The Vermont watchman. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1883-1911, 1883-07-11
Two Mothers.
PART IA DEsOLATE HOME.

poor people IN u the cnurcn W WHICH
we belonged resolved to appoint mis-
sionary to work it thoroughly, aud they
were so kind as to offer the first appoint
ment to me.
In one of the back courts of the dis
trict stood dilapidated block of houses,
which, somehow or other, neither my fell
low-workers nor l had ever visited. |
resolved to make my first visit as mis-
sionary there. 1t was the month of No
vember, and one Of its gloomiest days. |
assembled the stairs to the topmost fiat,
and knocked at the door of what is there
termed " single house." or house of one
apartment. A faint voice from within
babe me "open and come in"
The door opened into wretched cham
Der without furniture of any sort beyond
a few chairs. On one of those chairs sat
an old woman whose hair was passing
from black to gray, and whose skin was
brown and wrinkled. She was leaning
forward on long staff which she grasped
by the middle, and looking fixedly in the
direction of the door at which | was en-
tering. There was something about the
stare of her eyes which / did not like
At first 1 thought their expression rude
and insolent. But | soon perceived that
it was the expression of disease, and that
she was stone-blind.
"Who are you ?" she asked sharply,
when had shut the door.
I told my name and the object of my
visit. She turned slowly round and bent
forward. as if to look for a particular OBJ
iect. Then she pointed to a corner of the
apartment and said There is a seat in
Id NJ o.
and talk to me- for / am blind" When
1 had taken the seat, she instantly
began to speak herself. She lifted her
sightless eyeballs and fixed them on me
until I thought she was seeing into my
very soul. There was melancholy bit
terness in the tones of her voice which
cannot describe. But the words she ut
tered, as nearly as l can remember, were
AS follows:
Ye're a missionary, are ye? An
xe-eme to preach ? Well, sir, if ye
will TAX an advice from me, will tell you
what to preach
"Preach doun drink, sir. Drink killed
my Billie, killed his chum, is killing
undreds-hundreds- very moment.
An it goes on killing long after it has
been drunk, and when they that drank it
are in their graves.
"Why, sir, it's truth Pm telling you.
My poor, lost, dead Billies drink, that he
drank years ago, is doing its evil work
still. It's killing Bessie, an her BARN,
an me. Preach DOM the drink, an the
drinking o. drink. Preach it doun, man,
an auld mthers like me will lift up their
hands and bless you.
eve had happy house afore the drink
took Billie. There was Billie an me, and
Bessie an her man, an their BARN. But
Billie got among drinkin' lot at the
foundry, and there was nae mair peace
for US. Often he cam home in state
he should ma ha' been in. And speakin'
does ma ay do then, We see. And our
house went a wrang, a. wrang. The joy
went out and desolation cam in in its
place."
PART II.-"MY BILLIE"
eyes, sir" the old woman continued.
Yes, sir, it is even sac. Pm blin'. I've
been bin seven years come Martinmas.
My SIGHT grew dim and DINNER for
weeks, till at last couldna see my lad
die" She paused at these words and
seemed to have forgotten my presence,
but resumed in little, as if in answering
question which she supposed me to have
put.
GAY, sir, my laddie, my brave, weel-
faured, kind-hearted laddie-kind till the
drink took him-he died Just ae week af-
ter / lost my sight. Do you recollect,
sir ?" She raised her voice and began to
speak rapidly. "You Gamma but remem-
Der; it was seven years last Martinmas."
Pausing as if to test her memory, she
leaned her head upon the hand which
grasped the staff and left me in painful
silence for some moments. | had no
power to speak. The mystery of her grief
froze me into silence.
At length, without lifting her head, she
murmured to herself:
"Lsst Martinmas No; this Martin
mas Her voice rose suddenly into
something like scream, and her head
was lifted up and her eye-balls fixed upon
me with fearful glare "This very
month, this very day, good sir seven
years, seven weary years. seven dark, I'M
blessed years, this very day, since my
dear lad had to die. One, two, three
yes, on to the seven-seven O. them-an'
every year O. them has left its mark in
my heart Another will be made to-day.
Listen that's twelve striking. At twelve
o'clock seven years ago my Billie was
dead, and his poor auld bin mither
wouldna get in to kiss his cauld lips. Eli,
man, it's sair, it's sair even to think O..
But it Gamma last much longe r-and--"
what she said more could not catch, for
her voice again sank into its low, muir
muring tone, and then into silence for
time.
al know what we're waitin' to ask,
sir" she said by and by, "an' why should
wish to hide it moo ? 1t wadna hide at
the time. But say moo, as | said then,
when it was sounded from every house
top: 1t was ma my laddie who did it, but
the drink, the drink, the cursed drink.
My Billie never meant to kill Tom Molder.
They were chums, Billie and he. Billie
wouldn't kill, not the youngest day he
was, fly. The foreman O. the works
said to the Judge, Billie was the kindest
lad in the shop. When anybody was
hurt Billie was Gent for An Toms ain
mither stood nm i'm the court an said that