Chapter 60
"I don't know that I have any friends," said the man. There was a slight tremor in his voice, that thrilled, answeringly, a chord in the heart of his questioner.
"No friends!"
"There still live those who were once my friends."
"And why not your friends now?"
The man shook his head, sadly.
"I have proved myself unworthy, and, doubtless, they have long since cast me forth from their regard."
"Then you have no mother," said Mrs. Martin, quickly. "A mother's love cannot die."
"I have a mother, and I have sisters," replied the man, after a pause. "Feel kindly towards me for their sakes. I have wandered long; but I am repentant; and, now returning to my old home, I seek--"
The voice that had been low and unsteady at the beginning, sunk sobbing into silence, and the stranger's head drooped upon his bosom. At that moment, Mr. Martin entered, and seeing the man, he exclaimed--
"Who in the world is this?"
"William?" fell half joyfully, half in doubting inquiry, from the mother's lips.
"My mother!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the stranger, starting forward, and falling into her open arms.
"William--William!" said Mr. Martin. "Oh! no! It cannot be!"
"It is! Yes! It is my poor, poor boy!" replied the mother, disengaging herself from his clasping arms, and pus.h.i.+ng him off so that she could get a full view of his face. "Oh! William! My son! my son!" And again she hugged him wildly to her bosom.
How freely the tears of joy mingled on that happy Thanksgiving day, need not be told. There was no longer a vacant place at the board; and thought turned not away, doubtingly, in a vain search for the absent and the wandering. The long lost had been found; the straying member had come home. Theirs was, indeed, a Thanksgiving festival.
Such joy as is felt in heaven over a sinner that repenteth, made glad the mother's heart that day. And it has been glad ever since, for, though Thanksgiving days have come again and again, there has been no absent member since William's return.
JIM BRADDOCK'S PLEDGE.
"YOU'LL sign it, I'm sure," said a persevering Was.h.i.+ngtonian, who had found his way into a little village grogshop, and had there presented the pledge to some three or four of its half-intoxicated inmates. The last man whom he addressed, after having urged the others to no effect, was apparently about thirty years of age, and had a sparkling eye, and a good-humoured countenance, that attracted rather than repelled. The marks of the destroyer were, however, upon him, showing themselves with melancholy distinctness.
"You'll sign, I'm sure, Jim."
"O, of course," replied the individual addressed, winking, as he did so to the company, as much as to say--"Don't you want to see fun?"
"Yes, but you will, I know?"
"Of course I will. Where's the doc.u.ment?"
"Here it is,"--displaying a sheet of paper with sundry appropriate
"We whose names--," &c.
"That's very pretty, aint it, Ike?" said Jim, or James Braddock, with a mock seriousness of tone and manner.
"O, yes--very beautiful."
"Just see here," ran on Jim, pointing to the vignette over the pledge.--"This spruce chap, swelled out with cold-water until just ready to burst, and still pouring in more, is our friend Malcom here, I suppose."
A loud laugh followed this little hit, which seemed to the company exceedingly humorous. But Malcom took it all in good part, and retorted by asking Braddock who the wretched looking creature was with a bottle in his hand, and three ragged children, and a pale, haggard, distressed woman, following after him.
"Another cold-water man, I suppose, "Jim Braddock replied; but neither his laugh nor the laugh of his cronies was so hearty as before.
"O, no. That's a little mistake into which you have fallen, "Malcom said, smiling. "He is one of your firewater men. Don't you see how he has been scorched with it, inside and out. Now, did you ever see such a miserable looking creature? And his poor children--and his wife! But I will say nothing about them. The picture speaks for itself."
"Here's a barrel, mount him up, and let us have a temperance speech!" cried the keeper of the grog-shop, coming from behind his counter, and mingling with the group.
"O, yes.--Give us a temperance speech!" rejoined Jim Braddock, not at all sorry to get a good excuse for giving up his examination of the pledge, which had revived in his mind some a.s.sociations of not the pleasantest character in the world.
"No objection at all," replied the ready Was.h.i.+ngtonian, mounting the rostrum which the tavern-keeper had indicated, to the no small amus.e.m.e.nt of the company, and the great relief of Jim Braddock, who began to feel that the laugh was getting on the wrong side of his mouth, as he afterwards expressed it.
"Now for some rare fun!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed one of the group that gathered around the whiskey-barrel upon which Malcom stood.
"This is grand sport!" broke in another.
"Take your text, Mr. Preacher!" cried a third.
"O yes, give us a text and a regular-built sermon!" added a fourth, rubbing his hands with great glee.
"Very well," Malcom replied, with good humour. "Now for the text."
"Yes, give us the text," ran around the circle.
"My text will be found in Harry Arnold's grog-shop, Main street, three doors from the corner. It is in these words:--'Whiskey-barrel.' Upon this text I will now, with your permission, make a few remarks."
Then holding up his pledge and laying his finger upon the wretched being there represented as the follower after strong drink, he went on--
"You all see this poor creature here, and his wife and children--well, as my text and his fall from happiness and respectability are inseparably united, I will, instead of giving you a dry discourse on an empty whiskey-barrel, narrate this man's history, which involves the whiskey-barrel, and describes how it became empty, and finally how it came here. I will call him James Bradly--but take notice, that I call him a little out of his true name, so as not to seem personal.
"Well, this James Bradly was a house-carpenter--I say _was_--for although still living, he is no longer an industrious house-carpenter, but a very industrious grog-drinker,--he has changed his occupation. About five years ago, I went to his house on some business. It was about dinner-time, and the table was set, and the dinner on it.
"'Come, take some dinner with me,' Mr. Bradly said, in such a kind earnest way, that I could not resist, especially as his wife looked so happy and smiling, and the dinner so neatly served, plentiful and inviting. So I sat down with Mr. and Mrs. Bradly, and two fat, chubby-faced children; and I do not think I ever enjoyed so pleasant a meal in my life.
"After dinner was over, Mr. Bradly took me all through his house, which was new. He had just built it, and furnished it with every convenience that a man in mode. rate circ.u.mstances could desire. I was pleased with everything I saw, and praised everything with a hearty good will. At last he took me down into the cellar, and showed me a barrel of flour that he had just bought--twenty bushels of potatoes and turnips laid in for the winter, five large fat hogs, and I can't remember what all. Beside these, there was a barrel of something lying upon the cellar floor.
"'What is this?' I asked.