Herald and tribune. [volume] (Jonesborough, Tenn.) 1869-current, 1897-12-22
RAILROAD TIES.

Christmas and Crusade, did you say? -. .
Judean hills running hills in %rivulets, God
speaking to magi by a new star, TO shepherds
by angels singing, and to placid oxen, dumb
but not insensible, bya baby's cry; and the
cry was, GLORY to God in the highest, on
earth, peace, good will to men, and what the
cry meant no man knew.
Then Herod and Judas and ~Pilate-and
nineteen hundred years.
little company of women weeping, pray
ing and silently grieving in a church II
white cap" faith lit-in Il fiat, black ocean
OF woman's agony; and, raving and devour-
ing in all the ways, saloons-right by the law
of a Christian land-sobs on the street and
tears falling-on the ground, mothers and
and wives k%neeling on damp flags, in front of
drinkshops, and oh, pitiful, singing.
Then Francis Willard and her two hundred
Observation-Disclosures, toll, treachery, tri-
umph-then-Laday Henry Somerset.
And now you say, Send something about
Christmas and the Crusade in the spirit of
both" What an order. Are the Christmas
Christ and the Crusade Christ the same?
How is it then, that in no place in all this
world will Christmas day be celebrated so
so uniformly in this year of grace, as in the
two hundred and fifty thousand saloons of
this Christian land? Tons on tons of pine
and holly are already ordered and in transit
to them, to trim the bar, mirrors aad chande-
liers withal, and miles of Christmas notices
are already made and making for their walls
and windows-and ours who take his "nrst
fruits" for the treasury, and the last for the
gutter, almshouse, Jail and p%otter's leld-in
many a life, the Christmas eve and Christmas
night will be twin monster shames, the end
in suicide and silence of many a gallant
struggle Of a manful year. In millions of
homes the bells will toll for Christmas hopes
dead, and Jesus name be c~oarsest blasphe-
my, and the sweet eve will cling about dead
love like rotten velvet on an old coffin.
Mercy. Is there a Christ of the saloon?
God keeps us, yes; and He is great and
powerful. in His hands are all the corners
of the earth !" He lives in capitols, churches,
palaces and sweet, safe homes; has wife and
child makes himself rich and of reputation
him, the saloons celebrate.
o sisters, Crusades, grid yourselves again,
and out into the sad streets fore. Stop not
at the saloon, but on your knees before
the Christian voters home, kneel down and
pray. Go to the Christian Governor of the
Crusade State, my more than eighty thou
sand good mems surplus votes returned to
power and the foremost place of those who
wait at Fame's great door. He hates the sa-
loon, but it %reioices in him. | think if he
could see the face of Mother Thompson
knceling at his door, patient and beautiful,
gIoriiied in prayer, pleading for the sake of
Mary's Son for help-or at least a word of
cheer-he would scorn the coward shifts and
waitings of the politician and be q self elect
ed, royal man. When poverty and cruel loss
and perildy would have swamped him, only
just now, the people quietly came about him
and saved his homc and his good name and
made him rich beyond his widest dreams in
stuff immutable into coin, and to which no
stamps adds any value-true civic faith and
love. Tell him how the saloons rob and
wreck and kill in all the land and-pray. pray.
pray. He dare not scorn you. Would he be
brave enough to take your flag and carry it?
God knows, but whatever the event your re-
ward is sure.
In 81 saw my mother kneeling in the
snow to pray at a saloon door, and | crept
out by a side way, stepping softly in the saw
dust, ashamed-of her. That days work
caused her life, and the saloon not even
paused, and her only child sped downward
to the hell of drunkenness; but that snow
set prayer persisted at Gods throne through
thirteen awful years, and for her importu-
nifty He could but always hear, and when l
would" He spoke to me; and s~peaks-and
will speak on and on until on some sweet
Christmas eve | find my mothers arms again
and leaning on her great heart celebrate the
end of the Crusade-John G.. Woolley.