How freely the tears of joy mingled on that happy Thanksgiving day, need not be told.  There was no longer a vacant place at the board; and thought turned not away, doubtingly, in a vain search for the absent and the wandering.  The long lost had been found; the straying member had come home.  Theirs was, indeed, a Thanksgiving festival.  Such joy as is felt in heaven over a sinner that repenteth, made glad the mother’s heart that day.  And it has been glad ever since, for, though Thanksgiving days have come again and again, there has been no absent member since William’s return.

JIM BRADDOCK’S PLEDGE.

“YOU’LL sign it, I’m sure,” said a persevering Washingtonian, who had found his way into a little village grogshop, and had there presented the pledge to some three or four of its half-intoxicated inmates.  The last man whom he addressed, after having urged the others to no effect, was apparently about thirty years of age, and had a sparkling eye, and a good-humoured countenance, that attracted rather than repelled.  The marks of the destroyer were, however, upon him, showing themselves with melancholy distinctness.

“You’ll sign, I’m sure, Jim.”

“O, of course,” replied the individual addressed, winking, as he did so to the company, as much as to say—­“Don’t you want to see fun?”

“Yes, but you will, I know?”

“Of course I will.  Where’s the document?”

“Here it is,”—­displaying a sheet of paper with sundry appropriate devices, upon which was printed in conspicuous letters,

“We whose names—­,” &c.

“That’s very pretty, aint it, Ike?” said Jim, or James Braddock, with a mock seriousness of tone and manner.

“O, yes—­very beautiful.”

“Just see here,” ran on Jim, pointing to the vignette over the pledge.—­“This spruce chap, swelled out with cold-water until just ready to burst, and still pouring in more, is our friend Malcom here, I suppose.”

A loud laugh followed this little hit, which seemed to the company exceedingly humorous.  But Malcom took it all in good part, and retorted by asking Braddock who the wretched looking creature was with a bottle in his hand, and three ragged children, and a pale, haggard, distressed woman, following after him.

“Another cold-water man, I suppose, “Jim Braddock replied; but neither his laugh nor the laugh of his cronies was so hearty as before.

“O, no.  That’s a little mistake into which you have fallen, “Malcom said, smiling.  “He is one of your firewater men.  Don’t you see how he has been scorched with it, inside and out.  Now, did you ever see such a miserable looking creature?  And his poor children—­and his wife!  But I will say nothing about them.  The picture speaks for itself.”

“Here’s a barrel, mount him up, and let us have a temperance speech!” cried the keeper of the grog-shop, coming from behind his counter, and mingling with the group.