A Drunkard’s Home.
It was a clear morning in April. The ground, bushes, and fences sparkled with their frosty covering. The bare hills and leafless trees looked as if they could not long remain bare and leafless beneath a sky so bright. A robin here and there ventured a short and sweet note, and earth and sky seemed to rejoice in the scene. The path that led to the village school was trod by happy children, whose glowing cheeks and merry voices testified that they partook of the general gladness.
In the same path, at a distance from a group of neatly-dressed and smiling children, was a little girl, whose pale, soiled face, tattered dress, and bare feet, bespoke her the child of poverty and vice. She looked upon the laughing band before her with a wistful countenance, and hiding behind her shawl the small tin pail she carried, lingered by the fence till the children were out of sight, and then, turning into another road, proceeded to perform her usual errand to a grocery called the Yellow Shop. The bright, calm morning had no charm for her. Her little heart felt none of the lightness and gayety the hearts of children feel when nature is beautiful around them. She could not laugh as they laughed; and as the sound of their merry voices seemed still to linger on her ear, she wondered that she could not be as happy as they.
And then she thought of the dreariness and poverty of her home, of the cruelty of her father, of the neglect and unkindness of her mother, of the misery of the long, cold winter through which she had just passed, of the hunger which her little brothers and herself often felt; she thought of the neat appearance of the children she had just seen, and then looked upon her own dress, torn and dirty as it was, till the tears filled her eyes, and her heart became sadder than ever.
Mary, for that was the name of the girl, possessed a degree of intelligence above what her years seemed to warrant; she knew what made those happy children so different from herself. She well knew that they would spend that day in school, learning something useful, while she would spend it in idleness at home, or in trying to quiet the hungry baby, and please the other children, while her mother was picking cranberries in the meadow. Mary knew she was that very morning to carry home something that would make her mother cross and wholly unmindful of her destitute children.
When she had reached the spirit shop, its keeper was not there, but his son, a bright, intelligent boy of thirteen, stood behind the counter, playing with his little sister. Mary asked for the rum with a faltering voice, and as she offered the jug, our young tradesman, looking upon her with mingled contempt and pity, said, “What does your mother drink rum for?” Mary felt ashamed, and looked so sad that the boy was sorry for what he had said. He gave her the liquor, and tied up the scanty allowance of meal; and Mary, with a heavy heart and hasty step, proceeded upon her way.
When she reached her dwelling—and who needs a description of a drunkard’s dwelling?—her mother met her at the door, and hastily snatching the jug from her hand, drank off its burning contents. She then took the meal to prepare breakfast, and Mary was sent to gather some sticks to kindle the flame. The dough was then placed before the smoky, scanty fire, and the impatient children hovered round to watch its progress. Long, however, before it was sufficiently baked, they snatched it piece by piece away, till nothing but the empty tin remained.
The little boys, with their hunger scarcely satisfied, then left the house, to loiter, as usual, in the streets, while Mary, as she saw her mother become every moment more incapable of attending to the wants of her infant, took the poor little creature in her arms, and in trying to soothe its sufferings half forgot her own. She had just succeeded in lulling the baby, when her father entered. He had been in the meadow, picking the cranberries which had been preserved during the winter under the snow, and which could now be sold for a few cents a quart. Though once a strong and active man, so degraded had he become, that few persons were willing to employ him, and he resorted to picking cranberries as the only means left him of obtaining what his appetite so imperiously demanded.
On entering the room, and seeing the state his wife was in, he uttered a loud curse, and at the same time bade Mary leave the crying child and put on her bonnet, and hasten to the village to sell the cranberries, and call at the Yellow Shop on her return.
Mary put on her bonnet, and with a trembling heart commenced her walk. On her way, she met her brothers, and stopped to tell them that, as their father was then at home, they had better keep away from the house till her return. She then called from door to door; but at every place her timid inquiry, “Do you want any cranberries here?” met the same chilling answer, “No.”
At length, wearied out, and fearful that she could not dispose of them at all, she sat down by the road-side and wept bitterly. But the sun had long past his meridian, and was gradually lowering in the western sky. She must go home, and what would her father say if she returned with the cranberries unsold? This she could not do; and she determined to try to exchange them at the shop for the spirit her father wanted.
After waiting some time at the counter, till the wants of several wretched beings were supplied, she told her errand, and after much hesitation on the part of the shop-keeper, and much entreaty on her own, the cranberries were exchanged for rum. Mary then rapidly retraced her steps homeward, and with a beating heart entered the cottage.
Her father was not there, but her mother was, and upon inquiring where Mary had been, insisted on having the spirit. Mary refused as long as she dared, for she knew how terrible the anger of her father would be, if he found the quantity of rum diminished. But the mother, regardless of everything but the gratification of her appetite, seized the jug and drank a large part of its contents.
It was scarcely swallowed before her husband entered; and, enraged at seeing the spirit so much lessened, he reproached Mary first, and then his wife, in the most bitter terms. The provoking replies of the latter excited his rage almost beyond control; and Mary, fearing for the safety of herself and her brothers, crept with them into an empty closet, where, with their arms round each other, they remained, almost breathless with alarm, trembling at their father’s loud threats and their mother’s fearful screams.
At length the discord was hushed, and all was silent except the low groans of the suffering wife, and the cries of the helpless babe. The children then crept from their hiding-place to seek for some food, before they laid themselves down upon their wretched bed to forget their fears for a while in sleep. But in vain did they look for a crust of bread or a cold potato. Mary could find nothing but the remainder of the meal she had procured in the morning, but it was too late to attempt baking another cake. The fire was all out upon the hearth, and it was too dark to go in search of wood. So the hungry children, with their wants unsupplied, were obliged to lay themselves down to sleep.
In the village in which Mary’s parents lived, the wretched condition of the family had often attracted attention; but the case of the parents seemed so hopeless, that little exertion was made to persuade them to abandon their ruinous habits, till Mr. Hall, an energetic agent of the temperance cause, visited the place. The husband and wife were then induced to attend the temperance meeting and listen to his address. Whispers and significant looks passed between the acquaintances when Thomas and his wife entered the church, and scarcely one among the number thought they could be at all benefited by what they might hear. But they did not see Thomas’ heart, or know what a wretched being he felt himself to be. Through necessity, neither he nor his wife had now tasted spirit for several days, as their means of obtaining it had failed. The cranberries were all gathered from the meadow, and persons of their character could not obtain employment. Thus situated, Thomas knew he must take a different course, or himself and family would be sent to the work-house. It was on account of these circumstances that he this evening consented with his wife to attend the meeting.
When the speaker commenced, Thomas, feeling himself uneasy, wished himself away. But by degrees he became more and more interested, until his eye fixed upon the speaker, and the tear, rolling down his bloated face, proved the depth of his feeling. He heard his own case so well described, the remedy so plainly pointed out, so affectionately urged, that new light seemed to break upon his mind, and he inwardly exclaimed, “I can do it—I will do it, if I die in the attempt;” and at the close of the service, going boldly up to a group of temperance men, he requested that his name and the name of his wife might be added to the temperance list. A murmur of approbation followed his request, and hand after hand was presented for a shake of congratulation. Nancy pulled her husband’s coat as she heard her name mentioned, and said, faintly, “Not mine, not mine, Thomas.” But the words were unheard or disregarded, and he bent steadily over the shoulder of the secretary, till he actually saw the names of Thomas and Nancy Millman among the names of those who pledged themselves to abstain from all use of ardent spirits.
As he turned to leave the church, William Stevens, a sober, industrious man, a friend of Thomas in his better days, but who had long abandoned the society of a drunkard, took him by the hand, and after expressing his satisfaction at the course he had pursued, invited him to call at his house on his way home. After some hesitation, Thomas and Nancy consented; the latter being exceedingly pleased at being invited again to call on Hannah Stevens.
As William opened the door, Hannah rose from her seat by the cradle, and glanced first at her husband, and then at his companions, with a look of astonishment and inquiry, which yielded, however, to one of kind welcome and glad surprise, when her husband said, “I have brought you some friends, Hannah.” “Yes,” said Thomas, “and may we henceforth merit the title.” Nancy hung down her head, as if ashamed of the thoughts that were passing through her mind. Hannah, noticing her appearance, feared she did not sympathize much in her husband’s feelings. “I must encourage the poor woman,” thought she, “or her husband will be undone. If Nancy does not encourage him by her example, all will be lost.”
The company then seated themselves round the cheerful fire, and while Thomas and William were engaged in conversation, Hannah threw aside the quilt to let Nancy see the baby. It was just the age of her own, but oh! how different. The rosy, healthy little creature before her, in its clean nightgown, sleeping so soundly, recalled to her mind her own pale, sickly, neglected child at home, in its ragged, dirty dress, so seldom changed, and tears started into her eyes at the recollection. Hannah saw the effect produced upon her feelings, and wishing to increase it still more, asked her to walk into her bed-room to see her other children. Hannah was a kind, careful mother, and knowing the strength of a mother’s love, she wished to make use of this strong principle to recall the wretched wanderer before her to a sense of duty.
Nor was she disappointed at the success of her experiment. Nancy was evidently affected at a view of the neat, comfortable appearance of her neighbor’s house, and Hannah seized this opportunity to point out to her her dreadful neglect of duty. It was a kind, but a faithful reproof, calculated to awaken in her bosom every feeling of a mother that yet remained. Nancy did not leave the room until she had promised, by her own example, to encourage her husband to return to the uniform practice of sobriety. Thomas and his wife then took leave of their kind neighbors.
We will leave this happy fireside, and accompany Thomas and Nancy to their desolate home. As they approached the house, the faint cries of the neglected baby first struck the parents’ ears. Poor Mary was endeavoring, as usual, to quiet the little sufferer. There was no fire upon the hearth, and no light upon the table, but the moonbeams through the changing clouds were sufficient to reveal the gloom and wretchedness of the drunkards’ home. Thomas and Nancy could not but perceive the contrast between the home they had just left and their own. It was a contrast most sad and humiliating.
Early the next morning, the first person the family saw coming down the lane was little William Stevens. He had in his hand a basket of potatoes, which his father had sent to Thomas Millman, with a request that he would call at his work-shop after he had eaten his breakfast. This unexpected present gave much joy to this destitute family, and Mary, with her little brothers, will not soon forget how acceptable were their roast potatoes that morning, though eaten without butter or salt.
Thomas called, as he was requested, at William Stevens’ work-shop, and found there a job which would employ him for a day or two. It was joyfully and speedily undertaken, and after an industrious day’s work, he received, at the close, a part of his wages to lay out in food for his family. Thomas had little to struggle with this day, and on the whole, it passed by easily and pleasantly. Not so with poor Nancy. Having less to employ her mind than her husband, she was sorely tempted, more than once, to send Mary to the Yellow Shop to exchange what remained of her kind neighbor’s gift for rum. But the thought of Hannah’s kindness, and her own promise, so solemnly made, restrained her.
At last, the day wore by, and it was time for Thomas to return. As soon as the children saw him enter the lane, they ran, as was their custom, to their hiding-place; for, knowing nothing of what had recently transpired, they expected to find him intoxicated, as usual.
“Can that be father?” whispered they to each other as they heard a steady step and a calm voice. The youngest boy peeped out his head to see.
“Come here, my poor boy,” said Thomas, kindly; “you needn’t be afraid; I am not drunk.” “Oh, he isn’t drunk! he isn’t drunk!” said Jemmy, clapping his hands in great joy; “come out, children, father won’t hurt us.” Half faithless, half believing, the children left their hiding-place and came around their father.
“Mother hasn’t sent you for any rum to-day, has she, Mary?” “No, father; I hope I shall never go to that shop again.” “You never shall, to buy rum, Mary, I promise you. Do you believe me?” Mary looked as if she did not quite believe, but she said nothing.
A year has passed by since the period when our history commenced. It is a fine morning in April, as it then was. The children of the village are pursuing their way to school as pleasantly as they then were. But where is the little girl, with soiled face, tattered dress, and bare feet, that then attracted our attention? Look for one of the happiest girls among that gay, laughing group, and you will find her. Her dirty, tattered garments are exchanged for neat and comely ones; her bare feet are covered with tidy shoes and stockings, and in her hand she carries, not a tin pail, but a basket containing her school-books and work. The scenes through which this day will carry her will be very different from those through which she passed a year ago.
A great and blessed change has indeed come over this once wretched family. They have left the miserable habitation which was once theirs, and are now living upon a small but excellent farm, whose owner is not afraid to rent it to so sober and industrious people as Thomas and Nancy have become. Within the year, Thomas has been able to purchase comfortable clothing for his family, decent furniture for his house, and has besides partly paid for two yokes of oxen and four cows.
Look at Thomas at work in his field, and managing his little farm, thriving at home and respected abroad, and say what would tempt him to come again under the influence of his former ruinous habits? Look at Nancy, too, superintending her dairy and supplying the wants of her family—does she wish for a return of those days when she was the intemperate mother of hungry, neglected children? But are there not hundreds of mothers who are at this time what she once was? and can they not, will they not, be induced to become what she now is?
