The Indianapolis sentinel. [volume] (Indianapolis, Ind.) 1880-1904, 1885-04-26
'.rhat tins house IS hauntedl"


II feel a particular interest in the case
Of these little ones, | continued, 80 /
viii explain at once what / mean. The
room is hardly fit Tor human being TO
| live in; but the worst OF the business is,
certain spirits are brought into it daily
which viii, in the end, stSrve your wife,
murder your children, ruin yourself, and
deprive you Of every comfort here and
hope hereafter"
"And who brings them spirits here?"
asked the workman, with a scowl
"Youl"
"Come, that's queer talk, doctor"
"Listen. You are the only protector
and provider OF your wife and little ones.
Here l find them in want, rags, and
Indebtedness. Now, tell me, have you
done your duty towards them as hus-
band and father?"
ed advise you to mind your own
business, or I'll kick you downstairs, sir"
and he glared at me, half savagely, as he
spoke.
| smiled at his threat, and proceeded:
"YOu receive your wages every week.
What do you do with them?"
Cant do what | like with my own,
eh?''
Yes; but the money you earn is not
your own. 1t belongs to you family.
When you married this woman, you
promised to provide for her, and on the
faith of that promise these little ones
came into the world. Now, do you act
fairly, or like a man when you leave
their money at the public-house, and
muddle yourself with spirits that make
you mad and cruel, and turn your home
into living grave. Is it right or honest?
Ask your own conscience"
"My old girls been tellin' you 90 on
the spree sometimes, has she?" and he
looked daggers at his trembling partner.
"No. can recognize drunkard the
moment see him. Don't go away, my
man. I've not done with you yet.
81 never was talked to like this, in my
own house, anyhow"
Perhaps not; but let me add that, I'M
less you procure better attention for
these children, they will die; then a
charge OF manslaughter will be made
against you"
"Huml Who by?'
Myself"
"Have you said enough?"
Not quite. You were child once-a
helpless little boy. Did your father leave
you to fight with Death on bed, and in a
| place like this? Your poor wife's health
is nearly gone. The future is darker
than the present. Seriously, then, is the
pleasure Of getting drunk equal to a hum
dreth part of the misery you are infict-
ing upon those who cannot defend them
selves?"
He turned away in silence
II have spoken for your profit, not
mine. Think of what have said" and
after giving instruct ms for the treat
ment of my patients, and promising to
renew my visit, left the house.
Twice on the following day | visited
the poor family in Myrtle Grove, finding
each time a slight improvement in the
aspect of the room, my patients little
better, and the woman looking shade
less wretched Perceiving that her hus-
band had some good in him, and believ-
ing that, like most working men, he had
suffered himself to become the victim of
Habit, l enlightened him gradually as to
the nature and consequences of his con-
duct
Having made an impression, talked
to him not as his superior, but as his
equal. Humbly and earnestly did | try
to show him the crimes, as well as the
folly, of drunkenness. At first he list
ened indiferently, but persevered till,
three weeks afterwards, | told him that
his children would need my attendance
no longer; that / had done my best for
them and him; and that / hoped he
would live soberly for their sakes
More deeply moved than ever L had
expected to see him, am poor hand
at talkin', DOCTOR" he began, in thick
husky voice, ''but must say something
It's not a month since you told me what
a scoundrel was. My home is Para
disc to what it was then, and viii be
more SO if Pm spared. It's all through
you, doctOr-the truest friend | ever had
Ii taken rightly, yours is the proper sort
of physic for workin' folk, doctor. But
it's no use-I can't tell you what feel
God bless you. Wen never forget
"Well, well, my dear fellow, that viii
do" interrupted "I'm quite satisfied
Say no more about it.
''But you'll want payin', doctor.
haven't much. It's all yours saved from
the Hope an Anchor Take it, sir, an
I'll pay the rest in IA month at far
thest."
l took the money There" l said
giving it to little maiden whose eye;
were intently fixed upon us, 'that is fol
loving your papa, and he must love yor
now" Then, turning to her father, "Cal
and pay me when you're better of"
, added; ''but if you forget, I'll never dis
tress you for it. Goodbye"
1t was some six or seven weeks afte
L 49, I fo.,.I ,~,.-,.lf