The Kenosha telegraph. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1860-1888, 1886-01-01
TEMPERANCE.
THE coon WIFE KNEW IT.
Experience of Drunkard Who Broke the
Habit that EnsIaved Him.


Experience of Drunkard Who Broke the
Habit that EnsIaved Him.
There is a retired cobbler living in
this place who deserves the respect Of
his countrymen for moral courage.
Ten years ago he was, and had been
for long time, confirmed inebriate
not periodical spreer, buta genuine
soaker warranted not to draw sober
breath from sun to sun. Occasionally
the fumes of the whisky with which he
piled himself would clear away from
his befogged brain, and at such times
his mental equilibrium would wrestie
with the problem of total or even par
tial abstinence, to be utterly wrecked
| at the sight of his haunts or the hrst
faint call of his system for the stlmu-
liant which long use had rendered per-
emptory.
One day, however, a halt was Called
and this is the way he tells of it:
II was on my way to the barn when
saw small snake in my path. l
kicked it with my boot, and it turned
to bit of crooked twig. which 1
snapped in my hand and threw away
/ thought nothing more of the matter
until I reached the barn, when. direct
" before me. second snake twisted
across the boards. With quick
spring | seized it, and it proved to be a
whip-lash. A sudden horrible fear
made me faint and weak. sat down
on the lower rung of the ladder leadjng
to the loft and wiped the cold sweat
from my forehead.
'''Snakes, by Jerichor" exclaimed
That means business.
Then | stared straight across at q
corn-stalk that soon began slowly to
wriggle and curve. With bursting eye
balls and all the strength of mind /
possessed forced that corn-stalk back
from the animal to the vegetable king
dom, and then | staggered feebly out
into the open air. / leaned against %
fence, and, for fear 1 should see more
of those horrible twisting things, 1
chung to post and closed my eyes.
"'Time is called, Jim,' said to my
self, whisky and you part company to-
day, and soberer than | had been for
many months, though with no more
strength than baby, l managed to get
] back to the house.
"There was fight, though. didn't
tell my wife; for had made good
many promises that hadn't held water
and l thought I'd go it alone for
awhile. got up in the morning, after
a terrible fight, with the thirst of
chased fox upon me. Water wouldn't
quench it, and | tried milk. | crept
into the milk room, slipped a straw
into the edge of a cream-cOyered pan,
and sucked out the milk until only the
| cream was left, lowered smooth and
unbroken to the bottom. Then | tack
led another and another, until the fierce
craving was somewhat dulled. 1t was
household mystery what became of
the milk. No cat could lap it, my wife
said, and leave the sides and cream un-
touched, and where did it go?
let them talk, for the struggle was
too sore and fearful to be spoken of,
and I went on drinking the milk.
g The road from my house to my
shop lay by the groggery. When L
left my gate in the morning took the
road, and, on dead run, as if pur-
sued, made the distance. Iran hard
all the way home to dinner, and back
after that meal, never, in fact, trust
ing myself to walk, or even take to
the sidewalk for months. The cure
was slow. keep all the brakes hard
set yet. A single glass of hard cider
would undo the work of all these
years, but you can bet that glass
doesn't touch my lips while the
memory of those little, crawling, black
reptiles stays with me-
'And did your wife finally learn what
became of the milk" he was asked.
. Yes" and his voice broke. 1"
told her on her deathbed."
g Jim, DEAR she said, when l had
finished, with her hand clasped in
mine, Jim, / knew it all the time. ="