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Ocuotci* to Citcmture, briciue, aub 3.rt, tl)c Sons of (temperance, (Dbb ibdloiuslpp, iltasonrn, anb (Scncral jfntelligcnrf.
VOLUME I.
ssasesiß
SONG OF THE TE-TOTALLER.
BT OCOROI W. BKTHUN*.
Lf.t others praise the ruby bright
In the red wine’s sparkling glow,
Dearer to me is the and amond light
Ot'the fountain’s clearer How ;
The feet of earthly men have trod
The juice from the bleeding vine,
But the stream comes pure from the hand of God
To fill this cup of mine.
Then give mo the cup of cold water!
The clear, sweet cup of cold water ;
For his arm is strong, though his toil be long,
Who drinks but the clear cold water.
The dew-drop lies in the floweret’s cup,
How rich is its perfume now!
And the fainting earth With joy looks up,
When heaven sheds rain on her brow !
The brook goes forth with a pleasant voice
To gladden the vale along,
And the bending trees on her banks rejoice,
To hear her quiet song:
Then give me the cup of cold water !
Tiie clear, sweet cup of cold water;
For bright is his eye, and iiis spirit high,
Who drinks but the clear cold water!
The lark 9oars up with a lighter strain
When the wave has washed her wing,
And the steed flings back h s ‘thundering mane’
In might of the crystal spring:
This was the drink of Parad se,
Ere blight on her beauty fell,
And the buried streams of her gladness rise
In every moss-grown well:
Then here’s to the cup of cold water!
The pure, sweet cup of cold water;
For Nature gives to all that 1 ves
But a drink of the clear cold water.
KISfiSiiIAIT.
HAVE PATIENCE.
BY MRS. HODGSON
It was Saturday evening, about eight o’clock.
Mary Gray had finished m ingling, and hid sent
home the last basket of clothes. She had swept
up her little room, stirred the fire, an J placed up
on it a saucepan of water. She hud brought out
the bag of oatmeal, a basin, and a spoon, and laid
them upon the round deal table. The pi ice,
though very scantilv furnished, looked alt igether
neat and comfortable. Marv now sat idle by the
fire. She was not often idle. She was a pale,
delicate looking woman of abo it five and thirty,
fehe looked like one who had a very anxious, care
worn expression. Her dress showed signs of
poverty, but it was scrupulously clean and neat.
As it grew later she, seemed to be listening at
tentively for the approach of someone ; she was
ready to start up every time a step came near her
door. At lengih a light step appro tched, and did
not go by ; it stopped and there was a gentle rap
at the door. Mary’s pallid face brightened, and
in a moment she had let in a fine intelligent look
ing lad, about thirteen years of age, whom she
welcomed with evident delight.
“Aou are later than usual to-night, Stephen,”
she said.
Stephen did not reply ; hut he threw off his
cap, and placed himself in the seat Mary had j
quitted.
“You do not look well to-night dear,” said Mary
anxiously ; “i s anything the matter / ”
“lam quite well, mother,” replied the boy,
bet me have my supper. lam quite ready for it.”
As he spoke, he turned away his eyes from
arv s inquiring look. Mary, without another
‘ v °rd, set herself about prepat ing the supper of
oatmeal porridge. She saw that something was
wrong wiih Stephen, and that he did not wish to
be questioned, so she remained silent. In th
meantime Stephen hud placed his feet on the ,e i
der, rested his elbows on his knees, and his head
on his hands. His hands covered his face; and,
bye and bye, a few large tears began to trickle
down his fingers. Then suddenly dashing off* his
tears as though he were ashamed of them, he
showed his pale, agitated face, and said in a tone
of indignation and resolve,
“Mother, I am determined I will bear it no
longer.”
Mary was not surprised. She finished pouring
out the porridge; then, taking a stool, she seated
herself beside him
“ Why Stephen,” she said trying to speak
cheerfully, “how many hundred times before
have you made that resolution? But what’s the
matter now ? Have you any new trouble to tell
me of? ”
Stephen answered by silently removing with
bis hand some of his thick curly hair, and show
ing beneath it an ear bearing the too evident
marks of cruel usage.
“My poor boy!” exclaimed Mary, her tears
starting forth. “ Could he be so cruel!”
“It is nothing mother,” replied the boy, sorry
to have called forth his mother’s tears. “ I don’t
care for it. it was done in a passion, and he was
sorrv for it after.”
“ But what could you have done Stephen, to
have made him soangrv with you ? ”
* “I was selling half a quire of writing paper to
a lady ; he counted the sheets after me auJfouu l
thirteen instead of only twelve—they had stuck
together so that I took two for one. I tried to ex
plain, but he was iu a passion and gave me a blow
The lady said something to him about his i nproper
conduct, and he said that 1 was such a cortices lit
tle rascal that he lost all patience with me. ‘That
hurt me more than the blow. It was a falsehood,
and he knew it—but he wanted to excuse himself
I felt that I was going into a passion too, but 1
thought of what you are always telling me about,
patience and forbearance, and I kept down my
passion —l know he was sorrv for it after, from the
way he spoke to me, though he didn’t say so.”
“ l have no doubt he suffered more than you,
Stephen,” said Mary, “he would be vexed that
he had shown his temper before the lady, vexed
that he had told a lie, vexed that he had hurt you
when you bore it so patiently.”
“ Yes, mother, but that doesn’t make it easier
for me to bear his ill temper ; I’ve borne it now
for more than a year for your sake, ami 1 can bear
it no longer. Surely [can get something to da
I’m sturdy and healthy, and willing to do any kind
of work.”
Mary shook her head, and rem lined for a long
time silent and thoughtful. At length she said
with a solemn earnestness of manner that almas,
made poor Stephen cry —
“ You say that for my sake you have borne your
masters unkind treatment for more than a year;
for my sake bear it longer, Stephen. Your pa
tience must and will he rewarded i.i the end. —
You know how I have worked, day and night ever
since vour poor father died, when you were only
a little infant in the cradle, to teed and clothe you
and to pay for your schooling, for 1 was determined
that you should have schooling ; you know how
1 have been cheered in all my toil by the hope of
seeing you one day geitingon in the wo rid. And
1 know, Stephen that you will get on. bm area
good honest lad, and kind to your poor mother,
and God will reward you. Bui not if you are
—not if you are impatient ; you know how
hard it was for me to get you this situation you
mitrht not get another —you must not leave —you
must not break your indentures —you m ist be pa
tient and industrious still —you have a hard mas
ter, and, God knows it costs me many a heart-ache
to think of what you have to suffer ; hut bear wit 1
him, for my sake a few years longer. *
Stephen was now fairly crying, and his mother
SAVANNAH, GA.. THURSDAY, MARCH 29, 1849.
kissed off his tears, w hile her own flowed freely.
Her appeal to his affection was not in vain. He
soon nniled through his tears as he said—
“ Well mother, you always know how to talk
me over. When 1 came in to-night I did think
that I would never go to the shop again. But I will
promise you to be patient and industrious still.—
Considering all that you have done for me, this is
little enough for me to do forvo i. When I have
a shop of my own you shall live like aladv. I’ll
trust to your word that I shall be sure to get on, if
I am patient and industrious, though I don’t see
how it’s to be. it’s not so very bad to bear after
ill; and, bad as mv master is, there’s one comfort
he lets me have my Saturday nights and blessed
Sumlnvs with you. Well, I feel happier now,
and I think lean eat my supper. We forgot that
mv porridge was getting cold all this time.”
Stephen kept his word—day after day, and
month after month, his patience and industry
never flagged. And plenty of trials, poor fel
low, he had for his fortitude. His master, a small
stationer in a small country town, to whom Ste
phen was hound apprentice for five years, with
a salarv barely sufficient to keep him in clothes,
was a little spire, sh irp-faced man, who seemed
*r> have worn himself away with continual
fretfulness and vexation. He was perpetually
fretting, perpetually finding fault with something
oroher, perpetually thinking that everything was
going wrong. Though lie did cease go to into a
passion with, and to strike Stephen, the poor lad
■was an object always at hand, on which to vent
his ill humor.
M mv, m my was Stephen on the point of
lo ing heart and temper; but he was always able
o control himself by thinking of his mother.—
And, its he said, there was always comfort in
those Saturday nights and blessed Sundays. A
long walk in the country on those blessed Sun
days, and the Testament readings to his mother,
would always >trengthen his often wavering faith
in her prophecies of good in the end, would cheer
his spirits, and nerve him wilh fresh resolution
for he criming week. And what was it that the
widow hoped would result from this painful bon
lige? She did not know—she only had faith in
her doctrine—that patience and industry would
some time he rewarded. llnv the reward was to
com. 1 in her son’s case, she could not see. Ii
seemed likely, indeed, from all appearances, that
the and >e f riue in this case, would prove false. But
uill she h id faith.
It wa> now nearly four years since the conver
sion between mother and son. They were to
gether again on the Saturday evening. Stephen
h id grown into a tall, m inly youth, with a gentle,
kind, find thoughtful expression >f countenance.
Miry looked much older, thinner, paler, and
more anxious. Both were at this moment looking
verv downcast.
“ J do not see that anything can be hoped from
him,” said Stephen with a sigh. “I have now
served him faithfully for five years —I have borne
patiently .ill his ill-humour, I have never been ab
sent a u oment from my post, and during all that
rime, notwithstanding fill this, he has never thank
ed me, he h is never so much as given me a single
kind word, nor even a kind look. He must know
th it my apprenticeship will be out on Tuesday,
vet he never says a word to me about it, and 1
suppose I must just go without a word.”
“ You must, speak to him,” said Mary, “you
cannot go without saying something —and tell
him’exactlv how you are situated; he cannot re
fuse to do something to help you.”
“ It is easy to talk of speaking to him, mother,
hut not so easy to do it. I have often before
thought of speaking to him —of telling him how
very, very poor we are, and begging a little more
salary. Bat l n?ver coal ld> it when [ came be
fore him. I seemed to feel that he would refuse
me, and L felt somehow too proud to ask a favor
that would ‘most likely be refused. But it shall
be done now, mother ; I will not be a burthen
upon you, if I can help it. I’d sooner do any
jibing than that. He might to do something fir
line, and there’s no one else thnt I know of that
can. I will speak to him on Monday”
Monday evening was come—all dav Stephen
had been screwing up his courage for the task he
had to do; of course, it could not be done when
his master and he were in the shop together, for
there they were liable at any moment to be inter
rupted. At dinner time they separated ; for they
took the meal alternately, that the post in the shop
might never be deserted. But now the day’s
work was over; everything was put away, and
master and apprentice had retired into the little
back parlor to take their tea. As usual, thev were
alone, for the stationer was a single man, (which
might account for the sourness of his temper,) and
the meal was usually taken in silence. Mephen’s
master had poured out for him his first cup of
lea, handed it to him without looking ai him, and
began to swallow his own potion. Stephen al
lowed his cup to remain before him untouched ;
he glanced timidly towards his master, drew a
deep breath, colored slightly, and then began.
“ If vou please, sir, I wish to speak to you. M
His master looked up with a sudden jerk of
the head, and fixed his keen grey eyes on poor
Stephen’s face. He did not seem at all surprised
hut said sharply, (and he had a very sharp voice,)
“ Well, sir, speak on.”
Stephen was determined not to be discouraged,
so he began to tell his little tale. His voice fai
tered at first, but as he went on he became quite
eloquent. He spoke with a boldness which as
tonished himself. He forgot his master, and
thought only of his mother. He told all about
her poverty, and struggles to get a living. He
dwelt strongly but modestly on his own conduct
during his apprenticeship, and finished by en
treating his master now to help him to do some
thing. tor he had nothing in the world to turn to,
no friends, no money, no influence.
His master heard him to the end. He had soon
withdrawn his eyes from Stephen’s agitated face,
then partially averted his own face, then left his
seat, and advanced to a side table, where he be
gan to rutnage among some papers, with his back
to Stephen.
Stephen had ceased speaking some time, before
he made any reply. Then, still wiihout turning
round, lie spoke, beginning with a sort of grunt
ing ejaculation —“Humph ! so your mother gets
her living by mangling, does she 1 and she thought
that if she got you some schooling, and taught you
to behave yourself, your fortune would be made.
Well, you will be free to-morrow; you may go to
her and tell her she i> a fool for her pains. Here
are your indentures, and here’s the salary that’s
due to vou. Now vou may go to bed.”
As lie spoke the last words, he had taken the
indentures from a desk, and the money from his
purse. Stephen felt a choking sensation in his
throat as he took from his h tnds the paper and
the money; he would even have uttered the in
dignation he felt, but, before he could speak, his
master had left the room. Disappointed and
heart-sick, and feeling humiliated that, he should
have asked a favor of such a man, the poor lad
retired to his garret, and it was almost time to get
up in the morning before he could fall asleep. On
ihe Tuesday, when the day’s woik was over, Ste
phen packed up his bundle of clothes ; should he
say good bye to his master 1 Yes ;he would not
be ungracious at the last. He opened the door of
the back parlour, and stood just within the door
wav, his bundle in his hand. His mas er was
sitting, solitary, at the tea-table.
“ 1 am going, sir, good bye,” said Stephen.
“Good bye, sir,” returned his master, without
looking at him. And so they parted.
The result of the application told, the mother
and son sat together that night in silence; their
hearts were too full for word Mary sorrowed
most, because she had hoped most. Bitter tears
rolled down her cheeks, and she sat brooding
NUMBER 4.