for those to whom the curse of rum has never come close home, to condemn the methods of a woman, who, as a drunkard’s wife and widow, drank to the dregs the bitter cup of woe.  Mrs. Nation saw her brilliant and handsome young husband slowly transformed into a demon by rum.  She saw him land in an early and dishonored grave.  She saw her baby cursed by the father’s sin.  She saw her early hopes blighted, and poverty haunting her door.  She saw a favorite sister grieving her heart out over a fallen husband—­fallen in purse, in character, and station.  With this black catalogue of domestic griefs “deep printed on her heart,” is there a man—­surely there is no woman!—­who could blame Mrs. Nation, if she turned upon the guilty gang who had blighted her life and smote them right and left.  When the infernal record of rum is recalled, it is not so surprising that there is one Mrs. Nation, but that there is not one in every home in the United States. 
                                        M. N. Butler.

A CONTRIBUTION TO HOME FOR DRUNKARD’S WIVES.

Dear Madam:—­I see you have purchased property to make a home for drunkard’s wives.  I send you five dollars to aid you. 
                         Yours very truly,
Oakwood, Ills.  Jacob F. Iler.

I hope thousands will follow the example of this man.  Oh! how the cry comes in:  “I want a place in your Home.  My husband or son is a drunkard.”  Help the poor innocent results of the licensed curse.

Persons have often remarked, “How did you feel, when you went in these places?” Imagine a burning house, a frantic mother, for her heart treasures, her babes, are in that building.  She hears their cries, she sees their little arms, waving behind the closed window, amid the smoke that soon will be a flame.  She seizes an axe or hatchet near at hand, with which she breaks open door or window to let her darlings escape.  Is there a mother in all the land that would not act thus?  The mighty ocean, in its anger is lashing a frail vessel, storm tossed, the captain orders the cannon to boom! boom! boom! arousing and calling for help to save the crew.  We amputate the diseased limb with a knife, we pull the aching tooth with an instrument of steel.  Why?  In order to save.  Just so, the people are asleep, while our precious ones are in danger of being engulfed in ruin.  The smashing is a danger signal, and I kept it up, to prevent the people from relaxing into indifference, just as a frantic, living mother would think only of the salvation of those she loved.

AN APPEAL TO THE NATIONAL PROHIBITION COMMITTEE TO CONCENTRATE THE FORCES IN KANSAS.

(Emmett L. Nichols, Wilkesbarre, Pa.)