HARD CIDER AND DRUNKENNESS by Dudley Marvin Canright

Seventh-Day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Thursday, March 4, 1880

FromThe Advent Review and Sabbath Herald, Advent Review and Sabbath Herald, Vol. 55, No. 10

HARD CIDER AND DRUNKENNESS.

By Dudley Marvin Canright

[We are sorry to find a few Sabbath-keepers who refuse to sign the total pledge, because they want to drink hard cider. Such may enjoy reading the following lines on the subject. D. M. CARNRIGHT.]

One day a cloud, in passing by, Let fall some rain-drops from the sky.

Softly they stole, by slow degrees, Down to the roots of apple trees.

And all the thirsty rootlets cried, “But for your coolness we had died.”

The brave boughs, brightened by the sun, Were decked in blossoms, every one;

And earth forgot her winter gloom When all the orchards were in bloom.

The springtime hurried on till, lo! The grass was white with petaled snow;

And hidden by the rustling leaves, In globes of green a mystery weaves.

There sunbeams, darting through the skies, Painted themselves in wondrous dyes,

Till men beheld a fruit so rare Olympian gods might crave a share.

In ample cellars, luscious piles Were stored to waken happy smiles; And many and many a heaping load Was trundled down the dusty road.

The merry farmer, blithe and gay, Whistled and sang along the way,

His happy pulses all athrill, While journeying to the cider mill.

One autumn hour the creaking press Crushed out the apples’ loveliness,

And through the tissues, once so firm, Oozed the life-slime of the dead worm.

And now and then the flowing rill Some rotted core made fouler still.

The farmer took the barreled foam, And bore it gaily to his home,

And through the chill months of the year He kept his cider pitcher near.

A dozen times a day he quaffed The filthy, but seductive draught;

And while he wiped his dripping lip, He laughed to see his young son sip,

Until at last his boy had learned To love the cup he should have spurned.

A murderer on the scaffold told Of a fair youth, with locks of gold, Who by his father’s fireside sat, In wind-swept eves, in pleasant chat.

A boy companion often there, The friendly, sparkling glass would share, Till by-and-by, alas! both knew The taste of wine and cider, too.

They sought the dram-shop side by side, They lost all noble, manly pride, And in a drunken brawl a knife Was lifted, that let out a life.

“To-day,” he cried, “his eyes might ope, And I not need this strangling rope, “If in my home had never been That tempting draught that leads to sin.”

“’Twas from my father’s apple tree The cider rolled that ruined me!”

A gray-haired man by his lone hearth, Looks out upon the dreary earth, And ever in his ears will ring That dying wail, that awful thing, “’Twas from my father’s apple tree The cider rolled that ruined me!” —Mrs. G. W. White, in Cleveland Herald.