Every one bears testimony that no man can drink beer safely, that it is an injury to any one who uses it in any quantity, and that its effect on the general health of the country has been even worse than that of whiskey. The indictment they with one accord present against beer drinking is simply terrible.
The devilfish crushing a man in his long, winding arms, and sucking his blood from his mangled body, is not so frightful an assailant as this deadly but insidious enemy, which fastens itself upon its victim, and daily becomes more and more the wretched man's master, and finally dragging him to his grave at a time when other men are in their prime of mental and bodily vigor.
BEER KILLS QUICKER THAN OTHER LIQUORS.
Dr. S. H. Burgen, a practitioner 35 years, 28 in Toledo, says: "I think beer kills quicker than any other liquor. My attention was first called to its insidious effects, when I began examining for life insurance. I passed as unusually good risks five Germans--young business men--who seemed in the best health, and to have superb constitutions. In a few years I was amazed to see the whole five drop off, one after another, with what ought to have been mild and easily curable diseases. On comparing my experience with that of other physicians I found they were all having similar luck with confirmed beer drinkers, and my practice since has heaped confirmation on confirmation.
"The first organ to be attacked is the kidneys; the liver soon sympathizes, and then comes, most frequently, dropsy or Bright's disease, both certain to end fatally. Any physician, who cares to take the time, will tell you that among the dreadful results of beer drinking are lockjaw and erysipelas, and that the beer drinker seems incapable of recovering from mild disorders and injuries not usually regarded of a grave character.
Pneumonia, pleurisy, fevers, etc., seem to have a first mortgage on him, which they foreclose remorselessly at an early opportunity.
BEER WORSE THAN WHISKEY.
"The beer drinker is much worse off than the whiskey drinker, who seems to have more elasticity and reserve power. He will even have delirium tremens; but after the fit is gone you will sometimes find good material to work upon. Good management may bring him around all right.
But when a beer drinker gets into trouble it seems almost as if you have to recreate the man before you can do anything for him. I have talked this for years, and have had abundance of living and dead instances around me to support my opinions."
WRONGS WE CAN NEVER UNDO.
(By Delle M. Mason.)
I have come home to you, mother. Father, your wayward son Has come to himself at last, and knows the harm he has done.
I have bleached your hair out, father, more than the frosts of years;
I have dimmed your kind eyes, mother, by many tears.
Since I left you, father, to work the farm alone, And bought a stock of liquors with what I called my own, I've been ashamed to see you; I knew it broke you down, To think you had brought up a boy to harm his native town.
I've given it all up, mother; I'll never sell it more.
I've smashed the casks and barrels, I've shut and locked the door.
I've signed the temperance pledge--the women stood and sang, The clergymen gave three hearty cheers, and all the church bells rang.
But one thing seemed to haunt me, as I came home to you;
Of all the wrongs that I have done not one can I undo.
There's old Judge White, just dropping into a drunkard's grave;
I've pushed him down with every drop of brandy that I gave.
And there's young Tom Eliot--was such a trusty lad, I made him drink the first hot glass of rum he ever had.
Since then, he drinks night after night, and acts a ruffian's part, He has maimed his little sister, and broke his mother's heart.
And there is Harry Warner, who married Bessie Hyde, He struck and killed their baby when it was sick, and cried, And I poured out the poison, that made him strike the blow, And Bessie raved and cursed me, she is crazy now, you know.
I tried to act indifferent, when I saw the women come, There was Ryan's wife, whose children shivered and starved at home, He'd paid me, that same morning, his last ten cents for drink, And when I saw her poor, pale face, it made me start and shrink.
There was Tom Eliot's mother, wrapped in her widow's veil, And the wife of Brown, the merchant, my whiskey made him fail;
And my old playmate, Mary, she stood amid the band, Her white cheek bore a livid mark, made by her husband's hand.
It all just overcome me; I yielded then and there, And Elder Sharpe, be raised his hand, and offered up a prayer.
I know that he forgave me, I couldn't help but think Of his own boy, his only son, whom I had taught to drink.
So I have come back, father, to the home that gave me birth, And I will plow and sow and reap the gifts of mother earth.
Yet, if I prove a good son now, and worthy of you two, My heart is heavy with the wrongs I never can undo.
SHE'S COMING ON THE FREIGHT.
Or, The joint Keeper's Dilemma.
Say, Billy, git ten two-by-four 'Nd twenty six-by-eight, 'Nd order from the hardware store Ten sheets of boiler plate, 'Nd 'phone the carpenter to come Most mighty quick--don't wait, For there's a story on the streets She's coming on the freight.
O, many years I've carried on My business in this town;
I've helped elect its officers From mayor Dram clear down;
I've let policemen, fer a wink, Get jags here every day;
Say, Billy, get a move on, fer She's headed right this way.
I don't mind temp'rance meetin's When they simply resolute, Fer after all their efforts bring But mighty little fruit;
But when crowbars and hatchets 'Nd hand axes fill the air--
Say, Billy, git that boiler iron Across the window there!
It beats the nation--no, I think The Nation's beatin' me, When I can pay a license here And still not sell it free;
Fer I must keep my customers Outside 'nd make 'em wait, Because the story's got around She's comin' on the freight.
There, Billy, now we've got her--
Six-eights across the door, 'Nd solid half-inch boiler iron Where plate glass showed before;
