Wn as cov a a
THANKSGIVING DAY!
{ With grateful hearts let all give thanks,
_ 4] lands, all stations, and all ranks: *
And the cry comes up along the way,
For what shall we give thanks to-day?
For peace and plenty, busy mills,
“’The cattle on a thousand hills,”
For bursting barns, wherein is stored
The gold-a grain, a precious hoard:
5 Give thanks!
¥or orchurds bearing rosy fruit,
For yielding pod and toothsome root,
And all that God declared was good
Jdn hill or dale, or fleld or wood:
Give thanks!
For water bright and sweeet and clear,
A million fountains far and near,
For gracious etreamlets, lakes, and rills
“That flow from everlasting hills:
A Give thanks!
i For summer dews and timely frost,
{ "The sun's bright beams, not one ray lost,
} For willing hands to sow the seed
b And reap the harvest, great indead;
| Give thanks!
ae
i
. For hearth and home—love's altar fires—
For loving children, thoughtful sires;
i For tender mothers, gentle wives,
{ "Who fill our hearts and bless our lives:
Give thanks?
For heaven's care, life's journey through,
i For health and strength to dare’ and do,
i For ears to hear, for eyes to ses
Earth's beauteous things on land and sea:
Give thanks!
-M. A. Kidder,
BESSIE'S THANKSGIVING.
BY KATE M. CLEARY.
r
¢Yes; and I-—heard.” - .
“Oh, don't-—don’t mind, dear!” sald
Mrs. Dotty, soothingly, putting a hand
that looked like wrinkled ivory on the
girl's arm. “Ho is just a cross, soured,
lonely old man.”
“I do mind 1” Bessie passionately cried.
Oh, I do! I sha'n't stay here! I sha'n't
be an expense to him any longer, I will
go away somewhere!”
Bhe broke down in a fit of bitter
weeping.
‘‘Now, Miss Bossie, dear, you mustn't
cry that way: you really mustn't. I
loved your mother before you, and I love
you."
But the poor, little, old comforter was
almost crying herself,
Years before, the Kirkes were the
people of wealth and position in that
part of the country. But one trouble
after another had come upon the house.
First, the wife of the master died.
Maud, the daughter, married a man
whose only crime was poverty. He was
a frail, scholarly man, quite unfitted for
a fierce struggle against adverse fortune.
He fell ill and died. A year later his
wife followed him, leaving their child
to its grandfather, Godfrey Kirke. To
the latter had come the final blow when
his only son Robert, his hope and pride,
had run away to sea. Then in the
house, which since the death of the mis-
tress had been a cheerless and dreary
place, began a rigid reign of miserlineas
and consequent misery.
Bessie broke from her friend and ran
upstairs and into her own little bare
room. There was no fire in the grate,
though the day was cold with the pene-
trating damp of &¢ wind from off the
ocean. Shs went to the window and
stood there looking out across the flat
brown marshes, to where the waters
MOST diffident
and modest
knock it was. |
Perhaps because |
it was so very
diffident, so very
modest, irritated |
all the more the |
peculiarly alert
nerves of Mr.
Godfrey Kirke.
“Oh, come in,
come in!” he
cried.
An elderly woman entered the room.
Bhe had a small, pale withered face; a
kind face, though, pleasant, gentle,
$Bhe was dressed in a worn dark gown.
The net fichu, crossed over her slender
shoulders, was clasped by an old-fash-
foned medallion.
“To-morrow will be Thanksgiving-
eve,” she said; ‘‘I wished to know if I
aight prepare for the day after.”
An originally handsome apartment,
this in which the old man sat, and it
had been handsomely furnished. Now |
both the room and its belongings bore |
the mark of creépiog poverty, or ex-
freme penuriousness. The master of the
ouse, seated by the center table, scemed
to share the character of the room. He,
too, had been handsome once. Now
he was expressive only of age and in-
digence, from the threadbare collar of
his limp dressing-gown to the tips of his
thin and shabby slippers.
s‘Prepare what?” he growled.
“Why s turkey, sir; or a pie, or—or
$ bit of cranberry -sauce, sir —"
He looked so fierce, her words died in
her throat.
“Turkey! And where do you sup-
I can get the money to spend on
rkey? And pie! To make ns all sick,
and bring doctors and doctors’ bills
down on me! And,” with a saiff of
Risgust, ‘‘cranberry sauce—the skinny
stuff! No, Mrs. Dotty, A bit of bacon
and some bread will be good enough for
poor folks like us-—good enough.”
. His housekeeper, for that was the un-
#uviable position Mra. Dotty occupied in
Godfrey Kirke's household, resolved to
snake one last appeal.
Son, come mv, come x!" HE CRIED.
“But I thought perhaps on account of |
‘the child,” she began.
“The child—the child!” he repeated,
irascibly, *‘I'm sick of hearing about
Jer.”
Indigoation made Mrs. Dotty quite
“bold as oa S
**Bhe’s your own granddaughter, sir,
“That’s what she is.”
“Well, I didn’t ask for her, did IT 1
imever wanted to adopt her. What right
had her mother to make such a
hand of herself by marrying Tom Pe
rett, and then ccme back to die here,
and leave me her girl! Eb? Bhe's an
espamd, 1 tell you; that's all. An ex-
nse
Pe The Lord help us, but he's getting
! worse than ever!” murmured the womaa,
as, with a bang that was downright dis-
Feipacitu, she slammed the door behind
“You-—you, Miss Bessie!”
"She started, as she looked up, snd saw
[Raseio Barats stain so neat hor: She
-h little thing, of
‘about seventeen. She was clad finan ill-
“A horrid day,” she said, with a
She put on a short old Astrahan
jacket, a little felt hat and a pair of
much-mended cloth gioves. Then she
The dusk, the dreary November dusk,
was filling the room when the old man,
plodding over his accounts, laid down
his pencil and rang the bell. Mrs.
Dotty responded. Mr. Kirke kept but
one other servant (if Mrs. Dotty could
correctly be termed a servant), and she
absolutely refused to enter the protest.
ing presence of her master,
“Teal”
“Yes, sir.”
The meek housekeeper withdrew.
Teun minutes later she brought in a tray
on which were tea, bread, butter, two
cups, two saucers and two plates. Mr.
Kirke poured oat his tea, shook a little
of the sugar he was about to use back in
the old silver bowl, added carefully a
few drops of milk aad cat a slice of
bread,
“Batter has gone up three cents in the
last week,” he said. *‘I can’t afford to
use butter.”
S80 he munched his bread dry, with a
sense of exaltation in his self-imposed
penauce. He would not opea the
ter. Bat, somehow, the rank tea tasted
ranker than usual. Sarely the bread
was sour. And the gloom outside the
small circle that the lamplight illumined
seemed singularly dense. What was
wrocg! What was missing? What was
differeat? He paused, his hand falling
by his side. The child—-as he and Mrs.
Dotty bad always called her—-the child
was not here. She used to slip in so
quietly, take her seat, and when her
meager supper was over, glide away just
as softly. Yes, little as he noticed ber,
she was geverally there. He rang the
bell sharply,
“Where is shel” he asked Mrs. Dotty,
when she popped in her mild old head,
There was no need to particalarize. Mes,
Dotty cast a swift, searching look
around,
“Isn't she herei”
Without waiting for & reply, she
turned and ran up the stairs to Bessie's
room. There she knocked. No
answer. She opened the door, went in.
The room was empty.
Hastily she descended the stairs,
“Shs is not in, sir.”
“Where is shel”
“I don't know, sir."
Impatiently Godfrey Kirke pushed his
chair back from the table.
“You ought to know; it’s your busi-
ness to know. But it doesn’t matter--
it doesn’t matter in the least.”
Down to Hanna in the kitchen went
Mrs. Dotty.
“Did you see Miss Bessie?"
‘‘Yes'm. Passin’ westward a couple
of*hours agr—yes'm.”
“Oh!”
Mrs, Dotty breathed a relieved sigh.
Bessie had probably gone to Rose Dever's
house. The Devers lived almost a mile
away. Asa storm was blowiag up she
would most likely stay there over night.
About ten o'clock Mr. Kirke's bell
again tingled out. Again Mrs. Dotty
appeared before him.
‘‘Has the child come inl"
‘No, sir.”
“Do you know why she went out”
I suspect, sir.”
“Well, speak up.”
‘She overheard our conversation to.
iy
pat of it”
“Nothing of it,” with a very angry
flash from very faded eyes, ‘except that
she vowed she would be an expense to
you no longer.”
“She did, shi”
pa a.” .
“Well,” grimly, “I hope sha won't!”
The child had a sulky fit. She was
i ly at the house of some neighbor.
would return when her tantrum had
puted otf Bop he told Si.
sat in his lonely room
after midnight, listening, listen
When be flually went to bed it was
smoky, blinding fog, began to creep up
from the Atlantic.
“If you don’t nfind,” said Mrs. Dotty,
making her appearance with a shawl over
ber head, “I'll just run over to Devers’
and see what is keeping Miss Bessie,”
“Do!” he answered.
Bhe had spoken as if the distance were
not worth considering, but it was quite a
journey for her. When she returned she
looked white and scared,
“‘She isn't there —hasn't been.”
“Hark!” said Godfrey Kirke, holding
up one lean hand,
“That is only the carrier with the
flour.”
“Ask him if he has seen her?”
Mrs. Dotty went into the hall.
instantly she returnad.
‘‘He has not. He says there is the
body of a young woman at the town
morgue.”
“What!”
Godfrey Kirke leaped from his chair.
“He says that the body of a young girl
was found in the East Branch to-day.”
Godfrey Kirke sank back in his seat,
Mrs. Dotty smiled a hard little smile to
herself as she closed the door and went
away. Bue knew how many friends
Bessie had. She shrewdly suspected if
she were not found at one place she
would be at another; and she was malici-
ously and pleasantly conscious that she
had given the hard-hearted old man a
genuino scare.
Long the latter sat where she had left
him. Thinking. For the first time in
years he was thinking, sadly, seriously,
solemnly. ThanVsgiviog-eve! In his
wife's time the house used to be gay and
cheerful on that night, so filled with com-
fort and bright anticipations, so odorous
with the homely fragrance of good things
in the kitchen, so delightfully merry with
the brisk bustle attendant on the mor-
row’s festivity. Now it was desolate,
dreary, darksome with depressing and
unutterable gloom. Whose fault was iti
His! decided Godfrey Kirke, as savagely
relentless to himself in this moment as
he would have been to another. His!
Almost
HE BAD THE WEAPON IN HIS RAXD.
when his devoted wife had drooped and
died under his ever-increasing arrogance,
dictation. His! wben Maud married the
first man who offered himself, to escape
from her father's pretty rule. His! when
Robert mn away to escape the narrow
obligations and unjust restrictions laid
upon him. His! when the child Lis
dead daughter had left him could no
longer endure his brutality, or accept
from him the scant support he so grud-
gingly gave. His fault—all his! Ia
those lonely hours the whole relentless
truth dawned upon him, as such truths
will dawn, in most bitter brilliance. He
dropped his head on his hands with a
oan,
He looked wround the dim, shabby
room. He looked at the dying fire in
the grate. He wondered of what use
would be to him now his twenty-thou-
sand in bonds, his eight huadred acres
of meadow land, the money he had out
at interest, He rose in a dazed kind of
way, a shadowy purpose taking definite~
ness in his mind. He wished he had
been better to Besse; he wished—but
what was the use of wishing now? @ here
could be but one satisfactory aasswer to
all his self-condemnation. A shot from
the revolver in the drawer yonder, that he
had always kept in readiness for possible
burglars. He rose. He moved toward
the table. His figure cast a fantastic
shadow on the wall. The tears were
streaming down his cheeks. There
might be thanksgiving for his death,
though there could never have beea any
for his life.
Hark!
« He bad the weapon in his hand. He
started nervously. Was that Bessie's
voice? He turned, dropplag the revolver
with a clatter. Yes, there she was, not
three feet away, fresh, fair, damp, smil-
ing.
“Jt is the queerest thing,” she said,
coming toward him as she spoke.
felt—badly—yosterday, and 1 went over
to Mrs. Farnham's to see if abe coald get
me work. I met Mrs. Nelson, and she
askod me to go home with her. Dicky
was ill, and she wanted me to stay over
night. Bhe sent youn note, At least
she sent the hoy with it, but he lost it,
and only told her so this alternvon. As
soon as I knew that I started home
slone—although Dicky was no better."
“Yesl” said Godfrey Kirke. He was
listening with an unusual degree of in-
terest,
“And to-night, when I was almost
here, (Nelsons' 1s quite two miles away,
i eid
Her a
amazement. What made he paie cheeks
so bright?! What excitement had
blackened her gray eyes?
“‘And--a gentleman who was coming
L “Father!” ae
Then they were clasped in each other’s
($7 back Trem the wns fot good,
father. And 1 chanead to find my little
niece Bessie lost out there in the fog. A |
young lady, I vow! And I was think.
ing of her as a mere baby yet! Just |
think! She tells me Charlie Nelson
wants her"
“No?! Well, Charlie is a fine fellow.
He can have her--a year from to-day.”
Bo now you know why the Kirke
homestead is dazzling with lights and
flowers, and why it resounds with laugh.
ter this Thanksgiving; why old Godfrey
“ponent!” “waren!”
wears a brann-new suit, and a flower in
his buttonhole; why Robert, in his
rightful place, looked so proud and
pleased; why dear, busy little Mrs, Dotty
beams benignly; why Bessie, gowned in
snowy, shining silk, thinks this is a
lovely old world after all; why Charlie
Nelson is so blessedly content, and why
in each and every heart reigns supremo
Thanksgiving. The Ledger,
——————————
Thankszivinz Roast Pig.
Take a choice fat pig six weeks old,
not younger, though it may be a litho
older. Have it carefully killed and
Trim
out carefully with a sharp, narrow bladed
koife the inside of the mouth asd ears,
crt oul the tongue and chop off the end
of the snout. Rub the pig well’ with a
mixture of salt, pepper and pounded
sage, and sprinkle it rather liberally with
red pepper, and a dash outside, too.
Make a rich stuffing of bread erumbs
bread stuffing de rigeur for
pig, though you can put half of one and
half of the other inside of Mr. Pig i
somebody iusists on loaf bread stuffing,
If you use corn bread, have a thick, rich
pone of bread baked, and crumble it
soon as it is cool enough
son it highly with black and red pepper,
sage, thyme, savory ]
| onion—just enough
plenty of fresh butter; moisten
with stock, crean., or hot water.
Stull the pig well and sew it up closely.
If you have a tin roaster and cpen fire,
the pig will be roasted by that much
better. If you have not, put the pig in
a long pan and set it in tf oven, and
wen OTT 18
us
to handie, sea-
marjoram,
to favor
even
leave the stove door open until the pig
begins to cook, gradually closing the
| poor, so that the cooking will not be
| done too fast. The pig must be well
{ dredged with flour whea putin the pan,
| Mix some flour and butter together in a
| piate, and pour about a quart of hot
water in the pan with the pig when it is
Have a larding-mop in
| the plate of flour and butter, and mop
{the plg frequently with the mixture
| while it is roasting.
If a roaster is used, set it
feet from the fire at first, but
to move it nearer and nearer as the pig
cooks. Baste it frequently with the
water in the pan betweenwhiles of mop-
ping with flour and butter,
To be sure the pig is done, thrust a
skewer through the thickest part of him;
if no pink or reddish juice oozes out it
is done, and ought to be a rich brown
all over. When the pig is done pour
the gravy in a saucepan and cook it
sufficiently. This will not be necessary
if the pig was cooked in the stove oven.
The pig's liver may be boiled in well
salted water, pounded up, and added to
the gravy, which should be very savory
and plentiful.
The pig should be invariably served
with baked sweet potatoes and pleaty of
good pickle and sauce, either mushrocm
or green pepper catsup, for despite his
toothsomeness, roast pig is not very safe
eating without plenty of red pepper, —
Good Housekeoper.
about two
continue
Au Informal Ropast,
“I suppose,” said Mrs. Brown. ‘you
would like me to wear a new dress at
this Thanksgiving dinner you sre going
to give?”
“Can't afford it,” growled old Brown.
“As long as you have the turkey well
dressed you will pass muster.” Judge.
The Thanksgiving Turie;.
As Thanksgiving Day walks down this way
I'he strutting turkey is ill at ease:
“I'm poor as the turkey of Joh" says be;
“Tough and unit to eat, yon wee;
1 gobble no more of my Agree,
Lest some poor fellow should goools me; *
And a purkay buzzard I think I'l bs,
or the preset, if you please,”
- Binghamton Bepuolican,
Cause for Thanksgiving.
Sunday-school Teacher — ** Willie,
have you had anything during the week
to be especially thagkinl for?”
Willie-=**Yes'm, Johnny Podgers
sprained his wrist and I licced him for
first time yesterday." Burlington
Free Press,
A Thought For the Season.
He in whose store of blessings there may be
and yet to
U
Will have his own
THE JOKER'S BUDGET.
JETS AND YARNS BY FUNNY MEN
OF THE PRESS,
A Saburban Clock Superiority After
Bomething Definite Well Up i»
His Part--Why Cert’nly.
A SUBURBAR CLOCK.
Caller—Land sakes! How late it is!
Mrs. Buburb—Oh, you mustn't go by
that clock. It's two hours fast.
Caller—Why don't you set it right?
Mrs. Buburb — Horrors, no! Don't
touch it.
SUPERIORITY.
Mamma—Why de ysa put om such
airs over that little girl?
Wee Woman—Her mother hasn't gst
bought teeth like you has.
AFTI'S SOMETHING DEFINITE.
Miss Flyppent—When is your birth
Miss Elderkin
Miss Flyppent
{| was born on June 30
Old style
WELL U'P IN HIS PARRY.
“Don't worry sbout that, dear. He
does it beautifully.” News
Record.
Chisago
A LIBERAL HUSBAXD.
‘““You have a charming home, sir, and
i to say so, you have
a most amiable wife,”
“You're right, my friend; I refuse my
she will tell you
Come, open your mouth, Mary,
and show the new set of teeth I bought
you {European Ex
BO
yesterday,’
< hange,
WHY, CERT XLY.
Chappic—TI"ll bet you ten dollars I cas
Done—lend me ten dollars
vy. deal boy
ww York Herald,
A BASE SLANDER.
Folks
after the sermon, so 8s to
box.
h 1 y § yn
It 8 5 Dass manner The
ii to
oaonte li tio
CONTI DUlIon
wis | start so early
brells
rot
get
— Now York Week -
8. Whipler
ai you
1't know,
ATTRACTION
THE .
Winthro;
Prunells WW ill
for your money.
Prist No
have Ruy, 80 1 can't Ix
Prunelis— But what else could §
ila
MYSTERY OF A
KNIGHT.
First Pullman Porter—-Golly, chile, but
f had a time :
Second Pu
mattah?
“Thought I los’ a shoe, Looked fo’
it high and gub it up an’
waited fo’ de passenger ter Kick.”
“And did he
“Huh! Reckon he didn't.
virerhit
BION
liman Porter—What's de
aen
low
Come out
{1 hicago News Record,
ONLY HALF WAY.
Algy—Mr, Banker, I think | have been
in your employ to be entitled to an in-
crease in salary,
Bunker—1 agree with you partly, Mr.
Bliffers, I think you have been in my
You can go.—
{ Exchange,
HE WAS EXTRAVAGANT,
Mrs. Bronson-—What, been getting
Charley, you're
too extravagant altogether.
Mr. Bronson (penitently)~-TI'm afraid
And 1 won't do it
again. Truly, 1 won't.
Mrs. Bronson (breaking into tears)
{Chicago News,
OXE OF MANY,
Mr. Flightie-~Mere talent ix not ap-
preciated nowadays. Oh, if I only had
Wife—Genius isn't what vou need,
“Eh? What, then?”
‘Horse sense.”
SHOCKED AND INTERESTED,
Jeannette-~Terrible, that about Nora,
it! She has married just for
money.
Gladys—Well, did she get the money ?
Jeannette Yes,
Gladys Yes, it's terrible. How did
she manage it ?—{Chicago News Record,
AN UNFAILING TE=T,
Foreign Visitor-~Is that college a
really fine educational institution ?
American (proudly) —Is it? - I should
say it was, They've got the most idiotic
college yell to be hedrd in the whole
country, sir—yes, sir.—[New York
Weekly,
OWES HIM MUCH.
“You see that man crossing the street 7
Well, I am greatly indebted to him, and
indeed I can't tell you how much I owe
him, Due thing is certain never can
im."
He must be your father, since there
no other man to whom you can be
ford.”
TOO EMALY.,
Miss Lakeside—80 you are engaged to
Charlie Bmith! Well, I would not be in
your siioes!
Miss Murrayhill—I dare say not, dear,
They would pinch you terribly,
A BEAL HERO,
“I love you 80,” said Chapple dear
(The chawming little feliahl),
““1 @o out in the waln for you
Without my new umbreliagh.”
~! New York Herald,
A WITTY JUDGE.
In court ime
Lawyer (pleading for the defendant)
I propose to show there is no man living
10 18 more pretentious, more bombastic
and more corrupt than the plaintiff ia
this case,
Judge You forget yourself, sir,
RET HIM RIGHT.
He—One has
Hips and see that
Kisses,
She —On the contrary, the kisses are
for my intended. — {New York Herald,
only to
You are
look at your
intended for
TWO WAYS OF %G IT.
“1 think,” said Miss
i Wa 5.2
{ Oldbach, 1 think she's
s
Mr,
for
Sweete to
too young
i YOu.
: “Well
haps she is.”
“Yee” sald Miss mmart,
old fer her.”
“1 am, am 1?” said Mr
i red wave passed over his
| frown clouded his
{ don't know what vou ut
{New York Press
said Oldbach, sn
iiling, *‘per-
3 ‘vou are 00
Oldbach, as a
face and a dark
“I gucss you
talking about.”
brow:
DEFENSIVE
Are vou
Wye’
Yes, if they'
1 have an
MEASURES,
Bonds
urers,
footing figs
fous
Coupons re
dude's fig-
ures, aurnter.
the horses
“
Huge Find it
¥ 1 %
than it did before?
Tavs
any better
I'm driving
8 street
ANG UP STYLE
tice that Miss Pompadour
rushed upon her forehead
© & bang up way
| of dressing
“WH 4
the ia
ile
pe of « off ec?”
' he said, * but
i the coffee York Press.
is Weak.
CURIOUS FREAK OF NATURE.
| The Imprint of a Human Face Upon
a Baby's Hand.
hamiew of R
h a curiosity which is
This is a 3-week-
hose right hand bears the im-
face. The face occu-
ie palm, and is a8
drawn on porcelain,
of a little child
iying asleep, with
the eyelashes drawn in fine dark lines on
{ the full cheeks. The mouth seems to bs
slightly parted and the lips are delicatgly
tinted,
{| The baby palm contains this
| singular portraiture is the child of Clarke
| Osborne, a thriving merchant of Rose-
{ burg, and Mrs, Osborne declares that the
{ face in the infant's palm is thet of a little
girl she lost about three wonths before
| the baby's birth. Relatives and intimate
| friends also profess to be able to see a
| strong resemblance to the dead child. :
| When the baby was first pat in its
| mother's arms, she J oked at the hands,
{ and with a loud ery fainted sway, buton
{ coming to herselk extibived the little
| creature's hands to the attendants, who
saw at ogce the etrasge dikeness to the
dead and gone sister. Nrs. Osborne was
{at first much frightened over the singular
| circumstance, bul sv last became con-
| vinced that this strange portrait was sent
{to comfort her. Physicians say, how-
| ever, that the mother's caresses of the
dead child impressed the unborn infant,
who merely repeated her mental pictures
of the little girl as she last beheld it,
The image on the palm was much
clearer the first few days of the baby's
life than pow, and is thought to be grad.
ually fading away. The family are very
sensitive on the subject. and have re-
fused to show the child except to rela.
tives and most intimate friends, but a
dime museum manager has already made
propositions, which have been declined,
Philadelphia Times,
SAHA
bh, 8 C,
seburgh
tiined as i
It is the countenance
about three
vears oud
w hose
=
Sunday in Western Cities,
They have an American Sunday in St,
Louis, It Is the same as what we in the
East call a European Sunday. But it
becomes apparent to whoever travels far
in the United States that the only Sun-
day which deserves a distinct title is that
of England, New England, and the At.
lantic coast. The Sunday of Chicago,
San Francisco, Cincinnati, New Orleans,
St Louis, and most of the larger cities
of the major part \f our land is Euro-
, if you please; but it is also Amer
ican. In St. Louis the theatres, grog-
geries, dives, “melodeons,,” cigar sf
candy stores, and refreshment places
every kind are all kept wide The
street cars carry on r heaviest trade,
and the streets are crowded then as on
no other day of the week. On the other
days the city keeps up, in a part,
the measure of its o
1d
ity, a survival of ver Sd Sng
steambonts, The numerous re-
sorte--the variety and music the
dance-houses the beer-gardens, b
out with a pron gets by
w
It was mentioned in a late Cranberry