The Tiffin tribune. (Tiffin, Ohio) 1868-1887, 1871-02-09

.OUt in the gloomy night sadly roam-
have no mother dear, no pleasant home;
NOBODY cares for me, no one would cry,
Even il poor little Bessie should die.
Weary and tired, I've been wandering all
+ Asking for work, but I'm TOO small they
ON 5he damp ground must now lay my
head.
Fathers a drunkard. and mother Is dead.
We were 20 happy till father drank rum,
Then all our sorrow and trouble begun,
Mother grew pale, and wept every day
Baby and ! were TOO hungry TO play.
slowly they faded till one summer night
Found theird faces all silent and white;
Then with big tears SlOw- Y dropping said:
Fathers q drunkard and mother is dead.
on. ffthe temperance men only would ind
Poor wretched father and talk very kind;
Ifthey would stop him from drinking why
I should be so 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
Fathers a drunkard, and mother is dead.
The scene I shall never forget to my
dying day, and the sweet cadence of
her musical voice still rings in my
ears, and every word of the song, as
il dropped from her lips, sunk deep
into the hearts Of those gathered
around her. With her golden curls
falling carelessly around her little
shoulders, her face of almost ETHEREAL
beauty, and looking so trustingly and
confidently upon the men around, her
beautiful blue eyes lighted up with a
picture worthy of the pen of a poet or
painter; although a statue of purity
and innocence. The unfinished
games of billiards were laid by, the
cards thrown aside, the unemptied
glasses remained upon the counter,
and all pressed near, some with Gu
riOsity, some with sadness, and some
with pity beaming from their eyes,
entraneed with the musical voice and
beauty of child, who seemed better
fit to be with the angels above than in
such place.
At the close of the song many were
weeping-men who had not shed
tear for years, wept like child.
One young man who had resisted with
scOrn the pleadings of a loving moth
er and dear friends to lead q better
life, to desist from a course that was
wasting his fortune, and running his
health, now approached the child, and
taking her hands while tears stream
ed down his pale cheek, exclaimed
with deep emotion:
"God bless you, my little angel, you
have saved me from ruin and disgrace
from prOverty and a drunkard's
grave. If there were ever dear angels
on earth you are one; God bless you,
God bless yOu," and placing a bill III
the hand Of the mother, said, "please
accept this trifie as a token of my
regards and esteem, for your little girl
has done me d kindness no wealth
can ever repay. And remember when
ever you are in want you will find a
true friend, at the same time giving
her his name and address. Taking
her child by the hand she turned to
go, but pausing at the door, said =
"GOd bless you, gentlemen and
please accept the heartfelt thanks of a
poor and friendless woman for the
kindness you have shown her." and
before any one could reply, she was
gone.
A silence of several minutes ensued
which was at last broken by the pro-
prietOr eXclaiming:
Gentlemen, that lady is right, and
1 have sold my last glass of whisky,
and if any of you want any more you
will have TO go elsewhere
"And have drank my last glass of
whisky" said a young man who had
long been given up as utterly beyond
the reach of those who had deep in
terest in his welfare-that he had sunk
too low to ever reform. "There is a
temperance organization in this city
called the Temple of Honor, and at
the next meeting l shall send up my
name to be admitted. Who will go
with me ~
'TY' 'Iw 'Tu' and 'Ir' several
exclaimed in a chorus, and fifteen
names were added to his.
True to his word, the owner of the
saloon where this strange scene was
enacted, disposed of his entire stock
the next day, and is now engaged in
an honorable business. Would to
Heaven that lady could have gone in
to every hamlet, and town, and city
our country, and meet
with the same cheering result.
Yes, it is the mothers and wives,
and sisters of the drunkard that can
tell what whisky mas done ana
is doing. You need not follow him
to the sumptuous and brilliant palace
erected by King Alcohol and his con-
federates to lure him from the paths of
virtue and usefulness, to that of ruin
and disgrace. You need not follow
him when his money is gone and he
is thrust from the most fashionable
resorts to those less respectable. You
need not follow him to the lowest dens
of crime and iniquity, as he daily
reels home or lies in the gutter in a
lower than the brutes of the
field. No but follow him to replace
he calls home, and the hollow cheeks,
the dimmed eyes, the tear that rolls
down the patient, care-wOrn face of
the fOrsaken wife, and the cries of the
children, tell their own story
in language inexpressible in words.