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The Bunch of Rags

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Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, Cal. · Nov 8, 1883

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 9, No. 42.

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The Bunch of Rags.

EVERYBODY liked Frank Hall, and everybody was sorry for him. It was sad to see such a fine young man a victim to drunkenness, and Frank had fallen into the mocker's power unwittingly it would seem. A new paint shop had been opened close to the foundry at which he worked, and he with others, was in the habit of going in for a glass of ale. When the cold weather set in he took something stronger, and he imagined that spirits agreed with him better. Time went on, and his liking for strong drink increased, until at all hours he could be seen staggering out of "The Rainbow," dizzy and stupefied with drink.
Frank's was a sad case, for he belonged to a respectable family and had been trained up in a religious life. Before he began to drink he was an affectionate son, but now bound in the chains of drink, his family mourned him as lost, and many a silent tear his sister dropped on his tattered garments as she sat darning and patching them.
"Ah, these rents will not darn again!" sighed Jennie as she turned over Frank's tattered garments. In Frank's better days he had pride, and it was a sad change when he didn't care who saw him out at the elbows. But somehow Jennie could not find it in her heart to abandon the brother she loved; and so Frank's tattered garments were taken up again and made the most of. "Kindness may win him back," said Jennie, and when he came home at the worst he was met in peace, if in sorrow. One beautiful spring afternoon Frank came home looking very thoughtful. He was sober after a long debauch.
In the last rays of the setting sun his sister was trying to cover some old darns. Frank sat down beside her and silently watched the patient fingers for some time.
"It's tiresome work, Jennie," he said.
His sister held up her seam before him.
"Why, that is a bunch of rags," said he, laughingly.
"Yes, and a bunch of rags would be the best sign-board that a rum-seller could hang across his door," said Jennie, sadly.
He made no reply, but looked at the rags in silence.
Next morning Frank went back to his work and continued steady for two or three weeks. He looked at "The Rainbow," but didn't go in.
"Hallo! what's up with Frank Hall?" wondered Sinclair, as he fills up a glass of Frank's favorite whisky for another customer at the counter.
Sinclair was not the only one who was astonished.
Every day Frank went to his work, every night he came home sober, and after a time he appeared at church on the Sabbath. People began to believe he was in earnest, and really meant to reform.
"The angel has come at last," whispered Florence, and bright drops fell on her cheek.
"Had he really become a teetotaler?" wondered Sinclair, when a whole month passed without a visit to "The Rainbow."
Well, it seemed so, as nothing stronger than water had passed his lips in the shape of drink since that night on which his sister had shown him the bunch of rags.
"I'll have a talk with him and learn how he got off the scent, though," Sinclair resolved.
An opportunity came sooner than he had expected.
In the beginning of the summer a terrible thunder-storm passed over Airlie, and amongst a general devastation, Sinclair's sign-board was shivered to atoms.
Frank happened to be passing "The Rainbow" next morning, and stopped to glance up at the old mark.
"Fine work, here," remarked Mr. Sinclair, who was standing in his door, "the storm's done for us; and I'll have to get a new sign-board."
"Is it so bad as that?" said Frank.
"Yes, 'The Rainbow' is in shivers," said Mr. Sinclair.
"Then you will want a new sign-board," said Frank.
"Of course; isn't that what I'm telling you?"
"Is it to be 'The Rainbow' again," asked Frank.
"I suppose so," answered Mr. Sinclair, "unless you can give us a new idea, Frank," continued he, laughingly.
"I think I can," returned Frank, "but I must go home first."
"Don't forget, though," said Mr. Sinclair.
"You're a stranger now-a-days, by-the-by, Frank."
"I won't be long," cried Frank, and with a brisk step he walked down the street.
"Hello, Frank! what's your hurry?" cried a friend, as Frank came slap up against him as he turned the corner.
"Oh, Sinclair's sign-board was destroyed last night, and I am going to help with a new one," answered Frank, with a smile which was directly opposed to his new principles.
"O, ho, that's it," resumed his friend; "but perhaps it would be as well for Airlie if 'The Rainbow' was never set up again."
Frank was out of hearing.
A better sign-board than "The Rainbow" Mr. Sinclair did not expect to get; he was only joking with Frank Hall, and he raised his eyebrows when Frank made his appearance, with a bundle under his arm, and requested him to look at the new sign.
"I didn't think you would catch me up," laughed Mr. Sinclair; "but step in, Frank, and let us see your idea."
Frank gravely untied the bundle, and held up a bunch of rags before the rum-seller's astonished eyes!
"What do you mean, Frank?" asked Mr. Sinclair, feeling confident that Frank had lost his senses.
"You want a new sign, don't you?" said Frank.
"Well, what has a bunch of rags got to do with that?" asked Mr. Sinclair.
"Ask yourself, sir, if a bunch of rags is not the best sign that can hang across the rum-seller's door," said Frank, and his lips quivered.
"Was it that bunch of rags that made you a teetotaler, Frank?" said Mr. Sinclair, more confused than he liked to own.
"It was God's means, I think, sir," answered Frank; "and perhaps some poor wretch, seeing there the end of drink, may bless you for that sign."
Frank walked away to his work, and Mr. Sinclair went back to his counter, but all day the bunch of rags troubled him. He was a kind-hearted man, and he did not like the idea of being considered the cause of misery and rags. To a man of his disposition it was painful in the extreme; and he couldn't help feeling angry when poor, shivering, ragged wretches came in and laid down the payment of a glass. When he lifted the money he felt as if he were stealing their means.
It was a busy day, but every new-comer seemed more deplorably wretched and worse off than the last served. He was thankful when night came.
A woman literally hanging in tatters, was the last customer. A little infant sat on her arm. It was crying with the cold. It lifted the rag that covered its naked limbs, and looked piteously at him. "Go home, and put clothes on your child," said Mr. Sinclair, flinging back the money the woman laid down.
"I have nothing but rags," said the woman.
"Frank is right," said Mr. Sinclair, as he locked his door; "the end of drink is misery and rags, and the man who has the taste for that sort of thing may put his name on the new sign-board."
Mr. Sinclair did not open his shop to sell liquor again, and make bunches of rags by the sinful traffic. He went into trade and secured the custom of many who never crossed his threshold before. He did an honest business, God prospered him greatly, and much of his means was used to help those who had suffered by his drink.—Selected.