My little hands are spread,
Do thou thy sacred blessing pour,
Dear Jesus, on my head.
THERE IS A TEETOTALER.
This piece should be spoken by a spirited boy, and as he goes upon the stage, some one should cry out, “There’s a teetotaler!”
Yes, sir, here is a teetotaler, from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. I’ve got on teetotal boots, too, that never will walk in the way of a drunkard. The other day a man asked me about our White Ribbon Army. He wanted to know what use there is in making so many promises. I told him the use was in keeping the promises more than in making them.
The boys which belong to our Army have something to do besides loafing at the corners of the streets, and smoking the stumps of cigars they pick out of the gutters. It makes me sick to think of it!
Some boys are dreadfully afraid of losing their liberty, so they won’t sign our pledge. I saw four or five of them the other day. They had been off, somewhere, having what they call a jolly time; and they were so drunk they couldn’t walk straight. They lifted their feet higher than a sober boy would to go upstairs, and I watched them till one fell down and bumped his nose.
Thinks I to myself, there’s liberty for you, but it’s just such liberty as I don’t want. I would rather walk straight than crooked, I would rather stand up than fall down, and I would rather go to a party with my sisters, and some other pretty girls, than hide away with a lot of rough fellows, to guzzle beer and whisky.
There are plenty of other reasons why I am a teetotaler. When I grow up, I would rather be a man than a walking wine-cask or rum-barrel; I would rather live in a good house than a poor one, and I would rather be loved and respected than despised and hated.