A TENNESSEE BAND OF HOPE.
BY MISS L. A. PARMELEE.
We were all glad to hear about Ted and his Temperance society. A great many hundred years ago a father in Africa took his little son, who was just as old as Ted, to the church altar and made him promise to always hate the nation that had oppressed them. The feeling of hate grew as the boy grew, and when he became a man he made the oppressor and his proud armies tremble before him. Now if the boys and girls, who are so fond of hearing about Hannibal’s victories, will promise to hate Rum as he hated Rome, the monster that has destroyed so many homes will be conquered.
The children are beginning to think of these things. If Ted and his band should follow the sun, and gather all the temperance boys and girls they could find on their way, when they reached the Mississippi their army would be nearly as large as that other army of young crusaders who started out to rescue the Holy Land from desecration. Ask papa or mamma where you will find that story to read for yourselves. I have only time to tell you of a little company that would join this army when it stopped by the great river to rest and get ready to cross into Arkansas, where a host of eager recruits are learning to be loyal to home and honor and temperance.
This Memphis company, only one of several in the city, are little people, six, seven, eight and nine years old. Most of them had learned to like the taste of whisky from eating the sugar left in glasses after older people had taken a morning toddy, or from sipping egg-nog Christmas week. Their teacher illustrated the evil effects of alcohol by pouring a little into a saucer and dropping a lighted match into it. As the blue flame blazed up, the children thought it was not safe to take so dangerous an element into their mouths. Another day they saw some alcohol poured upon the white of an egg, and the teacher explained that the brain is composed of the same material as the albumen of the egg. As the bright eyes eagerly watched the yellowish white turn to milky white, just as they had seen eggs fried in hot water and grease, they all cried out: “I will never let any alcohol cook my brain like that.”
Once a lady showed them some large pictures of the stomach under different conditions. She said the stomach is the kitchen of the house we live in, and one of its most important rooms. The walls are lined with soft, delicate pink, as pretty as the paper some people put on their parlor walls. Alcohol is a fiery-tempered little fellow, and when he comes into the kitchen he scratches the beautiful walls, just as naughty boys will sometimes scratch pins over the paper and plaster in their mother’s nice room. If he stays long enough he will punch holes, make the clean walls black, and ruin the room, so that the food can not be properly prepared. The pictures explained the work of demolition, which the children readily understood, as they knew of many people whose brains and stomachs had been destroyed in that way.
These little people have pledged themselves never to touch or taste the poison. More than that, they speak their convictions to their friends and neighbors at home. “That glass of toddy will burn and scratch your stomach.” “That whisky will cook your brain and give you a headache; you may feel brighter for an hour or two, but then you will be dull and stupid.”
Do you ask if all the boys and girls who signed the pledge have been faithful to their promise? The most of them have. Two big boys coaxed little Albert to go out of town and celebrate Easter by drinking a bottle of beer, but he was so sorry and so ashamed of it that the Band of Hope forgave him. Two or three others have been enticed to drink, but the majority hold firmly to their promise. And you young people, whose fathers and mothers never tempt you to do wrong, can little understand how much these other little ones have to endure in abiding by their convictions of right.
Let us help them by making the Temperance Army the strongest and largest army in the world.