drink for?" demanded the excitable member.

"I'll tell you," said Joe, "if you'll have a little patience. I have to
do it in my own way, for I ain't used to public speakin'. You all know
who I am. My father was a church-member, an' so was mother. Father done
day's work, fur a dollar'n a quarter a day. How much firewood an'
clothes an' food d'ye suppose that money could pay for? We had to eat
what come cheapest, an' when some of the women here wuz a sittin'
comfortable o' nights, a knittin' an' sewin' an' readin', mother wuz
hangin' aroun' the butchershop, tryin' to beat the butcher down on the
scraps that wasn't good enough for you folks. Soon as we young 'uns was
big enough to do anything we wuz put to work. I've worked for men in
this room twelve an' fourteen hours a day. I don't blame 'em--they
didn't mean nothin' out of the way--they worked just as long 'emselves,
an' so did their boys. But they allers had somethin' inside to keep 'em
up, an' I didn't. Does anybody wonder that when I harvested with some
men that kep' liquor in the field, an' found how it helped me along,
that I took it, an' thought 'twas a reg'lar God's-blessin'? An' when I
foun' 'twas a-hurtin' me, how was I to go to work an' giv' it up, when
it stood me instead of the eatables I didn't have, an' never had,
neither?"

"You should hev prayed," cried old Deacon Towser, springing to his feet;
"prayed long an' earnest."

[Illustration: THE TEMPERANCE MEETING.]

"Deacon," said Joe Digg, "I've heerd of your dyspepsy for nigh on to
twenty year; did prayin' ever comfort _your_ stomach?"

The whole audience indulged in a profane laugh, and the good deacon was
suddenly hauled down by his wife. The drunkard continued:

"There's lots of jest sech folks, here in Backley, an' ev'ry where's
else--people that don't get half fed, an' do get worked half to death.
Nobody _means_ to 'buse 'em, but they do hev a hard time of it, an'
whisky's the best friend they've got."

"I work my men from sunrise to sunset in summer, myself," said Deacon
Towser, jumping up again, "an' I'm the first man in the field, an' the
last man to quit. But I don't drink no liquor, an' my boys don't,
neither."

"But ye don't start in the mornin' with hungry little faces a hauntin'
ye--ye don't take the dry crusts to the field for yer own dinner, an'
leave the meat an' butter at home for the wife an' young 'uns. An' ye go
home without bein' afeard to see a half-fed wife draggin' hersel