"I'LL TAKE WHAT FATHER TAKES."
NEAR the close of a lovely June day, a company of brilliant men gathered at a garden banquet. The pavilion was set among beds of flowers, and opened toward the west. The table was a dream of beauty with its fruits and flowers, its flashing glass and glittering silver. Some of the noblest of the land sat around the board. Among them was an eager, bright-eyed boy, brought to his first club dinner by his father, an honored judge. Wit and wisdom sparkled back and forth, and wine gleamed like ruby and amber. The boy saw and heard everything. This was an enchanted land. For the first time he looked upon the faces and heard the voices of great men who had been his heroes from afar. Their words, their bearing, their dress, were full of interest. Yet of all this goodly company, to him his father was the king. An empty glass stood by his plate—a dainty shell with points that caught the light like diamonds. A waiter stopped beside him with a tray of costly drinks and named them over glibly, questioning: "What will you take?" The judge was an abstainer at home. The boy had never tasted wine. The names were strange to him. But he said with ready confidence, "I'll take what father takes." The father heard. The glass in his uplifted hand shed over it a crimson light like blood. All eyes were upon him. Was he afraid to drink? In a swift vision he saw the serpent in the cup. For policy, for pride, for social custom, should he set this deadly thing upon his best beloved? There was a hush as he set down the untasted wine and said distinctly, "I'll take water—cold water."—Crusader's Monthly.