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The Whiskey Traffic and Our Duty It is not necessary in this day and time to dis cuss the evils incident to the use and traffic in strong drink. That conscience must be seared in deed which does not keenly feel and bodily con demn the sin of intemperance, while with a tender ness akin to divine pity it commiserates the unfor tunate victim. A man must have a low estimate of his fellowman, if he does not sadly appreciate the great loss in manhood brought about by this sinful indulgence. A neighbor must have a poor regard for his neighbor, who does not deplore the blasted hopes, the broken hearts and blighted lives and des ecrated homes and the ruined souls that mark the sale and consumption of strong drink. He indeed has a very perverted idea of individual, community, state and national economy, who does not see the immense waste of money and the untold destruc tion of property and the fearful paralysis of pro ductive power, which come upon the individual, community, state and nation that patronizes or encourages or allows or legalizes the traffic in the destructive beverage. The few days’ riot in the city of Atlanta—the natural offspring of the in cestuous dive on Decatur street as mother, and of the lecherous, lustful barroom on Peachtree and Whitehall as father—cost the city and the state more than they can recover from the licenses of these places in five years. The Logic of Money. If figures have any meaning, if money is any con sideration, if the financial feature can attract any attention and add to the argument, consider this fact: The four years of bloody war left the na tion with a debt of $2,800,000,000, while the liquor bill in the United States for four years is $7,293,- 816,296. The revenue from the liquor traffic is $111,901,093 annually, while the drink bill, $1,823,- 204,074 —that is, we invest one dollar and ge back in revenue not quite seven cents. But this does not represent the money loss by any means—there is the destruction of labor, the reduction of the wage-earning capacity, and the neglect and suspension of business, to say nothing of the immense cost of additional police force and court expenses and the chaingang charges, these simply stagger the imagination with the magnitude, the inestimable loss of money to the individual, the family and the nation. To bring it home to us, see how common farm hands and unskilled labor are unfitted for service and lose time, how factory operatives bungle their work and are dismissed, how dissipated clerks lose their positions, how mechanics are turned away from their jobs, how lawyers who drink are aban doned by their clients and physicians are rejected by their patients, and how teachers are turned away from the school room, and how business failures, bankruptcies, financial disasters and railroad wrecks multiply. Oftentimes a fifteen cent drink causes a $50,000 wreck and damage suits to the amount of $200,000. Why, the loss from the cost of the drink is not a bagatelle compared to the loss that is entailed by the failure of the laborer who is made incompetent by the use of the bever age. A man would argue himself fit for the lunatic asylum who would try to prove that the traffic is /profitable to the individual who drinks, or to the city that licenses it, or to a people that allows it, or to a government that legalizes it. Compared to this evil, any other evil is as an evening zephyr compared to a desolating gulf-storm on the coasts, as a harmless rivulet meandering through the meadow compared to the wild flood rushing down the valley of the Connemaugh, or as a vanishing spark from a boy’s Christmas cracker compared to the outburst of the Vesuvius volca no. The Logic of Morals. If a man proves himself an imbecile, who tries to convince the public that it is profitable, he shows a badly misguided judgment, if not the spirit of a demon, when he attempts to defend the traffic on the grounds that it contributes to the social bet- By G. A. NUNNALLY. The Golden. Age for October 18, 1906. terment and moral improvement of the community. Arson and assassination, beggary and beastliness, death and degradation, divorce and disgrace, shame and sorrow, theft and treachery, riot and rape are passed over the counters where the miserable stuff is sold. It comes at the same fearful cost and does the same deadly work whether it be sold in the glittering bar or in the dirty dive, in the open sa loon or in the chartered dispensary, whether it be owned and manipulated in the palatial hotel and mammoth store, or mixed and sold by the lone dealer in his dirty hole in the wall on the dark al ley of the crowded city—it is all the same. To con done the one and to condemn the other is to make a distinction without a difference and to differen tiate between evils that are identical. The Duty of The Hour. Such being the evil, the suppression of the traf fic is the main and only problem. To its solution the best thought of every man and woman, of every scientist and statesman, of every economist and moralist, of every sinner and Christian should be given. Every man who feels an interest in his fel lowman, every laborer and capitalist who has any desire for individual or general prosperity, every citizen who loves his country and hopes for a good government, and every Christian who serves his Lord and Master and would have this world be come the kingdom of our God, should conspire and concentrate and combine and co-operate in all movements that look to the suppression of the traf fic. It seems useless to appeal to political parties or to seek the influence and power of political as pirants, who from time immemorial and on various occasions, have refused or declined, have confused or compromised, have misled or betrayed, the forces that were engaged in a prohibitory effort. As Christians, as followers of the Lord Jesus Christ and as lovers of our fellowman, we must place this issue above any vitiated appetite, above any personal interests and far above all political af filiations and by example and entreaty, by work and watchfulness, and by voice and vote, refuse all compromise with the evil. Be not satisfied with the high-licensed saloon, nor with the well-guarded and so-called decent bar, nor with the thwarted and defeated local option, nor with the deceitful and destructive dispensary, but demand unceasingly and unflinchingly, everywhere and by all honorable means, its utter and complete and everlasting prohi bition. As Christians, we cannot do less and be help ful and beneficent to our neighbor as the good Sa maritan that we profess to be, and be true to our mission as adherents to the simple truth of the Bible which we claim to be the Word of God, and faithful and loyal to our Master, “whose we are and whom we serve,” and who loved us and who, by prayer and patience, by poverty and peril, by shame and sorrow, by life and death, proved that he loved us and to seal that love, “gave himself for us” in the suffer ings of Calvary and in the blood of the cross. Beyond Human Control. The Youth’s Companion tells of children who were overheard discussing “what we’ll do when we get big.” One wanted to be a milkman and ride round in a wagon. The second wanted to be the man to ride on the freight cars and “make the round things go.” The third, also a boy, could not decide whether to be a minister or a grocer. The fourth child, a girl of eleven, did not care to tell what she would do. “Aw, yur!” contemp tuously cried he for whom the ministry and confec tionery had equal attractions. “Yur want to get married!” he said, with the traditional blindness of his sex. When the boys had run off, the girl’s ambition was confided to her favorite aunt. “I wouldn’t tell before them,” she said, scornfully. “They wouldn’t understand. But, aunty, I want to be a justice of the supreme court, and”—her voice became solemn—.“beyond human control.” Nature’s Heart. Oh, where is nature’s heart? I spent long hours In searching for this treasure, rich and rare. I wander’d ’mid opening buds and ffow’rs, As they exhaled their sweetness to the air. I wander’d through fields, when, clad in beauty, They waved the tassels of the ripening corn. Follow’d the Reaper, as he gathered booty Ere the dark, stormy winter days should dawn. In cool woodland shades ’neath bough and bracken, Close by some brook, wherein the minnows play, I’ve thought to find poor Nature’s heart forsaken, And striving here to dream its life away. Here in this dell, listening to the brook song, Wooing the balmy breezes, soft and sweet, My quest should end. Why need I now prolong My search for weary Nature’s heart’s retreat? Birds are singing, woods and uplands teeming, Field and meadow throbbing, atbrill with joy; Over all the merry sunshine streaming, ’Tis Nature’s Heart, in all this glad employ. Look not for Nature’s Heart, sleeping, dreaming, ’Tis like the spirit of the Triune three—■ Night or day, that heart is never seeming, But ever bringing joy and life to me. Wm. Laurie Hill. New Name for Twilight. Kenneth is five years old, and attends Sunday school. He is very much interested in what he hears, as the following story will prove: He went with his auntie to be fitted to a new pair of shoes. It was late in the afternoon, and as they waited for the salesman, Kenneth noticed that the street lamps were being lighted outside. “Why, Aunt Emily,” he exclaimed, “is it dark ? ’ ’ “Oh, not very!” she replied. “Oh, I see,” said Kenneth, with a comprehend ing nod, “hike.” “What did you say?” asked Aunt Emily. “Why, luke,” repeated Kenneth, surprised that she had not understood. “What do you mean by that?” inquired his aunt, still mystified. “Why, you know what luke means; it’s middling, luke dark, you know, like luke warn?, not real dark nor real light.”—Watchman. She Got Him. The four-year-old daughter of a clergymai? was ailing one night and was put to bed early. As her mother was about to leave her, she called her back. “Mamma,” she said, “I want to see my papa.” “No, dear,” her mother replied, “your papa is busy and must not be disturbed.” “But, mamma,” the child persisted, “I want to see my papa.” As before, the mother replied: “No, your papa must not be disturbed.” But the little one came back with a clincher: “Mamma,” she declared solemnly, “I am a sick woman, and I want to see my minister.”—Every body ’s. Too Busy to Grow. A small office boy, who had worked in the same position for two years on a salary of $3 a week, finally plucked up enough courage to ask for an in crease in wages. “How much more would you like to have?” in quired his employer. “Well,” answered the lad, “I don’t think $2 more a week would be too much.” “Well, yw seem to me a rather small boy to be earning $5 a week,” remarked his employer. “I suppose I do. I know I’m small for my age,” the boy explained, “but to tell you the truth, since I’ve been here I haven’t had time to grow.” He got the raise.—James H. Lambert, in St. Nicholas. 3