LOTTY'S MESSAGE.-ALEXANDER G. MURDOCH.

Can you listen a heart-thrilling story
Of pathos, and passion, and sin,--

A tale of the tragical sorrow

That comes of the liking for gin?
Your ear, then, good friends, and I'll tell it,
In just as plain words as I can,

How honest Jack Drew was a drunkard,
And how he became a new man.

For Jack was a right honest fellow,

And handsome and stalwart, as true,—
A forgeman, who wrought a Steam Hammer,
And a large weekly "pay-bill" he drew;
So Jack, like his fellows, got married,
And had in good time a wee “tot,”
A sweet little flaxen-haired darling
As ever fell to a man's lot.

"Twas Lotty they called her-" Wee Lotty "-
And well was the darling caressed,
Till the passion for drink, like a demon,
Killed all the sweet love in his breast;
For Jack, who was once a good husband,
As never was known to go wrong,
Began to dip into the "strong stuff,"

And the end, you may guess, wasn't long.

And Lotty's poor mother, alas, sirs,

Now that her "dear Jack" was astray,
Broke down in the fight to make ends meet,
And passed straight to heaven away!
And Jack for a moment was sobered,

And drew himself back from the brink
Whereon he'd been reeling in madness,-
The horrible hell-pit of drink!

But, alas for the heart's human weakness!
And, alas for the power that's in gin!
Jack went back, like a tiger unsated,

To drink down the horror within!

Oh, the fires of remorse that now wrung him!
That scorched both his heart and his brain!
The regrets for the wrongs done his lost wife,
He'd never on earth see again!

Ah: 'twas Lotty he now had to live for,
If only the demon of drink

Would loosen the bands that enslaved him
And free him to work and to think!
For Lotty, neglected wee Lotty,

She, too, was fast wearing away

To the land where her mother had gone to,
Two years since, last Christmas day.

Well, one night in the depth of wild winter,
When snow lay on house-top and street,
Jack came home with fierce fire in his sunk eyes,
His face gone as white as a sheet;
"Lotty, get me a copper on these, lass!
And hurry up! quick! or I'm done!
The 'Pawns' will be shut in a minute,
And to get you in time, lass, I've run!”

And he handed poor Lotty her wee boots,-
The only good pair she had got;

"Oh, father, the Sunday School Soiree,

Next week!" and she smiled at the thought. "Curse the Sunday School Soiree! Be quick, child! Run, run the whole way all your might;

I must have more drink, or, God help me,

The river will have me to-night!"

Hush, father! don't speak so! I'll go! yes,
I'll run as I ne'er ran before,

Though weak with a touch of the fever-"

66

"Off! make yourself scarce! out the door!"
So the poor child-ill-clad and sore ailing,
Slow dying of want and despair-
Ran out on the cold snows barefooted,
Death-pierced by the cutting night-air.

Oh, 'twas vexing to Lotty! Just think on't!
Her wee Sunday boots thus to go,

To furnish the gin that was killing

The love that her childhood should know; And the Children's Soiree she had dreamed of,

No longer in hope to be hers!

Oh, that drink should tear worse than a tiger!
Yet that is the truth of it, sirs.

But Lotty ran hard with the "off"ring,"
As hard and as fast as she could,

Till checked by a sudden exhaustion;
Then-slowly her way she pursued.

Weak and fainting at heart she crept onward,
Holding on by the wall as she went;
A strange blinding mist o'er her eyesight,
And fear in her heart, weak and spent,

Till, reaching the pawn-shop's dark threshold,
The strong door was slammed in her face,
With a "Come back to-morrow, young slow-coach;
We don't 'low five minutes of grace!"

So Lotty, struck dumb with chill terror,
Crept back to her father's abode,
Sinking down in his presence, exhausted,
As if crushed by a terrible load.

"Where's the money, the money? oh, curse you!
These boots! you have hung back till late!"
"Nay, father, I ran without stopping,

Till my breath felt crushed under a weight;
My boots, I'd have pledged them to serve you.
But just as I reached the 'Pawn' door,
"Twas shut in my face—” “You lie, Lotty!
Take that!"-and she swooned on the floor.

Yes, he lifted his clenched fist and struck her,—
Struck down the sweet child of his love!
For he loved her-but loved the gin better!
And the angels wept sorrow above;
Remorse in his heart, he bent downwards,
And tenderly lifted the child;

Then placed her upon her straw pallet,
And well-nigh with anguish went wild.

"Oh, you wont die, sweet Lotty!--speak!--say so!*
And he wiped the warm blood from her face,
"I was mad, worse than mad, when I struck you,
A wretch undeserving of grace.

Oh, speak, Lotty!-speak! I'm your father!
Sin-bruised both without and within:
It wasn't your father who struck you,
'Twas the demon that's born of gin!

"Don't die! for my sake, dearest Lotty,

Live to see me reclaimed from this curse

Which binds me in fetters of madness

Than slave-chains a thousand times worse;

I'll struggle to break them forever,
With God's help, as far as I can,
If you'll only stay with me a little,
To see me become a new man!"

As beauty and peace are prefigured,
When God's love has rainbowed the sky,
A smile lighted up Lotty's features,

An Iris let down from on high:

"No, father, 'twas not you that struck me,
I know it; 'twas just the bad drink ;
God will take these, your tears, as repentance,
And strike off your chains, link by link.

"To be with you, and comfort you, father,
I fain for a lifetime would stay;

But, just now, do you know, I saw mother,
And I feel that I'm going away.

Have you not one sweet word for her, father?
I should like so to speak of you fair;
Just one dear word of grace from your own lips,
A message of love to take there?"

"Lotty, tell her I've signed it!—yes, signed it!—
The 'Pledge' she oft spoke of while here;
With my heart's anguished blood it is written,
Though the trace of it mayn't appear.
Tell her, Lotty, I'll join her in heaven,
God-willing-for yours and her sake;
That's my one word of love to your mother,
The message of peace you will take."

A smile lit the wan face of Lotty,

A smile that was not of this earth,
For long ere the break of the morning,
She passed to her heavenly birth.
And Jack, poor dear fellow, he lives yet,
Though sober and sad-like of face;
And he hopes a re-union in heaven,

Where he sent Lotty's message of grace.

A SERMON ON LIFE.-ROBERT J. BURDETTE. Man born of woman is of few days and no teeth, and indeed it would be money in his pocket sometimes if he had less of either. As for his teeth he had convulsions when he cut them, and as the last one comes through, lo!

the dentist is twisting the first one out, and the last end of that man's jaw is worse than the first, being full of porcelain and a roof-plate built to hold blackberry seeds.

Stone-bruises line his pathway to manhood; his father boxes his ears at home, the big boys cuff him in the playground and the teacher whips him in the school-room. He buyeth Northwestern at 1.10, when he hath sold short at ninety-six, and his neighbors unloadeth upon him Iron Mountain at sixty-three and five-eighths, and it straightway breaketh down to fifty-two and one-fourth. He riseth early and sitteth up late that he may fill his barns and storehouses, and lo! his children's lawyers divide the spoils among themselves and say: "Ha! ha!” He groaneth and is sore distressed because it raineth, and he beateth upon his breast and sayeth "My crop is lost!" because it raineth not. The late rains blight his wheat and the frost biteth his peaches. If it be so that the sun shineth, even among the nineties, he sayeth, "Woe is me, for I perish!" and if the northwest wind sigheth down in forty-two below, he crieth, "Would I were dead!" If he wears sackcloth and blue jean, men say "He is a tramp," and if he goeth forth shaven and clad in purple and fine linen, all the people cry: "Shoot the dude! He carrieth insurance for twenty-five years, until he hath paid thrice over for all his goods, and then he letteth his policy lapse one day, and that same night fire destroyeth his store. He buildeth him a house in Jersey, and his first-born is devoured by mosquitos. He pitcheth his tents in New York, and tramps devour his substance. He moveth to Kansas, and a cyclone carryeth his house away over into Missouri, while a prairie fire and tenmillion acres of grasshoppers fight for his crop. He settleth himself in Kentucky, and is shot the next day by a gentleman, a colonel and a statesman-because, sah, he resembles, sah, a man, sah, he did not like, sah.

Verily, there is no rest for the sole of his feet, and if he had to do it over again he would not be born at all, for "the day of death is better than the day of one's birth."