The Camden Journal

"HE WILL FORGIVE YOU FATHER."

He stood leaning upon a broken gate in
front of his miserable dwelling. His tattered
hat was in his hands and the cool breeze
lifted the matted locks which covered his
noble brow. His countenance was bloated
and disfigured, but in his eye there was an
unwanton look—a mingled expression of sadness
and regret. Perhaps he was listening
to the melancholy voice of his patient wife
as she soothed the sick babe on her bosom;
or perchance he was gazing on the sweet
face of his eldest daughter, as at the open
window she plied her needle to obtain for
her mother and the poor children a sustenance.
Poor Mary! for herself she cared
not; young as she was, her spirit was crushed
by poverty, unkindness and neglect. As
the inebriate thus stood, his eyes wandered
over the miserable habitation before him.
The windows were broken and the doors
hingeless; scarce a vestige of comfort remained;
set memory bore him back to the
days of his youth, when it was the abode of
peace and happiness. In infancy he saw
again the old arm chair where sat his father
with his bible upon his knee, and seemed to
hear again the sweet tones of his mother as
she laid her hand upon her darling boy, and
prayed that God would bless him and preserve
him from evil. Long years had passed
away, yet tears came into the eyes of the
drunkard at the recollection of his mother's
love.

"Poor mother,' he muttered, 'it is well that
thou art sleeping in the grave; it would
break thy heart to know that thy son is a
wretched and degraded being—a miserable
outcast of society."

He turned slowly away. Deep within
an adjoining forest was a dell where the
beams of the sun scarce ever penetrated.
Tall trees grew on either side, whose
branches, meeting above, formed a canopy
of leaves, where the birds built their nests
and poured forth happy songs. Thither the
drunkard bent his steps. It had been his
favorite haunt in the days of his childhood.
and as he threw himself upon the soft green
sward, the recollections of past scenes came
crowding over his mind. He covered his
face with his hands, and the prayer of the
prodigal burst from his lips, 'Oh, God! receive
a returning wanderer.' Suddenly a
soft arm was thrown around his neck. and
a sweet voice murmured—"He will forgive
you, father.' Starting to his feet the inebriate
saw standing before him his youngest
daughter, a child of six years old.

'Why are you here, Anne?' he said
ashamed that the innocent child should have
witnessed his grief.

'I came to gather the lilies which grow
upon the banks,' she replied. See, I have
got my basket full, and now I am going to
sell them.'

'And what do you do with the money?'
asked the father. as he turned his eyes to
the basket, where, among the broad green
leaves, the sweet lilies of the valley were
peeping forth

The child hesitated; she thought she had
said too much; perhaps her father would demand
the money, and spend it in the way
in which all his earnings went.

'You are afraid to tell me, Anne?,' said the
father kindly. Well I do not blame you; I
have no right to my children's confidence.

The gentleness of tone touched the heart
of the affectionate child. She threw her
arms around his neck. and exclaimed. 'Yes
father, I will tell you. Mother buys medicine
for poor little Willie. We have no
other way to get it. Mother and Mary
work all the time they can get it to buy
bread.

A pang shot through the inebriate's heart.

'I have robbed them of the comforts of life,'
he exclaimed: from this moment the liquor
fire passes my lips no more.

Anne stood gazing at him in astonishment
She could scarce comprehend her father's
words; but she saw that some change had
taken place. She threw back her golden
ringlets, raised her large blue eyes with an
earnest look to his face,' will you never
drink any more rum!' she whispered timidly?

'Never! dear Anne,' replied her father
solemnly.

Joy danced in her eyes. Then we will
all be so happy. Oh, father, what a happy
home ours will be?

Years passed away. The words of little
Anne, the drunkard's daughter had proven
true. The home of the reformed man, her
father, was indeed a happy one; Plenty
crowned his board, and health and joy
beamed from the face of his wife and children;
where once squalid misery alone
could be traced. The pledge had raised
him from his degradation, and restored him
once more to peace and happiness.