lessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.

"John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And mony a cantie day, John,
We've had wi' one anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
And hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo."

James A. Garfield said: "It's by the fireside, where calm thoughts
inspired by love of home and love of country, the history of the past,
the hope of the future, God works out the destiny of this republic."

A Spartan general pointing to his army said: "There stand the walls of
Sparta and every man's a brick." Can I not point to the homes of our
country and say: "There stand the walls of this republic and every
home's a brick." Suppose a battery, planted on some eminence outside
this city, were to send a shell through some building every hour; how
long until your beautiful city would be one of crumbling walls and
flying population? On yonder heights of law are planted two hundred
thousand rum batteries, sending shells of destruction through the
homes of the people and every day hundreds of homes are knocked out of
the walls of the republic.

Do you realize what it means when an American home is destroyed by
drink? Some years ago on Sunday afternoon I visited an eastern
penitentiary by invitation of the chaplain. Passing a row of cells my
attention was called to a man whose face bore the marks of
intelligence and refinement. The chaplain said: "That man is an ideal
prisoner and a born gentleman, though here for life. He is the
graduate of an eastern college. He married an accomplished young
woman. In social life he was led into the drink habit, and it grew
upon him until at times he became intoxicated. When under the
influence of liquor his reason was dethroned, and one night in a brawl
he killed a man. He was given a life sentence. Asking permission to
speak he said: 'I have no complaint to make of the verdict, but beg
the privilege of saying, God who knows the secrets of all hearts,
knows I am not a murderer at heart, for I don't know how nor when I
killed my friend.' A few days after he entered this prison his wife
came to visit him. She had with her a sweet little golden-haired
child. As he entered the office in his striped prison garb his wife
fell into his arms; the agony on that man's face I can never forget.
The child shrank from him at first, then recognizing her father, she
ran to him. As he hugged