y would send to Backley, for this especial
occasion, one of its most brilliant orators, and although the pastor
made the statement (in the smallest possible type) that at the close of
the entertainment a collection would be taken to defray expenses of the
lecturer, the sorrowing ones took comfort in the fact that certain
fractional currency represented but a small amount of money. The bell
ceased ringing, and the crowd at the door attempted to squeeze into the
aisles; the Backley Cornet Quartette played a stirring air; Squire Breet
called the meeting to order, and was himself elected permanent Chairman;
the Reverend Mr. Genial prayed earnestly that intemperance might cease
to reign; the Glee Club sang several songs, with rousing choruses; a
pretended drunkard and a cold water advocate (both pupils of the Backley
High School), delivered a dialogue in which the pretended drunkard was
handled severely; a tableau of "The Drunkard's Home" was given; and then
the parent society's brilliant orator took the platform.

The orator was certainly very well informed, logical and convincing,
besides being quite witty. He proved to the satisfaction of all present
that alcohol was not nutritious; that it awakened a general and
unhealthy physical excitement; and that it hardened the tissues of the
brain. He proved by reports of analyses, that adulteration, and with
harmful materials, was largely practiced. He quoted from reports of
police, prison and almshouse authorities, to prove his statement that
alcohol made most of our criminals. He unrolled a formidable array of
statistics, and showed how many loaves of bread could be bought with the
money expended in the United States for intoxicating liquors; how many
comfortable houses the same money would build; how many schools it would
support; and how soon it would pay the National Debt.

Then he drew a moving picture of the sorrow of the drunkard's family and
the awfulness of the drunkard's death, and sat down amid a perfect
thunder of applause.

The faithful beamed upon each other with glowing and expressive
countenances; the Cornet Quartette played "Don't you go, Tommy"; the
smallest young lady sang "Father, dear father, come Home with me Now";
and then Squire Breet, the Chairman, announced that the meeting was open
for remarks.

A derisive laugh from some of the half-grown boys, and a titter from
some of the misses, attracted the attention of the audience, and
looking round they sa