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An' flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;17
But little wist she Maggie's mettle
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ane gray tail,
For Nannie claught her by the rump,
An' left poor Maggie scarce a stump.
Now, wha this tale o' truth is heerd,
Each man an' mither's son tak' heed :
Whane'er to drink you are inclin'd,
Or dancing dames run in your mind,
Think! ye may buy the joys o'er dear-
Remember Tam O'Shanter's meare.
1-young fellows.

10-shriek,
2-ale house.

11-tremble. 3-a reckless fellow.

12-spell. 4-an idle, talking fellow. 13-jolly. 5 dark.

14barley.
6-church.

15-fuss.
7-& hollow filled with water. 16-hive.
&a copper coin of small value. 17--striving.
9-a dance resembling a reel but

slower.

SPARE THE YOUTH,

LETITIA W. BROSIUS.

[Written when 87 years old.]
PARE, O spare! the noble youth of our country,
And may our Heavenly Father's care
Shield them from the tempter's snare,

On every hand.
For the rum power great and strong
Have their dens strewn all along

The paths they tread,
Professing Christians give their aid,

To legalize this sinful trade

All o'er the land.
No matter how many tears may flow,
Nor how many hearts crushed low,

And children cry for bread;
No matter what sacred ties are riven
Nor how many souls are driven

Down in despair.
Still the tide of crime rolls on,
Like a mighty river, swift and strong,

With rapid stride,
Crushing mankind in his prime
And blasting woman's hopes divine,

For paltry gold.
And claiming revenue for gain,
From that which brings naught but pain,

To human hearts.
Can a nation live and grow
While legalizing crime and woe

On every hand?
Ye men who claim Christ for your guide,
Come, cast your ballots on His side,

For truth and right.
Crush the rum power now so strong,
And send glad tidings forth in song

All o'er the land.
Let it sound o'er hill and plain,
That joy and happiness may reign :

God leads the way.

GIRLS, DON’T MARRY A DRUNKARD.

WHEN

HEN I married a drunkard, I reached the acme of

misery. I was young, and oh, so happy! I married the man I loved, and who professed to love me. He was a drunkard, and I knew it--knew it, but did not understand it. There is not a young girl that does understand it, unless she has had a drunkard in her family; then perhaps she knows how deeply the iron enters into the soul of a woman when she loves and is allied to a drunkard, whether father, husband, brother, or son. Girls, believe me when I tell you that to marry a drunkard is the crown of all misery.

My husband was a professional man. His calling took him from home frequently at night, when he returned drunk. Gradually he gave way to temptation in the day, until he was rarely sober.

My husband had been drinking deeply. I had not seen him for two days. He had kept away from his home. One night I was seated beside my sick boy; my two little girls were in bed in the next room, while beyond was another into which I heard my husband go, as he entered the house. That room communicated with the one in which my little girls were sleeping. I do not know why, but a feeling of terror took possession of me, and I felt that my little girls were in danger. I arose and went to the room. The door was locked. I knocked frantically, but no answer came.

I seemed endowed with superhuman strength, and throwing myself with all my force against the door, the lock gave way and the door flew open. Oh, the sight, the terrible sight! Delirium tremens ! God grant that you may never see it, girls. My husband stood beside the bed, his eyes glaring with insanity, in his hand a large knife.

Take them away! The horrid things, they are crawling all over nie. Take them away, I say !" and he flourished the knife in the air.

Regardless of danger, I rushed to the bed, and my heart seemed suddenly to cease beating. There lay my children covered with their life-blood, slain by their own father! For a moment, I could not utter a sound. I was literally dumb in the presence of this terrible sorrow. I scarcely heeded the maniac at my side—the man who had wrought me this woe. Then I uttered one loud scream. The servants heard me and hastened to the room, and when my husband saw them he suddenly drew the knife across his own throat. I knew nothing more. I was borne senseless from the room that contained my slaughtered children and the body of my husband. The next day my hair was white and my mind so shattered that I knew no one.

Two years, I was a mental wreck; then I recovered from the shock and absorbed myself in the care of my boy. But the sin of the father was visited upon the child, and, six months ago, my boy of eighteen filled a drunkard's grave, and I, his mother, saw the sod heaped over him, and said: “Thank God! I'd rather see him there than have him live a drunkard."

Girls, it is you I wish to rescue from the fate that overtook me.

Do not blast your life as I blasted mine; do not be drawn into the madness of marrying a drunkard. You love him? So much the worse for you; for, married to him, the greater will be your misery because of your love. You will marry and then reform him, so you say. Ah! a woman madly overrates her strength when she undertakes to do this. You are no match for the giant demon Drink, when he possesses a man's body and soul. You are no match for him, I say. What is your puny strength beside his gigantic force? He will crush you, too. My message to every girl in America is never marry a man who drinks.

A DRUNKARD'S REPENTANCE.

WILLIAM W. PRATT.
Arranged from Ten Nights in a Barroom.

Joe Morgan.
CHARACTERS: Mrs. Morgan.

Mary Morgan. SCENE I.: An old kitchen. Couch and bedclothes, C.; table L.; stool, chair, R.; cup, R. E. ready; cup and saucer on table, L.; MORGAN, L., putting on his coat; MARY on couch, with head bound up; MRS. MORGAN trying to restrain her husband from going out.

MRS. MORGAN.

Don't go out to-night, Joe. Please

don't go.

Mary. Father! father! Don't leave little Mary and poor mother alone to-night, will you? You know I can't come after you now.

MORGAN. Well, well, I won't go out.
Mary. Come and sit near me, dear father.
Mor. [goes to couch]. Yes, dear Mary.
Mary. I am so glad you won't go out to-night.
MRS. M. How

How very hot your hand is. Does your head ache ?

MARY. A little, but it will soon be better. Dear father-
Mor. Well, love ?
Mary. I wish you would promise me something.
Mor. What is it?
MARY. That

you
will never

go

into Simon Slade's barroom any more ? You know he meant to hurt you last night. The blow fell on me instead; but he meant it for you. Promise me that you won't go there again.

Mor. I won't go to-night, dear, so let your heart be at rest.

Mary. Oh, thank you! I'll be well enough to get out in two or three days. You know the doctor said I must keep very still. MRS. M. Yes, my

Yes, my dear. That is to avoid your having a fever. Joe, you feel better for the promise you have given our darling child, I know you do.

Mor. Yes, Fanny. But my constitution is broken, as well as my heart. I feel now each moment, as I stand near that suffering child, as though my reason was leaving me. It is now five hours since I have tasted liquor, and I have been the slave of unnatural stimulants so long that all vitality is lost without them.

Mrs. M. [tukes cup from table]. Here, here, drink this. It is coffee. I can not, dare not, give you rum, even though you should die for the want of it! [Gives him cup; his hand trembles as he drinks.]

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