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Something For A Cold
by [?]

“Henry,” said Mr. Green to his little son Henry, a lad in his eighth year, “I want you to go to the store for me.”

Mr. Green was a working-man, who lived in a comfortable cottage, which he had built from money earned from honest industry. He was, moreover, a sober, kind-hearted man, well liked by all his neighbors, and beloved by his own family.

“I’m ready, father,” said Henry, who left his play, and went to look for his cap, the moment he was asked to go on an errand.

“Look in the cupboard, and get the pint flask. It’s on the lower shelf.”

Henry did as desired, and then asked–“What shall I get, father?”

“Tell Mr. Brady to send me a pint of good Irish whiskey.”

The boy tripped lightly away, singing as he went. He was always pleased to do an errand for his father.

“This cold of mine gets worse,” remarked Mr. Green to his wife, as Henry left the house. “I believe I’ll try old Mr. Vandeusen’s remedy–a bowl of hot whiskey-punch. He says it always cures him; it throws him into a free perspiration, and the next morning he feels as clear as a bell.”

“It is not always good,” remarked Mrs. Green, “to have the pores open. We are more liable to take cold.”

“Very true. It is necessary to be careful how we expose ourselves afterwards.”

“I think I can make you some herb-tea, that would do you as much good as the whiskey punch,” said Mrs. Green.

“Perhaps you could,” returned her husband, “but I don’t like your bitter stuff. It never was to my fancy.”

Mrs. Green smiled, and said no more.

“A few moments afterwards, the door opened, and Henry came in, looking pale and frightened.

“Oh, father!” he cried, panting, “Mr. Brooks is killing Margaret!”

“What!” Mr. Green started to his feet.

“Oh!” exclaimed the child, “he’s killing her! he’s killing her! I saw him strike her on the head with his fist.” And tears rolled over the boy’s cheeks.

Knowing Brooks to be a violent man when intoxicated, Mr. Green lost not a moment in hesitation or reflection, but left his house hurriedly, and ran to the dwelling of his neighbor, which was near at hand. On entering the house, a sad scene presented itself. The oldest daughter of Brooks, a girl in her seventeenth year, was lying upon a bed, insensible, while a large bruised and bloody spot on the side of her face showed where the iron fist of her brutal father had done its fearful if not fatal work. Her mother bent over her, weeping; while two little girls were shrinking with frightened looks into a corner of the room.

Mr. Green looked around for the wretched man, who, in the insanity of drunkenness, had done this dreadful deed; but he was not to be seen.

“Where is Mr. Brooks?” he asked.

“He has gone for the doctor,” was replied.

And in a few minutes he came in with a physician. He was partially sobered, and his countenance had a troubled expression. His eyes shrunk beneath the steady, rebuking gaze of his neighbors.

“Did you say your daughter had fallen down stairs?” said the doctor, as he leaned over Margaret, and examined the dreadful bruise on her cheek.

“Yes–yes,” stammered the guilty father, adding this falsehood to the evil act.

“Had the injury been a few inches farther up, she would ere this have breathed her last,” said the doctor–looking steadily at Brooks, until the eyes of the latter sunk to the floor.

Just then there were signs of returning life in the poor girl, and the doctor turned towards her all his attention. In a little while, she began to moan, and moved her arms about, and soon opened her eyes.

After she was fully restored again to conscious life, Mr. Green returned to his home, where he was met with eager questions from his wife.–After describing all he had seen, he made this remark–