en to "bowling up," a term with which I am not familiar, but
he goes on to say that a good, noble woman, with love in her heart and
an earnest desire to save a soul, could rush in and gather him in in
good shape. He says that he is worthy, and that if he could be snatched
from a drunkard's grave in time he believes he would become eminent. He
says that several people have already been overheard to say: "What a
pity he drinks." From this he is led to believe that a good wife, with
some means, could redeem him. He says it is quite a common thing for
young women where he lives to marry young men for the purpose of saving
them.

I think myself that some young girl ought to come forward and snatch
this brand at an early date.

The great trouble with men who form the bowl habit is that, on the
morrow, after they have been so bowling, they awake with a distinct and
well-defined sensation of soreness and swollenness about the head,
accompanied by a strong desire to hit some living thing with a stove
leg. The married man can always turn to his wife in such an emergency,
smite her and then go to sleep again, but to one who is doomed to wander
alone through life there is nothing to do but to suffer on, or go out
and strike some one who does not belong to his family, and so lay
himself liable to arrest.

This letter is accompanied by a tin-type picture of a young man who
shaves in such a way as to work in a streak of whiskers by which he
fools himself into the notion that he has a long and luxuriant mustache.
He looks like a person who, under the influence of liquor, would weep
on the bosom of a total stranger and then knock his wife down because
she split her foot open instead of splitting the kindling.

He is not a bad-looking man, and the freckles on his hands do not hurt
him as a husband. Any young lady who would like to save him from a
drunkard's grave can address him in my care, inclosing twenty-five
cents, a small sum which goes toward a little memorial fund I am getting
up for myself. My memory has always been very poor, and if I can do it
any good with this fund I shall do so. The lock of hair sent with this
letter may be seen at any time nailed up on my woodshed door. It is a
dull red color, and can be readily cut by means of a pair of tinman's
shears.

The two following letters, taken at random from my files, explain
themselves:

"BURNT PRAIRIE, NEAR THE JUNCTION,}