The daily crescent. [volume] ([New Orleans, La.]) 1848-1851, 1849-02-17
He will Forgive you, Father.

He stood leaning upon a broken gate in front OF
his miserable dwelling. His tattered hat was in his
hand, and the cool breeze lifted the matted locks
which covered his once noble brow. His counten-
ance was blOaed and disfgured, but in his eye there
was an unwonted look--a mingled expression of
| sadness and regret. Perhaps he was listening to
the low, melancholy voice of his patient wife, as
she soohed the sick babe on her bosom; or per-
chance, he was gazing upon the sweet face of his
eldest daughter, as at the open window, she Piled
her needle to obtain for her mother and the poor
children, scanty susenance: Poor Mary! for
herself she cared not: young she was, her spirit
was already crushed by poverty, unkindness and
| neglect. As the inebraie thus stood, his eyes
wandered over the miserable habitation before
him. The windows were broken, and the doors
hingeless scarce vestige of comfort remained ;
yet memory bore him bach to the days of his youth
when it was the abode of peace and happiness. In
fancy he again the old arm chair where sat his
father, with the Bible upon his knee; and ne seemed
to hear again the sweet notes of his mother, she
laid her hand upon the head of her darling boy, and
prayed that God would bless him and preserve him
from evil Long years had passed away, yet tears
came into the eyes of the drunkard at the recollec
ton of his mothers love-
Poor mother, he mutered, " it is we'll that
thou art sleeping in the grave if would break thy
heart TO know that thy son is wretched and
degraded being-a miserable outcast from society"
He turned slowly away. Deep within an ad join
ing forest, dell where the beams of the sun
scarce ever penetrated. Tall trees grew on either
side, whose branches, meeting above, formed
canopy of leaves, where the birds built their nests,
and poured forth happy songs. Thither the drunk
ard bent his steps. 1t had been his favorite haunt
in the days of his childhood and as he threw him
self upon the soft green sward the recoIlections of
past scenes came crOwding over his mind. He
covered his face with his hands, and the PRAYER of
the prodigal burst from his lips" o God, receive
returning wanderer!'' Suddenly soft arm was
thrown around his neck, and sweet voice muir
M la fat tartln
to his feet, the inebriate saw standing before him
his youngest daughter, child of six years.
why are you here, Anne - he said, ashamed
that the innocent child should have witnessed his
grief
81 came to gather the lilies which grow upon
the banks,' she replied see, l have got my bas-
ket full, and now am going to sell them"
And what do you do with the money!" asked
the father, as he turned his eyes to the basket,
where, among the broad green leaves, the sweet
lilies of the valley were peeping forth
The child hesilated, she thought she had said too
much perhaps her father would demand the money
and spend it in the way ia which all his earnings
went.
'.You are afraid to tell me, Anne" said her
father, kindly 'sWell, do not blame you; have
no right to my children's confidence
The gentleness of his tone touched the heart of
the affectionate child. She threw her arms around
his neck, exclaimng-" Yes, father, will tell you
Mother buys medicines for poor little Willie. We
nave uo otleT way Sct IL. luotlltE MARY WoTh
all the time they can get, to buy Bread
A pang shot through the inebriate's heart g l
have robbed them of the comforts of fe,'' he ex-
claimed; from this moment, the liquid fire passes
my lips no more
Anne stood gazing at him in establishment. She
could scarcely comprehend her fathers words;
but she saw that some change had taken place.
She threw back her golden ringlets, and raised her
large blue eyes, with earnest look TO his face,
Will you never drink any more rum " she whis-
pered tmidly.
NeUer! Anne," her father replied, solemnly
Joy danced in her eyes. 'Then we will all be
SO happy" she cried, g and mother won't weep
any more Oh, father, what happy home ours
will be-
Years passed away. The words of little Anne,
the drunkard's daughter, had proved true. The
home of the reformed man. her father, was indeed
a happy one. Plenty crowned his board, and
health and joy beamed from the faces of his wife
and children-where once squalid misery alone
could be traced. The pledge had raised him from
bis depreciation, and restored him once more to
paace and hanDinesS