“I know she would!” Then as a thought flashed into his mind, the boy said suddenly, “Say, if you go riding around the country much on that machine maybe you’ll come across my uncle; if you do, just tell him grandma keeps things all ready for him, ’specting him to come, will you?” “All right, I will; good-by!” and mounting his wheel the stranger rode off towards the little white house which Whittier had pointed out. “As if I didn’t know that house and every room in it!” he said, talking to himself. “And so grandma keeps things ready for her wandering son!” and here he lifted his hand to brush away something from his cheek. It could not have been a fly that frosty morning, could it? I have not space to tell you of the stranger’s reception at the farmhouse. There must have been joy in heaven over the returning repentant prodigal; and what a Thanksgiving that was! When the next day the sons and daughters gathered for the feast, and found this long-absent brother returned, their cup of joy and thanksgiving seemed to overflow. But I want to tell you of a bit of talk that took place when uncle John had gathered the children all about him in the afternoon. They were examining the bicycle, and he had been telling them some incidents of his long journey, when suddenly he said, “Now, children, you think this is a nice thing, and you boys quite envy your old uncle its possession, don’t you?” “Not quite that, I guess,” replied one of the older boys, “but I’d like to own one.” “Well, perhaps your father will buy this; I want to sell it.” At this they all looked aghast to think their uncle would be willing to part with such a treasure. “Just let me tell you something, boys,” he continued; “I am forty years old, and all I possess in the world is this bicycle and a very few dollars which I have earned since I became a sober man. I have thrown away the best part of my life. Here are my brothers with comfortable homes all their own, and I with nothing, and all because of rum! and I began by drinking cider over there at the mill. Boys, let it alone; don’t begin, and you will never be the slave of rum.” “But, uncle John,” said one, “you are not a slave any more.” “No; but I shall carry the marks of my fetters to the grave. I tell you it hasn’t paid. Forty years old, and nothing to show for my life! Sign the pledge, boys; sign the pledge, and you will not have to say that when you are forty years old. I trust you will have something more than a bicycle to show for it.” /* FAYE HUNTINGTON. */ A MOTHER’S PRAYER. /* “SOMETHING for me, dear mamma, write!” Came with her kiss and sweet “good-night!” So thinking, with a mother’s love, Of all that waits below, above— Each upward step, each earthward snare, I breathe for her a mother’s prayer.