s.

MYSELF. For whiskey, I suppose.

DISTILLER. He was formerly a partner in my still, you recollect.

Yonder comes from the store the mechanic, neighbor D. Well, neighbor D,
how do the times go with you now?

D. Was there ever such a scarcity of money? When the rich are failing
all around, how can a poor mechanic stand it?

MYSELF. What have you, friend D, bound up so carefully in your
handkerchief?

D. Aye, you belong to the cold water society, I believe. But I do know
that a _little_ now and then does me good.

MYSELF. I should suppose that, shut up as you are in your shop most of
the time, you could not be much exposed to heat or cold, or great
fatigue, and therefore would hardly need spirits.

D. Well, but I have a weak and cold stomach, and often feel so faint and
sick that I must either take an emetic or a glass of spirits. But the
latter cures all my bad feelings.

MYSELF. Ah, friend D, I fear the times will prove too hard for you. But
why do you try to conceal your jug when you go to the store for whiskey?

D. Why--why--it is more convenient to carry it tied up in this way.

Let us stop next at this skeleton of a house, which you know used to
look so tidy before its owner became intemperate. Oh, was misery ever
more perfectly personified than in his wife and children, whom you see
through the doors and window-frames! And there lies the wretch himself,
dead-drunk.

MYSELF. Pray, madam, do these children attend school?

WIFE. Ah, sir, I am ashamed to say it, they have not decent clothes. But
it was not always as you see it to-day. When we were first married our
prospects were good; and by industry and economy our little farm
supported us, and we made some headway. But (turning towards the farmer)
yet I would not hurt any one's feelings.

FARMER. Tell your story, madam.

WIFE. Well, sir, you recollect that five years ago your orchard produced
abundantly, and you proposed to my husband to assist you in making the
cider, and getting it to the distillery, and to take his pay in brandy.
He did so, and soon a barrel of the poison, which he could not sell, was
deposited in our cellar. Oh, what a winter followed! I have known no
peace or comfort since, nor shall I, till I find them in the grave. Were
it not for these poor naked children, I could wish to rest there soon.
But O, what will become of them? Oh, sir, can you think it strange if
all these things should come into my mind every time you and I si