Kenosha telegraph. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1850-1854, 1853-07-08
"HE WILL FORGIVE YoU, FarHER.o

He stood leaning upon broken gate il
front of his miserable dwelling. His latter
ed hat was IN hand and the cold breeze lifted
the matted locks that covered his noble brow
His countenance was bloated and disfpured
but in his eye there was an unwanton look
"A mingled expression of sadness and regret
Perhaps he was listening to the melancholy
voice of his patient wife as she soothed the
sick babe on her bosom; or perchance he
was gazing on 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 a subsistence. Poor Mary
for herself she cared not, young as she was,
her spirit was crushed by poverty, unkind-
ness and neglect. As the inebriate thus
stood, his eyes wandered over the miserable
habitation before hira The windows were
broken, and the doors were hingeless, scarce
a vestige of comfort remained, yet memory
bore him back to the days of his youth.
when it was the abode of peace and happi-
mes. In infancy he saw it again; the old
arm chair where sat his father with the Bible
| upon his knee, and seemed to hear again the
sweet tones of his mother, as she laid her
hands upon the head Of her darling boy, and
prayed that God would bless him and pre-
serve him from evil Long years had passed
away yet tears came into the ewes of the
drunkard at the recollection of his mothers
love.
"Poor mother" he muttered, ait is well
thou art sleeping in the grave; it would
break thy heart to know that thy son is a
wretched and degraded being-a miserable
outcast from society"
He turned slowly away. Deep within an
adjoining forest was 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 hap
Ply songs. Thither the drunkard Bonded 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 recoec-
ton of other days came crowding upon his
mind. He covered his face with his hands,
and the prayer of the prodigal burst from
his lips" Oh God receive returning wan
derer! Suddenly soft arm was thrown
around his neck, and sweet voice murmur-
ed" He will forgive you, father" Start
ing up to his feet, the inebriate saw standing
before him his youngest daughter, a child
of six years.
"Why are you here. Anne?" he said
ashamed that the innocent child should have
witnessed his grief
Il came to gather The lilies which grow
upon the banks, +" she replied; 'see, have
got my basket full and now | am going to
sell them"
"And what do You do with your money 2
enquired the father, as-iae turned his eyes to
the basket, where among the broad green
leaves, the sweet lilies of the valley were
peeping forth.
The child hesitated; she thought she had
said too much; perhaps her father would de-
mand the money and spend it in the way in
which all his earnings went
"You are afraid to tell me, Anne" said
her father kindly; swell, do not blame YOU
i have no right to my children's conf
dence"
The gentleness of tone touched the heart
of the alfectionate child She threw her
arms around his neck, and exclaimed-"Yes.
father, will tell you. Mother buys medi-
cine for poor little Willie We have no
other way to get it. Mother and Mary work
all the time they can get to buy bread"
A pang shot through the inebriate's heart
Il have robbed them of the comforts Of life"
he exclaimed; ''from this moment, the LIQUID
fire passes my lips no more"
Anne stood gazing at him in astonish-
ment. She could scarcely comprehend her
fathers words; but she saw that some
change had taken place She threw back
her golden ringlets, raised her large blue
eyes with an earnest look to his face-"Will
you never drink any more rum?'' she whis-
rered timidIy.
"Neeerl" dear Anne;" her father replied,
solemnlv.
Joy danced in her little eyes. "Then we
will all be so happy. 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 face of his wife and chill
dren-where once squalid misery alone
could be traced The pledge had raised him
from his degradation, and restored him once
more to peace and happiness.