The semi-weekly messenger. [volume] (Wilmington, N.C.) 1897-1908, 1906-03-13

have been soothed since by the uni
form good will evinced by all classes
Of citizens toward me.
Il am here among you to speak on 4
matter closely concerning your phys
ical and moral welfare. may say that
it concerns your present happiness and
your future state of bliss. l am no
temperance fanatic who would burst
in all the doors Of all the breweries
and smash in all the doors of all the
saloons, but l have a few words to say
to you about one invidious drink in
particular.
1T is not old rye whisky, which
has slain it's hundreds of thousands
and caused the knees of millions more
to wabble; it is not the brandy which
leaves a thirst three feet long down
the neck behind it; it is not that brand
Of lager beer which causes brother to
strike brother and sister to pull sisters
hair. 1t is that sleek, sly, artful and
invidiOus beverage known as hard CT
der. You will be surprised, as others
have been, to hear that it biteth like a
serpent and stingeth like an adder, but
wait until you heal what I have to
say.
LET me draw you an everyday pic
ture-a picture to be met with at thou
sands Of fresides every evening in the
week-and I trust hat some few of
you at least will be affected to tears.
If so, I shall be somewhat consoled as
an Offset to the fact that the receipts
Of the house this evening are only 40
cents in cash.
"The farmers toll for the day is
Ger. His beasts of burden have gone
to their feed and rest. and he has fin
ished his supper and sat down to look
over the family almanac and see when
the next full moon is due. His wife
takes up her knitting, his son retires
to the garnet to scrape the fiddle, and
the cat stretches out on the hearth
rug and is glad that she is still alive.
It is a quiet, peaceful scene, and the
most cold blooded villain could not
look upon it without remembering the
mother who used to pat him on the
head and predict that he would some
day be a preacher.
Suddenly the gray haired farmer,
who has seen fifty years come and go,
begins to hitch around as if he had
absently sat down On a hornets nest.
He drops the almanac; he becomes
careless as to the new moon; a thirst
begins to rise up from his toe and
make his ears Jingle. His good wife
gives him a glance Of reproach, and
he hesitates for five minutes longer.
Then he rises up and remarks that he
will step down cellar for a minute to
see if the potato bugs are comfortable,
a four quart pitcher from the kitchen
and is soon kneeling before the barrel
of hard cider down cellar.
"Alas, we all know what follows.
The spigot is turned, the Satanic drink
gurgles out, and the trimming pitcher
is carried upstairs and its contents
quafed with chuckles of satisfaction
between every swallow.
! Tempted by the sight and smell,
| the farmers wife gradually yields and
at length downs a glass and asks for
two or three more. The son with the
| fiddle has an Intuition that there is
hilarity going OF downstairs, and he
ceases to scrape the wailing strings
! and descends to claim his share.
'That quiet, peaceful picture Of halt
an hour ago is turned into a wild revel.
Youth forgets itself-old age becomes
reckless. The pitcher is emptied only
to be promptly refilled, and when eight
or ten quarts have been disposed OF
Satan himself enters the room to make
the fourth person present
HE tempts the old farmer to charge
his wife with wearing out two pairs
OF shoes In the last three years and
to twit her Of a fiendish desire to send
him to the poorhouse- She retorts by
charging him with ~stinginess and par
simony, and they are soon calling each
other liars and horse thieves.
SrYf,~r thu $40 t.I1c a hoU In II