The Story of Old Joe by Mrs. L. D. Avery-Stuttle

Pacific Press Publishing Association · Mountain View, California · Apr 6, 1915

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 42, No. 14.

The Story of Old Joe

By Mrs. L. D. Avery-Stuttle

A PARDON? A pardon?—O, no, stranger! No! There is never a pardon for poor, friendless Joe. Sit down, stranger, pray, and the jailer will wait, For he knows my sad story and terrible fate; And if I the dark tale to some other may tell, It may warn some soul from the red drink of hell.

I was born, stranger, born with the horrible thirst That stamps its foul brand on the victim accursed. God knows how I struggled to sunder the chain That held me in bondage, but struggled in vain, Till I brought my poor mother, in heartbroken shame, To the grave of dishonor, a blight on her name.

Ah, well I remember the morning she died, How she called me to come and to kneel by her side, And with her thin hand on my penitent head, “God pity my boy!” were the words that she said. “God help him—God help him—that even to-day He may conquer the demon within him, I pray.”

She died, stranger, died while she murmured my name, As I bowed my head low ’neath my burden of shame.

Well, the days passed away, and I kept from the cup, Till I thought in my strength I would never give up. My wife, in her gratitude, smiled through her tears, And forgot the dull pain of the slow passing years. My dear little girl seemed an angel to me, With her fair, sunny curls, as she sat on my knee. O, I loved my sweet child as I loved my own life; And, stranger, believe me, I loved my dear wife.

But I fell once again from my happy estate, And now ’tis forever and ever too late. O God! had I died ere that terrible day, When the fiends of the cup took my reason away! But there came a glad day when our villagers rose, In the strength of their manhood, to conquer our foes. They arose as one man, from the south to the north. “We will vote the cup down!” was the word that went forth. O, the joy and the hope that came into my soul! I would yet be redeemed from the curse of the bowl.

Now I had a dear friend, from the days of my youth, A man well beloved for his virtue and truth. How I begged him to help me by giving his vote! But he sent me a letter—the words that he wrote I shall never forget to the end of my life. Each word pierced my heart like the stab of a knife: “Pray, what can I do? You have fallen so low! I shall vote for the liquor. Now be a man, Joe.”

Well, we met at the polls. Then the counting was done. O, merciful Heaven! We lacked only ONE! One vote—only one! How my heart sank like lead! My wife wept aloud, and my courage was dead. In my poor, weakened manhood, I never could stand. With the beckoning tempter on every hand.

How I struggled and wept! But I struggled in vain. To break the accursed—the damnable chain. And still, in the midst of my terrors and fears, The words of my friend echoed loud in my ears: “My vote counts but one. You have fallen so low! I must have my freedom. Now be a man, Joe.”

Well, the weeks passed away, till at last came a day When the fiends of the cup stole my reason away. I was staggering on toward my miserable cot— The home of a drunkard—the den of a sot— When my beautiful child, in her innocence free, Came running to meet me, in babyhood’s glee.

O God! I can see her so plain, even now, With the light zephyrs tossing the curls from her brow, And her sweet baby lips calling gayly my name— For the child knew not yet the red badge of my shame. The arms were outstretched, and the beautiful eyes Shone soft with her love, like the stars in the skies.

But the fiends were about me—the fiends of the bowl. The red fiends of MURDER had entered my soul. There sounded one shriek full of agony wild— And my garment was stained with the blood of my child. Then I fell to the earth, and they thought I was dead— That my poor, guilty spirit forever had fled.

But I’m here, stranger, here in this dark, gloomy cell. I have bid the bright world, with her pleasures, farewell. And I feel in my bosom the blackness of hell. And hark! Stranger, hark! for that sound well I know— They are building the gallows for poor, friendless Joe.

Now go, warn the young from the snares of the cup, With earnest entreaties, and never give up. Go out to the world with this message, I pray, And tell the sad story I’ve told you to-day.