Chapter VIII: Part SIX (3)

Jenks did not recognize the stranger until he called for water, and drank a full tumbler of the pure liquid with a hearty zest. Then he knew him, but feigned to be ignorant of his identity.

The stranger made no reference to the scene he had witnessed twelve months before, but lingered in the barroom most of the day, closely observing every one who came there to drink. Leslie was not among the number.

“What has become of the man and the little girl that I saw here at my last visit to Milanville?” the stranger questioned.

“Gone to the devil, for all I care,” was the landlord’s rude answer as he hastily left the barroom.

“Do you see that little white cottage away off there, just at the edge of the wood?” replied one of the customers. “A row of tall poplars stand in front. The young man you ask for lives there. And what is more, if he keeps on the way he has begun, the cottage will be his own in another year.”

“Ah! I see; well, did the young man Leslie ever again try to get a drink here, since the landlord promised never to let him have another?”

“Twice to my knowledge.”

“And he refused him?”

“Yes; if you remember, Jenks said, in his anger, ‘May I be cursed if I sell him another drop.’ That saved Leslie. Jenks is superstitious in some things. Once he drove Leslie from the barroom, threatening, at the same time, to horsewhip him if he ever set foot inside his house again.”

“Ah! sometimes God makes even the wrath of man to praise Him,” replied the stranger reverently.

ONLY THE HUSK

Tom Darcy, yet a young man, had grown to be a very hard one. Although naturally kind-hearted, active, and intelligent, he lacked strength of will to resist temptation and had therefore fallen a victim to intemperance.

He had lost his position as foreman of a great machine shop, and what money he now earned came from odd jobs of tinkering which he was able to do at private houses here and there; for Tom was a genius as well as a mechanic, and when his head was steady enough, he could mend a clock or clean a watch, as well as he could set up and regulate a steam engine, and this latter he could do better than any man ever employed by the Scott Falls Manufacturing Company.

One day Tom was engaged to mend a broken mowing machine and reaper, for which he received five dollars; and, on the following morning, he started for his old haunt, the village tavern. He knew that his wife sadly needed the money, and that his two little children were absolutely suffering for want of clothing; so that morning he held a debate with his better nature, but his better nature had become weak, and the demon of appetite carried the day.

So, away to the tavern Tom went, where, for two or three hours he felt the exhilarating effect of the strong drink and fancied himself happy because he could laugh and sing. He drank while he could stand, then lay down in a corner where his companions left him.

It was almost midnight, when the landlord’s wife came to the barroom to see what kept her husband up, and she quickly saw Tom.

“Peter,” said she, “why don’t you send that miserable Tom Darcy home? He’s been hanging around here long enough.”

Tom’s stupefaction was not sound sleep. The dead coma had left his brain, and the calling of his name stung his senses to keen attention. He had an insane love for rum, but he did not love the landlord.

Long years ago, Peter Tinder and Tom Darcy had wooed the same maiden,--Ellen Goss,--and Tom had won her, leaving Peter to take up with the sharp-tempered damsel who had brought him the tavern. Tom knew well enough that even lately Peter Tinder had gloated over the misery of the woman who had once discarded him.

“Why don’t you send him home?” demanded Mrs. Tinder, with an impatient stamp of her foot.

“Hush, Betsey, he’s got money. Let him be, and he’ll be sure to spend it before he goes home. I’ll have the kernel of that nut and his wife may have the husk.”

Betsey turned away, and shortly afterward Tom Darcy lifted himself upon his elbow.

“Ah, Tom, are you awake?”

“Yes.”

“Then rouse up and have a warm glass.”

Tom got upon his feet and steadied himself.

“No, I won’t drink any more to-night.”

“It won’t hurt you, Tom,--just one glass.”

“I know it won’t!” said Tom, buttoning up his coat by the solitary button left. “I know it won’t.”

The air was damp and cold, but Tom Darcy didn’t mind it. The fact was, he was waking up at last. The words of Peter Tinder were sounding in his ears. He would go home at once. Why had he not gone before? he wondered, as he stepped out into the dimly lighted street.

Tom stopped a moment and looked up at the stars and then looked down upon the earth.

“Ay,” he muttered, grinding his heel into the gravel, “Peter Tinder is taking the kernel, and leaving poor Ellen the worthless husk,--a husk more than worthless. I am robbing my wife of joy; robbing my poor children of honor and comfort, and robbing myself of love and life, so that Peter Tinder may have the kernel and Ellen the husk. We’ll see!”

It was a revelation to the man. The saloon-keeper’s speech, meant not for his ears, had fallen upon his senses as fell the voice of the Risen One upon the ears of Saul of Tarsus.

“We’ll see!” he repeated, setting his foot firmly upon the ground; and then he wended his way homeward.

On the following morning he said to his wife, “Ellen, have you any coffee in the house?”

“Yes, Tom.” She did not tell him that her sister had given it to her. She was glad to hear him ask for coffee, instead of the old, old cider.

“I wish you would make me a cup, good and strong.”

There was really music in Tom’s voice, and his wife set about her work with a strange flutter at her heart.

Tom ate a light breakfast,--there was not much left to eat in the house,--and then went out, with a resolute step, and walked straight to the great manufactory, where he found Mr. Scott in his office.

“Mr. Scott, I want to learn my trade over again.”

“Eh, Tom, what do you mean?”

“I mean that it’s Tom Darcy come back to the old place, asking forgiveness for the past, and hoping to do better in the future.”

“Tom,” cried the manufacturer, starting forward and grasping his hand, “are you in earnest? Is it really the old Tom?”

“It’s what’s left of him, sir, and we’ll have him whole and strong very soon, if you’ll only set him to work.”

“Work! Ay, Tom, and bless you, too. There is an engine to be set up and tested to-day. Come with me.”

Tom’s hands were weak and unsteady, but his brain was clear, and under his skillful supervision the engine was set up and tested; but it was not perfect. There were mistakes which he had to correct, and it was late in the evening when the work was complete.

“How is it now, Tom?” asked Mr. Scott, as he came into the testing house and found the workmen ready to go home.

“She’s all right now, sir. You may give your warrant without fear.”

“God bless you, Tom! You don’t know how like music the old voice sounds. Will you take your old place again?”

“Wait till Monday morning, sir. If you will offer it to me then, I will take it.”

At the little cottage, Ellen Darcy’s fluttering heart was sinking. That morning, after Tom had gone, she had found a dollar bill in the coffee cup.

She knew that he had left it for her. She had been out and bought potatoes and sugar and flour and butter and a little basket of strawberries. All day long a ray of light had been dancing and glimmering before her,--a ray from the blessed light of other days. With prayer and hope she had set the tea-table and waited; but the sun went down and no Tom came. Eight o’clock, and almost nine.

Hark? The old step! quick, strong, eager, yes, it was Tom, with the old grime upon his hands and the odor of oil upon his clothing.

“I have kept you waiting, Nellie.”

“Tom!”

“I did not mean to, but the work hung on.”

“Tom! Tom! You have been to the old shop!”

“Yes, and I’m promised the old place, and--”

“Oh, Tom!”

And she threw her arms around his neck and pressed a kiss upon his lips.

“Nellie, darling, wait a little, and you shall have the old Tom back again!”

“Oh, I have him now! God bless you, my husband!”

It was a banquet--that supper--with the bright angels of peace and love and joy spreading their wings over the board.

On the following Monday morning, Tom Darcy resumed his place at the head of the great machine shop, and those who thoroughly knew him had no fear of his going back into the slough of dissipation.

A few days later, Tom met Peter Tinder on the street.

“Eh, Tom, old boy, what’s up?”

“_I’m_ up,--right side up!”

“Yes, I see; but I hope you haven’t forsaken us, Tom!”

“I have forsaken only the evil, Peter. The fact is, I concluded that my wife and little ones had fed on ‘husks’ long enough, and if there was any goodness left in my heart or in my manhood, it was high time they had the benefit.”

“Ah! you heard what I said to my wife that night.”

“Yes, Peter, and I shall be grateful to you as long as I live. My remembrance of you will always be relieved by that tinge of brightness.”

* * * * *

Ten years passed away. Peter Tinder had removed to a distant state. Long ago people had ceased declaring that Tom Darcy “would be as drunk as a fiddler before long.”

The little cottage had been exchanged for a larger and more commodious home on one of the pleasantest streets. The two children, Paul and Emily, were growing to be a great help and comfort to their parents.

But you will want to know what became of Peter Tinder, the saloon keeper, into whose tills a large share of Tom Darcy’s hard-earned money had found its way in the old days.

One bitter cold evening in mid-winter, the Darcy family sat around their cozy fireside. Suddenly the door bell rang. Gentle Mrs. Darcy, grown more sympathetic and charitable with the passing of the years, hurried to open the door. But she stepped back with a look of mingled pity and terror in her eyes.

There stood the most wretched creature she had ever seen. Trembling with the cold and covered with rags, he undertook to make known his errand:--

“Is this the home of Tom Darcy?”

By this time Tom was on his feet. “Come in, come in, man, don’t stand out there, when there’s warmth inside; come right in, my poor fellow.”

“I don’t suppose you know me, Tom Darcy, or perhaps you wouldn’t be so cordial,” shivered the stranger, turning his bleared eyes toward his host.

There was something in the voice, which made Tom Darcy start:--

“Why, Ellen, wife, it’s Pete,--Mr. Tinder! Why, man, where did you come from? What has happened?”

“Ah, it’s many a year since anyone has called me _Mr._ Tinder--‘Old Pete’--that’s the name I answer to _now-a-days_. I don’t live anywhere,--I just wander till I find someone that’ll take me in for the night.”

While Ellen Darcy prepared a cup of hot milk and a large sandwich, “Old Pete” continued:--

“I heard you lived here, and that you were a Christian, Tom, and I reckoned you’d not turn me out to-night, though I never did you anything but evil,--I took the ‘kernel’ and you kept the ‘husk’ a long time, but things have turned about now. My wife died directly after we had left the old place, and then people began to say that “Old Pete” was his own best customer.

“I drank and drank until everything was gone. I often thought about the ‘husk’ and the ‘kernel,’ but I _must have the drink, Tom_, as long as I live, and that won’t be long, please God.”

Tom Darcy and his good wife made the poor wretch as comfortable as possible for the night, and entreated him to reform. But it was too late. “Old Pete” had fed upon “husks” too long. Like the prisoner of Chillon he had learned to love the very chains which bound him.

As the wretched man started off toward the nearest saloon in the village, Tom Darcy watched him with a strange fascination until the fluttering rags had passed around the corner.

“But for the grace of God, Ellen,” he said, humbly, “I would be in his condition to-day, while you and the children--”

Tom shuddered, while Ellen quoted tearfully:--

“‘No drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of God.’”

THE SERPENT IN THE HOME

In all the town there was no brighter or more attractive girl than Miss Martin. Her elder sister had married one of the doctors of the place, and she came on a visit to her, and as was right and fitting, they enjoyed themselves by visiting places of interest together.

One day, while visiting a neighboring city, they stepped into a fashionable restaurant to rest and take refreshments. As it was a hot day, the sandwich was followed, at Dr. Black’s suggestion, by a glass of wine.

Chemists tell us of the affinity of certain substances.

Dr. and Mrs. Black drank their glass of wine without any apparent effect. But it was different with Miss Martin. She had never drunk a whole glass of wine in all her life, and something in her system, I know not what or how, answered to its subtle qualities, and she felt its exhilarating effect. A pleasing, indescribable sensation came over her. Before, she was worn out and exhausted; now she felt light, vigorous, and happy. It is to constitutions of this kind, that stimulants are an unspeakable temptation.

Favoring circumstances, I grieve to say, were not wanting. Mrs. Black’s callers were numerous, and wine and cake were regularly presented. They were asked to dinner and supper parties to get acquainted in the neighborhood, and at most of these parties wine was served, and just because other people took it, Miss Martin did so too.

She thought the place delightful and the people exceedingly pleasant; and if, in a forenoon, she felt exhausted and nervous after an evening’s party, a glass of wine put her all right.

No wonder that, when she returned to her home, life seemed dull, flat, and heavy. She used to awake in the morning with a bright, cheery feeling, and begin to lay out her plan of work for the day. But things of an ordinary kind had no interest for her now. She became restless, her appetite failed, and she grew pale and thin.

Her mother, anxious and alarmed, called in the doctor, whose verdict was, “A little out of sorts--trying season of the year--liver dull--a little stimulant will set all to rights.” Her father, good, confiding man, at once ordered in a dozen bottles of port wine, which was to be administered to the patient twice a day.

And so the flame was fanned and cherished, which in due time,--but I must not anticipate.

As I have said, Miss Martin was a very prepossessing girl, admired by many; so in a little while, when on a second visit to her sister, no one was surprised when it was announced that she was to be married to one who stood high in the opinion of all, and who was, indeed, a young man of great worth and excellence.

It happened that winter that a Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Society, a Scientific Association, and a Total Abstinence Society were organized in the town.

Now, into the first two of these, Dr. Black and Mr. Bennet, his intended brother-in-law, entered readily, and were quite willing to attend meetings, give readings, and deliver lectures; but as for a temperance society,--really, they saw no need.

“It seems almost an insult to introduce such a society among respectable people. No doubt there are many who should not drink because they cannot stop in time, and in such cases drink is a great curse; but with us, it is different.” And when Mr. Bennet saw Miss Martin sipping her glass of wine, he thought as of everything else about her, how graceful it seemed, and how well the action became her. It was but a few months after their marriage that the poor illusion was dispelled.

One day some friends of Mr. Bennet’s had come to make them a visit, and a few neighbors had been asked to meet them at dinner.

The little entertainment was a great success. Finally Mrs. Bennet left her guests in the dining room, over their wine; she had intended to be gone but a moment; but when seated by herself, with the excitement over, a feeling of excessive fatigue and languor came upon her. As on other occasions, she at once thought of a glass of wine. This was just the very time it was needed! So without further consideration, she drank one glass after another, till before she knew it, she was sleeping the sleep of a drunkard in her own elegant drawing room.

By-and-by the door was thrown open, and Mr. Bennet, in his usual cheery voice, said, “Here we are, Mary, all ready for your nice cup of coffee.”

But, alas! there was no answering greeting, nothing but an inarticulate sound from the prostrate form on the rug. The company took in the situation but too well, and all retired as gracefully as possible, “sorry to see Mrs. Bennet so poorly,” etc.

Mr. Bennet was bewildered. Of all the possibilities in life, this was the last that could have occurred to him; and there he sat, with that terrible, mysterious smile upon his face, which you may have seen on the face of a strong man when shame and agony were gnawing at his heart.

It would be tedious to record Mrs. Bennet’s resolutions of amendment made and broken, to be again renewed with the same result. Her husband’s patience was often abused, but still he was always so ready to forgive.

But the most long-suffering patience may be worn out at last, and it seemed to Mr. Bennet that the only chance was to send his wife--once his pride, as well as his joy--to one of those asylums for the drunkard, called “refuges.” The arrangements were made, and the day on which she was to go appointed.

I shall never forget that afternoon. The poor husband was utterly prostrated by grief and shame by an outbreak of his wife the day before, and, as an old friend, he requested me to accompany her, for he could not trust himself, and feared his resolution would give way at the parting scene.

She, poor creature, not only acquiesced in the plan, but earnestly besought her husband on her knees to help her to get free from the wretched slavery in which she lived. It is easy for people outside to speak, but I do think that the wretched slave to strong drink is to be pitied.

Poor Mrs. Bennet had been for some months in this establishment, when her husband, hoping against hope, removed to the city of which I have spoken, with a view of giving her new scenes and new surroundings in her future life, and brought her home. How he congratulated himself; how his love and long-slumbering reverence revived, as week after week passed, and still she stood the trial!

Some time after this I was invited to the marriage of their only daughter. She was one of whom any mother might have been proud, and on whom her father doted.

I had been greatly gratified at hearing of my friend’s continued reformation. When I arrived that summer evening, I found the three sitting together on the lawn under a spreading tree, enjoying the sweetest hour of all the day. The outward scene seemed a fitting symbol of the inward peace, and I caught myself whispering, “At evening time it shall be light.”

Looking back on the past, it seemed as if we had awakened from a fearful nightmare, and were being reassured by the calm and peace of returning morning.

Next day, as the wedding guests were strolling through the grounds after the marriage, till lunch was announced, and everything seemed the embodiment of calmness and comfort, he would have been thought a hard-hearted prophet of evil who would have predicted the events of the following hours.

I stepped aside and went into the house to see if I could be of any assistance in the finishing of the arrangements. On looking into the dining room, what was my amazement to find the table furnished with a profusion of wines and brandies!

Thinking there must have been some strange mistake, I hurried out and sought Mr. Bennet, to whom I told what I had seen, suggesting that his orders must surely have been misunderstood.

For a moment, a look of surprise came into his face. “Not at all,” said he; “you do not suppose I could let such an occasion as this pass without giving it all the honors?”

“Honors!”

I thought some people had strange ideas about honors. I implored him to alter his arrangements even yet. “Thanks,” said he, “for your kind interest; but pray don’t trouble yourself, you will see that all will go off well.” And then, in a lower tone, “Mary has promised me.”

With a sorrowful heart, I turned away. The party had not been long in the dining room, when I saw Mrs. Bennet, who had hitherto been acting the part of hostess with all the ease and grace, which in her early days had charmed so many, become suddenly pale, and seemed to be putting a strong restraint upon herself. I felt deeply grieved when I saw those around her carelessly sipping their wine, ignorant of the fierce war they were kindling within her.

At last she could restrain herself no longer; it seemed as if a thunderbolt had fallen among us, when suddenly she rose, and seizing a bottle, darted to the door.

Mr. Bennet’s face turned ashy pale, and when he attempted to rise, his knees smote against each other, like the monarch of old when the handwriting on the wall announced his doom. When I got outside the door, the poor woman looked round on me with a half-triumphant, half-scared expression, and the brandy bottle was lying empty beside her.

I helped her to the bed, and the doctor was sent for; but no human power could save her. As we watched her tossing to and fro, wildly appealing for protection from the fiery serpents which she averred were swarming around her, I wondered if her husband did not ask himself if he had fulfilled that vow made long ago, of loving, cherishing, and _protecting_ her, when he exposed her to that which was indeed the supremest danger possible,--the very smell of what, to her, was deadly poison.

At length the storm subsided; she lay wan and worn on her pillow. Leaning over her, I heard in a low whisper the words, “_they shall thirst no more_.” The pathos was inexpressible. These were her last words. No doubt there is pardon for the penitent drunkard as well as for the penitent thief, even at the eleventh hour; but turning away from that deathbed, I could but say, “Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his.”

I have spoken of some of the outward incidents of Mrs. Bennet’s history, but who shall imagine her inner life? I am sure that the most exquisite tortures ever invented, fell very far short of those endured by this poor woman.

When bidding good-by to the silent and mournful mansion, where all had but the other day seemed so bright and happy, I felt with new emphasis the force of the wise man’s words, “Look not thou upon the wine when it is red, when it giveth his color in the cup, when it moveth itself aright. At last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder.”

* * * * *

Let us turn to the stern lesson woven all through the warp and woof of the foregoing story,--of a young life ruined and a home broken up as the result of the social wineglass. Social custom and “treating” are responsible for more drunkards’ graves than many are willing to acknowledge.

But who will speak for the brewer and distiller who institute open “missionary” campaigns to teach the children to drink that they may fill the breaks in the ranks caused by the passing of the old inebriates? God says to such:--

“Woe unto him that giveth his neighbor drink, that putteth the bottle to him, and maketh him drunken also.”

WORK DONE INSIDE

One of my friends is a very earnest, shrewd man, who seems to know how to do the best thing at the right time. One day he was passing a gin shop in Manchester, England, when he saw a drunken man lying on the ground. The poor fellow had evidently been turned out of doors when all his money was gone. In a moment my friend hastened across the street, and entering a grocer’s shop, asked the clerk:--

“Will you oblige me with the largest sheet of paper you have?”

“What for, my friend? What’s the matter?”

“Oh! you shall see in a moment or two. Please get me the largest sheet you have.”

The sheet of paper was soon brought.

“Now, will you lend me a piece of chalk?”

My friend then quickly printed, in large letters, these words:--“_SPECIMEN OF THE WORK DONE INSIDE._”

He then fastened the paper onto the drunken man, and retired a short distance. In a few moments several passers-by stopped to read the notice, and in a short time a crowd assembled; then the saloon keeper, hearing the noise and laughter outside, came out to see what it was about. He eagerly bent down and read the inscription on the paper, and then demanded in an angry voice:--

“Who did that?”

“Which?” asked my friend, who now joined the crowd. “If you mean what is written on the paper, I DID THAT; but if you mean the man, YOU DID THAT! This morning when he arose, he was sober; when he walked down the street, on his way to work, he was sober; when he went into your shop, he was sober; and now he is what you made him. Is he not a true specimen of the work done inside?”

NAT RAYMOND’S VICTORY AND WHAT CAME OF IT

Oh, but I’ll have the jolliest time, though! I’m going out to Uncle Nathan’s, Christmas!” and Nat Raymond threw his cap high in the air. “Uncle Nathan’s just splendid; I was named after him, wasn’t I mother?”

Nat was too excited and delighted to wait for his mother to reply, and he continued:--

“I’m going to be a sailor, too, some day, mother, just like Uncle Nathan. I shall ask him to tell me all about the time when his ship got frozen in, up among the funny Esquimaux. And besides, I want him to tell me about those great big, furry dogs that used to draw him over the snow.

“Uncle Nathan’s a great man,--don’t you think so, mother? and of course he’s just the _best_ man!”

Nat paused at last, not so much because he really cared for his mother to answer him, but the fact was, he was quite out of breath.

“Yes, dear, your uncle is a kind-hearted man, but I am so sorry to say, he has _one_ bad habit. I’ve tried to reason with him again and again, but he seems to think he has the best of the argument. No, Nat, I shall not tell you what the habit is,--you will find out soon enough after you get there, I’m afraid. But I’m going to trust my boy to the promptings of his own conscience; for I am sure he will be brave enough to do what he knows to be right. Only, Nat, my boy, whenever you are tempted to do wrong, never forget to lift up your heart to God for help and for courage to do the right. And don’t forget that even a boy may sometimes be able to do great good by his example.”

Nat was somewhat mystified, but soon forgot all about his mother’s conversation, in the excitement of preparing for the journey.

At last Christmas came; and Nat found himself aboard the flying train. His uncle was at the train to meet him, and what a welcome he received! Everyone seemed glad to see him, and to be anxious to give him a pleasant visit. Uncle Nathan lived near the sea, and oh, how Nat loved the sea! It seemed that he would never tire watching the great white-caps toss and foam and chase each other to the pebbly beach.

When supper was ready, Nat’s place was beside his uncle. Now Nat was a strict temperance boy; he wore the blue-ribbon badge very proudly, for he had signed the pledge. So when several bottles of wine were brought in and placed on the table, he looked inquiringly into his uncle’s face.

“Oh, it’s all right, my lad; it can’t hurt you a bit. You see, you need it, after the long, cold ride, to warm you up!”

“But don’t you see my blue ribbon, Uncle Nathan? I’ve signed the pledge, and I can’t drink wine.”

“Oh! but I think it’s quite ridiculous for a little shaver like you to sign the pledge, like some old toper!” and Uncle Nathan leaned back in his chair and laughed.

Poor Nat’s face grew very red. He did not like to be called a “little shaver”--because he was twelve years old. And besides he _did_ hate to have Uncle Nathan laugh at him. He wondered if it _would_ do any harm _just once_ to taste of a small glass of wine with his uncle.

Then quick as a flash he remembered his mother’s words. Ah, so _this_ must be the bad habit to which she had referred.

“Come,” insisted Uncle Nathan, moving the sparkling liquid a little nearer his plate. “Come, Nat, be a man! you ought to be able to drink a little wine without getting drunk!”

Now Nat’s one ambition was to be a man. Maybe Uncle Nathan was right after all.

“Even a boy may sometimes do great good by his example;” these were his mother’s words. How plainly he remembered them! Nat’s resolution was quickly formed. He wavered no longer.

“I’ve signed the pledge, Uncle Nathan, and if I can’t be a man without breaking my word, why, I suppose I’ll have to be a boy, then, as long as I live!”

Nat had a pretty hard fight before he could bring himself to oppose Uncle Nathan in this manner, but the voice of conscience was growing louder every moment, and with a silent prayer to Heaven for help to do right, Nat continued:--

“I tell you this, Uncle Nathan, if everybody would sign the pledge and keep it, there would be no drunkards any more, and there would be fewer prisons and poor-houses, and ever so much less misery in the world; that’s what my father says.”

The longer Nat thought about it, and the more he said, the stronger grew his conviction that he was doing right.

Uncle Nathan only smiled and gently patted Nat’s shoulders. “Good boy; good boy,” he smiled, “but we will see how you hold out.”

One evening they were all going on a sleigh ride to the country to listen to a speech from a very noted gentleman. The evening was a bitter cold one, and the crisp snow sparkled like diamonds as the bright moonlight fell upon it.

“Come, my lad,” said Uncle Nathan, just as they were ready to start, “it’s a stinging evening. Here’s a little glass of sweetened toddy for you, just to keep you warm. I’ve had a nice glass, and I feel better and warmer already.”

“I’m good and warm now, Uncle Nathan, and I don’t need it. Besides, that stuff doesn’t keep people warm,--it makes them cold. My father says he saw a man who froze to death just because he’d taken too much of that kind of stuff. When I have to die, Uncle Nathan, I don’t mean to die that way.”

Uncle Nathan smiled a little, called Nat a stubborn lad, and they all drove away.

Oh! how Nat _did_ hope that the great gentleman whom they were going to hear, would say a few words--just a few at least--in favor of temperance; for Nat felt as if he needed a little help. He was tired of standing alone, as he thought. But if we are doing right, we are never alone. God is on our side, and His holy angels are with us.

Much to Nat’s delight, the speaker gave most of the evening to explaining the evils of intemperance. He told of the misery and wretchedness caused by the liquor traffic. He spoke of the bright, promising young men of the nation, who were being led away from purity and right, and held in the hateful bondage of the cup. He spoke feelingly of the thousands of widows and tens of thousands of poor orphans all over our fair land, whose husbands and fathers had been murdered by the demon--drink.

At the close of his lecture, the speaker presented the Pledge. And what was Nat’s delight, when he saw his Uncle Nathan walk to the desk and sign his name,--and hark! Nat could hardly believe his ears! What _was_ Uncle Nathan saying? What _did_ he mean? Was it actually true?

“I have been much interested in the lecture this evening,” began Uncle Nathan, “and am glad to place my name on the Pledge. I only wish it had been there long ago. As I have said, the lecture of the evening has been good; but friends, the greatest temperance lecture I ever listened to, has been given to me and acted out every day for the past week, by my young nephew, Nat Raymond. He is here to-night, and I wish to tell him that his influence, more than anything else in the world, has led me to take this stand.”

“Hurrah for Nat Raymond!” broke out a dozen sturdy voices. And before he fairly understood what was going on, Nat found himself quite a hero.

At last, when his visit at Uncle Nathan’s was over, and Nat was again at home, he told the story over and over to his happy parents.

“I never would have had the courage to refuse to take the wine with Uncle Nathan, mother,” he declared, “if I had not remembered what you whispered in my ear the last thing before I left you: ‘_Don’t forget, my son, that even a boy may be able to do great good by his example._’”

* * * * *

“We can trace four-fifths of the crimes committed to the influence of rum.”--_Judge Allison._

“No business more thoroughly demoralizing, more destructive of public morals, public order, and public decency.”--_Judge John Martin._

“Seventy-five percent of the crimes of New York City are due directly or indirectly to strong drink.”--_I. Kenny Ford, New York Police Court._

“Seventy-five percent of accidents to life and limb due directly to drink.”--_Dr. Cyrus Edson._

“The undoubted cause of four-fifths of all the crime, pauperism, and domestic misery of the State.”--_Governor Dix, of New York._

“The chief source and immediate cause of more hurt to society and to individuals than any other agency.”--_Hon. H. W. Blair._

“The original cause of most of the enormities committed by criminals.”--_Sir Matthew Hale._

TOM’S TEMPERANCE LECTURE

Twas a bright autumn morning. The fall term of St. Rudolph’s school had begun on Wednesday. Out on the playground, Tom Hadden,--a boy who had arrived only the night before,--was standing by himself, and looking about with the curious but sober eyes of a boy who felt as if he were in a new world, and who was as yet extremely doubtful as to his chances for happiness in that world.

“Hello, Tom Hadden; is that you?” some one called suddenly.

Tom’s gloomy face brightened, and he turned eagerly toward a group of boys near him, who were talking and laughing in the manner so expressive at once of good comradeship and much self-importance,--a common characteristic of the older students at the beginning of a new school year.

Tom knew several of those boys; he had met them during the summer vacations, and their greetings now were so hearty that in a few minutes he forgot that he was that forlorn creature, a strange boy in a large school; and he gladly accepted an invitation to join his new friends after school hours, in a tramp over the hills to a village a short distance from St. Rudolph’s.

In high spirits they set out; the hills were crossed, and they soon reached the village.

“Now for Cruger’s,” shouted several of the boys as they led the way to a saloon and boisterously pushed open the door.

Tom held back. He did not like the appearance of the place.

“What are we going in here for?” he asked.

“For a spread, of course,” one of the boys explained. “They cook great dinners here; come on.”

Tom was quite ready for a “spread,” and willingly followed the boys into a little back room where the saloon proprietor assured them they would be undisturbed. Their dinner was soon served, and thoroughly enjoyed by the hungry boys; then a dessert of fruit, cake, and pie was ordered, and when the last crumb of the last cake had disappeared, and the waiter had removed the dishes from the table, Frank Jones, their acknowledged leader, said gayly:--

“Now, fellows, before we go, we’ll have a loving cup.”

“A loving cup? what’s that?” Tom asked of the boy nearest him.

“You needn’t be afraid of it, it won’t hurt you; it’s only beer,” the boy answered.

“Beer? I don’t want any,” and Tom pushed back his chair.

“Sit still; you can’t go yet,” said Frank Jones, and at that moment the waiter returned with the black bottles of beer.

Amid shouts of laughter the corks were drawn, and then one of the boys started the song:--

“And here’s a hand, my trusty friend,
A gie’s a hand o’ thine,
And we’ll take a right guid willie-wought,--”

“No, no,” protested Tom Hadden earnestly, “this is wrong. I will not drink. Let me go.”

The boys stopped singing. “So you are a kill-sport, are you?” one of them said scornfully.

“No, no,” Tom cried, “but I can’t drink. Let me go.”

The beer was foaming in their glasses, but the boys left it untouched, while they stared at Tom.

“You are a fool, Tom,” one of them said. “What harm can a glass of beer do you?”

“Come, Tom,” coaxed another, “don’t make a row about nothing; be a man and drink your beer.”

“I won’t,” Tom said sharply. “Let me go.”

“We aren’t quite ready to let you go yet,” Frank Jones said angrily. “You are a pretty fellow to kill sport in this way; and now if you won’t drink, you shall give us a temperance lecture. If it is wrong to drink beer, you shall tell us why. Come, boys, pay attention. You will now listen to an address on temperance from the eloquent orator, Thomas Hadden.”

“Hear! Hear!” shouted the boys derisively, and one of them called: “Stand him up on the table.”

“Up with you,” cried two of the strongest boys, as they seized Tom, and, unable to resist, he was forced to mount the table. With crimson face and something suspiciously like tears in his eyes, he faced his tormentors.

“I can’t, boys,” he faltered. “I can’t talk to you.”

“More shame to you, then, for spoiling our fun,” growled one of the boys. “Come, you needn’t think we’ll let you off. If you won’t drink beer, you shall give us some good reason for not drinking it. That’s only fair. Come, be quick about it.”

Tom Hadden waited a moment. Once or twice he swallowed hard, and his breath came in quick gasps. Suddenly he threw back his head and straightened himself.

“Boys,” he said, in a clear voice, “I will tell you a story--a story that belongs to my own life.”

“All right,” said Frank Jones recklessly, but something in Tom’s face made the other boys watch him in silence.

“Boys,” Tom went on, in a tender, pathetic voice, “I knew a little boy once who had a beautiful home. He had a kind father and mother, and he loved them both so much that he could never tell which he loved the best.

“That little boy’s father had always been a good man; but once, when he wasn’t well, the doctor ordered him to drink beer, and he began to drink it, and--” Tom’s voice was thrilling in its emphasis now--“he soon began to drink stronger things; and there came a time when that little boy’s home was so changed from the lovely place it once was, that it seemed as if a fiend must live there.

“That little boy heard his father rave and curse like a madman,--and he _was_ mad, for drink had made him so. That boy saw his mother struck down by his drunken father’s hand.”

There was a dead silence in that little room. The beer had ceased to foam, but not a boy had tasted it or noticed it.

“Boys,” Tom’s thrilling voice went on, “that little boy is a large boy now, and he is almost alone in the world, for his father and mother are both dead, and now he has no home.”

No boy who heard it ever forgot the pathos of Tom’s tone as he continued:--

“Do you wonder, boys, that standing by his mother’s grave, that boy looked up to heaven, and solemnly vowed never while he lived, to touch or taste the drink that made a madman of his father, ruined his home, and broke his mother’s heart?”

“You will let me go now,” he said, as he jumped down from his high place, and started for the door. With a rush, the boys gathered around him.

“Tom,” said Frank Jones, “you are a hero. Why, I think you are braver than a soldier. I am proud of you, and I would do just like you if I were in your place.” The boy stopped; a new thought had come to him. He looked around on his companions.

“Boys,” he said earnestly, “It seems to me that what I would do if I were in Tom’s place, I would better do now in my own place.”

Perhaps the head master of St. Rudolph’s was never in his long life more happily surprised than he was that evening, when six of his oldest and most influential boys called on him and asked to sign the temperance pledge.

Years have passed since that evening, and those boys have kept their pledge.

A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM

Two children were playing on a lawn in front of a pleasant cottage. Roses and honeysuckles climbed up the windows, smooth walks, bordered with flowers, ran through the lawn; and everything about the cottage and the grounds had an air of taste and comfort.

A little way off, and very different in appearance, stood another cottage; the lawn in front was overgrown with weeds, and the walks with coarse grass. The fence that enclosed the lawn was broken in many places, and the gate, held only by the lower hinge, stood half open and awry. No roses or vines hung their green and crimson curtains about the windows, or clambered up the porch. This cottage had once been white also, white as that before which the children were playing; but it was now dirty and soiled and looked forlorn and comfortless.

There was as much difference in the appearance of the children as in the two cottages. One was neatly and cleanly dressed, and had a happy face. The clothes of the other were poor and soiled, and his face pale and sad. One played with hearty enjoyment, laughing and shouting; the other in a quiet and subdued manner, as if afraid to raise his voice, in the happy sports of childhood.

“Jim, isn’t that your father?” asked the well-dressed boy, as a man appeared coming down the road a little way off.

Jim started in a half-scared manner, and turned toward the road. He stood very still for a moment or two, looking at the man, and then, with a face now red, and now very pale, hurried away and laid himself close down upon the grass under some currant bushes, whispering as he did so, in a choking voice:--

“Don’t, Freddy, please don’t tell him I’m here.”

Light and joy went out of Freddy’s face also. He understood too well what all this meant.

Staggering down the road came Mr. Harwood, Jim’s father.

What a sight it was! As he drew nearer, Freddy Wilson saw his red and swollen face, and heard him muttering and cursing to himself, and he shuddered with horror.

As Mr. Harwood passed the gate, he saw Freddy, and stopped. Freddy began to tremble. His first thought was to run back to the house; but he was a brave little boy, and it went against his feelings to run away from anything. So he did not move.

“Is my boy, Jim, here?” asked Mr. Harwood, in an angry voice. Some men, when drunk, are always ill-natured and cruel, and Jim’s father was one of these. Seeing Freddy, and knowing that the two boys played much together, he naturally thought of his son.

Freddie did not answer. He could not tell a lie, and so he said nothing.

“Did you hear me?” growled Mr. Harwood.

Still Freddy looked at him and said nothing. He knew that if Jim’s father found him there, he would kick and beat him all the way home. Not because the child had disobeyed his father, or was in any mischief, but Mr. Harwood, as I have said, was full of anger and cruelty when drunk, and took a savage pleasure in abusing his little boy.

Freddy began to be brave now, because he wished to save his little playmate from harm.

There was a bolt on the inside of the gate near which the child was standing. With a stealthy motion, he slipped this bolt and fastened the gate. It was not done an instant too soon, for Mr. Harwood, growing furious, made a dash toward the boy, and tried to get at him through the gate.

“You young dog!” he growled, “I’ll teach you manners! Why don’t you answer me? Where’s Jim?”

The drunken man shook the gate violently, and tried, with his unsteady hands, to find the bolt on the inside. But his efforts were in vain. He could not reach the little fellow, who stood up close to him, with a brave but sorrowful face. “You’d better go home, sir; I’ll tell my father of this.”

There was a manly firmness in the manner of the child, as well as in his words, that had their effect upon the drunken man.

“Who cares for your father? I don’t!” he replied, moving back a step or two from the gate, muttering and cursing.

“But I say, youngster!” and he staggered a little nearer, with a scowl on his disfigured face, “just answer me one thing. Say yes or no. Is that young scamp of mine here?”

“I don’t know any young scamp of yours, Mr. Harwood.”

“You don’t, eh! Now that’s cool for a model young gentleman, like Master Wilson. Don’t you know my Jim?”

“I know your Jim very well,” said Freddie. “But he’s a good little boy, and not a young scamp; and I don’t think you’re a kind father to call him such an ugly name.”

This rebuke was felt by Mr. Harwood, drunk as he was. He could not endure the steady, fearless glance of Freddy’s blue eyes. Then, away down in his heart, almost covered up and lost, was an old feeling of fatherly pride, and this was stirred at the praise spoken about Jim,--“a good little boy.”

The anger went out of Mr. Harwood’s face.

“He was a good little boy once,” said he, with something so like tenderness in his voice, that Jim, who was lying close by, hidden under the currant bushes, sobbed aloud.

“What’s that?” asked Mr. Harwood, leaning forward and looking toward the currant bushes. But the sound was hushed in a moment.

“He’s a good little boy now,” said Freddy, speaking in a very firm voice and not seeming to hear the sob. “A good little boy,” he repeated; and added, to make his assertion stronger, “there isn’t a better one anywhere about here, and you let him go ragged, when he ought to have good clothes like the rest of us.”

Mr. Harwood didn’t stop to hear anything further, but turned from the gate and hurried toward the poor cottage across the road, walking more steadily than he had done a few minutes before. Then Freddy went behind the currant bushes where Jim still lay on the ground.

“He’s gone,” said Freddy.

The pent up grief in Jim’s sad heart could be restrained no longer. He burst into a wild fit of crying that continued for several minutes. Freddy said all that he could to comfort his little friend; and when he had grown calm, asked with all the earnestness of a grown-up man:--

“Can’t something be done, Jim?”

Jim shook his head in a hopeless way.

“Something ought to be done, and I am sure something _could_ be done, if we only knew what it was. Oh! isn’t drinking an awful thing!”

“It’s the worst thing in the world,” sobbed Jim. “When father is sober,” he went on, “he’s just as kind as he can be; but when he’s drunk--O dear! it’s dreadful to think of.”

“Does he get drunk often?” asked Freddy.

“Now he does. He’s drunk ’most all the time. But it wasn’t so always. O dear! He used to be so good to us,” he sobbed, “and take us out with him sometimes, and buy us nice things. He never does now. Most all of the money he gets, he spends at the tavern. But I must run home. Mother is almost sick, and father is so cross when he’s been drinking; and she’s weak and can’t bear it,” and Jim’s tears ran over his cheeks again.

“Aren’t you afraid he’ll beat you?” asked Freddy.

“May be he will, and may be he won’t,” answered Jim. “But I must not stop to think of that. Mother is sick and weak, and father will be cross to her,” and Jim hurried away.

All at once Freddy remembered how his defense and praise of Jim had cooled Mr. Harwood’s anger, and he said to himself: “May be I can do some good,--and keep Mr. Harwood from beating poor Jim, or--”

But Freddy didn’t stop to reason the case any longer, but hurried after his young friend, resolved to face the drunken man again in the hope of turning away his wrath.

The two lads entered Jim’s poor home together, and stood face to face with Mr. Harwood.

“O father!” exclaimed Jim, as he saw, with glad surprise, a look of almost tender pity on his father’s face; and as the child spoke, he sprang forward and caught his father’s hand, clinging to it tightly.

This was too much for Mr. Harwood, who was not yet sober enough to control his feelings, and he turned away with a choking sob, trying to draw his hand out of Jim’s; but the boy would not let go his hold. And now Freddy spoke out in behalf of his little friend.

“Jim’s a good boy, Mr. Harwood. I know all the boys around here, and there isn’t one of them better than Jim. Father says so too; and lets me have him over at our house whenever I please.”

“Who said he wasn’t a good boy,” answered Mr. Harwood, turning around upon Freddy with a half angry manner. “I’d just like to hear anybody speak against him, I would.”

And he sat down, drawing Jim between his knees as he spoke.

A pale, thin, half-frightened woman, Jim’s mother, wondering what all this could mean, came into the room. Her eager eyes ran hurriedly from face to face.

“Don’t be scared, Ellen,” said Mr. Harwood, “There isn’t anything wrong. I’m only having a talk with these boys.”