"Sir," said the lady, "I know it isn't a proper place for a lady to be in, and you ask me why I am driven to such a step. I will tell you, in one short word," pointing to a bottle behind the counter labelled "whisky,"—"that is what brought me here—whisky. I was once happy, and surrounded with all the luxuries wealth could produce, with a fond, indulgent husband. But in an evil hour he was tempted, and not possessing the will to resist the temptation, fell, and in one short year my dream of happiness was over, my home was forever desolate, and the kind husband, and the wealth that some called mine, lost—lost, never to return; and all by the accursed wine cup. You see before you only the wreck of my former self, homeless and friendless, with nothing left me in this world but this little child;" and weeping bitterly, she affectionately caressed the golden curls that shaded a face of exquisite loveliness. Regaining her composure, and turning to the proprietor of the saloon, she continued:—
"Sir, the reason why I occasionally enter a place like this is to implore those who deal in this deadly poison to desist, to stop a business that spreads desolation, ruin, poverty, and starvation. Think one moment of your own loved ones, and then imagine them in the situation I am in. I appeal to your better nature, I appeal to your heart, for I know you possess a kind one, to retire from a business so ruinous to your patrons.
"Do you know the money you take across the bar is the same as taking the bread out of the mouths of the famishing? That it strips the clothing from their backs, deprives them of all the comforts of this life, and throws unhappiness, misery, crime, and desolation into their once happy homes? O! sir, I implore, beseech, and pray you to retire from a business you blush to own you are engaged in before your fellow men, and enter one that will not only be profitable to yourself, but to your fellow-creatures also. You will excuse me if I have spoken too plainly, but I could not help it when I thought of the misery, the unhappiness, and the suffering it has caused me."
"Madam, I am not offended," he answered, in a voice husky with emotion, "but I thank you from the bottom of my heart for what you have said."
"Mamma," said the little girl—who, meantime, had been spoken to by some of the gentlemen present—taking hold of her mother's hand, "these gentlemen want me to sing 'Little Bessie' for them. Shall I do so?"
They all joined in the request, and placing her in the chair, she sung, in a sweet, childish voice, the following beautiful song:—
| "Out in the gloomy night, sadly I roam; I have no mother dear, no pleasant home; No one cares for me, no one would cry Even if poor little Bessie should die. Weary and tired I've been wandering all day, Asking for work, but I'm too small, they say; On the damp ground I must now lay my head; Father's a drunkard, and mother is dead. "We were so happy till father drank rum, Then all our sorrow and trouble begun; Mother grew pale, and wept every day; Baby and I were too hungry to play. |
Slowly they faded, till one summer night Found their dead faces all silent and white; Then with big tears slowly dropping, I said, 'Father's a drunkard, and mother is dead.' "Oh! if the temperance men could only find Poor, wretched father, and talk very kind; If they would stop him from drinking, then I should be very happy again. Is it too late, temperance men? Please try, Or poor little Bessie must soon starve and die. All the day long I've been begging for bread; Father's a drunkard, and mother is dead." |