

“Please don’t, Mr. Jenks,” persisted the child, not moving or taking her eyes from the landlord’s countenance. “Mother says if you would not sell him liquor, there’d be no trouble. He’s kind and good to us all when he does not drink.”

“Off, I say!” shouted Jenks, now maddened beyond self-control, and his hand was about to descend upon the little one, when the stranger caught her in his arms, exclaiming as he did so, with deep emotion:--

“God bless the child! No! no, precious one,” he added, “Don’t fear him. Plead for your father. Plead for your home. Your petition must prevail. The merciful Lord cannot say nay to the little ones, whose angels do always behold the face of their Father in Heaven. God bless the child!” added the stranger, in a choking voice. “Oh, that the father, for whom she has come on this touching errand, were present now! If there was anything of manhood yet left in him, this would awaken it from its palsied sleep.”

“Papa! O papa!” the child exclaimed, stretching forth her hand. In the next moment she was clinging to the breast of her father, who, with his arms clasped tightly around her, stood weeping and mingling his tears with those of his child.

An oppressive stillness reigned in the room! Jenks stood subdued and bewildered, his state of mental confusion scarcely enabling him to comprehend the full import of the scene, and the stranger looked on wonderingly, yet deeply affected.

Quietly, and with moist eyes, the two or three customers, who had been lounging at the bar, went stealthily out; and the landlord, the stranger, and the father and the child, were left the only inmates of the room.

“Come, Lizzie, dear! this is no place for us,” said Leslie, breaking the dead silence. “We’ll go home.” And the unhappy father took his child by the hand, and led her toward the door.

But the little one held back. “Wait, papa, wait,” she said: “he hasn’t promised, yet. Oh, I wish he would promise!”

“Promise her, in heaven’s name!” exclaimed the stranger.

“If I do promise, I keep it!” returned the landlord, in a threatening tone.

“Then, in the name of mercy, do promise,” begged Leslie, in a despairing voice; “promise, and I’m safe!”

“Be it so! May I be cursed, if ever I sell you a drop of drink at this bar, while I am landlord!” Jenks spoke with an angry emphasis.

“God be thanked!” murmured the poor drunkard, as he led his child away. “God be thanked! There is hope for me yet.”

Hardly had Mrs. Leslie missed her child ere she entered, leading her father by the hand. “O mother!” she exclaimed, with a joy-lit countenance and a voice of exultation, “Mr. Jenks has promised!”

“Promised what?” Hope sprang up in the mother’s heart; her face flushed, then grew pale.

“That he would never sell me another glass of liquor,” replied the husband.

A pair of thin, white hands were clasped together; an ashen face was turned upward; tearful eyes looked their thankfulness in Heaven.

“There is hope yet,” said Leslie.

“Hope, hope! And, O Edward, you have said the word. I know you will be a man once more now! Surely, God sent our child on that errand of love! Innocence has triumphed over vice and cruelty. Our child came to the strong, evil, passionate man, and in her weakness and innocence, prevailed over him. God made her fearless and eloquent.”

A year afterward, a stranger came that way, and stopped at the same old tavern. As before, Jenks was behind his well-filled bar, and drinking customers came and went in numbers.