IT takes one hundred twenty-five thousand boys a year to keep the liquor business going. The liquor men have plenty of money. They can buy all the grain and hops they want. They can hire all the help they need. But they can't run their business without boys. They don't buy these, so I'm going to ask you for a donation. I want your boy to put on the altar of sacrifice. Better send along your daughter, too; for every drunken man implies a fallen woman or a disgraced wife. Your child, my brother—your son for drunkenness, and your daughter for shame. Come, now, don't refuse. You voted to license. The saloon keeper has paid you the money demanded, and has a legal right to him.
What did you say? "Not your boy, but your neighbor's boy"?
Shame on the man that will sacrifice his neighbor's child and refuse his own! Give to the rum fiend that life you love better than your own. Go home to-night and take those children from their mother's arms. Recall the joy of their childhood and the promise of their youth, and then say to that mother, "I have decided to make an offering to the rum fiend."
Can you do it?—No! No! Well, then, with the children in your arms, and the little wife by your side, on election day put the interests of these children and that loving wife on a white ballot. Get on the firing line and do your duty, and soon it will not be necessary for you, or any other father, to sacrifice his children.—Newton N. Riddell.